[ james barnes’ chest is a thing of beauty. Jack's fairly sure he could replicate the effect if he went through the effort for it, but he’s found he takes thrills in the differences between them, and adores it when he can press up to bucky’s body and feel smaller than him.
When they’d first started doing this - touching as more than casual contact and comfort - bucky’d been self-conscious of the scars on his body, and jack remembers the look he’d given him like a dare, when he ripped his shirt off in the hotel lobby, like waiting for a recoil. Every brush of jack’s hand over his skin, ever sweep of his lips over his shoulders, or his chest, or his stomach, and of course over the scars that outline his arm, is a moment of satisfied pleasure that coils deep and powerful and potent in him, spiking both a primal desire and a possession that has little to do about territory (odd, when so much of him typically does), and so much more about that word bucky’s been drilling into him since a handful of weeks into their stay here - family.
love.
Still concepts all tangled up and twisted in him, but he knows that warm center and origin for them - bucky barnes. he laps it all up eagerly, greedily, starved for it and overcome with a something he doesn’t have words for, when all his words are so damn empty. When he kisses his skin, runs his hands over the violent scars, the heated flesh, tense muscle worked from hardship and trauma, and the still so loving heart beating beneath it all, it’s reverent. Even in just the simple and innocent act of running his hands through bucky’s hair, now, there’s something so hopelessly attached to him now, after that day on Patara. he’ll never forget the way Bucky’s voice wrapped around the words, mostly because they tend to echo in the back of his head over and over in moments like this. It’s more than he’s ever had, and more than he’s ever expected to, and just as he’d told Bucky then, he’s sinking in teeth and nails so deep, it’ll leave scars if they’re ever dragged apart. It’s his nature - no love comes without pain, and jack knows too well how the body and mind remember it brighter than anything else.
They’re lying around lazily in bed on some late evening, while the flat screen in bucky’s bedroom plays some movie jack doesn’t care about, and bucky’s split his attention between the movie, the phone in one hand, and the other hand in jack’s hair, the younger’s occupied himself with idley mouthing across bucky’s stomach as he’s lounged out. It’s been a while, twenty or so minutes, of him kissing all across every muscle he can reach, skirting along his ribs and dragging his teeth over ticklish spots on bucky’s sides until the he hears a snort of a laugh and a tug at his hair, warning. There’s no real demand for his attention here, something they’re use to by now.
Some nights, it isn’t about a great needing or yearning. Just a want for closeness, like cats curled up on the foot of a bed. Sometimes it’s just dotted kisses and stroking hands, sometimes it’s jack taking bucky back into his mouth and settling between his thighs for an hour or so, warming, enjoying the contact, waiting as Bucky rolls his hips, comes to a head, spills into his throat, and relaxes again, a hand stroking through jack’s hair and keeping him settled there. sometimes it only leads to Jack passed out with a cheek pressed against Bucky’s chest, silently dosing and still, easily shuffled around once Barnes decides it’s time to join him.
Tonight, he’s exploring, licking and kissing along old scars, following freckles, worrying at the scarred skin around the metal seam at his shoulder with hands groping along Bucky’s torso. Fingertips dig in against the trenches and rivers between his abs, and as his lips descend the trail of scar and metal, Jack brushes to the side, dragging plush lips over the hardened bud of a nipple. His hand strokes up across the other pectoral, loving the pull of his skin and the rise of muscle, and bumps along his inside of his fingers and palms glide over the other bud, rolling up and down again. He licks, cat-like flicks of his tongue varied with longer laps, until his lips seal over the sensitive flesh, and Jack sucks, rolling and swirling his tongue over bud dragged into the wet heat of his mouth.
It hasn’t actually occurred to him that he hasn’t done this to Bucky yet. Oops? ]
that nipples thing lololololol
When they’d first started doing this - touching as more than casual contact and comfort - bucky’d been self-conscious of the scars on his body, and jack remembers the look he’d given him like a dare, when he ripped his shirt off in the hotel lobby, like waiting for a recoil. Every brush of jack’s hand over his skin, ever sweep of his lips over his shoulders, or his chest, or his stomach, and of course over the scars that outline his arm, is a moment of satisfied pleasure that coils deep and powerful and potent in him, spiking both a primal desire and a possession that has little to do about territory (odd, when so much of him typically does), and so much more about that word bucky’s been drilling into him since a handful of weeks into their stay here - family.
love.
Still concepts all tangled up and twisted in him, but he knows that warm center and origin for them - bucky barnes. he laps it all up eagerly, greedily, starved for it and overcome with a something he doesn’t have words for, when all his words are so damn empty. When he kisses his skin, runs his hands over the violent scars, the heated flesh, tense muscle worked from hardship and trauma, and the still so loving heart beating beneath it all, it’s reverent. Even in just the simple and innocent act of running his hands through bucky’s hair, now, there’s something so hopelessly attached to him now, after that day on Patara. he’ll never forget the way Bucky’s voice wrapped around the words, mostly because they tend to echo in the back of his head over and over in moments like this. It’s more than he’s ever had, and more than he’s ever expected to, and just as he’d told Bucky then, he’s sinking in teeth and nails so deep, it’ll leave scars if they’re ever dragged apart. It’s his nature - no love comes without pain, and jack knows too well how the body and mind remember it brighter than anything else.
They’re lying around lazily in bed on some late evening, while the flat screen in bucky’s bedroom plays some movie jack doesn’t care about, and bucky’s split his attention between the movie, the phone in one hand, and the other hand in jack’s hair, the younger’s occupied himself with idley mouthing across bucky’s stomach as he’s lounged out. It’s been a while, twenty or so minutes, of him kissing all across every muscle he can reach, skirting along his ribs and dragging his teeth over ticklish spots on bucky’s sides until the he hears a snort of a laugh and a tug at his hair, warning. There’s no real demand for his attention here, something they’re use to by now.
Some nights, it isn’t about a great needing or yearning. Just a want for closeness, like cats curled up on the foot of a bed. Sometimes it’s just dotted kisses and stroking hands, sometimes it’s jack taking bucky back into his mouth and settling between his thighs for an hour or so, warming, enjoying the contact, waiting as Bucky rolls his hips, comes to a head, spills into his throat, and relaxes again, a hand stroking through jack’s hair and keeping him settled there. sometimes it only leads to Jack passed out with a cheek pressed against Bucky’s chest, silently dosing and still, easily shuffled around once Barnes decides it’s time to join him.
Tonight, he’s exploring, licking and kissing along old scars, following freckles, worrying at the scarred skin around the metal seam at his shoulder with hands groping along Bucky’s torso. Fingertips dig in against the trenches and rivers between his abs, and as his lips descend the trail of scar and metal, Jack brushes to the side, dragging plush lips over the hardened bud of a nipple. His hand strokes up across the other pectoral, loving the pull of his skin and the rise of muscle, and bumps along his inside of his fingers and palms glide over the other bud, rolling up and down again. He licks, cat-like flicks of his tongue varied with longer laps, until his lips seal over the sensitive flesh, and Jack sucks, rolling and swirling his tongue over bud dragged into the wet heat of his mouth.
It hasn’t actually occurred to him that he hasn’t done this to Bucky yet. Oops? ]