Hiii!! I had an idea of Bucky.. with a buzzcut… because seb has one and it’s driving me crazy I think he’d look so good and reader is just like in shock when he comes home with one one day!!!
He doesn’t warn you.
That’s the worst part.
You’re in the kitchen when the apartment door clicks shut, humming to yourself while you stir something on the stove. It’s soft and normal—the kind of evening that feels like it’s wrapped in a blanket. You hear the familiar thud of his boots by the door, the quiet jingle of keys in the bowl.
“Baby?” he calls.
“In here,” you answer easily, not even turning around yet. “Did you grab the—”
You do turn then.
And the words fall straight out of your mouth.
Because standing there in your doorway is Bucky Barnes—broad shoulders filling the frame, leather jacket slung over one arm, dog tags catching the light—except something is different.
His hair.
It’s gone.
Not gone gone, but close. Cropped down to a dark, soft-looking buzzcut that hugs the shape of his skull, exposing the clean lines of his jaw, the slope of his temples, the faint scar near his hairline you’ve only ever glimpsed when it was damp.
You blink.
He shifts his weight, suddenly unsure. “Hi?”
Your brain short-circuits.
“You—” You point at him. “Your—”
He lifts a hand, rubbing the back of his head like he’s self-conscious. The motion makes the muscles in his arm flex under his Henley. “Yeah. I, uh. Got tired of it.”
You stare.
Because this is not just a haircut.
This is… lethal.
He looks younger and older all at once. More Brooklyn. More soldier. The soft waves you loved to tangle your fingers in are gone, replaced by something stark and masculine and unfairly attractive. It makes his eyes look brighter. It makes his cheekbones sharper. It makes your stomach flip over.
“You don’t like it,” he says quietly, misreading your silence.
That snaps you out of it.
You cross the kitchen in three quick steps and grab his face with both hands.
“I cannot believe you just did this to me,” you whisper.
His brows knit together. “To you?”
“You look insane.”
His mouth parts slightly. “Insane bad or—”
“Insane good,” you breathe.
There’s a beat.
Then you drag your hands upward, fingers sliding over the freshly buzzed strands. They’re softer than you expected — velvety under your palms, barely there but not prickly. Your nails scrape lightly over his scalp and his eyes flutter.
Oh.
Oh.
You do it again, slower.
His breath catches.
“You can’t just come home looking like this,” you murmur, circling him like you’re inspecting a piece of art. “That’s criminal. You should have to warn people.”
A faint pink creeps up his neck. “Figured it’d be easier. Less to grab in a fight.”
You freeze mid-step.
“Less to grab?”
He realizes his mistake exactly half a second too late.
You launch at him.
He stumbles back a step as you jump, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and threading your fingers firmly into the short hair. You drag him down into a kiss that’s all teeth and heat and shock.
His metal hand catches your waist automatically, steadying you. His other hand slides up your back.
“You absolutely did not think this through,” you mumble against his mouth, tugging at the buzzcut again just to prove a point.
He groans—low and involuntary.
“See?” you whisper triumphantly.
He’s looking at you like you’ve just discovered fire.
You pull back just enough to really look at him. Without the longer hair softening his face, every expression is sharper. Every emotion more exposed. He looks raw in a way that makes your chest ache.
“Why now?” you ask softly.
He hesitates.
“Just… wanted something different,” he says. “Felt like carrying around too much old stuff.”
Your heart stutters.
Sometimes he does that—drops something heavy into the middle of an ordinary moment.
You lift your hand again, slower this time, smoothing it over the top of his head. The gesture is tender now instead of teasing.
“You look like you,” you say.
He studies your face carefully. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You smile. “Like Brooklyn and now. Like you’re not hiding behind anything.”
He exhales, something loosening in his shoulders.
You grin suddenly, mischief returning. “Also you look stupidly hot.”
That earns you a small laugh.
“Stupidly?”
“Disrespectfully,” you correct. “You look disrespectfully hot.”
He rolls his eyes but his smile grows.
You hop down from where you’d been half-clinging to him, only to immediately circle behind him. Your hands slide over his shoulders, down his arms, then back up again until your fingers find his scalp once more.
“I’m not going to get anything done for at least a week,” you inform him seriously.
“Oh yeah?” he says.
“Yeah.” You rake your nails gently over the short hair again.
He inhales sharply.
Your eyebrows shoot up.
“Oh my god,” you whisper. “You like that.”
He clears his throat. “It’s—sensitive.”
You light up like someone just handed you a new favorite toy.
“Bucky Barnes,” you say slowly, walking back around to face him. “Did you accidentally unlock a new kink?”
His eyes widen. “Hey—”
You drag your fingertips over his scalp again, slow and deliberate.
His jaw tightens.
“You absolutely did,” you breathe.
He lunges forward to catch you before you can dart away, backing you against the kitchen counter. His hands bracket your hips, eyes dark now.
“Careful,” he warns softly.
But he’s smiling.
You reach up one more time, cupping the back of his head, pressing your palm flat against the buzzed hair.
“I’m not in shock anymore,” you murmur. “I’m obsessed.”
His forehead drops to yours.
“Good,” he whispers. “Was kinda hoping you would be.”
You grin.
“Oh, I am,” you say. “Just not in the way you thought.”
He kisses you again—slower this time. Confident.
As your fingers slide back into that dangerous buzzcut, you decide two things very clearly:
One—you’re never letting him grow it out.
And two—you’re absolutely abusing the fact that it makes him shiver.
