Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s not the perfect day or time for this, but if there’s one thing you’ve learned being with Steve Rogers it’s that it’s never the perfect time for anything. You two would never have had a real conversation. You’d never have made it to a first date. You’d never have gotten engaged. Perfect isn’t what you two are, but you do love each other, you are devoted to each other, and that is enough.

Steve’s been pissy--like really pissy,—wildly irritated by something well above your pay grade that he and Stark have been meeting about constantly. You can tell he wants to talk about it, or at very least figure out how to end the waiting game until something is settled. You don’t know when he’ll be back from upstairs. There’s a significant chance he won’t even be coming home before being deployed on a mission, but c’est la vie. They are just clothes. You can take them off and put them away for another time easily.

Gosh, you hope he comes home to see you though. You hope this ends up being as exciting for him as it is for you.

Steve is a very straightforward man. He doesn’t role-play. He doesn’t think of scenarios. He doesn’t ever imagine he is anyone or anywhere else but him with you. Fine. He doesn’t have to imagine this.

Classic Captain Rogers.

The garter belt is a pale blue. You thought about white, but it felt a little too bridal. You felt the black might be a little intimidating for him (since it was for you too). This was the only other option in the store. If you had chickened out buying it right then, it wasn’t gonna happen. You bought the nude stockings two months before, vaguely searching the rest of the ensemble on a few different websites. You’d already pondered—and pondered and pondered—for so long. Now or never. You are strapped in (with everything strapped on) and ready to go.

Personally, you are very grateful that women’s hosiery evolved beyond a seam up the back, but admittedly, the illusion is flattering. Your look now harkens back to the time Steve himself does.

Music. Music will set the mood—your mood—so you bend over to fiddle with the record player. You should choose something he doesn’t always listen to. None of the titles ring too many bells, so you pop song by song down several vinyls and learn some new favorites. You get really into it. Who wouldn’t? You’re feeling sexy, and it was a good choice to keep the pressure low.

You gave him no hints or warnings. If Steve doesn’t come home, no huge loss because now you know that you can deal with a few hours in a thong, a garter, and stockings. You continue to feel yourself and the music with a glass of wine in hand. Why the hell not? It’s not like—

He must have come in quietly while a song rang particularly loud. As you turn around to set aside the next record, Steve stands at the doorway, open-mouthed, eyes fixed on your legs.

But he’s not alone.

Bucky is frozen mid-stride behind him. His face is a tentative mixture of a smile and a very devious thought being poorly suppressed.

You flail to cover yourself, splashing wine over your chest and thigh. Thank god you did not choose the unlined, lace bra…except you are still wearing a thong and probably already mooned both men. The wine was chilled, so you get the wonderful sensation of your nipples pulling taught beneath the soft cushion of a push-up.

Steve’s eyes don’t move at all. “Sweetheart,” he chirps before a swallow rolls thick down his throat.

It’s impossible to contain your nervous giggle, which erupts instead of shrieking in shock.

Finally, FINALLY, Bucky averts his eyes and begins to back up to the door.

“I’ll just see ya—well, no, not seein’—I’ll just—I’ll talk to ya later, punk.” He runs right into the wall, back first, correcting to grasp the handle on his third try. “What the hell,” you hear him mutter angrily as he rips the exit open just enough to squeeze his bulky body out.

Steve’s…uh…still frozen. He’s short-circuited so bad that he ticks out a hand and says “ok, Buck” a solid ten seconds after his best friend has left the room. His eyes slowly—and you’re talking slow enough to feel objectified—lift back up your body until rosy-cheeked Rogers finds not-quite smooth words.

“Hi.”

Half your lip smiles while the other half twitches. “Hi,” you squeak, opening your arms to show off a reserved stance, knees tucked over each other. You probably should not have waited this long to think of the game plan…or think of maybe wearing a robe until the big reveal. Dang wine and music.

Steve still doesn’t take a step forward, but he straightens up, clears his throat, and remains unblinking as his eyes fall again. “You’re dripping.”

How?

How does Steve manage to sound so dirty while just stating the obvious?

But Steve is hardly there anymore. Something in his blue eyes is gone, off to a world far away as he remains fixated on the slightly darkened mesh of fabric covering very little of you. It’s difficult to describe the look etched on his face. Reverence, maybe? Whatever it is consumes his focus even as you move to grab the hand towel from the kitchen countertop.

Steve mirrors your steps, closing in without moving his gaze. He watches you dab wine off your breast and stomach before reaching out to take the cloth, fingers gentle but firm against yours. Butterflies take flight in your gut, fueled by what little alcohol you were able to get inside your mouth before emptying the glass which still dangles sticky in your hand. He doesn’t dab you anymore with the towel. Steve simply drops it back onto the countertop, taking the glass and carefully setting it next to the cloth.

This time, his eyes stay down while his finger taps the marble. You’re just standing, waiting for a cue while the record rolls around to the next song. You can’t even listen to the words. It’s probably not the right tone. You can see blue shift towards you. Steve looks at your legs again, and the muscles of his arms tense without moving him an inch.

He takes a sharp breath in through his nose before adjusting face to face. You probably look like a deer in the headlights, but you have no idea what’s going through his mind. Is he furious that Bucky saw you like this? Is he only here to change before rushing off to a mission? Have you just irreparably distracted Captain America from saving the world?

Then this damn thing is well worth the seventy dollars. Fuck it. You don’t even feel shame anymore.

Steve searches your face, brow rapidly scrolling through a dozen emotions that betray how lost he is to his own control, and when he finally breathes out, he’s attacking.

“Shit,” Steve growls just before his lips scald yours, hands broad and roaming, crowding you against the cold steel of the fridge until you gasp. His kiss is quick and needy, head dropping to let him lick the sweet taste of wine off of you. He doesn’t wait for your legs to respond to him. One of his hands grips under your thigh while the other arm encircles your waist and lifts you.

Movement is a blur until your back hits the bed and your body bounces back towards his waiting mouth which this time lands on the delicate clasp across your thigh. There’s wine there too, but you’re fairly certain that’s not what makes Steve moan your name. He's on his knees before you at the foot of the bed. His fingertip brushes over the top seam of the stocking before it curls beneath it. Your leg gets thrown over his shoulder like a prize from a hunt he’s been on. All that pent-up, angry energy leaches out of Steve through the floor as he plants a soft kiss in the indent left on your plump skin from the tight material. He presses his cheek and forehead to the thin shield over sensitive flesh, tilting his gaze up to you propped on your elbows.

“Can I…” He lets out a heavy breath. “Can you leave them on?”

They’re gonna smell like wine forever but sure, bud. You nod with your lip latched between your teeth. Steve breathes deeply again and (since you know he enjoys using all of his senses) listens to your heartbeat through the artery in your thigh. His glassy stare sits forward at the garter and thong while his ear is pressed to you. Then his finger comes up to wrap around the tiny strip of fabric over your folds, his skin just grazing yours.

“Is this a set?” His eyes flick up to yours, expectant.

You were hoping he wouldn’t really notice since the garter sits over half the panty, but not a lot gets past Steve Rogers. You should probably know that by now.

“Ok, so I didn’t want to go overboard and pay another thirty for butt floss but the color seemed close enough and I hate thongs anyway—“

Steve pulls hard, and, rip, there go your underwear. “Good,” he says with the ghost of a smile and bright eyes. He’s not blushing anymore because Steve isn’t embarrassed. He's so polished, hair swept back, button-down pressed and tucked in, sleeves rolled just so. How he manages to be so put together and feel so unraveled is beyond you.

He’s hungry now, and the feast of you is bare before him.

Yeah, you should have prepared yourself to say something, but all language has evaporated from your brain with the heat coursing through you. The heat only grows more consuming when Steve licks a trail from the top edge of stocking up the inside of your thigh. It tickles and makes you shiver when he nuzzles right past the shredded band of thong.

That rat bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s too gentle. His tongue moves lazily around. It is just a huge tease while his hands still grab and pet at the stockings and straps. You’re about to joke for him to put some work into it when he looks up with pleading eyes. Steve can’t voice what he wants, so he sits back on his heels, closes your knees, and pulls at the underside of one. He wants you to turn over.

There’s a lightning bolt crackling down to your core synced with the seriousness of his request. You get a little shaky flipping yourself on the bed, replanting your feet on the floor, and straightening your legs. It puts your ass so high in the air and spreads your cheeks. You can’t meet his eye, but since Steve’s hands immediately trace the full seam from each ankle up, he probably isn’t looking at your face. You're still leaning on your forearms when his mouth finds the back of your thigh again which is great because you would collapse without that support. The attention paid to you is adoring though, so you let him have his fun.

His mouth returns to lave at your clit and dips through your folds, but Steve’s nose gets (in your opinion) dangerously close to your ass. It makes you tense. The record has stopped in the living room. The lights are on. You’re feeling a little overwhelmed even as the back of his finger brushes up and down your calf. Steve senses it but doesn’t say a word. He simply sits back again, lays on the floor beneath you, and nudges you down to your knees.

You look at him questioningly. You’ve never sat on his face before, but he looks eager. Your fiancé wants your body to smother him as he eats you out. It’s so hot and so shockingly…how to describe it? Un-Steve like? No. It’s in his character to dote on you. He thrills in your pleasure. Maybe this should feel like a natural evolution of that? In the midst of your hesitation, Steve begs.

“Please.” It’s desperate and loving all at once, but the sheer care with which he handles you as you sink above him is not only reassuring; you’re entranced. He holds eye contact with you even as he places a light kiss on your knee beside his head.

You don’t mean for your voice to sound so small but your mouth has gone dry. “You sure about this?”

Steve nods his head, making you shiver with the tickle of his hair against your bare skin. He’s supporting some of your weight, hands firm against your hips, but he neither lifts nor pulls you down. He’s Switzerland…but he said please.

“Ok,” you breathe, planting both hands at the edge of the mattress. Of course, you trust Steve with your body. He probably puts more effort into caring for it than you do overall. It’s still a rush of nerves flooding your insides. Luckily, he takes over once you start moving into position.

You sorta get why he wanted this right now in the first place. Steve’s hands tangle in the belt, thumb wrapped around a strap and bunching the lacy hem. Thank goodness it’s all able to stretch or the whole thing would go the way of your thong, and for an instant, you’re sad at how disappointed you know he’d be.

He doesn’t skip a beat or ease into it this time. There’s no teasing, just intense, passionate attention to anywhere that makes you move against him or elicits a sound. The build is steady until one particularly harsh suckle on your clit rockets through you at the speed of light. If you squirted now, you’d have drowned Captain America; the Potomac’s got nothing on this man going down on you.

He keeps you rocking gently until you stop biting the fucking comforter and attempt to rise weakly. You’re practically clawing for leverage on the bed when you hear Steve’s deep chuckle and the sound of his zipper.

Oh, right. He’s still fully clothed.

“One sec, gonna grab a condom.”

“Honey,” you huff out, voice muffled in the sheets, “the whole point of finding the right birth control for me was not having to deal with those.” You sound so fucked already, and Steve’s just asking for permission to begin.

“If you're sure…”

You throw a look over your shoulder as you hear him shuffle off the floor. “Yes.”

He smirks faintly, wiping his palm down his slicked face only to pump himself a few times with you. Waste not. Steve’s a very efficient man. You’re still vibrating from your release, core still aglow with heat, so his swift move to lift your butt and toss you prone on the bed is mind-boggling. His strength, his endurance, his singular focus on you in such intimate moments, it all makes you keen, back arching up while he strips his clothing away. Steve’s body is scorching against you.

“Still ok?” His breath caresses your ear.

Your yes is far more of a moan this time since you’re sensing him writhe to get in place behind you. He runs a broad palm over the baby blue satin and lace across the small of your back, and traces his hands down the seams again, all the while saying you’re beautiful. He slowly enters you, pumping just enough each time to force your cum to lubricate his way.

And then you feel one of the straps come loose, probably from the strain of stretching all the way across your purposefully protruding posterior. The force stings your skin. A groan rattles the air above you, a coarse finger pad rolling over the damaged site.

Rational Steve is lost to you. He’s a humping, thrusting mess of muscle pinning you down. He grabs one of your ankles and lifts the leg out and around. It doesn’t strain you; the new angle allows him deeper. Your back curls down to point up into him as best it can under the weight. It’s as if every noise he makes is directed at you, intended to prove how good he feels inside you.

After he releases your leg, his free hand roams to grab you all over: hip, waist, breast, shoulder, back of your neck, hair. His balls slap against your barely exposed clit. On instinct—because even though he does feel amazing this way, you can’t get enough friction to come—you reach an arm under yourself to rub. Instead, Steve’s noises fuel a more devious approach, and you add a bit of grip to his sack. Steve whines and presses himself against your hips so hard you both collapse while you keep massaging.

“Honey,” he pants, “so close.”

You’re honestly here to ruin his brain at this point, doesn’t even matter if you climax again, so you slap your own ass in front of him and tell him to come for you. Write that down. He likes that. He actually mutters ‘fuck’ to that. Steve winds his fingers beneath the nearest (attached) garter strap, grinding hard against you until utterly spent.

It’s oddly satisfying to know that you did not come again exclusively because your show worked so well.  Steve completely disappeared into his own excitement, his own pleasure, for once, and somehow the pride that stirs in you is more potent than any orgasm. Fuck yeah, you did that.

He’s even still propped on an arm atop you, tracing the edges of satin all over. He whispers about how gorgeous you are, how soft, how sexy, how much he loves to touch you; it’s probably the most Steve has ever said immediately after sex. He’s almost possessed, giddy, or high on experiencing his actual fantasy made manifest. Even while his breathing returns to normal, his energy hums around you. He cleans you up, rolls you over and into his arms, and settles beside you with a treasuring gaze.

Your whole body feels warm and aches just a little, in just the right way. His hand rests on your hip. He rubs his thumb back and forth on your faintly sweaty skin.

“I’ll be better next time,” Steve says shyly, “prepared.” It’s fucking adorable. He blushes again while his eyes dart to the pale blue bra and belt. He nibbles on his lip and quietly—very quietly—adds, “did…does that come in other colors?”

Steady, Steve Rogers. You’re going to spoil this man…

"So," you drawl sleepily, "which one of us got texted the most eggplant emojis from Bucky?"