As an American, I can tell you this is true. Recently had a tornado warning and me and my family just sat on the porch. Got some beautiful photos of the sky tho:
Pairing: Frontiersman!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Tags: Western AU. Shotgun Wedding. Strangers to Lovers. Slight Angst. Comfort. Domestic Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.
Warnings: Reader has Heterochromia. Loss of Virginity. Period-Typical Gender Roles and Expectations.
Summary: She came to White Creek for a teaching position that didn't exist. He needed a wife but never expected to find one like this.
Word Count: 7.7k
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
He guided her toward the cleared space where couples were beginning to form lines: two rows facing each other, men on one side, women on the other.
"It's simple," he said as they walked, his hand still at her back. "The caller shouts the figures, you follow along. Everyone's facin’ their partner most of the time, so keep your eyes on me."
"Figures?" she repeated.
"Moves. Dosido, allemande, swing… You ain’t need to worry about the names. Just watch what everyone else does and follow my lead when we're together."
They reached the lines, and he positioned her across from him in the women's row. The space between them was maybe six feet, close enough that she could see the way his eyes tracked her, the slight curve of his mouth.
Around them, other couples were settling into place. She recognized Nell and Tom a few positions down, Sarah and her husband closer to the front. Even some of the older couples had joined, Carl and Agnes Hayes among them.
A man with a fiddle stood near the corner. Someone else, one of the loggers she didn't know by name, called out, "Everyone ready?"
A chorus of affirmatives rose from the group.
"Alright then," the caller said, raising his voice to carry over the chatter. "We'll start with an easy one for the newcomers. 'Petronella'. Everyone knows it?"
Most people nodded or called out agreement. She stayed quiet, her heart beating faster.
The fiddle started, a lively, bouncing tune that made her want to tap her foot even before anyone moved.
"Forward and back!" the caller shouted.
The lines surged toward each other, then retreated. She followed a half-beat late, watching the women around her.
"Forward and back again!"
This time she moved with them, stepping forward until she was close enough to see the amusement in Bucky's eyes, then back again.
"Dosido your partner!"
She hesitated -what the hell was a dosido?- but Bucky was already moving toward her. He circled around her right side, his shoulder passing close to hers, then around her back. She turned instinctively, following the motion, and ended up facing him again from the same spot.
"Good," he said, just loud enough for her to hear over the music.
"Right-hand star!" the caller shouted.
The couples moved into groups of four, her and Bucky with the pair beside them. Everyone extended their right hands to the center, forming a star shape, and began walking in a circle.
She focused on keeping her footing, on not stepping on anyone's skirts or boots, on trying to anticipate what came next.
The figures kept coming: swing your partner, promenade, ladies chain. She stumbled more than once, turned the wrong direction during an allemande, and completely missed a move she didn't catch the name of.
But Bucky was always there. Guiding her with a hand at her waist, a look, a subtle gesture. And when she got it wrong, he just grinned and pulled her back into position.
Around them, people were laughing. Not at her, she realized, but just... enjoying themselves. The music, the movement, the chaos of so many bodies trying to stay in sync.
And she was laughing too.
Eventually, the caller shouted, "Swing your neighbor!"
Before she could process what that meant, Tom Johnson was there, catching her hand and spinning her in a quick circle. She caught a glimpse of Nell being spun by the man on her other side, laughing at something he'd said.
And then she was back in line, slightly breathless, and Tom was grinning at her before returning to his own partner.
The music kept going, relentless and cheerful.
"Down the line!"
The top couple -the pair at the head of the formation- joined hands and skipped down between the two rows while everyone else clapped. When they reached the bottom, they formed an arch with their arms, and the next couple ducked under and repeated the pattern.
She watched, trying to memorize the sequence, and realized with growing certainty that eventually, it would be her and Bucky's turn.
"Progression!" the caller shouted.
The lines changed. She moved up one position, and suddenly the couple she was facing wasn't Bucky anymore; it was a man she didn't know, one of the other loggers, with a weathered face and a friendly gap-toothed smile.
Her stomach dropped.
It was irrational. She knew it was irrational.
"Forward and back!"
She moved automatically, but her eyes searched for Bucky. Found him one position down, now facing a woman she recognized from the food tables. Younger, maybe her age, with dark hair and a bright smile.
He caught her gaze for a brief second and gave her a small nod.
You're fine. Keep going.
She forced herself to look away, to focus on her own partner.
"Dosido your partner!"
She circled the stranger, keeping her expression neutral, trying not to think about how different it felt to move around someone who wasn't Bucky.
The man was polite. His hands, when they touched hers during the star, were dry and work-roughened, impersonal. He smelled like tobacco and woodsmoke.
Not Bucky.
The figures continued, right hand star, left hand star, swing your partner.
When the stranger's hand settled at her waist for the swing, it felt all wrong. Too light. Too careful. As if she were made of glass instead of flesh and bone.
The stranger spun her competently, released her right on time, and she ended up back in her spot in line.
She counted the steps in her head, willing the progression to come faster.
Around her, people were laughing, enjoying themselves. The music played on, relentless and cheerful.
She didn't look down the line. Didn't want to see Bucky's hands on that woman's waist, even in something as innocent as contradance.
One more figure, she told herself. Maybe two.
"Dosido your corner!"
She circled the woman beside her -Sarah, she realized- and Sarah gave her a quick, sympathetic smile. Did it show on her face? How much she wanted to be back across from her own husband?
"Progression!"
The lines shifted again, and she was back across from Bucky.
His eyes found hers instantly, and something in his expression, maybe the flatness of his stare, suggested he hadn't enjoyed the last progression any more than she had.
"Miss me?" he asked, just loud enough for her to hear as they stepped forward and back.
"Terribly," she said, and she meant it more than he probably realized.
His expression changed, something possessive and serious flickered across his face before smoothing into a grin. But she'd seen it. That flash of... what? Satisfaction? Relief?
"Good," he said, and there was an edge to his voice that made her stomach flip.
"Swing your partner!"
He caught her around the waist and spun her, and the difference was immediate.
Faster than the stranger had moved her. Closer. Close enough that she could feel the heat of his body through all the layers of fabric between them. His hand at her waist was firm and sure, pulling her into the turn with confidence that made her head spin.
She laughed as the room blurred around them.
This. This was right.
His hand, and the way he moved her, like he knew exactly how her body would respond. When they stopped, she was dizzy. Not from the spinning… or not just from the spinning.
She wanted to say something, but the music was already moving into the next figure, and the caller's voice rose above the noise.
"Down the line!"
Bucky squeezed her hand once before they separated to let the top couple skip through.
But she felt that squeeze all the way through the rest of the dance.
----
The contradance ran several more rounds until the fiddle player finally lowered his instrument with a flourish as the last notes faded. The room erupted in applause and laughter, people fanning themselves, reaching for water, catching their breath.
She was breathing hard, a light sheen of sweat on her forehead despite the cold outside. Her face felt warm. From the exertion, from the punch still in her system, from the way Bucky had been looking at her every time they'd come back together in the line.
"Well done," he said, appearing at her elbow with a cup of water. "For someone who ain't know what a dosido was an hour ago."
She took the water gratefully, drinking half of it in one go. "I stepped on at least three people's feet."
"Maybe four," he corrected, grinning. "But who's countin’?"
She swatted his arm lightly, and he caught her hand, holding it for just a moment longer than necessary before letting go.
She felt that small touch like a spark.
Around them, people were milling about, some heading outside for air, others clustering near the drink table. The fiddle player was conferring with someone about the next set.
Then a voice rose from near the front of the room. Clear, refined, and just a touch condescending.
"Perhaps we might try something a bit more... refined? A waltz, maybe?"
She turned to see the mayor's wife standing with the banker's wife, both of them looking perfectly composed despite the heat of the room. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in their fine dresses.
There was a beat of silence.
Then someone -one of the loggers- let out a low whistle. "Ooh, fancy."
Laughter rippled through the crowd, but it wasn't mean-spirited. More like amusement at the incongruity of it, waltzing in a frontier town hall after contradance.
"I think that's a fine idea," Agnes Hayes said, her tone diplomatic but with a hint of mischief. "If the fiddle player knows one."
The fiddle player shrugged. "I know a few."
"Well then," Carl Hayes said, offering his arm to Agnes with exaggerated formality. "Shall we, my dear?"
More laughter. But people were starting to pair off, couples moving back toward the cleared space. The atmosphere had changed, less raucous, more curious. Like they were all in on the joke but willing to play along.
Bucky turned to her. "You know how to waltz?"
"I do," she said. "Do you?"
"Enough to get by." He held out his hand. "Come on."
She took it, and he led her back onto the floor.
The space felt different now. More intimate, even with all the other couples gathering around them.
The fiddle started a slower, lilting melody.
Bucky's hand pressed at her waist, and she placed hers on his shoulder. Their other hands joined, held at a proper height.
Appropriate. Exactly the way she'd been taught.
But it didn't feel proper.
Not when it was him.
"Ready?" he asked quietly.
She nodded, and then they were moving.
It was completely different from the contradance.
No shouted instructions. No changing partners every few bars. No chaos of bodies moving in patterns around them.
Just the two of them, turning in slow circles, her skirts brushing against his legs with each step. She'd forgotten what this felt like. The waltz. One-two-three, one-two-three, the rhythm so ingrained she didn't have to think about it.
But she'd never done it like this.
Back home, the few times she'd danced at all with instructors, they had kept her at arm's length. Maintained the proper distance. Looked over her shoulder or past her, never quite meeting her gaze.
Because looking at her meant seeing her eyes. Meant acknowledging the girl with the devil's mark.
But Bucky was looking right at her.
His hand at her waist was warm and solid. Not tentative or careful like the lessons. Not performatively correct like the rare partner who'd been obligated to dance with her.
The room moved around them. Other couples turning, the fiddle playing, voices low, and occasional laughter.
But it all felt distant. Muffled, like there was a bubble around just the two of them.
"You've done this a lot?" she asked quietly.
"Once or twice." His hand at her waist pressed slightly more firmly, guiding her through a turn. "You're good at this."
"I had lessons," she admitted. "My parents thought it was important."
"For findin’ a husband?" There was no judgment in his voice, just curiosity.
She felt something twist in her chest.
"For being... acceptable. Refined." She met his eyes, saw him watching her carefully. "They thought if I could dance well enough, carry myself properly, be accomplished in all the right ways, maybe someone would overlook... the rest."
She didn't need to specify what "the rest" was.
"Not that it mattered much in the end," she added, trying to keep her voice light.
His expression changed, a shadow passing over his face. His hand tightened almost imperceptibly at her waist.
"Their loss," he said, and there was an edge to his voice.
Like she was something worth having. Worth wanting.
"Hey," he said quietly, and she realized she'd missed a step.
She forced herself to focus. One-two-three. Follow his lead. Don't think about-
"You alright?" he asked.
"Yes," she managed. "Just... thank you. For saying that."
"It's true," he said simply. "Anyone who couldn't see that you were worth knowin’ was a damn fool."
She blinked hard, once, and concentrated very carefully on the next turn.
Around them, other couples were dancing. Some with skill, others fumbling through the steps. Carl and Agnes were surprisingly graceful. Tom and Nell were arguing quietly about whose fault it was that they kept going off-count, but both were smiling.
And somewhere in the crowd, she caught a glimpse of Mary Collins watching them with a certain assessment that made her want to stand up straighter. Made her hyperaware of every imperfection, the way her hair was probably coming loose from its pins, the fact that her dress, while nice, was nothing compared to what some of the wealthier women wore.
Her shoulders tensed.
"Don't," Bucky said quietly.
She looked up at him. "Don't what?"
"Worry about what she thinks."
His thumb brushed against her waist. Just once, barely perceptible through all the layers of fabric and boning. But she felt it. Felt the deliberate pressure of it, the casual possessiveness.
"You're doin’ fine," he continued, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
"I wasn't-"
"You were." He turned them smoothly, and she had to focus to keep the count, to not stumble when her heart had just kicked up for reasons that had nothing to do with the dance. "And for the record, you look better in that dress than she does in hers. Even with the torture device underneath."
A surprised laugh escaped her before she could stop it. "Bucky."
"What? It's true." His eyes held hers, steady and warm. "You think I ain’t noticed you could barely breathe at lunch?"
"It's not that bad."
"It's ridiculous," he said flatly. "But you look beautiful anyway."
Beautiful.
He'd said it out loud, where anyone could hear.
Her foot faltered -just barely- and she felt herself lose the rhythm.
His hand at her waist tightened, pulling her back into the count without missing a beat.
One-two-three. One-two-three.
She forced herself to keep moving, to keep her feet following the pattern even though her mind had gone completely blank.
When was the last time someone had called her that? Had anyone ever called her that?
Her mother had called her ‘handsome’ once. A diplomatic word. A word that meant ‘presentable enough.’
Her brother had never commented on her appearance at all, except to remind her to keep her hair neat, her posture straight, her expression neutral. "Don't draw attention," he'd said.
And the men back home -the few who'd been forced into her company at social gatherings- had looked everywhere but at her face.
But Bucky was looking.
And he'd called her beautiful.
"Thank you," she managed.
The music swelled, and he turned them again, the movement bringing her marginally closer. Still proper, still acceptable by any standard.
But it felt intimate anyway.
"You're welcome," he said, his voice low, meant only for her.
Then, after a pause, quieter still: "Though if I'm bein’ honest, watchin’ you dance with others earlier made me want to end the whole damn thing."
Her eyes snapped to his.
He was watching her with a mix of amusement and frustration and something darker.
"Jealous?" she asked, testing the word.
His jaw worked for a moment, like he was deciding whether to admit it.
"Concerned," he said finally. Then, with a slight grimace, "And yeah. Maybe a little jealous."
The admission chased away the last remnants of nervousness about being here, about being watched, about what people thought.
"It's just contradance," she said, but she was smiling now. "Everyone dances with everyone."
"I know that." His hand flexed slightly at her waist. "Didn't make it easier to watch."
She wanted to say something. What, she wasn't sure. Something about how wrong it had felt to dance with anyone else. How she'd counted every second until the progression brought her back to him.
But the words stuck in her throat.
The music began to wind down, and when it ended, they stood there for a moment, still holding each other, neither quite ready to let go.
His hand was still at her waist. Hers still on his shoulder.
She could feel his breath, see the rise and fall of his chest, and the way he was looking at her.
Then someone started clapping, and the spell broke.
He stepped back, releasing her waist but keeping hold of her hand as they moved off the floor with the other couples.
But his thumb traced a small circle against her palm before he let go.
"Ready to head home?" he asked quietly.
She glanced around the room, at the people still laughing and talking, at the fiddle player tuning up for another set, at the warmth and noise and life of it all.
Then she looked back at him.
"Yes," she said. "I'm ready."
----
They made their way toward the door, weaving through clusters of people still talking, laughing, showing no signs of slowing down. The fiddle had started up again -another contradance by the sound of it- and she could hear the caller's voice rising over the music.
Near the food tables, she spotted Nell and Sarah gathering their empty dishes. They didn’t waltz, it seemed.
"We're heading out," she said, catching Nell's attention.
"Already?" Nell glanced toward the dance floor, then back at her with a knowing look. "Party's still going."
"Bucky has work tomorrow," she said. "He could use the extra rest."
Nell's eyebrow rose slightly, but she didn't push. "Of course."
"Actually," Sarah said, "we were just saying we should all meet up in town sometime. Make a day of it, errands and such."
"That sounds lovely," she said, genuinely pleased at the idea. "When were you thinking?"
"Maybe Thursday?" Nell suggested. "We could do our shopping, then grab something at the ‘hotel’ dining room. They've got decent coffee."
"Thursday works," she agreed. "I'll be there."
"Good." Nell squeezed her arm briefly. "It was nice having you here today. Really."
"Thank you," she said. "For everything."
Nell just smiled, and the meaning was clear: don't mention it.
They said their goodbyes, collected their now-empty crate and clothes from where they'd left them, and headed outside.
The afternoon air was cold, the sun already low on the horizon. Late November meant the days were short, and they'd be racing the sunset to get home before full dark.
She pulled her winter cloak around herself while Bucky shrugged into his coat.
The street was quieter now than it'd been at midday, most people still inside the hall. A few men stood outside the saloon, smoking and talking in low voices.
Bucky helped her up onto the wagon seat, his hand steady at her elbow even though she didn't really need the assistance. Her legs were tired from dancing, but she was steady enough.
He swung up beside her and gathered the reins, clicking his tongue to get the horse moving.
----
The sun was low, maybe two hours of good light left. They'd make it home before full dark if they kept a decent pace. No reason to rush…
Except he wanted to.
Had wanted to since the moment she'd pinned that brooch to her dress this morning and smiled at him like he'd given her something precious instead of a piece of cheap white copper from a camp peddler.
Maybe since before that. Since she'd stood in their cabin in nothing but her chemise and asked him to lace up that damned corset, and he'd had to keep his hands steady and impersonal when all he'd wanted was to do something else.
Two months. He'd waited two months.
He could wait another hour.
The road stretched ahead, familiar and rutted. He kept his attention on it, on the horse, on anything other than the woman sitting beside him.
She was quiet. Watching the landscape, her hands folded in her lap. The brooch caught the late afternoon light every time she shifted.
He'd been watching her all day. Couldn't seem to help it.
Watching her navigate the food tables with the other women, her shoulders straight and her chin up, even though he knew she'd been nervous. Watching her laugh with Nell Johnson and Sarah Calhoun like she'd known them for years instead of hours. Watching her move through the contradance, stumbling sometimes but trying, always trying.
Watching her dance with Tom Johnson during that partner swap, and feeling something ugly and possessive in his gut.
She was his wife. His.
And some rational part of his brain knew that was the whole point of contradance: everyone danced with everyone, it didn't mean anything.
But the irrational part, the part that had spent two months sleeping next to her and touching her and learning what made her gasp and arch against him, that part had wanted to walk across the floor and pull her back to his side of the line where she belonged.
He'd managed not to.
And then the waltz.
He'd danced before, enough to know the steps, enough to not embarrass himself. But he'd never danced with her. Had never had to reconcile the woman in his arms in public with the woman who came apart under his hands in private.
The way she'd looked up at him when he'd called her beautiful…
He shifted on the seat, adjusting his grip on the reins.
Focus. Road. Horse. Home.
Behind the seat, the wool blanket was folded where he'd stashed it that morning. The temperature had dropped since they'd left town, and it would only get colder as the sun set.
He glanced at her. She'd pulled her cloak tighter, but her hands were hidden under the fabric. Cold, probably.
"Hold these a second," he said, passing her the reins.
She took them without question, and he twisted around to grab the blanket. Shook it out and put it over both their laps, securing it around her legs.
His hand lingered on her thigh.
He told himself it was to make sure the blanket was firm. That the weight of his palm pressing through her skirt and petticoat was purely practical.
He let his hand rest there for a moment before he took the reins back and focused on the road again.
But he'd felt her reaction. The way she'd gone very still. The slight hitch in her breathing.
He didn't examine why he'd done it. Didn't want to admit, that every time she looked at him today with those mismatched eyes, it got a little harder to remember why he was waiting.
The wagon hit a rut, jostling them both.
She winced, her hand going to her side.
He glanced at her. "You alright?"
"Fine," she said. "Just this damned corset."
Damned corset was right.
He'd watched her struggle with it all day. The way she'd shifted in her seat during lunch, trying to find a position that didn't dig the boning into her more than necessary. The way she'd taken shallow breaths during the waltz, the tight lacing restricting her.
"That thing's coming off the second we get home," he said.
It was a practical statement. She'd been uncomfortable all day, and he'd get her out of it as soon as they were through the door. Help her unlace, let her breathe properly again.
That was all he meant.
But then, in a voice carefully neutral, she murmured, "I thought you were tired."
He turned to look at her and blinked.
Her expression was composed. Almost innocent. But her eyes…
She knew exactly what she was saying, knew exactly what she was implying.
And she wasn't drunk. He'd made sure of that back at the hall, which meant this wasn't the punch talking, this was her.
That something in him that had been held carefully in check all this time finally snapped.
"I ain’t tired."
He saw her swallow. Saw the way her fingers tightened slightly in the folds of her skirt under the blanket.
"Oh," she said, and it came out breathier than she probably meant.
He turned his attention back to the road, but his hands were tight on the reins.
The cabin was still twenty minutes away. Maybe less if he pushed the horse a bit.
Twenty minutes.
He could manage that.
----
The cabin came into view as the last light faded from the sky.
Bucky brought the wagon to a stop near the door, setting the brake before climbing down. He moved around to her side and offered his hand.
She took it, letting him help her down. Her legs were stiff from sitting, and she was acutely aware of how quiet everything was out here compared to the noise and warmth of the town hall.
Just the two of them now.
No music. No voices. No crowd to buffer the tension that had been building between them since they'd left town.
"I'll get the horse settled," he said, his voice low. "Get the fire goin’."
She nodded, not trusting her voice, and headed for the door.
Inside, the cabin was cold and dark. They'd put out the fire before leaving that morning, and now the chill was everywhere.
She moved by memory more than sight, finding the tinderbox on the mantle and kneeling by the hearth. Her hands were steady as she arranged the kindling and struck the flint.
Steady hands. That was good. That was important.
Even if the rest of her felt like it was vibrating with nervousness.
The spark caught. A small flame, then growing, casting light across the room.
She added larger pieces of wood, watching the fire build, feeling the first hints of warmth beginning to push back the cold.
I thought you were tired.
I ain’t tired.
The words replayed in her mind, his voice rough and certain in a way that had made her stomach drop and heat pool low in her belly all at once.
She'd started this. On the wagon. With that comment about the corset, maybe earlier in the hall. And now-
Behind her, she heard the door open and close. Bucky's footsteps, slow and deliberate, crossed the floor.
She didn't turn around.
Just stayed there, kneeling by the fire, watching the flames, very aware that her heart was beating faster than it should. That her palms were damp despite the cold. That every nerve in her body seemed to be standing at attention, waiting.
The warmth she felt on her back wasn't from the fire. Then, his hand was on her shoulder.
The touch was light, almost gentle. But she felt the weight of intent behind it.
"Stand up," he said quietly.
She rose slowly, brushing her hands against her skirt, and turned to face him.
The firelight cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his stubbled jaw, the way his gaze held hers.
Not like he'd looked at her during the waltz, warm and admiring.
This was different, darker. Hungrier.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. She could hear her own breathing. Could hear his.
Then his hands came up to the clasp of her cloak.
His fingers worked the fastening, and she realized her hands were hanging uselessly at her sides. Should she be helping? Doing something?
But before she could move, he pushed the heavy fabric off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor behind her with a soft whump.
One layer gone.
His eyes tracked down her body -taking in the dress, the brooch still pinned at her collar, the way the firelight played across the dark fabric- before coming back to her face.
"Turn around," he said, his voice rough, and she complied slowly.
She felt him step closer still, close enough that when he exhaled, she felt it against the back of her neck.
Then his hands came around her from behind, reaching for the front of her bodice.
She stood very still.
The brooch came first. His fingers found the clasp, worked it open with surprising gentleness. She heard it, the soft sound of metal on wood as he set it on the shelf above the fireplace. Then his fingers returned to the top button, and she felt him work it free carefully.
Then the next button.
And the next.
He moved down her bodice slowly, each button releasing with a soft pop of fabric. She could feel his fingers brushing against her chest through the dress with each one, could feel the way his breath warmed the exposed skin at the back of her neck.
The dress began to loosen, falling open down the front.
She wanted to say something. Do something. But her voice had abandoned her, and all she could do was stand there and feel.
Feel his hands, his proximity. The way her body was already responding to nothing more than his fingers working buttons.
When he reached the last one at her waist, his hands went to her shoulders, and he pushed the dress down her arms in one smooth motion.
The fabric slid away, catching briefly at her elbows before falling past her wrists. It pooled at her waist where the skirt was still fastened, leaving her upper body in nothing but the corset and her chemise beneath it.
The cool air hit her bare arms, raising goosebumps.
Or maybe that was just him.
His hands moved to the ties at her waist, and she felt the skirt loosen, felt its weight slide down her hips, and then the whole thing was falling to the floor in a heap of dark fabric around her feet.
She stepped out of it instinctively, and he kicked it aside without ceremony.
Now she was standing in her corset, chemise, petticoat, and stockings.
Still mostly covered.
But it felt like being naked.
His hands came to rest on her waist, and she felt his thumbs press against the boning through the fabric.
"This thing," he said, his voice low and rough near her ear, "has been drivin’ me mad all day."
She didn't know what to say to that.
Then his hands moved to the laces at her back.
They loosened with swift, deliberate tugs, so different from the careful tightening she'd asked him to do that morning. Each pull released more pressure, let her body expand a little more, let air flow a little easier.
She felt the exact moment the corset went from "tight" to "loose."
Felt herself able to draw a full breath for the first time since dawn.
The relief was immediate and overwhelming.
"Better?" he asked, his voice close to her ear, his hands still working the laces.
"Yes," she managed.
The laces went slack, and his hands slid to her waist, and he pulled the corset away from her body entirely.
She heard it hit the floor somewhere behind them.
Now there was just the thin cotton of her chemise between his hands and her skin.
Just one layer.
She could feel the heat of his palms through it. Could feel the way his fingers spread across her sides, spanning her waist.
"All day," he said quietly, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, "I've been watchin’ you in that thing."
His hands tightened slightly.
"Watchin’ you barely able to breathe. Watchin’ you try to hide how uncomfortable you were." His thumbs traced upward along her sides, a slow, deliberate path. "Watchin’ other men lookin’ at you."
Oh.
"And all I could think about," he continued, his voice dropping lower, rougher, "was getting you home and gettin’ you out of it."
His hands slid higher, brushing the underside of her breasts through the chemise.
"Gettin’ you under me."
Heat flooded through her, sharp and overwhelming and so intense she felt dizzy with it.
Her hands came up instinctively, gripping his forearms where they crossed in front of her. Needing something to hold onto. Needing to ground herself.
She felt the muscle shift beneath her fingers. Felt the strength in him, barely leashed.
"Bucky-" Her voice came out thin.
She tried to turn in his arms -wanted to see his face, needed to- but he held her still, keeping her facing away from him.
"Not yet," he murmured against her ear. "I'm not done."
His hands left her sides, and she heard the rustle of fabric behind her.
Then she felt his fingers at the ties of her petticoat.
The knot came free easily, and the weight of the fabric loosened around her hips. He pushed it down, letting it fall to pool around her feet.
She stepped out of it, and he kicked that aside too.
Now she was down to her chemise, drawers, and stockings.
His hands came back to her waist, but this time they didn't stop there.
They slid upward, slowly, deliberately.
Her pulse was pounding now. In her throat. In her wrists. Between her legs.
His hands cupped her breasts through the chemise, and a sound escaped her lips. Small, involuntary.
Evidence that she was still breathing. Still present. Still capable of response.
"You know what you did to me today?" he asked, his voice rough against her ear.
She couldn't answer. Couldn't form words.
His thumbs brushed over her nipples, and they hardened instantly against the fabric, sensitive and aching.
"Tellin’ me I look good," he continued, his hands working her slowly, deliberately. "Askin’ if I'm uncomfortable with the unexpected."
Another brush of his thumbs, circling, more deliberate this time, and she felt her knees go weak.
"Dancin’ with me like that." His mouth moved to her neck, pressing a kiss just below her ear that made her shiver. "Lookin’ at me like you wanted me to drag you out of there and take you home right then."
Had she looked at him like that?
Yes, she had.
"And then," his voice dropped even lower, "you went and taunted me on the way back."
I thought you were tired.
She'd known what she was doing when she said it. Had seen his reaction. Had felt the change in the air between them.
Had wanted it.
"I told you," he said, his mouth moving along the curve of her neck, his hands still working her breasts with maddening slowness, "that if you kept sayin’ things like that, I'd stop bein’ patient."
He turned her then -finally- spinning her to face him with his hands on her shoulders.
The firelight caught in his eyes, and what she saw there made her stomach drop and heat spike through her all at once.
Want. Raw and undisguised, and so intense it was almost frightening.
"I'm done bein’ patient," he said quietly.
Then he kissed her.
Nothing like they'd shared in the dark over the past two months. The slow and deep ones where he'd let her set the pace, let her pull back when she needed to.
This was different.
This was him unleashing everything he'd been holding back.
His hand came up to cup the back of her head, probably dislodging what few pins had survived the dancing, and he angled her where he wanted her.
His mouth moved against hers with a hunger that made her knees genuinely weak. His tongue slid past her lips, tasting her, claiming her, and she felt the full force of two months of restraint finally breaking.
She grabbed onto his shoulders -partly for balance, partly because she needed something solid to hold onto- and felt the muscle shift beneath his shirt.
He was still fully dressed.
Coat, shirt, suspenders, trousers, boots.
Every layer intact.
While she stood there in nothing but her chemise and drawers.
The disparity should have made her self-conscious. Should have made her want to cover herself, to hide.
Instead, it made her feel... like he couldn't wait long enough to undress himself. Like getting his hands on her was more important than anything else.
He assaulted her with deep, demanding kisses that left no room for thought. Just sensation. Just the slide of his tongue against hers, the press of his body, the way his hand tightened in her hair when she made a small sound against his mouth.
She felt him move, felt his other hand slide to her hip, and then he was walking her backward.
She went willingly, blindly, trusting him to guide her even though she had no idea where they were going.
Her rear hit something solid.
The kitchen table.
His hands went to her waist, and then he lifted her and set her on the surface.
The height brought them closer to level, and he stepped between her legs without breaking the kiss, his hands resting on her thighs.
The chemise rode up slightly. She could feel the rough fabric of his trousers against the inside of her knees, could feel how close he was, how little separated them now.
He finally pulled back, but only far enough to drag his mouth down her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her throat.
She tilted her head back, giving him access, and tried to catch her breath.
Failed.
"Bucky-" His name came out ragged.
"Still too many damn clothes," he muttered against her skin, his hands finding the hem of her chemise and pulling it up.
She lifted her arms automatically, and the thin cotton slid up her body, and he tossed it aside without looking.
The cool air hit her bare skin, and suddenly she was acutely, overwhelmingly aware that she was sitting on their kitchen table.
Topless.
In nothing but her drawers and stockings.
His hands came up to cup her breasts, palms warm, slightly rough, achingly gentle despite the hunger in his eyes.
Her hands fell to grip the edge of the table, needing something to hold onto.
His thumbs brushed over her nipples, and the sensation shot straight through her. They were sensitive. Had been sensitive since he'd touched them through the chemise, but now with nothing between his hands and her skin, it was almost overwhelming.
She made a sound -small, desperate- and his eyes flicked up to her face.
"That's it," he said quietly. "I wanna hear you."
Then his head dipped, and his mouth closed over one nipple.
The heat, the wet slide of his tongue, the firm suckles, made her back arch involuntarily. Her hand flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands.
He'd done this before. Many times over the past two months. Had learned exactly how she liked to be touched, how much pressure to use, what made her gasp, and what made her squirm.
But it felt different now.
More urgent. Less restrained.
Like he'd finally stopped measuring every touch. Stopped holding himself back.
His mouth worked her deliberately, while his hand cupped her other breast. Then he switched, giving the same attention to the other side, and she felt her head fall back, felt her eyes close.
Felt herself stop thinking entirely.
His mouth moved lower.
When he reached her stomach, she felt a flash of self-consciousness cut through the haze of sensation.
Her belly wasn’t perfect.
But he didn't seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn't care.
Just kept kissing his way down, his hands sliding to her thighs, spreading them wider.
Wait.
Wait.
"Bucky," she managed, her voice shaky. "We- we eat here."
He lifted his head just enough to look at her. The heat in his eyes made her clench between her legs.
"Yeah," he said, his voice rough and dark and full of promise. "And I'm about to."
Before she could process that, his hands were hooking into the waistband of her drawers.
"Lift up," he said.
She did, automatically, and he pulled the fabric down and off, taking her stockings with them in one motion. And then she was completely bare.
Sitting on their kitchen table.
It wasn’t the first time he'd done this, not even close. But always before it had been in bed, almost in the dark or the early morning light. Horizontal.
This was different.
She was exposed. The firelight played across every inch of her skin, and she could see everything: his hands on her thighs, his shoulders between her legs, the intent in his eyes as he looked up at her.
"Bucky, this is-"
"Relax," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh. "Let me."
One hand stayed on her thigh, warm and grounding. The other moved upward, and she felt his thumb brush through the soft curls between her legs. A slow, deliberate touch. Not quite where she ached for it, but close enough to make her tense.
He did it again, then his thumb pressed lower, parting her, opening her to his gaze. She made a sound -half protest, half something else entirely- but he was already leaning in, and any coherent thought became impossible.
The angle was different like this. Better. He didn't have to hunch or strain the way he did in bed. Could kneel there comfortably, with better access to every part of her.
And he was taking full advantage of it.
His tongue worked against her deliberately, finding all the places he'd learned over the time together. The spots that made her gasp. Made her hips try to shift closer even though there was nowhere closer to go.
"Stay still," he murmured against her, and she felt the vibration of his voice as much as heard it.
She tried. She really did.
But then his fingers joined his mouth -one sliding inside her, then another- and she couldn't help the way her body arched. Couldn't help the way her hand flew to his hair, gripping tight.
"Easy," he said, his voice rough with satisfaction. "Need you ready for me."
The words cut through the haze.
Ready for me.
Not just for this. Not just his mouth and hands.
Something more.
His fingers moved inside her in a slow, maddening rhythm, curling, stroking, finding spots that made her whole body tighten. His mouth stayed focused on that bundle of nerves that made her see stars.
She was already close. Could feel the pressure building, that familiar tightening low in her belly.
But he pulled back.
Not completely. Just enough to look up at her, his eyes dark and intent, his mouth wet.
"This time," he said, his fingers still moving inside her in that slow, devastating way, "I'm not stoppin’ here."
Her brain struggled to process the words through the haze of sensation.
Not stopping here.
"You understand?" he asked, curling his fingers inside her in a way that made her whole body jolt.
She understood. She'd known, really. Since the wagon. Since he'd said I'm not tired in that rough, certain voice.
This was it.
Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.
"Say you understand," he repeated, and there was something almost gentle in his voice despite the hunger in his eyes.
Like he needed to hear her say it. Needed to know she knew what was happening.
That she wanted this.
"I-" Her voice came out thin. She swallowed and tried again. "Yes. I understand."
Something changed in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or satisfaction.
"Good," he murmured.
Then his mouth was back on her, lips closing around her sensitive bud, tongue working deliberately while his fingers moved deeper, faster inside her.
She tried to hold still as he'd told her. Tried to keep quiet even though sounds kept escaping her, small gasps and broken moans that she couldn't suppress.
Her thighs were shaking. Her whole body tensed, balanced on the edge of something overwhelming.
"Let go," he said against her.
As if she had a choice.
As if she could do anything else.
One last suckle and it hit her like a wave, sudden and complete and so intense she forgot where she was. Forgot everything except the sensation crashing through her, the way her body clenched around his fingers, the sound that tore from her throat.
He worked her through it, his mouth gentling but not stopping until the aftershocks faded and she was left trembling, boneless, utterly undone.
Then he pulled back, pressing a kiss on her mound before rising to his feet.
She was still trying to remember how to breathe when his hands came to her waist.
"Come on," he said quietly, helping her down from the table.
Her legs were unsteady -actually unsteady, not just weak-kneed- and she had to grip his arms for balance.
He held her steady, patiently, waiting until she found her footing.
Then his hand slid down to take hers, and he turned toward the bed.
"Go on," he said, his voice low and rough. "I'll be right there."
She went, crossing the short distance on shaky legs, hyperaware of her nakedness. Of the cool air on her skin.
Behind her, she heard the thud of his boots hitting the floor.
One. Then the other.
The sound of his coat hitting the floor. The slide of suspenders being pushed off his shoulders.
The rustle of fabric as he pulled his shirt over his head.
She reached the bed and turned around, unable to help herself. Needing to see.
He was down to just his trousers now, the firelight playing across his bare chest, his shoulders, his stomach.
All that "more" of him she'd complimented that morning.
And the way he was looking at her made her forget everything except the fact that she wanted this.
Wanted him.
Next Chapter
I don't do taglist anymore, please follow @vunblr-archive and turn on the notifications for updates :)
Pairing: Frontiersman!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Tags: Western AU. Shotgun Wedding. Strangers to Lovers. Slight Angst. Comfort. Domestic Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.
Warnings: Reader has Heterochromia. Loss of Virginity. Period-Typical Gender Roles and Expectations.
Summary: She came to White Creek for a teaching position that didn't exist. He needed a wife but never expected to find one like this.
Word Count: 7.7k
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
Two weeks had passed since Larson had come to measure the kitchen, and the rhythm of their days kept settling into something comfortable and familiar.
Two weeks in which Bucky had taught her things she'd never imagined a wife might need to know.
She'd learned that her breasts weren't just functional. They could be touched, kissed, and sucked, and the sensation of his mouth on them could make her arch off the mattress and forget her own name.
She'd learned that he liked to look at her. That he'd coax her out of her nightgown in the lamplight and just... look, as his hands mapped her body appreciatively.
She'd learned the sounds he made when her hand wrapped around him, the way his breath hitched when her lips brushed his throat.
They hadn't- not completely. Not yet.
But something happened every night. Sometimes slow and deliberate, sometimes urgent and desperate. And she'd stopped feeling embarrassed about it after.
----
The rain had started before dawn, a steady drumming on the roof that showed no signs of letting up.
Bucky hadn't gotten out of bed.
She'd woken to find him with one arm slung across her waist, his face relaxed in sleep. It had taken her a moment to understand: no work today. The rain made the logging too dangerous, the slopes too slick. She wasn’t going to complain, really. Took one more look at his features and decided to snuggle against him and go back to sleep.
Way later, they both lie awake, buried under the quilts with the gray morning light filtering through the window. Warm and lazy in a way that felt almost decadent. She should probably get up. Start the fire, make coffee, and begin breakfast. But he showed no signs of moving, and his arm was still draped over her waist, heavy and warm.
"It's been raining more often lately." She said quietly.
"Mm." His hand moved absently along her side, tracing lazy patterns through her nightgown. "Always does this time of the year. Few more weeks and it'll turn to snow."
"Snow," she repeated, trying to imagine it. She'd seen snow back home, but something told her Montana snow would be different. Heavier. More unforgiving.
"Gets deep out here," he said. "Three, four feet some winters. Work slows down considerably until it really sets in, and then we stop."
She processed that. "So you'll be home more?"
"Yeah." There was something in his voice. Satisfaction, maybe. Relief. His hand stilled on her waist, and she felt him shift slightly behind her, drawing her closer. "A lot more."
The thought of having him here, in the cabin, day after day through the winter months, made her… happy. Though she supposed they'd have to figure out how to occupy themselves without driving each other mad.
"That a problem?" he asked, and there was a carefulness in the question that made her turn her head to look at him.
"Why would it be a problem?"
He shrugged, the movement jostling her slightly. "I've… barely been here. Gone before dawn most days, back after dark. You've been alone more than not." His thumb resumed its slow path along her side. "Winter means I'll be underfoot. Constantly."
She studied his face. He was watching her, and she realized he was actually asking. Wondering if she'd find his presence -his constant presence- burdensome.
"I think," she said carefully, "that I'd like that."
Something in his expression shifted. Eased.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She felt bold suddenly, the warmth of the bed and his body against hers making her brave. "The days you're here feel different. Better."
His hand tightened on her waist. "Sundays."
"And rainy days," she added. Like today. Days when she woke up to find him still there, his arm around her, his breath warm against her hair.
"Not enough of those," he said quietly.
"No," she agreed. "Not enough."
He was quiet for a moment, his hand resuming its lazy movement along her side. Then: "You know what winter means, though? Besides me bein’ here?"
"What?"
"Means we'll be snowed in. Just us. No trips to town when the drifts get high. No visitors." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Nowhere to go. Nothin’ to do but keep warm."
Heat crept up her neck at the implication in his tone.
"That so?" she managed.
"Mm-hm." His lips brushed the back of her neck, casual and deliberate. "Might get borin’ for you. Same four walls, same face across the table every day."
She knew what he was doing. Fishing, in that way, he did sometimes. Testing.
"I think I'll manage," she said.
"Think so?"
"I know so."
He made a low sound of approval, and she felt him smile against her skin. "Good."
They lay there in comfortable silence for a while, the rain continuing its steady drumming overhead. She was nearly drifting off again when he spoke.
"Speakin’ of time off," he said, his voice still rough with sleep. "Thanksgivin's comin’ up soon."
"Mm," she said, noncommittal.
"It's a non-work day here. In the territory."
That made her turn her head to look at him. She hadn't thought much about it, just assumed it would be observed out here the way it had been back home.
"I thought it wasn't an official holiday?"
"It ain’t. But out here..." He shrugged, the movement jostling her slightly. "Place like this, people take any excuse they can get to celebrate somethin’. Break up the monotony."
"So what happens?"
"There's a gatherin’. In the town hall. It's bigger than the saloon, fits more people. Everyone brings food, there's drinkin’, dancin’ if someone brings a fiddle."
"Have you gone? These past years?"
"Yeah." He shifted slightly, settling deeper into the pillow. "Ain’t much else to do here anyway, and it's a good chance to fill up on decent food." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, then, casual and affectionate. "Though I ain't thinkin' about the food as much now. You keep me fed well enough. Still, people put out a good spread."
"Then I assume we're going."
"Mm-hm."
A town gathering. Everyone would be there. All the families, the other loggers, the shopkeepers, and their wives. People she'd seen in passing during her trips to town but hadn't really met. People who would be watching, judging, and forming opinions about Bucky Barnes' new wife.
Her first real introduction to the community as Mrs. Barnes.
The thought made her stomach tighten slightly.
"How do people organize it? What are you supposed to bring?"
"Whatever you want, really. Most of the loggers bring game, deer, and turkey if they're lucky. Hunt it a few days before so it can be hung and butchered in town. Then folks organize the cookin’. Other families bake things, bring preserves, whatever they've got." He paused, glancing down at her. "Why?"
"Because I need to contribute something," she said. "As your wife."
It wasn't vanity, precisely. People would notice what she brought -or didn't bring-, and would form opinions based on whether her contribution measured up. And while she couldn't control what they thought about her eyes or the circumstances of her marriage, she could control whether her cooking was good.
That, at least, was something she knew how to do.
He was quiet for a moment.
"You ain't gotta prove anythin' to anyone," he said finally.
"Maybe not," she said. "But I'd like to make a good impression anyway."
"Your cookin’'s good. They'll see that."
She appreciated the confidence in his voice, even if it didn't entirely settle the nervousness in her stomach. "What do people usually bring? For baking, I mean."
"Pies, mostly. Bread. Cakes if they're feelin’ ambitious." He paused. "Martha Crews brought a spice cake last year that people are still talkin’ about."
She filed that away. Martha Crews. A standard to measure against, apparently.
"And you're sure people just... bring whatever they want? There's no list or assignment?"
"No list. Just show up with food, and it all works out." His hand stilled on her side. "You're overthinkin’ this."
"I'm planning," she corrected. "There's a difference."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Alright. What are you plannin’, then?"
"Pumpkin pie," she said. "Apple pie. And a braided bread, maybe with herbs."
He let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling in his chest where her head rested. "Ain’t that too much?"
"I'd rather bring too much than too little."
"Fair enough." His hand resumed its lazy movement along her side. "Good thing Larson's comin’ to install the kitchen soon. You'll have room to show off properly."
She felt her lips curve slightly at that. "I wasn't planning to show off."
"No?" There was amusement in his voice. "Three dishes say otherwise."
"Pies are expected. The bread is something extra," she said. "Besides, I don't know why you're concerned. You're going to eat every test batch I make until I get used to the temperature of this stove for baking properly."
"You bake fine already," he said. "Better than fine, I'd say. But I'm not gonna complain if that means I get to stuff myself like a turkey until the day of the gatherin’."
----
The days leading up to Thanksgiving passed in a flurry of activity.
She tested recipes, adjusting for the temperamental stove until she could reliably produce pies with evenly browned crusts and fillings that set properly. Bucky ate every failed attempt without complaint, and most of the successful ones too.
When she wasn't in the kitchen, she was mending. Her traveling dress, the nicest one she owned, needed the hem repaired and a few small tears patched. It wasn't fancy, but it was the closest thing she had to something suitable for a social gathering.
She also took stock of Bucky's clothes and realized his formal options were limited. He had work pants, work shirts, and one set that might charitably be called "not for work." She pulled those out, shook out the dust, and told him to try them on.
He emerged from behind the curtain a few minutes later, tugging at the waistband of the trousers.
"These fit differently," he said, frowning down at himself.
She looked him over. The pants were snug. Not obscenely so, but tighter than they probably had been. The shirt pulled slightly across his shoulders and chest.
"When's the last time you wore them?"
"Way before we married, I reckon." He tried to button the shirt and grimaced when the fabric strained. "Guess I've put on weight."
"You're not fat," she said, moving closer to examine the fit. "Maybe a bit bigger. You work hard, and now that you're eating properly, your body's just... catching up."
She reached for the shirt, fingers measuring to adjust the buttons, needle ready. "I can move these over slightly. Give you more room."
"Hm." He watched her work, then asked, tone casual but with something underneath it, "What do you think? About me being bigger?"
She glanced up at him, needle paused mid-stitch.
He was looking at her with that expression he got sometimes. Testing, maybe. Wanting to know what she thought, but trying not to seem like he cared about the answer.
She considered for a moment, then said simply, "Well. There's more of you. That can't be bad."
His hand came up to catch her chin, tilting her face up to meet his eyes.
"That so?" he asked, his voice dropping lower.
She felt heat creep up her neck. "Yes."
"Why's that?" He was enjoying this, she could tell. The slight curve of his mouth, the way his thumb brushed along her jaw.
She squirmed slightly, suddenly very aware of how close he was standing. "Because... you're healthy. It's- it's good."
"Healthy," he repeated, like he was testing the word. His other hand settled on her waist, fingers splaying across her side. "That the only reason?"
She could feel her face burning now. "You're fishing for compliments."
"Maybe." He didn't look remotely ashamed of it. "Is it workin’?"
She huffed, trying to look annoyed and failing. "I like that you're... solid. It feels-" She stopped, biting her lip.
"Feels what?"
"Good," she admitted quietly. "When you're... when we're..."
She didn't finish, but she didn't need to. His expression changed, something warm and possessive crossing his face.
"Good," he said, and she saw the intent in his eyes a second before he moved.
"The needle-" she managed.
He plucked it from her fingers without looking, stuck it into the pincushion on the table, and then he was kissing her. One hand cupped her face while the other pulled her flush against him, against all that 'more' of him she'd just been complimenting.
----
The morning of Thanksgiving arrived cold and clear, the kind of chilly November day that promised frost by nightfall.
She'd been awake since before dawn, checking on the pies one last time, wrapping them carefully in cloth to keep them protected for the trip into town. The braided herb bread sat cooling on the counter, golden and perfect. Everything was ready.
Almost everything.
She stood in front of the small mirror they'd finally hung by the washbasin, dressed in her chemise and petticoat, holding the corset she hadn't worn since she'd arrived in Montana.
The proper one. The one with the boning that dug uncomfortably into her and the laces that required another person to tighten properly.
Bucky was already dressed. Clean trousers, the shirt she'd altered for him, suspenders in place. He looked more put-together than- well, ever, and the effect was... distracting.
But right now, she needed his hands, not his face.
"Can you help me with this?" she asked, holding up the corset.
He looked at it, then at her, his expression skeptical. "You ain't worn that thing since you got here."
"I know."
"You've been wearin’ the other one. The... shorter one."
"Yes… the underbust corset," she confirmed. "But I need this one today."
He crossed to her, taking the contraption and helping her position it around her torso. She held it in place while he started working the laces at the back, his fingers surprisingly deft.
"Tighter," she said after a moment.
He pulled, but just a little. "That's tight enough."
"More."
He tugged harder, and she felt the boning dig against her sides. "This is ridiculous. Why can't you just use the one you've been wearin’?"
She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. "Because the dress won't fit otherwise. It's as simple as that."
His jaw worked, clearly unhappy with that answer, but he pulled the laces tighter anyway, and she felt the breath press out of her lungs.
"That's-" she started, but then his hands slid around to her waist, testing the new shape of her, and she felt his lips brush against the back of her neck.
Her breath caught, an involuntary sound that she couldn't quite suppress.
"Bucky," she said, trying for stern but landing somewhere closer to breathless. "We're going to be late."
"Mm." His hands stayed where they were, fingers splaying possessively over the constricted curve of her waist. His thumb traced the edge of the boning through the fabric. "Hate this thing."
"I know." She did. She could hear it in his voice, feel it in the way his hands tightened slightly, like he wanted to undo what he'd just done.
His lips moved from her neck to just behind her ear, and despite herself -despite the clock ticking, despite knowing they needed to leave- she felt herself lean back into him.
Just slightly.
Just enough that he noticed.
"You're not helping," she managed, even as her eyes drifted closed.
"Neither are you." His voice was rough, accusatory, but his mouth was doing that thing where he kissed the spot just below her ear that made her knees weak.
She forced her eyes open, forced herself to step forward, breaking the contact. The cool air hit her neck where his mouth had been, and she felt the loss of it immediately.
"Help me with the dress," she said, reaching for where it lay across the bed. Her voice was steadier now, but only just. "It'll be faster with two people."
He made a sound that might've been agreement or protest, but he helped anyway. His hands were less careful than they'd been with the corset, tugging the fabric into place with barely restrained frustration.
She could feel it, the tension in him, the same tension coiling tight in her own belly.
When they finished, she smoothed her hands down the skirt, swinging a little to make the fabric move. "How do I look?"
He took a step back, his gaze traveling over her slowly. The dress wasn't fancy -simple cut, dark fabric that wouldn't show stains- but it fit properly now, the waist cinched tight, the skirt falling in neat lines.
His eyes lingered on her waist. On what his hands had just shaped.
"You look good," he said finally, his voice carrying an edge that made her stomach flip. Then, with a slight quirk of his mouth that didn't quite reach his eyes, "But I prefer the ones that let me touch more."
Heat crept up her neck. The corset suddenly felt even tighter. "Bucky."
"Just sayin'." He reached for his coat, shrugging it on with more force than necessary. Then he paused, looking at her again, and something in his expression shifted. Softened just slightly. "You really do look good, though."
She touched the fabric at her waist, hyperaware now of how restricted she was, how different it felt from the easy movement she'd grown used to. "Thank you."
"Come on," he said, offering his hand. "Let's get this over with so I can get you out of that thing later."
She nodded, moving to get her winter coat, the heavy one she'd brought from back east. The shawl would be fine for now, but by the time they headed home in the late afternoon, she'd need something warmer.
Outside, Bucky had already hitched the horse to the wagon. He'd set a wooden crate in the bed, packed with straw to keep things from sliding around during the trip.
She handed him the pies one at a time, watching as he nestled them carefully into the straw, making sure they wouldn't tip. The bread went in last, wrapped in cloth and wedged securely between the pies.
"That should hold," he said, checking the arrangement one more time.
She climbed up onto the wagon seat, arranging her skirts as best she could while he swung up beside her. The morning air was cold enough to sting, and she was grateful for the coat.
He clicked his tongue, and the horse started forward, the wagon creaking as they rolled down the path toward the main road.
Toward town.
----
They were about halfway to town when she turned in her seat for the fifth time, craning her neck to check on the crate in the wagon bed.
"If you keep lookin’ back there, you're gonna jinx it," Bucky said, not taking his eyes off the road.
"We just went through a rut," she said, settling back into her seat. "The whole wagon shifted."
"The food's fine. It's secured."
She nodded, but her hands twisted together in her lap, restless.
He sighed, slowed the horse slightly, and reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a small cloth pouch and held it out to her.
"Here."
She looked at the pouch, then at him. "What is it?"
"Was gonna give it to you before we went into town, but maybe it'll give you somethin’ else to think about right now."
She took the pouch, the fabric soft and worn against her fingers. When she loosened the drawstring and tipped the contents into her palm, a brooch slid out.
White copper, beautifully made. Oval-shaped with a scalloped edge, the surface etched with delicate flowers and leaves that caught the light.
"Bucky," she breathed, and her voice came out smaller than she intended.
It wasn't particularly expensive, you could tell that much. But that wasn't- that didn't-
Her throat closed.
"Peddler came through the camp last week," he said, his tone casual but his gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead. "Saw you workin’ so hard on the food, fixin’ up our clothes. Figured you ought to have somethin’ nice to wear too."
Something nice to wear.
She turned the brooch over in her hand, her fingers tracing the delicate etched pattern. Flowers. Careful details that someone had taken time to craft.
Her mother had owned a brooch. She'd worn it to church, to formal gatherings. When her parents died, her brother had packed away most of their mother's jewelry. "For safekeeping," he'd said. She'd been allowed to keep a plain locket and her mother's wedding band, both too worn to be worth much.
And now-
Bucky had bought her this.
Had seen the peddler and thought of her and spent money -money he worked ten-hour days in dangerous conditions to earn- on something pretty. Something just for her.
"Hey." His voice cut through the tightness in her throat. "You alright?"
She realized her vision had blurred slightly. She blinked hard, once, twice.
"Yes," she managed. Then, because that wasn't enough: "It's beautiful."
"It's alright," he said, still not looking at her. "Matches the dress well enough."
She wanted to tell him it was more than alright. That no one had given her something like this in… years. Maybe ever. Not something chosen specifically for her, not something meant to make her feel-
Pretty. Valued. Thought of.
But the words stuck in her throat, too big and clumsy to force out.
Instead, she reached over and placed her hand on his arm, squeezing gently. Her fingers tightened, holding on perhaps longer than necessary.
"Thank you," she said quietly, and hoped he could hear everything else she couldn't say in those two words.
He glanced at her then, just briefly, and something in his expression softened when he saw her face.
"You're welcome," he said, and his hand came up to cover hers where it rested on his arm. He squeezed back, just once, before returning his attention to the road.
She pinned the brooch to the bodice of her dress, just below her collar, her fingers careful with the clasp. When she was done, she touched it lightly, feeling the raised pattern of the flowers under her fingertips.
"Better?" he asked. There was warmth in his voice.
She smiled. "Better."
----
Bucky left the wagon and horse at the livery stable near the edge of town. He lifted the crate from the wagon bed, settling it carefully in his arms, and she walked beside him toward the town hall, her hand resting lightly on his elbow when the width of the path allowed it.
The streets were busier than she'd seen them on her usual trips to the general store, families making their way toward the gathering, children running ahead, voices carrying in the cold air.
She was grateful not to be walking up to the entrance alone. Grateful for his solid presence beside her, even as her stomach tightened with nerves.
They were nearly to the town hall when a voice called out.
"Barnes! Mrs. Barnes!"
She turned to see Carl Hayes, the butcher, and his wife approaching. Agnes Hayes was a sturdy woman in her early fifties, with graying hair tucked neatly under her bonnet and a warm, practical demeanor that had put her at ease during her trips to the shop.
"Mornin’, Hayes," Bucky said, nodding. "Agnes."
"Good morning," Agnes said, smiling at her. "Well, your first Thanksgiving here in White Creek. You must be excited."
"I am," she said, returning the smile. "Looking forward to it."
"You've picked a good year for it. The weather's holding, and I heard Martha Crews is bringing her spice cake again." Agnes leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "Though between you and me, I think mine's better. Don't tell her I said that."
She felt some of the tension in her chest ease. "Your secret's safe with me."
"What did you bring?" Agnes asked, glancing at the crate in Bucky's arms.
"Apple pie, pumpkin pie, and a braided herb bread."
"Three dishes!" Agnes's eyebrows rose, impressed. "Well, aren't you ambitious. I only managed two this year, Carl was laid up for a few days, so I had to mind the shop."
Agnes then smiled at Bucky and nodded with her head toward his wife. "Well, let's go put our things out together, then."
Bucky shifted the crate, holding it out to her. She took it, the weight manageable but requiring both hands.
Carl moved ahead to open the door to the town hall, holding it as the women passed through first. Bucky followed just long enough to see where she was headed, then peeled off with Carl toward a cluster of men gathered near the far wall, where someone had set up a barrel and cups.
Inside, the town hall had been transformed. Long tables lined one side of the room, already laden with dishes: roasted meats, casseroles, bowls of vegetables, baskets of bread. The air was warm from the stove in the corner and thick with the mingled scents of food and woodsmoke and too many people in one space.
Women moved between the tables, arranging platters, making space, chatting as they worked.
Agnes led her toward an open spot on one of the tables. "Here, this should do. Let's see what you've brought."
She set the crate down carefully and began unwrapping the pies, setting them out one at a time. The apple first, then the pumpkin, and finally the braided herb bread, golden and still faintly warm.
"Oh, those look lovely," Agnes said, genuine warmth in her voice. "You've got a good hand for baking."
"Thank you," she said quietly, putting the cloth back into the crate.
Agnes glanced around the room, then back at her. "You've probably seen some of these ladies in passing when you're in town, but let me introduce you properly to a few. Come on."
She followed Agnes toward a small group of women standing near the stove, their conversation pausing as they approached.
"Ladies," Agnes said. "This is Mrs. Barnes, Bucky Barnes' wife. Just had been two months or so out here, haven't you, dear?"
She nodded. "About that, yes."
"Mrs. Barnes, this is Josephine Garrett. Her husband runs the gun shop. And this is Nell Johnson and Sarah Calhoun. Their husbands work the lumber camps with yours."
Josephine was a tall, lean woman in her thirties with work-roughened hands and a direct gaze. "Pleased to meet you properly, Mrs. Barnes. I've seen you at the street a few times."
"Likewise," she said.
Nell, younger and rounder-faced, smiled shyly. "It's nice to have another woman out at the camps. We're a bit outnumbered, if you haven't noticed."
"Oh, I had noticed," she said, returning the smile. "Though I suppose that's why they put up the sign in the first place."
Sarah laughed at that. "Well, Barnes got the pick of the lot, I'd say. Welcome to White Creek."
The warmth in their voices, the lack of staring or awkward questions about her eyes, made her feel more at ease.
"Thank you," she said. "I appreciate that."
Agnes patted her arm. "You'll fit in just fine."
Across the room, she caught sight of another cluster of women. Mary Collins, who stood with two other women, their heads bent together in conversation. One was elegantly dressed in a way that suggested means, and the other wore a neat, practical dress with a careful posture.
Mary glanced up, caught her eye, and offered a polite smile. Nothing warm, but nothing openly hostile either. Just... aware.
She nodded back, equally polite.
Near the far corner, another pair of women stood apart from the general bustle. One wore a dress of fine wool with a lace collar that would've cost more than most of the room made in a month. The other, similarly dressed, held herself with a particular confidence of being better positioned.
They didn't look her way.
Agnes followed her gaze and said quietly, "Don't mind them. The Mayor’s wife and the Banker’s wife. They keep to themselves mostly. Different world, you know."
She did know. The line wasn't drawn with rope or paint, but it was there all the same. Loggers' wives, shopkeepers' wives, and then... everyone else.
"Come on," Agnes said, steering her gently back toward the food tables. "Let's make sure your pies don't get lost in the shuffle."
They spent the next few minutes adjusting platters, making room for latecomers still arriving with their contributions. The tables were nearly groaning under the weight of it all.
A voice rose above the general chatter. Mayor Richards, standing near the center of the room, had his hands raised for attention.
"Alright, folks, if I could have your attention for just a moment!"
The room quieted, conversations tapering off as people turned toward him.
"I'll keep this brief," the Mayor said, his voice carrying easily. "We're gathered here today to give thanks for our health, for this community we've built together in White Creek. It's been a hard year, as most years are out here, but we've endured. We've thrived. And for that, we're grateful."
He paused, glancing around the room. "Reverend, would you lead us in a word of thanks?"
The man stepped forward, a lean man in his sixties with wire-rimmed glasses and a voice that had married her and Bucky not so long ago.
"Let us bow our heads," he said.
She lowered her gaze, feeling the warmth of bodies pressed close around her.
The prayer was brief and practical, thanks for food, for safety, for the work that sustained them. No flowery language, no theatrics. Just a man acknowledging what they had and asking for continued provision.
"Amen," the room echoed.
"Alright then," Mayor Richards said, smiling. "Let's eat. Help yourselves, folks."
The room erupted into motion, people moving toward the tables, reaching for plates, voices rising again in conversation and laughter.
She felt a hand at her elbow and turned to find Bucky beside her.
"Ready?" he asked.
She nodded, and they moved toward the food together.
----
They found seats at one of the long tables with a group of loggers and their wives, men Bucky worked alongside. Nell and Sarah were already there with their husbands, and they made room, shifting down the bench to let them sit.
The food was good, better than good, honestly. Roasted venison that fell apart under her fork, potatoes creamy with butter, herb bread, spongy and still a little warm. She'd been too nervous to eat much that morning, and now her stomach reminded her of that fact.
Conversation flowed easily around the table. Work talk, mostly, how the cutting had gone this season, which sections of forest they'd move to next, and whether the snow would come early this year.
Then one of the men, Nell's husband, leaned back in his chair and grinned at Bucky.
"So, Barnes," he said, his tone light and teasing. "Married life treating you well? Got to say, with the shortage of women up here, I'd imagine you are making up for lost time."
Nell smacked his arm immediately. "Tom!"
"What?" He laughed, clearly unbothered. "I'm just saying-"
Bucky didn't miss a beat. "Seems to me you're spendin’ a lot of time thinkin’ about my bedroom, Johnson. Ain't you busy enough?"
Laughter erupted around the table, including from Tom himself, who raised his hands in mock surrender.
"Fair enough, fair enough," he said, grinning.
Nell smacked his arm again. "Serves you right." Then to her, "I apologize for my husband. He forgets his manners when he's had a drink."
"It's alright," she said, forcing a small smile.
But her stomach clenched. The comment had been good-natured, just the kind of ribbing newlyweds probably got all the time.
Of course, everyone would assume. Almost two months into marriage? They'd think it had been consummated the first night. That was what happened. That was expected.
Except it hadn't.
She reached for her water, taking a sip to cover the awkwardness she felt crawling over her skin. Bucky's hand found hers under the table, his fingers lacing through hers briefly -a quick, grounding squeeze- before he let go and reached for his fork.
----
After they'd eaten, Nell caught her eye and nodded toward the far side of the room where someone had set up a table with drinks.
"Come on," she said. "Let's get something to wash all that food down."
She followed Nell and Sarah through the crowd. The drink table had cider -the hard kind, judging by the smell- and a large bowl of punch that was clearly spiked with something stronger.
Nell ladled punch into three tin cups and handed them out.
She took a sip. Sweet, spiced, with a burn underneath that made her throat tighten. Stronger than she was used to, but not unpleasant.
"Good, isn't it?" Sarah said, taking a healthy drink from her own cup.
"It's... warming," she managed.
Nell laughed. "That's one word for it."
They settled into easy conversation. Nothing serious, just the kind of talk that filled time pleasantly. Sarah's complaints about her mother-in-law's opinions on everything. Nell's story about a fox that had gotten into their chicken coop last week. Her own observations about how different Montana was from back east.
At some point, she realized she was on her third cup.
The nervousness from earlier had faded, smoothed over by the punch or maybe just by the company. It was hard to say. They'd moved on to talking about the coming winter, how to pass the long days trapped inside when the snow made travel impossible.
"I swear, by February I'm ready to throw Tom out the door just to have some peace," Nell said, refilling her cup. "Love the man, but three months of him underfoot is a trial."
Sarah laughed. "At least you've got space to get away from him. Our cabin's so small I can hear him breathing from across the room."
"You'll have to get creative," Nell said, grinning. "Find ways to keep yourselves occupied."
The comment was pointed enough to make Sarah blush, and she hid a smile behind her cup. A commotion of short limbs and decorations interrupted them, and Nell sighed. "Excuse me. I need to separate my son from the Morrison boy before someone loses a tooth."
She handed her cup to Sarah and headed off into the crowd.
Sarah grinned. "Those two have been at it all afternoon."
"Boys," she said, shaking her head.
"Exactly."
They were in comfortable silence when a voice spoke from behind them.
"Mrs. Barnes. How lovely to see you."
She turned to find Mary Collins standing there, another woman beside her. Mary's smile was polite, perfectly pleasant, and somehow still felt like a trap.
"Mary," she said, nodding.
"I don't believe you've been properly introduced to Mrs. Crews," Mary said, gesturing to the woman beside her. "Her husband runs the apothecary. Martha, this is Mrs. Barnes, Bucky Barnes' wife."
Martha Crews was a neat, carefully put-together woman in her forties with sharp eyes and a measured smile. "A pleasure, Mrs. Barnes."
"Likewise," she said.
"I was just telling Martha earlier," Mary continued, her tone light and conversational, "how wonderful it is that you and Mr. Barnes found each other so quickly after you arrived. Such serendipitous timing, really. Most brides have months to prepare for marriage, but you managed beautifully with only… what was it? A day?"
The words were sweet. The smile was warm.
But the implication wasn’t.
Martha’s eyebrow arched slightly.
Sarah's eyes went wide, and she took a long drink from her cup, suddenly very interested in the bottom of it.
She felt heat crawl up her neck, but kept her voice steady. "Sometimes circumstances require quick decisions. I'm fortunate Mr. Barnes is a man of integrity."
"Oh, of course," Mary said, her smile never wavering. "No one's suggesting otherwise. It's just so... romantic, isn't it? Like something out of a novel."
Before she could formulate a response, Nell reappeared at her elbow, slightly out of breath from dealing with her son. She nodded at Mary and Martha in greeting.
"What did I miss?" she asked, her tone pleasant.
She managed a tight smile. "Mary was just telling me how wonderful she finds the serendipity of my marriage."
"Mm." Nell took a sip from her cup, her expression thoughtful. "Well, I suppose that's way better than a long courtship that looks proper on the surface but ends with a husband visiting the saloon on weeknights. And not just for the drinking, if you take my meaning." She glanced at Mary with perfect innocence. "Isn't that right, Mary?"
Mary's smile froze on her face, her jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
Martha Crews's lips twitched, whether in amusement or surprise, it was hard to say.
Sarah suddenly found something fascinating about the ceiling.
"Of course," Mary said after a beat, her voice clipped. "Every marriage has its... challenges."
"Indeed," Nell said mildly, refilling her cup from the punch bowl. "Though I'd say Mrs. Barnes here seems to be managing hers quite well. Wouldn't you agree?"
The question hung in the air, pointed and unavoidable.
Mary's smile remained fixed, but there was a coolness in her eyes now. "Naturally. I'm sure she and Mr. Barnes are very... happy."
"We are," she said quietly, finding her voice again. "Thank you for your concern."
"Well," Mary said, recovering her composure with visible effort. "I should check on my husband. Martha, shall we?"
Martha inclined her head politely. "Mrs. Barnes. Mrs. Johnson. Mrs. Calhoun."
They moved off into the crowd, and the moment they were out of earshot, Sarah let out a breath.
"Oh my God, Nell," she said, half-laughing, half-shocked. "You didn't."
"I did," Nell said calmly, taking another drink. "And I'd do it again. Woman's got no business throwing stones when she lives in a glass house."
She stared at Nell, something warm and grateful blooming in her chest. "Thank you."
Nell waved a hand dismissively. "Don't mention it. Mary Collins has needed to be taken down a peg for years. About time someone did it."
Sarah was still processing, shaking her head in disbelief. "I can't believe you said that."
"I can," Nell said mildly. "And I meant every word."
The punch in her cup was nearly gone. Its warmth had spread into her limbs, making everything feel pleasantly loose. But she could feel it now, the slight spin in her head when she turned too quickly.
Enough.
She excused herself and made her way back toward the tables where they'd eaten earlier. Someone had left a pitcher of water there, and she poured herself a cup, drinking it down quickly before pouring another.
She was halfway through her second cup when she felt a hand settle at the small of her back.
She didn't need to turn to know it was Bucky. She'd gotten used to the way he touched her, to the weight of his palm on her.
"You alright?" he asked quietly, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
"Yes," she said, glancing up at him. "Why?"
"Saw Mary talkin’ to you earlier," he said. His expression was neutral, but his eyes were watchful. "Didn't see your face, but I saw the others. Wanna to know if somethin’ happened."
She shook her head. "Nothing important."
It wasn't worth mentioning. Not when Nell had handled it so perfectly. And honestly, the whole thing had been more amusing than upsetting by the end. Besides, standing here with him now, with the alcohol making her bolder than usual, she found herself studying him instead of dwelling on Mary.
He really did look good. The shirt she'd altered fit him well, the suspenders framing his shoulders in a way that made her want to-
"Sweetheart, you have-" he started, clearly about to press the issue.
"You look very good," she said, cutting him off.
He blinked. "What?"
"You look good," she repeated, a small smile blooming at her lips. "Handsome."
For a moment, he just stared at her. Then, to her surprise, color crept up his neck.
He was blushing.
Bucky Barnes, who could pin her to a mattress and make her forget her own name, who touched her with absolute confidence in the dark, was blushing because she'd called him handsome in public.
"Where's that comin’ from?" he asked, his voice slightly rougher than usual.
She tilted her head, enjoying this more than she probably should. "Can't I tell my husband he's handsome?"
His jaw worked, and the flush deepened slightly. He looked almost... flustered.
It was fascinating.
In their cabin, in the dark or the early morning light, he was sure of himself. Knew exactly what to do, how to touch her, what to say to make her melt.
But here? With her initiating and complimenting him where others might overhear?
He didn't know what to do with it.
"You've been drinking," he said finally, though his hand hadn't moved from her back.
"A little," she admitted. "What, does that make my words less true?"
"No," he said, his voice quiet. "Just... unexpected."
She stepped closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look up at him properly. "Mm. Does the unexpected make you uncomfortable?"
His eyes darkened, and she heard him mutter under his breath, "Dammit, woman."
She laughed and watched the way his expression changed at the sound. Like he couldn't decide if he was frustrated or charmed.
He opened his mouth, clearly about to say something, when voices rose from across the room.
"Alright, folks! Let's clear some space here!"
"Someone's got a fiddle!"
"Move the tables back! Come on, make room!"
The hall erupted into motion as people began shifting tables and chairs toward the walls, clearing the center of the floor. Children darted between adults, excited at the prospect of music and dancing.
Bucky's hand stayed on her back, but his attention had shifted slightly, tracking the movement around them.
She looked up at him, still feeling that warm boldness from the punch. "Are you going to dance with me?"
His gaze snapped back to her, and for a moment, he looked genuinely caught off guard.
"You wanna dance?" he asked.
"Maybe," she said, smiling. "If you ask nicely."
She was enjoying this. Enjoying the way he seemed uncertain, the flush still visible on his neck, the way his hand had tightened slightly on her back.
"I've been watching you for a while," she added, the words spilling out before she could think better of them. "Did you know that?"
His expression schooled just a little.
"Have you now?" His voice had dropped lower, and the uncertain flush was fading, replaced by something far more dangerous.
"Mm-hm." She should probably stop talking. The punch was making her too honest. "You look very-"
His hand slid from her back to her waist, fingers splaying possessively over the corseted curve. The same way he'd touched her in the morning, testing her shape.
The words died in her throat.
"Very what?" he prompted, and there was no uncertainty in him now. Just focus. Intent.
She swallowed. "Distracting."
"Distractin’," he repeated, and she could hear the satisfaction in his voice. He leaned in slightly, just enough that his next words were for her alone. "You've had enough punch to be honest, but not enough to forget this conversation tomorrow. Is that about right?"
Her face burned. Because yes. That was exactly right.
"I thought so." His thumb traced the edge of the boning through her dress. "Let me be clear: you can look all you want. I like it when you look."
Her breath caught.
"But if you keep sayin’ things like that where anyone can hear..." He paused, his eyes holding hers. "Well. We're gonna have a problem."
"What kind of problem?" The question came out before she could stop it.
His smile was slow, almost predatory. "The kind where I stop bein’ patient."
The air between them felt thick, charged. She was acutely aware of every point where his body almost touched hers, of the way his hand sat heavy and possessive on her waist.
Around them, people were still clearing space, laughing, calling out to each other. But it all felt distant, muffled.
"Have you ever done contradance?" he asked, and his voice was still that low, rough tone that made her stomach flip.
"I don't even know what that is," she admitted.
Back home, the dancing had been waltzes at formal gatherings, or polka in less refined settings. Had watched enough reunions to understand how things worked, but she'd never actually danced them. No one had ever asked her. No one had wanted to be seen partnered with the girl with devil's eyes, no matter how well she knew the choreographies.
This -whatever it was- sounded like something entirely different.
But with the punch warming her blood and Bucky's hand still steady at her back, she found she didn't care that she had no idea what she was doing.
She wanted to dance.
With him.
"But I'm sure I can learn," she added.
He leaned in then, just enough that his breath warmed her ear. His hand tightened on her waist, almost imperceptibly. "Well, I know how quick a learner you are," he murmured, and the way he said it made it clear he wasn't just talking about dancing anymore. “Just follow my lead," he added, his voice rough and low. "And try not to look at me like that in front of everyone."
She opened her mouth -to say what, she wasn't sure- but he was already moving, his hand sliding to the small of her back as he guided her toward the cleared space where couples were beginning to form lines.
Her heart was still racing, and it had nothing to do with the prospect of dancing.
Next Chapter
I don't do taglist anymore, please follow @vunblr-archive and turn on the notifications for updates :)
Pairing: Frontiersman!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Tags: Western AU. Shotgun Wedding. Strangers to Lovers. Slight Angst. Comfort. Domestic Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.
Warnings: Reader has Heterochromia. Loss of Virginity. Period-Typical Gender Roles and Expectations.
Summary: She came to White Creek for a teaching position that didn't exist. He needed a wife but never expected to find one like this.
Word Count: 5.5k
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
She woke to movement beside her.
Not fully awake yet, just that hazy state between sleep and consciousness. But she registered the shift of weight on the mattress, the rustle of fabric, the quiet sound of breathing that wasn't quite as deep as it had been moments before.
Bucky was waking up.
She kept her eyes closed for another moment, letting herself surface slowly. The cabin was still dark, just the faintest hint of gray light beginning to filter through the windows. Early. Too early.
But he had to leave for work.
She heard him take a deeper breath, felt him stretch slightly beside her, and knew he was awake now.
Time to get up.
She opened her eyes and carefully extracted herself from his arm -still draped loosely over her waist- and started to maneuver toward the edge of the bed.
She'd done this enough times now that it should have been routine. Swing one leg over, plant her knee carefully beside his hip, shift her weight, bring the other leg around-
His arms came up before she'd fully cleared him.
Sleepy. Unhurried. Wrapping around her waist and pulling her back down against his chest.
"Mornin’," he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep, his eyes still closed.
The word was barely intelligible, muffled against her shoulder.
She felt warmth flood through her. Not embarrassment, exactly, but something softer.
"Morning," she said quietly.
He held her there for just a moment longer, his arms loose around her, his breathing still slow and even like he might drift back to sleep if she let him.
Then he sighed and released her, his hands sliding away.
"Go on," he murmured. "Before I keep you here."
She climbed off the bed carefully, her bare feet hitting the cold floor, and turned back to look at him.
He still hadn't opened his eyes. Was lying there with one arm flung above his head, the quilt pooled around his waist, his chest bare in the dim pre-dawn light. She allowed herself to look for just a moment -at the shape of his body, relaxed and unguarded- before turning toward the stove to start the fire.
Behind her, she heard the bed’s wood creak as he sat up. Heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of him stretching, that low, satisfied groan he always made when his back cracked.
She focused on the kindling, on getting the fire started, very aware that she was still in her nightgown. It was starting to get light outside. That everything they'd done last night had happened almost in darkness, and now-
Now it was morning.
She could feel him looking at her.
Didn't need to turn around to know his eyes were on her. Could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical thing.
Heat crept up the back of her neck.
She didn't know how to act now. What the appropriate rules were. Did he expect her to behave differently? To be bolder, maybe? Or was she supposed to pretend nothing had happened until tonight, when the sun went down and…
She heard him stand -the soft pad of bare feet on the wooden floor- and then he was there. Right behind her.
Close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body.
"You alright?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," she said, not turning around. "Just getting the fire started."
"Mm."
He didn't move away. Just stood there, close enough that if she leaned back even slightly, she'd be pressed against his chest.
She concentrated very hard on arranging the kindling just right.
Then she felt his hand -warm, calloused-brush against her lower back. Just a light touch, barely there, but deliberate.
Testing.
She went very still.
His hand settled more firmly at the small of her back, his palm warm through the thin fabric of her nightgown.
"Look at me," he said quietly.
She took a breath and turned.
He was right there, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. Still in just his underwear, his hair mussed from sleep, the shadow of a beard already darkening his jaw.
And he was looking at her with an expression that was gentle but firm.
"We ain't gonna pretend last night didn't happen," he said.
"I wasn't-" she started.
"You're squirmin’," he said, and there was the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "You won't look at me. And you're actin’ like if you just focus hard enough on that fire, maybe I'll forget what you looked like with your hand wrapped around my-"
"Bucky!" she said quickly, her face flaming.
She couldn't believe he'd just said that. Out loud. In the plain light of morning.
The smile widened slightly. "See? That's what I'm talkin’ about."
She wanted to be annoyed with him. Wanted to tell him he was being inappropriate, that it was too early for this, that she needed coffee before she could handle whatever this conversation was going to be.
But she couldn't quite manage it. Not when he was looking at her like that. Not when his hand was still resting warm and steady against her back.
"I ain't ashamed of what we did," he said, his voice softer now. "And you shouldn't be either."
"I'm not ashamed," she said quietly. "I'm just... adjusting."
"To what?"
"To this. To-" She gestured vaguely between them. "Everything being different now."
He studied her face for a moment, then nodded slowly.
"Alright," he said. "You can adjust. But you ain't gonna pull away from me while you do it. Understand?"
She nodded.
"Say it."
"I understand."
"Good." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead -brief, affectionate-then stepped back. "Now finish with that fire so I can have some coffee before I leave."
----
By the time he'd finished dressing -work pants, shirt, suspenders back in place- she'd already set breakfast on the table. Biscuits left over from yesterday, warmed on the stove. Coffee, strong and hot. A bit of the bacon from the butcher, fried up quickly.
Simple, but more than he used to have before her.
They sat down across from each other, and she watched him take that first long drink of coffee with the same satisfaction he always showed. Like it was the best thing he'd tasted.
"I might see Larson today," he said, tearing off a piece of biscuit. "At the camp. He works intermittently, a few days loggin', a few days in his workshop doin' carpentry. If he's there, I'm gonna ask him to come by on Sunday."
She looked up. "Sunday?"
"For the kitchen," he said. "To take measurements, figure out what we need. Of all the things we talked about doin’ to the place, that seems the most urgent. You're in there every day, workin’ with basically nothin’."
She glanced toward the makeshift kitchen area: the rough shelves, the basin sitting on the counter -a large plank, really- the pantry that was just open shelving with no doors.
"What would you want?" he asked. "If you could have it set up however makes sense to you?"
She hesitated, hating how hard it still was to ask for things. Even practical things. Even from him, who'd never once made her feel foolish for needing something. But a lifetime of being told she was a burden didn't just disappear because she had a husband now. She made herself speak, "A cupboard. For dishes and cups. And… if we make a pantry, it would need doors. Some things do better in the dark, and it would keep the dust out."
He nodded. "Makes sense. What else?"
----
"A… proper work surface," she said. "Something I can use for rolling dough or cutting vegetables without everything crowding together."
"Alright."
She stopped there, and he could see her holding back.
"That's not everythin’," he said. "What else?"
"That's the most important," she said quickly.
"Didn't ask for the most important. I asked what else you need."
She looked down at her plate. "I don't want to... I know it's expensive, and-"
"Stop," he said gently but firmly. "This is about makin’ the kitchen work properly. Not some fancy whim. So tell me."
She took a breath. "Hooks. For pots and pans. And a shelf near the stove for things I use often."
"Done. What else?"
She bit her lip. "The basin is small. A larger one would really help, but-"
"But what?"
"There's no plumbing," she said. "So even with a bigger basin, I'd still have to carry the water out to empty it."
"Not necessarily," he said. "I saw somethin’ in town, a drainage pipe that runs through the wall. Empties outside into a gravel pit. Ain’t fancy, but it works."
Her eyes widened slightly. "That's... that would make things much easier."
"Then that's what we'll do." He took another drink of coffee. "Anythin’ else?"
She shook her head. "That's more than enough."
"Alright then." He finished the last of his biscuit. "So Sunday. Larson comes, takes measurements, and we tell him what you need.
She nodded, and he could see the mix of emotions on her face. Gratitude, excitement, and still that lingering guilt about asking for things.
She still didn't understand that she wasn't asking for charity. That making the kitchen functional wasn't some extravagance, it was basic sense. If she was going to be cooking every day or making preserves, she needed proper tools to do that. But she looked at every request like it might be the one that pushed him too far, made him regret taking her on.
He'd work on that.
----
He stood when he finished, draining the last of his coffee and setting the cup down.
"I should get goin’," he said, moving toward where his coat hung by the door.
She stood as well, crossing to the counter where she'd left his lunch pail ready. Her hand closed around the handle, and she turned to bring it to him, but his hand covered hers on the handle before she could lift it.
"So dutiful," he murmured close to her ear, and there was warmth in his voice. Affection mixed with something else.
Then he leaned in and pressed his lips to the spot just behind her ear.
The touch was light, barely there, but it sent a shiver down her spine.
She turned toward him instinctively -or maybe he turned her, his free hand coming to rest at her waist- and when she looked up to meet his eyes, his mouth was already descending on hers.
Not tentative, or asking permission.
His hand at her waist tightened, pulling her closer, and she felt the solid warmth of his body against hers. Felt the way he touched her differently now -more freely, more confidently- because there was almost nothing between them.
Just the thin cotton of her nightgown. No corset, no layers of propriety.
And he knew it. Could feel it in the way his hand moved over her, possessive and sure. Like the thin cotton was permission instead of a barrier. Like morning light didn't change what he'd claimed in the darkness.
His other hand left the lunch pail handle -she heard it thud softly as it hit the counter- and came up to cup the back of her head, angling her exactly as he wanted her.
The kiss deepened, his tongue sliding against hers in a way that was already becoming familiar. Already something her body recognized and responded to.
Then she felt his hand slide from her waist lower -past her hip, past any pretense of propriety- and close firmly over her rear.
The shock of it made her gasp against his mouth.
Not because it hurt. Not because she wanted him to stop.
Because it was so direct. So possessive. His palm cupping her through the thin fabric, his fingers gripping her flesh as he pulled her flush against him.
She could feel him -hard against her stomach even through his work pants- and the knowledge of what that meant made heat flood through her. His hand on her bottom flexed, holding her in place against him, and she felt that same desperate wanting from last night start to build low in her belly.
Then, reluctantly, he pulled back.
Not far. Just enough to break the kiss, his temple brushed against hers while they both caught their breath.
"I really do have to go," he said, his voice rough.
"I know," she managed.
His hand on her rear flexed once more -a final possessive squeeze- then released. He stepped back, putting proper distance between them, and reached for the lunch pail.
"I'll be back after dark," he said, settling his coat over his shoulders. "Don't wait up if you're tired."
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
He looked at her for another moment -standing there in her nightgown, her lips swollen from his kiss, her hair still loose from sleep- and something hungry flickered across his face before he forced himself to look away.
Then he turned and walked out the door.
----
Sunday morning came, and she was nervous.
He'd noticed it the moment he'd woken up, the way she'd been quieter than usual over breakfast, the way her hands had moved restlessly while she tidied the cabin even though it was already spotless.
Now she was smoothing down her apron for the third time in as many minutes, her eyes flicking toward the door like Larson might burst through it at any second.
He crossed to her and caught her hand mid-smooth.
"Hey," he said quietly. "It's just Larson. He's seen worse than a logger’s cabin."
"I know," she said, but her voice was tight.
He studied her face. "You worried about your eyes? About what he'll think?"
She blinked, seeming surprised by the question. "What? No, I-"
She stopped, took a breath, and when she spoke again, her voice was different. Lower.
"I need to ask you something. And I know we just talked about the kitchen, and that's already so much, but-"
"What is it?"
She gestured toward her trunk in the corner. "My books. They're still in my carpetbag. I've been keeping them there because I don't have anywhere else to put them, but they're going to get damaged if they stay like that. The fabric doesn't protect them properly and-"
She stopped, clearly struggling, and he could see it, the way she was trying to make herself smaller.
"I was wondering if... if it wouldn't be too much trouble... maybe a shelf? Or even just a board with some supports? Somewhere I could set them so they're not-"
"Christ," he muttered, cutting her off.
The word came out harsher than he'd meant. He watched her flinch and felt like an ass immediately. She thought he was annoyed at her -at the request- when the truth was he was pissed at himself for not noticing sooner.
"No, I-," he said quickly. "I ain't... I'm cursin' myself, not you." He ran a hand through his hair. "I didn't even think about your books. You've had them stuffed in a bag this whole time and didn't say anythin'."
Books weren't cheap. He knew that much. And hers weren't just any books; they were teaching books, the tools of a trade she'd trained for. The things that proved she was educated. Worth something beyond what her eyes might suggest to small-minded folks.
And she'd been keeping them in a goddamn carpetbag because she didn't think she could ask for a shelf.
"I didn't want to be-"
"Don't." He caught her chin gently, making her look at him. "Don't say you don't wanna be a burden. Your books are important to you. And you should have told me weeks ago."
How many other things was she not telling him? How many needs was she swallowing down because she'd spent her whole life being told she was already taking up too much space?
"I'm telling you now," she said quietly.
"Yeah, you are." He released her chin and stepped back. "And yes, we're gettin’ you a shelf. A proper one. Not just a board."
A smile bloomed on her lips. "Thank you."
And there it was again, that look like he'd just given her the moon instead of agreeing to basic furniture. It made something twist in his chest. Made him want to find his bastard of a brother -again- and have a very direct conversation with him about making her feel like she had to earn the right to take up space.
"Stop thankin’ me for basic things," he mumbled, but there was no heat in it.
A knock at the door made them both turn.
Right. Larson.
Bucky crossed to the door and opened it.
The man standing on the porch was in his late forties, solid build, with the kind of hands that spoke of years working with wood. He had his hat in his hands and a leather satchel slung over one shoulder.
"Morning, Barnes," he said, nodding.
"Larson. Thanks for comin’ out." Bucky stepped aside. "Come in."
The carpenter entered, his eyes doing a quick sweep of the cabin -professional assessment, not judgment- before landing on her.
Bucky saw the moment Larson registered her eyes. The brief pause, the slight widening of his gaze. But to the man's credit, his expression smoothed out immediately and he just nodded politely.
"Ma'am," he said. "Pleasure to meet you."
She dipped her head in a small curtsy, her hands clasped in front of her. "Mr. Larson."
"Larson, this is my wife," Bucky said. "Sweetheart, this is Joseph Larson. Best carpenter in White Creek."
"One of the few carpenters in White Creek," Larson corrected with a slight smile. He set his hat on the table and swung the satchel off his shoulder. "So, Barnes. You mentioned needing work done on the kitchen?"
"Yeah." Bucky gestured toward the makeshift kitchen area. "The whole setup needs to be redone. Proper storage, work surface, the works."
Larson pulled out a measuring tape, a stubby pencil, and a small notebook from his satchel. He moved to the kitchen area and started looking around, taking in the rough shelves, the old basin, and the ‘pantry’.
"Alright," he said, flipping open the notebook. "Let's start with what you need. Storage first, cupboard for dishes?"
"Yes," Bucky said. "And the new pantry needs doors. Keeps things dark, keeps the dust out."
Larson made a note. "Solid doors or with some ventilation?"
Bucky looked at her, and she stepped forward hesitantly.
"Solid would be better," she said quietly. "For flour and sugar. And potatoes and onions last longer in the dark."
Larson nodded, writing that down. "Makes sense. Shelves inside?"
"Yes, please. Adjustable if possible."
"Can do." He moved to measure the pantry opening, then paused and looked at her. "What height works best for you, Mrs. Barnes? For the shelves and the work surface?"
She blinked, clearly not expecting to be asked directly.
Of course she wasn't expecting it. She'd probably never been asked what she wanted for anything, just told what was standard and expected to make do. Bucky watched her process the question, saw the moment she realized Larson actually wanted her input.
"I... What is the standard?"
"Standard doesn't matter if it doesn't work for you," Larson said pragmatically. "Come here, stand where you'd be working."
She moved to where the old plank sat propped on barrels, and Larson held his hand at different heights until she indicated what felt comfortable.
"About here," he said, making a mark in his notebook. "Good."
Bucky watched her relax slightly as Larson continued asking her practical questions, where she wanted the hooks for pots, how much shelf space she needed near the stove, and whether she preferred drawers or open shelving in certain spots.
The man was treating her like any other client. Professional. Respectful. Not staring, not pitying.
Good.
"And the counter," Bucky said after a few minutes. "We need somethin’ bigger than what's there now. A proper work surface."
Larson walked over to the plank-and-crate setup and looked at it for a long moment. Then he turned to Bucky with his eyebrows raised.
"Barnes," he said slowly. "This isn't a counter. This is a board sitting on two barrels."
Bucky felt heat creep up his neck.
Damn it. He knew how it looked, he wasn't an idiot. But he'd been making do with what he had, and a plank on barrels functioned as a counter.
Function had been good enough. Until it wasn't. Until she'd arrived and he'd seen how inadequate everything was for her to live there.
"I know that. I'm not that much of a backwoods fool. It's just... that's what I call it. The thing. Can you build a proper counter there or not?"
He heard the defensiveness in his own voice and tried to rein it in. The man wasn't judging, just stating facts. And the fact was, Bucky's setup was pathetic. He'd known it every time he watched her trying to make do with barely functional furniture and supplies that should've been replaced a long time ago.
The corner of Larson's mouth twitched. "Yeah, I can build a proper counter. With drawers underneath, a level surface, and an appropriate height. An actual counter."
"Good."
Larson measured the space and made more notes. "Pine or hardwood for the work surface? Pine's cheaper but won't hold up as well to cutting and heavy use. Maple or oak costs more but lasts."
Bucky looked at her again.
"Hardwood," she said, more confidently now. "If it's not too expensive. I'd rather have something that lasts."
"Hardwood it is," Larson said, writing it down. He moved to the wall. "And for the sink drainage… you want the pipe going through this wall here? Shortest run to the outside."
"That works," Bucky said.
"I'll need to cut through. Frame it properly so you don't get drafts."
"Fine."
Larson continued measuring, sketching rough diagrams in his notebook, and asking questions. After about twenty minutes, he stepped back and looked over his notes.
"Alright," he said. "Cupboard with doors, pantry with solid doors and adjustable shelves, proper counter with drawers, hooks for pots and pans, shelf by the stove, larger sink with drainage. "Should take me two to three weeks in the workshop, depending on how the joinery goes. Maybe less if my boy helps with the rough work."
"How much?" Bucky asked.
The carpenter did some quick calculations. "Materials and labor... forty-five dollars. That's with the hardwood counter."
Bucky nodded. It was fair. More than fair, actually, given the amount of work involved.
"Done," he said. "When can you start?"
"I'll order the wood tomorrow, and should have it by Wednesday. Start building Thursday." Larson closed his notebook and put it back in his satchel. "I'll send word when I'm ready to install."
"Appreciated."
Bucky paused, thinking.
The books. She'd asked for a shelf, but that wasn't enough. A shelf meant stacking them like firewood, pulling them out whenever she wanted to read. She deserved more than that.
"The things you've got finished in the workshop… you have any small tables that might work against that wall?"
He gestured toward the space between the window and the door.
Larson tilted his head, considering. "What kind of table? Side table, work table?"
Bucky glanced at her for a moment, then back at Larson. "Somethin’ she could use for... writin’ if she wants. Letters, or to set books on for readin’."
He felt her gaze snap to him, surprised, but kept his attention on the carpenter.
"The kitchen table tends to be clean, but there's always residue," he continued, trying to explain it in a way that made sense. "Grease, flour dust. I'd like somethin’ where she can set papers down without worryin’ if I left a mess. Somethin’ for her things."
She needed a space that was hers. Not the kitchen, where she worked. Not the bed, where they- where other things happened. Somewhere she could just be. Read her books, write letters if she wanted, exist without having to be useful or accommodating or anything other than herself.
"A writing desk, then," Larson said, nodding slowly. "Or close to it."
"Yeah. That."
Larson scratched his jaw. "I've got a small table. Walnut, actually. Nice piece. Fellow ordered it for his parlor but changed his mind halfway through, wanted something fancier. It's simple but well-made. Drawer in the front, smooth top. About this high." He held his hand at roughly waist height.
"That work?" Bucky asked, turning to look at her directly now.
She nodded, her eyes still wide with surprise. "Yes. That sounds perfect."
Good. He'd guessed right, then. The walnut would be nicer than pine, more substantial. And if some fancy townsman had changed his mind about it, that meant Bucky could get a quality piece for less than it was worth.
Win all around.
"It's already finished, just needs a polish," Larson said. "I can bring it when I come to install the kitchen."
"Good. Add it to the total."
"Will do." Larson made another note in his book, picked up his hat, and settled it on his head. Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in cloth.
"Almost forgot," he said, his voice carefully casual. "Picked this up in town for you as you asked."
He handed it out to Bucky.
Finally. He had started to think it might not come in at all, that he'd have to think of something else. He took it, feeling the small weight of it through the fabric. "Thanks. I owe you."
"Don't mention it." Larson tipped his hat to her. "Mrs. Barnes. Pleasure meeting you."
"You too, Mr. Larson," she said quietly.
"Barnes." He nodded to Bucky and headed for the door.
----
A writing desk. Just for her.
It hadn't even occurred to her to ask for something like that, wouldn't have dreamed of it, honestly. She was fine with the shelf. A simple thing where her books could sit upright instead of crammed in her carpetbag.
But a table. A place where she could write letters or read without worrying about stains getting on the pages. A space that was hers.
She felt her chest warm. He'd thought of it. Not because she'd asked, but because he'd noticed she might need it.
The door shut, and she turned and crossed to him without thinking, her arms going around his waist before he'd even fully turned around.
"Thank you," she said against his chest, her voice muffled by his shirt.
She felt him go still for a moment -surprised, maybe- then his hands came up to rest on her back.
"For what?" he asked, though his tone suggested he knew.
"The desk." She pulled back just enough to look up at him. "It's something I'd thought about. But much further down the line, not now when everything is..."
She gestured vaguely at the cabin around them, the kitchen exploded across half the space, the enormous curtain dividing the bed from the rest of the living area.
"Not now," she finished quietly.
His hands stayed on her back, steady and warm.
"You deserve it now," he said simply. "Not later."
After a pause, he cleared his throat and slid one hand from her back down to her waist while the other reached into his shirt pocket.
When he pulled it out, he was holding the small bundle wrapped in cloth.
He unwrapped it clumsily but carefully, the fabric falling away to reveal a ring. Simple silver band with a subtle braided pattern running around the edges.
"I… asked Larson to pick it up in town," he said, and there was an edge of self-consciousness on him. Like he wasn't entirely sure how this was supposed to go. "Ordered that day, we went to town together, and took a few weeks to come in."
She stared at the ring, her throat tight.
She'd assumed there wouldn't be one. Or if there was, it would be something makeshift, a piece of wire bent into shape, maybe. Plenty of frontier marriages made do without.
But he'd ordered one. Had it been brought in specially.
"I know it ain’t much," he said, still not quite meeting her eyes. "But-"
She looked up at him, and whatever he saw in her expression made him pause.
"It's perfect," she managed.
He exhaled, something like relief crossing his face. Then he reached for her left hand -still pressed against his back- and held it carefully.
His fingers were rough, callused from years of work, but his touch was gentle as he slid the ring onto her finger.
It fit. Not perfectly, but close enough that it wouldn't slip off easily.
She stared down at it, the silver catching the light from the window. Such a small thing. But it changed everything, somehow. Made it feel real in a way the words in front of the reverend hadn't quite managed.
"Good?" he asked quietly, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
His hand tightened around hers for just a moment -a brief squeeze- before he let go.
She bit her lip, then caught his hand again before he could pull it away completely.
He looked at her, a question in his eyes.
"I know this wasn't..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "I know the circumstances weren't what either of us would have chosen. But I'm glad it was you."
His expression shifted, something softer than usual, almost tender, before he looked away.
"You didn't have to offer," she continued, her thumb brushing over his knuckles the way he had brushed over hers a moment ago. "You could have let the sheriff sort it out, or- or just walked away. But you didn't. You took responsibility when you didn't have to."
"Wasn't gonna leave you to deal with that alone," he said quietly.
"I know." She took a breath. "And everything you promised me that day, before we married, that you'd treat me well, that you wouldn't use... this-" she gestured vaguely between them, meaning the marriage, the power imbalance, all of it, "to make my life miserable. You've kept your word. You treat me well. I feel safe with you. I just wanted you to know that," she finished softly. "That I'm grateful. And that I think, despite how it all happened, I'm fortunate it's you I'm married to."
For a moment, he didn't say anything, just looked at her. His jaw clenched, and his hand flexed around hers. Small movements, but she'd learned to read them. He was affected, even if he was trying not to show it.
Then he lifted his other hand and cupped the side of her face, brushing his thumb along her cheek.
"I'm grateful it's you, sweet girl," he said quietly, his voice a little rougher than usual. "That it's you I get to come home to."
Something warm and overwhelming bloomed in her chest at the tenderness in his voice, the way he was looking at her.
Then he leaned down and kissed her, slow and deliberate, his hand still cradling her face like she was something precious.
----
He pulled back slowly, his forehead resting against hers, breathing her in. The faint scent of soap and woodsmoke clung to her hair. The warmth of her skin under his palm.
I feel safe with you.
Those words had hit harder than he'd expected.
He'd seen the uneasiness in her eyes that first day at the lumber post, standing there with her trunk and carpetbag, realizing she'd been brought to the wrong -or right- place entirely. Had seen the way she'd braced herself when he'd offered marriage, like she was expecting conditions. Expectations she'd have to meet or else.
And now she felt safe.
With him.
It wasn't something he'd thought about before, what it meant for someone to feel that way around him. He'd always just been... himself. Did his work, kept his word, and didn't cause trouble unless they came looking for him first.
But hearing her say it…
He'd married her because it was the right thing to do. Because leaving her to face the consequences of something that wasn't her fault would've been wrong.
And that was true.
But he'd be lying to himself if he said that was the only reason.
They'd put up that sign -him and the other men- because they'd wanted wives. He'd wanted a wife. Someone to build a life with out here.
And when she'd knocked on that battered door, when she'd looked at him with those mismatched eyes and tried to make sense of where she'd ended up-
He'd known.
Not in some romantic, lightning-strike way. Just... known. The way a man knows when a trail is safe to walk. A certainty in his gut.
The right thing to do had just made it easier to do what he'd wanted anyway.
Standing here now, with her hand still holding his and the ring he'd chosen on her finger -hearing her say she was grateful, that she felt fortunate-
He wanted to be the kind of husband she deserved.
Next Chapter
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all my peter x reader fics newest to oldest
peter comes to your rescue
peter comforts his insomniac girlfriend
peter is your fake boyfriend
peter gets you home safely after a party
peter records a small moment with you
peter soothes your new relationship nerves
peter can’t help adoring you as you patch him up
peter stops when you won't call yourself pretty +
peter wants to be close to you
peter knows you too well to let you be lonely
peter reassures you of your worth
peter thinks you're beautiful even when you don't
peter finds your nervousness adorable
peter notices more than you think
peter wants to take care of you
peter indulges your late night excitement
peter comforts you when you miss your mom
peter urges you to give up shaving
peter let's you wash his hair
peter versus months of wanting +
peter is confused about your loving tears
peter explains his computer game to you
peter tells you how pretty you are
peter keeps you grounded
peter suggests baby names
peter sets the record straight during an argument
peter comforts you after a nightmare
peter missed you and is clingy
peter does something sweet for you
peter meets a shy you
peter teases a shy you
peter finds a kitten
peter gets drunk and starts planning your wedding
peter listens to your coming out
peter gets flowers
peter gets jealous
peter comforts you when you bleed through
peter is obsessed with you to the point of distraction
peter isn't jealous, obviously, and neither are you
peter is protective when somebody hurts you
peter gets stuck +
peter helps you do a jigsaw and burns your soup
peter asks you to shower with him
peter hugs you from behind and scares you
peter loves your pretty lips +
peter’s nervous about your first time +
peter is your teasing bodyguard +
peter comes to get you after you faint at work
peter knows touch is your love language
peter fixes your light and your touch deprivation
peter protects you from overstimulation
peter gets a back massage
peter takes care of you one needy morning
peter shares a bed with you
peter reacts to your unexpected pregnancy
peter makes you feel better about being flat-chested
peter is obsessed with your chest +
peter feels like he doesn’t deserve you
peter doesn’t want to break up after one fight
peter can’t stop kissing your face
peter calls you clingy (and feels terrible)
peter comforts you through morning sickness
peter worries about your bad period cramps
peter is a clingy drunk
peter gets an i love you
peter loves you, even grumpy in the mornings
peter takes care of you when you lose your appetite
peter gives you a neck massage
peter doesn’t realise you like him back
peter loves how loud you are
peter is mad you said I love you first
peter wants to help you quit smoking
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