kenneyyyyy! what about bucky fucking reader so hard her voice is completely gone the next morning and everyone at breakfast is like “are you sick?” while bucky just sips his coffee and smirks
You wake up to a throat that feels like it’s been dragged across gravel.
Not painful. Just empty.
You try to swallow—nothing. Try to hum—barely a rasp. And then the memories hit in one slow, hot wave:
Bucky’s hand around your neck. Bucky’s rhythm bruising your hips. Bucky telling you to “be louder for me, sweetheart—let ‘em know who you belong to.”
Yeah. That’ll do it.
You flop back into the pillow with an embarrassed groan—even that comes out as a pathetic puff of air. Beside you, Bucky stretches like a smug, over-satisfied cat, metal arm flexing as he rolls onto his back.
“Morning,” he says, voice deliciously rough. “How’s the throat?”
You glare at him. Or… you try. It probably looks more like a pout.
Nothing comes out when you try to respond—absolutely nothing—and Bucky bites back a grin like it’s actually causing him physical pain.
“Aww,” he coos, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Completely shot, huh?”
You smack his chest. It only makes him chuckle deeper.
“Not my fault you begged for it.” He kisses your forehead. “Twice.”
You point aggressively to the door. He knows damn well the team is expecting the two of you at breakfast. He also knows you can’t hide in bed without raising questions.
“Oh, c’mon,” he murmurs, rolling on top of you for a teasing kiss you barely allow. “They won’t notice.”
You give him the look.
He bursts out laughing. “Alright, fine—they’ll notice. I won’t say a word.”
But the glint in his eye says he’ll enjoy every second of it.
Breakfast is a disaster waiting to happen.
You’re barely seated before Sam squints at you. “You good? You sound like a ninety-year-old chain smoker.”
You try to reply, but it comes out as a whispery squeak—one that makes Sam’s eyes widen.
“Whoa. What the hell happened to you?”
Bucky takes a slow sip of his coffee. Smirks into the rim.
Nat tilts her head. “Allergies?”
You shake your head.
“Cold?” Steve adds.
Another head shake.
“Did you fall asleep with the fan on?” Wanda suggests helpfully.
You gesture vaguely—sort of? maybe? no?—you don’t know how to mime “my boyfriend rearranged my soul last night.”
Bucky reaches over and rests a very casual, very possessive hand on your thigh under the table. “She’ll be fine,” he says simply.
You elbow him. He squeezes your thigh. Hard.
“Barnes,” Natasha says suspiciously, eyes narrowing. “Why do you look like you know something?”
He shrugs, like the picture of innocence. “Do I?”
Sam’s gaze bounces between your flushed face and Bucky’s barely-restrained grin. “Hold on—wait—wait a minute.”
You shake your head violently. Nononononono—
Sam slaps the table. “Oh my GOD. You lost your voice from—”
You kick him. Or you try. He’s faster than he looks in the morning.
The blush burns your cheeks hot enough to cook an omelet. Bucky chuckles, drinking his coffee like he’s at a front-row comedy show.
Steve sighs into his plate. “Do we need to start a rule about noise levels in the compound?”
Wanda snorts. “I can make soundproofing spells if it’ll help.”
Nat smirks over her mug. “Or Bucky can simply learn moderation.”
Bucky raises a brow. “She didn’t seem to want moderation.”
You choke on absolutely nothing. If you had a voice, you’d be swearing at him.
Sam hollers. Steve mutters something about respecting communal spaces. Vision deadpans a suggestion about installing decibel monitors.
And Bucky? He just sits there. Calm. Smug. Fingers stroking slow circles on your inner thigh, hidden from view.
You swat his hand away under the table. He just puts it back.
The moment you’re alone—two steps inside the hallway—you whirl on him, mouthing curses.
He laughs. Actually laughs.
“Baby, you should’ve seen your face,” he says, pulling you close by the waist. “You’re adorable when you’re embarrassed.”
You smack his chest again.
“Hey,” he murmurs, catching your wrist easily, guiding your hand up to his mouth to kiss your knuckles. “You wanna know something?”
You glare, waiting.
His lips brush your ear, voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “I could fuck you again right now and make sure you don’t get your voice back for a week.”
Your knees actually buckle.
He catches you, one arm steady around your waist. “But,” he adds, gentler now, “I’m gonna be good. Gonna make you tea. Gonna take care of that throat I ruined.”
You narrow your eyes, pointing to yourself. Shower gesture.
He nods. “Go ahead. I’ll bring you something warm.”
Then, right as you turn away, he smacks your ass—hard enough to make you jump.
“Pretty little thing,” he murmurs, watching you walk. “Should’ve known you’d get loud for me.”
You whirl around, mouthing something obscene.
He just grins wider. “Can’t hear you, doll.”
Fifteen minutes later, you’re wrapped in a towel, sipping honey tea when he joins you.
Bucky sits on the edge of the bed, tilting your chin up to inspect your throat like he’s a doctor.
“Mm,” he hums, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. “Still red.”
You swat him with a pillow.
He laughs and loops his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. “Hey,” he murmurs, kissing your hair. “You tell me to slow down next time, okay?”
You shake your head. Then shrug. Then tilt your hand—maybe keep going but also maybe not.
He bursts out laughing again.
“You’re impossible,” he says.
But the way he cups your face? The softness in his eyes when he presses his forehead to yours?
He’s already planning to buy you throat lozenges. Already planning soup. A movie. A nap.
And definitely, definitely planning round two when your voice comes back.
He kisses you, slow and sweet.
“I love you,” he murmurs. “Even when you sound like a squeaky toy.”
You elbow him in the ribs.
He kisses your forehead again.
“Especially then.”
