☄️ @bkchron - Tumblr Blog

INAPPROPRIATE THOUGHTS

Pairing Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count 9.4 k

Note There isn't smut here. Just like, the hint of it but mostly, it's the way Bucky Barnes makes his girlfriend feel by showing up... and dare to, be him. with that buzzcut. I am so sorry for this, like I made her so annoying and in love with Bucky but in my defense, it's all Sebas' fault for looking that good during Cannes' final day. This can be a part two of this fic but you don't necessarily have to read part one even though I would appreciate it very much. I apologize for the typos, the mistakes and the rambling around the same thing.

The gown was a mistake.

Not the gown itself—the gown was stunning, a deep emerald thing that pooled at your feet like liquid velvet and made your skin look like it had been kissed by something ancient and expensive. The neckline plunged just enough to be interesting without being scandalous. The back dipped to somewhere in the vicinity of your waist, held together by nothing but faith and a single delicate clasp that you'd made Bucky practice opening and closing three times before you'd deemed him ready for public consumption. No, the gown was perfect.

The mistake was wearing it before seeing him.

You'd had to come early. That was the problem. Some nonsense about being one of the responsable ones from the team, greeting the donors" and "please for the love of god someone needs to make small talk with the ambassador from Sokovia while Tony tries to fix the hologram projector." So you'd kissed Bucky goodbye at the door of your shared apartment—he'd been in his boxers, hair still damp from the shower, that morning's trim already blurring the lines of his buzz cut back toward something shaggier—and you'd promised to save him a dance.

That had been two hours and fifteen minutes ago.

More tan two hours of champagne flutes and canapés and the particular strain of social performance that came with being adjacent to Earth's Mightiest Heroes. Two hours of smiling until your cheeks ached and deflecting questions about your "relationship with the Winter Soldier" and pretending not to notice the way certain guests looked at you like you were either a saint or a fool for loving him.

Two hours of glancing at the door every thirty seconds like a dog waiting for its owner to come home.

Music swelled from somewhere—a string quartet playing something classical and vaguely pretentious, the kind of music that was supposed to make people feel sophisticated while they held champagne flutes and discussed geopolitics in hushed, important tones. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls, casting prismatic light across the sea of black ties and glittering gowns. Somewhere to your left, Sam Wilson was telling a story that involved a lot of hand gestures and the word "unbelievable," and somewhere to your right, Carol Danvers was laughing at something Tony Stark had said, her teeth impossibly white against her impossibly perfect everything.

You couldn't have told a single person what any of them looked like.

Because your boyfriend had just walked through the door, and the entire room had gone blurry around the edges.

Later, you would try to find the words for what you felt in that moment. You would fail. You would describe it to him in fragments—like being hit by a truck, like the floor dropped out, like someone poured honey into my veins and set it on fire—and he would laugh at you, soft and fond, and kiss the top of your head.

He was late, the bastard. Fashionably late, which was not a thing he usually did—Bucky Barnes operated on a schedule that belonged to a man who had spent decades being told exactly when to eat, sleep, and kill. He was the kind of person who showed up fifteen minutes early to everything, who stood outside your apartment building waiting because he'd rather be early than risk making you wait.

All you could do was stare. He was wearing black. All black.

Not the tactical black of his mission gear, not the soft, worn black of his favorite henley, but the deep, dangerous black of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. The jacket was tailored to within an inch of its life, broad shoulders stretching the fabric in a way that made you think about what was underneath. The trousers fit him like they'd been sewn onto his body while he stood perfectly still, which they probably had

But the suit wasn't what destroyed you. The shirt was what destroyed you. It was going to kill you.

Black. Silk. The top two buttons undone.

Black silk—silk, of all things, since when did Bucky Barnes wear silk?—buttoned up to his throat, except it wasn't buttoned up to his throat. The first two buttons were undone, just enough to show a sliver of pale skin, just enough to make you ache, and there, barely visible against his chest, was the chain of his dogtags that caught the light, two small discs of metal nestled against his skin, even thought they were hidden beneath the shirt and you watched in real time as his pulse beat a steady rhythm beneath them. The same dogtags you'd held in your hands while he slept, reading the embossed letters by moonlight, tracing the edges with your thumb like they were a prayer. The same dogtags you see each night above you while he makes love to you.

The chain glinted, just a flash of silver in the hollow of his throat, and you wanted to bite him there.

And his head. God, his head.

The buzz cut was fresh—you could tell, could see the clean lines where he'd trimmed it before leaving, the way the short bristles caught the chandelier light and threw it back in soft glints. Without the curtain of hair to soften anything, the suit made him look like something out of a noir film. A hitman. A spy. A man who had done terrible things and would do them again if it meant getting what he wanted.

And what he wanted, you realized, as his gaze swept the ballroom and found you, was apparently you.

His eyes locked onto yours across the crowded room, and something passed between you—something hot and electric and entirely inappropriate for a charity gala hosted by the Avengers. His mouth curved. Not a smile, not exactly. Something smaller. Something knowing. The kind of expression that said I know exactly what I'm doing to you right now, and I'm not sorry.

You were going to kill him.

You were going to march across this ballroom and kill him with your bare hands, and then you were going to bring him back to life and kill him again, and then maybe, maybe, you would let him kiss you.

But you didn't march because your feet seemed to have forgotten how to work.

Sam's voice faded into background noise. The champagne flute slipped in your grip, and you barely registered catching it before it shattered on the floor. All you could see was him—the impossible, infuriating, devastatingly beautiful man who had apparently decided that tonight was the night he would finally push you past the point of no return.

“Uh oh,” Natasha said from somewhere to your left, her voice dry as a martini. “She's gone.”

“Completely offline,” Sam agreed. “I've seen this before. Total system failure.”

You couldn't even muster the energy to glare at them. Because Bucky was walking toward you, and the crowd seemed to part around him like water around a stone, and the buzz cut caught the chandelier light and gleamed, dark velvet against the sharp planes of his skull, and the suit jacket pulled across his shoulders with every step, and the dogtags swung gently with the rhythm of his movement.

“Hi, honey.”

His voice was low. Rough. The kind of rough that came from somewhere deep in his chest, from spending too long wanting something he wasn't sure he deserved. His eyes dragged over you—the emerald gown, the bare shoulders, the way your hair had been pinned up to expose the line of your neck—and you saw his pupils blow wide. He was so close, close enough that you could smell his cologne—something woodsy and warm, a new bottle you'd picked out together last month, the one that made you want to bury your face in his neck and stay there indefinitely.

“Hi,” you managed. It came out as a squeak.

Bucky's smile widened, just a fraction. His eyes dropped to your mouth, then back up to your eyes, slow and deliberate and hot.

“You look...” He trailed off, shook his head slightly, like he couldn't find a word big enough. “Jesus. You look so fucking beautiful. I think I said it before you left home but you’re the prettiest here, baby.”

Now you know that the dress you'd spent three hours picking out, was worth it. You'd done your hair up in something complicated that involved approximately forty-seven bobby pins and a prayer. You'd put on the earrings he'd given you for your birthday, the ones that caught the light like captured stars.

“You—” You stopped. Swallowed. Started again. “You cannot look like that in public, James Buchanan Barnes. It's indecent. I'm going to have to file a complaint with someone.”

His eyebrows rose. “A complaint?”

“With HR. Or Tony. Or the President. I don't know, someone.” You reached out and grabbed his lapels—the fabric was so soft, expensive wool that slid through your fingers like water—and pulled him closer. “You look like something I want to eat with a spoon.”

Beside you, Sam choked on his champagne.

Bucky's flesh hand came up to cover yours where it gripped his jacket, his thumb stroking across your knuckles in a slow, soothing circle. “That's... a new one.”

“I'm full of new ones. You've undone me. I'm un-done. I'm going to be a puddle on this very expensive floor, and it's your fault, James. You—” You had to stop, swallow, try again. “You look like you're about to commit a crime.”

His mouth quirked. “What kind of crime?”

“All of them.”

He laughed—soft, private, meant only for you—his metal hand settled on your waist, cool even through the silk of your dress, and he leaned down until his mouth was level with your ear. The buzz cut brushed your temple—that velvet sensation, that ridiculous texture that you still couldn't get enough of—and his breath was warm against your skin. “You're adorable like this, even when I am having some innapropiate thoughts about you in this dress” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.and that was when your body finally remembered how to move.

You closed the distance between you in one step, grabbed the front of his suit jacket—the fabric was obscenely soft under your fingers, expensive in a way that made you want to ask questions you didn't actually care about the answers to—and pulled him down into a kiss.

He made a sound. Something surprised and pleased, something that vibrated against your lips and traveled down your spine like a match striking. His hands found your waist—flesh and metal, warm and cool, familiar—and he pulled you closer, deeper, like he'd been waiting for this all night.

Maybe he had.

The kiss wasn't long—you were in a ballroom, after all, surrounded by people who were definitely staring—but it was intentional. It was a statement. It was mine, mine, mine in a language everyone could understand.

When you pulled back, his eyes were dark.

“Okay,” he said, a little breathless. “Okay. So I'm guessing you approve of the suit.”

“The suit,” you repeated. Your voice was doing something strange—higher, thinner, like you were about to laugh or cry or possibly both. “Bucky. Bucky. Do you have any idea what you look like right now?”

His brow furrowed. “Based on your reaction so far, I'm gonna go with 'confused and vaguely terrified.'”

You punched him in the chest. Not hard. Just enough to make a point.

“You look like someone took every single one of my weaknesses and put them in a blender and poured them into the shape of a man,” you said, the words tumbling out too fast, too honest. “You look like you should be illegal in several countries. You look like—like a problem, Bucky Barnes, and I am going to spend this entire evening being a problem right back at you.”

His lips twitched. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Prove it.”

“I'm not making any promises,” you said and then you let him lead you toward the bar, your hand slipping down from his lapel to twine your fingers through his. His flesh hand was warm, calloused, familiar, and the contrast between that warmth and the cool metal of his other hand on your waist made you shiver.

The bar was a long, gleaming stretch of marble at the far end of the ballroom, staffed by a man in a white jacket who looked like he'd seen everything and was no longer impressed by any of it. Bucky ordered for you both—old-fashioned for him, something fruity and pink for you that made his lips twitch when the bartender set it down—and you stood together at the end of the bar, shoulders touching, watching the crowd swirl and eddy like a river of wealth and power.

Except you weren't watching the crowd.

You were watching him.

The way his throat moved when he swallowed. The way his fingers curled around his glass, flesh hand and metal hand in perfect symmetry. The way the buzz cut made the line of his jaw look like something carved by a Renaissance sculptor who had known he was creating a masterpiece. The way his dogtags caught the light every time he breathed, that tiny flash of silver in the hollow of his throat, and god, you wanted to put your mouth right there.

“You're staring,” he said, not looking at you.

“You're stare-able,” you replied. “It's not my fault.”

He turned his head then, and the look he gave you was slow and molten and dangerous. “We're in public, sweetheart.”

“I'm aware.”

“There are cameras.”

“Let them look.” You set your drink down on the bar—untouched, forgotten—and stepped closer to him, close enough that your chest almost brushed his, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes. “Let them see. I don't care.”

His breath caught. Just a fraction, just enough that you noticed, and his metal hand came up to rest on your hip, fingers splaying across the silk of your dress like he was claiming you. “What's gotten into you tonight?”

You, you wanted to say. You've gotten into me. You've crawled under my skin and made a home there, and every time you look at me like that, I forget how to breathe.

Instead, you reached up and ran your fingers over the short bristles at the back of his head.

His eyes fluttered shut. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to see the effect you were having on him.

“I like your hair, the lack of it,” you said, soft and simple. “I like your suit. I like your everything, Bucky. And I've been watching you, and I can't—” You paused, swallowed, tried to find words that didn't feel inadequate. “I can't handle it. You're too much. You're too good. And everyone in this room is looking at you like they want to eat you alive, and I just... I want them to know you're mine.”

He opened his eyes.

The grey had gone dark, nearly blue, and there was something burning in them that made your stomach flip over. “Sweetheart—”

“I'm not done.” You pressed closer, your free hand coming up to rest on his chest, right over his heart. It was pounding. Good. “You're wearing silk, Bucky. Silk. Do you know what that does to me? Do you have any idea what I've been thinking about for the past hour?”

His Adam's apple bobbed. “Tell me.”

“No.” You grinned, and it wasn't a nice grin. It was the kind of grin that made him groan and drop his forehead to yours, the kind of grin that meant trouble. “I'll show you later. But right now, I need you to kiss me.”

“We're in the middle of a gala.”

“I don't care.”

“There are photographers, sweetheart.”

“Let them get a good angle.”

He stared at you for a long moment—long enough that you started to worry you'd pushed too far, long enough that the flush on your cheeks started to feel less like desire and more like embarrassment—and then he moved.

His metal hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, pressing you flush against him. His flesh hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb tilting your chin up, and when he kissed you, it was nothing like the chaste, quick pecks he usually allowed in public.

It was filthy.

Open-mouthed and hungry, his tongue sliding against yours, his teeth grazing your lower lip, his whole body curving around yours like he was trying to absorb you. He tasted like whiskey and something darker, something that was just him, and you made a sound against his mouth—something desperate and pleading—that you'd be embarrassed about later.

Right now, you didn't care.

You couldn't care. Because his hand was in your hair now, careful of the pins but demanding, tilting your head exactly where he wanted it, and the buzz cut was brushing your forehead, and the dogtags were cool against your collarbone where they'd slipped out of his shirt, and oh, oh, this was what you'd been waiting for.

When he finally pulled back—slowly, reluctantly, like he was physically incapable of putting distance between you—his lips were reddened and his eyes were dark and his chest was heaving.

“There,” he said, voice rough. “Now they know.”

You were pretty sure your mascara was ruined. You were also pretty sure you didn't care.

“One more,” you whispered.

He laughed—that low, helpless laugh that meant you're going to be the death of me—and kissed you again. Softer this time, almost sweet, but with an undercurrent of promise that made your toes curl in your heels.

“You're going to be the death of me,” he said, echoing your thoughts exactly.

“Good death,” you managed. “Top ten deaths. Five stars.”

He shook his head, but he was smiling, and the smile reached his eyes, and god, you loved him. You loved him so much it made your chest ache, made your throat tight, made you want to drag him into a closet and keep him there until the end of time.

The next hour was a blur.

You stayed glued to his side—hand on his arm, fingers threaded through his, palm pressed flat against the small of his back whenever you moved through the crowd. You introduced him to people whose names you forgot immediately, and he was polite and quiet and devastating, and every time he spoke, his voice rumbled through you like thunder.

He ate it up.

You could tell. The way his hand tightened on your waist when you leaned in to whisper something in his ear. The way his breathing changed when you ran your fingers over the short bristles of his buzz cut, just once, just to remind him you were thinking about it. The way his eyes tracked your every movement like he was memorizing you.

At one point, Tony Stark cornered you both near the dessert table.

“Barnes,” Tony said, gesturing with a champagne flute. “Bold choice. The all-black. The silk. The—is that two buttons? That's two buttons. That's a statement. I respect it.”

Bucky's arm slid around your waist, casual and possessive. “Wasn't trying to make a statement.”

“Oh, you were definitely trying to make a statement.” Tony looked at you, then back at Bucky, then at you again. “Is she okay? She seems... not okay.”

“I'm fine,” you said, and your voice was about an octave too high. “I'm perfectly fine. Why wouldn't I be fine?”

“Because you've been staring at Barnes's chest for the last three minutes like you're trying to set it on fire with your mind.”

You looked down. Bucky's hand was on your waist. The silk of his shirt was right there, the dog tags gleaming, the hollow of his throat right there, and you realized with a start that Tony was right.

You had been staring.

“I'm going to get some air,” you announced.

“We're in a ballroom,” Tony said. “There's no air. It's all recycled.”

“Then I'm going to find some different air.”

You grabbed Bucky's hand and pulled him toward the terrace doors.

He came willingly—he always came willingly—but you heard the low laugh he tried to hide, felt the way his fingers interlaced with yours like they belonged there.

The garden was quiet.

The terrace led to a small courtyard, hidden from the ballroom by a hedge maze that was probably meant to be romantic and was definitely meant to keep drunk donors from wandering into restricted areas. Fairy lights twinkled in the trees above, casting everything in soft gold. The sounds of the gala faded to a distant murmur, replaced by crickets and the gentle splash of a fountain somewhere out of sight.

You stopped in the middle of the cobblestone path, turned to face him, and looked.

The fairy lights caught the angles of his face—the sharp cheekbones, the strong jaw, the way the buzz cut made his eyes seem impossibly large and impossibly blue. His suit jacket was unbuttoned now, hanging open over the silk shirt. The dog tags had shifted slightly, the chain catching the light as he breathed.

He was leaning against a stone pillar, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read.

“So,” he said. “Air?”

“Shut up.”

“You dragged me out here for a reason, sweetheart.”

“I know.” You stepped closer. “The reason is that I cannot be held responsible for my actions in a room full of people when you look like that. It’s your fault.”

His eyebrow arched. “My fault?”

“Your everything.” You were close enough now to touch, close enough to see the way his pulse jumped in his throat. “The suit. The shirt. The buttons, Bucky. Two buttons. Who do you think you are?”

“Your boyfriend?”

“That's not an excuse.”

“It's the only excuse I need.” He chuckles, that sound that makes your knees weak.

You reached up and ran your hand over his head—the buzz cut, the soft bristles, the warmth of his scalp beneath your palm. He closed his eyes, just for a second, and a sound escaped him—something low and wanting, something that made your knees weak.

“You've been doing this all night,” you said. “Walking around like—like that. Letting me touch you. Letting me kiss you. Watching me fall apart in public like some kind of—of spectacle.”

His eyes opened. The smirk that curved his mouth was lethal—the one he kept reserved only for you, the one that said I know exactly what I'm doing and I'm not sorry and also you love it.

“Maybe I like watching you fall apart,” he said. “Maybe I like knowing that I can do this—” He reached up and undid the third button of his shirt, just one more, just enough to expose another inch of skin, the top of his chest, the beginning of the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath the silk. “—and you forget how to speak.”

You forgot how to speak.

He laughed—low and satisfied—and pushed off from the pillar, closing the distance between you until you were chest to chest, his hands on your hips, your hands on his shoulders. The silk of his shirt was warm under your palms, and you could feel the heat of his skin through the fabric, could feel his heart beating steady and strong.

“You're doing this on purpose,” you accused.

“Absolutely.”

“You're evil.”

“I've been told.”

You kissed him.

It wasn't gentle—it was hungry, desperate, the kind of kiss you gave someone when you'd been holding back for hours and your self-control was a thread about to snap. He met you with equal intensity, his metal hand coming up to cup the back of your head, his flesh hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.

You bit his lower lip. He groaned. The sound went straight between your legs.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed against your mouth. “We're in a garden.”

“I don't care.”

“People can see.”

“Let them.”

But even as you said it, you knew he was right. The terrace doors were still visible through the hedge, and you could hear laughter drifting from the ballroom, and neither of you was nearly drunk enough to risk that kind of scandal.

“Later,” you said, pulling back just enough to look at him. “When we get home. I'm going to—”

“Yeah?” His voice was rough. “What are you going to do?”

You ran your hand over his buzz cut again, watched his eyes flutter shut, watched his lips part on a shaky exhale.

“I'm going to take that suit off you,” you said. “Very slowly. Button by button.”

“There are a lot of buttons.”

“I'm aware.”

“And then?”

“And then I'm going to kiss every inch of skin you've been torturing me with all night. Your collarbone. Your chest. That place behind your ear that makes you shiver. And then you’ll whimper, we know you love when I make you whimper like that.”

His grip tightened on your hip. “You're trying to kill me.”

“You started it.”

He kissed you again—softer this time, deeper, a promise of everything that was waiting for you both at home. When he pulled back, his eyes were soft, the smirk replaced by something more vulnerable. Something that looked like home.

After some time, you didn’t know if it was seconds, minutes, it could be hours, Bucky led you down the gravel path, his hand warm in yours, until you reached a small stone bench tucked beneath a sprawling oak. The leaves rustled overhead, and somewhere nearby, a fountain trickled, and the whole place smelled like jasmine and night-blooming flowers and him.

He sat down, then tugged you onto his lap without asking, arranging you so that you were straddling his thighs, your dress pooling around you both like a spill of green silk.

“Hi,” he said, looking up at you.

“Hi,” you said back.

His hands settled on your waist—flesh and metal, warm and cool—and he leaned back against the bench, watching you with those dark, dark eyes. The fairy lights caught the planes of his face, the sharp cheekbones, the strong jaw, the velvet-soft buzz cut that you still hadn't gotten enough of.

“You're staring again,” he said.

“I'm appreciating,” you corrected him. “There's a difference.”

“Is there?”

“Yes. Staring is what strangers do. Appreciating is what girlfriends do.” You ran your hands over his shoulders, feeling the expensive wool of his jacket, the warmth of his body beneath. “And I am appreciating the hell out of you right now, James.”

He hummed, low in his throat, and his fingers traced idle patterns on your hips. “You were pretty handsy in there.”

“I was restrained. You should see what I wanted to do.”

“Oh yeah?” His voice dropped, went dark and teasing. “What did you want to do?”

You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I wanted to undo the rest of your buttons. Right there. In front of everyone. I wanted to see how far that silk goes down.”

His breath hitched. “Honey—”

“I wanted to put my mouth on your dogtags.” You kissed his jaw. “Right here.” His throat. “And here.” The hollow of his collarbone, where the chain disappeared beneath his shirt. “And here.”

His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging into the silk, and when you pulled back to look at him, his expression had shifted. The teasing was still there, underneath, but there was something else now. Something hungry.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice rough, “what it does to me. When you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I'm the only thing in the room.” His metal hand came up to trace the line of your jaw, cool and smooth. “Like you want to devour me. Like you've never seen anything better in your entire life.”

“I haven't,” you said simply. “I haven't seen anything better. Not ever.”

He made a sound—something between a groan and a sigh—and pulled you down into a kiss that was nothing like the ones in the ballroom. Those had been for show, for the cameras, for the people watching.

This was for you.

Slow and deep and searching, like he was trying to find something inside you, like he was mapping every corner of your mouth with his tongue, like he was memorizing the way you tasted so he could recall it later, in the dark, when you weren't there.

You melted against him. There was no other word for it. Your hands slid into his hair—that buzz cut, that velvet, that impossible softness—and you felt him shiver beneath you, felt his grip tighten, felt his whole body go taut like a wire about to snap.

“I love this,” you breathed against his mouth. “I love you. I love the way this feels. I love that you did this for yourself, because you wanted to, because it makes you comfortable, and I get to touch it anyway.”

His forehead dropped to yours. “You're going to make me cry at a gala.”

“Good tears or bad tears?”

“Good tears. Overwhelmed tears.” He laughed, a little wetly, and his hands smoothed up your back, pulling you closer. “I don't... I don't know how you do this. How you make me feel like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like I'm enough.” The words were barely a whisper. “Like I don't have to be anything other than what I am. Like this—” He touched his own head, the short bristles, a self-conscious gesture that had become second nature. “—isn't a mistake. Like I'm not a mistake.”

You kissed him. Hard and fierce and demanding, pouring everything you couldn't say into the press of your lips, the sweep of your tongue, the way your fingers curled against his scalp.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes were burning.

“You are not a mistake,” you said, and your voice shook. “You have never been a mistake. You are the best thing that ever happened to me, James Buchanan Barnes, and if you ever doubt that again, I will—I will spank you in front of our team, I swear to god.”

He blinked.

Then he laughed—a real laugh, bright and surprised and so full of joy that it made your heart stutter—and pulled you into his chest, wrapping both arms around you so tightly that you could barely breathe.

“I love you,” he said into your hair. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“I love you too,” you said, muffled against his shoulder. “Now stop being insecure about the buzz cut. It's ruining my aesthetic.”

He snorted. “Your aesthetic?”

“My 'being wildly attracted to my boyfriend' aesthetic. It's very important.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and there it was—the smirk. The one he reserved only for you. The one that said I know exactly what I'm doing, and I'm going to keep doing it until you combust.

“So,” he said, slow and deliberate, “just to be clear. You like the buzz cut.”

“I love the buzz cut.”

“You like the suit.”

“I want to burn the suit so I can have you naked faster, but yes. I like the suit.”

“You like the dogtags.” He reached up and pulled the chain out of his shirt, letting the silver tags rest against the black silk, and your mouth went dry.

“Bucky.”

“And you've been thinking about this all night.” His voice dropped, went dark and sweet like honey and whiskey. “About getting your hands on me. About getting your mouth on me.”

“Bucky.”

“So here's what's going to happen.” He shifted beneath you, settling you more firmly on his lap, and his smirk sharpened into something dangerous. “We're going to stay here for a little while longer. Long enough that people notice we're gone. Long enough that Sam sends someone to check on us.”

“That's—that's not—why would we—?”

“Because,” he said, and leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of your ear, “I want them to know that I took you out to this garden. I want them to know that we were gone for forty-five minutes. I want them to wonder, sweetheart. Maybe we fuck here, maybe we make out like teenagers or maybe I just have you in my lap while we look at the lights but I want them to look at you tomorrow, with that pretty smile on that beautiful fase and I want them to wonder”

You shivered. Full-body, no-holding-back shivered, and you felt him smile against your neck.

“You're evil,” you whispered.

“I'm yours,” he corrected, echoing your words from earlier, and then his mouth was on your throat and you forgot how to think entirely.

The garden became a blur of sensation after that.

His hands—both of them, flesh and metal, warm and cool, everywhere—sliding up your thighs beneath the silk of your dress. Your fingers—tangled in his hair, in the collar of his shirt, in the chain of his dogtags—pulling and clutching and begging without words. His mouth—on your jaw, your throat, the place where your pulse beat frantic and wild—leaving marks that would bloom purple by morning.

“Tell me,” he murmured against your collarbone. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” you gasped. “I want you. I've wanted you all night. I've wanted you since you walked through that door looking like—like that, like some kind of—of wet dream in a tailored suit—”

He laughed, low and dark, and his metal hand slid higher, cool fingertips brushing the inside of your thigh. “Wet dream?”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You kissed him. It was the only way to shut him up, and he knew it, and he wanted it, and god, you loved this man. You loved him so much it felt like drowning, like falling, like the most dangerous and wonderful thing you'd ever done.

When you finally pulled back—breathless, flushed, your dress rumpled and your hair half-fallen from its pins—he was looking at you like you were the answer to a question he'd been asking for a hundred years.

“I love you,” he said, simple and certain. “I love you, and I love the way you look at me, and I love that I get to have this. You. Tonight. Tomorrow. Every day.”

Your eyes burned. “Bucky—”

“I know.” He kissed your forehead, soft and sweet. “I know. We don't have to say it again. I just... I needed you to know.”

You cupped his face in your hands—the buzz cut, the stubble, the sharp cheekbones, the impossible beauty of him—and kissed him until you couldn't feel the tears anymore.

“Forty-five minutes,” you said when you finally let him go.

“What?”

“You said we'd stay here for forty-five minutes.” You glanced at your watch—a small, vintage thing that had belonged to your grandmother—and raised an eyebrow. “We've been out here for twelve.”

His smirk returned, slow and lethal. “Then we'd better make the most of the remaining thirty-three.”

He pulled you back down, and the garden swallowed you whole.

“We should go,” he said. “Say goodbye. Make an excuse.”

“We've only been here an hour.”

“An hour too long, baby. Weh ave only kissed and I gripped you around and you maybe roll your hips in that way I love but it’s a garden and I bet my ass that Stark has cameras around because he probably doesn’t want another incident like the one in Punta Mita.”

He was right. You knew he was right and the memory makes you chuckle. But you couldn't make yourself move, couldn't make yourself step away from the warmth of him, the solidness of him, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“One more minute,” you said.

“We don't have a minute.”

“Then thirty seconds.”

He smiled—that real smile, the one that crinkled his eyes and made you feel like the sun had come out. “Thirty seconds,” he agreed.

You spent them with your forehead pressed to his, breathing the same air, feeling the same wanting hum between you like a live wire.

When you finally pulled apart, his hand found yours.

“Home?” he said.

“Home.”

The apartment smelled like you—candle wax and something floral, the remnants of whatever perfume you'd dabbed on your wrists before leaving. The door had barely closed behind you before you had him pressed against it, your mouth on his, your hands fisting in the lapels of his suit jacket.

He laughed against your lips—breathless, giddy, young in a way he rarely got to be.

“Impatient,” he murmured.

“You have no idea.”

“I have some idea.”

You pushed the jacket off his shoulders, let it fall to the floor, and he didn't complain—just watched you with those dark, dark eyes, his chest rising and falling under the silk shirt. The dog tags had shifted again, resting now against the hollow of his throat, and you bent your head to press a kiss to the spot just below them.

His head fell back against the door. A sound escaped him—low, wrecked, perfect.

“Sweetheart.”

“Shh.” You kissed the line of his collarbone, following the chain of the dog tags down to where it disappeared beneath the silk. “I've been thinking about this all night.”

“Me too.”

“Thinking about getting you alone. Getting you undressed. Finding out if the rest of you is as—” You kissed the place where his neck met his shoulder, felt him shudder. “—devastating as the parts you were showing off.”

“Jesus.”

“Not Jesus. Just me.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

He was beautiful.

The buzz caught the low light of the apartment, the short bristles casting tiny shadows on his scalp. His cheeks were flushed, his lips reddened from kissing, his eyes so dark they were almost black. The silk shirt gaped open, exposing more of his chest than you'd seen all night, and you could see the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he breathed.

“Bedroom,” you said.

“Bedroom,” he agreed.

He didn't wait for you to lead. Instead, he swept you up—one arm under your knees, the other around your back—and carried you down the hallway like you weighed nothing. You laughed, startled and delighted, and buried your face in his neck.

“You're going to ruin the gown,” you said.

“It's your gown.”

“It's expensive.”

“I'll buy you another one. Five more.”

He laid you down on the bed—your shared bed, the one with the worn sheets and the pillows that smelled like him, the one where you’d spent countless nights tracing the lines of his face and learning the sounds he made when he was happy, when he was sad, when he was wanting—and for a moment, he just stood there.

Looking at you. Taking you in.

The streetlight filtered through the curtains, throwing the room in soft gold and grey. The fairy lights from the garden had followed you home, apparently, because everything seemed to glow—the curve of your shoulder where the emerald gown had slipped, the gleam of his metal arm, the dark bristles of his buzz cut catching the dim light like a halo.

“You’re staring again,” you said, and your voice came out softer than you intended.

“So are you.”

“Fair point.”

He didn’t move. Just stood at the edge of the bed, drinking you in, and you watched something shift in his expression—the usual guardedness falling away, replaced by something raw and open and almost frightened in its tenderness.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked.

“Anything.”

“I was nervous tonight.” He said it like a confession, like a secret he’d been holding in his chest all evening. “Ridiculously nervous. Standing in front of the mirror for twenty minutes, trying to decide if I should undo a third button or if that would be too much.”

You laughed—soft, disbelieving. “You were nervous?”

“Terrified.” He climbed onto the bed, slow and deliberate, and when he hovered over you—braced on his metal arm, his flesh hand coming up to cup your face—you felt the weight of him, the warmth of him, the way his thumb stroked your cheek like you were made of something precious. “I kept thinking… what if she doesn’t like it? What if she thinks I look like a thug? What if she spends the whole night embarrassed to be seen with me?”

“Bucky.”

“I know it’s stupid.” His eyes dropped, lashes dark against his cheeks. “I know. You’ve told me a hundred times. But I can’t help it. Every time I walk into a room full of people, I hear their thoughts. I see the way they look at me. The Winter Soldier. The assassin. The weapon.” He swallowed hard. “And then I see the way you look at me, and I think… maybe I’m not that person anymore. Maybe I get to be someone else. Someone good.”

Your heart cracked open, spilling warmth through your chest, and you reached up to touch his face—the sharp line of his jaw, the softness of his lips, the place where his stubble met the smooth skin of his cheek.

“You are good,” you said. “You are the best person I know, James Buchanan Barnes. And I am never embarrassed to be seen with you. Do you understand? Never.”

His eyes searched yours, looking for something—doubt, maybe, or pity, or the lie he’d been trained his whole life to expect. He didn’t find it. All he found was you, looking back at him, steady and sure.

“Okay,” he said, and his voice was rough. “Okay.”

He hovered over you—braced on his metal arm, his flesh hand coming up to cup your face—you felt like the entire world had narrowed to this single moment.

“I love you,” he said. “In case I haven't said it enough tonight.”

“You've said it.”

“I'll say it again.” He kissed your forehead. “I love you.” Your nose. “I love you.” Your chin. “I love you.”

Each kiss was softer than the last, more reverent, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

“I love you too,” you whispered. “Even when you show up to galas looking like a war crime.”

He laughed—that real laugh, the one that shook his shoulders and made your chest ache. “A war crime?”

“A handsome war crime.”

“I'll take it.”

You reached up and ran your hands over his buzz cut, savoring the velvet-soft bristles, the warmth of his scalp, the way his eyes fluttered shut and his whole body seemed to melt into your touch.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” you said. “With this. With the suit. With the buttons, Bucky. I'm never going to recover.”

“Good,” he said, and his voice was rough. “Then we're even.”

“Even?”

“Because I've been wrecked since the moment I saw you in that gown.” His metal hand traced the neckline of the emerald velvet, feather-light, barely touching. “The way it fits you. The way it moves when you walk. The way everyone in that room was looking at you like they wanted to eat you alive, and I had to stand there and smile and pretend I wasn't imagining all the ways I was going to take you apart the second we got home.”

Your breath caught.

“So yeah,” he continued, his voice dropping lower, his mouth hovering just above yours. “We're even.”

He kissed you.

It was different from the kisses in the ballroom, different from the desperate tangle in the garden, different from the frantic hello at the door. This kiss was slow. Deep and searching, the kind of kiss that asked questions and answered them in the same breath. His mouth moved against yours like he had all the time in the world, like there was nowhere else he’d rather be, like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

You let yourself sink into it. Into him.

Your hands found his head—the buzz cut, the soft bristles, the warmth of his scalp beneath your palms—and you marveled, not for the first time, at how something so simple could feel so intimate. Without the curtain of hair to hide behind, there was nowhere for him to go. He was here, completely and utterly, and the vulnerability in his expression when you pulled back made your breath catch.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, “what it does to me when you touch me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m yours.”

“You are mine.”

His smile was small and soft and so full of love it made your chest ache. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I am.”

He kissed your forehead. Your nose. Your chin. The corner of your mouth. Each one a tiny absolution, a thank-you, an I love you in a language that didn’t need words.

“Can I take this off?” he asked, his fingers finding the zipper of your gown.

“Please.”

He drew it down slowly, agonizingly, the whisper of metal on metal the only sound in the room besides your breathing. His eyes stayed on yours the whole time, watching your reaction, making sure you were okay. Even now, even after all this time, he was checking in—because that was who he was. That was who he’d always been, under the metal and the memories and the century of pain.

A good man. A sweet man.

The emerald velvet pooled at your waist, and his breath caught.

“Sweetheart,” he said, and his voice was wrecked.

“What?”

“You’re so beautiful.” He said it like he couldn’t believe it, like he was seeing you for the first time. His hands hovered over your bare skin—not touching, not yet, just revering. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Don’t start that.”

“I mean it.”

“I don’t care what you mean.” You reached up and pulled him down, until his forehead rested against yours, until you were breathing the same air. “I love you. I chose you. Every day, I wake up and choose you. And I will keep choosing you, over and over, until I stop breathing. Do you understand?”

His eyes were bright. His jaw was tight.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, I understand.”

He kissed you again—deeper this time, hungrier, but still gentle. Always gentle, with you. Even when he was desperate, even when he was wanting, even when his hands shook with the effort of holding back, he was gentle. Because that was who he was. That was who the world had tried to break and failed.

The gown came off the rest of the way, and he made a sound—something low and wondering, something that vibrated against your skin and traveled down your spine like a match striking.

“Can I tell you something else?” he asked, his lips brushing your collarbone.

“You can tell me anything.”

“I love the way you look at me.” He pressed a kiss to the hollow of your throat. “I love the way you say my name.” Another kiss, lower this time, over your heart. “I love the way you touch me, like I’m not broken, like I’m not—like I’m just me.”

“You are just you.”

“I know.” He lifted his head, and his eyes were soft, soft, soft. “Because of you. I know.”

His hands mapped your body like he was memorizing it—the curve of your waist, the dip of your hip, the place where your pulse beat quick and fragile at your wrist. His touch was feather-light, almost reverent, and every brush of his fingers left a trail of fire in its wake.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

“You’re touching me.”

“Is that okay?”

“It’s better than okay.” You reached for him, tugged at his shirt, the silk slipping through your fingers. “But I need you closer.”

He helped you. Buttons came undone, silk parted, and then his chest was bare above you, and you forgot how to breathe.

He was beautiful. All of him. The broad shoulders, the smooth planes of his chest, the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers. The metal arm gleamed in the low light, the vibranium plates shifting as he moved, and you reached up to trace the place where flesh met machinery—the boundary line that he’d once been ashamed of and now wore like armor.

“You’re doing it again,” he said softly.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like I’m something precious.”

“You are something precious.”

His throat worked. His eyes, impossibly, went soft.

“Sweetheart.”

“I mean it.” You sat up, pushed the silk shirt off his shoulders, let it fall somewhere on the floor. Your hands mapped his chest—the warm skin, the steady heartbeat, the way his breath hitched every time your fingers brushed over a sensitive spot. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. With the buzz cut. Without the buzz cut. In a suit. In your boxers. In nothing at all.” You looked up at him through your lashes. “Especially in nothing at all.”

He made a sound—half laugh, half groan—and captured your mouth with his.

The kiss was everything. Deep and hungry and desperate and tender all at once, the kind of kiss that happened when two people had been wanting each other all night and finally, finally had the privacy to do something about it. His hands were everywhere—your back, your hips, your thighs—and you arched into his touch like a flower turning toward the sun.

“I want to take my time with you,” he said against your skin. “Is that okay?”

“Yes.” The word came out breathless. “God, yes.”

“I want to learn every inch of you again. The way you look tonight. The way you feel.” His metal hand skimmed down your side, over your ribs, over your hip, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “I want to memorize you.”

“Bucky.”

“Shh.” He pressed a kiss to the hollow of your throat, right where the dog tags had rested against his skin all night. “Let me.”

You let him.

He was thorough. He was patient. He kissed every inch of skin he could reach—your shoulders, your arms, the inside of your wrists, the palms of your hands. He traced the line of your spine with his metal fingers, and you arched into his touch like a cat. He murmured your name like a prayer, over and over, until it lost all meaning and became just a sound, just a breath, just the shape of his love for you.

At some point, his trousers followed the shirt. The dog tags stayed on—you’d asked him to keep them, once, and he’d never taken them off since—and they swung between you as he moved, cool metal against your heated skin.

“You’re so good to me,” he said, and his voice was thick. “You’re so good, sweetheart. I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

“You existed,” you said. “That’s all. You existed, and I found you, and I’m never letting you go.”

He laughed—wet, almost, like he was crying or close to it. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

He kissed you again, and this time there was nothing slow about it. This was want, pure and simple, the kind of want that had been building all night, all week, all lifetime. His body pressed you into the mattress, and you wrapped your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck and pulled him close, close, close.

His face was inches from yours. The buzz cut brushed against your forehead, soft and warm. His eyes were dark and bright all at once, full of something that looked like wonder.

“I love you,” he said, and his voice broke on the words.

“I love you too.” You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Now show me, Barnes.”

He smiled—that real smile, the one that crinkled his eyes and made you feel like the sun had come out—and he did.

He showed you with every touch, every kiss, every murmured word against your skin. He showed you in the way he held you, like you were something fragile and precious and worth protecting. He showed you in the way he moved—slow at first, deep, deliberate, drawing out every sensation until you were trembling beneath him, gasping his name into the dark.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “That’s it, sweetheart. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

And he did. He always did.

His hands found yours, fingers interlacing, pinning them gently to the mattress on either side of your head. The metal hand was cool, the flesh hand warm, and the contrast made you shiver. He pressed his forehead to yours, staying close, staying connected, even as the pace built and the world narrowed to just the two of you.

“Look at me, precious,” he said. “Please. I need to see you.”

You opened your eyes—you hadn’t realized you’d closed them—and found him watching you. His gaze was intense, burning, but underneath it was something softer. Something that looked like awe.

“There you are,” he whispered. “There’s my girl.”

You made a sound—something between a laugh and a sob—and pulled him down into a kiss.

He swallowed every noise you made, held you through every tremor, whispered I love you against your lips until the words lost all meaning and became just a rhythm, just a heartbeat, just the truth of him.

And when you finally shattered—when the world went white and bright and everything—he was right there with you, holding on, holding together, pressing his face into the curve of your neck and breathing your name like a benediction.

At 3 am, around the time where the city had gone quiet and the streetlight had flickered out and the only light in the room came from the soft glow of the bathroom, where you’d left the door cracked—you lay with your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

It was steady now. Calm. The frantic thrum from earlier had settled into something slow and rhythmic, a lullaby in B-flat major.

His hand was in your hair, fingers combing through the tangles with absent-minded tenderness. His other arm—the metal one—was wrapped around your waist, holding you close even in sleep’s approach. The dog tags rested against his skin, cool and familiar. You traced the outline of them with your fingertip, feeling the stamped letters, the weight of history, the story of a man who had survived things no one should survive and somehow found his way to this.

To you.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough with sleep.

“Mm?”

“I’m glad I cut my hair.”

You lifted your head, propped your chin on his chest, and looked at him. The buzz cut was already growing out—you could see it, the faint shadow of length that would need trimming in the morning. But right now, in the dim light, it looked perfect. Soft. His.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His flesh hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Because now I know. Even at a fancy gala, even in a suit that costs more than our first apartment combined, even with everyone looking at me like they’re trying to figure out if I’m a hero or a weapon…” He paused, swallowed. “You still look at me the same way.”

“And what way is that?”

He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper.

“Like I’m worth coming home to.”

You kissed him. Soft. Slow. A promise.

“You’re worth everything,” you said. “In a suit. Out of a suit. With a buzz cut that makes me want to do unspeakable things to you in public gardens.”

He snorted. “We didn’t do anything in the garden.”

“Barely.”

He laughed—that real laugh, the one that made your heart feel too big for your chest—and pulled you back down against him. His arms wrapped around you, flesh and metal, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“You’re sweet, you know that?” you murmured into his chest.

“Me?”

“You. The way you touch me. The way you look at me. The way you check in, even when you’re—” You paused, searched for the word. “—even when you’re lost in it. You’re always careful with me. Always gentle.”

He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was thick.

“That’s because you’re the most important thing in my life,” he said. “And I spent a long time being something else. Something hard. Something that broke things.” His arms tightened around you. “I never want to break you.”

“You couldn’t break me,” you said. “Even if you tried.”

“I know.” He pressed another kiss to your hair. “That’s why I love you.”

You fell asleep like that—tangled together, heartbeat to heartbeat, the man with the buzz cut and the dog tags and the heart that had learned to love again holding you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

And in the morning, when the sun came streaming through the curtains and you woke to find him already watching you, soft-eyed and sleep-rumpled and more beautiful than any suit or gala or garden could ever make him, you smiled.

“Good morning, James.”

“Good morning, sweetheart.” He ran his hand over his own head—the new gesture, the one that was already becoming yours—and grinned. “I love you, did you know that?”

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