Marvel Oneshots

That's My Desire - Bucky Barnes

A/N: Song prompt! This one was a personal favorite and a reader favorite so it's one of the first back up! Listen to That's My Desire by Martha Tilton (or any version really, that's just a personal favorite) for the full gut-wrench effect. Trust me. This one hurts.

Word count: 7k

Warnings: SMUT, alcohol consumption, some war imagery, swearing, a whole shipping container of angst

Jazz is Bucky's favorite. The rich, lusty croon of horns coiling around an elegant rush of piano. Taking over the melody, the sound of a raspy-toned singer pressing lips to a microphone. It gets him everytime.

You hadn't loved it until you met him. Until you'd loved him. The same way he loves Louis Armstrong. Now jazz gets you, too.

You admire the secrecy in its harmonies. The sensuality in how it curves over the bridge of the song and carries you along with it; Bucky's good like that. He makes you love things that, on a normal day, you wouldn't have granted a second glance. Makes you love them with a love that makes your ribs ache. Shows you how with a tug on your fingers and a sparkle in those wide, curious eyes. Your wondrous boy opening your heart up, all Brooklyn drawl and baby blue.

He's trailing those clever eyes over you when you breeze into the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe with a glass of cheap red in one hand.

"Hey, kid." He says, one side of a soft mouth hitching skyward in a way that reminds you of the bad guy in a gangster flick. "Your husband let you go out lookin' that pretty?"

You grin, give him a twirl, the hem of your skirt kissing the back of your shins. He admires it, and you, with a sleepy smile, a little wine drunk already. The dress is new; a crisp A-line hem, powder blue dotted with delicate white flowers and the prettiest little silver buttons you've ever seen. Bought for an occasion that you've left abandoned.

"I dunno," You hum, leaning over to tap your nails with soft rhythmic clicks, "I should call him up and ask, huh? Poor darlin's still probably at the office."

Bucky snorts, lifting his glass to his lips and dancing his eyes down your figure again. All mischief and desire, muddied by his third helping of booze. You know the banter is silly, anyone with half a brain and a working eye would be able to tell the two of you are going steady. Head over heels for it. Bathing in new love, young love, all innocent and saccharine. Even if the apartment you share wasn't strewn with a haphazard mix of your belongings and his, the few you each had, it's obvious. Bucky looks at you like you're carrying his heart around in your pocket, threaded into the lining of you.

You are, of course, but you'd never admit it to anybody else.

Bucky's already dressed down for the night, in a clean pressed white shirt, one that shows the muscles on his chest through thin cotton. His slacks and suspenders still on, free hand fiddling with the straps. Hair that's been tousled by your fingers making him look a little wild, a little tired.

"Pour me one of those?" You ask sweetly, pulling cherry red lips into a pout and pointing to his glass with nails tipped the same shade.

Bucky hums a yes ma'am and nods, pulls himself from whatever lewd daydream he'd been lost in, the devil boy.

A vinyl record spins itself lazy in the main room, the one that doubles as the living and bedroom because you couldn't afford much else, filling the kitchen with the croon of a smoke-throated singer. It sits low in the air, smooth and sticky like the humid crawl of summer dusk oozing in through the open windows. Piano and saxophone dance in seductive tandem, a lover's kiss, a chrysanthemum white bedsheet folded beneath two bodies.