beauty in the beast

IVAN | 27 | M I SHARE NO MAN'S OPINIONS; I HAVE MY OWN. [ HUMANIZED VERSION OF IVAN BRAGINSKY, PART OF NYCNYTALIA ]

[hallandoates1970topresent-deact]

smile? i should smile? how about

ＮＥＶＥＲ  ＢＥ  ＨＡＰＰＹ  ＡＧＡＩＮ

[dirtdogged]

Bucky’s bad at this whole ‘keep quiet’ deal. He’d always had a bad habit of talking too damn much, got him in a lot of trouble with a lot of different people. While he didn’t exactly feel like he’d be getting in trouble for talking with Ivan, he did guess it’d put a severe dent in the moment, or whatever it’s called. This wasn’t a moment, actually. Just two drunk guys stuck together by vodka and a really, really shitty glue. Somehow, he still manages to keep giddy behind the kiss.

His fingers trail along Ivan’s body, until the shirt’s up at his shoulders and starts to bunch up with that scarf. Palms press against his chest, always surprisingly warm, always pleasant. It’s easier for Bucky to lose track of his thoughts, to just push them aside. He’s been doing that his whole life; such a contrast between the two of them. Ivan thought about everything, maybe too much. Bucky thought about things far too little. It was bound to be the ruin of the both of them. Again, cool air sings against his skin when his own t-shirt is pulled up higher, and briefly Bucky wonders how ridiculous they must look, on the floor with shirts up to their shoulders like they’re playing a game of ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’ He wants to laugh, but he manages to restrain himself, if only for the sake of keeping the kiss together. Though, it’s going to have to break at some point, if these shirts ever intend to come off entirely.  That, and he’s also got the worry that this whole thing’ll fall apart if they let go of each other for even a moment, they’ll come down from whatever high they’re on and realize what’s going on. Bucky shoves these away again, as he’s so able to do, focusing instead on returning that same sort of passion into the kiss that Ivan was.

[pyanypisatel]

Ivan was beginning to lose track of his thoughts. Each train of thought was quickly derailed; he was succumbing to the sensations brought upon the firings of touch down his chest. There wasn't much of an anchor in the undressing, when typically most of his body would be off-limits. There must've been a disconnect somewhere as a result of the vodka. Had to be. His palm was gliding over the healed marks of trauma, their position growing more and more intimate by the moment. There must have been no room for negative reaction. 

Eventually, the two had to break the kiss in order to take off their shirts. It was the inevitable truth of the situation. Keeping each other glued together by the lips wasn't going to push this along any farther. Ivan was in a trance, his vision swarming and the beehives of his nerves buzzing away like he'd taken some really bad ecstasy. Maybe it was a fabricated state of mind, maybe he just wanted to feel this way and it was. There were mental hiccups in his state of mind sometimes. He thought about the repercussions, then veered straight back to wanting to undress and be enthralled by this passionate moment. It would haunt him later. But he had to live in the moment. He broke the kiss, dexterously taking off his own shirt, trying to be as quick as humanly possible for someone who was under the influence. Yeah. He was really drunk. That's how he could pull the shirt off so quick. 

Conditioned to fear, Ivan had always been self-conscious about his appearance, especially how his scars looked. There was some measurement of strength he could draw from the fact he had endured, but the appearance of them, the fact he had lost some of his battles, it kept him from getting even this naked in most of his sober liaisons. Quick, hot-tempered, mainly drunken, that's how they were. Sometimes he couldn't remember. And that's how he wanted this one to be. No deep conversations, no slow, romantic embraces or slow kisses. Just fervent passion of the moment. Something that could be pulled apart after climax. 

Ivan didn't give Bucky a second to get any dialogue going with him. He didn't want everything to crash into an awkward after-shock type of situation, either. He leaned forward, the proximity between their faces to keep them intimate without any actual contact or a kiss, pushing up Bucky's shirt experimentally. Sort of like asking him non-verbally. 

[fiveeeeeee]

[gaystation4-deactivated20130905]

a white boy with nice cheekbones is birthed in central russia from the goddess of ice and male models

[dirtdogged]

Sudden cool air kissed at him like Ivan when his hoodie fell to the floor behind him and he breathes out slow through his nose. Hands travel from his neck and into his hair, fingers carding through the fine strands, and he feels almost giddy. Negative thoughts had drowned themselves, resting at the bottom of a lake of alcohol, and all that was left was air and how nice it felt to have weight on top of him. They’re both smiling now, and it’s nice, Ivan’s feels sincere, though that’s just the vodka talking, he’d bet.

He offers up a breathy ‘alright’, laughing a little against his lips. It was weird, the position they were in, like tightly wound coils, a tangle on the floor. He’d probably feel the repercussions the next day, maybe in an ached back, a crick in the neck, but it was worth it for the moment, for the heated touches and the smiles that made the other’s face look a little less heavy. Bucky could get used to a smile like that, he decides. Slipping his hands down from his hair, Bucky lets his own fingers ride beneath the hem of Ivan’s shirt, pressing fingertips into the flesh there. It gives him some kind of thrill, maybe because he knows how solitary he can be, how people touching him is probably some kind of privilege. Even in a sea of liquor, Bucky feels proud of himself for getting here, with his skin trailing along the pale contour of Ivan’s body, shirt bunching up against his hands, warmth seeping into his knuckles and his palms from inside the other; funny, he’d expected him to be cold somehow, like a blizzard raged inside him at all times. It’s a pleasant surprise. Hiking his hands up higher, Bucky shifts his own body upwards, simultaneously trying to pull him in closer; an awkward movement in itself, but he doesn’t know what else to do. It’s proving difficult to do a few things, given their spots on the floor, but he doesn’t complain about it, he just tries to work around it.

[pyanypisatel]

The position wasn't that much of a hindrance on their flow of movement. Bucky's back was docked against the wall, and this jointed them, so they weren't incoherently moving like they might be otherwise. Their motions seemed natural, like they'd been here before, or like they had been anticipating this. Typically, these types of connections were infirm of purpose; only existing to relieve his appetite for human communication, which was ironic, since most of this occurred without talking. 

His back was rigid, but this was statue-like repose. Haltingly, their hands were upon one another, the rhythm hiccuping along. Ivan feels the breath wedding with his own, his words lost against his lips and their actions. Neither of them were jaded. There was plenty of admiration, which was strange considering they were drunk. They were definitely wasted. This wouldn't have happened without the aid of vodka. Bucky was callow and youthful; Ivan could not compare in any regards. He wouldn't have let himself get knotted in this situation without drinking. 

Ivan's thoughts are interrupted by the feeling of hands on his skin, his fingers leaving fires in their wake. Everything was so fresh on his mind, and he could hardly keep his mind from racing now. It was hard to not act on the stimulants that were beginning to react from each contact. Ivan's tongue conveys some sort of urgency in their kiss, and he's trying to get the shirt off of Bucky. Their shirts feel like burdens, at this point. 

Things were spinning in his mind's eye, and he feared if he opened his eyes, that everything would come crashing back into reality. Like how someone might be able to hear them, or that his door was still unlocked and Arthur or someone could walk in at anytime. He's pushed Bucky's shirt up enough to reveal the grand majority of his chest. 

[dirtdogged]

Scars? Bucky didn’t have many of those. A few, from when he was a stupid kid on a couple acres of land, where he’d fallen out of scrappy trees or hurt himself climbing barbed wire fences, little flecks of paler skin against the rest of him. Soft his skin may be, he seemed to be tough, he could take a beating, he could get punched a hundred times and walk away with only bruises to tell the tale. It was disappointing, at times, how he couldn’t keep a cut to remind himself of the times he fought.

There wasn’t much time to dwell on this thought, though, as Ivan seemed to be responding, he assumed, well to his touches, his calloused thumb running along the curve of his scars. As the kiss kept getting interrupted, by hissing or touches or words, Bucky couldn’t find himself getting too mad. It’d give him a moment to look at the man, to see the red blotting his cheeks, so much a contrast from his eyes. His fingers were sliding up beneath the fabric of his shirt, and Bucky shuddered under their touch pleasantly. He smiled again. "Jus’ sayin.." The younger muttered, pressing his palms gently, flatly, against Ivan’s pale neck, as if his hands would be the new scarf, and he’d keep him safe. This touch only lasts a moment, before he moves one hand to his shoulder, to keep himself hoisted, while the other continues, his fingers touching lightly here and there on his neck. Less to get a rise, more to explore it, to get to know each mottled bit of skin the same way Ivan was getting to know the lines of his body. It was easier now, to feel relaxed with the touches, no longer climbing through apprehension and bushes filled with thorns and worries. Bucky felt better, something clouding his insides in a very good way— maybe attraction for Ivan? He wouldn’t be able to say for sure, but he did know that he was reacting to everything positively, and he probably wanted a lot more.

[pyanypisatel]

The hands compressing against the depressions in his skin on his neck were eliciting some pleasure from him -- it was a natural response. If someone is deprived of that kind of feeling for so long, they grow longing and susceptible. Ivan was not super-human, he had these types of reactions. Erogenous zones were going to steal some sort of reaction. Even if it wasn't to spur an answer, and more to explore, Ivan was feeling it. He feels everything as sharp as death. The unsung desires he'd previously had were now being fulfilled to some degree. 

This was the kind of action that maddened his soul, like a fine wine or some kind of frivolous luxury. Each contour of his skeletal structure was a new route to be explored, and he couldn't stop his hands from meandering through his shirt. It seemed a bit ridiculous to keep all of the their clothing on at this point -- and most of his highbrow thinking had been wiped and replaced by just the drive to feel skin on skin. Ivan's hands removed themselves, reaching up to aid Bucky in discarding his hoodie. The silence wasn't really bothersome anymore. 

What had taken Ivan aback was the dialogue that kept stringing on, and even when the two were in heated junctions, Bucky could still manage to be a bitch. His alabaster arms contrasted beautifully with Bucky's dusky color. They remained locked in this complicated embrace, drunken and affectionate like two children overcome with sweet toil. Ivan's smiling beneath their kiss, attempting to rest his hands back under Bucky's shirt. 

"Stop talking," His voice was more of a plea than anything, because it kept grounding him back into the current situation. He wanted to think more about Bucky, not himself or his position or what they were doing and what this entailed. He wanted to close his eyes and feel not think like he endlessly did. Intellectually scrutinizing everything that happened to him was proving to be detrimental to his well-being, and was beginning to foster a big gap in his social and romantic life. He couldn't let himself relax, most of the time. Not without the aid of alcohol. Now he just wanted to let go, and was doing a fine job of it. 

[dirtdogged]

Flat palms on his body were welcomed, his body shifting upward into the warmth of them as they made their way down his body. Bucky had always been proud of himself, of the way he kept himself in shape despite his poor habits. Fighting gave you at least one thing, a good set of muscles, he’d always be happy with that part of him. Fingers at his sides had him squirming, lightly, not particularly used to the feeling of something being there. Usually, when someone touched his waist, he was getting tackled to the ground, so it was… odd to feel someone touch him with a different idea in mind.

It’s not totally apparent, just a shift, maybe a tensing, beneath his fingers when Bucky touches his neck. He can’t tell if it’s a good or bad reaction, if he should refrain from touching there again. Cautiously, he runs his thumbs gently along the skin, almost as if he’s not even touching him, but he is. He’ll probably forget this during the night, forget that it’s so tender and it seems to set Ivan on some sort of edge. Behind his tanned skin, Bucky is undoubtedly red as a beet. It’s simply harder to see it, considering the darkness around them, the lighting. But Ivan, he can see the roses forming on his cheeks, and it’s some kind of cute, attractive. Bucky grins behind their kiss, finding it easier now, maybe the alcohol’s setting in the right way after this time. “Cute,” he says, though it’s muffled, while his thumbs continue to glide gently along his neck, carefully. His legs move, to fit a bit more comfortably beneath Ivan, and he hears the sound of a hollow bottle and it’s rolling, it hits the wall with a dull thud before it’s lost to his ears, lost to his heart in his ears. 

[pyanypisatel]

A pace was beginning to find itself. There was no longer a silence in the room that impeded on their actions. There weren't actions choked by the thorns and brambles of anxiety, with shaky-limbed caresses that only elicited more and more apprehension. His fingers weren't trembling and his mind wasn't racing with the arresting worries he wouldn't expression. There was a bit of purpose with each movement now, and before the idles motions had only been just introducing the contact. Now there was a bit of experience fostered between them. 

He didn't even have time to make choices thoroughly. His fingers were hiking up Bucky's shirt, and he was warm. His skin wasn't marred by healed skin or coated in lacerations. Perhaps there were unseen bruises, but the smoothness of his skin was the only thing he was perceiving. The smile between their kiss was like the pale wintery sunshine -- meek and frail. Their first real skin on skin contact was sending warming ripples through Ivan's head. His sides were lined with carefully crafted ribs and muscles, and he couldn't stop running his fingertips over each individual contour. 

All of this power wavered suddenly, all at the unexpected touch of his neck. A breathless hiss left his lips at the second touch, for the slight skim of his thumb had tuned up his already sensitive nerves there. He was sure feeling the touch, his hands scattering to anchor as his hips. He tensed, the color on his cheeks bleeding a bit more. "Shut up," He responds, trying to keep himself from having the appearance of vulnerability.

It was distracting; his fingers were pressing against a place that most never ventured, and he felt in a trance-like state. There were steel-laden touches up his sides in response, trying to keep himself gauged on earth. He was beginning to lean into his touches, his lips active and dynamic against Bucky's, again, in response to his touches.

[aviko]

World War II Soviet female snipers.

[etunna-deactivated20140609]

[breathtakingdestinations]

[pyanypisatel]

i did not want to see your faces on my dashboard

[ranunculales-deactivated2016052]

Irunya wiped the sleep from her eyes and sat up in bed. She was sure she’d heard a knocking on the door. She yawned widely and shoved her feet into her old slippers and shuffled down the hallway, tying her bathrobe. She fumbled at the lock and opened the door to a slumping older brother. She sniffed. He reeked of vodka. 

She took him by the arm, “Welcome home, brother. Would you like some tea or are you going straight to bed this time,” she asked quietly so as not to startle him.

[pyanypisatel]

The air was laced with the acoustics of voice. All around, people were bustling, even in the dead of night. They were trudging around, voices hushed against boisterous sounds of cars and the assorted metallic noises. Nobody cared for Ivan, who was slumped over on the stairs of his sisters home, peering through the thicket of his drunkenness, attempting to keep himself from falling onto her when she answered the door. 

Here he was again, in a stupor of intoxication, unable to go home in fear of Arthur's scolding. 

"I would.. " He paused, trying to tighten the words in his mouth to keep them from slurring. "I would like some tea, пожалуйста."

[dirtdogged]

Where had his good mood gone? That grin of his seemed to have all but melted away. It was concerning, mostly to him. Bucky was, in essence, a ray of violent sunshine. The sort that’ll give you skin cancer, it’s so overwhelming. It felt, sort of, like clouds had cast themselves in front of his vision, and he couldn’t see what’s going on, inside or out. But he didn’t necessarily feel bad, maybe a little void, if only because of the way this was going to work out.

These thoughts are pushed away again, so that he can focus on the now; on Ivan. Or, the lack of him. Again, he’s pulled away from him, their eyes meeting and Bucky finding it in him to light up his eyes, like he flipped a switch. A smile plasters itself across his lips, sincere but not, and he crinkles his nose at the other’s question, as if he needed to answer. “S’fine.” Curt, a short response that conveyed enough of himself. "Totally fine.." Lips are on his skin again, leaving holes in his neck that he’d look at in the mirror and gaze at fondly, until they healed. His hands are on the move again, curling into the fabric of his scarf, tugging him in close as he could manage, and he’s shifting underneath Ivan not out of discomfort but from enjoying the way he left little spots along the curve of his skin, wanting more. Bucky wanted to move, to do something, take a sort of initiative, but it proved difficult in his position, stuck beneath Ivan. He doesn’t complain, though, this would be enough for now. He uses now, this moment, to slip his fingers underneath his scarf, touching delicately at the base of his neck, then moving up to feel the gnarled skin the fabric hid before. It’s a gentle touch, fingertips ghosting along briefly before they retracted, nervously, and he swallowed against the other’s mouth. It was hard to touch Ivan, Bucky didn’t know where to put his hands.

[pyanypisatel]

There was something strangely content about their position. With Ivan in the dominant position, he felt the stringency of the wall through Bucky's torso. Or maybe Bucky had just become that tense through this. When he muttered that he was okay, almost hypnagogic in nature, Ivan took that as a signal that he wasn't completely uninterested in this interaction. He was extra-receptive of whatever Bucky had to say, hyper-aware of the tension that was beginning to become apparent. His hands rested towards his torso, his hands wandering low, towards the hem of his hoodie, slipping his hands between the two opening folds. 

A discernible sound of the zipper sliding down was coupled with his motion. Against the silence, it almost sounded warbled. Maybe he was just that drunk. His fingers slipped over the expanse of his T-shirt, hitching at his hips, holding him tightly against his own form. He was a bit lean, but a fairly muscular boy, which matched nicely with his chiseled jaw and disposition of power. Though he knew of some underlying weakness, his form seemed to exert some sort of power. He was very much a man, that was for sure. His fingers dug in a steadfast direction, low, to his sides. 

He sprung up a bit at the touch to his neck. It was a unique feeling, a place that nobody ever dared to lay their hands on, and even when he engaged in this sort of thing, he kept it guarded. A fickle gasp was muffled by the kiss, an almost wince-like look about him. It wasn't that he didn't like the feeling, it was thrilling, but more that he did not want to show weakness.

That was a weakness. Blossoms of color began to strain on his cheeks, the slightest twinge of pink, but it was a notable difference in contrast to his alabaster complexion. The fleeting touch against his neck was shaky like a frail exhalation. He fervently added more pressure to the kiss, to wash this neck-touching-thing from his mind. It was better if he didn't know about that vulnerability. 

[dirtdogged]

As the kiss drew on, it seemed to leave cracks in which his apprehensions slipped through, little fragments of bad thoughts attempting clarity in his muddled mind. It made him pause, made him stop trying to get close to Ivan because even despite his drunkness he knew. It was a sad existence, to be Bucky, to be someone so positively independent and yet, at the same time, require people to treat him as important. This wouldn’t happen again, would it? It’d be this night, just them on the floor, exchanging alcohol air, and tomorrow they’d both blame it on the intoxication. They’d never speak of it again.

Pressure suddenly upon him breaks him off his train of thought, mind going blank save for the taste of his mouth. Ivan’s got him against the wall, flush against it, and his lips are gone. Of course, he’s irked by this, the lack of contact. Hands move, finally, to rest over his shoulders, fingers digging into them to hold. It doesn’t really register what he’s doing until he reaches his neck, and he leans his head to the side, instinctively, letting out a breath. This was a close second to kissing him, he decided. His taste is still on his lips, and he’s running his tongue along them like it’s the last sort of drink he’d ever have. Maybe it would be. Ivan was… plentiful, a big wide river of something Bucky had always looked for, but it was like he’d slipped through a hole in the fence put up by someone else, and he’d have to leave soon, because someone’s noticed he’s there. Just thinking about it made him want to drink more, to pick up his flask and drink what’s left of it because it’d help take his mind of his co-dependency. Tomorrow he’d go home, go back to his apartment with Matt and talk to him about shitty TV shows and sleep on the couch for a while. At least he didn’t live alone, that was something to be grateful for, where would he be if he didn’t have Matt? He’d have to thank him later, for being there. Listen to him complain that it was too ‘gay’ for him to say that so he could laugh about it. Not think about this, the way Ivan’s lips burned like the alcohol on his tongue, or how he felt compressed but whole beneath his weight.

[pyanypisatel]

There was a beautiful divide between their two perspectives. Ivan was brunt, present, and fully conscious of his actions. The eidetic memories of stillness did not compare to what was happening at this moment. One could hear a pin drop. Ivan remained voiceless and aware of the consequences of their contact. Bucky's eyes were like empty shells of houses. He was elsewhere, perhaps he wasn't enjoying this too much, or possibly completely out of it. He didn't want to infringe on him too much, so as his lips traveled over the arc of his jaw, he looked up at him. 

And what he saw was certainly not what he wanted to. Dejected. Thoughts began to stir, festering like an open wound, and the rustling of fabric against fabric and their heartbeats were the only thing that filled their barren ears. Ivan cursed himself, over and over again, inwardly, for such lecherous actions he had inflicted upon someone younger than him. There was a stirring in his form -- and he wanted to wind away like the smoke from a censor. His deep-seated moral code kicked back into gear, and when he noticed where his lips were and where he was thinking about taking this, he began to become apprehensive with his actions. Furtive. 

"Is this fine?" 

This first line of dialogue fell in the air in a dead way, and his words were far to clear in this stillness. Kisses of black and purple on his neck were occupying him, only for a moment to ignore his face, which was tempered like steel. He returned to his neck, lips and all, their mess of impressions of emotions in disarray like piles of assorted rubbish. 

He debated stopping. The thought dissipated quickly, weeding out the thoughts that were making him stall. They weren't strangers, so it wasn't as horrifyingly sinful as it could be. He knew Bucky. They were close friends. He could feel the words lumping in his throat and refusing to manifest themselves, and he could feel his heart rate throbbing in his neck as his hand rested against the opposing side of Bucky's neck. No quitting now.

[dirtdogged]

When they’d first met, Bucky was the same as he is now. Rowdy, unkempt. His knuckles had been scabbed over, he’d punched a brick wall in the night, but he couldn’t remember why. There weren’t many fine details that he could remember about their meeting, just his knuckles. He’d probably been focusing on them, now that he looked back. That was another thing, definitely. Before they became friends, close as they seemed to be now, Bucky had always seen Ivan as someone to fight. Not because they didn’t get along, they always had seemed to fit together perfectly in terms of conversation. No, it was more because Bucky didn’t know any other way to bond; his own roommate he scuffed with now and then, and they were thick as thieves.

He’d wanted to bruise Ivan, if that was odd to say ( which, undoubtedly, it was. ) For the longest time he’d wanted to hurt him, just to see the outcome. Everything about him was strong, but still as though he might fade away if it got too bright outside. He’d always thought bruises would look good on him. Maybe that’s where the attraction began, in the back of his mind, thinking about how pretty he’d look with a shiner. Of course, nowadays, he doesn’t think like that anymore. Where those thoughts went, he wasn’t sure of, but maybe it was better this way. Something about being touched gently, tenderly, appealed to him far more than being punched, he realizes. Ivan’s pulling him in closer, warmth between them growing, and he likes it. It seems to grow too much for the other, his jacket’s sliding down off of him, his hands are absent for a short while. But they’re back not too long later, this time curling into his hair and pushing the two of them together a little harder. Bucky’s hands stay where the are, still cupping Ivan’s face like the frame to a painting. He wants to move them, to his neck maybe, but the scars flash across his mind and he thinks that might pose an issue, if only for the other. He settles for this, for now.

[pyanypisatel]

When they'd first met, Ivan was new to the town. Maybe about 3 months of living in Ameirca. His accent did not punctuate his words like it did now. His English was a bit more broken (often forgetting that privacy and tolerance are real words because there is no Russian equivalent), his style a bit more dated, and he didn't have anywhere to belong besides from bars. Not the decent ones he lurked in now, no, the filthy ones that Bucky had a tendency to hang around. The ones were the air was opaque with plumes of smoke, and where the cheap liquor tasted more like gasoline. There he had gotten into a couple scuffles, but never ones with Bucky. When he tried to tempt him into combat he knew he could not win, Ivan would turn him down almost instantly. There was no room for consideration. 

Though his tongue tasted like smoke from those bars and he was antsy and restless then, he never touched Bucky like that. He seemed very fracturable, like there were tangled places in him where you could tug hard enough and they would snap and leave him in a state of disarray. Insect wings, that's what he resembled. Beautiful, intricate, unappreciated. And fragile. 

There was something missing in there kiss that he couldn't quite put his finger on, even when he leaned closer and even when he beckoned for Bucky to invest something into it. Ivan was experienced in this field. Unattached to Bucky, completely unfixed to this relationship. They were friends. They wouldn't speak about this later. This is how it normally went -- no relationship, no love, none of that stuff that could collapse his world with one swipe. Just passion. The kind that wasn't spoken about, the taboo subject of 'friends with benefits'. There was no way he could bring it in himself to do something as frivolous as love his closest friend. 

But love was a subjective term. Ivan's trying to make this work, he's drunk, yeah, so what would it matter if it didn't? They could break the kiss, look into each others eyes, and Ivan could still smile in this state. He wouldn't fidget and try to explain himself, because he could just brush it off as the vodka. He pressed hard against Bucky's frame, pushing him against the wall. He wanted to do something, not just passively touch his hair. 

So he broke the kiss. Momentarily, of course. He planted a careless kiss on Bucky's jaw, then lower, onto his neck. Bromatically. 

[dirtdogged]

Nervous feelings are what kept him at bay; even drunk, Bucky knew Ivan. He knew that in the morning, he may pretend it didn’t happen. Set if off as only the alcohol, which for him it very well could be, and that’s what had him apprehensive, had his hands standing at his sides. It was awkward, too, how the two of them seemed to grate together in attempt to find something that worked and failing each time. But he liked it, maybe loved it. The feeling reminded him of himself, how he wasn’t any better. A puzzle piece that couldn’t fit no matter the way you turned it.

When Ivan pulls away, there was a sense of hollowness that went with him, as though he’d removed part of him with his lips. It’s a moment of clarity, and of fog for him. Clarity in that he could see the expression splayed across his face, fog in that he didn’t know what it meant. An arm crossed his peripheral vision, and upon leaning back, his head touching fingers confirmed that he was leaning against the wall. The flask makes an appearance, and he stares at it while Ivan drinks. For some reason, it gives him a sense of anchoring. The flask was a bit of reality, it was there to remind him that this is what they were, drunk on the floor and that it wasn’t much else than that. Bucky became attached far too easily, but he couldn’t help it. Ivan drew in again, distracting the younger boy from his thoughts, the muddled ones that told him this was temporary. A good thing, most likely. Hands rose, and his fingers, the only bits of him that were calloused, touched gently at Ivan’s skin, at his cheeks and the hair that framed the side of his face. Blinking slowly, Bucky notes the difference between them, Ivan like a bright white painting, something serene and yet still melancholy, and himself like something thrown together. A child’s finger painting, perhaps. They didn’t belong in the same exhibit. Curling his fingers around his cheeks, lightly, this time it’s him that closes the distance, pressing his lips against Ivan’s in a way that not at all resembled the last kiss; he was putting aside his worries, if only for now. It made it easier.

[pyanypisatel]

The elapsed time made Ivan feel heady with the swirling feelings of this situation. It was quite the fusion of emotions of alcohol that helped keep him on a cloud -- away from any responsibilities that he might need to take when sober. Their contrast was not something abhorrent to Ivan, rather, he saw himself as something lesser. Ivan's disparities (his stark, white skin, his fair, pastel hair) look commonplace against Bucky's diversity. It was true that he had never seen someone like Bucky, and maybe that was why his interest was always piqued. When they met, he didn't feel necessarily out of place, but he did feel dubious. Now they were kissing. That's new. 

There was a vacant truth that maybe Ivan was only doing this for himself. To soothe his own mind, selfishly, at the expense of someone else. He hadn't kissed someone in god knows how long, and masquerading as a drunken idiot with no control over his actions could mask any reality of this situation. He could claim innocence at the fault of the vodka that wed in the kiss. This thought was sorted back into the very far ventures of his mind, and he tried to blank them. Bucky drew them back together, this time with his own measure of passion, he felt a bit more relaxed. 

Now he knew that he didn't need to spend his time picking his fingers across the room, desperately trying to explain himself or answer for his sins. There was something heartfelt about the way Bucky kissed now, less like something you'd want to forget. It wasn't the hurried, sloppy ones that he'd expected, though there was a certain amount of 'letting go'. If they needed to 'let go' of grievances and worries in order to bond like this, then there might be something a little poisonous about their relationship. 

Bucky's fingers felt pleasant against his face. Alien, of course, but most of everything about him was foreign. Not unwelcome. Just new. His vision was swimming in the intoxication, but he could see Bucky in crystal clarity. They were two imperfect masterpieces, each with their own crushing faults that would probably be the death of them, now brought together in a kiss. Lovely. Ivan's fingers were places at Bucky's shoulders, pulling him closer, wanting to keep them together as opposed to being apart. He was warm. It was a natural instinct. Blame it on that. 

He was compelled to shoulder off the coat he was wearing, not because he'd received an invitation to do it, rather because he was beginning to feel his core temperature rise. Brought to you by vodka. The shimmy of his shoulder lasted 10 seconds tops and he already had his hands back at Bucky, resting, now, against his head, gnarling in his hair, trying to convey passion in a more fervent kiss. 

[dirtdogged]

That scarf had always been mysterious. It looked as though it signified more than it let on, that it hid something, or it meant something. In the light of the room, Bucky becomes aware of what exactly it is. He isn’t surprised, nor is he really horrified, but he does feel some sense of peace. It’s a little sad, to see so many scars, but he doesn’t look at them for long. It seems rude. And, there was the fact that Ivan was there. He was hardly a breath’s distance from him and it made the surface of his skin tingle, his hands curl into fists and his body shifts lightly, uncomfortably. Though, he wouldn’t say it’s a bad sort of uncomfortable.

"Thanks," he tried to say, but it just came off as a simple start, a ‘th’ sound and a puff of air following close behind. After that, his lips press together into a line, his mouth feeling hot and dry. Where he touched, Bucky almost felt on fire, like his jaw burned at his being so closed, but it was a pleasant burn. If anything, he melted beneath his touch, tired and interested at the same time. It felt darker, suddenly, but he attributed that to the fact that Ivan cast a shadow, that it was night-time and the moon barely filtered through the window onto the floor across from them. Maybe it was the alcohol, all he’d had blurring his vision and keeping him from clarity when their lips meet. Ivan’s lips are softer than he’d have imagined, though still in their own right hard enough to fit his personality. Bucky decided he liked it. Was there anything he could think of, something that wasn’t how he already missed his fingertips across his skin or how he felt like he wanted Ivan closer? It seemed no, there wasn’t, but he couldn’t find it in himself to complain about it. Hands wanted to move again, feeling restless, but there wasn’t anywhere to put them. Would this even last long enough? Or would Ivan be gone by the time he’d lift his hands? There’s an attempt to kiss back, Bucky pushing himself away from the wall lightly to lean into Ivan, hands unfurling flat against the floor for leverage. It burned here, too, across his lips and leaving fire in its wake. He guessed it was the alcohol, and not because of the way his heart pounded in his ears like drums.

[pyanypisatel]

They were drunk, so it was an unfiltered feeling of his lips against his own. When sober, Ivan wouldn't have led their encounter to his point. In fact, he would be out on the street. Maybe that was his own character flaw. Bucky's hands were at his sides, bereft of reason, and he thought that this was disapproval of his kiss. His ears rung with 'abort, abort, abort', but when he felt the rippling of his jaw under his hand, there had to be some measure of force pressed back against him. 

Usually, Ivan would think that Bucky would take initiative in these types of situations. He possessed plenty of hubris, and it was unexpected that he would just lay back and take it. They were drunk, though. And this thought didn't even grace his mind as his hands (both of them, as opposed to the one that was there now) pulled Bucky's face closer to his. Deepening the kiss. It was almost abysmal. He could feel the crests of motion of their lips against each other. Sloppy. Inarticulate. But there was affection growing in Ivan's movements, at least. 

The mixture of alcohol in there kiss was beginning to become more apparent. He was keeping his body slightly balanced against the wall by putting a bit of weight against Bucky, since he wasn't anchored to the wall anymore. Their position wasn't optimal for this kind of contact, but pulling away seemed like a chore at the same time. One of Ivan's hands released his jaw, extending out to press against the wall. Now he had him boxed in, though, and Bucky's legs still rested next to him, the bottle tipped over. 

Ivan pulled away, eyes haltingly looking Bucky in the face. Embarrassment was spelled on his features, but later he could just blame this on the vodka. Blame it all. It probably was the intoxicants fault, anyways. His tongue rolled around in his mouth, and he waited for some kind of verbal consent or disapproval. He was drunk, after all, right? His nerves were buzzing. He picked up his flask, tipping back a fair amount into his mouth. There probably was still some liquid in his mouth when he leaned in again, not quite making contact with Bucky's lips, but hanging there, waiting. 

[dirtdogged]

The space between them is dwindling. Bucky’s contemplative, but he’s not sure about what. Thoughts dance across his vision, and he loses track of them in Ivan, leaving him feeling almost empty. Fingers curl tighter around the bottle, like it’s some sort of comfort object, tanned knuckles whiting at the hold, and he’s breathing a little shakily. It was true, nobody was as bad as Bucky at.. being bad. Even his roommate, even Matt, knew the mess he was. It’d gotten to the point that Ivan even seemed to worry for him, maybe that’s a sign he needed to change. "It ain’t nothing I can’t handle," Bucky all but whispers this, swallowing. "You shouldn’t worry about me, if that’s what you’re doin’." It strikes him, though, that maybe that’s why Ivan’s interested. Perhaps it was that Ivan had found someone as broken as him, if not more so. It seems like a childish idea, he wants to push it away, to focus only on the pale skin contrasting against his dark, or how strangely their gazes seem to intermingle. They’re so close, they’re so close that Bucky almost can’t handle it. His own body, finally, turns toward him, the two of them facing each other, and something aches. He can’t tell if it’s his heart, his throat, or his head. Maybe it was all three. Eyebrows knit together, he worries at his lower lip almost nervously while Ivan’s fingers seem to explore his neck, up to his jaw. The fingers are cool, yet warm, and he can feel himself growing attached to the way they felt against him, embarrassing as it was. Fingers uncurl from their grip on the bottle, it falls onto his leg with no sound before it does, silently, thud to the floor with a hollow sound. He was going to get a headache from this focusing, gaze boring small holes into the other’s face. Bucky wanted to do something with his own hands, put them somewhere, but instead they lie limp at his sides. He swallows, feeling Ivan’s touch roll under the movement. There are words, somewhere, hidden behind a veil of inebriation. What were they? He couldn’t really make them out.

[pyanypisatel]

The breathy words that escape Bucky's mouth bounce off of Ivan's cheek, and they're beginning to feel hot. They haven't been here before, never ones to touch or even hug each other. Ivan usually kissed the cheeks of his friends, but never Bucky. He always inwardly wondered this -- perhaps it was due to embarrassment? Attraction? Fear he couldn't stop once he started? A cacophony of ringing slipped into his head. Thoughts and scenarios coursed through him, and unlike others who reacted languidly to the depressant of alcohol, Ivan could think in a pristine manner, but it never got to translate onto his lips. 

"I'm not worrying," Ivan says, his voice hushed, hot against his neck. It's alloying to his throat, words that won't leave his mind, and he wants to say plenty of things, but he won't budge. He doesn't want to be so close, or be so relaxed around anyone, but he can't help it. His scarf is loosening somehow. Most likely, he hadn't noticed it until now, that it was beginning to unravel. Could he see his scars? He didn't want him to notice them. Marring of flesh, scattered tears. His temperament remained phlegmatic. He wanted to overreact, cover his neck, but it doesn't work like that when he's occupied by the brilliance of Bucky's eyes. 

"I'm just doing what any friend would do,"

Like Ivan would know what to do with friends. He'd only had a couple along the way, and they were hardly considered actual friends. This was not what friends did to each other. His fingers were dipping into his jawline, and he was staring at him in the eyes, languidly blinking, his mind going a mile a minute. 

There was a question posing itself against his mind. Why did sugar taste so good if it could only do one harm? 

Ivan had too much to drink, that's what he concluded. He leaned in, his lips not even centimeters away. Too much to drink. Just a little jerk, and his lips were upon his. He tasted like vodka. Or maybe that was the alcohol talking.