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Pairing: Bucky x reader, with supporting (platonic) Yelena, Ava, Sam, Joaquin and Bob.
Word count: 7.7k
A/N: For the wonderful @thezombieprostitute's let's plan a heist challenge! I loved this challenge, and had a lot of fun writing it. Prompts: Where: mansion/transport (kinda), When: celestial event, Why: return it to its home country/revenge, How: under cover of darkness/distraction, Who: solo (mostly), Opposition: something completely different. Dividers by @saradika-graphics
Summary: Your perfectly constructed plan to liberate the Blue Diamond of Alqualondë is as flawless as the jewel itself - until you run into one overly interested supersoldier.
Warnings: Lying, thieving, lusting, alcohol. Reader can has hair, wears a dress and can swim and climb a ladder, but no physical descriptors and no y/n.
“This is our target,” you pass your phone to Yelena, the screen revealing a luminous image of the large, sparkling gemstone. “The Blue Diamond of Alqualondë has a long and storied history that I know you won’t care about. The main point is, it was up for auction recently, and some rich asshole outbid an entire country, as well as half the museums on the planet, to get his grubby, tax-dodging hands on it. So we’re going to right that wrong.”
“It is pretty.” Yelena admits.
“Well, yeah. But that’s not the point.”
“You want to steal it.”
“Yes.” As a fellow survivor of the Red Room, you and Yelena go way back. Your paths have diverged a bit since then, although you like to think that you’re both doing good; her as the co-lead of a team of superheroes, you working more quietly in the shadowy corners of the world.
“Because you want to reverse Indiana Jones it?”
Your eyes widen in delight. “You watched them? Finally?”
“Yep.” Yelena leans back, not sounding as impressed as you’d like. “All five.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that. You should’ve stopped at The Last Crusade.”
She rolls her eyes. “Now you tell me.”
“Hey, when I told you about them I didn’t even know there were more than three, we were still brainwashed when The Crystal Sku- you know, never mind. The point is, we’re going to liberate the blue diamond, and return it to its rightful owners, the Teleri Asgardians.”
“I do not think the police will think of it as ‘liberating’ anything.” Yelena responds drily, putting the phone down and picking up her drink.
You frown at Yelena’s airquotes. “Since when did you care what the police thought?”
“Since I can’t be caught doing illegal things like stealing a beautiful diamond! I am a public figure, and already it is hard to get people to take us seriously.”
“Come on Yelena,” you lean over the table towards her. “You know it’s the right thing to do. And anyway, you owe me. Remember Minsk?”
“Vaguely.” Yelena grumbles. “Fine. I know you will have a plan which already I am a part of, so tell me. But I do not make any promises!”
Three weeks later, you’re strolling along the seafront harbour, the bright sun warming your shoulders, a large picnic basket hanging from one arm, the other linked through Yelena’s as you lead her and her friend Ava to the boat.
“You know, I don’t think I care what you two are up to, this is a nice trip.” Ava muses, turning her face to the blue sky with a smile.
“Shh,” Yelena hisses between gritted teeth. “We are not ‘up to’ anything.”
“Sure, of course not.” Ava's sarcasm is clear even before she tilts her head down to wink at you over her sunglasses. You turn away, just about suppressing a smile. You only met Ava this morning, but you already like her; she’s direct, funny - and and clearly not a fool, because of course, you are up to something, and she is sort of part of the plan.
“So”, you’d explained to Yelena, “I’m not asking you to actually do anything. Other than come with me on the holiday of a lifetime.”
Yelena raised a skeptical eyebrow.
Leaning towards her with a grin, you began to explain your plan. “We’re going to Europe to see the solar eclipse.”
Yelena’s second eyebrow joined the first as her eyes widened in surprise. “Okay, I am curious.”
“We’ll go to Mallorca - it’s a Spanish island in the mediterranean and it’s in the path of the totality. We’ll hire a boat to go out on the sea for the day of the eclipse, have some tapas, some sangria, and you’ll stay there, no guilt or suspicion, while I go off for a swim. Of course, it might look a bit odd if you’re all alone on the boat for the main event, so maybe you have a trusted friend who could come with us? Someone who can mind their business, and keep a secret?”
“Yes.” Yelena hadn’t had to think for long before nodding. “But I am not letting you put her in trouble, or ask her to do anything for you.”
“I won’t, I swear! Scout's honour.”
“When were you a scout?”
You swatted away the question. “Your friend doesn’t have to know anything about the plan. Or that there even is one.”
“Maybe I also did not need to know there was a plan.” Yelena grumbled.
“I want to be honest with you Lena.” Your voice softened. “We’ve both been lied to enough.”
Yelena held your gaze, pouting in thought. “Okay. But if - if - I agree to be, what, your alibi? Your driver for the getaway? I need to know the whole plan. I need to know that you can do this without getting caught.”
You smiled broadly - an onlooker might have said wolfishly - as you assured her. “I know exactly what I’m doing. My plan is watertight.”
You keep your large hat and sunglasses on as you pick up the keys for the hired boat, leaving Yelena and Ava outside, careful to look like one of the many tourists thronging the area ahead of the eclipse. You've run through the plan so many times in your mind, you could do it in your sleep. Every variable is accounted for, every potential hazard solved. You're certain this will go off without a hitch - until you emerge from the harbour office and see who your companions are chatting to.
Bucky had been looking forward to this trip for months. When he’d first mentioned it to Sam, the man had jumped in with a yes before Bucky could even finish explaining why it was a good idea, Sam clearly delighted to see his typically grumpy friend genuinely enthusiastic about something he “can’t use as a weapon”. And while his Captain America perks had got them a penthouse suite at a fancy hotel, and use of a private boat to view the eclipse from the ocean, unfortunately, his urgent Captain America duties had stopped him from actually being able to join the trip.
“Just bring someone else, man.” Sam had told him when he broke the bad news. “You have other friends now, right? Unless you want it to be just you and Joaquin.”
Bucky sighed. “Yes, I have other friends, Samuel. I can find someone else.”
“Not Walker.” Sam warned.
“Fine. Him and Alexei are on a mission anyway.”
“Good - from what I’ve heard, I don’t think we’d get the damage deposit back if you brought Alexei.”
In the end, after prowling the Tower for someone to bring, he’d only found Bob, who told him that Yelena and Ava had disappeared that morning on a mysterious, last minute girls’ trip. Which was how Bucky had ended up feeling like the harried teacher on a school trip, attempting to wrangle Joaquin and Bob - who instantly fell into a tight, chaotic friendship - onto schedule.
The trio are running late when they finally get to the dock - which Joaqin keeps telling him to “chill” about - and when they round a corner on their unhurried way to the office where they’ll pick up the boat keys, Bucky stops short at the sight of the two people he least expected to see. Yelena and Ava are tossing a tube of sun lotion between them, a coolbox on the ground at their feet.
“Lena? Ava?” Bob sounds even more surprised than Bucky is.
When the women turn at his voice, there’s a beat before their visible shock smooths into welcoming smiles; a pause that Bucky detects more than just surprise in.
“Bob! Bucky!” Yelena exclaims, greeting them cheerfully. “And?”
“Joaquin. Torres.” Joaquin jumps forward proudly. “AKA, the Falcon, superhero.”
“Hello falcon superhero.” Yelena deadpans.
“What are you two doing here?” Bucky asks, hoping he doesn’t sound too suspicious.
“Just thought we’d get some sun and sea air.” Ava answers breezily, with a lopsided smile. “We had no idea about the once-in-a-lifetime astrological event happening right here in a few hours.”
Bucky’s eye twitches. “Bob said you were on a last minute trip, you would have had to book this months ago.”
“We did.” Yelena casually half shrugs. “My friend booked this. It is last minute for Ava because she is taking the place of someone else who could not come.”
“So where’s your friend?” Bucky asks, trying not to use his interrogation voice.
“Getting the boat keys.” She points.
The five of them turn to look just as you emerge from the office. Covered up against the sun, it’s hard to read your expression, but a prickle of - something - fires in Bucky’s brain as he takes you in.
Burying your concerns beneath an easy smile, you join the group. “Wow, you make friends fast Yelena, I was gone for like two minutes!”
Yelena introduces you to everyone. Except for Bob, you know them by reputation anyway, and while you’re not exactly delighted to have run into someone who works for the US government, there’s not a hint of suspicion in Joaquin’s clear brown eyes. Not that there’s any reason for there to be, even if he wasn’t so distracted by Ava.
Bucky, on the other hand, the infamous ex-Winter Solider, stares at you so intently you’d swear you can feel his icy gaze even under the sweltering heat of the summer sunshine. Sunshine that, you can’t help notice, makes his thin shirt almost translucent where it stretches tight across the taut muscles of his chest.
“Well, it’s great to meet you guys, but we should really get out on the water if we want to get a good spot for the eclipse.” You smile as though you haven’t noticed Bucky’s brooding focus on you. “Maybe we could meet up after or something? Go for a late dinner, Spanish style.”
“The eclipse isn’t until this evening.” Bucky points out. “You really need to get going right now to find a good spot?”
“Yes, if we want to get a clear view of the horizon.” You answer sweetly. He doesn’t need to know that you also want a place close but not too close to the superyacht that holds the real target of your evening.
Joaquin laughs, nudging Bucky in the ribs. “You’re the one making us hustle out here so we can set off in time to anchor in a good place. Hey! How about we join up? All take the same boat? Double the people is double the party!”
“Hey, yeah,” Bob lights up hopefully, eyes on Yelena. “That would be fun.”
Yelena and Ava look at you for an answer, and you’re glad once again that your sunglasses hide the flash of panic in your eyes. Having these three join you is an extra complication you could really do without.
“It’s not a huge boat,” you offer hesitantly. “I’m sure you’ve got something much fancier booked.”
Bucky’s eyes narrow. That sensation he’d had when he first saw you is crystallising into suspicion. The pull he’s feeling towards you isn’t attraction - or, he admits to himself, not only attraction - he recognises you from somewhere.
In the end, you agree to Joaquin’s plan, having noticed Bucky’s expression and worrying that insisting your eight passenger boat could only fit three might deepen his scepticism - but as you guide the boat through the sparkling waves, the salt spray that whips through your hair failing to blow away the weight of Bucky’s scrutiny, you can only hope that the eclipse is enough of a distraction to keep him from picking up on your true mission.
Bucky knows the others have noticed the way he can’t take his eyes off you, but he doesn’t care. He’s certain now that he’s seen you before, although he can’t remember where - not a good sign, given his history. Yelena made no suggestion that you’ve met before, so it can’t be something as innocent as crossing paths in New York.
And if he’s honest, he’s enjoying watching you - the way the sunshine sparkling off the water lights you up, your bright, laughing eyes when you lift your sunglasses, the blue waves caressing you as you slip into the ocean, the shining droplets peppering your body when you emerge, the way your skin glistens as you re-apply a layer of sun lotion.
“You’re staring.” Ava sidles up beside him.
“I’m not.” He lies pointlessly, his gaze sticking to you.
“It’s okay if you like her, you know,” Ava smirks. “Just don’t be a creep about it.”
“I’m not being a creep.” He frowns, lying again. “And it’s not that.”
“Really? Come on, you’re clearly holding some pent up frustration. When was the last time you even went on a date?”
Taking a pull of his beer to avoid answering, Bucky realises he can’t actually remember when he last dated. Before his brief spell in congress, certainly.
He continues ruminating as Ava allows Joaquin to laughingly pull her to her feet to join him in the sun at the other end of the boat. Maybe she has a point - perhaps what he’s recognising is just the feeling you give him, one he hasn’t felt in a long time. But then where does Yelena know you from?
Bob is relaxing in a shady spot with a book, Yelena tucked up next to him in a way you're definitely going to ask her about later.
Ava rolls her eyes as Joaquin performs increasingly acrobatic leaps into the water in a puppyish attempt to win her over - and judging by the smile she hides behind her sangria, you suspect she's enjoying the attention more than she's letting on.
Bucky is still staring at you.
His eyes have barely left you since you were introduced - something you’d enjoy if you could convince yourself his smouldering stare was just an overly intense, flirtatious look. Deciding to bite the bullet, you head up to him with a tube of sun lotion.
“Could you help with my back?” You ask with a smile.
His body tenses, his voice gruff when he answers. “Sure.”
Passing it over, you position yourself next to him, as close as you can without sitting in his lap, and present your back. He doesn’t move away, and his hands are strong but careful as he strokes the cream into your skin. You close your eyes, enjoying the feel of rough callouses and sun-warmed vibranium against you.
“So how do you know Yelena?” He asks.
“Oh, from ages ago.” You answer breezily. “When we were kids. We only got back in touch recently - it's crazy what she's been through, but even more amazing how she’s turned her life around. She really deserves this trip.”
Bucky frowns. The warmth in your voice is clear - could you have known Yelena when she was young, part of an undercover family in the US? Or-
Before he can finish the thought you spin around, so fast his hands almost brush your chest.
“Can I do you?” You ask.
The innocent question short circuits his brain. “Uh…”
“The lotion,” you smile as you take the tube from his hands, the expression hovering somewhere between naive and knowing. “I’m guessing the vibranium is sun proof, but your skin isn’t. And you look hot in that shirt.”
Opening his mouth, Bucky struggles for words. Did your fingers linger on his a little longer than necessary? Are you feeling some of what he is? He is warm - and the thought of your hands on him -
“Sure,” he answers, gruff again. Standing up, he pulls off his shirt - and it’s your turn to stare.
The hard ridges of his stomach flex as he stretches to undress, a dark trail of hair pulling your eyes down the plane of his lower stomach to where his swim shorts are slung low under his hips, a perfectly defined v directing your attention to where it really shouldn’t be right now. You force your eyes up before he catches you, but the view isn’t any less distracting; a pair of dog tags dangle from his muscular neck, brushing gently against the dip between his firm pecs. The sun dapples on the broad slope of his shoulders, and his powerful right arm flexes as he tosses his shirt aside.
Throat suddenly dry, you almost gulp as you fully take in the sight of him - and given the smirk that accompanies his quirked eyebrow, he has definitely noticed.
You stand up with a smile, hastily trying to regain some of your composure as he silently turns his back to you. Mentally cursing at yourself for how you’re reacting just to him being half undressed, you work the lotion into his skin, feeling the muscles flex under your fingers.
He twitches as you gently smooth the protection into his skin where it meets the metal of his left arm and you hesitate.
“Is this okay?” Your voice is breathier than you’d intended. “It doesn’t hurt?”
“No,” he answers quickly. “It’s just - it’s fine.” Bucky can’t bring himself to reveal to you that your gently curious fingers are treating that part of him with more care than anyone has in years. Instead you stand together in comfortable silence as you work your way down his back, his confidence returning when he notices you subconsciously holding your breath, heart beating fast, as you rub the last bit of cream just above the waistband of his shorts - the very tips of your fingers daring to cross the tiniest bit below the fabric.
“There you go.” You hand him the tube so he can finish up, and make your way toward the others, determined not to let him see you watching as he spreads more sun lotion over his arms and stomach - although, hidden behind your sunglasses, you let your eyes slide his way even as your head tilts towards the sea.
From the smug grin that lingers on his face long after he’s finished, it seems likely he did notice your attention - and that he’s enjoying it.
The sparkling waters of the Mediterranean fill up with boats as the sun sinks towards the cloudless horizon and the eclipse begins. There’s an electricity in the air, a whole ocean of people united in excited anticipation of an ancient celestial spectacle.
“You know how mad it is that this is something we get to witness?” Bob muses, his voice soft and awestruck. “Like, the chance of the moon being the exact size it is, and the exact distance from us that it is - the chances of that are…”
“Astronomical?” Yelena finishes with a grin.
Despite the task ahead of you, you smile, a warm glow stealing into your chest. This might have started because you roped her into a heist, but you’re glad Yelena’s getting to experience this. Even Bucky seems to have softened a little, although his eyes still dart towards you with frustrating regularity.
As the moon’s shadow eats into the burning disc of the sun, you keep a close eye on its progress, and prepare to slip away. It’s nearly time for the key part of your plan.
As you’d explained to Yelena, the eclipse is a pivotal part of your scheme. “An event this rare is not something standard security operations take into account - even if they’re guarding something as rare and precious as the blue diamond of Alqualondë.” You’d told her.
The diamond would be kept in a display case, ostentatiously left out on the yacht’s aft decks for the owners and their guests to admire. Of course, they would all move to the top deck for the eclipse, to guarantee an unobstructed view.
“But it is not going to be just a case is it?” Yelena had pointed out. “There will be high-tech protection - special glass, weight sensors…”
“There will.” Swiping on your phone, you showed her your intel. “The case itself is standard reinforced glass, and during the day there are five extra layers of bulletproof UV-filtering glass.”
“They think the diamond will get a sunburn?”
“It’s just good practice. But since the protective glass can dull the appearance of the diamond, the filters retract when it’s dark. At night, the case is protected by a laser grid, invisible to the naked eye, that activates at sunset.”
“And?” Yelena challenged. “They will guard it with more than that.”
“Day and night there’s a weight sensor; if that detects a change of more than a fraction of a gram, it activates whichever of the lasers or the glass isn’t already in place and sets off an alarm. However, because the diamond has never been on a superyacht before, the sensor isn’t calibrated for use at sea - and to avoid it going off every time there’s a big wave, they’ll disable it.”
“You are sure of this?” Yelena asked.
“Yep. It’s already an item on the crew’s boarding checklist.”
“I do not need to know how you know this. What about cameras? CCTV?”
You shook your head. “Not on the yacht. Believe me, this man has plenty of reasons for keeping his private spaces unrecorded.”
Yelena wrinkled her nose and mumbled something ominous in Russian.
“But there’s a fatal flaw in their security plan, and that’s what I’m going to exploit. The laser grid is set to a geolocated timer which tracks the exact time of sunset at the diamond's precise location. But the reinforced glass is connected to a light sensor - it deactivates when it’s dark as night.”
“But then you could trick it with, I don't know, an umbrella. It cannot be so simple.”
“Of course not.” You smiled. “It’s a dual sensor. One on the case itself, one on a satellite honed in on the case’s location, to stop it deactivating every time it’s cloudy. But the satellite will see the shadow of the eclipse, and register it as night.”
Yelena sat up straight. “So when the eclipse happens - no glass, and no lasers.”
“No glass, no lasers.” You repeated. “Just one sheet of reinforced, but not impenetrable, display case glass.”
“Why would their security not reprogram for this?”
“Because it’s a lot of effort to factor all that in for a one-off event lasting only 96 seconds.” A sly grin spread over your face. “And anyway, what are the chances that someone would try to steal it at precisely that moment?”
When the moon covers half the sun, you sneak off to the back of the boat. Just as you’re about to slide into the water, the hairs on the back of your neck alert you to someone watching you. Glancing over your shoulder, you’re met with Bucky’s hard stare.
“Where are you sneaking off to?” At least his voice is low, not alerting the others.
“I’m not sneaking off.” You lie.
“You’ll miss the eclipse.”
You gesture at the setting crescent sun. “It’s pretty hard to miss. But you’ll miss it if you keep watching me instead of the sky.”
Bucky’s scowl is his only response.
“I want to see it from the water.” You offer as an explanation.
“What?”
“The eclipse. It’s basically a show of the moon’s influence, and what’s the other way we see that? In the sea. The tides.”
Bucky’s frown is more confused than suspicious now, so you carry on.
“If I’m actually in the sea when it’s the full eclipse, it’ll be even more special.”
“We’re in the sea already.” He points out, sarcasm slipping through his scepticism. “What do you think all this water is?”
“Very funny. You know as well as I do that we’re on the sea, not in it.” You correct petulantly. “If my body is directly in the water then maybe I’ll feel the moon tugging on us, really feel connected to it. Anyway, I’m not here to convince you. I don’t really owe you an explanation at all, but I’ve given you one, because at least one of us is trying not to be rude.”
Bucky opens his mouth, but before he can argue back, you slide smoothly off the boat and into the water, staying under the waves as you quickly swim away from him and towards the yacht holding the blue diamond. Timing is everything with this plan and you can’t afford much more of a delay - you can only hope your excuse was good enough to keep the nosy supersoldier on the boat.
Staying low in the water, you approach the superyacht. From what you can see, everything is going as expected; the rich people gathered on the top deck, the sound of laughter and champagne corks popping carrying down to you in the shadows. The staff onboard are all either up there serving, or gathered at the bow for the second-best view, leaving the aft deck, and your path to the diamond, unobstructed.
You swim silently up to the ladder at the stern and grasp the rungs, but you’re still half in the water when a shape emerges fast behind you, muscled arms caging you in, one strong hand grabbing the ladder by your right, one black and gold one clinking against the metal strut by your left.
You feel his bare chest press against your back, and his deep voice brushes your ear. “This is a strange place to watch the eclipse from.” Bucky murmurs. “Or are you going to tell me you got our boat mixed up with this one?”
Biting back your frustration - and some other reactions you can’t afford to dwell on right now - you glare back at him. “There’s no time. Just go back to the boat, or you’ll miss it.” Slamming back hard against him, you hope to take him by surprise and shake him off, or at least make enough space for you to shimmy up the ladder and away, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, you’re just pressed even harder against him, the firm planes of his muscles against your bare, wet skin, your hips aligned with his in a way you’re fairly sure is responsible for the groan of metal as his fists tighten on the ladder.
Despite the strain, there’s a hint of amusement in his low response. “You can keep doing that if you want, but I’m not going anywhere.”
Growling, you turn your head to look him in the eye as well as you can, the bright glint of blue only reminding you of the diamond you’re so close to getting hold of. “Trust me, I’m not doing anything wrong here, but I don’t have time to explain. I’ll tell you everything later, I swear, just let me go. You’ll miss the eclipse.”
Bucky’s eyes flicker toward the horizon, where the bright slither of sun is getting smaller by the second, but his grip doesn’t loosen.
You sigh. “Sorry about this.” Before you can second guess yourself, you twist and press your lips against his, which part in surprise, before moving with you in response. Leaning in, you deepen the kiss, dancing your tongue along his. Bucky’s arms slacken as he mirrors you, and when he moves one of his hands from the ladder to your waist - not grabbing but caressing, almost reverent - you pull yourself away and shoot up the rungs as fast as you can, narrowly avoiding hitting his face with your ass as you go.
Whether from surprise or a gentlemanly instinct to not literally grab you and haul you back down, you’re able to climb clear of his reach, and there’s no sound of Bucky in pursuit, so when you reach the top you check the coast is clear and dart down the smooth wooden gangway to your target.
Even in the dim light of the shadowed sun, the blue diamond is magnificent. Housed in a glass box set in a rectangular black column, it gleams as though it holds the deep, sparkling blue of the ocean itself. Focusing on your mission, you position yourself behind the case, with one eye on the eclipse - you’re just in time.
The black disc of the moon slides into place over the sun, leaving only a ring of fire hanging low on the horizon. There’s a moment of hushed, almost eerie silence as darkness descends, before cheers and whoops sound out across the sea from the many boats assembled for this moment. Allowing yourself only a second to admire the spectacle, you pull the special glass cutting tools from the hidden pocket on what you’d managed to pass off as an ornamental belt on your swimsuit, and turn your attention to the case as the barely visible tinted glass sinks into the podium.
The remaining cover is still reinforced, and it takes you a few passes to cut a clean opening, taking longer than you’d hoped, your hands still slick with seawater. Cursing under your breath, your eyes flicker back and forth between your work and the sun. You’d practiced doing this in under 90 seconds, but it’s going to be tight.
“Need a hand?” A familiar, smirking voice over your shoulder makes you jump.
“For the love of all that is good,” you hiss between clenched teeth. “I do not need you startling me right now.”
“It’s not my fault you don’t pay attention to your surroundings.”
How can he sound smug at a time like this? “Just leave!”
Ignoring the infuriating man as best you can, you press the cutter harder against the glass, racing to get it open before the sun breaks out from behind the moon.
“And you might not need me startling you,” Bucky’s voice lowers as he steps closer, repeating his position behind you on the ladder, “but you do need something from me.”
Before you can argue back, he reaches around you, closing both his hands over yours on the glass cutter. Using his warm right hand to protect yours from the strength of his grip, his vibranium arm emits a barely audible whirr as he exerts a superhuman force, slicing through the reinforced glass of the case like it’s warm butter.
Your mouth drops open in surprise as the cut connects perfectly with the others, and Bucky uses his metal hand to ease the pane out without leaving fingerprints, saving you from scrambling for your second tool, and revealing the radiant azure treasure to the salty air.
Deciding you can figure out what the hell is going on later, you snatch the diamond, tucking it securely into a small waterproof pouch you unfurl from your belt, and replacing it with a tiny, high-tech projector, which activates to display a flawless 3D image of the diamond.
Again saving you a step, Bucky replaces the sheet of glass the two of you have cut out - and not a moment too soon. Just as your astonished eyes meet Bucky’s clear ones, rays of reddish yellow light creep across the deck as the setting sun reemerges from the totality, and the UV-filtering glass slides silently back into place.
“Quick.” You whisper, padding rapidly back to the ladder you climbed onboard from. While diving off would be quicker, any noise could alert the crew - and this way you can wipe any prints from the ladder as you slide back into the water.
Bucky follows, and without a word, the two of you descend beneath the waves, hidden from view as you swim back to your own, much smaller boat.
When you're far enough from the yacht, you surface for air and turn your questions on Bucky. “What the hell was that?” You gasp, completely baffled about what’s just gone on.
Bucky smiles slyly. “Trust me, I’m not doing anything wrong. But I don’t have time to explain right now. I’ll tell you everything later.”
You goggle at him as he repeats your words from minutes ago. “You-”
His grin widens at your impotent spluttering. “Come on, we should get back before the others can’t keep pretending they haven’t noticed we’re gone.”
You stare incredulously as he swims off, following only when a small wave slaps some sense back into you.
As anticipated, the others carefully ignore that you and Bucky left the boat. A subtle nod is your only indication to Yelena that this part of the mission went as planned - and when she tilts her head towards Bucky with a quizzical eyebrow raised, you can only shrug in response.
Back at your hotel, Ava isn’t so subtle. “Do I want to know what you and Barnes got up to during the eclipse, or will I have to scrub my brain after?”
“Nothing like that,” you assure her, despite her words prompting a flashback to the sensation of his body flush against yours on the ladder, his tongue tracing your lips.
“I see your face.” Yelena calls out, meeting your eye in the mirror she’s applying eyeliner in front of. “Do not lie to your friends.”
“But PG-rated please.” Ava adds. “There are some things I don’t need to know about my teammates.”
“Honestly, nothing happened! Or, not much. I may have briefly had to distract him.”
“I am sure.” Yelena smirks.
“But he’s up to something.” You mutter, checking your reflection over Yelena’s shoulder.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll find the opportunity to get whatever you need out of him tonight.” Ava nudges you conspiratorially.
The three of you are meeting up with the guys at a club downtown that Joaquin suggested, and in the crowd of revellers under the pulsing music and neon lights, it’s easy to spot Bucky Barnes, sitting alone at a private booth, glowering at anyone who comes too close.
“You look like you’re having fun.” You tease as you slide in next to him.
He turns to respond, but pauses, his lips parted as he takes you in. The dress you’re wearing is one of your favourites - nothing crazy, and you’re more covered up than you were in a swimsuit on the boat, but Bucky’s reaction reminds you why you feel so good in it.
Crossing one leg over the other and leaning in so there’s barely a breath between you, you’re about to ask him about today when he beats you to it.
“Where is it?” Facing you, he’s so close your noses almost touch, and it takes every ounce of your restraint to not let your eyes drift to his lips.
“Where’s what?” You ask coyly.
“You know what.” He stretches his vibranium arm behind you, angling his body towards yours. “You’re too smart to leave it in a hotel room safe, and I doubt you have it on you.”
Feeling very aware of the hard press of the wrapped diamond on your inner thigh, strapped to a holster perilously high up on your leg, given the length of your skirt - you smile innocently. “You’re making a lot of assumptions, Barnes.”
Bucky’s gaze intensifies, and you work to keep your breathing steady, even as you feel your skin heating under the force of his attention, and the slow smile curving his lips. “Or maybe you do have it on you.” His voice lowers as he moves closer, mouth at your ear, and rests a hand gently on your exposed thigh, sending a bolt of electricity through you.
The feel of his skin against yours is addictive, and you berate yourself internally for being so extravagantly attracted to him - but it’s clear you’re not the only one affected, and two can play at this game. “If you’re trying to get me undressed, you can just be honest about it.” You whisper huskily into his ear.
You hear your name slip out between his lips as his hand starts drifting higher. When his fingers brush the hem of your dress, you stop him. “Questions first.”
Bucky takes a deep breath, pulling back enough for his darkened eyes to fix on yours. “So where is it?”
You shake your head. “My questions. You were going to the yacht on your own, weren’t you? You weren’t following me.”
Bucky’s eyes search yours. “Fine.” His hand slips back down a few inches, but doesn’t leave your skin. “Yes. I heard about the diamond. About its origins - there’s a chance it’s more than just a stone, but its original custodians are pretty secretive about it. I just wanted to get an idea of how secure it was in case any bad guys decided to steal it. Turns out, not very.”
“You think the bad guys are the ones who steal things?” You ask pointedly. “What if they’re the ones who buy things that shouldn’t be up for sale?”
“I didn’t say they weren’t. But I need to know what’s going to be done with it now.”
“Nothing bad.” You answer simply, elaborating only when his eyes narrow. “The Blue Diamond of Alqualondë belongs with its rightful owners.”
Bucky doesn’t look fully convinced, but he’s given you the answer you were looking for, so you reluctantly extricate yourself from his hold and stand up. “Dance?” You ask over your shoulder as you head off to where the others are letting loose.
You’re not sure you expect him to follow you, but he does, staying glued to your side all night. You stay vigilant in case he tries any light-fingered tricks to relieve you of the diamond, but you let yourself enjoy the flirtatious game of cat and mouse as your bodies move together - and from the gleam in his azure eyes as he captures your mouth in the first of many heated kisses, you suspect he’s making the most of it too.
“Am I hearing this right? You just let her walk away with it?”
Back in the US barely two days later, Bucky grimaces in the face of Sam’s incredulity.
“Did the Mediterranean sun melt the cogs in your tin man brain? What were you thinking?”
“Not sure his brain was leading the decision making.” Joaquin chips in, grinning broadly. “He was staring at her non-stop from the moment we met them.”
“And who let this happen?” Sam asks Joaquin pointedly.
“Hey, I can’t control him!”
“We can trust her.” Bucky speaks up to defend himself. “I wasn’t staring at her, I recognised her. I couldn’t place it at first, but I saw her in the Red Room. She was a widow, that must be how she knows Yelena. And Yelena trusts her, so we can trust her. Plus, no one even noticed the diamond’s gone - she can give it back to the Teleri without pissing off the billionaire who bought it or inciting an international incident, unlike if Captain America returned it.”
Sam’s voice softens a little, but he’s still frowning. “‘Must be’ how Yelena knows her? You haven’t asked?”
“Yelena’s still being sort of secretive about it all.” Bucky admits.
Joaquin shrugs. “Maybe she just doesn’t want to have to give you her friend’s number.”
“Oh and how are you going with Ava’s number?”
“Hey, I have her Instagram!”
Joaquin pulls out his phone to prove it as Sam rubs a hand over his face in despair, muttering something about working with a bunch of children. “I swear, my nephews are more mature than you two.”
“Uh, guys.” Joaquin turns his phone screen towards them to show a breaking news headline; Blue Diamond of Alqualondë Stolen.
Sam crosses his arms. “I guess your girlfriend’s heist wasn’t as foolproof as she made you believe.”
“Where’s Yelena?”
Back in the Tower, Bob’s eyes widen at the anger vibrating off Bucky as he storms into the kitchen. “Um…are you going to hurt her?”
“Maybe.” Bucky grumbles, stalking off to continue his search.
“Wait, she asked me to give you this.” Bob slides an envelope over the kitchen island, staying a safe distance from Bucky’s rage.
Frowning, Bucky rips it open to find a single piece of thick, expensive paper. There’s an address in Barcelona printed on it, along with a time and date a few days from now.
“She also said to tell you to meet her and the rest of the team on the jet.” Bob points to a crumpled paper bag on the counter. “I made you a snack for the flight.”
Bucky grunts as he flips the paper over to see a quick sketch of a diamond, and ‘see you soon’ scribbled in handwriting he doesn’t recognise.
By the time they’re back in Europe, Bucky’s curiosity is about in balance with his anger. He hates not knowing what’s going on, but Yelena refused to tell him anything with the determinedly blank expression of someone who has no intention of changing their mind.
After they drop their kit at a safe house just outside the city, Yelena directs the rest of the team to a second location to set up for something she also won't tell Bucky about, while sending him up to the roof.
The sun is just beginning to set over the mountains behind the city, bathing everything in a soft, golden light - the skyline, the distant sea - and you.
“Bona tarde.” You greet him with a mischievous grin.
In an instant Bucky’s right in front of you, so close you think for a moment he’s about to kiss you, his eyes boring holes into yours. “You’d better be about to explain what’s going on here.”
Your smile widens.
Yelena had tilted her head as she mentally ran through your plan. “But that is not all, is it?”
“No,” you agreed. “There’s a twist.”
“Always the drama with you.” She shook her head, but let slip a small smile as she nodded for you to continue.
“The real Blue Diamond of Alqualondë is already with the Teleri.”
Yelena’s mouth had dropped open. “Okay, this I was not expecting.”
Bucky’s just as surprised as Yelena was. “Seriously?”
“The Teleri are Asgardian, half of them can literally do magic.” You shrug. “It was back in their hands basically the same day it was rediscovered. But the team who found it didn’t know that - the Teleri left them with a fake.”
“I know a diamond when I see one.” Bucky argues. “That wasn’t fake.”
“Oh, it’s a real diamond. But it’s not the Alqualondë diamond. So you don’t need to worry about what may or may not be a magical stone getting into the wrong hands.”
“You said you stole it-”
“Liberated it.” You correct.
“To return it to the Teleri.” Bucky continues. “Did you know they already had it?”
“Yep. That’s not why I liberated it.”
“Stole it.”
“A lot of people were interested in the diamond when it went up for sale. Including a lot of people who wouldn’t want their ownership of it to be on record, especially if those rumours of it being a power stone turn out to be true. But all those bad guys would be more than happy to turn up if it was being sold at a black market auction.”
“And for them to believe it’s the real diamond-” Bucky catches on to your plan.
“It would be a big help if its theft was all over the news.” You finish with a smile. “And it would also be great PR for, I don’t know, a fairly new team of superheroes with middling public support to take down all those bad guys at once by catching them at said auction.”
“We have more than middling public support.”
You roll your eyes. “You could do with-” You’re cut off mid-sentence by Bucky closing the small distance between you and kissing you, one arm wrapping around your waist and holding you tight against him while the other tangles in your hair.
You cling to him as you kiss him back just as fiercely, and when he pulls back you let out an involuntary whimper of frustration that makes him smile - a bright clear smile finally untainted by suspicion.
“Tell me you weren’t kissing me all those other times just to distract me.”
“No,” you nip at his lips mid-answer, unable to stay away. “I wasn’t. I probably could have found other ways to distract you. I didn’t want to.”
“Good.” He presses you to him again, and liquid heat courses through you, lighting you up brighter than the full summer sun.
Epilogue
The rising sun spreads warm fingers of light into your room, and across your and Bucky’s bodies as you lie tangled together in the sheets. He rolls the blue diamond languidly across your bare skin as the two of you talk, getting to know each other after a night spent learning all about each other physically.
“I was always interested in art.” You explain. “And I was good at it, even as a kid. The Red Room didn’t just train me as a Widow - they made me do art forgeries, which they swapped for the stolen real ones.”
“I knew most of the art you see in galleries was fake,” Bucky speaks softly, pausing to press kisses to your skin. “I guess I never thought about who made the fakes.”
“Well, here I am.” Your sarcastic smile drops as quickly as it appeared. “When Yelena and her family freed us, I started hunting down all the originals and swapping them back, and bringing some kind of justice to all the dealers and collectors along the way.”
“I can understand that.” Bucky toys gently with your hair. “You want any help doing that?”
“Actually,” you roll closer to him, trailing your fingers down his glistening skin. “If everyone I’m expecting tonight turns up, that’ll be it. More than it actually. I’m done. So I don’t really know what’s next.”
“Hmm,” Bucky’s hands dance down your spine, making you arch into him, just as he planned. “You know, if you like art, there are a lot of galleries in New York.”
“Oh really?”
“Oh yeah. World class. And you could have someone local show you around.”
“Someone local?” You tease. “Who might that be?”
Done with the games, Bucky growls deep in his throat as he rolls on top of you, catching your laughing mouth with his and consuming you yet again.
The blue diamond lies forgotten beside you, and as the sun rises higher in the sky, the bright daylight refracts in its glittering facets, sending a cascade of azure sparks dancing across the room; but its luminous beauty is eclipsed by the real treasure you’ve found in your heist.
PAIRING/STARRING: Thief!fem!reader (& private security!Steve Rogers, Tony!Stark (not by name)).
WORD COUNT: 1625.
SUMMARY: The Blue Diamond of Alqualondë does not belong to the wealthy man who has added it to his private collection. It belongs to your homeland...and you’ll bring it back!
CONTENT: Historical setting (1860-ish), heist, minor role for Steve Rogers, unbetaed.
A/N: Our lovely @ thezombieprostitute is doing a thing and I just HAD to get involved! I hope you like it, darling! As per usual: please like, comment, and especially reblog – that’s the only way to make sure other people see it too. Here’s my TAGLIST and my MASTERLIST for more.
Our precious
You were not one for altruism or philanthropy. At the end of the day, people needed to eat and have a roof over their heads and you? Well, you were people too. But this time, you couldn’t ignore the voice in the back of your mind that called for you to do one thing right.
The Blue Diamond of Alqualondë. From your homeland. It had been taken from the queen’s crown when your country was overrun by the imperialists and since then it’d been on show far far away. That was nearly two centuries ago.
You’d never planned for your life to take you there but the way they’d run your country down, the only chances for a somewhat decent livelihood was in the capital of their country. And even if it was generations ago, you have a legacy to live up to. That gem? It is yours by birthright.
So here you are, dressed up and with a forged invitation to show as you stroll towards the front doors of the mansion. Head held high, you hold out the thick, embossed paper to the guard who checks it for all the signs. You’re not nervous – not yet – you know it’s a perfect forgery and he’ll find the both the seal and the watermark to be as they should.
Meanwhile you can watch him: handsome, tall, his blue eyes make you think of the Diamond. You almost feel sorry you can’t afford to flirt with him.
“Have a lovely evening, miss,” he smiles, bowing slightly as he tucks away the invitation into the stack.
Passing through the doors, it’s like walking into an oven: candles and lanterns are lit everywhere, making the crystal of chandeliers and glasses sparkle in competition with the finery of the guests. The women are wearing, frankly, scandalous amounts of jewels, making your fingers itch to relieve them of some of the surplus...but you can’t afford that. Not tonight.
Accepting a glass of champagne, you circle the rooms one by one until you come to the one you really are seeking. You know it’s where the Blue Diamond is kept because of the guards stationed outside...and because through the open door you can spot the pedestal with the silken cloth draped over it, taunting anyone who might try to sneak a peek at the splendour.
Continuing your passage, you arrive at an antechamber. It’s deserted and with the exception of a few chairs and tables, there’s not much to see. You don’t care about the furniture anyways, but you are very interested in what’s hidden behind the tapestry.
Before this heist (there’s no better word for it), you’d acquired the old blueprints of the mansion. It’d been easy enough: just visit the local history museum and pretend to be an architecture student wanting to learn from the masters of the past.
You’d spent a long time poring over the papers with the thin lines and gnarly annotations just to make sure that they would really be there: the old servant’s passages.
You’d been right.
Closing the doors to the room ever so quietly, you go to the wall and push at the edge of the heavy tapestry. The wallpaper is unbroken, but feeling it, you sense the divot – a line you can follow up and down, indicating where the door to the passage used to be.
You’ve come prepared. Slipping the knife from your purse, you cut into the groove all the way around, then feel for where the handle once was. That’s trickier, but eventually you find it, jamming the thin blade into the covered hole and twisting it.
The click, well...the clunk, is loud, making you freeze. Straining your ears, you hear the sound of footsteps but it is hard to tell if they are approaching the door to the room you’re in or not. Just to be on the safe side, you slip the knife out and allow the tapestry to cover the hidden entry once more – and just in time as the doors to the room are opened.
Staying put, you discreetly drop the knife into the potted plant beside you, out of sight of the person entering, while pretending to study the woven image.
“Miss...did you close the doors?”
You recognize the voice to belong to the guard. The fact that he’s now doing rounds inside means he’s either been relieved or all the guests have arrived. If it’s the latter, then the deadline is approaching.
Turning to him, you smile sweetly. “Yes, sorry. I’m nursing a bit of a headache and wanted the quiet for a moment. I hope it’s not a problem?”
You can see him hesitate. “I suppose it’s not a problem for now but the doors will have to be opened again soon.”
“Just 15 minutes?” You bat your eyelashes at him.
“Alright.” Backing out, he closes the doors once more.
Counting to ten before you do anything, you try to get your heart to behave. He’s cute, the guard.
Then you turn to the tapestry once more. As far as you can tell, the door to the hidden passage would have opened into the room. Oh, how you wish you could have brought a crowbar. Instead, you retrieve the knife and jam it into the handle’s hole again, careful not to push the mechanism to close. Twisting and tugging, you get the door to give enough that you can claw at the edge and from then it’s surprisingly easy to pry it open enough for you to pass into the darkness, taking the knife with you.
You know the tapestry is falling into place, hiding your route, all you have to do is make sure it doesn’t catch in the latch.
It’s dark as the grave here. You can feel cobwebs caress your skin, making goosebumps spread with the idea of what pest you might encounter. It’s also crammed, your dress constantly brushing against the support beams even if you gather the skirt around your legs with one hand.
In the other hand you hold a vial that you shake vigorously, creating a greenish glow in the liquid. Simple, poisonous, but perfect as you could not count on bringing a lantern or candle with you in here. It’s only barely enough to navigate by and your progress is slower than you want but you don’t have far to go.
15 metres. 30. Then you find what you are looking for: a corresponding door. This too will have been covered by wallpaper, making it impossible for you to push it open by sheer force. But your knife is thinner than most, perfect to slip through the crack all the way around.
You feel the give as it pierces through the layers of paper and paint. Feel how it drags as you move it and you can only pray that no one notices because even with the glimpse into the display room, you have had no opportunity to figure out what might be in front of this area of the wall.
When the cutting is done, you take a deep, steadying breath.
Then you turn the handle (it had been left on the inside of this door for some odd reason) and push slowly. There’s the slightest of creaks of hinges, causing you to stop. Searching in your purse, you find the perfume that you have made sure not to use because it really isn’t perfume, but oil. A few pumps. A little wiggling. Then the creaking is gone.
Trying again, you feel the door meet...no resistance. Peeking out from behind it, you see you couldn’t have been luckier: a tapestry is straining to hold the door closed and the room is still deserted. The guards by the door are facing away, certain that no one can have sneaked past them.
Now you have to move quick but carefully.
Tiptoeing, you head straight for the pedestal, slipping the silk away and grabbing the Blue Diamond of Alqualondë without even taking the time to admire it. It’s too risky to stow it in your purse, so you slip it into your cleavage before rushing back the way you came only taking a few seconds to deposit anything suspicious in the passage.
You’ve only just managed to dust off yourself and sit down in one of the chairs when the door opens and the handsome guard reappears.
“I...brought you this.” He holds out a glass of fizzy liquid. “A tonic for the headache.”
“That is very kind of you,” you simper.
You hate the taste of these tonics, but you manage to drink the brew for the sake of the cover. Then you hand back the glass.
“I suppose it is time to allow others a place to retreat to?”
He nods. “I’m afraid so.”
“It’s quite alright. Thank you for allowing me a respite.”
The rest of the night is impossibly slow until the moment when the Diamond is to be revealed for the guests. You’re in the middle of the throng of eager guests, pretending to be just as curious as the host grabs the silken cloth...and then shocked at the lack of the gem!
As suspected, the private guard steps up to secure the place and check the pockets and purses of everyone. Including you. They find nothing.
---
You read about the lack of a suspect of the heist in the newspaper aboard the train a few days later. It’s a scandal, of course, bound to puzzle the authorities and the upper echelon for a long time. Meanwhile, the Blue Diamond of Alqualondë is on the way home to it’s country.
Now you just need a plan to ensure your countries independence...but that’s a matter for tomorrow.
Ooh super sneaky, so fun! I love how she's so prepared for everything except the kind and handsome guards! Have to check that in advance next time too 😁
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: 10k
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
The cabin was warm when he pushed through the door, the fire already built up, and the smell of something cooking hit him immediately.
She was at the stove, her back to him, stirring something in the pot. The beige dress was replaced with the blue one, the one she wore most evenings. Her hair was still in that braid, though she'd clearly redone it. Neater now than it had been when she'd left the camp.
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.
Next Chapter
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Biker Nick shows up and demands you tell him where your husband is. Problem is, you're not married and he got the wrong address.
Oh my! He's so very scary, even though it's not our fault!
Warnings: Choking, Implied violence. Please let me know if I missed any.
"I don't care if he's not home," Clarke barks over the phone. "Get in there and get the intel on him from his wife however you need to!"
Nick sighs as he hangs up the phone. He hates being violent towards those that don't deserve it. It's not your fault your husband is a deadbeat who stole money from Clarke's gang. Unfortunately for you, Nick's taken beatings from his boss for holding back and he's not about to endure that again.
Inside your little apartment, you've got your favorite show on to listen to while you decompress after an extra long day at work. You even indulged in a little take out as a reward for surviving the week.
The loud bang of your door being kicked in makes you scream and back away from the door.
"Where is he?" the intruder yells at you, eyes full of fury.
"Where is who?" you yell back. "I live here alone!"
The man closes the space between you and grabs your neck before pushing you against the wall. Your eyes start watering from the fear his strength elicits.
"Don't lie to me, lady. Your husband is in a lot of trouble and you sure as shit don't want to take the fall for him."
"What husband?" you whimper. "I live alone! I've never been married!"
Nick blinks a few times before looking around the apartment. There's no indication of more than one person living here. One coat, one set of shoes, but that could just mean her husband is out. But wouldn't there be photos? Wouldn't she be wearing a ring? Would she really be eating alone?
"Charles Blackwood," he growls. "Where is he?"
"I don't know anyone by that name!" you insist.
"Shit," he mutters. "This supposed to be 432 Hemlock Drive, apartment 205."
Shaking your head you answer, "it's 432 East Hemlock Drive. You have no idea how many deliveries I've received or lost because of that."
The man lets go of your neck and you collapse onto the floor.
Nick paces for a few minutes, gesturing for you to stay seated.
When he finally settles he turns to you and holds out his hand.
"My name is Nick and if my boss finds out about this, we're both going to be killed. Or worse."
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Pairing: Frontiersman!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Tags: Western AU. Shotgun Wedding. Strangers to Lovers. Slight Angst. Comfort. Domestic Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.
Warnings: Reader has Heterochromia. Loss of Virginity. Period-Typical Gender Roles and Expectations.
Summary: She came to White Creek for a teaching position that didn't exist. He needed a wife but never expected to find one like this.
Word Count: 6.3k
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
The days found their rhythm.
At first, the solitude had been difficult. Those long hours between dawn and dusk, when she'd hear his boots on the porch and feel something in her chest unclench. Twelve hours alone in the cabin and the woods surrounding it.
But she'd adapted. Had a lot of work to fill the time.
The curtains were finished within the first week. All three windows now had muslin panels with frills in their ends that she could draw closed at night, giving them privacy from the darkness outside. Then, the big one to separate the bedroom from the living space. She'd organized the pantry, labeled the canisters, and scrubbed every surface until the cabin gleamed.
She'd learned the morning routine: wake before dawn, start the fire, put coffee on. Have his breakfast ready: sourdough biscuits, fried cornmeal mush, and some salted meat. Enough to fuel a man who'd be swinging an axe till lunch and then start again. Make sure his lunch pail was packed and sitting on the counter where he couldn't miss it.
That had started after his first day back at work.
He'd come home that evening and collapsed into his chair like a felled tree, exhausted. She'd put dinner in front of him -the roast she'd been cooking all afternoon- and he'd eaten like a man who hadn't seen food in days.
"You didn't eat lunch?" she'd asked, watching him demolish a second helping.
"Had some." He'd torn off another piece of bread. "There's a pot at camp. The cook makes a stew, or somethin’ like it. Mostly just whatever scraps are left over, some rabbits… boiled together."
"Is it... good?"
He'd looked at her like she'd asked if the sky was purple.
"It's food. That's about all I can say for it."
The next morning, his lunch pail had been waiting on the table. Leftover roast wrapped in cloth, two biscuits, and an apple she'd been saving.
He'd stared at it for a moment, then looked at her.
"You didn't have to-"
"I know," she'd said. "But I did."
That had been two weeks ago.
Now it was routine. She'd cook extra at dinner, set aside the best portions for his lunch. Pack it carefully in the tin pail with its fitted lid, making sure nothing would spill or crush during the walk to camp.
And he'd started coming home with stories.
"One of the boys almost stabbed me today," he'd said one night, grinning around a mouthful of potatoes. "His wife sends him with a hunk of bread and some jerky if he's lucky. Meanwhile, I'm sittin’ there with proper food. He asked me the secret."
"What did you tell him?"
"There’s no secret. I got lucky." He'd reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "Real lucky."
She'd felt warmth bloom in her chest at the words, at the casual affection in the gesture.
----
One morning, she woke to daylight.
Not the pre-dawn gray she'd grown accustomed to, when she'd slip out of bed quietly so as not to disturb Bucky before he had to rise. Actual daylight. Pale and watery, but unmistakable.
Her eyes flew open.
The cabin was silent. Cold. The fire had burned down to nothing but ash and a few faintly glowing embers.
She sat up quickly, her heart already sinking.
His side of the bed was empty. He'd been gone for hours.
"No," she whispered, pushing back the quilt and standing. Her bare feet hit the cold floor, and she moved quickly to the stove, to the counter-
The lunch pail sat exactly where she'd left it the night before.
Untouched.
She pressed her hand to her mouth, staring at it.
She'd overslept. Had failed at the one thing she was supposed to do: rise before him, have his breakfast ready, and make sure he had what he needed for the day.
And he'd left without waking her. Had probably seen her still asleep and decided to let her rest, had walked out into the cold morning without breakfast, without his lunch-
She looked around for evidence of what he'd managed. The cloth that usually covered the leftover biscuits was askew, and when she lifted it, there were three missing. So he'd grabbed those, at least. Eaten them cold, probably, while he dressed in the dark.
But that was all he'd have until tonight, besides that dreadful camp stew. The kind of thing you ate because you had to, not because it would actually fill you up or give you strength.
She stood there for a long moment, staring at the lunch pail, her mind working.
She could leave it. He'd survive one day without a proper meal. Men did it all the time out here.
But the thought of him going hungry when she had food packed and ready, when she could do something about it-
The idea formed slowly, cautiously.
She could take it to him.
He'd told her how to get to the camp. Not because he'd expected her to make the trip, but because- what had he said? In case there's ever an emergency. In case you need to find me.
Was this an emergency?
No. Not really.
But he'd gone without a proper breakfast. Would go all day without lunch. And she had the means to fix it, sitting right here on the counter.
She looked toward the door.
She didn't know how to ride. Couldn't take the horse even if she'd wanted to, which meant it would have to be on foot, and it was a long walk. She knew that much. An hour, maybe more. Through the forest, across the creek, he'd mentioned the crossing, the flat stones you could use when the water was low.
Alone.
She thought about what he'd told her that first day. About the animals. The possibility of strangers with hidden intentions. All the reasons he'd been so insistent that she keep the door locked, that she stay close to the cabin.
But it was daylight now. And she'd be on a clear path; he'd described the landmarks carefully enough that she thought she could find her way.
Probably.
She stood there, turning it over in her mind. The risks versus the practicality of it.
Eventually, she made her decision.
She'd go.
----
She moved quickly after that, before she could second-guess herself.
The beige dress first, the one with the small pink flowers that had faded to almost nothing after years of wear and washing. It was old, practical, and if she snagged it on a branch or got mud on the hem, it wouldn't be a tragedy the way it would with her good blue cotton.
Her hair was still loose from sleep, and she didn't have time to pin it properly. She gathered it at the nape of her neck and worked it into a braid. Her fingers moved automatically, muscle memory from childhood, and within a minute, she had it secured with a ribbon.
Good enough.
She pulled on her boots, laced them tight, and grabbed her shawl from the peg by the door. Then she picked up the lunch pail and stood there for a moment, looking around the cabin as if she might have forgotten something.
The rifle was still above the door. Should she take it?
No. She'd never fired it. Bucky had promised to teach her properly, but between his return to work and everything else, they hadn't found the time. And the image of herself walking through the woods with that enormous rifle in one hand and the lunch pail in the other was almost laughable. How would she even prepare to shoot if she needed to? Set down the pail, fumble with the rifle, try to remember everything he'd taught her while some animal or worse charged at her?
Better to go quickly. Get there, give him the lunch, and come back.
Simple.
She took a breath, pulled the door open, and stepped outside into the cool morning air.
----
The forest was different alone.
She'd walked these trails with Bucky -around the property- at Sundays but always with him beside her, his presence a reassurance that she hadn't fully appreciated until now.
Now, every sound seemed amplified. The snap of a twig under her boot. The rustle of something moving through the underbrush that was probably just a squirrel, but could be anything. The creak of trees swaying overhead.
She kept walking.
The path was clear enough at first. She recognized the landmarks Bucky had pointed out: the lightning-split pine, the boulder covered in moss. She followed them carefully, the lunch pail swinging slightly at her side with each step.
The air smelled of damp earth and pine needles. Cold enough that she was glad for the shawl, though she could feel herself warming as she walked, her breathing coming faster with the exertion.
Eventually, she heard it: the creek.
The sound of water moving over rocks grew louder as she approached by the way Bucky had signaled, and then she saw it through the trees, wider than she'd expected, the current moving faster than she would have liked.
But there, just as he had described: a line of flat stones cutting across the water at an angle, worn smooth by years of use.
She approached carefully, testing the first stone with her boot before committing her weight to it. Solid. Steady.
The second stone was the same. The third had a slight wobble that made her heart jump, but it held.
She made it halfway across before she had to stop, her skirts bunched awkwardly in one hand, the lunch pail in the other, trying to find her balance for the next step.
The water rushed past below, cold and quick. If she fell…
She didn't let herself finish the thought. Just focused on the next stone, and the next, until finally her boot hit solid ground on the far side.
She exhaled and kept walking.
The forest grew denser here, the trees closer together. But she could hear something new now, cutting through the ambient sounds of the woods.
Voices. Distant but distinct. Male voices, rough and overlapping.
And beneath that: the rhythmic thunk of axes hitting wood. The rasp of saws. The crash of something heavy falling.
The lumber camp.
She was close.
She straightened her shoulders, smoothed her skirts as best she could, and kept walking toward the sound.
The camp opened up ahead of her suddenly, the trees giving way to a cleared area scattered with stumps and piles of cut logs. Men everywhere, maybe two dozen of them, working in pairs or small groups. Some felling trees at the edges of the clearing, others stripping bark, still others hauling logs toward a massive stack near what looked like a rough shelter.
She stopped at the edge of the tree line, suddenly very aware that she was the only woman in sight.
No one had noticed her yet. They were all focused on their work, shouting instructions to each other over the noise, moving with the kind of efficiency that came from doing the same job day after day.
She scanned the clearing, looking for Bucky.
Didn't see him.
Her heart sank slightly. Was he deeper in the woods? Had she come all this way and-
"Well, I'll be damned."
She turned.
Two men had stopped working and were staring at her. One older, maybe in his fifties, with a thick gray beard. The other, younger, closer to Bucky's age, tall and rangy, with dirt smeared across his face.
The older one was smiling. Not unkindly, but with a kind of amused surprise that made her face warm.
"You lost, ma'am?" he asked, pulling off his hat.
"No, I-" She held up the lunch pail. "I'm looking for my husband. James Barnes?"
Recognition flickered across both their faces.
"Barnes," the younger one repeated, "Yeah, we know Barnes."
"Is he here?"
"Oh, he's here." The older man gestured vaguely toward the far side of the clearing. "Back that way, working the big pine they dropped this morning. You want me to fetch him for you?"
"No, I can-" She stopped. "Which way exactly?"
He pointed. "Follow that path between the log piles. You'll hear him before you see him. He and Miller are splitting sections."
"Thank you."
She started walking in the direction he'd indicated, very aware that both men were still watching her. Could feel their eyes on her back as she moved deeper into the camp.
Other men were noticing now too. Work slowing. Heads turning.
She kept her eyes forward and walked faster.
----
The path between the log piles was narrow, hemmed in on both sides by stacks of cut timber that smelled of fresh sap. She could hear voices ahead: two men, closer now, their conversation punctuated by the thunk of something heavy hitting wood.
She rounded the corner and saw them.
Bucky had his back to her, his shirt soaked through with sweat despite the cool air, his suspenders cutting lines across his shoulders. He was swinging a maul, bringing it down hard onto a wedge driven into a massive section of a tree trunk. The wood split with a crack, and he stepped back, breathing hard.
The other man -Miller, she assumed- caught sight of her first.
His eyes widened. "Ma'am?"
Bucky turned then, maul still in his hands, and froze when he saw her.
For a moment, neither of them moved. He just stared at her, his expression cycling through surprise, confusion, and something that might have been concern before his jaw clenched.
But then his gaze shifted past her, and she saw something else flicker across his face. Something darker.
She didn't turn to look, but she could feel it, the weight of eyes on her back. Multiple sets of them. The work sounds had quieted slightly, and she knew without looking that men were watching.
Bucky's jaw clenched harder.
He set down the maul and crossed to her, his movements controlled but deliberate.
"Miller," he said without looking back, "this is Mrs. Barnes. My wife." Then, to her, his voice carefully even: "This is Miller."
Miller had straightened up, pulling off his hat. "Ma'am. Pleasure."
She nodded, suddenly very aware of how out of place she was.
"If you'll excuse us for a moment," Bucky said to Miller, already taking her elbow, not roughly, but firmly enough that it was clear this wasn't a request.
He guided her away from the work area, past the split logs, around the massive trunk of a centuries-old pine that had been felled and left where it lay. The bulk of it blocked them from the view of the other men, and he finally stopped and turned to face her.
"What the hell are you doin’ here?"
His voice was low. Controlled. But she could hear the edge underneath it.
She held up the lunch pail. "You forgot this."
He stared at the pail like he'd never seen it before. Then his eyes came back to her face.
"So you walked here? Alone? Through the woods?"
"Yes."
"Christ." He ran a hand through his hair, and she could see him working to keep his voice level. "Do you have any idea-" He stopped. Started again. "Anythin’ could have happened to you out there."
"But it didn't."
"That's not the point." His hand was still in his hair, and he looked like he was fighting the urge to raise his voice. "You could have fallen crossing the creek. Could have gotten lost. Could have run into-"
He stopped again, his jaw clenching.
She felt herself starting to shrink back, the familiar stiffness in her body that came when someone was angry with her. When she'd done something wrong.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I just thought- you didn't have breakfast, and I knew you'd be hungry, and-"
"I know." He cut her off, but his tone had shifted slightly. Less angry, more... frustrated. With himself or with her, she couldn't tell. "I know you were tryin’ to help. But you can't-"
He stopped, seemed to catch himself. Took a breath.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. "You can't do things like that. It ain’t safe."
"I know you said only for emergencies, but-"
"And this seemed like an emergency to you?" The words came out low, almost a hiss, and she flinched.
She took a step back without meaning to, her shoulders drawing in. Her eyes dropped to the ground between them.
The silence stretched out, heavy and uncomfortable.
Then she heard him exhale. A long, frustrated breath.
"Shit," he muttered. "I didn't mean-"
He stopped. Ran his hand over his face.
When he spoke again, his voice was different. Softer. Almost pained.
"I ain't angry that you brought me lunch."
She didn't look up.
"Hey." He stepped closer, and she felt his hand come up, hesitating for a moment before touching her chin, tilting her face up gently until she had to meet his eyes. "I ain’t angry with you."
She wanted to believe him. But her chest was still tight, and she could feel herself bracing for the rest of it. The part where he told her she was thoughtless, careless, a burden-
“I was worried," he said quietly. "Soon as I saw you standin' there, all I could think about was every damn thing that could have gone wrong on that walk. And then I saw them lookin' at you, and I-”
He stopped. His jaw worked for a moment.
"I handled this badly," he said finally. "I'm sorry."
The words hit her like cold water.
Sorry.
He was apologizing. To her.
She stared at him, trying to reconcile the man in front of her -hand still gentle on her chin, expression that showed something that looked like regret, with what she'd been bracing for. The anger. The blame. The litany of everything she'd done wrong.
Her throat felt tight.
"I understand about the walk," she said quietly. "I should have thought it through better. But the other part… about them looking-" She managed a small shrug, trying to make it seem like it didn't matter. "I told you before. People stare. I'm used to it."
His expression changed. Something that might have been frustration, or maybe disbelief.
"This ain’t about your eyes," he said, his voice low.
She blinked. "What?"
“Your eyes." He let go of her chin but didn't step back. "That ain't what they were lookin' at.”
She stared at him, genuinely confused now.
"You," he said. The word came out rough. "They were lookin’ at you. At-" He gestured vaguely, seemingly frustrated with his own inability to articulate it. "Christ, you really don't know, do you?"
"Know what?"
She was looking at him like he was speaking a different language, and he realized with something close to shock that she genuinely didn't picture it.
How the hell did a woman get to be twenty-six years old and not know when men were looking at her like that?
Except, he knew how. Knew exactly how.
She'd spent her whole life being looked at like she was cursed. Like there was something wrong with her, something to avoid or pity or cross yourself against. She'd learned to tune it out, to not see it, because seeing it hurt too much.
So now, when men looked at her the way his crew had been looking at her -with interest- she didn't even register it. Thought it was the same as all the other stares.
Well, it wasn't.
"They were lookin’ at you," he said again, trying to find words that wouldn't embarrass her but would make her understand. "Because you're a woman who just walked into a lumber camp full of men where some of them ain't seen their wives in days, and most ain’t have wives at all."
He watched her face as the words landed. Saw the confusion giving place to something else. Understanding, maybe. And then-
"Oh," she said quietly.
"Yeah." His hand flexed at his side, resisting the urge to reach for her again. "So when I saw them lookin’ at you like that, I..."
He trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence without sounding like a jealous bastard.
Though that's exactly what he was.
She was still processing it, he could tell. Her eyes had gone wide, and she looked like she was trying to puzzle through something that didn't quite make sense to her.
"But I'm your wife," she said finally, and it came out almost like a question.
Like that should have mattered. Like, surely that should have stopped those men from looking.
And, the fact that she said it like that, like she was his, like she understood that much even if she didn't understand why it made him want to put his fist through something or someone…
His composure cracked.
She was his wife. Had been for weeks now. And he'd been so careful, so goddamn patient, giving her space and time and treating her like she might break if he pushed too hard.
But standing here, watching her look at him with those mismatched eyes, her hair in that simple braid, hands still holding his lunch pail like it was the most important thing in the world-
He was done being patient.
"Yes," he said, his voice dropping lower. "You are."
He stepped closer, closing the distance between them until she had to tilt her head back to keep looking at him.
"You're my wife," he said, and he could hear the roughness in his own voice, the possessiveness he wasn't even trying to hide anymore. "And I don't like other men lookin' at you like they have any right to."
His hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone.
"And darlin’," he said, his voice dropping lower, "I'm done pretendin’ I don't want what's already mine."
Then he leaned in and kissed her.
----
His mouth covered hers, and her entire world narrowed to that single point of contact.
Warm. That was her first thought. His lips were warm and firm against hers, pressing with a certainty that made her knees feel unsteady.
She'd been kissed before, technically. That brief, perfunctory press of lips in the church, witnessed by the reverend and the sheriff and Mary's avid eyes. A formality.
This was nothing like that.
His hand was still cupping her face, his thumb stroking her cheekbone in a gentle counterpoint to the press of his mouth on hers. His other hand had come to rest at her waist, steadying her, pulling her closer.
She didn't know what to do with her hands. The lunch pail was still clutched in one of them, hanging awkwardly at her side. Her free hand hovered uselessly in the air for a moment before settling tentatively on his chest, feeling the warmth of his body beneath the damp fabric of his shirt.
His lips moved against hers, coaxing, and she tried to follow his lead even though she had no idea what she was doing.
Then his mouth opened slightly, and she felt-
His tongue. Wet against her lips.
Gentle but unmistakable, asking for something she didn't understand how to give.
Her breath caught, and she froze.
He must have felt it because he pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes searching her face. His pupils were dark, his breathing uneven.
"You alright?" he asked, his voice rough.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Her heart was hammering so hard she was certain he could feel it where her hand rested against his chest.
"Never been kissed like that before," he said. Not a question, but a statement of fact.
She shook her head.
Something flickered in his expression. Satisfaction, maybe, or possessiveness, or both.
"Open your mouth a little," he said quietly. "Just a little. Let me in."
It should have sounded presumptuous. Demanding. But the way he said it, low and careful, made it sound like an invitation instead of an order.
She nodded again.
This time, when he kissed her, she was ready for it. Or thought she was.
His mouth covered hers again, and when she parted her lips the way he'd asked, his tongue swept inside.
The sensation was overwhelming. Intimate in a way she hadn't anticipated, hadn't known to expect. She could taste him -coffee and something else, something distinctly him- and feel the wet heat of his mouth moving against hers.
She made a sound, small and startled, and his other hand tightened at her waist.
He was guiding her through it, she realized. Showing her what to do with small movements, gentle pressure. When his tongue touched hers, she instinctively pulled back slightly, but he followed, coaxing her to try again.
And she did.
Tentatively at first, then with more confidence when she felt him make a low sound in the back of his throat. Pleasure, she thought, or approval.
Her free hand moved from his chest to his shoulder, gripping the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
Maybe it was.
The kiss deepened, and she felt herself leaning into him, felt the strength of his body supporting her weight. The lunch pail slipped from her fingers and hit the ground with a dull thud that neither of them acknowledged.
Both her hands were on him now, one clutching his shoulder, the other sliding up to the back of his neck, where his hair was damp with sweat.
He groaned -actually groaned- and suddenly she was moving backward.
Not falling. He was guiding her, his body pressing into hers until her back met the rough bark of the massive tree trunk behind her.
His hand left her face for just a moment, sliding around to cradle the back of her head, cushioning it against the wood. Protecting her even as he pinned her there with his weight.
And then she felt it. All of him.
The solid wall of his chest against hers. His hips pressed firmly into her own. The hard muscle of his thighs bracketing hers. Every point of contact was sending heat flooding through her body in a way that made her feel dizzy and breathless and desperately aware of sensations she'd never experienced before.
His mouth never left hers. If anything, the kiss grew more intense, more demanding. His tongue stroked against hers with a rhythm that made something low in her belly clench and pulse.
The hand at her waist tightened, then began to move.
Slowly. Deliberately. Sliding upward over her side, thumb tracing through the fabric of her dress.
Higher.
She felt it coming, felt where his hand was going, but couldn't seem to make herself stop him. Didn't want to stop him, even though some distant part of her brain was screaming that this was improper, that they were outside, that anyone could-
His hand curved just below her breast, his thumb brushing the underside of it through all the layers of fabric between them.
The touch sent a jolt through her entire body. She gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound.
Then, suddenly, he pulled back.
Not far. Just enough to break the kiss, his breathing harsh and uneven. His hand was still there, still curved beneath her breast, and she could feel his fingers flexing slightly like he was fighting not to move them higher.
His forehead dropped to rest against hers, and when he spoke, his voice was wrecked.
"Christ," he muttered. "We need to stop."
She couldn't speak. Could barely breathe.
Her entire body felt like it was on fire, every nerve ending alive and singing in a way she'd never experienced. She could feel the imprint of his hand through her dress, could feel the hard length of his body still pressed against hers, pinning her to the tree.
She didn't want him to stop.
The thought came unbidden, shocking in its clarity. She didn't understand what was happening to her body, didn't know what this ache low in her belly meant, or why she wanted to press closer to him instead of pulling away, about the scandalous nature of it all.
But she knew she didn't want him to stop.
"Why?" The word came out barely a whisper.
He made a sound that might have been a laugh or a groan, she couldn't tell which.
"Because we're standin' behind a tree," he said, his voice still rough, "about fifty yards from two dozen men who are definitely wonderin' what the hell we're doin' back here." He paused, and she felt his hand flex again beneath her breast. "And because if I don't stop now, I ain't gonna stop at all."
She felt his words as much as heard them, his breath warm against her lips.
"Oh," she managed.
He pulled back a little more, just enough that she could see his face. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and there was a flush high on his cheekbones that had nothing to do with exertion from work.
"You understand what I'm sayin’?" he asked quietly.
She nodded, even though she wasn't entirely sure she did. But she understood enough. Understood that whatever was happening between them -whatever this heat and wanting was- it couldn't continue here. Not now.
"Okay," she whispered.
He took a breath, then slowly -reluctantly- stepped back. His hand slid away from beneath her breast, trailing down to her waist again before dropping to his side entirely.
The loss of his warmth, his weight, left her feeling unsteady. She pressed her palms flat against the tree trunk behind her, using it to keep herself upright.
They stood there for a moment, just looking at each other. Both breathing too fast. Both clearly affected.
Then Bucky bent down and picked up the lunch pail from where it had fallen, brushing dirt off the side of it before holding it up.
"Thank you," he said, and his voice was still rougher than usual. "For bringin’ this. For walkin’ all that way, even though it was dangerous and foolish and-" He stopped. "Thank you."
She nodded, not trusting her voice yet.
"I need to get back to work," he said, though he made no move to leave. "And you need to get home before it gets any later."
"Yes," she managed.
"The same way you came. Straight back. Don't stop, don't wander off the path." His voice had taken on that authoritative edge again, the one that expected to be obeyed. "You get home, and you lock that door. Understand?"
"Yes."
He looked like he wanted to say something else. Or maybe do something else. His eyes kept dropping to her mouth, and she saw his jaw clench.
But he didn't move.
"Go on then," he said finally. "Before I change my mind about lettin’ you leave."
----
He watched her turn and start walking back toward the path, her skirts swaying with each step, the long braid hanging down her back.
She looked thoroughly kissed.
Her dress was rumpled where his hands had been, dirt smudged on the fabric from being pressed against the tree. And her hair… had come loose in places, pulled partially undone by his hand without him fully realizing.
He should have said something. Tell her to fix it before she walked back through camp.
But telling her would mean embarrassing her. And he couldn't fix it himself, had no idea how women's hairdo worked, and wouldn't know where to start.
So he just stood there and watched her go, that long braid swaying against her back with each step, and fought the urge to reach out and grab it. To use it to pull her back against him, to turn her around and kiss her again, to finish what they'd started-
The thought stopped him cold.
Finish what, exactly? Here? In front of his entire crew, with nothing but pine needles and hard ground as bedding?
Christ, he was losing his mind.
He dragged a hand over his face and forced himself to turn away before she disappeared around a log pile. If he kept watching, he'd do something stupid. Like follow her. Like pull her behind another tree and put his hands on her again, and to hell with who might see.
Miller appeared in his vision as he rounded the tree and raised his eyebrows.
"Everythin’ alright?"
"Fine," he said shortly, picking up the maul he'd abandoned and gripping it hard enough that his knuckles went white.
Miller's gaze moved past him, toward where she'd disappeared, then back to his face. A slow grin spread across his features.
"Yeah," he said. "I can see that."
"Shut up and get back to work."
Miller's grin only widened, but he had the good sense not to push it further.
----
By the time she saw the cabin through the trees, her legs were shaking.
Not from fear. Not even from exhaustion, though she'd walked for over two hours total today, and her feet ached in her boots.
From something else entirely.
She pushed through the door and closed it behind her, leaning against it for a moment before crossing to the table and pulling out one of the chairs. She sank into it gratefully, her body finally able to stop moving.
But her mind wouldn't stop.
It kept circling back to the same thing. The same moment.
She pressed her hands to her cheeks and felt the heat there. Still warm, even now, even after the long walk back.
Nothing -not the whispered conversations she'd overheard between married women, not the vague warnings her mother had given her years ago about what to expect on a wedding night, not even the perfunctory peck in the church- had prepared her for that.
For the way his mouth had moved on hers. For the heat and the wetness and the shocking intimacy of his tongue sliding against hers.
Slow. Deep. Inside her mouth.
The memory alone made that strange ache pulse low in her belly again, made her shift restlessly in the chair.
She'd felt things during that kiss. Things she didn't have names for. Her body had responded in ways she never experienced before. The tightness in her breasts, the heat between her legs, the desperate wanting that had made her press closer to him instead of pulling away.
And his hand.
She closed her eyes and felt it again, the weight of his palm sliding up her side, the deliberate slowness, the way his thumb had brushed just beneath her breast and sent sensation sparking through her entire body.
He'd stopped.
Had pulled back and said they needed to stop, even though she could see in his face that he hadn't wanted to.
But tonight...
Her eyes opened.
Tonight, he would come home.
Would walk through that door after a long day of work, and they would eat dinner together the way they always did, and then they would go to bed together the way they always did.
Except it wouldn't be the same. Not after this.
Not after he'd kissed her like that. Touched her like that. Looked at her with those dark eyes and said he was done pretending he didn't want what was already his.
What would happen when he came home?
She didn't know.
But sitting here alone in the quiet cabin, with the memory of his mouth on hers still burning through her-
She thought maybe she wanted to find out.
----
The sun was already setting by the time he crossed onto his property.
His body ached. Twelve hours of swinging the maul, hauling logs, stripping bark. The kind of work that should have left him too exhausted to think about anything except food and sleep.
Except he hadn’t been thinking about food and sleep.
His jaw clenched as he walked, his mind circling back to the same things it had been replaying for hours. Her lips parting under his. The small sound she'd made when his tongue touched hers. The way she'd gripped his shoulder like she needed something to hold onto.
The way she'd responded to him.
Christ, she'd never been touched before. And she'd let him- had trusted him enough to let him guide her through it, to show her what to do.
He'd been half-hard for most of the afternoon just thinking about it. About her hand sliding up to the back of his neck. About the heat of her body pressed against his. About how she'd tasted, how she'd felt pinned between him and that tree.
He wanted to do it again. Wanted to kiss her properly this time, without an audience fifty yards away. Wanted to take his time with her, to see what other sounds he could pull from her throat.
Wanted to find out what she'd do if his hand moved higher than it had this afternoon.
But.
He slowed as the cabin came into view through the trees.
She certainly hadn't seemed scared when she'd left. She seemed... dazed, maybe. Overwhelmed. But not frightened.
But that had been right after. When she was still caught up in it, still feeling whatever he'd made her feel.
Now she'd had hours to think about it. Hours to remember that he'd pressed her against a tree in the middle of a lumber camp where anyone could have seen them. Had touched her in ways that-
Fuck.
He'd let his jealousy get the better of him. Had seen those men looking at her and had needed to stake his claim in the most primitive way possible. Had needed her to understand that she belonged to him, that no one else had any right to look at her like that.
Because she was his. Legally. Morally. In every way that mattered.
And he'd dragged her behind a tree and put his hands on her, where anyone of the crew could have walked by and seen them.
Like she was some soiled dove he'd pulled into an alley on a Saturday night.
She deserved better than that.
He started walking again, slower this time, trying to figure out what the hell he was going to say when he walked through that door.
Next Chapter
I don't do taglist anymore, please follow @vunblr-archive and turn on the notifications for updates :)
Your secret, annual summer fling with your best friend’s brother was never meant to last — but when his mother catches you in his bed, everything changes. Cornered, he does the only thing he can think of: he tells her the two of you are engaged.
▸ PAIRING: Clark Kent x F!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, secret fwb to lovers, best friend's brother (kara is clark's sibling), fake engagement, hurt/comfort, fluff, semi-public sex (three smut scenes), thigh riding, so much miscommunication (guilty pleasure), insecurities on reader's part, jealousy, clark dirty talks, inaccurate portrayal of smallville (picturing super small town), reader has a shit ex
▸ WORD COUNT: 12.9K
▸ A/N: this fic was truly self-indulgent, all of my fave tropes in one place. this is part of @elixirfromthestars' arcade! i played elixir's hold 'em and ended up with a four of a kind (best friend's sibling, summer fling, sworn off relationships, and fake engagement). thanks for such a fun event mel <3 this is my longest work to date so splitting it into two parts - final one coming next week!! i love seeing your responses so any reblogs/comments/likes are always greatly appreciated mwah!!!
↤ main masterlist | part two ↦
Whoever thought it would be a good idea to spend a week of your precious and extremely limited paid time off in Smallville, of all places, should be pulverized. You could’ve been sipping margaritas in the Bahamas or traipsing around Miami Beach with a scrumptious cubano in hand. You could’ve been sitting at home in your perfectly comfortable couch with your perfectly comfortable air conditioning.
But no, you love your best friend Kara dearly, and she managed to convince you and a few of your friends to do the group’s annual trip in her hometown in Kansas. Oh, how you wish you could be Dorothy in that moment and find yourself on a yellow brick road rather than this sweltering airport.
Smallville in the summer is a far cry from your ideal vacation. The closest airport is two hours away and you’re greeted by the sight of a building that looks like it barely functions and hasn’t been upgraded since the Middle Ages. You had been cramped into a small airplane that you’re convinced does not have all of its nuts and bolts considering how much it rattled (you don’t want to think about the strange tilt of the wings). It takes you a full hour to get your suitcase from baggage claim that has no air conditioning; mind you, it’s because there is no overhead compartment, so they forced you to check your carry-on into cargo (an equally cramped space).
To make matters worse, Kara’s work forced her to delay her trip by one day which means you’re already locked in to arriving a full day earlier than everyone else, thinking that you’d get to spend some quality time with her after being separated for nearly an entire year (it’s been a rough year for both of you).
“How am I supposed to get to your house?” You had asked — more like whined after she told you the bad news.
She sounded even more upset than you. “Don’t worry, Clark will be there!”
Your heart had leapt to your throat at the thought.
Now, you’re faced with this incredibly difficult, exceedingly troubling situation. Said situation is basically being stuck in a car for two hours with Clark Kent.
Clark Kent stands at over six feet tall, sticking out like a sore — but stupidly delicious — thumb outside the airport. He’s in a pair of denim jeans and a t-shirt that appears to be fighting to keep its threads intact around his bicep. His long frame is leaning against a rusty red pickup truck.
The moment you push the doors open to step outside, his eyes spot you. Brilliant, bejeweled blue even from this distance. He covers that distance in no time with his ridiculously long legs, barely breathless as your name falls from his lips.
“It’s been a while,” he beams softly. His hand immediately commandeers your suitcase like the caveman-gentleman that he is. “How was your flight?”
You shudder at the sound of the tumbling cogs still echoing in your ear. “Terrifying,” you mutter, “how do you even fit in those tiny planes?”
The question sounds foolish now that you’ve said it out loud.
“Forget I asked.”
His smile is shy and sheepish as he blinks down at you. “Perks of the job, I guess.”
“I hardly think being an unpaid superhero should count as a job. Otherwise, I’d be reporting… someone to the Department of Labor for withheld wages.”
Then he laughs and the sound is buoyant and clear in this empty parking lot. You feel it spark warmth, tingling to your fingertips.
Girl, get a grip.
You fan yourself a little under the pretense of the disgusting heat. At least the air is cooler out here than inside that sauna. Your bare legs that stretch out from under your shorts certainly appreciate the kiss of the wind. You’re able to breathe a little easier despite the humidity.
An act that is short-lived when you notice how his gaze flickers to your exposed skin.
Clearing his throat, Clark stops when he reaches his truck. He carefully lifts your bag to the bed of his truck and straps it down. You eye it suspiciously.
His lips twitch with the threat of amusement. “It’s not going to fly out. Promise. Flat roads from here on out.”
“Don’t mean to be rude but might be faster if you just flew both of us back to your home,” you suggest with a raised eyebrow.
It would make it easier for you too to avoid being trapped with him for a full hundred and twenty minutes in a car with nowhere to go.
Clark chuckles as he swings open the passenger seat for you, even going as far as to offer you a hand to help you climb the height of the vehicle. You almost imagine the ghost of his hand pushing you up by your ass, but that’s just distasteful dreaming.
“I’d rather keep our mayor in the dark about how Superman had landed and was raised in Smallville. I don’t think that’s the kind of marketing the other guy would be interested in.”
“The other guy is really only popular in Metropolis so maybe he could use a bit of a boost from a bumfuck small town.”
He laughs again and you have to stomp on those ridiculous little flutters.
The drive is peaceful. With both hands on the wheel, Clark taps his finger against the leather to the rhythm of some pop song crackling through the speakers. He makes small talk to fill the silence. He asks you about life, about your job, about the tiny apartment you’ve been trying to furnish for the last few months. Cordial. Polite. Safe. All conversational topics that are reasonable for two friends.
That is, until he asks whether you’re seeing anyone.
It should be a normal question to ask a friend. Hell, even a stranger. But you know Clark better than that and you know the underlying curiosity underneath.
Heat creeps up your neck again. You feel as if you’re back in that cursed airport as you find your voice to respond to him. “No, not seeing anyone right now.”
He doesn’t even look at you when the corners of his lips tip up into a pleased smile. You knew what he was asking — and you basically gave him the green light. He takes your confirmation as permission.
His right hand slides off the wheel and lands on your thigh. His very large palm stretching across your leg.
You swallow thickly.
“This okay?” His voice is soft. Genuine worry laced into his question.
Instead of verbalizing your response, you only manage a nod as you prop an elbow on the door. Your face turns towards the deserted road outside to hide your embarrassment. To hide the racing of your heart. The anticipation bubbling beneath your veins.
It doesn’t take him long for his hand to slide higher and higher until you feel his fingers toying with the button on your pants. Deft fingers that pop it open easily. It’s terribly sexy how good he is at that.
He reaches down your pants, fingers skimming over the thin fabric of your panties until he finds your clothed slit. A delighted hum slips past the seam of his lips when he finds you already damp. His fingers trace along your sensitive lips, featherlight, but you’re eager enough that you find your hips jerking upwards in search of his touch.
Your chest rises and falls with the breath that hitches in your throat. “Are we really doing this already?” You rasp, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to prevent the moan from escaping.
You hate how responsive you are to him. How your body’s been trained to respond to him. That familiar touch eliciting those familiar sparks of electricity. No matter how many times he’s done this, how many times you’ve fallen apart in his hands, you’re no less receptive than the first time.
Clark chances a glance your way and simply murmurs, “Missed touching you.”
A whimper actually does crawl its way out of your throat this time. How are you supposed to say no to that? You let your legs fall open, hips lifting off the seat just enough so he can tug your pants a little lower, sneak his fingers in even deeper. He applies a little bit more pressure on your slit, you can feel your panties soaking up your juices.
“So wet already, honey,” he whispers.
Honey. The first time Clark used that pet name on you, you’d told him absolutely not. However, like everything else he’s done, you’ve grown used to it. Your insides turn gooey when he uses that sweet little nickname. Something so syrupy when he’s doing something oh so filthy.
“It’s been a while,” you mutter under your breath.
“Were you waiting for me?”
At that, you can’t help the defensive scoff that spits out of your mouth. “No.”
Maybe.
“When was the last time someone touched you?”
You don’t want to answer that. It’s an embarrassing answer — one that you fear will inflate his ego too much.
Unfortunately, your non-answer is answer enough.
“Been a while,” he echoes your earlier sentiment.
“Don’t get too full of yourself.”
“Why? Didn’t find anyone you liked these past few months?”
You press your lips together. The day that you admit you can’t seem to finish with anyone else, not when you’ve already had a taste — or ten — of Clark, is the day this world comes to an end. Not even Superman can pry this information out of you.
“No,” you answer easily.
Clark’s thumb presses down on your clit and you immediately jolt forward with a groan. His fingers tug the gusset of your panties to the side as he slides his fingers easily along your slick folds. He moans when he finds how quickly you coat his fingers.
“Me too,” Clark admits. “Haven’t been — gosh, you’re dripping — haven’t been with anyone since, you know, last time.” Whether it’s to save you from your own confession or Clark is just being his honest self, you don’t know. Still, you appreciate the thought.
Your face warms again with his words and maybe any other time, you would have the self-control or decency to stop him. However, in that moment, when you’re pent up from your frustrating flight and months of reaching your orgasm only by your fingers alone, you can’t help but appreciate his fingers on you.
You slide down a little further on your seat, granting him access to finally push his fingers inside you. Thick, long fingers that curl that delicious flash of friction in your pulsing cunt.
It’s criminal how good he is at this. At sex in general, really. You know that it’s partly attributed to his superpowers. Clark knows the rhythm of your heartbeat like it’s his own. It’s how he knows exactly when whatever he’s doing is working on you. How he’s learned what your body loves, what makes it burn. He can hear how your heart rate skyrockets when he slides his fingers deeper, when he does a slow drag out to pull a moan from your chest. He knows when he’s doing a good job, but it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t enjoy hearing you admit how much you want him out loud anyway.
He takes some sick satisfaction in making you ask for it.
“What do you want? Tell me.”
“You know what.”
“I need you to use your words, honey.”
Curse whoever ever said Clark is the good boy next door, the one who buys you flowers and opens your door. He does all that and can be so sweetly condescending in the sexiest way possible. While you’re usually irritated by any form of male patronization, there’s something about the way Clark does it.
Like he’s doing it for you because he knows you like it.
“Fuck me with your fingers, Clark,” you gasp as he begins to pump his fingers in and out of you.
Your vision of the road is a blurry mess, greens and browns melting together as your eyes roll to the back. Your head slams against the chair as your hands curl around his wrist. Clark doesn’t miss a beat, keeps stroking you with his fingers like it’s his purpose.
His eyes dart between the road and you, conflicted now that he’s started this game that he has to finish. He drinks you in, the sight of your neck stretching out as you tip your head back, as your hips lift to chase his fingers.
“I can’t— I’ll finish you when we get back. I need to drive—”
“Pull over.”
“What?” He balks.
“Pull over somewhere,” you pant, tightening your grip around his wrist to keep him there. You roll your hips to rut against his hand. The ball of his palm pressing against your clit as he finger fucks you until your brain is turned to mush. “Clark, please.”
You swear you hear him curse before he takes a turn down an abandoned dirt path. He uses his hand covered in your slick to put the car into park and, before he can utter anything, you’re unbuckling your seatbelt and climbing over to his seat, straddling his thick thighs.
Clark’s eyes widen, pupils blowing up as he looks at you. He groans almost painfully. “I’m so hard. I’ve been thinking about this all night.”
“All night?”
He eagerly nods as he helps you shimmy out of your shorts, leaving you in your drenched panties on top of him. “Knew Kara and the others were coming later. I couldn’t stop thinking about having you like this. Or at home. Wherever you’ll let me have you. Missed this pussy of yours.”
Your heart slams against your chest as your cunt traitorously throbs with the kind of desperation that would be concerning to feminism. “Yeah? Did you jerk yourself off thinking about me, Clark? Hope you kept your voice down so your parents wouldn’t hear you stroking this fat cock of yours to the thought of my cunt.”
“You—” he growls, “Sometimes I wish I could just slide myself down your throat to stop you from saying such filthy things.”
A smirk curls on your lips. “You like me filthy. You like me dripping all over you.”
Your fingers fumble with his pants this time, hurriedly yanking the fabric down to free his cock for your access. You’re quick to position yourself on top of him, tip hot red and angry dipping into your entrance. Your slick is already rolling down his length when Clark’s hand squeezes your hip.
“C-condom?” He asks. The reluctance in his voice is obvious. It’s not that he won’t fuck you without one. It’s that he doesn’t want to.
“I’m clean, are you?”
Clark nods and his expression morphs into parted lips and blue eyes blown wide as you sink on him. With your hands planted on his broad shoulders, you begin to ride him — slowly at first as you adjust to his size again.
He’s big. Too big sometimes. You’re lucky with how wet you are right now that the slide eases the burn of the stretch. His thick cock has your pussy tightening in resistance, but you keep going, all the way until he’s buried deep inside you.
“Feels so good,” he moans, “you’re always so tight, but you always make it fit, don’t you? You take my cock so well.”
Your pussy clamps down around him, your pace faltering with his words.
“Look at her. She’s swallowing me right up. She’s greedy, always taking me all the way in,” Clark coos as he watches his cock disappear into you over again, each time you burrow him deeper and deeper inside you. “My favorite pussy. She’s so pretty taking me in like this.”
You lean back and place your hands on his thighs as you roll your hips to drive him in deeper. “Fuck, Clark. Every time I see you, feels like you've gotten bigger.”
“No, honey, it’s just because your pussy tightens up,” he chuckles, fingers brushing your hips. “She just has to get used to me again. I’ll stretch you out, don’t worry. ‘M gonna make you feel so good.”
“Play with my tits,” you rasp. “Want your hands on my tits.”
You know what you’re doing. This is both for you and him. You’ve always loved seeing how big his hands are, how they cover your breasts entirely. How he can be both delicate and rough when he toys with your nipples.
His fingers unbutton your shirt slowly and, the more he does, the wider his eyes go.
Clark lets out a moan when he sees your nipples in the open air. “No bra?” He squeaks. “You went through TSA like this?”
Your lips tip up into a smirk. “Don’t worry, nobody gave me a pat down.”
“Better not have,” he growls low, “these are mine.”
Your pussy and heart flutter with his possessive declaration. You nearly bite out a snappy retort, asking him since when am I yours but the words fizzle out behind your ribs when Clark grabs your hips and begins to earnestly fuck up into you. He’s careful not to hurt you, but tests your limits with how hard he’s gripping you. You’re sure to bruise but these kinds of marks, he knows you don’t mind. You like when he stakes his claim.
His head dips to take one nipple into his mouth, one of his hands rising along your torso, thumb brushing the underside of your breast as he lifts it slightly. His tongue circles the peaked bud, hot and wet until you’re throwing your head back in ecstasy. He nibbles lightly on the sensitive skin, enough to draw out another whine from your throat.
“So pretty. You’re always so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin. “Pussy feels like heaven. So tight around my cock, honey. All mine. Tell me your pussy is all mine.”
You gasp when Clark thrusts up particularly hard, keen eyes searching yours. Swallowing, you hold on to the last thread of your pride as you resist the urge to cave into him.
“Come on, tell me. I won’t let you cum if you don’t say it.”
“Clark,” you whimper, “don’t be mean.”
“Not mean,” he murmurs, “just want you to tell me that this pussy is mine. That nobody else has touched it. That nobody else will ever touch it.”
It’s a terrifying admission, even in the heat of the moment. Deep in your gut, you know that no one else will ever feel as good as Clark. No one else will ever get you to finish the same way he does. Fireworks and heat streaking across your skin.
But you give in to him so he will give in to you.
“My pussy’s yours,” you cry out.
“Say it again.”
“My pussy’s yours. Only yours.”
“No one else can touch it. You’re always saving this pretty, tight pussy for me.”
“Fuck, it’s yours, Clark. Please, please, fuck— hnng, need to— I want to cum, please.”
Clark groans as he angles his hips just right so that he’s fucking into that delicious spot inside of you over and over again until you can’t find it in you to think or even breathe. The gasp is wrangled from your throat as he rips the orgasm straight from under you, your back arching as your fingers dig into his shoulders, the pleasure crashing over you in waves. Your body shudders against him as you feel him spill inside you, warmth painting your walls as he jerks a few more times.
You slump forward, forehead against his shoulder as he continues to cum inside you. You can feel the cum leaking from where you’re joined, too much for you to keep inside yourself. It trickles down your thighs, dripping onto Clark’s jeans as evidence of your little tryst.
A giggle slips past your lips as you sigh against him.
His clean hand (he knows you have a thing against it otherwise) reaches up to stroke your head as he turns to press his lips on your temple. “What’re you laughing about?” He mumbles against your skin.
“Just— this. We really couldn’t wait to find a bed to fuck.”
His chest rumbles with his laugh. “Well, my ma and pa are home too so we wouldn’t have had a chance until tonight.” He pauses, then says, “And we both know you can’t keep your voice down.”
You launch yourself back with a glare, hand weakly swatting his chest. “Hey, speak for yourself. If I sucked your dick, you’d be crying and begging for me to stop because you can’t handle it.”
“That’s just because I want to cum inside you instead of your mouth.”
Your cunt pulses around him, squeezing. Traitor.
“You like that, don’t you?” He grins easily.
“Whatever,” you mutter. Wincing, you extract yourself from him and feel more of his cum leaking from between your puffy pussy.
Before you can move back to the passenger seat, Clark sits you down on his lap. His hand settles on your inner thigh, thumb pressing against your swollen pussy lips to open you up to him. He watches as his cum dribbles out of your cunt, before he uses his fingers to fuck them back into you.
“Don’t want to waste it,” he smiles boyishly.
This fucker.
“You’re the worst.”
“You won’t be saying that when I tell you I’ve figured out the many other stops we can have along the way — you know, if you wanted a second or third round.”
You’re warm to the tips of your ears. “You’re insatiable.”
“It’s been a while,” he chuckles.
Clark’s parents greet you with a good dose of midwestern charm, followed by a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and Earl Grey tea. He regards you with mild amusement as you glance at him in alarm when his mother wraps you in a massive hug, telling you that she feels as if you’re one of her own.
“Oh, I’ve heard so much about you from Kara and Clark! It’s such a joy to finally meet you, honey. Come on in. Are you hungry? Did you want to clean up first? I’ve got some extra towels in Kara’s room for you. Clark, be a dear and show her around, will you? I just need to pull out the cinnamon loaf from the oven.”
It’s like a tornado, a whirlwind of movement all at once. A very pleasant tornado. Clark ends up giving you the comprehensive tour of the farmhouse. The Kent house looks fully lived in — well-worn vintage furniture with stitched florals, family photos dotting the walls and shelves to show any guest how loved the two Kent kids are, and touches of an old-fashioned home with typical cliché quotes hanging in frames or sewn onto throw pillows.
Clark blushes when you stare a little too long at the live, laugh, love painted onto a piece of wood above the toilet. “Ma loves that kind of thing. She buys a new one almost every time she goes into town.”
“Wish I had known, I could’ve gotten her another one for her collection,” you grin. “It’s sweet, Clark. Very charming.”
His smile softens slightly as he guides you to Kara’s room. “I’ll let you get settled in then. I have to help pa out with a few things, but let me know if you need anything. You have my number.”
Kara’s room is similar to the one she had in college. Posters of her favorite rock bands, pink wallpaper painted over with abstract murals that you find all too familiar. There’s a queen-sized bed in the middle of the room with frilly pink sheets that you doubt she picked herself. For the next hour, you unpack all your belongings, finding yourself dreading stepping outside and facing the music.
You had met Kara in college, freshman year, and the two of you were bonded for life. It started with a snooty remark from another student, and you and Kara had intervened at the same time, finding your sister-in-arms on day one. Two of you were similar in that you were both bull-headed, a little bit temperamental, but fiercely loyal. You loved her the moment you met her.
Sophomore year found the two of you unsurprisingly rooming together. The two of you were truly inseparable then. You thought you knew everything about her. That was until she said—
“My brother needs to come by,” she groans.
“You have a brother?”
That was when you were introduced to Clark Kent. Before you even met him, you had a strong inkling that you wouldn’t be a big fan of the guy. He was a year older than Kara but he was in a frat. Not that there’s anything wrong with participating in social activities on campus, but Greek life? Yes, you had formed your own preconceived notions about him.
So when Clark finally “swung by” to pick up one of his jackets while Kara was gone, you were caught off guard by the sight of this bumbling six-foot-four-mess who kept fidgeting with his thick-rimmed glasses. Clark, with his nervous smile and constant shifting, was a complete antithesis to Kara who had a permanent scowl and a sharp tongue.
Then you started seeing him everywhere on campus. You’ve seen him around before but now you can’t stop noticing him. He’s the mop of curls trying to shrink himself at the front of your English literature classroom, he’s the light laughter ringing across the dining hall, he’s the designated driver who physically gathered up the drunkards and piled them into the group’s car to send them home at the end of the night.
But he’s also the guy who’s always surrounded by some of the frattiest guys on campus and the guy who’s constantly swarmed by women grabbing at his biceps and running their hands down his chest.
“Your brother’s a bit of a player, huh?” You pointed out once to Kara, your eagle eyes focused across the room on Clark, who was humoring Bonnie from psychology as she yapped his ear off.
He didn’t seem to mind, laughing at whatever she was saying, which had her beaming.
Kara turned around, eyes following yours as you witnessed the atrocity that was Bonnie straight up flattening her manicured palm on his left tit. “Who? Clark?” She snorted, “The furthest. You can’t see it but that man is plotting the most polite escape route. Give it a second.”
Sure enough, the moment his eyes landed on you, they burned a brighter blue. He said something to Bonnie that had her pouting, turning to look at your table, before he made a beeline in your direction, sliding into the empty seat next to you.
“What happened with Bonnie?” You cocked an eyebrow.
“You know her?” Clark raised one right back. “She was, uh, talking about the frat’s winter gala thing.” His face distorted in a wince. “Asked me if I had a date.”
“Oh, while groping you?” Kara snickered.
Clark threw her a look. “Be nice. She meant well.”
“She meant she wanted your dick,” Kara noted then winced, “I don’t know why I just said that. I take it back. I don’t want to know about your sex life.”
His neck flushed a deep red as his eyes darted toward you for a brief second before he whipped his gaze away with a cough. “Anyways, I didn’t want to lead her on. So I told her I was already going with someone else.”
“Well, now you have to show up with a date,” Kara noted.
“Yeah.” Clark scratched the back of his ear then flicked his gaze towards you again. “Funny story.”
Dread sank into your gut. “Clark, no.”
“I’m sorry,” he flinched, “but she wanted to know who and I saw you and obviously I couldn’t say Kara so… here we are.”
“I have to go to your frat’s winter gala? Over my dead body.”
“It’ll be fun! Drinks and food. I’ll cover your ticket, obviously,” Clark pleaded. His blue eyes were shining in a way that made you melt. It was hard to say no to Clark Kent.
That was how you ended up as Clark’s date. That was how you ended up meeting your first ex in college. A fratboy of all people but he won you over with his sense of humor and charming smile. That was how you ended up with the most devastating heartbreak with a breakup that lasted all of one second over a text.
That was how you ended up swearing off relationships forever.
That was how you ended up in Clark Kent’s bed the summer you graduated college. One time turned to two turned to fucking on the kitchen counter while the others were asleep upstairs on your group’s annual trip. This “summer fling” became a recurring, annual rendezvous. As long as the two of you were single, you somehow always ended up in each other’s beds — or any other viable surfaces.
However, what was made very clear from the very beginning was that you were not looking for a serious relationship whatsoever. The last thing you needed was to get your heart broken again when you promised to focus on your career.
So this arrangement works.
You’re brought out of your reverie when a knock sounds on your door. Clark pops his head in, curls damp and glasses sliding down his nose again. He’s a little pink when he catches you midway through changing into a comfy t-shirt. A smirk curls on your lips. Even after seeing you naked all this time and talking like a fucking porn star during sex, Clark still blushes whenever he unintentionally catches you in a… compromising position.
“Um, ma wanted me to tell you to come down whenever you’re ready. We usually eat dinner as a family. If that’s okay with you.”
You finish shoving your arms through your shirt before bending down to reach for a pair of shorts. You hear the hitch of his breath behind you. Smirking, you slowly roll yourself back up. “Like what you see, Kent?”
“Don’t tempt me,” he grumbles under his breath. Your eyes fall to his sweats where he’s currently adjusting his not-so-little problem. “I can be quick. And quiet. If you want to.”
A laugh rises from your chest. “Keep it in your pants. I don’t want to be late for my first dinner with your parents.”
With a slightly disappointed sigh, he nods and guides you downstairs.
Dinner is as you expected — delicious food with a side of chaos. While Clark’s dad keeps mostly to himself, nodding along to whatever his wife is saying or whispering with Clark, his mother peppers you with endless questions about your life, your job, and your relationship with her children. “I’m so sorry we’re only meeting now! I hear so much about you from both of them. It’s such a shame.”
“I hope Kara only has good things to say,” you tease.
“Oh, Kara adores you but Clark also won’t stop talking about you.”
That catches you by surprise and you shift your attention to Clark with a curious look. “Is that so?”
There’s that pink again. Endearingly embarrassed. “Oh, yes,” his mom gushes, “tells me all the time what a sweetheart you are and how smart you are, how he enjoys watch—”
“Ma, how about some more mashed potatoes, hm?” Clark distracts her, offering a massive dollop of her potatoes. “How about you tell me what’s going on with the kitchen sink? Thought you wanted me to take a look.”
His mother is successfully distracted when she instead begins to fuss over everything wrong with the farmhouse. His father tries to reassure Clark that he’s got it under control and that he should just enjoy his vacation. Clark only nods along, partially listening. You know the look he has when part of his mind is far away from the conversation.
You can’t help but wonder what his mom was going to say.
After dinner, you insist that his parents get some rest while you and Clark do the dishes. It’s a back and forth for a bit, debating on whether guests should be doing chores, debating on whether you’re guests at all. Thankfully, you win when Clark manages to urge them out of the kitchen. Unfortunately, Clark is the actual winner when he also pushes you out of there for you to get cleaned up
You do a full scrubdown, washing away all the grease from the flight. The water is warm on your skin, much needed after a long day. You almost slide yourself into Kara’s mattress to sleep when you realize Clark missed one part of his tour.
So you tiptoe down the hall, careful not to wake the Kents with the creaking beneath your footsteps as you sneak into Clark’s room, closing the door behind you.
He has a towel wrapped around his waist, chiseled, bare chest on full display, as he frowns at his phone. He looks up, fumbling with the device when he sees you. His arms quickly go to cover his stomach and his legs, as if he’s at risk of exposing an ankle to a Victorian lady.
You roll your eyes. He clears his throat. “What’re you doing here?”
“You never showed me your room, I wanted to see if you had anything embarrassing in here. Like Superman plushies or something. Or your old porn collection. Maybe a Playboy or two.”
“I don’t… have any of those,” Clark says, pink to his ears.
“Sure, you’re telling me if I look in that drawer over there that I won’t find a couple of risque magazines?” You begin drifting in that direction and Clark is immediately in your path. You’re face-to-face with his pecs.
“Take my word for it.”
Sighing, you cave and instead wander around the rest of the room. It’s a quaint room. Small bed that you’re not even sure would fit him. Two small bookshelves with some reference volumes and novels you’ve heard him talk about before. Giant poster of the Mighty Crabjoys who Clark insists is very punk rock. Then there are a few trophies for a spelling bee, debate club, and a science fair — none for his athleticism, because you know for sure Clark would never use his gifted powers for selfish purposes. His desk has an ancient monitor that looks like a stack of brick and more books — comic books, more novels, and CDs (no doubt of the Mighty Crabjoys).
It’s simple and sweet. Kind of like him.
While you’re busy absorbing every inch of his bedroom, Clark has crept up behind you. His arms wind around your waist, lips pasting on your neck. You instinctively tilt your head, a moan bubbling up your throat. “Clark, your parents are down the hall,” you murmur.
“I can be quiet. I’ll make sure you are too,” he whispers as his hands begin to wander. One to cover your mouth and the other going between your legs. “I’ll make you feel good, honey.”
And that he does.
Your second day in Smallville starts off early. And warm. Incredibly, horribly warm. Your eyes flutter open to the wide expanse of creamy skin. Creamy skin on a very, very wide chest. Grunting, you try to push against him, to get his hefty arm off you, but he doesn’t even budge.
Clark grumbles quietly, tucking you deeper into his chest. “Sleep.”
“Clark,” you whisper-yell, “come on. I gotta get back to the room.”
“You’re already in a room,” he mumbles.
You peek up only to find him still with his eyes closed. “Your parents—”
As if on cue, your worst nightmare plays out in real time. You hear the creak first. You try not to panic, praying that it’s someone walking away from the door rather than towards it. But then you hear the knob twist. You feel Clark stiffen in real time, his entire body going taut like a board as his eyes slam open. The two of you don’t move fast enough; in fact, your legs are still tangled together when the door swings inwards.
“Clark, honey—” his mom’s words die out, undoubtedly when her eyes land on not one but two bodies in the very tiny bed that barely fits her son. Clark holds you in closer, tugging the blanket higher to cover your bare back. Your shirt is abandoned somewhere in the room — along with your underwear that hopefully isn’t visible to his poor mother’s eyes. Thankfully, you’re not facing the door, so you don’t have to subject yourself to whatever disappointed face she’s making. “What in the—”
“Ma! Why didn’t you knock first?” Clark coughs, sliding up only to bury you deeper under the blanket.
“Well, I wasn’t expecting you to have company at this hour, Clark.” There’s a sternness to her words that sends shivers snaking up your spine.
Not even a full twenty-four hours and you’ve managed to ruin your entire reputation with his mom. But if you could just explain this, then maybe—
“We’re engaged, Ma. Alright. We’re engaged!”
What the ever-loving fuck—
“Engaged?” Her tone has shifted significantly, delight clinging to every letter. “Oh my, oh goodness, what wonderful news! I want to say I didn’t see it coming but I did! My boy did talk about you all the time so it’s not much of a surprise.”
“I do not, Ma,” Clark retorts quickly.
She barely pays him any mind. “I have to tell your pa. This is exciting news! My first son! Engaged!” Then she’s scampering out of the room and Clark can only call out, “I’m your only son, Ma!”
The moment she’s out of earshot, your hands immediately fly.
“Ow! Ow! Stop that! Come on, stop it!” Clark flinches as you continue to barrage him with smacks from all angles. Not that it actually hurts. His hands immediately whip out to pin you down, his body hovering over yours. Your chest rises with every heaving breath while Clark just frowns at you, probably concerned that you’ve hurt yourself in your fruitless attempt to hurt him. “Are you done?”
Even in this situation, you can feel that familiar heat stirring between your legs. Clark’s handsome face above you, his one hand pinning you down, the other one on your hip, his stupid, big, beefy chest in front of your face. You hate it.
Unfortunately, this means Clark picks up on your heartbeat, the way your blood rushes beneath your skin at the sight of him.
His lips tip up. “Good?”
“Why in the hell would you tell your mom that we’re engaged?”
“I love my ma. Wonderful woman. Loves everyone dearly. Love is love, she believes in. She’s all about love.”
“So you tell her we’re engaged?"
Clark sighs, “Even with all that, she is very much still an old-fashioned woman from the Midwest. She would not approve of me… bedding a woman outside of wedlock. She would never forgive me if she knew what I’ve been doing.”
Or who he’s been doing — you.
“Oh my god, Clark.”
“I’m sorry!”
“Because you don’t want your mom to know that you stick our dick inside girls before marriage, you drag me into this and act like we’re getting married?”
Clark frowns, lips pinching together disapprovingly. “Girl. One girl. You. And yes, I panicked, I’m sorry. It’ll just be for this trip, alright. We’ll… explain it all away after.”
Another protest sits on the tip of your tongue, but the look on his face reduces you into a puddle. A puddle that molds according to whatever container Clark pours you into.
“Fine, okay, but what are we going to tell Kara? Or Lois and Jimmy when they arrive?”
He opens his mouth then promptly closes it. Thought so.
“We should think fast because I know for a fact Kara’s supposed to come in anytime now—”
Then you hear the screech, followed by the hurried footsteps, followed by the door once again banging open against the wall with the brute force of her strength. You’re surprised it’s still on its hinges.
And there she is.
“What the hell, dude? You’re engaged to him?”
Clark gives the two of you some space; that is, after he kicks Kara out long enough for the two of you to be decent.
This is the first time the two of you have ever woken up together.
In the years you’ve slept together, the countless nights you’ve spent in a pile of messy limbs, this is the first time.
The awkwardness that follows hangs heavy in the air.
“I’ll, um, I’ll give you time with Kara. I’m going to calm my parents down first, tell them not to overwhelm you. I’ll see you later?”
He says it like a question, like he isn’t sure if you would even see him again after this incident. And you know that it’s mainly his fault but you should’ve also been more careful. You knew what you were getting yourself into when you snuck in, you knew what you were looking for when you went to find him last night.
“Yes, Clark, I’ll see you later.”
Mild relief sinks into his features as he nods and exits the room.
It takes a bit of time to get Kara to stop hyperventilating or talking for even a second for you to get a word in. She’s still reeling at the fact that she saw her best friend and her brother in bed. Together. Naked. She may have also attempted to rinse her eyes with bleach.
After talking her off the ledge, you finally give her the basic answers.
“Yes, I’ve been fucking your brother.”
“No, we’re not dating.”
“No, Kara, how would we be actually engaged if we weren’t dating?”
Lois and Jimmy arrive shortly after and you thankfully get some reprieve from Clark when he goes to pick them up. Fortunately, Clark gives them the quick SparkNotes version of what transpired this morning. Unfortunately, you have to do the full run-down to once again emphasize that you are not actually engaged to Clark Kent.
Dinner is only an awkward affair for the people in the know. Clark’s parents remain blissfully ignorant, instead focusing on gushing about how thrilled they are that Clark has found somebody.
“You’re the first girl he’s ever brought home. It’s only right that you’re his fiancée! Now, I want to hear it from both of you — when did this all start? How did you know you were in love?”
Kara chokes on her chicken. Lois and Jimmy share wary looks. You shoot her a dirty look. Clark coughs, eyes sliding over to you for a nanosecond before returning to his mom. “Love at first sight when I saw her that first time.” Clark should be an actor, he sounds terribly convincing.
All you can say is “same.”
Clark kicks you under the table and you have to swallow your yelp. A dirty glare his way does nothing to deter him when he gives you a look that insists you give his mom an “actual” answer.
You wrack your brain. Beyond the good sex, Clark has mostly existed in your periphery. He’s Kara’s brother. Lois’ best friend. Jimmy’s partner in crime.
But he’s always been just Clark to you.
You just happened to be smart enough to put two and two together on him and Big Blue and, for some reason, that brought you closer.
But if you were to pick a point in which you could were to fall for Clark Kent, it would be that.
“I think it was around the same time. A first year was struggling through orientation week. First week jitters. Clark was an orientation leader at the time. He didn’t have to but he stuck with that kid almost that entire week. Saw him invite the kid to join for lunches with his friends, encourage him to make friends. It was sweet.”
Mrs. Kent looks absolutely awed. She whispers about how endearing that is.
However, all you can feel is the weight of Clark’s gaze on you. Steady, heavy. You risk a glance up.
His eyes are soft, a little misty if you squint. Lips with a slight up curve.
“I don’t know if I remember you back then.”
Heat kisses your cheeks. “That was before we were introduced.”
“You knew me?”
“Hard for you to not stand out as a six-foot non-football player.”
Clark chuckles.
“That’s so very romantic, dear. I’m so glad to hear,” his mom coos, “now all of you off to bed. It’s been quite a day, hasn’t it? So much good news! And you two should stay together — future newlyweds!”
You choke the same time Kara protests. “But she’s rooming with me!”
Needless to say, Kara doesn’t win this fight and, while Lois gives you a sympathetic look as she enters Kara’s room, you’re suddenly being shoved back into Clark’s room. The same room that got you into this mess to begin with.
“Clark, we need to get our stories straight if we want to be convincing.”
“Hmm, sure.”
“We need to talk about when we started dating and when you proposed — not to mention how you proposed! And the details matter, you know, so we should— are you even listening?”
Clark hums again, clearly not listening. “Sure, yeah. We should talk about it.”
He’s taking one step towards you then another and another until the back of your knees hit the bed. “Clark,” you warn, “talk.”
He ducks his head, brushing his lips against yours. His proximity is intoxicating. What were you saying again? Something about talking.
“Fell in love with me before you even knew me, huh? That’s cute,” he murmurs in a breath that you sharply inhale.
You bite back your embarrassment. “It’s just a story.”
“But you—” kiss “—noticed—” kiss “—me.”
“It was just, um, I was only, mmm, answering…” Your words trail off as Clark navigates his mouth south along your neck, laying you down on his bed, as he drops to his knees, hands parting your legs. “Clark, we need— ah.”
“Did so good today, honey,” Clark mutters, pressing wet kisses up your bare inner thigh. His teeth nip at your skin. “Now, let me take good care of you tonight.”
Your body is still sore and tingling when you wake up the next morning. When you stretch your hand over, you find the other side of the bed cool.
You pad out through the creaky front door to find three of your friends enjoying the crisp, unpolluted air of Smallville with cups of coffee, ones that Lois doesn’t have to douse with a whole can of sugar. Clark is still nowhere to be seen.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Kara yawns.
“Morning,” you mumble quietly. “Has anyone seen Clark?”
“He’s helping out at the barn,” Lois answers first, eyeing you with a strange twinkle in her eye. “Better yet, how about you tell us how long you and Clark plan on being engaged? Are we invited to the wedding?”
You give her a look. “If I ever get married, please know I’ve been kidnapped and cloned.”
“Is it really so bad?”
Cocking an eyebrow at her, you ask, “You of all people are saying that? Miss Independent?”
“Hey, I am voluntarily a solitary creature.”
“That’s because she bites the head off anyone who tries to approach her,” Jimmy chimes in, then turns back to you, “Clark’s not a bad pick. You know, if you were to get married.”
“No, he’s not,” you mutter — and it’s a truth that just slips out.
When you look up, Kara’s got her eyes narrowed at you but Lois — she’s got a curious yet strangely warm look in her gaze. It’s not an expression that you expect to see from her.
And Jimmy, well, he’s still half dizzy over the fact that you and Clark are fucking.
“I need to talk to him, we need to get our stories straight,” you clear your throat, glance wandering over to the barn some distance away.
“You guys still haven’t discussed that?”
“No, I tried talking to him last night but we got—” The ghost of Clark’s curls between your legs, soft strands tickling your inner thighs. The hot, wet drag of his tongue between your folds. His muffled moans, nose glistening.
“You taste like nectar from the gods.”
“I don’t wanna know!” Kara yelps, slapping her hands over her ears. “I see your face and I don’t wanna hear it. While I enjoy hearing about your sexual encounters, I don’t want to hear about my brother’s.”
You cough again, ignoring the warmth that’s flooded your cheeks. “Right, anyway, I’ll go look for him.”
While you’ve never experienced country living, you imagine this is close to what it’s like. The unappetizing aroma of manure, the constant croaking of nature, and the sight of Clark Kent in overalls.
Nothing but overalls.
Shining golden skin. Not a single drop of sweat. Curls mussed up only from the heat, but his breathing is stable even as he lifts bags of soil on his shoulder. Hundreds of pounds. Biceps flexing, veins taut.
Fuck.
“You’re awake,” he brightens when he sees you, dropping the bags off to the side. “How’d you sleep?”
Your brain short-circuits when he dusts his hands off. Now that there are no bags in the way, you can see everything. Broad, round shoulders. The curves of his arms. Lines running down the length of his forearm, you can practically taste the texture on your tongue. When his overalls shift just right, you get a glimpse of his dusky nipple that you’re desperately needing to wrap your lips around.
All you can picture is how good it would be to put your hands on his shoulders, bolstering you up while he presses up against you.
“You’re thinking what I’m thinking.”
Clark’s in front of you. His fingers curving around the back of your neck, thumb on your jaw to tilt your face up. His usually bright blue eyes are dark, pupils swallowing his irises.
“We should—” your breath hitches as his thumb goes down, pressing down on your pulse point on your neck. It jumps. You know he feels it.
“I can hear your heart racing,” Clark murmurs. “I like hearing it. I like knowing what you like — and you like my hand on you.”
“Clark, please,” you rasp.
“What do you need?”
“You.”
“How do you want me?”
You swallow, the image so vivid in your mind, like it’s a memory. “Holding me up.” You barely get the words out when Clark wrangles your legs around him, holding you up firmly with one arm as his other hand touches your cheek.
“What now?”
“I want you. Inside.”
“I can do that,” he smiles, leaning down to suckle lightly on your neck. “Anything else?”
“Must I tell you everything?” You grunt.
“I know what you want. I just like hearing you ask for it.”
With your lips pursed in defiance, you cross your arms over your chest. “If you ask me one more time—”
A yelp is wrenched from your throat when he finally (finally) brushes his thumb over your sensitive nipple peaking through the thin cotton of your shirt.
He gropes you gently, somehow manhandling you in a way that makes you feel desirable rather than disgusting. His blue eyes are shadowed, drinking in the way you shiver with every tug, every pinch.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs to the wind.
Clark tugs the shirt over your head, leaving you completely topless. Your arms immediately wind around your body in embarrassment, but he moves faster to extract them and deliver you a chiding look.
You’re sheepish when you tell him, “Someone might see us.”
“Mhmm, let them. I’m taking care of my fiancée.” His lips tug into an amused smirk when you roll your eyes. “Don’t be a brat.”
“Please, you like brats.”
“You know me so well.”
He dives forward and takes your tits into your mouth, showering them with cautious but delicious attention. His tongue is hot on your skin. You throw your head back as he drags his lips across your neck.
With swift hands, your shorts join your shirt in the pile of hay and Clark has unbuttoned his overalls to fall at his hips. His mouth stays on you the entire time — sweet and spicy at the same time.
Greedy hands lift you slightly higher, only to position you right above his straining cock. The vein in his neck jumps as he grits his teeth.
Clark eases you onto his cock, moving you up and down along his length like a toy, like you’re his personal fleshlight. Your pussy stretches around him, soaking his cock until you’re a whining mess.
“‘M gonna need you to keep it down,” he grunts quietly, neck flushed red as he bites down his own moan.
On cue, and as if to prove a point, a moan crawls up your throat. Clark’s hand flies up to slap over your face. Large palm over your mouth, your eyes wide at him. A whimper slides up your throat at the stern, scolding expression on his face.
“Honey, what did I just say?”
Your pussy clenches around him. His words are almost demeaning, but the gentleness with which they are delivered has you shivering and melting into his touch. “S-sorry,” you stutter pathetically, “I‘m sorry.”
“I know,” he whispers, “I know, but I need you to be quiet, okay. I don’t need my parents coming out and seeing us like this. They might make us marry on the spot.”
Heat spreads throughout every nerve in your body at his comment. It’s a joke, you know it is, but the idea of Clark claiming you as his with his cock buried inside you, painting you in bridal white inside out, has you tightening around him.
“Is that what you want?” Clark murmurs softly, his blue eyes twinkle with the kind of mischief that has your fingers tingling.
“No,” you scoff a little too quickly.
“Could put you in a dress. Marry you in this barn right now. Afterwards, I’ll take you outside against the walls while my family’s in here celebrating us. We’ll consummate our marriage.”
The image is painted so vividly in the back of your mind. You in a simple dress, hiked up, Clark fucking you into oblivion against the walls outside. Good god.
“I can feel her tightening around me, honey,” Clark chuckles. “She likes the idea.”
“Stop being silly,” you clear your throat, “you gonna fuck me properly or what?”
He mutters something about your mouth before fucking you in earnest once more. His thrusts are sloppy but no less powerful, his desire leaks through his stuttered hips, the uneven staccato of his breaths.
Pleasure builds and twists, coiling tight inside your stomach as Clark’s grip remains firm on you. Moans continue to pour from your lips like prayers to the god before you. He slides his hand up your throat again, squeezing gently, before bypassing it and covering your mouth once more.
“Gonna need you to keep quiet, okay. I love hearing your pretty moans but I can’t share that with anyone else. Can’t have my parents coming out here and seeing you like this. I can’t have them thinking you’re a filthy little minx, spreading your legs for me anytime, anywhere.”
Your eyes roll to the back of your head as another groan chases your tongue. His name is muffled behind his hand and you gasp for breath when Clark gives you some room to inhale.
“She feels so good around me. So tight. She’s been waiting for me all morning. Greedy thing, isn’t she? Fed her so much last night and she still wants more.”
“C-Clark, please. Shit. Oh fuck.”
“So good to me. I have so much to give her, she knows that, doesn’t she? That’s why you came looking for me. Wanted one more time even after last night. Maybe I’ll taste myself on you later.”
Jesus Christ. This man has a way of making you picture the most deliciously repulsive images in your mind. Him cumming inside you, his face between your legs, licking you clean until there’s no trace of him left. Maybe even coming back up and kissing you. The taste of him tangled in your tongues.
Clark’s hands tighten. His grunts shorten. His pleas desperate.
Before long, you’re coming apart in his hands, Clark tightens his hold around your jaw to muffle the sound of your cries as he spills inside you. He buries his own moans into your neck as he presses you deeper against the wooden beam. With how hard he fucked you, you’re surprised this barn is still standing. You had felt the pillar rattling behind you.
He huffs a breath before leaning backwards. His hand reaches up to brush away the sweat-dampened strands of your hair from your face. “Are you okay? Did I go too hard?”
Even after years of this arrangement, Clark is always so careful. You know he holds back his strength when he’s screwing your brains out. He could go a lot harder and sometimes you wonder what it would feel like for his patience to snap, for him to fuck you with no abandon.
You don’t think you’ll survive that.
But you also think you would deliriously enjoy that.
“What’re you thinking about?” Clark murmurs, “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” you swiftly say, “just— nothing.” Warmth floods your cheeks again. You’ve only just finished getting your brains turned to mush and here you are thinking about how much harder he could go.
“You’re thinking about something.”
“I’m thinking how we should really get our stories straight.”
Clark regards you thoughtfully, a contemplative expression carved into the creases on his forehead. Then he presses into you more, cock pushing back in. You can hear the squish of his cum inside you, an indecent little sound in the quiet of the morning.
“Okay, do you wanna talk now?”
“Clark,” you deadpan.
“What?”
Your cheeks are hot again. “Obviously not like this.”
“Alright, later then.”
Clark doesn’t look the least bit remorseful, lips stretched into a wide grin. He’s much too gleeful for a man who’s foiled your plans to be responsible again — with his dick.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Instead of spending the day puttering around the farm and watching Clark do manual labor in nothing but overalls (which isn’t necessarily the worst way to kill time), the Kents propose going to the fair that’s in town.
Clark insists that his parents could use his help while he’s around.
They insist that he should spend time with his fiancée.
The five of you pile into Clark’s truck; to avoid suspicion, you ride up front with him, throwing his parents a tight smile as you wave at them as the car treks down the dirt path. The three of them are bickering about something related to agriculture in the backseat while you — you find yourself once again distracted by Clark who looks far too good driving.
Sometimes, you think you need to get your brain rewired for being too easily stimulated by the sight of him. It’s like your brain is wired to tune into him, to every little detail from the way his eyes crinkle, how his lips pucker when he whistles, or that one vein along his arm that jumps every time he turns the wheel.
Your plan backfires when you stare at him a little too long, trying to think of how you could get the two of you to talk to get your stories aligned, and Clark ends up noticing how your eyes never stray too far from him. The corners of his lips tip up, pleased, then his free hand slides over your thigh once more.
It doesn’t do anything. It just stays there. A grounding presence.
The back of your neck warms and you blame it on the mid-morning sun.
The fair is nothing too crazy, you didn’t expect anything grand from a small town near Smallville. It’s more like a community event, with faces familiar to the Kents dotting the crowd. A small market lines the entry area, selling all sorts of trinkets and knick-knacks. Clark bumps your shoulder with his arm as you walk down the path.
“Don’t you like those things? You wanna take a look?”
You cock an eyebrow. “I do like them, how do you know that?”
“I see them all over your apartment,” he shrugs, “especially the flowery-looking ones.” You’ve started collecting miniature toys and figurines with flowers on them. Since you can’t seem to keep plants alive, your little addiction to buying the most useless pieces of paperweight is fulfilled by the replacement of real live decor.
“Oh. Yes, well, I have too many now so I don’t think I should even look at them. Otherwise, I’ll be tempted to buy.”
Beyond that, the fair opens up to game booths — your classic ring toss, darts, and shooting a water ducky — and attractions like pony riding, a petting zoo, and so on and so forth. It’s cute. It’s quaint. Nothing like what you see in the big cities. In fact, big cities have no carnivals like these. So maybe you’re a teensy bit excited.
“Wanna play?” Clark smiles at the obvious enthusiasm on your face.
Before you can answer, a shrill voice calls out to Clark. Well, it’s not really shrill, it actually sounds rather sweet — like the tinkling of bells — but you see the source of that sound and you feel an irritating itch in your chest.
“Willow! I haven’t seen you in a while.”
Oh, so he knows her. That ugly part inside of you wonders if he also has the same arrangement with her. But no, she seems nice. Like the girl next door. The kind of girl you marry — and not with a fake engagement.
They chat for a little bit and you’re on the sidelines watching them. Kara nudges you by your side. “We’re going to try the dunk tank. Jimmy has agreed to be dunked as long as we can aim. Wanna come?”
Your gaze flicks over to Clark for a second but find that he’s still eagerly chatting with this girl, so you put on your biggest smile and turn back to your best friend.
“Let’s do it.”
The four of you busy yourselves with the various games. Lois manages to dunk Jimmy four times. Jimmy then proceeds to win a free t-shirt to change into from the ring toss. Kara absolutely destroys Lois at basketball and you absolutely annihilate all of them at darts (pub nights are coming in handy after all).
You’re having a great time — a wonderful time — until you realize that Clark still hasn’t caught up. Every time you look over in search of him, he’s there helping a new person. First, it’s the old lady with her bags of groceries. Then it’s the little boy with his cat in the tree. Next, it’s the farmer who needs to unload his van of dozens of boxes.
And then it’s that girl — Willow, was it? — who is apparently a florist and is setting up the most beautiful little booth in the market.
It’s thoughtful, it’s kind. That’s who Clark is. But then you see him laughing and smiling and just being Clark and all you can feel is pissed. He’s here for you — all of you — so why is he busying himself with others? It’s incredibly selfish and guilt gnaws at your chest.
So you bite down that terrible feeling and instead focus on the others. You’re fine with this. It’s not as if you have anything with Clark, really. You’re friends who happen to fuck every summer. That’s all.
Maybe Clark is simply looking for something more long-term.
Your eyes wander to Lois. You’ve always thought that they would be a thing. Two incredibly smart people who work together, who have great chemistry. You know that Clark respects and adores her deeply, as evidenced by how much he talks about her. It seemed to be a matter of time.
Your anger doesn’t ease. Instead, you channel that rage into this shooting game. Clark has only just shown up, standing next to Kara with his gaze on you, a dopey smile in place.
You hit the target dead center again and again and again.
“That’s the first time today! You’ve got quite the skills, miss.” The guy at the booth says, both impressed and terrified. “You can pick any prize you want from the top.”
Clark whistles with his fingers and grins. “Good job, that was incredible.”
You hate yourself for immediately blooming with excitement at the compliment, especially when he’s left this group to tend to other people. How pathetic can you be?
The next words out of your mouth are not your best moment.
“Well, seeing as my fiancé is too busy to get me anything.”
You can see the moment your jab lands and the smile wipes off his face, replaced by a look of sheer surprise. You turn on your heel and make your way to the next game, teddy bear tucked safely in your arms.
It’s not that you’re immature. You’re not. You’re an adult. But it doesn’t mean that you can’t be a teensy bit petty.
Every time Clark tries to come close to you, you’re linking arms with Kara and traipsing off. When he calls your name, you pretend not to hear by cheering for Lois as she slams a hammer down on a strength-based game.
It’s an exhausting endeavor and you’re this close to giving up. Plus, the heat isn’t exactly letting up and you’re starting to feel a little woozy.
So when Clark approaches you again, you almost cave and lean on his broad frame for support.
“Hungry?” He asks carefully as his long legs finally catch up to you alone.
Your stubbornness nearly denies him once more but your stomach wins out when it growls. Loud.
Clark doesn’t tease you; he simply takes your hand and whisks you away to the little makeshift food court. He sits you down and begins going from stall to stall, collecting one dish after another until you’ve got a spread in front of you.
It’s all your favorite things — or similar ones that he thinks you’ll enjoy; he would be right.
You’re too busy stuffing your face to notice Clark wringing his fingers in front of you, fidgeting as he tries to get your attention.
“What?” You finally ask when you peer up after his nth time repositioning himself, shrinking so he would be in your line of sight.
“Can you tell me why you’re sulking?”
“I’m not sulking.”
He gives you a look.
“I’m not! I don’t care who you spend your time with.”
“Who?” Clark perks up, irises bright with curiosity.
Shit. You and your big mouth. Now you’ve gone ahead and given away too much, so you clamp your lips shut and shake your head. You shut down his every attempt to pry by focusing on eating instead.
He only seems to relent when he thinks he’s pushed hard enough, but, knowing Clark, he isn’t going to let the matter slide so easily.
You continue your day unscathed for the most part. You cling close to Kara who doesn’t seem to mind that you’re sticking to her instead of her brother. Of course, she shoots you questioning looks but the shake of your head prevents her from pushing.
You’re in the middle of cheering for Lois and Kara when a cloud of pink appears before you. You blink at it before you trace back the source of the dessert. Unsurprisingly, Clark stands at the other end of the cotton candy.
“You like this, don’t you?”
You mentioned once that you’ve always liked cotton candies. It’s all sugar, but that childish part in you relishes the way the fluffy treat melts on your tongue.
“I do, thank you,” you confirm, ripping apart a piece before popping it in your mouth. The strands dissolve into syrup on your tongue.
Clark looks at you expectantly, a tinge of anxiety in the slight fold of his brows. “Good?”
“Good,” you smile at him.
Perhaps you’ve been too hard on him today. He’s being a good neighbor and you’re giving him shit for talking to someone else.
The two of you aren’t exclusive. That’s the whole point of this arrangement. If he happened to find someone that he wants to actually date seriously, then you’d let him go.
Somehow, the thought makes your stomach churn.
“I got you something else.”
You look up at him and he digs around in his shirt pocket and pulls out a thin silver band. A crystal sits in the middle of it, sparkling no less brightly than a diamond. It’s simple, it’s sweet. It’s characteristically you.
“It’s nothing extravagant but you wear silver jewelry, right? I think this should fit.” Then Clark is taking your left hand and sliding the promise over your ring finger. The band sits perfectly snug. The crystal catches light and twinkles like it’s winking at you.
For all your pouting, Clark seems to know the perfect remedy.
“Just, you know, until the trip is over,” he adds nervously. “If that’s okay with you.”
You bring your hand up, watching as the ring glimmers underneath the afternoon sun. Your lips tip up in a small smile.
“Yeah, that’s okay with me.”
“And, if it’s any reassurance,” Clark adds, quieter, low enough that the others can’t hear — eyes trained solely on you, sharp and honest, “I only have eyes for you.”
Your heart beats against your ribs. Heat frames your face at the same time he smiles softly at you.
You don’t respond, but that’s answer enough.
The chill beneath your fingertips rouses you from sleep. When your eyes flutter open, Clark’s big, warm body is nowhere to be found. You remember falling asleep cuddled up to a living, breathing heater and now you’re shivering as you tug on an extra sweater. Your footsteps are quiet as you pad out into the hallway in search of him, navigating through the darkness until your eyes land on him, bathed in the moonlight on the bench outside.
Clark turns before the door even swings open. He must’ve heard you.
“You’re up early — or late,” he notes.
“So are you, what’re you doing awake?”
“Couldn’t really sleep, you?”
“Must’ve been all the cotton candy,” you say as you slide into the seat next to him.
The midnight air in Smallville is brisk, you’re beginning to regret not throwing on an extra layer. Clark senses your shivers and immediately scooches closer towards you, draping his flannel over your shoulders and tucking you in close. The draw of his warmth is too tempting to resist and you end up nuzzling into his shoulder.
“Could’ve stayed inside,” you flag quietly.
“The fresh air helps me think. Plus, it’s nice to take advantage of this away from Metropolis. Breathing in fumes doesn’t seem conducive to my health.”
“Good thing your only weakness is extinct,” you tease, bumping shoulders gently.
Clark smiles at you, soft and knowing. “It’s not my only weakness.”
You raise an eyebrow but he doesn’t elaborate, so you don’t press. Instead, you ask him what’s plaguing his mind.
“My parents,” he begins, “I worry about them. They’re getting older, things with the farm aren’t easy and we’re not in a position to hire any extra hands.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m thinking if I should move back.”
Your heart plummets, all amusement evaporating. You don’t know why you’re so disappointed by the thought. Although you don’t live in Metropolis, although you don’t see Clark very often, you’re only a city away, and even then, he still feels light-years away. “Move back?”
“Here to Smallville. I’m not sure yet.”
Your throat is tight when you attempt a joke, “What? And leave your fiancée behind?”
Clark’s lips curl. “Never. I’ll take you with me.”
Oh. Your chest warms. “What makes you think I’d go with you?”
“I’d just have to convince you,” he whispers, tilting his head to press his forehead against yours. His next words are soft, but they have your heart pressing against your ribcage. “And I can be very persuasive.”
A giggle falls from your lips. Clark shrinks himself, bending himself at a slightly odd angle to accommodate your height as you lean your head on his shoulder. The quiet moon is company you don’t want to humor tonight and Clark seems to agree when he rises to his feet and offers his hand.
The two of you drift back into his bedroom. Light still spills across his hardwood floors that whine below his heavy footfalls. But Clark shields you from the stark brightness, engulfing you in a comfortable night against his chest.
When you tip your face up, he’s already looking down at you. For a moment, he only searches your eyes. Looking for something you’re not sure you can provide.
However, he seems to find whatever it is he wanted when he leans down and slides his mouth over yours.
The kiss is soft. Slow. None of the usual heat and messiness that leads to hours of tangled legs and sweaty limbs. This one is patient, it’s kind. Clark tastes like tea and sugar, the kind of concoction that lulls you slowly back to sleep.
Before your consciousness slips away again, Clark murmurs a promise of sweet dreams.
You think you may already have that.
This farmlife experience is much more taxing than you expect. Hours of Harvest Moon on your old game consoles do nothing to prepare you for the ache between your fingers and the soreness of your shoulders. However, you suck it up and keep going because there’s no greater sight than Clark who delights in showing you the ropes.
You’ve fought off chickens all morning to feed them and take their eggs for breakfast. You’ve milked cows, delicate fingers wrapped around the hefty udders until you fill a whole pail. You’re grooming the horses and trying not to get your hair chewed out.
Again, it’s all worth it when you see Clark beam at you like the morning sun.
His eyes also keep wandering to your finger where he has already pointed out — “You’re wearing the ring.”
You blame the fever on your neck on the sun that’s barely risen. “I thought it would be best to wear it so your parents don’t get suspicious.”
The two of you do end up talking, agreeing on points in time that align for your supposed romantic development. It isn’t a hard task, not when you actually do remember those moments when you felt your strongest attraction towards Clark. The first time you slept together was redesigned as your first date. The arrangement of your… arrangement was reconfigured into a conversation about official labels.
Clark is close to your side, arms brushing as the two of you make your way back to the house. The basket of eggs hangs from Clark’s hand as his other one shifts to the small of your back — it hovers, present, but doesn’t touch.
He’s telling you a story from his days of youth and you’re throwing your head back in laughter. The emotions come easy here — honest in the early hours of dawn when it’s only you and him.
When you arrive at the house, you two spot Lois already nursing a steaming coffee mug in her hands. Her eyes dart between the two of you carefully, curious — almost calculating. Her lips quirk upwards at the sight and you’re almost shy by her response.
Unfortunately, Clark’s reaction has you stiffening. He clears his throat and takes a step out to the side. Away from you. Distance. You try not to let your hurt show but it feels as if there’s a giant stone sitting in the pit of your stomach that’s weighing you down, slowing your steps.
“What’s going on?” Clark asks, brows puckered.
It’s your turn to regard the two of them. Clark has always been comfortable with Lois. Kara’s teased him before for having a crush on her; perhaps that feeling still lingers. Worse yet, perhaps those feelings have only strengthened.
Once again, you reckon with the fact that Clark Kent is not yours. You have no right to be jealous, to feel possessive over a man who doesn’t belong to you. You were the one who put your foot down and swore off any actual romantic relationships, and Clark was never an exception.
If Clark wanted Lois — and if, by some luck, Lois wanted Clark back, who were you to stand in the way of true love?
So you force a smile and shake your head. “Nothing. I’m going to get cleaned up. I’ll see you later.”
“Wait—”
But you’re already turning on your heel and heading back inside the house.
+ sam: tumblr hit me with the block limit for the full fic so i figured this is a good separation point while i edit the second half!! happy ending i promise <33
I ADORE THIS!! The sex, the feels, the pining and the uncertainty with their red hot chemistry, Clark being absolutely gone for her from the off and her being way more gone for him than she realises (even if Lois has clearly figured it out). This is all absolutely chef's kiss perfection! I didn't have time to read it all at once, so I read it in three parts and I was looking forward to being able to come back to it each time. SO GOOD!!
to all of my followers and moots in the UK and Brazil, tumblr has just quietly updated this so you cannot view mature content (or change it in your settings). I just found this out because I went to check a post from a mutual and I thought my settings had reset.
Yup. So deeply disappointing that they went from announcing to doing it almost instantly. If you missed the announcement, you could be unaware it's even a thing.
Summary: Time heals all wounds. Bucky’d been holding onto that proverb ever since blip. But time had never been particularly kind to him, so he opted to keep track of the sweet girl’s in his apartment building instead, the one that made him banana bread and took him to diners at two in the morning. Sometimes, you didn’t keep the same schedule. That made Bucky panic.
Word count: 3.8k
Warnings: Angst, Bucky has some self doubt </3
a/n: I haven’t written mcu Bucky in quite a while so here we are with tfatws!bucky! Let me know what you think!! Feedback is always so appreciated and makes me want to write more :)
You can follow my library blog @pellucid-library for fic update notifications 🤍
Masterlist
~~
It was five o’clock.
In twenty minutes, Bucky would be able to hear you banging up the chipped pavement of the stairwell even though there was a perfectly good elevator in the lobby. In twenty minutes, you would huff into your living room as he’d seen you done countless times, hang up your bag, and then give his door a delicate knock as if he hadn’t heard you the second you made it to the third floor. In twenty minutes, the uncomfortable twinge in Bucky’s chest would finally uncoil.
This is so sweet! And I love how Bucky's anxiety shows in the way he's always counting things, and the way that's woven in so well throughout. Beautiful 😍
Harlan Thrombey is throwing a party to celebrate the publishing of his 100th book and he's gone all out for it. Family, friends, and local people of influence are in attendance. No expense is spared for the food and entertainment.
Andy Barber, District Attorney, is in attendance. It would be rude to not attend one of the bigger donors to his campaign for the job. Andy honestly didn't think he could get the job with a divorce on his record, but Harlan's money was a big help in hiring people who could spin the divorce as a good thing. True, he's even more of a workaholic than he was, he's been considering finding a partner to help ease the loneliness. Someone who could give him reason to leave the office.
Ransom Drysdale will swear he's only attending for the food. Harlan's caterers are always top notch. The truth is, it was either attend or sit at home alone, waiting for Linda to tear into him for missing another family event. From time to time Ransom makes sure he's seen but, for the most part, he stays in the shadows, the kitchen, the bathroom. Anywhere he can get away.
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Pairing: Frontiersman!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Tags: Western AU. Shotgun Wedding. Strangers to Lovers. Slight Angst. Comfort. Domestic Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.
Warnings: Reader has Heterochromia. Loss of Virginity. Period-Typical Gender Roles and Expectations.
Summary: She came to White Creek for a teaching position that didn't exist. He needed a wife but never expected to find one like this.
Word Count: 6.8k
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
By the time he brought in the last of it -a sack of flour that he set carefully beside the others near what passed for a pantry- the cabin had started to smell like something he couldn't quite place. Not just food. Something richer than that.
She was at the stove now, sleeves still rolled to her elbows, hair pinned but losing the battle against the heat and effort. She didn't look up when he came in, too focused on whatever stuffing she was doing in the skillet.
He stood there for a second, watching her work, then cleared his throat.
"I'm gonna get started on a few things," he said. "While you're at it."
She glanced over her shoulder. "What things?"
“The curtain rods. Wanna get 'em up while I've got the time." He gestured toward the windows, three of them, spaced along the walls to let in good light during the day. "Tomorrow I'm back to work, and I ain't sure when I'll have the energy to do it after a full day in the timber. Figured I should take care of it now.”
She turned more fully then, wiping her hands on the apron. "You don't have to do it today. It can wait."
"I know," he said. "But I wanna. And it ain't like you gotta start sewin' today, either. Just gettin' things ready for when you do.”
There was a beat of silence. She looked like she wanted to say something, but instead she just nodded.
"Alright then," she said quietly.
He moved toward the first window, pulling the chair over to stand on. The rods he'd bought were simple -just lengths of wood, nothing fancy- but they'd do the job. He'd already measured it out in his head while they were at the store, and knew where the brackets needed to go.
She went back to her cooking, and he started working, marking the spots with a pencil stub he'd pulled from his pocket, then drilling pilot holes with the hand drill. The bit squeaked slightly as it bit into the wood, a familiar sound that filled the quiet cabin.
----
By the time he'd finished the last bracket and climbed down from the chair, the table was set.
She'd laid out plates and set the meat pie in the center. Steam rose from the crust, golden-brown and perfectly crimped at the edges, and the smell of it filled the cabin so completely he could taste it before he'd even sat down.
"Smells good," he said, moving toward the table.
She didn't answer, just picked up the knife and started cutting into the pie, serving him first. A generous portion, the crust flaking slightly as she lifted it onto his plate. Then a piece for herself.
She sat down across from him, and he didn't wait. Just picked up his fork and cut into it.
The first bite hit his tongue, and he couldn't stop the word that came out.
"Fuck."
He looked up, fork still in hand, and found her watching him with something close to amusement in her eyes.
"Sorry," he said quickly, but he didn't put the fork down. "I just- I could eat this whole thing myself."
She smiled then and dropped her gaze to her own plate. "I'm glad. But it's not… something fancy."
"Well, it's a damn good simple thing," he said.
She didn't answer, but the small smile stayed there as she cut into her own portion.
They ate in silence for a moment, and Bucky found himself watching her. The way she held her fork, the way she ate. Proper. Controlled. Like she'd been taught young that there was a right way to do everything, even when there was no one around to see.
He thought about what she'd said before, about her brother. About how she'd been living under his roof, until he'd decided it was time for her to go. And he wondered if the son of a gun had ever told her that something was good. If anyone had.
He set his fork down.
"You should get used to this," he said.
She looked up, confused. "To what?"
"Me tellin' you when somethin's good." He gestured at the pie. "Because I'm gonna be comin' back every day hungry as a damn bear, and the idea that I get to come home to somethin' like this?" He paused. "I ain't gonna lie. I'm lookin' forward to it."
She stared at him for a second, something shifting in her expression. Not quite surprised, but close. Like she wasn't used to someone saying that kind of thing out loud.
Then she looked back down at her plate, but her smile had widened just slightly.
"Alright then," she said quietly.
----
He leaned back in his chair, full in a way he hadn't been in months, maybe longer, and watched her move around the table.
She had her back to him now, at the counter, scraping the remnants into a bowl for scraps. Her sleeves were still rolled up from cooking, and he could see her forearm; a few strands of hair had come loose from her pins, pressed slightly at the nape of her neck from the heat of the stove.
He let himself look.
Wondered, briefly, what that skin would feel like under his mouth. If she'd make a sound if he pressed his lips there, just at the curve where her neck met her shoulder.
He shifted in his chair and dragged his gaze away before the thought could go anywhere more dangerous.
That's when he noticed her surroundings.
The counter was covered. Flour sack propped against the wall, tin of lard beside it, canisters lined up haphazardly along the back. Salt, butter crock, jars of things he couldn't identify from here. And on the floor, a burlap sack of potatoes, another of onions, a splintered wooden crate holding root vegetables, and a few tins that hadn't fit anywhere else.
His so-called pantry wasn't any better. Just a rough set of shelves he'd knocked together when he'd first moved in, barely big enough for his old bachelor supplies. Now it was crammed full, jars and sacks jostling for space, some of them balanced precariously on the edge like they might tumble out at any moment.
He frowned.
It wasn't right.
He couldn't give her what his ma had back in Brooklyn or what she probably had at her brother's house -no carved molding or glass-front doors to show off nice dishes, nothing decorative or refined- but they could certainly do way better than a damn splintered box and overflowing shelves.
She deserved better than that.
She turned then, catching him looking, and paused.
"What?" she asked.
He gestured vaguely toward the counter, the shelves. "This. It's not enough."
She followed his gaze, then looked back at him. "I'll… manage," she said, trying to be reassuring.
"I know you will," he countered. "But you shouldn't have to."
“Maybe if you got another crate-”
Christ. That ain't-" He stood, moving closer. "You've got things on the floor. In a crate that's half fallin' apart. There ain't room for half of what we bought today, and another crate ain't gonna make the difference."
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
She wanted to argue; she could feel the words fighting to come out, but the truth was that he was right. The space was barely functional. She just hated saying it out loud.
“I can talk to Larson," he said, already workin' through it in his head. "He does carpentry on the side. Maybe he's got somethin' already made he can sell, or if not, he can build it. Some shelves. A cupboard."
She was quiet for a moment, her hands still holding the dish towel she'd picked up. Then, quietly: "You said money wasn't a problem, but-"
"And it ain't. Not for this, at least." He ran a hand through his hair. "I ain't rich, not even close, but I can sure as hell afford some decent furniture that I didn't bother buyin' before because I didn't need it."
She looked down at the towel in her hands, twisting it slightly. "I just don't want to be... expensive."
The word hung there between them.
He crossed the space between them in two steps, close enough now that she had to tilt her head up to look at him.
"You ain't expensive," he said, voice firm but not harsh. "You're my wife. And I ain't gonna have you workin' in a kitchen that's held together with splinters and rusted nails."
She held his gaze for a second, something flickering in her expression. Then she nodded, just once.
"Alright," she said quietly.
He stepped back, giving her space again, and cleared his throat.
"Good," he said. "I'll talk to him next time I'm in town."
----
After the dishes were dry and put away, he looked at her.
"There's some things I should show you," he said. "Before I go back to work tomorrow."
She looked up from where she was folding the dish towel. "What kind of things?"
“Practical things. So you ain't left wonderin' if somethin' goes wrong." He gestured toward the door. "Won't take long."
She followed him outside.
The afternoon light was starting to slant through the trees. He led her toward the small stable first, where the horse was standing with one hip cocked, half-asleep in the warmth.
"Feed's in here," Bucky said, gesturing to a barrel in the corner. "Grain. He gets a scoop mornin’ and night, more if he's been workin’ hard pullin’ the wagon. Hay's over there, just toss him a few armfuls if the weather's bad, and he can't graze outside."
She nodded, looking at the horse. It looked back at her, ears flicking forward.
"Does he have a name?" she asked.
Bucky paused, looking almost embarrassed. "Brown."
She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling.
“Original.”
"Anyway," he continued, clearing his throat, "if you need to leave him out for a bit -couple hours, maybe- you can tie him to that post over there with a long lead. He won't wander far, but don't leave him all day. He gets ornery."
"Noted."
They walked back toward the cabin, and he stopped near the well pump.
"I know you've already been usin' it, but this thing jams sometimes," he said, workin' the handle up and down a few times. "If it does, there's a trick to it. You pump it fast -like this- five, six times, hard as you can. Gets the air out. Then it'll prime again."
She watched him demonstrate, the muscles in his forearms flexing with the effort.
"Try it," he said, stepping back.
She moved forward and gripped the handle. Pumped it the way he'd shown her. She thought her arms would fall off, but she did it.
"There you go," he said, sounding pleased. Then he cleared his throat. "There's one more thing."
She looked at him.
"The rifle," he said. "I told you I'd teach you. Figure now's as good a time as any."
She nodded. She'd been expecting this. Knew it was necessary, even if the thought of holding a weapon made her stomach clench.
They went back inside, and he reached up above the doorframe where the rifle rested on two iron hooks.
"You ever handled one of these?" he asked, bringing it down carefully, already knowing the answer.
"No."
"Alright." He checked it, practiced, automatic movements that spoke of familiarity. "First rule: you always assume it's loaded. Always. Even when you know it's not."
She nodded.
"Come here," he said, gesturing her closer.
She stepped toward him, and he turned her gently by the shoulders until she was facing away from the door, toward the back wall of the cabin.
"Never point it at anythin' you ain't willin' to shoot," he said. "Don't matter if it's loaded or not. You treat it like it is."
He moved to stand behind her. Close, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body at her back.
"Hold out your hands," he said quietly.
She did, and he placed the rifle in them.
It was heavier than she'd expected. Solid. The wood was worn smooth from use, and the metal was cool against her palms.
"Right hand here," he said, reaching around her to adjust her grip on the stock. "Left hand here, under the barrel. Not too tight, you're holdin’ it, not stranglin’ it."
His hands covered hers, guiding, and she became acutely aware of how close he was standing. Could feel his chest against her back every time he breathed. Could smell the faint scent of soap and him.
"Now," he said, his voice low near her ear. "You're goin’ to bring it up to your shoulder. Like this."
He helped her lift it, positioning the stock against her shoulder, his hands still covering hers.
"Tuck it in tight," he murmured, and at that distance she felt his breath against the back of her ear -warm, unhurried- and her whole body went very still and very aware all at once. The fine hairs at her nape rose with a tickle. She became conscious of her own body, the exact number of inches between the back of her head and his face. "It's gonna kick when you fire. If you don't hold it right, it'll knock you on your ass."
Despite everything, she almost smiled.
"Your cheek goes here," he said, tapping the stock just below where her face would rest. "Line up the sight with your target. Breathe steady. Squeeze the trigger, don't pull."
She nodded, her heart beating faster than it should.
He stayed there for a moment longer, his hands warm, his body solid behind her. Then, slowly, he stepped back.
"Try it without me," he said.
She brought the rifle up the way he'd shown her, tucking it against her shoulder, her cheek against the stock. It felt strange, foreign, but not impossible.
"Good," he said. "That's good."
She lowered it carefully and turned to look at him.
He was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read. Something between approval and something else. Something darker.
"We'll go outside tomorrow before I leave," he said. "Let you fire a few rounds. Get used to the sound of it, the kick. But for now..." He took the rifle from her hands. "You know where it is. And you know how to hold it."
She nodded.
"Good."
He set the rifle back on its hooks above the door and turned to look at her.
"There's one more thing I need to do before tomorrow," he said, already moving toward the pegs where his coat hung.
She watched him shrug it on. "What's that?"
"The fence line." He gestured vaguely toward the woods beyond the cabin. "Need to walk the perimeter, check for damage. Animals get through sometimes. Deer, bear if they're feeling bold. And the wood rots out here faster than you'd think with all the damp."
She nodded slowly, understanding the practicality of it even if she didn't fully grasp what it entailed.
"How long will you be gone?"
"Few hours, probably." He was already pulling on his work gloves, thick leather worn soft at the palms. "There's a lot of ground to cover, and if I find sections that need fixing, I'll need to deal with them now. Won't have time once I'm back on the crew."
She could see the logic in it, the same reasoning that had driven him to put up the curtain rods today, to teach her about the rifle and the well pump. He was trying to button things up, make sure everything was secure before he left her alone here for twelve-hour stretches.
"I'll be fine," she said, answering the question he hadn't asked.
He paused, looking at her for a moment, then nodded.
"I know you will." He reached for the door, then stopped. "Don't work yourself too hard while I'm gone. Those curtains or whatever can wait if you need a rest."
Something warm unfurled in her chest at the concern in his voice.
"I'll pace myself," she said.
He held her gaze for another second, as if reassuring himself, then stepped outside. She watched through the window as he headed toward the small shed behind the cabin, emerging a minute later with a coil of wire over one shoulder and a heavy mallet in his other hand.
Then he disappeared into the tree line, and she was alone.
----
She stood there for a moment, then she turned and looked at the bolt of muslin sitting on the bed.
She'd been thinking about the curtains since they'd gotten back from town. It would take hours, cutting, hemming, maybe adding a simple ruffle at the bottom if she had enough material left over.
It would keep her hands busy and her mind occupied.
She looked for her sewing kit, grabbed the fabric toward her, and got to work.
----
The first window took longer than she'd expected.
She'd measured twice, cut once, the way her mother had taught her, but the fabric was stubborn. The stitches weren't as even as she would have liked, but they were serviceable. Functional.
By the time she'd finished hemming the second curtain, the light outside had started to change. Still afternoon, but later now. The shadows from the pines stretched longer across the clearing. Maybe she could hang them and do the third one tomorrow.
She stood and hung the first curtain, threading it onto the rod Bucky had installed that morning. It slid into place easily, and she stepped back to look at it.
Better.
The cabin felt different already. More enclosed, private. The muslin filtered the light softly, turning it into something gentler.
She was reaching for the second curtain when she heard it.
Footsteps. Heavy boots on the porch.
Her heart jumped before her brain caught up. Bucky. It was just Bucky.
The door opened, and he came inside.
She turned, the curtain still in her hands, and stopped.
He was shrugging out of his coat, moving stiffly, and she caught sight of him as the heavy fabric slid off his shoulders.
Rough.
His shirt underneath was soaked through with sweat, clinging to his shoulders and chest. His hair was damp, plastered to his forehead in dark strands. There was dirt smeared across his jaw, his neck, his forearms where he'd rolled up his sleeves.
And his hands.
She could see them even from across the cabin, both scraped raw, palms dirty and reddened. The left one was worse than the right, bleeding sluggishly from a gash across the palm that he was holding awkwardly, trying not to drip on the floor.
"Christ," she said, setting down the curtain and crossing to him. "What happened?"
"Had to take my gloves off to tie down some wire," he said, glancin' down at his hands like he'd only just noticed the damage. "Barbed wire snapped back while I was workin' it. Caught my palm. The rest is just from the posts. Splinters, rough wood."
"You should have kept the gloves on."
"Couldn't get the wire tight enough with them. Needed to feel what I was doing." He flexed his fingers, wincing slightly. "It's fine."
"It's bleeding."
"Just a scrape."
She reached for his wrist without thinking, turning his hand toward the light to get a better look.
It wasn't just a scrape. The cut ran across the meat of his palm, deep enough that she could see the edges of it pulling apart every time he flexed his fingers. Not life-threatening, but not nothing either.
"Sit down," she said, already moving toward the basin. "I need to clean this."
"I can do it."
"Sit down," she repeated, firmer this time, and he must have heard something in her tone because he didn't argue. Just sank into the chair with an exhale that spoke of exhaustion.
She poured clean water into the basin and grabbed one of the towels, then came back to the table and pulled another chair close so she was sitting directly in front of him.
"Give me your hand," she said.
He held it out, and she took it carefully, cradling his wrist in one hand while she dampened the towel with the other.
The first touch of water made him hiss through his teeth.
"Sorry," she murmured, dabbing at the edges of the cut. The blood washed away easily, revealing the full extent of it: ragged but clean, no splinters that she could see.
She looked up at him. "Do you have whiskey? Or something to disinfect this?"
His eyebrows rose slightly. "Got somethin’ better than whiskey." He nodded toward the chest of drawers. "Top drawer, left side. There's a tin box."
She stood and crossed to the chest, pulling open the drawer. Her hands moved past a few folded shirts until her fingers found metal.
The box was small, maybe eight inches across, made of tin with a red cross painted on the lid. Military issue, from the look of it. The paint was chipped in places, the metal dented at one corner like it had been dropped or knocked around.
She brought it back to the table and set it down between them, lifting the lid.
Inside: rolls of gauze, neatly wound. A few glass vials with faded labels she couldn't quite read. A small pair of scissors. And a brown bottle, cork stopper sealed with wax, the label marked in careful script: Carbolic Acid.
"You kept this," she said quietly. "From the war."
"Seemed stupid not to." He was watching her, his expression unreadable. "Out here, you're half a day from a doctor on a good day. Longer if the weather's bad. Man learns to take care of himself."
She nodded and picked up the bottle, working the cork free.
"This is going to hurt," she warned.
"I've had worse."
She believed him.
She poured a small amount onto a clean section of the towel and pressed it to the cut. His whole body went rigid, his free hand gripping the edge of the table hard enough that his knuckles went white, but he didn't make a sound.
She worked quickly, cleaning the wound thoroughly before setting the bottle aside and reaching for the gauze.
"You did good work out there?" she asked, trying to distract him while she wrapped his palm.
"Good enough." His voice was rough. "Found three posts that needed replacin’. A whole section of wire that had come loose. Should hold now, though. For a while, at least."
She wound the gauze carefully, not too tightly, making sure it covered the cut completely.
"There," she said, placing the end under and tying it off. "That should do it."
He flexed his fingers experimentally, testing the bandage, then looked up at her.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
She nodded and started gathering up the soiled towels, the bottle of carbolic, anything to give her hands something to do that wasn't touching him.
Because she wanted to.
Wanted to reach out and wipe the dirt from his jaw, push that damp hair back from his forehead.
She stood quickly and carried the basin to the counter.
Behind her, she heard him shift in the chair.
"I need to clean up," he said.
She turned, and her eyes caught on his shirt again, the way it clung to his body, darkened with sweat and dirt. The exhaustion in his posture.
"I'll heat water for the tub," she said.
----
Bucky sat at the table, watching her move between the stove and the tub with that same grace she brought to everything. Filling the pot, setting it to boil, carrying it carefully to the tub, and pouring it in. Once. Twice. Three times.
By the fourth trip, he stood.
"Let me-"
"Sit down," she said, not even looking at him. "You've been working for three hours. I can carry some pots of water."
He sat.
It took longer than it had the other times. She was thorough, testing the temperature with her hand after each addition of cold water, making sure it was right. Not too hot, not too cool.
When she finally straightened and wiped her hands on her apron, the tub was full, steam rising gently from the surface.
"There," she said, turning to him.
He stood slowly, feeling every hour of work in his back, his shoulders, his legs.
"Thank you," he said.
She nodded and moved toward the chair by the fireplace, the same chair she'd sat in last time, facing the wall.
He started to undress.
He peeled off his shirt, where the sweat had made it stick against his skin. Then his hands went to his belt and paused.
"Can I ask you somethin’?" His voice came out rougher than he intended.
A beat of silence. Then- "Yes."
"This bandage," he said, lifting his wrapped hand slightly. "It needs to stay dry, or it's pointless. I can manage most of myself one-handed, but my back..." He trailed off.
She shifted in the chair.
"So… what are you asking?"
"I'm askin’ if you'd be willing to help," he said quietly. "Just my back. That's all."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Alright," she said. "But tell me when you're... when you're in the water."
He understood immediately.
"I will," he said quietly.
Her heart was beating too fast. She pressed her palms flat against her thighs, trying to steady herself, trying not to think about what was happening behind her. The rustle of fabric. The quiet clink of his belt buckle. Each sound felt amplified in the silence of the cabin, and she found herself counting them without meaning to. Shirt. Belt. Boots hitting the floor.
She'd offered to help. Had said yes without really thinking it through. And now…
----
The slosh of water. A long, low groan that made heat crawl up her neck.
"Christ," he muttered, his voice thick with relief. "That's good."
She waited, her hands twisted in her lap, her whole body tense. Every second felt like an hour.
"Alright," he said after a moment. "I'm in."
She stood and turned.
He was submerged to his chest, his arms draped over the sides of the tub, his head tipped back against the rim. His eyes were closed, and for a moment, she just stood there, looking at him.
The water lapped gently against the sides of the tub with each breath he took. Steam rose from the surface, curling in the cooler air of the cabin.
She'd seen him without his shirt before, that first day, fever-bright and barely conscious, some of the nights they slept together. But this was different. This was deliberate. He was bare in front of her by choice, and she was looking by choice, and the awareness of that made her self-conscious.
He opened his eyes and looked at her, and she realized she'd been staring.
"Sorry," she said quickly, moving toward the tub. "I just-"
"It's alright." His voice was quiet. Gentle. "I know I'm not much to look at."
That wasn't true. That wasn't true at all.
But she didn't say it.
Instead, she knelt beside the tub, the floor hard beneath her knees, and reached for the soap sitting on the floor nearby.
"Lean forward," she said.
The tub wasn't large; he'd had to fold his legs to fit, his knees breaking the surface of the water, the muscle of his thighs visible beneath. She could see the shift of his back as he settled into position, the play of muscle beneath skin when he moved. Broad shoulders tapering down to a narrower waist, the kind of build that came from years of physical labor.
And the scars.
A puckered mark on his left shoulder, pale against his sun-weathered skin. Round, like something had punched through. And lower, near his ribs on the right side, something that looked like it had been a burn, the skin still shinier than the rest.
But it was the long one that caught her attention. Running from his left shoulder blade down toward his spine, pale and raised. She hadn't seen it before. She must have gone still, because he glanced back over his shoulder.
"Told you," he said. "War leaves marks."
"Does it hurt?" she asked quietly. "Still?"
"Sometimes. When the weather changes." He settled back into position, his shoulders hunched slightly forward to give her access. The movement made the muscles in his back shift and flex again. "Mostly I don't notice anymore."
She dampened the soap in the water and worked it between her hands until it lathered, then pressed her palms to his back.
He went very still.
She worked the soap across his shoulders first, feeling the solid muscle beneath her palms, the way his skin was hot from the water. Her fingers traced the long scar without meaning to, following the raised line of it from shoulder to spine.
Her hands were shaking slightly. She hoped he couldn't tell. The intimacy of this -of touching him like this, of feeling the heat of his skin, the solid reality of his body under her palms- it was almost too much.
She could feel him breathing. Could feel the slight tension in his muscles, like he was holding himself very still, very controlled.
"Shrapnel," he said quietly, his voice rough.
She didn't answer. Just kept washing, her hands moving lower, across the broad expanse of his back, feeling the shift of muscle beneath skin as he breathed.
His head was still tipped forward, his eyes closed, but she could see the tension in his jaw. The way his hands gripped the edges of the tub.
She rinsed the soap from her hands and reached for the cup sitting beside the tub, filling it with clean water and pouring it slowly over his shoulders, watching the suds sluice down his back.
Once. Twice.
"There," she said quietly, setting the cup down. "You're done."
----
Her hands left his skin, and he had to work not to reach for them. Not to ask her to keep touching him.
Oh, he was pathetic.
It was just his back, just soap and water. The kind of thing that shouldn't mean anything, the kind of practical help anyone might offer.
But it didn't feel like nothing.
It felt like the first real touch he'd had in years that wasn't about transaction or necessity. Her hands had been careful and gentle. Like she was taking care of him, not just completing a task.
And his body had noticed. Was still noticing, in ways that were becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
He kept his eyes closed, kept his breathing steady, and willed himself to calm the hell down.
"Thank you," he said, his voice coming out rougher than he intended.
He heard her stand, heard her footsteps move away toward the fireplace.
"I'll just..." She paused. "I'll be over here. Take your time."
He waited until he heard her settle into the chair before he opened his eyes.
Then he reached for the soap and started washing the rest of himself with his good hand, trying very hard not to think about the fact that she was sitting twenty feet away, that the only thing between them was air and his own self-control.
He was halfway through scrubbing his chest when her voice came from across the cabin.
"Although..."
He paused, looking toward where she sat. She hadn't turned around, was still facing the wall as she'd promised.
"Yeah?"
A beat of silence. Then: "Do you need help with your hair?"
His hand stilled against his ribs.
"Your hand," she continued, and he could hear the careful reasoning in her voice. The practical justification. "It'll be hard to wash properly with the bandage. And if you get it wet-"
"Yeah," he said, cutting her off before she could talk herself out of it. "Yeah, that'd... that'd help."
He looked down at himself.
The water had gone cloudy with soap, thank the lord, but he could still see enough to know that his body hadn't gotten the message about staying calm. He shifted slightly, angling himself, trying to find a position that might be less obvious.
It didn't really work.
He closed his eyes briefly, took a breath, and told himself it was fine. The water was murky. She'd be focused on his hair, not looking anywhere else. And even if she did notice… well. This was part of being married, wasn't it? Getting used to each other's bodies.
Even if the timing was shit.
"Alright," he called out. "I'm ready."
----
She stood and crossed back to the tub, her heart beating faster than it should.
It was just hair. Just washing his hair. Practical. Necessary, even, with his injured hand.
Nothing to be nervous about.
"Lean your head back," she said, reaching for the cup again.
He did, tipping his head back over the edge of the tub, exposing the long line of his throat. She filled the cup and poured it slowly over his hair, watching the water darken it from brown to almost black, watching it run down his temples, his neck.
She set the cup down and reached for the soap, working it between her palms until it lathered, then -carefully, hesitantly- sank her fingers into his hair.
He made a sound. Quiet. Involuntary.
She froze. "Did I hurt you?"
"No." His voice was strained. "No, you're… fine. Keep goin’."
She did, working the soap through his hair with careful fingers, feeling its texture. Her fingertips found his scalp, and she massaged gently, working the lather through from root to tip.
His eyes were closed, and his jaw was tight. And his hands were gripping the edges of the tub again, knuckles white with tension.
"You alright?" she asked quietly.
"Yeah." The word came out rough. "Just... been a long time since anyone's done this."
She kept working, her fingers moving in slow, careful circles. She could feel him starting to relax under her touch, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, his breathing going deeper.
It was intimate. More intimate, somehow, than washing his back had been. Her fingers in his hair, his head tipped back in trust, the quiet sounds he was making in the back of his throat every time her nails scraped lightly against his scalp.
She rinsed the soap away slowly, cup by cup, until the water ran clear. Then, without really thinking about it, she did it again. Soaped and rinsed. Just because she could. Just because he seemed to be enjoying it.
"There," she said finally, reluctantly. "All done."
He opened his eyes and looked at her, and there was something in his expression she couldn't quite read. Something intense and vulnerable all at once.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
She nodded and stood quickly, wiping her hands on her apron, needing distance before she did something stupid like reach out and brush back the wet strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead.
----
Behind her, she heard him stand, the water slicing off his body. The sound of him stepping out of the tub, careful and deliberate.
She kept her eyes fixed on the wall.
Fabric rustling. The soft thud of something being picked up off the floor. She counted to twenty in her head, then thirty, giving him time.
"Alright," he said finally. "I'm decent."
She turned.
He was dressed in clean clothes, trousers, and a shirt, the fabric still a bit wrinkled from where it had been folded in the drawer. His hair was damp, pushed back from his face, darker than usual. The bandage on his hand stood out white against his skin.
He looked better. Clean. The exhaustion was still there in the set of his shoulders, but the grime and sweat were gone.
Their eyes met for a second, and something passed between them. An awareness of what had just happened. Of the line they'd just crossed, however carefully.
Then he looked away, cleared his throat.
"I should-" He gestured vaguely toward the tub, still full of cloudy water. "I'll get this emptied."
"I can help-"
"No." He said it quickly, then softened his tone. "You've done enough. Let me handle it. I didn’t mess up both of my hands."
She nodded and moved toward the stove, needing something to do with her hands. "I'll start on dinner. We have that meat from the butcher."
"Yeah." She heard him moving behind her, the slosh of water as he started bailing out the tub with the bucket. "That'd be good."
She pulled out the small wrapped package -the welcome gift from Carl Hayes-and unwrapped it carefully. A few strips of beef, tender-looking, better quality than the rest. Enough for a decent meal.
She was reaching for the knife when she heard him pause.
"You got one up," he said.
She turned. He was looking at the window, the one curtain she'd managed to finish and hang, the muslin filtering the late afternoon light softly.
"Just the one," she said. "I ran out of time before you got back."
He stood there for a moment, still holding the bucket, water dripping slowly back into the tub.
"It looks good," he said quietly. "Makes the place feel..."
He trailed off, but she understood.
Different. More domestic.
"I'll finish the others tomorrow," she said. "While you're working."
He nodded and went back to emptying the tub, and she turned back to the counter.
They worked in silence for a while. She with the stove, cutting and seasoning the meat. He, hauling water outside, making trip after trip until the tub was empty enough to drag to the corner and tip out the rest.
It was comfortable. Domestic. The kind of quiet that didn't need filling.
"Fence should hold now," he said after a while, leaning against the doorframe, watching her work. "At least for a good while. Winter'll test it, but it should be solid enough."
"That's good," she said, not looking up from the skillet.
"Yeah." He paused, then added: "Saw some deer tracks while I was out there. Fresh ones, from this morning probably. They've been testing the fence line, looking for weak spots. That's what pushed through the section I fixed."
"Will they try again?"
"Maybe. But not there, not now that it's reinforced. They'll move on, find easier territory." He shifted against the doorframe. "It's good land, though. Plenty of game out there if a person knew how to hunt it properly."
She glanced at him. "Do you hunt?"
"Used to. Haven't had much time for it lately, but..." He shrugged. "Winter comes, might be worth goin’ out for deer. Fresh meat would be good to have."
Another pause. Then- "You did good today too. The curtain, organizing things. Place looks better than it has in... well. Ever, probably."
She glanced at him, surprised by the compliment.
He was looking at her with the same expression he had earlier. Something warm that made her chest feel tight.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
He nodded and pushed off from the doorframe. "I'm gonna put the tub back and check on the horse. Be back in a few minutes."
The door closed behind him, and she stood there for a moment, staring at the meat in the skillet without really seeing it.
He hadn't finished the sentence, but she'd heard what he meant underneath it. The cabin was starting to feel like a home.
Their home.
A week ago, she hadn't known this man existed. And now she was standing in their kitchen, cooking his dinner, with her curtain on his window and her quilt on his bed.
Their bed.
But it didn't frighten her.
What unsettled her was how much she'd wanted to keep touching him. How her fingers had lingered in his hair longer than strictly necessary. How she'd found excuses to soap and rinse twice when once would have been enough.
She'd never touched someone like that before. Had never been allowed to, never had the opportunity. And now that she had -now that she knew what his hair felt like between her fingers, what his skin felt like under her palms- some part of her wanted more of it.
More of him.
The thought made her face warm. She didn't fully understand what "more" meant, and didn't have a clear picture of what she even wanted. Just a vague, pulling sensation low in her stomach. A restlessness that hadn't been there before.
She turned the meat in the skillet with more force than necessary, trying to focus on the task at hand.
Next Chapter
I don't do taglist anymore, please follow @vunblr-archive and turn on the notifications for updates :)
THE BATH!! Absolutely screaming at the delicious soft tension of this, wow. Torn between wanting them to go further and wanting the longing drawn out even more! Love this so much 💓
I've had thieves on the mind lately (thank you Napoleon Solo and Jack O'Malley). Rather than create another series, I'm opting to pass the idea on to others. Please join me in creating a veritable den of thieves!
Rules and Prompts beneath the cut!
Target: The Blue Diamond of Alqualondë
Rumored to once have sat in the crown of royalty, it is worth a hefty amount. The current known value is $5.8 million. While that alone is enough to get appetites whet, there are a number of collectors, fencers, and cutters willing to get their hands on it. What's more, because it's consider a historical treasure, there is no engraving or other identifying marks on it. It has recently been purchased and taken away from the world.
It needs to be freed. How will you do it?
Rules
Please limit entries to 10k words.
If you write more than 200, please use a "Read More".
Characters from any fandom and OCs are welcome!
There are no genre restrictions. Make it fantastical or realistic as you like.
Dark creations are accepted but NO underage, incest, or bestiality. Please add warnings to your works appropriately.
Please use one prompt from each category (see below) if you are able.
The challenge will run for the entire month of May.
Please tag me (@thezombieprostitute) in your posts and use the hashtag #let's plan a heist
Prompts
Where:
Mansion - The home of the owner. Expect security to be tight and everyone being watched.
Museum - On display for a limited time. While security is more relaxed, there are likely others eyeing the prize
Bank - A vault that is supposed to be maximum security. Guards are light, the doors are heavy.
Auction - While the auction house has their own security, expect both bidders and sellers to have their own guards.
Mid-transport - Basically a safe on wheels. Either crack it open or drive it off!
When:
A party/celebration - It's time to get down! And then get out!
Random - Dart landed on today. It's go time.
Celestial event - May the heavens smile upon you, or at least be flashy enough to help distract.
Someone has reached their breaking point - They got on every last nerve and now it's time to pay.
Why:
Just because - You were bored.
Money - Can't have too much.
Revenge - They had it coming.
Making a point - Maybe this will teach them a valuable lesson.
Fortune and Glory - Bragging rights amongst your peers.
You were hired - No questions asked.
Return it to its home country - reverse Indiana Jones.
How:
Under cover of darkness - Sometimes the classics just work
Long con - Get the schedule, find the access codes, make them believe you are someone else.
Smash and grab - Simple thuggery. Surprisingly effective for low cost.
Guns blazing - Run and Gun, Spray and Pray
Distraction - Is that a rabbit over there?
Who:
Solo - You are the best partner you have
Partner - The invitation did say you could bring a +1.
Crew - You may have the skills to pay the bills, but somebody needs to write the check and your handwriting is atrocious.
Opposition (Optional)
A rival - Someone out to make you look bad.
Competition - You're not the only one with this idea.
The "Good Guy" - The detective trying to catch you.
Something Completely Different - Someone else is stealing a different target. Hope they don't trip the alarm!
Special thanks to @fluxxdog for help with the flavor text on this post!
Alright my Bucky fanfic reading fam, I may be a month behind on my notifications with fics being posted but I need to find a fic I read a few months back and I can't for the life of me remember who wrote it or when it was posted and I want to read it again.
I JUST started watching New Girl (Yeah I know late to the party as always, I don't know where I was when it was on TV), and there was a multichapter Team Steve BuckyxReader story that was the plot of New Girl.
Girl gets dumped, Sam Steve and Bucky live in a loft and are looking for another roommate, and she moves in and shenanigans ensue and Avengers chaos.
Bucky is SOOOOO Grumpy but it was funny and sweet!
If someone knows what I'm talking about I would love them forever and ever and ever!!!!!
Summary: When you come home from the bar to find your boyfriend doing research at the dining table in his undies, you decide that you need him right then and there.
Tags: NSFW (18+), unprotected sex, degradation, brief name-calling, hittin it from the back lol, creampie, seducing Scott, Scott is grumpy (he likes it), begging, teasing
Word Count: 1.5k
Taglist: @corens0ups @kryptidfiles @paperheartsdissolve @hotelslutsylvania @marvel-hiddles-stark @jam1esl0v4 @maplestrudel13 (Let me know if you'd like to be added!)
A/N: As promised, here's Scott doing research at the dining table in his undies <3 what could represent domestic bliss more than a thing like that?
The house is quiet when you step inside. The lights are off for the most part, save for some soft brightness spilling into the hallway from the dining room. It is late, nearly ten at night, and you’ve just gotten done spending time with a few of your girlfriends. You aren’t drunk, but you had a drink or two an hour or so ago, and you feel delightfully warm.
“Scott?” you call quietly, just in case he’s asleep and somehow left the light on, despite the fact that he would never do such a thing.
“In here,” he calls back. You start towards the dining room, your feet thudding softly against the linoleum. When you reach the dining area, you pause. Here before you is your boyfriend, wearing a t-shirt and his underwear, hunched over his laptop and notebook. Some program is pulled up on the screen, one that you recognize but aren’t in the mood to investigate. You smile.
“This is a nice surprise,” you say, leaning against the table. He glances up at you.
“What?” he asks.
“You in your little undies.”
“My little–?” Scott shakes his head, looking back down at his notebook. “You’re ridiculous.”
You shrug, looking him over shamelessly. He’s got such a nice body, such a handsome figure. You feel yourself getting even warmer as you stare at his crotch and thighs.
“Maybe,” you say. “Or maybe I just know what I like.”
Scott hums in response, then re-focuses on his laptop screen before scribbling down some more notes.
“So. Were you gonna say something, or just stand here and stare at me?” he asks finally. You grin, then walk around the back of the chair and drape yourself over him. You reach down and push your hands up under his t-shirt. He jerks. “Fuck, why are you so cold?”
You giggle.
“I’m not.”
“Get out of my shirt. I’m doing something.”
“Aww, don’t be a grump. Your hot girlfriend is trying to seduce you and you’re complaining?”
You smooth your hands over his stomach, feeling the muscles there, and you kiss at his throat as you do. Scott’s shoulder lowers and his head tilts to the side, quietly giving you permission to keep going. You nip at his skin.
“I want you,” you breathe, pressing yourself further against him. “Fuck, all I could think about was you while we were out…Could barely focus…Just kept thinking about coming home and getting fucked…”
“When are you not thinking about that?” Scott asks, voice strained. His pen is still and his eyes stare straight ahead at the laptop screen that is starting to feel less and less important by the second.
“Mmm, never, baby,” you say. You move around and straddle him, and Scott’s hands immediately find your hips. You rock yourself forward against his clothed, half-hard cock. “Mmm, you like this…You like it when I ask nicely…”
“You’re a fucking brat, you know that?” Scott asks, touching your thighs and then pushing up your dress so that it is bunched around your hips. You practically moan at the feeling, your skin already on fire. You’re burning up for him, and he’s fanning the flames.
“I know,” you breathe, still rocking your hips. He’s getting harder. You reach down and touch him head-on, feeling his cock straining against the material of his underwear. You’re leaning forward to whisper in his ear before you can stop yourself.
“Fuck me, please,” you breathe. “I’ll be good. Whatever you want, it’s already yours.”
It is Scott’s turn to smirk now.
“You’re pathetic,” he tells you. You moan in response. He grips your ass and pushes his hips forward, his erection nudging against the fabric of your panties.
“Oh my god, your panties are soaked,” Scott comments when he looks down. More heat washes over you.
“Fuck, Scott, please…”
He touches his hand to your hot core, and you immediately rock against his palm.
“Take what you need,” he says, rubbing your clit over your panties. “Go on.”
“It’s not enough,” you whine. “Fuck, I need you to–”
He kisses you firmly, his other hand wrapping around the back of your head to keep your lips on his. You moan as he continues to tease you with his fingers. You’re practically shaking, burning up with want and desire. You could cry – you’ve never needed someone so bad in your entire life.
“S-Scott, please,” you whisper.
Only then does he haul you to your feet, turn you around, and bend you over the dining room table. You gasp, legs immediately parting, and he pushes his underwear down and kicks them to the side before flipping up your dress and tugging your panties down. You kick yours aside, too, then arch your back to present yourself to him.
“Fuck, look at you,” Scott says, almost to himself. He takes hold of your ass cheeks and spreads you open to stare. “So wet and I’ve barely done anything.”
“Shut up,” you breathe, eyes fluttering. Suddenly, you feel his mouth on you, brief and hot, and you gasp. Your body jerks at the feeling of him slurping up your arousal, and he hums as he pulls away too soon.
“The offer’s gonna expire, you know,” you try. He pins your hips against the table and nudges his leaky tip against your entrance.
“Don’t even,” Scott says. “It’s too late, I already know how fucking desperate you are right now.”
You push your hips back to meet his, wanting badly to feel him inside of you. He slips his tip in, and you gasp, pussy clenching and spasming in response.
“Don’t tease me,” you tell him.
“I know you like it,” Scott says, pressing in slowly. You sigh, body hot and tense with anticipation. Scott presses in inch-by-agonizingly-slow-inch. Your core spasms and clenches around him, still soaking wet and getting hotter by the second. When he’s all the way inside of you, you let out a soft grunt.
“Please,” you sigh. “Please, Scott, c’mon…”
“Please what?”
“Please fuck me!” you exclaim. You hear a soft chuckle from behind you.
“Why didn’t you just ask in the first place?” Scott asks just to hear you huff. He begins to rock his hips quickly right off the bat, his cock rubbing up against your g-spot over and over and over. You gasp, eyes widening and then closing in pleasure.
“Fuck!” you moan.
“Y-Yeah? Right there?” Scott asks. “Hm?”
You nod.
“Right fucking there, Scott, yes!”
Your body is bouncing, the dining table is scraping against the floor, and Scott is plowing into you like there’s no tomorrow. How wonderful is this? How lucky are you? How lucky are both of you to have overcome your differences.
Now you get to have lovely evenings like this when you come home from girls’ night.
“Touch yourself,” Scott says, his hips moving faster and faster. You can’t bring yourself to say anything as you lower a hand down to rub your aching clit. You moan long and loud, and Scott smirks. “Atta girl.”
“O-Oh…Oh, fuck…I’m g-getting close…” you manage, legs and thighs trembling as you rub your clit. You’re rocketing towards orgasm, and judging by the way Scott’s thrusts are getting sloppy and haphazard, you’re guessing that he is, too.
“Come for me,” Scott says sharply, giving your ass a smack. You moan in surprise, thighs shaking as you struggle to stay upright. Scott squeezes your hips again, holding you firmly against the table, and you moan shamelessly.
“O-Oh fuck, I’m–!”
You fall over the edge suddenly, body tensing and then turning to jelly as heat from your orgasm washes over you.
“Mmm, there we go,” you hear Scott say. “Filthy girl…Coming just for me…Fuck…”
You hardly register his words as you rub yourself through it. Arousal drips down your thighs, and moments later. Scott falls over the edge with a soft grunt.
“Shit!” he sighs, hips working to keep their pace as he spills inside of you. You pull your hand away from your clit and grip the table instead.
“Oh my f-fucking god,” you breathe as he begins to slow to a stop. One, two, three more harsh thrusts come, and Scott leans down to kiss your shoulder while still buried deep inside of you. You reach back to touch the side of his warm face.
“So good,” you manage.
“Yeah? Good enough for the neediest girl in the fuckin’ world?”
You nod, a dopey smile on your face as he pulls out and tucks himself back into his underwear. He rubs along your back and fixes your panties and dress before kissing your shoulder once more. You lean into his touch.
“Did you know that I love you?” you ask as you turn around on quivering legs to look up at him. Scott chuckles.
“I know,” he says, then kisses your forehead. “I love you too. Go shower, you smell like the bar.”
“You don’t wanna…?”
“What?”
“Join me?”
Scott pauses eyeing his laptop and notebook before sighing and closing it all up and turning around to face you.
“Go on. Lead the way.”
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ
rynwritesstuff - 2026. Do not copy, steal, or repost my work.
I need fluffy stories, neighbors to lovers, friends to lovers, no matter if it has smut, but no angst or just slightly. But need it a lot. Recommendations please. 😭💓
Can be Bucky (or any Sebastian Stan character), Spencer Reid, Eddie Munson, Johnny Storm...
Okay Sorry for the delayyyyyyy Always so behind in my notifications! Ughhh
But here are a couple I went through my favorites list I have saved! (hopefully gonna put that out soon too like my stories I've been working on forever!)
Chemistry Probably by @cursedheartsclub
Snowglobe by @chateaubarnes
Forever is a Feeling by @flowersforbucky
Quiet Comfort by @stanmarvelous
mi cielo and the winter soldier by @cursedheartsclub
A Rose a Day by @juniebjonesin
Weather Girl by @aquaticmercy
A Ring A Birthday by @barnes-doll
Drunk Confessions by @cassiemaebarnes
The Strawberries by @godmadeaterribleerror
My Girl by @aquaticmercy
Telling Truths by @lazyastronomer
Slow-Burns @hellfirebarnes
Fire Escape Fireworks by @aquaticmercy
The Catch @lessersole
The Memory Remains by @houseofthechaos
The Menu by @daydreamgoddess14
A Series of Escalating Events by @daydreamgoddess14
Working Out the Kinks by @bartonsparrow25
Fluffmas by @imnotjustreadingg-volume-two
Some are series some are one shots but they're all happy endings! Cause I love love and our man has suffered too much to NOT have a happy ending and all the love!
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The Handy Man Mistake | Bucky Barnes x Reader | Oneshot - 3.9k words
All you need is someone to pose as your boyfriend to help you buy a car, Bucky seems very friendly and funny and is up for the challenge. But have you misread his TaskRabbit profile?
Warnings: fluff, meet-cute, flirting, kiss, mentions of sex work, terrible innuendo, AU.
You'd seen his picture on Taskrabbit just that morning, his hair artfully fluffy, white vest showing off his broad, tanned, shoulders and the slight swell of his pecs. But seeing him in real life was something else. He brushed his hair back from his face as he crossed the road, shirt pulled tight across his chest as he waved. He was hot, too hot, unbelievably hot, there was no way you were going to get away with this with how fucking hot he was.
"Hi," he smiled, holding out his hand, "good to meet you, I'm Bucky."
"Hi," you could hardly breathe, slightly star struck, before mentally shaking yourself and shaking his hand. "Thanks for agreeing to this…" you trailed off, embarrassed and allowded him to steer you towards the crossing.
"Of course, sweetheart." He looked around slightly confused, "did you want to go for a walk first or…"
"Oh no, that's okay, I'd rather just go straight to the lot, I've got an appointment." You gestured to the crossing, the lights turning red.
"Another appointment?" Bucky raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah, so we can negotiate, on the car."
"The car…oh the car!" Bucky's face went straight from confused to happy again, smiling gently at you. "The car, of course, yes."
"Ugh, we missed the lights —" you pushed the button again, bouncing on the balls of your feet. "I'm so excited, thank you so much for helping me get a good deal, they never take me seriously."
Bucky schooled his face further, "no problem at all, probably easier than my normal work anyway," his smile was so reassuring and then he took your hand squeezing your fingers as if it was totally normal. "Now, let's go and get you a good deal on this car."
Bucky was a god send, not only did he negotiate the price down on your little hatchback but they even threw in some new mats and wheels. By the time you'd handed over your money and taken the keys you were pretty sure the salesman was going to ask Bucky out for a beer. But he shook the man's hand too and escorted you out, the perfect gentleman.
He'd kept up the ruse the entire time, calling you sweetheart and smiling fondly at you while you agreed your financing. He even held your purse for you while you took one last look around the car.
"Do you need me to come back tomorrow when you pick it up?" He asked as you strolled back to the parking lot where you'd met up.
"Oh, no, I'm sure it'll be fine. I'll get a cab or something." You waved him away.
"You sure? It's no bother I have another client around here late morning."
You paused, considering how wonderful it'd be to be chauffeured by this gorgeous man. And then reconsidered when you remembered how let down you'd been by your ex, constantly promising to help and then sleeping in or never turning up. Better to be self-reliant, that was the whole point of the new car after all.
"No, that's okay, but I really appreciate your help."
You shook hands again, your palms tingling at the feel of his warmth, and then he was gone.
But not gone from your imagination.
It hadn't taken long for you to cook up a reason to need to see Bucky again. The kitchen doors in your apartment were basically falling off the hinges, still the same ones your landlord had put in years before you'd bought him out and made the place your own.
The vinyl was peeling, the colour boring, it was time for a change.
And that's when you thought of Bucky. If he looked sexy in a used car lot how sexy would he look at Home Depot?
No — no, that was not the reason to call him! You needed his help to get a good deal on the parts and then having them all fitted, maybe he could even fit them, that was the reason.
The fact he was the sexiest man in existence was inconsequential to your task.
You hit call before you could stop yourself, your usual 'text only' policy out of the window when the opportunity to hear the velvety gravel of his voice was an option.
"Hey, Sweetheart, didn't expect to hear from you so soon."
He sounded out of breath and, after that intro, you were feeling pretty winded too. Sweetheart. Fuck.
"Hi, Bucky, sorry if this is a bad time, it's just I was wondering if you'd be able to go with me to Home Deport some time to —uh — look at kitchen cabinet stuff …maybe?" Your voice was trapped in your throat, was this an acceptable task to hire him for?
The line was quiet and the doubt kicked in, "— you don't have to, I —"
"I'd love to, I'm ah — a bit busy —" there was a muffled noise and then, "text me a time, date, and location and I'll be there, sorry I've got to go, speak to you soon."
Bucky met you in the parking lot again and if he wasn't waving and picking up his speed as he got closer, you'd swear he was walking in slow motion, hair blowing, soft rock music playing.
"Hi, Bucky." Somehow it was you that was breathless, despite being completely stationary for the last 5 minutes.
"Hey, sweetheart, nice to see you again." He leaned in and kissed your cheek, his stubble touching the corner of your lip for just a moment, before pulling back.
"Oh, yes, you too, I'm so glad you agreed to come, I'm sure this is really boring compared to actually building stuff or…" you trailed off, unsure of what he actually did the rest of the time. Was it fun doing odd jobs? Or annoying? Probably annoying. "Sorry, anyway, I just, I uh need to pick the right bits and then I'm sure it's just screwing stuff together and…" you took a deep breath, "thank you."
Bucky smiled fondly, "you're welcome. Let's go and find your dream kitchen!"
Despite the treat coffee you'd bought and the lovely company, it transpired that shopping for kitchen cabinet doors was actually incredibly difficult. You had only the sparse measurments and a piece of paper with your new dream kitchen doodled on to work with, leaving you both stood in the middle of yet another series of almost identical shaker cabinets utterly confused.
"It's just, I don't know if those drawer runners will fit, if I don't know how deep the cupboard is." Bucky rubbed a hand through his already messy hair and tugged briefly as he thought.
"Sorry," you mumbled pulling at the sleeves of your sweater.
Bucky looked over at you, still slightly frazzled looking, but his face softened. "Not your fault…are you okay?"
"Yeah…just…y'know, math problems at the kitchen table flashbacks." Somewhere deep inside your inner child wanted to make you cry.
"Do you want a hug?" Bucky offered, holding his arm out.
His leather jacket was lined with something fluffy looking, shearling maybe, and it looked incredibly cosy.
"Are you sure?"
Bucky chuckled, "of course, it's just a hug, I won't charge you extra."
You laughed too, and you allowed yourself to be tucked against his side. His body was firm but warm beneath his Henley, his pecs soft and you pressed your face deeper into his chest. Bucky was in many ways the manliest man you've ever met, but he was also so sweet and kind that it made your head spin.
The last time a man had held you it'd been your ex boyfriend, a side hug while he continued playing whatever video game had his attention that week.
But Bucky's hug wasn't like that at all, he squeezed you gently, let his head drop to the top of yours briefly and for a moment you wondered if he might kiss you. Not on the lips of course, but maybe on the top of the head or your forehead. If he kissed you at all you were pretty sure you'd melt between the cracks of the linoleum floor or the kitchen door aisle and never be seen again.
Bucky didn't kiss you, but he did start speaking which interrupted your daydreaming.
"I know you haven't invited me, so feel free to say no, but I could pop round and measure up for you?"
"Oh god would you? That'd be amazing!" The words left your mouth before you'd even considered that you were inviting a man you barely knew to your apartment.
"I don't normally make house calls, but you've got me doing all kinds of things I wouldn't normally consider." He gave you that same dreamboat smile that had you weak at the knees in the used car lot.
"Thank you," you hugged him again and he laughed, a sound so wonderful that you didn't even notice how weird it would be for a handy man not to make house calls.
You took another long sip of your iced tea, tipping your head to the side as Bucky's hips arched up. His t-shirt riding a little higher revealing toned abs and an Adonis belt built by the gods themselves.
He grunted, hands searching the floor, and grabbed for a screwdriver just out of reach.
His head popped up, "could you pass me that one please? The blue one?"
You jumped to attention and handed him the screwdriver with a smile.
"Can I do anything else to help? I could get you another drink? Do you need any other tools?"
You let your eyes drift down to the paint splattered jeans stretching over his thick thighs and tried to resit the urge to bite your lip. What would it be like to stretch yourself over those thighs? The rough denim between your legs, him grunting under neath you…
"No this is great, once I've got this draw runner in it should be easy enough."
He made light work of the doors after that, swapping out hinges, fitting the new handles and getting everything tidied away in no time.
"Oh wow, Bucky, it's like a whole new kitchen!" You smiled, delighted, and even better, Bucky was smiling too. "It was such a mess before, thought the whole thing was going to fall down on me."
"Happy to help, as always. You can count on me to be well…to hang a cabinet door." He coughed politely, giving you a cheeky grin.
"I really can count on you, thank you so much." You stood awkwardly in the doorway watching him pick up the tool kit he'd brought with him and wondered if it'd be terrible if you asked him to stay.
It'd been a whole week since Bucky finished changing the cabinet doors in your kitchen and you had been so brave and not climbed in his lap while he lay on your floor.
Although you managed to convince him to stay for a pizza after, so as not to sully your brand new kitchen, you hadn't been able to come up with any viable excuse to see him again.
Tired of your moping, your neighbour Yelena had insisted on arranging a girls night and had arrived an hour earlier, despite your protests, pushing the door opened with her hips, hands full of chips and soda.
"Right, tell me all about this man that has you looking so sad when you get your mail."
"Oh, Lena it's not that —"
"Don't tell me it is not that bad when you've been scouring the building for problems to solve. At least show me his picture."
Well. You did like looking at his picture… "okay, but just know, that I know that he's way out of my league, okay, so —just remember that."
You scrolled through your phone to his page and briefly enjoyed the picture of him in his profile, he was in a white cotton vest, plaid shirt tied around his waist, holding an axe, one foot on a large log. It was different to his previous picture, that one had felt more summer-y, he'd been working on a car, also mostly shirtless, the sun shining in his sunglasses.
Yelena peered over your shoulder and read the tag line on his bio…
Bucky, aged 36, available for all "masculine" tasks, can pop champagne corks, take you out to eat, knock your boots or even feed your kitty.
And immediately burst out laughing, "oh — oh my god, you're so innocent, it's so cute!" She cooed patronisngly patting you on the cheeks.
"What!? I told you I know he's way way out of my league you don't have to be mean about it!"
"It's not that it's…wait didn't you have him come and help you buy a car? And do your kitchen?"
"Yes, he was really helpful." You were beyond confused.
"I bet it was a fun break for him."
"What are you talking about?"
"C'mon, you can't be that naive, he's not a handy man he's a —" Yelena paused and then made a series of crude gestures with her hands, "a handy man."
You stared at her for a moment and then the truth dawned on you as if you were being dunked into a bucket of cold water.
"Oh my god!"
Yelena burst into peals of hysterical laughter, clutching at her sides as you shot up from your seat and paced your living room.
"Oh fuck, I had him come with me to get a car, I put a cute little title on the top of the my task. I just wanted to get a good pool of help, someone up for a bit of a laugh, fuck fuck fuck."
"What did you put?" Yelena made a grab for your phone but you clutched it to your chest.
Burning with embarrassment you whispered, "help me get my motor running."
Yelena laughed again and you threw a cushion at her, which she dodged successfully before stopping, staring, and then laughing again.
"Oh god." You stopped your pacing and curled into a ball again.
"Hey, he turned up…twice! That's something. He fitted you a fucking kitchen."
"He did…I did pay him though!"
Yelena relaxed back into your couch, seemingly unperturbed by your meltdown.
"I wonder if he got paid more for your tasks or for his other…tasks…"
"Please stop." You deadpanned before falling head first into an evening of snacks and regret.
It was raining, and dark, and honestly kind of scary by the side of the road. You kicked the flat tyre again and sighed, water dripping down into your eyes.
You could hear the sound of your driving instructor clearly in your ear "don't stay in the car, go behind a barrier."
Didn't he know people always broke down in the worst weather possible and in the middle of the night?
You looked down at your phone, the signal dwindling, your battery much the same. Even if you could afford to call out a tow truck they'd still take hours and hours, all you could hope for was that Yelena was still awake, that she'd see your text and come and get you instead.
Tucking the phone back in your pocket you attempted to pull your hoodie up further over your face, the rain almost sideways, and the panic set in, whispering in your ear. The only person who knows you're here is Yelena, and she can be very flighty. If she's turned her phone off or vanished for a few days you're truly screwed.
Fat tears rolled down your cheeks and you sat down heavily in the muddy embankment, soaking your jeans and making your sobs louder. You didn't even notice the other approaching car until the wet footsteps of someone else approach and your heart raced faster.
"I thought that was your car, sweetheart — oh no, don't cry, it's alright."
A familiar pair of arms wrapped around you, pulling you back out of the mud and into a tight squeeze, enveloping you in the smell of his cologne and soft leather.
"Bucky," you choked out his name between your tears, "do you know how to change a tyre?"
You felt his laugh against your cheek and he pressed you even more tightly against his chest. You sighed, the fear subsiding into safety. He breathed out too and for a moment you just stood together in the rain, the soft press of his lips against the top of your head making your heart slip a beat. "I do know how to change a tyre, but let's not worry about that now, come on."
Bucky ushered you back to the side of the road where his car was parked a few feet infront of yours, hazard lights flashing.
"Let's get you dry." He opened the passenger door carefully, helping you inside and pulling off his jacket to cover you like a blanket. "Do you want a coffee? There's a diner down here, we can get you dry and fed and then think about your car."
"Are you sure?" You hiccuped through your tears, "I can't afford to pay you or anything, not if I have to pay to get my car towed." Your mind drifted to your empty bank account and the sobs started again while he buckled you in.
"Call it a freebie, I've been missing you anyway." Bucky smiled at you one last time, leaning over the open car door so you didn't get wet, and then he was jogging back round to the drivers seat.
The diner was only a few miles up the road, a beacon in the otherwise miserable night, and Bucky managed to pull up close to the door so all you had to do was run in. He joined you a few minutes later, a gym bag over one shoulder.
"Here, everything's clean I was on my way to work out, there's some sweats in there and a hoodie if you want to change out of your wet things."
"Are you sure —"
"Of course I am, get changed and I'll get us a table, what syrup do you want in your coffee?"
"Just vanilla please." You took the bag from him, peeking inside to see a neat bundle of his clothes, a very clean pair of sneakers and a towel. Changing quickly you attempted to keep his bag clean, turning your clothes inside out before putting them in and refraining from using his towel, patting your face and arms with the rough paper towels by the sinks instead.
It was only now that your adrenaline was starting to leave your body that you remembered your night with Yelena, the revelation of who Bucky had been this whole time and yet, he rescued you from the side of the road. He gave you his clean gym clothes, he was out there right now ordering a coffee just the way you liked it because he remembered the sweet smell of your drink at Home Depot.
Could it be that…no he was just being a nice guy, he'd have picked up anyone from the side of the road.
The diner was mostly empty so it was easy to spot Bucky tucked into a booth right at the corner, windows behind him so dark you could see your own reflection. But all you really had eyes for was Bucky. His wet hair, curling at the temples, and his flushed cheeks from the sudden rush of heat when you'd walked inside. And his smile, for you, pushing a huge steaming mug of coffee over to your side of the table.
"Better?" He took a sip of his own coffee, black of course, but there were two empty sugar packets at the edge of the table.
"Yes, thank you, god I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't come along to rescue me, again, you're my hero." You smiled back at him and then hid the embarrassed twist of your lips behind the heavy mug.
"Someone else would've helped, but, I'm glad it was me." Bucky was always so sincere if made your chest hurt but you couldn't dwell on it for too long because a tired waitress was approaching your table with a huge tray.
"Here you go, sugar, one of everything." She beamed at Bucky and placed four plates on the table. "You need anythin' else and you just let me know."
And then she was gone, and you were both looking at a mountain of pie.
"Maybe I ordered too much, they're not usually this generous." He laughed surveying the feast before you.
"I'm not complaining I'm starving, which is yours?"
Bucky instinctively grabbed the chocolate covered cake, oozing yellow custard down the sides and then hesitated. "Sorry, that was rude, we can share them all if you like?"
"We can taste test" You suggested and Bucky agreed, slicing each one down the middle. Before he could discuss moving them to your own plates you'd dug in, the cool cream and rich chocolate a balm against all the anxiety that had filled your body.
Bucky joined you, taking a bite and then humming happily.
"Is creampie your favourite too?" You asked, still focussed on the pie until Bucky stifflds a laugh on his own forkfull.
"Ah — yeah —" he'd gone red and then suddenly your brain kicked back into gear and embarrassment curdled in your stomach. It was so much weirder now you knew the real reason he was on that website.
"Hey, sweetheart, you okay?" Fork forgotten, his hand reached out to pull yours away from your face.
"Yes, no, sorry, it's just, my friend, she finally told me about…and I didn't know, and then I went and talked about that and I'm just — fuck." You thumped your head down on the table in defeat.
"Hey —" Bucky brushed aside the half full plates of pie. "I'm really glad you let me help you get that car, even if it wasn't quite the job I was expecting."
You huffed out a laugh, "would you have really wanted to get my motor running though? Probably not, I'm just sorry you wasted your time."
"Look, I was working, we both know that, but I'm glad you wanted the car and not my other services because — no wait, please listen to me, please. I was paid for my time so it wasn't wasted at all. But, more than that, I got to meet you and I got to meet you as you and as me, not as my client. Because if you'd been my client it would've made things really weird. And I don't want that between us because what I really want to do is this —"
Bucky 's hand moved from yours to your chin, tilting it up and away from your staring match with your napkin to meet his gaze and then, just as suddenly, he moved in. Bucky's kisses were as warm and gentle as his hugs, making everything else in the diner disappear.
He slowed the kiss, easing back just enough that his lips were resting on yours. "I actually need help with something." He whispered, each word brushing your kiss bruised lips together.
"Uh-huh?"
"Yeah, I need help eating dinner on Friday night, maybe you could come and help me?"
Your lips curved into a smile, peppering kisses onto his own grin. You sat back, allowing yourself to look at him openly this time while he waited for your answer.
Picking up your phone, you made a show of checking your calandar. "Sure, I think I can help with that, I have some time free around seven."
"Perfect," Bucky picked his fork up again, but this time he paused, "oh and to answer your question, yes, creampie is my favourite."
I LOVE THIS SO MUCH!!! It's so funny and sweet, and the descriptions of Bucky are 🥵 I could absolutely picture him on the floor working on the kitchen! I was grinning the whole way through reading this, and absolutely cackled at "help me get my motor running." 🤣
Summary: You awaken to a bouquet of blue roses, signalling you've been selected to be a Bride for one of the King's Secret Service.
A/N: Reader is female, plus sized. No other physical descriptors used.
A/N2: Part of the King's Secret Service AU.
Word Count: ~2.3k
Warnings: Forced marriage, Implied violence. Please let me know if I missed any!
Life in your little town was pleasant enough. Sure, there were troubles, every place has them. But your town was full of delightful people who looked out for each other, especially in lean times.
Your father, a baker, taught you by example. Not only did you learn how to bake anything and everything he did, but you learned the importance of keeping both the ovens and your heart from going cold. The most important thing he taught is the different times you would need for baking. The time it takes to make a perfect loaf and the time needed to make a loaf just burnt enough that you can convince the widow down the road that you can't sell it and you'd hate to see it go to waste. The time it takes for the fruit in a pie to perfectly melt together and the time it takes for a pie to cool before you can sneak pieces to the local kids.
Sure, technically his apprentice, Peter, was supposed to inherit his work, but he'd made sure to teach you, too. His excuse was that you were already so curious he figured he should teach you before you got hurt trying to learn for yourself. It also didn't hurt that you were expected to marry Peter so knowing how to help him work the bakery was the least you could do to be a good wife.
If only you and Peter cared for each other like that. The two of you kept the truth of your feelings to yourselves for the sake of your father and the town's expectations. You were good friends, but neither of you felt love for each other. Not like he had for MJ, at least.
You can't blame Peter for feeling for her. She was absolutely gorgeous and fearless. She was one of the few people who would pick blue flowers in defiance of the superstition that doing so risked the eye of the King of Kalva's Secret Service. She'd wear them in her hair much to the chagrin of the town elders. It's not that she didn't think they existed, but that the odds of being left a bouquet of blue roses in your sleep and being taken as a wife by one of the KSS were so minimal you shouldn't let fear of it dictate aspects of your life. You admired her for that, as did Peter.
There was quite a hubbub of activity that morning. Even as you and your father woke up well before most other people in town. The smell of smoke was in the air, tainted with hints of burnt leather. People were excitedly pointing at a plume of smoke, barely visible in the predawn hours. Something horrible must have happened!
The town mayor sent a couple of runners to carefully head towards the source of the smoke to learn what happened and if the alarms should be raised. A wildfire could be fought but only if caught early.
"We best get to baking," Father tells you, putting his hand on your shoulder. "No matter what it is, there's gonna be a lot of hungry people and we don't want to have to turn anyone away."
"Yes, Father," you nod as you help him get things started. You're not surprised Peter is running late, given the hubbub, but it still feels like a poor sign of his understanding of the role of baker in the town.
A couple hours later the runners come back and they're joined by an official bearing King Wilson's crest on his uniform. All activity in the town seems to pause as a formal announcement is awaited. You accidentally burn so many loaves Father chuckles about making sure the orphanage is well fed today. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment at your obvious lack of discipline. Sure, the food won't be wasted, but it's bread that could be sold to the King's men! You don't want them to think your Father has nothing to sell or that all his wares are unremarkable.
"It's okay," he reassures with a smile. "I'm glad to see that you've still got that curiosity that comes with youth. I've been kinda worried being stuck with me and Peter in the ovens would make you shut down."
You smile back, but your cheeks are still burning with shame. You shake your head and set yourself to focus.
Not long after, the Mayor makes a formal announcement to the town. You and yours have to hear about it second hand because, no matter what's happening in the world, there's still work to be done. Apparently there was an attempt by an enemy kingdom to teleport their forces into Kalva's more remote areas to attack from. Thankfully, the King's Mages sensed the disturbance and sent out some of the Secret Service to dispose of them. The pillar of smoke is all that's left.
The town becomes astir with talk and gossip after that. MJ is making a point of putting more blue flowers in hair and some of her friends are even daring to wear a bit of blue ribbon, as if demanding the superstitions play out or go away. Many more are singing songs of praise to the forces unseen that protected the town and keep the people from having to send their sons into war. Some of the elders are putting together bundles to leave in the town square as gifts to the Secret Service. A tradition for such things.
Meanwhile, you are taking all of the things that didn't sell today and giving them away. You make sure to start with those who are most in need. Today's events make for a good cover, and many accept the free treats with your confession that today's distractions made them less than perfect for selling. Another thing you learned from Father, the admission of mistakes doesn't have to be a bad thing. It warms your heart to see how many people are fawning over your mini pies and cakes that didn't look pretty enough to sell.
By the time you get home, you're ready to collapse into bed and sleep away the day's exhaustion.
Your body starts to wake out of force of habit more than anything else. But something is off. It takes a moment for your brain to become aware of what that "off" feeling is. There's something light laying on top of you.
Mouser? you think to yourself, thinking it might be the cat Father keeps. But Mouser doesn't feel so light, she's kept fat by all the rodents the bakery attracts.
You manage to open your eyes and that's when you see a bouquet of blue roses gently resting on your stomach.
The joy and excitement that animated the town yesterday is now gone, replaced by disbelief and sadness. The ovens are not being lit today as Father hasn't stopped crying. The townsfolk all try to be happy for you, and you try to be grateful for their well wishes and wedding gifts. Peter and MJ even stop by, for once she's not wearing blue flowers.
"I feel like I brought this on you," she confesses. "I swear, I didn't mean for you to get to picked."
"I know, I know," you promise. "And, hey, now you have proof that, while the superstitions aren't real, they're based in some kind of fact, right?"
"It still doesn't feel right," she sniffles. "It should have been me, not you."
You give her a small smile. "Just take care of Peter and Father for me as much as you can?"
She nods and gifts you a small bag. "Sunflower seeds, to make sure the sun goes with you wherever you go."
"Thank you," you smile sincerely and hug her.
That night, you prepare yourself with a hot bath and put on your finest clothes. If you're going to be married, you might as well look your best, right?
Dinner is a small affair, just you and Father. He tells you all the things he wished he'd done differently in your upbringing, to give you a better life. All the things he's going to miss when you are gone. You respond in kind. It is a tear filled meal as you share wishes, wants, and, most importantly, memories. Happy, sad, silly. The memories will keep you together, even when you're physically apart.
You're not surprised Father insists on staying up with you. If the stories are to be believed, he won't actually see what happens. He'll just blink and you'll be gone. You've packed up your things, along with the gifts given to you by the townsfolk. You're about as ready as you can be. Unsure of what will happen, you light a lantern and continue exchanging memories with Father. It's about as peaceful a way to pass the time as you can get.
A shift in the air is the only warning you get before the world freezes around you. The flame stops flickering, the crickets go silent, Father's tear stops mid fall.
To your right, a purple-blue doorway opens up in the middle of nothing, startling you. You stand, willing yourself to face this head on, despite the fear.
Out of the doorway comes a well dressed man with a mop of brown hair and wild blue eyes. He looks around before poking his head back through the portal and gesturing for someone to follow him.
Another man walks through and your breath hitches. He is bigger and taller than any man you've ever seen before. He's covered in layers of knit clothing, unfit for the summer season you're in. What little you can see of his skin is the color of snow. You look into his eyes and they make you think of the ice covered lake people skate on in winter.
"You...you are to be my husband?" you guessed allowed.
"I am," he replies with a nod. His voice is deep, tinged with something akin to sadness.
"Can we hurry this up?" the brown haired man interjects. "These portals can be quite the drain on the system."
You snap to attention and start grabbing your things but your husband stops you. "I will carry everything," he promises as he starts picking up your bags. You try to protest that it's too much, but he carries everything as if it weighs nothing. When he has it all, he motions to the other man who sets down a small chest on your bed. The bride price.
Kissing the top of Father's head, you will yourself to follow your husband through the portal.
You find yourself in a small field, surrounded by mountains. There are a handful of houses as well as a cave. At the center of it all, a small lake that is likely the main water source. Your husband starts walking towards to one of the small houses and all you can think to do is follow.
There's a pit forming in your stomach as you remember what is expected of a bride on her wedding night. At least when you were expected to marry Peter, you knew he'd be kind, maybe even gentle with you. This stranger exudes roughness, making you shiver with fear as much as cold.
"Grab the lantern," your husband softly orders, gesturing to the light right outside the door of the house. You do so and follow him inside. "Use that lantern to help you start a fire."
You give him a quizzical look. Is this a test?
He carefully sets down your things. "I cannot light a fire," he explains. "I am a cursed creature of the coldest ice. All of my attempts fail. You cannot see in the dark so one of the other brides lit the lantern for you."
Your brain tries to process what he is saying, but you know it would take too long and you're feeling cold. Setting to work, you start preparing the fireplace with wood and kindling. It takes a few minutes, but your father trained you well when it comes to starting a controlled fire and you are rewarded with light and heat.
Crouching next to you, your husband lets out a relieved sigh.
"My name is Curtis," he tells you. "I know you have many questions, and I will answer as I am able."
"Curtis," you repeat to yourself. An odd name, but you don't want to forget it. "What...what is expected of me?"
"Warmth," he answers. "I am cold incarnate and it hurts so much. I crave heat, softness, warmth but I cannot produce them on my own. Make this house your home, fill it with warmth. Share my bed, let me hold your softness, keep me warm under the blankets."
"I...I've never lain with a man before," you confess.
"And I do not mean for you to share my bed in that way, unless you truly want to," he replies, gently caressing your cheek with his icy hand. You give him a confused look and he explains, "I have no desire for such things, but I am able to provide them, should you want. I only need a soft source of warmth to hold on to. In return, I will give you just about anything you ask. Food, shelter, books, ingredients, seeds, yarn, string, whatever you want to keep yourself busy or happy. I will also make sure you never experience a nightmare again."
"Thank you, Curtis."
"Now ask the question you really want to ask," he gently orders.
"Why me?"
"I am the embodiment of cold. Only someone who embodies warmth and sunshine could ever warm me. And that is you."
"Surely I'm not," you try to protest.
"You are," he gently counters. "I can feel the warmth of your body and your soul. You can warm me. And you will."
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