Archive of Our Own

“So, who do you think is replacing Pepper?” you asked, twirling your pen between your fingers as you spun your chair around to face Misty Knight.

She let out a short laugh, sipping her coffee. “I heard it’s some military sergeant. Strict as hell.”

“Man or woman?”

Misty shrugged. “Nat, what’d you hear?”

From her cubicle, Natasha Romanov’s bright red hair popped up as she leaned against the dividing wall. “Pepper said the new guy’s got a terrible temper. They already have a firing list ready.”

“But—” the murmur of conversation died down as the elevator dinged open down the hall. Around the corner, a sharply dressed man strolled by, a satchel slung over one shoulder, clutching a coffee cup in his left hand.

“Why’s he only wearing one glove?” Misty muttered. “It’s not even cold enough for that.”

“Maybe he’s got a disease,” Nat smirked—but as the man passed back by, she quickly slid into her cubicle.

“My name is James Barnes,” the man announced, hands folded behind his back as he stopped near Pepper Potts’ old office. “I’m new here, but I intend to learn everyone’s name soon. You,” he pointed to Nat, beckoning her forward.

Nat stood quickly, crossing over. “Natalia Romanov.”

Barnes smiled, cool and confident. “Fetch me a Caesar salad from the lobby, will you?”

Her mouth opened, but no words came.

“Cat got your tongue? Hard of hearing?” he teased.

“No, Mr. Barnes,” she said, bowing her head before heading to the elevator.

One by one, Barnes called your coworkers over, assigning them little tasks. When he finally called your name, annoyance bubbled beneath your calm.

“Follow me.”

Confused, you trailed behind him to his office, where he closed the door behind you.

“Sit,” he commanded softly. You obeyed.

“I’m assuming you’re Y/N Y/L/N?”

“How do you—?” you began, but he cut you off, flipping a clipboard around to show a detailed chart with everyone’s cubicles and names.

“If you already know our names, why bother introducing us like schoolkids?”

He grinned, mischievous. “I like to keep things interesting. Besides, I want you as my assistant. What do you say?”

Blinking at his unexpected playfulness, you nodded.

You turned to leave, but before you could, he called your name again.

The smirk vanished as he leaned back in his chair. “Sit down. I don’t recall dismissing you, Y/N.”

“Sir,” you said, lowering yourself onto the chair.

He studied you for a long moment before wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Is this what you usually wear to work?” He gestured at your blouse and slacks.

You frowned, confused. “Sir?”

“I prefer my assistants in skirts and blouses. High heels, too.” His voice was sharp, but there was a calculating edge beneath it. “Tomorrow morning, that’s what I expect to see. Understand? I need to know you take this position seriously—it comes with perks you won’t want to miss.”

The next morning, you stood in front of your full-length mirror, eyeing the pencil skirt and blouse Barnes had demanded. The heels made your calves ache just thinking about the hours ahead. You weren’t one for dressing up just to appease a boss, especially one who acted like he owned the world. But if you wanted to survive—and maybe get a little leverage—you’d play the game for now.

With a deep breath, you smoothed down the skirt, adjusted your blouse, and headed out the door.

The office hummed with low chatter as you clicked your way down the hallway, the heels clicking sharply against the floor. The stares were immediate—some amused, others blatantly assessing. You caught Misty and Nat exchanging looks, neither hiding their curiosity.

You reached Barnes’s office and knocked lightly.

“Enter,” his voice commanded.

You pushed the door open and stepped inside.

James Barnes looked up from his papers, his eyes briefly scanning you from head to toe. A slow smirk spread across his face.

“Well, well,” he said, voice low and deliberate. “Looks like someone’s trying to impress.”

You forced a tight smile and set your bag down. “You asked me to dress like this.”

He stood and circled you like a predator eyeing its prey. “Yes. You see, in this office, presentation matters. It’s about control, influence. You wouldn’t want people to underestimate you, would you?”

You lifted your chin, matching his stare. “I’m pretty sure my work will speak louder than my clothes.”

Barnes chuckled darkly. “Confidence. Good. But never forget—men in this building are used to a certain... decorum. A woman wearing pants to a meeting tends to ruffle feathers.”

“Maybe those men need to learn how to handle a woman in pants,” you snapped back, folding your arms.

He raised an eyebrow. “Bold. I like that. But don’t mistake boldness for foolishness. You’re here because I chose you. Consider this a privilege, not a favor.”

The room seemed to shrink, the air thick with unspoken challenge.

“So, what happens if I don’t play by your rules?” you asked quietly.

Barnes leaned in, voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “Oh, sweetheart, you don’t want to find out.”Later that day, as you moved through the office, every glance felt like a test. Barnes’s “perks” soon became clear: the way he’d assign you tasks designed to remind you who was boss, the way he’d comment on your appearance when you least expected it.

“You handled that client well today,” he said one afternoon, his tone smooth but edged with something cold. “But next time, maybe smile more. Men respond better to a smile.”

You bit back a retort, forcing a polite nod.

When you returned to your desk, Misty whispered, “He’s bad news. You sure you wanna stick around?”

You stared at your computer screen, jaw tight.

“I didn’t get this far by backing down,” you murmured.

That night, you stared at the ceiling, the weight of the day pressing down on you. Barnes wasn’t just a new boss—he was a storm you’d have to weather, but you weren’t about to let him break you.

You made a silent promise: play the game, but on your own terms.

It had become a ritual.

Every morning, you walked into the office with perfect posture, makeup pristine, pencil skirt sharp enough to cut glass. You'd lost count of how many blisters the heels had given you, but you wore them anyway.

Because he wanted them.

“Late by ninety seconds,” Bucky muttered one morning as you entered.

“I was in the restroom,” you answered calmly, setting your bag down.

His eyes flicked to the clock. “Then go earlier next time. I like punctuality.”

You inhaled deeply and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He handed you a packet of notes. “I need you to reformat these slides and add more visuals. I want clean transitions and no Comic Sans like last time. That was... tragic.”

“I didn’t use Comic Sans.”

“Then whatever you picked was worse.”

You clenched your jaw. “Understood.”

That was the game. He’d poke, prod, and belittle—but you refused to flinch. Every tiny dig only made you more determined to outlast him.

You were in the middle of reorganizing the conference room when Bucky entered, sleeves rolled to the elbows, glove still on his left hand. His eyes flicked over your bent form as you reached to plug in a projector cord.

“You ever think of wearing your hair up?” he asked out of nowhere.

You glanced back. “I didn’t know it was mandatory.”

He approached. “It’s not. But I find it distracting when it’s in your face. If you want to be taken seriously, keep it neat. Elegant.”

“I am taken seriously,” you replied.

He smiled, slow and sharp. “By who?”

You straightened. “By anyone who matters.”

“Mm,” he muttered, stepping closer. “See, there’s your mistake. I’m the one who matters.”

The silence between you was volatile. You could feel the heat of his body, the magnetic pressure of his presence — and you hated that your breath caught.

His tone dropped lower. “You’re not like the others. You talk back. But we both know you'll still be here tomorrow, in your skirt and your heels, ready to jump when I say jump. You want this job. Maybe even want to impress me.”

“I want to survive,” you answered tightly. “And I don’t have the luxury of walking away. I have bills to pay and a house to take care of.”

He looked at you—really looked at you—for the first time that week. “So endure, then. Prove you can.”

And just like that, he turned and left.

By the third week, the whispered rumors around the office were growing louder.

“She’s sleeping with him.”

“He treats her like a damn secretary from the 50s.”

“I’d have slapped him by now.”

You heard them. Bucky probably did too. But he never stopped.

Sometimes he'd hand you coffee with one sugar and say, “You’re sweeter without it.”

Sometimes he'd ask you to stay late, just to watch him work, not even letting you touch your computer.

“I like the company,” he’d say with a dismissive wave. “You can sit there and look pretty.”

You wanted to scream.

But you sat. Because he hadn’t fired you yet. And a part of you—a dark, frustrated part—wanted to know why.

It was after 9pm. Everyone else had gone home. You were still typing up notes when he came in from his private meeting. He looked exhausted. Tie loosened. Glove gone. His left hand—metal—glinted in the soft light.

You tried not to stare.

“You’re still here,” he said.

“I haven’t been dismissed.”

He chuckled softly. “You know, Y/N… You’re more obedient than I expected.”

“And you’re more arrogant than I imagined.”

He raised a brow. “Is that so?”

“Most men who need to be feared are usually afraid of something themselves.”

The silence stretched. You weren’t sure if you’d gone too far.

But then—he smiled. A slow, dangerous smile. “Keep wearing the skirt,” he said. “It keeps you brave.” And with that, he walked out.

**

You stood in front of the mirror, unsure of what unsettled you more — the outfit, or the fact that you had chosen it. The black pencil skirt clung to your hips like second skin. Your blouse, tucked in too neatly, was barely opaque. You’d even dug out your only pair of heels, the kind that pinched just a little too hard in the toes.

He wanted an image. You were giving it to him — for now.

The office buzzed in quiet whispers as you stepped inside. Misty’s eyes widened at your outfit, but she said nothing. Nat just gave you a subtle, unreadable glance before burying her head in a file.

You didn’t blame them. They saw the storm coming before you ever stepped into it.

Bucky's office door opened precisely at 8:59. He stepped out, black glove on, coffee in hand. The only thing sharper than his suit was the chill in his stare as it immediately found you.

“Good,” he muttered. “You listened.”

He looked you up and down — slowly. Deliberately. His gaze lingered just long enough to make you wonder if he wanted to see you squirm.

You didn’t.

Instead, you locked your expression in place, offering a polite nod. “I’m ready for the day, sir.”

He smirked slightly. “We’ll see.”

—

He didn’t invite you to sit. You stood with the clipboard in your hand, pen ready, trying to appear unbothered by the tension that hovered like a second skin.

He circled you once, silently, the way someone would inspect a showpiece they’d just unboxed.

“This skirt is tighter than yesterday’s trousers,” he said at last. “Good. You’re learning.”

“I'm here to do my job, sir,” you said, tone neutral.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He laughed—cold and amused. “You’re here to do what I tell you.”

He crossed to his desk and sat down, motioning lazily for you to remain standing.

“I need three things by noon,” he said. “One — compile and print every contract signed in the last fiscal quarter. Two — make my schedule airtight for the next week. And three — go replace that pitiful excuse for perfume with something that doesn’t remind me of a grandmother’s attic.”

You blinked, lips slightly parted. “Excuse me?”

He looked up at you, eyebrow arched. “Problem?”

“No, sir.”

He leaned forward slowly, folding his hands under his chin. “There’s that tone again. The one that suggests you think I’m not serious.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The air felt colder when he was this still.

Bucky’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Be careful with that attitude, Y/N. I can smell defiance as easily as perfume.”

He dismissed you with a flick of his hand.

—

You returned just before noon with the printed contracts and a new bottle of perfume discreetly stashed in your bag — the kind the woman at the department store claimed was “subtly seductive.”

You didn’t spray it. He wasn’t going to have that satisfaction. Not today. He didn’t ask about the perfume, though. He simply tapped his pen twice against the desk, then set it down.

“You’ve done the bare minimum,” he said after scanning the contracts. “Congratulations.”

You didn’t flinch.

He leaned back in his chair, gaze flicking to your chest, then your knees. “Still, I think I’ll keep you around. Something about watching you strain under expectations is...motivational.”

You inhaled slowly. “I’m here to work. Not to be watched.”

“Oh, but you’re doing both.” He gave a slow smile. “And I’m enjoying the view.”

—

As the sun dipped beyond the windows, you gathered your bag in silence.

But before you could leave, his voice rang out again — sharp and low.

“You’ll stay late tomorrow. You’ll bring me dinner. I like steak. Medium rare.”

You turned, staring him down. “That’s not in my job description.”

He stood from his desk, tall and looming, stepping closer than necessary. “No, but it is in your reality now. I suggest you learn the difference.”

He brushed a nonexistent piece of lint off your shoulder. “I’ll see you in the morning. Pencil skirt again, Y/N. We don’t fix what isn’t broken.”

You left without another word. But you could feel the heat of his gaze trailing you all the way to the elevator.

—

The skirt was even tighter.

You’d gone out the night before and bought one just for this moment — dark navy, knee-length, and deliberately unforgiving. The blouse was silk this time. Sheer enough to catch the light. High heels: higher.

You didn’t do it because he told you to. You did it because now you were playing the game, too.

The elevator opened with a chime. You stepped out, heels clicking sharply against the tile as you passed Nat and Misty. Nat raised an eyebrow, silent. Misty mouthed a single word behind her mug: Damn.

You just smiled.

Bucky’s door was already open. He was at his desk, flipping through a file with one hand, sipping his espresso with the other.

He looked up at the sound of your heels.

And stopped.

For the first time, he didn’t say a word right away. His eyes swept over you, sharp and unreadable, like he was trying to calculate something.

“Good morning, Mr. Barnes,” you purred softly. “I thought I’d make more of an effort today.”

His tongue flicked along the inside of his cheek, almost imperceptibly. “You certainly did.”

You stepped inside his office and shut the door behind you. “Would you like your schedule for today, or shall I pour your second cup of coffee first?”

His jaw clenched. “You’re awfully obedient today.”

You tilted your head. “I’ve been observing. Figured I’d learn what pleases you.”

That caught him. Just a flicker. But it was there — a narrowing of the eyes, a subtle shift in how he sat back in his chair, legs spreading wider, gaze dipping down with permission.

“Then come pour my coffee.”

You walked to the carafe on the credenza, poured it with care, and stepped closer than necessary to hand it to him. Your perfume — the new one — drifted toward him in a whisper of musk and vanilla.

He took the cup, then glanced up. “You’re learning.”

“I’m a quick study.” You allowed a smile. “Especially when the teacher is so… commanding.”

That got him.

You could see it in the way his hand tightened around the cup. His composure cracked just slightly — just enough to let you know: he noticed. He wanted. He liked it when you played nice.

But you weren’t being nice. You were being smart.

—

He kept you in the office longer than necessary, reading off dictation in a tone that was almost lazy with power. You took notes flawlessly. Occasionally crossing and uncrossing your legs — slowly. Deliberately. Not overt. Just enough.

At one point, he dropped his pen on purpose.

“I seem to have dropped something,” he said, staring.

You stood and leaned down to pick it up, knowing your blouse would dip just enough. “Careless of you,” you murmured, handing it back to him. “Should I be more careful for both of us?”

He just smirked. “You’re full of surprises today.”

“I’m full of a lot of things,” you replied, voice low. “I’ve just never been asked.”

His jaw ticked.

You had him. Not completely — not yet. But you could feel the shift. His possessiveness was no longer cold; it was simmering.

—

He didn’t dismiss you. You stood at the edge of his desk waiting for a cue, but he didn’t speak — just stared.

Finally, you broke the silence. “Shall I wear the same skirt tomorrow?” you asked sweetly. “Or do you want something shorter?”

He stood. Walked around the desk.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t flinch.

He circled behind you, leaned down — close enough for his breath to brush your ear. “Tomorrow… wear whatever you want.”

You smiled slowly, letting it rise to your lips before turning your head just enough to meet his eyes.

“Careful, sir,” you whispered. “If you give me that kind of freedom, I might start enjoying myself.”

He said nothing.

But he didn’t stop you from walking away, either.

You’d just rewritten the rules.

—

You arrived ten minutes early. Pencil skirt, heels, a soft blouse in his preferred cream tone. Lipstick sharp. Spine straighter. You hated yourself a little for following orders—but it wasn’t about submission. It was survival. Learning. Watching.

Bucky didn’t look up when you stepped into the office with his usual black coffee.

“Put it on the desk,” he said, pen scratching. “And spin for me.”

Your jaw tightened.

“Excuse me?”

He finally glanced up. His smirk was faint, but his eyes were sharp and dark.

“I said,” he repeated, slow and deliberate, “spin. Let me see if you took my instructions seriously, or if you’re wasting my time.”

You gave him a long stare. Then, slowly, you turned in place, once. Measured. Precise. You could feel his eyes dragging along the hemline of your skirt, the shape of your waist.

He hummed in approval. “That’s better,” he said. “Now you look like you belong behind my desk.”

You placed the coffee down, but before you could move away, his hand brushed yours—intentionally.

“Warm hands today,” he muttered, his tone low and intimate. “You nervous, sweetheart?”

You withdrew your fingers calmly. “Just eager to get to work, sir.”

Bucky chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Good girl.”

You nearly bit your tongue bloody.

You were bent over the copier, trying to figure out what the hell a "duplex double collate" function even meant when his shadow fell over you.

“Need help?” he asked behind you.

“No, thank you—”

But his hand was already brushing over yours, leaning in too close, breath warm against your ear. “Let me show you,” he murmured, pressing his palm over the machine’s buttons like it was his hand that did the work, not the machine.

You stepped back. He didn’t move. You were boxed between cold steel and warm muscle.

“You smell good today,” Bucky said suddenly. “Sweet. Soft. Like vanilla and something sharp.”

“Perfume,” you said flatly.

He smirked. “Try not to wear it when we’re doing late hours. It’s… distracting.”

He made you stand at his left hand while he chaired the meeting. Any time someone spoke out of turn, he clicked his pen once, and said, “Miss Y/L/N, make a note: So-and-so is on thin ice.”

You wrote it all down. Even when your pen nearly cracked in your hand.

At one point, you shifted behind him—and he reached back, like it was nothing, resting his hand on your hip for balance. Casual. Possessive.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t.

But you leaned slightly forward, mouth by his ear, and whispered, “Is there something I can help you find, sir?”

He paused. Smiled to himself. Didn’t look at you.

“No,” he said. “Just making sure you don’t drift too far.”

It was just the two of you in the elevator. You held the folder close to your chest. Bucky stood behind you, uncomfortably close again, his gloved hand brushing against your lower back as the elevator descended.

“I notice you stopped wearing pants,” he said.

“Wasn’t aware my wardrobe was a topic of discussion.”

He leaned in so close, his breath grazed the back of your neck. “It is when it’s mine to approve.”

You turned your head, barely. Just enough to see the glint in his eye. “You think you own your employees now?”

He smiled. “No, doll. Just the ones I like.”

The elevator dinged. You stepped out, heels clicking like gunfire down the hallway. He watched. You knew he did. And you let him.

—

The rooftop ballroom shimmered with low golden lights, silk linens, and silver trays of champagne. Jazz drifted through the summer air. Everyone was dressed like a million-dollar bribe.

And then you walked in. The black dress was short enough to make a statement, long enough to be dangerous. Off-shoulder, slit high on one side, back open. You knew exactly what you were doing.

And Bucky Barnes knew it too.

He spotted you from across the crowd—and he froze. A low breath left his chest, almost a growl. That same glove—always the left—curled into a fist at his side.

You didn’t approach him. You mingled. You smiled. You accepted drinks from men you didn’t know. Laughed just a little too loud at their jokes. Until his voice broke through the hum of the party, velvet wrapped in steel.

“Miss Y/L/N.” Your name rolled off his tongue like a warning.

You turned slowly. He was already walking toward you—no jacket, sleeves rolled up, tie loose like a noose he’d untied just for you.

“Mr. Barnes,” you replied with a tilt of your head.

He stopped close. Too close.

“That dress doesn’t meet company guidelines.”

You sipped your champagne, never breaking eye contact. “Good thing we’re off the clock then, sir.”

A smile ghosted across his lips. He was losing control—and you were just beginning to take it. “Walk with me.”

You didn’t ask where. You simply followed, heels echoing beside his as he led you out of the ballroom and into a side corridor lined with floor-to-ceiling windows and no witnesses.

He stopped suddenly. You almost collided with his back.

And then—his hand shot out, pressed flat against the window beside your head. Caging you in.

“You’re playing with fire,” he murmured, his voice low, rough, dangerous.

You stared up at him, lashes batting. “I thought you liked fire.”

He studied you for a moment. Then his hand—his gloved hand—traced the bare skin of your upper arm, down to the slit in your dress, where his fingers ghosted over your thigh but never quite touched.

“That little show you put on back there?” he muttered. “All those eyes on you. Laughing like that. Letting them look.”

“Is that jealousy I hear?”

“No,” he said, lips a breath from yours. “It’s ownership.”

Your heart slammed in your chest.

You smiled, eyes dark. “You think you own me, Mr. Barnes?”

“I know I do.”

You leaned forward just enough for your lips to brush his jaw—not a kiss, just a whisper of heat. “Then prove it.”

His breath caught—but he didn’t kiss you. He stepped back. Adjusted his cuff-links. Smirked, all cold professionalism again.

“Get back to the party, sweetheart,” he said. “I don’t want to be seen disciplining my assistant in public.”

You turned without another word and walked away—his stare burning across your back the whole time. But he didn’t stop you.

Not yet.

—

You arrived early to work the next day. Earlier than usual. Your desk was pristine. Your blouse was cream silk, tucked into the pencil skirt he'd asked for—tight, perfect. Heels, subtle perfume, lip gloss he couldn’t ignore.

Bucky hadn’t shown up yet.

Not that you were watching the clock. Not that your heart didn’t still pound when you thought of last night—the way he cornered you at the party, the ghost of his fingers on your thigh, his breath on your skin. And the way he let you walk away like he was letting you win a round, only to take it back the next morning.

When he entered, the room fell quiet like prey sensing a predator. His steps were calm, calculated, his gaze unreadable. But he didn’t even look at you. He passed you like you were air. Didn’t say good morning. Didn’t give you that smug smile you were used to. You felt cold suddenly. Hollow.

Then—your phone buzzed. Mr. Barnes:In my office. Now.

Your stomach twisted. You stood, straightened your skirt, and walked in with your chin high. He didn’t look up as you entered. Just gestured to the door. “Close it.”

You did.

“Sit.”

You sat.

“I hope you enjoyed your little performance last night,” he said, voice like a blade being unsheathed. Still not looking at you, just reviewing papers in front of him.

“If you’re referring to the party—”

“I’m referring to the way you let every man in that room think you were on the market.”

“I wasn’t aware being your assistant came with a leash.”

He looked up then. And smiled.But it was cold.

“See, that’s the thing. You are aware.” He stood, slowly moving around the desk. “I gave you clear rules, Y/N. I expected you to follow them.”

He stopped right in front of you. “Instead, you turned your back and walked away.”

You didn’t move. You could feel his breath.

“This job comes with expectations,” he continued. “And consequences.”

Your breath caught. “Sir?”

He leaned closer. His gloved hand came up—hovering near your throat, just above the silk collar of your blouse—but he didn’t touch you. Not yet.

“You’ll spend the rest of the day in my sight. My office. On my schedule. You don’t eat unless I say so. You don’t take breaks. You answer to me. You’ll keep your mouth shut unless I ask you to speak. Am I clear?”

Your thighs clenched. Your voice came out in a breath. “Crystal.”

He pulled back like nothing had happened. “You’ll also refile every project the last assistant touched. Alphabetically. Then by department. Then color code the tags. That should keep you occupied while I conduct meetings.”

“That’ll take hours.”

“Then you’d better get started, sweetheart.”

You rose from your seat and walked to his file cabinets in the back—every step of your heels echoing while he sat back down, completely unaffected.

Except... You felt his eyes on you. The skirt. The heels. The way you bent ever so slightly to pull folders. The tension between you two was a razor pulled tight—ready to snap.

And both of you liked the blade.

—

You hadn’t eaten. Just as he instructed. The morning passed in a blur of files and tight-lipped tension. You worked on your knees by the cabinet while he made calls, sipped his coffee, and let the silence stew thick with tension.

At 12:58, he stood and buttoned his jacket. “We have a lunch meeting with Stark Industries. Conference Room B. Bring the quarterly figures. Walk two steps behind.”

You followed orders.

He didn’t look at you as you trailed after him—until the elevator doors shut and you were alone inside.

Then, his gaze slid down your legs.

“Good,” he said under his breath. “You remembered the heels.”

You said nothing.

The ride was silent, but the heat between you was stifling.

By the time you sat beside him in the conference room—just the two of you and a catered lunch waiting—he leaned toward your chair.

“This meeting’s been rescheduled.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I lied. We’re not meeting Stark. I wanted to see if you’d follow directions like a good girl.”

Your stomach twisted—half from hunger, half from something darker.

He gestured to the food. “Eat. Now.”

You picked up your fork, but the moment you raised it to your mouth, he caught your wrist.

His grip was firm.

“Say thank you, first.”

You swallowed your pride. “Thank you…sir.”

He released you with a satisfied smile and leaned back, crossing one leg over the other.

“Atta girl.”

The rest of lunch was unbearable. You ate under his watchful gaze, forced to endure his taunting glances, the way his thigh brushed yours under the table and stayed there—like a quiet, possessive warning.

Before you left, he leaned close again, voice low against your ear: “Tonight, I’ll check your progress. Every inch. I suggest you don't disappoint me.”

The office was empty.

Except for you. You were exhausted, your back sore from hours hunched over files. The air conditioning had kicked on hours ago, making the room cold—but you didn’t dare grab your coat. You were behind.

You hadn’t finished color-coding the Q2 reports.

You were halfway through reorganizing the merged Stark-Fisk account binders when—

click.

The sound of the door locking behind you.

You looked up. James Barnes stood in the doorway. Still in his jacket. Still wearing that single glove. He said nothing at first, just stared.

Then slowly walked in, each step slow and deliberate, like he’d been waiting all day for this moment.

“I gave you one task,” he said, circling your desk like a predator.

“I’m almost done—”

“That’s not what I said.” He stopped behind your chair. “I didn’t say try. I said do.”

You swallowed, throat dry. “I’m sorry.”

“You think sorry fixes this?” he asked, voice soft but sharp. “You had one job. You failed.”

You turned slightly, looking up. “I’m trying my best.”

“Your best isn’t good enough.” He placed his hand on the back of your chair, leaning closer. You could feel the heat of his breath near your cheek. “I should fire you for insubordination.”

You tilted your chin, defiant but trembling. “Then do it.”

He smiled. But it didn’t reach his eyes. "Fire you?” he murmured. “No, sweetheart. That’s not how I handle things.” His gloved hand slid down the back of your chair to the top of your shoulder—just enough to make your pulse spike, but not enough to justify a complaint.

“You want to stay?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Then learn to play the game.”

You whispered, “And what game is that, sir?”

“The one where you understand your place.” He leaned in, his mouth dangerously close to your ear. “You don’t walk out before I say. You don’t speak unless I invite it. You don't fail.”

A beat passed.

Then he straightened. “You’ll stay tonight until it’s done. No breaks. No bathroom. No phone. Is that clear?”

You nodded again.

“Say it.”

“Yes, sir.”

He gave a single approving nod. Then walked out, silent and smooth, leaving you breathless in his wake.

The door clicked behind him. You were alone again—but not really. Because you could still feel him. Watching. Waiting. Tightening the leash. And you weren’t sure if you hated it. Or wanted more.

—

You stepped into Bucky's penthouse like you were stepping into a trap—and maybe, in some way, you were.

It was too quiet. Too perfect.

Sleek black marble floors reflected the fading gold of the sunset spilling through floor-to-ceiling windows. The air smelled expensive—leather, amber, and faint smoke, like whatever cologne clung to his tailored suits.

You adjusted your grip on your laptop bag. A fine sheen of sweat was already prickling at the back of your neck.

“Sir?” you called, voice echoing off the high ceilings.

A pause. Then: “Living room.”

You found him sprawled across a long leather sectional, legs parted, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. He wore charcoal-grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips and a fitted black Henley with the sleeves shoved up, exposing corded forearms. His vibranium arm gleamed under the overhead light, fingers curling loosely around a glass of dark amber liquor.

His hair was a little mussed.

He looked so casual. But there was nothing relaxed about the way he stared at you—eyes sharp and glinting with unspoken judgment.

“No blouse today?”

You froze. “You said casual.”

A beat. Then he made a face like you’d just insulted his ancestors.

“I said nothing of the sort.”

Your stomach turned.

“I—I can change—”

“No,” he interrupted flatly. “Too late. Sit down. Let’s see if you’re more useful than you look tonight.”

Useful.

You moved quietly to the glass coffee table, heart thudding as you unpacked your laptop and the reports he’d demanded you reformat—his way, not how the department had trained you. You could feel his eyes boring into your spine with every page you laid out, every keystroke, every subtle movement.

He didn’t open his laptop. Didn’t ask about the files. He just watched.

And then—

One of the spreadsheet folders slipped from your stack and slid off the edge of the table, fluttering to the floor like a silent white flag. You dropped to retrieve it immediately—only to freeze when a solid thud echoed off the hardwood.

He’d moved.

Bucky’s boot pressed down over the folder, pinning it to the floor.

Your fingers hovered just inches away, trembling slightly.

He took a slow sip of his drink, letting the silence stretch long and cruel before speaking.

“Is that how you handle my work?” His voice was quiet. Low. Measured.

You glanced up at him.

“No, sir. It was an accident—”

“Was it?” he murmured, cocking his head. “Because to me, it looks like you’re already getting sloppy. Like you don’t take me seriously. Like you’re just another office girl who thinks she can smile her way out of discipline.”

Your throat tightened. “I—I’m sorry.”

He stared at you a moment longer, then extended his leg further, pressing more of the boot’s weight over your file.

“Pick it up,” he said, voice even. “Under my foot.”

You blinked.

“I—what?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Humiliation clawed its way up your spine, but you obeyed. You reached forward, hand trembling, and slipped your fingers beneath the polished leather of his boot. You could feel the pressure immediately—solid, unyielding, almost daring you to flinch.

He pressed down harder. Not enough to injure. Just enough to make you freeze. Just enough to remind you who owned the room. Bucky leaned forward now, forearms resting on his knees, gaze locked on you like a wolf studying a cornered thing.

“You’re going to apologize properly this time,” he said. “And if I like the way it sounds, I might let you up off the fucking floor.”

You swallowed the sharp knot in your throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Barnes.”

“For?” he asked, voice colder now.

You dropped your gaze.

“For mishandling your work.”

“And?”

You hesitated, fingers still trapped under the leather sole of his boot.

“And for dressing inappropriately. For disappointing you, sir.”

That seemed to satisfy him.

He withdrew his foot slowly, like releasing a wild animal from a snare.

“Better,” he muttered. “But I expect improvement. Don’t make me teach you twice.”

He sat back, retrieving his drink.

“Now—floor. You haven’t earned the couch.”

You knelt beside the table, lowering yourself until you were seated on the rug at his feet. The proximity was unbearable—close enough to feel the heat of his thigh brushing your shoulder when he shifted. Close enough that you could smell his skin. Close enough that if you tilted your head to the side, you could lay your cheek against his thigh.

As you worked—quiet, ashamed, trembling—his hand occasionally reached down.

Not to help.

Just to touch.

A slow drag of his knuckles along your jaw. A curl of fingers in your hair as he inspected your notes. One thumb tracing the curve of your neck with disturbing familiarity.

“You’re learning,” he murmured once, almost fond.

Your stomach clenched at the words. But you didn’t stop working. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of breaking you.

Not yet.

—

The hours passed with agonizing cruelty. Midnight came and went. The city outside had long gone to sleep, but here, in Bucky Barnes’ sleek black penthouse, time refused to move. He was still on the couch, watching. You didn’t dare look at the clock.

You were cross-legged on the rug in front of the coffee table, laptop warm against your thighs, notes and spreadsheets fanned out like a pathetic shrine to productivity.

At one point—maybe around 2:00 AM—he spoke without looking up from his glass.

“You can go whenever you finish.”

It wasn’t a mercy. It was a challenge. You nodded tightly and pushed yourself harder.

By 3:30, he stood. Silently. His joints cracking softly as he stretched.

Your head snapped up. He didn’t say goodnight, didn’t give you further instructions—just turned and walked barefoot across the cool floors, disappearing down the hall without another word.

Leaving you alone.

The silence he left in his wake was louder than anything else tonight.

Your eyes were raw, dry from staring too long at the screen. Your fingers ached from typing. But you couldn’t leave without finishing. If you left—if you failed—he’d use it against you. Add it to your growing list of humiliations.

So you pushed harder. And harder. Until sometime near dawn, your eyes slipped closed for just a moment—And stayed that way.

The soft sizzle of oil in a pan woke you before the sunlight did.

Blinking against the bleary pain behind your eyes, you sat up with a jerk—realizing with horror that your cheek had been resting on your open binder, now smudged with ink and foundation.

You bolted upright, groggy panic slamming through your chest.

Shit. Shit. What time is it—how long did I—

You scrambled to your feet, brushing your joggers down, heart pounding as you peeked into the kitchen, fully bracing for cold fury or some cruel remark about professionalism or weak women.

Instead—you froze.

There he was.

In a dark tee and loose joggers again, hair pushed back, standing calmly at the stove.

Making breakfast.

The sun was just starting to pour in through the tall windows, casting gold against the smooth counter tops and the ridiculous, perfect expanse of his kitchen. The smell of eggs and coffee swirled into the air, and your throat clenched painfully at the domesticity of it.

He didn’t look up. Just flipped the pan with practiced ease.

“You drool when you sleep,” he said plainly.

Your mouth parted. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he cut in, tone unreadable.

A pause.

“I let you sleep.”

You blinked. “You… let me?”

“‘Course.” He finally looked over his shoulder at you, raising a brow. “You earned it.”

You couldn’t tell if that was sarcasm. Or—God, worse—if he meant it.

Before you could respond, he slid a plate across the counter.

Eggs, toast, perfectly sliced avocado.

He poured coffee into a second mug and nudged it toward you.

“Eat,” he said simply. “You’ll need it. We’re going through the contracts at nine.”

And that was that. No scolding. No shouting. No twisted punishment. Just— Breakfast. Like he hadn’t crushed you under his boot hours ago. Like he hadn’t made you kneel on his floor, sweating and silent and desperate to please.

You sat down slowly at the bar, fingers still trembling slightly. You didn’t know what this meant. What the new rules were. But you ate the eggs.Because whatever game he was playing— You were in it now.

—

The morning passed quietly. Bucky barely spoke unless it was about work. He didn’t touch you, didn’t look at you too long. But the silence wasn’t peaceful—it was deliberate. Measured. You could feel him watching from behind his laptop every time you bit your lip in thought or shifted awkwardly in the chair.

By midday, your exhaustion was laced with nerves. He hadn’t brought up the falling asleep again, hadn’t made any remarks about your poor work quality.

And somehow, that made it worse.

He wasn’t ignoring you. He was observing. Like a hunter watching prey tire itself out.

You sat on opposite ends of his marble kitchen table, spreadsheets and project outlines between them. You finally broke, rubbing your forehead and glancing up.

“Sir… do you ever stop working?”

He didn’t even look up from his laptop. “You haven’t earned the right to ask me that.”

Your stomach sank.

But then he set his laptop aside and stood, walking to the espresso machine like this was his Sunday routine. As he poured another, he finally spoke again—more casual this time.

“You looked cute curled up like that, by the way. At the table.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I should leave you on the floor more often,” he smirked faintly. “You’re quieter when you sleep.”

“You could’ve sent me home.”

He tilted his head. “But then I wouldn’t have seen what you look like in the morning. Soft. Disoriented. A little guilty.”

“You’re watching me.”

“I always watch what’s mine.”

The mug slipped slightly in your hands. You barely caught it. “I’m not yours.”

He leaned in, lips barely a breath from your ear, voice velvet-wrapped danger. “Not yet.”

By dinner, your nerves were shot. He hadn’t let you leave. Every time you moved to pack up, he’d handed you something else to “review.” You were dizzy with coffee and anxiety, starving but too nervous to ask for food.

So when he set down a takeout box in front of you without a word around 7:30 p.m., you didn’t know what to do.

“Eat,” he said again. “You’ve done better today.”

You opened the box. Pasta. Simple. Hot.

“Thank you,” you mumbled.

“I didn’t say I was proud,” he said, sipping his water, “but at least you didn’t quit.”

You were quiet for a moment, watching him.

“What happens if I do?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

His gaze lifted to meet yours—sharp and cold now. “Then you become irrelevant.”

The silence between you turned heavy again. But this time… it wasn’t just fear. It was want. You couldn’t help it—your thighs pressed tighter together, and he noticed. His eyes dropped. Just for a second. Enough to let you know.

He still had you.

Everyone was watching you Monday morning when you were back at the office. They didn’t say anything when you walked in behind Mr. Barnes that morning, but the way heads turned and whispers stopped was proof enough.

Even Misty had raised a brow at you.

He hadn’t said a word in the elevator. Just handed you a thick file and told you to review it before 10:00 a.m. You obeyed—silently, without protest. Something in you had shifted. You were sharper. More alert. Like you were bracing for war.

You didn’t know who you were trying to prove yourself to anymore. Him? The office? Yourself?

You worked through lunch without being told. But it didn’t matter. Because by 4:15, he was standing over your desk. And the moment you looked up, you knew.

You hadn’t finished the last task. You’d overlooked one tiny scheduling email in the system—because you’d been focused on his files, his print orders, his absurd last-minute edits.

It was dead quiet on the executive floor. The Sunday lull meant almost no one was around. You sat at your desk outside Bucky’s office, trying to catch up on the documents you hadn’t finished the night before. The paperwork blurred behind your eyelids. You blinked rapidly.

Just one more file. You could do this.

“Y/N.”

You looked up. He stood in his doorway, a single sheet in his hand.

“You didn’t finish the Tokyo projections.”

“I’m halfway through,” you tried. “I was going to stay—”

“I don’t want excuses.” His voice was low, measured, almost gentle. That was worse than when he shouted. He stepped closer, and you instinctively stood, spine straightening.

He stopped just inches away. “I told you. Details matter. Deadlines matter. I matter.”

“I understand, Mr. Barnes.”

“Do you?” His eyes drifted downward — blouse, skirt, heels. A single finger lifted a loose strand of your hair, brushing it behind your ear. “Because I said I wanted high heels.”

“I’m wearing them.”

His hand slipped down. Brazen. Possessive. He traced the back of your calf with two fingers, slow and firm. You inhaled sharply.

“These are three inches. I said four.”

You nearly choked on your reply. “You’re… measuring my heels now?”

“I measure everything.” A pause. His voice dropped. “The length of your breath when I’m near you. The time it takes you to stammer when I touch you. The way your thighs tighten when you lie to me.”

“I’m not—”

“You think I can’t tell?” He leaned down, his breath brushing your jaw. “Sweetheart, I know everything you try not to say. And the things you want to say? They’re even louder.”

You stood there, every nerve on fire, legs trembling in the silence.

He stepped back with surgical calm. “Get it done before six. Then you can go.”

Then, as he turned away:

“And Y/N?”

You swallowed. “Yes, sir?”

“If I find a single typo, I’ll read your work out loud to the whole executive board. While you kneel beside me and explain why your performance didn’t meet expectations.”

—

His home office was cold and quiet as the sun sank behind the skyline. Only the desk lamp and the low amber glow of his office light spilled across the sleek marble flooring of his penthouse. You stood frozen, folder in hand, heart jack-hammering as your eyes flitted between the clock—6:03 p.m.—and the incomplete Tokyo projection packet.

You hadn’t made it.

The numbers didn’t reconcile. A formula in cell D33 was corrupted. There were gaps. Notes half-finished.

You could feel your body reacting before the door even opened. His presence hit the room like a pressure system—James Barnes, towering in black slacks and that damn dark button-down rolled at the sleeves, gloves still on, hair raked back.

You didn't even have time to offer a pathetic excuse.

“Six-oh-three,” he said quietly, taking the folder from your hands. His fingers grazed yours. Ice and fire all at once. “Let’s see.”

You didn’t breathe. Couldn’t. He turned a few pages slowly, scanning, flipping, then again. A long pause. He dropped the folder on your desk without looking at you.

“Sloppy.”

“Sir, I—”

“I said six. Not six-oh-three. Not half-done.” His voice was restrained, a tight leash over something coiled and sharp. “When I say I want precision, I mean perfection, not whatever this is.”

He stepped in closer. You stepped back instinctively—until your back hit the desk. His body hovered, not quite touching you, but you could feel the heat of him. The warning.

“And you looked so promising this morning. I even made you breakfast.” His eyes flicked to your mouth. “I should’ve known better.”

“I—I’ll stay and fix it.”

“No.”

You blinked. “No?”

“I’m going to fix it. While you watch.” He circled behind you, picked up the papers, and walked into his office. “Now.”

You hesitated.

“I said, now.”

You followed, throat dry, every nerve in your body screaming. He didn’t sit at his desk. He walked to the small meeting table tucked into the corner of his office—sleek, round, and only two chairs. He took one, tossed the folder down, and motioned you to the other.

You sat slowly, eyes wide, hands twisting in your lap.

He opened his laptop. Wordlessly corrected a number. Then another. Then, mid-keystroke, he turned his head.

“Take your blouse off.”

Your blood stopped.

“What?”

“I said…” He closed the laptop slowly, deliberately. “Take. Your. Blouse. Off.”

“I—I don’t understand, Mr. Barnes, I—”

“It’s not about understanding. It’s about obedience. Consequences.” His gloved hand tapped the tabletop. “You failed to meet expectations. This is what happens.”

Your breath hitched. You weren’t sure if it was humiliation, anger—or a dark, trembling thrill that bloomed low in your gut.

“Unless,” he said silkily, “you’d prefer the boardroom option tomorrow morning.”

Your fingers moved without permission. One button. Then two. Then all of them, until your blouse fell open, the soft lighting catching on the rise and fall of your chest.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t need to. His eyes dragged over your skin like velvet rope, every inch catalogued, owned, devoured. And then—he went back to the spreadsheet like nothing happened.

You sat there, flushed and breathless in your lacy bra, while he corrected your mistakes. Minutes passed. Your thighs pressed together involuntarily. He said nothing. Just worked. Punished you with his stillness.

When he finally shut the laptop, he leaned back in his chair, arms folded, gaze devouring you across the table.

“This is what happens when you waste my time.”

You swallowed hard. “Are you done with me?”

A slow smirk curved his lips. “Not even close.” He stood. Walked behind you. You felt the ghost of his breath at your ear before you felt his fingers in your hair, curling tight—not quite painful, but warning.

“You’re going to stay here until I decide you’ve learned.”

“And if I don’t?” you whispered.

He chuckled darkly. “You will. You’ll learn what I expect. You’ll learn what I like. And eventually—” he bent close, his lips almost brushing the shell of your ear “—you’ll like it, too.”

The overhead light was too bright.

Clinical. Exposing. You felt like prey beneath it, seated at his pristine desk in nothing but your blouse—half-buttoned, barely decent—and the pencil skirt he’d ordered you to wear that morning.

You were trembling. Cold. Humiliated. Burning from the inside out. Bucky Barnes didn’t sit across from you. He stood behind, out of reach, watching—silent—while you stared down at the incomplete report he’d thrown back in your lap.

“Look at me.”

You stiffened. His voice was gravel and smoke—low and dangerous. You turned in your chair slowly, heart pounding, and met his eyes.

They were so cold. So still. So sharp.

“Stand,” he said.

You obeyed.

“Turn around.”

You hesitated.

He stepped closer.

“I said—turn around.”

You turned. Hands trembling at your sides, nails biting into your palms. He walked around you slowly, like he was inspecting a work of art he intended to destroy. His gloved hand brushed your shoulder as he moved behind you again.

“I give you power, you give me insubordination,” he muttered. “I give you access, you give me mediocrity.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I don’t care.”

Your breath caught as his gloved fingers found the zipper at the back of your skirt.

“You didn’t finish your assignment,” he said simply, dragging the zipper down halfway. “You fell behind.”

“I tried—”

“You failed.”

He pulled your skirt down to your knees in one fluid motion. You gasped—legs freezing, heart thundering. He didn’t let you cover yourself. Instead, he tugged the chair back and sat.

“On your knees.”

“Mr. Barnes—”

He stood again, gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“You want to keep this job, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then listen closely.” He leaned in, voice brushing your lips. “You’re going to learn. If you can’t handle pressure, I’ll retrain you myself. Slowly. Thoroughly.”

You dropped to your knees.

The wood floor was unforgiving.

He returned to the chair, sitting like a king, thighs spread, gloved hand resting on the armrest. Watching.

“Correct the report. Right there.” He gestured to the floor beside the desk, where the pages lay in a scattered mess.

You reached for the pen, body shaking.

He didn’t touch you.

But he didn’t stop watching you, either. His gaze dragged over the slope of your spine, your thighs pressed tightly together as you worked. You felt his control like a hand around your throat—light, invisible, always there.

“You were sloppy,” he murmured. “Unfocused.”

You bit your lip, fingers fumbling.

His boot nudged your ankle. “Spread them. Posture.”

You swallowed a whimper as you adjusted—more exposed, more vulnerable, every inch of your body aching from shame and humiliation.

He didn’t look away.

“Pretty when you’re quiet,” he said under his breath.

You didn’t dare respond. Not even when he reached down and brushed your hair back from your shoulder with slow, deliberate precision—fingertips grazing your nape.

The tension spiraled tight as piano wire.

You corrected the final numbers. Hands smudged with ink. Knees raw.

Silence.

He stood. Walked around you once more. Then—without warning—he grabbed your chin again and tilted your face up to meet his. “You want my praise?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Too bad.”

He dropped your face. “You’re sleeping on the floor tonight.”

The words hit harder than any slap. He turned his back before you could speak.

“I—what?”

“You heard me.”

He moved to the office door without another word. Left you kneeling on the hardwood floor with your face flushed and stomach knotted. And you stayed. Frozen. Humiliated. Dizzy with the weight of it all. You curled beside the chair, blouse clinging to your skin, body curling inward.

Somewhere beyond the glass windows, the city lights blinked indifferently.

You blinked awake. The scent hit first: bacon. Toast. Coffee. Sunlight spilled across the floor, golden and too warm. You sat up fast, disoriented, heart hammering as you realized—

You’d fallen asleep. In his office. On his floor.

Shit. You scrambled up, brushing yourself off, throat tight. You expected yelling. Fury. That cold blue gaze narrowing as he told you you’d been replaced.

But instead— Bucky stood at the stove. Calm. Composed. Wearing a fitted Henley and slacks, his dark hair still tousled from sleep. He looked like sin dressed in softness.

You didn’t know what to say.

“You drool in your sleep,” he muttered without looking at you.

Your face burned.

“I—sir, I’m sorry—”

He turned. Raised an eyebrow.

“You’re going to stand there and babble or eat before you’re late again?”

You hesitated.

He pushed a mug across the counter. Black coffee. Just how you liked it. A plate followed—eggs, toast, bacon, strawberries.

It didn’t make sense. But you sat. And he didn’t say anything more. Not about the night. Not about your mistakes. He just ate quietly. Eyes flicking to you every so often. Assessing. And you sat there too—every bite on your tongue tasting like confusion and shame and something else. Something dangerous. Something beginning.

You hadn’t slept much the night before — if at all. Even with the scent of that quietly made breakfast still lingering in your memory, the aftermath of the weekend assignment sat heavy in your chest like a stone. You’d stumbled out of his penthouse just after seven, showered at your own place, and rushed straight to the office in a pencil skirt and a soft chiffon blouse — the kind he liked. Your heels echoed a little too loudly in the hallway, your nerves already thrashed before you even reached your desk.

He’d made you eggs. And coffee. But he’d also made sure you understood exactly what it meant to fall short. You sat down, fingers trembling slightly as you turned on your computer, only for his voice — low and syrup-slow — to catch you off guard.

“Didn’t expect to see you in before me, sweetheart.”

You froze. Then turned your head.

Bucky was standing behind you, sleeves already rolled up, one gloved hand resting on the back of your chair. The leather brushed your shoulder — not enough to warrant a complaint, but enough to set your skin on fire.

“I wanted to show initiative,” you said carefully.

“Mmm. Consider it noted,” he said, leaning down just enough so that his breath grazed your neck. “I hope you’ve had time to recover from our little work retreat. I thought you’d sleep in today, after how tired you looked when I left you.”

You flushed. You remembered — the cold hardwood against your cheek, the ache in your spine, the shame of waking up at his desk. Alone.

“I submitted the brief last night. It’s in your inbox.”

“Is it?” he murmured, lips curling as he stepped back. “We’ll see if it’s up to standard. I skimmed it over my coffee this morning. You missed two figures on page twelve. Sloppy.”

You swallowed, face hot. “I’ll correct it now.”

“No. Leave it,” he said with lazy authority. “I want it left exactly as it is for the meeting with Mr. Lang at noon. When he points it out — and he will — you’ll take the blame. Understood?”

Your heart twisted. “Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.”

The words were softly spoken. But there was nothing kind about the way he said them. And yet, something traitorous inside you thrummed.

You watched him walk away, his broad shoulders and precision strides disappearing into his office, where the blinds were already half-closed.

You stood just behind Bucky’s left shoulder as he sat at the conference table, arms folded across his chest while Scott Lang flipped through the pages of your report.

“There’s a discrepancy here,” Scott said, tapping page twelve. “The revenue projection skips Q3 entirely.”

You felt your stomach drop. Everyone’s eyes were on you. Bucky didn’t look up. “Ms. Y/L/N prepared that section,” he said casually. “Why don’t you explain what happened, sweetheart?”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. The room waited. “I take full responsibility,” you said finally. “I missed the adjustment before sending it out. I’ll revise it and have the corrected numbers in your inbox by the end of the hour.”

Lang nodded. “Mistakes happen. Just don’t let it happen again. Stark’s been looking for any excuse to cut Bucky’s team, and I like you guys.”

You bowed your head slightly, cheeks burning. “Understood.”

Bucky still didn’t look at you.

You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t taken a break. You hadn’t even breathed properly since the meeting. The second you sent the corrected file, your vision swam from exhaustion. That’s when a soft ping hit your screen — a calendar notification.

Meeting with James Barnes – Executive Office. Now.

You didn’t knock. You didn’t dare.

His office door clicked shut behind you as you stepped inside. The lights were dimmed — as always — and he was standing near the windows, back to you, sleeves rolled up again.

“Sir?” you said softly.

He turned.

“Lock the door.”

Your breath hitched. You did.

“You embarrassed me in front of Lang today.”

“I know. I’m sorry—”

“I don’t want your apology,” he snapped, crossing the room. “I want results. I want a professional assistant. I want someone who knows how to read a goddamn decimal point and doesn’t fall asleep at her desk like a fucking intern.”

The words sliced through you. But then — his hand touched your jaw. Light. Firm. Guiding your face to look up at him. “And yet,” he whispered, “there’s something about watching you crack under pressure that I find… addictive.”

Your lips parted.

His thumb brushed just below your bottom lip. “You’re smart. But not as smart as me. You’re brave. But not stupid enough to walk away. I see that now.”

His hand dropped. He stepped back. “You’ll stay late tonight,” he said simply, striding back toward his desk. “Correct the full report, prep the board materials for tomorrow, and draft an apology to Lang. I want it eloquent — but humble.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Y/N?”

You looked up.

“Wear your hair down tomorrow. I don’t like seeing you hide.”

—

You wore your hair down. Not because he told you to. At least, that’s what you told yourself when you brushed it over your shoulder in the mirror and chose the crimson silk blouse that clung just tight enough to your skin. The pencil skirt matched — high-waisted, modest — but still professional. Still powerful.

Today was yours. He wouldn’t get under your skin.

You weren’t going to crack.

“Morning,” you greeted evenly when you passed by him in the hall. You kept your eyes trained ahead.

He didn’t answer. Just watched you walk.

But he followed.

The meeting was packed. Department heads, junior execs, interns. All packed into the conference room like obedient little soldiers. You sat on Bucky’s left, notepad in hand, lips pressed together as you focused on the numbers being projected onto the screen.

And then— His hand brushed your thigh under the table. Not hard. Not overt. Just… there. You stiffened. Didn’t move. Didn’t look at him.

Five minutes passed.

Then his fingers smoothed over the hem of your skirt, a slow curl of touch just barely grazing the skin above your knee. He was watching you now. Waiting.

You turned slightly. Met his eye. He smiled like a man who already knew he’d won.

When the meeting wrapped, you stood first — eager to leave — but he stood with you, brushing past close enough that his lips ghosted your ear.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured. “Is it anger, sweetheart? Or something else?”

You’d made the mistake of not waiting for another elevator. He was inside, alone, sipping from his coffee cup like he hadn’t just been tormenting you with touches and whispers and little comments designed to unravel every nerve in your body.

“Going up?” he asked innocently, watching you step in.

The doors slid closed.

There was silence for one beat. Two.

And then he turned, looming just slightly into your space, one arm stretched to lean against the wall behind your head. You stared forward. Your breath hitched.

He reached forward. Brushed your hair behind your ear.

You flinched.

“You’re trying so hard,” he whispered, his voice so soft it was nearly affectionate. “I admire that.”

“What do you want from me?” you asked, your voice strained, your hands tightening around your tablet.

“Everything,” he said without pause. “I want to watch you crumble and rebuild yourself every time I touch you. I want to know what it takes to make you beg. And I want to see if you’ll still look this proud after I’ve fucked you speechless.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

The elevator dinged.

He stepped back like nothing had happened and walked out — turning just long enough to say: “Send the updated proposals to my inbox, sweetheart. And clean up the formatting this time.”

You were pacing. You didn’t know why you were here. You could’ve sent the proposal via email. But something had drawn you to his door. Something stupid and needy inside of you.

He looked up when you entered — that same damn look on his face. All cool composure and sharp control. The predator scenting blood.

“You needed something?” he asked.

“I brought the revisions,” you said, trying to stay cold. Confident. “I caught the formatting issue.”

“Of course you did,” he said, standing slowly and walking toward you. “You always work harder when you’re flustered.”

You frowned. “I’m not flustered.”

“No?” he said, taking one step too close. “Then why are you breathing like that?”

“I’m not—”

He reached out.

Tucked a strand of hair behind your ear again. This time slower. Let his gloved knuckles graze your jaw.

“You want me to kiss you.”

You froze.

“Don’t worry,” he added softly, cruelly. “I’m not going to. Not until you ask.”

Your lips parted in shock. His gaze dropped to your mouth.

“Go back to your desk, Y/N.”

You didn’t move. You couldn’t.

“Say please,” he said. “If you want it. Beg like a good little professional.”

You swallowed — heart racing, anger and want colliding in a sick heat that made your knees weak. You hated him. You wanted him.

And worst of all — he knew it.

—

The city lights burned outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, but you weren’t looking at them. You were still in the chair across from his desk, typing through the final edits of the quarterly breakdown. Your heels were off. Your back ached. Your blouse had wrinkled around the cuffs. Your fingers were sore.

And Bucky Barnes had barely said a word to you in the last three hours.

He sat at the end of the couch now, reading something on his tablet — his tie undone, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the defined line of his chest. That damned metal hand rested lazily across the back of the couch, catching the low light like a serpent in the dark.

You were tired. So tired. But he hadn’t dismissed you. You knew better than to leave on your own.

“You missed a comma in the second page summary.”

Your fingers paused mid-keystroke. “I’ll fix it.”

"You’ll fix it now.”

You forced yourself to nod and corrected the error. Your pride screamed. You used to feel confident — proud of how you handled pressure. But with him? Every second felt like another layer stripped off of you.

And then, when you finally set the laptop aside, hoping maybe — maybe — he’d finally let you go…

“Come here.”

You looked up. Slowly. “Sir?”

“I said come here.”

You stood. Heart beating faster. You walked over to where he sat, and he leaned forward — forearms resting on his knees as he looked up at you.

“Tell me something, Y/N,” he said slowly. “Why haven’t you quit yet?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You could leave. Find a softer boss. Maybe someone who doesn’t ask you to work overtime at his penthouse. But you haven’t. Why?”

You swallowed. “Because I’m good at my job.”

“Mm,” he tilted his head. “That’s not why. You’re good. But that’s not why you stay. You stay because you like the way I talk to you.”

You flushed hot. “That’s not true.”

“Liar,” he whispered.

You clenched your fists. Your voice shook. “Why do you do this to me?”

He stood, slowly, towering over you now. “Do what?”

“You humiliate me. You touch me when no one’s looking. You tease me in front of people and— and then act like I’m the one who’s obsessed.”

He said nothing.

You could feel your chest rising and falling with every shallow breath.

And then—he stepped closer. His hand — the gloved one — tilted your chin up gently.

“Because I want to own you,” he said plainly. “Piece by piece. And the sickest part? You want to be owned.”

Your breath hitched.

He leaned down. Close. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Your voice cracked. “You’re an asshole.”

“I know.” His lips brushed the corner of your mouth. “And you’re shaking.”

You were. Every nerve had snapped. You were past tired. Past pretending. You hated him. You wanted him. And before you could stop yourself — before you could rebuild the wall — you whispered:“Kiss me.”

He froze.

That smile returned — not playful this time, but dark and triumphant. “No,” he said.

You blinked. “Wha—?”

“Not until you beg.”

The tears stung hot in your eyes. Not from sadness — but from shame and anger and this awful, maddening need.

You whispered it. Quiet. Wrecked. “Please. I want you to kiss me, Mr. Barnes.”

He inhaled, slow. And then — finally — finally — he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you flush to him. His mouth crashed down onto yours, all teeth and control and hunger. His hand curled into your hair, tugging your head back as his tongue slid past your lips, and you gasped — your knees threatening to buckle.

“Good girl,” he growled against your lips. “Just like that.”

The kiss didn’t stop. Not until your nails dug into his shirt and your body betrayed you entirely, melting into him like you’d belonged there all along.

When he finally pulled away, you were breathless. Dazed.

“Go sit back down,” he murmured. “We’re not done working.”

And you did. You went back to your seat. Because that was the worst part of all: You didn’t want to leave.

—

You’re fifteen minutes early, coffee still too hot in your shaking hand, and already—your skin prickles. You’re not sure if it’s from the long night before, from the ghost of his mouth crashing against yours, or from the fact that you’re standing outside his office like you haven’t begged silently, desperately, for some sense of control back.

And inside?

He’s already seated at his desk like nothing happened. Polished. Composed. Tapping away at his keyboard like he hadn’t leaned over you hours ago, close enough to breathe the same air. Like his fingers hadn’t lingered too long when handing you a pen. Like he hadn’t whispered “You’re shaking again.” at 2:43 in the goddamn morning.

He doesn’t look up.

So you knock, hesitating in the doorway.

“Come in,” he says—clipped, clean.

You step inside. “Morning, sir.”

Now he looks up. His eyes flick over you. Neutrally. Too neutrally. You wore the pencil skirt again. The same heels. Just like he asked. The blouse is tighter than usual. You’re not proud of that. But something in you wanted to see if he’d react.

“Cutting it close,” he remarks, tapping the face of his watch. “Sixteen minutes early today. You must be slipping.”

You smile tightly. “I thought being early was a good thing.”

“Only when you’re useful while doing it.” He stands slowly, walks to the front of his desk, and leans against it, arms folded. “Tell me—did you complete the marketing analysis I asked for? Or were you too busy dozing off in chairs that aren’t yours to sleep in?”

Your face goes hot. “I stayed up late finishing it.”

“No,” he corrects, a cruel curve to his mouth. “You stayed up late because you couldn’t keep your eyes open any longer. And because you’re weak. That’s not the same as working.”

“I’m trying—”

“That’s your first mistake.” He moves past you and shuts the door. The click of it makes your stomach drop. “Stop trying. Start delivering.”

His voice is colder this morning. Colder than usual. But you can feel it bubbling beneath. That energy he holds just under the surface, like a loaded gun in a glove compartment. The kind of tension that could flip with a word.

You offer the printed reports, still warm from the copier. He takes them—but as you hold them out, his fingers brush yours. No, they hook yours. Deliberately.

It’s just a second, but it’s enough to make your breath falter. He knows it too. His eyes cut upward, sharply, darkly amused.

And then? He smiles. And he says— “Careful, Miss Y/L/N. You look like you’re about to fall for me.”

You snap your hand back like you’ve been burned. “I’m not—”

“No?” He steps closer. “Then why are you blushing?”

Your mouth goes dry. The skirt feels too tight suddenly. The blouse is suffocating.

“I’m not blushing.”

“Liar.” His voice is a whisper now, right near your ear. “You think I don’t see the way you fidget around me? The way you breathe harder when I say your name?”

He steps around you, heading back to his desk.

“I should fire you,” he says calmly. “You’re sloppy. You’re emotional. You’re distracted.”

You swallow. “Then do it.”

He turns back toward you. “Oh no,” he murmurs. “That would be too easy.”

And then—he takes his seat again like nothing happened. Opens a file. Starts reading.

Dismissed.

You stand there for a second, unsure of what just happened, heart pounding, stomach tight.

And he doesn’t say a word.

He just smirks without looking up and flips the next page.

—

The office was cloaked in shadows, the only light coming from the soft glow of your laptop screen and the muted city lights filtering through the tall windows. You’d been staring at those numbers and reports for hours, your eyes stinging, fingers numb, your mind fraying at the edges. The deadline had passed — slipped through your fingers like sand. You’d failed.

A sharp knock echoed at the door, slicing through the silence. Your heart hammered as you heard Bucky’s steady footsteps cross the room. He didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“You missed the deadline,” his voice cut through the quiet, low and ruthless.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, unable to meet his gaze. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been working—”

His laugh was dry, mocking — no kindness in it. “Working? That’s your excuse? Tired and overworked? That’s all you have? It's all you ever say for yourself.”

Heat flared in your chest, anger and humiliation twisting inside you. “Maybe if you weren’t dragging me to your penthouse every damn weekend, I could’ve finished on time!”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. You saw the change then — the ice in his eyes sharpening to a blade. The smirk that usually haunted his lips vanished, replaced by something colder, darker.

He moved with a slow, deliberate grace, closing the space between you until he was right behind you. You could feel his presence — magnetic, oppressive, and terrifying.

His hand rose and brushed the hair away from your face, the touch light but possessive, lingering far too long to be casual. His fingers trailed down your cheek, along your jaw, then slipped beneath the collar of your blouse, ghosting over bare skin.

You shivered, torn between wanting to pull away and needing to lean into the heat of him.

“You think you get to snap at me?” His voice dropped to a rough whisper, breath hot against your ear. “You think you can challenge me and walk away unscathed?”

Your breath hitched as his other hand slid to your waist, fingers digging in just enough to claim you without pain.

Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened as he pressed you harder down onto the cool surface of the desk, your palms splaying flat against the polished wood for balance. The cold contrast against your flushed skin sent a shiver through you, but the weight of him, heavy and unyielding, anchored you in place. You could feel every inch of his body pressing against your back, his breath hot and ragged just behind your ear.

“I told you,” he murmured, voice rough, “You don’t get to miss deadlines and walk away like nothing happened.”

His hand slid slowly beneath the hem of your skirt, fingertips ghosting over your bare skin. You gasped, hips trembling involuntarily under the deliberate touch. He pushed your skirt up higher, exposing more, his fingers trailing lower—slow, teasing, but with a possessiveness that brooked no argument.

“You belong to me,” he said darkly, his thumb stroking over the sensitive skin just beneath your hip bone. “Every mistake has a price. And tonight, you’re going to learn exactly what that means.”

His fingers dipped inside you, deliberate and skilled. The sharp gasp that escaped your lips was part pain, part need—a jolt of sensation that flooded your senses and shattered your control. Bucky’s other hand tangled in your hair at the nape of your neck, holding you firmly in place as he continued, slow and merciless, driving you to the edge.

You tried to steady your breathing, but the rough dominance of his touch sent heat spiraling through your core, your body betraying you with every twitch, every shudder.

“You’re mine,” he growled, the possessive hunger in his voice making your knees weak. “And I’m the only one who gets to decide when you’re punished... and when you’re rewarded.”

His mouth brushed against your ear, lips grazing the sensitive skin as his fingers continued their deliberate, torturous pace. You bit back a moan, the sound swallowed by the weight of his presence and the sharp edge of humiliation mingled with desire.

“You think you can push me?” His hand moved with quiet intensity, finding just the right spots, making you arch and tremble over the desk. “You’re learning, sweetheart. But there’s still so much more.”

You felt yourself cracking under the pressure — every teasing stroke, every whispered command pulling you deeper into the storm of need and submission. Your mind spun, torn between shame and craving, fear and desperate wanting.

Bucky’s fingers withdrew slowly, leaving you aching and trembling. He pulled back, voice low and harsh.

“Don’t forget who you belong to.”

And then just when you thought that he'd had enough, he was back on your clit, rubbing circles. Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened as he pressed you harder down onto the cool surface of the desk, your palms splaying flat against the polished wood for balance. The cold contrast against your flushed skin sent a shiver through you, but the weight of him, heavy and unyielding, anchored you in place. You could feel every inch of his body pressing against your back, his breath hot and ragged just behind your ear.

“I told you,” he murmured, voice rough, “You don’t get to miss deadlines and walk away like nothing happened.”

His hand slid slowly beneath the hem of your skirt, fingertips ghosting over your bare skin. You gasped, hips trembling involuntarily under the deliberate touch. He pushed your skirt up higher, exposing more, his fingers trailing lower—slow, teasing, but with a possessiveness that brooked no argument.

“You belong to me,” he said darkly, his thumb stroking over the sensitive skin just beneath your hip bone. “Every mistake has a price. And tonight, you’re going to learn exactly what that means.”

His fingers dipped inside you, deliberate and skilled. The sharp gasp that escaped your lips was part pain, part need—a jolt of sensation that flooded your senses and shattered your control. Bucky’s other hand tangled in your hair at the nape of your neck, holding you firmly in place as he continued, slow and merciless, driving you to the edge.

You tried to steady your breathing, but the rough dominance of his touch sent heat spiraling through your core, your body betraying you with every twitch, every shudder.

“You’re mine,” he growled, the possessive hunger in his voice making your knees weak. “And I’m the only one who gets to decide when you’re punished... and when you’re rewarded.”

His mouth brushed against your ear, lips grazing the sensitive skin as his fingers continued their deliberate, torturous pace. You bit back a moan, the sound swallowed by the weight of his presence and the sharp edge of humiliation mingled with desire.

“You think you can push me?” His hand moved with quiet intensity, finding just the right spots, making you arch and tremble over the desk. “You’re learning, sweetheart. But there’s still so much more.”

You felt yourself cracking under the pressure — every teasing stroke, every whispered command pulling you deeper into the storm of need and submission. Your mind spun, torn between shame and craving, fear and desperate wanting.

“Don’t forget who you belong to.”

Your breath was ragged, chest rising and falling against the desk as Bucky’s fingers continued their merciless rhythm, each stroke pushing you closer to the edge. The heat inside you built relentlessly, a fire sparked by his touch, his voice, his presence.

“You’re gonna come for me,” he whispered, low and commanding, the rough edge in his tone making your core clench around him involuntarily. “Right here. Right now. On my desk.”

Your body betrayed you, trembling with need, hips arching upward as the wave crashed through you, hot and shattering. You cried out, voice breaking, your fingers digging into the wood beneath you for purchase as the orgasm ripped through every fiber of your being.

Bucky didn’t relent; his fingers slowed only when you were spent, pulsing in the aftermath of your release. His breath was heavy in your ear as he pulled his hand away, slick and glistening.

Without hesitation, he grabbed the hem of your blouse and dragged it down, wiping his fingers clean with a slow, possessive swipe against the fabric stretched across your skin. You froze, cheeks burning, caught between humiliation and an inexplicable surge of arousal at the cold, indifferent way he claimed you like this.

“You’re mine,” he said again, voice rough and steady, like a promise—and a warning. “Don’t forget it.”

He straightened, buttoning his cuffs with calm precision as if nothing had happened—his cool, controlled demeanor wrapping around you like a cage.

You sat there, breathless, the weight of the night pressing down on your skin and soul, aching with want and confusion, knowing this was just the beginning.

—

The rest of the morning was a haze of blinking fluorescent lights and the low hum of office chatter. Your fingers moved automatically over the keyboard, but your mind was somewhere else entirely — tangled in the aftermath of Bucky’s cold possession and the flush of shame and want still burning beneath your skin.

Every glance at your phone made your heart skip. What had happened? Why did it feel like part of you was breaking free, yet another part was trapped tighter than ever? You clenched your jaw, forcing your eyes back on the screen. Deadlines still loomed, no matter what storms raged inside.

You barely registered the footsteps approaching until a familiar voice — sharp, curious — broke through your spiraling thoughts.

“Hey... you okay?” Claire’s tone was light but her eyes sharp, scanning you for cracks.

You blinked, startled, then forced a smile. “Yeah, fine. Just a lot going on, you know?”

She narrowed her eyes and lowered her voice. “Look, I’m not blind. You and Barnes? Something’s... different.”

You stiffened, heart hammering, cheeks burning. “What do you mean?”

Claire shrugged, leaning in like she was letting you in on a secret. “The way he’s been all over you, that look in his eye... He’s got you wrapped tighter than you realize.”

You swallowed hard, suddenly feeling exposed. “I... it’s complicated.”

She smirked knowingly. “When is it not?”

You wanted to tell her everything — the hunger, the humiliation, the moments you wanted to fight back but couldn’t. But the words caught in your throat, swallowed by the cold knot of vulnerability tightening in your chest.

“Just... keep your head down,” you murmured, turning back to your screen, fingers trembling slightly.

Claire’s eyes softened, but she didn’t press further. “Alright, but if you need to talk — or get out of there — you know where to find me.”

As she walked away, you exhaled shakily. The weight of Bucky’s dominance wasn’t just physical; it had settled deep into your mind, clawing at your control, making every moment a delicate dance between what you wanted and what you dared to show.

The workday stretched on, deadlines closing in like an unforgiving tide. And through it all, Bucky’s presence lingered — a shadow you couldn’t shake, no matter how hard you tried.

—

Most of the office buzzed with freedom — plastic clatter of takeout bags, half-laughed gossip by the elevators, the hum of microwaves. But you barely registered any of it as Bucky called your name from his doorway.

“Y/N.” His voice was low, steady. “With me.”

You hesitated, heart skipping. After everything this morning… you weren’t sure what version of him you were walking toward — the man who bent you over his desk, or the one who smoothed a hand over your cheek like it meant something.

Still, you followed him into his office.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just gestured for you to sit, then walked over to the small sideboard near the windows. You hadn’t realized he’d brought food — roasted vegetables, lemon chicken, fresh sourdough. No takeout containers. He plated two portions in silence, poured you both a drink of mineral water, then sat across from you at the small meeting table near the windows.

“You haven’t eaten,” he said simply.

You frowned, cautious. “I’ve been working.”

“I’ve noticed.” He slid the plate in front of you. “Eat.”

You didn’t move at first. But then your stomach turned traitor, a hollow pang of hunger rising from all the tension, the exhaustion, the long nights at his penthouse. Slowly, you picked up your fork and began.

For a moment, there was only silence. The clink of metal against ceramic. The way his eyes never left you.

“I wasn’t always like this,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. He was staring out the window now, thumb brushing the edge of his glass. “The way I am now — calculated, cold, in control of every goddamn variable.”

You said nothing.

“It was a raid,” he went on. “Southern Ukraine. Intel was off. Our team hit a civilian trap disguised as a rebel compound. We were ambushed — two hours of gunfire in the dark, soaked in freezing rain and blood.” He finally turned to look at you, mouth tugged slightly in a grimace. “I lost my arm dragging my lieutenant out. The others weren’t so lucky.”

You swallowed, unsure whether to believe him — or what he wanted from this.

“And the company? They gave me a medal and a new limb. Said I was built for survival. So I did what survivors do, Y/N. I adapted.”

Your voice was thin. “Is this supposed to make me trust you?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, tone soft but threaded with that same domineering edge.“No. It’s supposed to make you understand me.”

You stared at him, fork suspended in your hand. You weren’t sure what bothered you more — the story, or the way it tugged at something raw inside you. Because part of you wanted to reach across the table. And another part still hadn’t forgiven him for the way your knees had hit the floor this morning.

“Do you do this with all your assistants?” you asked, eyes sharp.

He gave a low, amused chuckle. “No. Most of them were too afraid to even look at me.”

“And I’m not?”

“No.” His voice dropped an octave. “You challenge me. I like that.”

Your breath hitched.

He stood then, and the brief vulnerability vanished behind polished confidence once more. He moved to the sideboard, pulled something from a drawer — a small velvet box. Set it down in front of you.

You stared.

“For your service,” he murmured. “A bonus.”

You opened it slowly, unsure whether to expect a bomb, a threat, or a collar. Inside sat a delicate silver bracelet — simple, elegant, and too personal.

“I’m not wearing that.”

“You will,” he said calmly. “You always do as you’re told… eventually.”

Then he stepped away, calling over his shoulder, “We’ve got a board presentation at four. Don’t be late.”

And just like that, he was gone. Leaving behind the scent of lemon and steel… and the bracelet still sitting, gleaming, on the table beside your half-finished lunch.

—

The glass-walled boardroom was already half-filled when you stepped in — sleek suits, muted colognes, soft murmurs of department updates and funding strategies. Your folder was clutched tight in your arms. Every inch of you screamed polished professionalism: high heels, sharp pencil skirt, pressed blouse. But your skin still burned faintly from the imprint of this morning. The memory of his breath behind your ear. The slick weight of him inside you while he whispered how you belonged to him.

You kept your eyes forward.

Bucky was already seated at the head of the table, sipping coffee like nothing in the world rattled him. He didn’t even glance up when you walked in.

So you sat down to his right — the assistant’s place — and began laying out the presentation handouts. You could feel his presence in the corner of your eye, but he said nothing.

“Y/N,” he murmured finally, voice quiet enough for only you to hear, “did you bring the marketing breakdown I asked for?”

You nodded and passed it to him wordlessly.

He took it from your hand — but instead of setting it on the table, he let his fingertips trail across your wrist. Deliberate. Barely a touch. Just enough to make your pulse spike. You snatched your hand away.

But he didn’t stop.

Over the next twenty minutes, while the head of HR and the finance lead gave their reports, he toyed with you. Subtle things — asking you for the water pitcher when it was clearly in front of him, brushing his knee against yours under the table and not moving it, sliding a pen from your side of the desk and letting his fingers graze your thigh.

No one else noticed. Or if they did, they didn’t dare say anything.

And then, during a pause in discussion, he leaned back in his chair — and addressed the entire room.

“I’d like to recognize my new assistant, Y/N,” he said casually. “Sharp instincts. Very attentive. Learns everything with speed.”

Every head turned toward you. You forced a tight smile, nodding politely. But your throat was dry.

“She’s been… incredibly thorough,” Bucky added, and you swore there was a smirk in his voice. “Burning the midnight oil these last few months. I appreciate her commitment.”

You wished the floor would swallow you whole.

Afterward, as the room emptied and voices echoed into the hallway, you gathered your notes in silence. Just as you turned to leave, Bucky stood — and brushed your hair back from your face with two fingers, thumb grazing the corner of your mouth.

“Lipstick smudged,” he murmured. “Shame. It’s a good color on you.”

You jerked back.

He chuckled. “Careful, Y/N. People might start thinking you’re enjoying this.”

You stormed past him, jaw clenched, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.

But the worst part? You could still feel his touch long after it was gone.

—

You returned to your cubicle like a ghost — hollowed out, heartbeat dull in your ears. The office felt quieter now. The distant whirring of printers, the hum of air conditioning, the occasional click of a keyboard — it all blurred together as your eyes landed on your desk.

A piece of paper sat waiting for you, folded with military precision and placed directly in the center of your keyboard.

Your stomach dropped. The world muted around you.

You reached for it slowly, almost cautiously, as though it could detonate in your hand. As you unfolded the note, the paper crackled in your trembling grip.

You read the words once. Then again.

“You’ll find it easier to focus once you stop pretending you don’t like the attention.”
– J.B.

Your pulse spiked. Something twisted in your gut — rage, humiliation, longing, confusion — it boiled up, scalding you from the inside out. The nerve of him. The audacity.

After everything—after the conference table touch, the whispered order in your ear to smile while you presented, the maddening way he ignored you for hours only to corner you for a meaningless brush of contact—he dares leave this smug note on your desk like you’re nothing more than his toy?

You stood up hard enough that your chair scraped back violently. A few heads turned. You didn’t care. Let them look. Let them wonder. You grabbed the note with shaking hands, stormed down the hall, and didn’t even knock as you shoved open his office door.

It slammed into the wall behind it with a sharp crack.

He didn’t flinch.

James Barnes was seated calmly behind his desk, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, eyes scanning a manila folder like he had no care in the world. He looked like sin wrapped in a three-piece suit—cool, composed, maddening.

He didn’t even glance up when he said, “Didn’t anyone teach you to knock?”

“Don’t play games with me,” you spat, marching to his desk and slamming the note down in front of him. “You think this is funny?”

Finally, he lifted his eyes. They were so dark, so unreadable, that it only made the heat behind your ribs throb harder.

“I am funny,” he said, voice smooth as silk. “And you barging in here the way you did kind of proves my point.”

Your blood was boiling now. “You’re not clever,” you snapped. “You’re cruel. Manipulative. You’ve been harassing me since the day you stepped into this office.”

He arched a brow. “Harassing? I don’t remember hearing any complaints before.”

“You’re disgusting,” you hissed. “You gaslight me. You grope me when no one’s looking. You punish me when I’m exhausted. And then you—then you pretend like it’s all in my head.”

He leaned back in his chair with maddening patience, fingers steepled under his chin as he studied you like you were a piece of fine art—no, like you were a beautifully cracking dam, and he was waiting for the flood.

“You’re upset,” he said, as if you didn’t already know.

“Of course I’m upset!” you exploded. “You toy with me! You punish me like I’m some bad little girl, and then touch me like I’m yours, and the worst part is—” your voice cracked, shame hot in your throat, “—I can’t even tell if you mean it or if it’s just some sick game to get your rocks off.”

The words echoed in the office, jagged and raw.

Bucky stood. Slowly. Every movement measured. Deliberate. Like a predator.

You held your ground even as he came around the desk — the scent of expensive cologne and something darker clinging to him like war.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even touch you.

Instead, he stood so close your chest brushed his with every furious breath. “I never touched you without permission,” he said calmly. “Not once.”

You glared up at him. “What part of any of this do you think is permission?”

He leaned in. Close. Dangerous. But never touching. “You never said stop,” he murmured. “Not when I pulled you into my office. Not when I had you bent over my desk. Not when I made you moan for me with your pussy full of my fingers.” His voice dipped into a rasp. “In fact, I’d say you begged for more. I'd never had a woman drip for me so easily the way you did this morning. Tell me, you do still smell your juices on your shirt?”

Your breath caught in your throat. You hated him for being right. You hated that your body betrayed you.

He tilted his head, watching you falter. “Say I’m wrong,” he said quietly. “Go ahead. Lie to me. Tell me you haven’t been thinking about me. Tell me you don’t crave my approval like a goddamn drug. Tell me you don’t ache every time I walk past you without a word. Tell me that little escapade we had this morning in my office didn't make you want me more.”

Your chest was rising and falling too fast. Heat burned behind your eyes. You hated him. You wanted him. You didn’t even know where one feeling ended and the other began anymore. “You don’t get to do this,” you whispered.

He finally reached for you—just barely brushing a knuckle down the side of your face. A featherlight touch that left your skin burning.

“You’re already mine, sweetheart,” he said darkly. “I don’t need to do anything.”

Then he leaned in. His lips brushed your cheek — not quite a kiss, not quite innocent. You closed your eyes. When you opened them again, you were alone. The door clicked shut softly behind him.

You shouldn’t be here. Not again. Not after everything. But the city was quiet, and Bucky Barnes had texted you just one word: Come. So here you are. Saturday night. His penthouse lights dimmed, jazz humming low from the walls, and a bottle of red already breathing on the kitchen counter.

He pours without asking.

“You look tired,” he says, watching as you shrug off your coat and drape it carefully over a chair. “Still not sleeping well?”

You ignore that and reach for the glass. “Only on weekends. Wonder why.”

His eyes spark with quiet amusement, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he moves past you — brush of his palm over the small of your back so light it could’ve been imagined — and settles onto the leather couch, his glass dangling between two fingers.

“You finished the briefs?”

“I will by morning.”

“You said that last weekend.” His voice is lazy but edged, like silk over a blade. “Is this going to be another night where I have to keep you focused?”

You take a long sip of wine and sit down across from him. “Maybe I don’t want to focus tonight.”

That makes him smile — slow, wolfish. “Then why’d you come?”

You blink. He’s right. You always come.

The wine settles into your blood too fast. The room spins ever so slightly, a velvet warmth that drapes around your nerves. You talk about nothing for a while. Work. The weather. The girls from your floor. He plays the charm game again, letting you forget — just a little — how he wrecked you last time, how he always rewrites the rules without warning.

And then you say something that makes him laugh. Really laugh. That rare sound that always catches you off guard, low and warm and so human.

“You’re beautiful when you’re like this,” he says suddenly, eyes locked to yours, wine forgotten in his hand.

“Like what?”

“Loose. Messy.” His gaze drops to your mouth. “A little off-guard.”

You should’ve gotten up right then.

But instead, you say softly, “Maybe I like how you look at me when I am.”

And he moves — just like that. He’s off the couch and beside you in a breath, one hand tipping your chin up to look at him. The wine has flushed your cheeks, your limbs tingling and slow. He doesn’t kiss you.

He waits. He lets you ache with it. “Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, thumb brushing just beneath your bottom lip. “Say it.”

You whisper it like a sin: “You. Bucky, I want you.”

The kiss is devastating. All that slow-burn tension he’s spent weeks building unravels in a single sweep of his tongue, in the way his metal hand tangles in your hair and the other slides down, down, around your waist to drag you into his lap.

You’re both drunk off more than wine now.

His mouth moves against yours like he owns it — like he’s teaching you something — and the softness you weren’t expecting makes it all the more disarming. He lifts you effortlessly, carrying you down the hallway, your legs around his waist and your lips never parting.

The bedroom is darker. Quiet.

He lays you down like you’re fragile, even though you feel anything but. The look on his face shifts again — mischief fading to something rawer, softer, like reverence or hunger dressed in mourning. He leans over you, breathing your name like it means something.

“I could ruin you,” he whispers. “And you’d still crawl back.”

You nod. You don’t know why. But you do.

The silk sheets whisper beneath your body as Bucky drapes himself over you, holding himself up by one arm while the other—the cold metal one—skims along your thigh, pushing the hem of your dress up slowly, reverently. You shiver beneath him.

“Bucky…”

“Shh,” he murmurs, breath ghosting against your throat. “I’m going to take my time with you tonight. You hear me?”

You nod, breathless, your hands twisting into the sheets.

“I want you to remember what it feels like to be wanted, not just used. Just for tonight.”

His voice is gravel and velvet, cracking around the edges. His lips press to your collarbone, then lower, sliding your dress off your shoulders inch by inch, like peeling away armor. He kisses your skin like it's holy—cheeks flushed, jaw trembling, his mouth worshiping every inch of you.

“You’ve been so good for me, haven’t you?” he says, thumb brushing over the swell of your breast, slow and deliberate. “Working late. Running on fumes. Still showing up like a soldier.”

You manage a shaky, “You make it impossible not to.”

He lets out a soft, broken chuckle, but there’s nothing cruel in it. His hand cups your cheek as he settles between your thighs, the tip of his nose brushing yours. “Then let me make it easy for once.”

The first thrust is slow. Deep. A full stretch that makes you cry out his name softly into the crook of his neck. "Bucky, oh my God."

He groans. “That’s it, sweetheart.”

It’s not like the last time—rushed, punishing, cruel.

No—this is peaceful. Purposeful. He rolls his hips with devastating control, holding your hands above your head with one large palm. His mouth never leaves your skin. Kisses behind your ear. Along your jaw. Between your breasts.

You meet him stroke for stroke, sweat-slicked and tangled, your eyes locked with his until you can’t bear it. But every time you try to look away, he forces your gaze back with a whispered, “Look at me while you fall apart. I need you to look at me.”

And you do. God, you do—shuddering beneath him, muscles clenching, sobbing his name into his shoulder while he groans and follows you right over the edge.

When it’s over, he doesn’t pull away.

He stays inside you. Holds your body like he’s afraid of something. Like he’s never done this before. Like he means it.

You lie there with your fingers threaded through his hair, feeling his heart slow against your ribs.

For the first time in weeks… you don’t feel like you’re drowning.

The light is gentle when you wake—gold spilling through the windows, warm against your bare skin. You’re alone in the bed.

At first, panic prickles down your spine.

Did you oversleep? Did he leave? Is he angry? But then you smell it. Coffee. Eggs. Bacon.

You blink the sleep from your eyes and sit up, tugging his oversized t-shirt from the floor to cover yourself. Your legs are sore in that delicious way that makes your thighs tremble with every step.

Padding quietly into the kitchen, you freeze at the sight.

Bucky.

Hair tied back loosely. Sleeves rolled. His metal hand gripping the skillet handle while he flips pancakes. He looks up, smirks.

“Mornin’, doll.”

Your throat goes dry.

He sets a plate on the island and gestures for you to sit. “Figured after last night, you earned something warm.”

You’re still trying to piece together how this is real.

How he—the same man who made you cry in his office, who’s been tormenting you since day one—is now watching you eat breakfast like he’s your boyfriend… Like he didn't make love to you the night before.

You can’t find your voice.

So he leans across the counter, his knuckles brushing your cheek. “Eat up. You’ll need your strength.”

Your breath hitches. “For…?”

He smiles, slow and unreadable. “For work, of course,” he purrs. “What else?” But his fingers linger just a second too long on your throat before pulling away.

—

The city hums faintly below, golden light painting the windows in lazy streaks. You're curled into the arm of the leather sofa, legs folded under you, still wearing his oversized shirt. Bucky’s lounging on the other end, one ankle hooked over his knee, his fingers absently spinning the dog tags around his neck as if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

“Is it always this quiet up here?” you ask, your voice hushed like the moment might shatter.

He glances over, lips curving into a half-smile. “Only when I want it to be.”

You watch him for a moment—the way his metal arm catches the light, the tiredness in the corner of his eyes, the way he always seems like he’s holding something back. You wonder how much of what he shows you is real, and how much is strategy.

“Can I ask something?” you murmur.

He shifts to face you more directly, elbow propped on the back of the couch. “You can ask. Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”

You give a breath of a laugh. “Fair enough.”

“What do you want to know, sweetheart?” he says it softer than usual, without that usual cruel edge. It makes your skin warm.

“…The arm,” you say. “You said it happened overseas in combat. Can you tell me more about it?”

He’s silent a long time. “IED. Kandahar. I was clearing a building with my team.” His jaw flexes. “Didn’t see the trigger. Didn’t hear the click. Just… pain. Smoke. Screaming.”

Your stomach twists.

“Was anyone else—?”

“They didn’t make it.” He swallows. “All five. I was the only one who crawled out. Barely.”

Your breath hitches. He says it without flinching, but the weight behind it settles in your chest.

He glances away, fingers tapping against the vibranium plating of his left hand. “They rebuilt me in Germany. Rehab took two years. By the time I got back to the States, the Army didn’t want me. But Stark did. Said I'd be a good replacement after Pepper left the company to pursue another career.”

“He saw what I could do. Paid for upgrades. Got me this job. Thought I’d make a good enforcer type. ‘Scare some corporate assholes straight,’ he said.” He gives you a wry look. “Guess I took that too literally.”

You chew your bottom lip. “You’re not what I expected.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “No?”

“I thought you were just… mean. Cold. A bully in a tailored suit.”

He chuckles. It’s low and rasping, but genuine. “I am all of those things. But I’m also someone who saw hell and came back with a souvenir.” He taps the metal plates. “And a bad temper.”

You don’t know what to say. So instead, you shift closer. “I lost someone, too,” you admit quietly. “Not in combat… but it felt like a war.”

He watches you now—carefully, silently. No teasing. No mocking.

You tell him about your brother. The cancer. The slow deterioration. The nights you held his hand in the hospital and told him stories so he wouldn’t be afraid. By the time you stop talking, there are tears prickling at your lashes—but you refuse to cry in front of him.

Bucky doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t crowd you.

Instead, he leans back, eyes still on you, and says softly, “That kind of grief doesn’t ever leave. You just learn how to carry it.”

You nod, throat tight. “Thank you,” you whisper.

He shrugs a little. “Don’t thank me. I’ve done more damage than most people can imagine. But I figure I can at least sit in the quiet with someone now and then.”

The quiet stretches.

Soft. Heavy. Safe.

You don’t realize how close you’ve gotten until your bare knee brushes his thigh. Neither of you moves.

“You want dinner?” he asks after a while.

You blink. “You’re cooking again?”

“I might even let you help this time. You seem like you need to focus on something other than feelings.” His mouth twitches.

You narrow your eyes. “Wow. So romantic.”

He rises and offers you his hand.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he says, that velvet gravel slipping back into his tone. “Let’s make something that won’t emotionally gut us for once.”

The kitchen smells like garlic and herbs.

You’re barefoot, curled on the counter while Bucky plates two dishes of the pasta you helped him make—well, barely helped. You were mostly in the way, sneaking tastes and making sarcastic comments. But he let you. He even smiled. Twice.

He sets your plate in front of you, then opens a bottle of red wine with a quiet efficiency. “Don’t get used to this,” he warns.

You sip the wine and stare at him. “You’re being suspiciously... human tonight.”

He chuckles low in his throat, pulling out a chair. “You bring it out in me, sweetheart.”

You don’t reply—not right away. There’s something in your chest, fluttering painfully, and you don’t want to name it. You just want to live in this pocket of peace. So you eat beside him, not opposite—your knees knocking under the table, his hand occasionally brushing your wrist when he reaches for his glass.

You end up sprawled on the couch again later, your legs over his lap, his fingers idly trailing over your calf. The TV hums with some movie neither of you are really watching.

“You’re not gonna scream at me for falling asleep this time?” you tease, head tilted.

His jaw twitches. “You were exhausted. My fault.”

You blink. His fault? That’s the closest thing to an apology you’ve ever heard from him.

“Why do you do that?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t pretend not to know what you mean. “Because you’re easy to get under, sweetheart. And I like watching you fight it.”

You shake your head, but there’s no venom in it.

A beat of silence.

“You don’t have to play games with me,” you whisper. “I’m already confused enough.”

He lifts his hand and brushes your hair away from your face again—like he’s done before, but this time, it’s soft. Gentle. Like he’s memorizing you.

“I know,” he murmurs. “That’s why I’m going easy on you tonight.”

You fall asleep against his shoulder after midnight.

The elevator doors open.

You step out, heart still full of last night—soft kisses, quiet laughter, his hand steadying you at the sink while you dried the dishes. It wasn’t a dream. You’d woken in his bed. Alone, but warm. A folded note on the pillow:

Don’t be late. Wear red.
– J.B.

Your pencil skirt is red. Your blouse is silky, professional, fitted. You even bothered with lipstick. You spot him near the conference room, surrounded by a few junior execs. He’s in full black—black suit, black tie, that single glove. Sharp, unreadable, detached.

You step closer, expecting—something.

A glance. A quip. A smirk.

Instead, he walks past you without a single flicker of recognition.

“Y/L/N,” he calls over his shoulder as he strides toward the boardroom. “Where are those updated figures I asked for Friday? I hope I won’t be disappointed.”

Your chest tightens.

Just like that—gone is the man who held your ankle while you stepped onto the counter, who poured you wine and let his lips linger at your temple. This Bucky is cold steel, dripping condescension.

You scramble after him, pulse spiking.

“Sir, I—”

“Speak when spoken to,” he says smoothly, eyes never leaving the folder in his hand. “You’re not my equal. Don’t get comfortable.”

Not my equal. The words sting.

By the time you sit beside him in the meeting, your hands are trembling. His knee brushes yours once under the table. You don’t know if it’s an accident. But when you look over, his eyes are on the presenter—and he’s smirking.

—

You’ve stared at the closed door to his office for twenty-three minutes. The rest of the floor is empty. Your coworkers packed up after the meeting. Nat gave you a look before leaving—half pity, half warning. You clench your fists, then finally push open the door. He doesn’t look up from his laptop.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve,” you snap.

Still, he types another few words. Then closes the laptop slowly. Deliberately. His blue eyes rise to meet yours, indifferent. Cold.

“I’m working,” he says. “Did you have something worth interrupting me for?”

You stalk toward his desk. “You don't get to treat me like that after this weekend.”

“Treat you like what?”

“Like I’m disposable.” Your voice cracks, just slightly. “Like none of it meant anything. I'm tired of not knowing what you want from me.”

A pause. His jaw flexes.

“And what exactly did the events of this weekend mean to you?” he murmurs, folding his hands together on the desk.

You blink, caught off guard. “You know damn well I—”

“Do I?” His tone is deceptively mild. “Because you’re the one who keeps pretending none of this is real. You flirt back. You let me touch you. You wear what I ask. You sleep in my home. You come back again and again like a good little assistant who wants to play house on the weekends—”

“Because I thought there was more to you!” you explode. “I thought—after everything—you were finally showing me something real!”

Silence.

He watches you, unmoving.

“You looked at me last night like—like you cared,” you whisper. “You let me fall asleep against you.”

“I didn’t force you.”

“No. But you didn’t push me away, either.”

He stands.

You back up a step instinctively—then hold your ground as he comes around the desk. The click of his dress shoes echoes like gunfire.

“Why do you keep coming here, Y/N?” he asks quietly. “If I’m so awful. If I’m so impossible. If you hate the way I make you feel.”

“I don’t hate it,” you whisper.

His eyes glint. He stops just in front of you. The tension pulls taut, brittle and ready to snap.

You swallow. “I just want to know if I’m crazy.”

He tilts his head.

“Do you really not feel anything?” you whisper. “Not one fucking thing?”

And then he does it—so fast you almost miss it.

His hand lifts, cups your jaw, thumb grazing your cheek. He kisses you.

It’s not cruel. Not punishing. Not possessive or dominant.

It’s soft.

His lips brush yours like he’s afraid you’ll run.

Your eyes flutter closed. His mouth parts slightly. Just enough for you to feel the heat behind it—what he’s hiding, what he won’t say. His breath mingles with yours.

And just when your fingers curl in his shirt—when your heart breaks wide open—he pulls away. His thumb lingers against your lip. Then, flatly: “You’re not crazy.”

You stare at him.

“I feel it too,” he adds softly. “I just don’t know what to do with it.”

And just like that, he turns and walks back to his desk, picking up his laptop again like nothing happened.

“Close the door on your way out,” he says without looking at you.

—

The door clicks shut behind you, but your mind races. You can’t leave it like this—not with him shutting down the moment things get real. You show up every day after that, more bold, more persistent. At first, he keeps his usual cold distance, dodging every question, every touch you attempt. But you don’t back down.

One evening, you find him in the empty office lounge, nursing a whiskey. You sit down across from him without asking.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say softly.

He eyes you, his steel-blue gaze unreadable. “Why do you want this so badly?”

“Because you matter to me,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

He shakes his head, but there’s a flicker in his eyes — a crack in the ice.

“Maybe I’m not the guy you think I am,” he murmurs.

“Maybe you’re exactly who I want,” you answer, surprising yourself with the raw honesty.

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he stares at the glass in his hand like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

The penthouse is drenched in the golden light of sunset when you arrive, wine bottle in hand, cheeks flushed from the early summer heat. Bucky opens the door wearing a simple black shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal the cold metal arm gleaming in the light.

He doesn’t say much, just lets you in.

The two of you settle in, the wine flowing easy between sips and laughter. The b

Bucky’s voice is low, rough with alcohol and something more vulnerable.

“Why do you keep chasing me?” he asks, sliding closer.

“Because I see you,” you say, eyes locked on his. “The part you hide.”

He laughs, but it’s hollow. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“You don’t scare me,” you whisper, fingertips tracing the metal of his arm, feeling the heat beneath the cold steel. "Not anymore."

His hand catches yours, holding it tight. His lips hover over yours, breath warm and inviting.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes.

You don’t say a word.

And then he kisses you—deep, slow, full of the longing he’s kept bottled for far too long.

Clothes fall away, hands exploring with desperate need. The wine-scented air thick with heat and want.

He’s both fierce and tender, claiming you with whispered promises and urgent touches. You’re his and he’s yours in this moment—unmasked and raw.

Hours later, tangled in sheets and soft sighs, you rest your head against his chest. His fingers trace lazy patterns along your spine.

“I want you,” he admits, voice rough but certain.

You smile, heart pounding. “I’m not letting go.”

—

You arrive at the office just before nine, nerves jangling with every step. The weekend still feels like a dream — or a confession whispered in a foggy room — and the question burns hotter than ever: What now?

Bucky’s already there, leaning against the edge of his desk, arms crossed, his metal arm catching the early light. His face is unreadable, cool, distant — the same cold steel you know so well.

“Morning,” you say, voice tentative.

He glances up, eyes flickering like a storm behind a veil. “Morning.”

No warmth. No mention of last night.

You bite back a sigh and settle into your chair, heart pounding loud in your ears.

Throughout the morning, the tension coils tighter, every glance loaded with unspoken words. Bucky is all sharp angles and clipped replies, but when he thinks no one’s watching, his eyes find you — flickers of something softer, tangled with frustration.

—

The conference room is cold, the fluorescent lights harsh. You’re sitting beside Bucky, documents scattered across the table, the hum of the projector buzzing in the background.

Midway through, he leans just a fraction too close, his arm brushing against yours. The contact sends a jolt through you — electric, impossible to ignore.

His voice drops, barely audible. “Focus.”

Your breath catches. Is it an order? A warning? Or something else?

You meet his gaze, trying to steady the whirl inside.

He smirks faintly — that dangerous half-smile that tells you he knows.

—

The office empties faster than usual. You catch Bucky by the stairwell, heart pounding as you confront him.

“Why do you keep pushing me away… then pulling me in?” you demand, voice trembling with frustration and longing.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulls you close, fingers threading through your hair. “I’m not good at this,” he admits, voice low and rough. “But I want you. God, I want you.”

Your breath hitches as he finally kisses you — soft, urgent, and full of everything you’ve both been hiding. You cling to him, knowing this is just the start of a complicated, messy, beautiful journey.

—

You arrived ten minutes early. The office was quiet, fluorescent lights flickering faintly overhead. You settled at your desk outside Bucky’s glass-walled office, eyes still raw from the weekend—sleepless hours, wine-tinged confessions, the warmth of his hands on your waist, then chest, then deeper... only to return to Monday’s sterile chill.

You expected it. The cold shoulder. The clipped commands. But what you didn’t expect was the silence.

Bucky didn’t speak to you at all.

You delivered the reports. You followed his scheduling instructions. You met every deadline with robotic precision. Still, nothing. No comments, no brush of fingers across your lower back, no breath at your neck when he passed behind you. You might as well have been invisible.

And then at 11:34 a.m., you found it.

A typo.

In the email you didn’t send.

A “mistake” in a proposal you hadn’t touched.

The client was livid. Your name was on the CC.

Bucky had forwarded it to the entire floor.

With a note: “Unacceptable oversight. Please double-check your own work before it costs us another account.”
—J.B.

Your chest collapsed inward. You read it twice. Three times.

He’d sabotaged you.

It had to be him. No one else had access to that folder. And worse—he wanted you to snap. He wanted you humiliated.

The whispers followed. Misty gave you a worried glance. Nat looked like she was about to slap someone. You kept your head down and pushed through the rest of the day.

Until the 3 p.m. meeting.

You walked in late, trembling slightly. Bucky was seated at the head of the long table, looking fucking pristine in black on black. Everyone else looked between you and him, uncertain, almost wary. You sat across from him. He didn’t look at you.

But when the meeting broke—when chairs scraped and coworkers filed out—he spoke.

Not loudly. Not cruelly. Just: “Y/N, stay.”

Your blood ran hot, cold, confused. He waited until the door closed. And then finally—finally—his gaze snapped to yours like a wire under tension.

“You’re upset.” Not a question.

“No shit,” you hissed.

He leaned back, fingers steepled. “You made a mistake.”

“I didn’t,” you bit. “And you know it. You changed the file.”

He tilted his head, the ghost of something smug curling at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You’re falling for me,” he said plainly. “That’s what’s wrong.”

You stared. Swallowed. Hard. “Excuse me?”

“You’re falling. It’s messing with your work. With your control.” He stood now, rounding the table slowly, like a predator circling prey. “You’re distracted. I can feel it every time you shift when I stand behind you. Every time you flinch when I touch your hair.”

He was right in front of you now. Looking down.

“I had to remind you who you’re working for.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

He leaned down slowly, dragging a finger under your chin. “And I wanted to see how far I could push you before you cracked.”

You slapped his hand away. “You’re a goddamn psychopath.”

But your voice shook.

He watched your lips. “Say it again.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t. You hated him. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to cry.

“I think we’ve established something here,” he said softly, brushing his knuckles down your cheek. “You're not angry because I humiliated you. You’re angry because it turns you on.”

You shoved back from the table. “You’re disgusting.”

“And yet,” he murmured, “you’re still standing here.”

It started with a storm. Rain pelted the penthouse windows as you sat at the long marble kitchen island, typing half-blind through exhaustion.

Bucky sat across from you, tie loosened, sleeves rolled. There were no orders tonight. No corrections. Just... silence and the sound of your shared breathing.

Until he broke it.

“You asked once about the metal arm.”

You froze.

He continued, his voice quieter than usual. “IED. Kandahar. We were ambushed. Half my squad died before backup arrived. I didn’t.”

You looked up, lips parted.

“I was twenty-eight,” he said. “They told me I shouldn’t have lived. They weren’t wrong. I had too much blood loss.”

You closed your laptop.

He stared at his hand—the metal one—and then back at you.

“I built everything you see because I had to prove that I was still human. Still useful. And when people underestimate me...” He met your eyes, voice cool again. “I make them regret it.”

You stepped around the island slowly.

“Why are you telling me this now? Every time i hear you talk about, you tell me more about what happened.”

He didn’t answer.

You reached for his arm—just a brush, just contact—and he let you. No snide remarks. No cruel grin.

Just silence.

“I don’t want to underestimate you,” you said softly.

A long pause.

“I know,” he replied.

And then he stood. Walked to the kitchen sink. Poured himself another glass of wine.

Back to business. Back to cold. But for one second, he’d let you see something. Something that didn’t fit into power games or punishments. Something human. And it scared you more than anything else.

—

You shouldn’t be here. It’s a Monday night. You should be home. Asleep. Resting before another chaotic week. But instead, you’re barefoot in Bucky Barnes’ penthouse, curled on the opposite end of his massive leather couch, a half-empty bottle of red between you, and the world outside muted by floor-to-ceiling rain-slick windows.

He’s in black joggers and a Henley rolled to the elbows again. His hair is loose. He never wears it like this at work. It’s soft and strangely domestic, curling at the nape of his neck and brushing the high points of his cheekbone. You’d never admit how long you’ve been staring at him.

You sip your wine, legs tucked beneath you, watching the storm crawl over the city skyline. Your head is warm. Too warm. Your tongue a little looser than usual.

“You keep looking at me like you want to say something,” he murmurs.

You blink. “Do I?”

He doesn’t move. Just lies back deeper into the couch, his head turned toward you, arm flung lazily over the cushions. “You do. You always look like you’re holding back.”

“I am,” you say before you can stop yourself.

His brow lifts slightly. “Holding back what?”

You look down at your wine glass. “I don’t know. Everything.”

There’s a long silence, but it’s not tense. It feels... thick. Like honey in warm tea.

Bucky watches you quietly for a beat, then reaches over and taps the rim of your glass with his own. “We’re both disasters,” he says simply. “Might as well be disasters in the same room.”

You snort. “Wow. That’s romantic.”

He chuckles—quiet and hoarse—and reclines fully now, exhaling deeply. His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it when he murmurs, “C’mere.”

You look up, confused. He pats his chest. You hesitate. “C’mere, doll,” he repeats. “I want you to hear something.”

There’s no teasing in his tone. No cruelty. No power play.

You cross the space slowly and lower yourself next to him, then gently—so gently—lay your head against his chest.

It’s warm. And steady. And human. You close your eyes. Let the wine settle in your blood. Let the sound of his heart fill the hollow ache in your chest. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t stroke your hair. Doesn’t make a comment about your blouse or your deadlines or what you should wear tomorrow.

He just breathes. And lets you listen. Minutes stretch. Maybe more. Eventually you whisper, “I thought you didn’t have one.”

“A heart?” he asks.

You nod against him.

“I do,” he says quietly. “But I only let you close enough to hear it when I’m too drunk to keep lying about it.”

Your throat tightens.

You want to ask him what this is. What you are to him. If this is just another power move. But for once, you don’t. You just breathe. Let yourself have this.

A moment where he isn’t your boss. Where you aren’t his overworked, manipulated assistant.

Where you’re just... a woman, curled up in the soft thud of a man’s heartbeat, in a storm-lit penthouse.

“You’re warm,” you murmur, letting your eyes slip closed.

“So are you,” he says, almost into your hair.

And then silence again. But it’s not empty. It’s full.

—

The first thing you feel is the ache in your neck.

The second is the weight around your waist.

You blink against the sunlight dripping through the high windows. You’re lying sideways on Bucky’s couch, your cheek resting against his chest. His arm is around you—heavy, protective, relaxed in sleep. One of your legs is tangled with his. Your blouse is wrinkled, your skirt bunched around your thighs. You can feel his heartbeat.

He’s still asleep.

For once, he looks peaceful. Not cruel. Not calculating. Not the man who stares you down in glass-walled meetings and touches your thigh beneath expensive oak tables.

Just... Bucky.

You swallow. Carefully slide out from under his arm, ignoring the way his fingers twitch—like they don’t want to let go. You straighten your skirt and blouse, grab your purse, and make your way to the guest bathroom. Your hair is a mess. Your makeup smeared. But your heart is the worst part—it won’t stop racing. It won’t stop hoping.

Back in the living room, the coffee machine gurgles to life. He’s up. He doesn’t say a word as he pours two mugs, slides one across the counter toward your side of the kitchen island. You take it with a quiet thank you.

Neither of you says anything for a long time.

He’s back to being dressed like a boss—black slacks, dark grey shirt, a single glove. His hair is tied back. He looks… untouchable again.

And it stings.

You sip your coffee, eyes down, refusing to let that hollow ache grow any bigger.

“You have a staff call at 10 a.m.,” he says finally. His voice is even. Smooth.

You blink. “Right.”

He doesn’t look at you.

And you realize—this is it. This is what it always was. A single moment of softness before the storm. The eye in the middle of a cyclone of power games and longing and blurred lines. You grab your things and head for the door. He follows.

At the elevator, you press the button. Steel doors glide open. You step in.

He still hasn’t spoken.

Your fingers tighten around your purse strap. “Thank you for—” you start to say, but the words catch. You’re not even sure what you were thanking him for. The wine? The moment of peace? The illusion?

Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t answer. The doors begin to close.

And then—

“Y/N.”

You freeze.

He hasn’t moved. But his eyes are on you. Dark. Serious. Something quiet roiling beneath them.

You wait.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move closer. Just says:

“Don’t be late.”

The doors close.

You’re left alone in the steel silence, your pulse pounding in your throat.

—

Your head is pounding.

You’ve reread the data report four times, and it still doesn’t make sense—not because it’s wrong, but because he’s sitting three chairs down, pretending like last night didn’t happen. Pretending like you didn’t fall asleep on his chest after hours of quiet wine-soaked conversation. Pretending like he didn’t whisper things to you in the dark that you’re now starting to believe might’ve been lies.

You’re tired. You’re raw. And worst of all—you want him. Still. Even now.

“So if you look at Q6,” says Henry from compliance, his nasal voice slicing through your thoughts like a cheese grater, “we clearly see a significant uptick in outreach but a drop in engagement. I believe that falls under marketing’s purview. Y/N, thoughts?”

Your name pulls your attention sharply. “I already submitted my analysis. It’s in the shared drive.”

Henry blinks. “I know, but I thought maybe you could elaborate—”

“Then read it,” you snap.

The room stills.

Heat rushes up your throat before the shame even has time to register. Across the table, Misty shifts uncomfortably. Nat stares at her pen. Everyone goes silent.

Henry raises both hands defensively. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“I don’t need to be called on like I’m in a classroom,” you mutter, lower this time but still bitter. “If you wanted clarity, maybe email me beforehand instead of wasting everyone’s time.”

Henry goes quiet.

And that’s when you feel it. His stare. You don’t have to look to know Bucky Barnes is watching you from the head of the table—his thumb slowly circling the rim of his glass, unreadable, silent.

Like he knew this would happen.

“Take five,” he says coolly.

Everyone rises—awkward, rushed—and files out.

You stay seated.

Of course you do.

When the door shuts and the last heel-click vanishes down the hall, you finally look at him.

“I don’t need you to discipline me,” you snap before he can say anything. “I’ve already gotten enough of that from you lately.”

There’s a pause. A long, tense, unbearable pause.

Then: “You snapped in front of a full table of colleagues,” he says, voice low. Controlled. “And you embarrassed a department head. Why?”

You stand slowly, palms on the table. “Because I’m tired, Barnes. Because I’m exhausted. Because you keep messing with me—”

“Messing with you,” he echoes, rising as well. “Is that what you call late-night wine and soft kisses?”

“Yes!” you shout. “When it leads to you ignoring me the next morning—when you treat me like just another cog in the machine, like all these weekends i spend with you meant nothing—what else am I supposed to think?”

He closes the space between you in two strides.

Your breath catches.

“You think I’m playing games?” he growls. “You think I’m toying with you?”

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” you admit, quieter now. Your hands tremble. “And that’s the problem. I don’t know if I’m just another conquest. I don’t know if you actually care, or if this is just about control for you. I—” Your voice breaks. “I can’t tell if you even like me, or if this is some elaborate way of breaking me down.”

His eyes flash.

And then, unexpectedly—he steps back. His face is unreadable. For the first time… he looks conflicted.

“I do like you,” he says. “But I’m not a good man. You’ve known that from day one.”

You shake your head, lip trembling. “Then stop pretending to be one on every damn weekend. I can't take much more of this, Bucky, please.”

Silence.

You turn and storm toward the door.

But before your hand reaches the handle, his voice stops you:

“Tonight,” he says. “8 PM. My place. No wine. No orders. Just... answers.”

You don’t respond.

But you don’t say no, either.

—

The air in the office felt heavier than usual.

Maybe it was the flickering overhead lights or the stale scent of burnt coffee that hadn’t been changed out all day. Maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t looked Bucky in the eye since the meeting that morning—when he shot you one of those amused glances just as you snapped at a junior associate who had simply asked for clarification. The silence afterward had been deafening.

You’d felt the burn of humiliation crawling up your throat the moment your voice had gotten too sharp. Eyes had darted between you and Barnes. No one said anything, but everyone heard the way the tension strangled the room.

Now it was past 3:45 PM. You hadn’t moved from your desk in an hour. Tasks piled up. Your inbox pinged relentlessly. You were chewing the inside of your cheek, leg bouncing beneath your desk with anxious, directionless energy.

Across the room, you could feel him watching you.

You didn’t even have to look. It was the weight of it—heavy, cold, unbending. The way he had of looking at you without blinking, like he was trying to figure out which button to press next. The anticipation of it was maddening.

The texts didn’t help.

Bucky Barnes [3:32 PM]:
Take a walk. You look like you're about to combust.

Bucky Barnes [3:39 PM]:
Don’t make me drag you out of the building. You’ve already snapped once today.

You hadn’t replied.

Your throat was too tight. Your palms too sweaty. Your mind spinning in ten directions—rage, shame, confusion, the phantom feeling of his hands, his voice behind your ear whispering cruel praise just two nights ago as he made you—

No. Not now.

You nearly broke your pen between your fingers.

You waited for the last of the office staff to leave before you marched toward his office, heels clicking hard across the marble floor like the warning shots they were. His door was half-cracked open. He knew you were coming.

You stepped in and closed the door quietly behind you. He didn’t look up right away, seated behind his desk with sleeves rolled, jacket long since discarded, metal hand tapping lazily against his laptop keyboard.

“I was wondering how long it’d take you.”

Your teeth ground together. “You don’t get to play dumb.”

Bucky finally looked up. “You mean about the meeting? Or the way you nearly bit your own tongue in half all day trying not to cry in the break room?”

“Don’t,” you warned.

He stood slowly, stretching his back as he walked around the desk with casual command, his expression unreadable. “So tell me, sweetheart—what part of today broke you? The fact that I let you spiral without interference? Or the fact that I’ve got you so tightly wrapped around my finger you don’t even know what you’re mad about anymore?”

You flinched, jaw tightening. “You’re an asshole. You know that?”

He was closer now. Not touching. Just enough to make you feel the warmth radiating from his body. “And yet you still come running back for more.”

Your voice cracked. “You humiliated me. You let me fall apart in front of them. That guy you had me training looked at me like I was unstable.”

“Because you are,” Bucky said coldly. “You’re unraveling. Because you still haven’t figured out the rules of this game, and you’re pissed that you’re losing.”

You slapped a hand against his chest, but he didn’t budge. “This isn’t a game to me.”

“No?” he asked quietly, gaze darkening. “Then what is it?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You hated him for this. For how close he got. For how much he knew. For the way his eyes looked soft right now even though his words cut like razors.

Bucky leaned in, one hand brushing lightly over your jaw, forcing your gaze up. “You’re exhausted. Strung out. Angry. You hate me and you want me all in the same breath. You’re confused and it terrifies you. But I’m not confused.”

Your breath hitched.

“I know what I want,” he said.

“What—” you whispered. “What do you want?”

“To own every single inch of you until you’re too fucked out to care how much you hate me.” He kissed you then—not rough. Not teasing. A soft, almost cruel press of lips that shattered something inside you.

—

Your lips were still tingling when he pulled away. Not with fire—but with confusion. A gentle kiss. After everything. After the games, the punishments, the weekend power plays, the gloved hand on your thigh beneath the conference table just that morning.

And now?

He looked at you like you were something fragile.

And you hated it.

“You don’t get to be soft now,” you whispered, voice frayed like paper. “You don’t get to kiss me like that after everything you’ve done to me. After everything you keep doing to me.”

Bucky’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “You think I don’t know I’ve been cruel?”

He stepped back, just slightly—giving you room, but not escape.

“I need to be cruel with you. Because the moment I’m not…” he trailed off, swallowing hard. “I lose control of what this is.”

Your breath caught. “And what is this?”

He didn’t answer. Not with words. Just with that same maddening stillness—like if he named it, it’d become something real. Something dangerous.

You shook your head, tearing your gaze away, pressing your palms to his desk to keep yourself grounded. “You broke me today,” you whispered, throat tight. “You stood there and watched while I embarrassed myself in front of everyone. You saw me unravel and did nothing.”

“I did what you would’ve done in my position,” he said evenly. “I watched how far you’d bend before snapping. You’re stronger than you think.”

“That wasn’t strength,” you snapped. “That was survival.”

Silence.

And then—softly, “You’re not wrong.” He exhaled and reached for you again, but this time, you didn’t flinch. You let him touch your wrist. His fingers slid gently over the inside of it, as if tracing your pulse.

“I won’t stop,” he warned. “But I can give you more of what you need—if you ask me for it.”

Your head lifted slowly. “And what do I need?”

He tilted his head. “To stop pretending you hate my hands on you.”

His voice was still ringing in your ears when he slid his hand along your back and pressed you gently forward over the desk. Your chest hit the cool wood. You gasped, your hands flailing for balance—but he was already there, a hand on your lower back, keeping you in place with minimal pressure.

“You’ve needed this all day,” he murmured against your ear. “Needed something to quiet the noise in your head.”

His other hand—gloved—raked up the back of your thigh, bunching your skirt at your hips. You were already throbbing, wet, and he hadn’t even touched you where you needed it most.

“Tell me you want it,” he said, voice low. “Tell me you want my fingers inside you.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. You didn’t trust your voice.

“Say it,” he snapped.

“I want it,” you hissed, voice broken. “God—I want it, Bucky. I want you so bad, it hurts Bucky , please.”

“Sir,” he corrected coldly, metal hand clamping around your hip. “In this office, you will address me properly.”

“Yes—yes, Sir,” you gasped.

Then he was inside you. Two fingers—cold metal, precise, relentless.

You cried out, your hips jerking as he curled them just right, finding that aching spot that made you claw at the desk. The rhythm was devastating—slow, teasing, and entirely under his control. He watched you over your shoulder, his jaw set, his gaze hot.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Dripping. Wrecked. Needy.”

You whimpered. “Please—please don’t stop—”

“I told you I’d show you who you belong to.” He pressed a hot kiss between your shoulder blades, fucking you deeper with his fingers. “And this—this is just a reminder.”

The orgasm crested so hard and fast it took your breath away.

You shuddered under his hand, thighs trembling, nails biting into the wood, your cries swallowed into the hush of his office. He didn’t slow—not until your body sagged, wrung out and limp against the desk.

He pulled his fingers from you slowly. You could hear the wet sound of him cleaning them off with one of the tissues on his desk.

But what shocked you—

What made your breath hitch all over again—

Was the way he leaned in, brushing his lips against your cheek and whispering:

“You still want something real, don’t you?”

You turned your head just enough to look at him.

And this time, you were the one confused. Because in his expression—you saw a man on the edge of something dangerous.

Not just lust. But possession. And maybe… maybe something like longing.

—

The air was thick with sweat, sex, and something heavier.

Bucky hadn’t said a word since he whispered that final, loaded line—You still want something real, don’t you? And now… now he moved around you with an eerie calm.

You were still bent over the desk, chest heaving, skirt bunched around your hips, cheeks flushed. Your thighs were slick, trembling. Your mind—numb and loud all at once.

He returned with a warm cloth, silent.

And without saying anything, he gently placed a hand on your back, urging you to stay still. You should’ve protested. Should’ve snapped at him. Should’ve said, I can clean myself up, thank you very much.

But you didn’t.

Because the way he touched you wasn’t cruel this time. It wasn’t about control or showmanship. It was quiet. Careful. Like you’d break if he moved too fast.

The warmth of the cloth hit your inner thighs, and you winced.

“Too rough?” he asked, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

You shook your head, barely able to find the words. “No… just—sensitive.”

He cleaned you slowly, thoroughly. Gloved hand steady, the other gentle. When he was done, he disappeared again, leaving you trembling with the ghost of what had just happened.

You stood slowly, tugging your skirt back down with shaking hands.

You expected silence.

But what came next was worse.

“You shake like you’ve never been touched properly,” he murmured behind you. His voice was back to something familiar—low, dangerous. Almost fond. “Like your body’s not used to being… worshiped.”

Your spine stiffened.

“Is that what you call that?” you snapped.

“No,” he said, walking around to face you. “That was just a reminder. A correction, remember?” He tilted his head, eyes drifting over your face. “But you needed it. Didn’t you?”

Your throat closed up. You didn’t answer. Instead, you turned to grab your laptop, still burning with residual arousal and confusion, but mostly shame.

You felt used.

But worse—you felt seen.

And he knew it.

“You don’t have to go,” Bucky said, voice low.

You paused at the door.

“I do,” you muttered. “Before I confuse this for something it’s not.”

His silence followed you like a ghost.

It was nearly 1 a.m. when the notification pinged on your phone. A shared document from Bucky.

Subject Line: Still waiting on that forecast summary, sweetheart.

You groaned into your pillow.

God, he was relentless.

But then you saw the second message.

I made you dinner. It’s in the fridge.
You forgot your charger too.
Don’t push yourself tonight.
Sleep. Finish the forecast in the morning.

No teasing. No scolding.

Just… him.

Still playing the long game. Still messing with your head. But maybe—just maybe—not entirely made of ice. You curled up under your blanket, the taste of him still on your lips, the soreness in your legs reminding you how much he'd taken.

And how easily he could take more.

—

The office had long since emptied, the hum of the city outside the windows fading into the late-night silence. You stayed behind, fingers flying over the keyboard, but your thoughts kept drifting back to him — Bucky. The cold, relentless drive he held over you, but also those rare moments where he let something softer slip through.

You shut your laptop with a slow breath and heard the click of his door opening.

He stepped out, eyes tired but sharp, the glint in them dark and hungry.

Without a word, you motioned him toward your desk.

Bucky raised an eyebrow but didn’t hesitate.

You let your hand brush his arm lightly as he sat down, leaning in close.

“You’ve been… demanding,” you said, voice low, breath catching just slightly. “And yeah, sometimes you’re impossible.”

His lips twitched.

“But you’ve made me feel things. Things I didn’t think I wanted.”

His eyes darkened, intent.

You reached out, fingers curling around the edge of his belt buckle, easing it open.

His gaze never left yours, sharp and waiting.

Your hand slid down, brushing over the cold metal of his arm, then lower, tracing the curve of his hip.

You slipped your hand beneath his pants, fingers finding his cock, hard and steady. Bucky’s breath hitched as you slowly begun to stroke him.

You stroked slow, deliberately, watching him.

The low hum of the city outside faded into nothing as you settled in front of Bucky on the floor, Bucky on the couch, the dim glow of the room wrapping you both in a quiet cocoon. His metal arm rested heavy but warm against your thigh, grounding you, reminding you of the raw power beneath his calm exterior. Your fingers traced the cold steel softly, fingertips brushing the grooves and edges, feeling the paradox of strength and subtle vulnerability.

Bucky’s dark eyes caught yours, steady and unreadable, but in that look there was something unspoken — a promise, a challenge, a hunger.

You leaned in, your breath mingling with his, your heartbeat racing. Slowly, deliberately, you reached for the edge of his shirt, fingers grazing the warm skin beneath. His pulse throbbed under your touch, alive and urgent.

With a careful motion, you began to trace the lines of his jaw, lips barely brushing his skin, sending a shiver through both of you. His breath hitched, the tension in his body coiling tighter as your hands explored the contours of him — strong, solid, relentless.

Your lips found the sensitive spot just below his ear, and a low, almost inaudible growl slipped past his throat. Encouraged, you moved lower, planting soft, lingering kisses along the column of his neck, the heat of your mouth igniting a fire that pulsed through every nerve.

His metal hand came up slowly, resting gently on your cheek, thumb caressing your skin in slow, demanding circles. The softness of the gesture contrasted with the force in his eyes — a man used to command, now caught in a moment of exquisite surrender.

You paused, meeting his gaze, silently asking permission, a flicker of vulnerability hidden beneath his usual stoic mask. The slightest nod was all you needed.

As your lips closed over his throbbing cock, the world narrowed to the warmth of his skin, the slick slide of your tongue, the delicious hum of his breath. Time slowed, the only sounds the soft whispers of your breath mingling, the quickening of his pulse under your touch, the light moans of pleasure he whined out for you as you worked out his growing release.

You moved with reverence, a slow rhythm building between you, every touch charged with unspoken desire, every glance a silent confession. The need in his eyes mirrored your own, a fierce, aching want that had nothing to do with control and everything to do with trust.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and flushed, his lips brushed yours—soft, almost tentative—before deepening into a kiss that spoke of both passion and something tender, fragile, not giving any care i nthe world that you had dribbled cum down your chin.

In that quiet aftermath, held close in his arms, the world outside ceased to exist. It was just you and him — raw, real, and achingly close.

The soft light of morning slipped through the sheer curtains, casting pale gold across the room where you and Bucky lay tangled beneath the sheets. His metal arm was draped protectively over your waist, holding you close as your fingers absently traced patterns along his bare chest. The steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your palm was soothing — grounding.

The apartment was silent except for the distant hum of the city waking up, but the usual sharp edges of the world felt miles away here. The offices were closed today, no emails, no deadlines, no impossible expectations—just this rare, fragile moment between two people who had spent too long hiding behind walls.

Bucky shifted slightly, his breath warm against your skin. You looked up, catching the glint of vulnerability in his dark eyes, something you’d never quite seen before.

“I don’t do this,” he murmured, voice low and rough with honesty. “Not like this. Not... letting someone in.”

You squeezed his hand, encouraging him wordlessly.

He took a slow breath, as if gathering every ounce of courage he’d been holding back. “I’ve been... messing with you, playing games, keeping you at arm’s length. Because I’m scared. Scared of what I feel.”

Your heart fluttered, but you stayed quiet, letting him find the words.

“I’m not just some cold, hard bastard at work,” he said quietly, a faint, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. “I’m... more. I’m broken, but I’m trying. And you—” He brushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear, voice thick with feeling. “You make me want to be better. You make me feel like I’m not alone.”

The room seemed to still, the weight of his confession hanging in the air.

“I love you,” he said finally, the words raw and unguarded. “Not just the parts of you I like or that make my life easier. All of you. And I don’t expect you to understand all that now, or maybe even ever. But I want you to know. I want you.”

You reached up, cupping his face gently. “I love you, too,” you whispered. “All of you.”

His lips met yours then, slow and sure, a promise of more to come — not just passion, but something real, something worth fighting for.

Outside, the world waited. But here, in this quiet morning light, everything else faded away.

The kiss lingered, soft and warm, but reality crept back in as the sun climbed higher. Bucky pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against yours.

“We should get up,” he said, voice still low, reluctant.

You nodded, heart full but already aching at the thought of stepping back into the harsh world outside this sanctuary.

In the kitchen, you both moved slowly—making coffee, the steam curling between you like a quiet promise. Bucky’s hands were gentler than usual, brushing your fingers as he handed you a mug, eyes never leaving yours.

For a few hours, the apartment felt like a bubble. You talked about everything and nothing—his past missions, the metal arm’s scars, your dreams, your fears. For once, he didn’t hide behind sarcasm or coldness. You saw a man worn and cautious, but fiercely protective of what he held dear.

But afternoon light always brings the inevitable. The hum of a phone broke the silence. Bucky’s phone. He glanced at it, then back at you with a tight smile.

“Meetings,” he muttered, setting it down. “But I don’t want to lose this,” he said, reaching out to intertwine your fingers again.

You squeezed back. “We’ll figure it out.”

When the time came to leave the apartment, the weight of the outside world settled back on your shoulders. The elevator ride was quiet, tension curling beneath your skin. But when the office doors opened, Bucky shifted seamlessly back into his cold, commanding presence.

“Business as usual,” he said, voice clipped.

Yet, in small moments—your hands brushing, a glance that held something deeper—you knew the night had changed everything. Between meetings and deadlines, there was a new undercurrent of connection, fragile but undeniable.

And as the sun set again, you both knew this was only the beginning. The long, tangled road ahead of trust, desire, and maybe, just maybe, something real.