One of the biggest reasons I love characters like the Winter Soldier is that they can be analogues to real people who experiences losses, or do something considered bad, and come back from it in an unexpected and good way. He lost his arm, he lost his identity, he did so many terrible things that he wasn’t in control of. Real folks struggle with things that scar them, losses, and things they might have done wrong in the past, or perceived wrongs. Real people can learn from that and build something new and beautiful, while still acknowledging the things in their past they don’t like.
Something good can come from something that’s considered ugly.
Something new can come from something lost.
We’re all growing.
(Not all of us get a kickass robot arm out of it though)
Summary: After 5 years of being single, you find your new roommate worming his way into your strictly planned routine. Suddenly, you aren’t the only one pulling all the weight, and you’re not sure what to do about it. The guard you carefully placed around your heart feels close to breaking, and you’re surprised to find you aren't entirely opposed. One romance novel and one rehearsal dinner later… the truth will come out.
warnings/tags: No use of Y/N. Post-college roommate AU. Not canon compliant. Mentions of romanogers or whatever their ship is called. Roommates to lovers. Idiots to lovers. Brief mention of the notebook by Nicholas sparks (cited in APA bc I didn’t know how to cite that in fanfiction lmao). Hyper independent!Reader. Anxious!Reader. Mention of past relationship. Light trauma and attachment styles. Angst because it’s my drug of choice. Smut (I’m scared). Soft!Dom!Bucky. Praise and dirty talk. PinV. Unprotected smut- please do not treat this like a sexEd class. Oral (F! Receiving). Fingering. He has a kink for taking care of you? Idk let me know if I missed anything.
MDNI !!! 18+
wc: 10k
Disclaimer: first time writing smut this detailed. Go easy on me, or don’t. I’ll be anxious about posting this either way lol. Proofread by me and only me (I have no friends to talk abt this with so like we should totally be mutuals tehe)
It really seemed like a no-brainer to you when the topic came up at the engagement dinner. Steve and Natasha weren’t trying to kick him out. In fact, it wasn’t even their idea. He was the one who said it made the most sense, that they needed their space and he should find his own. Sam joked that he just didn’t wanna hear the bed banging on the other side of the wall, if they “knew what he meant.” Bucky’s face, and the red on Steve’s cheeks, told you he wasn’t too far off.
So, when he mentioned to you that he wanted to keep a roommate, you didn’t hesitate to offer that he move into your apartment. After all, Wanda had moved out a year ago when her and Vision found a house on the outskirts of the city. You had the extra room, and you didn’t mind offering him help. You had known him for years throughout college, if only through mutual friends, but you enjoyed his company. He was the type that didn’t expect anything out of you during conversation. It flowed naturally, or if it didn’t then you simply sat in comfortable silence. You had discovered through several discussions that you shared the same taste in literature, and you both preferred the night to the morning.
You knew living together would be easy, and you were nothing if not capable of adapting. If need be, you’d just work around each other's schedules and respect the other’s space. You had never had any expectations of your roommates, not since you became used to your own capability. If you needed something done, you’d figure out how to do it. Wanda had said several times that she often wasn’t even aware you were around, given your nature to tending to yourself. You understood what she meant, because there was a point in time where you had to force the habit. Your last relationship was happy, you really had no right to complain… it was only that he never wanted to do any favor you asked. Something as simple as taking out the trash could turn into a huge argument about you “suffocating” him. Which was fine, you had found in the recent years that you liked your independence more than reliance on others.
So, when you offered, you assured Bucky that you knew how to pull your weight. You were not simply asking him just because you thought it’d be useful to have a man around.
You figured you were on the same page when he gave you an easy smile, a teasing scrunch of his nose, and leaned over to say, “Don’t you worry about a thing, sweetheart.”
Oh, you were wrong.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
It started small, with chivalrous things you hadn’t realized you missed until he did them so easily. There was no show about it, no performance. It wasn’t grand or mind blowing.
He opened your door.
The day he moved in, you had been out grocery shopping, getting home right as he finished up. He had gone back outside to park his car. You beat him up the stairs, grocery bags making red indents in the skin of each of your arms. You didn’t mind, until you came to the door and found you couldn’t even reach it. You mumbled several curses while trying to maneuver for your keys and not drop the bags, this was a weekly occurrence after all.
“Let me,” came that familiar voice from behind you, two hands reaching for the bags on your arms before you had a chance to even respond.
He glanced down at your arms with a frown, looking at you as if disappointed. Then, bags in hand, he reached for his key and opened the door, waiting for you to enter first. You blinked at his steady smile, looking between him and the entrance to the apartment. When you walked in, he followed behind and came to set the bags on the counter.
“You don’t have to do that,” you stopped him as he began taking things out of the bags, “I’m sure you need to unpack.”
He simply scrunched his nose as if you were just being silly, “I am capable of both, you know.”
And you supposed you did know, given his success on the college hockey team. The strength and stamina shared between him and Steve was a highlighting topic among many broadcasting channels. Not that you paid attention, or anything. Still, though it was a helpful gesture, something about it made you uncomfortable enough to stop him again. “It’s just that…” you offered a smile, “I’m kind of crazy about organizing everything.”
He glanced between your eyes and the fidgeting of your fingers, stepping back with an easy smile and a, “Whatever you say,” before retreating to his room to unpack.
It continued like that, small things that you didn’t know how to feel about. After all, opening the door for others was just polite. It spoke to how introverted you were that it was a novelty. The same applied to carrying heavier objects, or offering to do your laundry when he was already putting in a load. You were baffled to have them returned to you perfectly folded.
You supposed you were just good friends who enjoyed each other's company, even if his accommodating attitude set you off balance. You enjoyed how he paid attention. Getting to know each other was a simple exchange of observations, where you learned that you mirrored the other often. Except for a few things.
It was late afternoon on a sunday, you had just stepped out of the shower and thrown on a long shirt and shorts. You stepped out of your room, into the living area where the golden New York sunset seeped through the windows. There was Bucky, haloed by the light, setting a book back on your shelves only to take another off. You stopped and watched as he ran his finger over the spine, then split the pages. His brows drew together, but his lip turned up.
“What is it?” You spoke up.
He looked up to you immediately, only his eyes seemed to drag up from your bare legs to your wet hair. That smile grew into a smirk, his tongue darting out over his bottom lip. He took his time, like he always seemed to. Like he didn’t know what it meant to rush. Yet he never left you hanging, “You’ve annotated every book on this shelf.”
It wasn’t a question, just an observation, lifting the book in his hands as if to prove the point. He was holding Pride and Prejudice. Your eyes widened as you took sight of your neat scribbles in pink ink, taking several steps forward and opening your mouth to respond.
Only, he beat you to it, eyes flickering back to the page, “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of Mr. Darcy described using the word ‘daddy.’”
Your mouth fell open completely, in fact your jaw might have unhinged itself altogether. The way he read the word aloud with no shame whatsoever? You remembered feeling embarrassed just writing it across the page.
You forced yourself to stand straighter, crossing your arms and clearing your throat.
“Well, you obviously haven’t been on booktok very often, then.” You raised your brow, turning the challenge onto him.
He only took it in stride, leaning a shoulder against the bookshelf and giving you a deliberate once over. “Oh really? You’re telling me there’s an entire community out there for the kinds of things you write in these margins?” He turned his attention back to the flipping pages, muttering more so to himself, “interesting.”
You scoffed, finally reaching out and snatching the book from his hungry eyes, “Oh, give me that!” You turned to place it back where it belonged, next to Emma. “And for your information, no. Not all of them are annotated.”
You expecting more teasing from where he stood, still leaned on the shelves. Like he was right where he wanted to be. Only, his smug expression softened into something closer to curiosity. “Yeah, I was wondering about that…” then he reached a corded arm over you, almost caging you between him and the bookshelf. You lowered your eyes immediately, because seriously, he wasn’t even flexing, were his biceps naturally that large? Was that normal? It felt disrespectful to even look. But he brought it back down soon after, holding in his hand the one book you hadn’t touched with a pen.
When he still didn’t move away, you took it upon yourself, taking a considerable step to the side. He only thumbed through the pages, as if to prove his point, “What’s so different about The Notebook?”
What couldn’t be more different? You wanted to say. You simply turned your eyes to the shelves, exhaling a dissatisfied breath. “It’s unrealistic.”
“Unrealistic?” He laughed, pointing to the top shelf, “More than The Chronicles of Narnia?” Which was littered with your takes on favorite moments and quotes.
You rolled your eyes, “It’s unrealism disguised as realistic.” You shrugged, trying not to sound bitter, “I mean, what kind of man genuinely asks a woman what she wants, and then vows to give her all of it?”
He didn’t miss a beat, “A good one.” His voice was softer then, and you didn’t like the look in his eyes when you met them again. Like he was reading you now, like you were a puzzle he was slowly piecing together. He looked as if he just found another fitted piece.
“Yes, well,” you tried to sound unbothered, because you were unbothered. It didn’t matter. It never had. “Sometimes you have to be ‘a good man’ for yourself.”
The conversation ended there, because you felt exposed under his gaze, and plucked a book before retreating back to your room. The Hobbit this time.
You hadn’t noticed the book was missing until you walked into the apartment a week later and noticed the unbalanced lean of other books on the shelf. Some had fallen over into the empty spot it had left. Your mouth turned into a frown, but you quickly brushed it off. Maybe he wanted to read it. Maybe he’d feel the same way you did in the end, that it was a pointless kind of fantasy, and you would laugh together about it.
When it returned to its spot, however, you felt your palms itch immediately. For what reason, you didn’t know. You asked him if he liked it the following morning, and he gave a simple “yeah,” that somehow made you more antsy. He didn’t give anything else but a shrug, before turning the conversation to teasing you about your inability to get a pancake to the perfect temperature without burning it on one side.
When you were alone in the apartment, you finally groaned in frustration and picked it up. You didn’t know what you expected, because you knew he didn’t so much as highlight his books, and yet…
You found quotes highlighted in marker to match the cover, small annotations written in black at the edge of the pages.
“She would tell him what she wanted in her life--her hopes and dreams for the future--and he would listen intently and then promise to make it all come true.”
“She wanted something else, something different, something more. Passion and romance, perhaps, or maybe quiet conversations in candlelit rooms, or perhaps something as simple as not being second.” (Nicholas Sparks, 2000).
And off to the side: You deserve all of it. Everything.
You shut the book immediately and put it back, stepping away with a hand over your chest. It was as if you actually heard alarms go off in the back of your brain, red sirens flaring. It was unfair of him to plant any idea of that in your head. You wringed your hands and turned away, not liking the chasm that formed in your chest. The ache it created. Within minutes you had your bag and were out of the apartment, trying to get as far from that bookshelf as possible.
Then it became… more. He took notice of your work schedule several weeks in, noting when you would usually come home late and when you usually went without dinner as a result. Suddenly, you were coming home to dinner on the table and a Bucky who only smiled and asked about your day. Suddenly, the dishwasher was emptied before you had a chance to get to it. Suddenly, the washer wasn’t making that horrible noise anymore and the volume on your TV didn’t randomly move up and down. But he never mentioned the bookshelf.
You didn’t let it affect your expectations. He was just being nice, trying to make a good impression. It was sweet. Gentlemanly. You continued your routine as you had before he moved in, only more deliberately. In hindsight, you might not even have noticed yourself doing it. Anything you said you would do, you made sure it got done early. Even if he brushed you off and said he would take out the trash in the morning, you would wake up early and do it, responding innocently when he eyed the new bag in the can.
You worked hard at your HR internship, then came home and worked some more. You liked the space clean and organized, probably more than you even realized. It’s only that you were used to relying on yourself; not even your maintenance men were helpful–
“What are you doing?” Bucky said from somewhere above you, his tone sounding like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
You slid out from under the sink, wrench in hand, “There’s a leak.”
The crease in his brow was obvious, his mouth opened as if you said something offensive, “Didn’t you just get back from work?”
“Mhm.” You figured you could work and talk, leaning back under the sink.
“And you didn’t think to–hey!” Before you knew it, a hand was wrapped around your ankle, and you were tugged across the tile until you were no longer laying under the sink. Bucky had knelt down, like getting closer would get his point across, “I’m right here.”
Yes, yes he was. Right there. Close enough that you could lean up and you’d be sharing the same breath. You could pick the grey out from the blue in his eyes, the hint of something solemn, yet all you did was look at him with a questioning expression.
He sighed, shaking his head, “You’ve been working all day, let me fix the sink.” He held his hand out for the wrench.
You didn’t give it to him, “You’ve been working too.”
“From home,” he said simply, “You have been on your feet–”
“This doesn’t require me to be on my feet.” You motioned to the fact that you were very much on the floor.
He turned his head away, muttered something that sounded an awful lot like “unbelievable” before taking a deep breath and meeting your eyes again, “Why won’t you let me help?”
You didn’t want to open that topic at the moment, so you decided to hit him with the biggest card you had, “Do you not think I’m capable of fixing the sink?”
The look he gave you told you he was not going to fall for that game, but he only said: “I think you’re incapable of relaxing.”
You shrugged, “I’ll relax when the sink is fixed.”
“Or,” the wrench was plucked from your hand when you least expected it, “You go change, get settled, and I will have this fixed in thirty minutes.”
“Or,” you growled, reaching for the wrench he held high above your head, “you could let me–” you huffed, shifting to reach higher, “just give it–” you didn’t even think before using his shoulder as leverage, and your sentence turned into a squeal as you fell forward. Directly onto him. Your thighs split across his abdomen as you landed, his breath coming out in a rough exhale as he hit the tile. You hadn’t had much time to catch yourself and focus on grabbing the wrench, meaning you fell directly onto his chest.
You were certainly sharing air now.
The look on his face was… you didn’t have time to read the look on his face. You scrambled off him so quickly, muttering several “I’m so sorry”s and “oh my god”s because you were splayed completely across him and you felt way more than you should have and–
You only breathed once you got back to the safety of your room, realizing then that you basically just surrendered the battle. Your pride swelled, scolded you for losing focus all because you forgot what it felt like to be pressed up against…
You shook your head, not the time.
The next morning, you would turn the faucet to find the sink working perfectly. No leak at all. And Bucky wouldn’t mention a thing.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
Somehow, it got worse after that. You noticed the vase on the coffee table, the green one you found thrifting, had a new bouquet every week. Now, when you came home late, he wouldn’t have just made you dinner, but he’d wait to eat his with you. At the table, without a phone in sight. When you went somewhere, found yourself cold halfway through whatever event you were attending, he’d appear with an extra jacket he’d brought, “because you were too stubborn to grab one, doll, even though you always get cold.” It was so… domestic. So unlike the life you had made.
So much so that at times, you panicked. Wanda and Natasha didn’t understand it, no matter how much you tried to explain it. They told you to lean into it, and you didn’t know how to tell them you couldn’t. You had been pretty certain that you were happy as you were. You enjoyed your alone time, your career, and the community you had made. You didn’t need romance. You had once been told that love was a disease to a woman with ambition, and you had believed it wholeheartedly.
Now, you weren’t so sure.
You found yourself conflicted once you realized that no, James Barnes was not going to turn around at some point and resent you for all the helpful things he had done. You weren’t sure when it became such an obvious part of his character. Maybe somewhere between him knocking on the door while you showered to place towels—fresh from the dryer—on your counter and him calling every clinic in town on a Friday night to see who could fit you in when you were sick.
“Fuck—“ he threw the phone down on the couch next to your hip. He was crouching in front of you, hand running over his frustrated face. “Every clinic closed at 5.”
You only hummed in acknowledgment, too achy to care. You had been in and out of sleep the entire evening, going between shivering with a fever and breaking into a cold sweat. You only became more aware when you noticed him standing, reaching for his coat, “What are you—“
“We’re going to the ER.” He said as if he wasn’t, in your opinion, half mad. He shrugged on his coat then did a once over for you, turning to your room to presumably grab your shoes.
“What?” You croaked in the most astonished voice you could muster, sitting up on your elbows, “Buck–no, there’s no reason–”
He looked over his shoulder at you as if you were the crazy one, motioning to your form spread across the couch, “You’ve been like this all day. You can barely walk, you won’t eat, you’re feverish–”
“Listen to me…” You pushed yourself up slowly, your heart thundering like each movement was equivalent to a mile, “It is just a cold, I’m sorry–”
He stepped forward then, “Why are you apologizing?”
“I didn’t mean to take up your day, and I don’t want you to have to spend your evening taking me somewhere or nursing me back to health.” You gave him a kind smile. You appreciated him, so much so that something else was blooming next to that ache in your chest. A sort of… fluttering. But this wasn’t his job, “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you.”
He was silent for the time it took him to close the remaining space, his expression looking as if you had spoken a different language entirely. He crouched next to you, shaking his head and gently wrapping his hands around your shoulders to help you lay back down, “I don’t have anywhere else to be…”
“Still, I–”
“Why do you apologize for existing?” The words seemed to spill out of him, as if he couldn’t quite keep them in.
“What?”
“You’re human,” he whispered your name, absentmindedly checking his watch. It was time for medicine again, he reached for the pain reliever and your water. You had to give it to him, he didn’t look the least bit burdened. “It’s natural to need others.”
You took the medicine, laid your head back down, “I’ve taken care of myself this far, I can handle a common cold.”
He gave you that same look from the engagement party, but this time you read his smile as something akin to pity, or maybe affection? He lifted a hand to slide over your cheek, curling in your hair and smoothing it over your pillow, “I know you have, but now I’m here too.”
It didn’t matter when, just that you knew. This kindness was who he was, only that didn’t make him yours. The sweet words, soft touches, helpful gestures… James Barnes was a good man. Perhaps one of the best you would ever come to know, and that in of itself was more difficult than anything. You couldn’t brush him off as incompetent, or ill-mannered, or drowning in toxic masculinity, which had been so easy when dating up to that point. Only you weren’t dating, he wasn’t yours.
It became apparent when, a year after moving in, he announced, “I’m thinking of looking for my own space.”
You were eating takeout on the couch when he said it, curled up on opposite ends of and talking about nothing in particular prior. Then suddenly every nerve in your body lit, your focus zeroing.
Had you been wrong? Did he think you were taking advantage after all?
All you could say was, “Oh.” You set your carton down, suddenly not hungry. Suddenly the quiet atmosphere of the room felt as if you were suffocating.
He seemed to track the movement, as if assessing. His mouth pulled into a frown, “Yeah.”
You pulled your lips inward, biting down on them as you looked literally anywhere else. Which time had it been? When your laundry was done in the dryer, and you hadn’t noticed because you were knee-deep in paperwork, so he folded all of it for you? You hadn’t known what to think when he handed you a pile of your neatly folded panties with a slight blush across his cheeks. Or was it when he noticed your books were overflowing, so he surprised you on your birthday by building in an entire new section to the shelves?
The apartment was practically screaming his name at this point, filled to the brim with his actions. The flowers, the late night dinners, the shelves, all of it. If he had been trying to worm his way in, he had done it.
“It’s just… I saw some listings go up down the street,” he continued, picking at his chow mein, “figured I’d give them a look. Couldn’t hurt, right?”
Right.
You forced your throat to clear, planting on a supportive smile. This was your best friend, moving onto a new chapter of his life, you should be happy. You nodded eagerly, “Yes, that sounds great… um,” you unraveled your legs from below you, “I think I’m ready for bed actually…”
He furrowed his brows, “Already? We’re not even through the first Scream.”
You scrambled for words, “It’s been a long day.”
“Ah, I see,” bless him and his ability to bounce right back, “Natasha said you’re an easy scare, but I never thought–”
You smacked his shoulder, “I am not! You’re the one who was so focused on your book the other day that you jumped at the sound of the doorbell!”
He waved his finger at you, “Not fair! I was reading Stephen King!”
“And what? You were scared the pages were going to jump out at you?”
His mouth fell open, “Oh, you’re not going anywhere–”
Bucky jumped up at the same time as you, blocking your exit from the living you. You squealed, trying to get around the coffee table, but fuck him for being a goalkeeper. He follows you around, and you resort to trying to step onto the table for a fast exit, only to find his arms wrapping around you from behind. You screamed, the giggle in your throat making you feel like a schoolgirl with a crush.
“Got you!” His voice was rough with laughter, and you felt him step back, easily picking you up completely.
“Oh my god,” you slapped his arm around your waist, “put me down!”
“Nope,” he fell back on the couch, bringing you with him. It was unfair, the way he held you, like your previous conversation never happened. His breath tickled your neck as he promised, “Not until we get through at least the first two movies.”
You did eventually make it back to your room that night, shutting the door and falling against it. Your hand came up to cover your mouth. You weren’t proud of the sobs that followed shortly after, or that chasm in your chest that now felt as if it had doubled in size. You groaned in frustration, pulling at your roots.
“There were rules, I had rules…” you pleaded to the ceiling, as if someone would hear you, as you sank to the floor. “I said I wouldn’t change my expectations… that I wouldn’t let it go too far.”
But at some point… it had. At some point, that fluttering you had felt began to wrap around the discomfort like a balm over your heart. It soothed, forcing your guard down. Letting you dream before you even realized you had been. Thinking about what it would be like to trust someone again. To have… not a man to babysit, but a partner who was equal to you in character and intelligence. You thought the girls who said they wanted a man they could turn their brains off with were naive, stupid even, until you started imagining how easy it would be with him. Not all the time, but like an even exchange. Being able to trust that he had you, just as he would trust that you had him.
It was becoming increasingly obvious what had happened.
“Damnit.” You sobbed, your forehead dropping to your knees.
You were upset, but also so angry. So pissed off at yourself for letting this happen. You were smarter than this, stronger than this. They said the most intelligent women didn’t fall for this bullshit, and here you were.
You let yourself cry quietly for another thirty minutes, then you forced yourself up. Off the floor, away from the door. You got ready for bed, and didn’t let yourself cry again. You had felt this before, and you had overcome this before. Yet, as you laid down, closing your eyes, you had a nagging feeling that one realization wasn’t going to go away.
You didn’t want to be alone forever, not anymore.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
Claps rang out around the room, a few people drying tears on the corner of their napkins. Yelena’s maid of honor speech was funny and lighthearted, and yet still made hearts swell as she recounted childhood dramas and memories (or lack of) of late nights in college. She was even biting her lip at the end, trying to hold in a smile as she explained how Natasha never thought she’d find her person, until she met Steve. The cliche lines earned raised glasses, and knocked back champagne.
It was a gorgeous rehearsal dinner, with a small party. Both families had pitched in on the decorations. The colors were muted, but no less beautiful, with red roses centering each table. Candles lit up the entire room, washing everyone in a romantic, golden light. All of the guests were asked to wear colors while Natasha and Steve sat in white. It was everything Natasha had said was dumb before, and you enjoyed seeing her lean into it.
You enjoyed all of it, so much that it made that ache in your chest feel the size of a canyon. It was the same ache that had been building for a year, and you hated yourself for it. It was their day, and you wanted it to be perfect. But as you watched Steve pull her in, kiss her cheek, and the tension fall from her shoulders… all you could think was that you wanted that. That softness, that intimacy. Falling into someone and not wondering if they’d catch you.
But you’d been doing this for so long on your own, you weren’t even sure how to appeal to someone anymore. You weren’t necessarily flirty, or even playful unless you really knew the person. You also rarely found yourself attracted to strangers, so how would you even pick someone? There were too many variables, you wondered how anyone figured it out.
Bucky rose from the chair next to you a few moments later, after Yelena sat down. You watched him, in his blue suit, go to pick up the mic and smile to the room. He opened with something that made the room laugh, but you found yourself in a daze. There was nothing surprising about him, nor how he was dressed. You had seen him walk out of his room, had driven with him on the way here, had plenty of time to adapt to the way he seemed to take up the entire room, and yet… suddenly it felt as if he was the only one in the room.
You watched his eyes scan the room, “…Folks, I’m just the best man. I can’t speak for Steve or his feelings but, I believe love isn’t about lust or attraction… and yes, it is about friendship. About finding that woman who you want to share everything with, who you can’t get off your mind. But more importantly,” then his eyes landed on yours and he paused. Like it was just him and you and that wide smile, with eyes that matched his suit jacket. Then he found himself, cleared his throat, “it’s about finding the person you want to take care of for the rest of your life. The person that makes effort feel like a privilege…”
His eyes snapped away as he kept speaking, but you felt like you were about to throw up. This was the only variable. Every missing data point combined into one. Everything you wanted, right here.
And he would be leaving soon. Soon, you would be coming home to an empty apartment that still felt like him. You would have to move on and rebuild each wall, knowing all it took from him was a single look to knock them down.
Glasses raised, people cheered, the couple kissed. Bucky found his seat next to yours right as you swallowed a lump in your throat.
“How’d I do?” He leaned into your space, his arm coming around the back of your chair.
You managed a small smile, grateful for the steady and supportive tone of your voice, “Perfect, very romantic.”
Dinner was served, and everyone gathered. It was lovely, every single moment of it. The drunken laughter and kind remarks. Natasha and Steve fawning over each other. Sam teasing everyone in sight. Even Tony stood for a speech towards the end.
You chastised yourself every time the thought popped into your head: I want this. It wasn’t your day. It wasn’t yours to want. Even when your mind felt like it was racing a million miles a minute and you just wished that you had a soft place to land. A place to rest it all. Instead, you had driven away the one person who had been such a driving force in your life the past year. Now he was leaving too.
You tried to distract yourself by moving to the other side of the table with the excuse of visiting with Natasha to discuss bridesmaids plans for the next morning. It helped, for a moment. She was so lively about how she wanted everything done, and you were good with lists. Little boxes to check off, that was your area. The wine was a good call too, because two glasses in you were giggling and successfully avoiding glances from down the table.
It would only last so long though, you supposed, because once dinner was over you were out of options. You hugged every last person, even the family members you didn’t know, taking extra long on your goodbyes. But, finally, you met him back at the door with a tense smile.
Bucky stood with his hands in his pockets, angling his neck to get a better look at you, “You alright?”
You nodded, bouncing on your heels, “Yeah, ready to go?” The valet would be bringing the car back soon.
He only tensed his brows and raised the back of his hand to your cheek, “You sure, you’re flushed?”
“Oh,” you didn’t mean to flinch away, it was only a reflex, “I probably had too much wine.” Which you were regretting, just now remembering that wine did not get you tipsy in the same way vodka or tequila did. You were tired now, and every thought you had from earlier was rushing back. You turned for the doors, not wanting to continue the conversation and knowing he would follow. The valet had, indeed, brought the car around, and you hopped in the passenger side after thanking them.
Bucky took the driver's seat, adjusting his arm behind your head to reverse out of the narrow lot. He was mostly quiet, save for when he made sure you were buckled. You held your breath against the swelling emotions, trying to bat away the voices in your head. You felt at war, like the two different sides of yourself wanted very different things. One screamed it’s better this way, while the other responded it doesn’t have to be. Both had valid arguments.
In the five years you had been single, you had made the most progress in your career and financial independence. You knew yourself better, had built a better routine, and had become comfortable without the opinions of others. However, there had also been nights where all you wanted was a pair of arms wrapped around you. There were times you ate dinner, and wished you had someone across from you to talk about your day with. Someone to dance in the kitchen with… or even the more intimate aspects. Someone who took their time with you, learning every inch of your skin without a selfish expectation. Someone who just wanted to be with you.
That lump in your throat became too much, and you coughed into your elbow, trying to release some of the tension in your chest. You began to feel pins and needles breaking out over your skin, your hands feeling restless and unsure of what to do with themselves.
You felt his eyes glance over at you before focusing back on the road. You were on a backroad now, the dinner having been out of the city. After several moments of quiet traveling, he finally spoke, “I’m not sure if I told you, you look stunning tonight.” It was a soft compliment, his hand slowly reaching over to squeeze your knee, because of course he knew something was wrong. “This dress is lovely.”
It was too much, all of it. You couldn’t even remember the last time a man complimented something specific on you. When it was dangled in front of you like this, you found you enjoyed it too much. You felt greedy with the need for more, like you wanted this to be your normal.
But he was leaving.
The sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, all of it suddenly becoming too much. You brought a hand to cover your mouth, turning away, but it was already too late. Bucky only squeezed your knee one last time before bringing his hand back to the wheel with a pained sigh. You noticed the car slowing, finding him pulling over to the shoulder. You grunted in disapproval, something like an apology. For causing a scene? For being selfish? For having agreed to this in the first place? All of the above?
Once the car stopped, you heard him unbuckle and turn to you. Then, a hand gently pried the one from your mouth, “Sweetheart? Talk to me.”
You only hung your head, your teeth clenching around more sobs. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block everything out.
He was persistent. He moved your hair behind your ear, trying to get a look at you, “What’s going on,” with a plea of your name he said, “please?”
You shook your head, “I-I’m sorry, I don’t know–”
“Don’t apologize,” then he was taking your cheeks in his hands, giving you no choice but to turn to him. He made a pained noise when he saw your tears, his thumbs brushing under your eyes, “Tell me what it is, pretty girl. Tell me, and I’ll fix it.”
That felt like salt on a wound, your breath releasing from your chest broken and cracked. You tried to turn away, but he wouldn’t let you. One hand slid to cup your nape while the other unbuckled you, tugging your knees till you faced him more. It only made you cry harder.
“You gotta talk to me, I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me.”
You finally broke with a, “You don’t need to do anything!”
He wasn’t having it, “Bullshit. You’ve been out of it all night, and now you’re bawling your eyes out. Best believe I’m going to figure out what caused those tears and–”
“I’m tired!” you emphasized the words, trying to give them more meaning than they had on their own.
His brows furrowed, “Of what?”
“Everything! All of it.” You motioned your hands as if that was a good explanation, “I’m so fucking selfish! It’s someone else’s night and all I could think about–all I’ve been thinking about–is how goddamn tired I am of doing everything myself.”
“You don’t have to,” a hand runs through your hair, smoothing it, almost lulling you.
“But I can! I was! For a long time! And-and then suddenly…” you trailed off, shrugging your shoulders and finally forcing yourself to look away from him.
He squeezed your knee again, “Suddenly?”
You shook your head again, but not necessarily to his question. More so, to the tone of his voice, the earnestness of it. He cared so much, and it was as heartbreaking as it was exhilarating to be the center of his attention.
It must have been the exhilarated side that quietly answered: “You.”
“Me?”
“You!” You repeated with more confidence, “You showed me something different and now you’re leaving and… I don’t know…” You searched for the words, “do you ever get tired of being alone?”
Your question seemed to send the car into such thick silence that you couldn’t stand to stare out the front dash anymore. Slowly, you turned to look at him. For the first time, he wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were downcast, his mouth hung as if he had no clue what to say.
Shame spread across your cheeks. You’d really done it this time. In a matter of months, weeks for all you knew, he’d be gone. He wanted to leave, and here you were saying silly things. Embarrassing yourself. This was why you hadn’t dated.
But that was a lie. You hadn’t dated because you hadn’t felt this in a very long time. If ever.
When Bucky finally did move, it was to shift the car back into gear. His other hand moved back to the steering wheel at the same time that you said, “I’m sorry.”
It was his turn to shake his head, “Just…” his voice was rough, pained, “Just let me take you home. I think… I think you need to see something.” He pulled back onto the highway, careful of the speed limit despite the way his fingers drummed restlessly on the steering wheel.
The ride was quiet, save for your sniffles as you tried to quit crying. You had no idea what he meant, no clue what he might want to show you at home that you didn’t already know about. Or maybe it was something else… a lease he’d already signed? His bags packed neatly in his room? Maybe he just wanted out of this car before telling you how tiresome this past year has been for him. Either way, you were determined to pull it together by the time you entered the parking garage.
And you had, for the most part. To his credit, he didn’t seem the least bit angry getting out of the car. You both walked calmly up the stairs to the apartment, and you waited for him to unlock the door. When you walked inside, however, he did not lead you to his room to show you any documents or boxes. He did not turn and give you a piece of his mind.
He walked to the bookshelf.
Your face twisted in confusion as his hands went directly to the spine of the book he was after, not even taking a second to search. Like he knew the exact spot it lived in like the back of his hand. And when he turned, you saw the cover was the same book he had pulled months ago when you had stood against those shelves together. The Notebook. The same book he had annotated for you without a word, that you had put back before even beginning to flip through the pages.
Now, however, he was thumbing through them himself. When he stopped, three fourths through the book, he opened it fully and turned it to you. His eyes met yours again, the first time since you had spoken in the car, as he handed you the book. You took it without question, looking at him for a few moments before finally turning your eyes to the page. And right there, where highlight draws over lines of Noah confessing to Allie what is loving her has meant to him, is the only annotation written in your favorite pink ink:
When I read these love stories, about a man who cares for a woman until his dying breath, I only ever think of one person. Love at first sight might not exist, but I have cared for you from the very first moment. Then again at every party, every class, every dinner, and every night in this little apartment.
Oh.
You blinked several times, reread the words to the point that he probably thought you were illiterate, but you only wanted to make sure they were real. Then you looked up at him, with his bitten lip and puppy-dog eyes. You mouthed wordlessly for several seconds before landing on a single question, “James–”
“I was betting on you getting curious when the book was missing,” he shrugged, “I guess I was wrong.”
You shook your head, “You weren’t, I-I did look. I just didn’t get too far because…”
“You got scared.” He understood.
You finally met his eyes, “You don’t think I’m too much?”
The exhale he let out was soft and full of pity, yet he still stepped forward. “I think,” he said, “that you have been left alone for far too long,” he gently took the book, setting it on the arm of the couch next to you, “and I am sorry that anyone ever made you think you had to do this alone.”
You couldn’t breathe, “I—“
“I love you.” His hands cradled your face once again, tilting your head up so he could look at you properly. He was so close, close enough to do whatever he pleased, and yet he still waited.
Only until you said: “I love you too.”
Then he was kissing you without reprieve. There was no hesitancy in the way he took your purse from your shoulder, dropped it to the floor, and backed you against the door. You took no time in responding, your mouth matching his kiss or kiss. Your hands lifted to his shoulders, sliding down to fist his shirt in your fingers. It was a consuming sort of kiss, and not just for the fact that you hadn’t kissed someone in years. It was him, and it was overwhelming in the way that it felt right.
You forced yourself to pull back before you could melt into him, giggling when his lifts tried to follow yours. “I just…” you leaned against the door, looking up at him, “I thought you wanted to leave?”
His breath was already ragged, and you could practically hear his heart pounding. It didn’t stop him from shaking his head, “No, sweetheart.” The words were breathed against your forehead before his lips dropped to your skin, planting kisses on your forehead before reaching your cheeks, “I never wanted to leave, but being near you and…” his exhale was hungered, full of longing, “and not having you, it’s like torture.”
“I know the feeling…” you replied, voice no more than a whisper.
The groan he let out was like nothing you had heard from any man before, and then his lips were on yours again. There was nothing held back about it. He fisted your hair and tugged your head back, his tongue sliding along yours when you gasped. You didn’t need him to hold you there, you were more than happy to arch into him, and he knew it. His hands slid down next, over the fabric of your butter yellow dress, brushing your thighs right where the hem ends. He mumbled something against your mouth, but you were too focused on the taste and feel of him. His muscles were both hard and soft all in one, and it was the safest place you had ever been. And as you ran your hands down the definition of his abdomen, you found yourself dizzy with more than just love.
He pulled away when it was obvious you hadn’t heard him, and only then did you notice his fingers brushing up under your dress. Your breath hitched, fingers flexing against him. He nudged your nose with his, whispering again, “Will you let me?”
You knew what he was asking without any clarification, because your body was miles ahead. Still, you hesitated. Could you do this? Did you still even know how? What if you messed up? Or couldn’t please him? Or–
Bucky whispered your name, thumb brushing your cheek, “You’re overthinking.”
“It’s just been a long time for me.” You bit your lip, watching his eyes track the movement.
He nodded like he knew, because of course he knew. “I just want you to relax, okay? Let me take care of you.”
You weren't prepared for how easy it would be to listen to the gentle command, to uncurl your fingers from his shirt and let go of the urgency because he had you. One of his arms wrapped around your waist, the other gripping the back of your thigh as he pulled you up to wrap your legs around him. And then he really was against you, and you gasped once again against his mouth. He smiled as he turned to walk down the hall, undoubtedly knowing that you can feel all of him pressed to you. And judging by your perception of size, "all" was a considerable amount.
He entered his room, kicking the door shut behind him, and brought you to his bed. He kissed you once more before laying you down on the white comforter and leaning back to get a better look at you. Your hair fanned across the bed, your dress riding up your thighs. He smirked down at you, his hands coming up to your thighs.
"Gorgeous," he mumbled, more to himself, and ran his hands down to wrap around your ankles. You squealed as he gave a sudden tug, pulling you to the edge of the bed where your thighs fell on either side of him. Your dress was ridden up to your hips by that point, putting the cotton of your ordinary panties on display.
Not that it seemed to make any difference to him, he was still intent on looking his fill. So much so, you felt yourself start to squirm at the attention, letting out a whine.
He only tutted, shrugging off his suit jacket before his hands went to the buttons of his shirt, "Patience, sweetheart." Then he was shirtless, and you couldn't have formed a remark if you wanted to. He was all definition under soft, tanned skin. When he finally brought himself down, his body covering yours, you did not hesitate to run your hands along his chest and shoulders.
You could have stayed there like that for a long while, just feeling him pressed against you. But Bucky was the one losing patience all of the sudden, with his lips against yours and his hands at the hem of your dress. You moaned when he bit down on your bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth, and he used the moment to drag your dress up your sides and over your head. It had been wired, leaving you without the choice of a bra, not that you regretted it when you heard the groan he let out at the sight of you under him.
Then his mouth was on you, leaving nips along your collarbone before dropping down to your breasts. You cursed in response to the sensation, gasping his name as your fingers flew to his hair.
"Fuck," his lips let go of your nipple just to mumble against your skin, "dreamt of this, having you under me," he sucked a hickey onto your skin, "thought I was an awful man for wanting you at my mercy, but look at you," his hips rolled into yours, you arched and pulled at his hair, "you're loving this."
"Please," you breathed as his mouth closed around the other nipple, sucking it into his mouth.
"Please what, baby?" He trailed kisses down your stomach next, before he dropped off the bed. Next thing you knew, he was kneeling in front of you.
You could only squirm, feeling pinned under him, "I-I don't know..."
He hummed, still so pleased with you, "I know, I know what you need. You just lay there and take it, doll."
The very idea made your insides burn, pleasure licking up your spine as his lips ghosted along the seem of your panties. He kissed over them, completely shameless to the eroticism of his actions. You, on the other hand, were speechless. Your thighs were already close to shaking and he had barely touched you. He knew the effect he had too, if his smirk was any clue. He watched for your reaction as he brought his hands to the sides, slowly bringing them down your legs.
You closed your knees on instinct, but he wasn't having it. He pulled them apart with a warning look at you and placed one thigh over his shoulder, his other hand pinning your knee to the bed. You couldn't take your eyes off his expression though, seeing the hunger in his eyes when they finally fell on you. He exhaled, his voice rough, "look at you," then his thumb was pushing through your folds, dragging down the seem of your cunt. "Already so wet for me. I think I deserve a taste, don't you?"
You gasped, not even thinking when you started nodding, your hips already grinding against his thumb.
He hummed, nipping at the inside of your thigh, "So good f'me." Then he was on you, his tongue dragging from your entrance up to your clit before his mouth sucked hard. It was your turn to cry out a curse, your hips coming off the bed. But he adjusted, an arm wrapping under your thigh and coming back up to hold your hips down. "So sweet," his voice vibrated against you, "can't believe you kept this from me."
"Didn't want to," you whined, words barely coherent, "didn't wanna--"
"Mm," he pulled back, thumb replacing his mouth and working your clit while he watched your reaction. "We're gonna make up for all that lost time, yeah baby?"
You nodded incessantly, muttering pleas as his pointer finger found your entrance.
"Gotta get my pretty girl ready," he mumbled, more so to himself, as he pushed the finger in and found immediate resistance. He wasn't discouraged, though. His mouth found your clit again, laving and sucking until your thighs began to shake. Slowly, you began to relax to the point that he was able to move the finger in and out, curving it into the spot that made you let out a needy whine.
"There she is," he smiled against you, and you thought you might have found heaven. When he used a second finger with his tongue, his arm pulling your hips flush against his mouth, you found yourself repeating words over and over. "Please"s and "I love you"s tumbling out. He talked you through all of it. The second your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your mouth opened with a scream, he was encouraging you with "good girl"s and "give it to me"s and "please, baby"s.
He didn't stop until you were tugging on his hair and trying to pull him back up. When he sat up, he was breathing heavily and his pupils were blown wide. And when he brought himself back onto the bed, you could so clearly see the evidence of his arousal. You bit your lip, hard, and looked up at him with an expression you were sure gave away exactly what you wanted. If it didn't, it didn't really matter, because then you were tugging him down over you.
His mouth met yours again, and you tasted yourself on him. It was consuming, but you didn't let it distract you from moving your hands to the zipper of his slacks. You weren't about to waste any time, and with the way he was grinding against you, he wasn't either. He kicked his pants and boxers down the minute you pushed them past his hips, both of you groaning at the feeling of skin on skin.
He kissed you hard once more, taking a moment to admire you, before leaning up on his forearm. Using his other hand, he brought your leg over his hip. His forehead dropping down to yours, he whispered, "You gonna let me take care of you?"
You could only nod, feeling him adjust and run the head of his cock up through your wetness and against your clit. You could barely see straight.
He smiled, pleased, "Breathe for me, okay? Relax." He waited to watch you obey, pulling in a deep breath and melting against him all over again. Then he pushed against you, the tip of him sinking slowly inside. He took the moment to pinch the nipple of one of your breasts, making you cry out and push against him. It made the pleasure of him thrusting into you sharper, better than you ever remember this being.
He cursed once again, moaning your name against your ear as he pulled out only to sink back in. "So tight. Perfect. And just for me, aren't you?"
You nodded, eyes rolling back as he set a rhythm.
But he grasped your chin, made you look at him, "Say it, tell me you're all mine."
It took you a minute to find your words, too focused on the feeling of him dragging inside you. There was no way it had always been like this, there had to be something different about James Barnes. Him and the way his cock pushed inside you, making stars dance in your vision.
"'m yours, Bucky, all yours. Please--"
"That's right," he pushed harder, his thumb dropping back down to press against your clit, "My perfect girl and her tight cunt, all for me." He dropped his mouth to your breast, sucking and biting down gently, "All for me to take care of."
The words mixed with all of the sensations happening in your body were too much. You felt your legs tighten around him, your hips lifting to meet his, mumbling his name and whining into his neck when you began to press kisses into it.
"Mhm, that feel good, doll?" the room was full of the noises of slapping skin and heavy breathing, "You gonna cum for me?"
You cried out, hands grasping at his back and nails dragging across his skin, "Uh huh, please!"
"Don't gotta beg me, I'll give you anything you want. As long as you keep letting me take care of you." He groaned, his thrusts turning sporadic, "Fuck, and letting me spread those legs and ruin this pussy. Please, baby..."
You felt your body tighten around the pleasure, the buildup from your first orgasm to your second feeling ten times more intense. And being pinned down underneath him while he whispered dirty words and promises of love only added to the pleasure as it hit you. You screamed his name so loud he was forced to put a hand over your mouth so the whole apartment wouldn't hear. He didn't last much longer either, his mumbles turning to whimpers of your name as he thrust through his orgasm.
You were both left with ragged breaths and sweaty skin after, letting out quiet laughs as your kisses turned lazy and sweet rather than rough. He ran his hands up and down your sides as you combed yours through his messy hair.
"Are you okay?" You found yourself asking.
He chuckled, "That's my line." Then he slowly began to pull out, watching your reaction as you winced at the soreness. He brought a hand to your hip, rubbing soothing circles into the skin.
You bit your lip, feeling a hint of that worry seep back in as he gave you a once over, "But... are you?"
He met your eyes again, reading you like a book. You watched as it dawned on him what you meant, and he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, swiping your hair from your cheeks. "I'm not sure I could be better," he pulled back, "I love you. I mean it, I'm not going anywhere."
You sighed, any last bits of tension seeping from your muscles, "I love you too."
He smiled, standing and scooping you up into his arms once more. You squealed again, securing your arms around his neck and bringing your lips to his for one last peck. He then buried his nose into your neck, breathing in your scent as he walked towards the bathroom.
"What are we doing?" You rested your head on his shoulder as you let him take you wherever he pleased.
"Taking care of you," he said simply, "You barely ate at dinner. So, I'm gonna get you cleaned up, then we'll eat something."
You hummed, and for once didn't worry about the where, or why, or how of it all. You let him take the lead, knowing he had you. You were safe. You were loved.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
note: this might have felt a little daydreamy... and that's because it really was just me daydreaming about actually finding a competent man. As a hyper-independent, anxious girly, I won't be putting bets on it. But I sure can dream about Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. :)
Please remember to repost and support your creators!
Only Ratatouille is not on the same level of sadness as the others...
tag (idk who does it): @singulartoast @starburstbarnes @sassandscribbles @chateaubarnes @tw1sters @stanmarvelous @slutdier @daydreamgoddess14 @elixirfromthestars @buckytakethewheel
thank you for the tags @bedriddenbarnes @slutdier @metal-armed-muse @winteryn @phoenix-in-writing @sunday-bug im so sorry for being late nvjdfjfghdj i love you guys :")
Pairing: Frontiersman!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Tags: Western AU. Shotgun Wedding. Strangers to Lovers. Slight Angst. Comfort. Domestic Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.
Warnings: Reader has Heterochromia. Loss of Virginity. Period-Typical Gender Roles and Expectations.
Summary: She came to White Creek for a teaching position that didn't exist. He needed a wife but never expected to find one like this.
Word Count: 7.7k
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
He guided her toward the cleared space where couples were beginning to form lines: two rows facing each other, men on one side, women on the other.
"It's simple," he said as they walked, his hand still at her back. "The caller shouts the figures, you follow along. Everyone's facin’ their partner most of the time, so keep your eyes on me."
"Figures?" she repeated.
"Moves. Dosido, allemande, swing… You ain’t need to worry about the names. Just watch what everyone else does and follow my lead when we're together."
They reached the lines, and he positioned her across from him in the women's row. The space between them was maybe six feet, close enough that she could see the way his eyes tracked her, the slight curve of his mouth.
Around them, other couples were settling into place. She recognized Nell and Tom a few positions down, Sarah and her husband closer to the front. Even some of the older couples had joined, Carl and Agnes Hayes among them.
A man with a fiddle stood near the corner. Someone else, one of the loggers she didn't know by name, called out, "Everyone ready?"
A chorus of affirmatives rose from the group.
"Alright then," the caller said, raising his voice to carry over the chatter. "We'll start with an easy one for the newcomers. 'Petronella'. Everyone knows it?"
Most people nodded or called out agreement. She stayed quiet, her heart beating faster.
The fiddle started, a lively, bouncing tune that made her want to tap her foot even before anyone moved.
"Forward and back!" the caller shouted.
The lines surged toward each other, then retreated. She followed a half-beat late, watching the women around her.
"Forward and back again!"
This time she moved with them, stepping forward until she was close enough to see the amusement in Bucky's eyes, then back again.
"Dosido your partner!"
She hesitated -what the hell was a dosido?- but Bucky was already moving toward her. He circled around her right side, his shoulder passing close to hers, then around her back. She turned instinctively, following the motion, and ended up facing him again from the same spot.
"Good," he said, just loud enough for her to hear over the music.
"Right-hand star!" the caller shouted.
The couples moved into groups of four, her and Bucky with the pair beside them. Everyone extended their right hands to the center, forming a star shape, and began walking in a circle.
She focused on keeping her footing, on not stepping on anyone's skirts or boots, on trying to anticipate what came next.
The figures kept coming: swing your partner, promenade, ladies chain. She stumbled more than once, turned the wrong direction during an allemande, and completely missed a move she didn't catch the name of.
But Bucky was always there. Guiding her with a hand at her waist, a look, a subtle gesture. And when she got it wrong, he just grinned and pulled her back into position.
Around them, people were laughing. Not at her, she realized, but just... enjoying themselves. The music, the movement, the chaos of so many bodies trying to stay in sync.
And she was laughing too.
Eventually, the caller shouted, "Swing your neighbor!"
Before she could process what that meant, Tom Johnson was there, catching her hand and spinning her in a quick circle. She caught a glimpse of Nell being spun by the man on her other side, laughing at something he'd said.
And then she was back in line, slightly breathless, and Tom was grinning at her before returning to his own partner.
The music kept going, relentless and cheerful.
"Down the line!"
The top couple -the pair at the head of the formation- joined hands and skipped down between the two rows while everyone else clapped. When they reached the bottom, they formed an arch with their arms, and the next couple ducked under and repeated the pattern.
She watched, trying to memorize the sequence, and realized with growing certainty that eventually, it would be her and Bucky's turn.
"Progression!" the caller shouted.
The lines changed. She moved up one position, and suddenly the couple she was facing wasn't Bucky anymore; it was a man she didn't know, one of the other loggers, with a weathered face and a friendly gap-toothed smile.
Her stomach dropped.
It was irrational. She knew it was irrational.
"Forward and back!"
She moved automatically, but her eyes searched for Bucky. Found him one position down, now facing a woman she recognized from the food tables. Younger, maybe her age, with dark hair and a bright smile.
He caught her gaze for a brief second and gave her a small nod.
You're fine. Keep going.
She forced herself to look away, to focus on her own partner.
"Dosido your partner!"
She circled the stranger, keeping her expression neutral, trying not to think about how different it felt to move around someone who wasn't Bucky.
The man was polite. His hands, when they touched hers during the star, were dry and work-roughened, impersonal. He smelled like tobacco and woodsmoke.
Not Bucky.
The figures continued, right hand star, left hand star, swing your partner.
When the stranger's hand settled at her waist for the swing, it felt all wrong. Too light. Too careful. As if she were made of glass instead of flesh and bone.
The stranger spun her competently, released her right on time, and she ended up back in her spot in line.
She counted the steps in her head, willing the progression to come faster.
Around her, people were laughing, enjoying themselves. The music played on, relentless and cheerful.
She didn't look down the line. Didn't want to see Bucky's hands on that woman's waist, even in something as innocent as contradance.
One more figure, she told herself. Maybe two.
"Dosido your corner!"
She circled the woman beside her -Sarah, she realized- and Sarah gave her a quick, sympathetic smile. Did it show on her face? How much she wanted to be back across from her own husband?
"Progression!"
The lines shifted again, and she was back across from Bucky.
His eyes found hers instantly, and something in his expression, maybe the flatness of his stare, suggested he hadn't enjoyed the last progression any more than she had.
"Miss me?" he asked, just loud enough for her to hear as they stepped forward and back.
"Terribly," she said, and she meant it more than he probably realized.
His expression changed, something possessive and serious flickered across his face before smoothing into a grin. But she'd seen it. That flash of... what? Satisfaction? Relief?
"Good," he said, and there was an edge to his voice that made her stomach flip.
"Swing your partner!"
He caught her around the waist and spun her, and the difference was immediate.
Faster than the stranger had moved her. Closer. Close enough that she could feel the heat of his body through all the layers of fabric between them. His hand at her waist was firm and sure, pulling her into the turn with confidence that made her head spin.
She laughed as the room blurred around them.
This. This was right.
His hand, and the way he moved her, like he knew exactly how her body would respond. When they stopped, she was dizzy. Not from the spinning… or not just from the spinning.
She wanted to say something, but the music was already moving into the next figure, and the caller's voice rose above the noise.
"Down the line!"
Bucky squeezed her hand once before they separated to let the top couple skip through.
But she felt that squeeze all the way through the rest of the dance.
----
The contradance ran several more rounds until the fiddle player finally lowered his instrument with a flourish as the last notes faded. The room erupted in applause and laughter, people fanning themselves, reaching for water, catching their breath.
She was breathing hard, a light sheen of sweat on her forehead despite the cold outside. Her face felt warm. From the exertion, from the punch still in her system, from the way Bucky had been looking at her every time they'd come back together in the line.
"Well done," he said, appearing at her elbow with a cup of water. "For someone who ain't know what a dosido was an hour ago."
She took the water gratefully, drinking half of it in one go. "I stepped on at least three people's feet."
"Maybe four," he corrected, grinning. "But who's countin’?"
She swatted his arm lightly, and he caught her hand, holding it for just a moment longer than necessary before letting go.
She felt that small touch like a spark.
Around them, people were milling about, some heading outside for air, others clustering near the drink table. The fiddle player was conferring with someone about the next set.
Then a voice rose from near the front of the room. Clear, refined, and just a touch condescending.
"Perhaps we might try something a bit more... refined? A waltz, maybe?"
She turned to see the mayor's wife standing with the banker's wife, both of them looking perfectly composed despite the heat of the room. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in their fine dresses.
There was a beat of silence.
Then someone -one of the loggers- let out a low whistle. "Ooh, fancy."
Laughter rippled through the crowd, but it wasn't mean-spirited. More like amusement at the incongruity of it, waltzing in a frontier town hall after contradance.
"I think that's a fine idea," Agnes Hayes said, her tone diplomatic but with a hint of mischief. "If the fiddle player knows one."
The fiddle player shrugged. "I know a few."
"Well then," Carl Hayes said, offering his arm to Agnes with exaggerated formality. "Shall we, my dear?"
More laughter. But people were starting to pair off, couples moving back toward the cleared space. The atmosphere had changed, less raucous, more curious. Like they were all in on the joke but willing to play along.
Bucky turned to her. "You know how to waltz?"
"I do," she said. "Do you?"
"Enough to get by." He held out his hand. "Come on."
She took it, and he led her back onto the floor.
The space felt different now. More intimate, even with all the other couples gathering around them.
The fiddle started a slower, lilting melody.
Bucky's hand pressed at her waist, and she placed hers on his shoulder. Their other hands joined, held at a proper height.
Appropriate. Exactly the way she'd been taught.
But it didn't feel proper.
Not when it was him.
"Ready?" he asked quietly.
She nodded, and then they were moving.
It was completely different from the contradance.
No shouted instructions. No changing partners every few bars. No chaos of bodies moving in patterns around them.
Just the two of them, turning in slow circles, her skirts brushing against his legs with each step. She'd forgotten what this felt like. The waltz. One-two-three, one-two-three, the rhythm so ingrained she didn't have to think about it.
But she'd never done it like this.
Back home, the few times she'd danced at all with instructors, they had kept her at arm's length. Maintained the proper distance. Looked over her shoulder or past her, never quite meeting her gaze.
Because looking at her meant seeing her eyes. Meant acknowledging the girl with the devil's mark.
But Bucky was looking right at her.
His hand at her waist was warm and solid. Not tentative or careful like the lessons. Not performatively correct like the rare partner who'd been obligated to dance with her.
The room moved around them. Other couples turning, the fiddle playing, voices low, and occasional laughter.
But it all felt distant. Muffled, like there was a bubble around just the two of them.
"You've done this a lot?" she asked quietly.
"Once or twice." His hand at her waist pressed slightly more firmly, guiding her through a turn. "You're good at this."
"I had lessons," she admitted. "My parents thought it was important."
"For findin’ a husband?" There was no judgment in his voice, just curiosity.
She felt something twist in her chest.
"For being... acceptable. Refined." She met his eyes, saw him watching her carefully. "They thought if I could dance well enough, carry myself properly, be accomplished in all the right ways, maybe someone would overlook... the rest."
She didn't need to specify what "the rest" was.
"Not that it mattered much in the end," she added, trying to keep her voice light.
His expression changed, a shadow passing over his face. His hand tightened almost imperceptibly at her waist.
"Their loss," he said, and there was an edge to his voice.
Like she was something worth having. Worth wanting.
"Hey," he said quietly, and she realized she'd missed a step.
She forced herself to focus. One-two-three. Follow his lead. Don't think about-
"You alright?" he asked.
"Yes," she managed. "Just... thank you. For saying that."
"It's true," he said simply. "Anyone who couldn't see that you were worth knowin’ was a damn fool."
She blinked hard, once, and concentrated very carefully on the next turn.
Around them, other couples were dancing. Some with skill, others fumbling through the steps. Carl and Agnes were surprisingly graceful. Tom and Nell were arguing quietly about whose fault it was that they kept going off-count, but both were smiling.
And somewhere in the crowd, she caught a glimpse of Mary Collins watching them with a certain assessment that made her want to stand up straighter. Made her hyperaware of every imperfection, the way her hair was probably coming loose from its pins, the fact that her dress, while nice, was nothing compared to what some of the wealthier women wore.
Her shoulders tensed.
"Don't," Bucky said quietly.
She looked up at him. "Don't what?"
"Worry about what she thinks."
His thumb brushed against her waist. Just once, barely perceptible through all the layers of fabric and boning. But she felt it. Felt the deliberate pressure of it, the casual possessiveness.
"You're doin’ fine," he continued, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
"I wasn't-"
"You were." He turned them smoothly, and she had to focus to keep the count, to not stumble when her heart had just kicked up for reasons that had nothing to do with the dance. "And for the record, you look better in that dress than she does in hers. Even with the torture device underneath."
A surprised laugh escaped her before she could stop it. "Bucky."
"What? It's true." His eyes held hers, steady and warm. "You think I ain’t noticed you could barely breathe at lunch?"
"It's not that bad."
"It's ridiculous," he said flatly. "But you look beautiful anyway."
Beautiful.
He'd said it out loud, where anyone could hear.
Her foot faltered -just barely- and she felt herself lose the rhythm.
His hand at her waist tightened, pulling her back into the count without missing a beat.
One-two-three. One-two-three.
She forced herself to keep moving, to keep her feet following the pattern even though her mind had gone completely blank.
When was the last time someone had called her that? Had anyone ever called her that?
Her mother had called her ‘handsome’ once. A diplomatic word. A word that meant ‘presentable enough.’
Her brother had never commented on her appearance at all, except to remind her to keep her hair neat, her posture straight, her expression neutral. "Don't draw attention," he'd said.
And the men back home -the few who'd been forced into her company at social gatherings- had looked everywhere but at her face.
But Bucky was looking.
And he'd called her beautiful.
"Thank you," she managed.
The music swelled, and he turned them again, the movement bringing her marginally closer. Still proper, still acceptable by any standard.
But it felt intimate anyway.
"You're welcome," he said, his voice low, meant only for her.
Then, after a pause, quieter still: "Though if I'm bein’ honest, watchin’ you dance with others earlier made me want to end the whole damn thing."
Her eyes snapped to his.
He was watching her with a mix of amusement and frustration and something darker.
"Jealous?" she asked, testing the word.
His jaw worked for a moment, like he was deciding whether to admit it.
"Concerned," he said finally. Then, with a slight grimace, "And yeah. Maybe a little jealous."
The admission chased away the last remnants of nervousness about being here, about being watched, about what people thought.
"It's just contradance," she said, but she was smiling now. "Everyone dances with everyone."
"I know that." His hand flexed slightly at her waist. "Didn't make it easier to watch."
She wanted to say something. What, she wasn't sure. Something about how wrong it had felt to dance with anyone else. How she'd counted every second until the progression brought her back to him.
But the words stuck in her throat.
The music began to wind down, and when it ended, they stood there for a moment, still holding each other, neither quite ready to let go.
His hand was still at her waist. Hers still on his shoulder.
She could feel his breath, see the rise and fall of his chest, and the way he was looking at her.
Then someone started clapping, and the spell broke.
He stepped back, releasing her waist but keeping hold of her hand as they moved off the floor with the other couples.
But his thumb traced a small circle against her palm before he let go.
"Ready to head home?" he asked quietly.
She glanced around the room, at the people still laughing and talking, at the fiddle player tuning up for another set, at the warmth and noise and life of it all.
Then she looked back at him.
"Yes," she said. "I'm ready."
----
They made their way toward the door, weaving through clusters of people still talking, laughing, showing no signs of slowing down. The fiddle had started up again -another contradance by the sound of it- and she could hear the caller's voice rising over the music.
Near the food tables, she spotted Nell and Sarah gathering their empty dishes. They didn’t waltz, it seemed.
"We're heading out," she said, catching Nell's attention.
"Already?" Nell glanced toward the dance floor, then back at her with a knowing look. "Party's still going."
"Bucky has work tomorrow," she said. "He could use the extra rest."
Nell's eyebrow rose slightly, but she didn't push. "Of course."
"Actually," Sarah said, "we were just saying we should all meet up in town sometime. Make a day of it, errands and such."
"That sounds lovely," she said, genuinely pleased at the idea. "When were you thinking?"
"Maybe Thursday?" Nell suggested. "We could do our shopping, then grab something at the ‘hotel’ dining room. They've got decent coffee."
"Thursday works," she agreed. "I'll be there."
"Good." Nell squeezed her arm briefly. "It was nice having you here today. Really."
"Thank you," she said. "For everything."
Nell just smiled, and the meaning was clear: don't mention it.
They said their goodbyes, collected their now-empty crate and clothes from where they'd left them, and headed outside.
The afternoon air was cold, the sun already low on the horizon. Late November meant the days were short, and they'd be racing the sunset to get home before full dark.
She pulled her winter cloak around herself while Bucky shrugged into his coat.
The street was quieter now than it'd been at midday, most people still inside the hall. A few men stood outside the saloon, smoking and talking in low voices.
Bucky helped her up onto the wagon seat, his hand steady at her elbow even though she didn't really need the assistance. Her legs were tired from dancing, but she was steady enough.
He swung up beside her and gathered the reins, clicking his tongue to get the horse moving.
----
The sun was low, maybe two hours of good light left. They'd make it home before full dark if they kept a decent pace. No reason to rush…
Except he wanted to.
Had wanted to since the moment she'd pinned that brooch to her dress this morning and smiled at him like he'd given her something precious instead of a piece of cheap white copper from a camp peddler.
Maybe since before that. Since she'd stood in their cabin in nothing but her chemise and asked him to lace up that damned corset, and he'd had to keep his hands steady and impersonal when all he'd wanted was to do something else.
Two months. He'd waited two months.
He could wait another hour.
The road stretched ahead, familiar and rutted. He kept his attention on it, on the horse, on anything other than the woman sitting beside him.
She was quiet. Watching the landscape, her hands folded in her lap. The brooch caught the late afternoon light every time she shifted.
He'd been watching her all day. Couldn't seem to help it.
Watching her navigate the food tables with the other women, her shoulders straight and her chin up, even though he knew she'd been nervous. Watching her laugh with Nell Johnson and Sarah Calhoun like she'd known them for years instead of hours. Watching her move through the contradance, stumbling sometimes but trying, always trying.
Watching her dance with Tom Johnson during that partner swap, and feeling something ugly and possessive in his gut.
She was his wife. His.
And some rational part of his brain knew that was the whole point of contradance: everyone danced with everyone, it didn't mean anything.
But the irrational part, the part that had spent two months sleeping next to her and touching her and learning what made her gasp and arch against him, that part had wanted to walk across the floor and pull her back to his side of the line where she belonged.
He'd managed not to.
And then the waltz.
He'd danced before, enough to know the steps, enough to not embarrass himself. But he'd never danced with her. Had never had to reconcile the woman in his arms in public with the woman who came apart under his hands in private.
The way she'd looked up at him when he'd called her beautiful…
He shifted on the seat, adjusting his grip on the reins.
Focus. Road. Horse. Home.
Behind the seat, the wool blanket was folded where he'd stashed it that morning. The temperature had dropped since they'd left town, and it would only get colder as the sun set.
He glanced at her. She'd pulled her cloak tighter, but her hands were hidden under the fabric. Cold, probably.
"Hold these a second," he said, passing her the reins.
She took them without question, and he twisted around to grab the blanket. Shook it out and put it over both their laps, securing it around her legs.
His hand lingered on her thigh.
He told himself it was to make sure the blanket was firm. That the weight of his palm pressing through her skirt and petticoat was purely practical.
He let his hand rest there for a moment before he took the reins back and focused on the road again.
But he'd felt her reaction. The way she'd gone very still. The slight hitch in her breathing.
He didn't examine why he'd done it. Didn't want to admit, that every time she looked at him today with those mismatched eyes, it got a little harder to remember why he was waiting.
The wagon hit a rut, jostling them both.
She winced, her hand going to her side.
He glanced at her. "You alright?"
"Fine," she said. "Just this damned corset."
Damned corset was right.
He'd watched her struggle with it all day. The way she'd shifted in her seat during lunch, trying to find a position that didn't dig the boning into her more than necessary. The way she'd taken shallow breaths during the waltz, the tight lacing restricting her.
"That thing's coming off the second we get home," he said.
It was a practical statement. She'd been uncomfortable all day, and he'd get her out of it as soon as they were through the door. Help her unlace, let her breathe properly again.
That was all he meant.
But then, in a voice carefully neutral, she murmured, "I thought you were tired."
He turned to look at her and blinked.
Her expression was composed. Almost innocent. But her eyes…
She knew exactly what she was saying, knew exactly what she was implying.
And she wasn't drunk. He'd made sure of that back at the hall, which meant this wasn't the punch talking, this was her.
That something in him that had been held carefully in check all this time finally snapped.
"I ain’t tired."
He saw her swallow. Saw the way her fingers tightened slightly in the folds of her skirt under the blanket.
"Oh," she said, and it came out breathier than she probably meant.
He turned his attention back to the road, but his hands were tight on the reins.
The cabin was still twenty minutes away. Maybe less if he pushed the horse a bit.
Twenty minutes.
He could manage that.
----
The cabin came into view as the last light faded from the sky.
Bucky brought the wagon to a stop near the door, setting the brake before climbing down. He moved around to her side and offered his hand.
She took it, letting him help her down. Her legs were stiff from sitting, and she was acutely aware of how quiet everything was out here compared to the noise and warmth of the town hall.
Just the two of them now.
No music. No voices. No crowd to buffer the tension that had been building between them since they'd left town.
"I'll get the horse settled," he said, his voice low. "Get the fire goin’."
She nodded, not trusting her voice, and headed for the door.
Inside, the cabin was cold and dark. They'd put out the fire before leaving that morning, and now the chill was everywhere.
She moved by memory more than sight, finding the tinderbox on the mantle and kneeling by the hearth. Her hands were steady as she arranged the kindling and struck the flint.
Steady hands. That was good. That was important.
Even if the rest of her felt like it was vibrating with nervousness.
The spark caught. A small flame, then growing, casting light across the room.
She added larger pieces of wood, watching the fire build, feeling the first hints of warmth beginning to push back the cold.
I thought you were tired.
I ain’t tired.
The words replayed in her mind, his voice rough and certain in a way that had made her stomach drop and heat pool low in her belly all at once.
She'd started this. On the wagon. With that comment about the corset, maybe earlier in the hall. And now-
Behind her, she heard the door open and close. Bucky's footsteps, slow and deliberate, crossed the floor.
She didn't turn around.
Just stayed there, kneeling by the fire, watching the flames, very aware that her heart was beating faster than it should. That her palms were damp despite the cold. That every nerve in her body seemed to be standing at attention, waiting.
The warmth she felt on her back wasn't from the fire. Then, his hand was on her shoulder.
The touch was light, almost gentle. But she felt the weight of intent behind it.
"Stand up," he said quietly.
She rose slowly, brushing her hands against her skirt, and turned to face him.
The firelight cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his stubbled jaw, the way his gaze held hers.
Not like he'd looked at her during the waltz, warm and admiring.
This was different, darker. Hungrier.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. She could hear her own breathing. Could hear his.
Then his hands came up to the clasp of her cloak.
His fingers worked the fastening, and she realized her hands were hanging uselessly at her sides. Should she be helping? Doing something?
But before she could move, he pushed the heavy fabric off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor behind her with a soft whump.
One layer gone.
His eyes tracked down her body -taking in the dress, the brooch still pinned at her collar, the way the firelight played across the dark fabric- before coming back to her face.
"Turn around," he said, his voice rough, and she complied slowly.
She felt him step closer still, close enough that when he exhaled, she felt it against the back of her neck.
Then his hands came around her from behind, reaching for the front of her bodice.
She stood very still.
The brooch came first. His fingers found the clasp, worked it open with surprising gentleness. She heard it, the soft sound of metal on wood as he set it on the shelf above the fireplace. Then his fingers returned to the top button, and she felt him work it free carefully.
Then the next button.
And the next.
He moved down her bodice slowly, each button releasing with a soft pop of fabric. She could feel his fingers brushing against her chest through the dress with each one, could feel the way his breath warmed the exposed skin at the back of her neck.
The dress began to loosen, falling open down the front.
She wanted to say something. Do something. But her voice had abandoned her, and all she could do was stand there and feel.
Feel his hands, his proximity. The way her body was already responding to nothing more than his fingers working buttons.
When he reached the last one at her waist, his hands went to her shoulders, and he pushed the dress down her arms in one smooth motion.
The fabric slid away, catching briefly at her elbows before falling past her wrists. It pooled at her waist where the skirt was still fastened, leaving her upper body in nothing but the corset and her chemise beneath it.
The cool air hit her bare arms, raising goosebumps.
Or maybe that was just him.
His hands moved to the ties at her waist, and she felt the skirt loosen, felt its weight slide down her hips, and then the whole thing was falling to the floor in a heap of dark fabric around her feet.
She stepped out of it instinctively, and he kicked it aside without ceremony.
Now she was standing in her corset, chemise, petticoat, and stockings.
Still mostly covered.
But it felt like being naked.
His hands came to rest on her waist, and she felt his thumbs press against the boning through the fabric.
"This thing," he said, his voice low and rough near her ear, "has been drivin’ me mad all day."
She didn't know what to say to that.
Then his hands moved to the laces at her back.
They loosened with swift, deliberate tugs, so different from the careful tightening she'd asked him to do that morning. Each pull released more pressure, let her body expand a little more, let air flow a little easier.
She felt the exact moment the corset went from "tight" to "loose."
Felt herself able to draw a full breath for the first time since dawn.
The relief was immediate and overwhelming.
"Better?" he asked, his voice close to her ear, his hands still working the laces.
"Yes," she managed.
The laces went slack, and his hands slid to her waist, and he pulled the corset away from her body entirely.
She heard it hit the floor somewhere behind them.
Now there was just the thin cotton of her chemise between his hands and her skin.
Just one layer.
She could feel the heat of his palms through it. Could feel the way his fingers spread across her sides, spanning her waist.
"All day," he said quietly, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, "I've been watchin’ you in that thing."
His hands tightened slightly.
"Watchin’ you barely able to breathe. Watchin’ you try to hide how uncomfortable you were." His thumbs traced upward along her sides, a slow, deliberate path. "Watchin’ other men lookin’ at you."
Oh.
"And all I could think about," he continued, his voice dropping lower, rougher, "was getting you home and gettin’ you out of it."
His hands slid higher, brushing the underside of her breasts through the chemise.
"Gettin’ you under me."
Heat flooded through her, sharp and overwhelming and so intense she felt dizzy with it.
Her hands came up instinctively, gripping his forearms where they crossed in front of her. Needing something to hold onto. Needing to ground herself.
She felt the muscle shift beneath her fingers. Felt the strength in him, barely leashed.
"Bucky-" Her voice came out thin.
She tried to turn in his arms -wanted to see his face, needed to- but he held her still, keeping her facing away from him.
"Not yet," he murmured against her ear. "I'm not done."
His hands left her sides, and she heard the rustle of fabric behind her.
Then she felt his fingers at the ties of her petticoat.
The knot came free easily, and the weight of the fabric loosened around her hips. He pushed it down, letting it fall to pool around her feet.
She stepped out of it, and he kicked that aside too.
Now she was down to her chemise, drawers, and stockings.
His hands came back to her waist, but this time they didn't stop there.
They slid upward, slowly, deliberately.
Her pulse was pounding now. In her throat. In her wrists. Between her legs.
His hands cupped her breasts through the chemise, and a sound escaped her lips. Small, involuntary.
Evidence that she was still breathing. Still present. Still capable of response.
"You know what you did to me today?" he asked, his voice rough against her ear.
She couldn't answer. Couldn't form words.
His thumbs brushed over her nipples, and they hardened instantly against the fabric, sensitive and aching.
"Tellin’ me I look good," he continued, his hands working her slowly, deliberately. "Askin’ if I'm uncomfortable with the unexpected."
Another brush of his thumbs, circling, more deliberate this time, and she felt her knees go weak.
"Dancin’ with me like that." His mouth moved to her neck, pressing a kiss just below her ear that made her shiver. "Lookin’ at me like you wanted me to drag you out of there and take you home right then."
Had she looked at him like that?
Yes, she had.
"And then," his voice dropped even lower, "you went and taunted me on the way back."
I thought you were tired.
She'd known what she was doing when she said it. Had seen his reaction. Had felt the change in the air between them.
Had wanted it.
"I told you," he said, his mouth moving along the curve of her neck, his hands still working her breasts with maddening slowness, "that if you kept sayin’ things like that, I'd stop bein’ patient."
He turned her then -finally- spinning her to face him with his hands on her shoulders.
The firelight caught in his eyes, and what she saw there made her stomach drop and heat spike through her all at once.
Want. Raw and undisguised, and so intense it was almost frightening.
"I'm done bein’ patient," he said quietly.
Then he kissed her.
Nothing like they'd shared in the dark over the past two months. The slow and deep ones where he'd let her set the pace, let her pull back when she needed to.
This was different.
This was him unleashing everything he'd been holding back.
His hand came up to cup the back of her head, probably dislodging what few pins had survived the dancing, and he angled her where he wanted her.
His mouth moved against hers with a hunger that made her knees genuinely weak. His tongue slid past her lips, tasting her, claiming her, and she felt the full force of two months of restraint finally breaking.
She grabbed onto his shoulders -partly for balance, partly because she needed something solid to hold onto- and felt the muscle shift beneath his shirt.
He was still fully dressed.
Coat, shirt, suspenders, trousers, boots.
Every layer intact.
While she stood there in nothing but her chemise and drawers.
The disparity should have made her self-conscious. Should have made her want to cover herself, to hide.
Instead, it made her feel... like he couldn't wait long enough to undress himself. Like getting his hands on her was more important than anything else.
He assaulted her with deep, demanding kisses that left no room for thought. Just sensation. Just the slide of his tongue against hers, the press of his body, the way his hand tightened in her hair when she made a small sound against his mouth.
She felt him move, felt his other hand slide to her hip, and then he was walking her backward.
She went willingly, blindly, trusting him to guide her even though she had no idea where they were going.
Her rear hit something solid.
The kitchen table.
His hands went to her waist, and then he lifted her and set her on the surface.
The height brought them closer to level, and he stepped between her legs without breaking the kiss, his hands resting on her thighs.
The chemise rode up slightly. She could feel the rough fabric of his trousers against the inside of her knees, could feel how close he was, how little separated them now.
He finally pulled back, but only far enough to drag his mouth down her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her throat.
She tilted her head back, giving him access, and tried to catch her breath.
Failed.
"Bucky-" His name came out ragged.
"Still too many damn clothes," he muttered against her skin, his hands finding the hem of her chemise and pulling it up.
She lifted her arms automatically, and the thin cotton slid up her body, and he tossed it aside without looking.
The cool air hit her bare skin, and suddenly she was acutely, overwhelmingly aware that she was sitting on their kitchen table.
Topless.
In nothing but her drawers and stockings.
His hands came up to cup her breasts, palms warm, slightly rough, achingly gentle despite the hunger in his eyes.
Her hands fell to grip the edge of the table, needing something to hold onto.
His thumbs brushed over her nipples, and the sensation shot straight through her. They were sensitive. Had been sensitive since he'd touched them through the chemise, but now with nothing between his hands and her skin, it was almost overwhelming.
She made a sound -small, desperate- and his eyes flicked up to her face.
"That's it," he said quietly. "I wanna hear you."
Then his head dipped, and his mouth closed over one nipple.
The heat, the wet slide of his tongue, the firm suckles, made her back arch involuntarily. Her hand flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands.
He'd done this before. Many times over the past two months. Had learned exactly how she liked to be touched, how much pressure to use, what made her gasp, and what made her squirm.
But it felt different now.
More urgent. Less restrained.
Like he'd finally stopped measuring every touch. Stopped holding himself back.
His mouth worked her deliberately, while his hand cupped her other breast. Then he switched, giving the same attention to the other side, and she felt her head fall back, felt her eyes close.
Felt herself stop thinking entirely.
His mouth moved lower.
When he reached her stomach, she felt a flash of self-consciousness cut through the haze of sensation.
Her belly wasn’t perfect.
But he didn't seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn't care.
Just kept kissing his way down, his hands sliding to her thighs, spreading them wider.
Wait.
Wait.
"Bucky," she managed, her voice shaky. "We- we eat here."
He lifted his head just enough to look at her. The heat in his eyes made her clench between her legs.
"Yeah," he said, his voice rough and dark and full of promise. "And I'm about to."
Before she could process that, his hands were hooking into the waistband of her drawers.
"Lift up," he said.
She did, automatically, and he pulled the fabric down and off, taking her stockings with them in one motion. And then she was completely bare.
Sitting on their kitchen table.
It wasn’t the first time he'd done this, not even close. But always before it had been in bed, almost in the dark or the early morning light. Horizontal.
This was different.
She was exposed. The firelight played across every inch of her skin, and she could see everything: his hands on her thighs, his shoulders between her legs, the intent in his eyes as he looked up at her.
"Bucky, this is-"
"Relax," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh. "Let me."
One hand stayed on her thigh, warm and grounding. The other moved upward, and she felt his thumb brush through the soft curls between her legs. A slow, deliberate touch. Not quite where she ached for it, but close enough to make her tense.
He did it again, then his thumb pressed lower, parting her, opening her to his gaze. She made a sound -half protest, half something else entirely- but he was already leaning in, and any coherent thought became impossible.
The angle was different like this. Better. He didn't have to hunch or strain the way he did in bed. Could kneel there comfortably, with better access to every part of her.
And he was taking full advantage of it.
His tongue worked against her deliberately, finding all the places he'd learned over the time together. The spots that made her gasp. Made her hips try to shift closer even though there was nowhere closer to go.
"Stay still," he murmured against her, and she felt the vibration of his voice as much as heard it.
She tried. She really did.
But then his fingers joined his mouth -one sliding inside her, then another- and she couldn't help the way her body arched. Couldn't help the way her hand flew to his hair, gripping tight.
"Easy," he said, his voice rough with satisfaction. "Need you ready for me."
The words cut through the haze.
Ready for me.
Not just for this. Not just his mouth and hands.
Something more.
His fingers moved inside her in a slow, maddening rhythm, curling, stroking, finding spots that made her whole body tighten. His mouth stayed focused on that bundle of nerves that made her see stars.
She was already close. Could feel the pressure building, that familiar tightening low in her belly.
But he pulled back.
Not completely. Just enough to look up at her, his eyes dark and intent, his mouth wet.
"This time," he said, his fingers still moving inside her in that slow, devastating way, "I'm not stoppin’ here."
Her brain struggled to process the words through the haze of sensation.
Not stopping here.
"You understand?" he asked, curling his fingers inside her in a way that made her whole body jolt.
She understood. She'd known, really. Since the wagon. Since he'd said I'm not tired in that rough, certain voice.
This was it.
Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.
"Say you understand," he repeated, and there was something almost gentle in his voice despite the hunger in his eyes.
Like he needed to hear her say it. Needed to know she knew what was happening.
That she wanted this.
"I-" Her voice came out thin. She swallowed and tried again. "Yes. I understand."
Something changed in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or satisfaction.
"Good," he murmured.
Then his mouth was back on her, lips closing around her sensitive bud, tongue working deliberately while his fingers moved deeper, faster inside her.
She tried to hold still as he'd told her. Tried to keep quiet even though sounds kept escaping her, small gasps and broken moans that she couldn't suppress.
Her thighs were shaking. Her whole body tensed, balanced on the edge of something overwhelming.
"Let go," he said against her.
As if she had a choice.
As if she could do anything else.
One last suckle and it hit her like a wave, sudden and complete and so intense she forgot where she was. Forgot everything except the sensation crashing through her, the way her body clenched around his fingers, the sound that tore from her throat.
He worked her through it, his mouth gentling but not stopping until the aftershocks faded and she was left trembling, boneless, utterly undone.
Then he pulled back, pressing a kiss on her mound before rising to his feet.
She was still trying to remember how to breathe when his hands came to her waist.
"Come on," he said quietly, helping her down from the table.
Her legs were unsteady -actually unsteady, not just weak-kneed- and she had to grip his arms for balance.
He held her steady, patiently, waiting until she found her footing.
Then his hand slid down to take hers, and he turned toward the bed.
"Go on," he said, his voice low and rough. "I'll be right there."
She went, crossing the short distance on shaky legs, hyperaware of her nakedness. Of the cool air on her skin.
Behind her, she heard the thud of his boots hitting the floor.
One. Then the other.
The sound of his coat hitting the floor. The slide of suspenders being pushed off his shoulders.
The rustle of fabric as he pulled his shirt over his head.
She reached the bed and turned around, unable to help herself. Needing to see.
He was down to just his trousers now, the firelight playing across his bare chest, his shoulders, his stomach.
All that "more" of him she'd complimented that morning.
And the way he was looking at her made her forget everything except the fact that she wanted this.
Wanted him.
Next Chapter
I don't do taglist anymore, please follow @vunblr-archive and turn on the notifications for updates :)
"All day," he said quietly, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, "l'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."
🔥❤️🔥🫠
Thank You again Val am obsessed with this series❣️
i just have a feeling he’d be the BEST at cuddling. like he’d pull you in without even thinking, all big, warm and soft, and suddenly nothing around you matters anymore. you’d forget everything within a second, just being there with him, feeling safe and at home in his arms. ᭡
So safe in fact that you drift asleep and wake up hours later with his dog tags imprinted on one side of your face which he tenderly kisses after teasing you about it... 🫠🫠🫠
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 :)
There are a few things that simply aren't understandable in the universe. Things that push the boundaries of what we know, and understand.
Things like how, even through the Winter Soldier programming, Bucky was still able to find you.
Things like how, no matter how hard the world tried, they were never to keep you apart.
Author's Note
I'm going through stuff so you guys get another mini-series. We're starting in 2010s Winter Solider era, and then we'll be going over the years with some canon divergence.
Chapter List
Chapter 1 - The Sins
Chapter 2 - The Limbo
Chapter 3 - The Purgatory
Chapter 4 - The Ascent
Chapter 5 - The Paradise
James "Bucky" Buchanan Barnes / Winter Soldier ❄️ 🦾
I hope Marvel before they finish off his character will pay attention to him and give this wonderful character some more consideration perhaps by making a standalone film about his life There are many things about his life that are unknown and haven't been shown in the movies I really hope so Sebastian Stan breathed new life into this character and performed him in an admirable way
"I, um... tried the whole dating app thing. It's pretty crazy. A lot of weird pictures. I mean, tiger photos? Half the time I don't even know what I'm looking at. It's... it's a lot."
⤷ specially made this for you! @iwasmadetobeasoldier
