[Steve trusts Bucky's intentions absolutely. He's been through Hell, and there are dark places that linger within him from that, and no man can help but be shaped by the things that have happened to him. Steve knows that from his own experience. He's not the same man he was before the war or the ice, and neither is Bucky. But there's a soul beneath the nightmares, some kind of essence of the person he is. Steve doesn't think that's changed much, for either of them.
He trusts that. And maybe sooner or later, so will Bucky himself.
The hands cradling his face make him blink and focus in dreamily on Bucky's face. It's a little slice of Heaven to be safe and warm against him, to be handled with affection and given lingering, sweet kisses. Some of his higher brain functions might be shutting down, as much with the feeling of comfort and satisfaction as libido.]
Bucky...that's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in a long time. [Deep down, he's still that cranky, reckless little guy whose lungs betrayed him every winter and who couldn't step away from a fight to save his life. It's just that there are a few layers on top of that now, too; layers of muscle, responsibility, and issues. No one in the world except the guy in his arms right now has the capacity to see all of it at once.
He kisses him back, slow and deep as if he's trying to express his emotions that way, but a moment later he's chuckling again, because the cushions are sliding out from under him, and he's sinking into the space between them and the back of the sofa, and it reminds him of pillow and blanket forts he and Bucky built when they were boys.
He props himself up a little, flushed and smiling, and starts to squirm out of his shirt.] Yeah? How big is this part of yours?
[He's playing with fire, maybe, but it's not like Bucky hasn't seen him shirtless before. He lets the discarded fabric hang over the arm of the sofa and sinks back into the other man with a sigh, half lust, half contentment.]
Anyway, do you want bed, or should we be building a blanket fort to make out in? We're getting the cushions all over the place, anyway.
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He trusts that. And maybe sooner or later, so will Bucky himself.
The hands cradling his face make him blink and focus in dreamily on Bucky's face. It's a little slice of Heaven to be safe and warm against him, to be handled with affection and given lingering, sweet kisses. Some of his higher brain functions might be shutting down, as much with the feeling of comfort and satisfaction as libido.]
Bucky...that's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in a long time. [Deep down, he's still that cranky, reckless little guy whose lungs betrayed him every winter and who couldn't step away from a fight to save his life. It's just that there are a few layers on top of that now, too; layers of muscle, responsibility, and issues. No one in the world except the guy in his arms right now has the capacity to see all of it at once.
He kisses him back, slow and deep as if he's trying to express his emotions that way, but a moment later he's chuckling again, because the cushions are sliding out from under him, and he's sinking into the space between them and the back of the sofa, and it reminds him of pillow and blanket forts he and Bucky built when they were boys.
He props himself up a little, flushed and smiling, and starts to squirm out of his shirt.] Yeah? How big is this part of yours?
[He's playing with fire, maybe, but it's not like Bucky hasn't seen him shirtless before. He lets the discarded fabric hang over the arm of the sofa and sinks back into the other man with a sigh, half lust, half contentment.]
Anyway, do you want bed, or should we be building a blanket fort to make out in? We're getting the cushions all over the place, anyway.