Winterhawk Writing

Fourteen

The soft trail of kisses starts in the middle of Clint's shoulders and goes up his spine, over his neck, and up his throat. He can't help the content sighs and unwavering smile stuck to his face.
"Mornin'," he yawns through a stretch and finally cracks his eyes open.
Bucky is beautiful. The buttery morning sun lights up the grey of his eyes and makes him look so incredibly soft and sleepy that Clint can't put the feelings knotting up his chest into actual words. His hair is tousled and messily tucked behind his ears and when Clint runs his fingers through it Bucky keens into his touch and the feelings squeeze tighter and takes his breath away.
"Fuck," he says, a little breathless and a little desperate, "I love you."
Bucky's trail of kisses pauses at the hinge of his jaw, lips still pressed to the stubbled skin. He pulls back, sees the stricken look on Clint's face, and huffs a soft laugh before continuing the series of chaste kisses along his jawline towards his mouth and once he gets there he delicately kisses Clint's upper lip.
"I love you, too, dumbass," Bucky's voice is deep and raspy with sleep and it manages to steal Clint's last bit of control 'cos he lurches forward and crushes their lips together, the mood of the room transitioning from sleepy and gentle to harsh and needy.