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There’s a point in a relationship where the snuggling, feel good moments that bring you happiness, that give you air and fill your insides, that make you gleeful and feel like you're floating, turn into something else entirely.
This can basically be summed up as passion. One word barely covers it.
Close proximity stops being enough. Hand-holding, sweet, fleeting touches, tiny kisses all stop being enough. Everything stops being enough.
You want to be closer. You want to share everything with this person. You want them to know your mind, your body, your feelings, all of you, and existence itself seems to get in the way.
Why can’t you convey this? How can they not know? How can you tell them, show them, be them? It’ll drive you up a wall.
Clothes are in the way. Skin is in the way. You just can’t be close enough. Why can’t you get closer? Why are you two people? Why can’t you be one?
You’ve hit this point with Bucky. In a frenzy of heat and hands and kisses and longing, all physical barriers are just another obstacle to having him understand how you feel. How much you want him; how much you need him; how he is so important to you. The world is in the way.
Nothing is going to stop this. Nothing.
He lifts your shirt up over your head and tosses it aside. And then goes still as a stone.
Literally seconds ago, nothing else had mattered but finally letting your feelings overflow. Acting on this desire was all there was. Now, things that had been forgotten are remembered, and you’re chest heaves with the leftover exhilaration of passion and the sudden panic that is overcoming you.
The bruises. Of course the bruises. And the scars. Good heavens, the scars.
Just thinking about them … you stare up at the ceiling, biting your lip, determined not to look at them; not to look at him.
You can feel his hands, soft, gentle, slow, run over the markings. The warm palm of his right; the cold metal of his left. He examines each and every blemish on your skin, sending shivers coursing through you. It feels good. It makes the passion start to feel like it might not be lost.
It’s scary. But it’s Bucky.
So he doesn’t ask. He might, later, but he doesn’t now. Now, he slips his arms around your back and pulls you to him. His face nestles into your neck, his own bare chest pressing against your skin. It’s an all-encompassing embrace. It’s wonderful.
And does it ever feel safe. So, so safe. All Bucky.
His mouth moves slowly against your neck, pressing molten kisses to your skin. The sensation is warm and wet and ticklish, and it builds a rumble in your throat and breaks free as a desperate groan. Your hands wrap around his head, fingers digging into his hair, as he descends.
You get the feeling he’s going to kiss every single bruise and scar. You aren’t wrong.