Lazy morning kisses before they’ve even opened their eyes, still mumbling half-incoherently, not wanting to wake up.
“Bucky-”
The name is soft on your lips, testing the awareness of the man beside you. Soft gray light of early morning is enough to pull his features into focus. The sharp, angled jawline dotted with stubble. The soft pink lips, relaxed and slightly parted. The dark eyelashes dusting the tops of structured cheekbones. And the hair, long and black in the shadows, falling softly around his face.
There’s no other word for him than beautiful. He is so beautiful.
And so decidedly asleep.
His breath’s even and steady, fluttering the strands of hair that lie closest to his mouth. He’s peaceful. So calm and peaceful you almost feel bad for wanting to wake him.
Almost.
“Buck,” you whisper, louder than before as you slide a hand over the top of his arm.
Fingers drift up ridges of cool metal, and as you sidle closer to him, the rhythm of his breathing is disrupted by a long contented sigh.
You smile, press your fingers into the hard silver of his shoulder as you raise up slightly and touch your lips to his.
A mechanical twitch of fingers. A soft hum in the back of his throat.
“Hey. Sleeping Beauty. Time to wake up.”
And when your lips touch his again, Bucky’s very slightly press back. Metal fingers stir once more, reach out and light against your hip. He exhales, breathes along with it one solitary, groggy word.
“No.”
“No?”
“Mm mm. No,” but his lips are a little firmer on your own. They press a kiss to your mouth. Another. Then another. Lazy and sweet as his eyes remain resolutely closed.
“Bucky-” you groan, his name an objection as you attempt to move away from him. But his arm wraps around you, holds you there, pressing your chest flush against his own.
“You said you would,” you fuss, turning your head so those lazy kisses fall along your jaw.
He sighs a quiet chuckle through his nose, “Was smitten,” he murmurs, “Didn’t know what I was sayin’.”
“Oh please,” you scoff, worming in his grasp. It’s secure even in his sleepy state, and he shifts onto his back, carrying you with him in one easy motion. His hand holds strong against you, while the other, now free, drags down and over the curve of your backside, gripping the back of your thigh. He nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, flicks his tongue against your skin.
“Mmm,” he hums, it tickles against you, “you were wearin that dress. Can’t say no to you in that dress. “
And you smile despite your irritation. Because he isn’t lying.
Bucky’s favorite dress isn’t conventionally sexy. It isn’t short or tight or low cut or black. Bucky’s favorite dress is bottle green, with a high neck and skirt that flares whenever you twirl. It’s a dress that makes him want to dance, makes him want to spin you into the late hours of the night, makes him want to hold you close against him and whisper sweet everythings into your ear.
You’re beautiful in anything, Bucky says, but god he loves that dress.
You press your hands against his chest, push yourself up slightly so you can see his face, “If I put it back on will you wake up?”
His mouth curves into a smile. Sweet and sleepy, etching lines into his face, “Won’t know,” he murmurs, “Eyes are closed. Can’t see.”
“Bucky! C’mon. You promised we could watch the sun rise.”
“I already do,” he says, and finally he opens his eyes. Wintery blues peer into yours, and they’re so soft, so loving when he says, “Every morning when I watch you wake up.”
You drop your head onto his shoulder, nuzzle your own mouth against his neck as you slide hands along his torso, “You…are…” soft kisses press against his skin, and Bucky tilts his head to the side, giving you more access, “the biggest,” fingers pause against his side, and then you pinch him. Hard. “Jerk!”
“Ow!” He barks, squirming beneath you, “Hey-” and he’s laughing, struggling to catch your hands as you pinch him again, “I was being romantic!”
“You were being an ass,” you’re laughing, too, dancing away from him as he tries to catch hold of you, “an ass with really bad lines.”
“Quit. Stop that,” and then you’re on your back, and Bucky’s hovering over you, both hands caught firmly but gently between metal fingers.
“Okay. Okay,” he relents, “I’m up I’m up I’m up,” his smile is sweet and bright as he leans down to kiss you. And it’s longer than the others before it, sultry and needy and hot against your lips. Very quickly you’re putty beneath him. Lighthearted and weak at the knees. And when he pulls away, his eyes are mischievous. Like he knows all it would take would be one more kiss like that, and you wouldn’t give a damn if the sun ever rose again.
But he taps one, light and chaste, against your forehead instead.
“Jeez,” he grins, shifting off of you and releasing your hands, “you’re so mean.”
Toad's Cave 