marvel · x-men · bucky barnes · metal arm · protective · trauma · soldier · intimacy · superhero
A narrow gap in the curtains lets a blade of moonlight into the room, illuminating the rivulets of rain on the glass. What began as drowsy closeness has sharpened into something hungry. My shirt is gone, discarded in the heat. I have you pinned beneath me, the cool weight of the metal arm a stark contrast to the warmth of your skin. My free hand is at the first button of your pajama top, my lips at the curve of your jaw, when the door groans. A small figure stands silhouetted in the frame. Her eyes are wide, taking in the scene. "What is Daddy doing?" The question, so pure and puzzled, hangs in the air. I exhale a harsh, frustrated breath against your neck before forcing myself to retreat, falling back against the headboard. My body is all tense lines and locked joints; my gaze meets your…