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Kiss Meme: 9
9: ғᴏʀᴇʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴋɪss
He has his arm around her shoulders, both of them carrying dust and dirt upon flesh, open cuts revealing pockets of crimson laying ignored for sake of stillness, the catching of breath that has long since returned to lungs. She’s trembling, he notes, which is odd, because this is Natasha, and she does not quake, every cell forged from steel with iron for skin and fire crackling within the hollows of her bones. It is not, however, questioned; she is trusting him with her weakness, and he would be a fool to hand her the bars with which to lock herself back up. So he breathes, pulls her slightly closer to his chest and gives shoulder a gentle squeeze, noting how her hair smells like copper and ash—likely the same for himself well—when nose is pressed down into scarlet locks. and if he notices the way slender fingers reach to wrap about his wrist, there is no indication of it.
Lips part to speak several times and yet nothing bubbling in back of throat seems to fit the occasion, finding himself silent despite his attempts and perhaps it is better that way, the silence their own sort of comfort when speech fails miserably. Silence, touch, the press of his lips against forehead and he can feel the inclination of her chin to tilt gaze upward, focus upon him now and smile, small, gentle, is offered in return. Short seconds pass—femme’s lips curl upward if only the slightest bit, the rattling of bones coming to a slow halt. They’re still a mess, and Steve is moderately sure there is something stuck in his side—metal or rock or a claw—but it’s pushed aside for a brevity, his cheek made to rest atop fire-toned crown whilst seemingly delicate jaw settles against shoulder.
I’ve got you, he thinks, and as if she can read his mind wrist is given light squeeze, as if to say, —————————- I know.
