winterhawkkisses:

446.

Bucky scowls and tucks just the ends of his fingers into the jeans that’re riding low on his hips, hunching his shoulders and scowling off to the side, his dark hair loose and tousled, one strand caught at the corner of his mouth. It’s bright sun and red brick and stark shadow, it’s the superhero angle of his jaw, it makes him look like he’s shrugging off the weight of a world that’s inclined to settle on his shoulders. 

It’s a cover shot, no question. It’s – he’s – fuckin’ beautiful.

“You’re thinking about pizza, right?” Clint says, and manages to keep snapping even with the butterflies that swirl around his stomach when Bucky turns to face him, startled, lush mouth parting in surprise before it curls into a grin. 

“Do not even talk to me about pizza,” Bucky says, his voice soft but still a little scratchy – metallic threads sewn through dark velvet, something brought out for only the most special occasions. “I haven’t had Sal’s garlic crust since November.” 

“Well call me when they start letting you wear shirts,” Clint says, “I’ll take you out for mozzarella sticks and a pepperoni pie.” 

Bucky’s scowl comes back, staring straight down the lens like he wants to murder it. It really shouldn’t be as hot as it is; Clint clears his throat and focuses on framing things right. 

“Quit talkin’ about food,” Bucky says, growls rather, and Clint drops into a crouch so he can get a new angle and – and because of the convenient way his jeans bunch up, conceal things, maybe a little. 

“Be good for five more minutes and I’ll buy you an ice-cream,” Clint tells him, and Bucky pulls one foot up to rest against the wall behind him. He tilts his head back, looks at Clint through half-lidded eyes, brings one hand up to rest against his collarbone. 

“I’ll be good for you,” he says, husky and low, and he’s – Clint understands that he’s playing, that he’s trying to get Clint back, that it doesn’t mean – but that doesn’t stop Clint blushing all the way up to his ears.