[ The frost on the windows makes Bucky's skin tingle unpleasantly, like the sensation of extremities at last beginning to numb from pain, giving way to blackening frostbite; but it's an illusion, because inside their apartment Steve has turned the heat up as high as they both can tolerate. The smell of fresh coffee fills the air, a warm scent, a homey scent, and Bucky is sitting curled in one of the kitchen chairs with a blanket over his shoulders, looking at Steve at the counter in his pajamas, so broad and appealing. If he looks at him instead of the frost, instead of the flakes of snow drifting by out the window, if Bucky studies Steve instead, he doesn't feel cold. He feels hungry.
He gets to his feet, letting the blanket slip down to the chair. ] Come here, Steve. [ Bucky's voice is soft, his metal hand reaching forward, beckoning. He takes Steve's hand when he's in reach and tugs him in close, setting both hands on his waist. Steve is so beautiful he makes Bucky feel greedy, makes him want to take every inch of him and make him his own, all of his body, so golden and perfect. Next to him he is a damaged creature, nearly broken, but the ways that Steve loves him regardless can't be numbered, and Bucky knows that he's lucky, after all, to have come to this, to have come home to Steve.
He tugs the shirt he wears up and off of him, stripping it over his head. Bucky's hands, metal and flesh, come back to his body, his bare skin, settling on his ribs and stroking downwards, his whole body pressing in close as though to steal all of Steve's broad warmth for himself. ]
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[ The frost on the windows makes Bucky's skin tingle unpleasantly, like the sensation of extremities at last beginning to numb from pain, giving way to blackening frostbite; but it's an illusion, because inside their apartment Steve has turned the heat up as high as they both can tolerate. The smell of fresh coffee fills the air, a warm scent, a homey scent, and Bucky is sitting curled in one of the kitchen chairs with a blanket over his shoulders, looking at Steve at the counter in his pajamas, so broad and appealing. If he looks at him instead of the frost, instead of the flakes of snow drifting by out the window, if Bucky studies Steve instead, he doesn't feel cold. He feels hungry.
He gets to his feet, letting the blanket slip down to the chair. ] Come here, Steve. [ Bucky's voice is soft, his metal hand reaching forward, beckoning. He takes Steve's hand when he's in reach and tugs him in close, setting both hands on his waist. Steve is so beautiful he makes Bucky feel greedy, makes him want to take every inch of him and make him his own, all of his body, so golden and perfect. Next to him he is a damaged creature, nearly broken, but the ways that Steve loves him regardless can't be numbered, and Bucky knows that he's lucky, after all, to have come to this, to have come home to Steve.
He tugs the shirt he wears up and off of him, stripping it over his head. Bucky's hands, metal and flesh, come back to his body, his bare skin, settling on his ribs and stroking downwards, his whole body pressing in close as though to steal all of Steve's broad warmth for himself. ]