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slashrrluvrr · 15 hours ago

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what home feels like 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (5 + 1 trope)

warnings: loads, like mountains of fluff, soft!bucky, some angst, bucky in an apron, team shenanigans

summary: the 5 times bucky thinks of proposing to you and the 1 time he does

word count: 6.1k (i couldn't help myself 🥹)

author's note: hi loves! i am in the middle of my vacation and i had this written during my layover, and i just couldn't wait to let you guys read it, so here it is! i hope you'll love it as much as i do! love ya and stay safe out there! 💌

The first time Bucky thought of proposing to you, you were asleep on his chest, and the world was still.

The sun filtered softly through gauzy curtains, turning the room to gold, that liminal hush between dawn and morning, when the world had yet to stir.

The compound was silent. Peaceful. A rare luxury. And in the center of it all was you, curled in the tangle of Bucky’s arms, your face pressed to his chest, your breath warm and even against the fabric of his shirt.

One of your hands was fisted there, right over his heart, like you’d been afraid he might drift away in the night and needed something to anchor you. As if your body, even in sleep, refused to let him go.

He didn’t mind. He never minded. In fact, if he had it his way, he’d never move from this moment at all. He could stay like this forever. And maybe, for once, he actually believed he deserved to.

Alpine lay nestled between your legs, a puddle of white fur with her chin resting lazily on your calf. She let out a soft mewl, stretching languidly, paws reaching toward the warm patch of sunlight spilling across the bed before curling tighter into the cradle you made for her.

Bucky watched her for a beat, the corners of his mouth twitching, and then looked back down at you, the way your lashes flickered in dreams, the way your lips parted with each slow breath, your features soft and at peace in the golden quiet.

There was a kind of stillness in the air that made everything feel sacred. Like nothing bad could touch the room you shared. Like the outside world, the violence, the ghosts, the endless fight didn’t exist here.

Just you. Just him. Just this.

And his heart ached a little with the weight of it, of how far he’d come, of how long it had taken to get here. To something this gentle. This good.

Because this life had once seemed impossible.

Germany, 2016.

The first time Bucky saw you, he had been standing at the far end of the airport carpark in Berlin, still learning how to breathe in spaces that weren’t cages.

Still unsure of who he was supposed to be outside the Soldier. Still half-listening, half-drifting.

Steve had brought you in, voice warm, saying you’d be helping with strategy and tech coordination for the joint ops.

There had been a familiarity in how he spoke to you, like you were someone he already trusted. That alone had caught Bucky’s attention.

And then… then you walked in beside him.

Wearing jeans and a simple button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves, your hair pulled back in some easy style like you hadn’t even put much thought into it.

You had a notebook in one hand, and your eyes were wide, bright. Like you hadn’t yet learned to keep your guard up in this line of work. Like the job hadn’t bled the softness out of you.

And Bucky… Bucky had stared.

Not out of rudeness—not really. But because you’d laughed. Full-bodied and unfiltered.

Scott had said something dumb—some half-witted quip about old men and bluetooth—and you had tipped your head back, laughing like it was the best thing you’d heard all week.

The sound of it went straight through him.

It didn’t just catch his attention. It wrecked him, a little. That laugh landed somewhere behind his ribs, somewhere he hadn’t even realised was still raw. And for the first time in a long time, something in him stirred. Something slow and silent and stupidly hopeful.

Then you turned to him. Your gaze met his.

You smiled.

Held out your hand.

“Hi, I’m (Y/N),” you’d said, your voice warm, effortless and kind. The kind of voice that made people feel safe. The kind of voice that felt like a hand resting lightly on a wound.

“You must be Bucky.”

He hadn’t said a word at first. Couldn’t. His brain had short-circuited under the weight of your gaze and the gentle curl of your mouth. His pulse roared in his ears like it did in combat zones—sharp, hot, all-consuming.

But then, somehow, he managed a smile. A real one. Small. Tentative. But genuine. And when he took your hand in his, shaking it carefully, cautiously, something in his chest locked into place.

He remembered how soft your skin had felt against his calloused fingers. How you hadn’t flinched at the sight of the metal. How your touch had lingered just long enough.

You didn’t seem put off by his silence. You’d just nodded, eyes full of something unspoken, and walked off with Wanda, the two of you giggling about something he couldn’t hear. Just like that, you were gone. But the space you left behind stayed.

That’s when Sam had sidled up beside him, elbowing him just hard enough to knock him out of his daze.

“You know if you keep staring, it’s gonna get reak creepy,” he said, smirking.

Bucky had scowled at him. Sam had just grinned wider, all smug and knowing, before turning back.

But even then—Bucky knew.

Knew he was already in trouble.

Because something had shifted. A compass needle inside him, snapping north.

And from that moment on, he’d been tilting toward you.

Now, as he looked down at you all these years later—your lashes fluttering in dreams, your nose scrunching as Alpine adjusted herself—the same flutter stirred in his chest. The same ache, the same quiet kind of awe.

The kind of wonder a man feels when he realises he’s been given the one thing he never dared to ask for.

You shifted in your sleep, barely a breath of movement, but your hand remained curled tight in his shirt, right over his heart.

A reflex, even now. And Bucky let his vibranium fingers trace along your spine, the weight of them light, slow, gentle. Careful not to wake you. He wanted to hold onto this moment just a little longer.

That’s when he thought about the ring.

The one you’d pretended not to look at in the window of that little shop in town last week, red velvet box, delicate curve of diamonds catching the light.

You’d been with Yelena and Bob, arms full of coffee cups and teasing each other about something John had said.

But as you passed the display, you slowed.

He’d noticed it. The way your gaze had lingered. The way your fingers shifted slightly on the cup, like you were reaching for something you wouldn’t admit to wanting. The way your smile curved at the corners, quiet and wistful, like a secret you didn’t plan on sharing.

He saw it and tucked it away.

And now, with you asleep in his arms, your heartbeat matching his, the sun painting gold into your skin, Alpine’s fur warming your legs and that familiar weight of your hand pressed into his chest—he made the decision he’d been dancing around for weeks.

He was going to buy it.

Because this—this lazy Sunday morning with your body draped over his, your love stitched into the silence—this was it.

This was forever.

The second time Bucky thought of proposing, the kitchen had smelled like toast and sunlight.

It was late morning when he found you in the kitchen, barefoot on cool tile, hips swaying to the distant echo of Taylor Swift playing from a speaker;

The track was barely audible—warbled through the walls, a little staticky at the edges, but you didn’t seem to care.

You moved with it anyway, letting the music carry you from one counter to the next like it had been written for this exact moment—lazy, sun-warmed, still wrapped in the quiet of sleep.

You were wearing his shirt—that old red henley he loved and you’d stolen without apology—sleeves pushed up to your elbows, the hem brushing mid-thigh and clinging in places where the steam from the kettle had warmed the air.

Your hair was still mussed from sleep, strands curling at your temples, and one sock was scrunched halfway down your ankle like you’d forgotten to pull it all the way on.

You held a wooden spoon in one hand like a microphone, lips parted, eyes closed, your voice rising with the chorus as you spun in a loose, lazy circle in front of the stove.

You were completely at ease. Utterly unbothered. Just lost in the song and the morning and the rhythm of your own joy.

Sunlight streamed in through the half-open blinds, casting golden stripes across the floor and lighting you up like something out of a dream.

You looked like every warm Sunday morning he’d ever wanted, the kind of morning he didn’t believe he’d ever actually get.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, watching the way your feet padded across the tile, how your hips swayed, how you bobbed your head to the beat like no one was watching—because you didn’t think anyone was.

And maybe he should’ve said something—greeted you, teased you, but the words stayed lodged in his throat, caught somewhere behind the knot that had formed in his chest. Because there was something about you like this that undid him.

Completely.

You were radiant in a way he didn’t think you realised. The kind of radiant that came from joy—unfiltered, unguarded. The kind that wasn’t curated or calculated or polished for the world.

The kind of beauty that only existed in the in-between spaces—in the stretch of a yawn, in a wooden spoon masquerading as a microphone, in the way your laugh cracked when you hit the high notes wrong.

And god, he thought, watching the sway of your hips, the grin playing at your lips, this is home.

You.

You were home.

He thought about the way you’d slowly, gently introduced him to pop culture like it was your personal mission to drag him into the 21st century.

The curated playlists you made, some with real titles and others labeled “Bucky’s Soft Bitch Era” just to get a rise out of him. The back-to-back movie nights where you made him swear, hand over heart, that he wouldn’t fall asleep during The Notebook.

He remembered the first time he said TokTok by accident and you’d nearly fallen off the couch laughing, giggling so hard you landed half in his lap.

He’d rolled his eyes and muttered something about the whole app being made by “brain rot,” a term you taught him. but you’d refused to correct him, smirking every time he repeated it wrong.

You’d made it all so effortless. The joy.

He hadn’t known it was happening—not at first. Not until it was already too late to stop. Until you were part of everything. His mornings, his evenings, the space between missions, the quiet between nightmares. The laughter between breaths.

You hadn’t forced him to change.

You’d just given him something worth changing for.

He smiled to himself, one hand curling loosely around the coffee mug, now half-cold in his grip.

You were singing now, his shirt shifted with every movement, slipping just slightly off one shoulder. The sight of it—your bare skin against his worn cotton, the easy claim of it—made his stomach twist.

And maybe it was stupid.

Maybe it was too soon.

But the thought still rooted deep in his chest and bloomed like something inevitable.

I want to come home to this for the rest of my life.

He could see it, so vividly it ached. This kitchen, your voice, that damn wooden spoon. The rest of your lives written in sunlight and bad karaoke, laughter and bare feet on tile. He wanted to memorise this, frame it. Carve it into stone so it would never change, never fade.

Because at that moment, it wasn’t just love.

It belonged.

But he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

Because the moment felt too perfect, too suspended in its own little pocket of magic, like one wrong word might startle it, might shatter the stillness and send it fleeing out the window with the breeze.

So he let it be.

Let it unfold in golden quiet, you twirling in his shirt, bathed in sunlight, the world narrowed down to the music and the soft clatter of silverware in the drying rack, the steam rising from your forgotten tea on the counter.

And Bucky stood there, still and quiet and entirely undone, holding a lukewarm cup of coffee and the sharp, aching certainty that one day, maybe soon, maybe not, he was going to ask you.

The third time Bucky thought about proposing to you, you were laughing in the golden light, beer in hand, surrounded by people who loved you almost as much as he did.

The sky had started to turn.

That soft stretch between afternoon and evening where the sun melted into everything it touched, bathing the world in a low, amber haze. The backyard was warm with the glow of it—fairy lights strung lazily along the rails of the compound’s rooftop.

Smoke curled up from the grill, rich and familiar, while laughter rippled across the patio like music. Somewhere in the corner, Bob’s speaker hummed with old rock music and the occasional burst of static.

It didn’t matter. Nobody seemed to mind.

You were laughing again.

That soft, breathless kind of laughter that tugged at the corners of Bucky’s mouth every damn time he heard it. Like some part of him lit up in response—quiet and instinctive, like your joy flipped a switch inside him that nothing else could.

He stood just outside the patio doors, a paper plate in hand—barely touched—but his eyes were on you.

Only you.

You were perched on the arm of John’s chair, elbow resting on his shoulder like it was second nature, beer bottle tilted carelessly in your hand. John was mid-sentence, half-defending himself from whatever teasing you were throwing at him, and you were clearly winning.

Your smile was crooked, mischievous. Familiar. The same one you always wore when you knew you were about to land a joke that would ruin someone’s ego for the rest of the week.

“You’re just mad because I’m funnier than you,” you said, clinking your bottle against his in mock sympathy, your tone soaked in smug satisfaction.

John groaned dramatically. “Please. I’m hilarious.”

Yelena snorted from the grill without even looking up. “You are a tragedy.”

Bob raised his hand like he was in a courtroom. “She’s not wrong.”

“You people have no taste,” John muttered, but there was no real bite behind it.

“You overcooked the burgers,” Bob added casually.

“Exactly,” Yelena chimed in, jabbing a fork in his direction with finality. “He’s lost all credibility.”

Over by the cooler, Alexei was deep in what could only be described as a passionate retelling of something that definitely hadn’t happened—this time about his red guardian days and a hand-to-paw brawl with some Siberian bear.

He waved his arms dramatically, chest puffed out, his voice rising with each sentence like a man delivering a one-man play.

Ava had tuned him out completely, scrolling through her phone with surgical focus and only humming in vague acknowledgment whenever he shouted the word “bear” a little too loud.

It was chaotic, the kind of mess Bucky never would’ve imagined himself a part of—let alone something he could belong to.

But he wasn’t listening to any of it.

His eyes were on you.

The way you leaned into the warmth of the moment, head tilted back in laughter, eyes crinkling at the edges like sun lines. The way you had this unspoken ease with the people around you—even the ones who hadn’t always been easy to love.

You fit into the team not like glue, but gravity—like you kept everyone tethered without even meaning to.

He shifted, let his free hand drift toward the pocket of his jeans. His fingers brushed the small velvet box tucked there.

He remembered the aftermath of what happened in New York, it had been brutal.

For everyone. But especially for John.

No one really knew what to say to him. No one quite knew how to reach him, not after it came out that Olivia had left. That the wife and baby he said was waiting back home had already left months before.

He was splintered.

You hadn’t flinched. You hadn’t hesitated.

You’d found John on the compound steps the night he returned, still bloodied and shaking, the seams of his restraint barely holding—and sat beside him.

No grand entrance. No fuss. Just a quiet presence. You didn’t offer him pity or force conversation. You didn’t tell him it would be okay, you didn’t lie.

You had reached over and took his hand.

Held it, steady and solid—while the others kept their distance. It was simply, completely unremarkable on the surface.

But it worked. Somehow. Quietly. Without demand.

And Bucky had watched it unfold, breath lodged somewhere behind his ribs. Because that was the thing about you. You never tried to fix anyone, but somehow, you still managed to help them heal.

You were everyone’s lighthouse in the dark, even the ones who pretended they didn’t need one.

Especially them.

It was only a week later when the compound had gone still when Bucky had found himself at the dining table, elbows braced, shoulders tight, knuckles white around the edge of a ceramic mug he wasn’t drinking from.

He sat there for a long time, unmoving, eyes fixed on nothing, haunted by something he couldn’t name. The image of what he saw in the void still crawled under his skin—loud in the quiet, vivid behind his eyes.

He hadn’t noticed you until you spoke.

You padded in barefoot, still warm from sleep, wrapped in his shirt that hung off one shoulder. Your hair was tangled, voice soft and low like you hadn’t used it yet that day.

You didn’t ask what was wrong. You didn’t need to.

You just pulled out the chair beside him, sat down, and reached for his hand. No preamble. No questions. Just your fingers curling gently around his.

“I’m here, James,” you whispered, voice so quiet he barely caught it. “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

And that—that was all it took.

He hadn’t said anything. Just nodded once, jaw tight as the tears came fast and quiet and unexpected.

Your grip never loosened.

And then Bucky blinked, too, like waking from a dream.

The memory dissolved around the edges, softening into the golden blur of now.

You were still laughing with John, chin resting on your hand, your bottle now empty and forgotten.

The sky behind you had turned a dusky pink, streaked with orange and fading blue. The fairy lights blinked overhead like slow, lazy fireflies.

Bucky swallowed hard, throat thick, heart heavy with something he didn’t quite know how to hold. Something fragile and infinite.

The ring burned in his pocket.

Yelena sidled up beside him, two plates balanced in one hand, her eyes trailing the line of his gaze before she leaned in just enough to bump her shoulder against his.

“She’s good for you,” she said simply, like it was fact, like it had always been obvious.

He blinked, pulled his eyes from you long enough to glance at her. She was right.

“I know,” he said softly, mostly to himself, his fingers brushing the velvet box again, like the shape of it grounded him.

Soon.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he just stood there in the glow of fairy lights and fading sunlight, and let himself love you in silence.

The fourth time Bucky thought of proposing to you was during that one particular movie night.

The rec room buzzed, the lights were dimmed, shadows stretched across the walls in flickering shapes, and someone had dragged in extra bean bags and pillows from the training room—turning the entire floor into a makeshift nest of mismatched blankets and old couch cushions.

The screen glowed in the dark, casting soft blues and golds onto lazy limbs and half-finished bowls of popcorn.

You were curled beside Bucky on the couch, shoulder pressed into his side, legs tangled loosely beneath a shared blanket.

One of your socks had slipped off sometime during the first act. He didn’t even know when. He just knew your toes were cold when they nudged against his shin—and he hadn’t moved away.

He didn’t think he ever could.

The room smelled like buttered popcorn and worn fabric, like sleep and safety and leftover takeout from the kitchen.

Ava was stretched out across two bean bags with Alpine curled on her stomach. Bob had his head tipped back, already snoring softly, while Yelena and Alexei were still arguing in hushed voices about who cried harder during The Lion King.

It was quiet in a way that only felt possible when you were all together. The kind of quiet that wasn’t empty—just easy.

You shifted slightly, your fingers brushing over Bucky’s hand beneath the blanket. And then, without thinking, you began to trace the ridges of his knuckles. Absentminded. Familiar. Like muscle memory.

Like you’d done it a hundred times before—because you had.

It was your comfort habit. Your way of grounding yourself when the day had been too long or your eyes were growing heavy.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look up.

Your breathing slowed and your head dropped against his chest.

Bucky watched you as your eyelids fluttered, your face softening in sleep, lips parting slightly with each slow breath. Your lashes twitched like you were dreaming already—and god, you looked peaceful. Completely undone by comfort and warmth.

You drooled a little. Right there on his chest.

And he chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head like it didn’t knock the breath out of him. Like it didn’t make his heart twist with something so fierce and tender he couldn’t look away.

Because this—this stupid little moment, your drool soaking into his shirt and your body heavy against his side—this was it.

This was love.

This was the kind of night that carved itself into your bones without even asking.

The movie ended in the background—soft fade-to-black and swelling music—but Bucky didn’t move. People started shifting. Groaning. Standing.

Bob staggered to his feet, mumbling something about a sugar crash. Alexei wandered off in search of leftovers.

Even Yelena, who usually never missed a chance to call Bucky a “domestic menace,” didn’t say anything this time. She just shot him a look, eyes soft for once, and tugged Bob toward the hallway by the sleeve.

Eventually, the room emptied.

But he stayed right where he was.

Blanket pooled over both your legs. Your body curled into his. One of your hands still loosely wrapped around his.

And Bucky leaned his head back against the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“I want every night like this,” he murmured, barely above a whisper.

It wasn’t even a thought—just something that slipped out, something too true to hold in.

He looked down at you again, the words still blooming on his tongue, soft and certain.

He nearly asked.

Right then.

Nearly reached into his pocket for the ring that had never left his side since he’d bought it. Nearly tilted your chin up, brushed your hair out of your face, and told you he never wanted to do this life without you.

But then—

You snored.

Not loud. Not obnoxious.

Just enough to break the spell.

And Bucky laughed under his breath, the kind of laugh that cracked his chest open a little. He dipped his head, pressed a slow kiss to your forehead, and breathed in the soft scent of your shampoo, your skin, the safety of you asleep against him.

“Soon, baby,” he whispered, lips against your temple. “I’ll ask you soon.”

And in that quiet, golden stillness, as the credits rolled and your breathing evened out again, Bucky knew he could wait.

Just a little longer.

The fifth time Bucky thought of proposing to you, it was in a hospital ward.

Sokovia had been burning.

The sky was thick with smoke and dust, buildings gutted by fire and shrapnel, streets vibrating beneath their feet as another explosion rocked the earth in the distance.

The air was chaos—civilians screaming, radios crackling, the stench of blood sharp against the tang of ash and diesel.

And through it all, Bucky could still hear your voice in his ear—calm, clear, steady, a tether in the madness as you moved beside him.

“There’s two trapped in the north alley,” you’d said, breathless from the sprint, dirt streaked across your cheek. “I’ve got them Buck, go cover the evac point.”

He should’ve listened.

God, he should’ve listened.

But you were always the brave one. The reckless one when it counted. The one who would throw yourself into the fire if it meant pulling someone else out. And before he could stop you, before he could argue, it was already happening.

The shot came out of nowhere—a single, clean crack that split the world in half.

Then motion.

You.

Slamming into him with a force that knocked the air from his lungs — all instinct and desperation. The bullet was meant for him, but it found you instead.

The sound it made when it hit you would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Not a scream. Not even a gasp.

Just a sickening, solid thud, and the look in your eyes, just for a second, before your legs buckled and you collapsed into him like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Bucky caught you before your knees hit the ground.

He hit his knees with you, arms tightening, hands already pressing hard against your chest, where blood was blooming fast. Too fast.

The warmth of it soaked his fingers, thick and terrifying, spilling between them like time slipping away.

His breath stuttered. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking—both of them slick and red—no line anymore between man and machine, just one desperate body trying to hold another together.

“Nonononono—baby, stay with me,” he begged, voice cracking. “Look at me. Come on, just look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered.

Barely.

You were gasping, breath catching on every inhale, body struggling against gravity and pain—but still, somehow, you found his hand. Still curled your blood-slicked fingers into his like it mattered. Like he mattered.

And then—the whisper.

Barely a breath.

“It’s okay, James.”

You tried to smile. You tried. Even as your chest heaved, even as your face paled. You were still trying to make him feel better. Even then.

And then your eyes slipped closed.

Your hand went slack in his.

“No—” His voice broke. “No, baby, please. Please—stay with me. Stay.”

He screamed for help, hell he shouted it until his throat tore open.

It wasn’t words anymore. It was a sound. Something raw and helpless, a sound he hadn’t made in years—maybe ever. The comms burst to life in his ear, voices overlapping—Alexei calling coordinates, Ava yelling his name, John barking into his comm and Yelena screaming at Bob to send a medic to your position.

But Bucky heard none of it.

Just the ringing. Just the static in his head. Just the crushing silence of your body going still in his arms.

Blood on his hands, blood on his knees, blood on your lips.

And you weren’t moving.

The hallway outside the operating room was too clean. Too bright and way too quiet.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly, and Bucky sat slouched against the wall, the chill of the tile seeping through his suit as he clutched a cup of coffee gone long cold. It had stopped steaming ages ago, untouched, forgotten. He didn’t even remember someone giving it to him.

His front was still damp. His knees stained, his fingers raw from scrubbing your blood off in the sink—not all of it had come out.

Yelena sat nearby, arms folded, her head bowed in a silence she never wore. Bob paced. John stood against the far wall with his arms crossed tight over his chest, unmoving. Nobody had spoken in what felt like hours.

Then the door opened.

And Bucky was on his feet before the surgeon even stepped fully into the hallway.

“She made it.”

Three words.

Three impossible, world-shifting words.

Bucky didn’t remember moving, he didn’t remember dropping the cup or pushing past the doctor or the sound of someone calling after him.

He only remembered one thing:

Your name. In his mouth, in his heart. Like prayer.

You had looked so small in the bed.

The hospital sheets were too white against your skin, the steady beep of the monitors barely loud enough to be real.

Your chest rose and fell beneath the thin blanket, each breath shallow but steady. Your face was pale, lashes resting against your cheeks, an IV threaded into the back of your hand.

But you were breathing. Alive.

Bucky stood at your bedside, his hands hovering before he let himself reach—let his fingers wrap gently around yours, careful not to jostle the wires and tubes. He brought your hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to your knuckles like you were made of glass.

Only then did he let himself breathe.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, voice cracked and hoarse. “God, I thought—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t shape the rest of the words around the tremble in his throat. His eyes stung, vision blurring.

He sat down slowly, legs folding under him, and leaned in until his forehead rested against yours.

And there, in the soft hum of hospital machines and the scent of antiseptic and blood and you, he whispered:

“I can’t lose you.”

And in that moment, Bucky knew with more certainty than he’d ever known anything that he didn’t want a life unless it was with you in it. That love wasn’t a question anymore.

It was you. It had always been you.

The day Bucky proposed to you, it didn’t go as he had hoped.

The plan had been simple.

Well… sort of.

Bucky had spent most of the afternoon in the kitchen with Alpine circling his feet and panic setting in somewhere between how hard can it be? and why is this bread still doughy on the inside?

He had bribed Bob and Yelena with a full month of coffee runs to get you out of the compound—bought himself a few uninterrupted hours. Just enough time to pull together something romantic.

A quiet night with a dinner he made just for the both of you. Something that felt normal—something that felt like home.

You deserved that.

You deserved wine, and music, and a man who tried.

And god, was he trying.

He’d even worn the apron you got him last Christmas—Kiss the Cook (or Else)—tied it on with absolutely no protest, even though he had grumbled when he found it.

The fabric was too pink, the font was too aggressive. You had giggled when you gave it to him and well, he had never actually worn it.

Until today.

It was stupid. It was stupidly perfect.

And then everything went sideways.

The sauce burned—thick and bitter and clingy, turning the pan black and smoky before he could scrape it off."The bread didn’t rise right—not the first, second, or even the third time. Each loaf slumped in the center like it had given up halfway through baking.

Bucky had followed the recipe twice. Nothing worked. The wine bottle tipped when he reached too fast for a spoon. It spilled across the counter, down the cabinet, pooled under the fruit bowl. Then he dropped a fork into the pan of sauce, tried to fish it out and burned his hand. Swore loudly enough that Alpine hissed and darted under the kitchen table like he had somehow betrayed her on a spiritual level.

The smoke alarm nearly went off.

He hit it with a dish towel and muttered threats at it.

It was a disaster. A complete and utter disaster.

And that was before he heard the front door creak open.

His whole body froze.

He turned slowly, eyes wide, just as your footsteps reached the edge of the hall—too light to be Bob, too quiet to be Yelena. He knew your walk by now. The soft padding of your soles. The way you always slowed down when your hands were full. The way the silence always shifted when you entered a room.

And his stomach sank.

You were home. Too early.

The clock on the oven blinked at him uselessly, and he barely had time to wipe his hands on the apron when you walked into the kitchen.

You stopped short.

Still holding your coat, still glowing faintly from the wind outside and the laughter that hadn’t quite left your face.

And then you saw it.

The smoke, the scorched pan, the puddle of wine dripping a slow trail toward the floor. The half-risen bread like a sad little crater on the counter.

And in the middle of it all—Bucky. In the pink apron. Covered in flour and tomato splatter, clutching a wooden spoon like it might just attack him.

You blinked.

“Was this all for me?”

Bucky looked like a deer caught in a trap.

Or maybe more like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar—big and awkward and helpless, covered in guilt and powdered sugar.

“I—” He swallowed. “I realised I haven’t taken you out on a real date.”

He shifted, the wooden spoon still in his hand like he didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

“I just… I wanted to make tonight special.”

Your lips twitched.

The kitchen smelled like defeat and oregano. The oven was beeping at nothing. Smoke hung faintly in the air like an accusation. And still, your heart cracked wide open.

You stepped toward him—slowly, gently—and rose onto your toes to press a kiss to his cheek.

“It’s okay, Buck,” you murmured, lips brushing the curve of his jaw. “I’ve got leftover cereal.”

Your tone was teasing, warm, affectionate in the way only you could be. Forgiving. Soft. Home.

You turned, half-laughing, reaching for the cupboard above the microwave, the one that always held your comfort stash. Granola and that one sugar cereal you swore was for cheat days and ate every Sunday anyway.

You reached for the handle.

And Bucky’s heart stuttered.

He watched your hand move in slow motion, watched as your fingers curl around the cupboard door, the hinge creaking faintly.

His stomach dropped.

“Baby, wait—no—”

But it was too late.

You opened the door. Your fingers paused.

And there it was.

Tucked behind a half-finished bag of granola and an emergency box of toaster waffles sat a small red velvet box. Not fancy or flashy, but unmistakable. The kind that didn’t belong next to cereal.

The kind that meant something. The kind that meant everything.

You didn’t move.

Just stared.

And across the room, Bucky stood frozen, apron crooked, hair still damp from the steam, sauce on his cheek, and absolutely no words left in his mouth.

“I was gonna ask later,” he muttered, voice low, thick with something heavy. “There was a whole thing. Music. Dessert. A ring not hidden behind cereal.”

He sighed, shoulders sagging.

“I ruined it.”

You didn’t say anything at first.

You just looked at him—really looked at him. At the mess behind him. At the pink apron barely clinging to its dignity. At the way he stood there like he still expected the floor to swallow him whole.

And your eyes welled up.

Your smile tugged softly at the corners of your mouth, cracking you wide open like a sunrise.

“Yes,” you said.

Bucky blinked. “But… you didn’t even open it.”

You closed the cupboard gently and turned to face him. A breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh as you stepped forward.

“I don’t have to.”

And that was it.

That was all it took.

Bucky crossed the kitchen in three slow steps, reached for your face with both hands like you were made of something precious—fragile and entirely his.

He kissed you like he was carving the moment into memory. Like nothing else existed but the space between your lips and his heart.

Then, wordlessly, he lifted you onto the counter, settling between your legs, hands braced on your thighs like they were the only anchor he needed.

“God, I love you,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking. “You have no idea.”

You laughed, watery and real, arms wrapping around his neck as you pulled him closer.

“I do,” you whispered. “Me too.”

The kitchen was still a disaster.

The bread was half-baked. The wine was staining the grout. The sauce had scorched itself into the pan so deeply it might never come out.

But none of it mattered.

Because this—this—was perfect.

And it always would be.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed it!! if you did, please leave a comment or a reblog! thank you my love 💖

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slashrrluvrr · 16 hours ago

Text

Back It Up

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Thunderbolts!Female Reader

Summary: Bucky is hot and fucks like a God.

Word Count: Over 1.2k

Warnings: Unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), oral sex (m. and f. receiving), dirty talk, flirting, slight feels, possessive behavior, BDE, aftercare mention, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Based on an anon ask. Happy Moanday. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky who is hot and fucks like a God.

Bucky who is confident again, similar to the swagger he had in the 40’s, but a bit more rough around the edges to add to his appeal.

Bucky who knew you were his the second he laid eyes on you and swears the world is a little brighter when you’re nearby, so he gives you a smile instead of his trademark grumpy stare.

Bucky who also gets hard when you’re close to him and has palmed himself under the table because he so desperately wants to be inside you.

Bucky who wants you and only you, wants you on your knees for him, wants to get on his knees for you, wants to split you open on his cock and make you scream his name, but wants to tease you first.

Bucky who will run his fingers through his hair or toussle it when you’re in his line of sight because you once said he looked like a fucking prince. “Every prince needs a princess, right? You wanna be my princess?”

Bucky who, whether he’s in his tactical gear or uniform, sees the way you shamelessly check him out and hides his smirk when he “catches” you looking. “Isn’t polite to stare, sweetheart, but you can look all you want.”

Bucky who will purposely walk around in only a pair of low hanging gray sweatpants when he knows it’s just the two of you, unashamed of his body or scars, especially when your pupils dilate with lust. “You know, I almost went with black, but…” he trailed off, arching his back and thrusting his hips forward so you could see the very clear outline of his cock before he left the room.

Bucky who will keep his eyes on you when he eats, letting you see every drag of his tongue and lick of his lips as he savors the taste of his meal. “Bet your pussy tastes like heaven,” he says so low you swear you imagined it.

Bucky who wrapped a hand around your throat once during sparring to see how you’d respond, and he was pleasantly surprised when he heard you whimper and smelled your arousal. “I have something you can really choke on,” he whispered, letting you go and leaving you hot and bothered on the mat.

Bucky who didn’t think taking a jacket off could be sexy until he heard you whisper, “Fuck me”, to which he responded in a low voice full of promise, “Soon.”

Bucky who likes to think he can dish it as much as he takes it, but nearly busts down your door when he hears you moaning his name and fucking yourself with your fingers. “My dirty girl,” he says fondly, proudly.

Bucky who can’t take it anymore when you’re bent over in front of him, stretching and looking back at him with a smile while his eyes greedily roam your body. “Think you help me stretch, Barnes, or are you all talk?”

Bucky who snapped, tore through your legging and underwear like paper, and put you on all fours. “Oh, I’ll help you stretch,” he promised, breaching your wet heat with a finger and smirking when you tightened around him. “With my tongue and fingers first before you get my cock.”

Bucky who ate you out from behind, his fingers digging into your flesh as you pushed back against his face to feel more of the delicious burn from his salt and pepper scruff. “You really do taste like heaven, sweetheart, but be patient,” he warned, slapping your pussy for good measure. “You’ll get yours and I’ll get mine.”

Bucky who nearly came in his pants when you made a mess all over his face, crying out his name as he kept fucking you with his tongue and fingers and only stopped so he could put you on your back and see your dazed expression. “Good girl screaming my name,” he praised, hearing you whine when he shoved his pants and underwear down. “Do it again when you come on my cock.”

Bucky who let you taste yourself on his tongue before he pushed inside you, both of you moaning at the feeling of being one and him having to stay still for a second at the way you clamp around him like a vice. “Greedy cunt doesn’t want to let me go,” he rasped, and he understood since he didn’t want to leave your body.

Bucky who set a hard, deep pace and alternated between pinning you down and letting you pull his hair and grip his back. “Letting me fuck you bare because you know you’re mine,” he groaned, and he couldn’t wait to paint your walls with his release and really make you his.

Bucky who lightly bit your neck and breasts and touched every inch of you that he could, wanting to leave marks on you, before putting your legs on his shoulders and fucking you like his life depended on it. “Look at me. Keep those pretty eyes on me,” he ordered, wanting to see your face twist in pleasure as you took his cock over and over again.

Bucky who teased your clit and smiled when you keen. “I told you you’ll get yours,” he reminded you when you clenched around him and soaked his cock more. “So scream my name when you come for me.”

Bucky who said your name through his teeth when you screamed his name like a mantra and gushed around him. “Good. Fucking. Girl.” he gritted as he fucked you through it, taking your hand to keep you grounded when he saw the fog in your eyes.

Bucky who couldn’t resist when you begged through your gaze, “Come in me, Bucky.” and roared like an animal with his release, flooding your insides and keeping his hips flush against yours so he didn’t waste a drop.

Bucky who collapsed on top of you to kiss you again and stayed deep inside you as he thought about how he was going to fuck you all over again.

Bucky who knew he had his equal when you smiled against his lips and asked, “Think you can make me choke before you fuck me again?” and was torn between pulling out of you and staying nice and deep where he belonged.

Bucky who grudgingly pulled out because he had to see what you looked like with your lips wrapped around him. “That’s it, sweetheart. Choke on me,” he urged when you cleaned off your mixed release with a happy moan and kept your pretty eyes on him.

Bucky who put you on all fours again because he had to finish inside of your dripping cunt. “We’re just getting started,” he promised.

Bucky who didn’t stop until you were a whimpering, boneless mess and carried you to your bathroom after so he could take care of you. “So beautiful. So good for me,” he whispered, praising you because he’s a gentleman at heart and he will give you the aftercare you deserve.

Bucky who held you like something precious and kissed your forehead. “I’ve got you,” he whispered and smiled when you whispered back, “And I’ve got you.”

Bucky who is insatiable, able to sleep easier because you’re in his arms, and happy.

So... yeah. Happy Moanday. Love and thanks for reading!❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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slashrrluvrr · 16 hours ago

Text

your idol

camboy!bucky x camgirl!reader

18+ smut — men and minors dni. somno. (pre established) toy use (dildo/vibrator) squirting. multiple orgasms. breeding kink if you squint a little. daddy nickname. fingering (r). bucky is insatiable. he needs u fr.

wc 2.1k

a/n — this came from a place of horny (somno is one of my top kinks), along with this request. i felt this one in my pussy when writing it. this is just the start of camboy!bucky & camgirl!reader <3

“you guys would not believe how wet she is right now…” bucky’s voice is soft; quiet. with his eyes glued to your pussy, he pulls the translucent purple dildo out of your hole slowly — watching at is sheens in the slick coming from you.

“bet it doesn’t pick up well on camera…” he mutters, still watching your cunt as he pushes it back inside you.

you were knocked out — taking a nap after going several rounds with bucky was what you and your body needed

and you gave him permission to keep playing afterwards.

of course he took it.

your leg was hiked up as you rested on your side, an arm propped under your pillow and a blue night dress adorned your body.

the fabric was riding up on your hip, your cunt exposed with how you hiked your leg up further than the other. you always claimed it was a comfortable sleeping position but he knew you better than that.

it was an easy access position — one you only did when you wanted him to take advantage of you.

and here he was. fulfilling your wish.

“fuck, baby…” his own cock twitches in his lap as he watches your cunt swallow the dildo all over again — imagining it was his own cock sinking into your wet cunt.

not yet. he has to be patient. give the viewers what they want.

even if his cock is painfully hard right now and leaking all over the sheets.

he spreads your ass with his other hand, sinking the dildo to a hilt into your cunt as he reached over and grabs a small bullet vibrator.

“gonna make this pretty pussy sing around this fake dick…” he mutters, eyeing the chat of the live stream and hearing the sound of pings incoming — signaling that he’s getting extra tipped.

he hadn’t done anything like this with you before, but it was pre-established you both wanted to make this sort of content — whether it be for your own two eyes or for your shared account — it didn’t matter.

you both just wanted to play with each other.

he goes to grip his own cock in his hands, moving ahis fist at the same pace the dildo was fucking your pussy. it made his head spin at how easy you were for him — how easy you were to open up and let him take you like this whenever he wanted.

and you both were getting paid for it?

fuck. it made his cock twitch harder in his hand.

he never thought that he would ever do cam work let alone be with someone who did cam work and collaborate. but somehow he got lucky with you.

meeting you on the first few nights of his own career launching, needing some subscribers and some exposure but being the humble man he was — he didn’t reach out or initiate first.

until he saw you one time on live.

you were fucking your pretty pussy with a clear, glass dildo — tits bouncing with each thrust as you fucked yourself with it on the floor.

you had your fingers strumming your clit and the other twisted a nipple and he swore he never saw someone more beautiful than you when he saw you squirt on camera.

“you sound so fucking good, baby…” he mutters all to himself as he stops jerking his cock, taking the vibrator and turning it on before slotting it between your swollen cunt and the blanket that was snug between your legs

involuntarily, your hips jerk — a warm sensation spreading through your body as you move your hips against the sheets. he watches your body hungrily, biting his lip as he starts moving his hand on his own cock again.

your brows furrow as you keep your speed up, dreams blending together, not knowing what you were truly dreaming about or not.

all you knew was you had an ache — one so deep only bucky would’ve been able to fix it.

and he knew that.

sly little shit.

“makin’ a mess of the sheets, doll.” he coos softly as he turns to the camera and pulls it closer, letting everyone see your cunt glistening in the low ring light setting.

he looks back over at your cunt as he swipes a metal finger through your folds — your hips backing up into him instinctively.

“so responsive…so sensitive…” he trails off as he hears your quite whimpers filter through your lips, fingers clutching the sheets gently.

he pushes the tip of his fingers slowly into your hole, easily letting him in as you settle your hips back down — nuzzling into the silk pillowcase. his eyes travel up the length of your body, settling on your face.

that was something that was kept private by the rest of the internet except him.

you didn’t mind it, either.

in fact you kinda loved it. made it feel like he has a more possessive claim over you — being the only one able to bask in your pleasure.

that’s what he loved most about doing this with you.

he draws his finger back, lips parting softly at the sight of his digit covered in your slick. he has to bring it up to his lips, moaning softly at the taste of you on his tongue.

“such a sweet sleepy pussy…” he sinks his finger back into your cunt before he’s grabbing the camera off the tripod and holding it in his free hand.

“look how well she takes me — even in her sleep.” he groans as he sinks a second one in, your hips pushing back against his touch as you whine into the pillow. he chuckles to himself, knowing you can’t help it. your body is just that needy for him.

“shh..” he coos, picking up the pace with his fingers fucking your cunt. his cock bobs in between your thighs, nudging your clit every so often with the way his arm moves to fuck you. he groans every time he feels your swollen clit bump his sensitive tip — leaking and spreading a mess all over you.

“think i can make her cum like this?” he whispers mostly to the livestream — watching your face furrow in frustration as your hips start bucking gently against his fingers, his thumb coming to rub your clit as you let out the softest moan in your sleep.

“fuck.” his moan is deep; guttural. the only kind you can possess form him like that.

and you weren’t even awake this time.

after a few more lazy strokes to your clit and curling his two thick fingers inside of you, he had you cumming around his digits in seconds — your hips stuttering against his hold as he feels his cock ache painfully.

he needs to be inside you — feel your warmth around his aching cock.

“good girl.” even if you’re knocked out, he still needs to praise you. and your body responds to it the second you clench around his fingers as they stay buried in you for a second.

you’re dripping down his wrist and arm at this point — a mess had already been on the sheets from you rutting into them before all of this and started.

you couldn’t help it, you were a needy little thing in your sleep.

he keeps the camera positioned for a second before he pulls his fingers out of your pussy, watching the way it clenches around air from the loss of being filled

you whimpered in your sleep. that made his cock twitch — slapping against your wet folds.

he puts the camera back onto the tripod, getting the best angle of his thighs, your ass presented to the camera and the short length of your back before it disappears.

your wet cunt is on display for everyone at home to see, whoever is lazily jerking off to it.

at least bucky got to feel it for real.

he takes his metal fist and wraps it around his cock giving it a few jerks before he’s pressing the tip into your wet hole.

a debauched moan leave his lips before he’s even sinking into you. he feels almost embarrassed but to be quite honest after feeling you cum and jerk around his fingers mere seconds ago — he couldn’t have given a fuck.

“shit baby… you’re so tight…” he ends up leaning over the length of you for a second as he pushes all the way in — your cunt stretching nicely around the thickness of his cock.

he peppers kisses on the exposed skin on your shoulder, his scruff of his beard scratching against you making you stir slightly.

well, it was mostly the scratching of his beard.

you let out the softest, most pathetic sleepy moan bucky had ever heard in his life, following along with his name.

“buck…?”

the sound along has him almost busting a fucking nut.

he draws his hips back before he’s slamming them back into you, making you moan again, louder.

“shh..sweetheart,” he mumbles against your shoulder as his lips travel up your shoulder to your neck, right under your earlobe. “daddy’s just gotta take care of this sleepy pussy, alright?”

you’re so fucking sleepy and out of it that you don’t even process yourself nodding your head, nor the way your hips lift up and your ass pressed firmly against his own hips — driving the tip of his cock to your sweet spot.

“mm..” is all that leaves your throat as your eyes flutter open for a split second to look down at see bucky’s metal arm holding his body weight up and over you — his hips thrusting into you at a pace that rocked you back to sleep.

“atta girl, go back to sleep. daddy’ll take care of the rest…” he murmurs against your skin as you whimper in your sleep. he lets out a satisfied grunt as he pulls his hips back and reaches for the vibrator, pushing it into your hole while his cock sinks back into you.

the vibrations has him shivering.

“oh fuck…” his whimpers are muffled by your skin as he starts fucking you deep and slow, feeling the toy inside you and snug up against his shaft makes his head dizzy.

“fuck baby…oh god…” he’s now being reduced to a whimper, whining mess as he feels you drip all over him and his balls, down onto the sheets.

he feels your cunt clench the toy and him, hips rutting back against him as he makes sure you feel every single inch of his thick cock inside you. wanting to make sure even in your sleep — you can feel how deep he is.

so he takes he metal hand and leans onto his elbow before pressing his hand against your lower tummy, chest pressed against your back at this point

he’s rocking into you helplessly

he hears you whimper into your pillow as you press against him further, his own moans falling from his lips as he feels himself getting pushed to the edge.

he reaches further below your tummy with his metal fingers to press against your clit — the added stimulation making your cunt squeeze him hard enough to trigger his orgasm. the sound of the tip jar notification going off gets drowned out by blood rushing to his ears.

“oh…fuck—! take it, doll. every last drop…mm..” whimpering against your skin he rubs your clit making sure to get you there again, addicted to the feel of your cunt squeezing his cock.

he feels your body come after him, hops convulsions against him, still in your sleepy state.

your fists bunched tightly at the sheets as you moan into them, eyes screwed shut as you squirt all over his cock and the sheets.

he groans as notices you made an entire mess of him and yourself, kissing your skin gently.

“good fuckin’ girl…takin’ all of my cum…even in your sleep your pussy can’t get enough.” he’s reached to pull the toy out first and shutting it off before pulling out himself, taking the camera to show the after math

he angles the camera to show his hot cum leaking out of your wrecked cunt, dripping onto the soaked sheets below. his thumb finds your hole and pushes some more of his cum back in — his screen lighting up with tip after tip after tip.

he grins, feeling your cunt clench around his finger.

“gotta fill this pussy up one more time. she’s begging for it. see ya sluts later.” he says before he’s turning off the camera and live, tossing the phone and pulling you into his chest before sinking right back into you.

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slashrrluvrr · 16 hours ago

Text

dbf!bucky barnes masterlist

disclaimer: uncle kink. (not actual uncle, it's reader's dad's best friend.) all characters are 18+. you have been warned, read at your own discretion.

fyi 🤭🤭

my series do not follow a chaptered format. all works can be read as stand-alones.

sneaky

night out

what if

party (newest!)

updated 6.24.2025

115 notes · View notes

slashrrluvrr · 17 hours ago

Text

The Celibacy Challenge

Pairing: New Avenger!Bucky x New Avenger!Female!Reader

Word Count: 3k

18+ Minors DNI (NSFW)

Synopsis: You decide you want to try a celibacy challenge with your boyfriend, Bucky. Who caves first? The New Avengers place their bets.

A/N: Is this based off a challenge that I failed with my husband? Hehe. Also, shoutout to my girls for betting against me - @soelstress @buckybarnes82 @buckybarnesfic / yes, it was ME, you were right.

“Why though? I just don’t get it, honey,” Bucky sighs, shaking his head.

“It’s supposed to be a challenge, baby! It’ll be fun.” You’d just gotten through a poor explanation of a sex experiment you wanted to try with Bucky, and he was less than enthused.

You show him the article you have pulled up on your laptop - 30 Day Abstinence Challenge: A Battle of Wills - and smile. “It’s meant to be hard… no pun intended. And at the end when we can finally have at it, it’s apparently explosive.”

Bucky furrows his brow, clearly unimpressed with the idea, and lowers his voice, his expression growing more serious. “Is it not explosive enough for you?” He blushes, looking around the empty common room before he continues more quietly, “Because It is for me.”

“Oh stop, it’s amazing, baby. You’re amazing. That’s not what I’m saying. Just try it with me? It’ll be good for us! And there’s this optional part that people add where they do yoga together at night. It’s supposed to help you relax and loosen your muscles.” You look up at him with a hopeful gaze, nearly begging.

He rolls his eyes. “I know how to help you relax and loosen you up already. We don’t need a sun salutation for that.”

You cock your eyebrow at him. “Didn’t know you were a yoga man, Buck.”

“I’ve dabbled… it was a long time ago - anyway, if you really want to try this, then I’ll do it with you.”

“Yay!” You squeal. “Let’s start fresh tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? So are you saying… ?” Bucky winks at you.

“Yes, Sarge. Take me to bed.”

DAY ONE

Bucky walks into the kitchen the next morning to you and Yelena at the breakfast bar nursing two coffees.

“So, yeah, it’s supposed to help you feel centered and then at the end, it’s apparently incredible.”

Bucky stops short and looks at you, “Really? You’re telling everyone about it?”

You shrug and smile, “I mean, yeah? Why not? It’s not like they don’t know we have sex, Buck. We’ve been dating for a while now.”

“Yeah, and we hear you sometimes. It will be nice to have silence for a month,” Yelena quips, sipping her coffee and eyeing Bucky.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair and preparing his own cup. “Fine.”

By the end of the day, everyone in the Watchtower knows about you and Bucky’s little challenge. John gave Bucky a nod and flexed his bicep as Bucky walked into the gym that afternoon - a silent show of support. Bucky sighed and popped his headphones in. As he’s doing squats, a large body appears behind him and waves in the mirror. Bucky grunts and hangs up the bar, taking out an earphone.

“What do you want?” He asks gruffly.

“Winter Soldier… I hear it’s going to be dry month for you! No snow in forecast,” Alexei jokes, his face turning red from holding back laughter.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Bucky groans, returning to his workout.

“You can do it. You are strong - resilient. You survive Hydra. You can survive no lovemaking for month, eh?” Alexei elbows Bucky in the ribs.

Bucky glares daggers at Alexei and he finally takes a hint, walking off.

Meanwhile, you are working out on the opposite end of the gym, chatting through your jog.

“You’ll do great,” Ava says, running on the treadmill next to you. “It’ll go by fast. Plus, if we get called to a mission, it’s not like you’ll have time anyway.”

“You’re right. Honestly, though, I just love the thought of making him squirm,” you tease.

“You would,” she laughs. “You guys are cute together.”

DAY TWO

After dinner you walk into the living room to find everyone crouched down around the coffee table. Bucky had gone out to get more snacks for your movie night. As soon as you walk into the room everyone stiffens and Bob swallows as his eyes dart back and forth between the coffee table and you.

“What’s going on, you guys?” You ask suspiciously, walking quickly to the table to find any evidence. John puts a small notebook with writing you can’t make out in his back pocket and Yelena scrapes some coins into her hand. “Oh, hi girl,” she says, an attempt at nonchalance. “What movie should we watch tonight?”

You narrow your eyes at them all - your teammates, your friends - and cross your arms. “Bob, what’s going on?”

“Uh,” he stammers, looking around at everyone. “We were, uh, just… uh, making a list of movies we haven’t seen yet.”

“Really?” You ask, putting your hand out and looking at John. “Give me the notebook.” John stands up quickly and backs away.

“No,” he scoffs, backing into a wall. “It’s just a list of movies. I swear.”

You see Alexei’s body shaking with laughter out of the corner of your eye and turn toward him. “What’s so funny?”

“I cannot say,” he chuckles, running a hand through his beard.

“Alexei Shostakov, tell me now,” you demand, walking over to him. Bucky walks in at that moment, two grocery bags of snacks in hand and assesses the room.

“Is everything ok?” He asks, putting the bags down on the kitchen island.

“No!” You whine. “They are up to something!” You gesture to the team.

“You mean the bets?” Bucky asks casually as he starts to unpack the bags.

Your skin heats and you crane your neck to look at him. “What bets?”

“The bets on our challenge,” he explains, and Yelena and Ava groan. John throws the tiny notebook on the coffee table. “What the hell, Bucky? She wasn’t supposed to know!”

Bucky rolls his eyes, “Doesn’t matter anyway. She’s gonna lose.”

Your heart skips a furious beat and you march over to him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” You demand.

“Our challenge. You’re going to cave first,” he explains calmly, handing you an Oreo.

“We place bets,” Alexei says, walking over to grab a bag of Twizzlers. “We all agree that you cave first. You lose.”

“Are you kidding me?!” You shout, looking at everyone. “Glad to know you all think so highly of me. I’m going to win just to spite you all.” The team laughs, knowing you aren’t truly upset.

You turn toward Bucky and stand on your tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “Prepare for the worst 30 days of your life.” Bucky chuckles, but you notice the hair on his forearm stand on end.

“I look forward to winning,” he quips back, his lips brushing your ear.

DAY THREE

Tonight you and Bucky head to the gym to do your new nightly yoga routine. You changed into shorts and a sports bra - your red set that he loves - and set your mats up. He saunters in, gym shorts slung dangerously low on his hips and no shirt.

“Ready to get all stretched out?” He asks, dimming the lights.

You scoff at his suggestive comment and settle onto your mat. “Yep,” you answer quickly, still annoyed about the bets.

“Good, I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” he mutters, sitting on the mat across from you. “Take it away, sweetheart.”

You lead, talking about each position and how to breathe through them. You glance over at Bucky during downward facing dog and see him checking out your ass in your yoga shorts.

“Next up is called the happy baby pose,” you say, lying on your back. “You bring your legs up and grab your feet with your hands, like this.” You demonstrate, spreading your legs and grabbing your feet. Bucky’s throat bobs as he watches you model the pose and then he clears his throat.

“I know what you’re doing. You’re not slick,” he groans. “I’m not falling for your tricks.”

“You’re right. It’s not like you haven’t seen me in this position before. Many times,” you say with a wink. Bucky grabs his feet and follows your lead, stretching into the pose. His eyes find their way to you again.

“Enjoying the view?” You ask, looking over at him.

“Fuck yeah I am,” he growls before shutting his eyes. “But I’m winning this damn thing.”

You groan and sit up. “Fine.”

Bucky chuckles and you finish your last few poses before rolling up your mats. There’s a light sheen of sweat covering his back and you lick your lips. Fuck - look away.

DAY FOUR

Bed sharing was not without its difficulties. Cuddling was second nature at this point in your relationship, and many times the spooning and soft snuggles led to more. But not this month. You were not going to break first. Bucky pulled you into his chest, still half asleep, and nuzzled into your neck as morning light filtered into your shared bedroom. His breath on your skin sent an immediate jolt of pleasure between your legs and you knew you were in the Danger Zone.

“Time to get up!” You announce more loudly than normal, squirming out of his arms. You turn to look at him, and damn if he wasn’t a God among men. “Fuck,” you whisper, knowing this was going to be a lot harder than you thought. But it would all be worth it. Right?

You walk down to breakfast and see Yelena and John sitting at the table, while Bob is in the kitchen cutting up some fruit.

“Morning,” they all three say in unison, and John stealthily removes his tiny notebook from his pocket. You see the movement from the corner of your eye and glare at him. “Really, John?”

“Well?” Yelena asks, waiting for details.

“Jesus, guys. Nothing happened,” you say, reaching into the pantry for a box of Cheerios. “Sorry to disappoint. We’re still holding strong.”

DAY FIVE

“You’re doing a hell of a job rearranging furniture,” Bucky quips from the office off of the living room.

“I’m trying a new arrangement - the feng shui is off in here,” you mutter, pushing the couch a few inches to the left. “Everyone else will like it, too. Don’t worry,” you say.

“Oh, I’m not worried, doll - I’m just watching,” he leans back in his desk chair and winks. “Maybe it’s not the feng shui that’s off. Maybe you’re just missing something.”

Just a wink - just that little smirk sends heat flooding to your core. Fucking Bucky. Well, you wish you were. But here you are, arranging furniture just to feel something.

“Try moving the coffee table a little to the right,” he quips, fully watching you now, his legs spread in his chair, his arousal obvious. You want to pounce on him.

“Stop teasing me, you prick,” you whine, turning your back to him.

“Stop teasing me in those fucking leggings, then,” he says gruffly, walking out to you, eyes dark.

He looks feral. Like a wild animal - a hungry wild animal. A hungry, horny wild animal. Jesus. Your thighs clench together as he stands behind you, barely touching you. “You need some help with this?”

“Yes,” you admit. “Thank you. And stop breathing so close to me.”

He smiles and walks to the other side of the coffee table, helping you lift it with ease. “Where to?”

You groan under the weight of the table and nod your head to the right, “Just this way.” You let out a sigh as you both set down the table and Bucky’s lips twitch into a smirk. “I’ve been missing that sound.”

“What sound?” You ask, confused. Bucky walks to you and gets in your personal space without laying a hand on you.

“All your little sighs, your groans and moans, your fucking whimpers, you saying my name… Hell, you not being able to say anything because your mouth is full. I need to hear it.” He tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. His dark blue eyes are stormy and full of want.

“Are you breaking first, then?” You tease, leaning up to softly kiss his lips.

“Never,” he whispers into your mouth before breaking away. He chuckles and adjusts himself before walking back to the office, leaving you there aching and full of need. Asshole.

DAY SIX

You walk to the garage to find Bucky working on his bike - tight black t-shirt, rag slung over his shoulder, and the smell of sweat and grease in the air. Nope. Nope nope nope. You turn back around, knowing you won’t be able to take this view without jumping on him.

“Where you off to, baby?” He asks before you get back to the door, wiping his hands on the rag.

“I was just looking for… a paintbrush. It’s not here,” you say, hand on the doorknob, eager to escape this honey trap.

“Could you bring me some water please? It’s getting hot out here,” he asks sweetly, and you now notice the sweat dripping down his temples and neck, pooling into the hollow of his throat.

“Uh huh,” you squeak out, rushing back into the compound to get you both some water. Your throat felt so dry all of a sudden - so thirsty. You steel yourself before walking back into the garage, and when you open the door you find your precious, evil man standing over his motorcycle, wiping his sweaty face clean with his t-shirt. His abs and biceps glisten in the sun shining through the open garage door.

“Thank you,” he says gruffly, reaching for the water bottle. He takes the cap off slowly, eyes never leaving yours, and takes a long drink, humming quietly as the cool water goes down his throat.

“You’re welcome baby,” you say, sitting down on an overturned bucket, feeling your knees getting weaker with each passing second.

“Would you hand me that wrench?” He asks, gesturing to the workbench covered in tools. You move your hand to what you think he’s asking for and he shakes his head. “The one to the left. There ya go. Good girl.” You pick up the wrench and promptly drop it on the floor at his praise.

“You okay?” He asks with a smirk. This motherfucker.

“Honestly?” You ask, about to combust.

“Honestly,” he encourages you with a wink.

“I need you to bend me over and make me forget my name,” you admit confidently.

He laughs and bites his lip. “You caving?”

“I’m caving,” you say with a shrug. “I need you.”

“Get your ass upstairs, then. I’ll be up in a second,” he growls.

“But I can’t lose! Everyone was betting that I’d cave first!” You whine, standing up and kicking the bucket like a child.

“Then we’ll tell them I caved first,” he says quietly, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“You’d do that?” You ask in amazement, ready to let him have you however he wanted.

“I just want to hear you sigh my name into my neck, baby. I could give a shit about some bets… Now, get upstairs. Take off that pretty dress. Lay on the bed. I’ll be there in five.”

You fly back inside and run upstairs to your bedroom, the ache building between your legs. You strip off your dress and get under the covers to wait for Bucky.

Bucky walks inside the compound calmly and washes the grease and grime from his hands. His dick is already hard, and frankly, he’s a bit pissed at the days that went to waste when he could have been buried inside you. He makes his way to your room and passes John.

“You look like a man on a mission,” John jokes, taking in Bucky’s focused saunter and dark eyes.

“I am,” he mutters, walking past John to your bedroom.

He walks through the door and closes it abruptly behind him.

“I’m sorry. This challenge was a dumb idea,” you admit, pulling the covers up to your chin. “I need you. I miss you.”

“It was a strange idea, love. I’ll agree, but the yoga has been nice. I love seeing you in all those positions,” he whispers, getting on the bed with you and pinning your wrists above your head.

“You’re not going to go easy on me, are you?” You ask, biting your lip and trembling.

“Not even a little bit,” he growls.

–

After you both thoroughly and completely fail the challenge (twice to be exact), you head downstairs for dinner with the team. John already has his notebook on the dining table propped open with a pen. You try your best not to make eye contact with anyone.

“You guys do anything fun this afternoon?” Yelena asks, raising a brow.

“Just watched a TV show together,” you answer almost too quickly.

“What show?” Bob asks genuinely.

“Golden Girls,” Bucky says at the exact moment you say “The West Wing”. You clear your throat and correct yourself, “Golden Girls”, just as Bucky says “The West Wing”.

“We watched both,” you say with a nervous laugh, putting some green beans on your plate.

Yelena walks over to get a plate and looks at Bucky. “James, your shirt is on inside out.”

John snorts from the dining table and you look at him warily, then to Bucky.

“Oh, yeah, it is,” Bucky looks down and shrugs, filling his plate and walking to the table. “What’s so funny, Walker?”

“You guys obviously caved. We just need to know who,” Ava says quietly, rolling her eyes.

Bucky scoffs. “It was me. She’s just too cute. Couldn’t help myself,” he says as he plants a kiss on your head. “Everyone happy?”

Bob’s eyes light up from the end of the table and he shouts excitedly, “I was right!”

Your eyes flit up to meet him. “You believed in me, Bob? That’s so nice actually.”

“Of course I did. Barnes never shuts the hell up about you. I knew he’d cave first. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked you to-”

“That’s enough,” Bucky interjects. “I caved first. Let’s move on and enjoy dinner.” He looks at you slyly and winks before leaning down to whisper in your ear, “I’ll always take the blame for you, sweetheart. But you’re going to pay me back later with your mouth.”

Your thighs constrict and you gasp quietly. Poor Bob. Awful at placing bets, but he’d never have to know.

587 notes · View notes

slashrrluvrr · 17 hours ago

Text

𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐩. 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 [𝐩𝐭. 𝟑]

TW: P0RN LINKS!!! | one two four

tying subby!bucky up and playing with him

mob!bucky fucking you in the ass with his gun

you and bucky got a little distracted while sparring

bucky is just too fucking huge

[photo] bucky writing all over you

bucky pumping himself onto your hole

bucky feeding you with his huge loads

bucky fucking his fleshlight when you’re out of town

bucky barely fits

pegging subby!bucky as he fucks his fleshlight

you’re just so small compared to him

bucky has so much that it just won’t stay inside

bucky picking you up while he fucks you

bucky playing with your pussy and relishing in just how much cum he’s stuffed you full of

bucky making you hump your bunny toy

you made a joke about steve joining in in the bedroom

trying to suck him off but you can only handle the tip

Tags: @chrisevansleftnipple , @homiesexual-or-homosexual , @httpsells , @avengemepercy , @raikan624 , @multiversefanfics , @majulians-groupie ' @maryevm , @grilledcheesewithjalapeno , @yaboyguzma69 , @hopeofwinter , @buckybarnesslutshop , @iamthatonefangirl , @themidnightblog01

2K notes · View notes

slashrrluvrr · 17 hours ago

Text

siren’s song [one-shot]

avengers!bucky x avengers!reader

summary: bucky hears music through the vents of his room every single night, but the team refuses to tell him for his own protection. after all, they know the music is coming from you- a secret member of the team, who happens to be able to control minds.

warnings: 18+, mdni, no use of y/n, language, alternating pov’s, the avengers don’t like you/are scared of you, bucky is your biggest and loudest defender, steve is a meanie but he’s bucky’s biggest and loudest defender,, reader is a lil insecure and depressed but eh she’s a tortured™️ artist so what did we expect, reader knows sign language and is expressed in bold text throughout the fic

word count: 10.9k

a/n: apologies in advance for any inaccurate to semi-accurate music descriptions T_T i am a washed singer/musician that hasn’t done music since i switched over to the healthcare industry </3

masterlist

Everyone treats him as if he is something breakable. Fragile. That one wrong move, one wrong word– one wrong breath is enough to shatter him.

In all honesty, Bucky can’t blame them completely. It took him a long time to get to where he is right now, and he still has to lie to himself to say that he’s doing okay. He still hopes that the lie will somehow manifest itself into truth if he tries hard enough.

Either way, it’s pissing him off.

The team acts as if they can’t hear the music that comes through the vents during random points of the day. Sometimes, it’s piano. Bucky can’t tell the difference between a violin or a viola, but he hears one of the two as well. There’s a low thrum of a cello every once in a while. He hears an acoustic guitar in the early mornings when the sun is barely breaking through the horizons.

Sometimes the melodies strike through his skin and grip his bones, never letting him go. Other times he’s soothed to sleep as if a gentle hand is caressing his head, lulling him to bed with each pluck of the string. He can’t deny that he’s enraptured by wherever this music is coming from.

At first, he thought Tony had F.R.I.D.A.Y playing music through the halls. He asked Tony about it– wondered why the music was played at such odd times without any rhyme or reason. Tony denied having any mood music and joked about him going crazy in the head. Bucky walked out of the lab without giving him another response.

Then, Bucky realized it was strongest in his own room, and got softer as he walked towards the common areas. He realized that the music was connected directly towards his vent. His next realization was that there was a person that had to be playing each one of those instruments.

Bucky dragged Steve into his room to show him the music next time it happened, demanding to know what was going on– to know where the music was filtering through from.

“What music, Buck?” Steve asked him, a polite look on his face. Bucky never wanted to punch him more– more than that day on those fucking hellicarriers when Steve was just a mission to him.

“Are you serious?” Bucky replied, eyebrows shooting towards the ceiling. “You don’t– you don’t hear that? The fucking– That’s Liebestraum No.3.”

Steve stared at Bucky, blinking at him like they didn’t speak the same language. Bucky let out a deep breath, frustration coursing through his veins as he did his best to not shout at the man that he considered his oldest, bestest friend.

“You don’t know who Franz Liszt is?” Bucky asked, trying to keep his voice even and calm. He was trying to practice the art of patience, but he was failing horribly with every passing second.

“How do you know who Franz Liszt is?” Steve retorted, almost looking worried.

“I had to do musical therapy as one of my– never mind. You seriously can’t hear the piano?” Bucky quickly said.

“Buck… Have you been sleeping well? Should we move your room somewhere else? Stark did mention that you asked him about music the other day, too.”

Bucky hated that tone of voice. Condescending. Borderline patronizing. As if Steve was talking to a child. Like he was fragile.

“Steve, no!” Bucky exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. “You know what– fuck. Never mind. Forget I mentioned anything.”

“Bucky,” Steve sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder. They lock eyes, Bucky frowning at him.

“What, Steve?” he grunted.

“Trust me– you’re better off not knowing.”

The music stopped coming through the vents for some time after Steve lied blatantly to Bucky’s face– Bucky knew they were all lying to him.

It was the same way they lied to him about the extra set of plates and cups that he noticed in the cupboards of the kitchen that no one claimed– but showed obvious wear of use. When Bucky asked who used those, they all just shrugged at him and changed the topic.

Bucky noticed mangoes in the fridge once. No one on the team ate mangoes, but there was always a fresh stock of mangoes that got brought in with each produce delivery. He noticed that the supply in the fridge dwindled down every few days until there was nothing left. He saw the peels in the trash. Nobody on the team smelled of mangoes.

When it was Wanda’s turn to cook, she would put a serving of food to the side before calling for everyone else to eat. No one would touch it. Bucky noticed that it would be eaten and gone the next day. He asked Sam one time who ate it, and got brushed off like he was insane for asking the question.

They were doing the same shit they were doing when they first brought him onto the team and he hated it.

Bucky knew that they were doing it to protect him. That this was supposed to be for him, and they only meant well, but fuck– he was getting tired of it. He would’ve thought that they trusted him by now. If anything, they were doing more damage to him than good by handling him with gloves. He didn’t even know what they were protecting him from. Someone else? Another person? He couldn’t voice this to any of them, not when he was already struggling to express himself.

Soon enough, the music returned through the vents again. Softer this time. As if whoever was playing was afraid to take up space.

Bucky laid in bed, eyes falling shut as he let out a breath. The notes blanketed over him like a warm hug, wrapping around him and soothing his aches and pains.

He was grateful that the lullabies were back.

Bucky could return to his dreamless sleeps.

“Nice work today,” Fury complimented as you washed your hands.

You watched as the sink turned from crimson to pink to clear. You used the brush from the sterile packet to scrub under your nails, removing any traces of dirt, blood, and other bodily fluids that you could have picked up from your interrogation. You shake your hands off in the sink, glancing through the mirror to look behind you. Fury's standing there, with a towel in hand for you.

“Thanks,” you muttered quietly in return, shutting the faucet off before turning around to take the cloth. He pulls it away from you for a second, and your eyes go to his face.

“That would have gone a lot faster if you had just used your ability on him first,” he told you, then lowered the towel into your wet hands. “Wouldn’t have to resort to all the mess.”

“It's a mess either way, Nick,” you replied with a sigh, drying your hands off. You throw the towel into the hamper of the locker room when you’re done.

“Have you made any progress with the team?” he asked, hands clasping behind his back as you followed him out into the hall.

“You’re funny,” you said, scoffing.

“I would like to deploy you on missions with them, you know,” he clicked his tongue on you.

“And yet, when you have me do interrogations, you have me in a soundproof room and have all other agents clear the floor,” you pointed out, shaking your head. “You also have me several feet underground. Don’t even get me started on the fact that my comms channels are cleared on my field missions.”

“It’s a safety precaution, agent.”

“You’re scared, Nick. That’s okay. They are, too,” you said, your voice soft. “I don’t blame you or them. I wouldn't trust me either."

Fury stopped walking, leaving you a few more steps ahead of him. You let out a deep sigh as you stop in your place, turning around to look at him. You’re so tired. You want nothing more than to return back to the main compound. You want to shower off the interrogation, cry, and maybe listen to Erik Satie to pretend like you’re not a weapon.

“You don’t make it easy for us to not be scared of you,” Fury said, looking you in the eyes.

“I’m just thankful that you talk to me,” you said, giving him a small smile.

Fury lets out a sigh, shaking his head. “You said that you have control over it. You have given me no reason to not trust that you won’t mess with my head the same way that you do with our enemies. Does it scare the hell out of me when I see what you can do? Sure it does. And I thank my lucky stars that I recruited you for our side. Trust is a two way street, agent. You need to start building your side of the bridge, too.”

He started walking once more, leaving you in the hall by yourself. You watched as his figure turned the hall, listened to his footsteps retreat and disappear into the air before you decided to do the same.

You took the same route that you always do– the same back hallway and stairs that you knew the other members of the team didn’t take.

It makes you laugh when you address them like that in your head. The team. As if you’re part of them. You were introduced to them a long time ago. Said maybe one, two– three full sentences to them before you saw the full distrust and distress on the faces of the original six members.

You really looked up to them. You heard stories of them during your time in captivity as a weapon. You daydreamed of them saving you from your lab, bringing you in, making you one of them. You thought about doing good for the world and rectifying the wrongs that you were forced to do under the hands of the captors that held you by the throat.

It wasn’t them that saved you. There was no fanfare. There was nothing special about the way you were saved.

Your lab was hijacked by a smaller, less elite group of agents. Fury was the one that came to you. Read your file, saw that you were enhanced, and asked if you would like to be part of something better.

That ‘something better’ stared at you with disgust.

It shattered your world.

You kept to yourself after that. They didn’t mistreat you by any means. Tony gave you your own floor in the compound once you all moved from the tower, and they left you alone. They ordered you mangoes and whatever else you asked for as long as you put the order in with F.R.I.D.A.Y..

You couldn’t blame them.

This was a team of people that held secrets. People that had been pulled apart from years of pain, mistrust, and horrors that you hadn’t been around to experience yourself. It was only natural that they wouldn’t trust you once they found out what you could do.

So, you worked alone. Your skillset was better for interrogations, and for solo missions. You were off field most of the time, but Fury still sent you out every once in a while. If there were some more time sensitive matters that needed to be fulfilled that were overlapping with the main team’s missions that couldn’t be handled by regular agents, he would deploy you.

If nothing else, Fury trusted you to do the job.

You shut the water to the shower off, running a hand down your face as you shook the thoughts away. Fury’s words got to you today. You normally didn’t think about this anymore. It had been too long. New members of the Avengers had joined. Nothing has changed. Well– Wanda gives you food when she cooks.

You once asked her why.

She told you- “Even monsters need to eat.”

It was the only time you spoke to her.

You pad through the open concept of your floor. You press a key of your piano, listening to the note bounce off the walls as you continue to walk. Your guitar is resting on the carpet beneath your unmade bed. Your cello and violin are neatly put to the side against the wall on their stands– and you vaguely think about the fact you need to clean your brass instruments soon. Your drum set remains neglected– you once received a noise complaint through F.R.I.D.A.Y and haven’t found the courage to pick up the sticks since.

You go towards the mini fridge, pulling it open, and pause.

“Shit,” you muttered, pulling in a lip between your teeth. It was empty.

It slipped your mind to have F.R.I.D.A.Y. bring a new delivery of snacks directly to your floor. You know you don’t have anything in the cupboards either. You’re a few days off from the end of the month. You check the time.

It’s barely one in the morning.

With the location of the compound, you won’t get any luck by going into the city to get food and come back. You have another interrogation scheduled first thing in the morning. You have training sessions with a few agents that aren’t aware of your abilities all afternoon, and then another interrogation in the evening if the Avengers complete their early morning mission and bring back their target as per scheduled. If you leave the compound right now, you won’t get enough time to sleep and be okay enough for the amount of shit you’ll have to deal with tomorrow.

Plus, your hands are itching to touch some strings tonight or you might go crazy.

You could forgo the meal. You really could.

The thought is immediately thrown out the window by a sharp pain in your stomach followed by a deep grumbling that you’re sure could wake up everyone in the compound.

You groan to yourself, reaching for a hoodie. You’ll have to head towards the common floors.

As you board the elevator, you really hope all of the team members are sleeping. You’re not in the mood to run into any of them today. Usually, you only come up here when you know that they’re on a mission or away from the compound celebrating or just out having a good time together– without you. They should be sleeping.

And yet– there he was.

The main person that you were warned to steer clear of.

Stormy eyes landed on you– you, who stood there with damp hair, a zip up hoodie and a tank top with cotton shorts and slippers. Shit.

You watched as the man bristled. He held a half eaten plum in his vibranium hand, all muscles tensed under the black shirt that he wore. The dog tags around his neck glistened under the kitchen lights as his body turned, his back straightening as he moved to square his shoulders to size you up. He was taller than you thought, but you had only seen him from afar. He had also cut his hair short– it was nice. His beard was also reduced to stubble now. You wondered if he did it himself or had someone else do it for him.

You swallowed, and took a few steps.

This was your place of work, too. You lived here, too.

“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded, his voice almost in a low growl.

You didn’t dare answer him. You were almost afraid to. Not that you would use your power on him by accident– but that Steve or someone else would throw you out of the one place that you could call home, even if this place made you feel like you were walking on glass.

You opened the fridge like you did a hundred times before, eyes scanning the shelves until your eyes landed on the fruit. There were two left.

You could feel his eyes burning holes into the back of your head. One wrong move, and you were certain that he would act on command. This was his home, too. For all he knew, you were a stranger. And from what you knew– he knew nothing of you.

You were slow in your movements as you went for the cutting board and the drawer, grabbing a dull knife to cut open the mangoes. You saw him flinch out of the corner of your eye when you brandished the knife, and slowed your movements down even more. You really weren’t trying to die tonight.

You just wanted some fucking mangoes.

Once you were finished, you reached into the cupboards to grab your bowl and placed your fruit inside, dropping your used utensils into the sink. You turned around, locking eyes with the soldier. His breath hitched as you did, and you stared at him for a few moments.

“I asked you a question,” he whispered.

He sounded scared.

You held your breath for a few moments before releasing it. Then, you gave him a sad smile. You shook your head at him. No. He was better off not knowing.

You tried to ignore the look on Bucky’s face before you turned away.

You were warned. Steve warned you twice.

Before Bucky was brought to the compound, Steve visited your floor. Told you to never show yourself before Bucky. Said that he didn’t need you to mess with his head– that Bucky had already gone through hell enough and didn’t need it to happen again.

He came again, a couple weeks back. He told you that your music was loud. And it broke your heart. He told you to quiet down– that Bucky was asking questions. You felt as if your voice had been ripped from you all over again. You felt like you had been back in that lab.

That night, you played Prelude in E minor until your fingers cramped, and your tear ducts dried up.

Bucky had gone through several wars. His body had been modified without his consent over and over again. He was frozen, defrosted, then frozen again countless times. Lies had been shoved down his throat that he was forced to digest. He watched as his body and mind was broken and beaten, and he used to hold no regard for the state that he found himself in because he was trained not to care.

Bucky cared now. He cared a lot.

And he was losing his fucking mind.

“Where do the targets go after we bring them back?” Bucky asked, removing his vest. He was dropping it off at Tony’s lab for inspection— something about Stark wanting to make some upgrades to everyone’s uniforms.

“They go to interrogation,” Steve responded, putting his shield down on an empty table.

“Who interrogates them?” Bucky pressed.

“Fury, I guess,” Sam shrugged, but didn’t meet Bucky’s eyes. He frowned.

“Since when the hell does Fury get his own hands dirty when he has an entire army of agents at his disposal?” he demanded.

“Exactly. Fury just delegates the task to someone, Buck,” Sam sighed, taking redwing off his back to inspect the damn thing. “What’s it matter to you anyway? We just handle the mission— do you want to do extra work or something?”

No. It was simply driving him crazy to be left in the dark.

Bucky didn’t respond, not when he knew that all answers would just lead him back into a circle. He left the lab, aware of how his teammates' shoulders sagged in relief at his departure. It was subtle, but he noticed. He always did.

All of them were hiding something from him. None of them would say a single word. They were great at skirting the issue, deflecting, or simply just changing the topic.

There was one person he hadn’t tried though. One more person that he was certain wouldn’t give him any bullshit, but would definitely never let him live it down. He knew that she would definitely tell the others if word got out, too.

He sucked in a breath and changed courses for the armory. She always spent time down there after a mission to look over her guns, make sure nothing was damaged or jammed. Bucky stood at the threshold of the door for a long time, staring at her back. He didn’t know what to say, or how to say it.

Thankfully, she broke the uncomfortable silence first.

“I deleted the footage from this morning,” Natasha said, putting the safety back on her gun.

“The footage?” Bucky echoed.

“Of you seeing our siren come out of her little cove to get her mangoes,” she clarified.

His eyes narrowed. Siren? Cove?

“Explain.”

Natasha let out a breath. She put away the last of her gadgets and weapons in the case, locking them safely away before turning around. She leaned against the counter, arms crossed over her chest.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Are you going to lie to my face like everyone else in this damn building?” he shot back.

“It’s for your own good, Barnes,” she sighed.

“Isn’t up to me to decide that?”

They stared at each other for what seemed like hours before she finally shook her head, relenting. She gestured towards the bench, moving to take a seat. Bucky sat down as well. Natasha said a name he’d never heard before– your name.

“We all collectively decided that we would keep her away from you,” she said, looking down at her hands. “Her abilities… let’s just say she wouldn’t need any fancy H.Y.D.R.A. machines to put your brain through a blender, Barnes.”

His spine straightened as his pulse quickened. He let out a slow breath, eyebrows furrowing.

“She’s enhanced– you called her a siren,” he said, the pieces coming together in his head.

“Whatever words come from her mouth– you can’t help but listen,” Natasha nodded slowly. “If she tells you to run, you run until your body gives out. If she tells you to scream, you’ll scream until your vocal chords are fried. If she tells your brain to explode in your head… well. She’ll be the last thing you ever see again.”

Bucky’s heart was pounding in his chest.

“Does she– she has control over it, right?” he managed to force out.

“Fury says that she does,” Natasha breathed out slowly. “Do I trust it? No. None of us do. She’s… part of the team, which is why she has clearance to the common areas. Fury wants her to be able to be deployed on missions with us, but none of us are comfortable with the idea of her using the ability with us on the field. She does solo work and interrogations, but otherwise I’m not really sure what she does here. I know Stark gave her an entire floor to herself. I think she blasts really fucking loud music. I think your vents are connected.”

Loud wasn’t the right word for it. Calming was a better word.

Even when the music you played was sad or melancholic, he felt peace that he hadn’t been able to know in so long. Even if you were doing a simple scale to warm up your cold fingertips, you were able to pull him out of the depths of his own mind. You brought him ease that he had forgotten he knew how to feel.

“Where’s her floor?”

You didn’t hear the elevator doors open, not with your headphones secured over your head. You had a day off today, and you decided to take yourself down to the city to pick out your first electric guitar. You spent a lot of time with the clerk at the shop, going back and forth between different brands of guitar, amps, and other things.

You even learned how to be able to connect the electric guitar to headphones so you wouldn’t get another noise complaint from your resident fossil, Captain America.

You sat on the floor, back against your bed, guitar on your lap with your laptop in front of you. You had your notebook beside it, ready to jot down anything that you felt was worthy of remembering for a later time.

Your fingers danced away at the strings, a smile fitting along your face as you closed your eyes. You were chasing the ghost of your past– the sound of your father’s amp crackling to life in the garage on a Saturday morning to wake you up. You, racing down the steps of the stairs as each note reverberated through your skeleton, screaming for you as you got closer and closer, distorting your reality as you–

You felt a weight in the room, breaking your immersion. You ripped the headphones off your skull, turning quickly, one hand reaching under your bed to where you knew you had a weapon.

Bucky’s hands went up in immediate surrender.

“I just want to talk,” he said, swallowing thickly.

Your breaths were still erratic, your eyebrows furrowed. Talk? What the hell would this man want to talk to you about?

He was truthful though. Nothing about his body language screamed that he was on guard. His eyes were on you– more on the fact that your hand was still under your bed. You forced your breathing to even out and slowly dragged your hand back to where he could see it, and watched as his hands lowered back to his sides as well.

You watched as his eyes went from you to your room. His eyes rested on your bed– the sheets still not tucked in properly because you never cared to fix them after waking up. The carpet under your bed so your feet didn’t have to touch the cold tile of the floor first thing in the morning.

Across from your bed were two couches facing each other with throw blankets strewn about, with a coffee table in the middle, and a TV mounted on the wall. On the table were music sheets that you had forgotten to organize and put away.

Right beside your 'living room' was your music area. You had several different instruments here, along with a full set up of production material for you to even record if you wanted to– because you did, sometimes. Only if you were in the mood for it. Not that you released anything. You were just bored by yourself, and you had the ability to do it.

And Bucky was standing in the middle of your makeshift dining-room-slash-kitchen. It was just a round table with a small fridge, half counter with a partial induction stove, and half sink area. You had a microwave to use, and some cupboards that you filled with snacks, plates, and utensils.

Suddenly, you felt self conscious over the fact of how lived in everything looked. You never had your area so closely examined the way he was looking at everything. Then again, you weren’t expecting any guests.

“Do you talk?” he suddenly asked.

You blinked. Your lips parted– and closed. You nodded in response after a few moments. Bucky’s eyes narrowed at you.

“Will you talk to me?” he asked, changing his question.

You shook your head immediately. Bucky let out a sigh, placing his hands on his hips. You could see the gears turning in his head as he tried to figure out what else to say to you.

“Is it because of your ability?”

You didn’t hide the shock on your face. You don’t know who’s more stupid– the person who told him, or him himself. Why would he come here if he knew what you are? What you could do to him?

Either way, you nodded to him.

“This is gonna get really annoying very fast– Can you do sign language?” he asked, surprising you again. He must've read the surprise on your face and quickly added, “I can read sign language.”

“How do you know sign language?” you asked him, tilting your head.

“I'm 110 years old. A spy. Assassin. I think I need to know a lot of things,” he dismissed. “Are you the one that plays that music every night?”

“I am,” you replied.

“You always play like you have something to say.”

“I believe music transcends all forms of language. We don’t need to be from the same country to be able to understand each other,” you quickly signed at him.

Bucky stares at you, eyebrows furrowed. Almost as if he’s trying to process your words. You frowned, letting out a deep sigh.

“Are you here to tell me that it’s too loud? I’ll stop if it is. I’m sorry.”

“What? No! I’m just asking,” he spoke so fast it surprised you. The next words that came out were so soft that it almost didn’t reach your ears. “I– It helps me sleep. Don’t stop. I find comfort in your songs.”

Bucky wasn’t looking at you anymore. His eyes were trained on the floor, staring at the plush of your carpet. Your lips were parted, but your heart was beating fast. You almost felt like crying. You wanted to cry.

A shuddering breath fell from his lips, disrupting the air in the room.

“I’ll sit here quietly. Can you play something?” he whispered, lifting his eyes to look at you again. “Anything. I don’t care what.”

Slowly, you rose from your place on the ground, pushing the guitar off your lap. You pulled a chair from the dining table for Bucky to sit at as you went for your piano, opening the cover. You could hear him take a seat, feel his eyes on you as you straighten your back. Your fingers ghosted over the ivory keys for just a moment as you contemplated what piece to play for him, your mind shuffling through everything you learned as a child– none of them fit this moment.

You played Bucky original pieces from that point forward. Whatever came to mind, you played for him.

You lost count of the amount of times that Bucky came down to your floor. Sometimes he would bring you your mangoes, along with some of his plums. Sometimes there would be new fruits for you to try before you would go and start your performance for him.

“Have you ever tried calamansi?” he asked one day as he walked through the door. You had barely had a chance to look up from your music score. You were sitting on the floor, pen in hand, crouched over the coffee table.

"A what?" you asked, eyes narrowing at him.

“Calamansi,” he repeated, putting down the orangey-yellow drink down in front of you on the coffee table, but not before putting a coaster under the glass. “It’s a fruit from the Philippines- we had a mission there, and I just got back. This is good. Drink it.”

You looked up at him as he took a seat on your couch. He crossed an ankle over his knee, a hand draping over the back of the cushion as he took a sip of his own calamansi drink, eyes still on you. Expectant. Waiting.

You reached for the drink yourself, a bit weary.

He must’ve sensed your hesitation, or at least seen it.

Bucky took the glass in your hand, swapping it with the one that he had already drank from. He drank that one, as well. You let out a small breath, giving him a smile. He returned it– he had no judgement on his face.

His smile only widened as surprise took your features with the first sip of the juice.

“See?” he said, pointing at the glass. “It’s good, right?

You could only nod in agreement before you both continued to finish off your drinks.

Bucky would often come at random points of the day. It was never at any set time. There had been times where he was already in your room, waiting for you to come back from an interrogation or a mission. Other times when you had been off from the day, and you had run into him in your backway hall, already heading down to your door. He would give you a nod at these times, and walk with you the rest of the way.

You had even grown used to waking up and finding him sitting at the dining table, scrolling through his phone or looking through files while waiting for you to wake up– sometimes you didn’t even play for him on these mornings.

“Did you even sleep last night?” you asked him, exiting the bathroom after washing up.

“Late, but I slept well after listening to you play. It wasn’t classical last night. Guitar, right?”

“I heard it on the radio the other day,” you sign with a shrug.

“I liked it. Can you add it to the playlist?” he asked, handing you his phone.

Another private, personal moment shared between you two. You don’t remember who started it. You two had several playlists shared.

You taught him how to make playlists. He sent you a playlist of songs that he liked, and you listened to each song religiously. You made him a playlist of music that you listened to and would continue to add songs that you played for him. There was a third playlist that you both would add songs to whenever you both felt like it.

“Any plans today?” you asked after handing his phone back to him.

“I’m hiding here, if that’s okay with you. Steve wants to run to the city and back. I don’t want to. He managed to get Sam to agree, but I think that’s fucking crazy,” he muttered.

You don’t hide the smile on your face as you nod at him, going through your cupboards to pull out instant oatmeal for the two of you to eat. He gratefully accepts, and you two start your morning off slow. He talks at you, and he will patiently wait for you to put down your spoon so you can sign at him.

You notice the way he pays attention to both your face and your hands to make sure he captures the entirety of the emotion behind the words you’re trying to convey to him.

You notice that he does the same exact thing when you play your music.

You could feel his eyes on your face when you’re playing, and you know it’s not just his ears that are listening to you. You can feel his heart opening with each note that you hit with your fingers, with each string that is strung. You can see the weight of the world being lifted off his shoulders in a way that you never thought was possible.

At some point, he abandoned the chair at the dining table and would sit beside you at the piano bench, his body keeping you warm. You didn’t mind it. In fact– you were the one that closed the distance, no longer satisfied with only your knees brushing against each other’s. Your thighs were fully pressed together now, and he could feel your muscles move as you pressed the pedal of the piano when you needed to.

“Your fingers don’t get tired after playing for so long?” Bucky asked you one night, his voice soft, afraid he would talk over the notes.

You smiled, glancing over to him. You met his eyes, shaking your head.

“You don’t even need to look at the keys to play either?” he asked, just as astounded. He sounded a bit breathless, in awe of you.

You let out a small laugh. This time, you shook your head in disbelief. You thought he was cute, but you couldn’t say that even if you wanted to tell him.

The piano’s final note faded on your fingertips, light and airy– you don’t remember the last time you played something in a more sorrow sounding tone. Though, Bucky does seem to enjoy your minor chorded music. He once told you that it evoked something deeper inside of him.

“What was that one called?” he asked you as you pulled on the piano cover.

“Another random piece from my mind,” you signed to him.

“Were you a prodigy before all this happened to you?”

You paused, your hands freezing. Bucky caught it, his eyes widening. His hands quickly clasped over yours, warming yours up– comforting you.

“You don’t have to answer that. I’m sorry,” he quickly apologized, awkward. “I fuckin’- shit. I was just talking without thinking. It was the music still in my head, doll.”

Your lips parted for a brief moment. You could see the panic in his eyes– the true regret he felt. He was scared you would pull away from him, maybe shut him out after all the time you had spent together.

You swallowed, giving him a smile as you gently took your hands from his.

“I was accepted by Julliard as an opera singer,” you signed. “My mother was a pianist. My father was a cellist. Music ran in my family. My brother was a scientist. He was the only one that didn’t do music… and he got involved with some bad people. People that–”

Your hands clenched into fists mid-air. You sucked in a trembling breath, looking everywhere but him.

And Bucky waited. Patiently. Like he always did. His attention never diverted from you.

You knew he knew. You were still scared. You knew what was done to his mind, but saying it to his face… You were afraid he would run from you.

You take a deep breath, preparing yourself. You know you're about to sign like a madwoman, maybe too fast for him to even understand you. That's okay. You just need to get it all out, even if it's sloppy or messy. It's how you feel, and you hope it's enough for him to understand.

“They took my voice from me and weaponized it. It took me years to learn how to talk without hurting someone. I could hurt you, Bucky. I could do worse things to you than H.Y.D.R.A. ever did. I don’t know why you keep coming to see me. I’m not saying that I would ever do anything to hurt you. That is the last thing that I would ever do! I really like you, Bucky. I wouldn’t play all these songs for you if I didn’t like you so much, but you need to know that I am the last person on Earth that you should be spending all this time with when I am the one that could hurt you the most–”

Your hands are being forced down, and you feel the cool touch of his vibranium hand cradling your face with so much care you could almost cry. You didn’t have the time to– not when the soft, plush of his lips were against yours. Not when his fingers were intertwining with yours, squeezing your hand as if he were trying to tell you that it was okay. That he understood you.

Your body reacted to him, allowing him to lead you in a dance to music that only the two of you could hear. Your heart was beating in time with his, feeling the trembling of his fingers against your face as if he was afraid of breaking you. This felt less of a kiss and more like a confession. You kissed him back all the same, feeling the fear that he felt too.

When your lips finally parted from each other, your eyes opened, and the song ended, you watched each other for a few moments.

“I don’t think you could do anything to ever hurt me, sweetheart,” he whispered, leaning his forehead against yours.

You tried to pull your hand away from his, to reply, but he didn’t let you. He held on firmer, but not hard enough to hurt. Your eyes widened as your lips parted. You were helpless.

Bucky pulled his forehead away from you, to be able to look at your face completely. His eyes scanned your face, every single part of you was bare under his eyes. He was waiting, and your heart was pounding. He wanted you to speak to him.

You pulled your bottom lip into your teeth for a moment as you steeled your resolve.

“I don’t trust myself to not hurt you,” you whispered, meeting his eyes.

You watched as his face shifted– pure adoration. You felt warm under his gaze, unable to tear yourself away from his watchful eyes. The look on his face is unguarded. Soft. Reverent and absolutely beautiful. You didn’t know it was possible for him to look at you like this– for anyone to look at you like this. You were glad it was Bucky. You never want Bucky to ever lay his eyes on anyone else the way he’s looking at you at this moment.

Your heart only seemed to clamber even louder in your chest, ringing even louder in your ears. You don’t even remember hearing applause this loud at your most successful concert.

Bucky collects your face in both hands, and his lips peppered all over your skin. Your eyes, your cheeks, your nose. The stubble of his beard brushed against your skin, and you could only let out a soft laugh, hooking your hands around his wrists as he continued to kiss your face all over before he finally stopped at your lips.

“You sound like heaven, doll,” he whispered against your mouth.

“I was made to sound this way,” you murmured back.

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. He pressed another kiss to your lips before wrapping his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin.

“I trust you.”

The words are etched into your bones, digging into your soul and burying themselves into the depths of your heart as tears begin to spring to your eyes. Bucky holds you tighter, swaying side to side slowly as his hands rub your back gently, soothing you.

You melt into his chest, into the comfort he gives you, ear pressed above his beating heart. This is your favorite song, you think. Right next to the sound of his laughter.

Music is played between kisses now.

Your hands will be resting above his hands on the ivory keys, slowly guiding his to glide over the notes, only to hit the wrong ones as he turns to distract you with his lips.

Other times, you'll be sitting in bed together. His back will rest against the headboard, your back against his chest. Bucky's head will lean against yours as you strum along to your guitar, filling the space around you with romance, when his hand will come up and cup your face to demand your attention, guiding you to turn to him for a kiss.

Sometimes, your songs are completely disrupted with Bucky pulling you away from your instrument. He’ll replace your live talent with a song playing from the phone in his back pocket as he pulls you into his arms, taking one hand in his, while his other hand goes around your back.

“Dance with me, doll?” he grinned at you.

“Are you trying to relive your glory days, Sergeant?” you teased, hand hooking around his shoulder to press your body closer to his.

“What do you mean?” he asked, feigning innocence. “Music’s playing, there’s a pretty dame in front of me– it would be criminal not to dance right now.”

You could only laugh as he spins you around before returning you back into the security of his arms, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead. You only pretend to give him a hard time, and he knows it. You love these soft moments of intimacy, where he reaches for you first.

“You would think after a month or two of dancing with me, you’d be less stiff, sweetheart,” he hummed in your ear.

“I’m sorry, not everyone was born in a time period where dance halls were the main source of entertainment,” you scoffed in response.

Bucky laughed, squeezing you tighter to him. “I had a seventy year break. You have no excuses.”

“Fuckin’ old man,” you grumbled, only to let out a shriek as he pinched your side in retaliation.

“You should respect your elders,” he clicked his tongue at you.

“I’m going to put you in a nursing home,” you threatened, but there’s no real heat to your voice, obviously.

He rolled his eyes in response. “I’ll be what? Almost 200 by the time that comes around? We’ll be in the nursing home together, baby.”

“You think we’ll still be together by then? Alive?” you asked.

“As long as I have a say in it, yes,” he nodded.

“You sound so sure,” you frowned at him.

“And you’re pessimistic. That’s my thing. Get a new hobby.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. You can’t hide the smile on your face. “I bet you liked it better when I didn’t talk.”

“No,” he quickly denied, taking your face in his hands. The swaying stops, and you’re forced to look at him. “Keep talking. I like hearing your voice, even if you say stupid shit.”

“Me being scared for the future is stupid shit?” you raise an eyebrow at him.

“… Maybe not that, but I’ll still disprove you,” he dismissed. “You make me look forward to the future, sweetheart. So I need you here. I’m kinda planning my future around you. Can’t have you gone.”

“That sounds like a lot of pressure, Buck,” you whispered.

“Good. Feel pressured,” he chuckled. “I need you to know you’re wanted. The songs you played before I came to you were so sad.”

You cringe a little. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he hummed, thumbs brushing over your cheeks gently. “Because I get it. I understand.”

“… I know,” you nodded. Because you do.

You’ve spent many nights away from the music since the confession, since your hearts started beating in unison, just laying in your bed and whispering to each other.

He told you how he laid awake and listened to the music through the vents. How your songs managed to get him to sleep and calmed him down when nightmares plagued him. How you managed to comfort him in his darkest moments, when he felt worthless.

And he thanked you for it all.

Bucky only chuckled at you when you burst into tears. You apologized to him— saying it was so stupid to cry when he was the one that was hurting, but he was grateful you were crying for him.

During your quiet moments together, he would tell you how your music made him feel whole. That you would piece him together slowly, as if you were performing a reprise to his soul like he was a song that had butchered by the wrong conductor.

You told him he was getting cheesy with his analogies, but he would ask you if you thought he was charming. You would grin and tell him that if he kept it up, you might dedicate a whole concerto to him.

Just like that night, Bucky had a smile on his face as he leaned closer to you, as he angled your head upwards to meet his lips in a kiss. Your eyes are fluttering shut in anticipation, waiting to feel the soft pressure of his lips—

“Did you do something to him?”

You pulled away at the booming voice that echoed off the walls of your floor, your breath catching in your throat. You look past Bucky at the same time he turns around, and he pushes you behind him, to shield you from the people that just walked into your sanctuary.

“I asked you a question, agent. You better answer,” Steve demanded, his voice low.

“She didn’t do anything,” Bucky said, reaching for your hand behind him. He squeezed it.

“That’s what you would say if she did something,” Steve dismissed.

“Steve,” Bucky said, exasperated. “She didn’t do anything!”

“How are we supposed to trust that? To trust her?!” Sam demanded, pointing at you.

Dread filled your gut as you looked down.

“I trust her!” Bucky shouted back. “She didn’t do anything fucking wrong! Why are you treating her like some sort of criminal?!”

“Bucky, are you even aware of what she can do? Do to your brain?” Steve asked. Then, he continued, voice accusatory, “She’s worse than H.Y.D.R.A. combined if she wanted to be!”

“But she’s not, Steve! She’s never been!” Bucky said, his voice pleading and desperate.

Your heart was breaking. You couldn’t take this. You couldn’t listen to this anymore. Not just for your own sake, but for his, too.

These were Bucky’s friends. People that he trusted, people that he cared about. He told you that he cared about them— even though he was frustrated with the way they were handling him. You didn’t want him to argue with them. Not over you. Especially not over you.

“Bucky,” you whispered, watching his shoulders tense. His head whipped towards you. “It’s fine.”

“What? No, it’s not.”

“They’re not gonna listen either way. Just go,” you murmured, squeezing his hand. “I’m not worth the fight.”

His eyebrows furrowed, and he almost looked offended over your words. You watched as his lips parted, about to say something to refute your words, but you slipped your hand out of his.

The second you did, Steve was crossing the room, a hand on his shoulder to guide him out. You can see Steve muttering something to Bucky that you can’t hear, but you tear your eyes away. Sam is staring at you, gaze hardened.

“We’ll have someone come and take your toys away by the end of the day,” he said, jaw clenched. “We’ve been getting noise complaints.”

You don’t bother responding, and he doesn’t bother waiting for a response. You’re left alone in the silence of your floor, feeling colder than before.

Bucky’s head is getting scanned, even though he doesn’t fucking want to put his head in this machine. Everyone was pressing him to at least run through with it once, to at least be able to compare his scan with the brain scan results from your other victims.

He hates the way they phrased it.

“I’m not a fucking victim. I was there on purpose,” Bucky grunted, clenching his hands into fists.

“Terminator, why would you go visit the siren on purpose? Are you trying to die?” Tony asked, clicking away on the holographic keyboard.

On the other side of the glass, Steve and Sam are grilling Natasha. Bucky has no doubt they’re yelling at her for telling him about the truth. Natasha’s face is steeled, and she’s not saying a single word in response. She's just letting the two men yell at her.

Finally, the cap on his head ascends and Bucky gets the hell out of the chair. He exits the examination room, and goes into the fray.

“— irresponsible it is to expose him to that?” Steve demanded. “Answer me, Natasha!”

“Barnes is a grown adult who can make his own decisions,” Natasha said, her voice even. “And I told him the truth eight months ago. So clearly, he’s been seeing her of his own volition.”

“Or he’s been having his brain fucking scrambled for eight months, Nat!” Sam said, dragging a hand down his face.

“She used sign language with me for half of those months,” Bucky cut in, everyone turning to look at him. “She didn’t speak a fucking word to me.”

“What?” Steve asked, eyebrows furrowing.

“I made her talk to me,” Bucky said, voice rising. “I forced her.”

“This is for your own good,” Steve said, clenching his jaw. “She can—“

“She’s done nothing wrong! She can what, Steve? Hurt me? Guess what? I can hurt you. I have hurt you!”

Tension began to settle right over the room like a thick blanket. They could hear the slow breaths of everyone in the room.

“Scans in,” Tony said, opening the door behind Bucky and cutting the silence in half. “Surprisingly— uh… His brain is completely clear. No sign of siren song or anything.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched as he released a deep sigh from his nostrils. He turned on his heel, heading towards the exit.

“Where are you going, Buck?” Sam called out to him.

“To go comfort my girlfriend,” he grunted, fists clenched at his side.

The lab doors slid open before he reached them, Fury and Clint walking in a second later.

“No can do Barnes. Go buy her some flowers and chocolates later,” Fury said, dropping a file on the nearest table. “I need all of you on the field ASAP."

His eyebrow furrowed. “What?”

“Satellite feed shows movement in the abandoned mine shaft that Stark took care of a handful of years back in Arizona,” Clint said, sighing deeply. “We’re not sure if someone’s back in the lab down there or if it’s just a fluke, but we gotta go check it out either way. Can’t send a regular team since the tech down there’s pretty dangerous if it’s what we think it is.”

Bucky wants nothing more than to crawl into your bed and hold you in his arms, but that will have to wait. He, along with the others, moves to get suited up. Issues aside, there’s problems that need to be dealt with— problems that are definitely not a fluke.

This underground site was a hotspot for seismic activity and every two fucking seconds their eardrums would start exploding in their skulls. Steve and Bucky were especially affected, with their heightened sound due to the serum pumping in their veins.

Comms were especially ineffective, with the fact the frequency kept jamming the channel they were using.

It was jarring. It fucking hurt. Bucky found himself on his knees, hands pulled over his ears with teeth gritted in pain before a fist would connect with his jaw that he didn’t expect while he was down.

Bucky could faintly hear for Steve to shout at Tony over broken comms to find out where the machine was that created the sound waves and to break it, but Bucky was certain that Stark’s suit was having issues against the sonic cannon.

Bucky couldn't tell how much time had passed as he was getting thrown around, beaten up by hands that he couldn't even open his eyes to see. He couldn't even rip his own hands away from his ears to try and guard his head. There was no room to think.

Silence suddenly splashed over him like a bucket of water.

He can hear his own breaths.

Bucky lowers his hands, confusion rushing through his body as he locks eyes with Steve. Both soldiers have pure adrenaline rushing through their bodies. Then, they notice a new presence. You.

Their eyes turned towards you, finding that you’re squatting down in front of an enemy, the poor man’s face held in your hand in a crushing grip. He was holding a gun weakly in his hands, trying to raise it to use against you, but it was really no use.

You’re in your tactical gear— and it’s the first time Bucky’s ever seen you in it. A hood is pulled over your head, and a mask is pulled over your nose and mouth. All he can see is your eyes. You wear fingerless gloves, and there are holsters on your thighs with guns and daggers ready to use.

“𝒮𝓉𝑜𝓅 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔,” you whispered, your voice like a charm. The air shifted, vibrated with your words- not like the sonic cannon that was used to disarm them moments ago. It made you irresistible. They cannot help but fall into your trap, unable to fight against your command.

But you’re not speaking to Bucky or Steve.

Your eyes are glowing, swirling blue like the ocean— pulling in your victims into your song. You watched as his lips went from pink to blue, then you let him go. His body fell limp to the floor with a hard thud.

Both Bucky and Steve look around— all their assailants have stopped breathing. It’s only the two of them that are alive in this room.

You stand up tall, staring at the body for a few moments before turning towards Bucky, pulling both your hood and your mask off of your face. Concern is all over your features.

“You look like shit,” you breathed, holding his face in your hands.

“Well. That’s what happens when you can’t fight back,” he whispered, his voice hoarse as he leaned into your touch. “Why are you here?”

“Fury said he lost contact with you guys hours ago,” you quickly said, helping him to his feet. “I already extracted the others— they’re outside already. It’s just you two left.”

“Are you hurt?” he asked. He’s looking you over as if he can see through your gear.

“Do I look like I’m hurt?” you asked, frowning at him.

Bucky’s about to reply, to say something smart to make you smile. He doesn’t get the chance.

“You can control it,” Steve suddenly spoke, both of you turning to look at him. He looks conflicted. Angry. Not with you. With himself. “You— You weren’t just speaking to that one agent.”

“… I wasn’t,” you nodded, then turned away from him. “Come on. With the amount of vibrations that just happened, there’s no telling when this mine shaft will collapse.”

Bucky and Steve support each other’s weight as you lead them out. Stray agents try to come at the three of you, but crumble to their feet with a single word from your lips.

𝒮𝓉𝑜𝓅.

It’s silent in the quinjet when you’re all secured. The mine shaft fully collapsed with just enough time to spare, destroying everything and the remaining agents left inside.

The entire team is staring at you both. No one has said a word since the jet took to the sky, and you definitely aren’t going to be the one to speak first.

So, you decide to keep yourself busy. You’re sitting beside Bucky, a med kit opened up on your lap. Bucky has his head leaned back against the jet wall, eyes closed as he lets you do whatever you want— which is taking care of him.

“You would make a great dog trainer,” Tony suddenly said.

“Stark,” Bucky warned, eyes opening to glare at the man.

“I’m just saying. Does your ability work on just humans? Or all beings with a soul?”

“Um. I haven’t tried… animals,” you said softly, cautiously. You put down the bloodied gauze to switch out for a new one.

“You do talk normally! I thought you could only talk with sparkles and vibrations like sirens from folktales!” Tony exclaimed. You made a small face, frowning slightly as you cleaned the cut above Bucky’s eyebrow.

“Is he always this annoying?” you whispered to Bucky.

“I would say you get used to it, but I just ignore him, sweetheart. He doesn’t get any better,” Bucky whispered back.

You let out a soft snort, a smile fixing over your face. Bucky couldn’t help but mirror it as you placed the bandage on his face before moving over to his next wound.

“She smiled. Did you see that?” Clint murmured.

“I’m more floored by the fact Barnes smiled,” Natasha replied.

“Jesus,” Bucky grunted, the grin on his face disappearing.

“What happened to ignoring them?” you chuckled.

“I have a headache,” he replied to you. “A pounding one. None of these fucking idiots are making it any better.”

“Does tylenol work on super soldiers?” you murmured, rifling through the med kit. “Ibuprofen, maybe?”

“Probably not,” he sighed, looking at you. “I’ll try it though. Maybe a placebo effect will happen because I like you.”

You smacked his arm in his response, and he watched as a warmth crept up from your neck to your cheeks.

Bucky ignored the bug-eyed looks from everyone else in the jet as he took the gel capsules pill from your hand, and swallowed it down without complaint. He settled back into his seat to allow you to finish poking and prodding at his face until you were satisfied— even though he knew he would be fully healed by the time the jet landed.

Bucky would still kiss you later, and tell you he healed fast because you took care of him. You would believe him just because he said so.

“Debrief right away,” Steve ordered as the jet landed. Everyone grumbled as they got up, but they knew this was coming. The mission was a shitshow. You were fully prepared to go slink back into your corner of the compound when Steve’s eyes fell on you. “You, too.”

You paused, head whipping to Bucky a second later. He gave you a single nod.

You didn’t say a word during the debrief. You were stressed, even though all they were doing was arguing with each other over who took down the most agents before you came onto the field.

You didn’t realize debriefs were so laid back. The team laughed with each other. They were all still in their gear, still battered and bruised, but they were happy they were together. Happy to come back home, to be able to sit around at this table and be able to banter like this.

A bitter feeling was creeping up in your chest that you didn’t know how to stop.

You kept your gaze on the table, unable to make eye contact with anyone. You hoped they would all forget that you existed. You hoped to blend into the wall.

You felt Bucky’s pinky brush against yours under the table. In the corner of your eye, you saw him. He wasn’t looking at you, but his body was leaning towards you. Slowly, his pinky hooked into yours, comfort rushing through your body in waves.

“Well, I don’t know about you guys— but I am starved. Meeting over yet?” Sam asked, clapping his hands together.

“Sounds good,” Steve nodded.

That was all you needed to sprint out of your chair, the furniture clattering behind you abruptly as you raced for the exit. You could feel the weight of their eyes on you as you ripped the door open, running out.

You heard Bucky call out your name, heard him stand, heard his footsteps rush behind you.

You kept rushing down the hall, away from the conference room. You needed to put as much space between yourself and the rest of the team before you broke down.

Bucky finally caught you by the arm, turning you to face him.

“Doll,” he whispered, hands on your shoulders. “What’s going on?”

“What’s going on?” you echoed his words in a breathless whisper, trembling in his hands. You were so close to breaking, to falling apart. “What’s going on is that I hate your fucking friends. And I hate myself for admitting it out loud to you because I love you so much and I know you love them.”

Bucky’s lips parted, eyes searching your face as his hands slid down your arms slowly. You watch as he a slow breath escapes his lips as he nods.

“That’s okay. You can hate them,” he whispered back to you.

“What?” you demanded, shocked. “They’re your friends, Bucky! How can you say—”

“I hate the way they treat you,” he cut you off, shaking his head. “You don’t think I’m pissed off? They find out that you’re useful, so they invite you to a debrief and expect you to just be okay with the neglect and silent bullshit they’ve been putting you through this entire time? I’m livid, too.”

“I don’t want you to fight with them because of me,” you murmured, swallowing thickly. “They only hid things from you to protect you.”

“And I’m choosing to argue with them to protect you.” Bucky replied, cupping your face in his hands. “Not because you need a white knight or because you’re weak, but because I love you. And I love you for you— not due to the fact that you made me or that you charmed me into it.”

“I would never charm you into loving me,” you quickly said, horrified as you grabbed onto his waist, desperate for him to know you were being truthful.

“I know,” he said, chuckling. His eyes were soft as his thumbs grazed the tops of your cheeks. “I told you. I trust you, sweetheart. I’ve always trusted you, even if others don’t.”

You let out a shaking breath, biting the inside of your cheek.

“Now what?” you whispered to him. “What do we do from here?”

“I’ll join you on your solo missions,” he shrugged. “Not that you need my help. I watched you take down an entire room by yourself, but I don’t really feel like going on any missions with those asshoeles any time soon.”

“I don’t go on missions often, baby,” you said, frowning at him. “I usually do interrogations. I rarely use my ability.”

“Oh, so you do dirty work? I can do that, too. Is that why your hands are always scrubbed raw? You’re washing them too much? Let me do it for you,” he said, a grin finding its way on his face.

“Buck,” you said, a soft giggle escaping your lips.

“I’m serious, doll,” he said, humming. “Let me just move my shit to your room, too. I already spend most of my day with you, anyway.”

“Not like I can stop you.” You shook your head even though you were smiling.

Bucky’s lips quirked up just a bit more before he leaned in, finishing the kiss that he wasn’t able to give you earlier. You sighed into him, relaxing into his touch. Bucky held you closer to him, tenderly. Gently. Just as he always did.

“I’ll harass Sam to give back your instruments,” he whispered against your lips, making you laugh again. “Heard he took them away— fucking bitch. Doesn’t he know I need that shit to sleep?”

“I don’t think he does, baby,” you hummed, wrapping your arms around his neck to kiss him again.

“I’m telling you,” he muttered, between kisses, “they’re all stupid. I’ll just keep you to myself at this point. They don’t know what they’re missing.”

“You’re going to share me, Sergeant?” you asked, raising an eyebrow at him as you pulled away from his touch briefly.

Bucky paused for a moment, thinking over his words. Then, he tugs you back into him, lips meeting yours once more as your feet are lifted off the ground. He’s carrying you towards the back halls to your floor.

“No. I’m not. Keep hating them, sweetheart. You’re mine,” he murmured against your lips, a smile on his face.

masterlist

a/n: there was no smut in this fic bc it didn’t feel right given the characterizations i gave bucky and reader. if i write a second part to this, the smut would end up being super super soft and vulnerable bc the two of them are very very gentle with each other

taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @ifuckwithyouanyday @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla @simp4f1 @its-in-the-woods @lvrrinx let me know if you would like to be added/removed to my general bucky taglist :)

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