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☆ HELLO BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE | this is a side blog that is devoted to reading, commenting on, and recommending fics!
☆ WHAT YOU'LL FIND HERE | mainly character x reader. lots of smut, occasional fluff and angst. dark and/or taboo themes may be present - don't like, don't read
☆ FAVORITE CHARACTERS INCLUDE | levi ackerman, reiner braun, bucky barnes, dabi/touya todoroki, soldier boy, daryl dixon, sebastian (sdv)
ᯓ★ NAVIGATION ᯓ★ MAIN BLOG ᯓ★
What's Your Pleasure? (Soldier Boy x Reader)
Summary: Joining Vought’s newly announced superhero team Payback could be the big break you’re looking for. When it comes down to you and Crimson Countess for the last spot on the team, you’re shocked to hear Soldier Boy will be conducting your final interview. You shouldn’t be shocked at what it involves.
Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. I wanted to reflect the goofy ass superhero names that older supes had, so you’re Galaxy Girl. This takes place in the late 70s. Inspired by the Jessie Ware song. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo or ED content.
Word count: 4k
Warnings: Casting couch situation. Sexually explicit content that involves coercion, power imbalance, some spanking, mentions of masturbation and oral sex. Drug and alcohol use by both characters. Reader is a horny dumbass. Do not interact if you’re under 18.
The scrap of paper that sat on your vanity had a hastily scribbled address and time that you’d practically memorized since you got the call from Vought International. You recognized the address right away, one of the nightclubs in the city that was favored by supes. As one of Vought’s affiliate superheroes, you’d been there a few times for events they held, whether to schmooze with their investors or party with other supes. It was, however, an odd place to hold an interview to join a superhero team.
Your competition was fierce, though. The last coveted spot in Payback had Vought executives in a deadlock as to whether you or Crimson Countess would be the best addition to the team. Countess was a powerful supe who you respected, unlike some of the other self-important clowns who ran around making a mess of Manhattan. Not to mention, the both of you had overwhelmingly positive approval ratings across most demographics. Unfortunately, you heard through the grapevine that fucking Swatto had already gotten a spot on Payback, and suddenly your slight edge of being able to fly was no more.
As you applied your signature makeup in the mirror of your vanity, you tried hyping yourself before the night that would make or break your career. You were Galaxy Girl, for fuck’s sake. Your powers allowed you to harness the sun and moon’s energy to create and control meteor showers. Sure, sometimes your aim would be a little off, and you’d accidentally rain flaming rocks into a person’s car or take out a backyard every now and then, but it was for the greater good.
Glancing at the worn photo of Soldier Boy taped to your mirror, one you’d cut out of a magazine when you were a kid, you felt a wave of anxiety crashing over you despite your best efforts. After looking up to him for years and getting into the hero business because of him, you weren’t sure if you could handle the rejection from him, no matter how much he might sugar coat it if he went with Countess instead of you.
Not being chosen to join Payback wouldn’t mean the immediate end of your career, but it’d flatline into obscurity inevitably. You’d heard the argument that supes were mostly in the hero game for the attention, and you couldn’t disagree as far as you were personally concerned. You sure as hell didn’t hate the fanfare and special treatment you got.
At a quarter to eight, you made your way out to the balcony of your apartment, taking off from there and flying in the direction of the club. Flying calmed your nerves the way going on long walks helped most people clear their heads. It was freeing and refreshing, and in a city like New York, you could fly at all hours of the night and see everything clear as day.
When you landed in front of the club, the crowd of people surrounding the bouncer parted momentarily, only to crowd you in a frenzy of people asking for your autograph. You obliged as best as you could before being pulled inside, nearly stumbling directly into the host. He was saying something to you as he led you to the tables that surrounded the dancefloor, but you could hardly hear over how loudly the DJ was playing Donna Summer. He stopped abruptly in his tracks, shouting that he was going to let Soldier Boy know you’d arrived.
You chewed on your lip as your gaze followed the host to the large booth that faced the raging dancefloor. There he was, in all of his glory, Soldier Boy. On paper, he was almost sixty years old, having been in his twenties during World War II. Being a supe had certainly done him well, because he didn’t look a day over forty.
For a moment, you felt like your legs were going to give out from under you when he looked in your direction, the slightest smirk on his face. After what felt like an eternity, the host returned to usher you over to Soldier Boy's table. You were reminded how slow and inconvenient walking was, wishing you could just fly over to him instead of snaking through the crowd of people.
Soldier Boy smiled when you stood in front of him. “Galaxy Girl, right on time.”
“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting, Soldier Boy–sir,” you said, quickly adding, “You can call me GG, by the way. If you want to, of course.”
“No, I like GG. It’s sexy,” he said, and you felt yourself smile despite yourself. “Take a seat.”
You nodded, sitting down next to him in the booth, but leaving a bit of space between you. Seeing the glass next to him calmed your nerves, and you knew after a drink you’d loosen up a bit. Sitting next to your hero, the prospect of working on his team sent a rush through you. Before you could say anything else, he shocked you with a compliment.
“You know, I saw that meteor shower you did for Vought’s investor gala last summer, pretty impressive,” he said.
“Thank you so much,” you said, trying to keep yourself from smiling too wide. “That’s so ceremonial, though. With my powers, I can—“
“I know what you can do, sweetheart. That’s why you’re here.”
“Right.”
“C’mere, why don’t we relax a little bit, get to know each other?” he said. “What’re you having?”
Almost as soon as he lifted his hand, a waiter practically materialized at the end of the table, pen and paper in hand to take down your drink order. Soldier Boy leaned over, effectively eliminating any space between the two of you. His body heat practically radiated onto you, and you caught the scent of a typical, masculine cologne and what you could’ve sworn was cinnamon.
The one drink was enough to lower your inhibitions and allow him to practically pull you onto his lap, his strong arms around your waist as his fingers brushed up and down the thin spandex material of your purple, iridescent costume. In all honesty, it felt less like an interview and more like a first date. He’d lean in close to talk to you, the club’s loud music a good excuse, though you tried not to stare at the face you’d only seen in movies, posters, and your own dreams.
He’d been in the middle of ordering more drinks when you heard your own, altered voice booming through the club. Galaxy Girl Groove, a disco single that Vought ordered to boost your youthful appeal. You didn’t do very much of your own singing on it, but that didn’t seem to matter to the DJs that had it spinning on their turntables from New York to Europe. It was something you were proud of in any other situation, but sitting next to your idol, it just felt corny.
Flying through the galaxy All this love for you and me Can you feel it? Can you feel it?
“Oh my god, I swear I didn’t plan this.”
He shook his head, to your relief. “No, this is a good song. You looked great when you sang it on Solid Gold, but damn, color TV doesn’t do your ass justice.”
“I—thank you,” you gasped, feeling him grope your ass through the thin layer of elastic fabric.
Your head was spinning from the confidence boost. Walking into the club earlier that night, you never expected your long-time supe crush to find you attractive, let alone hot. He, on the other hand, knew he was attractive, from the way he carried himself and acted around you. The conversation shifted by drink three, when you decided to call it as far as anything remotely alcoholic went.
“What got you into the supe business?” he asked.
You hid your face in your hands, giggling at his question. “I’m going to sound like such a kiss ass if I say it.”
“Now I gotta hear it.”
“You did—Don’t look at me like that, it’s true! Oh my god I drove my parents crazy talking about you when I was growing up. Your D-Day speech from ‘The Soldier Boy Story’ was my senior yearbook quote.”
He licked his lips, “Yeah? Was I the first guy you got yourself off to?”
“Sorry?”
“C’mon, you don’t get voted America’s sexiest supe two decades running without being finger-banging material. So what was it? Poster on the ceiling? Magazine under the pillowcase?”
“Poster on the ceiling,” you answered quietly, the lightness you’d felt in his presence suddenly feeling oppressively dark as he nearly gave you whiplash at how quickly he shifted the tone of the conversation.
“Which one?”
“You’re standing on a tank, and the tank gun is sticking out between your legs—“
“That one’s a classic. You’ve got great taste, GG.”
“I’m sorry, what does this have to do with Payback?”
“Everything. I mean, it’s my team. Wouldn’t wanna work with someone who doesn’t like me,” he said, as if asking a prospective hire about their masturbatory history was normal. “I need people on my team who respect me and know how to take orders. No second guessing when the going gets tough.”
His intense gaze made you feel six inches tall, looking up at the looming symbol of American heroism. You may as well have been standing at the foot of the Lincoln Memorial, trying to scale your way up Honest Abe with your bare hands. The implication of his words weren’t what caused your sudden feelings of discomfort, but rather frustration at your own naivete for going into this so-called interview without considering this would happen. Stars were born under pressure, you knew as much from your powers, but figuratively, it’s how things worked in Hollywood too. Thinking Vought would be an exception to the rule was laughably short-sighted.
Even if you didn’t get into Payback, you’d already admitted your long-standing infatuation to his face. You’d fantasized about him, imagined he’d be every bit of the all-American dream man, and the place in your heart that was still filled with mushy nostalgia for the world’s first superhero hardened to stone before you could blink. Turning him down would be weak posturing at best and surely get you on Vought’s shit list at worst. You did want to fuck him, but you would’ve preferred different circumstances.
“I’m a team player. I’ll do whatever it takes,” you said.
“Why don’t we take this somewhere a little more private, then?”
“Lead the way.”
Though you slid off of his lap, he kept his arm around your waist as the two of you got out of the booth. He led you back through the club, past the dancefloor and the maze of occupied tables that broke into whispers at the sight of the two of you together. The realization hit you, he wanted them to see you leaving with him, purposely took the long way to the elevator that was guarded by a bouncer, who immediately moved out of the way for Soldier Boy.
The elevator ride was short yet tense. You were locked in on his profile while he looked straight ahead, his only acknowledgement of your presence the gentle squeeze of your hip. The elevator doors opened far too soon but not soon enough, and you walked with him down the dimly lit hallway. He stopped in front of the door, pulling a key from his pocket and unlocked it. You didn’t even know this club had private suites, but then again, you weren’t important enough to have one.
The suite had a sophisticated sleaze that only money could buy, from the generous animal prints to the abundant reflective surfaces in the room. The bed on the far side of the room was bigger than any other you’d seen in your life, and you began to wonder how the hell it even fit through the door in the first place until you heard a loud sniff come from behind you.
Turning around, you saw Soldier Boy wiping his nose, two lines of coke left on the coffee table that he sat in front of. He wasn’t the first person you’d ever met who took drugs, hell, you did too, but he was the one with his face plastered on anti-drug PSAs.
“You want any? It’ll calm your nerves,” he offered.
“I’m not nervous,” you said.
He hummed in response. “No?”
You shook your head, though you knew he could see right through you. He stood up, staring you down for a moment before making his way over to you. Your confidence waned with each step he took, an amused expression on his face as your facade crumbled until you let out a shaky breath when his lips were hardly an inch from yours.
He kissed you, full of the aggression and experience you’d always imagined him having. His full lips were soft against yours. Even then, your fantasies paled in comparison to the feeling of his tongue in your mouth as you let him take you as he wanted. You liked that he was so cocky and sure of himself, not feeling the least bit embarrassed that you played right into his hands.
Though he moved to pull away, you weren’t about to let the kiss end just yet, gently nipping at his bottom lip. A growl rumbled deep in his chest as he obliged your unspoken desire.
“Why don’t you take this off for me,” he ordered softly, tugging at your costume.
He made himself comfortable on the edge of the large bed. Even if he wanted some kind of strip tease, you weren’t sure if you could manage something like that gracefully with how your costume hugged your body. It made you look and feel incredible, but it was a pain to take off. Fuck it. If the way you undressed was a dealbreaker for him, you could live.
To your relief, the opposite seemed true. He palmed his crotch through his own costume as you shimmied out of yours, shedding your platform boots and gloves. Keeping his earlier comment about your ass in mind, you turned around when you pulled off your spandex leggings, making a show of bending over.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groaned under his breath.
You turned around to unzip your top, the last of your costume that you were still wearing, letting it fall to the ground. You, on the other hand, floated a few inches above your discarded costume, pride pumping through your veins as Soldier Boy stared in awe.
Flying the short distance across the room, you landed in front of him, your feet barely touching the ground before he grabbed you. You’d nearly forgotten how strong he was, but he almost knocked the wind out of you with how he pulled you onto the bed with him, pinning you to the silk sheets.
He kissed you again, though you moaned into his mouth as he rutted his clothed cock against your bare pussy, the rough material brushing against your clit. You dug your nails into his shoulders, lifting your hips to get more of the burning friction that felt good despite the discomfort. You couldn’t believe you’d been so unimaginative in your fantasies of him, all so soft and serene, as if you were afraid to truly confront the wanton desire you had for him.
He let out what you could only describe as a growl before he flipped you over, landing a harsh smack to your ass. “All fours, sweetheart.”
As soon as you pushed yourself onto your hands and knees, he rutted his clothed cock against your ass, his fingers playing with your clit. Digging your fingers into the sheets, you pressed yourself closer to him. Who cared if he thought you were desperate? You were desperate after fantasizing about him for so long. There was no guarantee it’d happen again, anyway.
He slapped each of your ass cheeks, tears pricking the corners of your eyes at the force he used. Your skin stung, and you let out a shaky breath when you heard him unzipping his fly. It wasn’t taking him that long to undress, but you were antsy and curious, turning your head to sneak a glimpse of him naked. Your breath hitched at the size of his cock. His bravado sure as hell wasn’t compensating for anything.
He spanked you again, harder than before. “Did I say you could look?”
“No.”
You dug your teeth into your lower lip when he slapped you again.
“No, what?”
“No, sir,” you whimpered, turning to face the headboard again.
“That’s better.”
A moment later, he slipped his hand between your legs, his fingers feeling how wet you’d become at his manhandling your body.
“Fuck, you’re soaked. You like it rough, huh?” he asked, his voice teasing as he rubbed circles on your clit.
“Yes, sir.”
His cock pushed between your folds, slowly filling you before he began to thrust, nearly knocking you flat on your face. His pace was rough and relentless. He clearly had no intention of going easy on you, landing smacks to your ass as he pounded into you. The pain was intense, raw and unfamiliar, but you wanted more, even if it meant you wouldn’t be able to sit for the next few days.
The sound filling the space was nothing short of obscene between the slapping of skin and your pained moans. Throwing your head back, you could barely make out with your blurred vision the distorted reflection of you and Soldier Boy from the mirror on the ceiling. You clenched around him at the thought of how primal and exploitative it was, his cock claiming your pussy just so you’d have a chance at a spot on his team. You moaned, unabashedly turned on by the fucked up situation.
“You close, baby? You gonna cum for me?”
“I—fuck—yes, sir.”
“Good girl,” he growled.
With another thrust that made you feel like your arms were going to give out from under you, you came, tears clouding your vision as all you could feel was pleasure and his hot cum pumping inside you. You’d grabbed the sheets beneath you, squeezing them in your fists as you rode out your orgasm. A tingling sensation in your fingertips was followed by a slight burning smell. Fuck. You burned through his sheets.
As soon as he pulled out, you collapsed onto your back, a hand on your chest as you tried to catch your breath. The bed shifted as he moved to sit next to you, his tongue darting out from between his lips.
“I was just gonna have you suck my cock, but I’ve only had better fucks at Herogasm.”
“Yeah?” you asked, a teasing smile on your face.
He kissed you again, his strong hands squeezing your thighs. “How about you? Nothing like the real thing, huh?”
You could only manage a breathless ‘yes’ in response as you sat up, which was good enough for him. He reached over to the nightstand, grabbing a joint and a lighter. This time, you accepted his offer when he held out the joint to you. Though, instead of handing it over, he put his arm around your shoulders, bringing his hand to your lips. The action felt oddly intimate as you inhaled.
You closed your eyes for a few seconds before looking at him again. “Well, now I’m gonna fail a drug test if I get the job.”
He snickered as he toked, coughing a bit. “If Vought drug tested supes, they would’ve dropped my ass years ago.”
“Sorry about the sheets, by the way,” you said.
“The what—“ He looked over, seeing the holes scorched in the sheets you’d been clinging to. “Shit, that’s actually kinda hot.”
After a few silent moments, you spoke again. “When will I know? If I got the spot in Payback, I mean.”
He shrugged noncommittally. “You’ll get a call in a few days.”
A few days. At least you had some idea of when you’d hear back. Reluctantly, you got up from the comfortable bed, feeling a bit of a chill from the absence of his body heat. You got dressed, glancing at yourself in a mirror on the wall. Your lipstick was smeared, mascara smudged, and the glitter on your cheeks had spread all over your face. At least you wouldn’t have to do any kind of walk of shame out of the place.
“Mind if I leave from here?” you asked, pointing to the window.
He grinned. “Go for it.”
“Have a good night, Soldier Boy.”
“You too, GG.”
Opening the window, you pushed off from the ledge and into the air, soaring above the traffic below. Some of the people standing around and walking down the street recognized you, pointing you out to those around them. Hiding in a place like New York was almost impossible for a supe, and you never bothered with a secret identity like some of your peers did. Besides, you wanted to be recognized, for the city to know who Galaxy Girl was, so you indulged the onlookers with waves and a big smile as you flew by.
As soon as you landed on your apartment’s balcony, you felt a rush of conflicting emotions. There was a little bit of disappointment in being that desperate for a spot on Payback, but mostly, you felt excited disbelief. Despite the circumstances, you and Soldier Boy fucked, something you’d admitted to his face that you spent years resigning to the confines of your most intimate fantasies. Even if you didn’t get chosen for the team, you could live with coming out of the whole thing with nothing more than knowing he was a good lay.
The next few days passed with an anticipation that turned your stomach sour. You stopped a few crimes, did a publicity appearance at a new club, and hoped to god you wouldn’t run into Crimson Countess at some point. You had no idea if her interview went similarly to yours, though you could only assume it did. That didn’t bother you, but you didn’t want her to potentially end up being the bearer of bad news.
Every time you left your apartment, you worried that the phone would ring while you were gone, and you’d miss the most important call of your career. Just after you woke up one morning, the phone rang, and as you’d done since you left the club that night, you rushed into the kitchen to answer it.
“Hello, is this Galaxy Girl?”
“Speaking.”
“I’m calling on behalf of Vought International. A decision has been made on the last position in Payback, and the board would like to extend a formal offer to you as the newest member of—“
The phone fell from your hand, knocking against the wall as it swung back and forth on the chord. You could hardly process the confused, muffled voice on the other end of the line asking if you were still there. The next hour went by in a blur, as you got yourself together and flew over to Vought Tower.
You walked into the conference room to find that the only available seat was next to Soldier Boy, who was sitting among the Vought executives. The board members gave you their congratulations, a lawyer explained what you needed to sign and where, and a photographer started snapping pictures almost as soon as you picked up the pen.
“Look alive, Galaxy Girl! C’mon, you’re making history here!” the photographer exclaimed.
“Don’t overthink it, GG. You more than earned this,” Soldier Boy said with a charming smile. He gave your knee a friendly pat before resting his hand on it, slowly bringing his hand up to your thigh and squeezing.
You managed to give him the most genuine smile you could muster up in return. He was right, after all. You had earned it that night, gave that final push to make yourself stand out, and you hadn’t hated it either. With a deep breath, you signed your life away to join Payback, just like you wanted.
Hello! It's me, that slightly unhinged commenter from AO3, here with a fully unhinged comment on Tumblr (as the prophecies foretold lol)
Side note before we begin: I woke up in such a foul mood today, but reading this fic has CURED ME and restored my peace with the world. So thank you for that lol 🩷 Now let's dive into it.
Holy hell I want Galaxy Girl's superpowers so bad 😍 Controlling meteor showers?! That's so awesome, even if it does end up destroying a few roofs now and again... But of COURSE Vought would end up using it for investor galas and showing off, smh 😂
I really appreciate that you leaned into that style of "goofy" older supe names too - Galaxy Girl feels very "Walt Disney World Tomorrowland" to me, which imo fits right in with the vibes of this era!
And once again, I am reaching through my computer screen to strangle this man 😆 Truly he is infuriating. Getting all cuddly and handsy and complimenting reader's ass. What a brute! (I am in love with him and you write him so well) I loved how you could just feel reader's inhibitions falling away as they were drinking; telling Soldier Boy that he was the reason she got into the business was probably the final straw in sealing her fate, as if he hadn't already planned everything from the start lol 🤭
"Your D-Day speech from ‘The Soldier Boy Story’ was my senior yearbook quote.”
^Live footage of reader dooming herself, but also this is kind of adorable? Like, using a yearbook quote from the celebrity you have a highly questionable crush on is such a universal teenage girl experience 😂 I relate to reader so hard. That would be me too, bestie.
I was SQUIRMING through that whole conversation about the poster on her ceiling. I would be sinking into the floor with embarrassment!! I LOVE an uncomfortable conversation - give me the drama!!!
“I’m sorry, what does this have to do with Payback?” “Everything. I mean, it’s my team. Wouldn’t wanna work with someone who doesn’t like me.”
Oh what an asshole 😆😆 Perfection. That's all I have to say 💕
You may as well have been standing at the foot of the Lincoln Memorial, trying to scale your way up Honest Abe with your bare hands.
Okay I swear I am going to stop quoting every other line (probably a lie). But this line really made me laugh - such a funny visual!
And of course Soldier Boy has a mirror on the ceiling of his private sex suite above the fancy nightclub. I wouldn't expect anything less of him tbh 😂 Also!! Him being into her burning a hole through his sheets! Aaah!!! Yessss 😍🩷
But also also - ALL THAT BULLSHIT AND WE HAVE TO WAIT FOR A CALLBACK?! 😆 How dare he, honestly. I am losing my mindddd~ I blame reader and her decision making skills, though I can't say I would have done a single thing differently lmao
Even if you didn’t get chosen for the team, you could live with coming out of the whole thing with nothing more than knowing he was a good lay.
Reader, my girl, you are so real for this 😭😂 I love this reader character so much; she's a little bit of a ditz, but I mean, aren't we all when it comes to this man? (no? just me? okay... 😂)
And I was so excited when she got the job! But also nervous! It's like watching someone get thrown into a tank full of sharks, and meanwhile there's Soldier Boy fuckin' winking and smirking about it lmao. The plots you write are always so good at making me feel all conflicted. It's like YES! but nooo! but I can't look away!
Wishing Galaxy Girl all the best, but knowing in my heart that she is in SO DEEP for realsies lol. That last line crushed me!!
Thank you as always for writing 🩷 I'm sure I'll be back with more unhinged comments in the future, so my apologies in advance for the rambling 😂
beware.. the south brooklyn lover boy
pairing: 1940s!bucky barnes x bakers daughter!reader
summary: james buchanan barnes has been a thorn in your side ever since you moved to brooklyn when you were eight. you refuse to let your guard down, no matter how much his stupid good looks & incessant flirting tear at your defences
warnings: 18+ MDNI, fluff, flirty!bucky, stubborn!reader, slow burn, teasing, overuse of 40s slang, lots of dialogue, probs not canon compliant, bucky is a ladies man 🙂↕️, 'doll' used a lot, reader wears a dress & heels, lil bit o' jealously, bucky is down bad, suggestive content at end, heavy making out, dry humping, not beta read, barely proofread, no use of y/n
word count: 7.8k
authors note: this one's for @phoenix-in-writing and my flirty 40s bucky peeps 🫶 post covid low has me doubting everythingggg, but i managed to birth this baby. i'm fragile so pls be kind. 40s slang meanings: necking - making out; cheesed off - annoyed; bird-dogging - trying to steal someone else's date/romantic partner.
song inspo: beware.. the south london lover boy. - raye
divider credits: line dividers by @/omi-resources, letter dividers by @/httpssturns
He's just so charismatic And he talks as if he's doing road And he says, "I'm too toxic for you, darling, but when we kiss, it feels like home"
A rush of warm summer's air brushed the back of your neck, the bell above the bakery door jingling and alerting you of a new customer.
"I'll be with you in a minute," you exclaimed softly over your shoulder, your hands occupied with wrapping up the order of mixed berry mini tarts for Mrs. Johnson. She had come by the bakery a few days earlier to place a special order for her granddaughters birthday, and made you promise you would bake them and not your father—she swore your baking tasted sweeter than his, that you put in a 'dash of sunshine'.
A deep, raspy voice filled the small bakery. "Take your time, doll. I'm in no rush."
The light yellow ribbon trembled in your grip, your fingers tightening around the fabric for a split second. You swallowed back the annoyed sigh that worked it's way up your throat whenever you heard his voice.
You finished wrapping Mrs. Johnson's order in silence, not bothering with a reply. The less you spoke to him the better your chances were of leaving the bakery in a good mood.
"You're an angel," Mrs. Johnson smiled as you handed her the warm cloth parcel. "Here," she dug into her coin purse and placed a few dimes on the wooden counter between you, "something to thank you for your hard work." She gave you a small wink before making her way to the door, exchanging warm pleasantries with the only other customer in the bakery on her way out.
You grabbed the dimes and put them in the tip jar next to the register, turning back to the small work bench to wipe it down.
"What a big tip, angel. What ya gonna do with all your riches?" Came the deep voice again, layered thick with honey and much closer to you this time.
The sigh finally slipped out of you. "What are you doing here, James?" You asked exasperatedly, keeping your back turned to him.
"What will it take for you to call me Bucky, doll?" You could hear the faux pout in his tone. "I'll get on my hands and knees."
"Your ma didn't place any orders, so I'll ask again: what are you doing here?" You said in response, finally turning to the man who lived to annoy you with his presence.
James was leaning against the counter, his blue eyes bright with a smirk that was quirked to the left—his jaw moving as he chewed on gum.
"I wanted to come say hi to my favourite girl."
You ignored the thrill that his smoky rasp sent down your spine. "I am not your anything," you bit out, crossing your arms over your chest.
His smirk morphed into a shit-eating grin, "who said I was talking 'bout you?" His lips smacked obnoxiously. "Mrs. Johnson's always been a big fan of mine."
You moved from behind the counter, rolling your eyes at his arrogance. You made your way to the display in the window, moving around sweet bags that weren't out of place.
"She know you takin' Dot out dancing tonight?" The question slipped from your lips before you could stop it. You squeezed your eyes shut, your lips pressing into a thin line. You weren't supposed to know that.
James appeared at your side, nudging your rib with his elbow. "You keepin' tabs on me, doll?" He sounded ecstatic and your heart gave a traitorous flutter.
"No," you scoffed, "she came by yesterday and wouldn't stop gabbin' about it."
The oven timer went off in the kitchen, saving you from James seeing your trembling hands. When did they start shaking?
"Is that jealousy I hear?" He followed behind you, leaning against the small kitchen's doorframe. You busied yourself with taking the bread out of the oven, resisting the urge to look at how his shoulders made the room smaller—since when did he get so broad? "You know I've been askin' you to go dancing for years."
"And what? I just become another bird clinging to the James Buchanan Barnes' arm?" You asked in a sickly sweet, sarcastic tone. "I'd rather pluck my eyes out."
James staggered back dramatically, clutching his chest like he'd been shot. "You wound me, sweetheart. I don't know what I did to deserve this kinda treatment." The big grin on his face contradicted his words—he enjoyed this, whatever it was.
"You know what you did," you mumbled, swatting at his chest with a dish towel. “Now, are ya gonna buy something or continue being a pest?”
His hand shot up quickly, grabbing the end of the towel and pulling abruptly. You stumbled forward a few steps, his strength catching you off balance. You braced a hand on his chest on reflex, trying to stabilise yourself. His body was warm beneath your palm and the contact sent sizzling currents of electricity racing up your arm, travelling through your veins and making your heart beat faster.
His scent wrapped around you—minty freshness from his gum, a lingering hint of tobacco, something masculine and uniquely him. You inhaled instinctively, your mind going hazy. You briefly forgot you were meant to hate him.
"As long as I'm your pest."
All prior teasing and flirtation was gone from his voice, leaving behind a vulnerable sincerity you'd never heard from him before. His free hand came up slowly, resting on top of yours—your eyes latching on his thumb stroking the back of your hand softly. Your nerves lit up under his touch, and your breath hitched at how his hand completely swallowed yours.
You made the mistake of looking up at his face, catching his hooded eyes zeroed in on your lips. His head dipped lower, his minty breath caressing your face. The air around you thickened, your heart stuttering in your chest. You could see a faint scar on his nose, your hand hanging at your side twitching with the urge to trace it.
The service door behind you banged open with a loud force, breaking whatever spell James dragged you under. You jumped away from him like you had been burned, just in time to see your father's head pop out from over a stack of crates.
"Bucky, I'll have to put you on the payroll at this rate! Do ya mind helpin' an old man out?"
James was by your father's side before he even finished his question, lifting two crates off the trolley like they weighed nothing. His eyes met yours for a second, soft and open, before his signature smirk took over and one of his eyes twitched in a flirty wink.
Right. You hated James and his stupid, charming, handsome face.
Fifteen Years Earlier
The first thing you noticed was the air was thicker than your old neighbourhood, a hint of sot laced through the Brooklyn winds. The sidewalk was uneven beneath your shoes; a mix of dirt, harsh gravel, and cracked concrete taking your full attention—the last thing you wanted was to return home with a scraped knee after your ma's warning. Your parents were hesitant to let you wander the neighbourhood alone—they were busy unpacking from the move—but the adventurer in you couldn't sit still.
You rounded the corner, following the tinkling sounds of children's laughter. A smile bloomed across your face when you spotted a couple of kids a few houses down, jumping on the sidewalk as they played hopscotch. They looked to be around your age—a scrawny boy with blonde hair and a girl with dark hair pulled into braids. Your footsteps picked up as you eagerly approached the duo, missing the front door to your right opening and boots stomping down the steps.
Before you could greet the kids playing, your head snapped back—a harsh tug pulling at your pigtail and causing your scalp to flash with pain. The force threw you off balance and you fell to the side, your palms and knee hitting the rough ground—small stones embedding themselves in your flesh. You looked at your palms in shock, tiny dots of red surfacing and heating your skin. Your vision blurred as your eyes filled with tears, a small sniffle escaping you; your ma was going to be so disappointed. There was tiny flecks of blood smearing the hem of your dress where your scraped knee was starting to weep.
"I-I'm—" A small voice started behind you, making you whip your head back to your attacker. He was taller than the blonde boy, with floppy hair that was a matching brown to the girl with braids. His bright blue eyes were widened in panic with his pink mouth slightly agape, his hands hovering uselessly near your head. You would've thought he was cute, if he hadn't just injured you in lieu of a greeting.
Your voice was quiet, though laced with a small fire. "Why did you do that?" A silent tear streaked down your cheek, adding more warmth to the heat flushing your skin. You weren't embarrassed—no, you were something far more dangerous. You were angry.
"James Buchanan!" A woman yelled from the front porch on your right, her dress flowing behind her as she rushed down the wooden steps. "What are you doin' to that poor girl?!"
The scent of lavender engulfed you as she reached you two, her firm hands gripping the boy's—James—shoulders and pulling him away from you. She squatted down next to you with a gentle smile, her brows furrowing as she examined your bloody knee and hands. Long brown hair pinned away from her face and light blue eyes confirmed your suspicion—she was your assailants mother.
"Are you okay, sweetie? Can you stand?" She placed soft hands on your elbows, helping you to stand slowly. She moved a hand to your back, rubbing between your shoulders soothingly. "Let's get you cleaned up, that okay with you?" You responded with a small nod.
"M'sorry, ma. I just wanted to talk to her…" James mumbled guiltily. Your gaze snapped to him with a hardened glare. So he could apologise to his ma but not to you?
"Go play with Becca and Steve, I'll deal with you later." His mom said sternly, leading you away from him and to the porch steps. You kept your gaze on him, narrowing your eyes as he lingered next to the gravel now spotted with your blood.
"I won't forget this, James."
When your father first opened his bakery you and your mother didn't have much hope. It was a small store wedged between an abandoned butcher who had gone out of business and a bookstore that got new releases a year late and had rot lining the bookcases. There was hardly any foot traffic, and for the first few weeks after opening the only customers were dockworkers on their lunch break or tourists who had gotten lost.
One day your father decided to go door to door in your neighbourhood with boxes full of his—and your—baking, and the next day there was a line waiting outside the door before you opened. A month after that, your family's bakery had become the go to for Brooklyn's residents—despite your family being 'transplants'. From then on your life routine consisted of school, the bakery, and then home—sometimes the bakery before school, depending on how many special orders your father had.
It didn't take long for you to figure out that bakeries—like coffee shops—had an atmosphere that invited gossip. Something about the smell of caramelised sugar and freshly baked bread, the golden hues of sunlight that trickled through the large windows, the soft droning from the antique radio in the corner—it made people relax and let their guard down. And it made them forget that you were also there, standing behind the counter trying to tamp down your amused smile as you overheard conversations about overbearing mother-in-laws, school crushes, and illegitimate babies.
Unfortunately for you, that meant you heard the name "Bucky Barnes" fall from more girl's lips than you could count. From your fellow classmates giggling over how much of a 'dreamboat' he was, to the women who were lucky enough to go dancing with him, you heard more about him than you ever wanted to.
"He's a really good dancer," the redhead giggled to her friend, a slice of apple and rhubarb pie sitting between them on the window table.
"Oh, I'm sure," The friend replied in a dreamy voice. "You didn't stop at dancing though, did you?" She asked in a singsong tone, wiggling her eyebrows.
You pressed the roller harder into the flattened dough, rolling your eyes at their conversation. You had twenty minutes left before you needed to close shop, which meant you only had to wait ten more minutes before you could politely usher them out the door.
Dot sighed heavily, "we went back to mine and were necking for a bit, and then he just…stopped."
"I bet he was a good kisser, at least," the friend offered.
"Really good, which is why I'm so cheesed off!" Dot let out a huff. "He was even a gentleman as he turned me down, saying that it's nothin' to do with me—that his heart just 'wasn't in the right place'. That there's some special dame he can't get over."
A snort slipped out of you before you could stop it—James, only having eyes for one girl, really? Your hands froze on the roller as their heads whipped to you standing behind the counter.
Dot's eyes narrowed at you, her head tilting like she was trying to put a name to a face. Then the recognition hit her.
"You know him, don't you? You know Bucky?" She asked you, eagerly leaning over the back of her chair.
"Yeah, I guess. He lives 'round the corner from me," you offered with a small shrug. The last thing you wanted was to talk about James with his latest date.
She looked at you expectantly. "Well? Do you know if there is a special girl?"
Ever since his voice dropped in the seventh grade, James has had a new girl on his arm every week. Each week, he got caught playing footsie with a different girl under the school desks, received high fives from his fellow wolves for heavy petting a dilly at the pictures, and on multiple occasions sported a black eye from his attempts at bird-dogging. He was an incorrigible ladies man; there was nothing special about being his girl.
You rubbed a flour covered hand against your temple. "We don't talk 'bout that kinda stuff," you mumbled. "We're not that close."
Dot hummed, a perfectly plucked eyebrow raising on her forehead. "Really? Isn't he here, like, every day?"
Is that why they were still here? Were they waiting for James to turn up?
"I wouldn't say every day," you replied, wiping your hands on your apron. "His ma likes my focaccia and lemon bars." You started to loudly pack up the register and front counter, hoping they would get the hint to move on.
Dot's friend whispered something low to her, both their eyes trailing from the humid mess that was your hair down to the faded loafers on your feet. Your shoulders inched higher under their scrutinising stares, a string of sarcastic remarks loaded on the back of your tongue.
"Pie was good," was all Dot said, standing from her chair and gathering her bag, her friend following suit. They offered you a brief wave as they opened the door, the chime from the bell announcing their departure. The sound was like music to your ears—your shoulders dropping a fraction and a tired sigh leaving your lips.
What the hell was that?
You turned back to the raspberry tart you were working on, trying to immerse yourself in the new recipe you were testing out while the words "special girl" rang out in your head.
The bell sounded again, the jingle causing a sigh to escape you. You should've made sure to lock the door after them.
"Sorry, we're closed." You called out, your eyes not leaving the sticky red mess beneath your hands.
"Sign on the door says otherwise." Came the husky, low voice that haunted your dreams.
"Speak of the devil," you muttered under your breath. You turned your head over your shoulder, seeing James sauntering towards you with that stupid, roguish grin. "If you're looking for Dot, she left a few minutes ago."
"I know."
You squinted your eyes at him. "Did you wait until they left to come in?"
He shrugged sheepishly, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. "Maybe."
You scoffed, resting a hip against the counter and throwing him a smug look. "Heard that you left her feeling…unsatisfied."
He met your look with an arrogant smile, his eyes flashing with interest."You talkin' about me again, doll?"
"Unwillingly."
He leaned both arms against the wooden counter in front of you, drawing your attention to his exposed forearms. Your eyes followed the line of a vein bulging through his skin, his rolled sleeve cutting off your view of it travelling up his bicep.
"She was just practice."
Your eyes snapped up to his glowing blue eyes, a flush creeping up your spine at being caught staring. The lust searing under your skin churned into disgust at his words. "Practice? That's all these girls are to you?"
He shrugged nonchalantly, "gotta keep my moves fresh for when you finally come to your senses."
You barked out a harsh laugh. "In your dreams, Barnes."
He stood to his full height, rounding the counter and trailing a hand along the wood grain as he stepped closer to you.
He cocked his head to the side. "How'd you know you're all I dream about?"
Your heart leaped into your throat and you scolded your body's reaction, reminding yourself he talks like this to every dame in a thirty mile radius.
"Don't you have anything better to do? Like finding some other girl to harass?" You turned back to the raspberry tart, taking a steadying breath and willing your heartbeat to slow.
"I'm right where I want to be."
His voice was right next to you now, low and raspy in your ear. A hint of smoke clung to his clothes, a smell that normally repulsed you but had you leaning closer to him.
A raspberry burst beneath your pinched fingers, drenching your skin in it's glistening juice.
"Look at the mess you've made, doll."
Before you could grab the rag sitting on the counter, slender fingers wrapped around your wrist. His thumb brushed against your racing pulse, dark eyes meeting yours as he slowly brought your stained fingers towards his mouth. Your breath caught in your throat, all coherent thoughts leaving your brain—everything in your body single-mindedly focused on where his skin was touching yours, on his breath ghosting the tips of your fingers. You watched, entranced, as his tongue peeked out to wet his lips, gliding along the plump flesh. You stepped forward instinctively, your body craving his warmth and your mind clouding with desire.
His lips are so pink.
He pressed a soft kiss to the tips of your fingers, a small gasp leaving you at the contact. A hum sounded from his chest, his lips vibrating faintly under your fingertips. A low buzz started to thrum throughout your body, tingles erupting from where your skin pressed against his soft lips.
"Sweet," he whispered low, heavy.
His eyes lifted to yours again, dilated pupils swallowing blue irises. He flashed you a wink before taking a small step back, his free hand grabbing the rag on the counter. He gently wiped the sticky berry off your fingers, taking more care than necessary for the simple task. He put the rag down, his hand moving from your wrist to clasp your fingers delicately. He brushed a lingering kiss against your knuckles, his fingers squeezing yours before he let go.
James' eyes traced over your face almost intricately, like he was committing your flustered expression to memory. His hand lifted slowly, his thumb brushing against your temple in a barely there touch—a light dusting of flour covering his skin once he pulled his hand away.
"Think I want to place a special order," he drawled, pink lips stretching into a lopsided smirk. "That's if you're on the menu, sweetheart."
He turned on his heel, strolling towards the door—pinching a bag of cookies on his way. "Don't miss me too much!" He hollered over his shoulder, flipping the sign on the door to 'closed' and leaving you with the sinking realisation that maybe it really is a thin line between love and hate.
The heels of your pumps clicked on the concrete sidewalk, the sound echoing through the still night air. The neighbourhood was unusually quiet for a Friday night, the impending storm encouraging your neighbours to stay inside and forgo their usual Friday plans. You envied them—staying inside with a glass of wine and your well worn copy of The Hobbit felt far more appealing than the date you had just left.
Your date was a nice enough guy—the son of one of your mom's friends—but he was…boring. Kind, but shy. A gentleman to a fault. The type of guy you wouldn't look twice at if he came into the bakery. You suppose he felt similarly to you, the date ending with not so much as a cheek kiss goodbye—hell, he let you walk home alone from the restaurant. Sure, it was barely a ten minute walk from your place, but it felt wrong. Was his chivalry just an act that he dropped once he realised the date was going nowhere?
The faint sound of deep, husky laughter interrupted your thoughts as you rounded the corner. Your heart rate picked up in anticipation, sweat starting to prickle your palms. Because there he was, the man whose face kept popping into your head—uninvited—all throughout your date. He was lazily strolling towards you, hands stuffed in his pant pockets and head tilted towards the smaller man next to him. Steve was rambling, his hands waving around energetically as he spoke. James threw his head back with a loud, unfiltered laugh; the sound sending a rush up your spine, even from twenty metres away. It didn't take a genius to know they had been out drinking, their movements languid and carefree.
Steve noticed you first, raising his hand with a wave and calling out your name in greeting. They were closer to your house than you were so there was no avoiding them—something you weren't even sure you wanted to do. You normally tried to limit your time spent interacting with James, but something had shifted—you felt your body, and mind, yearning to be near him.
James' head jerked towards you quickly, his body visibly stalling as he looked at you. You closed the distance, Steve meeting you halfway with a tipsy smile and a quick hug while James stayed a couple feet behind, looking momentarily stunned.
"Hi Steve," you greeted with a soft smile. You made eye contact with James once he reached you two, giving him a curt nod. "James."
"What, no hug for me, doll?" His signature smirk was back, although looking more like a dopey grin with the alcohol flowing through his system. His eyes were slightly glazed over, trailing from your head down your body to your heels—his gaze getting stuck on the formal dress you were wearing. It was a white dress with small, dainty flowers that you had worn only a handful of times—saved for the very rare occasion you had a date.
You gave him a once over, your sight catching on the chest hair peeking out where he had unbuttoned his shirt. Combined with the veins on his forearm you had admired before, you felt an unfamiliar warmth growing in the pit of your stomach.
You snapped your eyes back to his. "And end up smelling like a distillery? No thanks."
"Oh, Jesus," Steve mumbled, shaking his head. "Not this again."
James ignored both Steve and your jab at him. "You been out dancing? Without me?" His eyes wandered over your dress again, his bottom lip jutting in a pout. A shiver raced across your body as you remembered those inviting lips touching your fingers in the bakery.
You crossed your arms over your chest, pushing your chin up in faux confidence. "It's none of your business where I've been."
He took a step closer, tilting his head to the side—his eyes softening under the dim streetlight. You could smell the lingering scent of sweet whiskey and tobacco on him, clouding your head further.
"On the contrary, it is entirely my business." His voice was rough yet smooth, like honey drizzled over gravel.
You scoffed, trying to hide your nerves.
"O-kay," Steve dragged out. "I'm leaving you two to…whatever this is." He brushed past you, walking in the direction of his place—the same path James should be taking.
The both of you ignored him, stuck in a staring match—for what reason, you're not sure of.
You broke contact first, stepping around James and continuing your journey home. He was by your side in a second, humming a tune under his breath as you leisurely walked down the street.
"So, where were you?" All playfulness was gone from his tone, leaving behind genuine curiosity.
"Again, it's none of your business."
"Your safety is my business, doll." He said low, serious. You ignored the way your heart jumped in your chest at his concern.
You sighed, relenting. "If you must know, I was out for dinner."
He stopped abruptly, making you turn to him with raised eyebrows.
"Dinner, as in a date?" He asked, his features pulling down into a frown.
"Shocking, I know," you mumbled, kicking a loose stone with the toe of your shoe.
His head swivelled, looking down the street in the direction you came from. You watched his eyes squint and his jaw clench. "Well, where is he then? Your date?"
You shrugged, turning back to walk towards your place. "I don't know. I walked home from the restaurant."
James jogged to catch up to you, grasping your forearm gently. "Alone? Are you fucking serious?" He seethed through clenched teeth.
You ripped your arm out of his hold, continuing your walk. "Yes. I can take care of myself."
He shook his head at your stubbornness, a humourless laugh escaping him. "I'm pretty sure it's illegal to let a beautiful dame walk home alone at night." You scoffed at him, a flush rising under your skin at him calling you beautiful. "I'm serious, doll. That's no man."
You reached the small path leading to your porch steps, turning to him to say goodnight, finding him already looking at you with a hopeless look in his baby blues. "You're not seeing him again…are you?"
Inexplicably, your heart tugged towards him. Maybe it was due to his tipsy state, but his flirtiness was gone and your usual sass died on your tongue. You told him the truth, for once.
"No, he was boring."
His face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. That dopey grin returned and his shoulders dropped, like he had been holding in a breath. "Good." His eyes flicked down to your dress again, his eyes twinkling.
Suddenly, a large hand palmed your waist and another clasped your hand, lifting it above your head before James clumsily spun you around on the uneven sidewalk.
"James! What are you doing?" You squealed as he continued to try dance with you, your free hand instinctively gripping his shoulder.
He spun you around once more, both hands moving to your upper back as he dipped you low. You let out a gasp, your shocked eyes meeting his shining ones. Even while tipsy and slightly uncoordinated, he really was a good dancer.
"There she is, there's that smile." He muttered softly, quietly, tenderly.
You didn't even realise you were grinning up at him.
Your hands rested on his shoulders as he brought you back up slowly, the two of you standing closer than before. The air went still around you, and you swayed closer to his warmth. His hands stayed on your upper back, gentle pressure holding you steady but not pulling you closer. Even with liquor running through his veins, he was a gentleman—his hands never straying and making you uncomfortable.
This wasn't the Bucky you heard stories of, copping a feel any chance he got. No, this was your James—unashamedly flirty but…respectful. And you hated it—hated the stupid flutter in your chest, hated your brain turning to mush. Hated the hitch in your breath as your eyes fell to his parted lips, hated the overwhelming urge to lean forward and finally get a taste of him.
You hated how despite everything, you wanted him. Badly.
"M'sorry," he mumbled low, whisper quiet. "Couldn't help myself, that dress is perfect for dancin'."
His head dipped lower, warm breath ghosting your lips and erupting tingles along the flesh. You held your breath, your eyelids drooping in anticipation. A soft chuckle escaped him, the whiskey laced exhale brushing your face. His lips settled oh so faintly on your right cheek, a tender touch you were not expecting. Your hands clutched his shoulders tighter, one of his thumbs caressing between your shoulder blades in a soothing motion.
He took a step back and your eyes fluttered open, darting around his face in confusion. His usual arrogance was gone, an expression you could only describe as affectionate taking it's place.
He turned his head towards your house, brows furrowing in an instant.
"Are your parents home?" He asked. You imagined it was a question he had asked girls dozens of times before, but this felt different—he sounded concerned, not suggestive.
You shook your head gently, trying to clear the fog he had clouded your mind with. You took a step back from him as your lungs filled with air again.
"Um—no, they're—they went to visit my aunt in Cape Cod." You replied, your voice small and airy.
He raised his eyebrows, a displeased grunt sounding from his chest. "With the incoming storm?" He shook his head, "they won't be back for days."
You walked up the path towards the porch, your legs feeling unsteady. Your house keys trembled in your hands as you grabbed them from your clutch. James followed closely behind you, a hand hovering over the small of your back as you climbed the steps.
"It's fine, we have supplies stocked up." You said with a shrug.
He let out a deep breath. "That's not what I'm worried about, sweetheart." His head whipped back to the street, his eyes scanning the dark neighbourhood. "You never know what beasts are lurking," he muttered, a tense edge to his voice.
You let out a snort as you put the key in the lock. "Yeah, like you're not the most dangerous thing lurking the streets."
His mouth quirked to the side, "you think I'm dangerous?" He stepped closer, the intoxicating scent of him wrapping around you. "Do I make your heart race, doll? Get your blood pumping, make you hot under the collar?"
You let out a stuttered breath before you could stop it, your body reacting to his proximity exactly as he suggested. You shouldered the door open with more force than necessary, needing an escape from him and his increasingly irresistible face.
James stepped through the door behind you, causing you to turn to him with your eyebrows raised. "…What are you doing?" You dragged out.
"Keeping you safe."
A shocked laugh sounded in your throat. "You can't stay with me, James, that's—people might get the wrong idea." Your hand clutched the door for support, your body half turned towards the man who you wanted to leave, and wanted to kiss until your lips were bruised.
He shrugged, taking a step back onto the porch. "Fine. I'll stay out here then."
"What? Don't be ridiculous, it's about to start pouring down." You could feel a headache forming at your temple—why must everything be so difficult with him?
"Well, I either get hypothermia or," his lips inched into that infuriating smirk, "our neighbours get the wrong idea." He tipped his head towards you, "it's your choice, doll."
A frustrated breath left you. "…Fine. But you're sleeping on the couch."
He gave you a mock salute. "As you wish."
You turned around, walking to your lounge and turning on the lamp in the corner by the couch—soft lamplight illuminating the room. You heard the front door softly click closed, the sound of James' boots scuffing faintly along the hardwood floors. You stood in the middle of the lounge, suddenly feeling awkward and shy in your own home.
"I'll get you a blanket," you mumbled to him, wringing your fingers together nervously. You went to the linen closet in the hallway, grabbing him a clean blanket and pillow. You took a second to breathe, trying not to focus on the fact that he was going to be in your home. With you. Alone.
You walked back into the lounge, seeing him sitting on the couch and untying his boots. You cleared your throat softly, gently placing the bedding on the cushion next to him. He looked up at you, the soft light making him look younger. You dragged your gaze away before you got caught staring at his lips, before you caved in and did something you'd regret.
"The bathroom is down the hall, second door on the left."
His lips lifted into a soft smile. "I know," he said. "I've been here before."
You let out a small, nervous laugh. "Right."
You turned to walk towards the stairs, towards your room. You stopped with a hand on the doorframe. "I'll see you in the morning, James."
"Good night, doll. Sweet dreams."
You woke to the faint smell of coffee trickling under your door and the soft drumming of rain against your window. For a few minutes you basked in that half awake state, where the world didn't exist outside of your warm sheets and you briefly forgot about everything that was waiting for you outside your door.
The sound of clanging pots stirred you from the dreamy in between, making you drag yourself out of bed with a groan. You threw a cardigan over your silk nightgown, your bare feet padding against the floor as you made your way downstairs.
Your brain was only half functioning as you walked into the kitchen, the memories from the night before only rushing back when you were met with the sight that was James' back covered in a white undershirt. You froze in your path, your wide eyes glued to his muscles shifting beneath the soft cotton. Your eyes trailed over the wide expanse of his back and shoulders, watching his biceps flex as he moved pots around on the stove. Heat blazed beneath your skin, simmering in the pit of your gut.
"Enjoying the show, doll?" His voice rasped out, thick and heavy with sleep. The sound alone had your body erupting in goosebumps.
You opened and closed your mouth like fish out of water. You tore your gaze away from his distracting frame to the kitchen counter where two plates of eggs and toast were sitting.
"Did you…make breakfast?" Disbelief dripped from your tone.
"Mhm. Coffee will be ready soon," he turned then, granting you with the sight of his sleep-ridden face. He nodded towards the kitchen table next to the window. "Sit, I'll bring it over."
You followed his instruction with no argument, feeling dazed. Had you hit your head and woken up in an alternate reality?
He brought the plates over, flashing you a soft smile before going to grab the coffee percolator and a couple of mugs. He poured both your cups of coffee, settling in the chair across from you like this was your normal routine. He dug in to his breakfast and you followed suit, albeit hesitantly—you weren't sure if this was real or if you were still dreaming.
"Sleep okay?" He asked before taking a sip of coffee, soft eyes meeting yours over the lip of his cup.
You nodded slowly. "Yeah, fine…you?
He shrugged lightheartedly, "not the worst couch I've slept on."
You both went back to eating before you couldn't hold your question in any longer. Your fork clanged noisily on the porcelain plate. "What are you doing here, James? Why…why did you make breakfast?"
He shrugged again. "'Cause."
You narrowed your eyes at him. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're going to get," he replied, mouth quirking to the side in barely contained amusement.
You let out an annoyed huff, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms. James mirrored your posture, his eyes roaming across your face. Your eyes flicked down to his arms, thick biceps bulging against his chest.
"You look beautiful in the morning, doll." His tone was soft, borderline reverent—causing butterflies to unleash havoc in your stomach.
You scoffed. "Bet you say that to all the girls."
"I mean it when I say it to you."
You shot up from your chair, collecting the dirty dishes to give your nervous hands something to do. Your chest was feeling too tight, your skin too warm. You felt like you were going to combust under his gentle stare.
"You can go home now—I'm in no imminent danger." Your voice shook, your plates in your hands trembling as you walked towards the sink.
You heard the scrap of James' chair behind you, the creak of the floorboards beneath his feet as he made his way towards you.
He said your name softly. "Look at me, please."
Placing the dishes next to the sink, you turned towards him—against your better judgement. You rested your hands on the counter behind you, gripping it for support. You watched his adam's apple move as he swallowed, an almost hesitant look crossing his face. Was he…nervous?
He let out a breath, rubbing a hand against his day old stubble.
God, he looked unfairly handsome in the morning.
"Are you ever going to give me a chance?"
There was no teasing in his voice, no playful flirtation. He sounded sincere, and as if in despair.
"…What?"
He stepped forward, his eyes searching yours. "You're all I think about, and it's driving me crazy. It's been driving me crazy for the past fifteen years."
A small gasp escaped you, your hands clutching the counter tighter. "You're—you don't mean that."
He took another small step forward. "I do."
You shook your head, refusing to believe the words coming out of his mouth. "No, you don't. You like the chase, you like that I'm something you can't have."
He let out a breathy chuckle. "I'll admit our back and forth is fun, but it's not the sole reason I want you."
You pushed off the counter, darting past him and into the lounge—needing to put distance between you and the insufferable man who has been a thorn in your side for more than half your life. He didn't mean what he was saying, he was just taking advantage of your early morning vulnerability.
He followed behind you, calling your name out softly. You hated how it sounded falling from his lips.
"Just—listen to me."
You whipped back to him, fire blazing in your eyes. "No! I don't believe you!" You threw your hands up. "What about all the girls you've dated, huh? If you couldn't stop thinking about me like you claim, why have a new girl on your arm every week?"
He looked at you with wide eyes, a hand going up to tug his hair in frustration. "What else was I supposed to do? The girl I liked wouldn't give me the time of day!" He put his hands on his hips, his teeth chewing on his bottom lip. "And maybe…maybe I hoped it would make you jealous," he muttered low, sheepish.
You could feel your walls crumbling, your defences falling at the sincerity in his voice and face. In the fifteen years that you had known him, he had never said anything like this to you. Yeah, he was brazenly flirty, but he'd never said something so honest…so vulnerable.
"You never said sorry," you mumbled, staring down at your fidgeting hands.
"What?"
"For hurting me, the day I moved here. You never apologised to me." You hated how meek you sounded, how that day still affected you despite all the time that had passed.
He stepped forward slowly, gently grabbing your hands. You watched, stunned, as he lowered to one knee before you. He looked up at you with soft, pleading eyes. Your heart stumbled in your chest at the sight of him on his knees before you.
"Sweetheart, I am truly sorry for hurting you—for causing you pain at any point in your life." He took a breath, his hands squeezing yours. "This doesn't excuse what I did, but—I was so excited," a lovestruck smile took over his lips, "I just really wanted to talk to the new, pretty girl." He let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle. "Guess I came off a bit too strong."
Your eyes grew warm, your vision blurring with tears. This man just kept on surprising you, making you feel things for him you didn't think was possible.
"You don't have to forgive me, but please believe me when I say all I want is you." He stood to his full height, one hand dropping yours to cradle your jaw—his thumb brushing against your cheek tenderly. You looked into his eyes, seconds away from drowning in the pools of blue.
You swallowed through the lump in your throat. "But…Dot said, she said there was a special dame."
"For a smart girl, you can be real thick sometimes." His forehead dropped to yours. "You're the special dame, doll. Always have been."
You had gone speechless, not a single coherent thought running through your head. Your eyes darted across his face, scrutinising every flicker—trying to find any inkling that he was lying. All you could see was sincerity, hopefulness, and something frighteningly close to love.
"Bucky," you whispered, leaning your face into his hand.
His eyes flashed, a harsh exhale leaving his nose. His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes.
"You've never called me that before."
Then he was leaning down, his other hand dropping yours to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head back. His lips brushed against yours lightly, giving you the chance to pull away. Your hands came up to his chest, one palm laying flat against his racing heart and the other bunching the fabric of his undershirt. You pulled slightly, encouraging him to press his lips to yours harder.
His lips moved against yours slowly, languidly—like he was trying to savour the moment. He tasted like coffee with a faint hint of mint. You kissed him back eagerly, a small noise vibrating in your throat. The hand cradling your jaw moved down your back before resting on your waist, pulling you closer to his body. The kiss started to grow desperate, his lips sucking your bottom lip with a small nip from this teeth, drawing a gasp from you. You had been kissed before, but never like this—not like you were being consumed whole. His lips were even softer than you imagined.
He tilted his head, running his tongue along your lips. You opened for him willingly, feeling heat build in your core at the first touch of his tongue against yours. A whimper tore from your chest, a hand trailing up from his chest to the back of his head—your fingers tangling in his soft locks. He groaned into your mouth as you gave an experimental tug—the sound sending currents throughout your body. You broke away to gasp for air and his lips travelled along your jaw, his stubble scratching your skin deliciously.
"Kissin' you feels like home."
A breathy moan escaped you as his lips continued their journey, mouthing at your neck and drawing more needy noises from you. He tugged you closer to him, your hips pulled flush against his.
"You sound so sweet, doll." He muttered into your neck, his mouth latching to a spot below your ear and sucking gently. It sent shocks down your body and you gasped at the sensation.
"Taste sweet, too."
Your hips started to roll against his, instinctively seeking friction to quell the desire lighting up from his touch. He responded to your movements eagerly, both hands dripping your hips.
"You…you still owe me for—for the cookies you stole." You gasped out, his mouth on your neck unrelenting.
He pulled back with a wolfish grin, his lips spit slick and glistening. His eyes were dark and hooded as they met yours. "Think I have a few ways I can pay you back."
He spun you quickly, walking backwards until his legs hit the couch and he sat down—pulling you on top of his thighs. Your nightgown bunched around your knees as you straddled his lap, your hands resting atop his shoulders—your fingers digging in to the hard muscle. His mouth met yours again, devouring you like you were his first proper meal in days. His hands on your hips pushed down, encouraging you to settle your weight fully on top of him. His hips bucked up beneath yours, pulling a moan from both your throats.
You slowly rolled your hips back and forth, need clouding your thoughts as you felt a hard bulge press against you. You pulled back from his lips, desperately sucking in air. His head dropped to the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting your skin as moans slipped from his lips. Wetness pooled where your body was rocking against his, and your body started to shake as an unfamiliar pleasure started to build.
James' hands on your hips gripped tighter, stilling your urgent movements. His head lifted to look at you and he looked ruined—eyes glazed over, lips swollen, chest rising and falling rapidly. He pressed a kiss to your lips before moving to your cheek, then nose, then forehead—covering your face in soft pecks that had you giggling in his arms.
"It's 'bout time I took you out dancin', sweetheart."
Fair warning that I have this problem where I live-react to everything happening in a fic, so there's a lot of rambling under the cut 😝
This was such a fun read!! I was rolling my eyes right alongside reader almost as soon as this man walked into the bakery lmao 😂 His comment about Mrs. Johnson!! I can't stand him (he's perfect). But he very quickly won me over~ Reader is a stronger woman than me...
Awesome dynamic between them - I can't explain exactly why, but Bucky was kind of giving me Jack Dawson from Titanic vibes. Or maybe that's just my raging Titanic obsession talking lol. Something about the way you can just imagine him having a little smirk as he says every line; the slightly over-dramatic delivery. I loved it 😋🥰
And that little moment where reader's father comes in and makes a comment about needing to put him on the payroll! I was totally giggling, because OOOooooOOooooh~ 👀👀 that means he's there allll the timeee!!
Lol @ reader eavesdropping on half the population of Brooklyn having a crush on Bucky 😂 I have the feeling she's ruined more than one batch of dough while doing that, over-kneading all of her frustration into it!
"How'd you know you're all I dream about?"
Aaaaaand I fear this line would have broken me (I say as if I wouldn't have already broken half a dozen times before this...)
But also, every time he started stepping behind the counter, I was screaming internally. Like sir, PLEASE remain on the other side. Customers are not allowed back here and you're going to make me embarrass myself 😬🤭
Hehe, I loved Bucky getting all offended at the fact that reader's date didn't walk her home. As he should tbh; I need a man to sweep me off my feet and dance with me on the sidewalk in the middle of the night in Brooklyn, please and thank you 😋 The way you wrote him was just so charmingly flirty; I was kicking my feet at so many things, but this scene was definitely one of the kicky-est!
Poor Steve caught in the crossfire tho. RIP. He never stood a chance 😔😆
"Do I make your heart race, doll? Get your blood pumping, make you hot under the collar?"
And the way he goes from being all cheesy and goofy and cute to saying stuff like this!!! UGHHHH, YES ❤️❤️❤️ I'm in love, actually.
I was grinning so wide when they finally admitted their feelings for each other! Or, well, I guess on Bucky's end it was more like convincing the reader about the sincerity of his very obvious feelings lol. It was so sweet how all the bravado just dropped and he turned into a cute lil puppy dog in love. An enamored man is the best kind of man imo 🤭
Such a wonderful happy ending with a hint of spice, and that last line!! Perfection ❤️
Thank you for writing this; it was super adorable!
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SUPER FAN ♡
pairing: soldier boy x fem!reader
summary: in your younger years, you were soldier boy's biggest fan. now, your life is dedicated to stopping supes. somehow that's brought your paths to cross. people always say don't meet your heroes, but in your case, maybe that's not so bad...
cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, dry humping, a single use of daddy, age gap (reader in early to mid 20s), power imbalance (reader was a fan of soldier boy and had a hugeeee crush on him in the past)
wc: 6.9k
a/n: based on a request i will post in a second. i hope you guys like this one, i've been working on it for an embarrassing amount of time lol. so sorry to the original anon if you see this bb. but yeah, comments and reblogs are always appreciated <33
'Two minutes away. Butcher says have the door unlocked.'
Your phone buzzes with that message from Hughie. Without second guessing the order, you walk across the motel room and unlock the door. You'd been charged with getting this rendezvous prepared for their arrival.
Despite your assigned task centering around getting this place, you don't really know what it's for. Neither Butcher nor Hughie felt it important enough to clue you in as to why you were meeting in a secluded motel rather than one of the usual spots. You assumed it had something to do with their trip to Russia. Maybe they'd found the super weapon they'd been searching for.
You head back to what you were doing before Hughie’s interruption, unloading the takeout you'd brought onto the table. In the midst of placing the burgers and fries and various condiments in the center, you hear the muffled sound of an engine pull up outside and then fizzle off. Car doors slamming follow accompanied by some voices. If you'd been paying attention, you might have realized an additional person chatted along with your expected two.
But you don't catch that until the door swings open. Before you can look, the deep baritone slices across the space right into your ears.
"So, is she part of your team too?" the man asks.
You freeze. Your heart drops into your stomach. It's almost as if your body has a biological reaction to that low, rumbly way of speaking. You recognize it anywhere. It played over speakers and filled your bedroom most nights of the week when you were younger. The face it belonged to had been plastered across every surface that could hold a poster.
But it can't be his. He's been dead since before you were born. For some odd reason, your mind must have decided today would be a fun day to play tricks on you. To make you think the man of your teenage dreams had been resurrected and brought to you through some sort of star-crossed luck.
You shake your head and swallow down the ridiculous idea before turning to face them. But when you do, he is right there.
Soldier Boy stands between your teammates in all his glory, his brows raised as he assesses you. He sports modern civilian clothes rather than his uniform. It's kind of off-putting to see him in something so current, but the discrepancy doesn't keep your heart from racing. Every other part of him looks just like he used to on your tv screen. His features are still perfectly sculpted. His hair sits on his head soft as ever.
You honestly think you might faint. Your knuckles grip the back of a chair to the point of cramping as you stare at him like he'd risen from the grave right before your very eyes.
"Is she mute or something?" he asks next, still looking unimpressed with you.
Hughie glances between you and him in confusion, not understanding what's stolen your words away. But on the opposite side of Soldier Boy, Butcher eyes you with a small smirk on his face. He shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the wall before walking over to you and patting your shoulder.
"She talks. Must be feeling a bit shy 'round a stranger," he says.
The physical contact seems to snap you out of your little starstruck daze. You straighten up and shrug his hand off.
"I- I'm not shy," you stutter and smooth your clothes out. "I just um... I think I recognize you from like some old movies my mom used to like. Caught me off guard. Sorry."
A shaky breath expels from your lungs, and you hope the cover-up is enough to stave off any further questions. Luckily, that seems to be true as a grin spreads across his face.
"Your mom, huh? She still around by chance?"
You bristle at the sleazy way he asks the question. It's ridiculous to feel jealous over his interest in a lie you made up, but you still feel it prickling at you.
"No," you answer before turning back to the table to empty the rest of the fast food bag.
You shoot a glare at Butcher who's still grinning at you. Of course. This was why he hadn't told you. It wasn't part of his normal failure to consider anyone else's feelings or his typical manipulative ways. He did this to fuck with you.
He was the only one who knew about your soft spot for Soldier Boy. Though, soft spot was an understatement. Attachment might have been more appropriate. Undying love and devotion also good possibilities.
You adored the guy. Part of your lie had been true, you'd gotten it from your mother. She introduced you to his movies and showed you all the tv appearances she'd taped. You inherited her small collection of posters and t-shirts, and styled your room to reflect your Soldier Boy centered world. Eventually, your obsession superseded the one she experienced in her younger years. That was probably because her love for Soldier Boy fizzled out not too long later when she met your father. Yours stayed strong as you kept to yourself and focused on getting through school.
You'd confessed all of this to your team leader one night after too many drinks. Years had passed between now and the height of your obsession, so your drunken-self figured it was fine. The information came out hiccuped amongst a flood of giggling. You had found it so funny, that you had been so hot for a supe when now, your entire life revolved around taking them down.
Honestly you thought, or at least hoped, that Butcher hadn't cared enough to remember it. But clearly you were wrong.
The four of you sit down to eat the food you bought. You're across from Hughie while Butcher takes the seat opposite Soldier Boy. He obviously finds it amusing to dangle the other man in front of you, taunting you with what he knows you want but will never admit to.
You try your hardest not to stare, but it's a challenge. You're not eating much. Your appetite pretty much vanished with the shock of his arrival. Instead you rest your cheek on the heel of your palm, attempting to keep your eyes on the table and not his face.
The whole thing is just too weird. It's like you've been transported to the fantasy world you used to imagine to fall asleep. In there, Soldier Boy, or Ben as you called him in your dreams, went everywhere with you. He took you to the mall, accompanied you to the family gathering you didn't wanna go to, sat beside you on the bench at the park while you listened to music alone. Imaginary Ben stroked your hair when you failed a test, told you he loved you when you cried, and rubbed your stomach when you had cramps.
He was always there for you in those years, filling the void everyone else's lack of attention left.
That was until he started to fade away. He popped up less and less as you adapted to life and found other people to fill your time. And then one day he just wasn't there anymore. You strolled through the mall with your friends. You went to see your family without anyone on your arm. You sat on the bench alone.
You outgrew the posters and the t-shirts. It all went into a storage bin tucked away in your closet. He went with it. Not thrown away, but no longer a part of your days. Looking back, it feels like you had two different lives — the one when you loved Soldier boy and the other where you remembered him.
But he's actually here now, sitting a foot away from you. Only everyone else can see this version of him, and he writes his own dialogue. Somehow you're just supposed to pretend like it's normal for you.
The guys chatter amongst themselves, but you barely hear it. You consider asking Butcher if you can leave. You'd do damn near anything else to get out of this situation. Your younger self would probably slap you across the face, absolutely maim you for fumbling your chance with him, but you just can't take it. It's like he's radiating humiliation and shame that projects only onto you.
Before you can speak up though, Butcher and Hughie rise from the table. You look up at them, desperation glimmering over your irises.
"Sorry, love. You're on soldier-sittin' duty for the next few hours," Butcher tells you as he goes to grab his coat.
"It's just until we get back," Hughie adds, sensing your discomfort with the situation.
Pouting and rising from your chair, you follow after them. You ignore Hughie and stare right at Butcher putting on his trench coat. "Can I come with you instead? Please?" you ask.
"Why? Thought you would be excited to get some one-on-one time with your-" he starts but you cut him off.
"It's too weird," you whisper. "Plus, he’s not gonna listen to me anyways. Can I please come with you?"
"'Fraid not," he tuts. "This one's for me and Hughie. You'll be fine for a couple hours."
"Butcher," you say, on the verge of begging.
But he holds no sympathy for you. Hughie gives you a kinder look. "Just put on the tv. He seemed pretty interested in filling in his gaps about the world on the drive here."
You weakly nod, watching them gather their remaining things before departing. Their absence leaves you and him alone in the room. It's quiet except for the crinkling of his wrapper and the thundering beat of your heart.
Turning back towards him, you force yourself to return to the room and clean up the other trash Butcher and Hughie had left behind. You gather the greasy papers while trying to keep your hands steady. They're shaking pretty bad, but moving them disguises it. At least you hope so. You don't want him seeing how nervous you are. It's stupid and pointless, but a small piece of you still wants to look cool and collected in front of him.
When you finish, you head over to the small couch that sits against the wall. You can feel his eyes on you. One thing you realize now that your juvenile fantasies failed to account for was that you really had no clue what to talk about with him. What was there to say to someone born nearly a hundred years ago? What could you bring up when he'd missed the last forty years of life? You decide to fill the silence with what Hughie had suggested.
"Do you wanna watch tv?" you ask.
"Not really, but what else is there to do in this shit hole," he says and shrugs.
You nod, reaching for the remote and flicking the screen to life. The first station is on a commercial break. You switch it to the next which is playing a basketball game. Finally, you get to the numbers playing movies and scroll through to find a good one.
While you occupy yourself with the television, he stands from his chair and heads in your direction. He plops down on the couch next to you, spreading his thighs and draping his arm across the back of the sofa. You keep your eyes locked on the screen ahead. There’s no way you’re gonna look over at his open lap. If you do that, you won’t be able to fight off the heat that keeps trying to rise into your cheeks.
You can still feel him looking at you though. The constant weight of his curiosity makes it hard not to shift around in your seat. Your thumb keeps tapping through the channels until you come across one showing something you recognize. It takes you a few seconds to place it, but as soon as you do, you go to skip it.
Before you can, he straightens up. "Wait- what's this? This looks familiar," he says, eyes narrowing.
You glance over at him, blinking a few times before giving an answer. "Um yeah... it's the remake of Red Thunder that came out a few years ago," you explain. You work hard to keep your voice even.
He looks over at you, astounded. "Remake? What do you mean remake? They just did it over again?"
You nod. "Yeah, y'know. Like how Scarface is a remake of the old one from the thirties... Like that."
He scoffs. "They tried to remake my movie?" he asks, still in disbelief. He examines the tv again. "Which one's supposed to be me?"
You wait a few seconds, looking for the updated version of him. "Um... that one," you say and point to the younger actor dressed in Soldier Boy gear.
He laughs, the sound booming across the room. "That guy? That's who they chose to play me?" he mocks. "Jesus, if that's the type of man you kids think a hero is no wonder the world is in the state it's in."
"Yeah..." you say, a little smile rising to your lips. Your nerves begin to settle. This isn't so bad when you keep your mind off your feelings… even if he does talk a little bit like your grandfather. "I like the original way better," you continue.
"Oh do you now?” he asks. That start of a smirk on his face is nearly audible.
"Mhm. This one is just kind of boring," you answer, eyes flitting between him and the screen. "They took all the romance stuff out, and we're not in the cold war anymore so the bad guys are just some vague, random evil army. Plus, I don't understand why they didn't just use one of Vought's new supes instead of imitating you."
The words flow easily, just as they did to all your friends when the movie had first come out. You don't have as much trouble expressing yourself when the topic of discussion is one of your favorite subjects.
He nods as if he's genuinely interested in your points before commenting. "I thought your mother was the fan?"
You bite the inside of your cheek, your heart rate picking up again under the spotlight of his attention. It wasn't too big of a slip up. You can play it off like you had with your initial anxiety. Though you can't focus enough to answer while gazing into his cocky eyes, so you look down at your lap.
"She was. But I saw some of your movies too. Doesn't take a genius to know they were better than this stuff," you shrug.
There's a little pause. Your heart beats impossibly faster. But he just chuckles and turns back to the tv. "You sure you've only seen some of my movies? Sounds like you know more than a casual fan," he goads.
Hesitation creeps up on you. Maybe this is your opportunity to tell the truth. You can just confess your thing for him like it's an embarrassing story. Maybe then it won't hold so much power over you and this will be a whole lot easier. Your palms flex against your thighs as you steel yourself.
"Well... more than some. I've seen a lot. I just didn't wanna weird you out or anything," you admit, doing your absolute best to seem casual. Maybe they should give you the Oscar they never offered your beloved.
"There you go. Be honest," he praises, and you think you feel something throb between your legs. You glance up at him for a second before your eyes drop back down. He shakes his head. "It doesn't ‘weird me out.’ I'm used to the attention y'know. I lived with it longer than you've been alive."
"Yeah, but I didn't want things to be uncomfortable. Make you think I was like obsessed or something."
"Well are you like obsessed or something?’ he teases. Something in his tone tells you he already knows the answer.
"No," you deny immediately.
"It would make sense if you were. It'd explain why you're so nervous," he says, his voice smooth as polished marble.
"I'm not nervous," you defend.
"C'mon, sweetheart. You can't look at me for more than a second, and I can hear your heart beating faster than a baby bunny runnin' from a wolf."
You practically swoon when he calls you sweetheart, but you force your eyes up and onto his. No matter how many butterflies erupt in your stomach, you're intent on being professional. That little childish crush is a thing of the past, you're sure of it. You're an adult now with a real passion for your job.
"It's just that you're kind of intimidating," you reason. "It's weird seeing a movie star in person."
"A movie star? You flatter me."
Rolling your eyes, an involuntary huff slips from your lips. "You know what I mean. It's just different talking to you like in real life and not just seeing you on a screen. That's it."
"Is that all? I don't know if I believe you, honey. I recognize that look on your face," he says.
"What look? I don't have a look," you say.
"No, you do. You have that look I used to get from the girls hanging around outside set. They'd stand there with their little autograph books, waiting to get a glimpse of Soldier Boy," he says, eyes almost twinkling as he reminisces. "Only every time I'd go over to sign something for 'em, they could never get their eyes off their shoes. Always looking down, stumbling over their words. I don't typically go for you younger girls, but it was pretty cute."
You feel your cheeks heating up along with a small smile forming on your lips. Just like that, your commitment to professionalism has started to wane. It's dumb, but you can't help yourself. He basically called you cute. You just count yourself lucky you haven’t started giggling.
"Yep they used to do that too. That little smile," he continues.
He's making you malfunction with only a handful of words. Your head spins, but you're powerless to stop it. You can't help reacting like one of those girls because, inside, part of you is still one of them.
"C'mere, sweetheart," he says next before patting his lap.
You know you shouldn't. If Butcher and Hughie came back and saw you like this, it would be the humiliation of a lifetime. But you can't resist him. It's easy to declare your commitment to acting professional when the situation is only a hypothetical. When it becomes real, presented right before your eyes, it's a different story entirely.
Tentatively, you scoot towards him, eyeing his thighs. His hand comes to your back between your shoulders to urge you along.
"I'm not gonna bite you, bunny," he says with that action-hero smile.
More timidity pumps through you at the repetition of that term. You find the courage to close the rest of the gap and crawl into his lap. His arms welcome you, shifting you around on his thighs into a comfortable position.
"Perfect. Feels better like this, doesn't it?" he says.
That palm on your back strokes up and down. He runs it along the length of your spine, bringing a chill over every area it touches. You keep your gaze on your hands in your lap until his fingers tap beneath your chin and redirect your vision onto him.
"Don't hide those pretty eyes from me. That's how I know what you're feelin’. They give so much away.”
You honestly believe you're seconds away from melting into a puddle, from slumping over against his chest and becoming some boneless rag doll for him to play with. You can only imagine how stupid you look if even half of the lovesickness you feel reflects on your face.
"Tell me — have you ever thought about this before? I bet you have," he murmurs.
Of course he's right. You'd envisioned yourself on this very lap countless times when you were younger. But a part of you still clings to the idea that you should hide how absolutely pathetic you are for him. You shrug.
"I guess..." you answer. The words come out airy, almost as if your voice is getting away from you.
He simply smirks at the reply while rubbing the pad of his thumb back and forth over your chin. "Yeah? You imagined sitting my lap, hm? Dreamed of me holding you close?"
"Something like that," you reply, feeling as though your throat was constricting.
He chuckles at your squeak of a reply. "Well, how do I match up to your dreams? Am I everything you hoped I would be?" he asks. His voice drops, and there's no question about what he wants from you now. Something you would give without hesitation.
"You're doing a pretty good job," you say. You try to adjust yourself to face more towards the tv, but he keeps you pinned in place.
"I haven't really done anything yet," he says.
A little bout of silence rises between you two. Neither of you say anything. The only sound is the hushed chatter of the tv in the background. Despite the lack of conversation, his eyes stay on your face. His fingers caress your cheek before smoothing down to your neck.
"How'd a pretty girl like you get involved with those two jackasses who brought me here anyways?" he asks.
"It's a long story..." you say. Your skin is on fire everywhere his fingers trace. They're working over your throat down onto your collarbone and shoulders.
"Too long for you to care about right now, yeah?" he asks, completely smug.
You nod though because smug or not, he's correct about that. Recounting how you got involved with Butcher ordinarily wasn't too hard. But in this moment, on his lap, it seems like the effort of a lifetime for your foggy brain.
"You're too soft and sweet for hunting supes," he says. Despite poking fun at you, he remains gentle and soft, careful not to really upset you and break you out of this docile little haze he's got you in.
"It's not so bad,” you say.
"Sure, sure. You're strong and independent, can do anything a man can and all that. I'm just saying-"
Talk talk talk. So much talking, and you can barely focus on a word he's saying. Your eyes are lingering on his lips. They look so soft and smooth. Nothing’s touched them in forty years. He’s definitely noticed your stare. And you know that means you should stop. You can’t though. You want it, and he’s practically offering it up to you.
He continues speaking, however. “- I can think of a few things you’d be much better at. Things that don’t involve your little hands getting bloody.”
“Like what?” you start to ask.
“Maybe something like this.”
That hand on your chin tugs you closer. Before you register what’s happening, his mouth is on yours. Electricity zaps all through your body like a live wire. You lean into it without thinking, pressing closer and molding your lips to his.
He chuckles as your arms slide up to loop around his neck. You swallow up the low, rough sound, not disconnecting from him for a moment. His hand flattens out along your jawline. It allows him to hold you right where he wants you for a series of more kisses, all of which you reciprocate.
“Atta girl,” he mumbles in the brief interval where you’re forced to drawback for breath. “Not so shy now, are ya?”
You shake your head before diving in for more. He receives you by opening his mouth. His tongue gently flicks over your lip. He slides it against your own as things become deeper. The heat inside you no longer holds the sting of shame or embarrassment. It aches now. It burns with pure want, clustering in the pit of your stomach rather than in your face.
He leans back into the sagging couch. His hands ensure you move along with him. With a firm grip on your waist, he boosts you closer and shifts you around so your thighs are parted across his own.
A small whimper leaves you. You can’t help it. Your bodies are even closer now. Your center is pressed right against his lap, right where his cock is. You can’t feel it yet, but the idea is enough to send phantom sensations rippling through you.
You feel his lips curling into a smirk against yours. Those hands leave your waist. They dip lower, sliding across your curves to grip onto the plush flesh of your ass. That gets a real moan out of you. Your head falls back, away from his mouth. He doesn’t let you go too far though. A second later, his affections move to your neck. His kisses are hot and wet, tongue laving over your pulse point and teeth nipping sensitive skin.
Just a few simple touches, and his strength shines through each one. The firmness with which his fingers knead your ass is unlike anyone else you’ve ever felt. You’ve been with muscular guys before, but nothing like this. Strong is too weak a word to describe the undercurrent flowing through his grasp.
You roll your hips down in an exploratory swivel, something faint to see if you could find some friction. He aides you. His fingers tighten around your ass, pushing you down harder and then dragging your core back over his lap.
You suck in a little gasp.
“That feel good, huh? Your pretty pussy’s getting wet for me, isn’t she?” he asks with another rotation of your hips.
“Y-yeah,” you stutter. You push your upper-half closer to him so that your chest squishes against his own.
To your dismay, he stops you from fully holding on. He nudges you backwards and boosts you off his lap entirely so that you’re standing on your feet. A whine builds at the front of your mouth, but before you can protest, his fingers come to the button on your jeans.
He flicks it open, looking up at you as he yanks your pants down. “Been forty years since I got some tail. Let’s not waste any more time,” he says in explanation.
You nod along and step out of each of your pant legs, kicking the garment aside. You also take your t-shirt off. The fabric lands on top of your discarded jeans. Once you’re left in just your bra and panties, he tugs you back down.
Your bodies come together with a thud. The material of his sweats grazes your tingly inner-thighs. Before you can get back into rutting yourself on him, he runs his palms over your legs. They’re pretty smooth for someone of his age and experience. You always imagined something a little rougher, something that would contrast against the smooth nature of your own flesh. But forty years in a cryo-tank hadn’t given his skin much opportunity to become weathered.
His hands find your ass again, one coming down to give it a quick smack. Your hips jolt in surprise at the sudden sting. He soothes it away by rubbing over the heated area. His fingers dig into your malleable skin harder now that it’s bare to him.
“Skin’s baby-soft,” he murmurs mid-grope. “Been wanting someone rougher to come and mark it up?”
Your eyes flicker over his mocking smirk, heat filling your face. You grind yourself on him again with a whine. It feels so much better with your clothing out of the way. Even though the thin cotton barrier of your panties keeps you from rubbing down on him raw, the material is skimpy enough that it doesn’t impede. Instead it adds a little extra spark to the building pressure between your legs. Your eyes roll towards the back of your head, fluttering as you rock yourself forward and back.
He helps out just like before. His hands rein your movements into a steady rhythm. In between your bodies, his bulge starts to form. With each swipe of your covered cunt across his lap, you feel it becoming more and more prominent; hard and solid right up against your soaked folds.
“Just like that, get yourself ready for me,” he praises with another slap to your backside. “I’ll teach you how to really ride.”
You moan while biting your lip. Your hips work faster on him. Being so close, so lost in his feel and scent, has freed you of your previous trepidation. You’ve lost the ability to be stuck in your head with him like this.
He shifts you over slightly so that you’re lined up with the flat top of his thigh. It makes no difference to you. You keep your hips moving like nothing’s changed, grinding your throbbing clit down onto the firm muscles in his leg.
“Fuck,” you whimper. Your arms wrap over his shoulders once more. You squish your face into the crux of your elbow.
This time he lets you stay. He wraps an arm around you and lazily pats your back. “Good girl. Keep going. I gotcha.” His voice rumbles beside your ear. “Better than any dream, yeah?”
“Mhm,” you whimper. “Fuck- so much better. You- you’re perfect.”
While you continue to pleasure yourself on his leg, he lifts his hips off the couch just enough to push his sweats down towards his knees. He takes his cock out. It’s fully hard now, stiff in his hand as he gives it a few strokes.
You don’t notice at first, so wrapped up in your own bliss. But when he starts pulling you center again, you lift your head and glance down through heavy-lids.
You’d imagined him big, but seeing his cock for real makes you feel like you didn’t imagine big enough. His length is long and moderately thick. It’s flushed for you, the tip shimmery with the slightest bit of pre oozing out.
Your mouth waters. You want to taste him. You want to show him how badly you want it. You want to drop to your knees and think about nothing but how good he fits in your mouth.
But you know you have limited time. Butcher said you had a couple hours, but he’s also unreliable and a liar and purposefully fucking with you today so… you don’t want to take any chances.
He doesn’t seem too eager to have you like that anyways. He gives you a slight boost and pulls the soaked material of your panties to the side. The silky skin of his tip replaces the feeling. He drags himself across your entrance once, twice, and then nudges inside.
Your teeth sink into your lip as your head falls back slightly. You still can’t understand how this is real, but it undeniably is. The feeling of him working himself in, inch by inch, is not a figment of your imagination. That sweet stretch is absolutely real, and it consumes you more with every passing second until your ass is flush against his thighs once more.
He groans. “Shit, that’s good.” The muscles in his jaw flex. “Haven’t felt anything this nice in a longgg fucking time.”
Your walls flutter around him, eliciting another hiss from between his gritted teeth. Every noise he makes feels as good as a physical touch. You can’t get enough of hearing his voice strained with pleasure — pleasure you’re giving him.
You rise on his lap before sinking down. The rhythm is slow to start, a way for both of you to get used to the feeling. His hands squeeze your hips hard enough to bring a little burst of pain. You like it though. You want more of it.
He smacks your ass again. “C’mon, bunny. I know you can do better than that.”
Your hands plant themselves firmly on his shoulders, giving you the leverage needed to go a little faster. You bring yourself up and then down in quicker succession.
“That’s it. Such a good girl. Show daddy what you’ve been dreamin’ about.”
A shudder tears through you. Your muscles feel weak, like the simple string of praise had loosened them up completely. It doesn’t matter though. You start to bounce faster. Your body works with a mind of its own. It doesn’t let you slow down.
He slides in and out easily with how wet you are. Every drag of his cock on your insides is a straight shot of bliss. You feel even better when he grips your jaw and pulls you in for another few kisses. His mouth moves against your own before moving along your jawline to the space below your ear and then onto your neck and collarbone.
“Every inch of you tastes so fucking good. Like cherry pie,” he mumbles. “I’ll have to try out that pussy of yours next.”
“Mhm, fuck,” you whimper.
You keep riding as his teeth nip at one of your bra straps. The noises of your skin on his fill the small motel room. His tight grip on your waist helps you maintain the rhythm, pulling you down hard and boosting you up quick
The tip of his cock bumps up against your g-spot and gets a squeal out of you. Your nails dig into his shoulders as a way of bracing yourself. Neither of you slow down. You stutter slightly, but his hips lift to meet your movements. His fast thrusts strike at that angle over and over until your legs are quivering to the point that it truly feels like they might give out.
Luckily for you, he makes sure you don’t go toppling to the floor. The firm weight of his hands guide you closer to his body. Your weight shifting gives him the leverage to take over pumping in and out of you.
Your cheek hits his shoulder as your head fills with a warm, thick fog. He pounds into that sweet spot inside of you over and over. You can hear him grunting beside your ear, low and strained sounds that have your stomach full of butterflies.
“Pretty, pretty girl. You were worth the wait,” he mumbles alongside another deep thrust.
You whimper, lazily nodding your head against him. “You- mm- you were too.”
Sweet, tight heat coils in your belly. You know release is creeping up on you. Your eyes flutter shut, waiting for it to take over. You don’t notice his hand sliding between your bodies until you feel the pads of his fingertips rubbing at your sensitive clit. Your hips buck into the pleasure, and your walls clamp around him hard.
He lets out a deep laugh that only makes you tighten up more.
“Yeah, that’s a good girl. I know what you need, babydoll. Let go for me. Let me see how good you look when you cum,” he says.
His fingers keep swiping at the little bud between your legs. Syrupy shots of bliss shoot through you, pushing you along, taking you to the edge. It’s no time at all before a round of shudders rack through you. Your arms latch around his neck while your thighs clamp on either side of his. Embarrassing strings of whines trickle into the air.
“I- I- fuck,” you whimper. “Feels so- so fucking good, god.”
The last word to leave your lips is pitchy and broken. Your release cuts it short. Moans replace any coherent praise you could have given him. You bury your face in his neck and pant against the warm skin. Vaguely, you can feel his arms tightening around you. One of his hands rests between your shoulders while the other stays at your waist. He keeps pumping up into you, fucking you through each and every wave of orgasmic euphoria.
He’s less clingy as he finishes. His hips snap up into you a few more times before he groans loud and deep. He maintains the solid grip he has on you, hands still clamped around your waist as he spills inside. His chest rises and falls under your own, puffing quick with the exertion of finishing.
Your eyes stay closed for another several seconds as the room goes quiet and your nerves stop buzzing. His thumb lazily drags back and forth in tiny lines along the base of your spine. That almost makes you shiver more than anything you did on top of him.
With the fog of lust clearing from your mind, you separate from his chest and sit up straight. He’s relaxed as can be, head tilted back against the couch, watching you with the same lazy appraisal you’re giving him. Now that your entire body isn’t thrumming with want for him, he doesn’t seem so intimidating. You know that’s not the truth, that he could still crush any of your bones with minimal effort if he so desired — but in a weird way, you just don’t feel like you’re perpetually looking up at him now. It’s not negative, but the mystique is gone. The man of your dreams doesn’t exist anymore. Soldier Boy is flesh and blood, sweaty and spent beneath you.
You roll off of him to the other side of the couch. You’re pretty sure not much time has passed, but you don’t want to risk anything. You’re gonna be well and dressed when Butcher and Hughie come back. The two of them will be none the wiser that anything out of the ordinary occurred.
He stretches for a moment before adjusting his own appearance.
“Gotta say, I’m in no rush to do whatever it is they thawed me out for now. You’re much more fun.” His voice breaks the silence.
A small smile cracks on your face. “Yeah… think I’ll be pretty distracted too.” You look over your shoulder at him.
Little comments bounce back and forth between the two of you with nothing substantial really being said. That’s ok with you. The fact that you really just fucked Soldier Boy has left your mind void of conversational skills.
After the two of you are back to looking plain as you had been before, your collective attention returns to what’s left of the Red Thunder remake still playing on the tv.
“Who’s the head honcho nowadays? Was it Homelander they said?” he asks you. “Guy must not be able to get it done if they’re remaking this old shit.”
You laugh softly and nod. “Yeah… I’m sure Butcher will tell you allll about him when they get back.”
The two of you watch the remainder of the movie, with you chattering here and there about things you don’t like or little facts you know. It’s nice in a weird way. Feels almost like something you would’ve dreamed up all those years ago.
Your little bubble of fantasy bursts when the car doors slam not too far from the motel room entrance. You sit up a little straighter, smooth out your hair a bit, trying to make sure you look totally normal before Hughie and Butcher walk in.
Soldier Boy makes no such effort. His eyes rest on the tv while his legs stay spread and his posture slightly slouched.
The door creaks open and shuts just as quick. Hughie enters first with Butcher right behind him. You keep your focus on the tv. But even though you’re not looking, you can feel Butcher’s curious stare.
“We got everything we needed, so we should be good to go for tonight,” Hughie says, not giving the two of you any real thought.
You nod and take the chance to look over at him walking towards the table all of you sat at earlier. In your sweep of the room, you catch Butcher’s gaze lingering on the two of you.
“Seems like everything went well here,” he says. You know from that lilt in his tone the words aren’t as innocent as the untrained ear would believe. You know he wants to poke and prod and expose your new dirty little secret, but you won’t let him.
You shrug. “There wasn’t a ton to do here, so yeah,” you huff like it’s obvious.
His boots squish on the cheap carpeting as he takes a few steps closer.
“So just smooth sailin’. Nothing out of the ordinary happened?”
You roll your eyes. Does he somehow know what you did? Is he sick enough to have left cameras or something?
“Yeah. Everything’s the same as you left it, boss.”
He laughs, brief and short, a prelude to his killing strike.
“’s funny cause I don’t remember your shirt bein’ on inside-out when we left.”
Your eyes zip down only to find he’s right. The seams on your shirt puff out as they do on the interior side of the fabric. Heat rushes into your face. You grab the lumpy throw pillow jammed between your hip and the couch and chuck it in his direction.
“Shut up,” you huff as you take off towards the bathroom, swinging the door shut behind you.
His laughter carries after you, and there’s a bit of Soldier Boy’s as well, lower and deeper in timbre.
“What can I say? She’s a super-fan.” His voice rumbles through the thin walls.
You want to be offended, to go back out there and tell him and Butcher off, to not put up with any of their shit. But hearing him talk about you in that sugar-coated, condescending tone of voice, openly acknowledging he’d been with you… it wouldn’t be honest.
You adored him before you learned to hate supes. Even if the fantasy is gone, deep down, you’re not sure you’ll ever fully rid yourself of that version of you who was whole-heartedly a super fan.
He's such a slimeball and I love himmm ❤️🔥❤️🔥
This was a really fun set-up; I was shaking my head the whole time at reader trying to pretend that she wasn't the one with a huge crush on him (because same).
Like yep, yep, your mom liked his movies and you just happen to have an encyclopedia-level knowledge of them and strong opinions that gush out of you at the slightest provocation. This is normal 😅😂
And I loved how you portrayed Soldier Boy - so cocky and smug and direct. The dialogue was great; him being all self-assured and just assuming she'd go along with everything was so in-character. (and I mean, who wouldn't go along with everything...)
Butcher calling her out on having her shirt on inside-out at the end gave me a good laugh. Of course they can't get away with it! Not without some teasing at least. And of course Soldier Boy wouldn't tell her about the shirt lmao
Thank you for writing this <3
Teach Me, Congressman.
pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x secretary!reader
warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, sexual tension and implications, age gap, shy reader, inappropriate workplace behavior and relationships, mutual pining, miscommunication, friends to lovers, touch-starved bucky, m!masturbation, praise kink, bantering and teasing, fluff, bucky's a bit of a grump, no y/n
word count: 8.9k series masterlist || masterlist
a/n: loosely inspired by the movie "secretary." to my fellow readers and writers enslaved by the work clock, this ones for you.
synopsis: Bucky Barnes never expected that his timid, shy secretary—who could barely greet “Congressman Barnes’ office!” on the phone without stuttering—would be writing filthy, inappropriate fanfiction in the workplace. The most logical thing to do would be to fire you, but for some reason, he just can’t bring himself to do it.
Hunched over your desk, your fingers flew across the keyboard with several tabs open in Incognito mode. Your eyes constantly darted over the top of the monitor, glancing over your shoulder and flinching slightly at every subtle ruffle or shuffle that reached your ears.
What you had on your screen was shameful, to say the least. You were risking your career to write absolute filth on your work computer—but when you’re a woman with a jam-packed schedule and little to no free time, you’ve got to write whenever the opportunity presents itself, especially when the ideas are finally flowing again after days of brutal writer’s block.
Pressing your lips together, you frowned at the screen, trying to think of another word for “erect.” With a defeated sigh, you typed “thesaurus” into the browser. Just as you started searching for synonyms, the phone rang—loud and obnoxious—making you jump in your rolling chair.
You scrambled, leaning over the desk and nearly knocking over your coffee cup. You caught it with one hand and snatched up the phone with the other, pressing it to your ear.
“C-Congressman Barnes’ office!”
The lady on the phone immediately shouted into the mic, causing you to flinch and pull the telephone away from your ear. It was the woman who’d been calling non-stop, trying to reach Congressman Barnes for weeks—calls which he had deliberately avoided.
“U-um…” you began, your finger twirling the wire around. “I don’t think the Congressman is available to t-take your call—but—yes, ma’am. No, ma’am. I’m sorry—let me just…”
You trailed off as you heard the familiar sound of footsteps next to you. You looked up and saw Bucky with his head down, staring at some files.
“J-just one second, ma’am!” you said quickly into the phone before pulling it away, your hand covering the receiver as you stood up to catch Bucky before he left. “Sir! It’s Ms. Addison—she’s trying to reach you—”
“I’m not here.”
“But—”
He finally lifted his head. “Tell her I’m not here.”
You furrowed your brows and pressed your lips together. Bucky stood there, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, watching you squirm under his gaze. Your job was fairly simple: keep track of the Congressman’s schedule, sort his mail, fetch his coffee and lunch, and answer his calls.
But every time an unhappy caller demanded to speak with him about something that could easily be resolved if he’d just pick up the phone, your job became harder than it needed to be. And every time he refused to take those calls, you were the one left sitting there, getting yelled at for a problem that wasn’t even yours.
And, of course, the Congressman didn’t seem to understand that.
You swallowed hard and lowered your voice, still shielding the receiver. “Sir, she’s been calling for weeks. If you could just speak with her for two minutes, I think it would really—”
“No.”
You tried again, shifting in your seat, your hand tightening around the phone cord. “Congressman, she’s threatening to come down to the office in person. Yesterday she said she was ‘prepared to camp in the lobby.’ I really think—”
“She can’t do that. We have security.”
Your frown deepened. “T-that’s besides the point, sir. She wants—”
“Not. Here.” He enunciated each word slowly, like he was speaking to someone who didn’t understand English. His jaw was tight, and his glare sharpened. “Just tell her I’m not available.”
You felt your stomach twist, already imagining the way this lady would rip you a new one through the phone if you denied her again.
“I’ve tried, sir, but she’s calling twenty times a day. Just one call would—”
A sharp and heavy exhale escaped Bucky’s nose as he stepped closer, setting a file down on your desk. The height difference allowed him to look down at you.
“Put the phone away from your shoulder,” he instructed, nodding to the receiver, speaking low and firm. “And tell her the Congressman is not here. Got it?”
You fidgeted with the wire, your teeth worrying at the dry skin on your bottom lip. You didn’t know what you expected—Bucky never gave you the benefit of the doubt. And as much as you hated being yelled at by this woman, you knew you couldn’t exactly defy your boss.
With a sharp inhale, psyching yourself up, you lifted the phone from your shoulder and pressed it to your ear.
“Ma’am? Are you still there—yes, um—no. The Congressman is not available to take your call—I’m sorry,” you sighed as the lady’s voice pitched extremely high in anger.
You gave a sideways glance to Bucky, who you thought might feel bad for you, but he only stared down sternly, unwavering.
“No. He’s in a meeting—I know I said that last time, and the time before, but—um… okay. I’ll let him know. I’m sorry. Have a nice day—”
And then she hung up.
You gently set the receiver back into its cradle, the click sounding loud and tense between the two of you. Your shoulders were stiff, your body strained, and your eyes stung with tears. This felt like the twentieth verbal beating you’d taken this morning alone, and the chaos of your schedule even outside the office felt like another heavy burden in itself.
All you wanted to do was find a synonym for the word erect, goddammit.
You blinked rapidly, trying to force back the wetness gathering behind your eyes.
“Well,” he said, lifting the folder again and flipping through it as if nothing had happened, “if you’re going to be my secretary, I need you to have thick skin.”
You pressed your lips together, swallowing hard.
He kept going, detached, completely oblivious to the fact that he was lecturing a woman seconds away from crying.
“People call upset. That’s politics. You can’t let every irritated voter rattle you. You need to stay composed, stay professional, and handle it. That’s the job.”
A large, painful lump formed in your throat. You kept your gaze glued to your desk because if you looked at him—even glanced at him—you knew the dam would break.
He went on, oblivious. “And when I say I’m not available, you relay it. Simple as that. I can’t have you freezing up or getting flustered every time someone raises their voice. You need to—”
“S-sir?” you interrupted softly. “Will you excuse me? I-I need to… grab a coffee.”
His brows furrowed slightly, less concerned and more confused as to why you’d cut him off.
“Excuse me,” you repeated, rubbing your nose as you sniffled and stepped away from your desk and into the break room.
Bucky just stood there, file in hand, watching you walk off until your body disappeared around the corner.
He was just about to go on with the rest of his day, and as he took one step forward, his eyes briefly glanced down at your monitor—and then he stopped.
He tilted his head. The screen displayed a thesaurus page with several synonyms listed for the word “erect.”
What the hell?
What email could you possibly writing that requires similarities for the word ‘erect?’
He took a step closer to your desk, his eyes narrowing at the list of suggestive words filling the screen. He glanced toward the hallway you’d disappeared down again, and once the coast was clear, he grabbed the mouse and tapped through the several different tabs you had opened up.
He didn’t get it—all you had to do on the desktop was type up a few emails and manage his schedule and appointments, really. So why did you have several word documents open?
And all in Incognito mode?
With curiosity getting the best of him, he clicked on one, and at first, it was just a normal paragraph. A story, it seemed like.
He frowned. You were a writer?
Then he continued to scroll, and his eyes widened at what he saw.
Sentences, descriptions, and scenes that were… unmistakably intimate, undeniably explicit, and extremely dirty. Even without reading closely, he caught enough words to discern the tone, the context, and the… content.
“Jesus,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.
The more he read, the more he felt his heart trying to escape his chest. He couldn’t believe it. How could you—his timid, scaredy-cat, clumsy assistant who could barely answer the phone without stuttering—have the ability to write such… filth?
It felt like the room was getting hotter, and his suit felt suffocating. He set the folder back down and hooked a finger around his tie, loosening it slightly to soothe the tension that was building up.
His eyes wandered down the document as he read.
“Her legs were hooked over his shoulders as he knelt down, his tongue ravaging her pussy. He felt himself getting aroused by the second as her whimpers and groans filled his ears. His cock was straining against his pants, hard and fully erect—”
And that was enough.
Bucky’s hands quickly scrambled back to the tab it was originally on—the thesaurus. He looked over his shoulder toward the break room as several thoughts flooded his mind. His pulse was beating loudly in his ears as he stared at the monitor. Panic, confusion, and disbelief tangled together in one tight knot at the base of his throat.
He should fire you.
That was the very first thought that hit him, loud and clear.
You were writing... that on a government computer. At the front desk. In his office. If word ever got out—if anyone saw, if anyone so much as whispered—it would make him look reckless, irresponsible, and incapable of managing his own staff.
He dragged a hand down his face again, exhaling sharply. “Fuck.”
Firing you should’ve been a no-brainer, the most logical solution that didn’t require a second thought, but for some reason, it didn’t feel so simple.
His mind raced back to the way you had stood there not even five minutes ago—shoulders rigid, voice trembling, eyes glossy with tears you tried to hide. The way you kept apologizing even when the caller was in the wrong. The way you tripped over your words not because you were incompetent, but because you were doing everything you could to hold yourself together.
He stared at the doorway of the break room, and the guilt started to settle in his chest.
You were overworked, probably. Maybe you were under a lot of pressure at home, and this was your way of “relieving stress.” Quite a strange way to do so, Bucky thought, but hey, as long as it makes you happy, right?
So, instead of confronting you and dealing with the embarrassing conversation this would require, he found himself thinking of something else entirely.
Perhaps, he didn’t need to fire you.
It could be that all you needed was support. A backbone. Confidence. Because if this timid, skittish little thing could secretly produce writing with this much… ferocity, then clearly there was a version of you he had never seen—a version that you kept hidden and tucked away from the rest of the world.
And Bucky was realizing he wanted to see more of that version—the one who wasn’t afraid of her own voice.
With this positive outlook, he swallowed hard, straightened his tie, and turned on his heel to meet you in the break room.
Inside, you were frantically stirring sugar into your coffee, shoulders slumped as you stared blankly at the whirl of the wooden stick.
Your heart was racing, your hand trembling with anxiety. Jesus Christ—how could you excuse yourself in front of the Congressman—your boss—right in the middle of a conversation?
These past few months working for him, you’d always had the sinking feeling he wasn’t particularly fond of you. You had no idea why he’d hired you in the first place. Your resumé, buried beneath a stack of far more qualified candidates, looked amateur at best. And during your interview, you were a stuttering, fidgeting wreck, and not a single joke you had said in an attempt to lighten the mood had landed.
“Shit, shit,” you muttered under your breath.
You had been counting the days until he finally let you go, and if your inability to simply tell a woman “no” over the phone wasn’t enough to get you fired, then walking out while he was lecturing you had to be the nail in the coffin.
No.
You couldn’t lose your job, not with the bills piling up and especially not with how brutal the job market was right now.
Squeezing your eyes shut, you tipped your head back and downed your overly sweet coffee in a series of loud gulps. You tossed the cardboard cup into the trash and wiped your mouth with the back of your finger. With a shaky breath, you told yourself you were going to apologize to the Congressman—assuming he hadn’t already grabbed his files and walked off without a second thought.
You patted your skirt, smoothed your hair, inhaled deeply for one, and exhaled for two.
Then you turned on your heel… and stopped short when you saw the Congressman already standing in the doorway. Arms crossed, expression stern, and unreadable.
Reminder to self: make sure to update your Linkedin profile when you get home.
“C-congressman!” you started, your voice louder than intended. “I’m sorry if I kept you waiting. I was just about to—”
“Enough with the apologies,” he interrupted. His voice was demanding and reeked of authority, yet the way he stood was rigid and extremely stiff, as if on edge.
This was it. You were going to get fired.
In the next ten minutes, you were going to pack up your belongings in a small box, cry as security led you out, and try to explain to your landlord why rent would be late. You parted your lips, ready to grovel at his perfectly polished shoes just to keep your job—but he spoke first.
“Sit,” he gestured to one of the break room chairs.
You hesitated, the shakiness in your hands returning as you smoothed your skirt for the second time. You moved to the chair, and he followed after.
He took the seat in front of you, letting out a little old-man groan as he settled. He stared at you, and you tried desperately to maintain eye contact even though it killed you inside.
“You can’t keep disappearing like that in the middle of a conversation,” he started, but there was something off in his voice.
He didn’t sound angry. He didn’t seem annoyed. He sounded like he was choosing every word carefully, as if walking on eggshells.
You swallowed. “I—I know. I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to—”
“And that’s another thing,” his voice cut through your sentence sharply. “You apologize before you can even finish a single thought. You shrink back every time someone raises their voice. You freeze when you should be asserting yourself.”
You broke eye contact, letting your eyes drift to the table with burning cheeks.
“Look at me.”
You forced yourself to look up. He continued.
“If you’re going to work here, you need to speak up. I need you to speak up. You’re an excellent writer—I, uh… I’ve seen it in your emails—” he said, his voice suddenly wavering. “And the stuttering, it has to stop. You know what to say, and you know what to do. You just need to…” He made a weird hand motion, “… push through it. Deliver it. Be confident.”
Ironic, considering how the word ‘confident’ felt foreign coming from him.
“From now on, when someone calls, you tell them exactly what you mean. No stuttering, and no backing down. If I tell you to say something—you say it. No questions asked. You’re my secretary, so how you present yourself is how you’ll be presenting me.” He watched you carefully. “Understand?”
Relief hit you so suddenly it nearly made you dizzy. You weren’t being fired. You were going to keep your job, and you were going to pay your bills on time!
You swallowed hard and nodded very quickly, as if scared Bucky was going to retract everything he said.
“Y-yes, sir!” you said. “I understand—”
“There’s that stuttering again.”
“Sorry,” you said, offering an awkward grin. “Yes sir—”
“And the apologizing.” He shook his head in disapproval.
You slouched slightly, pressing your lips together before another apology could slip out.
He sighed, his eyes softening just slightly as he leaned back. “I’m not asking for perfection. I’m asking for some backbone. You can manage that.”
You nodded again, and you spoke out more firmly, despite your insecure posture. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
Bucky watched as you tried your best not to squirm under his gaze. He felt bad kicking you while you were down, but lecturing you was far better than bringing up the detailed sex story you were writing on the computer. If Sam were here—he’d probably step in and tell him to calm down and cut you some slack.
Great. Now Bucky felt even more guilty.
He cleared his throat sharply, causing you to sit up straighter.
“You know… back when I did therapy and all that,” he motioned his hand dismissively. “I had to learn how to not be so hard on myself, too. You’re not alone, okay? I know this position can be hard sometimes, but you have to be firm. You just gotta have thick skin.”
You blinked. For the first time in months since working under the Congressman, this was the first time you’d ever seen him open up to you on a personal level, and you weren’t quite sure what to say.
So you asked quietly, almost timidly, “Are you going to teach me, Congressman?”
Bucky froze. The question shouldn’t have rattled him. It was innocent enough, completely reasonable in context, but after what he’d just seen on your monitor… “teach you” suddenly felt like a loaded phrase. His throat went dry, and he straightened a little too abruptly in his chair.
“Yeah,” he said, strained. “I’ll… teach you.”
A small smile tugged at your lips. Then a tiny, soft giggle slipped out, one you probably didn’t even realize you made, and one that Bucky had never heard before.
Heat prickled up the back of his neck, spreading embarrassingly fast beneath his collar, which now felt suffocating. He tugged at his tie again, hoping you wouldn’t notice how tense he suddenly was. He had never heard you laugh like that, and even though it was a small little sound, it was a sound he wanted to hear forever.
God. This was torture.
Because now, every time you looked at him with those wide, earnest eyes, he wasn’t just seeing the timid secretary who jumped every time the phone rang.
He was seeing the woman who wrote lines like ravaging her and hard and fully erect as if directing a scene straight out of a porno.
Bucky shot up from his chair a little too fast, half-turned away from you like the conversation needed to end before he combusted.
“Right,” he said, clearing his throat and loosening his tie another fraction. “If you’re done composing yourself, I need you back at the front desk. We’ve got a busy afternoon ahead.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And remember what I said.” He glanced at you over his shoulder. “Be firm. Thick skin. Got it?”
Your cheeks warmed and you nodded. “Yes, sir,” you repeated.
His eyes took you in as if studying your expression. Then, as if approving, he nodded once before turning on his heel and leaving you alone in the break room.
Only when he disappeared completely did you finally exhale the breath you’d been holding in. Your heart was still beating fast in your chest—and excitement started settling in rather than dread.
You still had a job. Your boss didn’t hate you.
And, finally, you had synonyms for the word ‘erect.’
Thick and firm.
The afternoon was just as busy as Bucky expected. Calls kept coming in, emails were sent out, and a stack of letters made it into the outgoing mail.
But after the discovery of your... hidden talents, Bucky felt restless all day. He kept pacing back and forth in his office, his legs bouncing restlessly in his chair, and clicking a pen open and closed. He hadn’t read a single document today. His office window gave him a good, full view of your desk facing him. And every time you weren’t on the phone or writing something down, you were concentrating on the screen, fingers flying over your keyboard with your tongue sticking out in concentration.
And he knew your inbox for emails was empty.
He tapped at his window, the sound making you lift your head on instinct. He mouthed “lunch” and pointed to his watch.
You quickly got up and grabbed your handbag, fetching his lunch like the good secretary you were.
And just like the good congressman he was, it was his responsibility as your boss to supervise what you were doing on the computer.
The moment the front doors shut behind you, Bucky’s feet moved before he could stop himself, toward your desk. He looked around, making sure no one was in the lobby, and once the coast was clear, he went straight to your Incognito tabs.
Then he found the document. The cursed, vulgar document that had been stuck in his head all day. He knew he shouldn’t look. He knew this was a line he shouldn’t cross. But the curiosity—no, the concern—had been needling at him ever since he’d seen those phrases earlier.
So, his eyes began to wander down the document where he last left off.
“His cock was straining against his pants, thick and firm—”
“Thick and firm?” Bucky murmured, reading back the encouraging words he gave you, now woven into your pornographic story.
“James’ tongue darted out, flicking feverishly at her clit. With two fingers deep into her cunt, his other hand started to palm at the almost painful, throbbing erection trapped in his slacks.”
His jaw dropped, his hand coming to cover his mouth as he kept reading.
James?
Was this story about him? And if so, who was the woman? He tried to find a name, but none came. Not even yours.
He continued reading.
“He started to rub himself, the tip of his cock leaking as she squirmed and writhed on the table. ‘James, oh, James!’ she moaned, her fingertips slinking through the soft strands of his long hair, giving it a harsh tug as he made love to her slick cunt.”
Long hair?
“Oh no,” Bucky whispered to himself, looking at his own window to see his reflection.
If this story wasn’t for him, then he didn’t know who else it might have been for. He should have felt gross reading this, and he damn well should fire you right now. But he couldn’t. His eyes couldn’t stop devouring the obscenity in front of him.
And the more he read, the more his body felt warm. Your writing was so explicit and detailed, he couldn’t help but imagine the scene come to life.
The story did not describe physical characteristics of the couple aside from “long hair” and “James,” so his mind naturally filled the blank and imagined himself in between the smooth legs of a beautiful woman.
A beautiful woman... such as you.
You, laid out on his desk, papers scattered everywhere as your legs trembled over his broad shoulders. You whimpering his name—not Bucky, but James—over and over again as his tongue flicked up and down your clit, lapping at every drop of your sweet arousal.
“Goddamn,” he grunted, his cock starting to stiffen in his pants. He looked around anxiously, and when no one was near, his hand trailed down to his belt and adjusted himself—a poor attempt at trying to relieve some tension in his groin.
He was a terrible Congressman, and an even worse boss for lusting over his secretary. But just like your erotica, this was for his private pleasure only.
Just like the James guy in your story, his cock started to throb painfully against his pants. His hand crept down to shamefully palm himself. His eyes fluttered shut as he continued imagining you—what you’d taste like, your usual timid and shaky hands tugging hard at the strands of his hair as he fucked you with his tongue.
“Fuck,” he moaned, his hand gripping the edge of your desk as he palmed himself harder, his hips thrusting to meet his hand.
His breathing grew heavier as he worked his dick against the fabric. He was so sensitive to his own touch, his cock pulsing and throbbing with every graze of his palm—gentle or hard. He felt his balls drawing tight and letting himself come close, a sensation that he rarely indulged in, but is now realizing he should.
“Shit, fuck,” he rasped, his hand moving faster...
Until the front door opened and your heels clicked against the floors.
“Congressman?”
Bucky’s eyes quickly snapped open, his hand retreating instantly from the aching bulge in his pants.
“Oh,” he cleared his throat. “You’re back so soon.”
“So soon?” you chuckled awkwardly, lifting the takeout bag up. “It’s the same smoked-salmon and cream cheese bagel just down the block? It’s… a five-minute walk.”
Fuck.
He could only last five minutes?
Your eyes flickered to your desk. You furrowed your brows in confusion, then glanced back at him. “Is there something wrong, sir?”
“No,” he said firmly, standing up straighter. “I just thought I left a paper here. Go ahead and set my lunch on the desk. And fetch me a black coffee, please. I need to run to the bathroom.”
You simply nodded as your heels clicked past him and into his office. He lingered outside and watched you through the window as you took the bagel out of the paper bag and laid it gently on his desk.
He swallowed hard and watched as you unwrapped the paper and adjusted it on his table to make it more presentable. You did this about three times before finally stepping away, satisfied.
You left his office and smiled up at him.
“Your lunch is ready on the table,” you said with a smile. “I’ll get your coffee now, sir.”
Bucky’s eyes glazed over you as you walked past him, the sound of your heels clicking down the hall and your perfume wafting through his nose. He caught a glimpse of your leg, his eyes trailing down to the ankle where a little tear showed—revealing a glimpse of soft skin.
He swallowed hard.
This did nothing to dull the painful hard-on in his pants.
He had to take care of it, and he had to take care of it now—otherwise, zero work would be done today.
With heavy footsteps, he dragged himself to the bathroom, shutting the door and locking it. Once inside, he eagerly worked at his belt, the buckle echoing in the large, single-person room. His fingers fumbled fast at the zipper, eagerly pulling it down and finally freeing his hard length out of his pants.
His hand gripped the edge of the sink as his other hand wrapped around his shaft—his cock already hot and heavy in his grip.
“Fuckin’ Hell,” he rasped, giving himself a slow and steady pump.
This was so irrevocably wrong.
A congressman should not be indulging in filthy activities like this at the workplace, and he should definitely not be having filthy thoughts about his sweet secretary who was just a room over.
He looked down at his cock, precum leaking at his swollen tip. His thumb traced over it, smearing it all over the head before he continued to jerk himself off.
“God, fuck…” he moaned as he imagined you, spread out like a slut with your stockings ripped up, your button-up blouse askew and off your shoulder, your lipgloss a mess as you ket moaning his name over and over.
If you were a stuttering mess over the phone, he could only imagine how much you babbled and whined with a cock deep inside you.
He dipped his head down, his hair dangling as his breathing grew heavy. It had been a long time since he took care of himself, and he already felt his balls drawing tight. His cock was so sensitive, begging to release the pent-up sexual frustration he’d been holding in all this time.
His hips jerked in his hands, his eyes squeezing shut as his hand worked desperately over his length. He was so close—so fucking close…
And then he remembered your laugh. Your soft giggle in the break room that stole the breath from his lungs. It was so gentle, so sweet, yet it was enough to dirty himself.
All over his hands and slacks.
“Fuck!” He cursed as warm cum spilled over his fingertips and dribbled down to his pants.
He stood on his toes to get the rest of it in the sink bowl before it spilled all over the floor. “Shit,” he grumbled as he grabbed paper towels and started dabbing at the wet spot frantically.
This was wrong, he knew it. He was supposed to be a Congressman, for fuck’s sake.
He was supposed to be representing the people. Not the sick perverts.
His pulse finally slowed enough for his brain to catch up, and when it did, shame prickled hot beneath his collar. He stared at himself in the mirror—a Congressman, a public figure, someone who was supposed to have control—breathing hard in a locked bathroom like a teenager who let his testosterone get the best of him.
He scrubbed a hand over his face.
This was dangerous.
This was messy.
This was stupid.
And it could never happen again.
He cleaned himself up as best he could, straightened his tie, and splashed cold water on his face. After taking one final deep breath, he unlocked the door and stepped back into the hallway. He headed toward his office to eat, but as he passed the break room, something made him stop.
You were sitting alone at one of the small tables, unwrapping your takeout container with that same careful attention you gave everything else. Your shoulders were slumped, posture small, like you were trying to keep to yourself. You picked at your food absentmindedly, eyes unfocused, and clearly lost in thought.
Something twisted in his chest.
Was it protectiveness? Guilt? He didn’t know.
But what he did know was that other people in the office usually ate together, so seeing you alone felt… wrong. And sad.
You picked at the side salad you had packed, munching quietly on the sandwich you had prepared the night before as you stared at the bland painting on the wall of the break room.
Despite the earlier mishap with Ms. Addison on the phone, you felt good about how productive you had been today.
Both with work, and your fanfiction.
Maybe it was the overly-sweet coffee, but writer’s block had felt like a distant memory as you powered through a lot of words. Your story had reached a particularly steamy scene, and you couldn’t wait to finish lunch so you could dive back into it.
“He slipped inside her, her silky walls stretching around him, still tight enough to make him hiss in pleasure…”
You smiled to yourself, getting flustered over the thought of the next line you were crafting. As you lifted your fork for a bite of salad, you noticed a looming presence beside you, a large shadow blocking the overhead light.
You glanced up with an open mouth, your fork hanging in the air.
“Mind if I sit here?” Bucky asked, holding the bagel in one hand and the black coffee in the other.
You blinked in confusion. The Congressman wanted to sit with you? You glanced around the room—there were several empty tables, all with empty chairs.
“Um—”
“Do you not want me to sit with you?” he interrupted. Not coldly, but like he was genuinely asking.
You blinked again, giving him an awkward chuckle as you slumped a little in your chair.
“That’s not it, sir,” you said carefully. “It’s just… you usually eat by yourself in your office.” You met his eyes, but his expression was unreadable. “Are you sure you want to sit with me?”
It wasn’t that you didn’t want him to sit with you—but how were you going to mentally write your fanfiction with your boss sitting just a few inches away from you?
In Bucky’s eyes, however, your question made him see you as something smaller, more fragile—like you were a loner in high school who didn’t deserve to share their lunch with company.
His protective instincts kicked in, and without another word, he set his food down next to you, pulled out the chair across from you, and sat down.
You sat stiffly, shoulders tense as Bucky settled in across from you. His presence, so unexpectedly close, made you feel self-conscious. Lunch had been your one moment of peace, a small break from the chaos of the office, and now… well, now you were here, trying to juggle eating your food while maintaining some level of composure.
Bucky, on the other hand, seemed completely unaware as he took a slow sip of his coffee. You couldn’t help but glance down at your phone that sat on the table, wondering if you could sneak in a little writing while pretending to be social.
“So,” Bucky started, clearly in the mood to make conversation. “How’s everything going today? Busy, I take it?”
“Um—” you opened your notes app, giving him a quick glance and forcing a polite smile to let him know you’re acknowledging him. “It’s been okay.”
“Good,” he said mid-chew. “That’s good.”
You hummed in response, eyes dropping back to your screen as your thumbs began tapping quickly. You pulled up the smutty scene you’d left hanging, the one just a few words away from turning into something much, much dirtier.
Bucky cleared his throat, wiping his fingers on a napkin as he leaned slightly forward, ready to keep talking.
“You know,” he began, “I’ve been thinking about what we talked about earlier. About you being more firm on the phones.”
You blinked, looking up from your phone.
“Confidence is a habit. It doesn’t come from waiting for the perfect moment. It comes from practice.” He rested an elbow on the table, lowering his voice so only you could hear, despite you two being the only ones in the room. “I figured, with our downtime, I could help you right now.”
“Right now?” you frowned, looking back down at your notes app, to which you could barely type a sentence. “But… it’s lunch—”
“I said I would teach you, didn’t I?” he frowned back, his brows furrowed as if your hesitance made him self-conscious.
You bit your lip hesitantly, glancing down at your phone again then back at Bucky. Once you saw how serious he was, you sighed and locked your phone, pushing it away.
“Okay…” you said, unsure. “What do you want me to do?”
Bucky didn’t seem to notice your reluctance at all. He straightened in his chair.
“Let’s run through a scenario. Think of it like… practice reps.” He cleared his throat, lifted an imaginary phone to his ear, and you tried your best not to laugh at how ridiculous he looked. “Alright. It’s ringing. You pick up.”
You couldn’t help but force a chuckle, already feeling embarrassed. “Sir, this is silly—”
“I know,” he said dismissively, waving a hand. “But just for a second. Go ahead.”
You hesitated, but you always obeyed him. So you mimicked picking up a receiver, feeling painfully awkward.
“Um… Congressman Barnes’ office, h-how can I help—”
“No,” he interrupted gently but firmly, leaning in. “Not like that. You rushed, and you’re stuttering again. Just slow down, announce yourself clearly, and keep your shoulders back.”
You sat up straighter. “Okay,” you grinned, shaking your head. “I’ll try again.” You swallowed, mentally psyching yourself up. “Congressman Barnes’ office, this is—”
“And your tone,” he cut in again. “Relax your voice. Don’t sound scared of the caller.”
“I—I’m not scared,” you protested, your cheeks warming.
He gave you a look, calling you out on your bullshit. “You sure?”
Your smile widened without your permission, slumping your shoulders as the second-hand embarrassment ate at you.
“This is just… so weird,” you muttered, avoiding eye contact. “It’s like we’re roleplaying.”
“This is practice,” Bucky reminded, lifting his imaginary phone again.
He studied your face, the mental gears in his head turning as he tried to find a better way to approach this.
Then, he cleared his throat, his voice pitching high to mimic an impatient caller. “Yeah, hi, I’ve been trying to reach the Congressman for days—why hasn’t anyone returned my message?”
You opened your mouth, trying to play along. “Uh… s-sir, I completely understand your frustration and—”
But the moment you looked up and actually saw Bucky’s face—his eyebrows practically touching his hairline, lips pursed in the most dramatically annoyed expression imaginable—you lost it.
A snort slipped out before you could stop it. Then a giggle.
Then you full-on broke, doubling forward in your seat with both hands over your face as laughter spilled out of you uncontrollably.
“Oh my—I’m sorry, but you sound—” you wheezed, “—you sound like a cartoon character!”
Bucky froze, his face shifting into confusion. His phone-holding hand slowly dropped, and his ears betrayed him, turning a faint, rosy shade of red.
“I… well—” he tried, clearing his throat and straightening as if he hadn’t just made a fool of himself. “It was supposed to be… an impatient citizen.”
You were still laughing, soft and breathless now, trying to calm down.
“Sir, I— I can’t,” you wheezed. “Not when you do that voice.”
Bucky didn’t know where to look. The sound of your laughter—not a nervous giggle, not a polite forced chuckle, but a real, unrestrained laugh—made his face and chest feel inexplicably warm.
And mixed into that warmth was a flicker of guilt, because your laughter was so soft, so innocent… and he had just sinned over you in the bathroom ten minutes ago.
He swallowed hard, shifting in his chair to compose himself.
“It’s… not that funny.”
“It’s just…” you laughed into your hands, “I’ve never seen you look or sound like that before. You even scrunched your face. Like—” you exaggerated the exact scrunch he had just made, pushing your eyebrows up and pursing your lips dramatically.
“What?” he grimaced, shaking his head. “I did not look like that. You’re exaggerating.”
“Am I?” you teased, leaning forward with a mischievous little smirk. “I thought I did it pretty spot-on.” A soft laugh left your lips, and you wiped a tiny tear from the corner of your eye.
Bucky felt the world slow for just a second as he watched you—the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed, the way your shoulders relaxed for once, how genuinely happy you looked. Something warm spread across his chest, uninvited and unfamiliar, but not unwelcomed.
Before he could stop himself, a quiet laugh slipped out of him too.
“See?” he said, his voice softer now, almost fond. “That’s the spark I’m looking for.”
“Spark?” you echoed, still smiling, cheeks aching from laughter.
He nodded once, lifting a finger and gently pressing it against your sternum. “That confidence.” Then his hand drifted up, hovering at the base of your throat, tapping lightly. “That voice. This version of you that you keep hidden. That’s what you need to bring out.”
You felt your breath catch in your throat at the feeling of Bucky’s finger pressing lightly against your neck. You swallowed hard, praying he didn’t notice.
You had never been this close to him—never spoken to him beyond the usual pleasantries—and now here he was, spending his lunch break with you, laughing with you… touching you.
“More confidence,” you repeated quietly. “And more voice.”
He nodded. “I’m going to need more of that from you.”
You drew in a slow breath. Eye contact with him was always difficult, but now—with his gaze locked on yours and the two of you sitting far too close—you couldn’t seem to look away, even if you tried.
“I… I understand, sir,” you said, trying your best to keep your voice firm.
Bucky’s eyes lingered on yours for a moment longer before drifting down to your lips, then to your neck where his finger had just grazed. You prayed he couldn’t feel the heat radiating from your skin. With an approving hum, he withdrew his hand. Your body reacted instantly, already missing his slight touch.
“Very good,” he said with a low grunt. “You’re already doing an amazing job as my secretary. Polish this up, and you’ll be perfect. And of course—” he took a sip of his coffee and straightened, “I’m happy to teach you along the way.”
Then his eyes met yours again.
“I’m proud of you.”
Your skin was so hot you were convinced if he touched you again, you might actually burn him. Bucky rarely praised you beyond the occasional “Nice” or “Good job” after a brutal work day.
So hearing the words “amazing job,” “perfect,” and “I’m proud of you” affected you more than you ever expected it to.
I’m proud of you.
The Congressman was proud of you.
And that knowledge alone was enough to make you feel things—things you never would’ve expected to feel toward the Congressman of all people. A simple four-word sentence, insignificant to most… but to you, it meant everything.
“Thank you, sir,” you mumbled so quietly, staring at him, dumbstruck.
Then, he smiled.
A smile that made the aging lines around his eyes crinkle up handsomely. A smile that made his usual broody stare look lively.
He looked handsome.
You felt your breath catch in your throat, as a wave of arousal coursed through your body and went straight between your legs.
You squeezed your thighs together, a natural reaction to soothe the warm ache that’s now building up.
You drew in a shaky breath and stood a little too quickly, brushing invisible crumbs from your skirt just to give your hands something to do and to break eye contact.
“I—um… my lunch break is over,” you said, giving him a small, polite smile you hoped hid how flustered you were. “I should get back to my desk.”
His brows lifted lightly in surprise, as if he wasn’t ready for the moment to end just yet. He leaned back even more once he noticed how close he was still sitting.
“Of course,” he said quietly. “Thank you for having lunch with me.”
You nodded stiffly, keeping your gaze a safe distance from his—one more look and you were certain your knees would give out. You stepped past him and toward the door, trying to steady your breathing, and cool the heat burning across your face.
But the moment you were in the hallway, away from his voice and presence, you pressed a hand to your chest. Your heart was beating so fast with no signs of slowing. And with your body laced with a burning desire that you couldn’t take care of until you got home—there was only one way to get good use out of this feeling.
And that was to write.
The rest of the day dragged on painfully slow for Bucky.
He had taken good care of his problem in the bathroom, yet somehow the release had done absolutely nothing to soothe the restlessness that had been clawing at him all morning. If anything, it only made it worse.
Every time he walked past your desk, his eyes kept betraying him. They always drifted to you—to your face, to your hands flying at the keyboard. To the way you bit your lip when you focused. The way your eyebrows drew together when you typed.
Then to the way you kept shifting in your seat, thighs pressing together as if you were restless too.
And God help him, he noticed something else.
Your typing wasn’t the normal, consistent rhythm you had when drafting emails, sorting schedules, or preparing notes. No—this was the other rhythm. The one he had already memorized from his morning discovery.
You would type fast. Then slow down. Then a pause. Then rapid again.
Writing. Typing. Backspacing. Re-typing.
He knew exactly what that pattern meant. You were writing. Not reports, not memos, but your sexually explicit fiction.
Every time your fingers resumed that frantic pattern, every time you tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear with that soft, almost shy expression... he knew you were lost in whatever world you created for yourself.
A world where you felt safe enough to be confident—bold and unfiltered. Exactly the version of you he saw in the break room.
He couldn’t focus on emails, on policy drafts, on anything. His leg bounced restlessly under his desk. Every tap of your keys filtered into his office, a small reminder that you were right outside, writing who-knows-what.
His mind kept wandering, dangerously so.
What are you writing now?
Is it romantic? Dirty? Sweet?
Who is the lucky bastard in the story?
His jaw tightened. He wanted to know. He wanted to see the rest of the words you poured your heart—and apparently your desire—into.
He shouldn’t be this curious. He shouldn’t be watching the look on your face while you wrote.
And he definitely shouldn’t be getting hard again just by thinking about it.
As the day was slowly nearing its end, you found yourself finding more free time to work on your story, which was much needed because your mind was restless with ideas as it kept circling back to the moment in the break room with Bucky—the sound of his laugh, the way he leaned closer, and the feather-light tap of his finger against your neck.
“That’s the spark I’m looking for.”
You swallowed hard as you typed the words down in your document.
“You’re doing an amazing job,” you mumbled quietly to yourself, your face warming as you translated Bucky’s own words into your text. “I’m proud of you…”
It took everything in you not to squeal in your chair right then and there. You weren’t used to praise—not from anyone in your professional life. And to hear it from someone like him... a man who always seemed composed, stern, and untouchable?
You had known Bucky for months, admired him professionally, and respected him deeply. He was your boss—your Congressman. Someone you should have kept at a safe, polite distance. Someone you thought you did keep at a safe, polite distance.
You typed another line, a shaky breath escaping your lips as you crossed your legs, squeezing your thighs tightly for any scrap of friction.
“James leaned in closer, his voice and breath warm as his fingers traced her neck and gave it a light squeeze.”
James...
Your breath hitched. Was that what you wanted your boss to do to you? Have not one finger, but all five grazing your neck softly before giving it a gentle, and possessive squeeze?
A small little groan escaped you as you imagined it—the Congressman being possessive over someone like you, an average-nobody woman who slaves away at a desktop answering phones and writing dirty stories on her free time.
And after months of working for him, you were realizing now—you had a crush on him.
A very real, very inconvenient crush on James Buchanan Barnes. The Congressman.
Your boss.
“Shit,” you muttered under your breath as your fingers stilled over the keyboard.
A quick glance at the corner of your screen told you you had about five minutes left before clocking out.
No pending emails. No last-minute assignments. Nothing urgent waiting to be handled—and if anything did pop up, that would be Tomorrow-You’s problem. Feeling satisfied with your story progress, you drafted an email and sent a copy of the document to your personal email address.
The moment you clicked send—the phone rang.
You groaned softly.
Of course. A call five minutes before the end of your shift. Perfect!
You contemplated on just letting it ring—but as you glanced up to peek at your boss’ office right in front of you, he was already staring.
Bucky’s eyes were narrowed, his elbows on the desk and hands clamped together as he watched you carefully. His eyes flickered briefly to your telephone, then back at you.
“Pick up,” he mouthed through the large window.
You exhaled deeply through your nose. You were five minutes—five minutes away from freedom. From laying in the comfort of your bed and finally relieving the unbearable desire that had been building up all day.
With a forced smile back at the Congressman, you picked up the receiver, forcing the professionalism back into your voice.
“Congressman Barnes’ office,” you said, forcefully cheerful and straightforward. “How can I help?”
The lady who spoke was already quick with her demands. Not Ms. Addison, but another average caller demanding to speak to the Congressman for what seemed like the fiftieth time today.
“No,” you said firmly, without even looking up at Bucky because you already knew the answer. “He’s not available right now. No—he cannot take your call. But I can leave a message for him and he’ll get back to you as soon as he can.”
Bucky’s brows lifted the moment he heard your tone through the window.
The spark he wanted—the confidence, the bite—it seemed to come out naturally. Your posture was perfect, and you held the phone firmly instead of with shaky hands. He never thought he was a great boss, especially after how he indirectly defiled you in the bathroom earlier today—but after seeing how well you answered the phone call, taking his advice to heart, now he was starting to think maybe he wasn’t too bad after all.
A slow, pleased smirk tugged at his mouth. He leaned back in his chair as if settling in to enjoy this new sound of you.
“Yes. I’ll pass the message along,” you said, already done with the conversation. “Have a good evening.”
He liked it.
You hung up the phone and finally glanced back at Bucky through his window. With a soft smile, he nodded once, and you took that as your sign to dismiss yourself for the day. You started to gather your things, shoving your notebook in your bag and throwing your coat on in a rush.
You couldn’t wait. You wanted to write in the contentment of your home—maybe even with a glass of wine.
But most importantly, you couldn’t wait to use your vibrator. You just hoped you remembered to charge it before you left.
You circled around your desk and knocked softly on Bucky’s window as you usually did at the end of every shift. When he looked up from his paperwork, you smiled and gave him a small wave before walking off down the hall.
Bucky watched you go.
His eyes followed the sway of your hips as you walked away, the gentle movement of your hair as you turned the corner and disappeared past the door. The moment you were gone, he let out a long exhale and dragged a hand down his face.
“Christ,” he muttered under his breath.
It had been a long, grueling day—emotionally, mentally, physically. He thought getting himself off in the bathroom would’ve wiped the slate clean and given him a straight, clear mind to finish out the rest of his workday.
But no.
You had managed to undo all of that in a matter of seconds. Your laugh, your confidence on the phone, the way you smiled when you said goodbye—like nothing in the world was wrong, like you hadn’t been the center of every single one of his intrusive thoughts today.
He rubbed his temple, trying to ease the growing tension behind his eyes. If this was how the rest of the week was going to go, he was in serious trouble.
With a tired sigh, he reached for his mouse and opened his email just to clear anything last-minute before heading home.
A new message sat at the top. From you.
His brows pinched together in confusion.
You rarely emailed him directly unless it was something important or something he specifically requested. And you had already said goodbye—meaning you weren’t at your desk anymore to fix whatever this was.
He clicked it open, and his breath froze cold in his chest.
There, attached to the email, was a document.
Your document.
Your filename. Your writing. Your… story.
And the timestamp made it painfully clear you had sent it right before answering the phone. Right before clocking out.
You hadn’t just sent a copy to yourself.
You CC’d him.
“Oh my god,” he whispered.
He should’ve deleted it. He shouldn’t have even considered opening it, despite the fact he’d already read parts of it that morning. He should trash it, pretend he never saw it. Use it as a reason to keep his distance. Hell, he could even use it as grounds to fire you—an excuse to push you far away from the dangerous line he’d already crossed miles ago.
“Fuck,” he muttered into the empty room. “You’re going to get me in trouble.” He said.
Right before his mouse hovered over the attachment and clicked ‘download.’
thank you for reading <3
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Reader is honestly so unhinged in this. We love her lol 😆❤️
Being jumpy while writing smut at work is such a universal fic writer experience; I'm crying.
All you wanted to do was find a synonym for the word erect, goddammit.
Like, yes!! Relatable 😅 But of course this is also her downfall. Rule #1: Always lock your computer when you leave your desk! 😂
I loved the scene of him discovering all her smutty word documents and just being like 😐😐😐 You have NO IDEA, old man 😆
Once again, so relatable: reader coming out of a completely unrelated conversation with the perfect line for her fic. Ah yes, thick and firm, excellent. Thank you for your help, congressman... I loved Bucky casually losing it during that whole conversation as well. Somebody's mind is driftinggggg 🤭 Nothing I love more than accidental torment lol
And I let out such an undignified wheeze/squeal when he went back to the computer and noticed that she had incorporated "thick and firm" lmao. Reader. Girly. I am BEGGING you to lock your computer 😂 (but also, don't, because the fallout is way too entertaining)
Bucky's live reaction:
I'm kind of in love with the idea that there's in-universe RPF fanfiction being written about Congressman Barnes. Because there definitely is. We would all still be simping over him if we lived in the MCU, and that's honestly kinda beautiful 💞😆
Bucky you filthy pervert, reading smut at work 👀👀 Getting yourself all worked up. *gasp* I'm clutching my pearls...
He had to take care of it, and he had to take care of it now—otherwise, zero work would be done today.
Bucky, sweetheart, please stop kidding yourself. There has been NO work happening in this office. You refuse to take all your calls and your secretary is writing erotica at her desk. The government is in shambles 😭😂
But honestly, who cares about the government? These two are way too cute together!! The phone call roleplay was super adorable. Bucky's playful side and reader coming out of her shell a bit. Ya love to see it ❤️
And the ending! OMG OMG!!! There's only one word I can say. Scandalous 😋
As a miserable office worker, I thoroughly enjoyed this. It was a super fun fic! Thank you for writing and sharing it with us!
Baby Talking pt. 2
NOTES: read part 1 here. sorry to everyone who voted for the baby to be a girl, @scrmqwn and I discussed and you’ve been overruled. A boy just feels sooooooo right.
TW: kind of angsty but also some fluff, very realistic postpartum experience, trouble bonding, breastfeeding + struggles w/ it (not super graphic), Ben was born to be a father and I do believe that
MASTERLIST
The thing is, you were good at being pregnant.
You thrived.
You liked the weight of it, the way people looked at you, the way Ben looked at you—like you’d done something holy. You liked the way your body changed. You liked the attention. You liked the purpose.
You were beautiful, and you felt it.
Ben couldn’t keep his hands off you—always rubbing your belly, kissing your neck, talking to the baby in that low gravel-voice like he was already here and listening. He carried groceries, made meals, fixed things that didn’t need fixing. He built the crib with his bare hands. Rewired light switches so the dimmers would be “softer on your eyes at night.” He built the nursery by hand. Read parenting books—well, parts of them.
It had felt easy, nice even.
You thought—naively, maybe—that if pregnancy had felt that sacred, motherhood would come just as easily.
But it didn’t.
You’re barely two weeks postpartum, and everything feels wrong.
You bleed through pads too fast. Your breasts ache. Your hips burn when you roll over in bed. You cry constantly. Not from anything in particular, just this dull ache under your ribs that won’t go away.
You feel like a ghost in your own house.
And your son—your son—won’t settle for you.
Not when he’s screaming. Not when you try to feed him. Not when you hold him with your whole body shaking, your shirt damp with milk and your arms aching from the effort.
But Ben?
Ben picks him up, and your baby goes quiet.
It’s not fair.
Ben holds him with one hand, talks to him like he’s been here forever. Like he’s an old pal Ben’s known for years.
“You givin’ your mama a hard time?” He’d murmur softly, swaying the baby the exact way he knew would work. “C'mon son, you know better than that.”
And the baby listens.
You hate how easy it looks on him. You hate how calm he is. You hate that he gets the moments you’ve been desperate for—your son’s first smile, his first sound that’s not a scream, the way he nestles into Ben’s chest like it’s the only place in the world he wants to be.
You hate it. And you hate yourself for hating it. Which makes you hate the situation even more.
It’s the middle of the day. You’re sitting on the laundry room floor in nothing but an old t-shirt and one sock, clutching a burp cloth like it holds the answers to the universe.
And you’re crying.
Ugly crying. Silent and hot, like it snuck up on you. You’re so exhausted you don’t even feel it—just the tightness behind your eyes and the miserable ache behind your breastbone.
You feel ruined. Raw. Useless.
You can’t remember when you last brushed your teeth.
You can’t remember when you last felt like yourself.
And your baby—your beautiful baby boy—has screamed every time you’ve touched him today.
He latches wrong. The bottle’s wrong. Your arms shake when you hold him, and he squirms like he wants to get away.
Ben walks in, barefoot, shirtless, hair a mess, and stops dead in the doorway.
His eyes sweep over you. Then the crumpled pile of laundry. Then the stack of breast pads on the dryer.
Then back to you.
You don’t look at him.
Ben sighs. Sits down beside you against the dryer like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His thigh brushes yours. His arm slings over your shoulders like a goddamn lifeline.
He watches you for a long second, then says gently, “You havin’ a moment, sweetheart?”
You snort. It comes out wet and ragged. “I’m having all the moments.”
Ben nods sagely. “Yeah, you look like a raccoon that got locked in trashcan”
You huff out a broken laugh.
He perks up like it’s a win. “There she is.”
“I smell,” you mutter miserably, your head lolling back against the metal.
“Like baby puke and titty milk,” he agrees. “But it’s kind of doin’ it for me, can’t lie.”
You roll your eyes, still sniffling. “You’re disgusting.”
“You picked me, sweetheart.”
You rub your face with both hands. “I’m so tired, Ben.”
“I know.”
“I feel like shit.”
“You don’t look like shit,” he says casually. “More like... shit-adjacent.”
You laugh again, even as you cry. “You’re the worst.”
“Better than bein’ the guy with a diaper full’a crap waitin’ on the changing table.” He nudges your foot. “Which, by the way, I handled like a fuckin’ champion. Didn’t even gag this time.”
You lean your head against his shoulder, the shirt slipping further down your arm.
You hiccup despite yourself and the fact that just having Ben this close in a moment of quiet makes you feel 1000x better. “He doesn’t even like me.”
“Bullshit.”
“He doesn’t-”
“Sweetheart,” he says, dragging the word out like a sigh. “He came outta you like ten days ago. You think he’s got opinions already? He doesn’t even know what the fuck a ceiling fan is yet.”
You finally look up at him—old mascara smeared halfway down your face, lips trembling.
Ben frowns. “You been cryin’ in here this whole time?”
You nod.
“Jesus Christ.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I thought you were takin’ a shit.”
You laugh. It bubbles out of your chest like something broke loose.
“Look,” he says, voice low. “I know you’re having a rough time, sweetheart. But you’re learning, we both are. And we’re figuring out. He hasn’t died yet, that’s gotta count for something, huh?”
You sniff. “You’re already good at it.”
He shrugs. “I’m big and warm and not leakin’ five different fluids from ten different places. That’s my edge. It doesn’t give me any kind of jump on you.”
“But I’m not doing a good job.”
Ben looks at you then—really looks.
“You made him,” he says. “You let your body get torn up, stretch out, stitched back together like Frankenstein’s bride. You’re feedin’ him. Sleepin’ with one eye open. Tryin’ not to scream even when it hurts. And you think you’re doin’ a bad job?”
Your bottom lip wobbles.
“I’d be in the fuckin’ grave if I had to do what you did,” he says. “He lived under your heart for nine months. He is you. And he might be a little shit but he knows his mama’s having a rough go of things. He can tell you’re hurtin’ and stressed. That your body’s screamin’ and your brain’s fried and your hormones are all over the fuckin’ place. And that’s fine, no one’s expecting you to bounce back already. ”
You lean into him. Just enough to feel his warmth.
He kissed the top of your head. “You did all the hard work to get him here, let me take over, baby.”
You close your eyes. “I don’t know how to do any of this.”
Ben leans in. Kisses the side of your face. “You don’t gotta know. You just gotta let me hold shit down ’til you do.”
You sit in silence for a minute. Your breathing calms. His hand never leaves yours.
Then, soft, you say: “I cried on my breakfast waffle.”
He grins. “You also made a person, you can cry on whatever the fuck you want.”
You sniff. “He still likes you better.”
Ben chuckles, raspy and tired. “For now. ‘Cause I didn’t rip in two and shoot him outta my body like a fuckin’ cannon. He’s lettin’ me take the night shift while his real superhero catches her breath.”
That gets a smile out of you. It’s small, but it’s there.
Ben pulls you to your feet, tucks you into his chest.
“You’re doin’ better than you think,” he says into your hair. “And when that little guy figures out what a goddamn miracle you are, I’m gonna have to fight him off just to get a turn.”
You laugh against his chest. It feels like the first real one in days.
The last few days had been better.
Not perfect. Not easy. But better.
Ben had all but commanded you to rest—his version of coddling less about flowers and foot rubs and more about standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, and barking, “Back to bed. That’s not a request.”
He made you eat. Pulled you into the bath when he thought you wouldn’t go on your own. Helped wash your hair when your arms shook too bad. Even brushed it afterward, grumbling about “gettin’ tangled up like fuckin’ fishing wire.”
He handled the baby when you couldn’t.
Didn’t flinch when you cried.
Didn’t take it personal when you snapped.
Just held the line.
Kept things running.
And slowly—so goddamn slowly—the fog had started to lift.
Your body still ached. Your sleep was still fragmented. But you’d stopped flinching at your reflection. Stopped crying every time you heard your son crying. You’d been smiling again, here and there, and he’d noticed every single one.
“Look at that,” Ben had said just yesterday, pressing his mouth to your cheek. “Been missing that pretty smile like crazy.”
So yeah, you were healing. Even if your heart still ached every time your baby responded to Ben instead of you.
It’s just past five am when the door creaks open.
You stir a little—just enough to feel the cool air on your legs and the press of the blanket over your hip. You don’t open your eyes. Not yet.
Then you hear it: the cry.
Not the full-body wail of a newborn in crisis. Just the fussy, wriggling whine of a little boy who woke up mad and hungry and didn’t care what time it was.
“Yeah, yeah,” comes Ben’s voice—low, gravelled, awake in the way only parents are. “I know, I know. You’re starvin’, huh? Real dramatic, son.”
You blink your eyes open just as the mattress dips beside you.
Ben is shirtless, hair sticking up, baby cradled awkwardly against his chest. Your son’s tiny fists are flailing. His face is scrunched up and pink.
Ben leans over and kisses your forehead.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he mutters. “He’s workin’ himself up.”
You nod, still groggy. “He hungry?”
“Looks like it.” Ben nudges the baby closer. “Wanna try feeding him?”
You hesitate. The weight in your chest returns, familiar and heavy. You’ve tried. Every time you try, it doesn’t work. And every time it doesn’t work, it hurts a little more.
But this time, something in Ben’s face stills you.
He’s not worried. Not rushing. Just watching you like he already knows you’ll say yes, even though you know if you didn’t he wouldn’t hold it against you.
You nod, slow. Shift the covers.
Ben helps you sit up—his hand firm on your back, the other still cradling your son. Then he settles the baby into your arms like he’s made of glass.
You settle the baby against your chest.
And before you can even adjust your hold—he latches.
Just like that.
No fighting. No fussing. No flailing.
You go perfectly still.
Ben sees it happen. Sees your face shift from cautious to shocked to something like shattered joy.
Your son makes a tiny, happy noise. Settled. Content.
You press your lips together, too scared to breathe.
Ben’s voice is quiet. Almost reverent. “There you go,” he murmurs. “Look at that.”
Tears sting the back of your eyes. You nod slowly. “He… he’s really doing it.”
Ben exhales through his nose, and it almost sounds like a laugh. He sits on the edge of the bed beside you, one hand resting on your thigh. “Told you. He was just waitin’ on you to feel better.”
You shake your head, breath catching. “I didn’t think I could do this.”
“You are doin’ it,” he says, firm and steady. “Right now. You’re feedin’ our boy and he’s eatin’ like a goddamn champ.”
You look down at the baby. One hand curls over his tiny back. “Ben…”
“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I know.”
He leans down, presses his mouth to your temple.
“I been waitin’ to see this,” he says. “You are so beautiful, baby. I’m so proud of you.”
It was so quick, so simple, so sudden—you almost don’t believe it. But it’s real. His little jaw moves, rhythmic and soft. He makes a tiny noise—a sigh, maybe. Happy. Comfortable.
You blink hard. Your throat tightens.
Ben exhales slowly. Like something unclenched in him, too.
You don’t speak for a second. You just hold him there. Your son, latched and quiet and warm in your arms.
Ben watches you like he’s seeing God.
“I didn’t think he’d ever do this,” you whisper.
“I did.” Ben leans down, brushing your hair back. “And he will again. You’re his whole damn world, sweetheart. He just needed a little time to figure shit out.”
You nod, blinking fast.
Ben slides in behind you, one arm around your waist, the other bracing behind your back. You settle into his chest while your baby feeds—both of you wrapped in the curve of his body.
The room is soft with early light. Quiet, but not silent. Safe.
“I think he likes you better now,” Ben murmurs against your ear. “I can’t blame him for it either. I’m a big fan of your tits, too.”
You laugh, shaky. “He has good taste.”
Ben kisses your shoulder. “Yeah. He does—he gets that from me.”
And for the first time in weeks, you feel like a mother.
Not a ghost. Not a wreck. Not a failure.
You’re not just surviving anymore.
And Ben? Ben is looking at you like there’s nothing else in the world he could possibly want. Except maybe to keep you like this for forever.
TAGLIST @spxideyver @tendertulip @n-o-p-e-never @suckitands33 @lunaleah @fandomchik @tinas111 @0ccvltism @cupidzbunny @losers-clvb @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @thatg8rl @fratboychrisera @angelically-yours @dina-winchester @maneaterarabella @ralilda @ilikw @lupinslibraries @ladykitana90 @kyleighsstuff @deans-yn @k-illdarlings @ohperiodtpoohhh @poisonivy2267 @scrmqwn @sadpods @mochminnie @estelleyyyy @spookyysinsanity @never-brooks @ladykitana90 @mindfulmesses
let me know if you’d like to be added or removed 🤍
Call me old fashioned but I loveeeee a man who takes over all the little domestic chores for his pregnant wife. Like I melt into the floor 🫠🫠😍 And Ben would 1000% be that guy; he would not let you lift a finger. But would also be incredibly handsy; your portrayal of him is spot on, in my books lol
Ben holds him with one hand, talks to him like he’s been here forever. Like he’s an old pal Ben’s known for years.
This is so cute actually 😭😭 Him having little man-to-man talks with his son? BE STILL MY BEATING HEART. But also lowkey, I too would be so frustrated at him being the freakin' baby whisperer while I'm struggling for my life 😭😂
His pep talk though, omg I'm dying 🤣 All things I could picture my own husband saying to me tbh; you nailed the weird kind of shit couples say to each other 😂😂 Like him being (jokingly? 👀) into her terrible smell - this is true and accurate and no one can tell me otherwise.
"You think he’s got opinions already? He doesn’t even know what the fuck a ceiling fan is yet.”
THIS was the line that absolutely broke me though 🤣 I love your dialogue; it's so fun and exactly the right amount of silly.
"You’re his whole damn world, sweetheart. He just needed a little time to figure shit out.”
Mmmhm, yep, the baby. ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT YOURSELF, BENJAMIN 👀👀
And, in conclusion. HELP, the ending was so cute 🥰 My ovaries have thoroughly exploded. Thank you again for writing this; it was super sweet and I'm always in love with dad!Ben 💕
Baby Talking
Ben (Soldier Boy) x Reader | The Boys
NOTES: welcome to the stage: Claire’s one millionth and one Ben fic involving babies/pregnancy. this is for my pookie @deansbbyx, I hope you love it baby <3 read part 2 here
TW: discussions of starting a family, established relationship, smut (only in the second half), a little bit of manhandling, breeding kink as fuck (duh), dirty talk, Ben being Ben (hot asf)
MASTERLIST
It starts on a Sunday.
You’re sitting on the living room floor, cross-legged in one of your threadbare, oversized t-shirts, flipping through an old shoebox of Polaroids you found wedged inside an old backpack. The floor’s cool under your thighs. The fan hums overhead, soft and steady, stirring the warm summer air. A half-empty mug of coffee rests by your knee, long gone cold.
Ben’s behind you on the couch, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee. A folded newspaper lies across his lap, untouched. You’re pretty sure he hasn’t read a word of it—he hasn’t turned the page in at least fifteen minutes.
He’s not reading. He’s watching you.
You pull out another photo—this one a little bent at the corner. You, maybe three years old, barefoot in the grass, an orange Popsicle melting down your wrist, staining your sundress. Your face is messy, cheeks sunburned, eyes wide under a crooked plastic headband. You smile at the sight of it, slow and soft and unconscious.
You twist slightly, glancing back over your shoulder. The worn hem of your shirt slips higher on your thigh as you move. “That’s me.”
Ben tilts his head, squinting. “You look like a menace.”
You grin. “I was cute.”
“You were sticky,” he says, but his voice doesn’t quite match the joke. It’s quieter, a little distracted. His eyes linger on the photo even after you lower it to your lap.
You frown gently, watching him watch you. There’s something in the air now. Not heavy—just different.
“What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just leaned back into the couch cushion, arm draped lazily along the backrest. His fingertips brush your shoulder for a second—barely there.
“Just thinkin’.”
You wait.
Then, casually—so casually it barely sounds real—he says, “You ever think about havin’ one?”
You blink, brows pulling in. “A popsicle?”
Ben snorts. “No. A kid.”
Your smile fades—not all the way, but enough. There’s that particular kind of silence that only comes when your brain can’t quite match the words you just heard with the person who said them.
You stare at him for a second. “Where did that come from?”
He shrugs. His chest rises with the motion, bare under the loose tank he’s barely wearing. “I dunno. Been thinkin’ about it lately. Y’know, having a rugrat or two runnin’ around. ”
You set the photo down in your lap. Your hands go still.
“Seriously?”
Ben glances at you, like he hadn’t realized how that would sound out loud. “Yeah.”
You hesitate, and your voice is quieter now. “Like… with me?”
That’s what makes him pause. His brows twitch the slightest bit, and then his gaze softens.
“Well, yeah,” he says simply. “Who else?”
Your mouth parts like you might ask something else—but you don’t. You just sit there for a second, the weight of his answer settling into the small space between you.
“Look—” He shifts forward, elbows resting on his knees now, head tilted slightly. “I’m not makin’ plans or buyin’ little shoes or some shit. Just… it’s been on my mind. I was at the store the other day, and this baby was starin’ at me. Ugly little thing. All wrinkly and red. Kind of looked like a baked potato.”
You let out a small laugh, too caught off guard to hold it in. “And that made you want a kid?”
Ben’s lips twitch, just faintly. “No. But the mom did. She looked like hell. Hair in a knot, bag under each eye, sweatin’ through her hoodie—but she was smiling at that little bastard like it was the best goddamn thing that ever happened to her.”
You don’t say anything, but your chest is tight.
He leans back again, sighing softly through his nose. “Used to hate all that domestic shit. Couldn’t stand the cooing and the baby talk bullshit.”
“And now?” you ask, not teasing. You genuinely want to know.
Ben’s hand comes down, fingers brushing your back—warm, steady, reassuring. “Now I come home, and the lights are on. I come home to you. You’re makin’ dinner. Leavin’ your shit all over the place. Yellin’ at me for not puttin’ the cap back on the toothpaste. And It’s not a bad life. I like it. More than I ever though I could like something calm and easy like this.”
You let your gaze fall to the photo in your lap. Your tiny popsicle-sticky hand. Your toothy grin. You press your thumb to the corner of the image and breathe in, chest rising.
“I didn’t think that was something you’d ever want,” you say it so softly, you almost hoped he doesn’t hear.
But he doesn’t flinch. Just shrugs again. “I didn’t—not seriously. Not for a long time. Didn’t make sense.”
“But it does now?”
He glances at you, and this time, his expression is steady. “I’m not sayin’ we do it tomorrow. Just… I could see it. With you. That’s all.“
You look up at him again—really look.
He’s still in yesterday’s sweatpants. His hair’s sticking up from the fan blowing on him. He’s not even wearing socks. But the way he’s watching you—it’s quiet. Sure.
Your throat feels warm. You swallow, careful.
“I think I could too,” you say softly. “I just didn’t expect you to be the one to ever bring it up.”
Ben smiles at that—crooked and warm, not cocky. “Yeah. Me neither.”
You shift your weight and get up off the floor slowly, knees stiff. He opens his arm instinctively, like it’s second nature, and you slide onto the couch beside him, tucking yourself into the curve of his side.
His hand finds your bare thigh, anchoring there. He rubs slow circles with his thumb, and you can feel how warm he is, how solid.
You sit like that for a long time. Not rushing anything. Just… holding it. Letting it be real.
When he finally speaks again, it’s a low murmur against your temple.
“I hope they have your eyes.”
You don’t answer—not with words.
You just reach down and lace your fingers with his, and he holds on like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
It starts slow.
You’re lying across his chest in the quiet of your bedroom, legs tangled under the sheets, his hand stroking idly over the small of your back. The windows are cracked, letting in warm air and cicadas, and you’ve been half asleep for a while now—floating, drowsy, heavy-limbed.
Ben’s voice comes out low, rough.
“Been thinkin’ about that talk we had the other day.”
Your cheek lifts from his skin. You blink, still a little foggy. “Yeah?”
His hand slips lower. Cups your hip, presses his fingers just slightly into the curve of it.
You hum at the contact.
“Can’t get it outta my fuckin’ head,” he murmurs. “You. Full of me.”
Your breath catches—just a little. But it’s enough to make him smirk.
“You liked that, didn’t you?”
You nod.
And that’s all it takes.
Ben shifts under you and rolls you onto your back, slow and easy, pressing his body over yours. His hand slides beneath your shirt—his shirt, oversized and thin—palm rough and warm as it pushes up over your stomach.
His lips find your jaw, then your neck, then lower—kissing like he’s not in a hurry. Like he wants to savor you first. His thigh presses between yours, spreading you, nudging your hips open as you arch beneath him.
“You gonna let me put a baby in you, sweetheart?” he murmurs against your skin. “Let me knock you up real good?”
You whimper.
“Say it.”
“Yes,” you whisper, already breathless.
He drags the shirt up and over your head, tosses it somewhere blindly. His gaze lingers on your bare chest, the soft weight of you laid out for him.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “Look at you. You don’t even know how perfect you are.”
His hands roam like he owns you already. Down your sides. Over your thighs. His palm flattens over your belly, slow and deliberate.
“Gonna watch you grow for me,” he mutters, pushing your panties down. “Every fuckin’ day. Swellin’ with my baby. Leakin’. Cryin’ ‘cause your tits are too sore but still beggin’ me to touch ‘em.”
Your breath shudders. You’re already soaked.
Ben sees it—fingers grazing through the mess between your thighs, spreading it, groaning low under his breath. “Christ on a cross, baby.”
He kneels between your legs and strokes his cock once—just enough to line himself up. Thick and flushed and heavy.
You reach for him, but he catches your wrists and pins them above your head with one hand. His voice drops into a growl.
“Keep still.”
You whimper. He slides the head of his cock through your folds—once, twice—before pushing in slow.
The stretch punches the breath from your lungs.
Ben doesn’t stop. Doesn’t rush. He sinks in, inch by inch, until he bottoms out and stays there.
His jaw clenches. “You feel that?”
You nod, lips parted. “So full—Ben—”
He rocks into you, deep and steady, every movement dragging across nerves that leave your thighs shaking.
“Gonna keep you full,” he pants. “Every fuckin’ night. Make sure it takes. Fill you ‘til it’s runnin’ down your thighs, and then stuff it back in.”
You cry out, hips bucking. He pins you down harder, chest pressing to yours now, lips brushing your ear.
“You’re gonna give me everything, aren’t you?”
“Yes—yes—”
“Gonna let me wreck this little cunt,” he growls, thrusting harder now, “and walk around all cute and round and ruined.”
You sob beneath him, legs locking around his waist.
“That’s my girl,” he croons. “Fuckin’ made for me. I’ll take care of everything, baby. You just gotta stay right here in bed and let me keep you full and fucked and happy.”
Your climax tears through you without warning, clenching hard around him, shaking. He groans into your neck, pace stuttering.
“Fuck—gonna fill you up—shit—take it—take all of it—”
He buries himself as deep as he can go and spills into you, breath caught in his throat, hand gripping your hip like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold you down.
He stays there—grinding slow through the aftershocks, pushing it in deeper, like that’ll seal it.
“Yeah,” he growls, voice ragged and hot in your ear. “That’s it. So fuckin’ prefect for me, baby.”
You’re shaking under him, legs still wrapped tight around his waist, skin slick with sweat. Your body is spent, but he doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t ease off. He’s still hard inside you, twitching, thick and full and not done.
Ben lifts his head, eyes dragging over you—ruined and panting beneath him, flushed and trembling, wrecked by what he just gave you.
“You feel that?” he murmurs, fingers ghosting over the lowest part of your belly. “All that cum sittin’ right where it’s supposed to be.”
You nod weakly, lips parted.
He cups your cheek, thumb brushing your mouth.
“Better hope it sticks, baby,” he says, low and dangerous. “’Cause if not, we’re gonna keep real fuckin’ busy ‘til it does.”
And the way he’s still pressing into you—slow, possessive, deliberate—you believe him.
He means every fucking word.
TAGLIST @spxideyver @tendertulip @n-o-p-e-never @suckitands33 @lunaleah @fandomchik @tinas111 @0ccvltism @cupidzbunny @losers-clvb @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @thatg8rl @fratboychrisera @angelically-yours @dina-winchester @maneaterarabella @ralilda @ilikw @lupinslibraries @ladykitana90 @kyleighsstuff @deans-yn @k-illdarlings @ohperiodtpoohhh @poisonivy2267 @scrmqwn @sadpods @mochminnie @estelleyyyy @spookyysinsanity @nevercameraready @ladykitana90 @mindfulmesses
let me know if you’d like to be added 🤍
This fic had me kicking my feet from the start, and I did NOT stop the whole way through 😍
Then, casually—so casually it barely sounds real—he says, “You ever think about havin’ one?” You blink, brows pulling in. “A popsicle?”
This part made me giggle. Gotta love a slightly-clueless reader lol. She's a lil slow on the uptake, but she'll get there 😂
Also, Ben comparing that baby at the store to a baked potato, oml. He WOULD 😭🤣
“Now I come home, and the lights are on."
This one little line gave me such a sucker punch to the feels, because it's such a small thing but it really does make you think like, damn, there are so many tiny ways being around another person changes your life. Got me feeling all sentimental 🥹
I then proceeded to black out for the second half of this fic, like holy hell, my head is spinning 🫠😋 BUT ALSO, I'm laughing so hard at him being all like "calm down, we're not rushing into it tomorrow or anything." And then basically the next day just straight up losing control and, whoops!, guess we are doing this after all 😂 He's so down bad; I love it~
Thank you for writing this, and I'm super excited to check out the second part!
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."
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I'm convinced that Bucky Barnes in a soft button-down shirt and jeans is the meaning of LIFE. Thank you for writing this; it's such a fun AU! And you are a wonderful writer!
Fair warning that there is a frankly obscene amount of live-reaction rambling below the cut lol
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.
Like this paragraph?? So beautiful! So much yearning with the perfect hint of angst - he can't get too close or he'll get burned, but he also can't look away. AAAaah!
And oh my gosh, the build-up of tension in that scene where they're in the barn at night after visiting town!! I could feel the anticipation in my veins.
And the smut?!? I understand his nickname for reader now, because holy hell I am ON FIRE 🔥🔥🔥 You have such a way with words and I love their dynamic so much. Reader in charge, but in a way where you can tell she's just so caught up in the moment and being with Bucky. And him willing and wanting to give her whatever she needs. The way it mirrors their professional relationship!! I am gnawing on the bars of my enclosure 😬🫠😍
"Catching my breath" - YOU LIAR. You have EMOTIONS and FEELINGS and a lot of them involve being completely SMITTEN. Admit it!!!
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.
I am literally eating up all this tension and drama 😋😋 And it's delicious.
But oh, it hurts! Ow, owie, ouch, my heart 💔 The awkward silences, and them not being able to talk about what they really mean to each other lowkey tore me apart. And then Bucky not even believing it when reader tries to tell him *highkey* tore me apart. How can I reach through the screen and give this man even the tiniest drop of self worth? 😭😭
I also love love loved the scenes with Copper the horse! Him being kind of a stand-in for reader's father was so sweet. All the history between Copper and reader and Bucky, and the nostalgia wrapped around it. I'm *totally not* crying, I promise 🤞
Clayton Sheridan you rascal!! But also I'm rubbing my greasy little hands together because I love it when a rival shows up and forces the will-they-won't-they love interests to get together for real!! Such a classic trope, and for good reason. It hits every time.
Like Bucky, PLEASEEEEE - you would not still be working at this ranch with so much tension between you and your boss if you weren't madly in love and wanting desperately to make her yours and thinking maybe just maybe there's hope. WE ALL KNOW THIS!! ALL OF US EXCEPT YOU 😭😭😭
"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."
OH MY GOD THE DRAMA. I AM SALIVATING. I'm so sorry I'm quoting every other line of this fic - they're all just so good ❤️ The way you write relationships is so captivating. All the dialogue is incredible; I'm on the edge of my seat with my heart in my throat!
And the way you slapped me across the face with him not being able to even listen to her say the words "i love you"?! Chills, I tell you!!
I am ripping my hair out for real over how stubborn this man is. I need to shake some sense into him right now, or else I'm gonna lose it 😂 But also, the way you wrote his thoughts on everything makes total sense, and it just makes me want to shake him even harder. Like sir, I understand where you're coming from and why you feel like you need to improve and that letting yourself be in this relationship now would feel be letting go of your self-respect, but also!! Consider that none of that shit even matters and that love conquers all. Have you ever thought of THAT? 😂😭 BUCKY COME HOME THE COWS MISS YOU
"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."
👏👏👏 Tell him, girlfriend!! Reader, my emotionally mature queen!!
"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."
Bucky nooooooooo 😭😭 Hissing at him, hissing at him. Get your ass back in that barn!!
I'm sweating rn; I have no clue how these two are gonna overcome all of this, but I'm clinging to that happy ending tag in the warnings list like it's a lifeboat. Or maybe the reins of a horse that's about to trample me lmao 🐎🤠
I can say with complete confidence that I hate Clayton Sheridan's guts and would spit in his face if I saw him on the street.
Had to physically stop myself from squealing when Bucky showed up for the office confrontation scene, because my spouse is sitting next to me and I do not have time to explain myself - holy cow, I need to know what happensssss 😬😬😬
Aaaaaand ngl, Bucky beating Sheridan up is kind of incredibly hot. "You don't get to scare her and make her feel small." UGH I LOVE HIM. Like seriously, I really appreciate that despite the major theme of this fic being Bucky feeling inadequate, he never tries to diminish reader's success or force her to give up anything so that he can feel the way he wants to feel. He just wants to be her equal from his own merit. He truly admires her and only sees her being "better than" him as a problem because he wants to be able to meaningfully provide for her, not because he thinks she shouldn't be where she is.
Anyway, back to gooning - how dare Pete and Sanchez show up right when we were about to make passionate, vulnerable love on the floor of the barn? 😂 Jk, jk ...unless...
Except actually I'm not mad at all, because that conversation with Maria was SO SWEET! Not me getting all emotional over Maria and Pete being couple goals 😭❤️
CLAYTON SHERIDAN YOU CRIMINAL?!! 😡 But also, how thematic, with the fire motif wrapping back around to be the final push to bring Bucky and reader together. I was reading this whole scene with a hand to my mouth. Oh my god, oh my goddddd 😭😭😭 Happy ending tag, happy ending tag, happy ending tag...
AAAAAH YESS! HAPPY ENDING TAG CAME THROUGH!!! I am such an enormous sucker for a pregnancy reveal ending. I can't help it; its so cute and wholesome and I love it ❤️❤️❤️ And you know what else is cute and wholesome? Bucky making reader tea, just because he'd noticed she was drinking less coffee. Ugh, he's such a sweetheart. End of the fic, and I'm still SO sappy about how he takes care of her. I will never get over this.
I am so very sorry this comment got so wildly out of control. But I loved this fic so much - thank you for all the work you put into writing it, and thank you for sharing it with us. My heart is so full after reading this 🥰
Earned It
pairing | Massage Therapist!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader summary | While on vacation, your best friend books a spa day for you to loosen up. A luxury spa, the hottest masseuse you've ever laid eyes on, and the slip of a sound lead to a very not normal massage. But in your defense...he had very good hands and a flexible definition of tension relief. warnings | MDNI 18+ Barbies only, please | female reader, no use of y/n, vacation fling, porn with a sprinkle of plot, open ended, inappropriate use of towels + massage oils (literally don't...don't do this at home), fingering, dry humping, unprotected p in v, pussy pronouns, exactly one (1) clit smack, soft dom Bucky if you squint, slight Romanogers if you squint even further and hold the phone at the right angle, reader is briefly described as being smaller than Bucky (if I missed anything please let me know) word count | 5.6k phoenix chirps | Hi Barbies! It's time for my first installment for the Barbie collab put on by the @stantastic-association. It's been so fun watching this come together that I can almost hardly believe it's my turn to post. I don't have much to say about this one, except that I feel the need to remind you that this is fiction. Please don't engage with massage therapists in this manner out in the real world. Even if they do suspiciously look like Bucky Barnes. dt | Literally everyone who had to listen to me bitch about needing to lock in since...January? Y'all know who you are, and I'm giving you all a big forehead kiss through the screen. I hope you can feel it. Though a very special dt to @miraclediviner who made sure the collab ran as smooth as butter and didn't let me slack off. You're a real one Mecca ❤️
"We should do a girls trip!"
A dreaded six word sentence among friend groups. It always felt like something elusive that would always get talked about, but never actually get planned. In the history of your particular circle, those words were carelessly thrown around during Pinterest searches or doom scrolls after too much wine more times than you could count, but never once made it out of the group chat.
That was until the self appointed leader of the group, Natasha Romanoff, decided that enough was enough. In her own words, she was tired of the drab concrete buildings in which you worked soul sucking desk jobs and wanted to explore. But she didn't want to go alone. So, she planned. She made itineraries that the group was excited about. A few helped narrow down the field to a destination of the Amalfi Coast. But somewhere between the planning stage and the plane taking off for a two week trip to Positano, only you and Natasha had actually managed to buy the airfare and split the cost of an ocean front hotel room in the picturesque town.
Arriving in a landscape dotted with colorful cliffhanging houses on the bluest waters you had ever laid eyes on should have been enough to decompress. Yet the first thing out of Nat's mouth when you had barely unpacked a bag in the small hotel room you would be sharing was: "You look like you need to relax." Evidently the charm of being in another country without having to think of emails and spreadsheets for two weeks was not enough to bring your shoulders down from where they had permanently bunched at your ears.
And that is how you found yourself herded to the five star spa attached to your hotel. The air was tinged more prominently with orange blossom and citrus oils here, mixing with the salt air of the sea that seeped in through the windows. There was a soft melody of instrumental music along with water bubbling from a few rock fountains that dotted the reception area, granting a relaxing atmosphere from the bustling of the hotel lobby just beyond the entrance.
You had been directed to a pair of plush armchairs by the receptionist and offered a glass of cucumber water along with a list of services that were outrageously priced, even for a tourist town. You supposed that the main focus of stepping into a place like this should have been the ease of which it was to relax. But what really wasn't relaxing were the prices on the laminated sheet.
"Nat I - " you began in a hushed tone, but were cut off by the wave of her hand.
"We're on vacation," she sighed taking a small sip of water. "Just charge everything to my card, and you can pay me back when you can. I need the miles anyway." It wasn't so much of an offer as it was a request to just treat yourself. Like innately, she knew that you would argue over spending an exorbitant amount of money on a ninety minute massage.
Slumping back in your chair, you knew it was futile to argue when Natasha put her mind to something. The receptionist approached shortly after, getting you both on the schedule. Her voice had a distinct charming Italian lilt that you supposed was meant to be calming, though it felt performative in a way; like everything in this over priced spa. Maybe that's how they were able to charge such high prices. If clients were lulled into a false sense of comfort at every turn, it hurt less when money changed hands.
Natasha's name was called first by a tall, muscular blonde man wearing dark blue scrubs. Before she disappeared behind the frosted glass doors flanked by two lemon trees, she gave a sly wink, her nose scrunching slightly. A secret girl code that loosely translated to her likely coming back out with her masseur's personal phone number.
Good for her, you thought. Though you dreaded if she actually did get it that you'd be spending the rest of the vacation playing tourist alone.
That left just you and the incessant dripping sound of water in the reception area, which truthfully wasn't all that relaxing when it had you debating if you had time for a bathroom break. In the middle of your deliberation, you heard your name called.
When your eyes lifted to see who your appointment was with, you now had a concrete reason as to why services here were so expensive. A six foot, broad shouldered muscular man with chestnut hair, and blue eyes that could rival that of the ocean waters of the coast was looking at you expectantly. Your gaze drifted down to the clipboard that held your assessment form you had filled out while waiting. And you were sure it was a normal sized clipboard, but it looked dwarfed being held in his hands. Hands that would soon be on your skin.
His smile was warm, and looked to be the most genuine form of soothing in the spa as you walked up to him on unsteady legs. "I'm Bucky, looks like I've got you for the next hour and a half," he introduced himself, and you immediately noticed he did not carry the same Italian accent of anyone you had encountered at the hotel.
He held the door open for you into a warmly lit hallway, with more greenery and a stronger scent of lemons. "Do you have any problem areas you'd like me to address?"
The only problem that came to the forefront of your mind - aside from your sore back muscles - was that your mind was now…blank.
And yet he patiently waited for an answer as he directed you to a small dim room. Likely having rendered so many women speechless, that this was just part of his routine when he introduced himself to someone new.
The room he showed you to only held a massage table, a small cart with various oils and towels, and the same plinking music that had been playing in reception could also be heard in here, albeit much softer. "Uh, my back kind of? It was a long plane ride," you said, finally finding your voice.
Bucky nodded, jotting something down on the clipboard he still held. "Taking care of yourself on vacation? Good girl, sitting that long can cause unneeded stress on your muscles."
The praise coming from his mouth seemed to slip out so naturally, your brain almost didn't register it. But the rest of your body sure did.
He's probably like this with everyone, he's just trying to get a bigger tip from you. You reminded yourself.
"If you'll just undress to your comfort level," he pulled the drape of the massage table back, "I'll be back in five minutes."
And with that, he was out of the room with the door closing behind him with a soft click. Truthfully your comfort level with a strange man in a foreign country should've been to add more clothes and walk out of here. Especially with the way your thoughts were racing as you pictured his hands on your body.
Perhaps you should go request a different masseuse. One that you didn't want to do things with he probably wasn't allowed to charge for. But with the way your back ached and the crick in your neck from an eight hour flight, you didn't want to wait for a different masseuse. Nor did you want to explain to Natasha why it was necessary and get teased relentlessly.
Deciding you'd like the full experience, you stripped bare and folded your clothes in a neat pile on the chair in the corner. Sliding into the cocoon of soft sheets on your stomach, you shifted the drape over your backside and as soon as you made yourself comfortable with your head on the rest, a knock sounded at the door.
"Alright sweet girl," Bucky's smooth voice reached your ears once more as he stepped into the room. "Let's see if we can't get you to relax."
This was already a bad idea, you surmised. Your body was reacting to the baritone of his voice in ways you hadn't even considered when Nat suggested a massage. Like it was reminding you of the dry spell you had currently been in with your dating life and that something or someone needed to rectify that soon.
He peeled the sheet away from your back to begin, the sudden rush of air hitting your nerves and sending a shiver down your spine,
"Cold?" He asked from somewhere above you, concern lacing his words.
"A little?" Your voice squeaked the lie piling on to your mortification. You weren't really cold, more like your nerve endings you long thought dormant were reacting to any form of provocations.
You heard the click of a button somewhere and a sudden wave of gentle heat flowed from a vent on the wall next to you. "There we go," he murmured. "I want you to be as comfortable as possible."
Some more shuffling occurred while you watched his shadow cast by the dim amber lights dance around the dark floor. A click of a cap being flicked open almost had you peaking over your shoulder to see what was going on, but eye contact would likely only heighten this one sided awkwardness you felt for the next ninety minutes.
A warm sensation dripped over your skin, and you felt goosebumps rise in its wake. Bucky's palms were on you next with a firm pressure that already had the tension floating from your body and into his palms. Deft fingers kneaded the muscles along your spine first, pausing to roll among your shoulders.
Sinking further into the table, it was almost easy to forget who was on the opposite end of the hands that you could describe as harbingers of magic. Your eyes slipped shut, finally letting out a deep breath you didn't remember inhaling.
"Good girl, keep letting go," Bucky whispered, knuckles digging into your shoulder blades and working your muscles loose. There was that praise again, made all the more intimate by the fact that you were now naked and his hands seemed to be working overtime to pull every bit of tension out of your body.
He made it so easy to relax. More so than anything out in the reception area. The aura around his person inviting and safe in a way that made it easy to let go. From the warmth of the room, the slide of his fingers, the gentle praise, a floaty kind of feeling rushed to your head. It was then he found a knot just to the right of your spine that was worked out with enough pressure for an involuntary moan to slip past the barricade you'd been carefully crafting.
And it really wasn't even something you could pass off as a momentary lapse of judgment, especially if he kept skillfully working your muscles out like he was.
But Bucky, professional as he was, never wavered even when he felt the tension rising back to your body like you had done something wrong. "Happens more often than you think," he reassured. "Make all the noise you need to, sweetheart. You don't need to hold back on my account," he said evenly, and you could hear the ghost of a satisfied smile in his tone.
With permission granted unlocking something in your brain, you sighed, letting whatever slightly pornographic sounds come out. It wasn't like you would see him again anyway to be embarrassed about it. And as you fully let go, both of Bucky's hands continued working lower now to where the drape covered the last bit of your decency.
"Your lower back is really tense…" he muttered, hands wrapping around your waist, your attention flaring to the point of contact. "Desk job?"
Your mind momentarily stuttered as you tried to get your mouth to form words that weren't 'you can bend me over a desk'. "Uhm, yeah, unfortunately. I try to stretch but…"
"I can put a towel under your hips if you'd like?" he interrupted whatever your thinly veiled excuse was going to be for not getting up and stretching for ten minutes every hour. "May help me work out some of this discomfort."
You spied him already rolling up a piece of fabric into a tight cylinder. His hands and fingers glistening in the low light looking like a sin you'd love to commit.
You nod in agreement, and shift so he can wedge the towel under your hips. In doing so, the drape covering your ass narrowed, now just barely keeping you concealed.
More oil was added to your skin and Bucky's hands returned to your lower back. You had to give it to him, the added cushion under your hips did help your spine stretch, and the oil was already seeping into your muscles, aiding in the relaxation. But now you had a different problem entirely. The towel had been placed in such a way it pressed right against your clit, the texture of terrycloth mixed with the oil dripping down providing a delicious friction you hadn't been expecting.
And just why had you decided it would be a fabulous idea to get naked? As if the heat pooling between your thighs the second you laid eyes on your masseuse wasn't bad enough, you now had to deal with the fact that every time his thumbs pushed from the swell of your ass to the middle of your spine he unknowingly rocked you just right to send sparks shooting through your limbs.
If you thought keeping your noises to a minimum before was a challenge, it was certainly about to be an even bigger struggle. Screwing your eyebrows together, your fingers gripped the face cradle harder, you dared to let out a much more breathy exhale than before. Slightly worried that if you held any further noises in, Bucky would catch on to the lewd activities happening under the drape.
It would be so embarrassing to come like this, you thought for a brief second, another airy moan traitorously leaving your lips.
That time, Bucky's hands did pause, ever so briefly, on their upward trajectory. Enough that it was obvious he noticed your sounds had changed. But he didn't draw attention to it verbally. Instead, he moved…slower.
His hands trailed down, past your hips to your thighs. Thumb digging just a touch more into your muscles as he moved with leisure.
You barely noticed the drape that had still been covering your ass was being pushed up, too focused on the way he seemed to know when to press on your lower back to get another inappropriate sound out of your mouth. On the next pass, Bucky's fingers grew bolder, dipping between your thighs and nudging your legs apart.
It eluded you that his thumbs were getting closer and closer to where you were now dripping on every pass. Rational thought had long since flown out the window with the way he was slowly rocking you against the towel.
At least…until he drifted experimentally. Two fingers slowly and precisely slipped directly between your thighs ever so slightly relieving the ache that had been building since you had put your body in his very capable hands. It was too deliberate, yet slightly timid to be considered an accident. Much like the soft moans he had elicited from you moments earlier.
Your eyes flew open, breath catching as he did it again. Two fingers mindfully stroking your clit like he was testing your reaction. "I can stop," he said easily once you met his piercing blue eyes over your shoulder, pausing his ministrations but not taking his fingers away. "But I am very good at my job."
You were aware that you could say no. Surely such a posh and highly rated establishment would not survive if such acts were being performed under duress.
You were also aware that while you could…you had absolutely no intention of asking him to stop. Much like when you gave yourself grace by letting your mouth fall open, moans flowing freely, you rationalized that you were on vacation. You were never going to see this man again, and your body was wordlessly begging your mouth to just say yes. Shifting to tilt your hips in a silent dare for him to keep going, you both performed a staring contest in the soft light. But you realized quite quickly that he wasn't going to move again until you said something verbally.
Letting out a shuddering breath, and throwing all caution to the wind along with the last of any rational thought, you imperceptibly shook your head and gave a shaky whisper of "don't stop."
A slow grin spread across his face, a spark of delight as he gingerly tossed the drape to the side. There was no use for it now, considering it had turned into a small sliver that covered nothing.
"Turn over for me, sweet girl, if we're doing this, let's do this right," he murmured, giving a slight tap to your clit before withdrawing, a gentle hand coming to your hip to help maneuver you to your back.
With shaky arms and his guidance, you adjusted. The towel you had been grinding against was also discarded quickly, all the better so you didn't see the mess you had likely caused. Bucky's hands were on you again, steady, but sure, working their way slowly back up your thighs like he was still giving you the chance to back out.
"Beautiful," you swore you heard him whisper above the low music that was still faintly playing in the background. Heat spread from your chest to your ears as you chanced a glance at him while his fingertips made their journey back between your thighs. But his eyes, dark and hooded, were fixated on the dance of his hand moving closer to your center.
You let out a small 'oh' the second he circled your clit, thighs parting further — an invitation to keep going while your fingertips dug into the table. Eyes falling closed, your body arched into the movement, rocking without abandon now that it wasn't something you were trying to hide.
He had not been over exaggerating, he was very good at his job. Executing just the right amount of pressure on the bundle of nerves, every so often dipping to gather the slick now freely dripping from your cunt and tease your entrance. Like he was a lover made just for you, and had learned every single way to provide the highest amount of pleasure to make your head spin.
"When's the last time she was taken care of, hmm?" his voice was closer than it had ever been, your eyes flew open again to see he had moved so his torso was hovering over yours, hand that wasn't performing magic between your thighs braced next to your head.
Fuck, his eyes were more disarming up close. Two shimmering pools of bright blue reflected what could only be described as starlight from the ambient lamps.
Did you really want to admit to a stranger how long it'd been since the last time anyone touched you like this?
"Uh…" you stammered, "haven't really…been awhile."
Real smooth. But what were you meant to say when words were drowning before they had a chance to form?
A gentle, compassionate look crossed his features. "Tsk, you can't neglect something as precious as this sweetheart."
With that, he finally pushed a long finger past your entrance, the stretch sudden causing a needy whine to travel up your throat.
"There you go. Just relax for me…" he whispered the command right against the skin of your cheek, and to your credit, you really did try. But the coil in your lower belly was tightening further and further.
Another unabashed moan slipped past your lips as he added a second finger, your jaw going slack from the sudden stretch while your fingertips dug further into the table to the point your knuckles ached. "I'm trying," you protested, though several parts of your body were continuously clenching.
Above you, a deep rumble vibrated from Bucky's chest. His hand that had been planted next to your head reached for yours, working your grip free of the table. Your fingers interwove with his creating a far more intimate connection than you had been braced for.
"Keep trying sweetheart, you can do it," he coaxed, leaning further in until his lips were right next to yours. While his hands and words were confident, there was a hesitation in the movement of his lips. Like he was a man who was afraid of pushing too many boundaries.
Your fingers squeezed his once his thumb pressed deliberately onto your clit, back bowing off the table while your thighs spread further, one ankle falling carelessly over the edge. "You're so close," he whispered, lips finally meeting the corner of yours. "Can feel it in the way she's squeezing me."
"Mhm," you managed to whine, lips chasing his automatically when he went to pull away.
There was barely a second of hesitation and his mouth was on yours, greedily drinking in the sounds of pleasure as he pushed you closer and closer to release. He tasted of bergamot, lemon and sea salt, like the personification of the small town itself.
It was like something snapped between you the second your lips collided. Something untamed finally being set free after being unfairly caged. Your hand flew to the nape of his neck, drawing him in closer, enough that with the angle, he had to withdraw his fingers from your cunt so he could steady himself above you.
You wanted to grumble at being denied, body clenching desperately around nothing. Until Bucky adjusted, knee finding the bare space of table between your legs. With a slight bounce, his large form soon eclipsed yours as he settled into a comfortable position. All the while, his lips never really ceased contact with yours. Exploring parts of you that you hoped he never dared venture with other clientele.
But any unfounded jealousy you may have stumbled upon exited your mind the second he pressed his hips to yours. The hard, throbbing ridge of his erection had your mind reeling. It hadn't really even occurred to you that he could be as affected as you were, needing his own form of tension relief. Perhaps the soft dark blue scrubs he wore were intentionally chosen to hide such things.
Your legs bent at the knees, drifting to either side of his torso until you cradled his lower body with yours. A sound came muffled from his throat, his teeth sinking into the plush flesh of your lower lip when your hips twitched upwards, bare pussy dragging across the outline of his cock that sent fire rushing through your belly.
Your free hand fisted into the hem of his top, thoughts running rampant of how you planned on daydreaming about ripping this very top off when you got back to your hotel room to now being able to experience the real thing. His hips moved in needy, urgent circles, the head of his cock catching your clit every so often causing your thighs to clench around his frame harder. His movements were so delicate, so restrained, you wondered if he was reconsidering.
Testing the already flimsy boundaries, your hand released his top, moving to rest on the warm skin of his abdomen. A shudder radiated from where your palm was placed as the weight of him sunk deeper onto you. Your hand explored further, your own hips canting up to meet his; soaking the front of his pants with your slick. Fingernails scratched into the hard wall of muscle, contracting like claws with each slow grind.
When you reached his shoulder, Bucky released his grip on your hand, yanking the fabric off and discarding it. It had been one thing to imagine what he looked like underneath the navy blue top. It was another thing in itself to see it in the ambient lighting of the massage room. The flickering candles on the shelves reflected shadows on every crevice that had to have been honed by hours in the gym. Both hands now moved of their own volition, traipsing up the dips until they smoothed over the light dusting of hair along his chest.
"Seems only fair I suppose," he chuckled softly, watching your hands explore. "That you get to feel me up now instead of the other way around."
You felt your cheeks heat once more, moving to withdraw your touch. But, Bucky moved quicker, gripping your wrist and placing a soft kiss to the delicate inside with a smirk.
"Knew you were going to be special the minute I laid eyes on you," he whispered, tugging your wrist until your hand landed at the nape of his neck again, your fingers carding into the soft hair.
"Bet you say that to every girl who walks in here," you mumbled, gaze darting to where his other hand was palming his erection through his pants that were slick from where you had been grinding against him.
A short laugh flitted from his lips, pulling the waist of his pants down further until his thick cock was freed. "I do, but none of them have ever gotten to do this though," he admitted gently, running the tip of his cock already leaking with precum through your folds.
The meaning behind his words barely registered when your eyes were still glued between your bodies. His large hand was wrapped around the thick shaft as he fucked into it, tip gliding through your aching pussy until it kissed your clit and withdrew again.
The motion continued, teasing away what little self restraint you had left with each dip that barely caught at your entrance. A frustrated exhale escaped your lips, looking back up to meet Bucky's eyes. "Can you just - " you huffed as he slid through even slower, like he had all the time in the world yet you knew the ninety minute session would have to end sooner or later.
The corner of his mouth pulled up again, head dipping so his nose brushed yours. "Patience sweet girl," he murmured against your lips. "Don't wanna rush this."
Your leg wrapped higher on his hips wondering if your strength could out match his. But his grip found your thigh, fingers digging into your flesh to keep you from using your muscles in an attempt to get what you want. His hand released his cock, letting it fall heavily onto your hip so he could cup your jaw.
"Breathe with me, okay? In," he inhaled, your lungs expanded on command, chest rising to meet his.
"And out," he exhaled, lips brushing yours intimately while your breaths mingled, his hips adjusting so you felt the nudge of his tip at your entrance.
You really should have expected him to press in the next time he coaxed you to inhale, yet the stretch of him finally filling you completely and slowly was something no amount of breathing exercises could've ever prepared you for.
A loud whimper tore through from your throat while you adjusted to his size, the hand at the base of his neck gripping a bit tighter to steady yourself. Bucky hiked your leg up further, hooking it around his hip — freeing up his other hand to completely cradle your face, elbows tucking under your shoulders while he settled his weight onto you. An intimate gesture you least expected, from someone who was a stranger a little more than an hour ago.
He hadn't even really moved yet, letting your bodies get acquainted; muscles clenching around his throbbing cock while his thumbs slowly brushed over your cheekbones. Every breath leaving your mouth was shallow, attempting to get air to your lungs while every other nerve ending was just concerned with pleasure.
Your fingernails found solace digging into the taut muscle of his bare back, clinging to reality as he finally buried every inch in. Eyes watered as you held his stare of concern marred behind feral need. "Breathe sweetheart," he reminded you once again, thumbs never ceasing the calming movement against your skin.
The table swayed gently with the start of his hips rocking. The ridges and veins of his cock massaging the most intimate and sacred parts of your body.
Needy deep grunts and soft breathless moans soon filled the room, articulated by the whisper of your skin connecting and the nature sounds that were once meant to be relaxing. They now only fueled a delirious fantasy, mixing with the heat rising. Where the room melted into something far more primal and less composed than anything the upscale spa had offered in their list of services.
His strong hands continued to keep your head tilted up. Every desperate thrust into your already fluttering pussy, still aching for the release he denied you earlier had your eyelids dropping. But his hypnotizing eyes that watched every flicker of pleasure on your features were hard to stay away from for long.
"Come on now, darling, let go of that last bit of tension," he breathed softly, head dipping to your collarbone so his lips were right next to your ear with another deep thrust that had stars bursting in your vision.
Words seemed fleeting, as much as you wanted to say for the umpteenth time that you really were trying, but the bliss washing over your body in waves was hard to release. Nothing would have made you more content than to stay in this haze of citrus scented oils.
"So stubborn." You swore you heard him huff, trailing a hand between your bodies where his thumb found your clit, massaging gently.
Entire body locking from the jolt caused a gasp to punch out from your lungs. Thighs and arms wrapped tighter around him, nails digging further into his skin until you were sure the half moons would become a permanent feature to his otherwise flawless body.
"There you are, now let it all go." Bucky's teeth grazed the column of your neck, thumb picking up speed in time with his pace that was becoming erratic. Pleasure finally crested through your nerve endings, flowing to every limb and ligament as you fell over the edge. Saliva pooled on your tongue, eyes finally falling closed to surrender to the sensations. His lips found yours again, an intimate gesture designed to bring you back to the present. He groaned deeply, a tremor rumbling through his entire body as you felt the throb of his own release flare into yours.
Bucky pulled back from the crook of your neck, hair that had been perfectly styled now fell in front of his wild eyes while realization crashed down on both of you. A sudden dawning of what just happened probably…should not have happened. Your limbs were still limp, muscles melting into the table in a sensation you had missed for too long.
"Am I - uh - going to have to pay extra for that?" you asked in an attempt to diffuse the situation, breath still ragged.
He laughed, low and genuine, brushing a piece of your hair back from your forehead. "Nah, we'll keep that off the books."
You giggled in response as he carefully maneuvered off of the table. You propped up on your elbows, accepting a clean sheet he handed in your direction, like he knew your body was already growing colder without his to keep you warm.
"When do you leave?" he asked sincerely, donning a fresh scrub top. Eyebrows drawn together in earnest.
You really hadn't been expecting him to all of a sudden seem so vulnerable, for someone who got you to the position you were currently in with such quiet confidence. "Oh, we're here for two weeks."
He nodded, looking now at a planner that was splayed open on the small counter. "Do you…want to come back tomorrow? I can take you to dinner first and then I can get you another…more appropriate session."
He tripped over his words as he asked, endearing in a truly charming way. "Yeah," you agreed easily, swinging your legs off the side of the table. "I'd like that."
Bucky's shoulders dropped, relief flooding over his features. "Great," he smiled, handing you a business card. "I've, unfortunately, got another appointment I need to get ready for, but I'm looking forward to it."
"Hope it's not one just like this?" you asked, turning the card around in your fingers to see what you assumed was his personal cell phone number scribbled in a margin.
"No," he chuckled again. "This was a…uh…first for me."
Natasha was already in the reception area when you drifted through the frosted glass doors. Everything that had first annoyed about the corporately saccharine decor was muted, the only thought on your mind was when you would get to see it again.
"So?" Natasha asked, a perfectly manicured eyebrow raised as she scrutinized your sudden glow. "How was it?"
You accepted another small glass of cucumber water, settling beside her. "Amazing. I'm coming back tomorrow."
The redhead's eyes narrowed at that, her tongue swiping over her bottom lip. "Is that so? And here I thought this was meant to be a girls trip?" she teased, nudging your foot with hers.
"Weren't you the one who said I needed to relax?" you shot back, briefly flashing the business card before tucking it back into your pocket with a playful smile. "Not my fault the relaxation method doesn't fit your definition of a girls trip."
After Chirps: Okay, maybe I did have more to say??? I hope you liked this one! But I'd be remiss if I didn't link the masterlist post for the collab, and let y'all know that along with all of the other scrumpdillyumptious fics coming, my veterinarian Bucky fic comes out in less than a week! As proud as I am of this one, that one is my baby and I can't wait to share it ❤️
Everything Taglist: @overwintering-soldier @stanmarvelous @wint3rbarnes @barnes-babydoll @defn0tonyourleft @herejustforbuckybarnes @stesha02 @sheriff-bodecker @wherewinterblooms @miraclediviner @tw1sters @bucksbby @daddysbitchybaby @metal-armed-muse @avgdestitute @imtoooldforthis82 @daydreamgoddess14 @hailmary-yramliah @nachtigall127 @heavenchana @ornateglass @steelandvibranium @stkmaprang @yourmomoclockit @misswhiddless @mariamorales1998 @mistressmkay @ladymiseryy @my-drvidess @alli0-0 @buckyscaptain
Bucky Only: @thegirlwhowaited5everok @phantom-wolf-girl @optimisticchildtyrant @sassandscribbles @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @procrastination20 @mathcat345 @highhopes1008 @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @scarletkanami
Stan Characters Only: @iamthatonefangirl @cassity357 @erina00 @buckytakethewheel
If you'd like to be added to the taglist comment here ᝰ.ᐟ
The dialogue in this was INCREDIBLE. Like I would 100% spontaneously combust if he said any one of these lines to me.
Also:
Your mind momentarily stuttered as you tried to get your mouth to form words that weren't 'you can bend me over a desk'.
RELATABLE 🤭😂
Him guiding reader through that breathing exercise was seriously lose-your-mind levels of hot. I'm in awe. I'm... I have no words actually lol
READER ASKING IF SHE'D HAVE TO PAY EXTRA FOR THAT - omg I'm dead 🤣 I loved that moment; it was exactly the right amount of lighthearted humor after *ahem* everything else 👀
And the ending was super cute! Hope the rest of reader's vacation was just as "relaxing" as this l
Thank you for sharing this fic with us! 💕
ben catches you humping your soldier boy pillow….. !
mdni. 18+
the apartment was quiet, ben had just gotten back from a late training session with the team, his muscles still humming with residual adrenaline. he’d expected to find you reading or scrolling through your phone, maybe already asleep. what he found instead made him freeze in the doorway.
the dim lamplight painted your body in warm shadows. you were sprawled across the bed face-down, your hips grinding into the pillow beneath you—his pillow. the one with his face printed on it, a promotional stunt vought had pushed out last year that he'd thought was ridiculous but you'd kept anyway.
your fingers were gripping the edges of the pillowcase, knuckles white as you rolled your hips in slow deliberate circles. a soft breathy moan escaped your lips, muffled against the fabric.
he didn't move. didn’t speak. just leaned his shoulder against the doorframe and watched.
your shorts were bunched around your thighs, the damp fabric of your pink underwear clearly visible as you pressed yourself against the pillow again and again. your legs were spread just enough to give him a perfect view of the way your ass clenched with each thrust.
"mmmf…. ben.. “ you whispered into the pillow, your voice strained. "god, yes..."
his cock twitched behind his jeans. he reached down palming himself through the denim, not bothering to be quiet about it.
the sound of his zipper made you freeze.
every muscle in your body locked up as you turned your head eyes wide, face flushed. your lips were parted with a string of saliva connecting your mouth to the pillowcase.
"dont stop caus’ me, honey.”
his voice was rough, a command that left no room for argument. he pulled his cock out already half-hard and wrapped his hand around the shaft. the sight of him towering in the doorway stroking himself while staring at you like prey—sent a jolt of electricity through your core.
"b-ben… i-“
"i said don't stop." he stepped into the room, his boots heavy on the hardwood floor. "you were into it a second ago. dont get shy on me now."
he sat down in the armchair by the window, the leather creaking under his weight. his hand moved along his length slow and deliberate as his eyes locked onto yours.
"go on.” he growled. "show me what you were doin’.”
your body moved before your brain could catch up driven by a mix of embarrassment and arousal. you lowered yourself back onto the pillow, the material still warm and damp from before. the pressure against your clit sent a shudder through your thighs.
"yeaaah... just like that." his voice was a low rumble barely audible over the sound of your own ragged breathing. "grind that pretty cunt against my face."
every movement pressed your clit against the printed fabric, the friction making your hole clench around nothing.
his hand moved in time with you, the wet sounds of his palm sliding along his shaft filled the room mixing with your soft moans and the faint creak of the bedsprings.
a low approving growl rumbled from his chest. "that's it.. baby. keep goin’ dont you dare cum until I tell you to."
the command made your thighs tremble. you pressed your face into the pillow, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne that still lingered on the fabric and continued your rhythm imaging bens cock snug in your guts. the pressure was building coiling tight in your belly but you held back, waiting for his permission.
ben stood up, his boots clicking against the floor as he crossed the room. the bed dipped under his weight as he knelt behind you close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his body.
"look at you..” he clicked his tongue. "humpin’ a pillow like a bitch in heat. and it's my face you're rubbing that wet pussy against."
his hand came down on your ass cheek, a sharp stinging slap that made you cry out. the pain bloomed into pleasure and you thrust harder against the pillow.
you could see his hard cock in your peripheral vision—the slick glistening length of him, the way his muscles bunched with each stroke. the sight was enough to push you closer to the edge.
"mmf- can i cum daddy? please! feels so good on my pussy…”
"fuckin’ drench that pillow.” he laughed.
the command shattered you. your orgasm ripped through your body, a tidal wave of heat and pleasure that made your vision go white. you whimpered his name- a broken desperate sound as your hips bucked wildly against the pillow, riding out the waves of ecstasy. slick sputtered from your heat, dripping down your thighs and leaving a stain on the cotton.
behind you ben groaned. his hand moved faster until you felt it—hot thick ropes of cum splattering across your lower back and the curve of your ass. he cursed a string of filthy words as he painted your skin with his release.
he leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing your ear with that million dollar smirk.
"next time..” he murmured, his voice rough and satisfied, "you use the real thing."
Eeeeeep! This was so good 😍 We love a mean Ben who also gives out praise like it's his day job lol
the hand plants, the heart reaps
Pairing: Landscaper!Bucky Barnes x Home Owner!Female Reader Summary: You never planned to return to the quiet countryside, let alone inherit your late grandmother’s weathered cottage and overgrown garden. Stressed and city-worn, you hire local landscaper Bucky Barnes to tame the chaos in order to honor her memory. But what begins as a simple restoration blooms into shared stories of loss, second chances and a path to starting over. Word count: 15.5k Tags/warnings: hurt/comfort; grief & mourning; death of a family member (grandmother); mentions of reader being burnt out; cottage core; strangers to lovers; unrequited feelings (briefly, if you squint, not really but kinda); slow burn; she falls first/he falls harder; lemonade as a love language (I’m serious); smut; oral sex (f receiving); p in v; unprotected sex; comeplay; fingering; happy ending Notes: welcome to April, the month of the most incredible, funny, groundbreaking, earthshattering collab you've seen in recent times! In all seriousness, I could not be more excited to start off Bucky's Dreamhouse Collab at @stantastic-association with my baby landscaper!Bucky 😊 this fic kicked my ass (i haven't written over 10k words in?? how long??) but i am so happy to finally be able to share it with you 💕finally, a big thank you to @miraclediviner who was our guiding light for this collab!
Blue light from your laptop bleeds into the darkness of your apartment, reflecting off the plastic lid of a container of cold Thai food that has been sitting there since… well, you aren’t actually sure. It’s 1 AM on a Tuesday—actually, Wednesday— and the city outside your windows lives in the middle of sirens and subway vibrations that rattle the bones of the building. For the past three hours, you have been staring at a spreadsheet until the cells began blurring into gray bars, eyes aching with a fatigue that not even sleep could touch.
You’re not tired today, you’re not tired of your job. Rather, you are worn out. Like the never-ending noises from the city have settled inside you, too, but instead of getting used to them, every single cell in you has started rejecting them like foreign objects. That description has been in your brain for weeks, now; close to a medical diagnosis you haven’t quite admitted to yet, denial before acceptance.
Your phone buzzes in the middle of another spiraling of staring at a screen that is not going to change unless you press meaningless keys. Whatever moment you were going through, though, didn’t quite prepare you for what follows.
Seeing your mother’s name on the small screen at this hour doesn’t bring a sense of alarm. It instead brings a hollow tightness to your chest, the kind of heavy stillness that usually precedes a car crash. And when you pick up the phone, come the news, even though they don’t quite feel like that when they sound through the tiny speaker. It’s a physical weight, a heavy stone dropped into a pool, sending ripples that touch every single branch of your current life.
Your grandmother is gone.
The woman who used to smell like peppermint and potting soil, whose voice was the only thing that had ever truly made the world feel quiet. You had spent countless summers with her, back in the countryside, hands in the dirt as she taught you the right way to plant a rose, how to prune a tree so it could grow stronger. Suddenly, the spreadsheet still bright on your computer has shifted from a boring task to a full-on insult. How could the numbers and columns still be there, rigid and demanding, when the person who taught you how to breathe through a heatwave on a July afternoon is simply… gone?
Are you supposed to simply go back to your life as you think of her kitchen, of the way the sunlight always seemed to pool on the linoleum in a buttery square where her cat would always sleep? Or as you are swarmed with the memory of her hands, mapped with veins like the very rivers she lived near, strong enough to haul buckets of compost and yet still gentle enough to braid your hair?
Still on the phone, your mother tells you she has left behind the weathered cottage and the garden to your name. In your mind’s eye, you could already see it surrendering to the weeds way before her heart stopped beating. No one ever cared for it the way she did, even though it had been in your family for generations. Your grandmother had been sick for a while, now, and you’re sure no one else had taken the time to care for the one thing she always did. It was yours, now.
You spend the rest of that Wednesday night in a state of suspended animation. There’s no crying, at least not yet, but you move through your apartment like a ghost, packing a back with a mechanical efficiency you’re sure would scare your mother, folding clothes you haven’t worn in years. The decision to leave doesn’t come from a sense of duty, of being present for your mother or the clinical logistics of a funeral that always feel too heavy for people mourning. It is simply survival instinct, one that hits you so sharp and sudden it almost knocks the breath out of you. Looking around your cramped apartment, filled with ergonomic furniture you don’t really like and unfinished documents, you realized tonight you were running on empty. There was no more fuel to give the city. Your grandmother’s passing was the only trigger you needed to leave it behind. You needed to go back to the only place that still holds the scent of something real, even if that reality is currently buried under layers of grief.
And by dawn, your suitcase is thrown into the trunk of your car and you are leaving the city behind.
The drive is a blur of highway static and caffeine-induced insomnia until the asphalt finally gives way to the gray ribbons of the backroads. The further you get from the skyline, from the tall buildings that framed your every day for years now, the more the silence starts to ring in your ears, echoing the emptiness in your chest. Silence used to be nice. Whenever you visited your grandmother, left the busy days behind for maybe a week or two, the silence was comforting. A heated blanket, a balm that helped you heal.
But now, as you finally pull into the gravel drive of the cottage, silence is no longer the peaceful sanctuary you had promised yourself. It’s heavy. The house looks smaller than you remember, tired, as if without her spirit to hold it up, the walls are finally starting to give in to gravity.
When you stop your car and step out, you don’t go inside immediately. Instead, you walk around the side of the house, drawn to the back where the heart of her life used to beat.
And just like the silence you had craved, the peace you had always felt here crumbles, too, the moment you lay your eyes on the yard. The garden isn’t overgrown; you think you prefer calling it a green monster. It’s aggressive, a sprawling graveyard of things your grandmother used to love. Waist-high weeds have completely swallowed the lavender path, and the wild blackberry thorns have woven themselves into an impenetrable wall. The trellis, where her prized roses used to climb in disciplined rows, is now buckling under the weight of strangling vines that look like they’re trying to pull the cottage back into the earth. An old fountain is overrun.
Standing on the bottom step of the back porch, the scale of the neglect is paralyzing. Leaves you to wonder how long had been since your grandmother had been physically able to care for her own things. How long she had kept away from the flowers and plants that had always breathed happiness into her. Just like your own mind, her space, now yours, is tangled and messy, far too gone for one person to ever hope to fix. You look at your own hands, too soft and lacking callouses, and realize you don’t even know where to start. How are you supposed to honor her memory? When you don’t know the difference between tools, the right time to plant the seeds? Guilt hits you, then, with the kind of edge that drags a cold sweat down your spine. In her absence, the wild had claimed her legacy while you were busy in the city filling spreadsheets that mattered to no one. You want to make this house a home once more. But how does one do that with an empty heart?
The first two days are spent in a state of mourning that feels exactly like static, gray and thick. You stay inside, unable to look out the windows at the chaos, and move through the cottage like a diver underwater, every motion resisted by the weight of silence.
Tea goes cold before you remember to sip it. You stare at the floral wallpaper in the hallway until the patterns begin to resemble the columns and rows of your old work, except this wallpaper doesn’t scream at you in approaching deadlines. Here, time has no teeth. It doesn’t bite, just swallows.
For the last two nights, you’ve slept in the guest bed. Your old room feels too much like a museum of a person you outgrew and no longer recognize, and her room feels like hallowed ground you are nowhere near holy enough to tread upon.
By next morning, you find yourself in the kitchen, the buttery square of sunlight hitting the linoleum exactly as you remember it, except there isn’t a cat any longer. Hands begin to aimlessly open drawers, finding yourself needing a distraction, or trying to look for something, anything. Matches for a candle. A reason to stay despite finding this place so different from the one you’d once called your second home once. And you find it, tucked between a ball of twine and a stack of expired coupons, right in the middle of the junk drawer: grandma’s old address book with a faded floral cover that still smells faintly of the rose-scented hand cream she used every night. The edges of the pages are frayed, paper slightly yellowed. A small business card falls to the floor halfway through flicking through the pages.
Barnes Landscaping & Restoration
Something in your heart flips. Not because you recognize the name, but because you immediately see her familiar handwriting in it. Another piece of her left behind that now you get to keep.
“Good lad. Strong hands and he listens to the earth.”
A sharp lump forms in your throat. This small note, mindless, written by your grandmother at a time she needed to keep a reminder, is the first thing that managed to pierce the numbness since the phone call announcing her passing. You can almost hear her voice saying it, the appreciative tone she used for people who worked with their backs and not just their mouths. And even though the grief cannot be fixed by a landscaper, you know now that there’s a flicker of hope of fixing everything else around here. You aren’t a gardener, just a person used to staring at gray bars on a screen. But an extra pair of professional hands surely will be perfect to help you face the thorns outside the house.
After you pick up the phone on the wall and dial the number, there’s two rings and then the line clicks open.
“Barnes,” the voice on the other side says. You freeze for half a second, like now you’re unsure what you’re even supposed to ask for.
“Hi,” you start, voice cracking slightly from days of disuse. You realize you haven’t said a single word since you’ve come here days ago. “I’m… I’m calling about the property on the old creek road. It’s my grandmother’s, Caroline… was. Sorry. She’s passed and I’ve just inherited the place and—” You look out the window at the waist-high weeds and strangling vines. “I think the garden has gone to war and I don’t have a way of winning that fight.”
There is a long pause on the other end. You hear the faint sound of a truck engine idling.
“Caroline was a very sweet woman. I’m sorry for your loss,” the man says, voice softening a fraction. “She spoke about you a lot. Said you were lost in the city.”
That stings a little. Mostly because it’s true.
“I’m not in the city anymore. This is my home now,” you whisper.
Another silence.
“If you’d like, I can come over this afternoon. Take a look at the garden, you can tell me what you’d like to do with it. First consultation is free for Caroline’s granddaughter.”
The afternoon sun is thick and syrupy, casting long shadows across the linoleum, when the silence of the old creak road is finally broken. You stay tucked behind the lace curtains of the kitchen window, watching heavy tires roll over unkempt gravel. A beat-up, dark blue truck pulls into view, a workhorse of a vehicle, mottled with patches of primer and the red clay of the country. The engine cuts out, and when the door creaks open, he steps out.
Barnes.
He doesn’t look like any type of contractor you’ve ever hired in the city. There’s no clipboard, no neon safety vest. He stands by the door of his truck for a long beat, hands sliding into the pockets of his dirt-stained denim, eyes surveying the “green monster” you were apparently too terrified of. From your vantage point, you see how his yellow plaid shirt, faded from too many washes and too much sun, first buttons open to reveal a white top underneath, stretches taut across a pair of shoulders that look like they were built for the sole purpose of carrying the heaviest of weights. But that’s not where your eyes linger.
Instead, they stay glued to his left arm. You don’t mean to stare. Not really. But the silver metal shines when the sunlight hits it and holds your gaze even if you try to look away. Spread across fingers, forearm, bicep, until it disappears under the short sleeve of his shirt. While watching him, you find no attempt on his side to hide that arm.
Barnes lets out a heavy sigh. Not a sigh of annoyance, or at least you don’t recognize it as such. He looks at the tangle of weeds and the buckling trellis not as nuisance, but as an old friend who has lost their way. There’s no rush to get the job done, no immediate knock on the door to get your attention. He is simply there, rounding the front of his truck as he looks around for details that surely escape you. Barnes looks like he belongs to the dirt, like the mud on his boots is a permanent part of his skin. He adjusts the brim of his cap, a movement that causes the fabric of his shirt to pull against the muscles of his back. There’s a quiet power in him, a “man of muscle” persona that’s just utilitarian, like he is a tool designed for this specific job. You can’t imagine him anywhere but here, amidst the messy chaos of your late grandma’s garden.
He touches a dry stalk, eyes some dead plants. The words from the address book return: he listens to the earth.
The door creaks behind you as you finally step out onto the porch, sneakers sinking slightly into the uneven boards, which have been worn down by years of sun and wind. You wrap your arms around yourself, though the day isn’t cold, just more of a habit that you’ve developed to shield yourself from the vastness of the yard that feels like it’s swallowing the cottage whole.
Barnes turns at the sound of you, and you then notice how he’s taller up close, broad through the shoulders in a way that makes the yellow plaid look borrowed from a smaller man. You don’t look at his metal arm again, and he doesn’t try to hide it or tuck it behind his body. It’s right there, part of him, gleaming faintly.
“Ma’am,” he says, removing his cap as a gesture all too long lost by men who called themselves gentlemen. The action reveals a sweep of dark hair damp at the temples from the heat, and without obstruction, you find it easier to see his eyes now, blue, color of ocean water. There’s no attempt to offer a handshake, and he doesn’t say anything more.
You offer your name back like it’s a gesture of gratitude. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Mister Barnes.”
“No need for the formalities. Haven’t been a Mister of much,” he corrects quietly. “I’m James. Most folks call me Bucky.”
His gaze drifts back to the yard, lingering on the strangled trellis. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Been a while since I was out here. Last time… must’ve been early summer. Told me the roses were coming in strong, wanted me to come trim the climbers before they got away from her. But I used to be here all the time. Helped her with some drainage plannin’, built the trellis for her.”
There’s a pause, and you see him narrow his eyes at a patch of what might once have been… well, anything, now lost under a sea of bindweed. “Should’ve checked when she went quiet. Figured she was just busy with her cannin’ or had some family visitin’. Didn’t feel right to push.”
You recognize the weight in the words. Guilt. A stranger who wasn’t a stranger to your grandmother, feeling the heaviness of not having visited her more often. It’s particular, how grief has a way of finding everyone who loved the same person and handing each of them their own particular version of it.
“She was good people. Always had coffee waitin’, strong enough to wake the dead. Talked about her grandaughter, well, you, a lot. Always said you were the prettiest girl in the big city. ‘suppose she wasn’t wrong.”
That lands too close to the bone while the numbness in your chest holds firm, a gray fog that keeps any sharper feelings at bay. Another time, in the city, you would have found Mister Barnes, James, Bucky, an incredibly handsome man. Maybe you would have said something warmer to him. You’re impressed, distantly, by the solid build, the quiet competence that radiates without needing to announce itself. But the grief sits too heavy, a stone lodged between your ribs. Flirting feels like a language from another life, one spoken under different air. Here, it doesn’t occur to you.
Bucky seems to interpret the silence on your end as discomfort. He clears his throat and gestures toward the almost collapsing trellis. “She loved those roses. So we’ll build them back up. Cut back what’s chokin’ ‘em, give the roots some air. They’re tougher than they look.”
We.
You don’t know what to do with that word. It does something to the wall of numbness you’ve been operating behind, finds a hairline crack and sits there. Something about the way he says it, not a sales pitch, not an empty promise to bill you later. This isn’t just a job for him. It’s a mission, a way to set right something that had slipped away while he wasn’t watching.
You nod, the motion feeling distant. “I don’t even know where to start. It’s a lot. And I’m not her, I barely know anything about this.”
He nods, once. Accepts that.
“It's a big job," Bucky says, back to practical. “Months, probably, before it looks like anythin’.” He glances at you sideways. "Depends what you want to do with the place."
You look at the cottage behind you, at the lace curtains still visible through the kitchen window.
“I want it to feel like her again,” you say. “Doesn’t need to be perfect. I just want it to feel like it has a reason to still be standing.”
Barnes is quiet for a moment. Then he says: “That's a good enough reason to start.”
The sound of a trunk horn wakes you up before the alarm goes off.
Your body registers it first of all, pulling you up from the unreliable sleep you’ve been managing since you arrived, and for one disoriented second, suspended in the gray space between dreaming and waking, your mind can barely place it itself. Then the floral wallpaper swims into focus, then the smell of old wood.
The clock on the nightstand reads 7:12. Outside, the truck engine cuts, a door swings open and closed, and then silence again. You lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening in to the silence.
Bucky didn’t say he’d come this early. He didn’t say much at all, in full honesty. But you can already recognize the sounds of someone beginning to work in the garden that is now yours.
There is something deeply strange about it, a man like him moving through the wreckage of your grief at 7 in the morning while you are still horizontal and unwashed, yet the strangeness has an undertone to it that you can’t quite name. Maybe the particular relief of knowing that a problem is being faced even when you are not yet capable of facing it yourself.
By the time you manage to get up and get downstairs, you have pulled your hair back and traded yesterday’s clothes for something cleaner, which feels like the upper limit of what you can reasonably ask of yourself before 8 AM. The kitchen is exactly as you left it when you enter it to fill the kettle and set it on the burner before standing at the window.
Bucky is already deep into it.
He has positioned himself in front of the trellis, the worst of it, the structure that had looked to you like a lost cause from the moment you first saw it. Strangling vines have grown over it in layers, and he is working from the top down with a pair of long-handled shears, cutting in sections, pulling the severed lengths away and piling them to the side. The patience with which he does it makes it look like a delicate surgery.
You watch him work the way you watched him last time from this same window, with the glass serving the necessary distance for someone who is not yet ready to be in the middle of things. He reaches up to cut a particularly stubborn length of vine and the motion pulls his shirt taut across his back. You notice, again, the funny implausibility of his size relative to the delicacy of what he is doing. Hands, one flesh, one metal, moving through the overgrowth with the precision of someone looking for something they don’t want to damage in the finding.
The kettle whistles.
You make two cups of coffee on autopilot, as if the memory has already been embedded into you.
The back door opens just as you finish pouring the two cups, and Bucky walks over, registers you, then the cups, but he remains impassive.
“Mornin’. Didn’t expect you up this early,” he says. Doesn’t apologize for arriving at 7 AM, you notice. He’s just a man who assumed starting before the heat peaked was a given.
“I heard the horn.” With careful steps, you walk towards him and offer him a mug. “Grandma always had coffee waiting. Would feel wrong not to do the same.”
He takes the mug you extend with his right hand, wrapping his fingers around it, and you notice then the state of them. The knuckles. The deep lines of the palm, the hardened skin at the base of each finger, the kind of callouses that take years to build, sustained by the repeated act of choosing hard work.
“Thank you,” is all he gives you. Without being told, you realize that this isn’t the kind of man who fills silences out of politeness. That you can stand here and drink your coffee and not be expected to perform conversation, and that this is, somehow, the most considerate thing he could offer you right now. So you do just that. Stand there. Drink your coffee.
Eventually, Bucky finishes his coffee and then he’s back out the door, and back to work. You follow him this time, trailing behind him as you look at vines he’s begun working with. Up close, the damage is more visible than it was from the window. The vines have threaded themselves through every joint, every crossbar, working their way into the structure the way roots look for water by branching out and filling every small gap. But the trellis itself, the bone of it all, is still standing. Barely, but there, in a very unexpected way.
“You built this, right?” And even though it’s a question it sounds more like a statement because you remember what he told you already.
“Few years back,” he crouches to free a length of vine from the base, pulling steadily, working it loose rather than snapping it. “Your grandma wanted something that could hold the climbers through winter. Most prefab wouldn’t cut it.” Bucky glances up at the structure appraisingly, and you recognize the look of someone looking at something they’ve made a long time ago and are no longer sure what to think of it now. “Needs a few joints repaired, but the frame’s sound.”
Through the morning, he works and you watch, still keeping to the edge of things, mug gradually emptying before you fill it back. In the meantime, Bucky has uncovered a significant section of the trellis frame, and it is in this newly exposed stretch that he stops, crouches low, and puts the shears down.
What he’s looking at is a rose cane; or rather, what remains of one. It is gray-brown and leafless and looks, to an untrained eye like yours, like everything else in this garden, something that has long given up. But Bucky is looking at it with a particular kind of focus, one that makes you wonder if he’s reading something written in a language you definitely don’t speak, his metal fingers hovering just above the bark without quite touching.
“Is it…” Dead? That word cannot even slip past your lips.
“Dormant,” he corrects hastily. “There’s a difference.”
Then, his fingers pinch a small section of the outer bark away from the cane and he shows you the inside, which is very unmistakably green.
Alive.
“Oh.”
He stands back up, retrieves his shears and keeps working. You stay where you are a little longer, looking at the exposed cane with it secret green interior.
“She had a catalogue. Like mail-order flowers or somethin’. Used to argue about it,” Bucky says after a while, from slightly above and to your left, his attention still on the vine he’s cutting. He doesn’t feel like he’s making conversation, more like he’s just thinking out loud. “There was this one climber she’d ordered, I forget the name, she was convinced it would come back every year without any help. I told her it wouldn’t survive the first frost without protection. Stubborn thing, planted it anyway, said she’d take her chances.”
“Did it survive?”
Scanning the remaining vines with a slow eye, Bucky points to the largest dormant canes, one that is thicker than the others at the base.
“Third year runnin’.”
He doesn’t say it smiling. But the corner of his mouth does something, a small upward shift, before he ducks his chin slightly like he is trying not to make a thing of it; then goes back to cutting.
You stand there for another moment, before going back inside to refill the kettle, because the alternative is to stand there, in the middle of his work, like you belong there, and you’re not quite ready to believe that yet.
Making him tea is an accident, the first time.
You hadn’t planned it. You are in the kitchen, making a cup for yourself, the way you have been every afternoon since you arrived, and your hand simply reaches for a second mug. Muscle memory, maybe, or the particular guilt of drinking something warm while a man is pulling thorns out of the ground thirty feet away. You bring it out without overthinking it, set it on the porch railing and go back inside before he has to acknowledge it.
Bucky leaves the mug empty on the railing when he leaves.
The second time is less accidental.
A lavender path runs along the south side of the garden and is entirely invisible under a season’s worth of bindweed and creeping grass. Bucky has moved on to it after working on the trellis for a while, and he approaches it with the same care he approached the roses.
You have been watching from the porch for most of the morning, cup of tea gone cold in your hands, when he stops and looks back over his shoulders at you.
“You could help with this part,” he says, a statement of fact he’s choosing to share. You look down at your hands, then back at him.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“I know. Doesn’t matter for this, you’re just pulling.”
So you go in.
He hands you a pair of gloves without comment, the thick gardening kind, slightly too large, and you understand when you pull the first weed that this is why; the bindweed has thorns worked into it, a little too vicious, finding skin without any warning. You work at the edge of the path while he takes the denser middle section, and for a long stretch of time the only sounds are the pull and tear of vegetation.
The quiet between you has changed since the first day. It has lost the quality of two strangers being careful around each other, and it’s something simpler now. Still as quiet, but more comfortable now, like you’ve both established, without many words, that you trust each other enough to be silent together. You find that you can think in it, without the static that has followed you since the news broke.
“Is this one?” You hold up a stem you’re not sure about, something with small dark leaves that doesn’t quiet look like the rest of the weeds, but you also haven’t seen before.
Bucky glances over from where he’s kneeling. “Clover. Leave it.”
“…Why?”
“Pollinators like it. And it’s not hurtin’ anythin’.”
You put it back down carefully, tamping the soil around the base the way you’ve watched him do it, pressing with two fingers. There’s no comment from him on the imitation but you have the sense, even without looking his way, that he notices it. That’s the thing about Bucky, you’ve come to realize; he notices most things without making you feel watched.
Noticing without watching is a quality you have been trying put words to since the first day, when he looked at the rose cane the way most people look at something they love that has been damaged. There is a particular kind of attention he gives to things that is completely different from the attention you grew up being taught to pay. In the city, attention was a performance. In meetings, you looked at whoever was speaking to show them you were present, notes taken to demonstrate engagement. But here, Bucky’s attention is a different thing entirely. It is simply where his interest is. No performance, no proof. He looks at a plant and you believe that looking is the entire point of what he is doing.
And for the first time since his arrival, you find yourself wondering what it would feel like to have that quality of attention turned on you fully. Not the sideways glances you’ve caught, but the whole thing. If he’d find the flaws in your build, or if he’d look for the green under the bark.
Then you pull another weed, because this is not the time.
You are both working toward the center of the path from opposite ends when your hands converge on the same section, and you find the first live lavender stem. Bucky sees it first, a small cluster of gray-green stems, flattened under the weight of everything that has grown over them, but intact. He stops your hand and points.
“There.”
You lean closer, seeing the almost unrecognizable lavender, pressed flat and pale from the lack of light, but the leaves are still soft when you touch them, still releasing a faint dry fragrance that hits you all too softly. Then you hear him make a sound, like something has just occurred to him.
You glance over.
He is still looking at the ground, at the lavender next to you, an expression on his face like he’s actively deciding whether or not to let out whatever thought has come to mind.
Then, without looking up, without any preamble whatsoever:
"Why can't the flower ride his bike?"
You blink twice. Bucky’s jaw is set, expression aggressively neutral, like he has not just said what he said.
“… What?”
“… It’s just somethin’ that came to mind. An old joke I told your grandmother once.”
A pause hangs, your face doesn’t move except for your slightly furrowed brows.
“Okay. Why can’t the flower ride his bike?”
“Lost his petals.”
Bucky says it completely straight, the same tone he uses to tell you about drainage ingredients and soil composition and which weeds are worth keeping.
The laugh comes from somewhere so far down that it immediately surprises you on the way out. Not a small involuntary thing, but a bigger, louder laugh, one that takes over your whole chest and makes your eyes water before you’ve caught up to it. There’s no dignity to the sound that comes out of you, that escapes before grief has any chance to intervene. You press the back of your wrist to your mouth and it makes no difference at all.
Meanwhile, Bucky’s looking at you like he’s fighting very hard not smile, and losing that battle.
“That is the worst joke I have ever heard,” you manage, when you can speak again.
“Yeah. But you laughed. Was about time.”
The smile is still on your face when it happens.
It arrives quietly, the way the worst things do. One moment you are laughing, the sound of it still warm in your chest, and then something catches, a foot finding a loose board in the dark, and the warmth quickly dissipates.
Because the laughter had felt good. Physically good, the first thing in weeks that has cut cleanly through the haze, and the goodness of it is exactly what undoes you. The thought arrives fully formed and merciless: she will never hear you laugh again. Will never know you were here, in her garden, laughing at a terrible joke told by a man she liked very much.
The tears come before you can stop them.
You turn away from him immediately, a reflex, one hand coming up to cover your face. Tears that had been waiting, pressurized, behind the numbness for days, weeks, and are finally seeping through a moment of weakness. You try to breathe through it and can’t quite manage, and now you’re crying without much composure, without careful management you’ve been applying over your grief like a bandage of the wrong size.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be—”
“You don’t have to be.”
You don’t answer. You keep your hand over your face because looking at anything feels impossible right now.
“It’s not right,” you get out, eventually. “That I can laugh when she’s— I shouldn’t be laughing yet, it’s too soon, it means I’ve already started—”
“No.”
Bucky settles into stillness beside you, not touching, just present.
“Doesn’t work like that. Laughin’ doesn’t mean you’re done grievin’, or that you’re lettin’ go of anythin’. Just means you’re still here.”
You try to breathe.
“She would have wanted you to laugh. Grief will sometimes be loud, and then quiet, and then loud again. That’s okay.”
The tears are still coming but something in your chest has eased, just slightly. Finally, you lower your hand, and the garden comes back into focus. Bucky is giving you the courtesy of not watching you reassemble yourself, staring at something else which is, you think, exactly what your grandmother meant when she wrote that he listens to the earth. You’re part of it, too.
You wipe your face with the sleeve of your shirt and exhale slowly.
“I’ve been holding that in for a while,” you say.
“I can tell.” Another pause. “You know your grandma had no patience for held-in things. Would’ve had you cryin’ into a cup of coffee on the first mornin’.” The corner of his mouth gives up the fight entirely, shows a real smile, there and then gone just as quickly. “You want to keep goin' or call it for today?”
“Let's keep going,” you say.
He nods, once. Puts his gloves back on and you do the same.
From then on, every afternoon, somewhere around the point when the sun peaks and the garden becomes briefly inhospitable, Bucky takes a break he doesn’t announce and appears at the edge of the porch. You have started timing the kettle to it, which you admit only to yourself and no one else. You sit on the steps, he leans against the railing, and the conversation comes in the same way everything does with him: unhurried, arriving when it arrives.
He tells you things about himself. Careful, not because he doesn’t want to share them, but because you can tell he’s not sure whether you want to hear them. (You do, you come to find out.) Then tells you things about the garden and about your grandmother in the same tone, as if they are the same subject. That she once spent an entire afternoon arguing with him about the correct way to stake a climbing rose, and he let her win, and she knew he let her win and never brought it up again.
“She said something about you,” you tell him eventually. “In the address book, next to your number. I don’t know if you’d want to know.”
Bucky just looks at you.
‘Good lad. Strong hands and he listens to the earth,' you tell him. Exactly as she wrote it.
He looks away, out at the garden. Pulls the brim of his cap down a fraction, which you have figured is exactly what he does when something lands somewhere tender. There’s a long enough silence that you start to worry you’ve misstepped.
But then, quiet: “That’s good to know.”
That’s all.
The worrying starts a month in, and it announces itself in the most ordinary way.
You are inside the house when you hear it, a single sharp sound from somewhere in the garden, metal against stone, followed by a silence that has a different quality than the usual working silence.
When you move to the back door, what you find is Bucky standing very still beside the railing with his left hand pressed flat against his right forearm, metal protecting the flesh.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.” He says it so quickly and flatly that it’s very obviously a lie.
“Bucky.”
He looks at you then, a brief evaluating look, and something about whatever he finds in your expression makes him relent. He lifts his metal hand to show you: a long shallow scratch along the inside of his forearm, from a piece of broken border edging he had been repositioning. Doesn’t look deep from where you’re standing, but the way he’d been holding it suggested it had stung considerably more than nothing.
“I have a first aid kit inside,” you say."
“It’s fine.”
“I didn’t ask,” You say it the same way he says most things. A fact, not an argument. “Come inside.”
He does, and sits at the kitchen table carefully, as a man who has learned to take up the right amount of space and no more, while you find the first aid kit in the cupboard where your grandmother always kept it, between the spare candles and the batteries.
The scratch is genuinely minor. You clean it without ceremony and he watches the process with patience, and you are aware, more than you have been at any point working alongside him in the garden, of how close you are. The kitchen is small. His flesh arm is resting on the table and you are sitting in front of him, and the afternoon light is coming through the window at an angle that does something very specific to the planes of his face. It highlights the blue in his eyes, too.
You focus on the first aid kit instead.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says, but there’s no mention that he wants you to stop. Maybe he just feels required to offer you the exit.
“She’d have done it,” you say simply.
His eyes move to the window. “You’re not her.”
A small thing. It doesn’t need to be more than it is. But he finishes it in a way that makes it harder to simplify it: “I like that about you.”
You press a small strip of gauze into place with your thumb, smoothing the tape at the edges. There is no logical reason to take this long finishing a minor scratch. You both seem to know that, but neither of you moves away.
Your eyes travel, briefly and without meaning to, to where his metal arm rests next to his body. The afternoon light catches the articulated joints, the way it sits completely still the way flesh and bone rarely does. Your eyes drift away before it becomes a thing, but he sees it.
“You can look,” Bucky says. Not an invitation exactly. He’s just handing you a door you didn’t know you were standing in front of. “Most people do. Just usually they try harder to pretend they don’t.”
“I wasn’t—” you start, and then stop, because you were, a little. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’ve been one of the only people in a long while who just… let it be there. First day I came out, you looked and moved on. Treated it like it was part of a person instead of the whole story of one.”
You don’t know what to do with that, so you stay quiet and let him have the floor.
“Most people either stare and can’t stop, or they work so hard at not lookin’ that it becomes its own kind of starin’. Both make a man feel like a curiosity. You just… handed me coffee.”
“Seemed like the right thing to do.”
The corner of his mouth moves. “People don’t always do the right thing.”
Another silence, but it’s more comfortable now. There’s no need to fill it, you’ve both learned how to live inside it, but you continue anyway. A breach in his persona that you intend to explore, if he’ll let you.
“How long have you had it?” you ask, and you say it to his arm, because starting there feels like less an inconvenience than meeting his eyes.
“Fifteen years, give or take.”
The number lands heavier than you expect. Fifteen years is long enough to become the shape of a person. Long enough that you cannot picture the version of him that preceded it, and you suspect, that maybe he can’t always either.
“Work accident,” he adds, not because you asked. Just because the words are sitting there and he’s decided to pick them up. “Land clearin’ job, upstate. Big contract, the kind you don’t turn down when you’re twenty-five and tryin’ to build somethin’ from nothin’. There was an equipment failure. It was fast. Everythin’ else after was slow, though.”
You don’t say sorry, because something tells you he has a particular and well-earned exhaustion with that phrase. Instead, you ask: “What was the hardest part? After.”
He considers it for a bit.
“Knowin’ what my hands were supposed to do and not being able to trust them to do it anymore.” Bucky glances down at his right hand, the lines in the palm, the built callouses. “I’ve worked since I was seventeen. This kind of work, specifically. It’s the one thing I knew how to be. For a while I genuinely didn’t know who I was without it. Or if there was a version of me that existed separate from it.”
“But there was,” you finish for him.
“Took some convincin’. And a lot of broken things. Broke more fence posts learnin’ to calibrate the grip on that side than I care to admit. Had to relearn the pressure for everythin’. Soil density, stone, root systems. The sensitivity is different, temperature reads different. But some things are easier now. The metal doesn’t tire, doesn’t cramp in the cold.” He makes a face then, without self-pity, but still a bit funny. “Other… things are still being figured out, ‘til this day.”
“Fifteen years in and still figuring it out?”
“Most things worth doin’ take longer than that.”
You sit with that for a moment.
“I used to think that people would always see it first and everythin’ else second. That it would just be the thing that preceded me into every room,” he says, arriving at something he doesn’t often take out into the world. “But I have found that some people make it easy to forget it ever felt like a problem.”
Although he doesn’t look directly at you when he says it, his eyes now on his metal arm, you know he means you, even through the subtext.
You smooth the edge of the bandage one more time, a gesture with no remaining practical purpose, and then you fold your hands in your lap.
“For what it’s worth… from where I’m standing, it’s a good arm.”
He blinks. It's the closest to caught off guard you've ever seen him.
“Beg your pardon?”
“The arm. It’s good. Found the green inside the rose cane, pulled the lavender out without breaking it. It’s done something good. Just thought someone should say it.”
“… Thank you.”
And he means every syllable.
When he leaves that afternoon and you stand at the kitchen window watching the truck back out over the gravel, you notice something funny that takes you a moment to identify, unfamiliar after weeks of weight.
You are already thinking about tomorrow.
Not with dread. Not with the gray, flat, nothing that has colored every day since you arrived. It’s hopeful. You want tomorrow to come because that means you’ll see him again.
It’s a Thursday morning when Bucky announces he’ll start working on the fountain at the center of the garden. You’d looked at it weeks ago, and it was left on standby to be dealt with eventually. That eventually is today, which is how you both end up here, on your knees in the dirt, staring at the vines that have overtaken it.
“Pull toward you,” Bucky says (for the third time) because you keep pulling sideaways and the vine system underneath is apparently connected in a way that means you’re undoing his work every time you do. “The root runs that direction. You’re fighting it.”
You scoff. “I know I’m fighting it, I’m trying to remove it.”
“You remove it by not fighting it.”
“… Very zen for someone covered in mud,” you shoot back, even though technically he’s not covered in mud. But there’s a streak of it along his jaw where he’d wiped his face with the back of his wrist without thinking, and his shirt has long given up on any pretense of cleanliness. He looks at you, patience of a woman who has decided not to rise to it, and then reaches across and repositions your hands on the vine, both of his hands, flesh and metal, bracketing yours briefly.
“There, now pull.”
You pull, and the vine comes away from the stone in one satisfying length, roots and all.
“Oh.”
The fountain is old. Limestone, you think, or something like it, pale gray and carved simply, a wide basin sitting on a short column. Someone, maybe your grandmother, maybe your grandmother with Bucky’s help, had planted climbing things around its base and they had done exactly what climbing things do when left without guidance: they engulfed it entirely.
Clearing it takes the better part of the morning.
The heat is real today, thick, settling into the back of your neck and staying. You’ve both abandoned the idea of breaks, working through the mess in sections, passing the shears back and forth without needing to ask. You’re working closer together than you have been before; when he reaches past you to get a root system threading the far side of the basin, his metal arm crosses your line of sight close enough that you could close your hand around it if you moved a few inches to the left.
“Hand me the trowel?”
Find it, pass it over, and he takes it with his right hand, the left braced flat against the side of the basin to keep his balance while he works at the base and you watch the metal fingers spread against the stone for a moment before you make yourself look at something else.
And by noon, the fountain is mostly exposed.
You both sit back on your heels and look at it. The limestone is dark with old moisture in places, and there’s green algae mapped across the north face where the water must have pooled and sat. The pipe inlet at the base of the column is corroded but present.
“Think it still works?” you ask.
“Possibly. I imagine the line was shut off some time ago. If it hasn’t cracked in the cold and the pump is still… Where’s the external water shutoff?”
Which is how you end up in the small utility space beside the back door, the two of you shoulder to shoulder in a space that was clearly not designed for more than one person, while Bucky shines his phone torch at the copper pipework running along the wall and explains what you’re looking at and what he intends to do with it.
You are not listening to him as carefully as you usually do.
This is new, and you’re aware of it as a thing that is new. In the early weeks, Bucky’s presence had been a comfort primarily because it was a constant and because it was directed outward, at the garden, at the definable and fixable concrete. You could absorb the company without it requiring anything of you. Somewhere in the middle weeks, it became something you looked forward to specifically, the two cups of coffee and the particular silence that had grown familiar.
But this, right now, is something else again.
It’s the awareness of him as him, in a utility cupboard, explaining the gate valve, and something in you has oriented toward the way he moves and talks to you. Helplessly and without drama, just the natural consequence of conditions.
There is a difference between dormant and dead.
You’d thought it applied only to your garden.
“—so if you turn this one first, counterclockwise, and then the secondary valve gives, you’ll know the line is intact—”
“Bucky.”
“—and if it doesn’t, then we’re lookin’ at—”
“Bucky.”
He stops, looks at you, which in this space means looking at you closely.
“Sorry,” you say. “I missed the last part. Which one first?”
A brief pause, and then: “This one.” He takes your hand, your right and his right, and guides your fingers to the valve. “Counterclockwise. Slow.”
There’s a shudder in the pipework when you turn it, a gargle and the sound of water moving through old joints, and then: nothing catastrophic.
“Secondary,” Bucky continues, and you feel him behind your shoulder, leaning in to watch.
You turn the second valve, and the pipe hisses.
“Give it a minute.”
You give it a minute.
When you both walk back out to the garden, the fountain is running.
The water comes up through the basin inlet in a steady, narrow column, spills over itself and begins to fill the basin slowly, moving over the algae and the old stone. The sound of it is small and even and has been absent from this garden for long enough that it sounds almost strange to your ears.
Both of you dirty, both of you tired, you stand beside each other watching it, heat still pressing down from above.
“It works,” you say.
“It works,” he agrees.
Neither of you says anything else for a while.
You think about your grandmother's hands on this stone, over decades, the same hands that braided your hair and hauled compost and pressed the seeds into the earth. You think about Bucky standing at the edge of her overgrown garden on the first day.
Still here. That’s what he’d said when you’d been crying on the lavender path. Laughing doesn't mean you're done grieving. It means you're still here.
You are still here.
And you, here, don’t make a decision, exactly. Or if you do, it isn’t the kind you feel yourself making. It’s more like you just stop holding something.
Whatever small distance remains between you and Bucky as you watch the fountain is quickly closed when you shift toward him and kiss him.
It’s all too brief. Soft. His cheek is warm from the sun when you touch it, and he smells like turned earth, but nothing really compares to how his lips taste against yours. To how he kisses you back, for a full second, and you swear you can feel his body leaning in, and maybe you’ve got the power of sight because even with closed eyes, you can feel his metal hand hovering and reaching for your waist.
Except he doesn’t. He goes completely still and then steps back.
Bucky’s not unkind in the way he does it, but he does it nonetheless. One step that reestablishes a distance. Very briefly, he looks like a man who has just pressed his hand to a bruise he’d forgotten about.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it, which somehow makes it worse.
There’s warmth in your face when you look at him now, but not from the heat. “No, I’m sorry, that was…”
Was… what?
“This isn’t a good idea.”
This is the part where you say something, a distant corner of your mind observes. But the embarrassment has arrived, sudden, and you’re caught between it and the question of what he had done in that one still second before he moved away. Because it had not been nothing. You are certain, with the certainty of someone who has spent the last weeks learning how to read a careful person, that the way he kissed you back, even for a split moment, had not been nothing.
“Okay.”
It’s the only word small enough not to make it worse.
Days later, you make lemonade for the first time. You don’t examine the decision too closely. It’s hot, genuinely hot, the first real heat of the season pressing down on the cottage and the garden like a hand, and lemonade makes sense in a way that has nothing to do with anything else. You bought lemons a few days ago after finding a recipe with your grandmother’s handwriting tucked inside a cookbook. You follow it exactly, including the ungodly amounts of sugar mentioned at the end.
When you carry the pitcher and two glasses out to the porch, Bucky is working at the far end of the garden on the vegetable patch and he sees you from a distance. Straightens up. Looks at you. Walks across the garden toward the porch.
There’s something different about watching him move toward you versus watching him work, something you register without deciding to. He takes the glass you pour and drinks most of it standing up, deeply thirsty, then looks at you with mild surprise.
“Tastes exactly like your grandmother’s.”
“Found the recipe in the cookbook.”
You pour him another glass when he hands you his empty one, a silent request for more. Then he sits on the porch steps instead of leaning on the railing, which he hasn't done before, and you sit beside him at a reasonable distance.
This isn’t so different from the first day you stood side by side looking at the green monster. Of course, the garden is changed now, less of a green monster and more of a slight green inconvenience, nowhere near finished, but visibly different. The trellis is cleared and the roses are staked and the lavender path is at least recognizable. There is structure reappearing where before there was only chaos. Clear evidence of work. Evidence that things can be found again if one is willing to look.
You sit on the porch steps and drink too-sweet lemonade that tastes like every summer you spent here, and beside you Bucky is quiet in the way he is always quiet, which is to say completely and without apology, and it makes you think about the lavender pressing itself flat in the dark for years and still releasing fragrance when someone touched it.
There is a difference between dormant and dead.
You’re on the porch when a storm announces itself with the first roll of thunder somewhere past the treeline. Crouched by the vegetable patch, Bucky hears it too, and you see him pause his work and tilt his head back slightly, reading the lines of the sky.
The first drops are fat and isolated, hitting the porch boards, and then between one breath and the next, the sky opens entirely.
Bucky runs toward the porch steps in a few strides, and you both stand under the narrow overhang and watch the garden disappear into gray curtains of rain. The tin roof above you turns the downpour into something enormous, a sound that swallows everything else, and the smell of wet earth hits almost overwhelmingly.
“That came fast,” you almost yell over the rain.
“Saw it coming from the ridge about an hour ago. Didn’t think it’d move this quick.”
Wind picks up and drives the rain sideways under the overhang in a fine spray that finds your arms and your face, and Bucky shifts in front of you, blocking some of it.
“Come inside, there’s no point standing out here.”
The kitchen is dim with the storm light, and the sound of water on the roof fills the cottage from wall to wall. With careful hands, you put the kettle on, because that’s what you do, and Bucky leans against the doorframe that separates the kitchen from the hallway, carrying some self-containment of a man in someone else’s house, even after months.
You’ve noticed that he does this, chooses doorframes and porch railings and the edge of things, rather than the middle. Somehow, that makes you impatient today.
“You can sit down. You’ve been here every day for months.”
“I know.”
“You’re not going to wear out the chair.”
In an act that almost feels like rebellion, he doesn’t move, and you turn back to the kettle. Rain is relentless against the roof, and the kitchen feels smaller than it usually does, storm drawing in the walls somehow.
After the water has boiled, you set his mug on the table and sit, before Bucky crosses to the table, pulls out a chair and sits with the kind of particular quietness he always does since the other week’s incident. He’s always too careful around you, now, since that kiss. Like you’re an explosive device he’s terrified of setting off.
He drinks his tea. You sit down across from him and drink your own.
This should be comfortable. They used to be, your silences, for long enough that you’d stopped noticing them as silences. But this one has something in it, something that has been building in the open field of your garden. Things changed that day at the fountain; nothing broke, not fully, but something bent, and now both of you have been carefully working around it, pretending it doesn’t change the entire geometry of your relationship.
“Roses are gonna need checkin’ after this,” he says eventually, trying to loosen up the air just a fraction. Another time, you would have appreciated the gesture, but right now it makes something unsettling burn in your throat. “Heavy rain on new stakes can—”
“Can we not?”
A pause. Bucky looks genuinely confused.
“Not what?”
“Talk about the garden. For like ten minutes. Can we just sit here and not make it about the garden?”
A brief recalibration moves across his face. “All right.”
“Look, I need to say something,” you start, and you hadn’t planned to start saying anything at all, but the storm and weeks of careful distance have apparently reached some sort of threshold. “About the fact that you come here every morning and we work together, and talk about my grandmother, and your arm, and roses, and yet… you still sit across the table from me like you’re deciding whether you’re allowed to be in the room or not.”
His jaw does the small ticking thing while he chooses his next words very carefully.
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“I’m trying to be…” He stops, then starts again. “There’s a line.”
“What line?”
Bucky exhales, slow. “You hired me to do a job. You were grieving’, no, you are grievin’. There’s a power in that, in me bein’ here every day while you’re in the middle of somethin’ that hard, and I have no interest in bein’ the kind of man who takes advantage of a situation because he—”
“Bucky, I kissed you.”
There it is, words laid on the table along with any dignity you might have left. Bucky looks at you with an expression you haven’t seen before, stripped of its usual careful management. Whatever he’s feeling, however, he’s trying hard to not let it show.
“I know.”
“And you stepped back.”
“I know that too.”
“I’m not asking for an explanation.” (You are, a little.) “I just… you said it wasn’t a good idea, but every day you come and you drink my tea and talk to me and notice everything while not saying anything and I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know what to do with you, with the fact that you didn’t want that.”
Rain is at its peak now, the downpour making the world outside the window entirely abstract and the kitchen feels like the only room left on earth.
Bucky has both hands around his mug, flesh and metal, and he’s looking at them rather than at you.
“Look… it’s not that I didn’t want to. That wasn’t the problem.”
“Then I don’t think I understand what the problem is.”
His expression does something complicated that you don’t find the vocabulary for. It isn’t closed, by any means, and that’s the thing that stays with you afterward, turning it over in the sleepless stretch of the night. It isn’t the face of a man who doesn’t feel anything. It’s the face of a man who feels something but has decided, for reasons you don’t have access to yet, that the feeling isn’t safe to act on.
The storm moves on eventually, and Bucky goes back outside as soon as the rain eases, checking the rose stakes just as he said he would.
Nothing, technically, changes in the following days. Nothing you can give a name to, anyway.
Bucky still comes at seven. The truck sounds the same on the gravel, the door swings open and closed with its own strange creak. Coffee gets made sometimes, other times tea (never again the lemonade). Work gets done.
But something shifts anyway.
He talks less. There’s no way to read it as a punishment, because it isn’t one, or as sulking. It’s not that. Afternoons on the porch steps, which had become part of the day you oriented toward without admitting it, still happen, but they’re shorter, and the conversation stays closer to a surface level. You talk about the garden and what needs to be done next week.
There’s nothing else that stretches into deeper roots, like the time he told you about how he lost his arm. Never again does he ask anything personal about you. Never mentions your grandmother again. Whatever personal territory he had slowly opened over weeks closed again as a quiet act of privacy.
It hits harder than you had expected it to.
Because he is scrupulous about the distance, about leaving every day at the same time, leaving no room for hope of a longer evening. There’s no more pause at the truck door before getting in, a small delay that wasn’t forgetfulness. He just leaves, now, and you stand on your porch watching him go.
And then comes an ordinary day when something breaks open.
It’s a regular Friday. You have been inside most of the morning, working through the last of your grandmother’s paperwork at the kitchen table, the administrative aftermath of a life that keeps arriving in envelopes even months after the fact.
You bring Bucky coffee after lunch, and when you come around the side of the cottage you find him crouched at the base of the climbing rose, admiring something fascinating: it’s blooming.
Pale red buds cracked open at the tips, three or four of them along the highest cane, reaching toward the afternoon light. You stand there with the mug in your hands, looking at the roses while something rises in your chest. This is the beginning of something. A second chance.
Bucky rises to his height next to you and you hand him his coffee without looking away from the roses. The quiet distance that has been maintained for weeks is gone, dissolved in the warmth of this moment, because there is no architecture of caution that holds up against the first bloom of something you’ve rebuilt together.
When you finally turn to look at him, he’s already looking at you.
And that’s really all it takes, comically. That is the entire mechanism of it, managed silence and dormancy coming apart at the seams with one look too full of things he has been keeping behind professionalism and boundaries.
This time, Bucky’s the one who closes the distance between the two of you.
His mouth finds yours without hurry, without the frantic quality of something held back too long. He moves with intention, giving you every opportunity to see it coming, and his hand comes up to your face, warm, rough-palmed, cupping your jaw too quickly like he has thought about this a hundred times already.
You stop thinking, because what else is there to think but the touch of his lips on yours?
The paperwork on the kitchen table and the Wednesday night phone call that tore your life apart all recede to somewhere very far away, and what remains is only this. The smell of earth and roses, the solid pressure of him under your fingertips when your hands steady themselves on his chest.
He kisses you the same way he tends to things, with attention that isn’t performance, letting the kiss exist completely in itself without rushing toward anything else. Flesh thumb moves once along your cheekbone, tongue presses against the entrance of your mouth and allows itself in because you let him, and his metal arm snakes around your waist and brings you closer because you let him.
Your fingers curl into the worn fabric of his shirt while time does something strange. Loses its forward momentum and simply rests, hanging, until you decide to make it move again.
There’s nothing to say to improve the silence when he pulls back only a few inches, forehead dropping to yours. Morning birds are suddenly very loud, and the fountain is running, and the roses are blooming right there, and his breath is slow and warm against your mouth, and…
Tasting the way your mind runs ahead of your thumping heart, Bucky squeezes your hip gently, bringing you back to him. You're thinking about your grandmother's handwriting on the back of the business card.
He listens to the earth.
He knows how to listen to you, too.
“I tried,” he says, very quietly. Rough at the edges, like he’s been struggling to keep the words down. “I want you to know that. I tried real hard.”
“I know,” you say against his mouth. Deep in your gut, you know what he means. Tried to stay away.
“Kept tellin’ myself that it wasn’t right. That you were grievin’, that you’d come here to heal somethin’ and I was just the man hired to fix your garden, it wasn’t my place to—”
“Bucky,” you interrupt, fingers tightening around his shirt and leaning that much closer again that you’re almost kissing when you speak. “Come inside with me.”
Hesitation is gone when he follows you inside, through the back door and into the dim warmth of the cottage. Walking together through the hallway, Bucky closes the distance and doesn’t let go of you the whole time, while heavy steps sound on the floor and you walk him with a very specific location in mind.
He kisses you differently when you get there. Outside, by the roses, it was a start. Now, walking past the door of your bedroom, his right hand finds your face again, with the same instinct, but he exhales against your mouth and kisses you harder. Desperate, a man who pushes his lips against yours like he has never wanted to kiss anyone else in his entire life. Kisses your mouth and the soft place at the corner of it, and the line of your jaw when he pulls back, then your temple, then back to your lips again because stopping seems impossible.
Your hands find his shoulders, the dark hair at his nape, and every point of contact registers with a vividness that makes the last months feel like an absurdity. Like you had both kept yourselves from drinking water on the premise that you weren’t sure you deserved to be thirsty.
Bucky sits on the edge of the bed and draws you toward him, keeping you standing between his legs as he stares up at you. His right hand moves with certainty when he reaches for one of your wrists and brings it to your lips, kissing the skin. Blue eyes watch his own fingers move across your skin before they close, feeling you warm and real and present, and he keeps having to relearn this fact from the beginning every few seconds, because a part of him has not yet fully accepted that you are here and that you are letting him do this.
His left arm, however, stays where it is.
At his side, against the bed. And of course you notice it, so you reach for his left hand anyway while you move to sit on his lap, straddling him. Half of him freezes; his right hand moves over your collarbone, dips under your shirt to trace your shoulders. His left side, in the meantime, feels like it’s been dipped in a bucket of ice-cold water.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.” You turn the metal hand over in both of yours, the articulated joints and cool weight of it, and you kiss it slowly, dragging your lips over every ridge, mapping every inch of the metal. Under your touch, Bucky almost crumbles, breathing unsteady, and you swear you almost feel him shaking.
“…Fifteen years. I haven’t… I never trusted it enough. The calibration for—” He’s looking for the word, but can’t seem to locate it in any comfortable dictionary while your lips trace his hand like it’s sacred. “This. I don’t know what I’m doin’ with this hand when it comes to this.”
“You found the green inside the rose cane,” you remind him again, just like the last time you talked about his arm. “Pulled the lavender out without breaking it.” Both your hands bring his metal palm flat against your face, warm skin against cool metal, and you watch his blue eyes build up a storm. You hold very still so he can feel that you are not afraid, that there’s nothing in you rejecting any of him. “You already know how.”
Metal fingers move then, slowly, tracing the hinge of your jaw, and he watches them, or watches you, reading the feedback, adjusting. You barely move at all, except for a shiver that runs through your spine when the metal touches the back of your neck, but the fingers quickly curling in his hair to pull him closer are enough indication that this shiver has nothing to do with fear. Fifteen years, and some things still aren’t figured out. You feel more than inclined to help him.
Both his arms move to wrap around you and he pulls you close, pressing his mouth to your hair before he lays you down.
His right hand moves through your hair, across your ribs through your shirt, learning you with the patience he gives everything, and his metal hand follows (more carefully, but follows nonetheless). The cool metal traces the same path a heartbeat later, fingertips gliding like he’s afraid the warmth of your skin might burn him if he presses too hard.
It’s strange to be on your back on the bed that used to be yours as a child (you were never brave enough to take over your grandmother’s bedroom, but you did manage to move out of the guest bedroom), the quilt soft and familiar beneath you, while Bucky is above you. But the strangeness doesn’t make you falter, not even when his flesh hand slips under the hem of your shirt and spreads, palm flat against the bare skin of your stomach.
He finds the bottom of your shirt and lifts it, inch by inch, and when the fabric clears your head, he sets it aside carefully before returning both hands to you. Flesh and metal cradling your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts as if the shape of you is a miracle he never expected to hold.
His voice says things while he worships you, words that he has been carrying too long in his chest. That he had felt it early, earlier than made sense, that he’d genuinely tried to stay away, that he believed he was doing the right thing because you were in the middle of grieving.
“I kept thinkin’ that if I just kept my head down long enough it’d go away. That I could go home and sleep it off like a cold,” he says, his mouth at your temple. Then leans down and presses his mouth to the center of your chest, right over your heart.
He kisses lower, open-mouthed, while his hands keep moving, always touching. The right hand slips beneath the waistband of your pants, easing the fabric down with a care that makes your breath catch. The metal hand helps, fingertips hooking the other side, sliding the material away as though he’s afraid even the brush of denim might mark you. When you’re bare beneath him, he sits back on his heels for a moment, just looking. Both hands rest on your thighs and he strokes upward in perfect unison, reverent drags of fingers that leave trails of heat and coolness in their wake.
“You’re so beautiful. I never let myself believe I’d get to touch you like this.”
Open mouth follows the path his hands have already started, kissing the curve of your breast, the soft plane of your stomach, the dip of your hip, while his fingers never stop. They trace over the hollow of your throat, then come down over your sternum, finding your breasts and pushing the fabric of your bra aside. His flesh hand cups one breast with impossible gentleness, thumb brushing over the peak until you arch into him, sighing his name. It hardens under his touch and he looks at you smiling, like he’s proud of his achievement, or maybe just in awe that his rough hands still have enough soft touch in them to make you feel good.
Either way, you barely notice when he settles between your legs, still not rushing there either. He kisses the inside of your thigh first, both hands moving to cradle your hips and spreading you open, then higher, until his nose is tickling the space between your thigh and your panties, where a wet patch has formed. Metal fingers curl around the soft fabric and push it down your legs in a gentle motion, and then without warning, without fireworks, his mouth finds you, warm and delicate.
“Bucky…” You sing his name in a soft melody, legs closing around his head instinctively, but his metal hand curls around your thigh and pushes it open again, not forcefully, but with enough firmness to keep you in place. His tongue speaks a new language into the wetness of your cunt, licking every whisper of your wetness, a stripe, then smaller hits, then focusing on your clit until you are almost begging for mercy.
You thread your fingers into his dark hair and pull, and mercy is not an option when he groans against you, the sound vibrating through your bones. Tug, pull, push, legs shaking around his head as he throws both your legs over his shoulders and goes to town as if staying alive depended on it.
‘Bucky’, you call again, needier this time, a dying whine on your lips, and he closes his eyes as if savoring the sound, but never relenting.
Even when your hips start to buck and your fingers tighten almost painfully in his hair, Bucky stays right where he is, a devoted lover, too focused on your pleasure. The flat of his tongue drags up the center of you in a long stripe, then circles your clit with patient pressure until something starts to burn behind your eyelids: not stars, maybe an all-out supernova.
“Bucky, oh my god,” your voice cracks in the middle and he answers by sliding his metal fingers into one of your hands, pulling it from his hair and instead lacing your fingers together against the mattress. In eating you out he never takes more than you can give, as if he knows exactly what the limit of your pleasure is, but he toes it with every lick until he seals his lips around your clit and sucks, soft, warm, until you can almost swear your slick is now a mix of your wetness and his own drool.
You come hard, sudden and overwhelming, like you haven’t in a while, in maybe too long, with his name on your mouth sounding more like a pathetic plea. It’s been a minute since your voice sounded like this for anyone. It’s been a minute since you’ve allowed yourself to feel anything at all. Bucky doesn’t pull away until you’re trembling and soft and breathless, and even then he only replaces the warmth of your cunt with other skin for his mouth to touch as he kisses up your body with slick-covered lips.
“Still with me?” he whispers against your stomach, kissing the sweat away.
You nod, heart thundering in your chest. “That was… you’re… God. Bucky.”
A chuckle slips past his lips, which is just as surprising to you as anything else happening today, because when have you ever heard this man this carefree in all the months you’ve spent together?
“I’m not God. But it’s good to know I still got what it takes to please my woman.”
That makes you pause, only a little, and you move the one hand still in his hair to press over his heart.
“Is that what I am now? Your woman?”
Bucky looks up from your stomach, eyes finding yours in the dim afternoon light, blue and steady.
“If you want to. I’ll take whatever you want to give me.” His right hand moves to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “A friendship. A warm bed. Somethin’ in between. I’m not a man who needs a lot, but I’m not gonna pretend I don’t have a preference.”
“And what’s your preference?”
“You,” he says, too simply. “All of you. In my arm, next time I go to town to get some supplies. So I can take you to see a movie, or out for dinner, or both if you want. In my bed, so I can pull from you every night the same faces you just did.”
That makes you chuckle, and you realize you are still more out of breath than you thought.
“I like your preference,” you whisper to him. “I think it's mine, too.”
Bucky Barnes, a man on the edge of his own composure, finally pushes himself up and reaches for the buttons of his shirt, but his fingers are clumsy, the tremor of want making a simple task all too difficult. Through the haze of your recent pleasure, you reach up, covering his hands with yours.
“Let me.”
You undo them one by one, and as the fabric falls away, the breadth of him is almost overwhelming. Years of hard work have carved muscle into his frame, but there are scars, too, old ones, pale and faded, mapping stories across his skin. There’s a line where the flesh meets metal on his left shoulder, almost screaming at you, but you don’t react, don’t even flinch. Instead, your fingers trace the edge of it gently, the same way you touch any other part of him, and you lean up to kiss the scarred skin. Bucky is attempting to kick his boots off when you do, and you feel him stagger right there, as if it’s too unexpected, too soon despite it being on his body for fifteen years now.
You wait for the anger, for him to ask you to stop. Instead he exhales slowly, sheds his pants and boxers and lies down over you, mattress dipping under your combined weight. His body against yours is a revelation; strong and thick, radiating heat that rivals the summer sun.
You open your arms and he comes to you, settling between your legs with a care that very few men have ever shown you. Between your bodies, you feel the hard length of him, pressing not all subtly between your folds, not yet pushing in, but resting there. Blue eyes meet yours again, his brows furrowed in what seems to be a man deeply lost in thought. One of your hands reaches up, strokes the spread of his cheek.
“You are incredible. So beautiful,” he whispers against your temple, closing his eyes as he inhales the scent of your hair.
“You’ve said,” you reply, letting humor make the moment feel less heavy. Bucky grips your thighs a little harder.
“Don’t mock an old man laying his heart out to you,” he says back, the same amount of lighthearted fun in his tone, but you know he means it, deep down.
Before you have a chance to reply, he leans forward and kisses you deeply as he lines himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your entrance. He doesn’t push in right away, instead just rocks gently while your mouths work together, sliding through your slick folds and coating himself. You moan against him and he swallows it in a breath, and that’s when he finally presses forward, inch by careful inch. Soft praises are whispered against your lips when he pulls back, and he moves slowly, giving you time to adjust, but your body still struggles to keep up, given how sensitive you still are.
Bucky moves with soulful patience, metal hand buried in the pillow next to your head and flesh hand gripping your hip, and every thrust feels like a question that is answered with the way you wrap your legs tighter around his waist every time, feet digging into the small of his back.
“You’re okay?” he gasps, searching your eyes for any trace of discomfort. Is the metal too cold, is he too heavy?
“I’m okay,” you breathe. “I’m okay, Bucky, keep going.”
The thrusts start slow, metal arm braced beside you, fresh hand cradling the back of your head with his fingers threaded through your hair. He angles his hips just right, grinding against that stop deep inside you that sets sparks lighting up behind your eyes. You meet him thrust for thrust, hands roaming where they can reach, nails digging into the hard muscles of his back, his shoulders, holding on to his biceps and he kisses your neck, your collarbone, mouth open and wet.
The pace stays unhurried, passionate in its restraint. Every slide of his cock drags deliciously, building heat low in your belly, and soon enough you can feel another orgasm begin to coil, slower this time. But Bucky’s control is fraying, obvious in the way his breaths turn ragged, in the slight stutter of his hips. It’s been too long for him, and you’re too warm, too wet, too many years of self-imposed winter, and the sound of your voice calling out his name is a catalyst he can’t fight.
His teeth graze your shoulder, eyes blown wide.
“I can’t… fuck—” he chokes out. “I’m gonna—”
He realizes he’s at a point of no return before he’s ready to be. With a frustrated groan, he braces himself with his metal hand and pulls out, the friction of the exit making you cry out in protest. Hot stripes of cum spill across your stomach in thick pulses, painting your skin as he weakly strokes himself through it with a shaky hand. His eyes are squeezed shut, mouth open on a silent gasp.
When the last spasm of his body fades he slumps forward, landing on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you.
“I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry, that was… I swear I can last longer, just… has been a while…,” he rasps, breath still coming in harsh pants. “I didn’t even—I wanted to ask you where… where you wanted it and I—”
“Inside,” you say, breathless but slightly deadpan.
“… What?” His voice is tentative, as if he’s sure he’s misheard you through the gaze of his own orgasm.
“If you had asked, I would have told you to come inside me.”
Bucky exhales, though there’s barely oxygen left in his lungs after you’ve punched it out of him with those words.
“Do you wanna fuckin’ kill me?” he breathes against your mouth, and it would sound like half a laugh if he wasn’t almost breaking apart.
That’s when you feel him moving again, right hand slipping between your bodies and tracing feather-light patterns over the sticky mess on your stomach before gathering it on his fingers. Two thick fingers are now shiny with it, and he brings them down between your legs without hesitation, rubbing them over your swollen clit in one slow circle. Immediately, your hips jerk, a sharp gasp punching out of you.
Bucky doesn’t tease, just pushes those two fingers inside you in one smooth stroke, feeding his own release back into your cunt. The wet sound it makes is obscene in the quiet room, mixing your arousal with his release, his fingers stretching you open around them as they curl and search for that same spot his cock had hit not too long ago.
“Bucky,” you whimper, thighs trembling around his wrist.
His eyes are locked on where his fingers disappear inside you, dragging his cum deeper with every thrust of his fingers. “Promise I’ll fill you up proper next time. Just take my fingers for now.”
A third finger is added to the others, stretching you fuller, and his thumb finds your clit again, circling in time with the curl of his fingers. Pressure builds fast, too fast, burning hot in your belly. Every time your slick drools from inside you, he coats his fingers in it and fucks it right back inside you, making it messier.
It hits you not long after like a storm crashing over your garden, all too overwhelming and sudden, pulling you under. Your cunt clamps down around his fingers and you come with a loud cry and Bucky doesn’t stop. Just keeps fucking you through every spasm, drawing it out while he murmurs soft praise against your neck until you’re oversensitive and still clenching around him like your body refuses to let him go.
You don’t know this yet, but tonight you’ll fall asleep in his arms, and it’ll only be the first of many nights.
A year later
You and Bucky have finished the garden. Well, sure, Bucky has told you enough times that gardens are never truly done because living things require continued attention and presence, the willingness to show up before the heat peaks and stay past the point of easy. But it at least looks like itself again, the place it was always trying to be underneath all the strangling vines.
On a Tuesday afternoon, you are standing in front of the fountain with your second cup of tea of the day when Bucky comes around to meet you, cap on backward, shirt damp from the exertion of honest work.
“Finished your tea without me,” he says by way of greeting.
"I made you a cup. It's on the porch."
Bucky doesn’t move toward it. Instead, his hands slide firmly around your waist and with a sudden huff of effort, he hoists you clean off the ground. He doesn’t just lift you, he sweeps you into a wide twirl and the garden blurs into a smear of lavender purple and rose red.
“Bucky!” you gasp, laughing as your feet dangle and your head is thrown back with the afternoon sun dancing through the trees. Eventually he sets you down again, then steals you a breathtaking kiss.
“Had to get you out of your mind. You had that look.”
You raise an eyebrow, still feeling a bit dizzy. “What look?”
"The one where you're thinkin' something and decidin' whether to say it."
You huff in fake disapproval before you start making your way back to your porch, Bucky following right behind.
“I don't have a look,” you say just as you sit on the first few steps, watching the garden ahead of you.
“You have about twelve looks.” He comes to sit beside you, close enough that his shoulder presses against yours. “I’ve memorized all of them. That’s number four.”
“Bucky, you did not catalogue my looks.”
“You got the happy look, mad look, thinkin’ about your grandmother look, somethin’s on your mind look—”
“You’re making those up.”
“—stubborn look, which looks exactly the same as your grandmother’s stubborn look, for the record—”
“Absolutely not—”
“—lemonade look, which you think I don’t notice but you always make lemonade when you wanna ask me somethin’ you think I’ll say no to, I’ve verified this over twelve months of data—”
You laugh, an undignified full-chest sound, something that still surprises you because you can’t quite believe, all this time later, that it comes this easily when you’re around him. How little it costs you to just be happy when he’s with you.
“Anyway, number four. What’s on your mind.”
A Wednesday night in a city apartment, spreadsheets blurring into gray bars. A phone call that broke the world open. A business card in a phonebook. Two cups of coffee made without intention. Dormant, dead, the green inside the rose cane. A man who showed up and didn’t stop showing up. How life will look like five years from now. Ten. Eighteen.
“I’ve been thinking,” you start.
“You’ve been thinkin’ since about six this morning, based on when you stopped bein’ asleep next to me and started starin’ at the ceiling.” His right hand finds yours on the step between you and covers it. “Take your time.”
“The garden looks good,” you say.
A pause. He knows you well enough to let you take the long way round.
“It does,” he agrees.
"It feels like her."
He is quiet for a moment, that particular quality of quiet that you know now is not absence but presence, the whole of his attention given without requiring you to perform for it. Then he offers you an out; he continues for you.
“Everything’s growin’ fast,” he says, eyes scanning the spread of the garden before settling back on your face. “We’re gonna need a bigger fence. Probably more hands to help by next season.”
That makes you smile, and you lean in until your head is resting against his shoulder. “Yeah, I know. But we’ve already taken care of the extra set of hands. They’re just… attached to a body currently about the size of a lemon.”
His gaze softens impossibly at that. His metal hand reaches out, rests flat and protective against your stomach, a motion he has repeated every day since the news was confirmed by a doctor appointment.
“A lemon? Did you see that on your app?”
“Yep,” you say, chuckling. “Was thinking about the nursery this morning. When we should start building it.”
The two of you stay like that on the porch steps while the afternoon moves around you and the garden your grandmother had loved and left you lives on with you.
Slowly, things have gone back to normal, roses blooming, lavender coloring the path.
Things that are worth having will sometimes take longer to come. But they arrive, anyway, so long as you tend them and give them water and time to grow.
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So first of all, I just have to say that I love the pink and green color scheme of this post - it's so cute! 🩷💚
And second of all...
You stare at the floral wallpaper in the hallway until the patterns begin to resemble the columns and rows of your old work, except this wallpaper doesn’t scream at you in approaching deadlines. Here, time has no teeth. It doesn’t bite, just swallows.
WHAT IS THIS ABSOLUTE POETRY?! Like seriously, god DAMN. The vibes are so on point it's crazyyyy. I'm hooked.
Also, is being captivated by the squares of sunlight that are somehow always there on your grandma's kitchen linoleum a universal experience? Because I have those exact same memories lmao
Grandma lowkey setting us up with Bucky from beyond the grave is so adorable and also let's goooooo 🙌🙌
But ALSO also, the way you portray grief is so beautiful. Especially the scene where they're joking around a bit and then reader suddenly starts to feel guilty and sad and think about how her grandmother will never hear her laugh again or know that she's experiencing this moment. That tugged at my heartstrings so bad. Because it's just so... accurate. And the way you handle that pain in your writing is really impressive!
Actually this whole fic has a beautiful subtlety to it; all the little moments of using body language instead of dialogue and the things left unsaid in the narration that add so much. The idea of two people missing someone in their own individual ways but also in the same way. It's all so well written that I feel spoiled getting to read it 😋
"I’m not a man who needs a lot, but I’m not gonna pretend I don’t have a preference.” “And what’s your preference?” “You,” he says, too simply.
Pardon me for quoting half of this whole entire fic, but aaaaah! I squealed 🩷
“Do you wanna fuckin’ kill me?”
SIR YOU ARE TRYING TO KILL ME!! That whole scene, oh my god!! I am obsessed with this man being flustered and embarrassed but also a menace~
But that ending though!!! My heart is melting in all the best ways. They are so cute together 😭😭💕 And I'm such an enormous sucker for a baby-makes-three ending; you can't go wrong with the classics. As I was reading, I was like "it's probably too much to hope for that though - this is already way too cute" and then it HAPPENED and I was like eeeeeeee!!!
Anyway, sorry for screaming in your reblogs, but thank you for writing this wonderful fic, and I hope you're having an awesome day 🩷
HR Can't Save You
pairing | pervy!boss!bucky x employee!reader
word count | 13k words
summary | your pervy boss, mr. barnes tried to drug you at the office party — now he’s yours to use, and he likes it more than he should.
tags | (18+) MDNI, EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, boss x employee, dark smut, dubious revenge, face sitting, oral sex (f!receiving), grinding, unprotected sex, degrading praise, power play (reversed), smut with plot, mutual obsession, internalized depravity Non-consensual drugging (attempted), DUBIOUS CONSENT/NON-CONSENSUAL SEX, sexual coercion themes, degradation, filming without consent, revenge sex, morally ambiguous/depraved reader, lowkey dead dove: do not eat, #women in male dominated fields
a/n | look. i just wanted to write some filthy office smut and accidentally created a morally bankrupt two-person power spiral. i do not condone drugging, manipulation, or workplace harassment—unless you're bucky barnes, in which case... carry on.
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
divider by @uzmacchiato
The elevator dinged open with that same mechanical chirp you’d come to hate. Stark-white lights. Too much glass. That sterile scent of money, perfume, and office-grade desperation.
You stepped out, heels clicking across marble tile—sharp, intentional. A rhythm. One you controlled.
“Morning, sweetheart,” came the voice.
You didn’t need to look. You knew the tone too well—warm for everyone else, syrupy for you, sticky enough to rot your teeth.
He was already leaning against the doorway to his office, coffee in hand, smile curved just a little too wide.
“Late night?” Bucky asked, head tilted. Blue dress shirt rolled to his forearms, watch gleaming like he knew where your eyes would go. “You look like you could use a long… slow… morning.”
You kept walking.
“Morning, Mr. Barnes,” you muttered, flat as concrete.
That got a grin out of him. “So formal. C’mon, you’re killin’ me, princess.”
You didn’t slow down. But you felt it—the way his eyes dragged along your body, like he was undressing you just enough to make it believable if anyone else looked.
The open office buzzed behind you. Phones ringing, typing, someone laughing too loudly at something not funny. The interns giggled near the copy machine. A group gathered around the espresso machine, sipping foam like it was champagne.
They all loved him.
Charming. Fair. Cool boss who never micromanaged. Remembered birthdays, handed out bonuses, made everyone feel seen.
Except you.
You didn’t get smiles in meetings. You got stares. Lingering ones. Didn’t get praise. You got princess.
And you weren’t crazy. You knew the difference between friendly and fuckable.
────────────────────────
Later, at your desk, you felt him come up behind you before he even spoke. His cologne hit first—something warm and leathery. Too close.
“Hey, honey,” he said low, close enough you could feel the heat of his breath on your neck. “I had notes on that pitch deck you sent. Slide seven’s still a little sloppy. Might need you to stay late tonight.”
You turned your head just slightly. “I sent that after midnight, and you reviewed it already?”
He smiled. Didn’t even try to hide it.
“Didn’t get much sleep. Had something better to look at.”
His eyes flicked down your blouse for one second too long.
You stared back—flat, unreadable.
“If you’re implying something inappropriate, Mr. Barnes, I'll have to file a complaint.”
He chuckled. “Relax, sweetheart. Jesus. You’re always so wound up. Just tryin’ to make your day go by a little smoother.”
“Then how about you stop hovering over my shoulder?”
He held up both hands, backing off like he was giving you space—though you both knew he’d just invade it again tomorrow.
“You got it, princess. Didn’t mean to rattle you.”
And with that, he was gone. Whistling. Smiling at someone like he didn’t just slide a threat beneath his charm.
────────────────────────
The day dragged.
Emails, deadlines, polite smiles through clenched teeth. Conference calls where people said nothing for an hour and still called it productive. You kept your eyes on your screen, fingers typing too fast—because it helped. Helped to keep your mind somewhere else, anywhere but on him.
Bucky walked the floor like a king. Buttoned-up, sleeves rolled, charm weaponized. He asked about people’s weekends. Laughed at the dumb jokes from accounting. Dropped a $50 Starbucks gift card on someone’s desk “just because.”
No one blinked.
Of course they didn’t. He was nice. A little flirty, sure. But that’s just Bucky. You should take it as a compliment. Relax. Smile. Lighten up.
You didn’t.
You waited until the floor quieted. Lunch hour—half the office gone, the rest too buried in takeout and spreadsheets to notice anything.
You went to the break room.
There was something peaceful in the motion: opening the cabinet, finding your mug, filling the kettle. Small, quiet rituals. A moment where you could breathe.
Until the heat of his body hit your back.
You didn’t even hear him come in. Didn’t see him.
You just felt it—that sudden press of presence behind you. His chest grazing your shoulder blades. His breath, warm against your hair.
“Oh—didn’t mean to sneak up on you, sweetheart.”
You froze, mug in hand, halfway to pouring.
He reached up, stretching one arm over your head. His shirt tightened across his chest. His other hand braced against the counter beside your hip.
You were trapped.
“Just needed sugar,” he said casually, as if this was normal. As if his chest wasn’t brushing yours, his thigh not grazing the back of yours like he didn’t care who walked in.
You stayed quiet. Because what could you say?
He wasn’t doing anything.
That was the game. He never did anything.
Just stood too close. Smiled too long. Let his hand linger when he passed you something. Made you feel dirty for reading into it—even when you weren’t.
His voice dipped, like a secret.
“You always smell so fuckin’ good, you know that?”
Low. Not enough to carry beyond the breakroom walls.
You stiffened.
“Bet your sheets smell just like this.”
You set the mug down. Turned. Stared him dead in the eye.
He smiled, sugar packet in hand like nothing happened. “Relax, princess. Just sayin’.”
He winked. Walked out.
Left you standing there—heart hammering, mug forgotten, skin crawling.
And just like every time before, the cameras wouldn’t see anything. HR wouldn’t believe anything.
Because Bucky Barnes? Was a gentleman.
────────────────────────
You found a rare moment of quiet at the back of the office—the smaller kitchen, the one no one really used unless the main breakroom was full. Less traffic. Less… him.
You stood at the counter, nursing your coffee like it might save you. The silence helped, even if just for a second.
Then footsteps. Soft heels. Familiar rhythm.
“Hey,” Sharon’s voice came, warm and breezy as always. “Didn’t think anyone else knew about this spot.”
You gave her a quick smile. She was easy to talk to. Grounded. Cool under pressure. Everyone loved her.
“Needed a breather,” you said. “The espresso machine was out anyway.”
She chuckled, popping open her seltzer. “I told them not to trust that new vendor.”
You hesitated. Then spoke—carefully, “Hey… can I ask you something?”
She glanced over, eyes curious but relaxed. “Of course.”
You stared into your mug for a second, weighing it.
“It’s about Mr. Barnes.”
That got her attention. Her brow arched just slightly, but she didn’t say anything—just waited.
You kept your tone light. Neutral. Non-accusatory.
“Do you ever… feel like he’s a little inappropriate sometimes? Like, just… with the way he talks? Or how close he gets?”
Silence.
Sharon blinked slowly. Then she smiled—gently, almost pitying.
“Oh, honey.”
And that told you everything.
“You’re overthinking it,” she said, voice soft but firm. “Bucky’s harmless. He flirts with everyone. It’s just his way.”
You forced a smile. “Right. Yeah.”
“He’s old-school,” she added, like that explained anything. “Chivalry, all that. I promise, if he actually stepped out of line, I’d be the first to say something.”
You nodded, but it felt robotic. Your chest tightened.
“I just… feel like he’s different with me,” you murmured.
She waved a hand. “He probably just likes your work ethic. You know he pushes the people he thinks are good.”
That one stung.
You wanted to argue. Say it wasn’t about deadlines or performance reviews. That you could feel him looking at you through your clothes. That you could smell his cologne hours after he passed by.
But Sharon was already walking off, patting your arm.
“Don’t let it get to your head, okay? He’s a good guy.”
And just like that, you were alone again.
Coffee gone cold. Skin crawling. Mouth dry.
And outside that tiny breakroom door, Bucky laughed at something by the front desk—voice full of warmth, charm, and power.
No one saw him the way you did. And maybe they never would.
So you ended up staying late.
Not for the work. You could’ve finished that report hours ago. But leaving meant walking past his office. Past that glass wall he always kept open just enough to catch your reflection. Past the possibility he’d call out one of those stupid names again.
Princess.
Sweetheart.
Honey.
Like he was tasting the word before saying it.
So you stayed.
Let the office go quiet. Let the lights dim on their own. Pretended the silence was comforting, even though it made everything worse.
Your screen glared back at you, the spreadsheet long since forgotten. Instead, you stared blankly at the internal memo still pulled up on your monitor.
“Reminder: Quarterly Mixer – This Saturday @ 7PM! Come celebrate with drinks, food, and the best coworkers on Earth! (Yes, that means YOU!)”
You’d read it four times already.
Couldn’t bring yourself to delete it. Couldn’t bring yourself to RSVP. You didn’t want to go.
God, you really didn’t want to go.
The thought of being in that kind of setting with him—music, alcohol, soft lighting, no desks between you—made your stomach twist. And not because you were scared he’d do something worse.
No. It was because you weren’t sure what you’d do. Because maybe Sharon was right. Maybe it was just you.
Maybe you were overreacting. Maybe he was just flirty. And charming. And hands-on. And you’d made it into something worse in your head because you didn’t like being looked at like that.
Maybe you just didn’t know how to take a compliment.
You rubbed at your temple, the fluorescent lights buzzing too loud.
It was driving you insane—this gaslight-loop of doubt. One second, you were certain: he was a sleaze. The next, you felt crazy for even thinking it.
Saturday Night
You barely recognized the place.
The fluorescent overheads were off, replaced by string lights and dim glows from floor lamps pushed into corners. Soft music floated through the air—jazzy, upbeat, expensive-sounding. It smelled like catered finger food and someone’s too-strong cologne.
The office didn’t look like the office. And that made it worse somehow.
You stepped off the elevator, tugging your dress down for the fifth time—not because it was too short, but because you felt too exposed. Too seen. It clung to your thighs like heat, shifted too easily when you moved.
You should’ve stayed home.
But now you were here, and you knew exactly why you’d come.
You weren’t even sure if it was to prove a point—or prove yourself wrong.
The bar was set up where reception used to be. A mini station with backlit shelves, clean glasses, a bartender in black sleeves rolling them up. Everyone laughed a little louder than usual. Smiled a little wider. The tension of workweek deadlines washed out by open bar and soft playlists.
You spotted them near the far corner—your somewhat friends. As close as it got in this building.
Sharon, pristine as ever in a sleek jumpsuit, sipped a cocktail like it had been custom-made for her hand. Maria, in a blazer and jeans, leaned against the wall with the ease of someone who didn’t get rattled by anything. And Rhodey, drink in hand, already mid-laugh at something Sharon said, his smile bright under the lights.
You walked up as casually as you could, past the clusters of people you barely knew. Past interns showing too much skin and directors acting too loose. Past the desk where Bucky usually sat during meetings.
Gone now. Just lights. Music. And you, pretending this was fine.
“Hey, there you are!” Sharon said, spotting you. “Look at you, damn.”
You gave a soft smile, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear.
“Didn’t think you’d show,” Rhodey added, raising his glass. “Glad you did, though.”
You nodded, even if it felt like lying.
Maria handed you something pink and dangerous-looking. “Drink. Don’t ask what’s in it.”
You took it—sipped—smiled on instinct.
Nothing wrong. Nothing off.
Just coworkers. Music. Drinks. And the low throb of tension somewhere beneath your ribs, humming like it was waiting for something.
You felt him before you saw him.
That familiar scent—warm spice and something expensive—cut through the air like it had claws. And then the soft clink of ice in a glass. That low, slow voice.
“Evenin’, folks.”
Your spine straightened. Eyes didn’t move. Not yet.
Then Sharon’s voice lit up. “Look who finally decided to show.”
“Fashionably late,” Bucky answered, tone easy, that damn smirk tucked behind the rim of his glass.
He looked unfair.
Black dress shirt, collar open like it was an accident—like he couldn’t be bothered to button all the way up. Sleeves rolled, forearms out. A neat silver watch that caught the light when he lifted his drink.
And the worst part? He didn’t even look at you at first.
He slid into the conversation like he’d been part of it all along. Said something slick to Rhodey about the open bar. Laughed with Sharon about last quarter’s chaos. Leaned in close to Maria, murmured something that made her chuckle and shake her head.
You stood stiff, sipping your drink, eyes forward, willing your body to stay calm.
Then—finally—he turned to you.
“And look at you,” he said softly, eyes dragging over your dress like it was meant for him. “Didn’t think you liked parties, sweetheart.”
You kept your tone even. Cold. “Mr. Barnes.”
The air shifted, almost imperceptibly.
He smiled, and it was all teeth and secrets.
“C’mon,” he said, voice low, lazy. “Don’t be like that. It’s Bucky tonight. No titles, no deadlines.”
You didn’t answer.
Then he turned back to the group, all charm again.
“Mind if I borrow her for a second?” he asked casually, like it was nothing. “Need to talk work. Real quick.”
And just like that, your maybe-friends betrayed you.
“Of course,” Sharon said with a smile.
“Don’t keep her long,” Rhodey added.
Maria nodded, already halfway back to her drink.
They didn’t see it. They never saw it.
Bucky gestured toward the hallway with his glass. “Just a minute.”
You hesitated. Then followed—because what choice did you have?
Your heels echoed off the hallway tile, now dim and unfamiliar in the party lighting. He walked ahead just slightly, guiding with that casual confidence, like this wasn’t just another play.
Instead of steering you into some dim hallway, Bucky led you to the bar.
Not the crowded part near the reception—the side nook where the lights dipped lower and the buzz of conversation thinned into background static. It was quieter there. Warmer. Two empty stools and a bartender too busy wiping glasses to care.
He gestured for you to sit, then slid onto the stool beside you. Elbow resting on the bar, one leg loose, turned slightly toward you. Still casual. Still confident. But not looming. Not smirking.
He looked… normal.
“Didn’t mean to make a thing of it,” he said, voice low but smooth, like he was finally dropping the act. “Just—wanted to talk. Clear the air.”
You didn’t answer. You just sat stiff beside him, drink in hand, every part of you coiled tight.
He glanced sideways.
“You’ve been here what—three months now?”
You nodded once.
“And I know I’ve got a reputation,” he continued, lips twitching like the idea amused him. “Friendly. Loud. Maybe too much. But that’s just me. I’m like that with everyone.”
You said nothing.
He huffed a quiet breath, “Didn’t realize it was coming off different with you. That’s on me.”
His tone wasn’t defensive. Just… calm. Measured. No jokes. No wink.
You didn’t know what to say.
For a split second—a dangerous, tiny second—you felt bad.
He turned toward you slightly, elbow still resting, wrist loose over his glass.
“Look, sweetheart—” He caught himself. Smiled, sheepish. “Sorry. Habit. I mean—look. You’re good at what you do. Sharp. Focused. You keep your head down and your mouth shut. It’s intimidating.”
That startled a short laugh out of you before you could stop it.
“There it is,” he said, grinning. “Knew you could smile.”
You pressed your lips together, trying not to let the warmth reach your cheeks.
“I just thought maybe if I lightened the mood, joked a little, you’d… loosen up. Guess I overdid it.”
You sipped your drink, still watching him.
Still waiting for the catch.
But there wasn’t one. Not yet.
He was just sitting there. Casual. Human.
And for the first time in weeks, the knots in your shoulders started to ease.
Maybe Sharon was right. Maybe he was just one of those guys—cocky and oblivious, not malicious. Maybe you had overreacted. Maybe it really was in your head.
Maybe…
“You don’t have to forgive me,” he said softly, “but I’d rather work with someone who doesn’t flinch every time I pass their desk.”
Your throat felt tight. You hated how reasonable he sounded.
He raised his glass toward yours.
“To a fresh start?”
You hesitated.
Then clinked your glass with his.
“To a fresh start.”
────────────────────────
You’d forgotten what it felt like to laugh at something he said.
Real laughter. Soft and sudden. No tension in your chest, no pretense in your smile. It hit you halfway through a story he was telling—something about HR training and a mandatory PowerPoint that made everyone fall asleep mid-Zoom.
“Nat legit muted herself and took a nap,” he said, hand miming her slumped over a desk. “I was this close to grabbing a screenshot for blackmail.”
You snorted into your glass before you could stop it. Actually snorted.
And he grinned like he’d just won something.
“There it is,” he said. “God, you’re cute when you’re not looking at me like you want me dead.”
Your smile faltered—not because it was creepy, but because it wasn’t.
It sounded genuine.
Before you could say anything, he was already standing, finishing the last sip of his wine.
“Alright, round two. Or three?” he said, glancing at your glass. “Red or white?”
“Red,” you said, automatically.
“Atta girl.”
You blinked at that—the phrase catching on your ribs—but didn’t say anything. He was already halfway to the bar.
You watched him go, jaw loose, mind scattered. There was this lightness in your chest—not comfort, not trust, just confusion. Emotional vertigo. Like you couldn’t tell if you were falling for real or falling for a trick.
When he came back, two fresh glasses in hand, you felt that smile tug at the corner of your lips again. He held your wine out like an offering, then paused, eyes narrowing slightly.
“You sure you can handle this one?” he teased. “I’m not carryin’ your ass outta here.”
“Only fair,” you said, reaching for the glass. “I carried your team during Q2.”
He barked a laugh, handing it off. “Damn. Okay. I deserved that.”
Then—just as you both raised your glasses again—someone tapped his shoulder.
“Hey, Buck—just a sec,” came Sam Wilson’s voice from behind him, voice warm, already pulling him into conversation.
Bucky turned, responding instantly, hand gesturing mid-sentence.
You looked down at the glass in your hand.
Something twisted in your gut. No reason. No logic. Just a pulse of dread, primal and sharp.
You didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.
You swapped the glasses.
Fast. Quiet.
His for yours. Yours for his.
By the time he turned back, Sam gone, Bucky lifted your original glass with a grin.
“To a truce,” he said.
The clink still rang in your ears when you brought the glass to your lips.
Red. Dry. Smooth. Not bad, actually.
You took a slow sip, letting it sit on your tongue a second longer than needed—partly out of habit, partly out of nerves. Your eyes drifted across the room, feigning nonchalance, while your body stayed coiled under your skin.
And then you felt it.
His eyes.
Not obvious. Not leering. Just a quiet pull—like gravity, like heat.
You glanced back at him over the rim of your glass.
He was drinking too. A casual sip. Perfect posture, relaxed shoulders, eyes half-lidded from the wine or the light or both.
But he was watching.
Not in the way he usually did—not at your legs, or your mouth, or the subtle swell of your chest in the dress you never wanted to wear. No, this time he was watching your mouth on the glass.
The way you drank.
Measured. Intent. Like he was waiting for something.
You smiled. Slow. Controlled.
“Gotta say,” you said, voice light but steady, “I’m glad the office didn’t cheap out on the drinks.”
Bucky’s lips quirked around his glass.
“I’d never let that happen,” he murmured, swirling the wine with his wrist. “Would’ve brought the good stuff myself if they had.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Always the overachiever.”
He chuckled. “Only for the right people.”
Your heart ticked a little faster. Not from the wine.
From the look in his eyes. Warm. Familiar. Like he knew something you didn’t.
You took another sip. Held eye contact this time.
He matched it.
It was all so smooth. So easy. The laughter, the banter, the drinks. Just two coworkers finally getting along.
Except you weren’t relaxed. You weren’t softening. You were watching.
Because somewhere beneath that lazy smile and that loose wrist and that soft tone was a different version of him.
“So,” you said, fingers tracing the base of your wine glass, “what’s your secret?”
Bucky glanced at you, brows lifted in mock confusion. “Secret?”
You nodded toward the rest of the room, toward the crowd that always seemed to laugh harder when he was near. “Everyone in this place practically worships you. Even Nat and Maria smile at your jokes. That’s got to be witchcraft.”
He laughed, easy and rich, tilting his head back slightly as he reached for his drink again.
“What can I say? I’m charming,” he said with a smirk. “Or maybe just persistent.”
You leaned in slightly, like the wine was making you bold. “You ever worry someone’s gonna see through it?”
He blinked—just a half-second pause. Almost nothing.
But you saw it.
“Nah,” he said, still smooth. “You’d be surprised how much you can get away with when people like your smile.”
He took another sip. Slower this time.
You watched his throat move as he swallowed. Then—subtly—he adjusted his seat.
You didn’t move. Just sipped your wine and let the silence stretch a beat too long.
“So what about you?” he asked, voice still casual, but his words came out just a little softer. “What’s your secret? I’ve been tryin’ to crack you since day one.”
You smiled. “Maybe I’m just not that interesting.”
“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head. “You’re… not like the rest of them.”
There it was again—something in his eyes. Heavy-lidded. Unfocused for a split second. Like his body lagged behind his words.
He blinked once. Twice. Shook it off with another smile, but his jaw tensed briefly—like he’d forgotten what he was about to say.
You tilted your head.
“Everything alright?”
Bucky leaned his forearm on the bar, a little slower than before. Like his coordination was a hair off.
“Yeah, I’m good,” he said, nodding. “Just… this wine’s stronger than I thought.”
You clinked your glass gently against his.
“Cheers to that.”
And you smiled. This time, for real.
He blinked again. Longer this time. When his eyes opened, they were just a little glassier. His smile—still sitting on his lips—faltered at the edges, like he couldn’t quite keep the shape of it.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, one hand coming up to rub at his temple. “Feels like I’ve been drinkin’ all night…”
You stared at him.
Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Just watched.
Something cold settled in your gut. Heavy. Dense.
Then it flipped—hot, violent—a surge that nearly made you shake.
That son of a bitch.
You didn’t need evidence. Didn’t need a confession. You knew it. He was trying to fucking drug you.
You saw it in the way he kept watching you drink. The timing. The sudden generosity with the wine. The way he carefully nudged your glass toward you like it mattered. Like you mattered—but not in any real way.
You saw it now—clearly—as the man sitting in front of you, still trying to act normal, couldn’t keep his focus for more than a few seconds at a time.
You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek. Ground your heel into the floor to keep yourself tethered. Because what you wanted to do—what every cell in your body was screaming for—was to hit him.
But you didn’t.
You watched.
He chuckled to himself, looking down at his glass like it had betrayed him. “Man, I’m usually better than this,” he said, words just barely slurring at the edges. “Should’ve eaten more…”
You leaned in slightly, slow and composed.
“Long week,” you said softly. “Maybe it’s just hitting you harder than usual.”
He looked up at you—eyes glassy, lids heavy—and smiled.
Like nothing was wrong. Like he hadn’t just tried to drug you.
And suddenly, you weren’t scared anymore.
You were calm. Cold. Ready.
He leaned in again.
Too close now—his shoulder bumping yours as he tried to prop himself on one elbow, glass clinking faintly on the bar. You caught the tremor in his hand as he set it down. Subtle. Barely there.
But you noticed.
God, you noticed everything.
“You know,” he said, blinking slowly like the air had gotten thick, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were finally warming up to me.”
You turned your head just slightly, face close to his.
“I am,” you said, voice soft.
He smiled—lazy, slow. Eyes hooded.
“See?” he breathed. “Told you all that hardass shit was just a front.”
His hand dropped to your knee.
Fingertips brushing over the fabric of your dress, thumb tracing a soft, circular pattern just above the hem.
It didn’t even feel bold. Not anymore.
It felt clumsy. Desperate.
You let him do it. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t push him away. Just kept your eyes on him as he leaned in closer, trying to press the weight of his shoulder into yours like it was natural—like it was wanted.
“You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he slurred, almost under his breath. “Bet you look even better when you’re not pretendin’ you don’t want me.”
You smiled. Quiet. Almost sympathetic.
“You think I’m pretending?”
He nodded, slowly. Like it took effort.
“I know you are,” he mumbled, fingers tightening slightly on your leg. “You don’t fight me like that unless you want it.”
Your stomach curled—not in fear, but fury so controlled it felt cold.
You leaned in until your mouth was just beside his ear, your lips barely grazing the edge of his jaw.
“You’re right,” you whispered. “I do want something.”
He hummed—low and smug, breath thick with wine and ego.
You looked at him. Really looked.
Pupils wide. Skin warm. Blinking harder now. He swayed slightly when he pulled back, shoulder brushing the bar like his balance was slipping.
Still smiling. Still trying.
You reached down, smoothed your hand over his where it rested on your knee—and slowly moved it off.
His brow furrowed faintly. But he didn’t fight it. Didn’t have the strength.
“Bucky,” you said, sweet and patient.
He looked up at you, dazed.
You smiled. “You’re not feeling too good, are you?”
He blinked. Swallowed thickly.
“I—nah, I’m… I’m fine. Just—fuck, I don’t know. Think I just stood up too fast earlier or somethin’…”
You nodded. “Of course. Why don’t I get you out of here?”
His smile returned, slow and sleepy. “You takin’ me home, sweetheart?”
You slipped your hand beneath his arm. Supportive. Steady. “Yeah,” you said. “I am.”
By the time you led him back into the main room, his steps had started to drag. Not badly. Not enough for alarm. Just… sluggish. A little too heavy.
He tried to play it off with a loose arm slung over your shoulders, his laugh too low, too slow.
“Must’ve hit that last glass a little hard,” he muttered against your hair, breath warm and sweet with wine. “Think I’m gonna need you to hold me up, princess.”
You smiled. Soft. Supportive. Of course you would.
The music still pulsed under the low buzz of conversation. Laughter bubbled near the back where people were crowding the snack table, oblivious. The lights felt warmer now—or maybe that was just the way your pulse had settled into something deliberate.
Nat noticed you first.
She stepped toward you both with a confused look, drink in hand. “Everything okay?”
You nodded, adjusting your grip on Bucky’s waist, letting him lean just enough to sell it.
“Think he’s just had a little too much. Long week, not enough to eat, you know how it is.”
Bucky grinned—dazed, eyes barely open—and waved a limp hand. “M’alright. Just need to lie down. She’s takin’ me home.”
Nat raised her eyebrows, clearly trying to suppress a snort. “Damn, lightweight.”
“Shhh,” he muttered, pressing a finger sloppily to his lips. “Don’t out me in front’a the pretty girl.”
You smiled at her. Light, easy. “I’ll make sure he gets in okay.”
Sam caught the tail end of the exchange, stepping over with his glass raised.
“You sure you got him?” he asked, glancing at Bucky, who had now nestled his head against your temple like he belonged there.
“Yeah,” you said. “My place isn’t far from his. Uber’s already on the way.”
He gave you a nod. “You’re a saint.”
Carol, nearby, didn’t even blink. Just waved you off with a faint smirk. “Try not to let him puke in the car.”
You laughed softly. “No promises.”
Everyone went back to their drinks. Their conversations.
Bucky mumbled something that might’ve been a compliment. Or a thank-you. Or another sleazy attempt at charm.
You didn’t listen. You were already steering him toward the elevator.
His steps dragged. One arm hung uselessly at his side. The other clung to you with a growing desperation, like even his body knew it was fading.
The doors slid open.
And as they closed behind you both, you finally let your smile fall.
────────────────────────
The car was warm. Too warm.
Leather seats, low lighting, soft jazz playing from the radio like the driver was trying to impress someone. You slid into the backseat with Bucky barely able to hold himself upright beside you.
He slumped to the left, head knocking against the window before jerking back up, blinking rapidly.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “Feels like… I don’t know. Like I’m underwater or somethin’.”
His words were slow. Slurred. Muddled like static.
You turned toward him, one hand resting lightly on his knee—soothing, sweet. The perfect coworker, still playing nursemaid.
“I know,” you said softly.
He looked at you—or tried to. His pupils were blown, eyes unfocused. He blinked once, long and slow, and you watched him try to center your face in his blurred vision.
“You’re just tired,” you murmured. “Probably just drank too fast. Or maybe…”
You leaned in closer, your breath brushing the shell of his ear.
“…maybe it’s the roofie.”
He blinked again. “Wha—?”
“You know,” you said sweetly, still stroking his knee, “the one you put in my drink.”
That finally landed.
His head turned, slow and heavy, brows furrowing like his brain was trying to catch up.
“I—I didn’t…” He shook his head, sluggish. “What are you talkin’ about?”
You smiled.
“C’mon, Bucky,” you cooed. “Don’t play dumb. You picked out the drinks. Watched me drink mine. Didn’t touch yours until I did.”
He stared at you.
Silent.
“You know what I did, right?” you whispered. “While you were too busy flirting? I switched them.”
He blinked again. His mouth moved, but nothing came out.
“That’s why you feel like this,” you continued, voice soft, low, deadly calm. “That’s why your muscles are getting heavy. Why your mouth’s not working right. Why your cock’s probably hard and useless.”
You leaned in closer, lips brushing his jaw.
“Because you drugged yourself, you sick fuck.”
“No…” he slurred, barely shaking his head. “That’s not—no, I wouldn’t…”
“You would,” you said, almost sadly. “And you did.”
He tried to sit up straighter. Failed.
The driver didn’t even glance back—probably just thought a couple whispering sweet nothings to each other.
“God, look at you,” you murmured, watching him with slow, satisfied eyes. “Still trying to talk your way out of it. Still trying to be the good guy.”
He turned to you again, mouth slack, confusion blooming behind his eyes—but no protest came. Just that dazed, terrified silence.
And your hand never left his knee.
Getting him through the lobby was easier than it should’ve been.
Security recognized him. Smiled politely. Probably assumed he was just drunk, out celebrating something. They barely looked at you. Why would they? You were helping.
The elevator ride was quiet—aside from the occasional soft grunt from him when he lost balance and leaned too hard against you. His head lolled to the side. His breath was warm against your neck.
By the time you got him to his door, his hands were mostly limp, only twitching slightly when you shifted your grip.
The apartment was exactly what you expected.
High-rise. Open-plan. Posh as hell.
Marble counters, clean lines, oversized art on the walls. Dim lighting that probably cost more than your monthly rent. The air smelled faintly of cedar and something expensive—like cologne left behind on purpose.
You let the door swing shut behind you with a click.
Dragging him down the hall was clumsy. He kept mumbling something under his breath—your name, maybe, or just sounds that used to be words. His feet barely lifted off the ground, shoes scuffing against polished tile. By the time you reached the bedroom, your patience was threadbare.
You let him fall onto the bed.
Not gently.
His body bounced once, limbs landing crooked and graceless across a mattress that looked like it’d been made by a hotel maid. He groaned faintly, eyes struggling to stay open. One hand twitched at his side before going still.
You stood there a moment, catching your breath.
You stared at him for a moment. Watched his chest rise and fall.
No movement. No protest. Just the soft, useless murmur of a man who was completely and utterly fucked.
You turned from him, slowly taking in the room. It was as meticulous as the rest of the apartment—clean lines, no clutter. No mess. No hint of a second toothbrush, no signs of life beyond himself. The kind of space that told you everything was controlled. Curated.
Your eyes passed over the dresser, the desk, the stack of unread mail in a tray by the door.
Then landed on something just slightly out of place.
It was tucked beside the TV console—half-concealed behind a storage bin. An old video camera. Not one of the sleek, modern ones. This was the kind people’s dads used in the '90s. Black. Bulky. Dusty, but not untouched.
You stared at it for a long time.
Then walked over. Picked it up.
It was heavier than you expected.
You thumbed it open. The battery light flickered red for a second before dying, but it wasn’t the power you were looking for.
It was the idea.
The quiet, sick spark that bloomed low in your gut. Hot and nauseating.
Because the thought hit you all at once—fast, brutal, vivid.
If you hadn’t been smart. If you’d just smiled at him tonight. Taken the drink like a good girl. Giggled when he leaned in too close.
You’d be the one on that bed right now. Confused. Weak. Vulnerable.
He wouldn’t be asking questions. He wouldn’t be wondering why you were like this.
Breath caught in your throat, but not from fear. You turned, slowly, facing the bed again.
The camera in your hand felt natural now. Balanced. Your fingers curled around the handle like they belonged there.
And you looked at him—really looked.
At the boss who made you feel insane for weeks. Who smiled through every boundary. Who laughed at your discomfort and called it charm. Who wanted you broken enough to keep a bottle of something hidden just for this.
You didn’t turn the camera on.
You just set it down on the edge of the bed, the cold plastic weight of it still ghosting across your palm as you stepped toward him. Your fingers itched to move, to do something—clench, press, strike—but you didn’t.
You breathed.
Your body moved slowly, as if your brain had distanced itself from your limbs. Detached, careful. Not out of fear.
Out of precision.
Bucky hadn’t moved. His chest rose and fell, slower now, steady in that drugged rhythm. His shirt had ridden up slightly where you’d dropped him, baring a line of toned stomach and the faint edge of his belt.
You stopped at the edge of the bed, staring down at him.
This man—this fucking man—had looked at you every day like you were prey. A challenge. Something to figure out and conquer. And when you didn’t fall into his game?
He made a new one.
You climbed onto the bed slowly. One knee. Then the other. The mattress dipped under your weight, and that was when his body twitched.
A jolt. Barely there. Just enough to register.
His eyes fluttered open. Glazed. Unfocused.
But open.
And when they found you—above him, straddling his waist—they barely widened. He blinked, confused, pupils blown wide and glassy.
You leaned down, your palms bracing on either side of his head. Close enough to kiss, if you wanted to. Close enough to make him think that’s what this was.
His lips parted slightly. A quiet, unsure breath.
You smiled. Soft. Almost tender.
“Shhh,” you cooed, voice like velvet soaked in poison. “Don’t talk. You need to rest, remember?”
He blinked again. Swallowed. His jaw moved like he was trying to form a word.
“You’re not feeling so good, baby,” you whispered, brushing a loose strand of hair from his forehead. “I told you… that wine was too strong for you.”
His mouth twitched.
“W-what…?”
Your nails trailed down his cheek. Delicate. Soothing. Like comfort.
“You thought you were being clever, didn’t you?” Your voice was almost sing-song. “Figured I’d take the drink, get all soft and sweet for you. Let you do whatever you wanted.”
You laughed, quiet and breathless, more exhale than sound.
“But look at you now.”
Your fingers drifted down to his chest, dragging over the fabric of his shirt. He flinched at your touch, not from pain—just from confusion. His body couldn’t keep up.
“You were gonna take something from me,” you murmured, tilting your head as your nails grazed over a button. “But now? I get to decide what happens next.”
And he still didn’t move.
He just laid there, eyes fluttering like the room was spinning around him—and you were the only thing in focus.
You sank down into his lap.
The hem of your dress rode up automatically, baring your thighs, pressing soft cotton against tailored fabric. The heat between your legs met the thick strain of him beneath his slacks, and even though he didn’t move—could barely lift his head—you felt it.
He was hard.
Your eyes flicked down, amused.
“Really?” you murmured, tilting your hips slightly, just enough to feel the pressure. “Even like this?”
His head lolled against the pillow, mouth parted, eyes hazy and unfocused—but you caught it. That tiny twitch. That unconscious shift of his hips.
You smiled.
“God, that’s pathetic.”
You rolled your hips, slow and shallow, just once, watching his throat bob with a strangled swallow. His hands stayed limp at his sides, fingers barely curling into the sheets.
Your fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt.
“You always dress so nice,” you said softly, undoing one with a careful flick. “All those expensive shirts. Rolled-up sleeves. That little watch. Like you’re trying so hard not to look like a fucking perv.”
Another button popped.
You leaned down, letting your lips brush his ear.
“But you are one.”
His chest hitched beneath you. You couldn’t tell if it was arousal or panic. Maybe both. Either way, it didn’t matter.
You kept unbuttoning him.
Slowly. Lovingly. Like this was something tender. Your fingertips brushed his skin, warm and smooth under the cotton, as you pulled his shirt apart inch by inch.
“You know what’s funny?” you whispered, voice airy and soft. “I bet if someone walked in right now, they’d think you were just drunk. Poor Mr. Barnes. Went a little too hard at the office party.”
You sat up again, rolling your hips slightly for emphasis. The hard shape of him pressed up against your core, and you felt the pulse of it.
You laughed. A soft, mocking sound that didn’t match the look in your eyes.
“I’m sitting on your cock and you still haven’t figured out what’s happening.”
You tilted your head. “Want me to spell it out for you?”
His lips moved—barely.
A whisper of sound. A plea. Maybe your name. Maybe just breath.
You leaned in, hands sliding down his now-bare chest, feeling the flutter of his heartbeat. He was still there. Somewhere beneath the haze. Still feeling this. Still aware enough to know that he couldn’t stop you.
You rolled your hips again, slow and unrelenting, your weight pressing down against the thick bulge beneath his pants. The cotton of your panties dragged against the expensive fabric, slick now, the heat between your legs soaking through as you kept your rhythm steady.
Every grind made you feel him harder. Bigger. His body had no shame, even if his mind couldn’t keep up.
You looked down at him, watched the way his chest rose faster now beneath the parted edges of his shirt. Skin flushed. Nipples tight. Muscles twitching, but not from effort—from helpless arousal.
You smiled, then let your fingers slide up the straps of your dress.
Pulled them down.
One. Then the other.
The fabric fell easily, pooling at your waist and baring your tits to the cool air of his room. You didn’t cover them. Didn’t pause. You just kept moving, rolling your hips with a little more purpose now, letting the friction mount. Your nipples grazed the soft fabric of his shirt, barely open, grazing your skin as you leaned over him again.
His eyes fluttered, barely open. Lashes fluttering. Pupils too wide.
But they were on your boobs now.
Of course they were.
You let your hands spread across his torso, fingers splaying wide over his pecs, dragging nails lightly down the curve of muscle. His chest arched faintly under your touch, breath catching in his throat.
“You like this?” you asked, voice quiet, teasing. “Of course you do. That cock’s telling the truth, even if your mouth can’t.”
You ground down again, slower this time—pressing your clit right over the length of him, dragging yourself forward with a long roll of your hips. Your breath hitched, not from pleasure—not yet—but from the control. From the heat. From the mess of it all.
“You were gonna fuck me like this, weren’t you?” you whispered, fingers dragging over his chest. “Lay me out, drugged and confused. My legs open. My eyes half-shut. You’d slide right in and tell yourself it was okay, wouldn’t you?”
You leaned closer, your tits brushing his chest as your lips hovered over his mouth.
“You’d say I wanted it.”
You rolled your hips again—hard, slow—grinding right over the head of his cock through layers of fabric, soaking him with every pass.
“But now you’re the one lying there,” you breathed. “Hard and useless. And I’m gonna take every fucking second from you.”
You rolled your hips slower now, deliberately, keeping the friction centered—grinding your soaked panties right over the thick length of him, the pressure teasing you more than you wanted to admit.
But you didn’t move faster. You didn’t break.
This wasn’t about you cumming. Not yet. This was about watching him fall apart.
You leaned forward, letting your breasts brush against his chest again, soft skin sliding against his warm, useless body. Your fingers threaded into his hair, nails grazing his scalp.
His eyes fluttered again. Still open. Still watching.
You shifted your weight just enough, bringing your chest higher—until one of your tits hovered right over his face. Inches from his mouth.
You watched his lips part without a word.
And you smiled.
“Open up, baby,” you whispered, voice low and syrupy, your fingers holding him steady as you lowered yourself.
The soft, swollen curve of your nipple brushed his lips—just barely—and you felt it. That gentle pull.
His mouth closed around you, weakly at first. Slow. Then—
A suck.
Lazy. Slow. Uncoordinated.
But real.
You looked down at him in stunned amusement as his lips closed around your nipple, tongue pressing softly against the sensitive skin. His mouth worked in slow, uneven motions—too tired to do it right, too drugged to know better.
But he was trying.
Trying to suck your tit like he needed it.
Your hand stayed in his hair, holding him close. You let out a soft, breathy laugh, fingers lightly stroking his temple as he suckled like some fucked-up version of comfort.
“Oh, Bucky,” you cooed. “Look at you.”
He didn’t answer—just kept his mouth on you, slow and lazy.
Like instinct. Like obedience.
“You don’t even know what you’re doing, do you?” you whispered, lips brushing the top of his head. “Still trying to be a good boy. Trying to make mommy proud.”
You gave a slow roll of your hips, grinding your soaked panties over his cock again, and he let out a muffled sound against your breast—half-moan, half-sigh.
His mouth was still working.
Not well. Not fast. But it was there—warm, soft, pliant—sucking at your nipple like it had been trained. Like he was trying to please you, even through the fog.
You pulled back slowly, letting your breast slide free with a wet pop. His lips stayed parted, a thin trail of spit clinging between them and your skin. He blinked up at you, confused and glassy, his mouth twitching like it missed the contact.
You sat up, straddling his stomach again, your soaked panties clinging between your thighs, the cotton now practically translucent with how wet you were.
You looked down at him. His eyes weren’t focused, but they were open. Watching. And his mouth was still slack, slightly parted, pink and wet from suckling.
That’s when the idea hit you.
Quick, sharp, electric.
You shifted back just enough to slip your fingers beneath the waistband of your panties and peeled them down your thighs, dragging the soaked fabric over your knees, letting them drop to the floor.
His chest rose and fell beneath you—shallow, erratic, every breath drawing in the scent of your arousal. You watched his lips twitch again. A tiny sound escaped him. Like a whine.
Your gaze flicked to the edge of the bed.
To the camera.
Still untouched. Still waiting.
You reached for it with calm, deliberate fingers, lifting it off the sheets. It was heavier now—fuller, somehow, because you knew what it was about to capture.
You flicked the power switch.
The soft mechanical whir kicked to life, red light blinking once… twice… then steady.
Recording.
The weight of that hit you all at once—not guilt, not doubt—but power. A perfect circle. He’d planned to drug you, fuck you, maybe film you.
Now he was the one drugged. Flat on his back. And you were about to record him licking your pussy like a good, helpless toy.
You dragged your wet cunt up his bare chest, letting your slick smear across the line of his sternum, your clit catching every dip and ridge of his abs.
He let out a noise—something low and lost, like a gasp or a sigh—and you looked down just in time to see his glazed eyes flicker toward you.
There was no recognition in them.
Just need.
You positioned the camera in your hand, angling it downward. Framing the shot.
And then, slowly, you slid up his chest.
Your thighs spread wide, knees planted firm on either side of his face, and your wet heat hovered just above his mouth.
His head tilted slightly. Lips parting.
You looked down at him, camera aimed at his face, your other hand resting gently in his hair.
“Look at you,” you purred. “You don’t even know what’s coming.”
You lowered yourself just enough that your pussy lips brushed against his. Warm and slick and swollen. You watched the way his nostrils flared, how his breath caught. He could smell it—taste it—and instinct kicked in.
His tongue flicked out.
Sloppy. Weak. But there.
You smiled, dark and slow.
“Come on,” you whispered, your voice like a lullaby laced in venom. “Use that pretty little mouth. Make it count, Bucky. You’re being filmed.”
And you rocked forward, just slightly, letting your clit drag over his tongue as the red light blinked—capturing everything.
His tongue flicked up again—clumsy but eager—lapping at your folds like he was trying to remember what he was supposed to do with it. You let your weight settle just a little heavier, pressing your pussy down against his mouth, guiding him without words.
The heat of your cunt coated his lips instantly, slick soaking his chin, and when his tongue slipped between your folds again—messy, uncoordinated—you moaned softly. Not from the pleasure, not yet.
From the visual.
His mouth—slack, wet, trying. His eyes—glazed, unfocused, but still looking up at you. The red light—blinking steady on the camera in your hand, catching it all.
You tilted the camera, making sure to get the angle just right—your thighs spread around his face, your pussy riding his mouth, and those pathetic, needy eyes staring up through the haze.
“That’s it,” you cooed, voice syrupy sweet, thumb brushing the corner of his jaw. “That’s a good boy, Bucky. You wanted to take something from me? Now you get to give it back.”
You shifted forward, dragging your clit across his tongue with a slow grind. The friction wasn’t precise—he wasn’t skilled like this—but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that his tongue was moving. That his mouth was open. That he let you use him, whether he understood it or not.
You leaned forward slightly, the camera still angled down, one hand in his hair, gripping tight enough to keep him exactly where you wanted him.
“God, you’re so fucking stupid,” you whispered with a little laugh, breath catching as his tongue found your entrance and pushed, barely. “Look at you. Eyes all dazed, mouth sloppy, sucking like you’re gonna make me cum just to prove you’re not useless.”
Another roll of your hips, grinding yourself down harder. His nose brushed your clit this time, and your thighs clenched automatically. You let your head tilt back, a quiet gasp leaving your lips.
His tongue flicked again, still too slow, still soft. But it was there. Warm. Willing.
“You like this, don’t you?” you breathed, dragging the camera up to capture your own face now—flushed, wild-eyed, your tits bouncing with every grind. “Being used like this. You were gonna do it to me, and now I’m sitting on your face like I own it.”
You looked down again, shifting your hips with more pressure, your clit grinding right over the bridge of his nose now, your wetness slick across his cheeks.
His hands twitched against the sheets.
His eyes blinked, slow and half-lost, but still fixed on you.
“Mmm, that’s right,” you purred. “Keep watching me. Watch me take what you were never gonna earn.”
You rode his face harder now, grinding down, using his mouth for real—his tongue barely keeping up, drool mixing with your slick. Your thighs clenched tighter around his head, the pressure building, slow but heavy, like a fuse burning down.
“Don’t stop,” you whispered, hips stuttering slightly as a tremble raced up your spine. “Fucking don’t stop. You wanted to play dirty? You wanted to make me weak? Now you get to watch me cum on your fucking face.”
Your thighs were trembling now.
Tight around his face, muscles twitching with every slow, grinding roll of your hips. His tongue was still moving—weak, uneven licks dragged through your wetness—but it was his mouth that pushed you closer. His lips, his breath, the heat of him. The fact of him under you, slack and slow, with your pussy soaking his chin.
The camera trembled in your hand. Your grip unsteady, wrist flexing, but the lens stayed locked on him. That ruined face—lips swollen, cheeks glistening, jaw slick with your cum. His blue eyes, glassy and unfocused, still locked on you like you were the only thing anchoring him to the moment.
Your free hand fisted in his hair, grinding his mouth harder against your cunt, and your breath hitched in your throat, the pressure mounting fast—sharp and sudden, like it had been waiting for this exact moment to break loose.
“Fuck—fuck, that’s it—don’t fucking stop—”
Your voice cracked as your clit dragged over the bridge of his nose again, the friction just right. You rolled your hips one more time, slow and deep, and the pleasure surged up your spine like fire.
Your thighs clenched around his head as the orgasm hit you—not gentle, not soft—but heavy, brutal, a full-body tremor as your pussy pulsed over his mouth.
You moaned—loud, guttural, obscene—hips jerking as waves of slick spilled onto his tongue, your cunt grinding down with every twitch, every clench. Your grip on the camera shook, the frame wobbling, but it stayed centered.
It caught everything.
The tension in your thighs. The sweat on your chest. The way his tongue stayed out, catching your orgasm, like he wanted it.
Your body slumped forward, breath catching in your throat, heartbeat pounding in your ears as your high slowly tapered off—still grinding lightly, riding out every last ripple.
Your cunt was soaked. His face was a mess.
You slid off his face slowly, lifting your hips with a gentle roll, strings of slick breaking between your pussy and his lips. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just lay there, breath ragged, mouth parted, the lower half of his face drenched.
You settled back onto his chest with a soft sigh, your bare thighs still spread over him, the dress bunched around your waist, tits out, flushed and gleaming under the soft light.
The camera was still rolling.
You angled it down toward his face again, framing the shot tight—his cheeks slick and shining, his lips wet, his stubble dark with your cum and his drool. His eyes fluttered open slowly, lashes stuck together with sweat, blinking like he didn’t know where he was.
Perfect.
You brought the camera a little closer.
“Aww,” you cooed, voice low and syrupy. “Look at you. You’re a fucking mess.”
He didn’t respond—just breathed, sharp and shallow, his chest rising against your ass.
“You’re soaked,” you whispered, tilting the camera for a better angle, zooming in on the shine of your slick across his lips. “You didn’t even know what you were doing, did you? Just licking and sucking like a good little toy.”
You laughed, soft and mean, dragging your fingers down his chest, tracing circles around his nipple, still holding the camera steady.
“You gonna tell me that was mutual, too?” you murmured. “That you didn’t mean to drug me? That you didn’t mean to get me here, get me pliant, get my legs open for you?”
His eyes twitched. Just slightly. Still unfocused.
You leaned in close, lips near his ear, the camera catching the movement of your body, the way your tits grazed his bare chest.
“If I hadn’t switched those glasses,” you whispered, “this would’ve been me, wouldn’t it?”
You pulled back, camera right in front of his face again.
“But now you’re the one drooling, high as fuck, face covered in my cum.”
You smiled, slow and cruel.
“You make such a pretty toy, Bucky. I might just keep you.”
You shifted your weight back, thighs sliding down his body until you were straddling his thighs—bare cunt leaving a slick, glistening trail across his skin. The camera stayed in your hand, angled perfectly to catch his face first—ruined and wet—then slowly tilting down to follow your descent.
You braced yourself with one hand on his chest, the other dragging the lens down the hard plane of his torso.
Then your fingers went to his belt.
You tugged the leather strap with a slow, deliberate pull—the soft snick of the buckle releasing echoed in the room like a starter’s pistol. His hips twitched faintly, involuntary. Maybe instinct.
You hummed.
“Let’s see what you were planning to use on me,” you whispered, pulling the belt out and letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud.
Your fingers worked fast now—unbuttoning his jeans, dragging the zipper down over the bulge that strained visibly beneath.
You let the camera catch it. Zoomed in on it.
The thick shape pressing against the front of his boxers. The outline firm, swollen, twitching like it knew what you were about to do.
You slid his jeans down first, shoving them rough past his hips, down his thighs—just enough to expose the mess underneath. Then the waistband of his boxers followed.
You dragged them down slowly, teasingly, until his cock finally sprang free.
And you froze.
Your brow lifted. A slow, amused smile tugged at your lips.
“Well,” you murmured, panning the camera down to focus fully on it. “Now that’s… impressive.”
Even drugged and helpless, his cock was hard—thick, flushed, heavy against his stomach, a drop of precum already beading at the tip. You reached down with your free hand, curling your fingers around the base.
It twitched in your palm.
You looked down at him.
His chest was rising faster now, lips parted again, throat working with another thick swallow. His eyes tried to find yours—still hazy, still out of sync—but you weren’t looking at his face anymore.
You were looking at his cock.
“You were really gonna fuck me with this, weren’t you?” you said softly, your voice honey-slick and edged with venom. “Would’ve stretched me open real good. Would’ve made me scream, maybe.”
You stroked him slowly, base to tip, thumb teasing the precum from the head, spreading it down his shaft as it twitched again in your grip.
“Shame you’re not gonna get to use it the way you planned.”
You tilted the camera, making sure to catch the way his cock jumped with every slow pump of your hand, how your wet fingers slid easily over his skin.
“You know what this is now?” you asked, tone lower, darker. “It’s mine.”
You stayed right where you were, perched on his hips, bare thighs spread wide across his waist as his cock lay hot and hard against his stomach. Your fingers traced up the shaft lazily, curling around it just enough to feel the pulse beneath your grip.
The camera stayed trained on his cock.
You tilted it slightly for the perfect angle—capturing your hand wrapped around him, the gleam of wetness already glistening at the tip, the slight twitch every time you squeezed just a little too tight.
You giggled under your breath, slow and mean.
“Look at this,” you purred. “So pretty. So hard for nothing.”
You stroked him once, long and slow, watching his hips barely lift, just enough to embarrass himself. You let the head of his cock slap softly back down onto his stomach with a wet sound, precum smearing across his skin like a brand.
“Is this what you wanted to show me?” you asked, tracing the tip with your thumb. “Your big, bad cock? Was this supposed to scare me?”
Another lazy stroke.
Then another, slower.
He let out a sound—weak and raw, like a moan that couldn’t form all the way.
You looked down at him, eyes narrow with amusement.
“You can’t even move,” you whispered. “And I’m sitting on you, jerking you off like you’re my little toy.”
Your hand left him, just for a moment, as you shifted forward—your soaked pussy hovering over his cock now, your slick already glistening along your inner thighs.
You reached down and pressed his cock flat against his stomach again.
Held it there.
Then rolled your hips forward—slow and heavy—dragging your cunt along the full length of him, grinding his shaft between your folds, your clit catching on the thick head as your wetness smeared across his skin.
“Fuck,” you moaned, breath hitching. “That’s what I needed.”
You did it again.
And again.
Grinding slowly on his cock, your slick leaving wet trails over his abs as you used him like a toy—just friction, heat, pressure, your pussy dripping down his shaft and soaking him completely.
He made another noise—low, shaky.
You smirked.
“Aw, poor baby,” you said softly, brushing his cheek with the back of your fingers. “You’re supposed to be inside me by now, right? That was the plan?”
You rocked your hips harder, letting the ridge of his cock slide against your clit now, slick squelching with every pass.
“But now you’re just a warm surface for me to rub my pussy on.”
You leaned down slightly, camera still rolling, catching every bounce of your tits, every twitch of his cock, the sound of your cunt grinding wet and slow against him.
“Smile for the camera, Bucky.”
You kept grinding.
Slow, filthy strokes. The length of his cock pinned against his stomach, your slick cunt dragging up and down, soaking it more with every pass. The sounds were obscene—wet and lewd, echoing off the bedroom walls like a private show only you could give.
Every time your clit slid over the thick head of his cock, you shuddered—not from pleasure, but from the power of it.
The camera caught it all.
Your thighs flexing. The mess of your pussy glistening over his skin. The twitch of his cock beneath you.
You leaned back slightly, planting one hand behind you for balance, the other still clutching the camera as you tilted your hips just right—letting your folds part and drag along the shaft like silk over steel. Your slick was everywhere now, drenching him, smearing across his abs and matting the hair at the base of his cock.
You let your head roll back with a quiet, breathy moan.
“Fuck,” you whispered to yourself, voice thick with satisfaction. “Listen to that.”
Another slow grind.
The sound was filthy—all wet friction and heat, your pussy squelching against his cock like you were already fucking him.
But you weren’t.
Not yet.
You were just using him.
You looked down at him again.
His face was flushed. Sweating. His jaw slack. His chest rising too fast for how little he’d moved.
And then you heard it.
A breath—shallow, rasping—and a word that barely made it out.
“…please…”
You froze. Just for a second. Then smiled.
“Aww,” you said sweetly, leaning forward again, tits hanging between you, camera aimed right at his face. “What was that, baby? You begging?”
He blinked slowly, like every second of consciousness cost him something.
You rolled your hips again—once—and his body twitched, cock straining against your heat, the glide wetter now, noisier.
You leaned in closer, lips right by his ear, your voice soft and cruel.
“Please what, Bucky?”
You ground down again, dragging your cunt from base to tip, your clit catching the head perfectly—your breath catching with it.
“Please let you fuck me?”
You moaned, slow and breathy, the camera still rolling steady in your hand.
He tried again.
“Please…”
This time, it came out stronger. Still hoarse, still pathetic—but enough to make you pause.
You stopped grinding.
Lifted your hips just slightly, his cock now glistening with your slick, resting flushed and twitching against his stomach. You could see the desperation in his face. Every inch of it—flushed, damp, barely held together. His eyes met yours, glazed and pleading, even if the words weren’t forming fast enough.
You smiled down at him, slow and indulgent.
“Please what, Bucky?” you asked again, softly stroking his cock with your soaked hand, pumping it just once. “Use your words, baby. You were so fucking chatty in the office.”
His head rolled slightly. Then stopped.
Eyes fixed on yours.
“Please… let me in…”
You tilted your head, feigning thought.
Then reached down with one hand, still holding the camera in the other, and wrapped your fingers around his cock again—warm, flushed, wet with your slick.
“Good boy,” you whispered.
You lifted your hips, lined him up, and slowly dragged the thick head of his cock through your folds again—not teasing now, just guiding. Feeling him press right where you needed him.
And then—slowly—you started to sink.
The thick, swollen mushroom tip caught first—your pussy stretching around it, inch by inch, the pressure spreading you open.
“Fuuuuck,” you moaned under your breath, lips parting as the head popped inside.
It was a squeeze. Deep and full and filthy—your cunt wrapping tight around the ridge of him as it slipped past your entrance, slow and wet and heavy.
You angled the camera down between your thighs, capturing everything—the way your pussy swallowed that first inch, the way his cock twitched inside you, already pulsing against your walls.
You held yourself there for a beat, hips trembling, his cock head throbbing inside you like it wanted more, but you weren’t rushing.
You looked down at him again.
His mouth was slack, eyes wide.
He could feel it now.
The heat. The tightness. The realness of your cunt wrapped around him.
You smiled and leaned in, voice sticky-sweet.
“You feel that?” you whispered, grinding just an inch lower, feeling the first bulge of his veins catch against your walls. “That’s me deciding what you get. How much you get. How deep you get to go.”
He let out a breathless, broken moan.
And you sank a little deeper. You didn’t stop. Not when the head popped in. Not when the thick ridge of his cock stretched your walls wide. Not when the veins along his shaft dragged delicious friction against your slick insides.
You just kept going. Sinking down. Deeper. Lower.
Until you were fully seated—your ass pressed to his hips, his balls resting against you, full and heavy. His cock throbbed inside you, thick and pulsing, filling every inch of your cunt so completely it almost hurt.
You moaned—not soft, not delicate—but raw, a sound from your chest, low and ragged.
His pubes tickled your clit as you rocked just once.
You felt everything. Every twitch. Every pulse. Every buried inch.
And then? You moved.
No mercy. No rhythm. Just need.
You started riding him—hard, fast, furious—your hips slamming down with every bounce, your slick making it messy and loud. Skin on skin. Wet friction. The slap of your thighs meeting his.
The camera was still in your hand, pointed straight down between your bodies—capturing the bounce of your tits, the ripple of your ass, the way your pussy took him deep, over and over.
“Fuck—yes—yes,” you gasped, fingers digging into his chest for balance as you slammed yourself down harder, using his cock like a machine, like a tool built to get you off.
He made a noise—weak, cracked—and you laughed.
“Is this what you wanted?” you growled, barely coherent. “Wanted me open, wanted me fucked? Now you’re just lying there and taking it.”
You bounced harder.
Faster.
Your clit rubbed against his pubes, overstimulating, hot and electric. The ridge of his cock hit your walls just right, thick veins dragging across your insides like they were made to wreck you.
You moaned again, louder, not bothering to hide it now.
Because this wasn’t for him.
It was for you.
Your ass clapped against his hips with every thrust, and the room was full of it—your gasps, the wet slap of your pussy, the camera’s soft mechanical whir, catching everything.
You didn’t slow down.
If anything, you rode him harder now—hips slamming down in a rhythm that shook the bed, the slap of wet skin-on-skin echoing like applause. Your thighs burned, slick pouring down his cock with every bounce, making a messy, gorgeous sound each time he bottomed out inside you.
The camera stayed locked in your grip, angled perfectly—capturing the place where his cock disappeared into your dripping pussy, again and again. Your lips stretched around him, raw and swollen and greedy, your slick coating his shaft, his balls, soaking everything in a film of filthy heat.
You moaned—loud and broken—eyes flickering down to watch it happen.
“Fuck,” you gasped, voice ragged. “Look at that. Look at how well you fit.”
Your other hand moved over your body, sliding up to your tits, grabbing one roughly. You squeezed, pinched your nipple, gasping at the sting—and still, you bounced. Still, you rode. Like your body wouldn’t stop until it broke him.
Then your hand slipped lower.
Your fingers found your clit—swollen, sensitive, already pulsing from the constant friction. You circled it fast, hard, desperate now. The pleasure had crested into need, raw and overwhelming, and you chased it like you were starving.
You clenched around him, hard, your pussy fluttering with every rough grind, and his cock twitched inside you—helpless to the tight squeeze of your cunt milking him.
“Oh my god,” you moaned, louder now, hips stuttering as you slammed down again, your fingers working your clit in messy, slippery circles. “I’m so fucking close—fuck, fuck—yes—”
The bed rocked under you.
Your tits bounced with every thrust.
His cock, soaked and pulsing, disappeared over and over into your cunt while your slick gushed around it, dripping down your thighs, smearing your ass.
Your thighs were burning now. Your hand was a blur on your clit. Your pussy was clenching so tight around his cock it made your breath hitch in your chest.
You bounced harder—faster—wet skin slapping together with every thrust, your slick squelching around him with every messy descent. The camera shook in your hand, still pointed down, capturing the moment his cock stretched you open and disappeared deep inside your cunt, over and over.
“F-fuck—” you gasped, your voice breaking. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna cum—”
You threw your head back, the pleasure building so fast it hurt, your fingers tight on your clit as your hips moved without thought—just instinct, just need.
And then it hit.
You shattered.
Your orgasm ripped through you like fire, raw and explosive, your pussy pulsing violently around his cock as your thighs locked around his waist. You screamed—loud, wrecked, unfiltered—riding it out, fucking yourself on him even as your body convulsed.
“Fuuuck—yes—fuck—yes—oh my god—”
Your cunt clenched and clenched, dragging him deeper, wetter, tighter. You could feel every vein, every ridge, every twitch of his cock inside you.
And he whined.
Low, broken, useless.
You looked down at him through the blur of your high, his mouth slack, eyes barely open, and his hips—twitching, trying to fuck up into you but failing.
He was close. You knew it.
So you didn’t stop.
You rode.
Bouncing through your orgasm, dragging his cock in and out of your spasming cunt, your slick spilling everywhere, your thighs soaked, your clit still pulsing under your fingers.
“Cum,” you growled, teeth bared, breath ragged. “Fucking cum, Bucky.”
He let out a soft, shattered sound—almost like a sob.
And then you felt it.
The twitch. The pulse. The sudden heat that flooded you, thick and hot and helpless.
You moaned again, biting your lip, as you rode through his release—his cock jerking inside you, his cum spilling deep, your cunt milking every drop from him.
He was whining now—weak, soft noises of surrender, of overload—and you slowed just slightly, rolling your hips with satisfaction, feeling every last pulse of him spill into your body.
“Good boy,” you breathed, leaning down, your voice sweet and cruel. “Filling me like you were made for it.”
You let out a long, satisfied sigh.
Your body still tingled, pussy still pulsing faintly around the emptiness he left behind. Sweat dripped down your chest, your inner thighs slick, and the ache between your legs was deep and earned.
You finally climbed off him—slow, unbothered—letting his softening cock slip free with a wet, sticky sound.
The mess was immediate.
His cum started leaking out of you as soon as you shifted, creamy white spilling in a thick string down the inside of your thigh, dripping toward the sheets.
You reached for the camera again.
Still rolling.
You tilted it down, framing the shot right where your swollen, soaked pussy gaped around his release. You spread your legs wider, let your fingers drag up your folds, gathering the leaking cum in slow, lazy swipes.
It was warm.
Heavy.
Yours now.
You moaned softly, low in your throat, dragging your slick fingers back and letting them smear across your clit—not to tease, just to feel it.
Then?
You looked down at him.
He was still lying there—limp, dazed, ruined.
Eyes barely open. Mouth slightly parted. Chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths.
You straddled his chest again, leaned down, and tilted the camera to catch his face.
“Open,” you whispered, voice sugar-sweet, your fingers still glistening.
He didn’t obey—not fully. But his lips parted enough.
You reached down, and smeared his own cum across his mouth, slow and deliberate, dragging your fingers over his bottom lip like gloss.
“There,” you whispered, dragging your fingertips down his chin, cum trailing with them. “A little reminder.”
He moaned softly—not from pleasure, just existence—and you smiled.
“You’ll taste that later,” you murmured, “when you watch this back.”
You kissed the corner of his mouth. Light. Mocking.
Then leaned back and turned the camera toward yourself, your flushed face framed by your messy hair, your smile feral.
“Say thank you, Mr. Barnes.”
The office looked the same.
The same dull glass walls, the same hum of fluorescent lights, the same low chatter as people settled in with their coffee. Keyboards clicked. Phones rang. Laughter drifted from the hallway—someone retelling a story from the office party.
You stepped off the elevator and into it all, your heart beating too calm in your chest.
This was supposed to be the hard part.
You were supposed to be panicking. Running over every second of that night on loop. Wondering if you'd gone too far, wondering if the police would be waiting by your desk, if HR would come calling with a quiet conversation and handcuffs not far behind.
But you didn’t feel any of that.
You weren’t numb.
You just… weren’t sorry.
You paused by your cubicle, sliding your bag off your shoulder. The seat was exactly how you’d left it. Chair slightly crooked. Pen cap bitten. Coffee mug with your name on it.
Normal.
Except it wasn’t. Because you weren’t.
Your mind should have been reeling. Should have been replaying the sound of his voice breaking, the way he whispered "please" like it was a word he wasn’t used to saying. You should have felt something.
But instead, you just kept thinking the same thing over and over,
If I hadn’t done it to him… he would’ve done it to me.
You could still see it. That glass of wine. The way he watched you drink it. The way he smiled when you swallowed.
The man who was supposed to be your boss, your mentor—your protector, even.
He was going to drug you. Ruin you.
You’d touched yourself to that night.
Not just once—not just idly.
You’d gone to bed Sunday night with your fingers buried between your thighs, cunt throbbing as you remembered how his mouth moved against your pussy. How his cock felt inside you. How warm his cum had been, dripping out of you, smeared across his lips like some kind of sick joke you never wanted to forget.
You moaned his name with your face in the pillow. Came harder than you thought you would.
Not from the memory of sex. But from the power of it. From the fact that it was yours.
So walking into the office Monday, the world quiet and polite, your coworkers buzzing about leftover cake and who got drunk and danced to ‘80s pop hits… it felt like another planet.
Because they didn’t know. No one knew.
And then he walked in.
Bucky Barnes.
Mr. Barnes.
Smiling like a fucking toothpaste commercial, dark hair neatly styled, that familiar rolled-up shirt hugging his forearms, collar open, sleeves cuffed like nothing had changed. Like Saturday night didn’t happen.
He strolled through the rows of desks with a coffee in one hand, nodding at familiar faces, cracking some stupid joke about the party and who should be fired for their dancing. The office laughed.
You just stared.
Because how the fuck could he look so normal?
After what you did to him. After what he tried to do to you.
He passed by your desk with that same effortless swagger and that crooked little grin, and when his eyes met yours—
It was like nothing. Just a nod. A casual, “Morning, sweetheart,” tossed in your direction like usual.
And then he kept walking.
Like he didn’t have your scent still dried on his skin. Like he didn’t remember moaning beneath you. Like he hadn’t filled your cunt with his cum while the camera blinked red.
Your stomach twisted.
Not with fear. With need.
────────────────────────
The note was folded clean, neat, pressed against your keyboard like it had always been there. You spotted it the moment you returned from the break room, coffee still hot in your hand.
Your name wasn’t written on the outside.
But you knew it was for you.
You glanced around—casual, just in case—and unfolded it with a flick of your thumb.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
“Lunch. My office. Door stays locked. You can use me again.”
Your breath hitched. Your thighs pressed together.
And that was when you smiled.
Not polite. Not girlish.
A real smile. A sharp, pleased, wicked thing that curled your lips as you sank into your chair and reread the note like it was a gift.
Because it was.
He remembered.
Not just what you did—but how you did it. And he wanted more.
You looked up at the clock.
11:27.
Too early.
You took a slow sip of your coffee. Tried to focus on your screen. Failed. Every few seconds, your eyes flicked back to the clock, watching the minutes tick down like drops of anticipation sliding down your spine.
11:42.
You shifted in your chair, the seat suddenly too warm, your skin too tight. You crossed your legs, uncrossed them, crossed again.
11:58.
You stood.
Heart steady. Mouth dry. Pussy already wet.
You didn’t say anything to your coworkers. Just grabbed a pen you didn’t need, adjusted your skirt like it mattered, and walked—calm, measured steps—straight toward Mr. Barnes’ office.
You didn’t knock. Didn’t hesitate.
Your hand closed around the door handle. And you smiled again.
Because you knew—just like he did—
This was only the beginning.
Bucky Barnes Taglist:
@xamapolax @gilwm @shereadzzz @princeescalus @onlyheretowastetime @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @holycastoroli @s-sh-ne @Finnickodairslut @macbaetwo @xoxoloverb @ashpeace888 @bethjs-2005 @theewiselionessss @bythecloset @rougettq @herejustforbuckybarnes @deedzreads @novaslov @luminousvenomvagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @avivarougestan @shoutingcardinal @shellsbae00 @sired4urmama @aoi-targaryen @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @fckmebarnes @excusememrbarnes @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @millercontracting @ellierosed18 @buckmybarnes @lilac13 @fayeatheart @c3liaaaaa @ozwriterchick
those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(
I fear I love sleazeball Bucky. Like oh my god, the comment about "I bet your sheets smell just like this"!??! Had me on the floor, right off the bat.
That one scene with reader's coworker being dismissive was so well written. Like I was so frustrated for her!! Also the party scene; all that tension!
The doors slid open. And as they closed behind you both, you finally let your smile fall.
Ooh, chills! Honestly the whole set-up was like riding a rollercoaster in the dark. I kept waiting for the drop, not knowing when it would happen or what it would be like! So much build up and anticipation 😋
Hope that Uber driver wasn't listening in tho 👀😂 What a wild night for that guy.
And what an even wilder night for Bucky... Totally got what was coming to him; this was a fun twist on the whole sleazy boss trope and also on the trying to drug someone trope. #girlboss, subverting expectations left and right 💕 And aaah, the end of the video where she turns to the camera!! Yesss 😋
I was literally on the edge of my seat wondering wtf would happen when they saw each other at the office on Monday morning. But also let's be honest, I knewwwwww he'd be into it and want more because he's a little freak (affectionate)
Thank you for writing!!
all fics are tagged with the name of any canon character(s) that are the focus, as well as the fandom name. plus one or more of the following:
#🌶️smut
#🌸fluff
#💔angst
#🌟favorite
if known, i tag whether the fic is a #drabble, #oneshot or #series, set in #canon universe or #alternate universe, and approximate wordcount, either #<5k words, #5k-10k words, or #>10k words.
i also tend to tag any holidays or personal favorite tropes that are featured in the fic, so that i can find them again easily and you all can search or exclude them as the case may be. common examples include: #halloween, #christmas, #valentine's day, #sex pollen, #only one bed, #pregnancy, #non con, etc.
and finally, i tag each fic with #author: [username] so that they can be filtered that way as well!
