Hey! idk if your requests are open but if they are i have one.
In short, Steddie and Reader have been together for several years. One day, she’s feeling really horny but doesn’t want to tell the guys because she’s a little embarrassed, she’s also a little embarrassed to tell them she wants them to choke her and pull her hair. When they find out, they tease her a little, but eventually they take care of her, and it all ends on a cute note. Thanks!
Awww!!! I haven’t gotten a steddie request in a hot minute this was so nice.
Word count: 0.8k
Warnings: poly, threesome. Established relationship. Slightly suggestive. Hair pulling.
“My poor girl.”
Steve coo’s from behind you. A brush slides down your damp hair, one he controls. You sit between Steve’s legs on the floor so he had a better angle at brushing your hair, Eddie sits off to the side and picks at his guitar. It’s dark outside and the tv is softly playing in the background.
It’s one of those days where you just feel drained. Maybe you cried at work once or twice, just a few frustrated tears. And maybe your skin felt itchy from the anxiety, anxious deadlines creeping up on your back like a giant bug. Wishing you could swat it away but it was too heavy, making your chest tighten and getting harder to breathe.
Metaphor or not it was a rough day. Bad day. Tiring day at work. You probably shouldn’t complain considering both Steve and Eddie have their fair share of responsibilities too. Their own deadlines.
But they take care of you so well. When you almost bawled your eyes out to Eddie about your shitty day he hugged you first, told you to get in the shower and that he’d join you in a minute.
Only to secretly call Harrington and tell him not to skimp out on the ice cream tonight. They both made you feel like a princess.
Steve is brushing your hair because he likes doing it. If Eddie did it he would brush through maybe once or twice before throwing it up in a messy braid. But Steve takes his time, combing through again and again and again until its completely knot free because he knows you like the sensations.
So Steve brushes your hair (for a long time) while Eddie will swoop in later to braid it. Then dinner will be eaten with ice cream after and maybe if you’re lucky the night will end with a bang.
A very moan worthy, breath hitching. Copious amounts of touching bang.
It sounds silly. To want sex after coming home from doing such draining work. But it makes sense in your head, having done all the rough stuff you just want a little bit more— so that when the days over you feel completed.
The brush abruptly snags on a small knot at the bottom and it makes an unattractive sound.
“Oh— sorry honey, that had to hurt.” Steve apologizes quickly; you hum.
“No, not really.”
“What you like it or something?” Eddie teases over his guitar playing. Just wanting to be included.
“What? No! I just— Steve is really gentle and—“
“He’s teasing baby.”
Steve’s thumb rubs your upper arm while his other hand, even more gentle tries to get the tiny knot out.
You like it. You really do. But that gentleness can’t stay forever. Eddie’s teasing words ring in your head. You like it? Maybe.
“If I did like it….?”
Voice barely above a whisper Eddie has to stop playing and Steve leans in to hear you.
“What, the hair pulling or the teasing?”
You shift just a little bit on the carpet. Now both their eyes are on you and you’re admitting something you’ve never voiced before.
Eddie doesn’t like his hair getting pulled. He makes that abundantly clear with how he never lets Steve brush his hair.
Steve only likes his hair getting tugged in the heat of the moment— but lives for head scratches.
None of them particularly like the rough stuff with there scalp. No twisting hair around their hands or using it as a guide. No pulling or tugging. How would they react to you saying this? Their sweet girl.
Heart pounding in your ears it already to late to go back on your words now. If you’d tried Eddie would beg and Steve would say stop, but it would only make you feel guilty because you know he wants to know too.
“The….the hair stuff.”
“You like your hair being pulled?” Eddie’s aghast voice makes you look down in embarrassment. Like he could never imagine someone as weird as liking that.
“Ed’s stop.” Steve chastises and the brush in his hand stills for a moment. “Do you like it baby?”
You shrug; this doesn’t have to be made into a big deal.
“It’s okay if you do.”
Eddie reluctantly agrees with a hum.
“I… I mean I guess. I like the idea of it. No one’s ever really tried before.”
Steve tuts as if to silently say that’s our fault. “Do you want to? Try it?”
Chewing on your bottom lip you think it over. Scalp already itching with anticipation. “We don’t have to try tonight…” although you really want to.
“Well there’s no time like the present is there?” Eddie’s already taking off his guitar and setting it by the tv, grabbing your hand to let you up while Steve puts away the hair supplies.
“Let’s try light okay? roleplay style. I’ll put your hair in two braids then pretend to be the bully in class that likes you. Pulling them to gain your attention.”
“Eddie.” Steve warns again. Too much teasing but you giggle anyway.
“Okay okay. Let’s start with tugging you off while sucking my dick first, geez, he takes the fun outta everything.”
And despite there stupid results you think maybe your bad day will end with a bang.
PAIRING: rockstar!bucky barnes x party girl!reader
WORD COUNT: 297
WARNINGS: fluff, drinking, no use of y/n.
SONG PROMPT: all shook up by elvis presley
LYRICS: “i’m in love.”
NOTE: okay. so. i keep slacking. but i have to get up to date today. this is me hoping i speak it into existence and i don’t get distracted. again.
event masterlist | day nineteen | day twenty-one | m. masterlist
The concert, as always, was electric.
Fans selling out the entire venue, having the time of their lives screaming lyrics back to the band on stage who alwaysplayed every concert like it was their last.
Bucky Barnes, in the media's eyes, was everything a rockstar should be— a reckless, magnetic enigma.
But if only they really knew you.
Sure, they knew who you were. Reduced down to nothing more than a lead rockstar's girlfriend, but that never phased you.
You were electric in your own right.
Vivacious, uninhibited and absolutely, without a doubt, chaos incarnate. A girl who can drink just about anyone under the table, who dances on top of club bars like they own them, who can makes friends with anyone on a whim.
The media would have a field day if they truly cared enough to know you.
"One day, your girl's gonna fall off of one of them bars," Sam shouts to Bucky over the pulsing music of the club their in.
Their band just played another sold-out show in Las Vegas, and this was their reward to themselves. They sat in the VIP section, watching you practically command the nightlife atop the bar. Two other girls have you sandwiched between them, singing, laughing and dancing without a care in the world.
"She'll be fine."
Bucky watches you dance with a whiskey in his hand, sipping it slowly, a smile pulling at his lips.
Sam looks at him and laughs, "You're so gone, man."
The smile morphs into a grin as Bucky leans back in his chair and shrugs, "I'm in love, you should try it sometime!"
He turns his attention back to you, catching you staring from afar, and winks. You giggle, blowing him a kiss in return.
That's his girl.
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kurt’s hands are shaking on the steering wheel even after he parks. his car smells like old fast food and his nervous sweat. the little red recording light on the dash is off tonight-he didn’t even ask if he could film. too scared you’d say no.
you’re in the passenger seat, legs crossed, watching him. he keeps glancing over, then away, licking his lips like he’s about to pitch the ride of a lifetime but can’t find the words. his cheeks are already pink.
“so uh… this is the spot,” he mumbles, voice cracking a little. “quiet. no one around. i come here sometimes when… when i need to think. or whatever.”
you don’t say anything at first. just unbuckle your seatbelt and climb straight into the back seat. kurt’s eyes go wide, following every move.
“come here,” you tell him, he almost trips getting out of the driver seat. climbs into the back after you, all long limbs and awkward elbows, nearly banging his head on the roof. when he sits down his knees are bouncing. you can see the bulge in his jeans already, half-hard just from you existing in his car.
you straddle his lap without warning, settling your weight on him. kurt lets out a shaky breath, hands hovering like he doesn’t know where he’s allowed to touch.
“i… i didn’t think you’d actually-” he starts, but you cut him off.
“i wanna fuck kurt.”
his mouth opens, closes. his cock twitches hard under you. “y-yeah? like… r-right now? in here?”
“right now.” you reach down and palm him through his jeans. he’s already leaking, a small wet spot forming. “you’re nervous.”
“no i’m not,” he lies instantly, voice pitching up. then, quieter, “okay yeah i’m nervous. you’re… you’re really hot and i’m just-”
he stops what he’s saying when you begin to unzip him slowly. his cock springs out, flushed and dripping at the tip, curving slightly up. he’s thicker than he looks in those baggy clothes. kurt hisses when you wrap your hand around him and give one slow stroke.
“fuck-okay. okay. you’re serious,” he whispers, eyes glued to your fingers moving on him. his hips jerk up without permission. “i’ve thought about this. like… a lot. every time you got in the car i had to try not to get hard on stream.”
you push your panties to the side and line him up. kurt’s breathing is already ragged, chest rising fast under his stupid graphic tee.
“wait-! condom?” he squeaks, even as his hands finally land on your waist, fingers digging in like he’s scared you’ll disappear.
“no condom baby,” you say, sinking down on him in one smooth motion.
kurt’s head slams back against the seat, a broken whine ripping out of his throat. “oh my god- oh fuck you’re so warm-so tight-i can’t-m’gonna”
you start moving, rolling your hips slow and deep, taking every inch. he fills you perfectly, stretching you just right. kurt’s eyes are squeezed shut at first, then they fly open, staring at where you’re joined like he can’t believe it’s real.
“look at me,” you tell him.
he does. his face is flushed, lips parted, that pathetic little desperate expression he gets when he’s trying so hard to act cool. one hand slides up under your shirt, thumb brushing your nipple like he’s testing if you’ll let him. when you don’t stop him he gets bolder, squeezing, pinching gently while his other hand grips your ass, trying to help you ride him.
but he’s bad at it. his rhythm is off, too eager, hips stuttering up into you every few thrusts like he can’t control himself. “you feel- you feel so fu-fuucking good,” he pants, voice cracking again. “better than i imagined. i’m sorry i’m-i’m not lasting-i’m trying but you’re riding me so nice and i’ve wanted this for so long-”
you lean down, catch his mouth in a messy kiss. he moans into it, tongue clumsy and hungry, chasing your lips when you pull back. his forehead presses to yours, breath shaky.
“m’not even joking. i’d do anything-fuck-anything you want. just keep-keep using me like this.” he mumbles, half-laughing, half-whining as you grind down harder.
you speed up, bouncing on his cock, the car creaking under you. kurt’s losing it completely now-little punched-out sounds every time you sink down, eyes glassy, cheeks wet at the corners like he might actually cry from how good it feels.
“gonna cum,” he chokes out, panic and pleasure mixing in his voice. “i’m gonna come inside you-is that okay? please say it’s okay i can’t hold it- you’re too perfect a-and-”
“cum for me, kurtie,” and he does, instantly. hips jerking up hard as he spills deep inside you with a loud, broken moan that sounds way too pathetic for the ‘confident’ streamer he pretends to be. his whole body shakes, fingers digging bruises into your hips while he rides it out, whispering “thank you thank you fuck thank you” against your neck like you just gave him the best gift in the world.
after he just wraps his arms around you, hiding his face in your chest, still twitching inside you. his voice is muffled.
“can we… can we do that again sometime? like… a lot? i’ll drive you anywhere. free rides forever. just-just use me whenever you want. please” you stroke his hair and he melts even more, pressing a shy little kiss to your collarbone.
summary: steve wants to know what it’s like to celebrate father’s day
It was no surprised Steve wanted kids – I mean, his six little nugget confession had become a running joke in the group – but as you two got older, things started to speed up and after all the responsibilities as adults came, kids got pushed to the back burner.
It was a surprise when Max and Lucas announced her pregnancy two years after they graduated. They were so young but they were happy and when they had their daughter, Eleanor, everyone fell in love with her. Steve especially.
Today was Lucas’ first father’s day and the group made the plan to spend the day together to celebrate him and his newfound fatherhood. Steve was practically glued to baby Eleanor – he begged Max to help him feed her, burp her and soothe her to sleep. He looked so perfectly content the entire day.
And the minute you two left? He pounced.
It’s well into the evening now – hours have passed since you arrived home and not once have you made it off the bed.
Steve is laying over you, chest to chest, with your legs spread wide for him to settle between. His cock is buried so deep inside you, kissing your cervix with every deep thrust.
You’re a mindless mess underneath him. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, holding him like a lifeline. Your hair is a knotted mess against your pillow, eyes droopy and hooded from borderline exhaustion.
“Fuck you feel s’good, baby,” Steve moans into your ear. His skin feels slippery from the light layer of sweat glistening from it. His hair is wild and damp, undoubtedly tender from the way you’ve tugged on it all night.
You’ve given up on trying to respond verbally and instead let your body do the talking.
Your nails dig into the back of his neck, legs closing and ankles locking around his waist – pulling him deeper into you.
“Shitt,” He whines. His thrusts pick up in speed and he lifts his head from the crook of your neck to look at you. “‘M gonna fill this pretty pussy, yeah?” He breathes.
You nod before you can even fully comprehend him. Right now, you’d give him whatever he asks for.
He smiles down at you. “You’d look so pretty pregnant with my baby. So full of me all the time, everyone would know,”
Your pussy spasms around his cock as he speaks and his hips stutter at the sensation. Your thighs quiver around his waist but you beg for more.
“I would – I would!” You cry out, breath shuddering when the tip of his cock hits that perfect spongey spot inside you
“I know you would, honey,” Steve grunts, thrusting harder as his orgasm approaches. “Can’t wait for it to happen. Can’t wait for you to make me a dad – you’d be such a good mom, baby,”
Every time he opens his mouth, It was obvious his day cosplaying dad got to him.
He’s whining almost incoherently at this point, his cock twitching inside you with every thrust. The room is surrounded with the unmistakable smell of sex and the sound of his skin smacking against yours.
You lift your head to look down at where he connects with you. There’s a white creamy ring around the base of his cock, growing more and more wet the more he thrusts inside you, and your pussy practically drools around him.
You’re both so close it almost hurts.
You look back up at him – A curl hangs over his forehead, his skin flushed and rosy. His lips are parted, soft groans and whines slipping past. His face is twisted in overwhelming pleasure but he does his best to keep his eyes on you.
He’s so fucking beautiful.
“Do it Steve,” You whine, back arching into him. “Make me a mommy, make me yours.”
Almost instantly, your words push him over the edge. His eyes squeeze shut and he pushes himself deep to a hilt inside you – you can feel his cock pulse as warm ropes of cum shoot inside you.
It’s enough to kickstart your own orgasm. Stars cloud your vision and for a few seconds, all sound washes away and all that’s left is Steve. His body, his warmth, his smell, just him.
Steve slams his mouth against yours, swallowing every cry and whine you give him as you ride out your high. Your thighs convulse so hard around him, he uses both palms to squeeze them in place.
You both lay wrapped in each others arms for a few moments as your breathing returns to normal. Steve moves first, gently lifting himself off you and slowly pulling out.
You whimper from the sting of the loss of him and he gently shushes you, planting kisses across the expanse of your ribs and stomach. He kisses a trail down your sternum until he reaches the inside of your thighs.
His warm mouth kisses, sucks, bites along the skin of your thighs – leaving marks in his wake until he’s in eye-line with your pussy. He watches the way his cum begins to leak out of you but before it can slip onto the bed, his hand raises and he scoops his spent in his fingers. Without warning, he slowly begins to fuck his cum back inside you.
You mewl at the intrusion – overstimulation already holding onto you but he doesn’t stop.
“You can take it baby,” Steve murmurs, his index and middle finger pushing in and out of you. “Gotta make sure it sticks, right?”
summary: boundaries blur when real feelings get mixed up, and a comfortable office friendship with keys starts to shift into something far more dangerous; especially since his long term girlfriend works just down the hall.
warnings: smut +18 mdni, cursing, kissing, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex, slight dry humping if you squint, cheating, angst.
wc: 8,5k
author's note: this is for my precious lil ani who gave me the idea, and as usual thanks to juana for proofreading my nonsense. lmao sorry if anyone was expecting more neighbour keys i wanted to change it up, this is just a one shot.
it didn't start as anything big. just a few shared laughs over a broken server branch and an inside joke or two that nobody else in the company understood.
at first, keys was just the brilliant programmer two desks down. the guy who would quietly slide a mug of coffee onto your desk when he saw you rubbing your eyes, never saying much, just giving you a quick nod before heading back to his own monitors.
your friendship was built in the quiet, empty spaces of the office. in the kitchen while waiting for the microwave to beep, or during those late hours of the night when everyone else had gone home, leaving only the two of you to decipher messy lines of code. you became his go-to partner for everything. you were the only person who could actually keep up with his chaotic, fast paced train of thought, taking his raw, unfinished ideas and making them sharper.
it was comfortable. it was easy. it was a harmless office friendship; or at least, that was the lie keys had spent the last six months telling himself.
the truth was much more complicated.
everyone at soonami offices knew keys and millie as the ultimate power couple. they were the genius duo who had built their careers side by side since college, their lives so deeply intertwined that the company practically treated them as a package deal. millie was smart, beautiful, and completely devoted to him. they shared an apartment and a decade's worth of memories. they were a done deal, a perfect algorithm.
but corporate logic didn't account for the way keys' chest would tighten every time you laughed at his stupid jokes. or explain why his fingers always lingered just a fraction of a second too long whenever he handed you a cup of coffee, or why he found himself checking his phone just hoping to see your name pop up on his screen.
over the months, the easy camaraderie had warped into something thick, heavy, and dangerous. the air in his cubicle always felt thirty degrees hotter the moment you leaned over his shoulder to look at his screen, your proximity driving him completely out of his mind.
he was supposed to be the perfect boyfriend, planning a bright future with millie.
you were his coworker, his friend, and the one person who made him want to tear down the perfect life he had spent years building.
the sun was shining through the high ceiling windows of the office common area. the blinding morning light, paired with the constant sound of typing, spinning office chairs, and the overlapping voices of everyone talking, were doing absolutely nothing to help your growing headache.
you checked the time again. the meeting was supposed to start ten minutes ago, yet hardly anyone had even arrived.
you were starting to dissociate, staring at some point on the wall, when you felt a sudden, familiar tap on your shoulder. right beside your face, a big, warm hand appeared, holding up a paper cup of coffee with your exact name scribbled messily on the side.
“here ya’ go,” keys said, flashing you a warm smile.
“what's this for?” you questioned, confused but grateful for the much needed caffeine.
“you sent me a text last night at 4 a.m. asking for the server login password because you locked yourself out again. i figured you stayed up late; therefore, you were going to be cranky this morning.”
“i am not cranky. and how would you know my mood when you just got here,” you tapped your phone screen to show the time, “and late.”
keys gave a smug smile, raising his eyebrow as if to say, ‘see? told you.’
“when someone gets you coffee, you are supposed to say thank you, you know.”
“oh thank you, my savior. what would i do without you,” you said mockingly, rolling your eyes and taking a sip. “how did you remember my order?”
he shrugged, his eyes lingering on yours a fraction of a second too long, tracing the tired lines under your eyes before dropping down to your lips. whatever comeback he had prepared was cut short by millie walking into the office, the click of her heels announcing her arrival before she smoothly greeted keys with a soft kiss on the cheek.
“hi, baby. did you see the text i sent you? you were supposed to look over the budget spreadsheets.”
keys shifted awkwardly, the easy, relaxed posture he had just a second ago instantly vanishing as his shoulders squared up. he cleared his throat, deliberately avoiding your eyes as he looked up at his girlfriend.
“oh, hey, mills,” keys mumbled, his hand instinctively coming up to rub the back of his neck, a nervous habit you knew all too well. “uh, yeah, sorry. my phone was on silent during the drive. i’ll look at it right now.”
millie smiled, completely oblivious, and rested her hand on his shoulder. “perfect. don't forget, okay? anyway, let's get this meeting started. i want to leave early today.”
as everyone finally trickled into the conference room, you deliberately took a seat on the opposite side of the long glass table, trying to put as much distance between you and keys as possible. he sat directly across from you, with millie right by his side, her laptop open as she took the lead on the presentation.
it was a standard corporate update, but your headache made it feel like torture. you took a slow sip of the coffee keys had bought you, keeping your eyes on your notebook.
then, the project manager started droning on about a budget issue that you and keys had literally fixed two days ago.
you couldn't help it. you looked up.
keys was already staring at you. the moment your eyes met, he gave you a subtle, barely perceptible roll of his eyes, dropping his pen onto his notebook in a synchronized show of mutual exhaustion. a small, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of your lips, and you quickly bit the inside of your cheek to hide it.
the project manager kept speaking, seamlessly presenting the slides while everyone nodded along, completely unaware of the silent conversation happening right across the table.
you saw keys' hand move beneath the edge of the glass surface, his thumb tapping quickly against his screen before setting it down.
a second later, your phone buzzed in your lap.
keys: if i have to hear one more bullet point from that slide be read word for word, im going to fake a medical emergency
you bit your lip so hard it hurt, trying to choke back a laugh. keeping your phone hidden under the table, your thumbs flew across the keyboard.
you: please do
you: ill call 911
you: whats ur symptom?
you looked up just in time to see keys check his screen. his jaw tightened, a low, suppressed huff escaping his nose that he quickly disguised as a cough. millie glanced at him briefly, offering him a quick, sweet smile as she reached down to hand him a bottle of water. keys took it, murmuring a quiet thanks, but his focus immediately snapped back to you across the room. his eyes narrowed in a playful challenge.
keys: extreme boredom leading to cardiac arrest
keys: u will have to give me cpr
you: sorry, im not certified…
you: ill just steal your coffee while ur down
across the table, keys let out a tiny, silent laugh, his shoulders shaking slightly. he didn't even look at his screen this time, his thumbs moving by pure muscle memory as he kept his eyes locked on you.
keys: cold blooded
keys: and after i bought u your specific ridiculous order?
keys: i see how it is.
you bit your lip, your heart doing a little dance as you tapped out your reply.
you: hey!
you: i didnt ask u to buy it
you: were u thinking of me that much…
the moment you hit send, you kept your eyes glued to him. you watched him look down at his lap. the playful smirk he had been sporting slowly vanished, replaced by a sudden stillness. his jaw set. when he looked back up across the table, the teasing, casual facade was entirely gone.
keys: maybe.
your breath hitched, your thumb freezing over the screen. you hadn't expected him to just admit it. not here. not with millie literally sitting right next to him, her hand casually brushing against his arm as she pointed at a graph on the projector screen.
a sudden wave of panic and intense self-consciousness washed over you. the playful bubble you had been in just popped, leaving you feeling exposed and incredibly guilty in the brightly lit room.
forcing your eyes away from his suffocating gaze, you hurriedly clicked the power button on your phone, turning the screen black. you flipped the device face down onto your thigh beneath the table, hiding it from view as if the text message could somehow be read by the rest of the room.
you cleared your throat softly, trying to shake the sudden flush creeping up your neck, and forced yourself to sit up straighter. clutching your pen tightly, you fixed your eyes firmly on the projector screen, nodding along to whatever budget metric someone was going on about. you didn't look back at keys as you did your absolute best to blend into the background, desperately pretending you were just another attentive employee.
“i told you, no matter which buttons i press, the characters keep getting stuck on the far wall. must be something with the colliders,” you said, throwing your hands up in pure frustration.
“it can't be,” keys replied from the desk directly across from yours, squinting at his dual monitors. “i already went over the physics a thousand times. there's gotta be something else we are not seeing.”
“i don't know about you, but this is not how i planned to spend my friday night.”
it was already late, and the only sounds left on the entire office floor were the hum of the servers and the frantic clicking coming out of your small cubicle. everyone else had clocked out long ago. now, you two were the only ones stupid enough to be working at 9 p.m. on a friday night.
“well, it's not like we have a choice,” keys said, groaning as he leaned back. “if we don't get this build done, antwan is going to kill us both on monday.”
“can we at least take a break? my eyes are burning and i don't even remember the last time i ate.”
keys sighed, rubbing a heavy hand over his face. the blue light of his screen caught the tired lines around his eyes. “yeah, alright. i’m hungry too. i can order something. pizza good for you?”
you nodded and stood up immediately to stretch your legs. “would it kill them to buy some fucking ergonomic chairs? jesus christ, my back is killing me,” you muttered, arching your spine and reaching your arms toward the ceiling.
keys chuckled, his eyes tracing the line of your body for a second before he quickly looked down at his phone. “they can’t do that, that would mean treating us as actual human beings. pizza should be here in twenty. meanwhile, can you show me the bug again?”
you walked back to your desk and sat down. keys followed, stepping into your cubicle to stand right behind your chair.
“see, i start walking, do a few jumps, then bamn, glued to the wall.” you turned around to face him, raising an eyebrow.
he leaned down, caging you against the desk. he placed one hand on the edge of your desk and the other on the armrest of your chair, his head now hovering right over your shoulder. he was entirely too close. you could smell the faint scent of mint and the coffee from earlier. you couldn't help but notice how his glasses were hanging low on the bridge of his nose, and his lips looked a bit dry, probably from chewing on them all afternoon.
“do that again,” he murmured.
“what?” you swallowed, your throat suddenly dry.
“do that again. i wanna see exactly which buttons you're pressing,” he jerked his chin toward the keyboard, his breath brushing against the side of your neck.
“right. um. i go this way, i turn around, and-”
keys suddenly burst out laughing, the heavy tension breaking instantly.
you frowned, completely confused. “what's wrong?”
“oh my god,” he stepped back, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head. “we forgot to enable that zone after the beta test. we've been stuck here all day for something so stupid. i can fix that in a minute.”
you leaned back into your seat, letting out a massive sigh of relief. “great. so we can go home now.”
“wait, the pizza is about to get here. shouldn't we at least eat it?”
“i don't know, you can just take it with you.”
“i’m not going to eat a full pizza by myself.”
“then take it and share it with millie?”
“right… millie”
you paused, noticing the sudden shift in his expression. his posture stiffened again.
“what? trouble in paradise?”
“no, i mean… we just kinda argued before she left today.”
the conversation was cut short by the sharp buzzing of the intercom downstairs. the delivery guy was here. keys gave a small, tight nod and turned to take the elevator down.
meanwhile, you started to tidy up your desk, shutting down your monitors and getting ready to finally leave.
when you were shoving your laptop into your bag, keys came back into the room holding a cardboard box. “you sure you don't wanna share?”
you wanted to say no. you knew you had to say no. but it was late, and you knew the refrigerator in your apartment was completely empty. staying meant free food, but it also meant more time alone with him in the dark. your stomach made a loud, rumbling sound, making the choice for you.
“fine, sure. but i can't sit on these chairs for a minute longer,” you said, walking toward the employee lounge where the comfortable breakroom couches were.
you led the way to the employee lounge, dropping your bag onto the floor and sinking into the big, plush couch in the corner. the dim, warm overhead lights of the lounge felt like heaven compared to the harsh fluorescent glow of your cubicle.
keys followed you in, setting the steaming pizza box down on the low coffee table in front of you before sitting right next to you. the couch dipped under his weight, shifting you just an inch closer to him than you anticipated.
“god, this is so much better,” you sighed, resting your head back against the cushions and closing your eyes for a brief second.
“told you,” keys said softly. you opened your eyes to find him already looking at you, his glasses off now, sitting on the table next to the box. without them, his eyes looked softer, tired, and entirely too focused on your face.
he opened the box, the rich scent of cheese filling the small room. he handed you a slice on a napkin, his fingers brushing against yours. his touch lingered for a fraction of a second, sending a quiet hum of static straight up your arm.
you both ate in silence for a few minutes, the initial awkwardness melting away into the easy comfort you always shared.
“sooo,” you started carefully, taking a small bite of your crust. “you and millie. do you want to talk about it?”
keys paused, staring down at his pizza slice. he let out a low, heavy sigh and leaned back, mimicking your posture. “it’s nothing new. just… the same old thing. she’s talking about moving into a bigger place closer to downtown, looking at floor plans, talking about the next five years. and i’m just…” he trailed off, his jaw tightening.
“and you’re not ready?” you asked softly, turning your head to look at him profile-side.
keys turned his head too. the distance between you felt incredibly small. “it’s not that i’m not ready. it’s that when she talks about the future, it feels like she’s reading from a script we wrote three years ago. and i don't think i want to play that character anymore.”
his voice was dangerously quiet. his eyes dropped to your lips, then traveled slowly back up to meet your gaze. there was an admission in his words, a confession beyond what he was letting on.
the silence stretched between you, thick and heavy with everything neither of you was brave enough to say out loud. keys' hand was resting on the cushion between you, just inches away from your thigh. you could feel the heat radiating from him.
you wanted to reach out. you wanted to close the gap.
but before either of you could move, keys suddenly blinked, as if snapping himself out of a trance. the heavy, intense look in his eyes instantly fractured. he looked away, clearing his throat and rubbing a hand over his face.
“anyway,” keys muttered, his voice suddenly tight as he stood up, abruptly cutting off the moment. “it's late. we should probably get out of here before they lock the garage.”
the cold air rushed into the space he left behind. you swallowed the lump in your throat, nodding quickly as you grabbed your bag. “right. yeah, let’s go.”
the neon lights of the bar were dim, casting a heavy, reddish glow over the crowded room. the bass from the speakers vibrated straight through the floorboards, mixing with the loud chatter of the soonami team celebrating the successful deployment of the new build.
you were leaning against the wooden counter of the bar, holding a half empty drink laughing at a story the lead designer was telling you.
keys was sitting at a large booth across the bar, surrounded by some of the project managers and corporate leads. millie was right beside him, her hand resting comfortably on his knee, laughing as she chatted with one of them.
since you got there, you couldn't help but fixate on the way they were always glued to each other. they always seemed to be too close somehow, even if it was something as small as touching shoulders or the familiar way she leaned her head against him.
you couldn't understand exactly why it was irking you so much. yet you couldn't take your eyes away from it, as if you could somehow force it to move by sheer willpower. the lead designer by your side kept talking non stop, but you weren't listening anymore. you were just nodding along mindlessly, letting his words turn into pure white noise.
what you didn't notice was that keys wasn't paying attention to his conversation either. his beer was gripped so tightly in his hand his knuckles were turning white. and every time you laughed, every time the guy leaned in closer to you, keys' jaw would tighten, his eyes narrowing as he tracked every single movement from across the dim bar.
when he laughed and casually placed a hand on your shoulder, keys abruptly stood up from the booth. millie blinked, looking up at him in surprise as her hand fell from his knee. “hey, where are you going?” she asked over the noise.
“just getting another drink, mills,” keys mumbled, his voice tight as he stepped out of the booth without waiting for her reply.
you noticed him moving toward the bar, and a sudden spike of adrenaline shot through your chest. needing to escape the sudden, suffocating shift in the air, you excused yourself from the designer and headed toward the quieter, narrow hallway near the back exits and the restrooms.
the hallway was poorly lit, the noise of the bar instantly muffling into a dull hum. you took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart, when a heavy shadow blocked the light from the entrance.
you turned around, your back pressing against the wallpapered wall as keys stepped into the narrow space, effectively cutting off your escape.
“are you having fun?” keys asked, his voice low.
you blinked, swallowing hard as you looked past his broad shoulders toward the main room.
“what are you doing here? millie is going to wonder where you are.”
“i don’t care about that right now,” he muttered, taking another step forward.
you could smell the faint scent of alcohol and the mint chewing gum. his glasses were reflecting the dim red light, his eyes dark and completely unblinking as they dropped down to your lips before locking back onto yours.
“what are you doing, keys? seriously,” you whispered, your hands flat against his chest to keep him from going any closer, though you could feel the heavy, rapid thud of his heart under your palms. “someone is going to see you.”
“i noticed you’ve had four drinks since we got here,” keys said, ignoring your warning completely, “and i noticed that guy from design hasn’t left your side once.”
you let out a shaky, defensive laugh, “he was just telling me a story. we were just talking.”
“he was hovering,” keys countered, his voice tight, laced with a quiet frustration. “he saw you were tipsy and he was entirely too close, he was looking for an excuse to put his hands on you.”
“keys, he was just being friendly,” you hissed back, your face starting to flush. you looked at his broad shoulders, then past him toward the entrance of the hallway, “and why do you even care? you don't get to monitor my drinks, and you definitely don't get to look after me like this.”
“someone has to,” keys said softly.
your breath hitched, your throat locking up.
“keys...” you whispered, your fingers involuntarily tightening against the fabric of his jacket. “stop. go back to the booth. millie is waiting for you.”
before either of you could move, the heavy door to the hallway creaked open, and the loud laugh of a coworker echoed into the space.
reality slammed back into the room. keys instantly stiffened, stepping back a full foot and running a hand through his hair as he looked away from you.
“uh, sorry,” the coworker muttered, passing by to the restrooms.
keys kept his back turned to you for a second, his shoulders tense as he let out a shaky breath. without looking back at you, he cleared his throat roughly.
“i’m going back outside,” he muttered, his voice cold and strained as he walked out of the hallway.
the storm had been brewing all afternoon, and by the time you finally packed up your things to leave the office, torrential rain slammed against the glass windows of the lobby, turning the streetlights outside into a blurry mess.
you stood near the glass exit doors, pulling your jacket tighter around your shoulders as you looked at your phone. the uber rates kept going up, and the app was unable to find a driver willing to drive through the downpour. you let out a defeated sigh, preparing yourself to just sprint through the freezing rain.
“hey.”
you jumped slightly, turning around to see keys walking up behind you. his laptop bag was slung over one shoulder, his hair was a little messy and his glasses sitting slightly crooked on his nose.
“hey,” you murmured, your throat suddenly feeling tight.
keys looked past you, squinting at the sheet of water cascading off the building. “you’re not seriously going to walk in this, are you?”
“uber is completely dead,” you said, shrugging weakly and gesturing to your screen. “i don't really have a choice. my apartment isn't that far anyway.”
keys frowned, his jaw tightening slightly. he checked his phone, then looked back at you, a strange, tense conflict flitting across his features. you knew millie had left early today to go visit her parents for the weekend, leaving him with the apartment all to himself.
“i’ll drive you,” keys said, his voice dropping into that quiet, firm tone he used when he wasn't going to take no for an answer.
“keys, no, it’s fine, i can-”
“i’m not letting you walk through a storm at 10 p.m.,” he interrupted, stepping past you and pushing the glass door open. “come on, my car is right in the first row of the lot.”
the run to his car was a blur of freezing rain and splashing puddles. by the time you slammed the passenger door shut, both of you were breathless and damp, the sudden warmth of the vehicle's interior hitting your skin. the heavy thudding of the rain against the roof immediately isolated you from the rest of the world, wrapping the small cabin in a intimate silence.
keys started the engine, shifting the heater to high. the vents began to hum loudly, blowing warm air that instantly started to fog up the windows. he threw his bag into the back seat and ran a hand through his damp hair, shaking off the water.
“thanks,” you whispered, buckling your seatbelt and staring straight ahead at the blurred windshield.
“don't worry about it,” he muttered, his voice tight as he shifted the car into drive and slowly pulled out of the parking lot.
the first half of the drive was agonizingly quiet. the only sounds were the steady, rhythmic clicking of the windshield wipers and the heavy downpour outside. keys kept both hands tightly gripped on the steering wheel, his eyes focused entirely on the flooded road ahead.
“um, so… any big plans tonight?” you asked, trying to ease the tension.
“if you consider catching up on hours of sleep big plans,” he shrugged, a faint trace of his usual relaxed self peaking through the tight set of his jaw.
“wow, living on the edge, keys. don't party too hard,” you teased, leaning your head back against the headrest and turning to look at his profile.
he let out a low, dry chuckle, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror before settling back on the dark road. “hey, after dealing with antwan's erratic change of requirements all afternoon, a quiet bedroom and zero monitors is all i need. what about you? going to try and lock yourself out of the servers again?”
“that was one time,” you groaned, rolling your eyes but unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips. “and for your information, i plan on doing absolutely nothing. just eating leftover takeout and watching whatever trashy show is trending.”
“sounds fun,” he murmured, his tone finally softening, slipping back into that familiar, easy rhythm you two always had. he relaxed his grip on the wheel a fraction, the heavy silence from before completely melting away.
after a few more blocks and the easy back and forth, keys pulled up to the curb outside your apartment building, shifting the vehicle into park but keeping the engine running. the street outside was completely deserted, save for the soft glow of a single streetlight cutting through the sheet of rain.
the comfortable bubble you had just built suddenly popped, replaced instantly by a thick, suffocating weight. you turned your head to look at him, your heart starting to hammer violently against your ribs as you realized the drive was over.
“well... thank you for the ride, keys. i’ll see you on monday.”
you reached for the door handle, but before your fingers could even touch it, keys’ hand shot out across the console. his fingers wrapped around your wrist, his grip firm, warm, and slightly trembling.
you froze, your breath hitching.
“wait,” keys whispered, his voice rough.
you slowly turned your face back to him. he had turned his body in the driver's seat, his eyes dark, intense, and completely stripped of his usual composure. he looked desperate. his gaze dropped down to your lips, and you could see his chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths.
“she called me before i left the office,” he muttered. “she wanted to check in. tell me about her drive. talk about that apartment downtown again.”
you swallowed hard, your chest aching at the familiar topic, you didn't need to ask who he was talking about, “and?”
“and i couldn't do it,” keys confessed, his thumb tracing a tiny, subconscious circle over the pulse point of your wrist. the raw honesty in his tone was suffocating. “i spent the whole phone call giving her one word answers because the only thing i could focus on was the fact that you were still on the fourth floor, and that it was pouring rain, and i couldn't let you walk home alone.”
“keys, don't-”
“i tried, alright?” he interrupted, his voice cracking slightly as he leaned closer. his free hand came up, his fingers brushing against your damp cheek, his touch so warm it made you shiver. “i’ve been trying for months to pretend like everything is fine, like things are still the same with her. but they’re not. she keeps leaving on the weekends… she leaves me alone in that apartment, and i don't even care because the only person i want to see, the only person i want to talk to... is you.”
you swallowed the lump in your throat, he looked so agonizingly torn.
“i’m so tired of pretending,” keys whispered, his face now inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin.
“keys...” you breathed, the sound of his name breaking whatever last shred of control he had left.
he let go of your wrist only to wrap both of his large hands around your jaw, pulling you fiercely towards him. his mouth crashed against yours with a desperate urgency that knocked the wind right out of your lungs.
the kiss was anything but gentle; you let out a soft, muffled whimper against his mouth, but you didn't pull away. instead, your fingers buried themselves into the collar of his damp jacket, anchoring him to you as his tongue parted your lips.
he groaned deep in his throat, a low, desperate sound that vibrated straight into your chest. his hands slid down from your jaw, his grip bruising as his fingers dug into your waist, lifting you effortlessly over the dividers of the center console. before your brain could register the shift, you were tangled entirely in his lap on the driver’s seat.
the space was impossibly tight. your knees framed his hips, your jacket rustling against his, and your back pressed hard against the steering wheel.
keys’ hands made his way under your sweater, his palms hot and slightly rough against the bare skin of your waist. he yanked you down flush against him, and you could feel the thick, hard length of his erection pressing tightly through his jeans right against your core.
the friction was agonizingly perfect. you shifted your hips instinctively, rolling against him to find a rhythm, and keys let out a choked, broken gasp into your neck. his teeth bit lightly at the sensitive skin right beneath your jaw, his hips rolling up to meet yours. the windows were entirely fogged now, completely blocking out the rain and the dark street.
but then, keys’ phone suddenly lit up in the cup holder right beside your leg.
the bright, glare of the screen cut through the darkness of the car. millie flashed in bold, white letters, accompanied by a picture of her smiling.
keys froze. his lips stopped moving against your neck, his chest heaving violently against yours.
for three agonizing seconds, the car was silent except for the heavy drumming of the rain and his ragged breathing. you looked down at him, your hands still tangled in his hair. he stared at the phone, then slowly looked up at you. his face was pale, his eyes wide behind his glasses. the realization of what he was doing slammed into him like ice water.
“oh god,” keys breathed, his voice cracking, looking physically sick with himself.
he immediately dropped his hands from your waist, his palms pressing against your shoulders to gently but firmly push you off his lap. his hands were shaking uncontrollably as he helped you navigate back over the center console and into your own seat, his breath coming in shallow, panicked hitches.
“keys...” you started, your voice trembling, your body shivering from the sudden loss of heat.
“i can't. i’m sorry, i- i can't,” he stammered, completely backing down. he wouldn't even look at you now, his eyes pinned to the steering wheel as he gripped it with white knuckles, his chest heaving. “you need to go. please. just... go.”
without saying another word and the sudden humiliation making your eyes sting, you grabbed your bag from the floor, unlocked the door, and stepped out into the pouring rain, slamming the car door shut behind you.
ever since that night, things had been incredibly strained between you two. you had both avoided each other’s eyes in meetings, reverting back to short, strictly professional emails.
you had even asked to change desks, using the lame excuse of some monitor not working properly. to admit it, you were a bit paranoid that keys had told millie what happened in the car. but a week had already passed, and nothing seemed to change in their dynamic. having moved to a completely different section of the office floor meant you barely even saw them anymore, and you were incredibly grateful for that. you needed the distance to breathe.
it was another stressful morning. you were trying to fix a code loop on the game that had been driving you crazy all day, your eyes straining against the screen, when you felt your phone vibrate against the desk.
keys: can u come down to the servers room
your heart did a sudden, nervous flip. you stared at the text before putting the phone back down, face down. you tried to convince yourself he had probably sent it to the wrong person. it had to be a mistake.
then, it buzzed again. twice.
keys: i need ur help with something
keys: urgent
your thumbs hovered over the screen.
you: help with what?
keys: just come here
you: cant u ask someone else?
you: im pretty busy rn
keys: it will be quick
keys: please
letting out a deep sigh, you finally stood up and headed toward the elevators. your hands were slightly clammy, and your mind was racing with every worst case scenario. you just wanted to get whatever this was over with, so you could go back to avoiding him in peace.
the server room was located in the basement of the building, a place nobody went unless something was seriously broken. you stepped inside, the metal door hadn't even closed properly when keys greeted you, slamming his palm against the heavy frame to trap you, backing you up against the hard surface and instantly guiding his lips to yours.
it was an all too familiar rhythm, fierce and desperate, crashing into you before you could even process what had just happened. the absolute shock of it held you frozen for a split second as his mouth moved against yours, hot and demanding. then, reality slammed back in, and you placed both hands firmly against his chest, shoving him off you.
“what the hell is wrong with you?!” you yelled, your voice echoing sharply in the room. you threw your hands up in the air, your chest heaving from the sudden burst of panic and anger.
keys didn't respond immediately. instead, he just stood there staring at you, his chest rising and falling in heavy, ragged breaths. his dark hair was messy, and his eyes were wide, completely stripped of that cool composure he usually carried.
“what kind of sick game are you playing?” you demanded, the sting of how he had left you in the car a week ago fueling the fire in your throat.
“it's not a game,” keys said, his voice rough and incredibly low.
“then what the fuck is this?”
“i don't know,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly, his fists clenching at his sides. “but it's not a game. i swear.”
“it feels like it,” you sighed in pure, exhausting frustration, rubbing a hand over your face before glaring back up at him. “what are you doing now? you were the one to back down the other day. you were the one who practically threw me out of your car!”
“i know.”
“do you have any idea how i felt after that? how humiliating that was?”
he shook his head, looking down at the concrete floor for a fraction of a second before locking his pleading eyes back onto yours. “i’m sorry. i’m so sorry. that never should have happened like that. it was wrong, and i panicked, but...” he swallowed hard, taking a small step closer. “but i don't regret it.”
your brows furrowed in complete confusion, your mind racing to keep up with his whiplash. “what?”
“i thought after that... i thought if it finally happened, i could just get it out of my system and move on,” keys confessed, his voice trembling slightly with a terrifying level of honesty. he stepped closer again, completely crowding you against the metal door, the heat radiating off him fighting the freezing air of the basement. “but i can't. i can't stop thinking about it.”
you stared at him, breathless.
“do you have any idea how many times i’ve touched myself to that memory over the past few days?” keys asked, the filters completely gone from his brain now. he looked agonizingly frustrated, his jaw tight as he let out a bitter, self deprecating breath. “a concerning amount. a completely fucked up amount. i close my eyes and all i can feel is you on my lap, the way you tasted, the way you looked at me. i’m losing my mind here.”
“i just don't get it, keys,” you whispered, your anger suddenly melting into confusion. your heart was beating so hard you could hear it in your ears. “what are you doing? what do you even want?”
“you,” keys said instantly, without a single second of hesitation. he stepped into your space, his face inches from yours. “i want you.”
“but you are with millie,” you stated, the name landing between you like a physical barrier.
“god, i know that, but-”
“did you end things with her?” you interrupted, your voice turning sharp, demanding the one answer that actually mattered.
keys froze. his mouth parted slightly, but no sound came out. the silence stretched between you, broken only by the whirring fans of the servers.
“no,” he finally whispered.
you let out a short, bitter chuckle, the stinging disappointment hitting you right in the chest. you shook your head, your eyes burning as you reached sideways for the door handle. “goodbye, keys.”
“stop.” in one swift motion, he stepped even closer, his large hands shooting out to press flat against the cold metal door on either side of your head, caging you in completely. his broad shoulders blocked out the rest of the room. “you can't just walk out. you can't deny you want this too. you think i don't notice the way you look at me? you think i didn't feel the way you kissed me back in that car?”
you swallowed hard, your throat completely dry. your back was flat against the door, your eyes locked onto his dark, desperate gaze behind his glasses.
“tell me to stop,” keys whispered, his voice cracking with a raw, bleeding vulnerability. he leaned down, his forehead almost resting against yours, his breath hot and uneven against your lips. “tell me you don't want this. tell me you don't want me. say it, and i swear to god i’ll walk out that door right now and i will never bring this up again.”
you opened your mouth to speak, to say the words that would save you both, to say the name millie one more time and end the madness. but the words got caught in your throat. you looked at his parted lips, at the desperate, pleading look in his eyes, and you couldn't do it. the lie wouldn't come out.
you swallowed, staring up at him in helpless silence. and in the quiet, freezing room, your silence was answer enough.
this time you initiated the kiss.
you reached up, your fingers tangling into the hood of his sweatshirt to pull him down, burying your mouth against his before your brain could find another reason to hesitate. a low, broken sound escaped keys’ throat as he locked his arms around you, lifting you slightly off the floor to press your lower back harder against the cold metal door.
his tongue parted your lips with a heavy, demanding familiarity, tasting like the strong coffee he’d been drinking all morning. his hands dropping from the door to grip your thighs, guiding your legs to wrap tightly around his waist. you clung to his shoulders for balance, your chest pressing flush against his as he drove you back against the door.
he didn't wait. he didn't care about being gentle anymore.
his hips slammed up against yours, and a sharp gasp was choked out of your throat and straight into his mouth as the hard length of his erection locked perfectly against your center. keys let out a ragged breath against your lips, shifting his grip to your hips, holding you down against him while his lower body grinded against yours in a desperate rhythm.
he shifted, his lower body rolling against yours with a heavy friction that had you arching your back, a breathless moan slipping past your lips. keys caught the sound with his own mouth, kissing you, his hips moving faster.
without breaking the kiss, keys hooked his hands under your thighs and lifted you completely. he carried you down until he reached the small desk at the far side of the wall. with a sweep of his arm, he knocked some papers onto the floor to make space.
he set you down on the edge of the high desk, pressing your thighs wide apart as he stepped right between them. his hands were trembling slightly now as he reached for your zipper, his eyes locking onto yours behind his glasses, completely consumed by you. in one swift, desperate motion, he pushed your clothes out of the way, the freezing air of the server room hitting your bare skin for a split second before his large, burning palm completely erased it.
keys’ fingers slid down, finding your center, and a sharp gasp broke from your lips when you felt his warm touch. his fingers moved with a purpose, tracing over your wetness before sliding one, then two fingers deep inside you. you arched off the cold table instantly, your hands gripping his shoulders as he began to pace his fingers into you, finding a fast rhythm that matched the frantic beating of your heart.
“keys- god,” you whined, your head tossing back.
he didn't let you breathe, kissing you to stifle your cries while his thumb pressed hard against your clit. you were stretching around his fingers, slick and tight, and keys let out a low, ragged growl into your throat, his fingers pushing deeper, moving faster until your hips were rolling against his palm to chase the ache.
knowing you were completely ready and soaked for him, was what finally broke his last shred of sanity.
he pulled his hand out, which made you let out a weak whimper of protest. then he didn't waste another second. his knuckles brushed against your bare skin as he unbuttoned his jeans with a frantic rush.
he freed his impressive length from his underwear. you had already felt how much he was packing back in the car, but experiencing it now in the raw light of the room was completely different; you honestly hadn't expected him to be that big. the sight of him made your throat go completely dry.
his fingers wrapped around his base and he stroked himself a few times. his eyes stayed locked onto yours behind his glasses, watching your reaction. then stepped even closer, until the heat of his skin was pressing right against your soaking center.
he drove himself inside you in one deep, heavy thrust.
a loud, breathless gasp caught in your throat, your head slamming back against the metal rack behind the desk. keys groaned out loud, his eyes closing tight as his hands gripped your hips so hard his fingers left marks.
he didn't wait. he couldn't. keys began to move, his pace fast and deep, his hips slamming against yours. the desk rattled with every thrust, the cold metal biting into your lower back, but you barely felt it. you were completely focused on him, your fingers tangling into his hair, your nails digging into the skin of his neck as you matched his frantic pace.
keys leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged as he let out low, broken whimpers with every push. his tongue tasted your skin, his teeth biting lightly at your collarbone, sending waves of pure electricity straight down your spine.
the friction was overwhelming, the intensity building so fast in the freezing room that the air felt thick with the scent of heat and sweat. you locked your ankles behind his back, pulling him even deeper, your own voice breaking into loud moans that keys kept catching with his mouth.
“keys… please,” you cried out against him, your fingers gripping his shoulders so hard your nails dug into his skin through his sweatshirt.
he let out a low groan, his hips rolling into yours, hitting your sweet spot over and over again. “tell me,” he mumbled against your lips, his voice dropping into a commanding register you’d never heard from him before. “tell me how it feels. tell me you’ve been wanting this as much as i have.”
“i have,” you gasped, your head tossing back against the metal rack. “god, keys, yes...”
“i knew it,” he muttered, his breath hot against your ear as his teeth grazed the sensitive skin of your jawline. “ you’re so tight for me, love... you’re so wet.”
“you’re mine,” keys choked out against your lips, his voice raw, rough, and completely stripped of his usual control. “god, you’re all i can think about. day and night... it’s always been you. fuck everyone else. you’re the only one i want.”
the admission shattered whatever restraint you both had left, but keys didn't let you fall over the edge just yet. he held your hips pinned against the table, delivering three more slow, agonizingly deep thrusts that made your vision go blurry.
“look at me,” he gasped, his voice trembling as he forced himself to pull back just enough to lock his eyes onto yours. “let me see you take it. take all of it for me.”
you stared back at him, breathless.
with one last, powerful surge of his hips, a suffocating wave of pure heat crashed over you. your insides clamped down around him, and you let out a sharp cry, your body arching completely off the table as your orgasm ripped through you.
hearing your sounds, feeling you squeeze him so intensely, was the final trigger for keys.
he let out a ragged moan, his hips locking desperately against yours as he came inside you. his entire body went completely rigid, his muscles straining and his length pulsing deeply within your core. keys buried his face in your hair, his fingers digging into your waist with a bruising grip as he rode out the waves of his own release.
for a long, agonizingly quiet minute, the only sound was your heavy, combined breathing. keys stayed buried inside you, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his chest heaving violently.
the intense heat in the room begins to fade, and the freezing air of the basement slowly creeps back in, chilling the sweat on your bare skin.
keys doesn't move. he doesn't pull away immediately. instead, he lets out a long, shaky exhale against your neck that feels terrifyingly weak. then slowly, very slowly, he pulls his head back to look at you.
the desperate, unhinged look in his eyes is completely gone, replaced by a hollow, quiet exhaustion. his glasses are fogged up and sitting crooked on his nose. he reaches up with a trembling hand, takes them off, and sets them blindly on the desk beside you. without them, his eyes look wide and completely exposed.
he looks at your swollen lips, at the marks his fingers are leaving on your thighs, and then he looks down at his own hand, specifically at the finger where the shadow of his life with millie hangs.
the reality of what they had just done settles over him.
“keys?” you whisper, your voice cracking in the quiet room. your hands are still resting on his broad shoulders, but he suddenly feels a million miles away.
he doesn't answer. he gently, almost robotically, pulls himself out of you. the sudden loss of his warmth makes you shiver violently on the edge of the cold table. keys keeps his eyes pinned to the floor as he fixes his clothes, his movements slow and stiff, as if he is trying to put a fractured version of himself back together.
when he finally looks back up at you, his face is deathly pale. there is no anger, and there are no excuses. just a profound, heartbreaking defeat.
“i can't look at her,” keys whispers, his voice so quiet it is almost swallowed by the whirring of the server fans. he lets out a bitter, breathy laugh that sounds closer to a sob, running a hand over his face. “god... i have to go back upstairs, and i have to sit next to her, and i... i don't even know how i'm going to look her in the eye.”
the words sting, a sharp injection of reality that makes your throat tighten with immediate humiliation.
“keys...”
“i’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice breaking completely. he picks up his glasses from the desk, his hands shaking so hard he can barely slip them back over his ears. he looks at you one last time, his eyes wide, “i’m so fucking sorry.”
he doesn't wait for you to answer. he doesn't offer to help you down. keys just turns around and walks away, his boots heavy and slow against the concrete, before pushing the heavy metal door open and stepping out.
the door slams shut behind him with, leaving you alone in the freezing room, shivering on top the table with the ghost of him still burning inside you.
summary: ever since the military shut down hawkins, you and steve haven’t cared much to try and find protection, and you never thought much of it. until you started feeling off and murray brings you a pregnancy test
warnings: mdni, smut, unprotected piv, angst, mentions of pregnancy, thigh riding, fluff, swearing, oral(f!receiving), vauge hints at byler(bc i can’t help myself), semi public?, thumb sucking, dry humping ig?
wc: 1.9k
notes: of course, you guessed it, el doesn’t die in this one because i can’t handle that😭 and jancy is a thing, ftw
masterlist
ever since the military quarantine, you had nothing to do. and it was incredibly difficult to get condoms, so a lot of the times you guys just risked it for the biscuit
not the best idea but hey, what’s the worst that could happen?
you had been pent up all day. all of the stress from the events recently had you going crazy, and it didn't help that you were ovulating, and you needed steve so bad. but you were at the squak, you didn’t have any condoms
but of course, steve can always tell when you need something. so when everyone's bickering over plans, he pulls you aside
“what’s up with you baby? you’ve been actin’ weird all morning” he says as he closes the storage room door behind him
“stevie, need you so much” you whine "baby, everyone's outside” he whispers, cupping your cheek. you look up at him with those doe eyes he can’t resist. he pulls away and locks the door, moving over and he sitting on a table, patting his thigh “c’mere then"
you eagerly hurry over climbing on his thigh. he grabs you hips and lifts you slightly to put a towel over his leg and slides your panties off under your sundress
after all, he couldn’t just let you soak his jeans with everyone sitting out there
“go on, use me baby” he coos and you rock your hips forward, letting out a soft gasp at the friction. you wrap your arms around his neck
you moan softly as you buck your hips quickly, desperately chasing your release. he kisses your neck softly, sucking small marks onto your skin
you bury your face in his neck as his hands grip your hips, guiding your movements. you bite your lip to hold in your moan as your orgasm hits you
your legs shake as you cum, his hands still guiding your hips to ride it out
you pant, catching your breath and lifting your flushed face to look at him. he presses kisses all over your face. you tug at his belt
he chuckles, watching your needy movements “you’re so needy today” he teases, but his hands move to his belt to slide it off
the buckles clicks and you quickly tug it off and toss it aside. he unzips his jeans and stands up suddenly
he pushes his jeans and boxers down to his ankles and picks you up. wrapping your legs around his waist, he pins you against the wall
you gasp softly as the shelf next to you rattles slightly. he doesn’t mind, he slowly pushes his cock into your throbbing hole
he grunts into your neck as you clench around him. he picks up his pace slowly, fucking into you with passion
you moan his name and he covers your mouth “shh, don’t want everyone to know im fucking you in here do you?” you shake your head
he slides his thumb in your mouth, speeding up. your whimpers and moans are muffled as you suck his thumb
“thaaats it, good girl” he groans as he pounds into you with force. you feel that knot forming in your stomach and grip his shoulders
“you gonna cum for me?” his voice is raspy in your ear as his own orgasm nears. you moan around his thumb as you cum, legs shaking again
he buries himself deep, cumming inside you, painting your velvet walls with his warm cum
everyone had assumed you were just on your period or just plain moody. you only thought you were sick or something, so you didn’t do anything about it
you didn’t think much of it when your period was late. with all the stress you had been under, it never crossed your mind that it could be anything serious
nobody wanted to comment on the way you had gotten slightly bigger. it was barely noticeable, and they all figured it was just normal weight gain
plus, everyone knows you don’t ask a girl about her weight
and yeah, you had been having some weird cravings, but that’s not odd, right?
the thought had never crossed your mind. until one day, it seemed to cross somebody elses
it was grocery delivery, and murray was unloading everything. he pulled you aside after everyone had grabbed everything
“here, you might need these” he hands you a bag. you peek inside it and see three pregnancy tests and a few plan b’s. your eyes widen at the implication
“might wanna check” he suggests before patting your back and walking back to the truck
you shove them in your jacket and walk back inside, hiding them in your purse when no one’s watching
when you and steve were home later, you head upstairs. he was busy working on something, so you decided to sneak off
you walk upstairs to the bathroom, bringing your purse and close the door, grabbing the tests from the bag
you look at the boxes, chewing your lip. you rip one open and pull out the test. you turn the box, reading the instructions
pee on the stick, wait five minutes. easy enough
you take all three tests, setting them on the counter and setting a timer. you pace the bathroom, chewing your nail
what if they’re positive? what would steve think? how could you be pregnant rught now with everything going on? how would you raise a kid in this life you’re living?
the timer pings
you snap out of your panic and close your eyes. deep breaths.. three, two- “one” you whisper and flip them over, looking at the results on the tests
positive. every. single. one. all three
you grip the counter, mind racing. your heart pounds and your mind spirals with a million thoughts at the speed of light and-
“hey baby, you okay up there?” steves voice calls out from downstairs. shit. you fumble with the tests, bumping them off thw counter
you quickly shove them in a drawer
he frowns when you don’t answer and walks upstairs. he knocks on the bathroom door
“baby, is everything okay?” he asks softly. you open the door, looking up at him with a nod
he knows you’re lying. of course he does. he knows you better than you know yourself
“what’s going on baby? did something happen?” he lifts a hand to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your skin, scanning your face for any signs of harm
his eyes catch something and he looks over. a pink box sticking out of the trash can
he recognized it immediately, eyes widening and heart rate picking up
“is that…?” his voice is quiet, stunned. all you can do is nod, holding back a sob. he pulls you into his chest “hey, hey it’s okay. it’s gonna be okay”
he tucks your head in his chest, confused and shocked "is it..?" he whispers and you nod again. he lets out a shaky breath
he presses a kiss to your hair, your shoulders shaking with sobs. he strokes your back as he processes the information
pregnant. his baby was growing inside you
he was excited and terrified. but he didn’t want to get his hopes up, not yet
when your sobs died down, he tilted your chin up “what do you want to do? do you want to keep it? or..?” the question hangs in the air
you quickly shake your head “no, i’m keeping it”
he nods, tucking your hair behind your ear “okay, we’re keeping it then” his soft eyes scan your face “how are you feeling?”
“terrified?” you sniffle, a shaky smile on your lips “yeah, me too” he cups your face “but it’s gonna be okay” he promises
you two stand there for a moment, processing everything. everything was going to be okay, you keep telling yourself
but was it really?
steve refused to let you join the fight against vecna. so you were forced to stay at home. you hadn’t told the party yet, focused on surviving
you pace the living room, repeatedly glancing out the window. you couldn’t handle being stuck here, not knowing if they were okay
you sit down, thinking over and over how the hell you were going to tell everyone. the girls would probably be thrilled, along with joyce
dustin would probably either be thrilled or pissed at steve for knocking you up in the current situation. either way he would be happy as long as you are
you bounce your leg nervously as you chew your lip. they’re okay, they’re okay. you’re just overreacting
but what if they weren’t? what if something happens or ir doesn’t work and vecna is still alive or something happens to them-
your thoughts are cut off by the sound of wheels in the driveway. you jump up and rush to the door glancing out rhe window
you watch as everyone climbs out from the back of the van, tapping your fingers nervously on the doorframe as you look for steve
you let out a breath of relief as you watch him step out of the front. you open the door quickly and rush out
he looks over as you run over to him, throwing your arms around him and hugging him. you bury your face in his chest
“hey, i’m alive, just like i promised, remember?” he whispers. you nod. you finally come to your senses, smelling the putrid scent on him
“oh-jesus-what is that smell?” you cough, covering your nose “not sure” he answers, seeming unbothered
you open your mouth to speak but then you see dustin. you pull away completely from steve and rush over, hugging dustin tightly
he hugs you back. you both stand there for a moment, clinging to eachother to remind yourselves your safe. you pull back and smell the same stench on him
“god-seriously what the hell is that?” you motion to the slimy substance on them “i think you’d rather not know” he pats your shoulder
“you both need a shower” you scrunch your nose and shoo him away. he ruffles your hair and heads upstairs
aftwr everyone has showered and gotten changed, you all sit in the living room
everyone is comforting each other and happy to be back together. you notice will and mike a bit closer than usual, and you smile to yourself but don’t say anything
you and steve sit in front of everyone and you take a deep breath
“we need to tell you guys something” you say, voice steady and serious enough to make everyone quiet down and look over
“uhm..well i-we’re..” you look over at steve, and he gives you a nod, squeezing your hand
you take another deep breath “i’m pregnant”
everyone freezes, shocked. you sit nervously, leg bouncing again. nancy breaks the silence “you’re pregnant?” she asks softly
you nod “so there’s like, an actual baby inside you right now?” will asks “yes, that’s how pregnancy works will” you say
“i mean we noticed you had been acting off bur we didn’t want to say anything” mike admits
“yeah and we thought that weight gain was just normal weight” lucas says and max elbows him.
“you’re going to be a great mother” joyce says, taking your hand and squeezing it “you really think so?” you ask
“totally. you’re like, already so motherly” mike says “yeah, you guys have been like our parents for years” max adds
“i’m gonna be an uncle” dustin says, and you nod. he smiles widely
everyone starts talking about baby names and everything their going to teach the baby
you look over at steve, who’s smiling. you rest your head against his chest and watch everyone with a fond expression
you didn’t know what the future has planned for you, but you did know that no matter what, you would have this family by your side
and that was enough
a/n: so this has been in my drafts for like two months.. like since march.. haha.. rip sorey for disappearing AGAIN i’m tryna be more consistent i swear
pairing: softdark!ceo!bucky x naive!assistant!reader
word count: 8.6k
summary: Being John Walker’s assistant is hard; he’s mean, disrespectful, misogynistic, the whole nine yards. On top of that, he hardly pays you fairly. So, when you’re fired for a mistake you’re sure wasn’t your fault, you’re at risk of being kicked out by your rude roommates. Luckily for you, James Barnes, a wildly successful CEO, has found his way into your life. And he’s going to take such good care of you.
warnings: where do i even start, 18+, minors DNI and i fucking mean it, mild coercion, some of it could be interpreted as stalking, fingering, unprotected p in v sex, sir kink, oral (f receiving), housewife kink, breeding kink, pet names (bunny, darling), dirty talk, dom!bucky and sub!reader, choking, squirting, basically just absolute filth, a little hurt-comfort, reader’s roommates are awful and mean, not john walker friendly but when am i ever
a/n: so this was supposed to just be some quick smut but as always i went overboard, so please enjoy! likes and comments are appreciated, reblogs are even better!
tip jar | main masterlist | ao3 | run little bunny masterlist
Your hands are shaking slightly, your heartbeat races with anxiety, and your leg bounces rapidly. Today is an important day after all, and your boss has made it clear that if you mess up in any way then he’d have to rethink your employment. That sent dread flooding through your body, so you’ve been preparing yourself for the last week to make sure everything for the meeting is perfect.
And, on the technical side, everything is immaculate - mostly due to you staying up until almost midnight each night to polish the presentation. You thought everything was done properly, but when you’d walked into the building that morning your boss was holed up in his office finishing up his portion of the work, so you’d decided to simply email him to let him know that you had arrived.
Everything was perfect. But when you get into the meeting room, your boss’ eyes go wide, anger clouding them while he scowls. You quickly make your way to his side, only for him to bark out a command for you to grab water for his incoming guests. Placing your notebook on the table, you turn to scurry off to the side to grab the glasses, but you’re stopped when your boss grabs your arm harshly.
“Do you have a change of clothes?”
“Um… Um, I-“ Your boss raises an eyebrow, and you feel like you might throw up from the sudden anxiety. “No, sir.”
He scoffs, muttering under his breath something about looking “trashy,” before releasing you and allowing you to go to the minibar.
Your arm stings, no doubt sporting a red mark because of how harsh the grip was. You’re also confused because you thought the floral dress you’d chosen was pretty. Sure, it may not be high class, but your boss has never had a problem with it before, but you’re assuming that he’s on edge due to who he’s meeting with.
James Barnes; the most powerful and successful CEO in the entire country. You haven’t met him personally, but from what you hear you know that he’s not someone you want to upset. According to the hushed whispers around the office, he stands at a towering 6’6, tattoos cover his arms and hands, and if he frowns then you better move out of the way.
Would Mr. Barnes be upset with your attire?
You desperately hope not, because you need this job. While you can barely make your rent and utilities, you don’t have any other job lined up, and you’re way too scared to ask for a raise from a man who so clearly disrespects you. For right now, though, you’re stuck.
The oak doors open, and one of the office assistants steps off to the side while holding the door open for several men to walk in. You hear him before you see him. You’ve never heard his voice, but the commanding tone he uses when he addresses your boss lets you know that it must be him.
“Hello, Mr. Walker,” Mr. Barnes greets him, and you can hear your boss stand and greet him as well.
You’re trying your hardest to keep calm while you walk toward the table with a platter holding several glasses of water. You do your best to place them in front of the men without showing how nervous you are.
But when you get to Mr. Barnes, you nearly spill the drink all over the table once you get a whiff of his clearly expensive cologne. Oh, how you’d love to be surrounded by that scent, the woodsy smell almost intimidates you but you’re unsure as to why you don’t mind.
You’ve never done anything even remotely sexual with a man, you’re far too awkward and anxious in a way that isn’t too appealing to many, but for a very brief moment, you wonder what he looks like underneath the black three-piece suit — the prominent veins on his hands insinuates that the rest of his body is probably just as toned. But you’re immediately snapped out of your thoughts by your boss’ harsh voice calling your name.
“Aren’t you going to greet our guests?”
You breathe in sharply, heat flooding your face as you stumble your way through an apology and a polite “Hello, Mr. Barnes.”
You’re about to leave his side when he reaches out to grasp your hand — surprisingly gentle for such a powerful man. With a slight jump, you glance over to your boss who’s staring at you as though you’re becoming a nuisance and should quickly get back to your chair beside his. But you can’t, both because of Mr. Barnes’ hold and the fact that when you look back at the man in front of you his ocean-blue eyes pull you in, and you’re unable to break your gaze.
“And who might you be, darling?” His eyes twinkle with mischief but you’re too blind to see it, you’re too flustered to really focus.
“Oh, you don’t need to worry about her, she’s just –”
“I wasn’t asking you,” Mr. Barnes snaps, briefly glancing at your boss and not bothering to hide his smirk when he almost visibly cowers. “Now, darling,” he continues, rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb. “What’s your name?”
You nearly squeak, having to force yourself to tell him your name before he gets upset with your lack of answer.
Mr. Barnes hums, then brings your hand up so he can place a delicate kiss on your knuckles. “A pretty name for a pretty girl.”
You flounder for a moment, unsure as to what to make of the compliment. You don’t have much time to overthink it because this meeting has a time limit and you’re sure your boss would prefer to get this over with.
“Th-Thank you, sir.” You’re not sure why, but your voice is breathy because something about that word — sir — just feels right for him, though you’re not sure what it means.
“So polite,” He mumbles to himself, and his eyes seem to grow darker. Finally, he lets you go, shooting you a wink and smirking to himself when you scurry off to sit next to your boss.
The presentation went relatively smoothly — thank God. You don’t know what you would have done if anything went wrong. In fact, Mr. Barnes seemed extremely invested in what you had to say, catching your gaze several times and causing you to stumble over your words a few times, only for your boss to clear his throat and glare at you. Eventually, Mr. Barnes throws him his own glare, silently telling him to shut up, to which your boss finally does.
Once the meeting was declared to be over, you were quick to close your notebook and tuck your pen behind your ear, then you went around the table and started collecting the now-empty glasses. As you’re running around the room trying to clean up, you can feel a powerful gaze boring holes into your body, but you try not to pay it any mind. It’s probably just your boss anyway.
But when you turn away from the desk to finally leave, you bump into Mr. Barnes, your body nearly slamming into his very sturdy chest. His hands shoot to your hips almost immediately, helping to steady yourself.
The warmth of his body pulls you in, but that might also be because Mr. Barnes is literally bringing you closer to his chest by the hold he has on your hips. And that’s when you realize that your hands are clutching his shoulders, but you can’t find it in you to let go.
“What’s the rush?” He asks playfully, his upper lip quirking up in a smirk. “You’re running around like a little bunny.”
“Oh, oh I’m sorry, Mr. Barnes.” You’re not sure why you’re apologizing, you recognize that he’s just teasing, but something in you doesn’t want to disappoint him.
“Mr. Barnes.” He hums, his eyes briefly glancing down to your lips. “I like it when you call me that.”
Now you’re really flustered, your face heats up and you have to do everything in your power not to faint — the way his voice deepens is doing something to you and you don’t know how to handle it.
“I’d like it a lot more if you called me James, though. Can you do that for me, bunny?”
“Ye-Yes, James.” You might have been embarrassed about how quick you were to answer him, but the way he closes his eyes and tightens the hold he has on your body you’re thinking it was the right decision.
Mr. Barnes — James — opens his mouth again, but is interrupted by the door being opened by one of the office assistants, whose eyes immediately go wide in shock. It seems to take a second for her to gather her bearings, but she recovers soon enough.
“Mr. Walker is requesting you,” She tells you, glancing over at James and giving him a nervous smile. “He says you have to file all of the paperwork for the meeting.”
You sigh, you’re tired of having to do everything for your boss only for him to take credit ninety percent of the time. But, it’s what you’re paid to do, so you suck it up.
Looking back to James, you give him a shy smile, reluctantly removing your hands from his shoulders.
“Um, I guess I should go, James.” You’re a little sad, and you don’t quite know why having to leave him and go back to your duties makes you so anxious. It could be because Mr. Walker is mean, or maybe because James makes you feel safe. In reality, it’s probably a mixture of both.
“I guess you should,” He murmurs, removing one of his large hands from your waist so he can cup the back of your neck and pull you closer, only for him to press a lingering kiss on your forehead.
And absolutely no one can blame you for the quiet whimper that leaves your lips, even though you are surprised by your reaction. It doesn’t matter though, because he finally moves back, letting go of you and reaching into the pocket on the inside of his suit jacket so he can pull out what looks like a business card.
“Here,” James says, handing it to you. “In case you ever want to talk, you’re always free to call me.”
“What would we talk about?” Your confusion causes James to chuckle, and he seems amused by your naivety.
“Whatever you want, Bunny. Whether you just want to talk about nonsense or vent about your boss. Doesn’t matter to me as long as I get to hear your beautiful voice.”
With that, he gives you a wink, then turns to the door and leaves, though he does glance back at you. With one final smile, he leaves, and you’re left with a million racing thoughts while standing in the middle of the meeting room.
It took three days for you to finally reach out to James. As soon as you got home that night you ran to your bedroom and added his number to your phone, going so far as to put his business card in your bedside table drawer so you wouldn’t lose it. It just took a little time to gain the courage to actually contact him. After all, what if he was just being friendly? You’ve never met anyone quite like him, so it’s hard to read into his actions.
But today had gone horribly. The café you frequent before work was so busy that you didn’t have time to grab your coffee without being extremely late, the bistro you were demanded to pick up lunch from was closed — and while it wasn’t your fault, Mr. Walker certainly seemed to think it was. Your workload was piled high and by the end of the day, you were on the verge of crying due to the stress and mean comments thrown at you by your boss.
You need a shoulder to lean on and, unfortunately for you, you don’t have anyone else to go to. You’re pretty sure your roommates hate you and only let you live with them because they haven’t found a new roommate yet, you don’t have siblings and your parents are states away, and you have maybe a few friends, but even then the communication is scarce.
You need a shoulder to lean on, and James offered his, so you finally decided to pull up his contact and start a new message. It takes several minutes to figure out what to say, but you eventually settle on something simple.
Hi, James. I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Mr. Walker’s assistant. You gave me your number in case I ever wanted to talk.
You hit send and stare down at your phone anxiously as you wait for a reply. A minute goes by, then two, suddenly five, and then you’re starting to regret texting him, what if he doesn’t remember you? What if he’s busy? What if –
Your phone starts ringing, James’ name popping up on the screen and taunting you — almost commanding you to answer.
“Hello?”
“Good evening, bunny,” James says softly, and if you press your ear close enough to your phone you could pretend that he’s right next to you.
“Hi, James. I hope I’m not disturbing you.” Your voice is soft and timid, you’d hate to disrupt anything he’s doing.
“Don’t be silly, bunny,” He says, his smile evident in his tone. “I always have time for you.”
“Oh, um. Thank you, sir.” It’s almost indescribable, but you can just make out the soft curse James lets out, followed by some shuffling.
“So, what did you want to talk about?”
You’re a little apprehensive, but with James’ gentle encouragement, you’re able to get everything off your chest, complaining about your day and everything that went wrong. Each word spoken feels like weights lifting off of your shoulders, allowing you to breathe easier every time James hums. He doesn’t interrupt you, which you greatly appreciate, and by the time you’re done, you fall backward onto your bed, relieved.
“I’m sorry you had such a bad day, bunny,” James coos with his smooth-as-honey voice, filling your body with warmth and comfort. “A pretty girl like you doesn’t deserve to be treated like that.” That comment floods your face with heat and you shuffle up the bed to lean against the headboard.
“Oh, I - thank you, sir.” There it is again, sir. James exhales slowly as though he’s trying to control himself from doing something he shouldn’t, and part of you is momentarily worried that you’ve upset him somehow. You don’t want to disappoint him.
“What can I do to help?”
What can he do to help? You’re not quite sure, you’re not sad, and you’re not angry, but you would be lying if you said you didn’t need at least a hug right now. But, it would be too imposing to ask, right? There’s no way he would be willing to come over – that is, if your roommates would even allow him over. And he certainly wouldn’t invite a stranger into his house. So, you lie to him.
“Oh – Oh, no, James, I don’t – you don’t have to – it’s fine –”
“Bunny.”
Your mouth promptly closes, taking a deep breath through your nose and exhaling slowly.
“Sorry, James.”
“Don’t be sorry, bunny.” There’s some shuffling in the background as he talks and you can’t help but sigh at how sincere his voice is. “Now, what can I do to help?” And before you can even open your mouth he’s talking again, “Don’t say nothing, because I know there’s something you want.”
You’re silent for a moment, stewing over how to tell him. But, he’ll probably just be empathetic and say something along the lines of ‘I’d hug you if I were there right now’. So, you decide to just spit it out.
“I guess I just want… I just need a hug, I think,” You sigh, feeling a sudden sense of loneliness. It’s hard not having anyone to talk to, to be isolated even from the people you live with, to be put down time and time again, and not have anyone to support you.
“Where are you?” James asks, and you hear some more shuffling in the background, followed by the jingling of what sounds like keys.
“I’m at my apartment,” You say, confused. He couldn’t possibly be coming over, could he?
“Send me your address and I’ll come pick you up, we’ll go out for ice cream,” James says decisively, and you can tell he doesn’t want any protesting. “Bunny,” He says when you don’t say anything. “You need cheering up and I’m here to do just that. Please send me your address.” He speaks gently but once again, he doesn’t seem to want you to argue against it.
“O-Okay, I will.”
“Good, I’ll see you soon, bunny.” When you bid him goodbye, he hangs up, and you’re quick to send him your address, giving him instructions to text you when he arrives so you can meet him out front of the building.
During the next twenty or so minutes you’re practically running around your room trying to make yourself look presentable. You cried all of your makeup off so you opt to just wash the rest of it off, and then you pull your hair back and away from your face. It takes a bit to decide what to wear, after all this is just a friend taking another friend to get ice cream, but this is also James Barnes; he has more wealth than you could possibly imagine. You want to impress him and appear grateful for his friendliness, and looking at least half-decent would achieve that.
Finally, someone knocks on your door, yelling, “Someone’s here for you!”
With a rush of excitement, you grab your phone and wallet and slip on your shoes, then make your way out of your room to the front door where another roommate is standing in front of it, leaning against the frame and giggling at the person.
James.
He looks bored, almost like he’s trying to appear interested but can’t quite muster up the energy to do so. When you approach, he lifts his head, a wide smile crossing his face.
“There’s my little bunny,” He says confidently, completely ignoring your annoyed roommate. “Come on, let’s get you cheered up.”
With that you walk to him, timidly accepting his outstretched hand and letting him gently tug you into the hallway. When you turn around to tell your roommate that you’ll be back later you can’t even get a word out before you see her glaring at you and shutting the door — the click of the lock is audible through the empty hallway.
“Are they always like that?” James asks with a tone that conveys concern.
“Like what?” You know what he’s talking about, but you hate acknowledging it.
“Rude and disrespectful.” He is so blunt that it causes you to look down in embarrassment to avoid his intense gaze.
Yes, you want to say, they’re awful. You want to shout from the rooftops that your roommates are horrible to you, but you’re just too scared to do it.
“Oh – Oh, no, they’re just…” You trail off, peeking up at James to see the disbelief in his eyes. When you look down again, he brings up one of his hands to cup your cheek and guide your head up so you can look at him head-on.
“You don’t need to lie to me, bunny. I want you to trust me.” James sighs, leaning forward and placing a small kiss on your forehead. “Come on,” He squeezes your hand, smiling softly at you as he starts walking you out of the building and to his car.
It doesn’t take long to get to the ice cream shop, only a five-minute drive, and when you get there James keeps the car locked as he gets out so he can circle around to your side and open your door for you.
“Th-Thank you,” You say as you put your hand in James’ outstretched one, letting him guide you out of the car. He keeps his hold on your hand as you walk into the shop, going so far as to thread your fingers together while you wait in line.
The image of your hand encompassed by James’ large tattooed one has your tummy fluttering with butterflies. But, you must have been staring for a little too long because you’re broken out of your trance by James gently squeezing your hand.
“Is this okay, bunny?”
“Yes!” Heat floods your face as soon as you say it, feeling embarrassed by how quick you were to answer. “I, I mean. Um… Yes, it’s okay.”
James smirks at you, clearly enjoying how flustered you are. But, before you can stew in your shame, the man behind the counter says, “Next!”
You walk up to the counter, letting James order before giving yours. And when it’s time to pay, James doesn’t even drop your hand while he fishes his wallet out of his pocket and takes out his card. Your tummy flutters once again.
“Come, bunny.”
With your desserts now in hand, James leads you to a corner booth, only letting go of your hand so you can scoot in. He sits across from you, looking at you with what can only be described as thinly veiled hunger. It’s not off-putting, you just don’t know what it means.
“So, um…” You trail off looking down at your bowl of ice cream, fiddling with the spoon they gave you.
“You don’t need to be nervous, bunny,” James coos, reaching over and placing his hand palm up on the table, and you’re helpless but to take it, practically aching to feel his warmth again. “Now, other than everything that happened today, how have you been?”
It’s surprisingly easy to fall into a pleasant conversation with him, he asks questions and lets you finish talking before adding his own input, and he doesn’t break eye contact. It feels like he’s really listening to what you’re saying, and it’s almost freeing to have someone in your corner, someone you can trust and depend on.
What feels like far too soon, though has probably been several hours due to how dark it is outside, the man behind the counter comes to your table to tell you that they’re closing soon, and you can’t help but be sad. You’re enjoying James’ company far more than you probably should since you’ve only known him for a handful of days. It almost seems like you’ve known him your whole life.
“Well, bunny. I guess it’s time to go,” James says remorsefully, getting up out of the booth and reaching out his hand to help you out of the booth as well. He keeps holding your hand while you walk out of the door — making sure to throw away your trash on the way out.
James insists on opening the car door for you again — ever the gentleman. There’s a comfortable silence on the drive back to your apartment, your stomach swirling the entire time because James refuses to drop your hand. But when you get to your apartment building, a small amount of anxiety settles inside you, and you’re desperately hoping your roommates are asleep because you don’t feel like dealing with them after you’ve had such a good evening.
The silence is a little more tense while you ride the elevator up to your floor, but you’re grounded by James’ touch. It’s not until you get to your front door that you really look at him, staring into his twinkling eyes. And when he smiles, it settles your nerves.
“I guess this is the end of our night, bunny,” He says, squeezing your hand one last time before dropping it. Before you can mourn the loss of his touch he’s wrapping you in his arms and pulling you close to his chest, and you desperately hope he doesn’t hear the squeak you let out. You wrap your arms around his waist, letting James tuck your face into his neck while he holds you close.
“I had a wonderful time tonight,” James murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss on your forehead.
“Me too,” You say softly, breathing in and inhaling his comforting scent. “Thank you for cheering me up.”
“Of course, bunny. I’m always here for you.” Then, James pulls his head back so he can look into your eyes. “Always.”
You can’t help but smile. His gaze is hypnotizing, pulling you in and almost refusing to let you go.
“Thank you, James,” You breathe out, and one last time, James squeezes you and kisses your forehead, then steps back.
“I’ll talk to you soon, bunny?” James asks, smiling wide.
“Y–Yeah, I’ll text you. Or you can text me. Or call, that’s–that’s fine too.” Heat floods your face in embarrassment, but you don’t feel too bad about it because James only smiles wider, nodding once.
“I will.”
“Goodnight, James.” With that, you turn and unlock your door, turning around to look at James one last time as you shut the door.
“Goodnight bunny, I hope you have dreams as sweet as you are.” James winks, and you swear you can hear him chuckle when you squeak out an “o-okay,” and shut the door.
And maybe James is some kind of wizard because you have the best night of sleep you’ve had in a while.
For the next few weeks you and James text almost every day, and talk on the phone every couple of days. You’ve met up with him a few times as well, accepting his invitations to lunch or coffee. Each outing would last for several hours, too enraptured by his… everything to be the one to suggest the night should end. You’ve come to trust him, you know with a possibly concerning amount of certainty that James would do everything possible to keep you happy and safe.
Roughly a month and a half after meeting James, you’re sitting on your bed in the same position you were in when you first called him crying. Unlike last time, though, you don’t hesitate to call him. He’s told you time and time again that it doesn’t even matter if he’s in a meeting, he’ll always make time for you. You just hope that’s true.
He picks up almost immediately.
“Hello, bunny,” James says with the same soft tone he always uses when talking to you.
“H-hi, James,” You manage to say, before breaking out into sobs. You’re nearly hyperventilating, trying and failing to catch your breath between hiccups, and it takes a few minutes to calm down enough to hear rustling in the background on James’ end.
“Are you at home?” He asks with the utmost concern.
“Ye-Yes.”
“Stay there,” He says, using what you’ve deemed his CEO voice. “I’m coming to get you.”
“Ja–”
“Bunny.”
You sigh, knowing you can’t change his mind – not that you really want him to. You could really benefit from a hug right about now and James always provides the best ones.
“Can you at least stay on the phone with me?” Your voice is small, still sniffling every few words. You don’t think you could handle being alone with your own thoughts right now.
“Of course. You know I’ll do anything for you.”
It takes James twenty minutes to get to you, and he talks to you the whole time, just menial things to get your mind off of your sadness. When he lets you know that he’s at your apartment, you don’t even wait for him to tell you he’s coming up, you simply grab your jacket and slip on your shoes, then run to the front door without so much as a word to your roommates in the living room.
“James!” Upon seeing the man himself standing next to his car, you fling yourself into his arms, taking deep breaths to prevent yourself from crying in public. “Thank you for coming.”
“Bunny, how many times do I have to tell you that I’ll do whatever it takes to keep a smile on your pretty face?” James’ tone is teasing, but you know he’s serious if his stern and concerned gaze is anything to go by.
You nod, blinking back tears. It’s so nice to have a friend like James Barnes; kind, chivalrous, attentive. With the way he acts sometimes, you’d almost think he’s interested in more than friendship, but you always shake that thought off. He’s too handsome and wealthy to date some random personal assistant who’s barely able to make her rent.
“Come on, bunny,” James moves back but keeps an arm wrapped around your waist, leading you to his car and helping you in. Like always, he waits for you to sit so he can strap you in your seatbelt, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before shutting the door then running around to the driver's seat.
This time, instead of taking a left at the light at the end of your block, he keeps going forward, taking turns until you’re not exactly sure where you are.
“Um, where are we going?”
“My house,” James says casually, briefly glancing at you so he can give you that ever-soft smile.
“But, isn’t your house only twenty minutes away?” You’re confused, and a little curious as to what he’s talking about.
“I only stay there when I have meetings in the city. I have a house a little further out where I live most of the time. It’s a little more lived-in, so I want to bring you there where you’ll feel a little more…” James pauses for a moment, glancing at you again. “At home.” His explanation makes sense in your brain, quickly squashing any nerves that you had. He’s rich, so of course he’d have multiple houses.
It’s almost an hour long drive to get to his house. Well, house feels like an inappropriate term for what it actually is. It’s more like a mansion, standing tall at three stories, a long driveway with trees lining either side of the road, and a luscious garden surrounding the property.
James helps you out of the car and guides you up the steps to the front door, where he unlocks it and lets you step inside. The moment you pass through the threshold your jaw nearly drops to the floor; a large chandelier hangs from the ceiling right when you step in and beautiful artwork adorns the walls. The open floor plan gives you a good view of the living room and kitchen from your vantage point, and you can’t wait to sink into the luxurious and almost comically large couch in front of the TV.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” James urges you further in, bringing you to the living room.
“Um, just water is fine.” You look up at him, smiling shyly and nearly tripping when he smiles back.
“I’ll be right back,” James says, watching as you sit and sink into the plush couch. “Make yourself at home.” The look in his eyes when he says it sparks something inside you, something warm and fuzzy. Thinking of James’ house as your home makes your tummy flutter, but you don’t understand why.
God, you need to get it together.
You’re left alone for a moment, and everything is quiet except for the fridge opening and the glasses clinking. James’ absence allows you a moment to breathe properly, being with him always leaves you flustered, though you can’t deny that some part of you likes it. You like his commanding nature, how deep his voice gets when he talks passionately about something, how warm his embrace is when he holds you for what might be a little too long, squeezing you like he doesn’t want to let you go.
“Here you go, bunny.” Suddenly, a glass of water appears in front of you, and you take it with a gracious smile and a small “thank you.”
“So,” He says, sitting next to you — really close — and throwing his arm over your shoulders, practically pulling you into his lap. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”
Tears immediately spring to your eyes, suddenly remembering how horrible today was. You force yourself to take a couple of sips of your glass but your hand starts shaking enough to where James takes your glass and sets it on the coffee table in front of you.
“Bunny—“
His soft voice causes you to start crying, throwing yourself into his chest and burying your face in his neck as you sob out your troubles. James’ hand is warm on your back, rubbing it soothingly and squeezing you close to him. This time, he actually pulls you in his lap, you’re grasping the front of his sweater while he maneuvers your body so you’re straddling his thighs, and you can’t help but scoot closer so you’re sitting on him properly with your body flush against his.
A few minutes of crying later and your tears have finally slowed, your sobs deforming into hiccups until you calm down enough to hear James cooing into your ear, whispering sweet nothings. When you finally catch your breath, you pull back, staring up at James with wide eyes and a pout.
“I-I… I was fired! Fired! And I don’t know what I’m going to do! Mr. Walker just tossed me to the side because a document went missing and he blamed me, and now I’m jobless and my roommates are definitely going to kick me out because I can barely make my rent as it is. What am I going to do?”
James sighs, rubbing one hand up and down your back and keeping his other on your waist, though they manage to sneak up your shirt a little without your notice.
“I’m sorry, bunny,” He starts, giving you a comforting smile. “It’s awful that happened to you, and it’s not your fault, so don’t go blaming yourself like I know you want to.”
Your face goes warm with embarrassment. How is he able to read you so easily?
“And as far as your living situation, you’ll move in with me.”
“James!” Your eyebrows furrow, your head automatically shaking. “No, no I can’t do that to you. I don’t have a job anymore and I definitely can’t afford to pay you rent, I-I can’t burden you like that.” Even though it hurts to say it, you want to be honest with him. Because how on Earth are you supposed to pay him back for this?
“You’re not a burden.” You’re surprised by his angry tone, and his eyes darken as though he’s challenging you to say otherwise. “You’ll never be a burden on me, bunny. I’m offering you this, I don’t want you to pay me.”
As though he can sense your hesitation, he gives you a playful smirk.
“But if you really want to help, how about you do the cooking and cleaning? I don’t always get a good home-cooked meal, and it’d be nice to come back from work to see you in a cute little apron.”
This makes you giggle, a weight lifting off your shoulders when you nod timidly. “I-I can do that. I’ll do anything.”
And while you had pure intentions with that statement, James takes it differently, his eyes darkening even further as he nibbles at his bottom lip.
“Anything?” He smirks wider when you nod eagerly because that’s what you are. Always eager to please — especially please James.
“Yes, anything!”
James hums, seemingly thinking something over, before sliding one of his hands up the back of your shirt.
“How about you give me a kiss? I haven’t had a good one in a while,” While he sounds like he’s teasing, his face shows he’s anything but.
He really wants you to kiss him. And, well, it’s not like you’re going to deny him, you’re too grateful for his generosity. Plus, you’d be insane to pass up such an opportunity, he’s handsome, kind, and makes you feel safe. So, with only a little hesitation, you lean down and press your lips against his in a simple peck, but before you can pull away James groans, placing one hand on the back of your head to keep you steady.
His lips practically attack yours, his tongue invading your mouth and taking what it wants – you. You don’t even know it but you’re whimpering almost immediately, opening your mouth and letting James consume you whole. He’s smiling against your lips, biting your bottom lip as he retreats for a moment so he can stare up into your eyes.
“You’re so beautiful, bunny,” James whispers reverently like he’s hypnotized. And he’s not the only one. Your brain is quickly going silent, your sole focus is on James and how good he’s making you feel.
“Really?”
“So beautiful, I’ve always thought so.” His confession makes you whine, he thinks you’re beautiful, this gorgeous man with the deepest blue eyes you’ve ever seen. Suddenly, James curses softly, grabbing your waist under your shirt, and that’s when you realize you’ve started subconsciously moving your hips against his.
“S-Sorry,” You mumble, though you’re not too sorry considering you can’t stop rolling down onto his lap, it feels too good.
“Don’t be.” James hums thoughtfully, leaning forward slightly and wrapping his arms around your waist. “Why don’t we go to my room? It’ll be more comfortable.”
You don’t even wait for him to finish before you start eagerly nodding your head, adjusting your legs as he stands so you can wrap them around his waist. He carries you to his room, smirking to himself the entire time because you can’t stop kissing and biting his neck in the hopes of leaving a mark, staking your claim. When you finally get there, James quickly shuts the door behind him and then drops you down onto the bed.
“Sir,” You whine when he doesn’t do anything, he’s only standing at the end of the bed, staring at you with eyes so dark with lust that you can’t see the blue of them.
“Don’t worry, bunny, I’ll take good care of you.” With that, he swiftly strips his shirt off and tosses it to the side, then undoes the button on his pants, slowly dragging down the zipper with a wide smirk at the haze in your eyes. “Do you want to help me?”
It takes a few moments for you to understand what he’s asking of you, but once you do you push yourself up, shuffling over to him until you’re sitting with your legs underneath your butt. For a moment you’re not sure what to do, you reach out for his pants but freeze mid-air because you just now realize that you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing. You’ve never been in this situation before, your sexual exploits consist of goodnight kisses on the few dates you’ve been on, and your vibrator in your nightstand that has been working overtime ever since you met James.
“I-I’m sorry,” You murmur, embarrassment flooding your features.
“Why are you sorry, bunny?” James’ voice is soft, soothing your worries.
“I… I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never… been with a man before.” Your hands fall to your lap at the same time you hang your head. What if you disappoint him? You don’t know what you’re doing and you’d hate to mess anything up.
“I know, bunny. It’s okay.” James lifts your chin with his fore and middle fingers, guiding you to look at him again. “I’ll teach you everything.” His voice dips lower, his bottom lip getting trapped between his teeth when you smile, relieved.
“Now, I’m going to take off my pants, but I want you to take off my boxers. Okay?”
“Yes, sir,” You say quickly, eyes dropping to his crotch as he begins pulling the denim down, down, down until it pools on the floor. He steps out of them, then steps in front of you with his arms hanging by his side. When he raises his eyebrow, nodding to his underwear, you reach out for him again, this time with only a small amount of hesitation. Your nerves are nearly off the charts, but knowing that James is going to guide you makes you feel better.
Your hands are shaking slightly when you pull them down, and absolutely no one can fault you for the loud gasp you let out when he’s finally bare because holy shit. Despite being relatively anxious and naive surrounding sex, you’ve watched your fair share of porn, and while the men in them did usually have big dicks, they seem small compared to James’.
You’re almost frightened, how the hell is that going to fit inside you? James chuckles, and you realize you probably said that aloud.
“Don’t worry, bunny. I’ll make it fit,” James groans, reaching down to grab the bottom of your shirt. “I’m going to take this off now, okay?” He tugs it up and over your head once you give your consent, tossing it to the side and cursing when he sees the light pink bra barely covering your breasts. James is biting his lip so hard you’re worried he might draw blood, but you don’t pay it any mind because he’s soon urging you to lay on your back with your legs dangling over the edge.
“Gonna take these off too.”
Giving him a shy smile and a nod, he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your sweatpants, glancing up at you one final time to make sure you’re okay before he surprises you by pulling them off of your legs in one swift movement. You’re tugged down the bed a little, a shocked gasp leaving your lips.
“Fucking angelic,” James murmurs, dropping to his knees and placing his large, rough hands on your knees. He smirks when he sees your matching light pink panties, already soaking wet at the crotch. You have to bite your lip to keep from whimpering when he pushes your legs wide apart, but you can’t stop yourself from squirming when he doesn’t do anything else.
“James,” You whine, high-pitched and needy.
“Sir,” He reminds you with a raised eyebrow as though he’s daring you to say his real name again. And just for good measure, he surprises you by lifting up one of his hands and swinging it down onto your clothed pussy in a harsh swat, causing you to let out a loud moan.
“Sir! I-I’m sorry, sir.”
“It’s okay, little bunny,” James coos as he runs his hands up the back of your thighs so he can push them up and out, letting him get a good look at where you need him most. “Are you going to let me eat your pretty pussy?”
Even though it’s phrased as a question, you know James isn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer. It’s not like you even want to tell him ‘no’, you’re too desperate for something, anything.
“Y-Yes, sir. Please.” Your begging makes him groan, and he quickly dips forward so he’s not even an inch away from your core, inhaling deeply and cursing again.
With a quick kiss to your covered clit, he twists his fingers into the band of your panties and rips them into pieces, and you know you’ll have marks from it. But you want them, you want evidence of this night, and you’ll gladly take anything he gives you. And no sooner than your panties off do James dive in, inhaling once more before his tongue sneaks out and licks a long stripe from your hole to your clit.
It’s at that point that you know you’re well and truly fucked, because there’s no way you’re not going to become addicted to the feeling of his tongue dipping into your quivering hole, the way he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks it into his mouth, the way he groans into your pussy like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
And it doesn’t take long for your legs to start shaking, desperately trying to close around James’ head but not being able to due to his hands gripping your thighs and holding them still. The filthy groans he lets out are enough to make you cum alone, but then he attaches his lips to your clit again and gently bites down, forcing an obscene moan out of your mouth.
He lets you get used to the pleasure, switching between fucking his tongue deep inside you and flicking at your clit, and only when he decides you’re ready does he manage to slide his forefinger in your pussy all the way to the third knuckle.
“Sir!” You can’t help but yell. Yes, it stings, but it’s far outweighed by the pleasure of his tongue assaulting your pulsating nub.
He wastes no time in slowly sliding it in and out, wiggling it around until you whine loudly, letting him know he’s found that special spot. You’re too out of it to realize it but James is smiling, clearly smug at how he’s making you react. You wouldn’t care anyway, in fact, he deserves it. He’s making you feel too good, especially when he slips in his middle finger and spreads them.
“Oh god! Yes, fuck. Sir, yes,” You’re incoherent, blabbering nonsense because your brain is too foggy to form a coherent thought. James picks up the pace, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking it as he thrusts his fingers directly at your g-spot.
“Sir! Sir, I-I’m…” As soon as he started, he stopped, pulling out his fingers and leaning back slightly with a wide grin. His chin is coated in your juices, and the gleam in his eyes shows you that you’re not going to be able to cum so easily.
“Not yet, bunny,” James says when you whine pathetically, trying to buck your hips up into his mouth but unable to do so because of his commanding grip now holding your waist. “I’m not letting you cum until I’m inside you.”
James then climbs onto the bed, guiding you upwards to lay your head against the plush pillows so he can lean over your body. With little preamble, he snakes his arms around your back to quickly unclasp your bra and allow your breasts to spill free.
“I can’t wait to watch these bounce,” James groans, palming one of them, twisting and pinching at your nipple. James just laughs when you hiss, because your soaked pussy is enough to tell him that you’re loving what he’s doing.
“Bunny.” He says gruffly, and your eyes shoot up to meet his, though you can hardly see him because your vision is hazy, nothing matters except James. “Are you ready?”
You’re barely able to mumble ‘yes’, but you manage to do so, and James takes that as his cue to grasp the base of his cock and position it at your entrance. He places his other hand on your neck, lightly squeezing the sides to keep your eyes locked on his.
The pressure against your hole is immense, James telling you to breathe as he slowly pushes deeper. He stops about halfway through, giving you a moment for the pain to fade. He’s clearly having a hard time staying still but is cognizant enough to know you’re overwhelmed. It takes a few minutes of deep breathing before you finally nod, silently letting him know that he can move. And he does, pushing in all the way until his hips are flush with yours. Once again, he stills, leaning down to brush his lips over your cheeks and catch the tears spilling from the corners of your eyes.
“H-Hurts, sir,” You whimper out, forcing yourself to keep eye contact with him. And while your core is burning, James looks so damn proud that you’re taking him that it pushes away any discomfort.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No!” Even though you’re in mild pain you’re pretty sure you’ll cry if he pulls out, you need everything he can give you. “Please, don’t stop.”
“Don’t worry, bunny,” James coos, then tightens his grip around your neck ever so slightly. “I’ll give you what you need.” And as though a switch was flipped, James pulls back, pausing for half a second before thrusting forward.
“Ahhh!” Your mouth drops open as you scream, your arms coming up to claw at James’ shoulders and back as he gives you all he has.
And he has a lot to give. He puts his back into fucking you, keeping one hand around your neck and using his other arm to pull your left leg over his shoulder. Sweat beads at your hairline, your eyes stinging with tears, your whole body lit on fire. At this moment, nothing matters except the delicious burn between your legs, the way your body is shoved further up the bed with each of James’ powerful thrusts until it gets to the point where he has to place the hand around your leg on the headboard to steady you.
“Fuck, bunny, you feel so good. You’re so good for me.” James can’t stop mumbling praises, and even though you can’t really hear them, you feel them. Your eyes don’t move from his, even as he glances down to where your bodies are joined. “Fuck, little bunny. Your pussy looks so good stuffed full of my cock, knew you’d take me so well.”
“S-Sir,” You whimper, bucking your hips up to meet his thrusts and digging your nails into his skin. But James doesn’t seem to mind if the way his whole body shudders and his hips slightly lose their rhythm is anything to go by.
“Are you gonna be a good little bunny and cum for me?” James moves his gaze back up to your face, chuckling when he sees how fucked-out you already are. Despite his hand still around your neck you manage to nod, little cries and whines escaping into the air every time James’ cock gets shoved against your cervix.
“Yeah, you are,” James continues, leaning over your body even more and shifting so the tip of his dick hits your spot with every thrust. “You’re going to squirt all over my cock so I can cum deep in your cunt. Gonna cum in you every day, keep you full of me, maybe even plug you up to make sure it sticks.”
You’re right there, your pleasure climbing higher and higher until you’re ready to fall off the edge. James’s next sentence sends you there.
“Fuck, bunny. You’re going to be the perfect little mommy to all the children I’m gonna give you.”
When you wake up, James will tell you about how you came so hard that you blacked out, squirting and gushing around his cock while he continued telling you how even more beautiful you’ll be when you’re pregnant, taking care of him and his home, how he knew you were the one for him from the moment he first saw you. Your things will already be moved into his house. New clothes chosen specifically for you will be hung up in his closet and the bathroom will be adjusted to fit your products. The kitchen is going to be filled with all the food you like. And your cat will be curled up in a miniature hammock in her very own room.
When you wake up, you’ll see how much thought James put into redecorating his home just for you.
And you’ll be too grateful for his kindness to question where he put your birth control.
summary: bucky's first time smoking 🍃 since the 40s. bucky finds you smoking alone one night, leading to two of you growing much closer.
warnings/tags: use of marijuana, language, brief use of alcohol, nightmares, ptsd, anxiety, pining and tension, heated kissing, friends to lovers, pretty fucking fluffy, no use of y/n, fem reader, 18+ only
author’s note: bucky and reader smoke in this, but i wouldn't say that's the main focus of this fic, just something that brings them closer together. i tried not to focus too much on that aspect, and also tried not to give too vivid of descriptions of being stoned so hopefully readers who don't smoke 🍃 can still enjoy this fic for the fluff and feels. however, if this is a triggering topic for you in any way, please be careful and read at your own discretion 🖤
The Avenger's compound truly has everything you could ever need. A state of the art gymnasium and training center, indoor and outdoor pools, beautifully maintained grounds with walking trails and lake access.
And, one of your favorite things, no shortage of secluded smoking spots.
Tonight's choice? The roof directly above the living quarters. This is likely the spot that you frequent the most, out of sheer convenience.
You keep a couple of extra folding chairs stashed in the stairwell, for the rare occasions that you can convince Natasha or Wanda to relax enough to join you.
Tonight, like most nights, you're by yourself. You don't mind - you enjoy this alone time. You usually come up here after missions to unwind before passing out in your bed.
It’s a chilly night, with temperatures finally dropping down into the low fifties as the early days of fall approach. You're bundled up in an oversized hoodie, sipping on oolong tea to warm you from the inside. In your left hand you clutch the warm mug, and with your right you pinch the tail-end of a burning joint between your thumb and index finger.
You've been up here long enough to have already burnt through one joint, and you now take slow, heady hits of a second as you wait for the meteor shower that's expected to begin over the northeastern United States any minute.
The creaking of the large metal door that leads to the roof startles you, causing you to break your gaze away from the stars littered above you in the New York sky. All the times you've come up here to watch the sunsets over the lake, no one has stumbled upon you. You're surprised by who emerges from the doorway a second later.
Bucky freezes in his tracks when he notices you sitting just a few yards in front of him.
“Oh, sorry,” he pauses, seemingly glancing around the roof to see if there's anyone else here with you. “I didn't expect - I didn't think anyone would be up here right now,” he stutters out.
“You're good,” you smile at him over your shoulder before turning your attention back to the sky. “Trying to get a good view of the meteors?”
“Yes, actually,” he says, surprised. You hear his boots scratching the pavement of the roof as he walks closer to you. You look up at him when he comes to a stop right next to where you're sitting.
“Well, you've come to the right place.” You gesture towards the scenery in front of you - the endless inky sky overlooking the lake next to the compound. “There's some extra chairs stashed in the stairwell, if you'd like one.”
“I didn't know that you smoke,” he says curiously, eyeballing the blazing joint still clutched between your fingers. He visibly sniffs a couple times, as if to confirm that he is indeed smelling what he thinks he is. He doesn't acknowledge your offer of a chair, instead choosing to sit directly on the cement, criss-crossing his legs at the ankles.
“Are you going to tell on me?” You ask as if what you're doing isn't perfectly legal and your friends don't already know.
“Your secret is safe with me,” he smirks up at you, eyes flicking between you and the joint.
“Want a hit?” You offer, extending your hand towards him. He hesitates, uncertainty blooming across his features.
“I haven't smoked since the forties,” he starts with an awkward laugh. He reaches up, carefully taking the joint from you and pinching it between his own two fingers and inspecting it. “I still remember the last joint I smoked before finding out that I had been drafted. If I had known it was going to be my last, I would've appreciated it a lot more.” There's a hint of nostalgia in his words.
You picture it - baby-faced Bucky, in his early twenties, with glossy blue eyes and a lazy, content smile. The thought makes your cheeks warm, and a small, sad smile spreads across your own face. That was a literal lifetime ago, and you didn't know if he had felt as carefree since then.
“Well,” you begin after a sip of your tea. “You're no longer property of the United States Army, or HYDRA, or any organization. So if you want to smoke, then smoke. And if not, that's okay, too, but give me my joint back because you're burning perfectly good weed right now.”
He chuckles at your scolding before bringing the joint up to his own lips and taking a slow, long puff. There's a sharp inhale before he erupts into a coughing fit, smoke billowing out in a cloud in front of him. You give him a few awkward pats on the back while he works through the burn that he is undoubtedly feeling in his esophagus.
“Damn, I've missed that,” he sighs once he has regained his composure. He holds the dwindling joint back up to you.
You shake your head. “Finish it off,” you insist. “I've already had one tonight. It’s all yours.”
You expect him to argue but to your surprise, he takes a second hit. And a third, and fourth, while you sit next to him in an amicable, comfortable silence. Soon, there's nothing left but a small roach that he stubs out against the cement next to where he sits.
“How're you feeling?” You ask, knowing that his tolerance has to be in the negatives if he hasn't smoked in over seventy years.
“If twenty-two year old Bucky knew that I was this stoned off half a joint, he'd never let me hear the end of it,” he says with an amused smile, propping back on the palms of his hands to stare up at you.
“Well, I think one-hundred and six year old Bucky is doing just fine for himself,” you muse. “Twenty-first century weed has got to be more potent than whatever dirt weed you were smoking in the forties, so cut yourself some sla–”
“I did not smoke dirt–”
“Look!” you exclaim, cutting him off as you point up at the sky. He goes quiet, following your gaze.
You both watch in awed silence as flashes of bright white-blues and purples begin to dash across the sky above you. At first, there's a bolt here and a bolt there - but before you know it, there's dozens - too many meteors to count, here and then gone in the blink of an eye. Where one disappears, another takes its place.
You lose track of how long the two you sit there, on the roof, under the shower of the shooting stars - and it has nothing to do with being stoned. They are just that mesmerizing.
“I think we’re supposed to make a wish,” you murmur after a long while, remembering the old legend about shooting stars. You watch the last few meteors as they burn out, and then the sky goes dark once more. When he doesn't respond, you glance down at where he sits to find that his eyes are closed.
You smile to yourself - you didn't actually plan on making a wish, and you definitely didn't expect him to. You figure that he is just humoring you, but you can't help but think how adorable it is nonetheless. You can't stop yourself from snorting a laugh, causing his eyes to snap open and up at you.
“What? Did you make your wish?” he demands, his tone serious.
You hum. A familiar, glowing warmth grows from your lips and down to your toes despite the chilly night air as you stare at him. You tell yourself it’s a physical effect of the marijuana.
“I think I’m good, actually.”
••••••
Every year, a different member of the Avengers chooses a charity to hold a gala in honor of.
Sam's choice last year, Homes For Our Troops, build specially adapted, custom homes for severely injured veterans. Natasha's choice the year before that, Children of the Night, is a non-profit organization dedicated to rescuing and rehabilitating children who have been victims of prostitution.
Always funded by the Stark Relief Foundation, always held in the most high-profile and illustrious venues that money can buy, and always filled to the brim with every philanthropist and major news reporter in the state of New York.
This year, for the first time, it was your turn to select a charity. You decided on Women For Women International - a noble and worthy cause that you are proud to raise awareness and donations for. However, now that three hours into the gala, you are fucking burnt out. From the moment that you and your teammates arrived at the venue, guests and reporters began forming lines for their chance at interviewing you or getting their picture taken with you. You feel like you’ve talked to every person in the building, except for the one person that you truly wanted to. Add in a ten minute long speech addressing five hundred plus guests, you are drained. Physically, mentally, and socially drained.
“You did incredible with your speech,” a soft voice says from behind you. “All that worrying for nothing.”
You're exhaling a sigh of relief at the familiar voice before you've finished turning around to meet his dimpled grin and deep blue eyes. You think he might just be as ready as you are to get out of here with the way he's already loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his tux. His hair is tousled - though you haven't had a free moment to speak with him since the car ride over here with Sam and Steve, you have no doubt that he's ran his fingers through the short locks a few dozens times throughout the evening - a habit that flares up every time he's out of his element. With this being the first gala he's attended as an Avenger, and possibly the first gala he's ever attended, you're surprised he has any hair left.
“I wouldn't say for nothing,” you turn back to the bar in front of you and wave a singular finger to the bartender, signaling your desire for another drink. “I stuttered at least eight times, and lost my place on the page twice. I felt like I was going to puke shrimp cocktail and espresso martini all over the podium.”
You can see him grimace from your peripheral vision. He pulls out the barstool next to where you stand, and then takes a seat. You're pinned between the chair on the opposite side of you and his thigh, the cool silk of his pants tickling the bare skin of your leg where your dress cuts off just above mid-thigh. Close enough that you can feel warmth radiate from him and smell the essence of his piney aftershave. Subconsciously, you relax for the first time all evening.
“You are your own worst critic,” he reminds you, repeating the sentiment that he’s been saying to you for the last few weeks, anytime the gala or your speech would come up in conversation. “No one else noticed if you stuttered. They’re all too full of liquor, or too concerned with getting their photo op with Iron Man or The Hulk..” he trails off, glancing over his shoulder at where Tony and Bruce are both striking signature poses for some selfies with guests.
“And what about you? Have any of your fangirls begged you to take a picture with them?” You smirk at him as the bartender slides your martini across the countertop. You angle your body so that you’re now turned to face him, leaving practically no space between the two of you.
“More than I can count,” he exhales, and you force a laugh to not roll your eyes - not that you were surprised or that you could blame them for wanting their picture taken with him.
“Well, I’m glad that we were able to raise so much money,” you sigh into your drink. “But I would be lying if I said I’m also not glad that it’s over with. I’m ready to get these shoes off, submerge myself in a hot bath, and then sleep until tomorrow afternoon.”
“Always the introvert,” he murmurs, a sly grin appearing on his face. He carefully tugs the lapel of his jacket to the side and reaches his flesh hand inside, pulling out a tin of wintergreen Altoids. You look at him curiously as he gives the small container a shake. It makes no sound, seemingly empty of mints. You cock an eyebrow at him, about to ask him what the deal is, when a familiar, earthy scent wafts towards you.
“What’s in the tin, Buck?” you ask rhetorically, as if the odor isn’t a dead giveaway.
“Just a little something I’ve been saving for when I could finally get you alone tonight,” he shrugs, slipping the tin back inside the interior pocket of his jacket. Your heart skips a beat at the possibility that maybe he’d been wanting to talk to you, see you, spend time with you as much as you had him.
“I’m just happy to see that you finally have your own weed,” you tease, trying to polish off the remnants of your drink so that you can get the fuck out of here. “Now you can stop smoking all of mine.”
You’re just giving him a hard time, of course. You’d lost count of how many times the two of you have smoked together since the night of the meteor shower just two months ago, and you were more than happy to share your supply with him - he gives you a lopsided grin that tells you he knows you don’t actually mind.
“Hence why I have pre-rolled three joints just for you,” he quips back. “One for how much time and effort you put into this event, one for conquering your fear of public speaking, and one for how much of your weed you have let me smoke.”
Your cheeks warm at the thoughtful gesture. You swallow the last swig of the brown liquid and slide the glass back across the bar.
“What are we waiting for, then? Let’s go get a cab.”
Half an hour later, you and Bucky are in the backseat of the taxi that drives you away from bustling downtown Brooklyn and towards a park that Bucky had instructed the driver to take you to. You didn’t object, trusting that he knows this area of New York better than you do.
The driver comes to a stop next to a nearly desolate sidewalk that appears to lead to a waterfront walkway. Bucky hands the driver a handful of cash, tells him to keep the change, and hops out of the cab before extending a hand to you as you scoot across the seat to follow his exit. You mumble a quick thanks to the driver as he helps you onto the sidewalk and shuts the door behind you.
You pull your coat tighter around you, attempting to shield yourself from the chill of the November air. Fall is now in full swing in New York, and the short cocktail dress that you wore to the gala does little to protect you from the night air.
“Me and Steve used to come to this park all the time,” he tells you as he pulls the Altoids tin and a BIC lighter from his jacket. “I vividly remember having to break up a fight he got into just past that fountain when we were teenagers,” he motions towards a large granite fountain ahead of you, “when some asshole stole a kid's frisbee.”
You laugh as he passes you a joint and the lighter, able to picture the memory he describes clear as day. It's far from the first time he's told you about a time that he had to get pre-serum Steve out of trouble.
“I don’t doubt that for a second,” you mumble as you pinch the tail of the joint between your lips, inhaling as you hold the flame up to the opposite end. A wave of smoke instantly fills your esophagus and lungs with a familiar, comforting burn and you pass the blazing joint back to him. “He’d still do the exact same thing, too,” you add as you exhale the thick cloud of smoke that mixes with the cold air. “Only difference now is that he can handle any fight that he gets himself into.”
“Some things never change,” he says before bringing the paper up to his own lips. You follow as he guides you across a small grassy area and to the walkway that runs alongside the river. Truthfully, it’s too chilly to be on a park stroll at this hour in your current attire, but with Bucky’s body heat radiating from directly beside you and the buzz you feel from the weed, you’re surprisingly comfortable.
“One thing that has changed however,” he continues as you’re inhaling a second hit, “is how well I’ve started sleeping on the nights that we smoke together. On those nights, I don't wake up over a dozen times. Hardly ever even have nightmares anymore.”
Your skin tingles at his admission - a whole flight of butterflies erupting in the pit of your stomach that you push down. You know that he means this because of the weed, not because of you, but for some reason - maybe it's the way his arm keeps bumping against yours or the way the moonlight reflects in the pools of his blue eyes as he glances over at you - you let yourself believe, even for just a split second, that you're aiding in bringing him peace on those evenings spent together. On the roof above the living quarters right before bed, or at the edge of the lake's water when you stop after a late run to watch the sunset, or -
“I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm grateful that I found you up on the roof the night of the meteor shower,” he continues when you don't respond, his voice now possessing a nervous edge. Your mouth suddenly feels dry - the worst cotton-mouth you've ever had times ten. “For more reasons than one.”
You both gradually slow until you've come to a complete stop in front of a boat dock. Between the martini you had before leaving the gala, the effects of the marijuana, and the way he's looking at you while standing so close, you think it's a miracle that you haven't tripped in these ridiculous chunky heels and fallen into the East River. You clear your throat, hoping that you don't sound like a lovestruck teenager when you speak.
“I'm really glad too, Bucky.”
••••••
You stare down at the picture displayed on your phone screen as you and Natasha take the elevator up to the compound's living quarters.
Rolled and ready for you to be home reads the text attached to the picture of the joint pinched between the thumb and index finger of his flesh hand that Bucky had sent you ten hours ago, before your flight from Arizona to New York was supposed to depart.
Our flight has been delayed due to a thunderstorm. No current ETA your reply reads with a frowny face emoji at the end.
Now, at 2:16 in the morning, you are finally back home hours later than originally expected.
You were sure that Bucky was asleep by this point, and you didn't blame him. You wished you were asleep right now, too. Natasha slept the entire plane ride back to New York.
You, on the other hand, may or may not have spent the plane ride reading back over recent text messages between you and Bucky and zooming in on the picture he had sent you because for some reason you really like his hands. Both of them.
You were acting like a goddamn fifteen year old.
“What are you grinning at?” Natasha's voice snaps you out of your trance. You quickly shove your phone into the pocket of your duffel bag.
“I'm not grinning,” you lie, but it's Natasha - of course she sees right through you.
“You were grinning,” she shrugs with a knowing smirk. “But it's okay. We'll chalk it up to sleep deprivation.”
“I am sleep deprived, actually. Someone snored the entire flight back home.”
“For someone who wasn't grinning you sure are being defensive right now,” she retorts with a shit-eating grin as the elevator dings and the door slides open. You roll your eyes as you both step out into the hallway that leads to the living quarters. You turn to the left, towards your bedroom, and she takes a right but then comes to a sudden stop, calling your name. You freeze, turning to look at her with a raised brow.
“For what it's worth, I think you should go for it. It's obvious to everyone around you two.” She looks at you expectantly.
“Get some rest, Nat,” you huff a small laugh under your breath, and try not to smile. She doesn't press the subject any further.
Before reaching your bedroom, you pause at the door to Bucky's room. You don't knock, but wait to see if you hear any movement from inside. All that you hear is a loud static from his white noise machine.
Although you expected him to be asleep at this hour, you couldn't help but feel a small pang of disappointment that you hadn't been able to get back earlier. You knew you would see him tomorrow (well, technically later today), but you hadn't gone this long - a mere three days - without seeing Bucky since the two of you had become close months ago.
You quietly make your way into your bedroom and toss your duffel bag onto the end of the bed before stripping off the dirty, sweaty tactical suit that you'd been wearing since the early hours of the previous morning.
In your bathroom, you turn the faucet handle to the hottest setting and watch as the small room fills with steam before stepping under the showerhead.
You think about what Natasha said as you scrub your body clean and let the harsh but satisfying stream of water relax your aching shoulder muscles.
You wanted to go for it. Goddamn, you wanted to go for it. Every time you are alone with him - whether he's helping you train with target practice, or you're paired up together for re-con, or you're just simply eating breakfast together in the common area - you want to go for it.
All you have to do is stare at his stupid, pretty pink lips for a split-second too long and you're thinking about going for it.
But for so many reasons, you don't.
Though your heart wants more, you love your friendship with him, too. And you would be devastated if you tried for more and it didn't work out and you lost that friendship altogether.
You also don't know if Bucky wants more. Natasha says that everyone around you sees it, but he's never directly said it. You know there's an undeniable chemistry, but what if you're the only one experiencing it?
You watch the last few suds of your body wash go down the drain and turn the shower off, deciding that it's too late and you're far too tired to be thinking about this right now.
You speed through your post-shower routine, desperate to feel the silk of your bedsheets against your clean, freshly moisturized skin as you drift off to sleep.
You're rolling some deodorant under your arms when a deep, loud cry thunders from somewhere outside of your room causing you to let out a shocked gasp. You drop the object in your hand immediately and it falls to the floor as you rush out of your bedroom, wearing only thin cotton shorts and a matching tank top.
As soon as you step into the hallway, you are able to identify where the screams are coming from. Pained, booming yells originate from behind the door directly across from your own.
Bucky’s room.
You don't hesitate to twist the doorknob, letting yourself and shutting the door behind you.
The pale orange glow of a small table lamp in the far corner of his bedroom illuminates the room enough for you to make sense of what is happening. The sight before you makes your heart sink to the floorboards.
He's asleep - his eyes pinched shut and his brows furrowed together in obvious agony. He's shirtless, and his skin looks pale and clammy with thick beads of sweat littered from his forehead to his torso.
There's a meek voice in the back of your mind that tries to remind you that you don't know what you're walking into, as you've never encountered Bucky while he's having a nightmare before but he looks so fucking pitiful that your only concern is alleviating him from whatever prison of torment his mind is currently trapped in.
You rush over to the side of the bed, nearly tripping on the comforter that he's apparently through to the floor in his sleep. Both of his hands form tight fists, his knuckles strained pale. He lets out another guttural yell that causes you to instinctively flinch away.
“Bucky,” you say, attempting to keep your voice from breaking. “Wake up, Bucky. You're having a nightmare.”
He gives no indication that he can hear you, his head thrashing violently and fists slamming down against his mattress as he makes a pitiful whimper.
“Bucky,” you repeat, leaning down to perch on the few inches of free space on the side of the bed. You reach out to place your hand on the flesh of his bicep, about to attempt to gently stir him awake, when he shoots straight up in his bed. You flinch again, but don't move from your position next to him, firming your grasp on his bicep in an effort to ground him. His blue eyes are as wide as saucers and his chest heaves as he takes in his surroundings.
“You're okay,” you assure him in a soft, uncertain voice, rubbing your thumb in circles against the skin of his flesh arm. “It was just a bad dream. Everything is–”
“I could have hurt you,” he interrupts you, his voice faltering on the last word. “I could have–”
“You didn't hurt me,” you interrupt him back. “You're okay, and I'm okay, too.” He nods, and you can tell he's trying to convince himself that the words you say are true.
You quickly glance around his room until you find what you're looking for. Strewn on the floor next to his bedside table, you see a black t-shirt. You reach over, picking it up. You hesitate for a moment before slowly extending the fabric to Bucky's face, where you delicately wipe away the thin layer of sweat that glistens on his forehead. He relaxes into the movement, his eyes closing until you pull away.
“I'm sorry that I woke you up,” he murmurs after a moment of heavy silence.
“You didn't wake me up,” you assure him quickly. He watches you with something akin to guilt across his features. “I had just gotten out of the shower. We didn't get home until half an hour ago.”
He glances down, noticing your attire. You suddenly feel naked in only the thin gray shorts and tank top. You awkwardly clear your throat, reaching to place the t-shirt on his bedside table when something catches your eye. Bucky follows your gaze to the joint laying on his bedside table.
“I tried to wait up for you,” he exhales a soft laugh. “Ended up passing out around midnight.” Your whole body warms at his admission. The idea that he tried to force himself to stay awake just so he could see you when you got home makes you feel dizzy despite the fact that you're sitting down.
“Do you want to now? To help you sleep?” you ask, gesturing towards the joint. You don't even care that it's three in the morning and that you're borderline delirious from lack of sleep.
He takes one of your hands in between his own and brings it closer to him, giving it a tight squeeze as he shakes his head.
“No, I know you're tired. But could you just..” He trails off, bringing your hand clutched between his up to his mouth to rest his lips against the skin of the back of your hand. It's not quite a kiss, but it sends goosebumps across your flesh nonetheless. You're holding your breath without realizing it. “Could you just lay with me for a while?”
You nod your head in agreement without even thinking about it. “Yeah - yeah, of course,” you answer, hoping that you don't sound too eager while simultaneously knowing that your voice has risen several octaves.
You lean over once again, grabbing his comforter off of the floor as Bucky scoots towards the middle of the king sized bed to give you room to crawl in beside him. He extends his flesh arm away from his body, a clear indication that he wants you to lay in the space between his arm and his chest. You lay down, tucking your head under his chin so that your cheek rests against the mildly clammy but soft skin of his chest. He helps you tug the thick blanket across your bodies before bringing his arm around your abdomen, pinning you to him.
Luckily, you’re far too tired, and he’s far too warm for you to overthink it.
“You smell really good,” he murmurs into your hair and you hope that his preternatural abilities don’t pick up on the way your heart skips a beat. “I probably smell like sweat.”
You hum a laugh against his chest, sniffing the skin next to your nose without thinking about it.
“You don’t smell like sweat. You smell just as good as you always do, somehow,” you assure him, reveling in his unique scent of vetiver and something citrusy.
You’re both quiet for a moment, sleep threatening to overtake you at any moment when he brings two metal fingers to the underside of your chin and gently tilts your face to look up at him. Your breath is trapped in your chest at the close proximity of your lips and his.
“Remember the night of the gala, when I told you that I’d started sleeping better and having less nightmares since we’d started smoking together before bed?”
You nod, not trusting your voice to answer verbally. He’s so fucking close, you can smell the spearmint of his toothpaste from when he’d brushed his teeth hours ago.
“That was true,” he continues, looking down at you with an indiscernible expression. “But what I’m now realizing is that I don’t think it has anything to do with the weed,” he pauses, a small smile forming across his face. “It’s just you.”
You can’t stop the smile that blooms in return, just as you can’t stop what you do next.
Closing the distance between your lips and his own, you kiss him as you’ve thought about doing for months now. You’re hesitant at first, worrying that you’ve crossed that line that you can never go back over - but then he’s moving his mouth with your own in a synchronicity sweeter than you could have dreamed.
His arms dart under the comforter, wrapping around your body and pulling you even tighter against him. You bring one of your hands to cup his face as he sweeps his tongue along the swell of your bottom lip. You open up for him, letting him inside your mouth as you move your hand from his jaw to his hair - lacing your fingers through the short brown locks as he explores your mouth. Your thigh hooks around his, and it takes everything in you to hold back - to not swing yourself over him and lay the full weight of your body flush against his.
He’s just had a nightmare, and it’s late, and you’re tired, and you don’t want to move this sweet, special thing that you have too quickly.
He pulls away, and you fight against whimpering at the loss of the sensation of his soft lips.
“The night of the meteor shower,” he starts, his voice strained and his pupils dilated. “You told me to make a wish, and I did. Now that it’s come true, I can tell you what it was I wished for,” he pauses, running his metal thumb across your kiss-swollen bottom lip as you look at him expectantly, waiting for him to go on. “I wished for as many moments like that as I could possibly get with you.”
Your heart swells in your chest. You're convinced that you're asleep because this is something straight out of your dreams. You remove your hand from his hair, placing it directly above his heart to make yourself believe this is real.
“Speaking of meteor showers,” you start as you trail the tips of your fingers over the defined planes of his chest. “There's supposed to be a cool show at the planetarium in Manhattan this weekend. Do you want to go with me?”
His answer is a soft smile before attaching his lips to yours once more.
thanks so much for reading! as always reblogs and comments are extremely appreciated. i hope you enjoyed 🩷
other recent works by me: love language • delirium • it's nice to have a friend
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."
summary: stranded in the middle of the alaskan wilderness with no means of communication after being exposed to a foreign drug, you're reluctant to accept help from the one person who has a shot at saving you.
warnings/tags: sex pollen, dub con, unprotected sex, oral, masturbation, angst, descriptions of physical pain, language, friends to lovers, avenger!reader, no use of y/n, reader is afab, 18+ only
flashbacks are in italics
Sometime in the near future, there would be a case study conducted on how long a human being could burn from the inside without dying.
They would refer to you as exhibit a.
Doctors and scientists would lay your cold corpse on a colder table and use a scalpel to cut you from your thorax to your belly button. They would scribble notes about how your lungs had turned to ash and your esophagus to molten lava.
They wouldn't say it, but they would think it's a shame, because your driver's license states that you were an organ donor.
A harsh gust of wind snaps you out of the twisted fantasy and back to your reality - standing barefoot on the rickety front porch steps of a small cabin in Sitka, Alaska. You've only been outside for a few minutes but the snow is pouring down at a brutal pace, already covering the tops of your exposed feet.
The razor sharp chill of the ground below you and the air that surrounds you are the only things tethering you to what little remains of your sanity.
You never thought that you would be so thankful for your feet to be going numb, but after feeling like every fiber of your being is getting melted with a hot branding iron for - what? Ten? Twelve hours now? You had to resist the temptation to submerge your entire body in the multiple feet of snow that had accumulated since nightfall.
You hear the front door of the cabin creak open from behind you. You don't have to turn around to know that he's standing in the doorway with the same look of pleading desperation that he's been giving you since the two of you had realized what was happening.
“You need to come back inside,” he says delicately. His voice is muffled by the roar of the snowstorm, but right now with heightened senses, you hear him just fine. “You're going to get hypothermia.”
You don't respond. The mere sound of his voice makes you grit your teeth together so hard that you're surprised the tiny bones don't shatter.
He keeps to the doorway, scared that if he takes one step closer, you'll flee into the miles of thick woods that surrounds you in only a pair of old sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. He murmurs your name in a tone that begs you to come in from the below freezing temperatures.
“What time is it now?” You barely recognize your own voice - low and strained, it sounds like you haven't had anything to drink in days.
You clear your throat, though you doubt it'll make any difference.
“Just after four o'clock.”
Eleven hours into this hell, then. Best case scenario, another half a day of this. Worst case scenario, close to two.
Either way, you knew that these symptoms had yet to hit their peak. This would undoubtedly get worse before it gets better.
You stare out into the endless thicket of snow covered hemlocks and spruces. The illumination from the full moon makes the white powder on the branches glisten in the darkness.
Daylight was still hours away, and with it, hope for some means of communication with the rest of your team back in New York. The snowstorm had brought a widespread power outage across the city. Cell phone signal was nonexistent right now.
“Go on back to your room,” you tell him. “I'll come back inside in just a moment.” You continue to watch the blizzard before you, knowing that he's still just a few feet away from you. “I promise,” you add, hoping that he’ll believe you and return to the bedroom you'd been forcing him to keep to.
The drug coursing through your veins had amplified every one of your five senses. Even with him behind the closed door of the bedroom, you could still smell faint traces of the earthy musk of his deodorant and something warm that is uniquely him.
You wouldn't chance coming back into the house until his scent has dissipated from the entrance - not unless you want to feel as though all air is being stripped from your lungs.
Even simply standing here, with him behind you and the wind blowing his scent in the opposite direction, is nearly intolerable.
You hear footsteps retreat into the house, growing quieter and quieter as he makes his way back down the hallway, until you finally hear the click of his bedroom door. You exhale a breath that you weren't aware you had been holding in.
You have no doubt that he'll try to drag you back inside by the ankles if he has to, so you make good on your promise and return to the sweltering interior of the six hundred square foot log cabin.
A sharp, stabbing pain radiates from the center of your body at that thought - the exact kind of thoughts you were actively trying to avoid having. Thoughts of his hands digging into your thighs, his wet mouth on your throat, his bare chest pressed against yours as he fucks you into the likely thirty-something year old couch - those thoughts. Dangerous territory thoughts - the kind you didn't trust yourself not to act on if dwelled upon for too long.
Apparently, the thought of him putting his hands around your ankles and dragging you kicking and screaming falls into that category.
You settle onto the couch, pulling your knees up to your chest in an effort to alleviate the ache in your lower belly. You notice that Bucky has crammed more wood into the fireplace, which currently serves as the main source of light for the cabin, save for a few candles that have been placed sporadically throughout the small space.
Sweat begins to bead across your skin within seconds of sitting down in front of the fire. You know that Bucky is just trying to keep the temperature of the house from dropping below zero while also providing enough light to see during the middle of the night while you are in too much discomfort to sleep, but you feel like you are locked in a sauna after running five miles.
You think back to all of the times that you've given Sam shit for taking ice baths after his workouts. Now nothing sounds better than an ice bath.
Almost nothing, anyway. The only thing that could possibly feel even better is laying down behind a closed door less than twenty feet away.
And he'd offered - begged, actually, to take this pain away from you.
“Please,” he whispers, kneeling on the ground next to the couch, where you sit hunched over in pain. He's so close to you and it's fucking suffocating. He places his hand on your knee and you have to dig your nails into the suede upholstery to keep from whimpering. He notices the reaction and retracts his touch.
“Sweetheart, look at me,” he says louder, the pet name finally getting you to meet his gaze for the first time since you dropped the glass jar of the firetruck red powder in the former HYDRA warehouse two hours ago.
Big mistake. Looking at him is a big fucking mistake. From the way his blue eyes bore into yours with sincere concern to the way that his plump, pink lips are slightly chapped from the cold weather -
“No,” you say firmly, shaking your head into your hands. “I can't ask that of you. I can't make you do that. I would never forgive my–”
“You wouldn't be asking or making me do anything,” he tries to reason with you. There's sincerity in his voice but you're too delirius to hear the truth of his words. “I'm offering. Because I care about you. Because I don't want to see you in any kind of pain if there's anything I can do about it. Because I think you'd do the same for me if the situation were–”
“Bucky,” you cut him off in a strained gasp. “Your voice is making this so much worse right now.”
“Then let me help you. Let me make you feel good.”
His words alone are enough to have you clenching your thighs around nothing but the thick material of your sweatpants. You can feel your cotton panties becoming more drenched with each word he speaks.
“Not like this.” You're on the verge of tears - from pain, from anger at the entire situation, from how goddamn badly you need to feel him inside you. “It can't happen like this. I never wanted it to happen like this.”
His features soften, a look of understanding spreading across his face.
“When we fuck, I want it to be because we want to fuck,” you say as you jump up from your position on the couch, desperately needing to distance yourself from him before you do something you can't take back. “I don't want it to be because we feel like neither of us have a choice in the matter.”
“But we do have a choice,” he murmurs from where he's still kneeling on the floor next to the couch. “And I'd choose to go back to that HYDRA facility and infect myself with this shit, too, if it means you'd feel a little less guilty about saying yes.”
Your answer to that was, of course, a big, giant absolutely fucking not. The snow started pouring down shortly after, making his irrational proclamation an impossibility, anyway.
Almost half a day later, here you are. Surrounded by miles and miles of snow and ice in a town with no power or semi-functioning cell phone towers, just trying to endure the fire coursing through your veins until the effects of the HYDRA made drug have worked through your system.
You're coming up on the twelve hour mark now, and there's no denying that you're desperate for relief in one way or another.
Worth a fucking shot, you think.
You prop your feet up on the glass coffee table in front where you sit on the couch, spreading your thighs apart by a few inches.
You hesitate for a moment, listening for any kind of indication that Bucky's no longer in the confines of the cabin’s singular bedroom.
Dead silent, except for the crackling of the wood burning in the fireplace.
You snake your hand down the front of your pants, past the waistband of your underwear and to your center that's been aching for hours now.
You stroke your fingers up and down your folds, stopping at the apex of your core to massage your clit in circular motions.
Your head rolls back on the couch at the sensation, immediately feeling the slightest sense of relief. You dig your teeth into your lower lip to keep from moaning - hard enough to draw blood, the taste of iron flooding your mouth.
You slip two fingers past your entrance, not requiring any foreplay to plunge them to the hilt. It feels good - the way you're working yourself with rapid scissoring motions. Really fucking good, actually. Better than fingering yourself has ever felt.
But only a mere minute into the ministrations, you fear that it won't be enough to satiate you in the way that the drug requires.
Still, you try. You yank your t-shirt above your tits, bringing your free hand to paw at your breast as you continue working your pussy with your fingers, the heel of your palm putting pressure against your clit.
“That's not going to work, you know.”
You yank your hand out of your pants, snapping your head to the side to see him leaning against the frame of the small hallway. You had been so immersed in attempting to find some amount of relief that you hadn't heard him exit the bedroom. He's looking at you with sympathy and concern, not judgment - you don't think you'd be able to find it within yourself to feel embarrassed even if he were. Not in your current state of discomfort.
“How do you know that?” Frustration is evident in your voice. You look away from him, back to the fire in front of you as you pull your shirt back down. The floor creaks as he steps out of the hallway and makes his way over to the opposite end of the small couch. He sits a foot away from you, close enough so that his scent and warmth invades your senses, sending a fresh wave of arousal to your core.
“Because I've been through what you're going through right now.”
Your eyes break away from the ember that you've been staring at, your gaze snapping to him. You don't know why this comes as a surprise to you. It shouldn't, not with every other form of torment that HYDRA had inflicted upon him for over half a century.
“Why didn't you tell me?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
“I was embarrassed,” he answers with a small half-shrug, breaking your stare. “I didn't.. handle it as well as you are,” he continues, shame in his voice and cheeks rosy. “You’re doing everything you can to fight something that you didn't ask for. That's more than I can say for myself.”
“You were brainwashed, Bucky,” you remind him delicately. It's a risky move that makes your skin burn and belly clench, but you scoot closer to him on the couch - your outermost thigh brushing against his knee. If the two of you weren't both wearing sweatpants, the minimal touch might even aid in bringing you some relief. Instead, you’re left feeling desperate for more of him.
But you push the feeling down, wanting to do what little you can to comfort him - wanting him to know that you don't think poorly of him for what was forced onto him, and what is now being forced onto you, too.
“I would never judge you for anything they made you do,” you assure him.
“I know you wouldn't,” he murmurs, turning to face you again. His blue eyes glow in the low lighting of the fire. The closeness between the two of you is dizzying, and electrifying, and -
“And I want you to know that I would never judge you for giving into this torture,” he adds.
You snort a laugh. “I'm starting to think you want me to give into this.” You mean for the statement to sound light-hearted, but a sharp pang in your gut makes you wince in pain and your voice goes shrill. You clutch your lower belly, hunching over at the pain.
He leans in closer, putting one hand on your lower back and one on your thigh. You whimper at the pressure of his fingers against your spine and inner thigh. Even through your clothes, the contact feels like heaven compared to hell you've been enduring for the last twelve hours.
You lean into his touch - you don't even think about it, you just do it. You rest your head in the crook of his neck, your forehead nuzzling the warm skin of his throat.
You take a deep inhale, attempting to steady your breathing, and you realize quickly that is a mistake - his scent is so euphoric, it feels like inhaling flames.
“Would it make it easier for you if I said that I do want you to give in?” His voice is low, his breath fanning across your face from his position above you.
“Fuck, Bucky, you can't say that to me right now,” you whine. You fist your hands into the fabric of his t-shirt, your eyes squint shut.
“Look at me,” he commands. You force your eyes open, pulling your head back enough to look up at him through your eyelashes.
“I want it to be your choice.” He brings a hand up to cup your jawline. His thumb skims the outline of your bottom lip. “But I would be lying if I said that I'm not relieved that I'm the one here with you, or that I wouldn't enjoy every second of helping you feel better.”
He brings his hands to yours, pulling them away from where they still clutch his shirt. You release your grip, allowing him to hold you by your wrists. He pulls your right hand up to his face, stopping just under his nose. Your brows furrow in confusion, until it dawns on you what it is he's doing.
He inhales deeply, then lowers your hand to his parted mouth. He slips the tips of your index and middle fingers past his lips, and then swirls his tongue around the two digits.
The exact two that had been inside your pussy not even five minutes ago.
Right now, you think you could come from him sucking on your fingers and nothing else.
You don't even try to stop the groan that slips past your lips as you shove your fingers deeper into his mouth. He moans around them as he finishes cleaning them off, the sound sending vibrations up your arm and throughout your body.
You pull your fingers from between his lips and immediately crush your own lips to his in their place. You feel the drug surging through your veins, but this time it's less excruciating - it now feels like pure adrenaline bubbling under your skin, spurring you on.
He opens his mouth to you, your lips and tongue moving with his in synchronicity. It's hurried and messy, and maybe not as romantic as you had imagined it in your head before this night - but it's exactly what you need right now.
He maneuvers you so that you're laying down on the couch, and nestles himself between your thighs. You can feel the hard outline of his erection through the thin material of his sweatpants. He ruts against you, dragging the bulge across your clothed center as he yanks your t-shirt up and over your head. He tosses it somewhere behind the couch before attaching his mouth to one of your nipples and palming the other with the cool metal of his left hand.
You wrap your arms around him, pulling the full weight of his body down against you. You stick your hands up the back of his t-shirt, scratching your nails down the skin of his back.
“I need more,” you gasp out as he pinches your nipple between his teeth, rolling it in his lips. The clothing that separates the two of you feels like a prison. “I need to feel you.”
He pulls away, leaning back to perch on his knees between your legs. Your eyes roam down the chiseled planes of his chest until they land on the defined “V” shape that disappears into the waistband of his low-hanging pants.
He hooks his fingers into your sweatpants and underwear and tugging them both down past your ankles, then throwing them somewhere across the room with both of your long-forgotten shirts.
His eyes trail your body from your breasts to your thighs, his pupils dilating in the firelight. He splays his hands across the meat of your inner thighs, pinning your legs open wide for him. He lowers himself back down on the couch, belly down so his face hovers just above your pussy.
“Bucky, I swear if you don't put your mouth–”
He laughs, a deep, throaty chuckle before his tongue slips between his lips. It darts to your hole, licking a soft strip up to your clit. You exhale a sharp hiss of pleasure, your hands shooting to lace your fingers through tendrils of his hair. You arch into his touch, meeting the thrusts of his tongue with thrusts of your hips. He eats like you're the best thing he's ever tasted - like he's wanted this for way longer than this drug has been in your system.
You're coming on his face in an embarrassing amount of time, really. Thanks to the influence of the pollen, you currently have the stamina and endurance of a teenager losing their virginity. Your thighs are clenched around either side of his head, writhing above him as you ride out your orgasm on his face.
The relief that you feel as you come down from your high feels like years of pent up frustration leaving your body all at once.
You don't quite feel entirely like yourself - there's still a dull ache in your core, and your skin’s still feverish - though that could be due to the fire that the two of you are just feet away from. But you're now able to see the light at the end of the tunnel.
“Come here,” you whisper, your voice low and honeyed. He crawls over you, his chest brushing against yours as he centers himself above you. His skin shines with a thin layer of sweat that mingles with your own. You reach a hand between your two bodies, palming his erection through the sweatpants that he has yet to shed. You keep your eyes locked on his face, watching as his eyes roll back into his head and his teeth clamp down on his bottom lip as you massage him through the fabric. Your other hand juts down to the waistband of his pants and you tug them downwards, far enough to help him shimmy them down to his knees.
His cock springs forward and he takes himself in his flesh hand, pumping his length several times before teasing your folds with his tip. He collects your slick along his length, lubricating himself before nudging his head just past your entrance.
You're more than ready for him - hours of desperation in addition to already having come on his face leaves you needing no further preparation before he's filling you up with his impressive length and girth. There's a slight burn at the sheer fullness of it, but there's also a wave of relief that your body has been craving for hours.
He pulls out halfway, then rocks back into you. He starts slow - trying to hold back for his own sake or for yours, you're unsure. Gradually, he increases his speed, hitting your cervix at that sweet angle that not everyone knows how to work. You lean forward, raising your head enough to capture his lips in yours once more.
You taste yourself on him - a dichotomy of sweet and salty mixed with something entirely unique. He brings his flesh hand in between your bodies, lowering his fingers to your clit where he begins rubbing pressured circles. You moan his name into his mouth and he responds by biting your lip between his teeth, his movements becoming messier.
“You gonna come on my cock?” he asks in a low growl when he feels your pussy clenching around him. “Gonna fill you up and make you feel all better.”
His words send you tumbling over the edge for the second time - that telltale warm coil in your belly bursting at the same time that he begins spilling his warmth into you.
He collapses, pinning you between his body and the couch beneath you. Starting at your shoulder, he peppers kisses along your collarbones and up your neck until he’s finally eye-level with you.
“We can do that again,” he says in a breathy voice, still inside you. “If you need to, that is. Or if you just want you.” There's a mischievous grin spread across his face and a twinkle in his eyes. It's the most carefree you've seen him since the two of you left New York to come here for this mission. You put your hands on his chest, jokingly attempting to shove him away from you.
“Oh, I don't think I need to,” you jab at him. “I'm feeling pretty great now, but thank you for your services.” He laughs, pulling out of you and sitting back against the couch. He pulls you up with him, wrapping his flesh arm around your waist and tucking you into his side. “But I think I might want to again. You know, now that I'm no longer in excruciating pain.” He hums in agreement, stroking his flesh fingers across the side of your stomach.
“I'm glad you were the one here with me too, Bucky."
thank you for reading! i know sooo many people have done this trope, especially for bucky, but it's truly one of my all time favorites and i just needed to get this out of my system so i hope you all enjoyed
comments and reblogs are always appreciated!!
other works by me: oil & water • down bad • acquainted •
