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Fanart-inspired smutlog
It had started gently, and with a seemingly off-handed statement from Bucky as many things did these days. The statement in question had been: "I'm not going to up and bolt if you touch me, Rogers." Names were something he had trouble with even still, though not as much as he had at the beginning. That first statement had turned into nearly an hour of making out on the couch, interrupted by Sam bringing dinner by because Steve hadn't answered his phone.
It had happened again a few days later, and again the week after that. It had continued to happen now and again, apparently at random -in that there was nothing apparent to trigger it except Bucky deciding he wanted the contact- and even though Bucky instigated it, usually by statement and on one recent occasion by simply dragging Steve down into a kiss, it was always Steve that ended up leading.
Until now. It wasn't that he was pulling away, if he had Bucky would have let it go, but he had gone passive to the point of frustration and Bucky finally drew back, brow furrowed, studying Steve intently, "What's wrong?"
It had happened again a few days later, and again the week after that. It had continued to happen now and again, apparently at random -in that there was nothing apparent to trigger it except Bucky deciding he wanted the contact- and even though Bucky instigated it, usually by statement and on one recent occasion by simply dragging Steve down into a kiss, it was always Steve that ended up leading.
Until now. It wasn't that he was pulling away, if he had Bucky would have let it go, but he had gone passive to the point of frustration and Bucky finally drew back, brow furrowed, studying Steve intently, "What's wrong?"
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He panted slightly once the kiss was broken and they were resting against one another, just existing. Steve blinked slightly and realized what the other man was asking him, he hadn't even noticed in all honesty. "No, it was fine," he shrugged. "I barely noticed. Felt good."
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"Okay." It was all he had to say at the moment, shifting the angle of his arm so that he could run his fingers through the hair at Steve's nape, brow furrowing as he scratched delicately there, as if to convince himself that he could and that the scratching didn't have to turn into anything else.
It was going to take more than a few minutes of heavy petting on the couch to really convince him of that, but it was a start if nothing else. He shifted, pushing himself a little higher on the arm of the couch so that he could worm his hand between them -the right, still using the left as little as possible- so that he could tug at the hem of Steve's shirt, "Off."