( girls in the forties were not, in fact, all as prim and prudish and demure as the world seems to have painted them in the years since — he'd bitten back a laugh sometimes, watching a movie set in the past — but this still feels new and overwhelming, and bucky answers in kind. a spark lit in a dark and empty room; a match striking a flame and feeding a desire that he hasn't felt in so long, and which he's purposefully smothered for so long. she nudges at the part of his lips, and bucky opens up further in response, his tongue slipping into her mouth. karen's dragged him closer by the fabric of his shirt and he's pressed up against her, their bodies desperate for contact, to be touching — and he realises a second later that he's accidentally crowded her up against the island, karen's back pressed against it with nowhere to go.
while she's clutching his face and that solid line of his jaw, bucky's hand moves downward and slides along the curve of her hips, a finger hooking into the loop of her denim. hanging onto her. stay.
and more is the only coherent thought he can pin down. and so after a moment, bucky lets himself loose like a leash finally slackened, free rein given to his impulses after so much time spent on ice. he gives a thoughtful hum, and then his hands move further — one flesh-and-blood, the other hard, cold metal — down to her thighs and, in a dizzying swoop of superstrength, he lifts her up and settles her on the edge of the island. so he can step even closer between the cradle of her legs, reach her better, settle his right hand on her hip again. kiss her again, all lips and teeth, his hot tongue against hers. the kiss is urgent and yet not rushed; he's taking his time, getting to know the taste of her, the ebb-and-flow of pressure, the way karen pushes back when he meets her. there's a dance to it. he's re-learning the steps. )
no subject
while she's clutching his face and that solid line of his jaw, bucky's hand moves downward and slides along the curve of her hips, a finger hooking into the loop of her denim. hanging onto her. stay.
and more is the only coherent thought he can pin down. and so after a moment, bucky lets himself loose like a leash finally slackened, free rein given to his impulses after so much time spent on ice. he gives a thoughtful hum, and then his hands move further — one flesh-and-blood, the other hard, cold metal — down to her thighs and, in a dizzying swoop of superstrength, he lifts her up and settles her on the edge of the island. so he can step even closer between the cradle of her legs, reach her better, settle his right hand on her hip again. kiss her again, all lips and teeth, his hot tongue against hers. the kiss is urgent and yet not rushed; he's taking his time, getting to know the taste of her, the ebb-and-flow of pressure, the way karen pushes back when he meets her. there's a dance to it. he's re-learning the steps. )