Maximum Effort

The first time David Loki noticed it, he almost thought he imagined it.

His hand had brushed yours when he passed you a file across the desk—nothing more than a quick graze of knuckles.

You flinched.

Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just a small, sharp recoil like your body had pulled away before your mind had time to decide.

David’s brows pulled together for half a second. Most people probably wouldn’t have noticed.

But David noticed things.

He didn’t say anything.

He just set the file down instead of handing it to you the next time.

It became a quiet pattern.

He never reached over you when you were sitting at the desk. He slid things across the table instead of placing them in your hands. When you stood beside him looking at a board of case photos, he kept a careful inch or two of space between your shoulders.

At first you thought it was coincidence.

Then you realized it wasn’t.

One night, you were both still at the station long after everyone else had left. The building hummed softly with fluorescent lights and distant air vents.

David sat across from you, sleeves rolled to his elbows, reading through witness statements.

You rubbed your temples.

“Headache?” he asked quietly.

You nodded.

He reached automatically toward the coffee pot beside him, then paused halfway. His hand hovered in the air for a moment before he pulled it back.

“Do you… want coffee?” he asked instead.

The hesitation made your chest tighten.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said softly.

“Do what?”

“Act like I’m… breakable.”

His eyes flicked up to you, immediately concerned.

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

You looked down at the table, tracing the grain of the wood with your finger.

“You noticed though.”

It wasn’t a question.

David shifted slightly in his chair.

“I notice a lot of things.”

A small, embarrassed breath escaped you.

“Yeah… I figured.”

Silence settled for a moment.

The kind that wasn’t uncomfortable—just careful.

David leaned back slightly, giving you more space without making a show of it.

“You don’t like being touched,” he said gently.

You swallowed.

“No.”

He didn’t ask why.

That alone made something in your chest loosen.

The tension between you and David didn’t arrive all at once.

It built slowly, quietly—like something neither of you meant to create but neither of you knew how to stop.

At first it lived in the spaces between you.

Across the desk when he slid a file your way instead of handing it to you. In the careful distance he kept when you stood shoulder-to-shoulder looking at case photos.

He noticed everything about you.

The way you tucked your hands into your sleeves when people crowded too close. The way you leaned away from accidental brushes in the hallway. The way your body relaxed—just a little—when it was only him nearby.

And you noticed things about him too.

How he always made space for you without announcing it. How he stood between you and other people without thinking. How his voice softened when he spoke to you, like you were something he didn’t want to startle.

It made something warm and dangerous settle under your ribs.

Because you liked him.

You liked the way he looked at you like you were worth paying attention to. You liked the quiet humor in his voice. You liked the way his mind worked—sharp and strange and thoughtful all at once.

And that was the problem.

Because liking someone meant closeness.

Closeness meant touch.

Touch meant your body might betray you.

David liked you too.

More than he meant to.

He told himself it started with professional respect. You were smart, observant, good at reading people in ways he admired.

But then he started noticing smaller things.

The way your brow furrowed when you concentrated. The quiet little jokes you muttered under your breath that made him hide a smile. The way you sat curled in your chair during late nights at the precinct.

And sometimes—when you forgot yourself—you would drift a little closer to him.

Those moments stayed with him longer than they should have.

Because he knew you didn’t like being touched.

He had seen the way your shoulders snapped tight when someone brushed past you unexpectedly.

So he kept his distance.

Even when every instinct told him to close it.

It created this strange orbit between you.

Like two magnets hovering just shy of snapping together.

Late nights at the precinct made it worse.

You’d sit across from each other at the breakroom table, tired and loose from hours of work.

Your knees almost touching under the table.

Sometimes you’d both reach for the same pen or file and your fingers would stop just short of brushing.

Every time it happened, both of you froze.

Then someone would pull back.

Usually him.

Not because he didn’t want to touch you.

But because he did.

Too much.

One night the tension got almost unbearable.

You were both standing in front of the case board, studying the photos pinned there.

It was late. The building was quiet.

You stepped closer to look at something.

Your shoulder ended up inches from his.

David’s brain immediately noticed.

Your hair smelled faintly like shampoo and cold night air. He could feel the warmth of you beside him without even touching.

His hands stayed locked in his pockets.

Your arm shifted slightly.

For half a second it brushed his sleeve.

Both of you went still.

Your breath caught.

David didn’t move away.

He just said quietly, without looking at you,

“Sorry.”

You blinked.

“You didn’t do anything.”

Another second passed.

Neither of you stepped away.

Your voice came out softer this time.

“…I didn’t mind.”

That made David turn his head.

His eyes met yours.

Something unspoken passed between you then—curious, cautious, hopeful.

Like both of you were standing at the edge of something fragile.

Not sure if it would break.

Or become something real.

David swallowed slightly.

“Okay,” he said gently.

And neither of you moved away.

—

It took weeks before the next step happened.

It was late again. Always late with cases like this.

You were both sitting on the couch in your apartment, a half-eaten box of takeout between you.

Your knee bounced anxiously while you read over case notes. 

David watched it for a moment before speaking.

“Can I ask something?”

“Depends,” you muttered.

He almost smiled.

“Is it all touching… or just certain kinds?”

Your knee stopped bouncing.

You stared at the papers in your hands for a long time before answering.

“Most of it.”

He nodded slowly, absorbing that.

“But not all?” he asked.

You hesitated.

Then you held your hand out between you on the couch cushion.

Palm down.

Not touching him.

Just… there.

“If I know it’s coming,” you said quietly. “Sometimes.”

David looked at your hand like it was something fragile.

“Okay,” he said softly.

He didn’t move right away.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Your throat tightened.

“I will.”

Slowly, cautiously, David rested the tips of his fingers over the back of your hand.

Barely any pressure.

Just warmth.

Your shoulders tensed automatically—but you didn’t pull away.

His touch stayed still. Patient.

Not trapping you. Not holding you down.

Just there.

After a few seconds, your breathing steadied again.

“Okay?” he murmured.

You nodded once.

“Okay.”

A few minutes passed like that.

Then you spoke again.

“I used to not mind it.”

David didn’t interrupt.

You kept your eyes on your hand under his.

“I have trauma. A lot of it.”

The words came out flat. Practiced.

You told David about the past, how it affected you to this day. 

David’s jaw tightened.

Your fingers twitched under his.

David stayed perfectly still, like even breathing too hard might make you bolt.

“I got used to… never knowing when someone was going to grab me.”

Your voice got quieter.

“So now my body just assumes it’s bad.”

Silence filled the room.

Then David spoke, voice low and steady.

“You’re allowed to decide who touches you.”

Something in your chest cracked a little at the certainty in his tone.

“You say stop,” he continued softly, “I stop. Immediately.”

His thumb shifted slightly—barely brushing your knuckle.

“You say never again, I listen.”

Your eyes stung.

“You say this is okay…” he murmured.

His hand gave yours the faintest squeeze.

“…then this is all it ever has to be.”

A shaky laugh escaped you.

“You’re weirdly good at this.”

David shrugged slightly.

“I… understand what it's like to have a lot of trauma.”

You finally looked up at him.

His eyes were gentle. Patient. Not expecting anything.

You turned your hand over under his.

Palm up.

It was a small thing.

But it made David go very still.

Your fingers curled loosely around his.

“You can hold my hand,” you said quietly.

His breath left him slowly, like he’d been holding it.

“Okay.”

And this time when his fingers closed around yours—

it felt safe.

The First Time You Reach For Him

It happened without you even thinking about it.

Which was the surprising part.

You were sitting beside David at the precinct, reading through a report while he typed something at his computer.

Your chair rolled closer without you noticing.

You leaned against his shoulder.

David stopped typing.

Completely still.

You didn’t realize why until you glanced up.

His eyes were wide behind his glasses.

“…What?” you asked.

“You leaned on me.”

You blinked.

“Oh.”

You started to pull away immediately.

“Sorry—”

David grabbed your hand quickly, stopping you.

The sudden movement made you freeze, but his grip softened instantly.

“Wait,” he said.

Your eyes met his.

“Was that okay?” he asked.

You thought about it.

Your shoulder was still brushing his.

Your hand was in his.

Your chest didn’t feel tight.

“…Yeah,” you said slowly.

David exhaled.

Then he did something that made your heart twist a little.

He leaned his head gently against yours.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your fingers tightened around his automatically.

David smiled faintly.

“You know,” he murmured, “this might be my favorite one so far.”

You looked at him sideways.

“Which one?”

“The leaning.”

You snorted.

“That’s your favorite?”

“So far.”

You squeezed his hand.

“Well… get used to it.”

David’s smile softened in a way that made your chest warm.

“I’d like that.”

And this time, when you stayed leaning against him—

neither of you questioned it.

The First Hug

It happened on a bad day.

The case had gone wrong. A suspect slipped through their fingers, a victim’s family had cried in the hallway, and the weight of it clung to both of you long after the station emptied out.

You were standing beside David’s desk, staring at the board without really seeing it.

Your hands were shaking.

David noticed immediately.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

You sniffed once, trying to play it off.

“I’m fine.”

You weren’t.

He didn’t move closer. Not yet. He’d learned that rushing you only made your body go rigid.

Instead he leaned against the edge of the desk, watching you with that patient look of his.

“You wanna sit down?”

You shook your head.

A tear slid down your cheek before you could stop it. You wiped it away angrily.

“I hate this part,” you muttered. “When you can’t fix it.”

David nodded slowly.

“I know.”

Another tear came.

You laughed weakly, embarrassed. “This is stupid.”

“No,” he said gently.

You were quiet for a moment.

Then, hesitantly, you said:

“Can I try something?”

David straightened immediately, attentive but calm.

“Yeah. Of course.”

You stepped closer to him.

Not all the way.

Just close enough that the space between you felt… noticeable.

Your hands fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve.

“I think I might want a hug,” you said carefully, like the words themselves might bite you.

David froze.

Not in rejection—just in caution.

“Okay,” he said softly. “How do you want to do it?”

You huffed out a shaky breath.

“God, that sounds ridiculous.”

“It doesn’t.”

You thought for a second.

“Maybe… you don’t move. And I decide?”

David nodded immediately.

“Okay.”

So he stayed exactly where he was.

Still. Safe.

You stepped forward slowly.

Your body hesitated when you reached him, but after a moment you leaned forward and rested your forehead against his shoulder.

David didn’t wrap his arms around you right away.

He waited.

When you didn’t pull back, his hands lifted slowly and rested lightly against your back.

Not tight.

Just there.

Warm.

Your breath hitched.

But you didn’t move away.

After a few seconds your arms slid around his middle, tentative and unsure.

David’s chest tightened.

He hugged you back a little closer.

And when your shoulders finally relaxed against him, he let out a quiet breath into your hair.

“Still okay?” he murmured.

Your voice came muffled against his shirt.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“…actually it’s really nice.”

David smiled softly into the top of your head.

The First Kiss

It took another month.

You were sitting together on David’s couch, a movie playing that neither of you were really watching.

Your legs were tucked under you, shoulder brushing his.

That had become normal now.

Comfortable.

David still didn’t initiate much touch unless you clearly wanted it, but the quiet closeness had started to feel natural between you.

Your hand rested in his.

Absentmindedly tracing the lines on his palm.

David watched you do it with quiet fascination.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

“Hmm?”

Your eyes were still on his hand.

His voice dropped slightly.

“Would it be okay if I kissed you?”

Your fingers stilled.

You looked up at him.

There was no pressure in his expression. No expectation.

Just that same steady patience he always had with you.

Your stomach flipped.

You studied his face for a moment.

Then you nodded.

“…Yes.”

David didn’t rush.

He leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you needed to.

Your heart pounded in your chest, but you didn’t move back.

His hand came up carefully, resting against your jaw.

Even that small touch made warmth spread through you now instead of panic.

His lips brushed yours.

Soft.

Gentle.

A kiss that asked more than it took.

Your breath caught.

But when he started to pull away—

your fingers curled into the front of his shirt.

David paused.

Your voice came out barely above a whisper.

“Wait.”

His eyes searched yours.

“You okay?”

You nodded.

Then you leaned forward and kissed him again.

This time a little more certain.

David made a quiet, surprised sound against your mouth.

When the kiss finally ended, his forehead rested lightly against yours.

His voice was soft with disbelief.

“…That was nice.”

You laughed.

“Yeah.”

---

Tags: loki only tags: @sataninsatin @go-commander-kim @severuined @romancries @eclecticfashionbookszipper @fagen @kissyabish @sizzlingcloudmentality

She turned when she heard the door, and for a moment they just looked at each other.

Except she didn't quite look at him. Her eyes met his for barely a second before sliding away, focusing somewhere past his shoulder.

"You're late," she said quietly. "I was starting to worry."

Her voice was steady enough, but there was something in the way she held herself, shoulders slightly drawn in, hand gripping the wooden spoon a little too tightly.

"Miller wanted to finish the section we were workin’ on," he said, setting down his lunch pail on the table. The same pail she'd walked all that way to bring him. "Took longer than expected."

She nodded, still not looking at him directly, and turned back to the stove. "Dinner's almost ready. I made stew."

She was focused intently on stirring the pot, like it required her complete concentration. Like she couldn't risk looking at him while she did it.

Shit.

So he did scare her.

Or made her uncomfortable enough that she couldn't even meet his eyes anymore.

He stood there for a moment, watching the way she kept her face carefully angled away from him.

"I should wash up," he said finally, his voice coming out rougher than he intended.

"There's water in the basin."

He moved to the counter, rolling up his sleeves, trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to say.

----

They ate in silence.

She'd set the table the way she always did, plates, spoons, bread wrapped in cloth. But she kept her eyes down, focused on her bowl, eating with small movements.

Every time he looked at her, she found something else to focus on. The bread. Her spoon. The grain of the wood table.

Anywhere but him.

He made it halfway through his stew before he couldn't take it anymore.

"We need to talk," he said.

Her spoon paused halfway to her mouth. She set it down carefully, still not looking up.

"About what happened today," he continued. "At the camp."

She nodded once, a tiny jerk of her chin, but didn't say anything.

He took a breath.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For the way I... for how I handled things. I shouldn't have-" He stopped, trying to find the right words. "You came all that way to bring me lunch, and I repaid that by draggin’ you behind a tree and-"

"You didn't drag me," she said quietly, still looking at her bowl.

"I was rough with you. Demandin’. And anyone could have seen us, and I-" He ran a hand through his hair. "You deserved better than that."

She was quiet for a moment. Then, so quietly he almost missed it: "I didn't mind."

He stared at her.

"What?"

"I didn't mind," she repeated, barely above a whisper. "What you did. How you-" She stopped, her hands twisting together in her lap.

"Then why you ain’t lookin’ at me?"

The question hung in the air between them.

She pressed her lips together, and he watched her throat work as she swallowed.

"I don't know how to," she said finally, her voice small.

"How to what?"

"How to... act. Around you. Now." Her hands twisted tighter in her lap. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do, or say, or-"

She stopped, and he saw her chest rise and fall with a shaky breath.

"I've never..." She trailed off again, clearly struggling. "This morning, you kissed me. And touched me. And I don't know- what happens now. What you expect from me."

Understanding hit him like a fist to the chest.

She wasn't scared of him.

She was embarrassed. Uncertain. Completely out of her depth and trying to navigate something she had no framework for.

Of course she was.

He exhaled slowly and set down his spoon.

"Look at me," he said quietly. "Please."

She hesitated, then slowly -so slowly- lifted her eyes to meet his.

The vulnerability in her expression made something in his chest ache.

"What I expect from you," he said carefully, "is nothin’ you ain’t ready to give. Understand?"

She blinked, clearly trying to process that.

"But you said-" She stopped, fumbling again. "You said you were done pretending you didn't want..."

"What's mine," he finished. "Yeah. I did say that."

He leaned forward slightly, keeping his voice gentle.

"And I meant it. I want you. I ain’t goin’ to lie about that or pretend otherwise." He paused. "But wantin’ somethin’ and takin’ it are two different things. I ain’t goin’ to push you."

She was quiet for a moment, her eyes searching his face like she was trying to understand something.

"But… what if I don't know?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "What if I don't know what I want because I don't understand what any of this is?"

He took a long drink of water, draining half the cup, his eyes on her the entire time. When he set it down, his voice was steady.

"Did you like it?" he asked. "What happened today?"

Her face flamed instantly, but she didn't look away this time.

"Yes," she said quietly.

No hesitation. No deflection. Just honest admission, even though he could see how much it cost her to say it out loud.

Something warm settled in his chest.

"Do you wanna do it again?"

Her breath caught. For a moment she just stared at him, and he could see her working through it: the embarrassment warring with something else. Want, maybe. Curiosity.

"Yes," she whispered.

He pushed his chair back from the table, the legs scraping against the floor.

"Then come here, sweet girl."

----

She stood slowly, her legs unsteady, and crossed the small distance to where he sat.

Sweet girl.

The endearment made her feel foolish. Childish. She wasn't a girl. She was twenty-six years old, married, and by all rights should have had years of experience with this sort of thing by now.

Other women her age had husbands they'd been with for years. Had children. Knew what happened between a man and woman in the dark, knew how to navigate this territory without feeling like they were stumbling blind through unfamiliar woods.

But here she was, being called sweet girl and feeling like it fit because she didn't know anything. Didn't know what to do with her hands or where to look or how to-

His hand caught hers when she got close enough, his fingers warm and calloused against her palm.

"Sit," he said gently, guiding her.

She let him position her, settling sideways across his lap with her legs draped over his thigh, her hip pressed against his stomach. One of his arms came around her waist to steady her, and suddenly she was surrounded by him: his warmth, his scent, the solid strength of his body supporting her weight.

"Comfortable?" he asked quietly.

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

His free hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone the same way he had this afternoon.

"We're gonna take this slow," he said. "And if you want to stop, you tell me. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Good."

Then he leaned in and brushed his lips against hers.

Soft. Gentle. Nothing like the intensity of this afternoon, but somehow just as overwhelming.

She felt the tip of his tongue trace along her lower lip -a question, a request- and this time she knew what to do.

She opened her mouth.

The sound he made -low and approving- sent heat flooding through her body. His tongue swept inside, and she remembered what he'd shown her earlier. How to respond, how to let her own tongue meet his.

It was easier this time. Less overwhelming now that she knew what to expect. She could focus on the details: the taste of him, the warmth of his mouth, the way he angled her head slightly to deepen the kiss.

His hand at her waist tightened, pulling her closer, and she felt herself shifting on his lap without thinking about it. Turning toward him more fully, her hand came up to rest against his chest.

She could feel his heart beating under her palm. Fast. As fast as her own.

The kiss grew deeper, more intense. His tongue stroked against hers with a rhythm that made something low in her belly clench and pulse the same way it had this afternoon.

She made a small sound -couldn't help it- and felt him respond immediately. His arm tightened around her waist, his other hand sliding from her face down to the back of her neck, fingers fisting in the hair at the base of her braid.

And then, without really meaning to, she shifted again.

It started as just wanting to be closer, to angle herself better into the kiss. Her body moved before her mind could catch up: one knee lifting, seeking better balance, and then the other following.

Her skirts bunched and caught between them as she moved, layers of fabric twisting awkwardly. She felt his hands come down to her hips -steadying her, guiding her- and then he was smoothing the fabric aside with sure movements, making space.

When she finally settled fully onto his lap, her thighs bracketing his hips completely, her skirts pooling around them both, his whole body went rigid beneath her.

----

Christ.

She'd done it without thinking, he could tell. Some instinct driving her to get closer, to find a better angle. She probably didn't even realize what the position meant, what it implied.

Didn't realize that now he could feel the heat of her even through all the layers of fabric between them. That with one small shift of his hips he could press up against her in a way that would-

No.

Slow. They were taking this slow.

But his hands had already moved to her waist, gripping firmly, and he had to force himself not to pull her down harder against him.

"Sweetheart," he said, his voice coming out strained. "You know what you just did?"

She pulled back from the kiss, her eyes unfocused and hazy. "Hm?"

He looked down meaningfully at how she was positioned and watched her follow his gaze.

Understanding dawned slowly. Her eyes widened.

"Oh," she breathed. "I didn't- should I move? I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking-"

"Don't." The word came out rougher than he intended. His hands tightened at her waist, holding her in place. "Don't apologize. And don't move unless you wanna."

She stared at him, clearly trying to figure out what he meant.

"Is this... proper?" she asked uncertainly.

A low laugh escaped his lips before he could stop it. "No. Not even a little."

"Oh."

But she didn't move. Just sat there straddling his lap, her hands resting uncertainly on his shoulders, her face flushed.

"Does it bother you?" he asked quietly. "Sittin’ like this?"

She considered the question seriously, and he watched her think through it. Felt her shift slightly, experimentally, testing the position.

The movement sent a jolt straight to his groin.

"No," she said finally. "It doesn't bother me."

"Good." His hands flexed at her waist. "Because I like havin’ you here."

He pulled her back into the kiss, and this time, there was less restraint in it.

His mouth moved over hers with more intensity, more demand, and she responded eagerly, her fingers fisting into the fabric of his shirt.

One of his hands slid up from her waist to the back of her neck, fisting her braid, angling her head exactly where he wanted it. The other-

The other moved down.

Over the curve of her hip. Lower. Until his palm was cupping her rear through all the layers of skirt and petticoat, gripping firmly.

And then he pulled her forward, pressing her hips down against his.

She felt it immediately. The hard length beneath her, unmistakable even through all the fabric. Her whole body went tense with surprise.

He must have felt it because she felt him start to pull back, his hand beginning to loosen-

But before he could, before he could break the kiss or move his hand away, her body responded.

Instinct. Pure instinct.

Her hips rocked forward slightly, pressing down against that hardness, and sensation shot through her so intensely that it made her gasp against his mouth.

His grip on her tightened immediately. Both hands now, the one still in her hair, the other on her backside, holding her exactly where she was.

"Fuck," he breathed against her lips. "Do that again."

She didn't fully register what she'd done. But she understood the rough need in his voice, the way his whole body had gone tense beneath her.

So she did it again.

Rolled her hips forward, pressing down against him, and felt his whole body shudder.

The sound he made -low and broken- went straight through her. His hand on her backside tightened almost to the point of pain, guiding her movement, encouraging it.

"That's it," he muttered, his lips brushing against hers. "Just like that, darlin’."

She didn't understand what was happening to her body.

Every time she moved -every time her hips rocked forward against that hard ridge beneath her- sensation sparked through her lower body. Heat and pressure and something that made her want to press closer, move faster, chase whatever this feeling was building toward.

It was almost too much. The intensity of it, the strangeness. But she couldn't stop.

His hand was guiding her now, helping her find a rhythm, and she followed it without thinking. Rocking against him in small, deliberate movements that made her breath come faster, made heat pool low in her belly.

She could feel herself getting warmer. Could feel dampness gathering between her legs in a way that should have embarrassed her, but somehow didn't. Not when he was making those rough, broken sounds that told her he was feeling something too.

His mouth left hers, trailing down to her jaw, her neck. She felt the scrape of his teeth against sensitive skin and gasped.

"Bucky-"

"I know," he muttered against her throat. "I know, sweetheart."

But she didn't think he knew. Didn't think he understood that she felt like she was coming apart, like something was building inside her that she didn't have a name for.

Her movements became less controlled. More desperate. Chasing something she didn't understand but needed anyway.

And then his hand -the one that wasn't on her rear- moved.

Slid from her neck down over her shoulder, down further until it curved around her side. His thumb brushed the underside of her breast through her dress, and then his hand cupped it fully.

Even through the dress and chemise, she could feel the heat of his hand. The gentle pressure. The way his fingers flexed and squeezed experimentally.

No one had ever touched her there. No one. Not even herself, really, she'd been taught that such places were shameful, that touching them was sinful outside of the necessities of bathing and dressing.

But this didn't feel shameful.

It felt-

She made a sound she'd never heard herself make before. Helpless and needy and completely beyond her control.

His thumb found her nipple through the fabric and circled it deliberately.

The sensation was so intense it bordered on painful. She buried her face against his neck and her hips started moving again, faster now, more desperate.

----

He could feel her nipple harden under his touch, through the clothing. Could feel the way her whole body responded when he circled it with his thumb, the way she pressed her breast more firmly into his palm like she was asking for more pressure.

Christ, she was responsive.

And she had no idea. No idea what she was doing to him, how close he was to losing control.

She was grinding against him now, and he couldn't just sit there and take it. His hips lifted to meet hers, pressing up against her in a rhythm that matched her own. The friction was maddening, even through all the fabric, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from staining his underthings.

Every time she rocked forward, he thrust up. Creating pressure, friction, giving her something solid to grind against.

"Feels good, darlin’," he muttered against her neck. "Just- just like that, sweetheart."

She whimpered and kept chasing the sensation, and he matched her pace. His hand on her backside guided her, pulling her down harder against him with each movement. His other hand still worked her breast, thumb circling that peaked nipple in time with the roll of their hips.

The dual sensation -his hand on her breast, the pressure between her legs as she rocked against him while he thrust up to meet her- was clearly overwhelming her.

Her breath came in short gasps, her movements losing their rhythm as desperation took over.

He was going to lose his goddamn mind.

She had no idea what she was chasing. No idea that her body was building toward something, that all this friction and heat and pressure had a destination.

But he knew.

And Christ, he wanted to get her there. Wanted to feel her come apart in his arms, wanted to see what she looked like when she finally understood what her body was capable of.

But not dry-humping him through her skirts like some desperate girl hidden in a barn.

"Slow down," he said, his voice strained, even as his own hips continued to move beneath her. "Sweetheart, slow down."

"I can't-" Her voice was desperate, breathless. "Something's-"

"I know." He forced his hips to still, forced his hand on her rear to gentle its grip, trying to slow her movements even though every instinct was screaming at him to let her keep going. "I know what you're feelin’. But you need to slow down for me."

She made a frustrated sound but tried to obey, her movements becoming less frantic even though he could feel the tension thrumming through her entire body.

"That's it," he murmured. "Just like that. Slow and steady."

He guided her hips into a slower rhythm, more deliberate, and watched her face as she adjusted to it. Her eyes were closed, swollen lips parted.

Beautiful.

She was fucking beautiful like this.

"Bucky," she breathed. "I need-"

"I know what you need," he said quietly. "And I'm gonna give it to you. But not like this."

Her eyes opened, confused and hazy. "What?"

He shifted beneath her, his hands moving to her waist to still her completely.

"Stand up for me, darlin’."

She looked at him, dazed and confused, but let him guide her off his lap. Her legs were unsteady when her feet hit the floor, and he had to keep his hands at her waist to keep her from swaying.

He stood with her, his own body protesting the movement, protesting the loss of contact.

But he ignored it and took her hand, threading his fingers through hers.

"Come on," he said quietly, and started walking toward the bed.

She followed without question, her hand gripping his tightly, and he could feel the tremor running through her. Anticipation. Nervousness. Need.

When they reached the bed, he turned to face her.

Her eyes were wide, searching his face for something. Reassurance, maybe. Or permission.

"Sit down," he said gently.

----

She did, perched on the edge of the mattress, and he knelt in front of her.

"I'm goin’ to touch you," he said quietly. "Properly this time. Not through all these layers." His hands were already moving to her boots, unlacing them easily. "Is that alright?"

She nodded, her breath catching.

"I need to hear you say it, sweetheart."

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, it's alright."

He pulled off the first boot, then the second, setting them aside carefully.

"All of them?" she asked, and he could hear the nervousness creeping into her voice. "You mean... all the layers?"

He looked up at her from where he knelt, his hands resting on her ankles.

"No," he said simply. "Not all of them. Not tonight. Unless you want me to."

He saw relief flicker across her face, followed quickly by confusion.

"Just enough," he continued, his hands sliding up to her calves, "that I can touch you properly. Make you feel good." He paused. "The dress can stay on. The chemise too, if you want. But some things..." His fingers found the tie of her petticoat through her skirt. "Some things are goin’ to be in the way of what I'm tryin’ to do."

"And… what are you trying to do?" she asked quietly.

He smiled slightly. "Make you understand what your body was chasin’ a few minutes ago."

She felt him working the petticoat loose. The garment gave around her waist, and he helped her stand just long enough to let it fall to the floor in a puddle of fabric.

She sat back down quickly, suddenly very aware that there was one less layer between her and his hands.

"The stockings too," he said quietly, and she felt his fingers at her knee, finding the ribbon that held them up.

He untied the first one slowly, deliberately, his knuckles brushing against her skin as he worked. Then he rolled the stocking down, his palms warm against her leg as the fabric slid away.

The air felt cool against her bare skin. Strange. Vulnerable.

He did the same with the other leg, just as slowly, and she found herself watching his hands work. The carefullness of his movements. The way he touched her like she was something valuable.

When both stockings were off, he set them aside and looked up at her.

"Lie back," he said.

She hesitated for just a moment, then did as he asked, scooting back on the mattress until she could lie down fully. The bed was soft beneath her back, familiar. Comforting.

He stood, and for a moment she thought he was going to join her on the bed. But instead, he moved closer to the edge of the bed where her legs dangled off the side, his hands going to her ankles.

She tensed.

"Trust me," he said quietly.

Then he started gathering her skirts.

Slowly. Inch by inch. Pushing the fabric up past her ankles, her calves, her knees.

Higher.

She felt the cool air hit her thighs and instinctively tried to press her legs together.

"Easy," he murmured, his hands pausing on her knees, gentle but firm. "Need to... get there."

The words -the implication- made her face burn.

He kept pushing the fabric higher until it was bunched around her hips, and then his hands stayed on her knees.

"Open for me, sweetheart."

She let her knees fall apart slowly, her whole body tense with nervousness.

This wasn't-

Nothing about this matched what her mother had told her.

The conversation had been brief and clinical. She hadn't expected her to marry -had made that clear enough over the years- but had given her the information anyway, a few days before passing away. Just in case.

When the time comes, you'll undress and lie down. He'll get on top of you and put his... thing inside you. It will hurt the first time. Don’t make a fuss; men don't like fussing. You stay on your back, let him do, and it will be over quickly.

That was it. That was all she knew.

Nothing about this. Nothing about lying on her back with her skirts pushed up while her husband stood between her legs, still fully clothed. Nothing about the things he'd already done: the tongue in her mouth, the touching, the way he'd made her body feel like it was on fire.

Nothing about pleasure.

She felt exposed. Vulnerable in a way that went beyond just the physical. The cool air against her bare thighs, the knowledge that he could see her now, see parts of her that no one had ever seen.

"Breathe," he said quietly, his hands still resting on her knees. "Just breathe, darlin’."

She realized she'd been holding her breath and forced herself to let it out.

His hands moved then, sliding slowly up her thighs, pushing her legs wider as he stepped closer to the edge of the bed.

And then she felt it.

His gaze.

He was looking at her. Really looking. At the most private part of her body.

She wanted to close her legs. Wanted to pull her skirts back down and hide. But his hands were firm on her thighs, keeping her open, and something in his expression -something almost reverent- kept her from protesting.

"Christ," he muttered, his voice rough. "You're perfect."

Perfect.

The word didn't make sense. How could that part of her be perfect when it was supposed to be something to hide?

His hands slid higher, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to where she could feel heat and dampness gathering, and she couldn't stop the small sound that escaped her throat.

----

He'd known what to expect, logically. But logic and reality were two very different things.

She was bare beneath her chemise and drawers, no additional undergarments in the way. Just the curls between her thighs, and beneath them-

Christ.

He could see how wet she was. Could see the evidence of her arousal glistening there, and it took every ounce of self-control he had not to just bury his face between her legs immediately.

Slow. He had to go slow.

His thumbs brushed higher, and he heard her breath catch. Watched her hips shift restlessly against the quilt.

"I'm gonna touch you here," he said quietly, one thumb sliding along the crease where her thigh met her body. So close to where he wanted to be. "Right here, where you're wet for me."

She made a sound, half gasp, half whimper.

He let his thumb drift closer, brushing through the curls, and her whole body jerked at the contact.

"And then," he continued, his voice dropping lower, "I'm gonna use my mouth."

The silence that followed was absolute.

He looked up and found her staring at him, eyes wide with shock.

"Your-" She couldn't seem to finish the sentence. "You're going to put your mouth... there?"

"Yes."

"But that's-" Her face was burning now, he could see it even in the dim firelight. "Why would you-"

"Because it's gonna feel good," he said simply. "Better than anythin’ you've felt so far. And because I want to." He paused, holding her gaze. "Do you trust me?"

She stared at him for a long moment, clearly trying to reconcile what he was telling her with everything she'd been taught about what was proper, what was decent.

Finally, she nodded.

"Say it," he said quietly. "I need to hear you say it."

"I trust you," she whispered.

Then, quieter still: "Should I... rinse first? I washed this morning, but-"

"No." The word came out firm, almost harsh. He gentled his tone. "You're perfect just like this. Don't need anythin’ different."

The idea that she thought she needed to clean herself for him made something twist in his chest. She was worried about being proper. About being clean enough, good enough, acceptable enough.

He was going to show her she didn't need to worry about any of that. Not with him.

He dropped to his knees on the floor at the edge of the bed, positioning himself between her spread thighs, and let his hands slide up to grip her hips.

"I'm gonna learn what you like," he said, his thumbs brushing through the curls, and then lower, parting her folds, and she felt him touch her directly for the first time, brushing through wetness she'd been trying not to think about, exploring carefully, and every nerve ending in her body seemed to light up at once.

"Oh-" The sound escaped her before she could stop it when he caught in a little nub of flesh.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."

His thumb circled it slowly, and she felt her hips lift off the bed without meaning to, chasing it.

Then his hand slid lower, and she felt pressure -gentle but insistent- at her entrance.

"Relax," he said quietly. "I’m gonna- just one finger. Nice and slow."

She tried to do as he said, tried to let her body soften, but when she felt him start to push inside, her whole body tensed.

It didn't hurt. Not exactly. But it was strange. The sensation of being breached, even just by one finger.

"Breathe," he reminded her, and she realized she was holding her breath again.

She exhaled shakily, and he pushed deeper.

All the way in until she could feel his knuckle pressed against her.

"Good girl," he said, his voice rough with approval. "That's good. You're doin’ so good."

Then he started to move.

Slow, shallow strokes that made her aware of muscles she'd never thought about before. Made her aware of how her body was gripping him, how the sensation shifted from strange to-

Not unpleasant.

Actually, not unpleasant at all.

His thumb found that spot again -the one that had made her gasp before- and circled it while his finger continued its steady rhythm inside her.

The dual sensation made her head fall back against the quilt, made her hips start to move with him instead of against him.

"There you go," he murmured. "Just like that. Feel good?"

She couldn't speak. Could only nod, her hands gripping the quilt again.

She felt him add a second finger, stretching her more, and the slight burn made her tense for just a moment before her body adjusted.

"Still good?" he asked.

"Yes," she managed, her voice barely recognizable. "Yes, it's-"

She couldn't finish because his fingers curled inside her, pressing against something that sent sensation shooting through her entire body.

She cried out, her back arching off the bed.

"Found it," he said, satisfaction clear in his voice.

----

Her reaction when he found that spot inside her -the way her whole body bowed, the broken sound she made- nearly undid him.

He stroked against it again, deliberately, and watched her fall apart. Watched her hips rock desperately against his hand, chasing more of whatever he was making her feel.

She was so wet now that he could hear it, the slick sound of his fingers moving inside her. It should have been obscene, but all he could think about was how responsive she was.

He kept working that spot inside her while his thumb circled her little nub, building her higher, watching her climb toward something she didn't even know was coming.

"That's it," he encouraged. "Let it build, darlin’. Don't fight it."

But he could see her start to tense, to pull back from the intensity of it, like she was scared of where it was leading.

Time for his tongue.

He left one hand between her legs, fingers still buried inside her, still stroking that sweet spot. His other hand moved to her inner thigh, holding her open and steady.

Then he leaned in and put his mouth on her.

----

The first touch made her entire body jolt.

She'd thought the fingers were overwhelming.

But this…

His tongue, warm and wet, licking directly over that spot his thumb had been circling, combined with his fingers still moving inside her, still pressing against that place that made her see stars-

It was too much.

She cried out, her hands flying from the quilt to tangle in his hair, not sure if she was trying to push him away or pull him closer.

He decided for her, his mouth staying exactly where it was, his tongue circling with the same deliberate motions his thumb had used.

Then he shifted, and instead of licking, she felt him-

Sucking.

His lips closed around that spot, and he started to pull gently. The sensation was so foreign, so strange that her mind scrambled for any reference point.

Like a baby nursing, some distant part of her brain supplied, and it should have seemed obscene, should have made her want to push him away in shame.

But she couldn't bring herself to care.

Couldn't think about propriety or decency when her entire body was lighting up like fire, when every suckle of his mouth sent sparks shooting through her.

The sounds coming from her throat didn't sound like her. Desperate, broken, pleading sounds that she couldn't control.

And she didn't care.

Couldn't care about anything except the building pressure, the heat coiling tighter and tighter in her belly, the way every suck and curl of his fingers was pushing her toward something that felt too big, too intense, like she was going to break apart if she let it happen.

"Bucky-" His name came out strangled. "I can't- something's-"

His fingers curled harder inside her, and his mouth worked that spot with renewed interest, and-

Everything shattered.

----

He felt it the moment she went over the edge.

Her entire body went rigid, her inner walls clamping down on his fingers, trying to pull them deeper. Her hands in his hair fisted it, holding his head exactly where it was.

And then she came.

Her hips bucked against his mouth, her back arched off the bed, and she made a sound he'd never forget, high and broken and completely unrestrained.

Her first orgasm. And he was giving it to her with his tongue and fingers, watching her discover what her body was capable of, feeling her pulse and clench around him as wave after wave of pleasure rolled through her.

He worked her through it, his mouth gentling but not stopping, his fingers slowing their rhythm but still moving, drawing out every last aftershock until she was trembling and pushing weakly at his head.

"Too much," she gasped. "Please-"

Only then did he pull back, withdrawing his fingers carefully and pressing one last soft kiss to her inner thigh before sitting back on his heels.

He looked up at her.

She was wrecked. Hair falling out of her braid, chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. Her legs were still spread, trembling slightly, and he could see how fucking wet she was, glistening in the firelight.

Perfect.

----

She couldn't move.

Couldn't think.

She lay there staring at the ceiling beams, trying to understand what had just happened to her. Trying to find words for the sensation that had ripped through her body, for the way she'd completely lost control, for the sounds she'd made-

Oh God, the sounds she'd made.

Heat flooded her face as awareness slowly returned. She became conscious of how she was lying, legs still spread, skirts bunched around her waist, completely exposed.

And he was looking at her.

She could feel his gaze even without seeing him, and suddenly the vulnerability of her position crashed over her like cold water.

She tried to close her legs, tried to pull her skirts down, but her limbs felt heavy and uncoordinated. Her hands fumbled with the fabric, shaking.

"Hey," he said quietly. "Easy."

She heard him stand, felt the bed dip as he sat down beside her, and then his hands were there, gently helping her straighten her skirts, covering her.

She still couldn't look at him. Couldn't meet his eyes after what she'd just let him do, after the way she'd fallen apart, after-

"Look at me, sweetheart."

The command was soft but firm, and her eyes obeyed before her brain could override them.

He was looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite read. Satisfaction, yes. But also something else. Something almost tender.

"That," he said quietly, "was perfect. You were perfect."

She felt her eyes wanting to slide away, to look anywhere but at him, but before she could, he spoke again.

"Did it feel good?"

She knew he already knew the answer. Had heard it in the sounds she'd made, felt it in the way her body had responded to him.

But he was asking anyway. Wanted to hear her say it.

"Yes," she whispered.

"Then there ain't nothin' to be ashamed of," he said firmly. "What just happened -what we just did- that's somethin' men and women do together. In private. In their marriage bed" He paused. "It ain’t wrong or shameful. It's natural."

She wanted to believe him. Wanted to let his words sink in and wash away the years of being taught that her body was something to be hidden, controlled, and never enjoyed.

But it was hard to unlearn a lifetime of shame in one night.

She pushed herself up on her elbows, needing not to be flat on her back anymore while they talked. The position felt too vulnerable, too unequal with him sitting beside her.

He seemed to understand, because he shifted, lying down next to her on his side, propping his head up on one hand so they were more level.

Better.

She could breathe a little easier like this.

"I thought..." she started, then stopped.

"What did you think?" he prompted gently.

She took a breath, forcing herself to continue.

"I thought that what happened between... between a husband and wife was just..." She gestured vaguely, her face burning. "Putting... not hands. Or mouths. Just..."

She couldn't finish, but she saw the understanding in his expression.

"Just the act itself," he said.

She nodded, relieved he'd said it, so she didn't have to.

He was quiet for a moment, seeming to choose his words carefully.

"Sometimes it is like that," he said finally. "The man does what he needs to do, and that's... that's all it is."

She nodded slowly. That matched what her mother had told her.

"I ain't gonna lie to you," he continued. "There'll be times when the need is strong enough that we might skip straight to the act itself. That happens. Men..." He paused, seeming to search for the right words. "Men have needs that can be pretty insistent."

She felt her face warm but nodded again.

"But in my experience," he said, his voice dropping lower, more intimate, "when the woman feels good, the man enjoys himself a hell of a lot more too." His eyes held hers. "I liked hearin’ those sounds you made, feelin’ you come apart under my hands and mouth."

The directness of it made her face burn again.

"So yeah," he continued, "we could do it the other way. But why would I want that when I could have you wantin’ it, instead of just doin’ your duty?"

He reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, the gesture casual and affectionate.

"Does that make sense?"

She nodded, processing his words. Then her eyes drifted downward -just for a moment, just a brief glance- and landed on the obvious bulge straining against his trousers.

Heat flooded her face, but she forced herself to ask.

"And... and that?"

His eyebrows rose slightly. "What about it?"

She gestured vaguely, unable to make herself say it out loud. "Does it... will it just... go away? On its own?"

Something flickered in his expression. Surprise, maybe, or amusement, though not unkind.

"Eventually," he said. "Given enough time, yeah, it'll go down on its own."

"Oh."

"But the way I'm feelin’ right now…" He shifted slightly, and she saw his jaw clench. "I'm probably gonna need to step outside and take care of it myself."

She blinked, trying to understand what he meant. Take care of it himself?

How did one...?

Her confusion must have shown on her face because his expression softened.

"I'll handle it," he said simply. "Don't worry about it."

But she was curious now. Curious in a way that probably wasn't proper, but that she couldn't quite suppress.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Tried again.

"How do you-" She stopped, frustrated with her own inability to just ask. "I mean, what do you... do?"

----

He was going to die.

Right here, right now, from this conversation alone.

His wife -his sheltered wife who twenty minutes ago hadn't even known what an orgasm was- was asking him how he jerked off.

He took a breath, trying to find words that wouldn't completely scandalize her while still being honest.

"I know you ain't never seen one," he said, gesturing vaguely toward his crotch. "A man's... member."

She shook her head quickly, her face flaming.

"But have you ever seen one on an animal?" he asked, trying to find some kind of reference point.

Her eyes widened slightly. "I've... yes. Horses… in the street. Sometimes."

He couldn't help it; a laugh escaped his lips, though he tried to smother it quickly. "Well, it ain't quite that... dramatic. But the general idea is similar."

She was staring at him now, clearly trying to process this information.

"So when I take care of it," he continued, "I... wrap my hand around it. And I move my hand up and down. Along the length of it. Until-" He stopped, not sure how explicit to be.

"Until?" she prompted quietly.

"Until I finish," he said simply.

She was quiet for a moment, and he could practically see her mind working, trying to form a mental picture of what he was describing without any actual visual reference.

----

She was trying to imagine it.

His hand wrapped around... that. Moving up and down. The mechanics of it made a certain logical sense, she supposed, even if the reality was still completely foreign to her.

She thought about what had just happened. About how he'd used his hands and his mouth to make her feel things she'd never imagined possible. About how patient he'd been, how careful, how focused on her pleasure.

And now he was going to go outside -alone, in the cold- and take care of his own need by himself.

It didn't seem fair.

More than that, it didn't seem right.

She'd enjoyed what he'd done to her. Had felt cared for, cherished even, in the way he'd touched her. Shouldn't she... shouldn't she want to do the same for him?

And if she was being completely honest with herself… she was desperately curious.

Wanted to see what he looked like. Wanted to understand what she'd felt pressing against her when she'd been sitting in his lap. Wanted to know if touching him would make him make the same kinds of sounds she'd made.

But she had no idea how to ask for that.

How did one even phrase such a request?

She looked at him, opened her mouth, closed it again.

"What?" he asked gently, clearly seeing the struggle on her face.

"I..." She took a breath. "You made me feel good. And I... I want to..." She gestured helplessly. "Do the same. Is that... would that be appropriate?"

----

There was absolutely nothing appropriate about what he wanted to do after hearing those words.

He wanted to strip her naked and bury himself inside her until neither of them could think straight. Wanted to feel her wrapped around him, wanted to hear her make those sounds again while he moved in her.

But he couldn't.

Not when she'd just had her first orgasm twenty minutes ago and was still processing what that meant. Not when he was bone-tired from twelve hours at the lumberyard, muscles aching.

If he took her properly right now -the way his body was screaming for- he'd probably last all of two minutes before spilling inside her like some green kid with his first woman. And then he'd likely pass out on top of her, dead to the world, leaving her first time as some fumbled, graceless thing she'd remember for all the wrong reasons.

He wouldn't do that to her.

Wouldn't embarrass himself like that.

"You ain't gotta do that," he said, his voice strained. "This ain't about returnin' favors or what's appropriate. I wanted to make you feel good. That's all."

He saw something flicker across her face -disappointment, maybe- and felt his resolve crack.

Fuck.

If he'd been hard before, he was damn near ready to explode now. The idea of her hands on him, of her seeing him, touching him, learning what made him feel good the way he'd just learned her-

The words were out before he could stop them.

"Are you sure?"

He heard himself say it and wanted to kick himself. So much for noble restraint.

"I'm sure," she said quietly, and the curiosity and determination in her eyes completely undid him.

He took a breath, trying to get himself under control.

"Alright," he said finally. "If you want to… help, you can help."

He sat up slowly, and she mirrored the movement, both of them sitting on the edge of the bed now, facing each other.

His hands went to his suspenders first, sliding them off his shoulders. Then to the buttons of his trousers, working them open one by one, aware of her gaze tracking every movement, of her breathing coming faster.

When he pushed his trousers down just enough and reached into his drawers, he hesitated.

This was different than just being naked with a woman. This was his wife. Sheltered, inexperienced, twenty minutes ago, she hadn't even known what pleasure felt like. And now she was about to see-

He pulled himself free.

The cool air hit his overheated skin, and he hissed slightly through his teeth. He was achingly hard, had been for the better part of half an hour, and just the brush of his own hand as he took it out made his hips want to jerk forward.

He forced himself to stay still. To let her look.

Her eyes went wide.

----

She'd tried to imagine it based on what she'd felt when she'd been sitting in his lap, that hard ridge pressing against her through all the layers of fabric.

She hadn't been even close.

He was thick. Her mind immediately tried to compare it to something, anything, but came up blank. Longer than her hand could span, she thought. It curved slightly upward, and as she watched, she saw it twitch under her gaze, responding to her attention.

She couldn't look away.

The skin looked different than the rest of him, smoother somehow, pulled taut. Veins were running along the length that she could see clearly, and there was something at the tip -moisture, glistening slightly in the firelight- and she watched, fascinated, as his hand wrapped around the shaft.

Her eyes tracked downward. Below, she could see them, those she'd at least heard referenced obliquely, though never described. They hung heavy between his thighs, and she found herself wondering if touching them would make him react the way he had when she'd shifted in his lap earlier.

And that was supposed to... fit inside her?

Before she could process that thought fully, his hand moved.

She watched, transfixed, as his fingers wrapped around himself -his grip firm, almost tight- and dragged slowly from base to tip. The sound he made -low, guttural- sent a shiver down her spine.

He did it again, slower this time, and she couldn't look away from the movement. From the way his hand worked over himself, from the tension in his shoulders, from the way his jaw clenched.

Then he stopped. His hand fell away, gripping the edge of the bed instead, knuckles white.

She should have been frightened by the size of him, by the reality of what their eventual consummation would mean.

Instead, she felt that same heat starting to pool low in her belly again. Curiosity and something else. Something that made her want to reach out and touch, to see if it felt as hard as it looked, to learn him the way he'd learned her.

"Can I?" she whispered, not taking her eyes off him.

She heard his breath catch.

"Yeah," he said, his voice wrecked. "Yeah, sweetheart. You can touch me."

----

He had to make use of all his restraint to keep still as her hand reached out.

Slowly. Tentatively. Like she was approaching something that might bite.

Then her fingers made contact. Her touch was feather-light, exploratory. Just her fingertips tracing along the length, learning the shape, the texture, and he couldn't stop the groan that tore from his throat.

"It's so hard," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "But the skin is soft."

Oh yes, he definitely was going to die. Right here. Death by innocent curiosity.

Her fingertips were still just ghosting over him, curious and maddeningly gentle, and he needed-

Christ, he needed more than that.

"Wrap your hand around it," he managed, his voice strangled. "Like you saw me do."

She did, her smaller hand encircling him -not quite able to close all the way around- and he had to close his eyes against the sight of it.

Too much. It was too much.

"Move your hand, darlin’," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

She obeyed, tentative and careful. So careful it was almost worse than not being touched at all, like she was afraid she might hurt him.

A sound escaped his throat before he could stop it.

"Want me to guide you?" he asked, trying to keep his voice gentle despite every nerve screaming for more pressure. "Show you what I need?"

"Yes," she whispered, and he heard the relief in her voice. "Please."

His hand came up to cover hers, his fingers wrapping around hers.

"I'm too far gone to let you explore right now," he said, his voice rough. "So today, I'm gonna set the pace." He paused, his hips already starting to shift restlessly. "Another time you can… touch how you want to. But right now I just need-"

He didn't finish the sentence. Just guided her hand in a long, firm stroke from base to tip.

The sound he made was broken, desperate.

"Like that," he managed. "Just like that, sweetheart."

He did it again, using her hand, setting a rhythm that was faster than she probably would have gone on her own. Showed her how much pressure to use, how to twist slightly at the top, how to-

"Fuck," he groaned, his head falling back.

----

She watched, fascinated, as his whole body responded to what they were doing.

His breathing had gone ragged. His jaw was clenched tight. The muscles in his neck stood out in sharp relief, and she could see his pulse jumping beneath the skin.

And the sounds he was making, low and rough, made her tingle between her thighs.

It was intoxicating.

His hand over hers kept guiding, kept showing her the rhythm, but she was learning quickly. Could feel the way he got harder -impossibly harder- under her palm. Could feel the moisture, making the slide easier.

"That's it," he rasped. "Christ, just like that."

His hips started moving, thrusting up into her hand, and she realized he was chasing the sensation the same way she'd chased hers earlier.

"Tighter," he said through gritted teeth. "Squeeze tighter."

She did, and his whole body shuddered.

"I'm-" His voice broke. "Close, I'm- you should-"

He was trying to say something, maybe trying to warn her, but his hand tightened over hers -the opposite of letting go- moving faster, rougher.

Everything happened fast after that.

He groaned -a deep, guttural sound- and gasped "Fuck-"

Then she saw it.

White liquid pulsing from him, coating her fingers, their joined hands. Spattering across his stomach in thick ropes.

Then she felt warmth on her cheek.

She jerked back instinctively, startled, but his hand was still clamped over hers, holding her grip firm on him as he continued to pulse and shudder.

He was still making sounds -broken, breathless sounds- his whole body rigid and trembling.

And she just... watched him in awe.

Watched him come completely undone, the way his face contorted with pleasure, the evidence of his release painting his skin, their joined hands, and -she realized- her own face.

Finally, the shuddering stopped. His body went slack, his head falling back, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

She stayed frozen, her hand still on him, not sure what to do now.

----

It took him a long moment to come back to himself.

When he finally managed to open his eyes and look at her, his brain was still too scrambled to process what he was seeing at first.

Then it registered.

Her hand still wrapped around him, covered in his release.

His stomach smeared with it.

And… a streak of it on her cheek, just below her eye.

Oh fuck.

He hadn't warned her. Hadn't told her what would happen, what to expect, where to-

Christ, he'd spilled on his wife's face.

"Shit," he managed, his voice wrecked. "Darlin', I-"

He tried to move, but his body wasn't cooperating yet.

She was just staring at her hand, at the mess coating her fingers, with an expression he couldn't quite read.

Shock, maybe. Or curiosity. Or horror.

Probably horror.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I tried to warn you. Should've pulled your hand away, or-"

"It's warm," she said quietly, cutting him off.

He blinked. "What?"

She finally looked up at him, and there was wonder in her expression instead of disgust.

"It's warm," she repeated. "I didn't... I didn't know it would be warm."

"Yeah," he said, and for the first time since any of this started, he felt a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck. "It's... it's warm."

He wasn't used to talking so much about it. Explaining every detail like some kind of instructor instead of just... doing it.

And he was still mortified about her face.

A man didn't... you didn't do that to your wife. There were certain things that were meant for women you paid, not for the woman you married. And he'd just crossed that line without thinking, without even giving her the chance to-

"I'm sorry," he said again, already pushing himself up on unsteady legs. "Let me-I need to get somethin’ to clean you up."

He shoved himself back into his drawers awkwardly, not bothering with the buttons on his trousers, and crossed to where the towels hung near the basin.

His legs felt weak. His whole body felt wrung out in a way that was familiar but somehow more intense than usual.

Because it had been her. Not some quick fist in the dark or a paid fuck with a sporting woman who had a line of men waiting after him, and didn't care whose spend she was washing off.

It was her hand, her presence, her eyes watching him come apart and it had hit different. Harder.

He dampened one of the clean towels and came back to the bed, kneeling in front of her.

"Here," he said quietly, reaching for her hand. "Let me-"

----

She'd changed into her nightgown while he'd stepped outside to dump the water from the basin, he'd said, though she suspected he'd also needed a moment to collect himself.

When he came back in, he'd stripped down to his underthings without a word and climbed into bed beside her.

Now they lay on their backs, not quite touching, both staring at the ceiling beams barely visible in the dim light. She could hear his breathing. Steady but not quite the deep rhythm of sleep.

So he wasn't asleep either.

"Was it… alright?" he asked quietly, breaking the silence. "What we did. Any of it made you uncomfortable?"

She turned her head slightly to look at him, though she could barely make out his profile in the darkness.

"I was nervous," she admitted, and something about the darkness made it easier to say. "I didn't know what to expect. Didn't know what I was supposed to do."

"But did you want to?" he pressed gently.

"Yes," she said without hesitation. "I wanted to."

She felt him relax slightly beside her.

"I just..." She paused, choosing her words. "I feel foolish sometimes. Being so ignorant at my age. Most women have been married for years, they know these things, and I-"

"Darlin'..." He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at her. She could just make out the shape of him in the darkness. "That ain't your fault."

"I know, but-"

"No," he said firmly. "You're a proper woman." His hand found hers under the quilt, fingers threading through hers. "Your ma wasn't gonna tell you anythin'. No one was. That's how they keep decent women decent, by makin' sure you don't know enough to want it."

He paused, his thumb stroking across her knuckles.

"That… ignorance, is what separates a decent woman from... well, from the kind men don't marry. So you not knowin’, it ain’t make you foolish. It just means you were raised right."

She was quiet for a moment, processing his words.

"Besides," he added, and she could hear something rough in his voice, "when you touch me like you did tonight -when you look at me like you're curious, like you want to know-" He stopped, exhaled. "That does more for me than any woman who already knows what she's doin’ ever could."

Heat crept up her neck at his words.

"Really?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah." His thumb stroked across her knuckles again. "Because knowin’ I'm the only man who's ever made you feel like that… there's nothin’ else like it."

She absorbed his words, feeling warmth spread through her chest that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with the way he kept making her feel like she wasn't wrong or inadequate for her age.

"Can I ask you something?" she said after a moment.

"Anythin’."

She hesitated, then pushed forward. The darkness made it easier.

"Is it... is it always like this? Between spouses in the dark?"

"Like what?"

“Talking about it. You asking what I think." She turned onto her side to face him, though she still couldn't see him clearly. "My mother… made it sound like something that just happened. The man did what he needed to do, and the woman endured it. But this..."

He was quiet for a moment.

"I can't say I know what happens behind closed doors in every household," he said finally. "But from what I've heard -men talkin’ at camp, back when I served- most marriages are probably closer to what your mother described. The man takes what he needs, the woman tolerates it. That's just... how most people do things."

She heard the bedclothes rustle as he shifted closer.

"But I don't want it like that," he continued, his hand finding her face in the darkness. "Not because I'm some saint, but because-" He paused, seeming to choose his words. "A woman who's just lyin’ there waitin’ for it to be over… that don't do much for me.”

"Why?" she whispered.

"Because I'm a prideful bastard who gets off on makin’ my partner feel good,” he said quietly. “You feel good, I feel good.” His thumb stroked across her cheek. "And... because I care about you. So that's how this is gonna work between us."

She felt a smile touch her lips. "Good," she whispered.

He made a low sound of agreement, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her closer.

She let herself be pressed against his side, her head on his shoulder, his warmth surrounding her, and nuzzled against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her ear. Within minutes, his breathing had evened out into the deep rhythm of sleep.

She lay there listening to it, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, the weight of his arm around her, and closed her eyes.

Warm, safe, and wanted.

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