( karen grabs his lightly-dimpled chin, drags his gaze back to hers, holds him there until bucky has no choice but to look right at her, hear the truth of what she's saying. she moves his hands, slides them — both — under her shirt, and that shock of cold is startling for her before she starts to get accustomed to the sensation of it, her skin warming the metal.
feel me, she whispers, and those two simple words ratchet another dizzying throb of desire through him, an ache. bucky splays his fingertips along the arch of her spine, pressing into that curve at the small of her back. he's careful, so careful with it: to not apply too much pressure, to accidentally crush or bruise.
then, back to the front, and while her mouth is still at his ear, now both his hands are reaching blindly for the closure of her shirt. it's a little test of dexterity: delicate human fingertips right alongside the metal ones, slowly undoing each button in turn as he makes his way upward. it's a balance, a coordination. he does have some faint sensation in his left arm and hand — enough to measure impact, to manipulate objects, to not be hopelessly clumsy, but it's dulled and muted like there's layers on layers between him and her. blunted touch. but whenever his fingers touch her, he can hear karen's intake of breath against his ear as the cold (winter) creeps upwards. like ice cubes on the skin, but slowly warming.
finally, the shirt is hanging loose, and then he slides it off her shoulders to join his own on the floor. leaving her in that black bra (did she wear that on purpose, when she knew he was coming over?), and bucky feels his throat clench, his mouth go absolutely dry at the sight. feel me, she'd said, and so he reaches out with just the slightest foray across the barrier: he slides a metal finger beneath the edge of her bra, the chilling cold rolling across her nipple, before he moves away and his grip settles back on her hip. his heartbeat's pounding a tattered rhythm in his ribcage; nerves he hasn't felt since he was a literal teenager. )
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feel me, she whispers, and those two simple words ratchet another dizzying throb of desire through him, an ache. bucky splays his fingertips along the arch of her spine, pressing into that curve at the small of her back. he's careful, so careful with it: to not apply too much pressure, to accidentally crush or bruise.
then, back to the front, and while her mouth is still at his ear, now both his hands are reaching blindly for the closure of her shirt. it's a little test of dexterity: delicate human fingertips right alongside the metal ones, slowly undoing each button in turn as he makes his way upward. it's a balance, a coordination. he does have some faint sensation in his left arm and hand — enough to measure impact, to manipulate objects, to not be hopelessly clumsy, but it's dulled and muted like there's layers on layers between him and her. blunted touch. but whenever his fingers touch her, he can hear karen's intake of breath against his ear as the cold (winter) creeps upwards. like ice cubes on the skin, but slowly warming.
finally, the shirt is hanging loose, and then he slides it off her shoulders to join his own on the floor. leaving her in that black bra (did she wear that on purpose, when she knew he was coming over?), and bucky feels his throat clench, his mouth go absolutely dry at the sight. feel me, she'd said, and so he reaches out with just the slightest foray across the barrier: he slides a metal finger beneath the edge of her bra, the chilling cold rolling across her nipple, before he moves away and his grip settles back on her hip. his heartbeat's pounding a tattered rhythm in his ribcage; nerves he hasn't felt since he was a literal teenager. )
Fuck, you're beautiful.