So, it isn't quite what the goal she'd had in mind. His thumb remains as-is — present but unmoving. A light, hardly-there reminder of the kinds of boundaries they're skirting together. Peggy isn't even certain she wants to push him further. No, that's a lie, she absolutely wants to push him further — what she can't decide is how much sweeter it might be to instead linger in this quiet, playful space.
The cold is long, long forgotten. All her attention has narrowed down to the erased distance between their bodies. That, and the way his words — dry and practical in subtance — shoot down her spine and spread through her lower belly. Steve's wrong, of course. German soldier movements are the least interesting part of how he whispers in her ear. Rather, it's his sly strategy she likes best.
Peggy doesn't stop him. She lets him exhaust the entire list. Hell — she prompts for additional details, lightly tapping his elbow to spur him onward. His answers are impeccable, leaving her to wonder whether she shouldn't seek out some new means of distraction. Hmm.
"Careful," she warns him, "or I'll be tempted to update all future strategy sessions."
Steve focuses on the rhythmic rise and fall of Peggy's chest under his palm, the measured inhale and exhale of breath. As much as he wants to keep pushing - as much as he needs her - it's undeniably nice to just be together like this and share in a quiet, peaceful moment of intimacy separate from the rest of their busy lives. It's a little oasis of calm in the middle of the war, one that he might not deserve, but he'll revel in it anyway. Later, he'll keep this moment tucked close to his heart like he does the compass with Peggy's picture in it.
"How terrible for me," he drawls in her ear. There are worse things than having to go over troop movements with one hand tracing the contours of Peggy's body. While it's torturous in the context of abusing both their libidos, the proverbial coals are banked enough that they can play these little games of push and pull instead of something more rushed and frenzied.
(It's better to keep their clothes on in the chill of the bunker, anyway.)
He doesn't mention that they'd be hard pressed to find the privacy for sessions like this in camp most of the time; Peggy knows that as well as he does. Let them have a shared fantasy world where things like this are possible instead of one-time flukes.
Privately, she revels. Hell — perhps she revels less privately, too. Provided he can accurately decipher the root of her low, throat-deep chuckle and the constrained hunger in how she moves to hug his arm against her body. She revels because this is the best knife's edge she could ever hope to keep him balanced upon: patient and abiding, but somewhat wicked at his very edges. Whispering in her ear even as he only holds her. It's her fault, she realizes, for loving a man's restraint as well as his resistence. Those two sides of Steve Rogers somehow manage to forever out-compete one another for her favourite.
Her fingertips climb up from his elbow and find his wrist, the back of his hand — dragging the pads over his knuckles. If he won't caress her, she'll caress him. A tactile demonstration of what he could — but doesn't have to — do.
"A fine candidate for my wish," she mock-threatens. And by even breathing it must surely render it ineligible. It's far too early to play her hand. Christ, she hasn't even won. Yet.
"Maybe you should save it for something I wouldn't normally do if you asked me." Though exactly what that might be, Steve has no idea. It's not like there's a long list of things he wouldn't do for Peggy, but asking, he suspects, might be part of the point here.
He allows himself a pleased-sounding sigh at the way Peggy caresses his knuckles, that little sign of intimacy that is also so clearly a hint of what she wants him to do. But he doesn't go right for the touch - instead he finds the closest button of her shirt and fingers that. Hinting at what he might do next.
She doesn't break the spell by telling him she's got little interest in asking him to do anything he wouldn't do — allowing, perhaps, for some very particular and delicate edge cases. And in that regard, he rightfully identifies the act of asking as the reward itself. The hazy-bright imagined second where she articulates a want, exposes it to him, and watches that desire translate and land in his expression. To witness his willingness, perhaps.
Yes, no, not the conversation to be had just now. Not when he toys with a button she can only feel like a teasing tug on her clothing. A trailing nail pauses at the slope of his thumb, carving a soft hook shape against the meaty heel of his palm.
So perhaps she doesn't show him her math — but attempts the formula all the same with a whispered, "Go on."
Just like that, with two simple words, Steve's mouth goes dry. After all the playing and teasing, one of them is finally articulating a desire, and oh, it's a heady feeling that goes straight to his core. What's more, it strokes his ego, not that Steve would ever admit that to Peggy, but it's gratifying to hear that she wants him from her own lips.
He undoes the button without toying with it any longer, and then, finally, his fingers graze bare skin. "What next?" he murmurs in her ear, though he only half expects an answer. More likely, it'll be something else - more witty repartee, or yet another request to go over their shared intel now that he has something even more distracting at hand.
The bare-soft rustle of a button sliding through its buttonhole might as well be thunder. The dry scrape of fabric undone and pushed aside fills her entire perception — and when his skin glances off hers...? The breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding escapes through her nose like a brief, flattened note.
His voice in his ear causes a zip of sensation down to her heart and, joined by the edged brush of his finger, it carries on straight to some deep sensitive epicentre of her body. She allows herself to feel something normally reserved for those rare opportunities for leave when she can catch her breath. (Or — when desperate — an austere army billet while biting the edge of her thumb to keep her distractions to herself.)
But when he asks what next? she's catalyzed towards playful obstruction. Although her voice is now a mite more thready than it was moments earlier. "Why rush? By your estimation, we've got at least eight hours."
He huffs, his breath a warm puff of air on her skin. "Were you going to stay up all night?" While Steve doesn't mind, thanks to the serum, he can't imagine staying awake in a cold bunker is something Peggy would relish, all pleasant diversions aside. (He can't exactly say he minds the thought of sleeping with Peggy in his embrace, either; there are moments when he thinks longingly of the intimacy they could have in a world without war.)
At least he's enough of a gentleman that he doesn't feel the need to make a crass joke about lasting all eight hours. Frankly, even without their mutual attraction, there probably aren't many men of their acquaintance Peggy could stand to be around for eight hours straight - though Steve isn't sure his conversation skills can hold up for the next eight hours. They haven't even proven entirely sufficient for the amount of time that's already lapsed, but that's why he's lucky he has other things to fall back on.
(Either Steve's libido or the cot will be a casualty of the next eight hours. Possibly both.)
Asked like he doesn't know she's kept stranger hours than this. Except, except, except — it would be a fine thing to drift asleep with Steve's heat some constant presence against her back. His fingers light but obvious on her skin. Her next breath seems to comfortably deflate her shoulders. As though she's imagining how peaceful that could be. In another setting. In another life.
"Sounds like someone's tapping out already," she tuts her tongue against the roof of her mouth. As sweet as a stolen nap in his arms might be, Peggy's not entirely certain she could sleep now with the sense-memory of his mouth against the nape of her neck and his knee wedged just so between hers. She's almost wary to shut her eyes in case visions of his, blue and earnest, appear behind her lids.
Peggy swallows at the thought. More sincere this time:
"I mean only that I'm in no rush." The phrase is twisted softly and she pairs it with a light pet of her fingertips against the inside of his wrist, just shy of where his hand strays under her unbuttoned shirt. A wordless assurance that she's not saying it because of any reluctance or hesitation. Rather, she wants to enjoy him. Somehow, it would feel bad to rush and fumble and pretend like this was something they had to steal rather than savour.
Even though deep down she knows they're unlike to get a chance like this again.
"I could do this all day," he reassures her earnestly. God knows he absolutely could spend all day touching Peggy, so he's not lying about that. Given the chance, he fully intends to prove it, all thoughts of sleep abandoned by the wayside. It's yet another challenge for him to take on, like the delightful challenge of figuring out just what makes Peggy come undone under his hands.
With a feather-light touch, he caresses the outline of one silky cup with just his index finger. If they really have all night to prolong this, after all, then he might as well take his time.
Peggy adores this man. How curious and wonderful to be caught up in a paradoxically placidly torrid evening of light touches and mild banter that nevertheless sets her nervous system alight. Sensation pinging from skin-surface down, down, down to her belly with a thrilling zing.
Gently, she tips her body back against his — no longer laying quite so rigidly on her side, it's more like she's leaning herself against the broad expanse of his chest. Like unfolding a map, making room for him to hurry up and don't rush. It also has the added benefit of letting her slide a hand down along the outside of his thigh, gripping the muscle there with an encouraging squeeze.
"Good," she breathes praise for how gainfully he picks up the premise and makes it is. "I'm counting on it."
He rolls his hips up into her again, not sure if he's more spurred on by the hand on his thigh or the words of praise. Just touching her is heady enough, but having it be reciprocated is something else entirely - something that admittedly might test his patience a little too much to prolong things for hours, but he's not going to discourage her from doing it.
Steve leans back against the wall slightly, ignoring the chill of the concrete in favor of giving Peggy more room to recline and rest on his chest. Their heads aren't quite so close now - not for the moment, anyway - but like this he can study the expressions on her face, the minute reactions to what he's doing. And there's something to be said for simply looking at Peggy when he's allowed to do so, rather than being limited to sidelong looks and stolen glances. Everything is his for the taking tonight, and he feels like a starving man at a banquet.
How novel to imagine a whole night ahead — nothing but the vaguely concerning creak of a cot not built for two and the odd, quiet pattern of their breathing. Hers is slow but audible. A funny little mixture of relaxed and bothered. Like just a little flicker of his finger against the thin silk between him and her rolls her ever-closer to a more gregarious reaction. As it is, her cheeks are pinked and her eyes are a little glassy. Her attention cleaves inward and hangs on how better to experience him.
Peggy wets her lips before biting down on some gut-level, instinctive banter. She wants to be certain of what she says next. Wants to ensure it lands the way she wants it to land. Wants it to hit him straight to the core. So she takes her time (like she said, no rush) and makes sure to meet his hips when he presses forward.
Eventually: "I wonder if I ought to tell you a secret—" She offers. Knowing it won't be a very good one — oh, it'll land well enough. She just doubts it'll be a secret.
The problem with this new angle, Steve quickly discovers, is that it makes him want to kiss her, especially when her tongue flicks out to wet her lips. Not for the first time, he laments the strange unspoken rules they've tied themselves to - kissing might very well be involved eventually, but not yet, not in the glacial advances of their intimacy. He loves it and curses it at the same time.
"What is it?" Because she's hardly going to mention having one if she doesn't mean to divulge it. That's not how being a spy works - by nature, Peggy is excellent at keeping secrets, especially her own. But what better time than this to pry them free, here in this strange little situation they've found themselves in? The closely held intimacy lends itself to the sharing of secrets, even if she can't quite turn to whisper them in Steve's ear like this.
No, she can't turn and whisper. Although she too would like to catch the shell of his ear on the edge of her lips and pour secrets straight to his heart. Straight lower too. What Peggy can do instead - bold and brave - is tilt her chin and cast her eyes upward so she can just-about-almost catch his eye. The angle is bizarre and perhaps a little dizzying; however, it only seems to add to her churning delight.
"I've had dreams near-exactly like this."
As disclaimed: it's not a very good secret. If Steve hadn't figured out by now that he's been running through her mind when they're apart then she's got serious concerns for the intellectual aptitude of their brilliant tactician. Although maybe a battlefield is so, so, so far away from this. Peggy doesn't think it is. Conflict and seduction are a little too conflated in her heart. Besides! The secret is less about the telling and more about the saying. Its power isn't in what it reveals but in how willing she is say it aloud. I think of you - like this - with some frequency; with plenty of desire.
Peggy's fingers grip that taut muscle just at the height of his hamstring - the curve of her wrist meeting the curve of his ass. Contoured to him with more promise than anything else.
Admittedly, Steve's somewhat eclectic erotic education has been dim, at best, on the act of female self-pleasure. He knows very well that it exists, but much like most men, doesn't give too much thought to the act of it (something which has just changed). Overall, it's not a surprise that Peggy has dirty fantasies about him, because he certainly has enough fantasies about her. But the thought of her acting on them when she's alone, and her willingness to admit to such a thing out loud - well.
He licks his lips, tries to bring more moisture to his suddenly dry mouth. "Yeah," he agrees, his voice a little husky. "Me too." Though possibly with a trifle more motion involved on his part, so to speak. He blushes again at the confession, though it slips free easily enough; surely it must be a logical conclusion on her part as well.
Her dry chuckle suggests that it's a conclusion she's come to (ha) well before tonight. Dry, but not unfriendly. Like there's affection in how she thinks not only on him acting on his frustrations but doubled affection in hearing him cop to it now. Peggy's mind runs away with her — could she ask? Some demonstration, some proof. But rather than say anything about it just now, she tucks the thought away. She's got a wager to win, after all, and what a forfeit that would be for him.
Instead, she lets herself get stuck into the present moment. The scrape of his voice when he freely gives her his 'confession,' already-guessed though it might be. The scant sound of his tongue on his lips and how — head tilted up — she could just about see it happen.
"Oh, yeah, I know." Blushing has been one of the banes of his existence up till now, a major part of every single failed date he's had, a regular embarrassment. But now Peggy seems to like it - though he can only imagine the delight she might take in eliciting blushes from him in the future. "You should see how far down it goes." That's how you flirt, right?
It's really unfair how composed Peggy always is, he thinks. He's been able to strip away a little of that composure with his touch so far, but he still knows which one of them is in charge here, and it's not him. (It's never him, and that doesn't bother him at all.)
Peggy does like it. The proof of the pudding is in the eating. And seeing even a brief warmth on his cheeks — in passing; across a table; ducking out of a doorway — reinforces for her that she isn't alone in this attraction. The imbalance barely occurs to her. She might delight in how a flush creeps up behind his ears, but she's happy to stay poised. Usually. Mostly.
A little less so tonight as she squirms in place, only just beginning to feel disatisfied with the pace she herself has set. Helped and hindered by his leveled challenge which, clumsy though it is, she finds legitimately endearing. Why, yes, she would like to trace the leading edge of his flushed skin however far it takes her. Like marking a map.
Is it too early to kiss him? Peggy hums a note before she twists in his arms, rolling onto her side again — but this time facing him. So, so, so close. And with a hold of his wrist, bold beneath the blanket, she makes sure his tentative touch doesn't leave her breast. Ensures his fingers are still against the silk, even though she thinks about guiding him under.
As Peggy twists in his arms, he blushes even more, and never mind he's basically invited her to undress him or the fact that he has his hand on her breast, somehow the sudden escalation of their embrace feels more intimate than all of that.
"Little cold to get undressed here," he quips with a wry, somewhat abashed grin. Is he supposed to kiss her now? Suddenly the old clumsiness is back, now that he can see her face again - or, rather, now that she can see his.
She offers a slow, sly shake of her head. Yes, it's tempting. But she's got ample self-control, doesn't she? Perhaps it's reward enough just to imagine undressing him. For now, she makes due with chasing her wonder across hus features. Eyeing his expression and the flush in his face.
"Don't fret," she drawls. "You can keep your clothes on." This time is implied.
And yet. Her turn to gently nudge a thigh between his knees. Only a hint - a possibility - for now.
Now he turns his attention back to touching her with another one of those light caresses, but this one is just under the silk cup of her bra. He would very much like to see Peggy undressed - would like to help do it himself, stripping off layer after layer to reveal the bare skin underneath - but maybe, as established, when it's not quite so cold. Instead, he drinks in the sight of her face, the way she looks when he touches her - and as the impulse strikes, he bends his head to her neck again, noses up to her ear.
"What if I win?" he whispers again. "Would you take your clothes off if I asked?" Practically dirty talk, coming from him. "Or should I save my wish for something else?" Implying, perhaps, that nudity is inevitable.
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The cold is long, long forgotten. All her attention has narrowed down to the erased distance between their bodies. That, and the way his words — dry and practical in subtance — shoot down her spine and spread through her lower belly. Steve's wrong, of course. German soldier movements are the least interesting part of how he whispers in her ear. Rather, it's his sly strategy she likes best.
Peggy doesn't stop him. She lets him exhaust the entire list. Hell — she prompts for additional details, lightly tapping his elbow to spur him onward. His answers are impeccable, leaving her to wonder whether she shouldn't seek out some new means of distraction. Hmm.
"Careful," she warns him, "or I'll be tempted to update all future strategy sessions."
To be like this.
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"How terrible for me," he drawls in her ear. There are worse things than having to go over troop movements with one hand tracing the contours of Peggy's body. While it's torturous in the context of abusing both their libidos, the proverbial coals are banked enough that they can play these little games of push and pull instead of something more rushed and frenzied.
(It's better to keep their clothes on in the chill of the bunker, anyway.)
He doesn't mention that they'd be hard pressed to find the privacy for sessions like this in camp most of the time; Peggy knows that as well as he does. Let them have a shared fantasy world where things like this are possible instead of one-time flukes.
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Her fingertips climb up from his elbow and find his wrist, the back of his hand — dragging the pads over his knuckles. If he won't caress her, she'll caress him. A tactile demonstration of what he could — but doesn't have to — do.
"A fine candidate for my wish," she mock-threatens. And by even breathing it must surely render it ineligible. It's far too early to play her hand. Christ, she hasn't even won. Yet.
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He allows himself a pleased-sounding sigh at the way Peggy caresses his knuckles, that little sign of intimacy that is also so clearly a hint of what she wants him to do. But he doesn't go right for the touch - instead he finds the closest button of her shirt and fingers that. Hinting at what he might do next.
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Yes, no, not the conversation to be had just now. Not when he toys with a button she can only feel like a teasing tug on her clothing. A trailing nail pauses at the slope of his thumb, carving a soft hook shape against the meaty heel of his palm.
So perhaps she doesn't show him her math — but attempts the formula all the same with a whispered, "Go on."
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He undoes the button without toying with it any longer, and then, finally, his fingers graze bare skin. "What next?" he murmurs in her ear, though he only half expects an answer. More likely, it'll be something else - more witty repartee, or yet another request to go over their shared intel now that he has something even more distracting at hand.
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His voice in his ear causes a zip of sensation down to her heart and, joined by the edged brush of his finger, it carries on straight to some deep sensitive epicentre of her body. She allows herself to feel something normally reserved for those rare opportunities for leave when she can catch her breath. (Or — when desperate — an austere army billet while biting the edge of her thumb to keep her distractions to herself.)
But when he asks what next? she's catalyzed towards playful obstruction. Although her voice is now a mite more thready than it was moments earlier. "Why rush? By your estimation, we've got at least eight hours."
And suddenly the game gains its parameters.
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At least he's enough of a gentleman that he doesn't feel the need to make a crass joke about lasting all eight hours. Frankly, even without their mutual attraction, there probably aren't many men of their acquaintance Peggy could stand to be around for eight hours straight - though Steve isn't sure his conversation skills can hold up for the next eight hours. They haven't even proven entirely sufficient for the amount of time that's already lapsed, but that's why he's lucky he has other things to fall back on.
(Either Steve's libido or the cot will be a casualty of the next eight hours. Possibly both.)
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"Sounds like someone's tapping out already," she tuts her tongue against the roof of her mouth. As sweet as a stolen nap in his arms might be, Peggy's not entirely certain she could sleep now with the sense-memory of his mouth against the nape of her neck and his knee wedged just so between hers. She's almost wary to shut her eyes in case visions of his, blue and earnest, appear behind her lids.
Peggy swallows at the thought. More sincere this time:
"I mean only that I'm in no rush." The phrase is twisted softly and she pairs it with a light pet of her fingertips against the inside of his wrist, just shy of where his hand strays under her unbuttoned shirt. A wordless assurance that she's not saying it because of any reluctance or hesitation. Rather, she wants to enjoy him. Somehow, it would feel bad to rush and fumble and pretend like this was something they had to steal rather than savour.
Even though deep down she knows they're unlike to get a chance like this again.
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With a feather-light touch, he caresses the outline of one silky cup with just his index finger. If they really have all night to prolong this, after all, then he might as well take his time.
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Gently, she tips her body back against his — no longer laying quite so rigidly on her side, it's more like she's leaning herself against the broad expanse of his chest. Like unfolding a map, making room for him to hurry up and don't rush. It also has the added benefit of letting her slide a hand down along the outside of his thigh, gripping the muscle there with an encouraging squeeze.
"Good," she breathes praise for how gainfully he picks up the premise and makes it is. "I'm counting on it."
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Steve leans back against the wall slightly, ignoring the chill of the concrete in favor of giving Peggy more room to recline and rest on his chest. Their heads aren't quite so close now - not for the moment, anyway - but like this he can study the expressions on her face, the minute reactions to what he's doing. And there's something to be said for simply looking at Peggy when he's allowed to do so, rather than being limited to sidelong looks and stolen glances. Everything is his for the taking tonight, and he feels like a starving man at a banquet.
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Peggy wets her lips before biting down on some gut-level, instinctive banter. She wants to be certain of what she says next. Wants to ensure it lands the way she wants it to land. Wants it to hit him straight to the core. So she takes her time (like she said, no rush) and makes sure to meet his hips when he presses forward.
Eventually: "I wonder if I ought to tell you a secret—" She offers. Knowing it won't be a very good one — oh, it'll land well enough. She just doubts it'll be a secret.
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"What is it?" Because she's hardly going to mention having one if she doesn't mean to divulge it. That's not how being a spy works - by nature, Peggy is excellent at keeping secrets, especially her own. But what better time than this to pry them free, here in this strange little situation they've found themselves in? The closely held intimacy lends itself to the sharing of secrets, even if she can't quite turn to whisper them in Steve's ear like this.
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"I've had dreams near-exactly like this."
As disclaimed: it's not a very good secret. If Steve hadn't figured out by now that he's been running through her mind when they're apart then she's got serious concerns for the intellectual aptitude of their brilliant tactician. Although maybe a battlefield is so, so, so far away from this. Peggy doesn't think it is. Conflict and seduction are a little too conflated in her heart. Besides! The secret is less about the telling and more about the saying. Its power isn't in what it reveals but in how willing she is say it aloud. I think of you - like this - with some frequency; with plenty of desire.
Peggy's fingers grip that taut muscle just at the height of his hamstring - the curve of her wrist meeting the curve of his ass. Contoured to him with more promise than anything else.
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He licks his lips, tries to bring more moisture to his suddenly dry mouth. "Yeah," he agrees, his voice a little husky. "Me too." Though possibly with a trifle more motion involved on his part, so to speak. He blushes again at the confession, though it slips free easily enough; surely it must be a logical conclusion on her part as well.
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Instead, she lets herself get stuck into the present moment. The scrape of his voice when he freely gives her his 'confession,' already-guessed though it might be. The scant sound of his tongue on his lips and how — head tilted up — she could just about see it happen.
"—Did you know that you blush?"
How terribly endearing when he does.
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It's really unfair how composed Peggy always is, he thinks. He's been able to strip away a little of that composure with his touch so far, but he still knows which one of them is in charge here, and it's not him. (It's never him, and that doesn't bother him at all.)
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A little less so tonight as she squirms in place, only just beginning to feel disatisfied with the pace she herself has set. Helped and hindered by his leveled challenge which, clumsy though it is, she finds legitimately endearing. Why, yes, she would like to trace the leading edge of his flushed skin however far it takes her. Like marking a map.
Is it too early to kiss him? Peggy hums a note before she twists in his arms, rolling onto her side again — but this time facing him. So, so, so close. And with a hold of his wrist, bold beneath the blanket, she makes sure his tentative touch doesn't leave her breast. Ensures his fingers are still against the silk, even though she thinks about guiding him under.
"Tempting."
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"Little cold to get undressed here," he quips with a wry, somewhat abashed grin. Is he supposed to kiss her now? Suddenly the old clumsiness is back, now that he can see her face again - or, rather, now that she can see his.
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"Don't fret," she drawls. "You can keep your clothes on." This time is implied.
And yet. Her turn to gently nudge a thigh between his knees. Only a hint - a possibility - for now.
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"What if I win?" he whispers again. "Would you take your clothes off if I asked?" Practically dirty talk, coming from him. "Or should I save my wish for something else?" Implying, perhaps, that nudity is inevitable.