( 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. )
( there should be a name for this, she thinks, the first time i taste you.
and how was she, now, supposed to distinguish him from the bourbon? they burned the same. he could devour her, if he wanted to, reach a hand up to her throat for her to swallow, take her breath and she'd still manage to say his name. she could commit the rest of her night, just to this, the sampling of her tongue between his lips and the way his own yearns after, soft and warm and melting once they meet. it's all a slow dance but there's still a bite of haste, like an asking, is this okay? fingers in his shirt, wrinkling at the cotton, pulling and pulling still.
what was close enough? she's not sure she's ever learned.
it takes a great deal of effort to keep herself upright with how he's pinned her, that island bisecting her at the waist, limbs steady and shoulders tempted to fall back with him — and almost as if he'd heard it in her breath he assuages her with a swift, easy motion that props her atop it, instead. a gasp gives a messy break of their lips, glistening with each other, and all of that patience they'd toyed with, downing one glass of bourbon after the next is so easily taken by a hunger that doesn't know it's place. suddenly she wishes she weren't so dressed, if only to feel the contrast between those hands, the allure of warm and biting all at once.
he's teeth and tongue and she meets him there, snaring at his mouth, dragging that pillow of his lower lip back until he's left to chase it, and it's only once he does that she lets him loose. blunt, naked-glossed fingertips are carding through his hair, short but thick enough to gain some semblance of a grip, her tongue sweeping, hooking a calve at his waistline to draw him in just there.
she doesn't want to rush him, doesn't want to rush this, and there was nothing in her unwilling to stay here: learning his mouth, his breaths, how she could make his throat and his chest speak like that hum that resonates through her. idly she wonders if he can feel her heart beat through her tongue, clasping at the forearm that grounds her. )
( her leg hooks around his waist and pulls him even closer, their hips now flush against each other, and that sends another electric jolt zigzagging through all his nerves and desire arrowing downwards. with them pressed so close against each other, she can feel he's already getting half-hard in his jeans. it doesn't take much; it's been a long time.
and bucky can't remember what pace is anymore. old cocky habits balanced against decades of loneliness and yearning now tipping over into full-blown starvation, this thing he's been missing ever since HYDRA picked his broken body out of a ravine and called him winter; and it's balanced against a newfound skittishness, an anxiety about being caught wrong-footed. times have changed. how much have the times changed? he can't tell. he can't remember. he could stay here forever.
and yet. and yet the way she's arched her back on that kitchen counter and leaned into him means the oversized fabric of her dress shirt has slid free, coming undone from where it had been tucked into her waistband; his thumb finds that gap between jeans and shirt, that inch of bare skin of her hip, and skims across it.
that merest brush of skin-against-skin somehow feels even more intimate than when he'd been fully shirtless in front of her and she'd been ripping shrapnel out of him. bucky inhales a startled breath, breaking away for a second to fill his lungs again. and he looks at her: karen's eyes blown wide, lips kiss-bruised, hair drifting into her face.
he has a tendency to stare, half a glower, but this time it's all just soft and admiring. his fingers are still splayed across that bare stripe of skin, just under the edge of where her hem has tumbled loose. )
( skin was different when it was offered. she'd had him shirtless and propped against that table none too far from them now, but she hadn't rid of all the layers herself. then it was blood that that left clothes falling in a hush to the side and now it would be need; the urgency felt the same. the moment the brisk air of the city let in through one of the too-many windows she keeps propped, even during the winter, bites at that hint of exposed, milky flesh, he seems to know it — moves as if to chase it away, to ensure he was the only one to touch her.
the city was a greedy suitor. the idea of him hungering for her just the same ignites her, whittles her down to the basics: want and famish.
those blonde fallen strands wisp across her brow, catch at the edge of her lips glossed with him, and her spine bows when his fingertips sprawl and tease toward the cage of her rib, breath drawing taut around it's ridges and it gives her away, as if to say: there. he brushes that callous palm against her, asks her if it's okay without that gaze once faltering from hers and she has to find her tongue, remember again how to use it if not against his own. )
Yeah— ( it's a whisper, better described as a breath given the lack of tone, and it should speak for her just how long it's been that the rounds of her cheeks are tinted red, fingers kneading at the nape of his neck where they've fallen, toying at the ends of his hair.
she keeps arched to him, releasing that forearm of his if only to let it drift further beneath that thin top of hers, and now she's cradling him — palm to his cheek, pad of her thumb grazing beneath the swell of his lower lip, tracing it's curve, watching the way it gapes for her. forehead presses to his and their noses stumble together, and before she can stop it there's another hushed breath, this time carrying a request: ) Kiss me.
( and maybe it's silly, asking for it when she can merely take it for herself — but they'd danced around the words before, suggested them without really saying them, and she wants him to hear it. to hear her want, explicit and spoken. )
( that permission in the shape of a command is irresistible — he couldn't say no even if he wanted to, and who would want to? — and so bucky doesn't waste any time before his lips are crashing against hers again, mouth open and wanting. his scalp prickles where her fingers dig into his hair, that delicious sense of pressure and steadiness, anchoring him to her.
his left hand's still braced against the island (no matter how much a part of him, even now, wants to reach for her), but his right starts to roam: sliding under her shirt, now across the smooth expanse of her abdomen and stomach, his long fingers fanning across the arch of her ribcage, just savouring the sensation of his palm against skin. he encounters the fabric of that black bralette and karen can feel bucky hesitate for a second, the kiss pausing; before his tongue moves again, accompanied by his fingertips ghosting across the fabric. not even touching or grabbing, just the slightest tentative brush as he forays across territories and borders, skimming into new foreign lands. her skin beneath the loose shirt is burning-hot, and he can feel the warmth of her thighs locked around his legs, keeping him there. stay.
at their next pause for breath, bucky's lips starts to roam, too: he kisses her jaw instead, the spot right below the shell of her ear; he makes for the curve of her neck, mouths against a beauty mark on her throat, his teeth grazing against her skin. taking in every last detail he can and pressing his lips against everything he finds. there is so very much of her to explore, and they're not even naked yet. )
( a sound hums up to greet him once his mouth claims hers in a demand of it's own — something akin to a moan, but far lighter, a delighted tone no less, and she knows he can feel the staccato of her breaths as his palm peruses bare flesh, hyper aware of the callouses at the upper of his palm and the otherwise baby-soft plain of it's center. he toys with the eyelet lace at her chest, giving a graze against her breasts that's barely-there, and hidden pink buds harden attentively. maybe he's waiting for permission, to ask her, and while her mouth is busy she tries to let her figure speak for her—nails biting miniature crescents at his nape before carding up his skull, every inch of her curving closer to his palm as if to give it the confidence to be a bit more sure.
when his mouth makes a detour she's left trying to pick up the ragged pieces of her and breath he's left behind, eyes closing as she's pressing her temple to his, craning the pale, lean column of her neck to the side, golden strands falling back to give him room—an open invitation. it was so easy to mark her, all fair and porcelain skin, and there's some savage thing fluttering alive in her chest that wants him to do just that, color her, mar her like a map of everywhere he's been. something to remember him by.
it's only when she's afforded a brief flicker of clarity that it dawns on her how single-sided his affections were, all favoring the right side of her; her neck, her ribs, her chest, that hip, and she swallows thickly as his mouth pursues her further. she's not dazed enough that she doesn't understand the implication behind it, but the last thing she wants is for him to withdraw, for her to try to breach something he wasn't ready for. she's tucking lips in on one another, keeping herself upright with his nape while nimble fingers find the hem of his outer-most layer. she gives a telling tug, testing the waters for any resistance, and she knows deep down it's the long-sleeved layer waiting for her next that daunted him.
for now, he works with her, arms lifting in accord and mouth breaking from her skin only when it's forced to. chocolate strands of his are left mussed, and she lets the fabric fall mindlessly off to the floor beside them. )
( that first layer is almost nothing, an irrelevance, because all it does is expose the second long-sleeved shirt. and that, predictably, is where bucky pauses like they've run up against a brick wall: his tongue darting out to wet his lips thoughtfully, now both of his hands braced against the island on either side of her, pinning karen in place just as her legs do for him. he runs his thumb along the line of her thigh, following the seam of her denim. (on the left: that glimmer of metal, visible at the end of his sleeve.)
they both know what the next barrier is, and why he's hesitating over it with that clouded, distracted look in his eyes. but he's trying to remind himself of this fact: she hadn't flinched away last time. hadn't visibly recoiled, which either means she's got an excellent poker face or maybe she really is some level of okay with it.
but okay with it doesn't necessarily mean okay with it touching her.
everything has slowed down. bucky's fingers move to the oversized buttons of her shirt, toying contemplatively with the bottom-most one before he slips it off its hook. but he doesn't go for the rest of the buttons.
he's only human. he does want that satisfaction of bare skin on bare skin, too; he wants all the rest of it, her chest against his, those round fingernails sinking into his shoulderblades, digging into the meat of his arm. closer. even at the cost of this, the shedding of the last piece of armour. her own fingers are toying and plucking at the bottom hem of his shirt, but not daring to make that decision for him: so bucky finally reaches for the hem, drags the shirt over his head. the dog tags catch on his nose before they drop again, dangling over the hollow of his collarbone. )
You always seem to get me shirtless in this kitchen, ( he jokes, an instinctive reliance on humour to cut through the situation, but she can see the way anxiety settles in his blue eyes like flecks of ice. that anxiety thrumming in him. it's an undeniably well-made arm, not the brutish soviet design it once had been, and it isn't stamped with a red star anymore, but it's still not normal.
so he finally clears his throat: )
If you're not— comfortable. I get it. It's not exactly...
( delicate? warm? attractive? he's not sure what word to place there. )
( the way he brackets her now reminds her of the man she'd first brought to her apartment, bloodied and carrying two russian reminders in the form of a bullet. how reluctant he'd been to look at her then, to witness her seeing him—it's been weeks since that night, countless spent tucked around various dive bars, downing one too many just for him to walk her back to that red entry, leave her there with the murmured 'goodnight, karen.' she doesn't want to undermine it, that he's not all flesh, but even when she'd first caught that glimmer of metal, even when she'd put the pieces together, she'd still treated him with those same delicate, patient hands.
she's leaning back on one of her palms, the other soothing still at his nape, and he seems to tackle one of those buttons of her own shirt as if to bide time, a means of distraction from warring thoughts.
it splinters through her, watching as he fights to pull his own weight over that barrier, and even if she can't do it for him—knows it's a step he needed to take, and one she'd never force from him—she could at least be waiting on the other side. and she is, and while she's eager to take in every part of him, she grants the courtesy of holding his gaze even when that last upper layer falls to join the other. that deflective humor manages the faintest tick to flushed lips, swollen with him, but there's a pained furrow that takes to her brows. and when he speaks again, words trying to find a way around his tongue it's like he's tugging that top of his right back on—like if he says it first, any distaste that might leave her mouth wouldn't be as sharp of a knife. )
Hey— ( it's ardent, and there's no bit of a command in her tone, but she needs him to hear her, lifting her hand to pinch gently at his chin with thumb and forefinger. there's a kiss to his lips and it lingers like she doesn't want to pull back, but she does, and she tries to divide the fear: there's seeing and there's feeling. so, she does the feeling first. )
I want you. ( even if she can't diminish that heat that's still there humming between them, it seems to pause, as if to let them have this first. she finds each of his wrists, another breath of a kiss, and carefully she's drawing each of those hands to her sides, tucking them beneath that linen top of hers, a quiet guide to curve around to her back: you're safe, here. goose flesh pricks along her skin, a stunning contrast between the two, colliding together in a spiral about her spine with a pleasure unfamiliar to her. and once they've settled, she's ducking in to the crook of his neck and peppering a line of thoughtful, decisive kisses—just the tips of her fingers running down vibranium; his bicep, curling around to it's back.
she's waiting at his ear, letting him get accustomed to how it feels—touching her, letting himself touch her. )
Feel me. ( it's whispered, like two children sharing secrets in the dark, blanket tucked over their crowns. )
( karen grabs his lightly-dimpled chin, drags his gaze back to hers, holds him there until bucky has no choice but to look right at her, hear the truth of what she's saying. she moves his hands, slides them — both — under her shirt, and that shock of cold is startling for her before she starts to get accustomed to the sensation of it, her skin warming the metal.
feel me, she whispers, and those two simple words ratchet another dizzying throb of desire through him, an ache. bucky splays his fingertips along the arch of her spine, pressing into that curve at the small of her back. he's careful, so careful with it: to not apply too much pressure, to accidentally crush or bruise.
then, back to the front, and while her mouth is still at his ear, now both his hands are reaching blindly for the closure of her shirt. it's a little test of dexterity: delicate human fingertips right alongside the metal ones, slowly undoing each button in turn as he makes his way upward. it's a balance, a coordination. he does have some faint sensation in his left arm and hand — enough to measure impact, to manipulate objects, to not be hopelessly clumsy, but it's dulled and muted like there's layers on layers between him and her. blunted touch. but whenever his fingers touch her, he can hear karen's intake of breath against his ear as the cold (winter) creeps upwards. like ice cubes on the skin, but slowly warming.
finally, the shirt is hanging loose, and then he slides it off her shoulders to join his own on the floor. leaving her in that black bra (did she wear that on purpose, when she knew he was coming over?), and bucky feels his throat clench, his mouth go absolutely dry at the sight. feel me, she'd said, and so he reaches out with just the slightest foray across the barrier: he slides a metal finger beneath the edge of her bra, the chilling cold rolling across her nipple, before he moves away and his grip settles back on her hip. his heartbeat's pounding a tattered rhythm in his ribcage; nerves he hasn't felt since he was a literal teenager. )
( that doesn't interrupt that practiced pursuit, and each time one of those buttons gives she can feel the tease of chilled fingertips prod against her—hinting, and on it's own it's enough to make her hips squirm a little in place atop that island, sure he can feel it against his hips, still pressed flush with hers despite their intermission. that want they'd built to a pyre doesn't take long to catch, as if he'd unbound her notch by notch of her spine, unfastening her before he'd even gotten to that shirt of hers. and she stays lazed there, the edge of her cheek brushing his own, lips in a slight gape with her efforts to steady every breath that tugs at her.
the slack of the fabric is telling enough, that last button released from the valley of her chest, and it's pressed over her shoulders in time with an exhale. she can feel the way he admires her, even if she can't see it, and with lids closed and mouth hovering at his ear she's startled when that crisp touch finds her again, tucking beneath the underline of that bra. the moment he thumbs over her nipple a whimper cuts through her—desperately trying to swallow back the succinct sound, thighs giving an appreciative hug to each of his sides, as if there was any means to get him closer than he was.
she bows, making an open-mouthed trail of his pulse point and she can feel it thundering there, matching the disjointed rhythm of her own. one by one those threads of patience begin to snap, carefully wound over the years at the mercy of some clawing thing she's kept caged, and she's winding an arm up the slope of his back, nosing until she finds his mouth. a ragged huff is left against it. )
Bucky... ( it's all she can find, and it's a plea for something, fingertips raking beneath the blade of his shoulder, rolling her hips again, this time directing the pressure to where she can feel him growing rigid beneath denim, the rough seam of her own temporarily granting her a reprieve. )
( when karen rolls her hips against him, he makes a strangled noise against her mouth, a small groan against her lips. the pressure is too much and yet it's nowhere near enough. he presses in even closer, half-rutting against her, desperate for any kind of friction. they're both in jeans. that's gonna be harder to navigate. if she'd been wearing a dress or a skirt, he could've just slipped a hand between her legs and tugged her underwear aside and—
jesus christ. that spark they lit is burning like a forest fire, skittering bucky's thoughts into distraction, into oblivion. his gaze drifts over her shoulder until he spots the sofa further into the living room; and there's also the hallway leading, presumably, towards a bedroom. options. he's sizing up alternatives and exits, but this time it's for an entirely different purpose. the island's still covered in paperwork, a half-empty coffee cup, the bottle of whiskey, things that might get knocked over. they could still probably make do, he could peel those jeans off her, and—
jesus christ
the fire chews up the last of his skittishness and self-control, burned away somewhere in the pleading shape of his name on karen's lips. so he scoops her up again, her legs wrapping around his hips while his hands settle on her ass. he barely breaks the kiss as he starts walking, doesn't miss a step, his mouth only breaking away enough to say, breathlessly: )
( to think that she'd first been the one to tug him blindly through that apartment, a catch of a breath as the island is swept effortlessly from beneath her and he's cradling her with those big palms of his, limbs wrapping instinctively about his sides. she has to remind herself that he can't navigate it alone, managing to drag the kiss out despite the way their mouths jar with any slight misstep, despite how sloppy it all is—it's more an afterthought of teeth and tongue and lips, a waning control, and it takes a moment for her to still the carousel of needs brimming through her to make that fateful decision—
where do you want me? she burns at the thought.
everywhere. )
Couch- ( she manages it around a huff, and there's nothing more than the a dim light and that lone candle lit on the coffee table to lead the way. the apartment's compact enough that it's a manageable trek, but it's no easy feat when he's balancing her in his arms, and at some point he twirls them so it's her that topples back to the cushions first. and as tempted as she is to abruptly interrupt his joining her, tug at his jeans with her mouth lingering there in waiting as she sat at the edge of that couch, she's too fixed on the idea of him blanketing her, weighing her overwhelmingly into the plush surface.
it's that very thought that has her tugging him down with her long-ways, blonde hair splayed and thighs parting to accommodate him to slot neatly between. fingers find the crux of his jaw and they're using it's edge to bring his mouth headily to hers, already seeking out the fastening of his denim with a breathless mew. )
( it's like they've shoved open a door and both gone tumbling through, the tempo increasing, a snowball starting to gather speed. and there— that's easier, as she sinks into the cushions and bucky sprawls over her with the hard planes of his chest against hers, dog tags swinging off his neck and bumping against her jaw as they kiss, again and again, until their lungs are starving for oxygen. he's half-propping himself up with an elbow and a knee, just enough to lift his hips for easier access as karen starts to undo his jeans. this new position gives them better opportunity for their bodies to collapse together, every part touching: his metal shoulder pressing against hers, a jumble of limbs, knees bumping against knees, his mouth fitting into hers and tongue licking into her mouth as that fire of need and want just gets stoked higher.
and then bucky's whole body arches above her when she finally gets his jeans open and gets her hand around him; his spine curving, burying his face into the crook of her neck with a gasp, a profanity murmured into her skin. just that one touch alone seems to have strummed all his strings, a humming along his nerves as all his attention narrows down to just this: karen's hand, that leisurely stroke. it's been so long that he's hypersensitive, oversensitive — it's a more extreme reaction than she was expecting, most likely, the way he just crumbles, instantly undone and overwhelmed. over the past several decades, he has known pain, stubbornness, relief, adrenaline, grief, even good humour—
he had, in fact, almost forgotten what pleasure felt like.
he's intent on re-learning.
once bucky catches his breath again, he finally goes for the bralette once more; fumbles at karen's back for a moment, eventually finds the clasp at the back, unhooks it and drags the fabric loose, replaces it with a warm hand clasping her breast, thumb circling lazily. )
( it’s a deft working at that button, a tug that relieves the zipper and she’s able to curl her wrist within that minimal space between him, tuck beneath that gruff layer, the thin cotton of his briefs and wrap nimble fingers around him. he’s hot in her palm, gives a dull throb as digits wrap around him and milk a tug from the base til she’s able to thumb over the swell of his tip—and he almost cowers into her, breaks against the line of her shoulder and the heat of his breaths there can be felt warming down her chest, pulling that distinct need beneath her navel where hips rut towards her own wrist.
that curse lights a spark in her belly, and she has to wonder how long it’s been, for him—the last time someone’s touched him like this, the last time he’d been able to hide in another’s shoulder, another’s flesh, forget himself for nothing but that spiraling, spiraling chase. and she thinks they’re both showing their cards here, private and shared just between the two of them, unveiling a puncturing need, unsure of how to make it something neat, unsure of exactly where to put it and so it leaves them conversing in nothing more than ragged breaths. flushed cheeks and rattling hearts, and it renews a vigor within her to give him exactly that: a reminder. how it feels: to want, to be wanted—to hunger.
there’s no part of her willing to let go of him once he’s released the clasp of her bra, craning her head back against that cushion, his mouth beside her throat, keening up against the way he cups her breast. she knows why he feels the need to be gentle, to handle her with care but she’s no fragile thing, and she’s using the bead that’s seeped from his tip to lave another stroke, fingers wrapped tight to his cock—a goading: feel me.
crown tips to the side and she’s mouthing heatedly at the rim of his ear. the couch is barely big enough to accommodate the two of them but all she can think about is him filling her, again and again, grasping feverishly at the back of his arm as he blooms rigidly in her opposite palm; another stroke, another lilt of his name. )
( he honestly hadn't expected this part: how sharp the mere effect is of hearing his name on her lips; that reminder of who he is, that comfortable and well-worn name which sat on no official paperwork and which he'd had to have resurrected and handed back to him, only to then dole out sparingly as something precious. who the hell is bucky?
they are, all of a sudden, wearing too many clothes. now that they're halfway there, his hesitation has melted with the heat of her hand working up and down his length, and bucky's squirming to try to get his jeans further off and allow her more access. in the process and in trying to not squash karen beneath him, his elbow accidentally shoves into her side with an oof, and this time there's a chuckle into her shoulder along with the curse. he's not used to balancing physical presence like this, to sharing such close space with a person. )
Shit. Sorry.
( to make up for it, his metal hand moves for hers, his grip hard and unyielding as he regretfully tugs her away. bucky settles on his knees at the bottom of the sofa, cock now fully hard and aching; trousers only partially off but hell, it's good enough for government work.
he's looking right at her and meeting her gaze — with a fierce stare, still, but this time with unabated hunger in his eyes — as he reaches out to work on the button and zipper of karen's own jeans, the metal now sliding against that soft flesh of her abdomen, right beneath her navel. he tucks his fingertips between her skin and the denim, dragging it down the long lines of her thighs and legs as she kicks, helping him tug them off and toss them somewhere on the floor behind them. moving forward again, he presses a kiss to karen's knee; her thigh; the jutting angle of her hips; further, upward and upward, to his tongue circling a nipple before his mouth closes over it; his left hand settling around the other breast, the difference near-electric between his hot sucking mouth and the cold metal. )
( she tries to help him for what she can, finding the loop at his waistline and giving an assisting tug, but once he manages the denim to his thighs it’s left to his own efforts, and as far as she’s concerned as long as they’re out of the way enough she hasn’t the patience to fuss over it further. his elbow startles a jar into her side, a puff of breath at her shoulder as he laughs and it manages to tug a twin sound from her—the two of them learning once more how to take someone apart. how to give themselves away in the process. it comforts her in an odd way, that he’s no better at navigating all of this than she was, that they both teem between patience and a need they’ve kept tucked down for so long. )
It’s okay—
( a rush of syllables cocooned in a breath, something sweet amidst the teeth, and it’s a hint of intimacy that’s foreign to her, something she’s never once had to look after. he’s pulling her wrist from where it works between them and she makes a reluctant sound, just to leave her with a sight that fortifies her appetite all the more. he’s all lean muscle and stubbled features, eyes trailing the wonder of that mouth, the shadow along his jaw, the jut of his collars and the ridges of abdomen, down to the sight of his cock straining, blushed from the attention. her throat constricts, tongue crossing over suddenly parched lips as hips raise, limbs shifting til jeans are freed from her ankles—and then he starts that damning trail from the inner of her knee and she’s helpless to watch him, reaching down to gather at his strands, and the further he climbs the harsher she tugs.
his mouth leaves a hot swirl against the sensitive bud of her nipple, chest trembling beneath his affections, and lips closes to suckle right when that frigid palm gropes at the other and there’s a moan that grows from the bed of her chest, low and hearty, cut off with a chaste- ) Fuck...
( knuckles run white where they’ve clasped at his hair. it’s mind-numbing, all-consuming and yet she wants more, wanton and writhing little thing that she’s become, nails snaking around his side to the small of his back, the dimple of muscle there where they dig in, urging his hips to hers. there’s no way for her to rid of that thin strip of panties hugging the bow of her waist, but how easy it’d be for him to just tug them off to the side, curl his hips into her, and she resolves to a single word: )
( her nails rake against his back, that delicious little spike of pain — but it's the good kind, karen dragging him closer and sinking her mark into him, little crescent moons dug into his skin, a line dragged down his spine. her voice is already ragged with pleasure and need and demand, and bucky feels a contented sort of pride in it, even as he mouths against her nipple again. any sort of skittish thoughts about pace or speed have flown right out the window. if you count all the coffee and drinks they've had throughout the city, dates that weren't dates, maybe this isn't all that quick after all. maybe he's been waiting ages to trust someone like this again.
please, she begs, and he's in no position to say no. bucky's right hand skims down the line of her ribcage and then dips into her panties, a finger sliding between her lips, and he finds her already soaked and ready for him. he breaks away from her breast with a wet pop, a shuddering breath. )
You sure about this?
( as if karen's anything but. her nails dig in harder; the angle of her heel nudges against his legs, a persistent push in the right direction. bucky hooks a finger into the cloth of her panties, tugs them aside as she cants her hips, and he obediently lines himself up and plunges in, his body blanketed over hers; she can feel the muscles rippling in his back and shoulders as he draws closer, his cock filling her. his mouth catches hers again messily, almost missing her lips as he just disappears into it, into tight wet heat and slick sensation.
they're not even fully undressed before getting their hands on each other like this, and yet it doesn't feel hurried or rushed: it's this balance between patience and impatience, lingering on the things that matter, skipping the steps that don't. bucky's breath is coming shakily through his nose, his arm curling around her, fingers pressing into her ass to clutch her even closer. he's distracted, self-control fraying, and so he's pressing hard enough to bruise. his next word isn't anything more coherent than a simple: )
( she can't even comprehend the words, and she hasn't the mind to even begin to quarrel with her tongue for a reply—she doesn't need to, not when every part of her searches for him, arches and grasps and it's once she feels that swollen head of him align that she draws in a breath between her teeth. he doesn't draw it out, doesn't press himself into her inch by inch, no, he lets her have him—all of him to appreciate at once, and the heart of her throat vibrates around a grateful moan, the kiss an afterthought as velveteen walls hug impossibly tight around him. it's been so long, and she pulses, fingers holding fast in their grasp at his strands while the other leaves red swells at the rim of his shoulder where she clings; desperately. )
God—yes,
( it's a splintered sound, a whimper that barely makes it out before she's quivering around another heavy breath, letting their lips hazily stumble together, but it never really connects—not when she's so taken by that pressure, like she's being unfurled for the first time all over again and it takes her a long, spinning moment before she begins to adjust.
her digits release their clasp in his strands, slide instead to the side of his neck where his pulse thrums wildly, as if trying to reach her own, and it seems like a daze that they stay there, him bottomed out inside of her. he'll feel her accommodating to his size, feel the way she clenches purposefully around him as she brushes her thumb across his mouth, the knuckle of it grazing her own given their proximity. he takes a hearty palmful of her ass and she knows he'll leave traces of it behind, that need, and if it's rougher than some may prefer she certainly doesn't notice—he'll come to learn by studying her hunger alone that she's far from brittle.
in fact, she's rutting up to the touch, an urging to continue; to have her, take her, exactly as he wants her. )
( more than anything else in the world right now, james barnes realises, he wants to hear karen make that sound again. that bitten-off whimper as he slid into her, the whisper of a moan as they simply lay there for a moment, adjusting to the feel of it, to sensations gone faded and old for both of them, but now flaring bright and vivid and blinding anew. his fingertips maintain their iron grip on her, inadvertently pressing something like his handprints into her (she'll be finding the marks at stray moments tomorrow, bruises radiating outward, a little stinging reminder as she moves). he draws himself out slowly, luxuriating in it, nosing at her entrance before he presses home again into her heat. it's slow, to start; he could keep them both hovering right on this edge, but after eighty goddamn years he doesn't have that kind of patience. )
You're so—
( bucky trails off, unable to find the right word. beautiful, like he'd blurted out earlier. and other crasser things now, too: wet. tight. he might have a soldier's vocabulary, but he can't bring it to bear here, with karen stripped down beneath him, looking glorious and gorgeous and wanton. instead, he settles for showing her by action: he pulls half-out before snapping them both into the sofa. the cushions are too soft to really give them enough support, but that doesn't matter: he rolls his hips into her anyway, starting to set up a rhythm with the slick-slide of their bodies meeting, the candle casting a radiant red against her blonde hair, hearing their mingled breaths and rattled moans in the room, the only other sound the distant street traffic through the apartment windows. an occasional distant siren, even as sirens and klaxons go off all over him wherever she's touching him, wherever he's touching her, the sensation of being so deep inside her.
the dog tags keep bouncing as bucky thrusts forward, and when they almost hit karen in the eye, bucky finally laughs on another gasp, seizes the metal necklace and swings it over his shoulder to flip it to his back instead. all the little details he hadn't considered, and is having to remember. )
( he draws out and her ribs mimic him, expanding around a breath and when those hips hit flush with hers again she can't help but to let heavy lids flutter to a close, eyes rolling heavenward beneath as lashes kiss her cheeks. she's nothing but a collision of breaths and sounds fighting for her tongue, brows pulling to a tuft as she lifts her head a bit from that couch to nudge their foreheads together, press hers to his and pry her eyes open to watch him—the way his jaw sets, the way those dog tags gleam like a pendulum between her breasts, the sight of him pulling back once more only to insistently chase out that heat again with a bit sharper of a snap.
it earns him another moan, low and silk-like, as if to say: again. and he obliges, eager to set a pace better suited to the fire they'd stoked before they'd even made it to that couch. she can still taste the bourbon hiding out beneath her tongue, savors the way it hums at the tip of her skull and she's fallen too far behind for breaths to find anything steady, forced from her throat every time his hips greet her own.
there's no part of her that isn't praising him, the clips of hums that raise in pitch—decorating their immediate surroundings; for him, because of him, the way nails feast against the rippling muscles in his back as he works into her, unaware that they nearly break skin because all she can feel is that searing pleasure. it doesn't miss her what he might be able to do with the solidity of a bed beneath them, how much harder he'd be able to meet her and god she's nothing short of maddened beneath him, hips fluently rocking up to meet him every time his cock drives back into her. again, and again and again.
he shouldn't be allowed to get to her this way, she shouldn't have let him so close that that brief hint of a smile only causes her to unravel further—something tender wrapping about that muscle within her chest as the edges of her lips twitch, and while she tries for an airy snicker it's not long before it's stolen, fades in favor of pleasure that etches itself distinctly across her features, the steel blue of her gaze. she revels in the way she ruts up against that couch every time he shifts against her, iris' blooming as she bends her thumb, uses the pad of it to make his lower lip furl downward, entranced by the sight, and it's on the crest of another thrust that she hangs another plea: )
( her wish, his command. harder, karen urges, and so bucky obliges. and ordinarily he would worry more about exactly that, about how breakable all this pale milky flesh of hers is, what he might shatter if he goes too fast too far too hard — except that his concentration is shot, run through with shrapnel, white-hot and everything vanishing except for that spot where their bodies meet, where his cock plunges into her, and so he forgets himself. so bucky splays a hand against the sofa beside her head to prop himself up, while her thumb catches at his mouth and he nips it, gently, a catch of teeth against her finger.
harder, and his rhythm speeds up further; slams into her harder, with the smack of skin against skin. there's a thin sheen of sweat across his chest, his back. it's not a difficult workout for him, but there is another kind of endurance, however, and his is frayed thin from long lonely years without— like a muscle he hasn't exercised in so long. bucky can feel that long skein of desire tightening and tightening inside him, building up startlingly fast and embarrassingly soon now that they've sped up.
no, he thinks, jaw set and trying to hang on, but it's a lost cause: she feels too good, blindingly dizzyingly so, and so sooner than he'd like, his thrusts start becoming even more erratic, juddering against her. his head ducks and his forehead presses into hers as he trembles, all those tendons standing in his arms, the flutter of inhaled breath in his chest as he groans her name: )
Karen—
( and bucky's coming with a shudder, his mind blazing into static, blissfully empty. the last times he's been scoured empty, it's because there was nothing of him left: a hollow shell of a skeleton, consciousness wiped clear. now, however, it's because he's limp and boneless and his body heavy over hers and utterly present instead — satisfied, numbed, and also: embarrassed. his ears are heated slightly in a blush as he looks down at her. )
Sorry. I— it's—
( This is not exactly something he'd intended on broaching tonight. Had hoped this wouldn't happen and it would never come up. He bites his lip. )
( she fixes on the way that row of teeth takes to the tip of her thumb, the briefness in which it disappears into his mouth before it's dragging to his chin, and his forearm props itself beside her temple promisingly. she doesn't have a chance to brace for it — but she'd only asked for it — how quickly he picks up his pace, leaves her jarring against the cushions, and it's the eagerness to which he complies with every plea that ghosts her lips that has her toes curling, thigh clutching against his side. what's more is the way he watches her, hovering above her as if he's intent to memorize the way he leaves her gasping for some semblance of a breath, like a pupil proud of his efforts.
that hand from his chin flees up to the edge of his arm beside her, grips him there for some sort of leverage to keep herself in place, to ensure she saps every bit of impact she can from the way he fucks her. there isn't a single sound he forces from her tongue that finds completion, all pierced at some point with a cacophony of cries — small pieces of whimpers, small pieces of her shattering when he gives her exactly what she'd asked for, exactly what she needs.
there's certain gives to this sort of thing no matter how long it's been: the way his pace shifts from something strong and sure to unpredictable, the way the weight of him begins to tremor, that internal war of an ember that's begging to be stoked. he tightens his jaw like an apology and despite being half-lidded, throat worked with harsh breaths as forehead seeks refuge against her own, she wants it for him. and there's a sort of ecstasy that blooms through her like a sweet, darkened ink that he comes with her name on his tongue, that he wrings himself dry between the hug of her thighs, to her moans that soften to croons as his own flames slowly, slowly snuff out.
he stills and she's still throbbing, that slick channel of hers still sensitively aware of him, and when he apologizes some blissful, hazy sort of smile shrines across her lips, bears her teeth that no sooner snare at her own lower brim. )
Don't be sorry, hey... ( there's a sincerity there, even with tone worn by those sounds he'd milked from her. ) It's okay.
( a beat, an added whisper, shifting a little beneath him, finally relieving the pressure of nails at his back. ) Really.
( he runs a hand along the line of her jaw, back to her face, the same motion of cupping her cheek that had started this off back in the kitchen, what feels like a lifetime ago. he's stinging with mortification, but karen's words and her genuine smile helps smooth it over. easing that burden. he exhales again, a long trembling breath as he shifts above her on the sofa and slips out of her. he's pleasantly spent and sated, but that there's absolutely no chance that she is.
his thumb runs contemplatively along the seam of her lips, swollen from kisses, and then down the length of her body. )
You didn't—
( karen's already shaping that no, the forgiving smile, the it's fine and you don't have to. but bucky is stubborn when he wants to be, and never more so than when he's aware of an imbalance that needs to be righted. )
No, c'mon. Let me take care of you, ( he murmurs against the curve of her ear, as his hand dives into her underwear again. he might be wrung-out for now, but he still has hands, and this one slips a finger into her, a thumb sliding against her clit and starting to circle. picking up where he left off and assiduously starting to stoke that flame again, banking the fire, while he mouths at her neck, teeth and tongue grazing against the delicate arch of her throat. )
( he doesn't have to tell her for her to sense it — the embarrassment that balms over his features, and she wishes nothing more than to tuck it away, soothe it away, kiss it away. it'd never been all about sex for her, and while she can't deny having a taste of how he felt didn't make some deeply tucked-down part of her yearn for more, it wasn't a be all end all. his company softening her nights was the first bit of relief she's felt in this city since she'd first stepped foot within it. she doesn't want to lose that; hyperaware and slightly fearful that this line they've crossed might, eventually, cause him to withdraw.
only he's doing the opposite — running that thumb thoughtfully down the center of her lips, lower, as if bisecting her with the touch, and she knows what he's going for as soon as the words leave his lips. her own pink petals part in protest, a short-lived )
You don—
( only he seems to be expecting it, and knows expertly how to hush her selfless insistence, as if they'd been with another this way dozens and dozens of times. a hot breath at her ear, sending a current down her spine, zinging to the tips of her toes. her pulse still runs rampant within her chest, and he's not shy to dip his hand beneath that black layer as he had just before his cock had slipped into her, only now it's the curl of a single digit, that wicked accompaniment of thumb takes to that sensitive knot, and every bit of protest she'd held formerly on her tongue dissolves into a gratified sigh.
it's not easy for her, not anything she's accustomed to, giving in to him this way — it shouldn't be difficult to grasp, but it's... not what she used to, yet despite the fact that it's not the plentiful size of his length fitting inside of her, her walls clutch around the digit all the same, contented to continue that slow-coil that starts as a flicker of embers between her hips.
his teeth at her throat has her reeling, slowly arching crown back against that cushion, and fingertips manage to find the edge of it just above her, clutching there and giving a tug at the pillow as her hips buck against his wrist of their own accord. )
( the shame was always going to be a mixture: that he lasted so miserably short, and that therefore it hadn't lasted long enough to take karen with him. but the latter, at least, he can do something about.
it's slower, this, compared to the fast-paced brute-force slam of his hips into hers, but bucky is persistent. and when his thumb rolls over her clit a particular way and she reflexively arches into his hand, he has a pretty good feeling he's on the right track. )
Good. Like that,
( he murmurs against her ear, and he slides another finger into her, taking the place of where his cock had been, while he keeps working over that slick nub at the same time. like adding kindling, carefully cradling that fire with his hands: lighting another match, dropping it into the still-glowing embers. trying to rebuild what she'd been barreling towards, moments ago.
while his right hand works into her, after a moment's consideration he uses his metal hand to brush a lock of disheveled hair out of her face, bracketing her jaw, just to be touching her more, even if it's at a dull distance and a remove. when her head tips back against the cushion to allow him better access, he nips harder at her throat then laves it with his tongue, with suction; like they're handsy teenagers in a basement, and he's set on leaving his mark on her, hickeys left behind for days after. i was here, i was here.
and karen's body is stubborn, too, he's finding: any new woman is like learning a new instrument, and she's tense in a way that keeps her hanging before that edge, and makes him half-wonder if what she really needs is a good massage in addition to a good fuck. but bucky's working on it: he wants to take her apart, wants to find the right way to play her, the right combination of buttons to push to render her just as boneless and pleased as he was. so it's this: two fingers pumping inside her, his mouth against her throat, a metal finger rolling over her hard nipple again, and then that low burr of his voice in her ear: )
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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. )
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and how was she, now, supposed to distinguish him from the bourbon? they burned the same. he could devour her, if he wanted to, reach a hand up to her throat for her to swallow, take her breath and she'd still manage to say his name. she could commit the rest of her night, just to this, the sampling of her tongue between his lips and the way his own yearns after, soft and warm and melting once they meet. it's all a slow dance but there's still a bite of haste, like an asking, is this okay? fingers in his shirt, wrinkling at the cotton, pulling and pulling still.
what was close enough? she's not sure she's ever learned.
it takes a great deal of effort to keep herself upright with how he's pinned her, that island bisecting her at the waist, limbs steady and shoulders tempted to fall back with him — and almost as if he'd heard it in her breath he assuages her with a swift, easy motion that props her atop it, instead. a gasp gives a messy break of their lips, glistening with each other, and all of that patience they'd toyed with, downing one glass of bourbon after the next is so easily taken by a hunger that doesn't know it's place. suddenly she wishes she weren't so dressed, if only to feel the contrast between those hands, the allure of warm and biting all at once.
he's teeth and tongue and she meets him there, snaring at his mouth, dragging that pillow of his lower lip back until he's left to chase it, and it's only once he does that she lets him loose. blunt, naked-glossed fingertips are carding through his hair, short but thick enough to gain some semblance of a grip, her tongue sweeping, hooking a calve at his waistline to draw him in just there.
she doesn't want to rush him, doesn't want to rush this, and there was nothing in her unwilling to stay here: learning his mouth, his breaths, how she could make his throat and his chest speak like that hum that resonates through her. idly she wonders if he can feel her heart beat through her tongue, clasping at the forearm that grounds her. )
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and bucky can't remember what pace is anymore. old cocky habits balanced against decades of loneliness and yearning now tipping over into full-blown starvation, this thing he's been missing ever since HYDRA picked his broken body out of a ravine and called him winter; and it's balanced against a newfound skittishness, an anxiety about being caught wrong-footed. times have changed. how much have the times changed? he can't tell. he can't remember. he could stay here forever.
and yet. and yet the way she's arched her back on that kitchen counter and leaned into him means the oversized fabric of her dress shirt has slid free, coming undone from where it had been tucked into her waistband; his thumb finds that gap between jeans and shirt, that inch of bare skin of her hip, and skims across it.
that merest brush of skin-against-skin somehow feels even more intimate than when he'd been fully shirtless in front of her and she'd been ripping shrapnel out of him. bucky inhales a startled breath, breaking away for a second to fill his lungs again. and he looks at her: karen's eyes blown wide, lips kiss-bruised, hair drifting into her face.
he has a tendency to stare, half a glower, but this time it's all just soft and admiring. his fingers are still splayed across that bare stripe of skin, just under the edge of where her hem has tumbled loose. )
Is this okay?
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the city was a greedy suitor. the idea of him hungering for her just the same ignites her, whittles her down to the basics: want and famish.
those blonde fallen strands wisp across her brow, catch at the edge of her lips glossed with him, and her spine bows when his fingertips sprawl and tease toward the cage of her rib, breath drawing taut around it's ridges and it gives her away, as if to say: there. he brushes that callous palm against her, asks her if it's okay without that gaze once faltering from hers and she has to find her tongue, remember again how to use it if not against his own. )
Yeah— ( it's a whisper, better described as a breath given the lack of tone, and it should speak for her just how long it's been that the rounds of her cheeks are tinted red, fingers kneading at the nape of his neck where they've fallen, toying at the ends of his hair.
she keeps arched to him, releasing that forearm of his if only to let it drift further beneath that thin top of hers, and now she's cradling him — palm to his cheek, pad of her thumb grazing beneath the swell of his lower lip, tracing it's curve, watching the way it gapes for her. forehead presses to his and their noses stumble together, and before she can stop it there's another hushed breath, this time carrying a request: ) Kiss me.
( and maybe it's silly, asking for it when she can merely take it for herself — but they'd danced around the words before, suggested them without really saying them, and she wants him to hear it. to hear her want, explicit and spoken. )
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his left hand's still braced against the island (no matter how much a part of him, even now, wants to reach for her), but his right starts to roam: sliding under her shirt, now across the smooth expanse of her abdomen and stomach, his long fingers fanning across the arch of her ribcage, just savouring the sensation of his palm against skin. he encounters the fabric of that black bralette and karen can feel bucky hesitate for a second, the kiss pausing; before his tongue moves again, accompanied by his fingertips ghosting across the fabric. not even touching or grabbing, just the slightest tentative brush as he forays across territories and borders, skimming into new foreign lands. her skin beneath the loose shirt is burning-hot, and he can feel the warmth of her thighs locked around his legs, keeping him there. stay.
at their next pause for breath, bucky's lips starts to roam, too: he kisses her jaw instead, the spot right below the shell of her ear; he makes for the curve of her neck, mouths against a beauty mark on her throat, his teeth grazing against her skin. taking in every last detail he can and pressing his lips against everything he finds. there is so very much of her to explore, and they're not even naked yet. )
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when his mouth makes a detour she's left trying to pick up the ragged pieces of her and breath he's left behind, eyes closing as she's pressing her temple to his, craning the pale, lean column of her neck to the side, golden strands falling back to give him room—an open invitation. it was so easy to mark her, all fair and porcelain skin, and there's some savage thing fluttering alive in her chest that wants him to do just that, color her, mar her like a map of everywhere he's been. something to remember him by.
it's only when she's afforded a brief flicker of clarity that it dawns on her how single-sided his affections were, all favoring the right side of her; her neck, her ribs, her chest, that hip, and she swallows thickly as his mouth pursues her further. she's not dazed enough that she doesn't understand the implication behind it, but the last thing she wants is for him to withdraw, for her to try to breach something he wasn't ready for. she's tucking lips in on one another, keeping herself upright with his nape while nimble fingers find the hem of his outer-most layer. she gives a telling tug, testing the waters for any resistance, and she knows deep down it's the long-sleeved layer waiting for her next that daunted him.
for now, he works with her, arms lifting in accord and mouth breaking from her skin only when it's forced to. chocolate strands of his are left mussed, and she lets the fabric fall mindlessly off to the floor beside them. )
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they both know what the next barrier is, and why he's hesitating over it with that clouded, distracted look in his eyes. but he's trying to remind himself of this fact: she hadn't flinched away last time. hadn't visibly recoiled, which either means she's got an excellent poker face or maybe she really is some level of okay with it.
but okay with it doesn't necessarily mean okay with it touching her.
everything has slowed down. bucky's fingers move to the oversized buttons of her shirt, toying contemplatively with the bottom-most one before he slips it off its hook. but he doesn't go for the rest of the buttons.
he's only human. he does want that satisfaction of bare skin on bare skin, too; he wants all the rest of it, her chest against his, those round fingernails sinking into his shoulderblades, digging into the meat of his arm. closer. even at the cost of this, the shedding of the last piece of armour. her own fingers are toying and plucking at the bottom hem of his shirt, but not daring to make that decision for him: so bucky finally reaches for the hem, drags the shirt over his head. the dog tags catch on his nose before they drop again, dangling over the hollow of his collarbone. )
You always seem to get me shirtless in this kitchen, ( he jokes, an instinctive reliance on humour to cut through the situation, but she can see the way anxiety settles in his blue eyes like flecks of ice. that anxiety thrumming in him. it's an undeniably well-made arm, not the brutish soviet design it once had been, and it isn't stamped with a red star anymore, but it's still not normal.
so he finally clears his throat: )
If you're not— comfortable. I get it. It's not exactly...
( delicate? warm? attractive? he's not sure what word to place there. )
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she's leaning back on one of her palms, the other soothing still at his nape, and he seems to tackle one of those buttons of her own shirt as if to bide time, a means of distraction from warring thoughts.
it splinters through her, watching as he fights to pull his own weight over that barrier, and even if she can't do it for him—knows it's a step he needed to take, and one she'd never force from him—she could at least be waiting on the other side. and she is, and while she's eager to take in every part of him, she grants the courtesy of holding his gaze even when that last upper layer falls to join the other. that deflective humor manages the faintest tick to flushed lips, swollen with him, but there's a pained furrow that takes to her brows. and when he speaks again, words trying to find a way around his tongue it's like he's tugging that top of his right back on—like if he says it first, any distaste that might leave her mouth wouldn't be as sharp of a knife. )
Hey— ( it's ardent, and there's no bit of a command in her tone, but she needs him to hear her, lifting her hand to pinch gently at his chin with thumb and forefinger. there's a kiss to his lips and it lingers like she doesn't want to pull back, but she does, and she tries to divide the fear: there's seeing and there's feeling. so, she does the feeling first. )
I want you. ( even if she can't diminish that heat that's still there humming between them, it seems to pause, as if to let them have this first. she finds each of his wrists, another breath of a kiss, and carefully she's drawing each of those hands to her sides, tucking them beneath that linen top of hers, a quiet guide to curve around to her back: you're safe, here. goose flesh pricks along her skin, a stunning contrast between the two, colliding together in a spiral about her spine with a pleasure unfamiliar to her. and once they've settled, she's ducking in to the crook of his neck and peppering a line of thoughtful, decisive kisses—just the tips of her fingers running down vibranium; his bicep, curling around to it's back.
she's waiting at his ear, letting him get accustomed to how it feels—touching her, letting himself touch her. )
Feel me. ( it's whispered, like two children sharing secrets in the dark, blanket tucked over their crowns. )
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feel me, she whispers, and those two simple words ratchet another dizzying throb of desire through him, an ache. bucky splays his fingertips along the arch of her spine, pressing into that curve at the small of her back. he's careful, so careful with it: to not apply too much pressure, to accidentally crush or bruise.
then, back to the front, and while her mouth is still at his ear, now both his hands are reaching blindly for the closure of her shirt. it's a little test of dexterity: delicate human fingertips right alongside the metal ones, slowly undoing each button in turn as he makes his way upward. it's a balance, a coordination. he does have some faint sensation in his left arm and hand — enough to measure impact, to manipulate objects, to not be hopelessly clumsy, but it's dulled and muted like there's layers on layers between him and her. blunted touch. but whenever his fingers touch her, he can hear karen's intake of breath against his ear as the cold (winter) creeps upwards. like ice cubes on the skin, but slowly warming.
finally, the shirt is hanging loose, and then he slides it off her shoulders to join his own on the floor. leaving her in that black bra (did she wear that on purpose, when she knew he was coming over?), and bucky feels his throat clench, his mouth go absolutely dry at the sight. feel me, she'd said, and so he reaches out with just the slightest foray across the barrier: he slides a metal finger beneath the edge of her bra, the chilling cold rolling across her nipple, before he moves away and his grip settles back on her hip. his heartbeat's pounding a tattered rhythm in his ribcage; nerves he hasn't felt since he was a literal teenager. )
Fuck, you're beautiful.
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the slack of the fabric is telling enough, that last button released from the valley of her chest, and it's pressed over her shoulders in time with an exhale. she can feel the way he admires her, even if she can't see it, and with lids closed and mouth hovering at his ear she's startled when that crisp touch finds her again, tucking beneath the underline of that bra. the moment he thumbs over her nipple a whimper cuts through her—desperately trying to swallow back the succinct sound, thighs giving an appreciative hug to each of his sides, as if there was any means to get him closer than he was.
she bows, making an open-mouthed trail of his pulse point and she can feel it thundering there, matching the disjointed rhythm of her own. one by one those threads of patience begin to snap, carefully wound over the years at the mercy of some clawing thing she's kept caged, and she's winding an arm up the slope of his back, nosing until she finds his mouth. a ragged huff is left against it. )
Bucky... ( it's all she can find, and it's a plea for something, fingertips raking beneath the blade of his shoulder, rolling her hips again, this time directing the pressure to where she can feel him growing rigid beneath denim, the rough seam of her own temporarily granting her a reprieve. )
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jesus christ. that spark they lit is burning like a forest fire, skittering bucky's thoughts into distraction, into oblivion. his gaze drifts over her shoulder until he spots the sofa further into the living room; and there's also the hallway leading, presumably, towards a bedroom. options. he's sizing up alternatives and exits, but this time it's for an entirely different purpose. the island's still covered in paperwork, a half-empty coffee cup, the bottle of whiskey, things that might get knocked over. they could still probably make do, he could peel those jeans off her, and—
jesus christ
the fire chews up the last of his skittishness and self-control, burned away somewhere in the pleading shape of his name on karen's lips. so he scoops her up again, her legs wrapping around his hips while his hands settle on her ass. he barely breaks the kiss as he starts walking, doesn't miss a step, his mouth only breaking away enough to say, breathlessly: )
Where do you want me?
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where do you want me? she burns at the thought.
everywhere. )
Couch- ( she manages it around a huff, and there's nothing more than the a dim light and that lone candle lit on the coffee table to lead the way. the apartment's compact enough that it's a manageable trek, but it's no easy feat when he's balancing her in his arms, and at some point he twirls them so it's her that topples back to the cushions first. and as tempted as she is to abruptly interrupt his joining her, tug at his jeans with her mouth lingering there in waiting as she sat at the edge of that couch, she's too fixed on the idea of him blanketing her, weighing her overwhelmingly into the plush surface.
it's that very thought that has her tugging him down with her long-ways, blonde hair splayed and thighs parting to accommodate him to slot neatly between. fingers find the crux of his jaw and they're using it's edge to bring his mouth headily to hers, already seeking out the fastening of his denim with a breathless mew. )
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and then bucky's whole body arches above her when she finally gets his jeans open and gets her hand around him; his spine curving, burying his face into the crook of her neck with a gasp, a profanity murmured into her skin. just that one touch alone seems to have strummed all his strings, a humming along his nerves as all his attention narrows down to just this: karen's hand, that leisurely stroke. it's been so long that he's hypersensitive, oversensitive — it's a more extreme reaction than she was expecting, most likely, the way he just crumbles, instantly undone and overwhelmed. over the past several decades, he has known pain, stubbornness, relief, adrenaline, grief, even good humour—
he had, in fact, almost forgotten what pleasure felt like.
he's intent on re-learning.
once bucky catches his breath again, he finally goes for the bralette once more; fumbles at karen's back for a moment, eventually finds the clasp at the back, unhooks it and drags the fabric loose, replaces it with a warm hand clasping her breast, thumb circling lazily. )
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that curse lights a spark in her belly, and she has to wonder how long it’s been, for him—the last time someone’s touched him like this, the last time he’d been able to hide in another’s shoulder, another’s flesh, forget himself for nothing but that spiraling, spiraling chase. and she thinks they’re both showing their cards here, private and shared just between the two of them, unveiling a puncturing need, unsure of how to make it something neat, unsure of exactly where to put it and so it leaves them conversing in nothing more than ragged breaths. flushed cheeks and rattling hearts, and it renews a vigor within her to give him exactly that: a reminder. how it feels: to want, to be wanted—to hunger.
there’s no part of her willing to let go of him once he’s released the clasp of her bra, craning her head back against that cushion, his mouth beside her throat, keening up against the way he cups her breast. she knows why he feels the need to be gentle, to handle her with care but she’s no fragile thing, and she’s using the bead that’s seeped from his tip to lave another stroke, fingers wrapped tight to his cock—a goading: feel me.
crown tips to the side and she’s mouthing heatedly at the rim of his ear. the couch is barely big enough to accommodate the two of them but all she can think about is him filling her, again and again, grasping feverishly at the back of his arm as he blooms rigidly in her opposite palm; another stroke, another lilt of his name. )
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they are, all of a sudden, wearing too many clothes. now that they're halfway there, his hesitation has melted with the heat of her hand working up and down his length, and bucky's squirming to try to get his jeans further off and allow her more access. in the process and in trying to not squash karen beneath him, his elbow accidentally shoves into her side with an oof, and this time there's a chuckle into her shoulder along with the curse. he's not used to balancing physical presence like this, to sharing such close space with a person. )
Shit. Sorry.
( to make up for it, his metal hand moves for hers, his grip hard and unyielding as he regretfully tugs her away. bucky settles on his knees at the bottom of the sofa, cock now fully hard and aching; trousers only partially off but hell, it's good enough for government work.
he's looking right at her and meeting her gaze — with a fierce stare, still, but this time with unabated hunger in his eyes — as he reaches out to work on the button and zipper of karen's own jeans, the metal now sliding against that soft flesh of her abdomen, right beneath her navel. he tucks his fingertips between her skin and the denim, dragging it down the long lines of her thighs and legs as she kicks, helping him tug them off and toss them somewhere on the floor behind them. moving forward again, he presses a kiss to karen's knee; her thigh; the jutting angle of her hips; further, upward and upward, to his tongue circling a nipple before his mouth closes over it; his left hand settling around the other breast, the difference near-electric between his hot sucking mouth and the cold metal. )
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It’s okay—
( a rush of syllables cocooned in a breath, something sweet amidst the teeth, and it’s a hint of intimacy that’s foreign to her, something she’s never once had to look after. he’s pulling her wrist from where it works between them and she makes a reluctant sound, just to leave her with a sight that fortifies her appetite all the more. he’s all lean muscle and stubbled features, eyes trailing the wonder of that mouth, the shadow along his jaw, the jut of his collars and the ridges of abdomen, down to the sight of his cock straining, blushed from the attention. her throat constricts, tongue crossing over suddenly parched lips as hips raise, limbs shifting til jeans are freed from her ankles—and then he starts that damning trail from the inner of her knee and she’s helpless to watch him, reaching down to gather at his strands, and the further he climbs the harsher she tugs.
his mouth leaves a hot swirl against the sensitive bud of her nipple, chest trembling beneath his affections, and lips closes to suckle right when that frigid palm gropes at the other and there’s a moan that grows from the bed of her chest, low and hearty, cut off with a chaste- ) Fuck...
( knuckles run white where they’ve clasped at his hair. it’s mind-numbing, all-consuming and yet she wants more, wanton and writhing little thing that she’s become, nails snaking around his side to the small of his back, the dimple of muscle there where they dig in, urging his hips to hers. there’s no way for her to rid of that thin strip of panties hugging the bow of her waist, but how easy it’d be for him to just tug them off to the side, curl his hips into her, and she resolves to a single word: )
Please.
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please, she begs, and he's in no position to say no. bucky's right hand skims down the line of her ribcage and then dips into her panties, a finger sliding between her lips, and he finds her already soaked and ready for him. he breaks away from her breast with a wet pop, a shuddering breath. )
You sure about this?
( as if karen's anything but. her nails dig in harder; the angle of her heel nudges against his legs, a persistent push in the right direction. bucky hooks a finger into the cloth of her panties, tugs them aside as she cants her hips, and he obediently lines himself up and plunges in, his body blanketed over hers; she can feel the muscles rippling in his back and shoulders as he draws closer, his cock filling her. his mouth catches hers again messily, almost missing her lips as he just disappears into it, into tight wet heat and slick sensation.
they're not even fully undressed before getting their hands on each other like this, and yet it doesn't feel hurried or rushed: it's this balance between patience and impatience, lingering on the things that matter, skipping the steps that don't. bucky's breath is coming shakily through his nose, his arm curling around her, fingers pressing into her ass to clutch her even closer. he's distracted, self-control fraying, and so he's pressing hard enough to bruise. his next word isn't anything more coherent than a simple: )
Fuck.
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God—yes,
( it's a splintered sound, a whimper that barely makes it out before she's quivering around another heavy breath, letting their lips hazily stumble together, but it never really connects—not when she's so taken by that pressure, like she's being unfurled for the first time all over again and it takes her a long, spinning moment before she begins to adjust.
her digits release their clasp in his strands, slide instead to the side of his neck where his pulse thrums wildly, as if trying to reach her own, and it seems like a daze that they stay there, him bottomed out inside of her. he'll feel her accommodating to his size, feel the way she clenches purposefully around him as she brushes her thumb across his mouth, the knuckle of it grazing her own given their proximity. he takes a hearty palmful of her ass and she knows he'll leave traces of it behind, that need, and if it's rougher than some may prefer she certainly doesn't notice—he'll come to learn by studying her hunger alone that she's far from brittle.
in fact, she's rutting up to the touch, an urging to continue; to have her, take her, exactly as he wants her. )
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You're so—
( bucky trails off, unable to find the right word. beautiful, like he'd blurted out earlier. and other crasser things now, too: wet. tight. he might have a soldier's vocabulary, but he can't bring it to bear here, with karen stripped down beneath him, looking glorious and gorgeous and wanton. instead, he settles for showing her by action: he pulls half-out before snapping them both into the sofa. the cushions are too soft to really give them enough support, but that doesn't matter: he rolls his hips into her anyway, starting to set up a rhythm with the slick-slide of their bodies meeting, the candle casting a radiant red against her blonde hair, hearing their mingled breaths and rattled moans in the room, the only other sound the distant street traffic through the apartment windows. an occasional distant siren, even as sirens and klaxons go off all over him wherever she's touching him, wherever he's touching her, the sensation of being so deep inside her.
the dog tags keep bouncing as bucky thrusts forward, and when they almost hit karen in the eye, bucky finally laughs on another gasp, seizes the metal necklace and swings it over his shoulder to flip it to his back instead. all the little details he hadn't considered, and is having to remember. )
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it earns him another moan, low and silk-like, as if to say: again. and he obliges, eager to set a pace better suited to the fire they'd stoked before they'd even made it to that couch. she can still taste the bourbon hiding out beneath her tongue, savors the way it hums at the tip of her skull and she's fallen too far behind for breaths to find anything steady, forced from her throat every time his hips greet her own.
there's no part of her that isn't praising him, the clips of hums that raise in pitch—decorating their immediate surroundings; for him, because of him, the way nails feast against the rippling muscles in his back as he works into her, unaware that they nearly break skin because all she can feel is that searing pleasure. it doesn't miss her what he might be able to do with the solidity of a bed beneath them, how much harder he'd be able to meet her and god she's nothing short of maddened beneath him, hips fluently rocking up to meet him every time his cock drives back into her. again, and again and again.
he shouldn't be allowed to get to her this way, she shouldn't have let him so close that that brief hint of a smile only causes her to unravel further—something tender wrapping about that muscle within her chest as the edges of her lips twitch, and while she tries for an airy snicker it's not long before it's stolen, fades in favor of pleasure that etches itself distinctly across her features, the steel blue of her gaze. she revels in the way she ruts up against that couch every time he shifts against her, iris' blooming as she bends her thumb, uses the pad of it to make his lower lip furl downward, entranced by the sight, and it's on the crest of another thrust that she hangs another plea: )
Harder.
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harder, and his rhythm speeds up further; slams into her harder, with the smack of skin against skin. there's a thin sheen of sweat across his chest, his back. it's not a difficult workout for him, but there is another kind of endurance, however, and his is frayed thin from long lonely years without— like a muscle he hasn't exercised in so long. bucky can feel that long skein of desire tightening and tightening inside him, building up startlingly fast and embarrassingly soon now that they've sped up.
no, he thinks, jaw set and trying to hang on, but it's a lost cause: she feels too good, blindingly dizzyingly so, and so sooner than he'd like, his thrusts start becoming even more erratic, juddering against her. his head ducks and his forehead presses into hers as he trembles, all those tendons standing in his arms, the flutter of inhaled breath in his chest as he groans her name: )
Karen—
( and bucky's coming with a shudder, his mind blazing into static, blissfully empty. the last times he's been scoured empty, it's because there was nothing of him left: a hollow shell of a skeleton, consciousness wiped clear. now, however, it's because he's limp and boneless and his body heavy over hers and utterly present instead — satisfied, numbed, and also: embarrassed. his ears are heated slightly in a blush as he looks down at her. )
Sorry. I— it's—
( This is not exactly something he'd intended on broaching tonight. Had hoped this wouldn't happen and it would never come up. He bites his lip. )
It's... been a while.
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that hand from his chin flees up to the edge of his arm beside her, grips him there for some sort of leverage to keep herself in place, to ensure she saps every bit of impact she can from the way he fucks her. there isn't a single sound he forces from her tongue that finds completion, all pierced at some point with a cacophony of cries — small pieces of whimpers, small pieces of her shattering when he gives her exactly what she'd asked for, exactly what she needs.
there's certain gives to this sort of thing no matter how long it's been: the way his pace shifts from something strong and sure to unpredictable, the way the weight of him begins to tremor, that internal war of an ember that's begging to be stoked. he tightens his jaw like an apology and despite being half-lidded, throat worked with harsh breaths as forehead seeks refuge against her own, she wants it for him. and there's a sort of ecstasy that blooms through her like a sweet, darkened ink that he comes with her name on his tongue, that he wrings himself dry between the hug of her thighs, to her moans that soften to croons as his own flames slowly, slowly snuff out.
he stills and she's still throbbing, that slick channel of hers still sensitively aware of him, and when he apologizes some blissful, hazy sort of smile shrines across her lips, bears her teeth that no sooner snare at her own lower brim. )
Don't be sorry, hey... ( there's a sincerity there, even with tone worn by those sounds he'd milked from her. ) It's okay.
( a beat, an added whisper, shifting a little beneath him, finally relieving the pressure of nails at his back. ) Really.
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his thumb runs contemplatively along the seam of her lips, swollen from kisses, and then down the length of her body. )
You didn't—
( karen's already shaping that no, the forgiving smile, the it's fine and you don't have to. but bucky is stubborn when he wants to be, and never more so than when he's aware of an imbalance that needs to be righted. )
No, c'mon. Let me take care of you, ( he murmurs against the curve of her ear, as his hand dives into her underwear again. he might be wrung-out for now, but he still has hands, and this one slips a finger into her, a thumb sliding against her clit and starting to circle. picking up where he left off and assiduously starting to stoke that flame again, banking the fire, while he mouths at her neck, teeth and tongue grazing against the delicate arch of her throat. )
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only he's doing the opposite — running that thumb thoughtfully down the center of her lips, lower, as if bisecting her with the touch, and she knows what he's going for as soon as the words leave his lips. her own pink petals part in protest, a short-lived )
You don—
( only he seems to be expecting it, and knows expertly how to hush her selfless insistence, as if they'd been with another this way dozens and dozens of times. a hot breath at her ear, sending a current down her spine, zinging to the tips of her toes. her pulse still runs rampant within her chest, and he's not shy to dip his hand beneath that black layer as he had just before his cock had slipped into her, only now it's the curl of a single digit, that wicked accompaniment of thumb takes to that sensitive knot, and every bit of protest she'd held formerly on her tongue dissolves into a gratified sigh.
it's not easy for her, not anything she's accustomed to, giving in to him this way — it shouldn't be difficult to grasp, but it's... not what she used to, yet despite the fact that it's not the plentiful size of his length fitting inside of her, her walls clutch around the digit all the same, contented to continue that slow-coil that starts as a flicker of embers between her hips.
his teeth at her throat has her reeling, slowly arching crown back against that cushion, and fingertips manage to find the edge of it just above her, clutching there and giving a tug at the pillow as her hips buck against his wrist of their own accord. )
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it's slower, this, compared to the fast-paced brute-force slam of his hips into hers, but bucky is persistent. and when his thumb rolls over her clit a particular way and she reflexively arches into his hand, he has a pretty good feeling he's on the right track. )
Good. Like that,
( he murmurs against her ear, and he slides another finger into her, taking the place of where his cock had been, while he keeps working over that slick nub at the same time. like adding kindling, carefully cradling that fire with his hands: lighting another match, dropping it into the still-glowing embers. trying to rebuild what she'd been barreling towards, moments ago.
while his right hand works into her, after a moment's consideration he uses his metal hand to brush a lock of disheveled hair out of her face, bracketing her jaw, just to be touching her more, even if it's at a dull distance and a remove. when her head tips back against the cushion to allow him better access, he nips harder at her throat then laves it with his tongue, with suction; like they're handsy teenagers in a basement, and he's set on leaving his mark on her, hickeys left behind for days after. i was here, i was here.
and karen's body is stubborn, too, he's finding: any new woman is like learning a new instrument, and she's tense in a way that keeps her hanging before that edge, and makes him half-wonder if what she really needs is a good massage in addition to a good fuck. but bucky's working on it: he wants to take her apart, wants to find the right way to play her, the right combination of buttons to push to render her just as boneless and pleased as he was. so it's this: two fingers pumping inside her, his mouth against her throat, a metal finger rolling over her hard nipple again, and then that low burr of his voice in her ear: )
Tell me what feels good.
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