( that first layer is almost nothing, an irrelevance, because all it does is expose the second long-sleeved shirt. and that, predictably, is where bucky pauses like they've run up against a brick wall: his tongue darting out to wet his lips thoughtfully, now both of his hands braced against the island on either side of her, pinning karen in place just as her legs do for him. he runs his thumb along the line of her thigh, following the seam of her denim. (on the left: that glimmer of metal, visible at the end of his sleeve.)
they both know what the next barrier is, and why he's hesitating over it with that clouded, distracted look in his eyes. but he's trying to remind himself of this fact: she hadn't flinched away last time. hadn't visibly recoiled, which either means she's got an excellent poker face or maybe she really is some level of okay with it.
but okay with it doesn't necessarily mean okay with it touching her.
everything has slowed down. bucky's fingers move to the oversized buttons of her shirt, toying contemplatively with the bottom-most one before he slips it off its hook. but he doesn't go for the rest of the buttons.
he's only human. he does want that satisfaction of bare skin on bare skin, too; he wants all the rest of it, her chest against his, those round fingernails sinking into his shoulderblades, digging into the meat of his arm. closer. even at the cost of this, the shedding of the last piece of armour. her own fingers are toying and plucking at the bottom hem of his shirt, but not daring to make that decision for him: so bucky finally reaches for the hem, drags the shirt over his head. the dog tags catch on his nose before they drop again, dangling over the hollow of his collarbone. )
You always seem to get me shirtless in this kitchen, ( he jokes, an instinctive reliance on humour to cut through the situation, but she can see the way anxiety settles in his blue eyes like flecks of ice. that anxiety thrumming in him. it's an undeniably well-made arm, not the brutish soviet design it once had been, and it isn't stamped with a red star anymore, but it's still not normal.
so he finally clears his throat: )
If you're not— comfortable. I get it. It's not exactly...
( delicate? warm? attractive? he's not sure what word to place there. )
no subject
they both know what the next barrier is, and why he's hesitating over it with that clouded, distracted look in his eyes. but he's trying to remind himself of this fact: she hadn't flinched away last time. hadn't visibly recoiled, which either means she's got an excellent poker face or maybe she really is some level of okay with it.
but okay with it doesn't necessarily mean okay with it touching her.
everything has slowed down. bucky's fingers move to the oversized buttons of her shirt, toying contemplatively with the bottom-most one before he slips it off its hook. but he doesn't go for the rest of the buttons.
he's only human. he does want that satisfaction of bare skin on bare skin, too; he wants all the rest of it, her chest against his, those round fingernails sinking into his shoulderblades, digging into the meat of his arm. closer. even at the cost of this, the shedding of the last piece of armour. her own fingers are toying and plucking at the bottom hem of his shirt, but not daring to make that decision for him: so bucky finally reaches for the hem, drags the shirt over his head. the dog tags catch on his nose before they drop again, dangling over the hollow of his collarbone. )
You always seem to get me shirtless in this kitchen, ( he jokes, an instinctive reliance on humour to cut through the situation, but she can see the way anxiety settles in his blue eyes like flecks of ice. that anxiety thrumming in him. it's an undeniably well-made arm, not the brutish soviet design it once had been, and it isn't stamped with a red star anymore, but it's still not normal.
so he finally clears his throat: )
If you're not— comfortable. I get it. It's not exactly...
( delicate? warm? attractive? he's not sure what word to place there. )