Pairing: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 2.2k
Warnings: Smut (18+). Fingering. Unprotected Sex. Banter. My own special brand of prose, fragments, and italicization.
A/N: First full length fic I've written in a hot minute. Just can't get the image of slow morning sex with Jack Abbot out of my mind.
Oh, you’re a sight for sore eyes this morning. Tangled in his sheets, hair all in disarray against the satin pillowcase. The shirt you’ve stolen from him rides up over your hips, exposing lavender cotton panties with daisies splashed across them. Cute.
The sight turns him on instantly. More than it should. He can’t help it. Something about you at ease in his space. Completely twisted up in his home, in his bed. In his life.
Coming home to someone wouldn’t have been a possibility 5 years ago. Seeing you after a long shift, like an oasis after a long trek in a desert, is a luxury he’s still getting used to. And one must take advantage of, and savor, little luxuries whenever they can.
Perhaps he should feel a little bad for wanting to wake you up so early, when even Phoebus Apollo still hasn’t fully roused himself from sleep, and the Pittsburgh towers stand in black silhouettes against the indigo sky.
Perhaps he should feel guilty for peeling back the twisted sheets to get an eyeful of your prone body. Eyes trailing up your legs, snagging on the curves of your thighs, the supple bend of your ass.
Maybe he should feel apologetic for reaching out and grabbing a handful. Hand running under the hem of the stolen shirt and up your tummy to cup your breast. For rolling your nipple between his fingers and pinching it gently.
But after the night he’s had, he can’t even muster a smidgen of regret. And the sound you make, and the way you arch your back into his touch strikes any trace of repentance from his mind. And when you slowly blink yourself awake and beam at him like he hung the stars in the sky by hand, he can’t help the way his heart skips violently in his chest and all the blood in his body pools straight to his cock.
“Mornin’, honey.” He gives you a breathtaking smile of his own, fingers still lazily playing with your nipple.
“You’re back.” You bite the words out around a yawn. You roll onto your back, nudging a foot into his lap.
“In the flesh.” He switches to your other breast, showing it the same attention.
“Sun’s not even in the sky, and you’re already feeling me up,” you tease, toes brushing over his hard cock.
“Sorry.” Jack shrugs with a sheepish grin. “Couldn’t help myself when you look like this.”
You raise your eyebrows. “When I look like a sleepy mess?”
Jack shakes his head. “When you look like you’re mine. Wearing my shirt, in my bed. A man can only be so strong for so long.”
“Something tells me that apology’s not genuine.” You try to be coy in your response, but there’s a small tremor in your voice from his words.
Mine. Oh don’t you love being Jack’s.
His hand glides down to the crux of your thigh. “Somethin tells me you don’t really mind.” Jack rubs at the growing damp between your legs. “Barely touched you, honey.”
You spread your legs lazily. “I missed you.”
“That right?” He tugs at the waistband.
You nod, bottom lip trapped between your teeth. “Really missed you.”
“Well, shame on me for leaving you all alone. Ought to apologize for my actions.” His thumb nudges your clit. “Why don’t you come over here and show me how much you missed me, darling, and I can show you how sorry I am.”
The words barely finish leaving his lips before you’re already moving towards him, much too turned on to bother with the facade of apathy.
You crawl into his lap, lips hungrily seeking his own. Jack slings an arm low around your waist, fingers already digging into the curve of your ass. He squeezes hard, molding your pliant body against his own.
Not that you give him much choice, almost knocking him back with the force of your kiss. Your fingers twine through his grey curls, tugging sharply just as your teeth rake over his bottom lip. Jack hisses, equal parts pleasure and pain. And it’s not long before he’s grabbing a handful of your own hair, angling your mouth so he can push his tongue between your lips. Easily dominating you with one gesture.
Your hips rock against his slowly, languidly. He slaps your ass sharply, urging your stilted rhythm. You’re greedy this morning. Rubbing your clit down on the rough fabric of his jeans. Taking your pleasure with hungry moans pressed against tongue and teeth.
“Poor baby,” Jack groans against your lips. “Was only gone for 12 hours.” He slides his hand between your legs once more.
Your hips buck, chasing the sweet pressure of his thumb on your clit. “Too long.” You tilt your head back, a whimper choked in your throat.
“I can see that.” He mouths at your pulse. “Can’t even do my job without you jumping on me as soon as I get home.” His middle and forefinger push your panties to the side to play with your cunt.
“You started it,” you pant, angling your hips so his fingers slip into you shallowly.
“Hm, did I?” He nips at your throat. “Not how I remember it.” With a crook of his wrist, Jack’s fingers fill you. A poor substitute for the real thing, but you can’t find it in your heart to care. “See, I’m just a tired old man, comin’ home from a grueling 12 hour shift. And you seduced me, wearing my shirt and that underwear I love. Sleeping in my bed. Then you climbed in my lap and started kissing me.”
You mumble something under your breath, half moan, half breathless whisper.
“What was that, honey?” He asks, fingers still playing with you, ratcheting up the intense storm inside of you.
“You’re bein’ mean.” You clench around his fingers.
Jack’s arm locks around your waist, stopping your frantic hips. “Oh?” He asks with raised eyebrows. “Am I?” Mischief dances in his green eyes.
You nod, against your better judgement.
“Oh, baby, you don’t know mean. If I was being mean, I wouldn’t let you come. But I’m a gentleman, honey.” His fingers fuck into you, a hard pace that leaves your body boneless. “So I’m gonna make you come with my fingers, and then you’re gonna ride my cock until you come again.”
Jack holds you in place, wanting you to save your energy for later. His deft fingers play the chords of your body. Curling and angling just right. Each thrust of his fingers devastating in its accuracy. Filling your body with the golden light of ecstasy. Your head swims with it. And when he adds his thumb back into the mix, nudging your clit with each pass of his fingers, you’re a goner.
Your legs try to close on his fingers, but he keeps them open as he works you through your orgasm.
“Just like that, baby,” Jack’s voice is a husky whisper in your ear. “So pretty when you come.” He slides his fingers from your cunt, groaning at the wetness that coats his fingers. “Fuck, you’re so gorgeous.” His tongue laps at the digits.
You watch his movement, pupils blown wide with lust.
“Want a taste?” Jack asks. His cock throbs painfully when you nod and stick your tongue out. He pushes his fingers deep into your mouth, only stopping when you gag. “Now was that mean?” He pops the buttons on his jeans.
“No,” you admit reluctantly.
“Gonna ride my cock? Make yourself come again?” He lifts you slightly so he can free his aching dick from his pants. He rubs his spit-slicked hand over himself, taking the edge off slightly.
You nod, tongue curling over your lips, tasting the remnants of yourself.
“Say it.” Jack’s eyes burn into yours.
You wrap your hand around his, stroking him slowly in tandem. “I’m gonna ride your cock,” you whisper, eyes still locked on his. “And I’m gonna make myself come. Like a good girl,” you add, just to watch his lust filled pupils blow wider.
“My good girl,” he corrects, nudging his nose against your own.
“Your good girl,” you amend, knocking his hand away to line his cock up.
Jack busies himself by removing your shirt. His hands find your tits immediately, his lips follow soon after. Tongue laving at the sweat beading on your chest. He presses reverent kisses to the side of your breasts, before mouthing at your nipple.
He looks up at you, mouth still pressed on your skin. “C’mon, honey. What are you waitin’ for?”
You hook your panties to the side, rub your slick cunt over his cock. Jack lets out a huff of impatience. His hand comes down on your ass harshly, quickly rubbing the sting away.
“Darling,” he says through gritted teeth.
You hum, still rocking against him.
“Now who’s being mean?”
“Am I?” You look down at him through heavy-lidded eyes.
“Yes. Why?”
“Cuz it’s fun.” You shrug. “Payback’s a bitch, baby.” You press a light kiss to his lips, pulling back with a smirk before he can deepen it.
He groans. “You gonna make me beg?”
You nod, lips dancing across his jaw. “How badly do you want me?” Your teeth rake against the shell of his ear.
Jack shudders, warmth rushing across his face. “You know how bad,” he mumbles, hips rocking his hard cock up against you.
“Wanna hear you say it.” You nip his earlobe. “Tell me.”
Jack cups your jaw, fingers rubbing absentmindedly at your cheek. “Want you bad, baby.” His voice is a low, husky whisper. “So bad it hurts. Need to be inside your sweet pussy to take the pain away.”
“Yeah?” You slip the tip of his cock inside of you and Jack groans.
“Yeah,” he mumbles, voice muffled by your breast. “Please, honey.” He presses an open mouthed kiss to the skin, and then the gentle skate of teeth as he bites teasingly.
You feign deep consideration for a moment, balanced above him. Hips rocking shallowly to coat him with your warmth. Jack’s breath comes out in labored pants against your collarbone. It must be killing him to be patient. To not take control, grab your hips and yank you down on top of him. Put you on your back and fuck into you.
You might as well reward him.
“Relax, baby. Let me take care of you,” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair to cup the back of his neck. “Take care of my old man after his grueling 12-hour shift.”
Jack looks up at you, a smile on his face. A smile that morphs into a slack-jawed mask of ecstasy as you slide down onto his cock. His groan so full of relief, it’s almost painful. Bubbling up inside of him until it rumbles out of his throat into the quiet room.
He holds your gaze, whispering quiet praises as you move your hips forward slowly. Savoring the fullness of him within you, the subtle stretch and tightness with every roll back and forth. It’s good. So achingly good.
“Shit, baby. You feel fucking amazing,” Jack whispers. “Feel like home.”
You bite your bottom lip, a moan on your tongue. “Want me to move faster?”
“Nah, honey. Take your time. Just wanna feel you.” One of his arms wraps around your waist, the other splays across your back, holding you close to him.
So close, your body slides against him with every undulation of your hips. So close he can feel your heart beating in your chest, keeping time with the frantic pace of his own. So close your breaths mingle and twine. Honeyed moans and adulations dripping from your tongues. So full of love, full of worship, they fill his chest with light and warmth. Building and building. Until he’s so close to that wonderful edge he could burst.
And in any other case he might feel embarrassed to last so briefly. In any other bed, in any other place, he might put it off as long as he could. Fight through it. But not here. Not in this safe space, this home that you’ve both created. Where connection and pleasure is the goal. Where the little death is one to be savored, and not staved off. This hedonistic dance that leads to more and more.
A different pace. One he’s still getting used to.
And so when the sensation of your warm cunt grows to be too much. When the waves of pleasure slam against the dam of self-control and it starts to crack and crumble. He comes without warning. A firecracker in the dark early dawn. Filling you until he’s spent and boneless.
Jack collapses on the bed in sweaty rapture. That bright smile on his face once more mirrors your own.
You lean over him, fingers tracing the lines of his face. Nails playing in the stubble that lines his jaw. “Doing okay?”
He gives you a thumbs up in answer. “Never better.”
“Just checking. I know heart attacks are common for men in your age bracket. Especially after such vigorous activity–”
Jack silences your teasing by rolling you swiftly onto your side, and you laugh sharply in surprise. “Honey, I’m healthy as a horse.” He wraps your leg around his waist. “In fact, since I still owe you one.” His thumb nudges your clit, and your body arches into his. “Let me show you.”
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: 9k
note: And the story comes to an end, at least for now. Thank you so much for walking with me through this journey🧡
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
She heard him dust his boots heavily on the porch, then the door opened, and he stepped inside, bringing the cold air and the smell of pine and sweat with him. His eyes found her immediately, still standing by the stove where she'd been keeping the stew warm.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
She felt her face heat under his gaze, and her hands tightened on the wooden spoon she was holding.
"You're home," she managed, and immediately felt foolish. Of course he was home. She could see him standing right there.
But his expression softened slightly, and he set down his lunch pail by the door.
"I am," The words came out rough. Like he'd been working hard. Or thinking hard. Or both.
He shrugged out of his coat, hung it on the peg, and crossed the small space between them in a few strides.
She tensed with anticipation, expecting him to reach for her, to pull her close the way he had last night. But he stopped just in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look at him, and his hand came up to cup her face instead.
Gentle. Almost careful.
"Feelin’ alright?" he asked quietly.
The question caught her off guard. She'd expected... well, she wasn't sure what she'd expected. But not that.
"I'm fine," she said honestly.
His thumb brushed across her cheekbone, and something flickered in his eyes. Guilt, maybe. Or concern.
"Any discomfort?"
She shook her head.
He studied her face for another moment, like he was checking for signs she might be lying to spare his feelings. Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead -brief, almost chaste- before stepping back.
"Smells good," he said, nodding toward the stove. "What is it?"
"Stew," she answered still processing the gentleness of that kiss. "It's been ready for a while. I was just keeping it warm."
"Sounds good." He moved past her toward the washbasin, rolling up his sleeves. "I'm starvin’."
She turned back to the stove, ladling stew into bowls, and tried to ignore the way her heart was still racing.
It was so stupid that the fact that he was careful and gentle with her still affected her, but she was still getting used to it. To matter. To have a voice. To like and dislike things and be checked on. To be cherished.
“Do you want to wash after you are done?” she heard herself ask without thinking.
He paused, his hands stilling in the basin where he'd been splashing water on his face. Then he straightened, reaching for the towel she kept hanging nearby, and turned to look at her.
"After dinner?" he repeated, like he was making sure he'd heard her right.
She nodded, focusing very hard on ladling the stew into the second bowl. "I could heat water for the tub. If you'd like."
There was a pause, just long enough that she glanced up to see if something was wrong.
He was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read. Something between surprised and... pleased, maybe.
"Yeah," he said finally, his voice a little rougher. "That'd be good."
She nodded and carried the bowls to the table, setting them down with hands that were steadier than she felt.
Offering to heat his bathwater wasn't scandalous. It was a perfectly normal thing for a wife to do for her husband after a long day of work.
Except they both knew what had happened the last time she'd helped him bathe.
When she'd washed his back with careful hands. When he'd been sitting in the tub and she'd been close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. When the air between them had been charged with something unspoken and inevitable.
And now -after last night- there was nothing unspoken left.
She sat down across from him at the table, smoothing her skirt unnecessarily, and picked up her spoon.
He did the same, taking a bite of the stew and making a low sound of approval.
"This is good," he said. "Real good."
"Thank you."
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but weighted with awareness. Of each other. Of what had happened. Of what would happen again.
Eventually, he cleared his throat.
"Had a hell of a time concentratin' today," he said, not quite meeting her eyes.
She looked up. "Oh?"
"Yeah." He took another bite, chewed, swallowed. "Miller nearly had to pull me out of the way of a fallin' log. And Davidson caught me splittin' the same piece of wood three times without realizin' it."
Her eyebrows rose. "That doesn't sound like you."
"It ain't." He finally looked at her then, and there was something in his gaze that made her stomach flip. "Kept thinkin' about last night."
Heat flooded her face instantly.
"About you," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "About comin' home to you."
She didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know if she was supposed to say anything.
But he didn't seem to expect a response. Just went back to his stew, though she could see the tension in his shoulders. The way his jaw worked as he chewed.
Like he was holding himself back from saying -or doing- something more.
They finished the meal in that same charged silence, and when he pushed his bowl away, she stood to clear the table.
His hand slowly caught her wrist as she reached for his bowl.
She looked at him, her pulse jumping.
"I meant what I said," he said quietly. "About givin' you time. Few days, at least."
She swallowed. "I know."
"But… that ain't mean I don't wanna touch you." His thumb brushed across the inside of her wrist, a slow movement that made her skin tingle. "If that's alright."
She thought about the way he'd looked at her when he came home. The careful way he'd touched her face. The kiss to her forehead that had been almost reverent.
She thought about the fact that she'd spent the entire day thinking about him too. About last night. About the future.
"It's alright," she said quietly.
His expression changed -something dark and satisfied crossing his face- and he released her wrist.
"Go on then," he said. "Heat the water. I'll clear the table."
"You just got home," she said, already moving toward the stove to check the water she'd kept simmering. " I'll handle it."
"If I help, you can get started sooner," he countered, already standing and reaching for his bowl. "And honestly, the idea of a bath sounds real good right now."
She couldn't argue with that logic.
They worked in tandem, her hauling the tub from its spot in the corner while he carried the first pot of hot water, both of them moving anticipating each other's movements.
By the time the tub was half-full, she'd settled onto the chair nearby the fire, waiting as he added the last pot of cold water to temper the heat.
He straightened, testing the temperature with his hand, then started unbuttoning his shirt.
She didn't look away.
There'd been a time when they'd given each other privacy for this. When she would've turned the chair to face the wall, or busied herself with some task on the other side of the room.
But that time had passed.
Now she watched as he shrugged out of his shirt, the firelight playing across his shoulders, highlighting the old scars she'd traced with her fingers more times than she could count. And the new ones, faint red lines down his back where her nails had raked him last night.
He glanced at her over his shoulder, catching her staring, and the corner of his mouth quirked up.
"Ain't fair, you know," he said, reaching for his belt. "You gettin' to look while I can't."
"I'm not the one getting in the bath," she deadpaned.
"True." He unfastened his belt, pushed his trousers down, and stepped out of them. Then his drawers followed, and he was bare, crossing the short distance to the tub without a hint of self-consciousness.
She'd seen him naked before. Many times, especially over the past two months. But there was something different about watching him now, in the firelight, knowing what it felt like to have that body covering hers. Inside hers.
He stepped into the tub with a low groan of relief, sinking down into the water until it lapped at his chest.
"Christ, that's good," he muttered, his head falling back against the rim.
She stood, collecting his discarded clothes and adding them to the basket near the door, very aware of his eyes tracking her movements.
When she turned back, he was watching her with an expression that made her stomach flip.
"You gonna help me?" he asked.
She raised an eyebrow. "Help you?"
"Yeah." He shifted in the tub, settling deeper. "I'm real tired. And last time you helped -when I had that cut on my hand- it was..." He paused, and she could see he was fighting a smile. "Real helpful."
She crossed her arms, trying to hide a smile. "You seem perfectly capable of washing yourself."
"Do I?" His voice had dropped lower, rougher. "Because I'm rememberin' how good it felt when you did it. Your hands in my hair. On my back."
Heat crept up her neck at the memory. At the intimacy of it, of touching him like that, tending to him.
"That was different," she said. "You were actually injured."
"I'm injured now," he said, deadpan. "Emotionally. From workin' all day thinkin' about my wife and not bein' able to do anythin' about it."
Despite herself, she felt her lips twitch.
"That's not a real injury."
"Feels real to me." He held her gaze, and the playfulness faded slightly, replaced by something more serious. More intent. "Come here."
It wasn't quite a command. More like an invitation. A request.
She crossed to the tub without hesitation and knelt beside it. His eyes tracked her movements, and when she reached for the soap, his hand caught her wrist.
Gently. Like he'd done at the dinner table.
"I promised I'd give you time," he said quietly. "And I meant it. But I want to touch you. Want you to touch me. That alright?"
She looked at him, at the heat in his eyes, at the tension in his jaw, at the way he was holding himself still despite clearly wanting more.
He was asking. Checking. Making sure she was comfortable.
Just like he had last night.
"It's alright," she said quietly.
His grip on her wrist loosened, and he released her with what looked like effort.
"Good." he said, his voice rough.
----
She worked the soap between her hands until it lathered, then pressed her palms to his back. He made a low sound -half groan, half sigh- and let his head fall forward, giving her access.
She started at his shoulders, working the soap across the muscles, feeling the tension there start to ease under her touch. Then down his spine, she let her thumbs press on either side, the way she'd discovered he liked weeks ago and felt him exhale slowly, deeply.
Her hands knew this body now. Knew the old scars, the puckered one on his left shoulder blade, the long raised line that ran from shoulder to spine. Knew the new marks too, the faint red scratches she'd left last night, already fading but still visible in the firelight.
Evidence of what they'd done. What they'd become to each other.
"Lean forward," she said quietly.
He did, bracing his forearms on his knees, and she reached for the cup sitting beside the tub.
She poured water over his head slowly, watching it darken his hair from brown to almost black, watching it run in rivulets down his neck and shoulders. Then she set the cup aside and worked the soap through the wet strands.
Her fingers found his scalp, and she began to massage in slow, deliberate circles.
The sound he made was involuntary. Deep and rough and so unguarded that it sent a flutter through her stomach.
"That's..." He trailed off, seeming to lose the words.
"Good?" she offered, her fingers still working, applying gentle pressure as she moved across his scalp.
"Yeah." His voice had gone thick. "Real good."
She took her time with it. Working the soap through every strand, her nails scraping lightly against his scalp in a way that made his breathing deepen. She'd done this once before when he'd injured his hand, but that had been different. An assistance.
This was something else.
When she was satisfied, she rinsed his hair carefully, filling the cup again and again, pouring the water slowly so the soap wouldn't run into his eyes. Making sure to get every bit of lather out, combing through the strands with her fingers.
She set the cup aside and sat back slightly, her hands stilling.
He started to reach for the soap, but she picked it up first.
His hand stilled in mid-air, suspended between them.
"I can-" he started, his voice careful.
"I know you can," she said simply.
She dampened and worked more soap in her hands until they had a lot of lather, and waited.
For a moment, he just looked at her. She could see him processing what she was offering. What she was saying without words.
That she wasn't finished. That she wanted to keep touching him.
Then, slowly, like he was afraid sudden movement might break whatever spell this was, he settled back against the tub. His arms came to rest along the rim, palms up, open.
Giving her access.
She brought the cloth to his chest, and his breathing changed immediately, deeper, more controlled, as she began to work the soap across his skin.
She started at his collarbone, tracing the hard line of it from shoulder to shoulder. Then down, over his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath. She could feel his heartbeat under her hand, strong and steady but faster than normal.
He was affected by this. By her touch.
She moved her hand in slow, careful circles. Across to his left side, feeling his ribs expand and contract with each breath. Then back to center and across to the right. Thorough. Methodical.
But not impersonal.
She was hyperaware of every point of contact. Of the way his skin felt warm and slick from the water. The way his muscles tensed slightly when she touched certain spots. Of the way he was watching her through half-lidded eyes, his jaw tight.
His eyes had closed at some point, but she could see his hands gripping the edge of the tub, knuckles pale. He was holding himself very still. Letting her work. Not reaching for her even though she could see he wanted to.
She moved lower.
Over his stomach, feeling the muscle shift under her touch. Her hand traced the line where his torso met his hips, where the hair grew thicker, and she felt him tense.
His eyes opened.
She met his gaze -steady, deliberate- and brought her hand beneath the water.
Down, over his hip. Along his thigh.
And then, because there was no reason not to, because this was part of washing him, just like everything else, she brought it between his legs.
His breath caught audibly when her fingers made contact.
She worked carefully, the same way she'd washed the rest of him. Trying to be practical about it, though there was nothing clinical about the way her own heart was racing now. About the way her face felt warm despite the cool air in the cabin.
She felt him harden under her touch, the change immediate and undeniable, but kept her movements steady. Thorough. Washing him the way he'd need to be washed, trying not to think about the fact that she was touching him there.
When she shifted slightly to reach more thoroughly, his hips shifted forward involuntarily, a sharp, sudden movement that made the water slosh slightly in the tub.
Chasing the contact.
He caught himself immediately, forced his hips back down, and she heard him exhale through clenched teeth.
"Can't help it, sweetheart," he said, his voice wrecked. Strained. "You touch me like that, I-"
He cut himself off, gripping the tub harder, his whole body gone rigid with the effort of not moving. Of not reaching for her. Of not asking for more than she was offering.
"I know," she said quietly, and meant it.
She could see what this was doing to him. Could see it written in every line of his body, the tension, the restraint, the way he was barely holding himself together.
But he wasn't asking her to stop, or to do more. He was just letting her touch him, letting her explore. Letting her learn him at her own pace.
She finished washing him, moving the cloth down his thighs, along his calves, even taking each foot in turn and working the soap carefully between his toes.
When she was done, she rinsed her hands and rested it in her thighs, very aware that her sleeves were damp from the water. That her face was heated. That her breathing wasn't entirely steady.
And he was sitting there in the cooling water, his eyes on her, his chest rising and falling with breaths that were deeper than they should be.
Then he exhaled slowly and opened his eyes fully.
"Thank you," he said.
She nodded, not trusting her own voice, and stood.
"I'll get you a towel," she managed.
She crossed to the chest where they kept the linens, taking perhaps a moment longer than necessary to find one. Using the time to steady herself. To slow her breathing.
Behind her, she heard him shift in the water. Heard the quiet splash and the sound of water streaming off his body as he stood.
When she turned back, towel in hand, he was standing in the tub, water sluicing off his skin in rivulets that caught the firelight.
She could see all of him.
His broad shoulders. His chest. His stomach. The dark hair that trailed down from his navel. His thighs, thick with muscle.
And between them, the evidence of exactly how much her touch had affected him.
Still hard. Still wanting.
She felt her face heat again, felt that now-familiar flutter low in her belly, but she didn't look away, didn't drop her gaze or pretend she hadn't seen.
Just held out the towel.
He stepped out of the tub carefully, water dripping onto the floor, and reached for it.
But instead of taking the towel immediately, his hand caught hers.
Gently. The way he'd done at the dinner table earlier.
He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Slowly. His lips were warm and soft against her skin.
His eyes held hers the entire time.
"You're gonna be the death of me," he said quietly, his voice still rough with want. With restraint. "You know that?"
She didn't know what to say to that.
Didn't know if there was anything she could say that would adequately express what she was feeling, the strange mix of power and vulnerability, of curiosity and nervousness, of wanting to touch him more and being afraid of what might happen if she did.
So she just stood there, her hand still caught in his, her heart pounding.
Then he released her and took the towel, wrapping it around his waist with movements that were just slightly less controlled than usual and walked to the bed.
"Come here," he said quietly.
She complied, and he reached for her hand, pulling her down to sit beside him. For a moment, they just sat there. Close but not touching beyond where his hand still held hers.
Then he brought their joined hands to his lap and traced his thumb across her knuckles.
"You didn't have to do that," he said quietly. "Wash me like that."
"I know."
"But you did anyway."
She nodded.
"Why?"
The question was gentle, curious. Not demanding. She considered it for a moment, then chose to be honest.
"Because I wanted to," she said finally. Simply. “Wanted to help you, and… wanted to touch you.”
His thumb stilled on her hand.
"You wanted to," he repeated, like he was testing the words.
"Yes."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "You tell me, sweetheart. Am I pushin' too hard? Askin' for too much?"
She looked at him, at the genuine concern in his eyes, the way he was watching her like her answer actually mattered, and felt something warm settle in her chest.
"No," she said firmly. "You're not."
"You'd tell me if I was?"
"I would."
He studied her face for another moment, then nodded, seeming satisfied.
"Good," he said. "Because the last thing I want is for you to feel like you have to... like any of this is somethin' you're doin' out of duty."
"It's not," she said quietly. "I promise."
He swallowed, and she watched his throat work with the motion. Then he shifted slightly on the bed, his thighs separating just enough that the towel around his waist loosened, falling open slightly.
The evidence of his arousal was impossible to miss.
His hand tightened on hers for a moment, then released.
"Then," he said, his voice rough. "Would you be willin' to... help me with my situation?"
Her eyes flicked down, then back to his face.
She'd done this before. Multiple times, actually, in the weeks leading up to last night. He'd touched her, and both had discovered what she liked, what made her gasp and arch into his hand. And she'd explored him in return, learned the weight of him in her palm, the rhythm he preferred, the signs that told her he was close.
It had been part of learning each other. Part of him making sure she was comfortable with intimacy before they took that final step.
But somehow this time felt different. Maybe because now she knew what it felt like to have him inside her. Knew what he sounded like when he lost control completely.
"Alright," she said quietly.
His eyes darkened, and she saw relief and want on them.
She moved to stand between his knees, and he reached for the towel, pulling it away completely and tossing it aside. Then his hands came to rest lightly on her hips.
"You don't have to," he said, even though she'd already agreed. "If you're too tired, or if-"
"Bucky," she interrupted gently. "I said alright."
He exhaled slowly, and his grip on her hips tightened slightly.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, okay."
She started to reach for him, but the angle was awkward; she'd have to bend forward, lean down, and her back would start protesting within minutes.
He seemed to realize it at the same time she did.
"Here," he said, releasing her hips. "Get the stool. You'll be more comfortable."
She retrieved the small wooden stool they kept by a corner and positioned it between his knees. When she sat, his hands settled on her thighs this time, palms warm even through her skirts.
She wrapped her hand around him, and he made a sound -low and rough- that sent heat pooling down her belly.
"Christ," he muttered, his head falling back slightly. "Your hand’s so warm..."
She knew what he liked. Had learned it over the course of multiple evenings spent exploring each other, his patient instructions guiding her until she understood the pressure he needed, the rhythm that worked.
So she started the way she always did, slow and firm, her hand moving from base to tip and back again in long, steady strokes.
His hips shifted forward slightly, following the movement, and his hands tightened on her thighs.
"That's good," he said, his voice strained. "That's real good, sweetheart."
She kept the rhythm steady, watching his face. Watching the way his jaw clenched, the way his breathing went ragged, the way his eyes drifted closed.
His hands slid higher on her thighs, gripping through her skirts like he needed something to hold onto.
"Tighter," he said after a moment. "Can you- yeah, like that."
She adjusted her grip, and he groaned.
"Faster?"
"Not yet," he said, his voice tight. "Want it to last."
So she kept the pace slow. Deliberate. Let him feel every stroke.
One of his hands left her thigh and came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone in a gesture that was tender despite the explicit nature of what she was doing to him.
"You're so good to me," he said quietly, his eyes opening to meet hers. "So damn good."
She felt her face heat at the words, at the sincerity in them.
His hand slid from her face down to her neck, then lower, curving around her waist. His other hand stayed on her thigh, grounding, possessive in a way that made her stomach flutter.
"Okay," he said after another minute, his breathing harsher now. "Okay, faster now."
She increased the pace, her wrist working in the rhythm she knew he needed, and felt him tense beneath her touch.
"God, yes," he muttered. "Just like that, sweet girl. Don't stop."
His hips started moving in small thrusts, matching her rhythm, and she could feel him getting closer. Could see it in the way his whole body tensed, in the way his fingers dug into her waist, in the way his breathing had turned ragged and uneven.
"Darlin’," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "I'm gonna-”
He was trying to warn her. Trying to give her time to move her hand and let him take over, grab the towel, to do whatever she needed to do.
But she didn't pull away.
Just kept moving her hand, moving, steady and sure, the way he needed.
"It's alright," she said quietly.
His eyes locked on hers, and something in his expression shifted. Went dark, intense and full of want.
"Fuck," he breathed, and then his whole body went rigid.
She felt him pulse in her hand, felt the warmth spill over her fingers as he spent, his hips jerking forward with each wave. He made a sound -low and broken- and his hand came up to cover hers, holding her in place while he rode it out.
When it was over, he slumped forward slightly, his forehead pressing against her shoulder, his breathing ragged against her neck.
They stayed like that for a moment, her hand still wrapped around him, his face buried in the curve of her neck, both of them catching their breath.
Then he lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes still dark but softer now.
"Sorry," he said, his voice rough. "Should've grabbed the towel, I just-"
"It's fine," she said.
He reached for the towel anyway, gently taking her hand and cleaning it carefully. When he was done, he cupped her face in both hands and kissed her. Slow and deep and grateful.
When he pulled back, he was looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite read.
"You should get into your nightgown," he said finally. "Get comfortable."
She nodded and stood, retrieving her nightgown from beneath her pillow where she'd tucked it that morning. She crossed to the corner near the dresser where a small peg rack hung on the wall, beginning to unbutton her dress.
----
Behind her, she heard him move, the creak of the bed as he stood, his footsteps crossing to the water bucket. The sound of him drinking deeply, then setting the dipper back with a soft clatter.
Then she heard him chewing biscuits.
She rolled her eyes. They'd just eaten. The man had put away two full bowls of stew and half a loaf of bread less than an hour ago.
More drinking. Another swallow. Then silence.
She'd worked her dress off and draped it over the peg, then the petticoat, the corset. Her fingers moved to the ties of her drawers when she heard his footsteps again.
But they weren't heading back to the bed.
They were coming toward her.
She stilled, her hands on the waistband of her drawers, and then she felt him behind her. Close. Not touching yet, but close enough that she could feel his body heat.
His hands settled on her bare skin, one at the small of her back, the other at her shoulder blade, and began to stroke her naked skin in slow strokes. She shivered despite the warmth of the cabin.
"Wanna touch you now," he said quietly, his voice rough and low near her ear. "Is that alright?"
She almost chuckled. So that's why he'd told her to change.
She finished pushing her drawers down her hips and stepped out of them, straightening fully. His hands were still on her back, waiting for her answer.
"More than alright," she said.
She heard the shift in his breathing. Felt one hand slide around to her hip, holding her in place.
"Yeah?" His other hand moved up to her shoulder, his thumb stroking along her collarbone. "You sure?"
She hesitated, feeling heat creep up her neck. Then, because he'd been honest with her earlier about being distracted at work, she made herself say it.
"You're not the only one who spent today thinking about last night, Bucky," she admitted quietly. "I was... distracted too."
His hand on her hip tightened, and she felt him step closer. Close enough that his chest was nearly pressed against her back.
"That right?" he said, and she could hear the satisfaction in his voice.
She nodded.
His hand slid from her hip upward, gliding over her side, until it cupped her breast. His palm was warm and calloused against her soft skin, and when his thumb found her nipple and began circling the areola in slow, deliberate strokes, she couldn't quite suppress the small sound that escaped her lips.
"What were you thinkin' about?" he asked, his mouth close to her ear now. "Specifically."
His thumb continued its maddening circles, not quite touching where she was starting to want him to touch, just tracing around and around until she felt her nipple tighten in response.
She swallowed, trying to find words while his hands were on her like this.
"About..." She paused, her breath catching when his thumb finally brushed directly over the peaked bud. "About how it felt. What you did."
"What I did," he repeated, his voice a low rumble against her back. His thumb rolled over her nipple again, more deliberately this time, and his other hand slid from her shoulder down to join the first, cupping her other breast. "Gonna need you to be more specific than that, sweetheart."
Both hands now, both thumbs working in tandem, and she had to brace one hand against the wall to steady herself.
"When you..." She took a shaky breath. "When you touched me. Before. And during."
"Durin’," he said, and there was something almost predatory in his tone now. Pleased. "You mean when I was inside you?"
"Yes," she managed.
His hands stilled for a moment, and then he turned her around to face him.
She found herself looking up at him, at the heat in his eyes, at the focus written across every line of his face.
"And what exactly were you thinkin' about that?" he asked, one hand coming up to cup her face while the other settled at her waist. "That… you wanted me to do it again?"
The directness of the question should have embarrassed her. Would have embarrassed her, even just yesterday.
But there was something about the way he was looking at her. The way his thumb was stroking along her cheekbone. The way he was asking instead of assuming.
"Eventually," she said honestly. "When... when it doesn't hurt anymore."
Something flickered in his expression, that guilt again, brief but unmistakable.
"It's gonna be a lot better next time," he said quietly.
"I know."
"When we do it again," he continued, his hand sliding from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her closer, "it's gonna feel good. Real good. I'm gonna make sure of it."
She believed him. Because he'd already shown her what good felt like, with his hands, with his mouth, with the patient way he'd learned what made her gasp and arch into his touch.
"But right now," he said, his voice dropping lower, "I just wanna make you feel good. Can I do that?"
"Yes," she said.
His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Good," he said. "Now come here."
He guided her backward toward the bed, and she went willingly, her heart already racing in anticipation of what came next.
He stood in front of her for a moment, just looking. His eyes traced over her, bare and exposed in the firelight, and she fought the urge to cover herself.
She'd been naked in front of him many times before. But it still made her feel vulnerable in a way she couldn't quite explain.
"Lie back," he said quietly.
She did, scooting further onto the bed and settling against the pillows. He followed, moving onto the bed with her, bracing himself on one arm beside her while his other hand came to rest on her stomach.
"You're tense," he observed, his palm warm against her skin.
"I'm not-"
"You are." His hand moved in a slow circle, soothing. "Relax, sweetheart. I'm just gonna make you feel good. That's all."
She took a breath and tried to let the tension ease out of her shoulders.
His hand moved from her stomach upward, sliding over her side, until it cupped her breast. The touch was gentle at first, exploratory, almost.
"I didn't pay enough attention to these last night," he said, almost to himself. His thumb brushed across her nipple, and she felt it tighten in response. "Was too focused on gettin' inside you."
His hand shifted, and he cupped her other breast, giving it the same careful attention, testing its weight.
"But I got time now," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "And I'm gonna take it."
He lowered his head, and she felt his breath ghost across her skin a moment before his mouth closed over her nipple. The sensation made her gasp, wet heat and gentle suction that sent a jolt of feeling straight between her thighs.
His tongue slowly circled the peaked bud, and then he sucked again, harder this time, and her hands flew to his shoulders without conscious thought.
"Bucky-"
He hummed against her skin, and his hand came up to tend to her other breast while his mouth stayed busy.
His fingers found her nipple and pressed firmly under it, making her arch slightly into the touch. Then he pulled gently, tugging just enough that the sensation rode the line between pleasure and something more intense.
She whined -helpless and uncontrolled- and felt him smile against her breast. He switched sides then, his mouth moving to the breast his hand had been tending while his fingers took over where his mouth had been.
The pattern repeated, his tongue circling and flicking, his lips suckling, his teeth grazing so lightly she barely felt it. And his hand, always his hand, pressing and tugging and coaxing her body to respond.
She could feel herself getting restless beneath him. Could feel heat building low in her belly, her thighs shifting against each other, seeking friction that wasn't there.
"Easy," he murmured against her skin. "Not rushin' this."
His mouth stayed on her breast, working her nipple with single-minded focus until it was hard and sensitive and slick from his attention. Then he moved to the other side again, giving it the same thorough treatment until both peaks were tight and aching and she was breathing harder than she meant to.
When he finally pulled back, she looked down to find him watching her with dark, intent eyes. Her breasts felt hot from his attention, her nipples darker and visibly wet, and she felt heat flood her face at the sight.
"Look at you," he said quietly, his hand coming up to cup one breast again, his thumb brushing over the sensitized peak and making her shiver. "So responsive. My wife."
He leaned down and pressed one more kiss to each nipple -soft, almost reverent- and then his hand began to move lower.
Down her stomach. Over her hip. Along her inner thigh.
"Now," he said, his voice rough with want, "let me take care of the rest of you."
His hand moved higher on her thigh, and she felt her legs part without him having to ask.
"That's it," he murmured, his palm warm against her inner thigh. "Just like that, sweetheart."
But then his other hand joined the first, and he pressed gently, urging her to open wider, spread more. She expected him to lower his head. To put his mouth on her the way he'd done before, the way that had made her forget her own name.
But he didn't.
Instead, he just... looked.
His thumbs traced along her soft curls, and then he gently parted her. Spreading her open. Exposing her completely to his gaze.
She felt her whole body tense with something that went beyond nervousness into outright mortification. It was one thing to let him touch her. To let him use his mouth on her. She'd gotten used to that over the past weeks, had learned to relax into the pleasure of it.
But this was different.
This was him looking at the most intimate part of her body with the focus he usually reserved for checking a piece of wood for flaws.
"Bucky," she managed, her voice thin. "What are you-"
She tried to close her legs, instinct taking over, but his hands stayed firm on her thighs.
"Wanna look at my wife proper," he said quietly, his eyes still fixed between her legs. "Wanna see if… if you're hurt. From last night."
The admission made her relax a little. He was just checking on her, making sure he hadn't done more damage than he'd realized.
"What's bothering me is inside," she said quietly. "I don't think you can see it."
He looked up at her then, and she saw something flicker across his face. Maybe the realization that he wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for.
"Right," he said after a moment. "Yeah, that makes sense."
He seemed almost sheepish about it, and despite her discomfort, she felt a small flicker of affection.
Then his thumbs moved again, stroking gently along either side of her entrance.
"I'm not gonna use my fingers today," he said, lowering his head. "Just want to make you feel good. That alright?"
"Yes," she managed.
And then his mouth was on her.
The first touch of his tongue made her gasp, a broad, flat stroke that started low and dragged upward with deliberate slowness.
He did it again. And again. Long, slow licks that covered every inch of her, and made her remember with what made her twitch, what made her breathing hitch, what made her hands fly to his hair without meaning to.
His tongue circled her entrance gently, and she tensed slightly at the sensation.
He must have felt it, because he moved away immediately. Shifted his focus higher, to the small bundle of nerves that made her fall apart when he paid it the right kind of attention.
He settled there now, his tongue working in slow, deliberate circles while his hands held her thighs open. Keeping her spread for him. Keeping her exactly where he wanted her.
"Bucky," she breathed, and she felt him hum against her in response.
His hands moved from her thighs to her hips, holding her down. Not rough, but firm, keeping her still while he worked.
His tongue flicked faster now, more focused, and she felt that familiar tension start to build low in her belly. The sensation coiled tighter and tighter with each pass of his tongue.
She was dimly aware that her fingers had tightened in his hair. That she was making sounds she couldn't quite control. And he just kept going. Patiently. Thoroughly.
Like he had all the time in the world and was determined to use every second of it, making her feel good.
She gasped hard when he started to suck gently, his lips closing around that sensitive spot and creating pressure that made her vision blur, her hips grinding shamelessly against his mouth.
"Let go, sweetheart. I got you." He murmured against her skin.
His tongue returned to its work -circling, flicking, pressing- and she felt the tension reach a breaking point.
And then it snapped.
The pleasure hit her in waves, rolling through her body in pulses that made her arch off the bed despite his hands holding her hips. Made her cry out -his name, maybe, or just an incoherent sound- while he kept his mouth on her, working her through it with gentle, steady strokes.
When the waves finally subsided, she collapsed back against the pillows, boneless and breathing hard. He pressed one last soft kiss to her entrance, then another to her inner thigh, before pulling back.
She looked down to find him watching her with an expression of deep satisfaction.
"Good?" he asked, his voice rough.
She could only nod, still trying to catch her breath.
He moved up the bed, settling beside her and pulling her against his chest. His hand stroked lazily up and down her back while her breathing slowly returned to normal.
"You did good," he murmured into her hair. "Real good for me."
She made a sound that might have been agreement or just exhaustion, and felt him chuckle quietly. They lay like that for a while, the cabin quiet except for the crackling fire and their breathing.
Eventually, he stirred.
"Should get you into that nightgown," he said. "Before you fall asleep like this and wake up freezing."
She made a noise of protest, but he was already moving, retrieving the nightgown from where it had fallen to the floor and helping her sit up enough to pull it over her head.
Once she was covered, he settled back down beside her, pulling the blankets up over both of them and tucking her against his side. She felt his fingers trace idle patterns on her shoulder, his breathing deep and even. The warmth of his body, the weight of the quilts, the dying fire, it all started to pull her toward sleep.
She was just beginning to drift when his voice rumbled quietly through his chest.
.
"Been thinkin'," he murmured against her hair. "Tomorrow's Sunday. We could head into town if you want."
She stirred slightly, her hand settling on his chest. "Oh. Is the reverend coming?"
He let out a quiet laugh.
"He ain’t. That's exactly why we're goin'."
She lifted her head enough to swat his arm lightly. He didn't even flinch, just kept that amused expression on his face.
"The boys at camp were sayin' that with winter comin' on, a lot of the commercial traffic's gonna die off," he explained. "So the shopkeepers and folks in town decided to open on Sundays for the next few weeks. Give the logging crews and the miners from up the mountain a chance to stock up on what they need before things get real bad."
"That's very convenient," she said.
"It is," he agreed. "They're clearly doin' it to make money, not charity, but it works out for us."
She was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Is there something you need?"
"Few things," he said. "Root cellar could be fuller."
She tensed slightly against him, and he felt it immediately.
"Ain’t your fault," he said before she could apologize. "You came from the city. You got no idea what winter's like out here. How much we need to have stored up."
His hand stroked along her back, soothing.
"Plus," he added, "I've been eatin' more since you got here. Means we're goin' through supplies faster."
She relaxed slightly at that, settling back against him.
"So, provisions," he continued. "Anything that'll keep. And..." He paused. "You're gonna need warmer clothes."
"I have-"
"Not warm enough," he interrupted gently. "What you brought from back East ain't gonna cut it when it really starts snowin'. We're gonna be inside most of the time, sure, but there'll be moments we need to go out. Tendin' to the horse, clearin' snow, fetchin' firewood. And even inside..." He pulled her a little closer. "There's gonna be times when the fire alone ain't enough. You're gonna need layers. Real warm ones."
She was quiet for a moment, processing that.
"I feel silly. Didn't realize it would be that cold," she said finally.
"It gets real cold," he confirmed. "We'll keep the fire goin' day and night, but the cabin’s living space ain’t precisely small. Heat doesn't reach everywhere equally."
He felt her shiver slightly at the thought, and he tightened his arm around her.
"We'll manage," he said. "Just need to be prepared. That's all."
"Alright," she said quietly. "Then we'll go to town tomorrow."
"Also," he added, and she could hear the smile in his voice, "wanna show you off a little before we get snowed in."
She snorted against his chest. "Show me off?"
"It's true," he said, unrepentant. His hand slid from her back down to her hip, then lower, giving her rear a gentle squeeze through the nightgown. "We haven't been able to go into town together much. Just that first time, and Thanksgiving. Want folks to see us together proper."
"Oh, Bucky…"
"Want 'em to see you on my arm," he continued, his tone softening slightly. "Want 'em to see that you're mine and I'm yours."
She felt giddy at the quiet possessiveness in his voice. The pride.
"And," he added, "thought I might take you for a drink at the saloon. If you're amenable."
She lifted her head to look at him, one eyebrow raised. "Are you planning to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?"
His eyes gleamed in the low firelight, and his mouth curved into something wicked.
"Hm, are you concerned?" he asked, his voice dropping lower. "Or are you askin' me to?"
She felt heat flood through her body, -embarrassment and something else entirely- and she buried her face back in his chest.
"That's not- I didn't mean-"
She could feel him laughing, the vibrations rumbling through his chest beneath her cheek.
"If that's what you want," he said, clearly enjoying himself, "I'll let you drink all you want. That way you can tell me again how handsome I am and how you can't stop lookin' at me."
She made a strangled sound and covered her face with her hands, even though he couldn't see her anyway with her face pressed against his chest.
"Oh my god," she mumbled into her palms.
His laughter softened, and she felt his hand come up to gently pull her hands away from her face.
"Hey," he said, his voice losing that teasing edge. "Look at me."
She lifted her head reluctantly, expecting to see him still grinning at her expense.
But his expression had changed. Still warm, but serious now.
"I was glad to hear that, darling," he said quietly. "Real glad. It’s nice to know it ain’t only me who's smitten with you. That you feel somethin' for me too."
"You made it easy," she maintained his gaze. "To care about you. You are patient with me. Kind. You never made me feel like I was a burden or an obligation, even though that's exactly what I was at first."
His hand cupped her face more fully. "You were never a burden."
"I was," she insisted. "I showed up unannounced, caused a scandal, forced you into a marriage you didn't want-"
He huffed.
“I put a sign, woman. I was pretty much interested in gettin’ married”
“But we didn’t get to court properly, you didn’t know where you were getting into-”
“I think things turned out pretty well.” he interrupted gently, his thumb stroking along her jaw.
She huffed. "You can't possibly have known that when you agreed to marry me. I could have been awful. Lazy, or mean, or-"
"You ain't."
"But you didn't know that."
“No," he said finally. "I didn't know. But I had a feelin'."
She waited, feeling the warmth of his palm on her skin, grounding her.
"When you were standin' there in that room," he continued, his voice low and thoughtful, "lookin' terrified and tryin' so hard not to show it... and then you looked at me with those eyes of yours and said yes anyway." He paused, his thumb brushing the apple of her cheek. "I thought, this woman's got courage and sense. And I liked that."
She felt something flutter in her chest, but forced herself to speak.
"That's not much to base a marriage on," she mumbled.
"Maybe not," he agreed. "But then you didn't flinch when I was sick. Didn't complain when you had to live in a place that ain't nowhere near what you deserved.” His hand pressed against her heart. "And every day, you gave me more reasons. The way you hum when you're concentratin'. Mendin' my shirts even though you hate sewin'. How you look at me like..." He trailed off, and she saw something flicker in his expression, raw and unguarded.
"Like what?" she whispered.
His jaw worked for a moment, and she could see him gathering courage for whatever he was about to say.
"Like I'm worth somethin'," he said finally, his voice rough. "Like I'm more than just a logger with a cabin and a horse. Like you see me.”
She pushed herself up slightly, needing him to see her face, to understand that she meant every word.
"You are worth something," she said firmly, her hand coming up to rest against his chest. "You're worth everything, Bucky. You're the most attentive, kindest man I've ever known. You're honest, and hardworking, and you-" Her voice caught slightly. "You made me feel safe when I had nowhere to go. You made me feel wanted when my whole life I'd been treated like a burden."
His expression had gone very still, his eyes locked on hers.
"You took care of me when you were sick yourself," she continued, her thumb stroking over his heart. "You taught me things without making me feel stupid for not knowing them. You listen to me. You make me laugh. You-"
"And good lookin'?" he interjected, and she could see the corner of his mouth twitching even as his eyes remained suspiciously bright.
She huffed out a breath that was half laugh, half sob, and swatted his chest lightly.
"Yes, damn you," she said, "And ridiculously handsome. Unfairly so. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
His grin was crooked and devastating. "Just checkin’."
But then his hand came up to cradle her face, his thumb catching the tear that had slipped down her cheek, and his expression turned serious again.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For seein' all that. For sayin' it."
She leaned into his touch. "It's the truth."
"I gambled followin' my gut," he said quietly, his eyes holding her gaze. "And every single day since, you've proven me right. You're everythin' I didn't know I needed, darlin’. And-" He paused, and she saw his throat work. "And I'm in love with you."
She couldn't speak for a moment, couldn't do anything but stare at him as the words hugged her, warm and solid and real.
And then it hit her, not like something new, but like something she'd known all along and only now had a name for. The way her heart lifted when she heard his footsteps on the porch. The way she'd started thinking of this cabin as home not because of the place, but because he was in it. The way even now, with her body still tender and her heart wide open and vulnerable, she felt safe.
"I love you too," she replied, and her voice came out steadier than she expected, considering her emotion. "I think- I think I have for a while now.”
His eyes searched hers for a moment, and then a slow smile spread across his face, the kind that made her stomach flip.
"Do you, now?" he murmured, his voice dropping lower.
She nodded, unable to look away from him.
He kissed her then, slow and deep and thorough, his hand still pressed over her heart like he could feel it beating just for him. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, both of them breathing a little harder.
He shifted slightly, just enough to tilt his head, and she felt him smile against her temple before he pressed a kiss there, soft and lingering. Then another at her cheekbone. Her jaw. Like he was mapping her with his mouth, taking his time, savoring.
She closed her eyes and just felt it -felt him- until her breathing evened out and matched his.
"So," he said after a moment, his voice warm with contentment. "Tomorrow. Town, supplies, that drink at the saloon, and whatever else you want."
"Just… being together sounds perfect," she said softly.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his arms coming around her securely.
The fire had burned down to embers, and outside, she could hear the wind moving through the pines and the distant call of an owl. But inside, wrapped in Bucky's warmth with his heartbeat steady beneath her ear, everything felt exactly as it should be.
She let her eyes drift closed, a smile on her lips, and let herself fall into sleep knowing that tomorrow -and every day after- she'd wake up exactly where she belonged.
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
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✧･ﾟ:Bucky’s seen it. How you stare at his metal hand. How whenever he grabs something with it your eyes flick down, how when he grazes you with it—even only in brief passing—your body seizes up. At first he thinks it’s aversion, but then he spots the way your breath catches. Sees how you start to lean into the touch. Like you can’t enough of it. Of him.
✧･ﾟ:He runs an experiment. He touches you more. Offering a shiny palm when he helps you out of the car, squeezing your upper arm when he walks past you, even just wiping something off your chin with a light, cool touch. It pays off fast. One night he grabs your thigh during dinner, and you make a low, soft sound. A moan. You grab his wrist, face flushed and lips parted. Then you let go like he burned you, stumbling slightly back and ignoring his affectionate smile.
✧･ﾟ:You’re not expecting him to bring it up so suddenly. You’re hoping to ignore it for a while longer. But you’re on the couch, and he’s lying next to you, and suddenly you feel the chill of metal on your inner thigh. It’s electric. You start out of your seat with a squeak, but Bucky pushes you back down. His fingers tease on your sensitive inner thigh, and you gasp, grabbing his wrist with pleading eyes.
✧･ﾟ:His brows raise in a silent question. He’ll let you push him away, and you’ll never speak of it again. But that’s not what you want. You want to feel how that hard, deliberate hand feels inside of you. How every part of Bucky fits with you, how he can abuse the machinery for your pleasure. You push his hand further down, letting the tips of his fingers brush over your clothed core. Bucky smiles, and gives you exactly what you want.
✧･ﾟ:The first time he touches you there, you don’t think you’re ever going to be able to use a toy again. He filles you up so well your eyes roll back, rushes of delight shooting through you as the cold contrasts your dripping heat. Bucky crooks deep inside of you, and bullies that gooey, hot space inside of you with an efficiency that should be criminal. You’re writing and breathless just on his hand, and he moves to his knees to watch himself work you. Awe shines in his eyes, when you spasm around him.
✧･ﾟ:When he’s done, he licks the fingers clean, and you almost cum again at the sight. He learns that he can vibrate them, and kisses you back down into the mattress, the light feeling tickling near your core before he fucks them into you, and you scream in delight.
✧･ﾟ:He starts to use them more and more. Sometimes he feeds them to you while he drills into your already puffy cunt, making you suck every bit of him in. Other times you’ll be folded under him, his mouth working your core until you shine on his beard, and metal fingers roll and pinch your nipples as you squirm.
✧･ﾟ:Soon there are whole nights where he splays his warmer hand over your abdomen, pinning you to the mattress as he fingers you into oblivion. Other times he lets you buck and roll around, enjoying the chase for when your legs get too weak to scramble away. The pleasure is overwhelming, but you still chase it. There’s nothing but bliss in you, when Bucky drags you to his chest and watches you ride them with a dreamy expression and hazy eyes.
✧･ﾟ:Sometimes he just sits them inside of you, forcing you to feel them. How hard and thick they are, just like his cock, but with Bucky under so much more control. He presses on your g-spot and doesn’t falter when you spasm around him, his cock only pressing near your ass as he keeps your pinned in his lap. You try to grind onto him, but he’s stronger and holds you still. He just wants you to feel them. To take him.
✧･ﾟ:Some part of him likes this even more than you do. He likes that you want this part of him. A part that used to be a curse, now turned only into a bringer of your flushed, pretty face and doe-eyes as you watch him like he’s an angel. Every time you cum on his metal fingers, the arm feels less like a mocking, phantom limb, and a little more like Bucky.
✧･ﾟ:You call his name when he touches you, after all. And Bucky doesn’t much care what part of him is making you do that, as long as you never, ever stop.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist✦
✦Author's Note: can you guys tell how normal i am about the metal hand.✦
✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦
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: 6.3k
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
The days found their rhythm.
At first, the solitude had been difficult. Those long hours between dawn and dusk, when she'd hear his boots on the porch and feel something in her chest unclench. Twelve hours alone in the cabin and the woods surrounding it.
But she'd adapted. Had a lot of work to fill the time.
The curtains were finished within the first week. All three windows now had muslin panels with frills in their ends that she could draw closed at night, giving them privacy from the darkness outside. Then, the big one to separate the bedroom from the living space. She'd organized the pantry, labeled the canisters, and scrubbed every surface until the cabin gleamed.
She'd learned the morning routine: wake before dawn, start the fire, put coffee on. Have his breakfast ready: sourdough biscuits, fried cornmeal mush, and some salted meat. Enough to fuel a man who'd be swinging an axe till lunch and then start again. Make sure his lunch pail was packed and sitting on the counter where he couldn't miss it.
That had started after his first day back at work.
He'd come home that evening and collapsed into his chair like a felled tree, exhausted. She'd put dinner in front of him -the roast she'd been cooking all afternoon- and he'd eaten like a man who hadn't seen food in days.
"You didn't eat lunch?" she'd asked, watching him demolish a second helping.
"Had some." He'd torn off another piece of bread. "There's a pot at camp. The cook makes a stew, or somethin’ like it. Mostly just whatever scraps are left over, some rabbits… boiled together."
"Is it... good?"
He'd looked at her like she'd asked if the sky was purple.
"It's food. That's about all I can say for it."
The next morning, his lunch pail had been waiting on the table. Leftover roast wrapped in cloth, two biscuits, and an apple she'd been saving.
He'd stared at it for a moment, then looked at her.
"You didn't have to-"
"I know," she'd said. "But I did."
That had been two weeks ago.
Now it was routine. She'd cook extra at dinner, set aside the best portions for his lunch. Pack it carefully in the tin pail with its fitted lid, making sure nothing would spill or crush during the walk to camp.
And he'd started coming home with stories.
"Miller almost stabbed me today," he'd said one night, grinning around a mouthful of potatoes. "His wife sends him with a hunk of bread and some jerky if he's lucky. Meanwhile, I'm sittin’ there with proper food. He asked me the secret."
"What did you tell him?"
"There’s no secret. I got lucky." He'd reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "Real lucky."
She'd felt warmth bloom in her chest at the words, at the casual affection in the gesture.
----
One morning, she woke to daylight.
Not the pre-dawn gray she'd grown accustomed to, when she'd slip out of bed quietly so as not to disturb Bucky before he had to rise. Actual daylight. Pale and watery, but unmistakable.
Her eyes flew open.
The cabin was silent. Cold. The fire had burned down to nothing but ash and a few faintly glowing embers.
She sat up quickly, her heart already sinking.
His side of the bed was empty. He'd been gone for hours.
"No," she whispered, pushing back the quilt and standing. Her bare feet hit the cold floor, and she moved quickly to the stove, to the counter-
The lunch pail sat exactly where she'd left it the night before.
Untouched.
She pressed her hand to her mouth, staring at it.
She'd overslept. Had failed at the one thing she was supposed to do: rise before him, have his breakfast ready, and make sure he had what he needed for the day.
And he'd left without waking her. Had probably seen her still asleep and decided to let her rest, had walked out into the cold morning without breakfast, without his lunch-
She looked around for evidence of what he'd managed. The cloth that usually covered the leftover biscuits was askew, and when she lifted it, there were three missing. So he'd grabbed those, at least. Eaten them cold, probably, while he dressed in the dark.
But that was all he'd have until tonight, besides that dreadful camp stew. The kind of thing you ate because you had to, not because it would actually fill you up or give you strength.
She stood there for a long moment, staring at the lunch pail, her mind working.
She could leave it. He'd survive one day without a proper meal. Men did it all the time out here.
But the thought of him going hungry when she had food packed and ready, when she could do something about it-
The idea formed slowly, cautiously.
She could take it to him.
He'd told her how to get to the camp. Not because he'd expected her to make the trip, but because- what had he said? In case there's ever an emergency. In case you need to find me.
Was this an emergency?
No. Not really.
But he'd gone without a proper breakfast. Would go all day without lunch. And she had the means to fix it, sitting right here on the counter.
She looked toward the door.
She didn't know how to ride. Couldn't take the horse even if she'd wanted to, which meant it would have to be on foot, and it was a long walk. She knew that much. An hour, maybe more. Through the forest, across the creek, he'd mentioned the crossing, the flat stones you could use when the water was low.
Alone.
She thought about what he'd told her that first day. About the animals. The possibility of strangers with hidden intentions. All the reasons he'd been so insistent that she keep the door locked, that she stay close to the cabin.
But it was daylight now. And she'd be on a clear path; he'd described the landmarks carefully enough that she thought she could find her way.
Probably.
She stood there, turning it over in her mind. The risks versus the practicality of it.
Eventually, she made her decision.
She'd go.
----
She moved quickly after that, before she could second-guess herself.
The beige dress first, the one with the small pink flowers that had faded to almost nothing after years of wear and washing. It was old, practical, and if she snagged it on a branch or got mud on the hem, it wouldn't be a tragedy the way it would with her good blue cotton.
Her hair was still loose from sleep, and she didn't have time to pin it properly. She gathered it at the nape of her neck and worked it into a braid. Her fingers moved automatically, muscle memory from childhood, and within a minute, she had it secured with a ribbon.
Good enough.
She pulled on her boots, laced them tight, and grabbed her shawl from the peg by the door. Then she picked up the lunch pail and stood there for a moment, looking around the cabin as if she might have forgotten something.
The rifle was still above the door. Should she take it?
No. She'd never fired it. Bucky had promised to teach her properly, but between his return to work and everything else, they hadn't found the time. And the image of herself walking through the woods with that enormous rifle in one hand and the lunch pail in the other was almost laughable. How would she even prepare to shoot if she needed to? Set down the pail, fumble with the rifle, try to remember everything he'd taught her while some animal or worse charged at her?
Better to go quickly. Get there, give him the lunch, and come back.
Simple.
She took a breath, pulled the door open, and stepped outside into the cool morning air.
----
The forest was different alone.
She'd walked these trails with Bucky -around the property- at Sundays but always with him beside her, his presence a reassurance that she hadn't fully appreciated until now.
Now, every sound seemed amplified. The snap of a twig under her boot. The rustle of something moving through the underbrush that was probably just a squirrel, but could be anything. The creak of trees swaying overhead.
She kept walking.
The path was clear enough at first. She recognized the landmarks Bucky had pointed out: the lightning-split pine, the boulder covered in moss. She followed them carefully, the lunch pail swinging slightly at her side with each step.
The air smelled of damp earth and pine needles. Cold enough that she was glad for the shawl, though she could feel herself warming as she walked, her breathing coming faster with the exertion.
Eventually, she heard it: the creek.
The sound of water moving over rocks grew louder as she approached by the way Bucky had signaled, and then she saw it through the trees, wider than she'd expected, the current moving faster than she would have liked.
But there, just as he had described: a line of flat stones cutting across the water at an angle, worn smooth by years of use.
She approached carefully, testing the first stone with her boot before committing her weight to it. Solid. Steady.
The second stone was the same. The third had a slight wobble that made her heart jump, but it held.
She made it halfway across before she had to stop, her skirts bunched awkwardly in one hand, the lunch pail in the other, trying to find her balance for the next step.
The water rushed past below, cold and quick. If she fell…
She didn't let herself finish the thought. Just focused on the next stone, and the next, until finally her boot hit solid ground on the far side.
She exhaled and kept walking.
The forest grew denser here, the trees closer together. But she could hear something new now, cutting through the ambient sounds of the woods.
Voices. Distant but distinct. Male voices, rough and overlapping.
And beneath that: the rhythmic thunk of axes hitting wood. The rasp of saws. The crash of something heavy falling.
The lumber camp.
She was close.
She straightened her shoulders, smoothed her skirts as best she could, and kept walking toward the sound.
The camp opened up ahead of her suddenly, the trees giving way to a cleared area scattered with stumps and piles of cut logs. Men everywhere, maybe two dozen of them, working in pairs or small groups. Some felling trees at the edges of the clearing, others stripping bark, still others hauling logs toward a massive stack near what looked like a rough shelter.
She stopped at the edge of the tree line, suddenly very aware that she was the only woman in sight.
No one had noticed her yet. They were all focused on their work, shouting instructions to each other over the noise, moving with the kind of efficiency that came from doing the same job day after day.
She scanned the clearing, looking for Bucky.
Didn't see him.
Her heart sank slightly. Was he deeper in the woods? Had she come all this way and-
"Well, I'll be damned."
She turned.
Two men had stopped working and were staring at her. One older, maybe in his fifties, with a thick gray beard. The other, younger, closer to Bucky's age, tall and rangy, with dirt smeared across his face.
The older one was smiling. Not unkindly, but with a kind of amused surprise that made her face warm.
"You lost, ma'am?" he asked, pulling off his hat.
"No, I-" She held up the lunch pail. "I'm looking for my husband. James Barnes?"
Recognition flickered across both their faces.
"Barnes," the younger one repeated, "Yeah, we know Barnes."
"Is he here?"
"Oh, he's here." The older man gestured vaguely toward the far side of the clearing. "Back that way, working the big pine they dropped this morning. You want me to fetch him for you?"
"No, I can-" She stopped. "Which way exactly?"
He pointed. "Follow that path between the log piles. You'll hear him before you see him. He and Miller are splitting sections."
"Thank you."
She started walking in the direction he'd indicated, very aware that both men were still watching her. Could feel their eyes on her back as she moved deeper into the camp.
Other men were noticing now too. Work slowing. Heads turning.
She kept her eyes forward and walked faster.
----
The path between the log piles was narrow, hemmed in on both sides by stacks of cut timber that smelled of fresh sap. She could hear voices ahead: two men, closer now, their conversation punctuated by the thunk of something heavy hitting wood.
She rounded the corner and saw them.
Bucky had his back to her, his shirt soaked through with sweat despite the cool air, his suspenders cutting lines across his shoulders. He was swinging a maul, bringing it down hard onto a wedge driven into a massive section of a tree trunk. The wood split with a crack, and he stepped back, breathing hard.
The other man -Miller, she assumed- caught sight of her first.
His eyes widened. "Ma'am?"
Bucky turned then, maul still in his hands, and froze when he saw her.
For a moment, neither of them moved. He just stared at her, his expression cycling through surprise, confusion, and something that might have been concern before his jaw clenched.
But then his gaze shifted past her, and she saw something else flicker across his face. Something darker.
She didn't turn to look, but she could feel it, the weight of eyes on her back. Multiple sets of them. The work sounds had quieted slightly, and she knew without looking that men were watching.
Bucky's jaw clenched harder.
He set down the maul and crossed to her, his movements controlled but deliberate.
"Miller," he said without looking back, "this is Mrs. Barnes. My wife." Then, to her, his voice carefully even: "This is Miller."
Miller had straightened up, pulling off his hat. "Ma'am. Pleasure."
She nodded, suddenly very aware of how out of place she was.
"If you'll excuse us for a moment," Bucky said to Miller, already taking her elbow, not roughly, but firmly enough that it was clear this wasn't a request.
He guided her away from the work area, past the split logs, around the massive trunk of a centuries-old pine that had been felled and left where it lay. The bulk of it blocked them from the view of the other men, and he finally stopped and turned to face her.
"What the hell are you doin’ here?"
His voice was low. Controlled. But she could hear the edge underneath it.
She held up the lunch pail. "You forgot this."
He stared at the pail like he'd never seen it before. Then his eyes came back to her face.
"So you walked here? Alone? Through the woods?"
"Yes."
"Christ." He ran a hand through his hair, and she could see him working to keep his voice level. "Do you have any idea-" He stopped. Started again. "Anythin’ could have happened to you out there."
"But it didn't."
"That's not the point." His hand was still in his hair, and he looked like he was fighting the urge to raise his voice. "You could have fallen crossing the creek. Could have gotten lost. Could have run into-"
He stopped again, his jaw clenching.
She felt herself starting to shrink back, the familiar stiffness in her body that came when someone was angry with her. When she'd done something wrong.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I just thought- you didn't have breakfast, and I knew you'd be hungry, and-"
"I know." He cut her off, but his tone had shifted slightly. Less angry, more... frustrated. With himself or with her, she couldn't tell. "I know you were tryin’ to help. But you can't-"
He stopped, seemed to catch himself. Took a breath.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. "You can't do things like that. It ain’t safe."
"I know you said only for emergencies, but-"
"And this seemed like an emergency to you?" The words came out low, almost a hiss, and she flinched.
She took a step back without meaning to, her shoulders drawing in. Her eyes dropped to the ground between them.
The silence stretched out, heavy and uncomfortable.
Then she heard him exhale. A long, frustrated breath.
"Shit," he muttered. "I didn't mean-"
He stopped. Ran his hand over his face.
When he spoke again, his voice was different. Softer. Almost pained.
"I ain't angry that you brought me lunch."
She didn't look up.
"Hey." He stepped closer, and she felt his hand come up, hesitating for a moment before touching her chin, tilting her face up gently until she had to meet his eyes. "I ain’t angry with you."
She wanted to believe him. But her chest was still tight, and she could feel herself bracing for the rest of it. The part where he told her she was thoughtless, careless, a burden-
“I was worried," he said quietly. "Soon as I saw you standin' there, all I could think about was every damn thing that could have gone wrong on that walk. And then I saw them lookin' at you, and I-”
He stopped. His jaw worked for a moment.
"I handled this badly," he said finally. "I'm sorry."
The words hit her like cold water.
Sorry.
He was apologizing. To her.
She stared at him, trying to reconcile the man in front of her -hand still gentle on her chin, expression that showed something that looked like regret, with what she'd been bracing for. The anger. The blame. The litany of everything she'd done wrong.
Her throat felt tight.
"I understand about the walk," she said quietly. "I should have thought it through better. But the other part… about them looking-" She managed a small shrug, trying to make it seem like it didn't matter. "I told you before. People stare. I'm used to it."
His expression changed. Something that might have been frustration, or maybe disbelief.
"This ain’t about your eyes," he said, his voice low.
She blinked. "What?"
“Your eyes." He let go of her chin but didn't step back. "That ain't what they were lookin' at.”
She stared at him, genuinely confused now.
"You," he said. The word came out rough. "They were lookin’ at you. At-" He gestured vaguely, seemingly frustrated with his own inability to articulate it. "Christ, you really don't know, do you?"
"Know what?"
She was looking at him like he was speaking a different language, and he realized with something close to shock that she genuinely didn't picture it.
How the hell did a woman get to be twenty-six years old and not know when men were looking at her like that?
Except, he knew how. Knew exactly how.
She'd spent her whole life being looked at like she was cursed. Like there was something wrong with her, something to avoid or pity or cross yourself against. She'd learned to tune it out, to not see it, because seeing it hurt too much.
So now, when men looked at her the way his crew had been looking at her -with interest- she didn't even register it. Thought it was the same as all the other stares.
Well, it wasn't.
"They were lookin’ at you," he said again, trying to find words that wouldn't embarrass her but would make her understand. "Because you're a woman who just walked into a lumber camp full of men where some of them ain't seen their wives in days, and most ain’t have wives at all."
He watched her face as the words landed. Saw the confusion giving place to something else. Understanding, maybe. And then-
"Oh," she said quietly.
"Yeah." His hand flexed at his side, resisting the urge to reach for her again. "So when I saw them lookin’ at you like that, I..."
He trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence without sounding like a jealous bastard.
Though that's exactly what he was.
She was still processing it, he could tell. Her eyes had gone wide, and she looked like she was trying to puzzle through something that didn't quite make sense to her.
"But I'm your wife," she said finally, and it came out almost like a question.
Like that should have mattered. Like, surely that should have stopped those men from looking.
And, the fact that she said it like that, like she was his, like she understood that much even if she didn't understand why it made him want to put his fist through something or someone…
His composure cracked.
She was his wife. Had been for weeks now. And he'd been so careful, so goddamn patient, giving her space and time and treating her like she might break if he pushed too hard.
But standing here, watching her look at him with those mismatched eyes, her hair in that simple braid, hands still holding his lunch pail like it was the most important thing in the world-
He was done being patient.
"Yes," he said, his voice dropping lower. "You are."
He stepped closer, closing the distance between them until she had to tilt her head back to keep looking at him.
"You're my wife," he said, and he could hear the roughness in his own voice, the possessiveness he wasn't even trying to hide anymore. "And I don't like other men lookin' at you like they have any right to."
His hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone.
"And darlin’," he said, his voice dropping lower, "I'm done pretendin’ I don't want what's already mine."
Then he leaned in and kissed her.
----
His mouth covered hers, and her entire world narrowed to that single point of contact.
Warm. That was her first thought. His lips were warm and firm against hers, pressing with a certainty that made her knees feel unsteady.
She'd been kissed before, technically. That brief, perfunctory press of lips in the church, witnessed by the reverend and the sheriff and Mary's avid eyes. A formality.
This was nothing like that.
His hand was still cupping her face, his thumb stroking her cheekbone in a gentle counterpoint to the press of his mouth on hers. His other hand had come to rest at her waist, steadying her, pulling her closer.
She didn't know what to do with her hands. The lunch pail was still clutched in one of them, hanging awkwardly at her side. Her free hand hovered uselessly in the air for a moment before settling tentatively on his chest, feeling the warmth of his body beneath the damp fabric of his shirt.
His lips moved against hers, coaxing, and she tried to follow his lead even though she had no idea what she was doing.
Then his mouth opened slightly, and she felt-
His tongue. Wet against her lips.
Gentle but unmistakable, asking for something she didn't understand how to give.
Her breath caught, and she froze.
He must have felt it because he pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes searching her face. His pupils were dark, his breathing uneven.
"You alright?" he asked, his voice rough.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Her heart was hammering so hard she was certain he could feel it where her hand rested against his chest.
"Never been kissed like that before," he said. Not a question, but a statement of fact.
She shook her head.
Something flickered in his expression. Satisfaction, maybe, or possessiveness, or both.
"Open your mouth a little," he said quietly. "Just a little. Let me in."
It should have sounded presumptuous. Demanding. But the way he said it, low and careful, made it sound like an invitation instead of an order.
She nodded again.
This time, when he kissed her, she was ready for it. Or thought she was.
His mouth covered hers again, and when she parted her lips the way he'd asked, his tongue swept inside.
The sensation was overwhelming. Intimate in a way she hadn't anticipated, hadn't known to expect. She could taste him -coffee and something else, something distinctly him- and feel the wet heat of his mouth moving against hers.
She made a sound, small and startled, and his other hand tightened at her waist.
He was guiding her through it, she realized. Showing her what to do with small movements, gentle pressure. When his tongue touched hers, she instinctively pulled back slightly, but he followed, coaxing her to try again.
And she did.
Tentatively at first, then with more confidence when she felt him make a low sound in the back of his throat. Pleasure, she thought, or approval.
Her free hand moved from his chest to his shoulder, gripping the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
Maybe it was.
The kiss deepened, and she felt herself leaning into him, felt the strength of his body supporting her weight. The lunch pail slipped from her fingers and hit the ground with a dull thud that neither of them acknowledged.
Both her hands were on him now, one clutching his shoulder, the other sliding up to the back of his neck, where his hair was damp with sweat.
He groaned -actually groaned- and suddenly she was moving backward.
Not falling. He was guiding her, his body pressing into hers until her back met the rough bark of the massive tree trunk behind her.
His hand left her face for just a moment, sliding around to cradle the back of her head, cushioning it against the wood. Protecting her even as he pinned her there with his weight.
And then she felt it. All of him.
The solid wall of his chest against hers. His hips pressed firmly into her own. The hard muscle of his thighs bracketing hers. Every point of contact was sending heat flooding through her body in a way that made her feel dizzy and breathless and desperately aware of sensations she'd never experienced before.
His mouth never left hers. If anything, the kiss grew more intense, more demanding. His tongue stroked against hers with a rhythm that made something low in her belly clench and pulse.
The hand at her waist tightened, then began to move.
Slowly. Deliberately. Sliding upward over her side, thumb tracing through the fabric of her dress.
Higher.
She felt it coming, felt where his hand was going, but couldn't seem to make herself stop him. Didn't want to stop him, even though some distant part of her brain was screaming that this was improper, that they were outside, that anyone could-
His hand curved just below her breast, his thumb brushing the underside of it through all the layers of fabric between them.
The touch sent a jolt through her entire body. She gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound.
Then, suddenly, he pulled back.
Not far. Just enough to break the kiss, his breathing harsh and uneven. His hand was still there, still curved beneath her breast, and she could feel his fingers flexing slightly like he was fighting not to move them higher.
His forehead dropped to rest against hers, and when he spoke, his voice was wrecked.
"Christ," he muttered. "We need to stop."
She couldn't speak. Could barely breathe.
Her entire body felt like it was on fire, every nerve ending alive and singing in a way she'd never experienced. She could feel the imprint of his hand through her dress, could feel the hard length of his body still pressed against hers, pinning her to the tree.
She didn't want him to stop.
The thought came unbidden, shocking in its clarity. She didn't understand what was happening to her body, didn't know what this ache low in her belly meant, or why she wanted to press closer to him instead of pulling away, about the scandalous nature of it all.
But she knew she didn't want him to stop.
"Why?" The word came out barely a whisper.
He made a sound that might have been a laugh or a groan, she couldn't tell which.
"Because we're standin' behind a tree," he said, his voice still rough, "about fifty yards from two dozen men who are definitely wonderin' what the hell we're doin' back here." He paused, and she felt his hand flex again beneath her breast. "And because if I don't stop now, I ain't gonna stop at all."
She felt his words as much as heard them, his breath warm against her lips.
"Oh," she managed.
He pulled back a little more, just enough that she could see his face. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and there was a flush high on his cheekbones that had nothing to do with exertion from work.
"You understand what I'm sayin’?" he asked quietly.
She nodded, even though she wasn't entirely sure she did. But she understood enough. Understood that whatever was happening between them -whatever this heat and wanting was- it couldn't continue here. Not now.
"Okay," she whispered.
He took a breath, then slowly -reluctantly- stepped back. His hand slid away from beneath her breast, trailing down to her waist again before dropping to his side entirely.
The loss of his warmth, his weight, left her feeling unsteady. She pressed her palms flat against the tree trunk behind her, using it to keep herself upright.
They stood there for a moment, just looking at each other. Both breathing too fast. Both clearly affected.
Then Bucky bent down and picked up the lunch pail from where it had fallen, brushing dirt off the side of it before holding it up.
"Thank you," he said, and his voice was still rougher than usual. "For bringin’ this. For walkin’ all that way, even though it was dangerous and foolish and-" He stopped. "Thank you."
She nodded, not trusting her voice yet.
"I need to get back to work," he said, though he made no move to leave. "And you need to get home before it gets any later."
"Yes," she managed.
"The same way you came. Straight back. Don't stop, don't wander off the path." His voice had taken on that authoritative edge again, the one that expected to be obeyed. "You get home, and you lock that door. Understand?"
"Yes."
He looked like he wanted to say something else. Or maybe do something else. His eyes kept dropping to her mouth, and she saw his jaw clench.
But he didn't move.
"Go on then," he said finally. "Before I change my mind about lettin’ you leave."
----
He watched her turn and start walking back toward the path, her skirts swaying with each step, the long braid hanging down her back.
She looked thoroughly kissed.
Her dress was rumpled where his hands had been, dirt smudged on the fabric from being pressed against the tree. And her hair… had come loose in places, pulled partially undone by his hand without him fully realizing.
He should have said something. Tell her to fix it before she walked back through camp.
But telling her would mean embarrassing her. And he couldn't fix it himself, had no idea how women's hairdo worked, and wouldn't know where to start.
So he just stood there and watched her go, that long braid swaying against her back with each step, and fought the urge to reach out and grab it. To use it to pull her back against him, to turn her around and kiss her again, to finish what they'd started-
The thought stopped him cold.
Finish what, exactly? Here? In front of his entire crew, with nothing but pine needles and hard ground as bedding?
Christ, he was losing his mind.
He dragged a hand over his face and forced himself to turn away before she disappeared around a log pile. If he kept watching, he'd do something stupid. Like follow her. Like pull her behind another tree and put his hands on her again, and to hell with who might see.
Miller appeared in his vision as he rounded the tree and raised his eyebrows.
"Everythin’ alright?"
"Fine," he said shortly, picking up the maul he'd abandoned and gripping it hard enough that his knuckles went white.
Miller's gaze moved past him, toward where she'd disappeared, then back to his face. A slow grin spread across his features.
"Yeah," he said. "I can see that."
"Shut up and get back to work."
Miller's grin only widened, but he had the good sense not to push it further.
----
By the time she saw the cabin through the trees, her legs were shaking.
Not from fear. Not even from exhaustion, though she'd walked for over two hours total today, and her feet ached in her boots.
From something else entirely.
She pushed through the door and closed it behind her, leaning against it for a moment before crossing to the table and pulling out one of the chairs. She sank into it gratefully, her body finally able to stop moving.
But her mind wouldn't stop.
It kept circling back to the same thing. The same moment.
She pressed her hands to her cheeks and felt the heat there. Still warm, even now, even after the long walk back.
Nothing -not the whispered conversations she'd overheard between married women, not the vague warnings her mother had given her years ago about what to expect on a wedding night, not even the perfunctory peck in the church- had prepared her for that.
For the way his mouth had moved on hers. For the heat and the wetness and the shocking intimacy of his tongue sliding against hers.
Slow. Deep. Inside her mouth.
The memory alone made that strange ache pulse low in her belly again, made her shift restlessly in the chair.
She'd felt things during that kiss. Things she didn't have names for. Her body had responded in ways she never experienced before. The tightness in her breasts, the heat between her legs, the desperate wanting that had made her press closer to him instead of pulling away.
And his hand.
She closed her eyes and felt it again, the weight of his palm sliding up her side, the deliberate slowness, the way his thumb had brushed just beneath her breast and sent sensation sparking through her entire body.
He'd stopped.
Had pulled back and said they needed to stop, even though she could see in his face that he hadn't wanted to.
But tonight...
Her eyes opened.
Tonight, he would come home.
Would walk through that door after a long day of work, and they would eat dinner together the way they always did, and then they would go to bed together the way they always did.
Except it wouldn't be the same. Not after this.
Not after he'd kissed her like that. Touched her like that. Looked at her with those dark eyes and said he was done pretending he didn't want what was already his.
What would happen when he came home?
She didn't know.
But sitting here alone in the quiet cabin, with the memory of his mouth on hers still burning through her-
She thought maybe she wanted to find out.
----
The sun was already setting by the time he crossed onto his property.
His body ached. Twelve hours of swinging the maul, hauling logs, stripping bark. The kind of work that should have left him too exhausted to think about anything except food and sleep.
Except he hadn’t been thinking about food and sleep.
His jaw clenched as he walked, his mind circling back to the same things it had been replaying for hours. Her lips parting under his. The small sound she'd made when his tongue touched hers. The way she'd gripped his shoulder like she needed something to hold onto.
The way she'd responded to him.
Christ, she'd never been touched before. And she'd let him- had trusted him enough to let him guide her through it, to show her what to do.
He'd been half-hard for most of the afternoon just thinking about it. About her hand sliding up to the back of his neck. About the heat of her body pressed against his. About how she'd tasted, how she'd felt pinned between him and that tree.
He wanted to do it again. Wanted to kiss her properly this time, without an audience fifty yards away. Wanted to take his time with her, to see what other sounds he could pull from her throat.
Wanted to find out what she'd do if his hand moved higher than it had this afternoon.
But.
He slowed as the cabin came into view through the trees.
She certainly hadn't seemed scared when she'd left. She seemed... dazed, maybe. Overwhelmed. But not frightened.
But that had been right after. When she was still caught up in it, still feeling whatever he'd made her feel.
Now she'd had hours to think about it. Hours to remember that he'd pressed her against a tree in the middle of a lumber camp where anyone could have seen them. Had touched her in ways that-
Fuck.
He'd let his jealousy get the better of him. Had seen those men looking at her and had needed to stake his claim in the most primitive way possible. Had needed her to understand that she belonged to him, that no one else had any right to look at her like that.
Because she was his. Legally. Morally. In every way that mattered.
And he'd dragged her behind a tree and put his hands on her, where anyone of the crew could have walked by and seen them.
Like she was some soiled dove he'd pulled into an alley on a Saturday night.
She deserved better than that.
He started walking again, slower this time, trying to figure out what the hell he was going to say when he walked through that door.
Next Chapter
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A one-shot. Porn w/ very little plot. 18+ ONLY, MDNI.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x you (fem)
Word Count: 5.9k
Summary: You. Are. Frustrated. You just can't seem to find release. So when you come across Bucky's motorcycle jacket in the common room, you just can't help yourself... But what happens when he finds you?
Trigger Warnings: 18+ ONLY, MDNI. Grinding on his jacket in the common room; orgasming on his motorcycle; P-in-V sex on his motorcycle; He's a little dark, but also not really? Idk.
Author’s Note: This was a request from @cattyanna. I went overboard. Partially because the request was from an absolute age ago (I'm so sorry babe! I really hope the wait was worth it!), and partially because she said "make it filthy as fuck"... So I did...
Masterlist
Your room was quiet after midnight. The only sound was the soft ticking of the cheap plastic clock mounted near your bedroom door, each second a pinprick.
You lay sprawled across your sheets, sweat-slick and annoyed. The air wasn’t hot, but your body burned anyway, needy, flushed, and unfulfilled. The tangle of sheets around your legs was half-kicked off, bunched at your calves, one thigh thrown over a pillow that hadn't helped at all. Your useless fingers were damp. Your vibrator lay dead beside you, battery light blinking, like it had given up too.
You’d tried. God, you’d really tried.
Twice with your fingers, then again with the toy. And still no release. No sweet, spine-bending payoff. Just that tight, throbbing ache low in your belly that refused to be itched, no matter how you angled your hand or how much erotica you read. You were, in a word, frustrated.
You threw your head back against the pillow with a low groan, pressing your wrist to your forehead, like that might will the tension away. Your skin felt too tight. Every inch of your body was restless and sensitive. Your thighs pressed together instinctively, again, and the friction only made it worse.
“Why the hell isn’t this working?” you muttered into the dark, voice hoarse.
You blinked up at the ceiling fan, which was lazily spinning above you, doing absolutely nothing helpful. The air in your room was thick with your arousal and it was starting to make you angry. You couldn’t stay here like this. Maybe water would help, a distraction, a walk to the kitchen. Anything to cool the heat humming low and constant and unfulfilled between your legs.
You sat up with a huff and grabbed the nearest tee from the floor. It was thin, worn soft from too many washes, and clung to your still-damp skin when you pulled it down over your head. You didn’t bother with a bra or underwear. Just a pair of loose shorts that rode up a little higher than you remembered, clinging to the curve of your hips. You didn’t care; no one would see you.
The hallway was dark, but familiar underfoot. Cool wood greeted your bare soles as you padded softly through the space. No lights were on, not even the usual common room lamp someone always forgot to switch off. Shadows and moonlight bled in through the blinds.
You exhaled slowly, trying to will the throb in your core to quiet down, but it followed you like a second heartbeat, pulsing low and insistent with every step you took.
You focused on the thought of cold water on your tongue, the weight of the glass in your hand, the chill of it against your palm. It was a simple goal: get to the kitchen. Just breathe. Just stop thinking about the ache, the want… him.
Your eyes flicked to the lounge as you passed.
And landed on Bucky’s leather motorcycle jacket.
It had been carelessly draped over the back of the couch. The same jacket he wore after late missions or on early rides.
That thick, battle-worn thing that always clung to him like a second skin. It looked softer now, here in the dimness, crumpled casually over the back of the couch, sleeves twisted, collar askew. You should have ignored it. It was just leather and lining. Just a man’s coat.
You should have kept walking.
Should have gone straight to the kitchen, grabbed your glass of water, maybe even splashed some on your face like a sane person. But your feet betrayed you the moment your eyes landed on his jacket, like it wasn’t a damn weapon all by itself.
But your steps slowed, and then stopped altogether.
Your pulse thudded in your ears, and even harder deep in your core. You glanced around, not just out of guilt, but some deeper animal instinct as well. The compound was still: no creak of floorboards, no cough from down the hall, no flicker of movement from the corner of your eye. It was just you, the dark, and that jacket.
Your fingers moved before you told them to.
You reached out, brushing the collar first. It was softer than it looked, really broken in. You’d seen him wear it a dozen times, maybe more, but touching it like this, alone, was something else entirely. It still held the shape of his shoulders, the fold of his elbows. You knew it would also hold the scent of him.
You pulled it slowly into your arms, careful not to drag it too hard, like someone might hear the whisper of leather shifting. You shouldn't have touched it. It didn’t belong to you; you had no right. You knew that, but it was like a drug, the moment it settled into your hands.
And then you brought it to your face.
The breath you pulled in shook your lungs. Cedar came first: sharp and woodsy, earthy and grounded. Then sweat: salt and skin, the ghost of exertion. The scent of leather itself was there, of course: masculine and dark and rich.
But underneath it all was him, a smell you didn’t even know you recognized until it filled your head like smoke, curling through your senses, slipping down your throat and settling low in your gut.
You whimpered before you could stop the sound.
It tumbled out against the collar, small and pathetic and desperate. You didn’t even register your knees buckling. You caught yourself with one hand on the arm of the couch, the other clutching the jacket to your chest like you could bury yourself in it. Your forehead pressed against the collar, breath hot where it hit the leather.
And then your hips moved. It wasn’t conscious, just a shift of weight that became a slow grind, then a roll forward and back again. You felt the pressure against your clit through the thin cotton of your shorts, your tank top sticking to your damp skin, nipples already hard and aching. The couch arm dug in just enough to make you gasp softly.
You didn’t stop, not now that relief might finally be within reach.
Your body took over, chasing a high that had evaded you all night. You rocked your hips, dragging your pussy against the edge of the couch, grinding the jacket between your body and the cushion like it might give you more than your own fingers had. You moaned into the collar, soft and breathy, the scent of him overwhelming the air, your thoughts, and your shame.
One hand clutched the jacket tight to your mouth while your free hand found your breast through the tank top, squeezing, rubbing over your nipple in slow circles. The thin cotton was no barrier. Every nerve in your chest lit up and you rocked harder.
You were close, but it was still not enough.
It was maddening, how you could be soaked, panting, trembling, and still so fucking unsatisfied. But your hips kept grinding. Your thighs were tight, muscles clenching with every pass over the couch arm. And with the friction and the scent, a fantasy burned behind your eyes: of Bucky, below you, watching you lose your mind as you ground down on his hard cock.
You were a mess. A whimpering, moaning, humping mess. And still, you needed more.
*****
Sleep wasn’t happening that night for Bucky. Not an uncommon thing; nights like this came and went with no real reason. Sometimes it was the buzz of adrenaline in his blood, left over from fights, or dreams that turned into nightmares before he got any real rest. Other times, like tonight, it was just the weight of silence pressing in too hard.
He tugged on a pair of sweatpants, gray, low-slung, and soft, and didn’t bother with a shirt. The tower was warm enough, and the lounge had that broken couch he liked sinking into when his thoughts got too heavy. He figured he would watch some mindless late-night TV as a distraction. That’s all he’d wanted.
He didn’t expect to find you, and especially not like that.
He rounded the corner in perfect quiet, the way he always moved without thinking: barefoot, trained, invisible in the dark. But the second he stepped into the lounge, the air caught in his lungs.
He saw you there instantly, bent forward slightly, one knee up on the couch, your body moving in slow, deliberate rolls against the armrest.
And then he saw his jacket clutched in your arms.
And your face, half-buried in it.
Your soft, broken moans barely reached his ears, but the low needy note in them hit him like a punch to the gut.
You didn’t know he was there.
Your back was to him, your tank top and shorts clinging to the curves of your body like second skin, every shift of your hips sending a ripple through his bloodstream. He could see the tension in your thighs and the desperate way you moved.
And his jacket was wrapped in your arms like you couldn’t get close enough.
He didn’t breathe.
His cock stirred beneath his sweats before he had a chance to process what he was feeling. His hand twitched toward it, more reflex than decision, palming himself with a slow curl of his fingers as heat surged in his gut. His jaw locked tight.
He could see exactly what your body was doing and how close you were. He knew you must be completely out of your head to do this in the middle of the damn common room. And it should’ve been enough to make him look away and turn back, to give you the privacy you deserved.
But all he could think was: That should be me.
You should be pouring those pretty little moans into his skin, not his collar.
His mouth went dry.
And then, very slowly, he let the corner of his mouth curl into a smirk.
His voice came low and dark from the shadows, roughened by the gravel of arousal barely held in check.
"I don’t think that’s yours, doll.”
*****
Your whole body snapped tight at the sound of his voice.
It rippled through you, dark, low, and too close. Your hand clenched around the jacket instinctively, as if you could hide it or hide behind it, you weren’t sure.
But the moment you twisted toward the hallway and saw Bucky standing there, your stomach dropped.
He was half in shadow, half washed by the faint spill of moonlight from the window. Black tee, sweatpants slung indecently low on his hips. His expression was unreadable at first, except for two details that hit you like a one-two punch:
He had been watching you. And his hand was on his cock.
Heat tore up your spine so fast your knees nearly buckled.
You lurched upright, fast and clumsy, almost tripping over the couch arm as you scrambled to stand, still clutching the jacket like it might save your life. It didn’t; if anything, it made everything worse.
“I—I’m sorry—” you stammered, breath catching. Your mind spun, thoughts slipping out of reach like you were trying to grab handfuls of smoke. “I didn’t mean—your jacket—I’ll wash it, I swear, I wasn’t—this isn’t—”
You couldn’t even finish a sentence, much less a thought.
Your voice cracked and every inch of your skin burned. You stepped back without thinking, some old instinct telling you to retreat, to put distance between you and the humiliation clawing at your ribs.
But Bucky stepped forward with a an eerie calm, like he knew exactly how the moment was going to unfold. Confidence rolled off him in waves, quiet, steady, and impossible to look away from.
“Don’t,” he murmured.
You stopped moving, stopped speaking; you may have even stopped breathing.
He the faint scent of his body reached you before he did, clean man, metal, and something darker wrapped around you. He lifted his flesh hand, brushing two fingers beneath your chin with an aching gentleness.
Your eyes dropped instinctively, but he tipped your head up until you had no choice but to meet his gaze.
And those eyes held you.
The deep blue, sharp even in the dark, was focused entirely on you. They made the room shrink until it was just the two of you and the wild, electric thrum between your bodies.
“Hey,” he said softly, voice rough around the edges. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
Your throat closed up.
His thumb brushed your jaw, slow and deliberate, and heat shot through you so abruptly a tiny embarrassing sound escaped you before you could stop it.
When Bucky heard it he went very still. The corner of his mouth ticked up just slightly, less a smile than a quiet, devastating confirmation that he understood exactly what that sound meant.
Your thighs pressed together before you realized you were doing it.
His gaze dropped, only for a moment, following the motion, catching the tension in your legs, the way you clutched his jacket like you needed it to stay upright. When his eyes lifted again, they were darker and held a certainty that made your pulse collide against your ribs.
His low, warm chuckle slid beneath your skin.
He stepped back and dropped lazily onto the couch. His arms stretched across the backrest, muscles shifting beneath his skin, legs spread a little wider than necessary.
You tried not to look.
You failed.
Your gaze followed the line of his torso down his broad chest, sculpted stomach, the soft fabric of his sweatpants pulled tight over the unmistakable outline beneath. He was hard and heavy and impossible to ignore.
You tore your gaze away so fast it almost hurt.
He didn’t let you look away for long.
“Sit with me,” he prompted.
You didn’t know if it was a request or a demand, but you sat all the same.
“So.” His warm voice slid through the quiet. “What exactly were you thinking about just now… grinding like that?”
Your stomach dropped. Heat flooded your cheeks. Your mouth opened, closed, and opened again. “I—Bucky, I…”
He didn’t rush you. He just lifted a hand and curled two fingers under your chin again, guiding your gaze back to his.
“Don’t look away,” he murmured.
You swallowed hard. Your lips parted on a shaky breath.
“I was thinking about…” You hesitated. The words lodged in your throat, too humiliating to say aloud.
His thumb skimmed the edge of your jaw, both coaxing and warning.
“Me?” he asked, quiet and knowing. “You were thinking about me.”
You nodded before your mind caught up. “Yes.”
His expression sharpened as something dark and deeply male slipping into the set of his mouth and the weight of his gaze.
“Couldn’t get off in your room, huh?” he asked softly.
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
“No.” The admission scraped out of you in a whisper, humiliating and oddly liberating at the same time. “I… I kept trying, but I couldn’t. I just kept thinking about you.”
A breath shivered out of him, controlled and deliberate, and yet not quite steady. A hunger and satisfaction flickered across his face.
His voice dropped an octave. “Do you need something more?”
“Yes.”
His fingers slid from your chin to your cheek, barely touching you.
“Tell me what you need.”
The answer left you on a breath, “You.”
His hands came to your hips, big, steady, and sure, and he pulled you onto his lap in one smooth, unhurried motion. You gasped as your body settled above his, heat flushing through you so fast it made you lightheaded.
You were suddenly, undeniably aware of how solid and warm he was beneath you. He was impossibly close now, his breath brushing your throat. His hands held you firmly in place, thumbs stroking slow arcs along the curve of your waist.
He murmured, “Then move. Show me what you need.”
Your breath shuttered on release. Your body reacted before thought could intervene, following some instinct older than embarrassment. You moved, slow and tentative, testing that he meant it. Every inch of you felt too sensitive, too aware of him.
Your eyes fluttered shut.
His mouth brushed your ear, barely a whisper of contact. “Tell me what you think about when you touch yourself.”
A tremor of anticipation rolled through you.
You gathered air, courage, and heat, and whispered, “You. I think about you.”
His hands tightened ever so slightly on your hips.
“But not just you,” you added, breath catching. “I think about you on your bike.”
He stilled beneath you.
Your voice grew softer, more breathy, and more certain. You could feel him listening, every word sinking into him.
“I imagine being on it with you,” you whispered. “Straddling it. With nothing between me and the seat. Feeling every rumble of the engine when you rev it.”
Your pulse thundered. His grip on you changed, subtle, but urging you to move more, to use him and grind down harder. You did.
“I imagine the whole machine vibrating beneath me,” you murmured, eyes now closed. “And you’re there, watching. The engine growling, my body…” You swallowed. “My whole body responding to it.”
Your breath trembled.
“And I imagine…” You hesitated, heat flaring up your chest, your throat, your ears. “I imagine the way it would feel if you kept revving it. Pushing it. Making the whole bike shake beneath me while you just… watched me fall apart.”
You were almost afraid of the silence, but his hard length beneath you gave you the courage to finally open your eyes. When you did, Bucky was staring at you like he’d never seen anything like you in his life.
His eyes were blown wide, blue swallowed by black, every muscle in him drawn sharp with a tension you could feel radiating through his thighs, his abdomen, and his hold on you.
He looked like a man fighting not to pounce, and losing the battle.
You barely had time to inhale before his grip shifted decisively. His fingers slid possessively around your waist, metal hand up the line of your spine, dragging you closer until your chests met and there wasn’t a millimeter left between you. You weren’t grinding anymore, but you didn’t mind. His cock pressed up beneath you, so large and so hard, sending a shockwave through your entire body.
Your gasp was instant and his response was immediate.
A low, feral sound rumbled out of him, somewhere between a groan and a growl, and his mouth found the side of your throat. Not kissing or biting, just there, breathing you in, like he needed to memorize the exact shape of your pulse beneath his lips.
“Jesus…” he whispered against your skin, voice barely holding itself together. “You’re going to kill me.”
Your whole body went molten.
You tried to speak, tried to say his name or anything at all, but all that came out was a broken breath.
“What else do you think about,” he murmured, “when I’m not there to stop you?”
You swallowed hard, pulse wild and unsteady.
“I—” You hesitated. Heat burned up your neck. “I think about… how you’d touch me… how the difference would feel between your hands. How you’d look at me like—like you know exactly what I want before I say anything.”
You felt a muscle tick in his jaw. His hold tightened again, sending a shiver through you he absolutely felt.
“You think I don’t?” he asked quietly.
Your breath hitched. You pulled back just enough to look down at him and you could see that behind his eyes all control, patience, and distance were gone.
He slid his hands up your back, slow and claiming, pulling you flush against his chest. The heat of him was overwhelming, his breath falling ragged against your cheek.
“Careful,” he warned softly. “You keep saying things like that… I’m not gonna let you walk away tonight.”
Your voice was barely audible. “I don’t want to.”
His exhale broke. “Fuck…”
He looked gorgeous and wrecked and dangerous. He looked like a man who had been holding himself back for a long, long time and had suddenly discovered he didn’t have to.
He tipped your chin up with a single finger, not soft or tender, but commanding.
“Say it again.”
You didn’t even blink. “I don’t want to walk away.”
His eyes darkened completely and his restraint shattered.
Bucky’s mouth crashed against yours.
It wasn’t a polite kiss or a testing one. It was heat and hunger and a sound came from deep inside his chest that vibrated through you, stealing every thought you had left. His hands were in your hair, gripping and pulling, angling your head so he could take more, deepen the kiss, swallow every stunned, breathless noise you made.
You clung to him because there was nothing else in the world to hold on to.
He broke the kiss only long enough to breathe against your lips, voice rough enough to shake you.
“You want to know what I think about?” His forehead pressed to yours, heavy and urgent. “This. Exactly this. You on me. Losing your mind. Saying my name like you can’t fucking help it.”
Your fingers fisted in the hair at the back of his neck and he groaned, sharp and guttural.
“And now that I’ve got you here?” His hand slid down your spine, slow, firm, and possessive. “I’m not stopping.”
You felt the world tilt as he stood in one fluid movement, lifting you with him like you weighed nothing. Your arms flew around his shoulders, instinctual, hanging on for dear life against the broad expanse of him.
He held you there, pinned against his chest, breathing hard: dominant, uncontrolled, and completely undone.
“Last chance,” he murmured, voice wrecked, “to tell me to stop.”
You met his dark, hungry eyes and shook your head.
“Bucky,” you whispered, “don’t you dare.”
His answering sound was not human.
And then he carried you out of the room.
*****
Bucky didn’t bother with lights.
He carried you through the dark corridors of the compound like he’d mapped every inch of the route in his sleep, which he probably had. Your legs stayed locked around his waist, arms looped tight around his neck, face buried against the warm crook of his shoulder. Every step jolted you against the thick ridge of his cock still trapped in his sweats, and the friction dragged soft, involuntary whimpers out of you. He didn’t comment. He just tightened his grip on your ass, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and kept moving.
The elevator ride down to the garage was torture.
He backed you against the wall the second the doors closed, mouth on your throat again, open and wet. Not biting yet, just sucking slow, deliberate marks, claiming the territory that was your skin. Your head tipped back against the cool metal, thighs squeezing his hips, hips rolling shamelessly against him because you couldn’t stop or even think straight.
When the doors slid open, cool air hit your overheated skin like a slap. The garage smelled of oil, rubber, and metal. Bucky still didn’t set you down. He walked straight to his bike.
The black beast of a machine sat under a single overhead bulb, chrome glinting coldly. He’d parked it at an angle, rear wheel slightly cocked.
He finally lowered you, slow, controlled, letting your body slide down the front of his until your bare feet hit the concrete. The chill shocked you awake for half a second, then his hands were on you again, spinning you so your back pressed to his chest and his hard cock nestled between the cheeks of your ass. One arm banded across your stomach, metal fingers splayed wide and possessive over your ribs. The other hand slid up to cup your jaw, tilting your head so you had to look at the bike.
“You still want it?” he rasped against your ear, voice gone gravelly. “Want to feel what you’ve been dreaming about?”
Your cunt clenched so hard you gasped. “Yes.”
He let growled out a low, approving sound and released you just long enough to swing a leg over the seat. The leather creaked under his weight. He settled, thighs spread, cock straining obscenely against the gray fabric, then patted the space in front of him.
“Get on.”
Your legs shook as you stepped forward. You hesitated for only a heartbeat, then hooked one knee over the wide leather seat and straddled it facing him, just like you’d imagined. The moment your nearly-bare pussy made contact with the cool, smooth leather, you moaned, loud, broken, and unashamed. It was colder than you expected, and the seam of the seat pressed right up against your swollen clit like it had been waiting for you.
Bucky watched you with hooded eyes, jaw tight, chest rising and falling too fast.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at you.”
You couldn’t look anywhere else but at him. Your hands braced on his thighs in front of you, hips already rocking in tiny, helpless circles because the vibration hadn’t even started and you were already drowning.
He reached past you, fingers brushing your stomach as he turned the key. The engine caught with a low, throaty rumble that vibrated straight up through the seat and into your core.
You cried out, sharp, surprised, and needy.
He didn’t rev it yet. He let it idle, watching that deep, steady purr roll through your body in slow, relentless waves. Your thighs trembled on either side of the seat. Your nipples ached under the thin tank top, hard enough to hurt. Slick coated the leather beneath you; you could feel it pooling, making every tiny shift wetter and hotter.
Bucky’s flesh hand settled on your hip, thumb stroking the sensitive skin just above your shorts.
“Are you ready?” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
You couldn’t speak, only franticly nod.
He twisted the throttle and the engine roared.
The vibration slammed into you like a fist.
Your whole body seized, back bowing, head falling back against his shoulder, mouth open on a silent scream that turned into a long, shattered moan the second air found its way back into your lungs. The seat thrummed beneath you, relentless, merciless, every pulse of the engine vibrating your clit over the leather in perfect, punishing rhythm. You ground down hard without thinking, chasing it, riding it, hips rolling in desperate circles.
Bucky’s grip tightened. His mouth found the side of your neck again, teeth grazing now, not quite biting but promising. “That’s it,” he growled against your skin. “Ride it. Let it fuck you.”
You were already gone.
The world narrowed to the growl of the engine, the slick slide of leather against your soaked folds, the iron-hard press of his cock against your ass. Every rev sent fresh shocks through you, deeper, harder, and faster. Your thighs shook violently. Your fingers scrabbled at the bars for purchase. Sweat beaded on your skin, dripping down your spine.
He revved it again, longer this time, holding the throttle open until the roar filled the garage and your body felt like it was coming apart at the seams.
The orgasm hit you like a freight train, sudden, brutal, and blinding. Your cry echoed off the concrete walls, raw and wrecked. Your hips jerked uncontrollably, grinding down so hard the leather creaked. Wave after wave ripped through you, cunt spasming around nothing, clit throbbing against the vibrating seat until you were sobbing with it, tears streaking your cheeks, body shaking so violently Bucky had to hold you upright.
He didn’t let off the throttle until the aftershocks started to fade, until your cries turned soft and hiccuping, until your thighs gave out completely and you slumped back against his chest, boneless, trembling, and wrecked.
Only then did he ease the engine down to a low idle again.
The sudden quiet was deafening.
You were panting, chest heaving, skin flushed and slick with sweat. His arms stayed locked around you, one metal hand splayed protectively over your stomach, the other stroking slow, soothing lines up and down your thigh.
He pressed a kiss to your temple, soft and almost reverent.
“Good girl,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “So fucking good.”
You shivered at the praise, another weak aftershock fluttering through you.
He killed the engine completely.
Silence settled, broken only by your uneven breathing and the faint tick of cooling metal.
Bucky shifted behind you, lips brushing your ear again.
“That everything you imagined?” he asked quietly.
You raised your head just enough to meet his eyes, dark, still hungry, but softer now. Satisfied in a way that made your heart stutter.
You swallowed, voice wrecked. “Almost.”
His brows lifted, a slow, filthy smile curling his mouth.
“Almost?”
You nodded, shaky. “You still haven’t been inside me.”
His laugh was low, dangerous, and full of promise. “Then we’re not done,” he said. “Not even close.”
*****
The second your wrecked whisper hit the air something primal snapped loose in his chest. He’d been holding the reins all night, playing the slow burn, letting you unravel piece by piece because he wanted to savor it. But thatquiet, desperate admission burned the last thread of patience he had left.
He stopped mid-step, boots scuffing concrete. You were still cradled against him, legs wrapped around his waist, face flushed and eyes glassy from the orgasm that had just torn through you. Your cunt was still pulsing faintly against his stomach, slick soaking through your shorts and onto his skin. He could smell you, sweet, sharp arousal mixed with the faint leather-and-oil scent of the garage, and it made his cock throb so hard it hurt.
He was done waiting.
He pressed you backwards until you were laying back on the seat, your head between the handlebars. Perfect. That was exactly how he wanted you.
He reached with both hands down the front of your shorts. He didn’t tease. He just hooked two fingers from each hand onto the thin cotton gusset and yanked it apart.
The fabric tore with a sharp, satisfying rip.
You gasped, high and startled, and your eyes widened as your shoulders curled up, but he pressed his palm between your breasts, keeping you in place. Your ass lifted, thighs spreading just enough. The torn shorts hung open now, useless, your bare pussy glistening in the dim overhead light. You were swollen and dripping and ready.
“Fuck,” he growled low in his throat. The sight of you like this, splayed over his bike, legs trembling, cunt exposed and clenching around nothing, sent a fresh surge of heat straight to his balls.
He shoved his sweatpants down just far enough. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the head already slick with precome. He fisted himself, spreading it, then lined up. The blunt tip nudged your entrance, parting your slick folds, and you whimpered, needy and broken, lifting your hips like you couldn’t wait another second.
He didn’t make you wait.
One hard thrust and he buried himself to the hilt.
You cried out, loud and raw, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. Your walls clamped down around him like a vise, hot, wet, and fluttering, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from coming right then. Christ, you were so fucking tight. And so wet he could feel it dripping down his balls already.
He pulled back slow, deliberate, letting you feel every inch drag against your sensitive walls, then slammed back in hard and deep. The bike rocked slightly under the force, leather creaking.
Your head lolled back over the bars, your pussy taking every brutal thrust and wanting more. He watched himself disappear into you again and again, your pussy stretched wide around his cock, slick coating him, glistening in the low light. The torn fabric of your shorts framed it all obscenely.
“Goddamn, doll,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Look at you. Takin’ me so fuckin’ good.”
You moaned, thighs twitching over his to try to meet him stroke for stroke, greedy little movements that made his control fray even more. He gripped your hips with both hands now, fingers digging into soft flesh, and fucked you harder and faster. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the garage, obscene and rhythmic.
Every thrust jolted you forward, your nipples dragging against the tank top still clinging to your sweat-slick skin. He could see the way your back arched, the way your thighs shook, the way your fingers scrabbled at his forearms for purchase.
He leaned over you, chest to chest, mouth at your ear.
“You feel that?” he growled, hips snapping forward so deep you sobbed. “That’s what you’ve been aching for all night. Me. Filling you up. Fuckin’ you raw on my bike.”
You nodded frantically, words dissolving into whimpers. “Bucky—please—don’t stop—”
He wouldn’t dream of it.
He shifted his angle just enough, tilted his hips so the thick ridge of his cock dragged over that perfect spot inside you with every pass. Your whole body seized and a high, keening sound tore out of you. Your cunt spasmed, fluttering wildly around him, and he knew you were already close again.
“Good girl,” he murmured, voice rough with strain. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it. Let me feel you soak me.”
One more hard thrust, deep and punishing, and you shattered.
Your cry was muffled against his shoulder, body convulsing, walls pulsing so tight around him it dragged him right to the edge. Slick gushed around his cock, dripping down his thighs, coating the leather beneath you. He fucked you through it, relentless, chasing his own release now.
“Fuck—fuck—” His rhythm stuttered and his balls drew up tight. Heat coiled low and vicious in his gut.
He slammed in one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go, and came with a guttural groan that rattled through his chest. Pulse after pulse flooded you, hot and thick, spilling out around his cock because there was no room left inside. You whimpered at the feel of it, hips twitching, milking him dry.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
There was just ragged breathing, the faint tick of the cooling engine, and the drip of come and slick onto the concrete below.
He stayed buried inside you, softening slowly, reluctant to pull out. His metal arm slid around your back, gentle now, holding you steady so you didn’t fall off the bike entirely. His flesh hand stroked slow, soothing lines up your thigh.
He pressed a slow kiss to your lips and trailed more soft lingering kisses down your jaw and your neck.
“You okay?” he murmured, voice hoarse.
You nodded, shaky, a small, wrecked laugh escaping you. “Better than okay.”
He smiled against your skin, something warm and possessive curling in his chest.
“Good.”
He finally eased out, slow and careful, watching the way his come leaked from you, thick and white, mixing with your own slick. The sight made his spent cock twitch despite himself.
He tugged what was left of your shorts back into place, pointless, really, since the gusset was shredded, and scooped you up again, metal arm behind your back and flesh under your knees, cradling you against his chest.
He headed for the elevator without hesitation.
“Shower,” he said quietly, lips brushing your temple. “Then my bed. And if you’re still aching after that…” His voice dropped, dark with promise. “We’ll see what else that bike can do.”
You shivered in his arms, already pressing closer.
Pairing: Chubby!Baker! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Tags: Fluff. Slight Angst. Smut.
Summary: A fresh start in a small town brings her to a quiet bakery and a man who's built his life around routine and distance. Bucky Barnes doesn't do charm, and certainly doesn't do people, but small towns have a way of pulling strangers into orbit, and something neither of them planned for begins to bloom.
Word Count: 5.3k.
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
The box arrived on a Thursday afternoon; it was heavy enough that the delivery guy looked relieved when she took it from him at the door.
She put it down in the living room and grabbed a box cutter, slicing through the packing tape with excitement.
Books.
A dozen of them, maybe more, all different genres. Fantasy, sci-fi, mystery. But nothing about trauma or recovery or healing your inner wounds with the power of meditation.
Just escapism.
She'd requested them specifically from the publishing house after visiting the veterans' center a few days back. The building itself was easy to find, a low brick structure with a small parking lot and a faded sign out front that looked like it had been there since the seventies. Inside, it was clean but bare-bones: a few rooms for meetings, a small kitchen, and a library that consisted of two shelves packed with outdated magazines and self-help books that had seen better days.
The publishing house had a donation program for schools, nursing homes, and underfunded community libraries in low-income areas. She'd pitched it to her supervisor, explaining that the center fit the criteria: small town, limited funding, minimal donations coming in. It took less than a week to get approved, and now here they were.
She figured they could use something different. Something that lets people disappear for a while, the way those kinds of stories had done for her when she needed it.
She'd been staring at her computer screen for too many hours today anyway. Her eyes were starting to blur, and going out would do her good. She packed the books back into the box, grabbed her keys, and headed out.
----
Bucky sat in a squeaky folding chair that was just slightly too small for him, nursing the last of his coffee and wishing he'd grabbed the mysterious tea.
The meeting was over. Had been for ten minutes. But Jerry and Tom were still here, lingering by the snack table he'd brought pastries for, talking about nothing in particular: Jerry's grandson's baseball game, Tom's ongoing war with a raccoon in his garage.
Bucky half-listened, offering the occasional nod or grunt of agreement when it seemed appropriate.
He didn't mind these two. They were older -Vietnam vets, both of them- and they didn't ask questions. Didn't push. Just talked to him without pretense.
"Thanks for the pastries, James," Tom said, brushing crumbs off his shirt. "You didn't have to."
Bucky shrugged. "Had extras. Wasn't gonna let 'em go to waste."
Jerry snorted. "You always have extras. I'm starting to think you make too much on purpose just so you have an excuse to show up here."
"Maybe I do," Bucky said, deadpan.
Tom laughed.
The double doors to the hallway were propped open, letting in a faint breeze and the muffled sounds of someone moving around in the lobby.
Bucky glanced that way absently, still half-focused on Jerry's story about the raccoon, when a figure passed by.
He recognized her immediately.
She was carrying a big box, tilting her head to see where she was going.
His coffee cup paused halfway to his mouth.
What was she doing here?
----
He set his coffee cup down and stood before he could think better of it.
Jerry looked up mid-sentence. "Where are you going?"
"Be right back," Bucky muttered, already moving toward the doors.
He didn't have a plan. Didn't know what he was going to say when he got out there. Just knew that she was carrying something heavy and he could help, and that was-
Simple. Straightforward. The kind of thing anyone would do.
He stepped into the hallway just in time to see someone else beat him to it.
Jack.
Early forties, former Marine, always too goddamn cheerful for his own good. He'd already taken the box from her, holding it with one arm like it weighed nothing, and was saying something that made her laugh.
Bucky stopped.
She looked relaxed. Comfortable. Like she wasn't struggling anymore, because someone else had already stepped in.
He should go back.
Just turn around, sit back down, and finish his coffee. Pretend he hadn't seen her.
He was halfway through the mental commitment to retreat when-
"Hey, Bucky! Look what she brought!"
He was standing next to her now, still holding the box, grinning at Bucky as if he'd just won the lottery.
Bucky froze.
Every instinct told him to make an excuse. Any excuse. But Jack was already waving him over, and she was looking at him now, and turning around would make him look like an ass.
Or worse, like he was avoiding her.
Which he was.
He forced himself to move, crossing the short distance to where they stood.
"Books," Jack said, shifting the box slightly so Bucky could see inside. "For the library. Fantasy stuff, sci-fi, actual good shit, not more of that self-healing crap."
Bucky glanced into the box. Colorful spines, a few he recognized from the window displays at the bookstore two towns over.
He looked at her.
She was watching him.
Probably expecting him to say something. Comment on the books, maybe. Thank her.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
"How's your finger?" she asked, filling the silence.
He blinked, glancing down at his left hand. The bandage was still there, smaller now, but visible.
He'd almost forgotten about it.
"Peachy," he said.
He winced internally the second it left his mouth.
Peachy?
Who the hell says peachy nowadays?
Jack looked between them, raising his eyebrows. "You two know each other?"
"We're almost neighbors," she said easily. "I live on River Street."
"Oh, lucky you," Jack said, grinning. He clapped Bucky on the shoulder. "She must be a regular at the bakery, then."
Bucky nodded once, not looking at her.
Jack shifted the box in his arms. "We're heading to the library to add these to inventory. Wanna come help? Place is a disaster, we haven't had a librarian since old Ed passed last year, and nobody's really kept up with it."
"I actually offered to come in a few times a week," she added. "Help organize things, update the catalog cards. Figure it might be useful."
Jack's face lit up. "That'd be amazing. Seriously. The system we've got now is... well, there isn't one."
Bucky opened his mouth to say no.
He had things to do. The bakery. Cleaning. Literally anything else.
But instead, he heard himself say, "Yeah. Sure."
Jack's grin widened. "Great. Let's go."
And just like that, Bucky found himself following them down the hallway, wondering what the hell he was doing.
----
She was thrilled to see him here.
Embarrassingly thrilled, if she was being honest with herself.
Not that she'd let it show. She was a grown-ass woman; she could keep her inner monologue of oh my God he's here, and he looks good, and why is that flannel doing things to me firmly locked away where it belonged.
But still.
She could feel him walking behind them, and her mind was racing with questions now.
He'd served.
That explained some things about his character.
But how did he end up in the bakery?
And… Bucky? Wasn't his name James?
They reached the library, a small room at the end of the hallway with two shelves crammed against one wall and a couple of boxes shoved haphazardly in the corner over an old wooden desk. It looked exactly like it had when she'd visited a few days ago: barely organized, half-storage room, half-forgotten space.
She set her hands on her hips, surveying the mess.
"Okay," she said, gesturing to the box Jack was still holding. "You guys can look through what I brought if you want, see if anything catches your eye. Since you're helping, you get first dibs. I'll start pulling everything off the shelves, clean the wood, and see what we're actually working with here."
Jack set the box down on the nearest table and immediately crouched beside it, peering inside like a kid at Christmas. "Hell yeah. I haven't read anything good in months."
Bucky looked at the box.
Then at her.
He shook his head.
"I'll do what you're doing," he said.
She blinked. "You sure? You can look through the books if you want. Might find something you like."
"I'm sure."
Jack glanced up from the box, raising his eyebrows, but didn't comment.
"Okay," she said, trying not to read too much into it. "Let's get started, then."
----
Bucky didn't even consider looking through the box.
His grandfather had raised him better than that.
She was here doing something for them -for the center- unpaid, on her own time, and she was about to start pulling books off dusty shelves and scrubbing down wood that probably hadn't been cleaned in years.
He wasn't going to stand around flipping through novels while she did all the work.
He moved toward the boxes that were stacked on top of an old desk against the far wall, taking up space they'd need if they were going to lay out the books from the shelves without a word.
They were heavier than they looked, packed tight with what felt like old manuals or binders, the cardboard sagging slightly under the weight. He adjusted his grip, bracing the bottom with both hands, and lifted.
His shoulders protested, but he didn't say anything. Just carried the first box across the room and set it down in the corner, then went back for the second.
"Do you need help with those?" she asked, pausing mid-reach for one of the books on the shelf.
"No, I'm good," he said, grabbing the second box. "You can start wiping down the desk, though. Once it's clear, we'll have somewhere to put the books."
She nodded, already reaching for the rag she'd pulled from her bag.
Bucky moved the second box, then the third, his arms burning slightly by the time he set the last one down.
Jack was still engrossed in the donation box, muttering something about how he'd been looking for this series forever.
Bucky turned back to the desk.
She was wiping it down in smooth strokes, her focus entirely on the task.
He found himself watching her for a second longer than necessary before he turned toward the shelves and started pulling books down.
----
After a while, she started sneezing.
Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.
Her eyes began to itch, and she rubbed at them with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge of dust across her cheek.
Fuck.
She'd forgotten to take her allergy pill this morning.
The dust and whatever else had been living on these shelves was absolutely destroying her right now.
"You okay?" Bucky's voice cut through her misery.
She blinked at him, eyes watering. "Yeah, just allergies. Forgot to take my pill this morning. Dust and... mites, they kill me."
Jack looked up from the box. "You got the meds with you?"
She nodded, reaching into her bag and pulling out the small pill bottle.
"I'll get you some water," he said, already heading for the door.
And just like that, she was alone with Bucky.
The silence stretched.
She held the pill bottle in her hand, waiting, trying not to sneeze again. Her eyes were still burning, but she kept them open, blinking through the discomfort.
Bucky was still holding a book he'd pulled from the shelf, but he shifted his attention to the box she'd brought.
"Where'd you get these?" he asked, his voice low.
"I'm a translator. For a publishing house," she said, her voice a little scratchy from the sneezing. "They have a donation program for schools, nursing homes, places like that. I asked if they could send some books here. Figured it'd be good for the center."
He looked at her then, his expression unreadable.
"That's thoughtful of you," he said quietly.
Something about the way he said it -sincere, but almost careful- made her chest feel warm.
"I just thought people might want something to read that isn't about healing through journaling," she said with a small smile.
His lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.
"Yeah," he said. "They would."
Another beat of silence.
Then, almost struggling with himself, he asked, "What kind of stuff do you translate?"
"Fantasy," she said, brushing some dust off her hands. "Mostly."
She saw him about to ask something and added, "When I started, I took whatever they gave me. But after a few years, you can specialize. The publishing house has people for sci-fi, crime novels, and technical manuals, all with different skill sets."
He tilted his head slightly. "Aren't fantasy and sci-fi pretty similar, though?"
"You'd think," she said with a small smile. "But they're different beasts. Fantasy is all magic systems and made-up languages. I spend half my time making sure elf hierarchies and dragon species sound consistent. Sci-fi is more... technical jargon that has to sound believable. Propulsion systems, quantum-whatever. With hard sci-fi, you actually need to know real science so you don't accidentally screw things up."
He was listening. She could see it in the way he'd stopped pretending to look at the books, his full attention on her.
His jaw worked slightly, like he was forcing himself to speak again.
"Why fantasy?" he asked finally.
She opened her mouth to answer-
"Here you go," Jack said, coming back through the door with a paper cup filled with water.
Bucky's shoulders went rigid immediately. He turned back to the shelf, reaching for another book, his expression closing off like a door slamming shut.
Damn.
"Thanks," she said, taking the water and washing down the pill, watching Bucky out of the corner of her eye.
But he didn't look back again.
----
They worked in silence for a while after that, the only sounds the thud of books being stacked and the occasional rustle of paper.
Jack had gone back to sorting through the donation box, pulling out titles and setting aside a small pile for himself.
"Hey, Buck," Jack called, holding up a paperback. "I think you'll like this one."
Bucky glanced over. "Uh- put it aside, and I'll look at it later."
She paused mid-wipe, looking between them.
This was her chance.
"Your name's not James?"
Jack laughed. "It is. But that's what the older folks call him." He grinned at Bucky. "Everyone else calls him Bucky."
She set the rag down, genuinely curious now. "And... why Bucky?"
"Buchanan," Bucky said without looking at her. "My middle name."
"Oh. I see…" She nodded slowly, processing. "So should I… call you Bucky, or do you prefer James? I don't want to assume-"
"Bucky," he said, cutting her off. He met hers with his eyes briefly, something unreadable passing through his expression. "Call me Bucky."
"Okay, Bucky" she said softly.
----
The sound of his name in her voice almost made him smile.
Jack glanced at his watch and swore under his breath. "Shit. My wife's gonna kill me. I was supposed to pick up my son's birthday cake twenty minutes ago. And Sonia’s closes in twenty."
Bucky's stomach twisted in knots.
They were going to be left alone.
The two of them.
In a small room.
With no buffer.
Jack was already moving toward the door, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair.
"You guys good here?" he asked, pausing in the doorway.
"Yeah, we’ll be fine," she said.
"We'll manage. Go before Greta asks you for a divorce," Bucky added.
Jack laughed. "Yeah, yeah. See you guys later."
And then he was gone.
The silence that followed felt enormous.
Bucky stood there, holding a book, acutely aware of every sound, the soft scrape of her rag against the wood, the faint rustle of her movements, the way she shifted her weight.
He should say something.
Finish the conversation Jack had interrupted.
But his throat felt tight, and every possible sentence he tried to form in his head sounded wrong.
So he just kept sorting books, his hands moving on autopilot while his brain spun uselessly like a hamster wheel.
Then she saw her, out of the corner of his eye, stretching up on her toes, trying to reach the books on one of the upper shelves.
He moved before he thought about it.
Crossed the space between them in three steps and stopped just behind her, close enough that he could reach over her shoulder.
"Here," he said, his voice low.
She startled slightly, glancing back at him, and for a second -just a second- her eyes dropped to his mouth.
Or maybe they didn't.
Maybe his brain was just broken enough to make him see what he wanted to see.
He reached up and grabbed the first book, handing it down to her.
Their fingers brushed.
She took it without a word, wiping it down with the rag before setting it on the desk.
He grabbed another. Then another.
They fell into a pattern, him pulling books down one at a time, and her cleaning them off and stacking them neatly.
He was standing close. Closer than he needed to be.
Close enough to catch the faint scent of her shampoo. Close enough to hear the soft exhale she made when she stretched to set a book down.
His heart was beating harder than it should've been for something this mundane.
"So," he said finally, his voice rougher than he meant it to be. "Why fantasy?"
She paused, rag in hand, and looked up at him.
----
She almost gave him the standard answer.
I like it. Always have.
Easy. Simple. True enough.
But something about the way he'd asked -quiet, careful, like he actually wanted to know- made her pause.
She bit her lip, the rag still in her hands.
"Escapism," she said finally. "For many years, I didn't have... an ideal home life. Or environment, really. Fantasy books helped me go somewhere else. Be somewhere else."
The silence that followed felt heavy.
She glanced at him.
He was looking at her, but she couldn't read that look.
Oh God.
She'd made it weird.
"Sorry," she said quickly, letting out a self-conscious laugh. "That was... kind of a downer answer."
She focused on the book in her hands, wiping it down with more attention than needed, avoiding his eyes entirely.
"I was a sniper," Bucky said suddenly. "Three long tours."
Her hands stilled.
He was quiet for a moment, then added, almost distant, like his mind was far away. "I get it. Wanting to be somewhere else."
She looked up at him.
His expression hadn't changed -still unreadable, still guarded- but there was something in his eyes now. Something raw.
She didn't know what to say.
Thank you felt wrong. I'm sorry felt worse.
So she just nodded, her throat tight.
"Yeah," she said softly.
They stood there for a moment, the weight of what they'd both just said settling between them.
Then Bucky reached up and grabbed another book from the shelf.
Handed it to her.
And they kept working.
----
The light coming through the small window had shifted, angling lower.
Bucky glanced at his watch and felt his stomach drop.
He needed to leave. Now, actually. He'd cut his bakery hours short to make the meeting, but he still had to open for the evening crowd, people stopping by after work, picking up bread for dinner.
He didn't want to go.
The thought of walking out, of going back to the bakery and spending the rest of the evening alone behind the counter, felt wrong somehow.
He wanted to stay here. Keep working. Keep talking.
Keep standing close enough to catch the smell of her shampoo and the sound of her voice when she said his name.
He set down the book he'd been holding and cleared his throat.
"I need to head out," he eventually managed. "Have to open the bakery."
"Oh." She looked up, brushing dust off her hands. "Of course. Thanks for staying as long as you did."
He hesitated.
His brain was scrambling for a reason to stay. Or at least a reason to come back.
"I don't like leaving you here alone," he admitted finally.
She gave him a small smile. "It's a veterans' center. What's gonna happen?"
"I mean alone with all this." He gestured at the shelves, the stacks of books, the mess they'd barely made a dent in. "It's a lot."
She opened her mouth -probably to insist she was fine, that she could handle it-but he cut her off before he could lose his nerve.
"Leave it," he said. "Just... leave it how it is. I'll come back tomorrow. We can finish it then."
She blinked at him, surprised.
"You don't have to do that."
"I know."
"Bucky-"
"I'm coming back tomorrow," he said, his tone firm. Final.
She stared at him for a moment, something soft crossing her expression.
Because he had offered. He didn't have to, and she hadn't asked. But he'd looked at the mess, looked at her, and decided -on his own- that he was coming back.
To help her.
To spend more time here.
With her.
"What time works for you?" she asked, trying to sound casual.
"After three," he said. "Bakery slows down by then."
"Perfect. See you here then."
She watched him move toward the door, her heart doing something stupid and fluttery in her chest.
He paused in the doorway, glancing back at her.
"See you tomorrow," he said.
"See you tomorrow, Bucky."
And then he was gone.
She stood there for a moment, alone in the dusty library, staring at the empty doorway.
Then she let herself smile.
A real one. Big and stupidly happy.
----
The next day, she arrived at the center a little before three, loading her arms with a few supplies she'd grabbed from home: more rags, a bottle of wood polish, and a small speaker because working in silence felt oppressive.
The library door was already propped open when she got there.
She stopped in the doorway.
Bucky was inside, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, moving one of the heavier boxes they'd left stacked in the corner yesterday. Two older men were with him. One she recognized as Tom from the time she went to the center to see the place, the other she didn't know.
"Afternoon," Tom said, spotting her first. He was holding a stack of books, squinting at the spines like he was trying to decide if any were worth keeping.
"Hi," she said, stepping inside and setting her things down on the desk.
Bucky glanced up briefly, gave her a short nod, and went back to what he was doing.
The other man, older than Tom, with a thick white mustache and still bright green eyes, looked her up and down.
"So you're the one organizing all this?" he asked.
"That's me."
He grunted. "About time someone did. I’m George. This place has been a mess since Ed kicked the bucket."
"George," Tom said, his tone mildly reproachful.
"What? It's true."
She bit back a smile. "Well, hopefully it'll be in better shape soon."
George muttered something under his breath and went back to sorting through a pile of outdated magazines.
Bucky straightened, brushing dust off his hands, and finally looked at her properly.
"You bring the whole hardware store?" he asked, nodding toward her bag.
"Just the essentials," she said lightly. "Figured we'd need them."
His lips twitched.
Tom clapped his hands together. "All right. What's the plan, boss?"
She blinked. "Boss?"
"You're running this operation," Tom said with a grin. "We're just the muscle."
----
They worked for the next hour.
Tom and George took the bottom shelves, pulling books and deciding what could stay and what needed to go. Bucky handled anything that required lifting or reaching. And she moved between them all, wiping down surfaces and organizing the books they'd already cleaned into neat stacks.
George, it turned out, had opinions. Many opinions.
"This one's garbage," he said, holding up a self-help book. "Threw it across the room halfway through."
"Then why'd you keep reading it?" Tom asked.
"Had to see if it got better. It didn't."
Bucky snorted quietly.
She glanced at him, surprised by the sound, and caught the faint curve of his mouth before it disappeared.
"You read much now, James?" Tom asked, not looking up from the shelf he was sorting.
Bucky hesitated. "Not really. Used to, before-" He stopped himself. "Not much time now."
"Bullshit," George said bluntly. "You've got time. You just don't make it."
Tom shot him a look, but Bucky didn't seem bothered.
"Maybe," he said.
George waved a hand dismissively. "You should read more. Keeps your brain from turning to mush. Especially at your age."
"I'm thirty-six."
"Exactly. Prime mush years."
She had to press her lips together to keep from laughing.
Bucky's mouth twitched again.
She watched him, the way he seemed more relaxed here with these two than she'd ever seen him before. He wasn't precisely chatty, but he wasn't shutting down, either.
It was nice.
----
At some point, she and Bucky both moved toward the same narrow gap between the desk and the shelves, carrying things in opposite directions.
They nearly collided.
She stepped left.
He stepped left.
She stepped right.
He stepped right.
Her heart did something stupid in her chest, and she felt her face heat.
Bucky's ears were already red.
For a second, neither of them moved, caught in the awkward limbo of too close and not sure how to fix it.
Then he stopped, stepped deliberately to one side, and gestured with his hand.
"Go ahead," he said, his voice low.
"Thanks," she managed, slipping past him.
Her shoulder brushed his arm.
Just barely.
But enough that she felt it for the next ten minutes.
----
"So," Tom said casually, not looking up from the book he was flipping through. "You settling in okay? House treating you all right?"
"Getting there," she said. "Still a lot to fix, but it's coming together."
"James helped you with a window, didn't he?"
Bucky snapped his head up. "How do you know that?"
Tom grinned. "Small town, son. Dotty told everyone at bingo."
Bucky closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose.
George snorted. "She also told everyone you're single," he said, looking directly at her.
She blinked, caught off guard. "Oh. I-"
"George," Bucky said, his tone sharp.
George waved him off. "What? It's true, isn't it?"
She felt her face heat slightly, but she managed a small smile. "Yeah. I am."
George leaned back against the shelf, crossing his arms. "That won't do. You're young, easy on the eyes. None of the idiots your age have asked you out yet?"
"I-" She let out a surprised laugh. "I've only been here a few weeks. Haven't really gone out much. Haven't found, you know, an activity to socialize at yet."
"So?" George said, clearly unimpressed. "Even the post office dog knows you're new by now. In my day, someone would've walked right up, introduced themselves, and asked you out or at least offered to show you around."
Tom snorted. "Yeah, well, in our day, people also got married six months into dating."
"And?" George shot back. "Fewer divorces than now."
She bit her lip, trying not to laugh.
Bucky, meanwhile, looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. His ears were red, his jaw clenched, and he was staring very hard at the shelf in front of him like it held the secrets of the universe.
Tom grinned at her, clearly enjoying Bucky's discomfort. "Don't mind George, he thinks everyone under seventy is doing life wrong."
"Not wrong," George corrected. "Just slow."
----
They worked in comfortable silence for a while after Tom and George's teasing died down.
She wiped down another shelf, sneaking glances at Bucky when she thought he wasn't looking.
She noted again how he was more relaxed now than she'd seen him at the bakery. Still quiet, still reserved, but there was something different about him here. The way he didn't shut down completely when Tom ribbed him. The way he spoke to them, even making dry comments that could border on rude.
She liked this version of him.
Wanted to see more of it.
By the time they finished, the library looked almost unrecognizable.
The shelves were clean, the books organized by genre, and the donation box had been fully integrated into the collection. There was still work to do -updating the catalog cards, labeling the sections properly- but it was functional now. Usable.
Tom and George had left half an hour ago, citing dinner plans and aching backs, leaving just the two of them to finish up.
She wiped down the last of the shelves, stepping back to admire their work.
"This looks good," she said.
Bucky nodded, leaning against the desk. "Yeah. It does."
She glanced at him.
George's words kept circling back in her head. In my day, someone would've walked right up and asked you out.
Well, why was she waiting for someone else to make the first move?
She was new here, sure, and didn't know many people yet. But that wasn't going to change if she just kept going to buy groceries and working from home. If she wanted to actually live here, not just exist, she had to put herself out there.
She could do this.
She should do this.
What was the worst that could happen? He'd say no, and they'd go back to being friendly neighbors who occasionally ran into each other.
She hesitated. Took a deep breath.
Now or never.
"Hey," she said, turning to face him properly. "I... wanted to ask you something."
He straightened slightly, his shoulders tensing. "Yeah?"
"The other day, you mentioned that bar. Will's?"
His brow furrowed. "Yeah."
"I was thinking..." She bit her lip, suddenly nervous. "I kind of want to check it out. But I don't really want to go alone. You know, being new, walking into a local spot by myself feels... awkward."
He was quiet for a moment.
"You asking me to go with you?" he said finally, watching her like he was trying to figure out if this was real.
"I mean- yeah. If you want." She shrugged, trying to keep it casual. "Just to hang out. Grab a drink. Nothing big."
Bucky's throat worked as he swallowed.
She could see him thinking, could practically hear the gears turning in his head.
"When?" he asked.
"Friday? After you close?"
He hesitated.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Yeah," he said. "Okay."
Her heart did a little flip.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
She smiled, couldn't help it. "Great. I meet you there? Or-"
"I'll pick you up," he said quickly. Then, as if realizing how that sounded- "It's on the way. Doesn't make sense for you to walk there alone."
"Okay," she said softly. "That works."
They stood there for a moment, the air between them feeling heavier somehow.
"So, Friday," she said.
"Friday," he echoed.
----
Bucky walked home in a daze.
He'd said yes.
He'd actually said yes.
What the hell was he thinking?
He wasn't thinking. That was the problem. She'd asked, and he'd just... agreed. Easily. Like, he went out with people all the time.
He hadn't been on anything resembling a date in years.
And okay, technically it wasn't a date. Just hanging out, getting a drink.
But it felt like a date.
Or at least, it felt like something.
He rubbed a hand over his face, his pulse still thrumming uncomfortably in his ears.
Friday.
He had two days to either talk himself out of this or figure out what the hell he was supposed to talk about for more than five minutes. Figure out what he was supposed to wear. Figure out how to not make a complete ass of himself in front of her.
