Head out into suburbia, get a nice little house with a backyard and room to roam? A place with more than one bedroom? Seems impossible.
( the usual mordant humour about nyc real estate. he's trying to sound teasing — biting sarcasm has, in fact, become one of bucky barnes' trademarks — but truth be told, he also sounds a little wistful about the prospect. his sister had had a place like that out in indiana. and yet, brooklyn's got its claws into him and he's not sure he could ever leave. he's looking down at his right hand as he twists the whiskey glass back and forth on the island, skimming the condensation from the glass, his other arm tucked between him and the edge of the island as he leans against it. (if she looks, she can just catch a glimpse of sleek black metal, only just barely out of view.)
there's a thoughtful look on his face, a contemplative furrow between his brows as he digs up his next few words: )
I've thought for a while that people can be divided into groups: either you're a New York person or not. Not in a good or a bad way. Either you love this city and you stay and stick it out here, or you don't.
( a beat. there really was a reason it was the only thing he could think of putting into his bullshit dating profile. i'm just a kid from brooklyn, steve had famously said, once upon a time, and those words rang true for both of them. )
Me, I can't imagine living anywhere else. Although maybe it's 'cause it's the only place that looks familiar to me at all these days. Even if it's changed.
( she hums wistfully like it's a pipe dream, something sweet because of it's inability to be touched, and her eyes drift off like she's painting herself somewhere else while her body remained rooted there. she's had time in that quiet life, nothing but boundless trees surrounding her and dirt roads luring you to the foot of the mountains. she can still hear her brother's words, vining tightly about her chest, her throat, pressing tongue to the roof of her mouth: you've gotta get out of here, karen. she'd had the quiet, but it's not so welcoming to her anymore, not since she'd left it with a falsified police report, that last glimpse she'd gotten before they'd gone over the rail.
she can't get that back, can't take anything back. but it doesn't keep her from fruitlessly wishing for it just the same. )
Put a garden back there, build some little shed over the summer that just fills and fills with shit you don't really need, but it all makes you feel like you've made it, somehow.
( mindlessly she's giving a slow twirl of her glass, looking down at the way those honey-comb hues reflect against one another, like the sticky summers of vermont. )
You know, back then I always wanted to be somewhere else. That 'elsewhere' just happened to end up here. It doesn't really give you a choice; to love it. Even if you find out you don't want to, you can't take it back. You're already here.
( she finds his gaze across that island and for a long pause, she doesn't say anything. she sees new york in him. it's teeth, its summers, its winters. the distance between them suddenly burns with a vastness none to her liking. ) All those people and it still has a way of making you feel alone.
( the words are out before he's had a chance to consider it or rethink them. biting sarcasm and yet with a looming vein of truth to it — even as he cocks his head and surveys her over that kitchen island and he realises that, of course, it's because like recognises like. it sounds like she's talking about him because she's talking about herself.
bucky knows he's lonely. his only fucking friend left him, so what else is he supposed to be? even his therapist tells him he's lonely, that it's sad how few people he speaks to. he hadn't been expecting to spot it here, however: in karen page's pale eyes and faraway look and half-finished bottle of beer and stacks of paperwork and workaholism and the fact that she, too, was trawling a shitty phone app at this too-late hour, looking for some kind of connection.
he drains the last of his drink, hand trembling a bit before he sets it back down on the counter with a firm thud. maybe he really does want that courage delivered in amber liquid and a warmth burning its way down his throat before he looks up again, meets her eye, and says: )
( whether they're alone by their own devices or something far out of their control, it still felt the same at a certain hour of the night. her entire apartment is a gallery of things left unfinished, even the woman inhabiting it, and she teems with restlessness even when she's standing still. he looks up at her and she watches the way the heart of his throat lurches hungrily, eagerly lapping the bourbon he'd just fed it and she doesn't know if his words are just that — words, something to pass the time, something that seemed like the right thing to say, or if it's more than that.
something else. somewhere else.
she hasn't shifted from where she's perched and she's hasn't let go of his eyes, but that bourbon in her hands is suddenly long forgotten and tongue parched for something that burns a little different. there's a heat that branches to her chest at the suggestion, vague and kept to herself as it is, and when she finds her voice again it comes with a velvet undercurrent. a hand reaching out in the dark, just to see what it might come back with. you don't have to be. )
Easy to say when you're standing all the way over there.
( if they were playing poker, his hand's just been called.
it's been so very, very long since he's done anything like this. an entire lifetime and generation and culture removed: back in the forties, before he was shipped off to war, before the winter soldier, before everything, back when he was another man. it was a language he'd spoken fluently, once, but he wonders how rusty he's become.
but there is, at least, this: it's easier to read karen in-person, when he can keep his eyes riveted on hers, see the way her tongue wets her lips, hear that particular huskiness to her voice (and the sound of it sends an electric jolt down his spine, to his fingertips), and she can see the way his adam's apple bobs as he swallows. a familiar tension now sinking into the room between them, settling into all the cracks and into the feet of distance between them. the kitchen island had indeed been a kind of safety net, an unconscious barrier, but now she's inviting him past it.
so bucky crosses the field.
he leaves his glass behind and saunters around the island and then purposefully takes a step into her personal bubble, too close, closer than a regular conversation requires (and that old wariness starts to hum to life, says you're letting the combatant get too close and he has to remind it, almost gently: this isn't a fight). he makes himself stand there, crowded into her space. karen's tall, even without her heels: just two inches beneath him, for his eyes to drop to hers.
there's a dance to these things, he'd told someone once, and they might be skipping a step or two (flowers; shit, he should have brought flowers), but he does remember how this part goes. that delicious push-and-pull, his heartbeat pounding a little harder in his throat with anticipation. )
( if it’s been awhile then they both wear it familiarly, and as those boots pad decisively against the floorboards she thinks she can feel it in her chest, each of them narrowing closer until he’s not only standing beside her, but with her, a breath of a distance keeping their fronts from touching and he brings with him a scented rush. it’s a cocktail of leather and spices, the breath of a natural cologne that could only be ascribed as him. gone is the gunpowder and peroxide, the man that’d wrought a war within himself just to give her so much as a glance. he’s still covered, but she’ll take it layer by layer, if he needs her to. run her fingertips along the fleshy and metal expanses of skin just the same. here, with her, he doesn’t need those hackles. and soon enough, she hopes, he’ll learn to leave them at the door when he enters.
they’d made it this far, hadn’t they?
he’s a lot broader up close like this, shoulders towering, and she can see the way fitful sleep rests beneath his eyes, the dusting of freckles trailing the bridge of his nose, feel the cloud of his breath warm against her cheek. her own seems to hold itself at the back of her throat as if she doesn’t trust it, can’t trust that it won’t give her away, that it won’t tremble on its way out. she doesn’t want to hide from him, not this, but it’s habit—yearning after something until it gets too close, as if to say are you sure? )
Better.
( it’s a word that typically trails with a ’but’, leaves room for improvement, but there’s no complaint to be found on her features as her hand raises, settles the heart of her palm against his sternum. his dog tags rest just above her fingertips, brushing her index across one of them like braille, gaze staying just long enough to make out his name in embedded lettering. )
You were saying? ( because it all sounds a little different, means a little more when she can taste the bourbon on his exhale. stamp of approval, indeed. )
( name, serial number, blood type, next-of-kin, religion. for all his secrecy, he's been wearing a guide to himself on a bare piece of metal, open for anyone to read if they ever got close enough (which, of course, they haven't). that serial number's worn into his memory just as it's worn into the grooves of the dog tag, staunchly memorised over and over and over for fear he'd forget who he was. so he's been carrying around this reminder of himself like an albatross around his neck — or perhaps a lodestone, something to anchor himself by. it's him in a nutshell, and karen's fingers are running over the tags.
come on, james, he goads himself, his heart in his throat, as he looks down at her. this man who once leapt onto a zipline over a moving train even back when he was fragile human flesh and blood—
and so what else is this but another yawning chasm to cross? although this one might swallow him whole, too. she's as good as written him an invitation. so while karen's hand flutters at the chain dangling over his heart, his own hand moves up to cup her cheek, bracketing the side of her face. fingers curled by her jaw while his thumb skims over the fragile bones of her cheek, her scattering of pale freckles. it would take so little to break her, even with his non-metal hand. he's ever-aware of that pent-up strength in his body and how he's unaccustomed to wielding it for anything except causing pain; inflicting as much damage as possible; shattering bone and taking bruising hits. he wonders, fleetingly, if steve ever got over that trepidation either. handling the others around them with kid gloves, lest they break.
into the breach, barnes.
so his grip tightens and he leans in: his right hand drawing her face closer, his left resting against the island, careful to not touch her with it. and bucky catches her lips with his— cautious at first, careful, like he's still trying to re-learn this language and shake off the dust, but as soon as karen's mouth moves against his, his lips part and he leans in further, the kiss turning hungrier. )
( she doesn't have many excuses — she doesn't do this much, doesn't really get out, doesn't have the time — except she does, and it's so often unkempt with article clippings and pinned up newspapers. they say it's what makes a journalist one of the best, the ability to get into the mind of their subject, but she's only ever there. scripting herself across the lives of the countless, endless bodies in that city so long as it wasn't her own and sometimes she doesn't know who she is without the harrowing late nights, without the whiskey and the mugs left abandoned, without phone left in her purse to defer any messages from the few that still stuck around to check in.
it's hard to know who she is, right here in front of him when that palm cups the entirety of her cheek, comes with it a heat she hasn't felt in too long and she can't help but to lean into the touch as he thumbs over her. blonde lashes flutter, gaze dropping to revel in that cupid's bow of his lips, how the lower pouts when he fixes on her and he does nothing but hold her there. hold her and see her, and what she'd give to be able to reach in, to draw out every little thing he's thinking and tuck it somewhere safe.
those fingers splayed at his chest ravel slowly, gather at the fabric of his henley just as his mouth seeks out her own, and the stillness that follows as their lips make amends leaves her heart echoing. calling. reaching. she's dizzied by it, and it's only a moment before she's responding in kind, before bones give a breath and that clasp at his shirt is used to tug him closer, yet.
that hidden exhale trembles as his mouth parts, as if she can hide it within it's hot cave, opposite palm lifting to find the column of his neck where fingertips fasten around the nape, shoulders pinching together and their fronts gravitate til they're flush together. her thumb presses beneath the ridge of his jaw, a silent message to stay as her crown tips, tongue giving a teasing curl only to retract, a ploy for his to follow. )
( girls in the forties were not, in fact, all as prim and prudish and demure as the world seems to have painted them in the years since — he'd bitten back a laugh sometimes, watching a movie set in the past — but this still feels new and overwhelming, and bucky answers in kind. a spark lit in a dark and empty room; a match striking a flame and feeding a desire that he hasn't felt in so long, and which he's purposefully smothered for so long. she nudges at the part of his lips, and bucky opens up further in response, his tongue slipping into her mouth. karen's dragged him closer by the fabric of his shirt and he's pressed up against her, their bodies desperate for contact, to be touching — and he realises a second later that he's accidentally crowded her up against the island, karen's back pressed against it with nowhere to go.
while she's clutching his face and that solid line of his jaw, bucky's hand moves downward and slides along the curve of her hips, a finger hooking into the loop of her denim. hanging onto her. stay.
and more is the only coherent thought he can pin down. and so after a moment, bucky lets himself loose like a leash finally slackened, free rein given to his impulses after so much time spent on ice. he gives a thoughtful hum, and then his hands move further — one flesh-and-blood, the other hard, cold metal — down to her thighs and, in a dizzying swoop of superstrength, he lifts her up and settles her on the edge of the island. so he can step even closer between the cradle of her legs, reach her better, settle his right hand on her hip again. kiss her again, all lips and teeth, his hot tongue against hers. the kiss is urgent and yet not rushed; he's taking his time, getting to know the taste of her, the ebb-and-flow of pressure, the way karen pushes back when he meets her. there's a dance to it. he's re-learning the steps. )
( there should be a name for this, she thinks, the first time i taste you.
and how was she, now, supposed to distinguish him from the bourbon? they burned the same. he could devour her, if he wanted to, reach a hand up to her throat for her to swallow, take her breath and she'd still manage to say his name. she could commit the rest of her night, just to this, the sampling of her tongue between his lips and the way his own yearns after, soft and warm and melting once they meet. it's all a slow dance but there's still a bite of haste, like an asking, is this okay? fingers in his shirt, wrinkling at the cotton, pulling and pulling still.
what was close enough? she's not sure she's ever learned.
it takes a great deal of effort to keep herself upright with how he's pinned her, that island bisecting her at the waist, limbs steady and shoulders tempted to fall back with him — and almost as if he'd heard it in her breath he assuages her with a swift, easy motion that props her atop it, instead. a gasp gives a messy break of their lips, glistening with each other, and all of that patience they'd toyed with, downing one glass of bourbon after the next is so easily taken by a hunger that doesn't know it's place. suddenly she wishes she weren't so dressed, if only to feel the contrast between those hands, the allure of warm and biting all at once.
he's teeth and tongue and she meets him there, snaring at his mouth, dragging that pillow of his lower lip back until he's left to chase it, and it's only once he does that she lets him loose. blunt, naked-glossed fingertips are carding through his hair, short but thick enough to gain some semblance of a grip, her tongue sweeping, hooking a calve at his waistline to draw him in just there.
she doesn't want to rush him, doesn't want to rush this, and there was nothing in her unwilling to stay here: learning his mouth, his breaths, how she could make his throat and his chest speak like that hum that resonates through her. idly she wonders if he can feel her heart beat through her tongue, clasping at the forearm that grounds her. )
( her leg hooks around his waist and pulls him even closer, their hips now flush against each other, and that sends another electric jolt zigzagging through all his nerves and desire arrowing downwards. with them pressed so close against each other, she can feel he's already getting half-hard in his jeans. it doesn't take much; it's been a long time.
and bucky can't remember what pace is anymore. old cocky habits balanced against decades of loneliness and yearning now tipping over into full-blown starvation, this thing he's been missing ever since HYDRA picked his broken body out of a ravine and called him winter; and it's balanced against a newfound skittishness, an anxiety about being caught wrong-footed. times have changed. how much have the times changed? he can't tell. he can't remember. he could stay here forever.
and yet. and yet the way she's arched her back on that kitchen counter and leaned into him means the oversized fabric of her dress shirt has slid free, coming undone from where it had been tucked into her waistband; his thumb finds that gap between jeans and shirt, that inch of bare skin of her hip, and skims across it.
that merest brush of skin-against-skin somehow feels even more intimate than when he'd been fully shirtless in front of her and she'd been ripping shrapnel out of him. bucky inhales a startled breath, breaking away for a second to fill his lungs again. and he looks at her: karen's eyes blown wide, lips kiss-bruised, hair drifting into her face.
he has a tendency to stare, half a glower, but this time it's all just soft and admiring. his fingers are still splayed across that bare stripe of skin, just under the edge of where her hem has tumbled loose. )
( skin was different when it was offered. she'd had him shirtless and propped against that table none too far from them now, but she hadn't rid of all the layers herself. then it was blood that that left clothes falling in a hush to the side and now it would be need; the urgency felt the same. the moment the brisk air of the city let in through one of the too-many windows she keeps propped, even during the winter, bites at that hint of exposed, milky flesh, he seems to know it — moves as if to chase it away, to ensure he was the only one to touch her.
the city was a greedy suitor. the idea of him hungering for her just the same ignites her, whittles her down to the basics: want and famish.
those blonde fallen strands wisp across her brow, catch at the edge of her lips glossed with him, and her spine bows when his fingertips sprawl and tease toward the cage of her rib, breath drawing taut around it's ridges and it gives her away, as if to say: there. he brushes that callous palm against her, asks her if it's okay without that gaze once faltering from hers and she has to find her tongue, remember again how to use it if not against his own. )
Yeah— ( it's a whisper, better described as a breath given the lack of tone, and it should speak for her just how long it's been that the rounds of her cheeks are tinted red, fingers kneading at the nape of his neck where they've fallen, toying at the ends of his hair.
she keeps arched to him, releasing that forearm of his if only to let it drift further beneath that thin top of hers, and now she's cradling him — palm to his cheek, pad of her thumb grazing beneath the swell of his lower lip, tracing it's curve, watching the way it gapes for her. forehead presses to his and their noses stumble together, and before she can stop it there's another hushed breath, this time carrying a request: ) Kiss me.
( and maybe it's silly, asking for it when she can merely take it for herself — but they'd danced around the words before, suggested them without really saying them, and she wants him to hear it. to hear her want, explicit and spoken. )
( that permission in the shape of a command is irresistible — he couldn't say no even if he wanted to, and who would want to? — and so bucky doesn't waste any time before his lips are crashing against hers again, mouth open and wanting. his scalp prickles where her fingers dig into his hair, that delicious sense of pressure and steadiness, anchoring him to her.
his left hand's still braced against the island (no matter how much a part of him, even now, wants to reach for her), but his right starts to roam: sliding under her shirt, now across the smooth expanse of her abdomen and stomach, his long fingers fanning across the arch of her ribcage, just savouring the sensation of his palm against skin. he encounters the fabric of that black bralette and karen can feel bucky hesitate for a second, the kiss pausing; before his tongue moves again, accompanied by his fingertips ghosting across the fabric. not even touching or grabbing, just the slightest tentative brush as he forays across territories and borders, skimming into new foreign lands. her skin beneath the loose shirt is burning-hot, and he can feel the warmth of her thighs locked around his legs, keeping him there. stay.
at their next pause for breath, bucky's lips starts to roam, too: he kisses her jaw instead, the spot right below the shell of her ear; he makes for the curve of her neck, mouths against a beauty mark on her throat, his teeth grazing against her skin. taking in every last detail he can and pressing his lips against everything he finds. there is so very much of her to explore, and they're not even naked yet. )
( a sound hums up to greet him once his mouth claims hers in a demand of it's own — something akin to a moan, but far lighter, a delighted tone no less, and she knows he can feel the staccato of her breaths as his palm peruses bare flesh, hyper aware of the callouses at the upper of his palm and the otherwise baby-soft plain of it's center. he toys with the eyelet lace at her chest, giving a graze against her breasts that's barely-there, and hidden pink buds harden attentively. maybe he's waiting for permission, to ask her, and while her mouth is busy she tries to let her figure speak for her—nails biting miniature crescents at his nape before carding up his skull, every inch of her curving closer to his palm as if to give it the confidence to be a bit more sure.
when his mouth makes a detour she's left trying to pick up the ragged pieces of her and breath he's left behind, eyes closing as she's pressing her temple to his, craning the pale, lean column of her neck to the side, golden strands falling back to give him room—an open invitation. it was so easy to mark her, all fair and porcelain skin, and there's some savage thing fluttering alive in her chest that wants him to do just that, color her, mar her like a map of everywhere he's been. something to remember him by.
it's only when she's afforded a brief flicker of clarity that it dawns on her how single-sided his affections were, all favoring the right side of her; her neck, her ribs, her chest, that hip, and she swallows thickly as his mouth pursues her further. she's not dazed enough that she doesn't understand the implication behind it, but the last thing she wants is for him to withdraw, for her to try to breach something he wasn't ready for. she's tucking lips in on one another, keeping herself upright with his nape while nimble fingers find the hem of his outer-most layer. she gives a telling tug, testing the waters for any resistance, and she knows deep down it's the long-sleeved layer waiting for her next that daunted him.
for now, he works with her, arms lifting in accord and mouth breaking from her skin only when it's forced to. chocolate strands of his are left mussed, and she lets the fabric fall mindlessly off to the floor beside them. )
( that first layer is almost nothing, an irrelevance, because all it does is expose the second long-sleeved shirt. and that, predictably, is where bucky pauses like they've run up against a brick wall: his tongue darting out to wet his lips thoughtfully, now both of his hands braced against the island on either side of her, pinning karen in place just as her legs do for him. he runs his thumb along the line of her thigh, following the seam of her denim. (on the left: that glimmer of metal, visible at the end of his sleeve.)
they both know what the next barrier is, and why he's hesitating over it with that clouded, distracted look in his eyes. but he's trying to remind himself of this fact: she hadn't flinched away last time. hadn't visibly recoiled, which either means she's got an excellent poker face or maybe she really is some level of okay with it.
but okay with it doesn't necessarily mean okay with it touching her.
everything has slowed down. bucky's fingers move to the oversized buttons of her shirt, toying contemplatively with the bottom-most one before he slips it off its hook. but he doesn't go for the rest of the buttons.
he's only human. he does want that satisfaction of bare skin on bare skin, too; he wants all the rest of it, her chest against his, those round fingernails sinking into his shoulderblades, digging into the meat of his arm. closer. even at the cost of this, the shedding of the last piece of armour. her own fingers are toying and plucking at the bottom hem of his shirt, but not daring to make that decision for him: so bucky finally reaches for the hem, drags the shirt over his head. the dog tags catch on his nose before they drop again, dangling over the hollow of his collarbone. )
You always seem to get me shirtless in this kitchen, ( he jokes, an instinctive reliance on humour to cut through the situation, but she can see the way anxiety settles in his blue eyes like flecks of ice. that anxiety thrumming in him. it's an undeniably well-made arm, not the brutish soviet design it once had been, and it isn't stamped with a red star anymore, but it's still not normal.
so he finally clears his throat: )
If you're not— comfortable. I get it. It's not exactly...
( delicate? warm? attractive? he's not sure what word to place there. )
( the way he brackets her now reminds her of the man she'd first brought to her apartment, bloodied and carrying two russian reminders in the form of a bullet. how reluctant he'd been to look at her then, to witness her seeing him—it's been weeks since that night, countless spent tucked around various dive bars, downing one too many just for him to walk her back to that red entry, leave her there with the murmured 'goodnight, karen.' she doesn't want to undermine it, that he's not all flesh, but even when she'd first caught that glimmer of metal, even when she'd put the pieces together, she'd still treated him with those same delicate, patient hands.
she's leaning back on one of her palms, the other soothing still at his nape, and he seems to tackle one of those buttons of her own shirt as if to bide time, a means of distraction from warring thoughts.
it splinters through her, watching as he fights to pull his own weight over that barrier, and even if she can't do it for him—knows it's a step he needed to take, and one she'd never force from him—she could at least be waiting on the other side. and she is, and while she's eager to take in every part of him, she grants the courtesy of holding his gaze even when that last upper layer falls to join the other. that deflective humor manages the faintest tick to flushed lips, swollen with him, but there's a pained furrow that takes to her brows. and when he speaks again, words trying to find a way around his tongue it's like he's tugging that top of his right back on—like if he says it first, any distaste that might leave her mouth wouldn't be as sharp of a knife. )
Hey— ( it's ardent, and there's no bit of a command in her tone, but she needs him to hear her, lifting her hand to pinch gently at his chin with thumb and forefinger. there's a kiss to his lips and it lingers like she doesn't want to pull back, but she does, and she tries to divide the fear: there's seeing and there's feeling. so, she does the feeling first. )
I want you. ( even if she can't diminish that heat that's still there humming between them, it seems to pause, as if to let them have this first. she finds each of his wrists, another breath of a kiss, and carefully she's drawing each of those hands to her sides, tucking them beneath that linen top of hers, a quiet guide to curve around to her back: you're safe, here. goose flesh pricks along her skin, a stunning contrast between the two, colliding together in a spiral about her spine with a pleasure unfamiliar to her. and once they've settled, she's ducking in to the crook of his neck and peppering a line of thoughtful, decisive kisses—just the tips of her fingers running down vibranium; his bicep, curling around to it's back.
she's waiting at his ear, letting him get accustomed to how it feels—touching her, letting himself touch her. )
Feel me. ( it's whispered, like two children sharing secrets in the dark, blanket tucked over their crowns. )
( karen grabs his lightly-dimpled chin, drags his gaze back to hers, holds him there until bucky has no choice but to look right at her, hear the truth of what she's saying. she moves his hands, slides them — both — under her shirt, and that shock of cold is startling for her before she starts to get accustomed to the sensation of it, her skin warming the metal.
feel me, she whispers, and those two simple words ratchet another dizzying throb of desire through him, an ache. bucky splays his fingertips along the arch of her spine, pressing into that curve at the small of her back. he's careful, so careful with it: to not apply too much pressure, to accidentally crush or bruise.
then, back to the front, and while her mouth is still at his ear, now both his hands are reaching blindly for the closure of her shirt. it's a little test of dexterity: delicate human fingertips right alongside the metal ones, slowly undoing each button in turn as he makes his way upward. it's a balance, a coordination. he does have some faint sensation in his left arm and hand — enough to measure impact, to manipulate objects, to not be hopelessly clumsy, but it's dulled and muted like there's layers on layers between him and her. blunted touch. but whenever his fingers touch her, he can hear karen's intake of breath against his ear as the cold (winter) creeps upwards. like ice cubes on the skin, but slowly warming.
finally, the shirt is hanging loose, and then he slides it off her shoulders to join his own on the floor. leaving her in that black bra (did she wear that on purpose, when she knew he was coming over?), and bucky feels his throat clench, his mouth go absolutely dry at the sight. feel me, she'd said, and so he reaches out with just the slightest foray across the barrier: he slides a metal finger beneath the edge of her bra, the chilling cold rolling across her nipple, before he moves away and his grip settles back on her hip. his heartbeat's pounding a tattered rhythm in his ribcage; nerves he hasn't felt since he was a literal teenager. )
( that doesn't interrupt that practiced pursuit, and each time one of those buttons gives she can feel the tease of chilled fingertips prod against her—hinting, and on it's own it's enough to make her hips squirm a little in place atop that island, sure he can feel it against his hips, still pressed flush with hers despite their intermission. that want they'd built to a pyre doesn't take long to catch, as if he'd unbound her notch by notch of her spine, unfastening her before he'd even gotten to that shirt of hers. and she stays lazed there, the edge of her cheek brushing his own, lips in a slight gape with her efforts to steady every breath that tugs at her.
the slack of the fabric is telling enough, that last button released from the valley of her chest, and it's pressed over her shoulders in time with an exhale. she can feel the way he admires her, even if she can't see it, and with lids closed and mouth hovering at his ear she's startled when that crisp touch finds her again, tucking beneath the underline of that bra. the moment he thumbs over her nipple a whimper cuts through her—desperately trying to swallow back the succinct sound, thighs giving an appreciative hug to each of his sides, as if there was any means to get him closer than he was.
she bows, making an open-mouthed trail of his pulse point and she can feel it thundering there, matching the disjointed rhythm of her own. one by one those threads of patience begin to snap, carefully wound over the years at the mercy of some clawing thing she's kept caged, and she's winding an arm up the slope of his back, nosing until she finds his mouth. a ragged huff is left against it. )
Bucky... ( it's all she can find, and it's a plea for something, fingertips raking beneath the blade of his shoulder, rolling her hips again, this time directing the pressure to where she can feel him growing rigid beneath denim, the rough seam of her own temporarily granting her a reprieve. )
( when karen rolls her hips against him, he makes a strangled noise against her mouth, a small groan against her lips. the pressure is too much and yet it's nowhere near enough. he presses in even closer, half-rutting against her, desperate for any kind of friction. they're both in jeans. that's gonna be harder to navigate. if she'd been wearing a dress or a skirt, he could've just slipped a hand between her legs and tugged her underwear aside and—
jesus christ. that spark they lit is burning like a forest fire, skittering bucky's thoughts into distraction, into oblivion. his gaze drifts over her shoulder until he spots the sofa further into the living room; and there's also the hallway leading, presumably, towards a bedroom. options. he's sizing up alternatives and exits, but this time it's for an entirely different purpose. the island's still covered in paperwork, a half-empty coffee cup, the bottle of whiskey, things that might get knocked over. they could still probably make do, he could peel those jeans off her, and—
jesus christ
the fire chews up the last of his skittishness and self-control, burned away somewhere in the pleading shape of his name on karen's lips. so he scoops her up again, her legs wrapping around his hips while his hands settle on her ass. he barely breaks the kiss as he starts walking, doesn't miss a step, his mouth only breaking away enough to say, breathlessly: )
( to think that she'd first been the one to tug him blindly through that apartment, a catch of a breath as the island is swept effortlessly from beneath her and he's cradling her with those big palms of his, limbs wrapping instinctively about his sides. she has to remind herself that he can't navigate it alone, managing to drag the kiss out despite the way their mouths jar with any slight misstep, despite how sloppy it all is—it's more an afterthought of teeth and tongue and lips, a waning control, and it takes a moment for her to still the carousel of needs brimming through her to make that fateful decision—
where do you want me? she burns at the thought.
everywhere. )
Couch- ( she manages it around a huff, and there's nothing more than the a dim light and that lone candle lit on the coffee table to lead the way. the apartment's compact enough that it's a manageable trek, but it's no easy feat when he's balancing her in his arms, and at some point he twirls them so it's her that topples back to the cushions first. and as tempted as she is to abruptly interrupt his joining her, tug at his jeans with her mouth lingering there in waiting as she sat at the edge of that couch, she's too fixed on the idea of him blanketing her, weighing her overwhelmingly into the plush surface.
it's that very thought that has her tugging him down with her long-ways, blonde hair splayed and thighs parting to accommodate him to slot neatly between. fingers find the crux of his jaw and they're using it's edge to bring his mouth headily to hers, already seeking out the fastening of his denim with a breathless mew. )
( it's like they've shoved open a door and both gone tumbling through, the tempo increasing, a snowball starting to gather speed. and there— that's easier, as she sinks into the cushions and bucky sprawls over her with the hard planes of his chest against hers, dog tags swinging off his neck and bumping against her jaw as they kiss, again and again, until their lungs are starving for oxygen. he's half-propping himself up with an elbow and a knee, just enough to lift his hips for easier access as karen starts to undo his jeans. this new position gives them better opportunity for their bodies to collapse together, every part touching: his metal shoulder pressing against hers, a jumble of limbs, knees bumping against knees, his mouth fitting into hers and tongue licking into her mouth as that fire of need and want just gets stoked higher.
and then bucky's whole body arches above her when she finally gets his jeans open and gets her hand around him; his spine curving, burying his face into the crook of her neck with a gasp, a profanity murmured into her skin. just that one touch alone seems to have strummed all his strings, a humming along his nerves as all his attention narrows down to just this: karen's hand, that leisurely stroke. it's been so long that he's hypersensitive, oversensitive — it's a more extreme reaction than she was expecting, most likely, the way he just crumbles, instantly undone and overwhelmed. over the past several decades, he has known pain, stubbornness, relief, adrenaline, grief, even good humour—
he had, in fact, almost forgotten what pleasure felt like.
he's intent on re-learning.
once bucky catches his breath again, he finally goes for the bralette once more; fumbles at karen's back for a moment, eventually finds the clasp at the back, unhooks it and drags the fabric loose, replaces it with a warm hand clasping her breast, thumb circling lazily. )
( it’s a deft working at that button, a tug that relieves the zipper and she’s able to curl her wrist within that minimal space between him, tuck beneath that gruff layer, the thin cotton of his briefs and wrap nimble fingers around him. he’s hot in her palm, gives a dull throb as digits wrap around him and milk a tug from the base til she’s able to thumb over the swell of his tip—and he almost cowers into her, breaks against the line of her shoulder and the heat of his breaths there can be felt warming down her chest, pulling that distinct need beneath her navel where hips rut towards her own wrist.
that curse lights a spark in her belly, and she has to wonder how long it’s been, for him—the last time someone’s touched him like this, the last time he’d been able to hide in another’s shoulder, another’s flesh, forget himself for nothing but that spiraling, spiraling chase. and she thinks they’re both showing their cards here, private and shared just between the two of them, unveiling a puncturing need, unsure of how to make it something neat, unsure of exactly where to put it and so it leaves them conversing in nothing more than ragged breaths. flushed cheeks and rattling hearts, and it renews a vigor within her to give him exactly that: a reminder. how it feels: to want, to be wanted—to hunger.
there’s no part of her willing to let go of him once he’s released the clasp of her bra, craning her head back against that cushion, his mouth beside her throat, keening up against the way he cups her breast. she knows why he feels the need to be gentle, to handle her with care but she’s no fragile thing, and she’s using the bead that’s seeped from his tip to lave another stroke, fingers wrapped tight to his cock—a goading: feel me.
crown tips to the side and she’s mouthing heatedly at the rim of his ear. the couch is barely big enough to accommodate the two of them but all she can think about is him filling her, again and again, grasping feverishly at the back of his arm as he blooms rigidly in her opposite palm; another stroke, another lilt of his name. )
( he honestly hadn't expected this part: how sharp the mere effect is of hearing his name on her lips; that reminder of who he is, that comfortable and well-worn name which sat on no official paperwork and which he'd had to have resurrected and handed back to him, only to then dole out sparingly as something precious. who the hell is bucky?
they are, all of a sudden, wearing too many clothes. now that they're halfway there, his hesitation has melted with the heat of her hand working up and down his length, and bucky's squirming to try to get his jeans further off and allow her more access. in the process and in trying to not squash karen beneath him, his elbow accidentally shoves into her side with an oof, and this time there's a chuckle into her shoulder along with the curse. he's not used to balancing physical presence like this, to sharing such close space with a person. )
Shit. Sorry.
( to make up for it, his metal hand moves for hers, his grip hard and unyielding as he regretfully tugs her away. bucky settles on his knees at the bottom of the sofa, cock now fully hard and aching; trousers only partially off but hell, it's good enough for government work.
he's looking right at her and meeting her gaze — with a fierce stare, still, but this time with unabated hunger in his eyes — as he reaches out to work on the button and zipper of karen's own jeans, the metal now sliding against that soft flesh of her abdomen, right beneath her navel. he tucks his fingertips between her skin and the denim, dragging it down the long lines of her thighs and legs as she kicks, helping him tug them off and toss them somewhere on the floor behind them. moving forward again, he presses a kiss to karen's knee; her thigh; the jutting angle of her hips; further, upward and upward, to his tongue circling a nipple before his mouth closes over it; his left hand settling around the other breast, the difference near-electric between his hot sucking mouth and the cold metal. )
( she tries to help him for what she can, finding the loop at his waistline and giving an assisting tug, but once he manages the denim to his thighs it’s left to his own efforts, and as far as she’s concerned as long as they’re out of the way enough she hasn’t the patience to fuss over it further. his elbow startles a jar into her side, a puff of breath at her shoulder as he laughs and it manages to tug a twin sound from her—the two of them learning once more how to take someone apart. how to give themselves away in the process. it comforts her in an odd way, that he’s no better at navigating all of this than she was, that they both teem between patience and a need they’ve kept tucked down for so long. )
It’s okay—
( a rush of syllables cocooned in a breath, something sweet amidst the teeth, and it’s a hint of intimacy that’s foreign to her, something she’s never once had to look after. he’s pulling her wrist from where it works between them and she makes a reluctant sound, just to leave her with a sight that fortifies her appetite all the more. he’s all lean muscle and stubbled features, eyes trailing the wonder of that mouth, the shadow along his jaw, the jut of his collars and the ridges of abdomen, down to the sight of his cock straining, blushed from the attention. her throat constricts, tongue crossing over suddenly parched lips as hips raise, limbs shifting til jeans are freed from her ankles—and then he starts that damning trail from the inner of her knee and she’s helpless to watch him, reaching down to gather at his strands, and the further he climbs the harsher she tugs.
his mouth leaves a hot swirl against the sensitive bud of her nipple, chest trembling beneath his affections, and lips closes to suckle right when that frigid palm gropes at the other and there’s a moan that grows from the bed of her chest, low and hearty, cut off with a chaste- ) Fuck...
( knuckles run white where they’ve clasped at his hair. it’s mind-numbing, all-consuming and yet she wants more, wanton and writhing little thing that she’s become, nails snaking around his side to the small of his back, the dimple of muscle there where they dig in, urging his hips to hers. there’s no way for her to rid of that thin strip of panties hugging the bow of her waist, but how easy it’d be for him to just tug them off to the side, curl his hips into her, and she resolves to a single word: )
( her nails rake against his back, that delicious little spike of pain — but it's the good kind, karen dragging him closer and sinking her mark into him, little crescent moons dug into his skin, a line dragged down his spine. her voice is already ragged with pleasure and need and demand, and bucky feels a contented sort of pride in it, even as he mouths against her nipple again. any sort of skittish thoughts about pace or speed have flown right out the window. if you count all the coffee and drinks they've had throughout the city, dates that weren't dates, maybe this isn't all that quick after all. maybe he's been waiting ages to trust someone like this again.
please, she begs, and he's in no position to say no. bucky's right hand skims down the line of her ribcage and then dips into her panties, a finger sliding between her lips, and he finds her already soaked and ready for him. he breaks away from her breast with a wet pop, a shuddering breath. )
You sure about this?
( as if karen's anything but. her nails dig in harder; the angle of her heel nudges against his legs, a persistent push in the right direction. bucky hooks a finger into the cloth of her panties, tugs them aside as she cants her hips, and he obediently lines himself up and plunges in, his body blanketed over hers; she can feel the muscles rippling in his back and shoulders as he draws closer, his cock filling her. his mouth catches hers again messily, almost missing her lips as he just disappears into it, into tight wet heat and slick sensation.
they're not even fully undressed before getting their hands on each other like this, and yet it doesn't feel hurried or rushed: it's this balance between patience and impatience, lingering on the things that matter, skipping the steps that don't. bucky's breath is coming shakily through his nose, his arm curling around her, fingers pressing into her ass to clutch her even closer. he's distracted, self-control fraying, and so he's pressing hard enough to bruise. his next word isn't anything more coherent than a simple: )
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( the usual mordant humour about nyc real estate. he's trying to sound teasing — biting sarcasm has, in fact, become one of bucky barnes' trademarks — but truth be told, he also sounds a little wistful about the prospect. his sister had had a place like that out in indiana. and yet, brooklyn's got its claws into him and he's not sure he could ever leave. he's looking down at his right hand as he twists the whiskey glass back and forth on the island, skimming the condensation from the glass, his other arm tucked between him and the edge of the island as he leans against it. (if she looks, she can just catch a glimpse of sleek black metal, only just barely out of view.)
there's a thoughtful look on his face, a contemplative furrow between his brows as he digs up his next few words: )
I've thought for a while that people can be divided into groups: either you're a New York person or not. Not in a good or a bad way. Either you love this city and you stay and stick it out here, or you don't.
( a beat. there really was a reason it was the only thing he could think of putting into his bullshit dating profile. i'm just a kid from brooklyn, steve had famously said, once upon a time, and those words rang true for both of them. )
Me, I can't imagine living anywhere else. Although maybe it's 'cause it's the only place that looks familiar to me at all these days. Even if it's changed.
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she can't get that back, can't take anything back. but it doesn't keep her from fruitlessly wishing for it just the same. )
Put a garden back there, build some little shed over the summer that just fills and fills with shit you don't really need, but it all makes you feel like you've made it, somehow.
( mindlessly she's giving a slow twirl of her glass, looking down at the way those honey-comb hues reflect against one another, like the sticky summers of vermont. )
You know, back then I always wanted to be somewhere else. That 'elsewhere' just happened to end up here. It doesn't really give you a choice; to love it. Even if you find out you don't want to, you can't take it back. You're already here.
( she finds his gaze across that island and for a long pause, she doesn't say anything. she sees new york in him. it's teeth, its summers, its winters. the distance between them suddenly burns with a vastness none to her liking. ) All those people and it still has a way of making you feel alone.
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( the words are out before he's had a chance to consider it or rethink them. biting sarcasm and yet with a looming vein of truth to it — even as he cocks his head and surveys her over that kitchen island and he realises that, of course, it's because like recognises like. it sounds like she's talking about him because she's talking about herself.
bucky knows he's lonely. his only fucking friend left him, so what else is he supposed to be? even his therapist tells him he's lonely, that it's sad how few people he speaks to. he hadn't been expecting to spot it here, however: in karen page's pale eyes and faraway look and half-finished bottle of beer and stacks of paperwork and workaholism and the fact that she, too, was trawling a shitty phone app at this too-late hour, looking for some kind of connection.
he drains the last of his drink, hand trembling a bit before he sets it back down on the counter with a firm thud. maybe he really does want that courage delivered in amber liquid and a warmth burning its way down his throat before he looks up again, meets her eye, and says: )
You don't have to be.
Alone, I mean.
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( whether they're alone by their own devices or something far out of their control, it still felt the same at a certain hour of the night. her entire apartment is a gallery of things left unfinished, even the woman inhabiting it, and she teems with restlessness even when she's standing still. he looks up at her and she watches the way the heart of his throat lurches hungrily, eagerly lapping the bourbon he'd just fed it and she doesn't know if his words are just that — words, something to pass the time, something that seemed like the right thing to say, or if it's more than that.
something else. somewhere else.
she hasn't shifted from where she's perched and she's hasn't let go of his eyes, but that bourbon in her hands is suddenly long forgotten and tongue parched for something that burns a little different. there's a heat that branches to her chest at the suggestion, vague and kept to herself as it is, and when she finds her voice again it comes with a velvet undercurrent. a hand reaching out in the dark, just to see what it might come back with. you don't have to be. )
Easy to say when you're standing all the way over there.
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it's been so very, very long since he's done anything like this. an entire lifetime and generation and culture removed: back in the forties, before he was shipped off to war, before the winter soldier, before everything, back when he was another man. it was a language he'd spoken fluently, once, but he wonders how rusty he's become.
but there is, at least, this: it's easier to read karen in-person, when he can keep his eyes riveted on hers, see the way her tongue wets her lips, hear that particular huskiness to her voice (and the sound of it sends an electric jolt down his spine, to his fingertips), and she can see the way his adam's apple bobs as he swallows. a familiar tension now sinking into the room between them, settling into all the cracks and into the feet of distance between them. the kitchen island had indeed been a kind of safety net, an unconscious barrier, but now she's inviting him past it.
so bucky crosses the field.
he leaves his glass behind and saunters around the island and then purposefully takes a step into her personal bubble, too close, closer than a regular conversation requires (and that old wariness starts to hum to life, says you're letting the combatant get too close and he has to remind it, almost gently: this isn't a fight). he makes himself stand there, crowded into her space. karen's tall, even without her heels: just two inches beneath him, for his eyes to drop to hers.
there's a dance to these things, he'd told someone once, and they might be skipping a step or two (flowers; shit, he should have brought flowers), but he does remember how this part goes. that delicious push-and-pull, his heartbeat pounding a little harder in his throat with anticipation. )
Better?
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they’d made it this far, hadn’t they?
he’s a lot broader up close like this, shoulders towering, and she can see the way fitful sleep rests beneath his eyes, the dusting of freckles trailing the bridge of his nose, feel the cloud of his breath warm against her cheek. her own seems to hold itself at the back of her throat as if she doesn’t trust it, can’t trust that it won’t give her away, that it won’t tremble on its way out. she doesn’t want to hide from him, not this, but it’s habit—yearning after something until it gets too close, as if to say are you sure? )
Better.
( it’s a word that typically trails with a ’but’, leaves room for improvement, but there’s no complaint to be found on her features as her hand raises, settles the heart of her palm against his sternum. his dog tags rest just above her fingertips, brushing her index across one of them like braille, gaze staying just long enough to make out his name in embedded lettering. )
You were saying? ( because it all sounds a little different, means a little more when she can taste the bourbon on his exhale. stamp of approval, indeed. )
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come on, james, he goads himself, his heart in his throat, as he looks down at her. this man who once leapt onto a zipline over a moving train even back when he was fragile human flesh and blood—
and so what else is this but another yawning chasm to cross? although this one might swallow him whole, too. she's as good as written him an invitation. so while karen's hand flutters at the chain dangling over his heart, his own hand moves up to cup her cheek, bracketing the side of her face. fingers curled by her jaw while his thumb skims over the fragile bones of her cheek, her scattering of pale freckles. it would take so little to break her, even with his non-metal hand. he's ever-aware of that pent-up strength in his body and how he's unaccustomed to wielding it for anything except causing pain; inflicting as much damage as possible; shattering bone and taking bruising hits. he wonders, fleetingly, if steve ever got over that trepidation either. handling the others around them with kid gloves, lest they break.
into the breach, barnes.
so his grip tightens and he leans in: his right hand drawing her face closer, his left resting against the island, careful to not touch her with it. and bucky catches her lips with his— cautious at first, careful, like he's still trying to re-learn this language and shake off the dust, but as soon as karen's mouth moves against his, his lips part and he leans in further, the kiss turning hungrier. )
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it's hard to know who she is, right here in front of him when that palm cups the entirety of her cheek, comes with it a heat she hasn't felt in too long and she can't help but to lean into the touch as he thumbs over her. blonde lashes flutter, gaze dropping to revel in that cupid's bow of his lips, how the lower pouts when he fixes on her and he does nothing but hold her there. hold her and see her, and what she'd give to be able to reach in, to draw out every little thing he's thinking and tuck it somewhere safe.
those fingers splayed at his chest ravel slowly, gather at the fabric of his henley just as his mouth seeks out her own, and the stillness that follows as their lips make amends leaves her heart echoing. calling. reaching. she's dizzied by it, and it's only a moment before she's responding in kind, before bones give a breath and that clasp at his shirt is used to tug him closer, yet.
that hidden exhale trembles as his mouth parts, as if she can hide it within it's hot cave, opposite palm lifting to find the column of his neck where fingertips fasten around the nape, shoulders pinching together and their fronts gravitate til they're flush together. her thumb presses beneath the ridge of his jaw, a silent message to stay as her crown tips, tongue giving a teasing curl only to retract, a ploy for his to follow. )
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while she's clutching his face and that solid line of his jaw, bucky's hand moves downward and slides along the curve of her hips, a finger hooking into the loop of her denim. hanging onto her. stay.
and more is the only coherent thought he can pin down. and so after a moment, bucky lets himself loose like a leash finally slackened, free rein given to his impulses after so much time spent on ice. he gives a thoughtful hum, and then his hands move further — one flesh-and-blood, the other hard, cold metal — down to her thighs and, in a dizzying swoop of superstrength, he lifts her up and settles her on the edge of the island. so he can step even closer between the cradle of her legs, reach her better, settle his right hand on her hip again. kiss her again, all lips and teeth, his hot tongue against hers. the kiss is urgent and yet not rushed; he's taking his time, getting to know the taste of her, the ebb-and-flow of pressure, the way karen pushes back when he meets her. there's a dance to it. he's re-learning the steps. )
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and how was she, now, supposed to distinguish him from the bourbon? they burned the same. he could devour her, if he wanted to, reach a hand up to her throat for her to swallow, take her breath and she'd still manage to say his name. she could commit the rest of her night, just to this, the sampling of her tongue between his lips and the way his own yearns after, soft and warm and melting once they meet. it's all a slow dance but there's still a bite of haste, like an asking, is this okay? fingers in his shirt, wrinkling at the cotton, pulling and pulling still.
what was close enough? she's not sure she's ever learned.
it takes a great deal of effort to keep herself upright with how he's pinned her, that island bisecting her at the waist, limbs steady and shoulders tempted to fall back with him — and almost as if he'd heard it in her breath he assuages her with a swift, easy motion that props her atop it, instead. a gasp gives a messy break of their lips, glistening with each other, and all of that patience they'd toyed with, downing one glass of bourbon after the next is so easily taken by a hunger that doesn't know it's place. suddenly she wishes she weren't so dressed, if only to feel the contrast between those hands, the allure of warm and biting all at once.
he's teeth and tongue and she meets him there, snaring at his mouth, dragging that pillow of his lower lip back until he's left to chase it, and it's only once he does that she lets him loose. blunt, naked-glossed fingertips are carding through his hair, short but thick enough to gain some semblance of a grip, her tongue sweeping, hooking a calve at his waistline to draw him in just there.
she doesn't want to rush him, doesn't want to rush this, and there was nothing in her unwilling to stay here: learning his mouth, his breaths, how she could make his throat and his chest speak like that hum that resonates through her. idly she wonders if he can feel her heart beat through her tongue, clasping at the forearm that grounds her. )
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and bucky can't remember what pace is anymore. old cocky habits balanced against decades of loneliness and yearning now tipping over into full-blown starvation, this thing he's been missing ever since HYDRA picked his broken body out of a ravine and called him winter; and it's balanced against a newfound skittishness, an anxiety about being caught wrong-footed. times have changed. how much have the times changed? he can't tell. he can't remember. he could stay here forever.
and yet. and yet the way she's arched her back on that kitchen counter and leaned into him means the oversized fabric of her dress shirt has slid free, coming undone from where it had been tucked into her waistband; his thumb finds that gap between jeans and shirt, that inch of bare skin of her hip, and skims across it.
that merest brush of skin-against-skin somehow feels even more intimate than when he'd been fully shirtless in front of her and she'd been ripping shrapnel out of him. bucky inhales a startled breath, breaking away for a second to fill his lungs again. and he looks at her: karen's eyes blown wide, lips kiss-bruised, hair drifting into her face.
he has a tendency to stare, half a glower, but this time it's all just soft and admiring. his fingers are still splayed across that bare stripe of skin, just under the edge of where her hem has tumbled loose. )
Is this okay?
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the city was a greedy suitor. the idea of him hungering for her just the same ignites her, whittles her down to the basics: want and famish.
those blonde fallen strands wisp across her brow, catch at the edge of her lips glossed with him, and her spine bows when his fingertips sprawl and tease toward the cage of her rib, breath drawing taut around it's ridges and it gives her away, as if to say: there. he brushes that callous palm against her, asks her if it's okay without that gaze once faltering from hers and she has to find her tongue, remember again how to use it if not against his own. )
Yeah— ( it's a whisper, better described as a breath given the lack of tone, and it should speak for her just how long it's been that the rounds of her cheeks are tinted red, fingers kneading at the nape of his neck where they've fallen, toying at the ends of his hair.
she keeps arched to him, releasing that forearm of his if only to let it drift further beneath that thin top of hers, and now she's cradling him — palm to his cheek, pad of her thumb grazing beneath the swell of his lower lip, tracing it's curve, watching the way it gapes for her. forehead presses to his and their noses stumble together, and before she can stop it there's another hushed breath, this time carrying a request: ) Kiss me.
( and maybe it's silly, asking for it when she can merely take it for herself — but they'd danced around the words before, suggested them without really saying them, and she wants him to hear it. to hear her want, explicit and spoken. )
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his left hand's still braced against the island (no matter how much a part of him, even now, wants to reach for her), but his right starts to roam: sliding under her shirt, now across the smooth expanse of her abdomen and stomach, his long fingers fanning across the arch of her ribcage, just savouring the sensation of his palm against skin. he encounters the fabric of that black bralette and karen can feel bucky hesitate for a second, the kiss pausing; before his tongue moves again, accompanied by his fingertips ghosting across the fabric. not even touching or grabbing, just the slightest tentative brush as he forays across territories and borders, skimming into new foreign lands. her skin beneath the loose shirt is burning-hot, and he can feel the warmth of her thighs locked around his legs, keeping him there. stay.
at their next pause for breath, bucky's lips starts to roam, too: he kisses her jaw instead, the spot right below the shell of her ear; he makes for the curve of her neck, mouths against a beauty mark on her throat, his teeth grazing against her skin. taking in every last detail he can and pressing his lips against everything he finds. there is so very much of her to explore, and they're not even naked yet. )
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when his mouth makes a detour she's left trying to pick up the ragged pieces of her and breath he's left behind, eyes closing as she's pressing her temple to his, craning the pale, lean column of her neck to the side, golden strands falling back to give him room—an open invitation. it was so easy to mark her, all fair and porcelain skin, and there's some savage thing fluttering alive in her chest that wants him to do just that, color her, mar her like a map of everywhere he's been. something to remember him by.
it's only when she's afforded a brief flicker of clarity that it dawns on her how single-sided his affections were, all favoring the right side of her; her neck, her ribs, her chest, that hip, and she swallows thickly as his mouth pursues her further. she's not dazed enough that she doesn't understand the implication behind it, but the last thing she wants is for him to withdraw, for her to try to breach something he wasn't ready for. she's tucking lips in on one another, keeping herself upright with his nape while nimble fingers find the hem of his outer-most layer. she gives a telling tug, testing the waters for any resistance, and she knows deep down it's the long-sleeved layer waiting for her next that daunted him.
for now, he works with her, arms lifting in accord and mouth breaking from her skin only when it's forced to. chocolate strands of his are left mussed, and she lets the fabric fall mindlessly off to the floor beside them. )
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they both know what the next barrier is, and why he's hesitating over it with that clouded, distracted look in his eyes. but he's trying to remind himself of this fact: she hadn't flinched away last time. hadn't visibly recoiled, which either means she's got an excellent poker face or maybe she really is some level of okay with it.
but okay with it doesn't necessarily mean okay with it touching her.
everything has slowed down. bucky's fingers move to the oversized buttons of her shirt, toying contemplatively with the bottom-most one before he slips it off its hook. but he doesn't go for the rest of the buttons.
he's only human. he does want that satisfaction of bare skin on bare skin, too; he wants all the rest of it, her chest against his, those round fingernails sinking into his shoulderblades, digging into the meat of his arm. closer. even at the cost of this, the shedding of the last piece of armour. her own fingers are toying and plucking at the bottom hem of his shirt, but not daring to make that decision for him: so bucky finally reaches for the hem, drags the shirt over his head. the dog tags catch on his nose before they drop again, dangling over the hollow of his collarbone. )
You always seem to get me shirtless in this kitchen, ( he jokes, an instinctive reliance on humour to cut through the situation, but she can see the way anxiety settles in his blue eyes like flecks of ice. that anxiety thrumming in him. it's an undeniably well-made arm, not the brutish soviet design it once had been, and it isn't stamped with a red star anymore, but it's still not normal.
so he finally clears his throat: )
If you're not— comfortable. I get it. It's not exactly...
( delicate? warm? attractive? he's not sure what word to place there. )
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she's leaning back on one of her palms, the other soothing still at his nape, and he seems to tackle one of those buttons of her own shirt as if to bide time, a means of distraction from warring thoughts.
it splinters through her, watching as he fights to pull his own weight over that barrier, and even if she can't do it for him—knows it's a step he needed to take, and one she'd never force from him—she could at least be waiting on the other side. and she is, and while she's eager to take in every part of him, she grants the courtesy of holding his gaze even when that last upper layer falls to join the other. that deflective humor manages the faintest tick to flushed lips, swollen with him, but there's a pained furrow that takes to her brows. and when he speaks again, words trying to find a way around his tongue it's like he's tugging that top of his right back on—like if he says it first, any distaste that might leave her mouth wouldn't be as sharp of a knife. )
Hey— ( it's ardent, and there's no bit of a command in her tone, but she needs him to hear her, lifting her hand to pinch gently at his chin with thumb and forefinger. there's a kiss to his lips and it lingers like she doesn't want to pull back, but she does, and she tries to divide the fear: there's seeing and there's feeling. so, she does the feeling first. )
I want you. ( even if she can't diminish that heat that's still there humming between them, it seems to pause, as if to let them have this first. she finds each of his wrists, another breath of a kiss, and carefully she's drawing each of those hands to her sides, tucking them beneath that linen top of hers, a quiet guide to curve around to her back: you're safe, here. goose flesh pricks along her skin, a stunning contrast between the two, colliding together in a spiral about her spine with a pleasure unfamiliar to her. and once they've settled, she's ducking in to the crook of his neck and peppering a line of thoughtful, decisive kisses—just the tips of her fingers running down vibranium; his bicep, curling around to it's back.
she's waiting at his ear, letting him get accustomed to how it feels—touching her, letting himself touch her. )
Feel me. ( it's whispered, like two children sharing secrets in the dark, blanket tucked over their crowns. )
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feel me, she whispers, and those two simple words ratchet another dizzying throb of desire through him, an ache. bucky splays his fingertips along the arch of her spine, pressing into that curve at the small of her back. he's careful, so careful with it: to not apply too much pressure, to accidentally crush or bruise.
then, back to the front, and while her mouth is still at his ear, now both his hands are reaching blindly for the closure of her shirt. it's a little test of dexterity: delicate human fingertips right alongside the metal ones, slowly undoing each button in turn as he makes his way upward. it's a balance, a coordination. he does have some faint sensation in his left arm and hand — enough to measure impact, to manipulate objects, to not be hopelessly clumsy, but it's dulled and muted like there's layers on layers between him and her. blunted touch. but whenever his fingers touch her, he can hear karen's intake of breath against his ear as the cold (winter) creeps upwards. like ice cubes on the skin, but slowly warming.
finally, the shirt is hanging loose, and then he slides it off her shoulders to join his own on the floor. leaving her in that black bra (did she wear that on purpose, when she knew he was coming over?), and bucky feels his throat clench, his mouth go absolutely dry at the sight. feel me, she'd said, and so he reaches out with just the slightest foray across the barrier: he slides a metal finger beneath the edge of her bra, the chilling cold rolling across her nipple, before he moves away and his grip settles back on her hip. his heartbeat's pounding a tattered rhythm in his ribcage; nerves he hasn't felt since he was a literal teenager. )
Fuck, you're beautiful.
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the slack of the fabric is telling enough, that last button released from the valley of her chest, and it's pressed over her shoulders in time with an exhale. she can feel the way he admires her, even if she can't see it, and with lids closed and mouth hovering at his ear she's startled when that crisp touch finds her again, tucking beneath the underline of that bra. the moment he thumbs over her nipple a whimper cuts through her—desperately trying to swallow back the succinct sound, thighs giving an appreciative hug to each of his sides, as if there was any means to get him closer than he was.
she bows, making an open-mouthed trail of his pulse point and she can feel it thundering there, matching the disjointed rhythm of her own. one by one those threads of patience begin to snap, carefully wound over the years at the mercy of some clawing thing she's kept caged, and she's winding an arm up the slope of his back, nosing until she finds his mouth. a ragged huff is left against it. )
Bucky... ( it's all she can find, and it's a plea for something, fingertips raking beneath the blade of his shoulder, rolling her hips again, this time directing the pressure to where she can feel him growing rigid beneath denim, the rough seam of her own temporarily granting her a reprieve. )
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jesus christ. that spark they lit is burning like a forest fire, skittering bucky's thoughts into distraction, into oblivion. his gaze drifts over her shoulder until he spots the sofa further into the living room; and there's also the hallway leading, presumably, towards a bedroom. options. he's sizing up alternatives and exits, but this time it's for an entirely different purpose. the island's still covered in paperwork, a half-empty coffee cup, the bottle of whiskey, things that might get knocked over. they could still probably make do, he could peel those jeans off her, and—
jesus christ
the fire chews up the last of his skittishness and self-control, burned away somewhere in the pleading shape of his name on karen's lips. so he scoops her up again, her legs wrapping around his hips while his hands settle on her ass. he barely breaks the kiss as he starts walking, doesn't miss a step, his mouth only breaking away enough to say, breathlessly: )
Where do you want me?
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where do you want me? she burns at the thought.
everywhere. )
Couch- ( she manages it around a huff, and there's nothing more than the a dim light and that lone candle lit on the coffee table to lead the way. the apartment's compact enough that it's a manageable trek, but it's no easy feat when he's balancing her in his arms, and at some point he twirls them so it's her that topples back to the cushions first. and as tempted as she is to abruptly interrupt his joining her, tug at his jeans with her mouth lingering there in waiting as she sat at the edge of that couch, she's too fixed on the idea of him blanketing her, weighing her overwhelmingly into the plush surface.
it's that very thought that has her tugging him down with her long-ways, blonde hair splayed and thighs parting to accommodate him to slot neatly between. fingers find the crux of his jaw and they're using it's edge to bring his mouth headily to hers, already seeking out the fastening of his denim with a breathless mew. )
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and then bucky's whole body arches above her when she finally gets his jeans open and gets her hand around him; his spine curving, burying his face into the crook of her neck with a gasp, a profanity murmured into her skin. just that one touch alone seems to have strummed all his strings, a humming along his nerves as all his attention narrows down to just this: karen's hand, that leisurely stroke. it's been so long that he's hypersensitive, oversensitive — it's a more extreme reaction than she was expecting, most likely, the way he just crumbles, instantly undone and overwhelmed. over the past several decades, he has known pain, stubbornness, relief, adrenaline, grief, even good humour—
he had, in fact, almost forgotten what pleasure felt like.
he's intent on re-learning.
once bucky catches his breath again, he finally goes for the bralette once more; fumbles at karen's back for a moment, eventually finds the clasp at the back, unhooks it and drags the fabric loose, replaces it with a warm hand clasping her breast, thumb circling lazily. )
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that curse lights a spark in her belly, and she has to wonder how long it’s been, for him—the last time someone’s touched him like this, the last time he’d been able to hide in another’s shoulder, another’s flesh, forget himself for nothing but that spiraling, spiraling chase. and she thinks they’re both showing their cards here, private and shared just between the two of them, unveiling a puncturing need, unsure of how to make it something neat, unsure of exactly where to put it and so it leaves them conversing in nothing more than ragged breaths. flushed cheeks and rattling hearts, and it renews a vigor within her to give him exactly that: a reminder. how it feels: to want, to be wanted—to hunger.
there’s no part of her willing to let go of him once he’s released the clasp of her bra, craning her head back against that cushion, his mouth beside her throat, keening up against the way he cups her breast. she knows why he feels the need to be gentle, to handle her with care but she’s no fragile thing, and she’s using the bead that’s seeped from his tip to lave another stroke, fingers wrapped tight to his cock—a goading: feel me.
crown tips to the side and she’s mouthing heatedly at the rim of his ear. the couch is barely big enough to accommodate the two of them but all she can think about is him filling her, again and again, grasping feverishly at the back of his arm as he blooms rigidly in her opposite palm; another stroke, another lilt of his name. )
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they are, all of a sudden, wearing too many clothes. now that they're halfway there, his hesitation has melted with the heat of her hand working up and down his length, and bucky's squirming to try to get his jeans further off and allow her more access. in the process and in trying to not squash karen beneath him, his elbow accidentally shoves into her side with an oof, and this time there's a chuckle into her shoulder along with the curse. he's not used to balancing physical presence like this, to sharing such close space with a person. )
Shit. Sorry.
( to make up for it, his metal hand moves for hers, his grip hard and unyielding as he regretfully tugs her away. bucky settles on his knees at the bottom of the sofa, cock now fully hard and aching; trousers only partially off but hell, it's good enough for government work.
he's looking right at her and meeting her gaze — with a fierce stare, still, but this time with unabated hunger in his eyes — as he reaches out to work on the button and zipper of karen's own jeans, the metal now sliding against that soft flesh of her abdomen, right beneath her navel. he tucks his fingertips between her skin and the denim, dragging it down the long lines of her thighs and legs as she kicks, helping him tug them off and toss them somewhere on the floor behind them. moving forward again, he presses a kiss to karen's knee; her thigh; the jutting angle of her hips; further, upward and upward, to his tongue circling a nipple before his mouth closes over it; his left hand settling around the other breast, the difference near-electric between his hot sucking mouth and the cold metal. )
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It’s okay—
( a rush of syllables cocooned in a breath, something sweet amidst the teeth, and it’s a hint of intimacy that’s foreign to her, something she’s never once had to look after. he’s pulling her wrist from where it works between them and she makes a reluctant sound, just to leave her with a sight that fortifies her appetite all the more. he’s all lean muscle and stubbled features, eyes trailing the wonder of that mouth, the shadow along his jaw, the jut of his collars and the ridges of abdomen, down to the sight of his cock straining, blushed from the attention. her throat constricts, tongue crossing over suddenly parched lips as hips raise, limbs shifting til jeans are freed from her ankles—and then he starts that damning trail from the inner of her knee and she’s helpless to watch him, reaching down to gather at his strands, and the further he climbs the harsher she tugs.
his mouth leaves a hot swirl against the sensitive bud of her nipple, chest trembling beneath his affections, and lips closes to suckle right when that frigid palm gropes at the other and there’s a moan that grows from the bed of her chest, low and hearty, cut off with a chaste- ) Fuck...
( knuckles run white where they’ve clasped at his hair. it’s mind-numbing, all-consuming and yet she wants more, wanton and writhing little thing that she’s become, nails snaking around his side to the small of his back, the dimple of muscle there where they dig in, urging his hips to hers. there’s no way for her to rid of that thin strip of panties hugging the bow of her waist, but how easy it’d be for him to just tug them off to the side, curl his hips into her, and she resolves to a single word: )
Please.
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please, she begs, and he's in no position to say no. bucky's right hand skims down the line of her ribcage and then dips into her panties, a finger sliding between her lips, and he finds her already soaked and ready for him. he breaks away from her breast with a wet pop, a shuddering breath. )
You sure about this?
( as if karen's anything but. her nails dig in harder; the angle of her heel nudges against his legs, a persistent push in the right direction. bucky hooks a finger into the cloth of her panties, tugs them aside as she cants her hips, and he obediently lines himself up and plunges in, his body blanketed over hers; she can feel the muscles rippling in his back and shoulders as he draws closer, his cock filling her. his mouth catches hers again messily, almost missing her lips as he just disappears into it, into tight wet heat and slick sensation.
they're not even fully undressed before getting their hands on each other like this, and yet it doesn't feel hurried or rushed: it's this balance between patience and impatience, lingering on the things that matter, skipping the steps that don't. bucky's breath is coming shakily through his nose, his arm curling around her, fingers pressing into her ass to clutch her even closer. he's distracted, self-control fraying, and so he's pressing hard enough to bruise. his next word isn't anything more coherent than a simple: )
Fuck.
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