Of Luck, Glitter, and an Emerald Ounce
“That looks like it came from the Juniors section.”
Bucky’s just leaning back against the countertop letting the garish glitter-green t-shirt ride up his midsection, watching Steve knowingly—reading everything Steve’s thinking and shifting his hips wordlessly, idly in response with the smirk in his eyes and not his lips, because Bucky knows that the plush pout of those lips won’t tempt the same way if he lets them quirk upward.
Steve, for probably the millionth time since he kissed that stunning mouth, sweet as it’d ever looked, for the first time in 1934—Steve thinks, most likely, that for all the shit out there that’s ever been aiming to end him, from aliens to his own failing body?
James Buchanan Barnes is going to be the goddamn death of him.
Or: Bucky takes the whole Kiss Me, I'm Irish thing to a new (infuriating, tantalizing) level.
(Gift-Fic Extravaganza, 8/25)
A Fighting Strength