Bucky wasn’t sure what he expected when you pulled off your hoodie, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.

Ink. Lines of it. Swirling across your skin like a story he hadn’t yet been told. The dim light of your apartment cast soft shadows over the curves of the designs, making them look like they were moving, breathing. His gaze traced the tattoo on your arm first, then lower, down your ribs, where intricate patterns disappeared beneath your tank top. And then—silver glinting in the low light—piercings. A few on your ears, sure, but lower too. A flash at your navel.

His mouth had gone dry. "Didn’t peg you for the type," he muttered, unable to look away.

You smirked, stretching just to mess with him. "What type is that, Barnes?"

The sound of his name in your teasing voice sent a flicker of heat through him, but he ignored it, crossing his arms. "The ‘decorates their whole damn body with metal and ink’ type."

You rolled your eyes, stepping closer. "You’ve got a whole vibranium arm, and I’m the one with too much metal?"

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. His fingers twitched at his sides, itching to reach out, to run his hands over the ink and feel the cool press of metal beneath his touch. "Yeah, but mine came with the trauma package. Yours?" His eyes flicked down to where the ink disappeared beneath your clothes. "Yours looks like a choice."

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. "It was. Every single one means something." Your voice softened slightly, and for a moment, Bucky swore he saw something shift in your expression—something deeper. Then, just as quickly, you smirked again. "You wanna see the rest?"

Bucky’s breath hitched. He swallowed hard, his smirk faltering. "Doll," he said, voice low. "You're gonna kill me."