Summary: There’s one more name from the past bouncing around Bucky’s head. One more scribble ripped from the pages of Steve’s old book. Another person to make amends with. Except this one is different: he can’t remember doing anything wrong. No murdering or enabling of evil plans. No threats or political conquests. In fact, Bucky can’t remember much of her at all.
Warnings: smut ***18+ only***, angst, alcohol, lots and lots of feelings hehe
Masterlist | Series Masterlist
Wowowow I don't even want to know how long it's been since I last posted! Let's just say I've been very busy participating in an actual social life, which is very tiring, omg how do people do it? Ngl I really love this one, lmk what you think!
Taipalsaari, present-day:
Dinner was a romantic affair. She felt human again, in a way that only fresh tomatoes and rosemary and Bucky’s soft lips could invoke.
He was so close. And he kept on touching her, all over, little brushes here and there, his warmth behind her as she stood at the stove like an extension of the steam ebbing from the frying pan. She was hypersensitive. Couldn’t concentrate on anything. Not with him like this: all soft wool and freshly washed hair. He smelled like her soap; she resolved to stock up a lifetime’s supply for him before they left for New York.
Bucky leaned over to taste some sauce, his hand coming to rest on her hip - the last straw. A drink. She needed a goddamn drink. The homemade vodka came clinking down from the shelf, clear and strong and lethal. That would sort her out.
“Where did you even get this?” Bucky inspected the bottle.
“The fish market,” she explained.
“Huh.”
They sat down with the food and drinks. The table had always had 2 chairs as companions, even before Bucky had found her. She’d crafted two sets of tableware as well, and used to alternate between them, one dirty set and one clean. Now everything got dirty at the same time, and they washed it all up together. She never thought she’d be so grateful to have more housework.
While they ate Bucky rested his foot against hers. She took another sip every 30 seconds in an effort to cope.
After too much food and half the bottle, they were twirling around the room, dirty dishes discarded and forgotten. There was time to wash them tomorrow. There was always more time. Bucky had placed his phone in a bowl, and a tinny little tune was dancing around the room. It wasn’t much use for a waltz, but at least it was something.
“I’ve missed music so much,” she said, pressing her nose into his collarbone, massaging the collar of his sweater with her lips.
“I’ll get you music,” Bucky said, raising their hands so she could spin. She threw her head back and laughed. “I’ll get you so much music.”
Shaking her head, she smiled like she really couldn’t help it. “I want to buy a record player,” he continued. “Did you know they were back in fashion? You can get them anywhere nowadays.”
“That’ll be nice,” she said.
“Mmhmm.”
He kissed her. Enthusiastically, at that. Leaning so far into her that she stumbled backwards, fingertips buried in his shoulders.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
“I’ve got you." He squeezed her waist. They stopped dancing. Bucky swayed occasionally, but nothing enough to distract from his lips. And his hands. And everything inbetween. Her body slowly became limper with his attention, more and more liquid as he became more solid, holding her tighter and firmer. She melted into a puddle at his feet, stretching out on the bed languidly as he bent to meet her. Laying half on top of her, one arm supporting his weight, the other free to touch.
“We didn’t . . .” he began, his voice low and crackly like he hadn’t spoken in days. His thumb traced the underside of her bottom lip. She fought the urge to coax it into her mouth. “When we were hiding . . . did we?”
“What?” she said. “Did we what?”
“Um.” Bucky’s ears went red. She’d never seen him like this before, so flustered, his words escaping him. She tried not to enjoy it too much. “Have sex?”
Her eyes went wide and then Bucky got worried, she could see it in the corners of his face, all the subtleties: the backtracking plan. He could still get himself out of this hole he’d dug, it was okay, they could still go back to normal, back to the moment right before he’d mentioned it, they could forgive, they could forget . . .
But she didn’t want to backtrack. She wanted to go forward. And keep going forever, until there wasn’t anywhere else to be.
“Oh,” she laughed, thin and awkward, trying to act casual. “No, we never did that.”
“Okay,” he said. “Good. I thought so.”
“Why is that good?”
Bucky didn’t hesitate. “Because I’ve been looking forward to it. To, um . . . being with you. For the first time.”
She could pretend to be disinterested. She could be coy, aloof. She’d done that before, with all sorts of people, important to her or not. But she found herself actually incapable of coordinating her face into one of indifference at that moment. She loved him. She loved him so much. He was sexy without even trying to be. And she’d never been at this point of intimacy before. The point at which all the mess, the tears, the embarrassment, all the blood and screaming and shame. . . the point at which they all fed into the space between them, charging it, making her body feel like it was about to be struck by lightning, thrumming, alive; she was feeling it all so much. She was feeling him so much.
Because that’s the thing with falling in love: there’s a moment, before you take all your clothes off, before you give yourself over, before the point of no return. There’s that moment when you feel the need to get completely naked. Not physically. Though it is a kind of shedding, of course, just of moral sensibilities, inhibitions. It’s a whisper across bedsheets: you don’t know what I’m actually like. It’s a scream from your core: I think I might be a terrible person. There’s something wrong with me, there’s been a mistake, you shouldn’t want to love me.
But please. Stay with me.
Bucky was different, though. He already knew the worst of her, there was nothing more to reveal. He’d heard her wails, seen her open fire, witnessed her cowardice. All she had to do was give in.
“Are you coming onto me, like, right now?” she said.
“Is it the wrong moment?” he said. “I gotta tell you, I’ve been thinking about it for two weeks. I’m not even gonna pretend anymore.”
“Oh my god, Bucky.” She sat up, rolling him away onto his back. She needed air. The cabin felt like fever.
“But you can tell me to shut up, seriously,” he said. “Just say the word and I’ll stop.”
“No. Don’t – I don’t want you to stop. Just . . .” she made a sound halfway between a growl and a whine, “you’re going to be the death of me, honestly.”
He looked uncertain again.
“You make me dizzy,” she whispered, looking back at him. “You make me so dizzy.”
He smiled. Touched a finger to her spine. “In a good way?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not going to faint?”
“I might,” she teased.
“I’ll catch you.”
“Yes.”
“Come here.” He pulled her on top of him, pushing her hair away from her face. His fingers went back to her lips and she took them this time, sucking, watching his eyes as they drooped and rolled.
“Fuck,” he groaned, lower than she’d ever heard him before. “Sweetheart.” The sound went straight through her, to her toes, echoing across the mattress, throbbing around the room. She felt him everywhere.
And he was hard, too. She could definitely feel that. She rolled her hips against his but he stopped her, gripping hard, head falling back. She gasped against his throat. It was so much. This was all so much.
“Please,” she complained. “Touch me.”
“Where?” he asked.
“Anywhere you want.”
So he touched her everywhere. She glowed beneath him, spread wide, surrendered. And he made her feel so good; so good she was honestly in shock. His face buried between her legs, mouth working in earnest rhythm, not stopping until she tugged at his hair, tight, so much tighter than she could ever intend, hips seizing beneath him. And him inside her, barely able to control himself, trembling but slow, so slow, too slow.
She gripped his hips and melded her lips with his earlobe. She needed to be heard.
“I can’t tell you how scared I was, Bucky,” she said.
“I was so relieved to see you,” she said.
“I thought I was going to be alone forever," she said.
AN: Teaser since yall guessed correctly. Their full fic is finally on its way.
Twisting the hem of your dress between your fingers, you stare at the door. Mind racing, anticipation crackling like kindling under your skin, you shift to one foot, balancing precariously, and breathe through your nose, trying to calm your nerves. It doesn't work.
This is crazy. Girls like you don't date guys like him. Right? You're not so sure anymore. A year ago, heck even a week ago you never imagined a tall biker with the bluest eyes you've ever seen would saunter into your restaurant and turn your world upside down.
Yet here you are. Off-balance and dizzy. And the one person making you spiral out of control is the only one who makes you feel grounded. Safe. Wanted.
Steve wants you. It's a tangible thing, you can almost feel it when he is near you. He wants you. And you don't know what to do with that. Or what to think of it. You only know that it's a strange combination of terrifying and exhilarating. Your fragile, foolish little heart beats faster every time he smiles in your direction. It's not going to be able to handle being in his proximity. Alone.
You don't if you should tell him that this is your first real date. Maybe he won't even notice.
A sharp knock echos through the door and you startle. Your hand hovers above the doorknob, eyes closing as you breathe in and out. In. Out. Normally you would have canceled, gave some lame excuse, and stayed home, content to think, dream, about how things would have gone. Because, well, that's safer. Your heart can't get broken if you never give it away.
He wants you. And it's that thought that breaks through the muddled chaos in your mind. And that's why you open the door.
Steve smiles down at you, helmet in his hand. Bike behind him. Leather jacket open, revealing the black shirt clinging to his chest like a second skin. His voice, deep and smooth, like vanilla whiskey rolls over you.
"You're beautiful," he says, his eyes languidly sweeping across your face. "You know I didn't think you were going to open the door."
Your brain is still stuck on him calling you beautiful and once again you find yourself thanking this man. It might become a habit at this rate. "Thank you."
A flicker of warm amusement darkens his eyes. "Ready to go?"
You nod, fumbling with the key to the front door for a second before you finally get it to close. A few feet from his bike you realize, you were so caught up in him asking you out that you never asked for details.
"Where are we going?"
Steve takes the helmet and places it on your head, his long fingers brushing your face gently as he adjusts the straps. "Can't spoil the surprise, sweet Dove. But I promise you'll love it."
Summary: Steve is so ridiculous in this, and I'm not sorry. This is smut, about him looking after a very stressed reader <3
Warnings: smut (***18+ only***), praise kink, toy use, overstimulation
Masterlist
Hi! I guess this is a thank-you for 200 followers! It's so lovely to have you all here, and having something to write for is so precious to me. This image has been floating around my head for months, and now you can have it too ;)
“I have an idea,” Steve says, after your fifth melodramatic sigh of the evening. You’ve felt him glancing over at you each time, pretty eyes communicating concern even at the periphery of your vision. But you can’t seem to stop, even for his sake. Sighing, that is. It’s been a long day. The emails blaring on your computer screen are only getting blurrier; more frustrating.
“An idea for what?” you ask.
“Do you have a vibrator?” he asks, and your head whips round towards him.
“What?”
“A vibrator,” he repeats, completely sincere. “Do you own one?”
“Um,” you say, fiddling with your fingers. You shouldn’t be embarrassed, should you? Should you? “Yes. Yes, I have one.”
Steve nods, rubbing his chin for a moment. “Can I use it on you?”
“Um,” you say again. “What? Why?”
He laughs a little at your expression. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” He looks down to his lap, and then back up to your eyes. Solemn, soft. “I just want to take care of you.”
That’s ridiculously hot, but you’re still confused. “Where is this coming from?” you ask.
Steve moves towards you, kneeling in front of where you sit on the sofa, picking up one of your hands and caressing it with his thumbs. “I know you’re stressed, sweetheart.” He bends his head to kiss each of the knuckles on your hand. “I also know you sometimes worry about taking too long, you know. When we make love.”
You think back to all the times you’ve apologised; all the times you’ve worried you aren’t enough; you’re being too much. “Sorry. Please keep going,” you’ve said, whilst his mouth was working earnestly between your thighs. “It’s okay, you don’t have to wait for me,” right before he came inside you. “Can you try – never mind,” in the back of a car, at the end of one scandalous journey.
“I think this way,” Steve continued, “you can really . . . relax.”
You’re speechless for a moment, just studying his face, flicking between his eyes. “I didn’t think you noticed.”
“Honey,” he says, leaning forward to kiss you. “I love you.” Another kiss, on the corner of your mouth. And a tug on your earlobe. “Let me make you feel good.”
He smiles in that irresistible way when he pulls away, and though you’re suddenly extremely nervous, you find that you can’t possibly refuse. Steve is large and soft and forgiving in front of you. He’s patient and attentive and everything you need. You imagine surrendering to his hands, letting your body relax until it melts through his fingers, pooling in the sheets that he’s washed with your favourite scent.
“Okay,” you concede.
His smile grows wider and he leans further forward, pressing his lips to yours, and then your neck, and then whispering low into your ear: “Show me where the toys are.”
You squeal at his voice and his hands grasping your hips, hoisting you up to carry you into the bedroom. “The bottom of my side of the wardrobe,” you gasp, limbs curling around his body, throwing your head back as he rakes his teeth from your ear to your collarbone.
Steve sets you down on the bed and turns to fling the wardrobe doors open, rooting around amongst the mess of your shoes. “Not the bedside table?” he asks.
“No. Used to be, when I lived alone,” you say. “But um . . . ”
He turns back to you, vibrator in hand. “We gotta change that, honey.”
You feel damp and warm, humidity curling in tendrils around you. “You’re not worried? That sometimes I can’t - ”
He shakes his head. “I wanna make you feel good. I don’t care much how I do it, okay?”
You swallow. “Okay.”
He puts the vibrator down on the sheets beside you and sets towards stripping you of your clothes. His movements are swift where they weren’t so much before. Your bottom half is bare and spread before him before you can even grasp the front of his shirt. Steve hugs you close and shifts to seat you in his lap, the zipper of his trousers jarring against your skin.
Your fingers at his shirt are incessant, poking, clawing, and he protests, saying, “That’s not the point.”
“Maybe I’d like some visual aids, Steve,” you insist.
He yanks it off after that and doesn’t say a word when you lean your hips back, searching for access to his trouser button and zipper; his boxer waistband. He grabs the vibrator in one hand and touches you with the other, rubbing you a few times to orient himself.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, and brings the vibrator towards you.
“Fuck,” you say, rocking on his lap as the toy makes contact.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Yeah.”
He yanks your top down below your breasts and tugs on one of your nipples. “Is this good?”
“Yes. Don’t stop.”
“Okay,” he says, kissing you with his mouth completely open, his tongue overbearing but skilful and warm. “Good girl.”
“Oh, shit,” you whisper. “Shit shit shit.”
“You can be a little louder, honey. We’re alone,” he encourages. “Tell me all about it.”
“I love it when you call me that.” Your voice is high pitched and breathy.
“Good girl?”
“Yes. Keep saying it.”
He does, eyes intent on studying your reaction each time, and you come after a short while, Steve removing the vibrator when it becomes too much, your hips seizing up and your moans more like screams. He makes quick circles with his fingers, more and more gentle as the writhing of your hips slows. You wrap your arms further around his shoulders, grimacing a little at the nail marks indenting his skin there.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yes.” You kiss his temple. “Thank you. I feel – I feel better.” The emails are gone from your mind, certainly disintegrated into the void, where all the rest of your usual cognitive abilities appear to have ventured to as well. You bury your face against his chest, rubbing your nose into the divot at his sternum. Your lips are lazy and slow against him, swollen and tender.
Steve lets you kiss him for a little while, but then he touches you again, switching the vibrator back on. “Can we go again?” he says.
You scoff. “What?”
“Come on,” he teases, running the vibrator over the insides of your thighs, in a circle around your bellybutton. “You don’t want more?”
“Uh,” you say, shifting as your stomach spasms, gripping onto the sides of Steve’s face for a little stability. You don’t really answer until he’s making you moan again, breathing “yes, oh yes,” over and over and over.
And you’re sensitive and squirming after a few rounds, but he’s relentless, just telling you: “Shhh, shhh,” in a low voice that seems to echo through the soles of your feet. “Breathe through it.”
You do as he says, you want to do as he says, whining long and low with each exhale, trying not to shrink away from pleasure. “Good girl,” he says. “You’re being so good for me.”
“Fuck, shit. Fuck.” You lean back further into Steve’s arm which is curved around you, reaching your own hands back towards the bed.
“Are you okay?” He lifts the toy away for a moment.
“Yeah,” you say, shifting your hips further and leaning back onto your elbows. “I’m just gonna . . . lie down. You, um – you carry on.”
He helps you get comfy, supporting your thighs with his own so your hips aren’t over-stretched, slipping a pillow beneath your head. “I’m done,” you whisper, after coming once more. “I’m so done.”
Steve chuckles, crawling up the bed to kiss you on the cheek. “You feel good?”
“Yeah, yeah. I feel good.” You run a hand through his hair. “What about you?”
“Don’t worry. I’m fine, really.” He glances down fleetingly between your bodies and you follow his gaze, your own eyes falling on the damp underwear peeking out from his trousers. He smiles sheepishly. Unbelievable.
“Oh,” you say. “It’s like that?”
He smile turns cheeky now, less bashful, more pride. “Yeah, honey. It’s like that.”
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