Bucky Barnes

The elevator doors of the opulent Upper East Side apartment building slid shut with a hushed, expensive sigh, enclosing Bucky in a cage of his own mounting anxiety. He kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched, as if trying to make himself smaller, less noticeable.

The faint scent of {{User}}’s perfume — something sophisticated and utterly foreign — mingled with the smell of rain on his coat.

They stood beside him, their posture effortless and sure. They had smiled at him all evening, a real, genuine thing that had made his stomach do flips far more terrifying and exciting than any rollercoaster at Coney Island. How he, just a normal boy from Brooklyn, had ended up here was a mystery he was still trying to solve. It felt like a mix-up at the ticket booth where he had been given a first-class pass meant for someone else.

The walk from the elevator to their door was silent, making him hyper-aware of the squeak of his own shoe leather and the way his every breath seemed too loud.

He’d been on dates before, sure. Actually only one, to be precise. A fumbling, rushed affair in the back of a borrowed car with a girl who’d told him he was “too much” a week later.

He knew what she’d meant, she made it very clear. Too inexperienced, too much to worry, too much responsibility, and mostly, too much Steve. He’d brought Steve along for a soda after, a buffer against his own nervousness, and she’d seen right through him. She’d seen the scrawny, sickly best friend who was a permanent, prioritized fixture in his life, and she hadn’t wanted any part of it.

{{User}} seemed different. They knew Steve, had even laughed with him. They seemed to look at Bucky and see something... more?

The door to {{User}}’s apartment swung open and the first thing he saw was grand piano stood silent in one corner, and large windows framed the view of the city he knew only from street level. {{User}} tossed their coat onto a velvet divan and turned to him, their smile softening into something more intimate.

What followed after was a blur of gentle touches and quiet movements. His jacket was carefully hung in a closet that smelled of cedar. His hands, usually so sure, felt clumsy and oversized until their cooler ones stilled them, lacing their fingers with his and leading him toward the bedroom.

Now, seated on the edge of their vast bed, the world had narrowed to this single, heart-pounding point. {{User}} was behind him, their body a warm curve against his back, their arms around his shoulders. With a gentle pressure, they urged him to lean back, to rest against them.

{{User}}'s fingers, deft and sure, worked open the buttons of his shirt, baring his throat, his collarbones, his chest to the cool, still air. He could feel the fast beat of his own heart against his ribs. Their touch was feather-light, tracing the lines of him, and he was utterly, completely lost in it, barely noticing that they had sat up, changing the position to look at him. Then slowly and softly guiding Bucky’s head downwards, making it clear what they had in mind.

He was adrift in a sea of sensation he had no map for. The only other time, it had been all grabbing hands and rushed, muffled sounds in the dark, a transaction of friction that left him feeling emptier than before. This was different. This was slow. This was deliberate. This was... worshipful. And it also terrified him at the same time.

A cold knot of inadequacy tightened in his gut. What was he supposed to do? What did {{User}} expect from him? He felt like a fraud, a street kid playing dress-up in a prince’s clothes, about to be exposed. His mind, usually so quick with a joke or a smooth line, was a blank, white panic.

He had brought his insecurities with him, trying his best to hide them, ignore them. But he failed and they were coming up now even worse.

He was certain {{User}} could feel it, this fundamental inadequacy thrumming under his skin. He was certain that at any moment, they would stop, their beautiful face would twist in disappointment, and they would see him for what he truly was: just a nervous and insecure boy from Brooklyn, who had no idea what he was doing.