#hbb ashes

Part 1 — The Stranger

A new ranch hand shows up on your daddy’s land. One night in the barn proves he’s not a man you should play with. Read Here

Part 2 — Breaking Horses

You watch him tame a stallion with brutal strength. Out in the fields, he makes you beg to be broken too. Read Here

Part 3 — Barbed Wire

A fight with your father sends you running into the barn. Rope and rough words leave you tied, trembling, and ruined. Read Here

Part 4 — Blood & Dust

When you finally look up from the feed buckets, the stranger is standing there, hat pulled low, jaw shadowed with more stubble than clean skin. His shirt is worn, the kind of faded plaid that clings to shoulders far too broad, tucked into dusty jeans with a belt buckle that glints when he moves. He carries himself like he’s been carrying the weight of the world for years, like nothing and no one could touch him.

Your dad claps him on the back, introduces him simply as “Barnes,” and you feel those pale eyes flick over you. Not just a glance, not polite. A look. Long enough for your stomach to twist. Long enough for you to drop your gaze, suddenly too aware of the sweat on your neck and the dirt smudging your jeans.

“Don’t go starin’ at my girl,” your dad mutters, half-joking, but Bucky just huffs.

He doesn’t deny it.

The next few days, he proves himself fast. He works with the kind of efficiency that makes your dad praise him, though the other hands keep their distance. You see why—they’re boys next to him. He moves like someone who’s fought for every scar, every breath. He’s older, harder, and no matter how much you tell yourself to stop, you can’t keep from looking.

And he knows it.

You catch him smirking when your eyes linger too long, when you steal glances at the veins in his forearms as he grips rope, the flex of his back beneath his shirt when he throws a bale of hay. Every night, lying in your bed with the window open, you swear you can still smell the leather and smoke that clings to him.

You know he’s dangerous. That should be enough to stop you.

But it isn’t.

It happens the first time in the barn.

The others are gone for the evening, your dad already inside with a bottle of whiskey and the radio humming. You’re left to shut the doors, sweep the dust from the tack room, make sure everything’s set for the morning. The shadows are long, the air heavy with hay and horse musk.

When you push the last stall door closed, you realize you’re not alone.

He’s leaning against a beam, one hand curled around a cigarette, the glow of the tip sparking red in the dark. His hat’s pushed back just enough that you can see his smirk.

“You always work this late?” His voice is low, gravel dragged across whiskey.

You grip the broom tighter. “Sometimes.”

He takes a drag, exhales slow. “Thought your daddy would’ve sent his girl inside by now.”

You swallow hard. The way he says “girl” makes your skin prickle. “I can handle myself.”

That earns a chuckle, soft but sharp. He flicks the cigarette to the dirt, grinds it out with the heel of his boot, and then he’s moving. Slow, deliberate steps that close the distance until the smell of smoke and leather swallows you whole.

“You keep lookin’ at me the way you do…” His head dips, his voice rasping against your ear. “…I’ll start thinkin’ you want somethin’.”

Your breath catches. “I don’t—”

“Don’t lie.” His hand comes up, rough fingers tilting your chin until you’re forced to look at him. His eyes are pale, too pale, like cold steel under the moon. “Good girls don’t stare the way you do.”

Your pulse stutters, shame and heat crashing all at once. You should pull away. You should shove him off and run inside. But your body betrays you, leaning closer, your lips parting just enough that he notices.

He smirks. “That’s what I thought.”

And then his mouth is on yours.

It’s not sweet. It’s not careful. It’s the kind of kiss that bruises, that steals your breath until you’re gasping against him. His hand fists in your hair, pulling just enough to make you whimper, and when you do, he groans into your mouth like he’s been waiting to hear it.

You shove at his chest, weakly, but he doesn’t budge. “My—my dad—”

“Inside with a bottle,” Bucky growls. “He ain’t comin’ out here.”

His mouth trails down your jaw, scraping teeth against your throat until you squirm. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Pretty little thing, always playin’ innocent. Bet you’ve been wet every night since I showed up.”

You gasp, scandalized, but he laughs, low and dark. His hand slips down, rough palm brushing your hip, then lower, pressing hard over your jeans. You jolt, a broken sound spilling from your lips.

“Fuck,” he rasps, eyes flashing. “Knew it.”

You should tell him to stop. Instead, you press into his touch, shame flooding your veins like wildfire.

“Please,” you whisper, though you don’t know if you’re begging him to stop or keep going.

He chuckles, and it’s mean. “Knew you’d beg.”

He doesn’t take his time.

One rough hand drags your jeans down just enough to bare you, the other pinning your wrists against the beam behind you. You squirm, heart pounding, but he leans in, teeth grazing your ear.

“Be still, darlin’. Or I’ll tie you up right here.”

The threat makes you clench around nothing, makes your face burn.

And then his fingers are sliding against you, calloused tips finding how slick you are already. You cry out, biting your lip to muffle the sound, but he doesn’t let you hide. He presses harder, circling slow until your knees buckle.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he growls. “Knew you’d be this wet for me.”

He pushes one thick finger inside, then two, stretching you until your back arches. His smirk never fades as he watches you fall apart, writhing against the barn beam.

“That’s it. Take it, pretty girl. Take what I give you.”

You try to fight it, you do. But his fingers are relentless, curling just right, driving you closer and closer until you’re gasping, sobbing his name like a prayer.

“Bucky—”

The sound makes him groan, mouth crashing back onto yours, swallowing every cry as you shatter around him. Your whole body shakes, clamped tight around his fingers, and he doesn’t stop, dragging it out until you’re raw, until you’re pleading.

“Please—please, I can’t—”

Finally, he eases, pulling back just enough to watch you. His fingers glisten in the dim light as he licks them slow, obscene.

“Taste like sin,” he mutters, smirking when your cheeks burn.

You stumble for words, but nothing comes. He tucks your jeans back up, fixes you like nothing happened at all, though his eyes never leave yours.

“Best keep quiet about this, darlin’,” he says, voice low. “Don’t think Daddy’d like knowin’ what his ranch hand’s doin’ to his little girl.”

Your heart stutters.

He tips his hat, that cruel smirk still carved across his face, before walking back into the dark.

Leaving you there—ruined, trembling, already desperate for more.

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