Masterpiece - S.R.
Type: standalone smutty one-shot with a side of fluffy feels and basically a love letter to Steve's hands
Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word count: 4400
Summary: You really, really like Steve’s hands; they’re a pair of strong, talented and tender hands and they tell a story. They are also capable of all kinds of wonderful things.
Your attention doesn’t go unnoticed. Or unrewarded.
Warnings: NSFW, 18+, smut, hand kink big time, mirror kink, praise kink (if you squint), light bondage, slightly under-negotiated kink, allusions to dom/sub and light allusions to subspace depending on how you read it, language, Steve Rogers (he’s a warning and a kink)
A/N: I was supposed to work on other fics, but this one just jumped out out of nowhere (the nowhere LINK). This is my first time writing referencing shibari, please be kind; divider by @firefly-graphics
It is not a new realisation that creeps up on you the fateful Saturday afternoon; but it hits you with a fresh blissful intensity nevertheless.
It’s one of those lovely moments you and Steve got up to sharing lately, precious time in precious company, yet spent each wrapped in your own pastime. It’s a sweet kind of intimacy, comfortable and comforting, even in your relatively new love: being together, breathing the same air, mostly in silence, this time in one of the Avengers’ garages providing a surprising sanctuary on a warm weekend.
You, every now and then sharing a sentence you just read, one you particularly liked or simply made you laugh or think of him or you two together; him, working on his bike, hands smudged with a streak of grease here and there:
And therein lies the problem.
You’re reading, comfy on one of the armchairs which is there just for occasions like this.
Steve is working on his bike, crouched of laid or bend, arms bare to avoid smudging a sleeve.
You’re failing your task spectacularly.
Steve, on the other hand, is excellent; he truly is wonderful at working with his hands.
It’s been a while since you shared a line you enjoyed.
Steve’s not complaining. He is distracting though.
Your gaze, instead of focusing on the page to feed your mind with vivid images and new thoughts born out of the story, keeps wandering to him, the solid lines of his muscle, the tendons and veins on his forearms, his dextrous fingers.
Steve hasn’t noticed. Maybe. Or maybe he’s just being too polite. Or he’s too pleased to point it out.
You catch yourself blatantly staring. Your eyes and mind zero on one single thought, on one single object.
Steve’s hands.
The skin on his palms is roughened by battle and hard work, his knuckles a constellation of little scars scattered across, for not even his enhanced healing can keep up with how often he splits, or bruises, or breaks them when fighting for a better, safer world. His skin is scraped from where he reaches for the world that would fit with the idea of how things should be through the thorny paths of reality, over and over again, for he wants to believe and wants to do his part.
They are hands of a man who fights every day.
They are hands of a man who has taken lives.
They are hands of a man who has protected millions more and inspired others to do the same.
The touch of those hands is the most tender you have ever felt, soft even where the skin is hard, flesh warm and pliant where it meets your skin, fingers careful and meticulous where they hold a pencil or a brush to capture the beauty he sees all around him instead of choosing to only see the pain and wrongdoings; delicate, dextrous and decadent where they play your body to create symphonies of gasps and moans and keens of his name.
His grip is strong, palms broad, made for as much violence as for cradling; long fingers of an artist praying to his muse. A few visible veins rise, trailing up his forearms and enormous arms, the vulnerable paths you sometimes trace with your fingers and can now only think of tasting on your tongue, inhaling the aroma of his skin and salt of the sheen layer of sweat you know he can work when making love to you.
You’ve forgotten to breathe, throat and core tight and burning, memories and not-so-shy manifestation of your desires filling your head, fingers digging into the cover of the book you’ve long forgotten to pay attention to.
The vein running over the thumb edge of Steve’s hand shifts under your gaze, hypnotizing and alluring, making you lick your lips.
The warm, amused and slightly concerned voice sounds from a terrible distance – criminal distance, you deem, once you realize where it’s coming from, who it’s coming from – as it calls your name, clearly not for the first time.
You blink, the ghost of a taste of Steve’s skin lingering on your tongue, the corners of your lips rising on instinct.
“Hm?”
His eyes, however tinged with concern, are just as beautiful, but they inspire softer thoughts rather than sinful ones. You try to focus on those, trying to clear your head, drowning in the lovely sea of blue with a drop of green instead, breath not quite restoring as he rises to his full height; another criminal distraction.
He can hoist you up, you already know as much— the wonderful heights, literal and figurative, he’s made you reach with your back pressed against the wall, one hand squeezing your thigh, the other cradling your face to lick his name off of your mouth-
“You okay, honey?” he asks, sweet.
You blink again, not quite innocent, shifting in your seat.
“Yes, of course. You done?”
He instinctively wipes his hands on a nearby rag, not catching the smudge on his forearm and you ache do to it for him.
“Almost… you zoned out on me, more than usual. Are you really feeling alright? Have you drank enough water today?”
I have, and yet I’m feeling thirsty. Parched, in fact, but not for water. Hand me some?
You gulp, tearing your gaze away from the way one of his thumbs rubs over the other over the cloth with a herculean effort, met with the brilliant blue full of light and genuine, innocent care again.
Tell me, his soft smile coaxes, the wish to know your thoughts to contemplate them or stock them away for later as sincere as maddeningly attractive.
Your lips part with an inhale and a shaky exhale, your heart pounding as you consider whether to answer his wordless plea and answer truthfully.
You lose the battle before it can even start.
“I… I like your hands,” you confess, your own hands fiddling with the cover of your book, something you’d scratch anyone’s eyes out for if you saw them do so. It’s soothing though, especially as it gives your eyes something to look at, heat flushing your face at your admission.
Somehow, admitting it out loud feels more compromising than some of the positions Steve’s lovely hands has arranged you into and there have been quite a few.
“Oh?” he hums curiously, and you can feel his gaze tracing your face like a caress, looking for any further explanation. “Uhm… thank you,” he adds when none comes.
It’s just after one breath, one of his and one of yours, when you cave easily; because you know Steve won’t think less of you, or so you say so to yourself.
“I-“ you sigh, releasing the air slowly, eyes slipping shut. “I really… like your hands.”
Steve understands at the speed of one realisation per ten beats of your frantic heart.
“…oh.”
When you dare to look at him, there’s a faint blush in his cheek, the tips of his ears turning an adorable pink, his smile a little shy, gaze downcast.
“Good to know,” he says and you know he means it even as he turns back to his work.
You finally breathe even as you can hear the wheels of his mind turning madly while he’s tightening whichever things needs tightening on his bike.
Steve acts at the speed of a one heart-stopping action per your mind getting nearly settled from overthinking your confession.
He wipes his hands decisively and properly this time, already stalking to you as he tosses the rag somewhere you couldn’t care to look.
His skin still smells roughly of grease, but it’s his touch all your senses plunge into, broad palms cradling your face most deliberately, thumb brushing over your cheekbone, fingertips caressing behind your ear, tipping your head up just slightly for the perfect angle to kiss you wholeheartedly and--- your brain is melting and words stop making sense.
Steve turns your body into a something pliant, eager and entirely his, one kiss at a time, breaks for air a lot more necessary than needed. It’s impossible to not be hyperaware of the brush and press of his fingers which seem more generous than usual, tingly heat spreading through your skin and veins all the way into your heart and lower stomach.
When you head spins enough for you to worry you might lose balance where you’re sitting, he retreats, brushes his nose over yours with a smile you taste and feel rather than see, one of his hands moving to your hip to steady you instead and the circle he draws there is a bit short of soothing and all the more sinfully warm.
“Careful, honey. Can’t have you falling.”
You can hear the unspoken cheeky ‘for me’ but you forgive him, because he too sounds a little breathy and at least half as affected as you are and as he goes back to fixing his bike, he offers the perfect view of his hands at work again.
For a moment, you watch unabashedly, knowing that trying to read is an entirely lost cause.
Then, when you can’t bear the smug broadness of Steve’s shoulders and puffed out chest, you hide the heat radiating off your face, burning especially where his hands have cradled your cheeks and jaw and hip, behind the book completely.
You don’t have the faintest idea what you’ve been reading about and what you’re reading now, or whether the book is even in English.
You think Steve knows as much.
You bet he also knows he’s ruining your underwear one pair at a time by being himself and pulling stunts like this.
You’re hundred percent sure that the loveable bastard is proud of it too.
You love him anyway.
“Love you,” he says as if he can read your nearly empty mind and all you can do, when you remember how words work, is to have the same fall from your kiss-swollen lips.
He doesn’t mention it.
He doesn’t call you out, doesn’t make fun of you – because of course he doesn’t— but you can tell he’s thinking about it sometimes when his gaze gets absent as you lie on his chest on the couch, snuggled into him like he’s your favourite blanket, your hands toying with his, his fingers toying with yours.
The wheels are still loud in his head, but they are but background noise drowned out in his soft love and quiet smiles and little inside jokes whose number is increasing as the light and yet suffocating overwhelming sensation of love keeps expanding in your chest.
You almost think he has forgotten at times. Which is a ridiculous notion not only because of his eidetic memory.
You might not have one of those yourself, but having been embarrassed and swept off your feet by a dizzying kiss all the same after your confession, you do remember that exactly two weeks have passed when it culminates at last.
You’re spending a quiet date night in, cooking and baking, delighting in making something together and seeing the tangible outcome of your efforts.
Enjoying making things with your hands.
And you have noticed, thank you very much, how dexterous Steve’s hands are, cutting the vegetables, his knife skills tremendous.
You have noticed too, how expertly his hands are kneading the dough, fingers digging in with gentle vigour, the tendons on his forearms working, veins rising before the dough does, the muscles on his arms straining just enough to highlight their alluring outlines.
If you could draw, you’d draw an entire set of studies on Steve’s hands and arms, alas you cannot and so you simply appreciate the sight all the more for it, attention diverted from the task at hand.
Steve’s had a content smile playing on his lips all evening, but when he leaves the dough to rise, washing his hands and turning to you only to catch you staring where his hands has been drying a moment ago, stray droplets of water lingering along the most prominent veins, long fingers slipping between the folds of the washcloth and the towel… you would swear one corner of his lips rises higher.
Two of those fingers slip under your chin like they were made to do exactly that for the entirety of your lives, tilting your head back just a fraction, kissing you on the mouth like the secret and most essential ingredient for the dough to rise is love.
There’s quite a lot of time before the dough is ready, flashes through your mind as your hands rise to Steve’s shoulders, the contrast of his warm skin and solid muscle and the soft pliant fabric of his t-shirt is divine and maddening; the way his large hand sprawls over your hip in a gentle but swift response is mostly the former, but you’re losing your mind anyway.
Several frantic beats of your heart and Steve’s lips gently slanting over yours and you barely bother to remember there is a dough, not caring for the logically terrifying power he holds over you when he cradles your face and kisses you more.
Deeper.
Softer.
Sharing a meaningful secret you’ve revealed and rewarding it tenfold, as you’re soon about to find out.
“Do you trust me?” he whispers to your lips, tone so serious it almost feels out of place in your blissfully domestic bubble, and yet so right at the same time.
With what? is the logical question that should have followed suit.
With all I am, is the only words making sense in lieu of asking.
“Yes.”
You seal your fate; Steve seals your promise with another kiss, dripping of gratitude and excitement.
Steve is careful with you, always has been.
You both fell as hard and fast, so you’ve been careful not to rush or otherwise mess it up; you work hard on communication, because you both had enough misunderstandings and miscommunications in the past and are dealing with those every day in your respective jobs.
Your yes is thus a little foolish and a little outlandish in that sense – but it the most truthful answer you can give.
Especially because Steve has been paying so much attention.
To the faintest hints of you being uncomfortable.
To you being hurt.
Or, Lord help him, to you being hurt by him, even if on accident.
He’s careful with his strength, incredibly mindful always, but he’s all the more careful with how he can hurt you as a person, not just a supersoldier.
You never not notice so; and so when you said yes, you meant it.
You always mean it.
You mean it now and your heart is racing when he gently pushes you to walk backwards to his bedroom, the coil of arousal having been stirring in your belly all night tightening, sending a fragment of rational thought through.
Steve knows all too well what he has been doing all night; because he has not forgotten in the slightest.
When his hands explore slower than usual, lingering like burning marks over your skin – and you wish he had dipped them in paint so he could leave true imprints of his touch, not only for your heart to remember and your body to be blessed, but for both of you to see the wonderful prove of his touches – when his fingers trace the lines and curves of your body and the hems of your clothes indulgently before you discard it, you feel in every minute contact how much he does so both for himself and you.
And it flickers in your mind, as long as logic can when his fingertips and palms and lips drive you mad with their slowly intent and most definitely sweet torture, that the whole evening has been nothing a carefully thought-through foreplay.
And damn has he been playing; but never with your heart.
Never with your trust.
When his lips part from yours with a wet pop, skin blazing with gentle fire, his pupils are blown as much as you imagine yours are; when the soft rope comes out with a quiet May I?, his gaze once again making sure you are on board, you might be surprised, but entirely willing.
It wouldn’t not the first time you’re at the mercy of Steve’s generous and teasing loving, hands tied to the headboard, but he has never used rope before. The material is not as silky smooth as the scarves he has used before and the rope’s length is stirring as much curiosity as arousal deep in your core; but as Steve cradles the back of your hand and guides you to feel the surprisingly unrough strings, you already know that whatever his plan is, he will try his damnest not to cause as much as the littlest pain.
You do gulp when he lays the rope on the bed, and with all but your panties left on, asks you to kneel on the bed sideways to the mirror.
Again, it is not entirely unheard of; Steve loves art and looks for beauty all around him and you have, much to your surprise, quite enjoyed seeing his body with yours, as unreal and all to perfect his is on its own; it warmed your chest and had your head spin to see and feel what being with you does to him, what you make him feel. How much he wants and needs.
Today feels different nevertheless.
His hands roam, tender and lingering, as does his gaze, long enough to have your skin flush and your breathing, already quick, hasten and turn thready, only for your nerves to be soothed by his lips and love.
By God, the way he looks at you erases all the worries the second they threaten to spurt.
Air catches in your lungs when the red rope – like a string of fate, you think with a shaky smile – is laid over your shoulders, Steve’s gaze flickering to yours.
“Is this alright, love?”
Do you still trust me?
You do.
It takes you a moment to find your voice as you have a faint notion of what is coming form in your mind and you find yourself stunned, almost feeling silly when you realize just how natural it seems for Steve to think of trying this.
Steve with his eye for all beautiful things and hands meant to create masterpieces.
Artistic bondage.
And when his fingers slip under your chin when you finally breathe a soft yes, clear enough to his liking, he turns your head towards the mirror.
Heat spreads all over your skin and seeps deep into your muscles and very bones, along with the loveliest of warmth, because it finally all fits together.
Because not only will you see the outcome of Steve’s talented hands’ labour, but you will have the privilege of watching him and feeling him create something wonderful; on your body, no less.
You meet his gaze in the mirror and find him observing your reaction carefully, seemingly more vulnerable and with skin more flushed than yours.
It’s not enough.
You turn to face him with an encouraging and the softest of smiles, your eyes a little glassy; whether from bliss already taking over or from being touched by how thoughtful he was, neither of you could tell and yet you both could. It was both.
“I love you. I trust you. Thank you,” you whisper, earning a small smile, a fraction unsure.
“Don’t thank me yet. I did not practice much.”
“I trust you,” you repeat and watch his chest, still clad in the grey t-shirt, expand with a generous breath.
“I love you too. The second anything hurts, if I pull too tight-“
“I will tell you,” you reassure him, reaching for his face to pull him for a kiss, gratitude and excitement, and perhaps, now knowing what’s coming, a side of cheeky and teasing since you face the very master of the art of that. “How do you want me?”
His irises flash dangerously, speaking volumes of rather general ‘a lot’ as he gives you a deliberately slow onceover, but he kisses you again to taste the small smirk in the corner of your mouth---and mirrors it
“Put your wrists slightly above your lower back, love, however feels the most comfortable… they will stay for a while.”
You do so.
He is not wrong.
He also has been very right thinking you’d love this; that you’d love seeing him do this.
You’re quick to avert your gaze from his when he gets into work, eyes trailing to the mirror when he ties knots on your back or too high on your chest for you to see directly. Your lips part as you marvel at the not all that quick but all the more precise, neat, and careful set of knots scattered over your torso, appearing one after the other, forgetting to breathe in as Steve’s fingers move with more and more ease.
Where the thin rope hangs lose, the pads of his fingers trace their lines; where a new knot appears, he presses with his thumb gently, tendons in his forearm moving in a hypnotic dance, a subtle question of whether the tightness is alright.
You’re not sure you’d be able to tell; your body and your mind alike are floating, your chest feels full enough to burst with every flutter of your heart, your underwear a lost cause as you are near damn sure you are soaking down your thighs.
Steve’s hands are a gift to turn pliant for, your body like clay for him to mould; the muse and artistic medium at once, his gaze and words caressing you as much as his hands and mouth.
Beautiful.
So good for me.
Comfortable, love?
Not too tight?
Precious.
Thank you for letting me do this, honey.
Thank you for being mine.
I’m yours, too.
I swear.
I swear you take my breath away.
All the praise and soft words in midst of sharp focus on his artwork and you, the two blending together in his eyes and consequently, yours.
When he’s done and finally sheds his clothes too, you barely have the time and headspace to admire the work when he kneels behind you and all your gaze is drawn to are his hands, one carefully tangled in the ropes on your front, while the other slipping over your belly to your ruined panties, one clever tug ruining them beyond saving if there any has been a chance in the first place.
The sight is divine.
His touch to your slick skin trailing where you need him the most is electrifying and blissful, heaven and hell aligned so perfectly you feel a sob threatening to spill.
You ride the wave of ecstasy before you know it, Steve’s sweetly sinful lips on your ear.
So fuckin’ gorgeous falling apart on my fingers.
So goddamn perfect at my mercy.
And at his mercy you are and he takes the opportunity and makes the most of it.
Yes, your hands get in a way a bit, grasping at every brush of his heaving abs pressed to your back when he enters you and fills you over and over again, easily despite his impressive length for he’s been preparing you for hours to no end, starting the moment you walked through the door, seducing your mind and body alike like never before.
Like no man before; the idea they could ever compare would have been laughable had you been able to laugh, had your breath not been stolen and punched out of you with every measured and powerful thrust growing sloppy after your third peak, on your knees, on your front, pressed to the mattress with no escape and feeling golden all over.
When Steve buries himself deep inside you, barely keeping on his elbows as his whole body sheaths yours, you catch a glimpse of his hands on you and the ropes and it occurs to you that one of the most beautiful things his hands can be is possessive, needy and all over you. The rope digs into your skin a bit at times, but it’s where Steve’s gripped you that you feel the most, a flicker of delight there might be an imprint or two after all even without paint.
You both pant and struggle to catch your breath as even his last minute thrusts cease, a few moments of Steve fighting not to crush you before you succeed in rolling you over in collective effort; boneless in post-orgasmic bliss, as clearly as you are, he still presses as close as possible, his lips, wet and sloppy and loving, peppering your skin with kisses and gentle, loving words.
Love you.
Thank you for trusting me.
You’re so perfect.
He moves with a curse on his lips to release you from your binds as soon as you hiss at a cramp in your arm; you miss his warmth so much you whimper and mutter for him not to leave. The supersoldier part of him comes in quite handy that moment, as he easily manipulates you on top of him just enough for you to find momentary relief even without untying you.
It is a relief to your muscles though when he finally cuts the binds in a few places, favouring freeing you quickly and efficiently rather than preserving the masterpiece of rope over your body.
You’d felt sorrier for it, hadn’t he muttered that the true work of art was unharmed, he hoped, and if you wanted to, he’d create another one some time. You nearly give yourself a whiplash with how fast you try to nod, earning an unfairly adorable laugh, with his eyes crinkling almost boyishly.
He looks at you, a mess himself, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, skin beautiful flushed and irises blown, and what you read in his face is nothing but love, undiluted safe for the little cheekiness you adore.
“You still like my hands then, I take it?”
You think about trying to scold him for downright fishing when the answer is obvious, but given how much he had humoured you, playing so thoughtfully into your kinks (and knots), you simply smile.
“Yes, Steve. I love them… and I love you.”
The smug jerk, the tender bastard, the wicked gentleman of yours grins briefly before his expression softens and he cradles your face carefully as you lay there, lifts your head like precious porcelain, and kisses you like he’s inviting the muses through your lips for the next time he’s already vowed to bring upon you.
“And I love you. More than anything.”
S.R. masterlist // Complete masterlist
Hello dear reader, thank you for reading!
It's been a while, again. I am aware I was supposed to work on other fics, but this one just jumped out out of nowhere (*cough cough* the nowhere being seeing a tumblr post about Steve's hands at the funny cosmic alignment *cough*). I hope you will enjoy reading nevertheless. I'm always happy to hear from you as interaction is love - but please, this was my first time writing referencing shibari, so forgive me any misconceptions and missteps.
I hope that as May blooms into June, life is being kind to you.
Love, Anika
