[Maybe it's just something so simple that it's never occurred to them: they just fit. No labels, nothing fancy needed to define or describe it. Labels over complicate things anyway and that's something they definitely don't need. No, they just fit like a morning run turned game of tag, like magnetic poetry answered with ninja stalking, like chocolate chip pancakes and coffee.
They fit like Bucky's hands curving to trace Steve's shape, gliding over smooth warm skin and exploring the contours of muscle. And it's not just about how the serum changed his friend, not just about the physical shape he now takes. It's about the intimacy of exploring that shape, about learning how he fits against Bucky's own body, about discovering each other through the rapidly diminishing space between them. It's about breaking the last of their barriers, about showing each other those indelible marks that life has made on them and the harder to see marks that they're renewing on each other's souls.
It might be an overly romantic notion, but he kind of likes it.
And Bucky really, really likes the way Steve's voice has gone a little thready with desire — a feeling that matches what's growing in Bucky himself.]
Yeah. Yeah, we can. [His smile curls slow and lazy and genuine as the idea fully takes hold. Steve in his bed? It's more attractive than it has a right to be. And Bucky wonders if it's a place he should've allowed Steve from the very start.
The hands held out though, that's special and Bucky slips his own hands into Steve's, lets his friend pull him up off the couch. Sure, he doesn't strictly need the help (despite the best efforts of the couch cushions to swallow him whole!), but he wants it, just as much as he wants his hands to always be in Steve's. Plus, it gives him the chance to tuck in close and kiss Steve until they're both smiling like fools again.
Letting whatever happens just happen? That sounds like the best idea in the world to him right now. It's what has Bucky tugging at Steve's hands, pulling him in the direction of his bedroom — which is not that different from Steve's, truth be told: nearly identical furniture, a muted color palette of greys and black (and absent the Americana quilt that a certain smartass still snickers about). But it's a space in which he's become comfortable, a space into which he wants to invite Steve.
Unless Steve has other intentions Bucky's planning on tugging him right up to the side of the bed, planning on sitting down and looking up at his friend with affection and a smile shining in his eyes.] Join me?
no subject
They fit like Bucky's hands curving to trace Steve's shape, gliding over smooth warm skin and exploring the contours of muscle. And it's not just about how the serum changed his friend, not just about the physical shape he now takes. It's about the intimacy of exploring that shape, about learning how he fits against Bucky's own body, about discovering each other through the rapidly diminishing space between them. It's about breaking the last of their barriers, about showing each other those indelible marks that life has made on them and the harder to see marks that they're renewing on each other's souls.
It might be an overly romantic notion, but he kind of likes it.
And Bucky really, really likes the way Steve's voice has gone a little thready with desire — a feeling that matches what's growing in Bucky himself.]
Yeah. Yeah, we can. [His smile curls slow and lazy and genuine as the idea fully takes hold. Steve in his bed? It's more attractive than it has a right to be. And Bucky wonders if it's a place he should've allowed Steve from the very start.
The hands held out though, that's special and Bucky slips his own hands into Steve's, lets his friend pull him up off the couch. Sure, he doesn't strictly need the help (despite the best efforts of the couch cushions to swallow him whole!), but he wants it, just as much as he wants his hands to always be in Steve's. Plus, it gives him the chance to tuck in close and kiss Steve until they're both smiling like fools again.
Letting whatever happens just happen? That sounds like the best idea in the world to him right now. It's what has Bucky tugging at Steve's hands, pulling him in the direction of his bedroom — which is not that different from Steve's, truth be told: nearly identical furniture, a muted color palette of greys and black (and absent the Americana quilt that a certain smartass still snickers about). But it's a space in which he's become comfortable, a space into which he wants to invite Steve.
Unless Steve has other intentions Bucky's planning on tugging him right up to the side of the bed, planning on sitting down and looking up at his friend with affection and a smile shining in his eyes.] Join me?