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prompt: “i saw someone saying on twitter about a woman who said that her boyfriend was so nervous when propose her that he forgot everything and ended up just getting on his knees saying “please”.” with bucky?
It’s not supposed to happen like this.
Bucky has planned it for weeks. Maybe longer, if he’s being honest, because the idea has been sitting in his chest, heavy and certain, long before he ever worked up the nerve to do something about it.
He has the ring. He has the speech. He has a whole stupid list in his head of things he’s supposed to say—how much he loves you, how you make him feel human again, how you’ve carved a home out of a man who never thought he deserved one.
He’s practiced it, too. Quietly. Under his breath. In the mirror once, which he immediately decided was humiliating and never did again.
He’s got it.
He has it.
Until he doesn’t.
---
You don’t know anything is different when he asks you to come with him.
“C’mon, doll,” he says, tugging on your hand, already halfway out the door. “Wanna show you something.”
You squint at him, suspicious, but you go anyway, letting him pull you along with that soft, insistent grip of his. The evening air is warm, the sky bleeding into that soft gold-and-pink stretch just before sunset, and he’s quieter than usual as he walks beside you.
You nudge him with your shoulder. “You’re being weird.”
“I’m always weird.”
“Yeah, but this is like… upgraded weird.”
He huffs, but there’s no bite to it. Just nerves. You don’t recognize them for what they are yet—just assume it’s one of those Bucky moods where he gets in his own head a little too much.
So you lace your fingers through his, grounding, steady. He squeezes back immediately.
Always does.
---
He stops when you reach the spot.
It’s nothing extravagant. Not some big, sweeping, cinematic place.
Just your place.
The quiet stretch near the water where you two end up more often than not—late nights, early mornings, stolen hours in between. The place where he’s watched you laugh, watched you cry, watched you fall asleep with your head in his lap while the world kept spinning around you.
It matters.
That’s why he picked it.
You turn to him, brow furrowed slightly. “Buck?”
And that’s it.
That’s the moment everything in his head just—
Gone.
Completely blank.
He knows he had words. He knows he had a whole damn speech lined up, something worthy of you, something that could even begin to explain the way you’ve changed his life.
But you’re standing there, looking at him like that—soft, curious, a little concerned—and suddenly every single thought just… disappears.
All he’s left with is feeling.
And it’s too big.
Too much.
His chest tightens, his pulse pounding in his ears, and before he can overthink it—before he can talk himself out of it—he just moves.
Drops.
Right there.
One knee hitting the ground hard enough that he barely registers it.
Your eyes go wide.
“Bucky—?”
His hands are already fumbling, pulling the ring from his pocket, nearly dropping the damn thing in the process. His fingers shake—actually shake—and he can’t even look away from you long enough to be embarrassed about it.
Because you’re staring at him.
Like you can’t quite believe what you’re seeing.
And he's panicking.
Not about the answer. Never about that.
Just—about getting it right.
About saying it right.
About making sure you know.
And he can’t find the words.
Not the pretty ones. Not the practiced ones. Not any of it.
So what comes out is—
“Please.”
It’s rough. Breathless. Barely more than a whisper.
Your face does something soft, something almost startled.
He swallows hard, chest heaving slightly as he tries—tries—to pull something else together.
“I—” He shakes his head, a broken little huff of a laugh leaving him. “I had a whole thing planned. I swear I did. I—”
Nothing.
Still nothing.
His throat works, his eyes burning just a little as he looks up at you, completely exposed.
“Please,” he says again, a little stronger this time, but no less raw. “Just—please.”
And it’s all there anyway.
Everything he couldn’t say wrapped up in that one word.
Please stay.
Please choose me.
Please let me spend the rest of my life loving you.
Please don’t let this be something I lose.
Your eyes shine almost immediately, tears welling up faster than you can stop them. You press a hand to your mouth, a breath hitching out of you as you stare down at him.
“Bucky…”
He looks terrified.
Not of you.
Of losing you.
And that’s what does it.
That’s what breaks you open completely.
You drop to your knees in front of him so fast he barely has time to react, your hands coming up to cup his face, grounding him the same way you always do.
“Hey,” you whisper, voice thick. “Hey, look at me.”
He does. Instantly.
“You don’t need a speech,” you say softly, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “You don’t need any of that.”
His grip on the ring tightens, like he’s still not convinced.
“You’ve got me,” you continue, tears slipping free now, but you’re smiling through them. “You’ve always had me.”
His breath stutters.
“Yeah?” he asks, quiet, almost disbelieving.
You laugh a little, wet and shaky, leaning forward until your forehead presses against his.
“Yeah, idiot,” you murmur. “Of course I’ll marry you.”
The relief that hits him is immediate.
His shoulders sag, a broken, breathless sound leaving him as his eyes squeeze shut for a second, like he needs it just to steady himself.
“Jesus,” he mutters, half-laughing, half-choking on it. “Thank God.”
You pull back just enough to look at him again, grinning now. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I know,” he says, still a little dazed, finally slipping the ring onto your finger with hands that are only slightly less shaky. “I had this whole—this whole thing, doll. It was good, too. Real good.”
“I’m sure it was.”
“I practiced.”
You snort. “Did you really?”
He groans, dropping his head forward until it bumps lightly against your shoulder. “Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not,” you say, laughing as you wrap your arms around him. “I think it was perfect.”
He huffs. “Yeah? Just ‘please’?”
You pull back, kissing him slow and soft, pouring every bit of your answer into it.
“Yeah,” you whisper against his lips. “Just ‘please.’”
The worst part about agreeing to laser tag with the Avengers isn’t the neon vests or the fact that Sam will absolutely never let anyone forget a loss.
It’s that Bucky Barnes takes everything like it’s a covert op.
The place is dimly lit and smells faintly like carpet cleaner and adrenaline. Black lights flash over murals of alien planets and space marines that look vaguely like off-brand versions of you guys. Kids sprint past shrieking, plastic blasters clutched in sticky hands, and somewhere a fog machine wheezes dramatically.
You adjust the vest over your chest, glancing at the name glowing across your screen. “Starlight?” you deadpan. “Really?”
Nat smirks from where she’s tightening her straps. “You could’ve picked worse.”
Across the staging room, Bucky stands ramrod straight while a teenager explains the rules like he’s briefing a squad before deployment.
“No running,” the kid says for the third time.
Bucky nods once. “Copy.”
Steve leans over to you. “He’s been like this since we walked in.”
“Of course he has.”
The teams are split up—Sam, Nat, and you versus Steve, Bucky, and Wanda. The moment the doors slide open and the music kicks in, Bucky disappears into the maze of glowing walls like a ghost.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Sam mutters. “He’s flanking already.”
The arena pulses with blue and purple light. Fog drifts low over the floor. You barely take three steps before a red beam clips your vest.
“BUCKY!” you shout.
From somewhere above—because of course there are elevated platforms—his voice echoes back, amused and maddeningly calm. “Should’ve checked your corners, doll.”
You squint up at the grated catwalk where his silhouette is barely visible. He gives you a tiny, mocking salute before vanishing again.
“Oh, it’s on,” you mutter.
For the next five minutes, it’s chaos. Sam trash talks at full volume. Nat moves like a shadow, tagging Steve twice in rapid succession before melting into the maze. Wanda uses her powers just enough to “accidentally” misdirect people, claiming plausible deniability the whole time.
But Bucky?
Bucky is a menace.
You catch glimpses of him between glowing barriers—dark hair, metal arm glinting under black light, that focused crease between his brows. He moves like this is real. Tactical. Efficient. You watch him wait until Sam is distracted before stepping out, tagging him three times in quick succession, then disappearing again without a sound.
“Is he smiling?” you whisper to Nat.
She peeks around the corner. “Oh, he’s absolutely smiling.”
You finally manage to corner him near the center base. It’s narrow there, walls tight and blinking red. He steps out in front of you before you can pivot away, blocking your escape.
“Got you,” he murmurs.
You lift your blaster, but he’s faster. Three sharp beeps. Your vest vibrates and powers down.
He doesn’t step back.
Under the black lights, his eyes look impossibly blue. The edges of his mouth curve just slightly, like he’s proud of himself.
“This is unfair,” you say, breathless from sprinting.
“Is it?” he tilts his head. “You’ve tagged me twice.”
“By accident.”
“Still counts.”
The music pulses around you, loud and ridiculous, but in this narrow corridor it suddenly feels quieter. Closer.
He leans in just enough that his shoulder brushes yours. “You’re predictable,” he adds softly.
You scoff. “I am not.”
“You always go left when you panic.”
“I do not panic.”
“Just did.”
Your mouth opens to argue—then Sam barrels into the corridor, yelling something about revenge, and the moment shatters. Bucky slips past you smoothly, tagging Sam mid-sentence before vanishing again.
“You let him distract you!” Sam accuses.
“You’re loud!” you fire back.
When the round ends, Steve’s team wins by an embarrassing margin.
Sam demands a rematch immediately.
The second game is worse.
Because this time, Bucky decides to stick close to you.
At first you think it’s coincidence. You turn a corner—there he is. You duck behind a barrier—he’s suddenly at your shoulder. Every time someone lines you up for a shot, a red beam hits them first.
“You following me?” you hiss.
“Protecting my investment,” he replies coolly.
“I’m on the other team.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t keep you from getting annihilated.”
“You’re literally annihilating me.”
He shrugs. “Collateral.”
You try to shake him, weaving through the maze, doubling back, even hiding behind a fake asteroid prop. He finds you every time.
At one point, he gently grabs the back of your vest and pulls you flat against the wall just as a volley of beams lights up the space where you were standing.
Your back presses to his chest. His metal arm braces beside your head. The scent of his cologne—clean, subtle—cuts through the fog machine haze.
“You’re welcome,” he murmurs near your ear.
Your pulse jumps. “You’re cheating.”
“I’m talented.”
“You’re insufferable.”
His laugh is quiet, warm against your skin. “You love it.”
You do not dignify that with a response.
Instead, you pivot, lift your blaster, and tag him square in the chest before darting away.
He stares at his blinking vest in disbelief.
“You little—”
You grin over your shoulder. “Should’ve checked your corners, Barnes.”
For the rest of the match, it becomes personal.
He hunts you with single-minded focus. You become equally determined not to be caught. You tag Steve twice. You and Nat coordinate an ambush on Wanda. Sam sacrifices himself dramatically so you can make a break for the base.
And then it’s just you and Bucky again.
Final seconds ticking down.
You circle each other in the center platform, lights flashing red like a countdown. He moves left. You mirror him. Both of you grinning now, competitive fire sparking in your eyes.
“Call a truce?” he offers lightly.
“Never.”
He lunges.
You both fire.
The scoreboard flashes.
Tie.
The buzzer sounds.
Outside the arena, everyone’s loud and sweaty and arguing over stats. Sam insists the machines were biased. Steve looks proud of everyone like this was a moral victory somehow. Nat is already planning next week’s rematch.
bucky slowly realizing he can’t live without y/n? it creeps up on him so subtly he doesn’t even realize it, but suddenly his day doesn’t start until u walk into the room? or he can only concentrate once he knows ur safe? he doesn’t know when exactly u became his entire world and he’s a bit terrified of it bcuz of how easily he could lose u
There’s no lightning bolt, no cinematic swell of music, no single moment where Bucky Barnes wakes up and thinks, I can’t live without her.
It creeps in quietly. Patiently. Like dawn bleeding into the sky before you even realize the sun is up.
At first, it’s small things.
He notices that his coffee tastes better when you’re in the kitchen with him. Not because you add anything to it—he still drinks it black—but because you’re there, humming softly while you dig through the fridge, stealing sips from his mug when you think he’s not looking. He pretends not to see. Pretends not to wait for it.
But on mornings you sleep in? He finds himself standing at the counter longer than necessary, mug cooling in his metal hand, listening for your footsteps in the hall.
His day doesn’t feel like it’s started until you appear.
He tells himself it’s coincidence.
It isn’t.
He realizes it again during missions.
There was a time when Bucky could compartmentalize anything. He could put emotions in a locked box, shove it to the back of his mind, and focus solely on the objective. Clean. Efficient. Detached.
Now?
Now he checks his phone before every briefing.
Just to make sure you texted back.
Just to make sure you’re safe.
He doesn’t relax until he sees your name on the screen—some mundane message about groceries or a picture of the stray cat you’re trying to befriend. His shoulders loosen. His breathing evens out.
Only then can he concentrate.
Sam notices it before he does.
“You’re distracted,” Sam mutters one afternoon while they’re reviewing intel.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Bucky bristles automatically, jaw tightening. But when Sam raises a brow and glances pointedly at the phone in Bucky’s hand, Bucky feels something twist low in his gut.
He sets it down. Pushes it away.
He doesn’t pick it up again.
Not for fifteen whole minutes.
And then he checks it anyway.
It’s subtle at first, the way you become the axis his world turns on.
He starts timing his workouts so he’s home when you are. Starts grocery shopping for things you like without thinking about it. Starts leaving a light on if you’re coming back late because he doesn’t like the idea of you walking into a dark apartment.
He tells himself it’s just… consideration.
He doesn’t realize it’s devotion.
The first time it truly hits him is on a random Friday.
You’re late.
You said you’d be home by six.
It’s 6:17.
And Bucky is pacing.
He hates that he’s pacing.
His chest feels tight in a way he hasn’t felt in years—like something is pressing down on his ribs from the inside. He checks his phone. No new messages. He considers calling you, then stops himself. He doesn’t want to be overbearing.
You’re fine.
You’re fine.
You’re—
The lock clicks.
You walk in, shaking rain from your jacket, muttering about traffic and a flat tire and how your phone died halfway through the tow.
You barely get two steps inside before he’s in front of you.
“You okay?” His voice is rough, sharper than he means it to be. His hands hover at your shoulders like he’s afraid to grab you too tightly.
You blink at him. “Yeah? Buck, I’m fine.”
But he doesn’t breathe properly until he pulls you into his chest and feels the steady rhythm of your heart beneath his palm.
And that’s when it settles in.
The realization.
It’s quiet and terrifying and absolute.
His world doesn’t function right without you in it.
He doesn’t know when it happened.
He doesn’t know the exact moment you became the first thing he looks for in every room, the person his mind reaches for when things go wrong, the calm in the storm of his thoughts.
He just knows that somewhere along the way, you stopped being a part of his life and became the center of it.
And that scares the hell out of him.
Because Bucky Barnes knows loss.
He knows how easily things can be ripped away.
He knows what it’s like to wake up in a world where everything you love is gone.
The thought of that happening with you?
It makes him feel hollow.
He starts watching you differently after that; much more aware.
Of how you laugh when you’re half-asleep. Of how you chew your bottom lip when you’re thinking. Of the way your hand always finds his without looking.
He memorizes you.
Like if he learns every detail, he’ll somehow be able to keep you.
One night, you catch him staring.
“What?” you ask, smiling softly from where you’re curled against him on the couch.
He hesitates.
He doesn’t do vulnerable easily.
But this feels too big to swallow.
“I don’t remember when it happened,” he says quietly.
“When what happened?”
“When you became… everything.”
You go still.
His thumb brushes over your knuckles, metal cool against your warm skin.
“My day doesn’t start until I see you,” he admits. “I can’t focus unless I know you’re safe. If you’re late, I feel like I can’t breathe.” His jaw tightens. “And that’s— that’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” you whisper.
“For me.” He swallows. “Because I know how easy it is to lose things. I know how fragile good things are. And you…” His voice falters just slightly. “You’re the best thing I’ve got.”
You reach up, cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you.
“Bucky,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“No,” you agree softly. “But I can promise I’m here right now. And I choose you. Every day.”
The tightness in his chest eases, just a fraction.
He wraps his arms around you, holding you close like he’s grounding himself in something solid.
He may not know when you became his entire world.
He may never pinpoint the exact moment.
But he knows if loving you means being terrified of losing you, he’ll take that fear.
@matthieujehanno: Thanks again @imsebastianstan ! And congrats for your new movie with @renatereinsve, by @cristian_mungiu @fjordthefilm Video for the @carltoncannes
Have you seen those videos of people wearing clothes from the 40s/50s out in public??
What would Bucky do if he’s out one day and sees a fine thang walk by in 1940s attire?
Love you long time! You the bestestestest! 💕
OH MY GOD YESSSS!
-------
You don’t think much of it when you get dressed.
It’s just a dress. A pretty one, sure—soft fabric that cinches your waist just right, skirt flaring gently when you turn, the kind of silhouette that feels like it belongs to another time. You’d found it tucked into the back of a vintage shop, all delicate seams and careful tailoring, something that looks like it’s lived a life before you ever slipped it on.
You pair it with low heels, swipe on a little lipstick—nothing dramatic, just enough—and twist your hair up in a way you’d seen in an old photo once.
You feel… good.
That’s all it is.
---
Bucky notices you before he realizes why.
He’s halfway down the street, mind somewhere else entirely—groceries in one hand, the steady hum of the city grounding him in the present—when something pulls his attention like a thread snagging.
It’s not logical. Not at first.
Just a flicker of movement. The sway of fabric. The unmistakable silhouette of something—
Familiar.
His steps slow. His head turns. And then he sees you. But he doesn't just see you, he stares.
Because for one disorienting, breath-stealing second, the world tilts.
The city noise fades. The cars, the chatter, the glow of modern life—all of it dulls into the background as his brain scrambles to reconcile what he’s looking at.
You walk past him like you belong somewhere else entirely.
Like you stepped out of a memory he didn’t realize he still carried so vividly.
The dress. The shoes. The way your hair is pinned just so. Even the way you move—there’s a softness to it, a rhythm that feels pulled straight from the 40s, like something he used to see on crowded sidewalks in Brooklyn, back when everything smelled like cigarette smoke and fresh bread and possibility.
And you—
God, you.
You’re smiling to yourself about something, completely unaware of the effect you’re having, completely unaware that you’ve just knocked the air out of a hundred-year-old soldier.
Bucky stops walking entirely.
He just stands there.
Staring.
Because you look like something he lost.
And something he never thought he’d get to see again.
And also—very abruptly, very viscerally—like the most beautiful person he’s ever laid eyes on.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath.
You don’t hear him.
You keep walking.
And that’s what snaps him out of it.
Because no—no, absolutely not, he is not letting you just walk away like that.
He pivots on his heel so fast he nearly drops his groceries.
“Hey—!”
It comes out rougher than he intends. Louder, too.
You turn.
And that’s it.
That’s the moment everything fully clicks into place, because now he can see your face clearly—modern, present, undeniably you—paired with something that looks like it belongs in his past.
It hits him right in the chest.
Hard.
You blink at him, a little surprised, but not alarmed.
“Yeah?”
Your voice is normal. Casual. Grounding.
It helps.
A little.
Bucky drags a hand through his hair, trying to pull himself together, but he’s still looking at you like you’ve just walked out of a time machine.
“Uh—” he starts, then stops.
Great. Smooth.
You tilt your head slightly, the motion making the soft curls near your temple shift just enough to make his brain short-circuit again.
He exhales sharply through his nose.
“Where’d you get that?” he blurts out.
Your eyes flick down to your dress, then back up to him, amused.
“This?” you ask. “Vintage shop.”
Of course.
Of course it is.
He lets out a quiet huff of disbelief, shaking his head a little like he’s trying to clear it.
“You—” he gestures vaguely at you, like words are failing him completely. “You look like—”
He cuts himself off.
Because what was he going to say?
You look like every girl I ever noticed in 1943?
You look like something I used to dream about and never thought I’d see again?
You look like you don’t belong here and I don’t know how to deal with that?
Instead, he settles on something far less coherent.
“—you look incredible,” he finishes, a little quieter.
You blink.
Then smile.
And it’s not a shy smile, not really—it’s pleased. Warm. A little teasing, even.
“Thank you,” you say. “That was a lot of buildup for a simple compliment.”
His mouth twitches despite himself.
“Yeah, well,” he mutters, shifting his weight. “Kinda threw me off.”
“I can tell.”
There’s something about the way you say it—llike you’re trying to figure him out—that makes him straighten slightly.
Because now he’s noticing other things.
The way you’re looking at him.
The way you haven’t brushed him off or hurried away.
The way you’re still here.
And suddenly, the disorientation gives way to something else entirely.
Interest.
“Didn’t mean to yell at you on the street,” he adds, a little more composed now. “Just—haven’t seen that in a while.”
You hum softly.
“I figured,” you say. “You looked like you’d seen a ghost.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, low and surprised.
“Felt like it,” he admits.
There’s a beat of silence before you shift your weight, the skirt of your dress swaying gently with the movement, and he definitely notices that.
“So,” you say, glancing at the bag in his hand. “Did I interrupt something, or—?”
He looks down at his groveries like he forgot they existed.
Then back at you.
And makes a decision.
Fast.
“Nah,” he says, easy. “Can wait.”
Your brow lifts slightly.
“Groceries can wait?”
“For this?” he shrugs. “Yeah.”
Your lips press together like you’re trying not to smile too much.
“Bold.”
“Honest,” he corrects.
Another pause.
Then, softer, more intetional—
“Walk with me?”
He doesn’t know why he asks it like that.
Doesn’t know why it feels important.
Maybe it’s the dress. Maybe it’s the way you feel like something out of time. Maybe it’s the fact that, for the first time in a long time, something from his past doesn’t hurt to look at.
You glance down the street, then back at him.
“Okay,” you say.
Just like that.
Simple.
Easy.
When you fall into step beside him, your shoulder brushing his for half a second, Bucky realizes something quietly, steadily, and with surprising certainty.
You don’t look like the past.
Not really.
You just make him feel like maybe it wasn’t all lost.
Walk with me here…. Bucky x reader where the reader suffers from sleep paralysis. Bucky knows this but has never witnessed it. One night she has an episode and it looks like whatever she’s seeing is going to get Bucky. Once she gains control of her body again she throws herself on top of him. He wakes up and is concerned at first and then gets all soft because she was going to protect him.
There's a heaviness in your chest, like something has quietly decided to sit there. A strange awareness creeping in at the edges of your mind while your body refuses to follow. You know the feeling instantly, dread curling cold in your stomach before your eyes have even fully opened.
Not again.
You try to move your fingers first—always the fingers—but they don’t listen. Your breathing stays shallow, trapped, like even your lungs are hesitant to push too hard against whatever has you pinned.
Beside you, Bucky sleeps on, warm and solid and completely unaware, his arm draped loosely over your waist. His presence is usually enough to ground you. Usually enough to make the episodes shorter, quieter.
But tonight—
Tonight is different.
Because the moment your eyes fully open, you see it.
Standing at the edge of the room.
Too tall. Too still. Too wrong.
Your heart lurches violently against your ribs, panic slamming through you in a wave so strong you almost think it should break whatever hold this is. The shape doesn’t move, but you know—you know—it’s looking at you.
Watching.
Waiting.
No, no, no—
You try to speak. To call Bucky’s name. To do anything other than lie there helpless as your brain screams and your body betrays you.
Nothing comes out.
Your throat won’t work. Your jaw won’t move. You’re trapped behind your own eyes, forced to watch as the thing shifts.
It doesn’t walk.
It glides.
Closer.
Your vision blurs at the edges, tears gathering without falling, terror clawing up your spine as it crosses the room in slow, unnatural increments. Every instinct you have is screaming at you to move, to run, to do something—
But you can’t.
You can’t.
You can’t—
It stops at the side of the bed.
And then—
It tilts its head.
Toward Bucky.
Something inside you snaps.
No.
Not him.
Your fear fractures, reshapes, turns sharp and furious in your chest. The panic doesn’t disappear, but it changes—redirects—because whatever this is, whatever your mind is conjuring, it is not touching him.
Not Bucky.
Not yours.
You fight harder.
Every muscle strains, every nerve screaming as you try to force even the smallest movement. Your fingers twitch—barely—but it’s something. You cling to it, push harder, harder, harder—
The thing leans closer to him.
Your vision tunnels.
Your heart feels like it might explode.
Move.
Your arm jerks.
It’s weak, clumsy, but it’s real.
Move.
Your leg follows, then your shoulder, control snapping back into your body all at once like a rubber band finally breaking free—
And you lunge.
There’s no hesitation. No thought.
You throw yourself across Bucky, arms wrapping around him, pressing your body over his like a shield as if you can physically block whatever nightmare still lingers in your vision.
“Don’t—!” your voice finally works, raw and shaking. “Don’t touch him—”
Bucky startles awake beneath you.
Hard.
Years of training kick in instantly—his body tenses, metal arm shifting, ready to react—but it halts the second he registers you.
You.
On top of him.
Clinging.
Shaking.
“Hey—hey, doll—” his voice is rough with sleep and sudden alarm, hands coming up carefully, not pushing you off, just… holding. Grounding. “What’s goin’ on? You okay?”
You’re still half there, half not. Your eyes dart toward the side of the bed, expecting—
Nothing.
The room is empty.
Dark. Quiet. Safe.
Your breath stutters, coming too fast now, your grip on him tightening like you’re afraid if you let go, something will come back.
“It was—” your voice cracks. “It was here, Buck, it—” You swallow hard, shaking your head against his shoulder. “It was gonna hurt you.”
There’s a pause.
A beat where he processes that.
Then everythng about him softens
“Oh, baby…” His arms wrap around you properly now, pulling you closer, one hand cradling the back of your head as he tucks your face into his neck. “Hey, it’s okay. I got you. You’re alright.”
You cling to him harder.
“I couldn’t move,” you whisper, the words small, embarrassed despite everything. “I tried to wake you, I couldn’t—I thought—”
“I know.” His voice is gentler than you’ve ever heard it, steady and warm and there. “I know what it is. You told me, remember? Sleep paralysis.”
You nod against him, breath still uneven.
“It felt real,” you admit quietly. “It looked like it was coming for you.”
He huffs softly, not quite a laugh, pressing a kiss into your hair.
“Yeah?” he murmurs. “And what’d you do about it, huh?”
You hesitate.
Then, quieter, “I tried to protect you.”
That does something to him.
You feel it.
The way his chest rises a little deeper, the way his arms tighten around you—not in fear, not in tension, but something softer. Something fond.
“You threw yourself on top of me,” he says, voice low and almost… amused.
“I didn’t want it to get you,” you mumble.
There’s another pause.
And then he pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression impossibly soft, blue eyes warm even in the dim light.
“Doll,” he says gently, brushing his thumb under your eye where a tear finally escaped, “I’m a hundred years old, got a metal arm, and a body count that would make most people run for the hills.”
You sniff weakly.
“And you still decided you were gonna be my bodyguard?”
Your lips wobble despite yourself.
“I didn’t think about it,” you admit.
“I know you didn’t.”
He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering there.
“That’s what makes it so sweet.”
Your arms loosen slightly around him, the adrenaline finally starting to ebb, leaving you tired and a little shaky. He notices immediately, shifting so you’re not hovering over him anymore, guiding you gently down so you’re tucked against his side instead.
One arm stays wrapped around you.
The other pulls the blanket up higher.
Safe.
“Next time it happens,” he murmurs, voice quiet against your hair, “you don’t gotta protect me, alright?”
You hum faintly, not fully agreeing.
He smiles into your scalp, tightening his hold just a little.
“But…” he adds softly, “I gotta say, I don’t mind knowin’ you would.”
Your eyes finally close, exhaustion pulling you under for real this time, your breathing evening out as you settle into him.
And long after you’ve fallen asleep, Bucky stays awake for a while.
Just holding you.
Just thinking.
Because no one’s ever looked at him and decided, without hesitation, that he was worth protecting.
bucky barnes having a mental breakdown over his child asking for a tarantula for their birthday/christmas and having to deliver on the gift😂
Bucky Barnes has faced down gods, ghosts, and the worst parts of his own past.
None of that—none of it—prepared him for this.
“…a tarantula.”
You’re trying not to laugh. You really are. You deserve some kind of medal for the way you’re holding your face together right now, lips pressed tight, eyes watering just a little from the effort.
Across the kitchen island, Bucky looks like he’s just been informed of his own imminent demise.
“A—” he starts again, blinking hard, like maybe the word will change if he says it enough times. “A tarantula.”
Your daughter—sweet, bright, sunshine incarnate—nods enthusiastically from her seat, chin propped in her hands, kicking her feet against the stool.
“Yeah! They’re so cute, Daddy. And fuzzy.”
Fuzzy.
Bucky physically recoils.
You lose it for half a second, turning away under the guise of grabbing a glass of water, shoulders shaking as you silently laugh into the cabinet.
“She said fuzzy,” you manage, voice only slightly betraying you.
Bucky whips his head toward you, betrayal written all over his face. “You are not helping.”
“I’m helping emotionally,” you say, deadpan. “For her.”
“For her?” he repeats, voice climbing. “You’re laughing at me.”
“I am absolutely laughing at you.”
Your daughter frowns slightly, looking between the two of you. “Why are you being weird? It’s just a spider.”
Bucky stares at her like she’s speaking another language. “Just a—baby, that thing is the size of my hand.”
“Exactly!” she says, delighted. “Isn’t that cool?”
“No,” he says immediately. “No, it is not.”
You lean against the counter, watching this unfold like it’s the best sitcom you’ve ever seen.
Your husband, former assassin, super soldier, man who once ripped a car door off with his bare hands, is currently being psychologically dismantled by a third grader who wants a pet spider.
“Bucky,” you say gently, which is code for I’m about to make this worse, “it is her birthday. It’s a big one.”
He looks at you slowly. Narrowly.
“You’re on her side.”
“I’m on the side of joy,” you correct. “And education. And…arachnid appreciation.”
“I’m going to throw up.”
Your daughter gasps. “You promised I could pick anything!”
And there it is—the kicker.
Bucky had, in a moment of parental weakness and love, told her she could choose any present she wanted this year.
Any.
Thing.
He drags a hand down his face, looking like he regrets every decision that has ever led him to this exact moment.
“I thought you’d say, like…a bike,” he mutters. “Or a doll. Or a—something normal.”
“She is normal,” you say, nudging his arm. “She just has range.”
“I don’t want range,” he groans. “I want…goldfish.”
---
Three days later, you’re standing in a specialty pet store, and Bucky looks like he’s preparing for battle.
His shoulders are tense, jaw tight, eyes darting around like something might leap at him from every corner.
Your daughter, meanwhile, is practically vibrating with excitement, clutching his hand and dragging him toward a row of glass enclosures.
“Daddy, look! That one’s name is Cinnamon!”
Bucky stops dead in his tracks.
“I don’t want to know its name,” he says flatly.
“It already has one,” she insists.
“I reject it.”
You snort, crossing your arms as you lean against a display, fully entertained.
A store employee—far too cheerful for this situation—approaches, smiling brightly. “Looking for anything in particular?”
Your daughter beams. “A tarantula!”
Bucky makes a strangled noise.
The employee nods like this is completely normal. “Great choice. They’re actually very low maintenance.”
“Low maintenance,” Bucky repeats faintly, like he’s trying to convince himself this is survivable.
“They don’t need much handling,” the employee continues.
“Good,” Bucky blurts. “Great. Love that. No handling. Perfect.”
“They can live up to 20 years, though—”
Bucky freezes.
“Twenty,” he echoes, horror dawning.
You absolutely lose it this time, doubling over with laughter as he turns to you, wide-eyed.
“Twenty years?” he demands. “You didn’t tell me this was a long-term commitment.”
“It’s a pet,” you say, wiping your eyes. “What did you think, it expires in a week?”
“I thought maybe—” he gestures helplessly, “—shorter.”
Your daughter tugs on his sleeve. “Please, Daddy? I’ll take really good care of it. I promise.”
And that’s it.
That’s the moment he caves.
Because for all his dramatics, all his very real and very visible distress, there is nothing Bucky Barnes wouldn’t do for that little girl.
He exhales slowly, shoulders dropping.
“…fine,” he says.
She squeals, launching herself at him, arms wrapping around his waist.
“Thank you thank you thank you!”
He stiffens for half a second, then melts, wrapping his arms around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
“You’re lucky I love you,” he mutters.
“I know!”
---
The ride home is…tense.
The terrarium sits in the backseat, carefully secured, your daughter talking to it nonstop like it’s already her best friend.
“Hi, Cinnamon. I’m your mom now.”
Bucky grips the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
“Is it…moving?” he asks quietly.
You glance back. “Yes.”
He inhales sharply.
“Don’t tell me that.”
“You asked.”
“I didn’t want the truth.”
You reach over, squeezing his thigh, trying—failing—to be sympathetic.
“You’re doing great, babe.”
“I fought a war,” he says weakly. “I did not sign up for this.”
---
That night, you find him standing in the doorway of your daughter’s room, arms crossed, staring at the terrarium from a safe distance.
She’s asleep, curled up under her blankets, peaceful and happy.
The spider—Cinnamon—is…existing.
Bucky looks deeply unsettled.
“You gonna stand guard all night?” you ask, leaning against the frame beside him.
“Yes,” he says immediately.
You grin. “In case it makes a break for it?”
“In case it even thinks about it.”
You laugh softly, slipping your hand into his.
“You did good,” you tell him. “She’s gonna remember this forever.”
He glances down at you, some of the tension easing out of his expression.
“…yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He looks back at your daughter, then at the tank, then back at you.
“…I still hate it.”
“I know.”
“But she loves it.”
You squeeze his hand. “That’s kind of the point.”
He sighs, leaning his head lightly against yours.
“…if it gets out,” he says, voice low, serious, “we’re moving.”
bucky and reader trying to get pregnant but for some reason they can’t, and both of them individually think it is their fault (without communicating this guilt or sadness to the other). eventually one day late in the evening maybe after another negative pregnancy test, reader feels like she is failing bucky so she quietly confesses that she thinks there is something wrong with her but then bucky’s heart breaks bcuz he thinks there is something wrong with HIM, and they just reassure each other and happy ending pls <3
The bathroom light is too bright for this hour of the evening, sharp and clinical in a way that makes everything feel worse than it already does. It reflects off the tile, off the mirror, off the small white stick sitting on the edge of the sink like it’s something important instead of something that keeps breaking your heart.
Negative.
Again.
You don’t pick it up this time. You don’t flip it over like maybe the answer will change if you look at it from a different angle. You just stare at it, arms wrapped tight around your middle, like if you hold yourself together hard enough you won’t come apart.
The apartment is quiet. Bucky is in the living room—you can hear the faint murmur of the TV through the wall—but he hasn’t come to check on you yet. He never hovers. He gives you space, always, like he’s afraid of crowding you when you’re already hurting.
You know why.
Because every time this happens, he looks at you like it’s his fault.
And every time, you let him.
Just like you let him believe you’re okay.
Your throat tightens, the pressure building until it feels like it might choke you, and you press the heel of your hand against your mouth to keep the sound in. You don’t want him to hear. You don’t want him to come in and see you like this—again, always again—because you’re so tired of the way his face falls, the way guilt settles into his shoulders like something heavy and permanent.
You hate that he carries it.
You hate that you do too.
You close your eyes for a second, breathing through it, counting in your head the way you’ve learned to do when things get overwhelming. One, two, three—
You’re fine.
You’re going to be fine.
You just need a minute.
But the minute stretches, and the silence presses in, and the thought that’s been living in the back of your mind for months now finally pushes its way forward, loud and impossible to ignore.
What if it’s you?
What if there’s something wrong with you?
The idea settles in your chest like a stone, heavy and cold, and suddenly everything makes too much sense. All the negative tests. All the waiting. All the quiet disappointment that never quite gets spoken out loud.
You swallow hard, blinking rapidly, and finally reach for the test just so you can shove it into the trash, like getting rid of it might make the feeling go away too.
It doesn’t.
Nothing does.
When you step out into the hallway, the light from the living room spills toward you, warm and soft in contrast to the harsh brightness you just left behind. Bucky is stretched out on the couch, one arm thrown over his head, the other resting on his stomach, the TV flickering across his face in shades of blue and gold.
He looks up the second he hears you.
“Hey,” he says quietly, voice careful in a way that makes your chest ache. His eyes flick over your face, searching, and you can see the moment he understands. His expression softens, something sad slipping in around the edges. “C’mere.”
You hesitate for half a second, because if you go to him, you’re not sure you’ll be able to keep it together.
But you go anyway.
You always do.
He shifts to make room for you, sitting up just enough to pull you into his side, his arm coming around your shoulders automatically, tucking you in close like you belong there. Like you’re something to be protected.
“Hey,” he murmurs again, softer this time, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head, pressing a kiss into your hair. “It’s okay.”
The words hit something fragile inside you, and before you can stop it, you let out a shaky breath that sounds a little too close to a sob.
It’s okay.
It’s not, though.
It hasn’t been for a while.
You press your face into his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him, trying to ground yourself in it, but the thought won’t leave you alone now that it’s out in the open, circling and circling until it feels like it’s going to swallow you whole.
“Buck,” you whisper, your voice small against the fabric of his shirt.
His hold tightens immediately. “Yeah, doll?”
You don’t know how to say it.
You don’t know how to put something like this into words without breaking something between you, without confirming the fear that’s been eating at you for months now.
But you can’t keep it in anymore.
“I think…” Your voice catches, and you have to swallow hard before you can keep going. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”
The words hang in the air between you, fragile and terrible all at once.
For a second, everything goes very, very still.
And then Bucky’s hand freezes where it’s been rubbing slow circles against your arm.
“What?” he breathes.
You pull back just enough to look at him, and the expression on his face is enough to make your heart twist painfully in your chest. He looks…stricken. Like you’ve just said something that physically hurts him to hear.
“I just—” you start, your voice wavering despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “We’ve been trying for so long, and it’s just…nothing, and I keep thinking—maybe it’s me. Maybe I can’t—” You cut yourself off, your throat closing up around the rest of the sentence. “I feel like I’m failing you.”
The second the words leave your mouth, Bucky shakes his head hard, like he’s trying to physically reject them.
“No,” he says immediately, too fast, too sharp. “No, don’t—don’t say that.”
“But—”
“It’s not you,” he insists, his hands coming up to frame your face, forcing you to look at him. His eyes are wide, almost frantic. “Jesus, sweetheart, it’s not you.”
You blink at him, confused by the intensity in his voice. “Then what is it?”
His jaw tightens, something conflicted flashing across his expression before he looks away, like he can’t quite meet your eyes anymore.
“I thought…” he starts, then stops, dragging a hand through his hair in a frustrated motion. “I thought it was me.”
You stare at him.
“What?”
He lets out a humorless little huff, shaking his head. “All the stuff I went through. Hydra. The experiments. I figured they probably messed something up.” His voice drops, rough around the edges. “I thought I was the reason we can’t—”
“Bucky,” you breathe, your chest tightening painfully.
“I didn’t want to say anything,” he continues, the words coming faster now like he’s been holding them in for too long. “Didn’t want you to think I was…broken, or that I was the one keeping this from happening for us.”
Something in your chest cracks wide open.
All this time.
All this time, you’ve both been carrying the same fear, the same guilt, just in different directions.
And neither of you said anything.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, your hands coming up to cover his where they’re still holding your face. “Buck…”
His gaze finally meets yours again, and there’s so much vulnerability in it that it makes your heart ache.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I should’ve told you.”
“No,” you shake your head, tears slipping free despite your best efforts to hold them back. “No, I should’ve told you. I’ve been sitting there thinking I’m the problem, and you’ve been thinking the same thing, and we just…never talked about it.”
He exhales slowly, his forehead dropping forward until it rests against yours.
“Guess we’re both a little stubborn,” he murmurs.
You let out a watery laugh, the sound soft and shaky but real.
“Yeah,” you agree. “A little.”
For a moment, you just stay like that, breathing each other in, the weight of everything that’s been unspoken finally starting to lift, piece by piece.
“It’s not your fault,” you say softly, brushing your thumb over his cheek.
“It’s not yours either,” he replies just as gently.
The words settle into something warm and steady between you, replacing the cold uncertainty that’s been there for so long.
“We’ll figure it out,” he adds after a second, his voice firmer now, more certain. “Whatever it is. Together.”
Together.
The word wraps around you like something solid, something you can actually hold onto.
You nod, leaning in to press your lips to his, the kiss soft and lingering, full of something deeper than just comfort. It’s reassurance. It’s promise.
It’s hope.
When you pull back, he nudges his nose against yours, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“No more keeping this stuff from each other, okay?” he says.
“Okay,” you agree, your own smile coming a little easier now.
He presses one more kiss to your lips, then pulls you back into his arms, holding you close like he never plans to let you go.
And for the first time in a long while, the future doesn’t feel quite so heavy.
warnings: 18+ only, explicit smut, power imbalance (superhuman strength), morally gray reader, obsession/possession themes, manipulation, guilt kink vibes, furniture destruction (workout bench), rough sex (consensual), overstimulation, praise + control dynamics
summary: clark hires you off the books to help him control his strength in bed—because every partner before you has gotten hurt. you agree for the wrong reasons, pushing his limits on the workout bench until reinforced steel buckles and clark loses control. he thinks you’re saving him. you’re really making yourself the one thing he can’t walk away from.
a/n: biggest shoutout to @tw1sters for allowing me, a virgin chud of a clark girlie, into her stellar event. further shoutout to the wonderful @sparklingsin for this sexy ass banner. i'm still salivating. if this fic sucks it was not my fault (yes it was tf?) i wrote this in a fever dream for bucky and made it into a clark fic during a time of weakness. enjoy my frens
----------
The first time Clark Kent says it out loud, it’s in a voice so careful it barely disturbs the air between you.
“I need help.”
You pretend you don’t notice the way his hands are clenched behind his back—like he’s holding himself in place by sheer will alone. You pretend you don’t notice the way he keeps his weight distributed, controlled, as if he’s afraid the wrong shift might crack the concrete under his boots. You pretend you don’t notice the faint tremor under all that restraint.
Because if you look too closely, you’ll give yourself away.
And you can’t afford that.
Not when you’re already picturing the headline in your mind like a private little prayer.
Superman learns to be gentle.And you’re the only one he trusts enough to teach him.
The offer comes to you off the books, like a confession slid across a table instead of money.
A place. An hour. A promise that no one will know your name.
And then, after a pause that tastes like shame, the real truth:
“Every time I’ve tried,” he says, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder, “someone gets hurt.”
It’s not an admission that makes him smaller. It makes him terrifying in a new way—because he isn’t talking about bruises the way ordinary men do. He’s talking about physics. He’s talking about the reality that a good night can become a hospital visit if he forgets himself for half a second.
He swallows, and you watch his throat bob like he’s forcing down something sharp.
“I can’t—” He stops. Starts again. “I want to be… normal. With someone. I want to be able to let go without… without being afraid of what I’ll do.”
You nod like you’re a professional. Like your pulse isn’t kicking against your ribs.
“What exactly are you asking me to do?” you say.
He looks at you then, properly—blue eyes too honest, too bright. The kind of eyes that make people trust him with their lives.
“I want you to help me practice,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Control. Feedback. Limits.”
Practice.
Like this is a skill he can learn the way he learned flight. Like you can run drills until his body understands what his mind has been doing alone for too long.
You should say no.
You should tell him there are therapists for this, doctors, specialists who won’t get tangled up in the way your stomach drops at the idea of him losing control on top of you. You should tell him this is a terrible idea, morally and practically and in ways that will haunt him if it goes wrong.
Instead you ask, “Why me?”
His mouth opens. Closes.
Then, softly, “You didn’t flinch.”
A beat.
“You didn’t look at me like I’m a weapon.”
Another beat, the air humming with the effort it takes him to say it.
“You looked at me like I’m a person.”
You let your expression stay smooth, careful. You let him believe it.
Because the truth is uglier than that.
You didn’t flinch because you’re not afraid of him.
You’re hungry for him.
And you’ve always been the kind of person who learns best by touching the fire.
He takes you to the place he trains when he needs the world to stop looking at him.
It’s underground, somewhere beneath Metropolis, a hidden room carved out of bedrock and reinforced like a bunker. No windows. No cameras. Just fluorescent lights that cast everything in stark honesty.
There’s a heavy-duty workout bench bolted into the floor like an altar.
Steel frame. Thick padding. The kind of equipment built for gods who don’t want to accidentally kill anyone.
Clark stands in the center of the room with his hands at his sides, posture rigid, like he’s bracing for impact.
“I’ve never brought anyone here,” he says.
You circle the bench slowly, letting your fingertips ghost the worn edge of the padding. It’s been used. Punished. Tested.
“You’re trusting me with a lot,” you murmur.
He nods once, sharp. “I have to.”
There’s something about that—about his need, his honesty, his desperation to be safe—that makes you want to bite.
Not him. Not yet.
Just… the idea of it. The control. The power in being the one person he can’t do without.
You set your bag down on the floor and pull out what you brought: a small bottle of lube, a simple set of cuffs with soft lining, a piece of fabric that could be a blindfold or a gag depending on how you fold it.
His gaze flicks to each item like he’s cataloguing weapons.
“You came prepared,” he says quietly.
You shrug, like you’re casual. Like you didn’t spend last night imagining the exact shade of red his cheeks would turn when you put him on his knees.
“This is training,” you say. “Training needs structure.”
His nostrils flare. He looks away, then back, as if forcing himself to stay.
“What do you need from me?” he asks.
It’s the question that matters.
Consent isn’t just a checkbox with someone like him; it’s the only thing that makes this anything but catastrophic.
You step closer, closing the distance until you can feel the heat of him—sun-warm, steady, impossible.
“I need you to be honest,” you say. “If anything feels wrong, you tell me. Immediately.”
His jaw tightens. “I will.”
“I need you to listen,” you continue, voice even. “To my words. To my body. To what I say and what I don’t.”
His eyes track your mouth like it’s the most important thing in the room.
“And I need you to understand something,” you add, and let your gaze hold his until he can’t look away.
“This only works if you let me lead.”
His breath catches—just a little, but you see it.
“I can do that,” he says, like it’s a vow.
You smile faintly.
“Good,” you murmur. “Then we start slow.”
Slow is a lie you tell him so he’ll agree.
Slow is the way you get your hands on him.
You have him sit on the bench first, feet planted, posture too perfect. He looks like someone preparing for an interview, not someone about to be touched.
You stand between his knees and place your palms on his thighs through his sweats.
He stills like a statue.
“Breathe,” you remind him.
He inhales. Exhales.
You lean in, close enough that your voice can stay quiet and still reach him.
“Tell me what you’re afraid of,” you say.
His throat works. “Hurting you.”
“That’s the big picture,” you say gently. “I mean right now. In this moment.”
He hesitates.
Then, barely audible: “That if I start… I won’t be able to stop.”
Something inside you thrills, sharp and bright.
You tilt your head. “Is that what’s happened before?”
His eyes close for half a second, like he’s bracing against memory.
“Yes,” he admits. “Not… like this.” He gestures vaguely, to the room, to you, to the setup. “But I lose track. I forget. Everything feels too—too good and then—”
He cuts himself off, shame rolling off him in waves.
You slide your hands up his torso slowly, feeling the solid heat of muscle under fabric, the way his body reacts even when his mind is trying to be polite.
“Then we build a system,” you say. “We make it so you don’t have to rely on fear to stop you. You rely on me.”
His eyes open, blue and raw.
“You’ll tell me to stop,” he says.
“Yes.”
“And if I can’t—”
“Then we use tools.” You lift the cuffs slightly, letting them glint under the lights. “We use limits that aren’t negotiable in the moment.”
His gaze drops to them. He swallows.
“Do you want that?” you ask.
It matters that he chooses it.
He nods once.
“Yes.”
You step back, and his shoulders visibly loosen with the permission.
“Good,” you say. “Stand up.”
He does immediately.
You move behind him, fingers brushing his wrists as you guide his hands back.
He tenses for a second—instinct, not refusal—and you feel the war inside him: power vs surrender.
“Clark,” you say softly.
He stills.
“I’m going to cuff you,” you tell him. “Not because I don’t trust you. Because you don’t trust yourself.”
His breath shudders.
“Okay,” he whispers.
You loop the cuffs around his wrists and secure them to the bench’s anchor points. He tests them automatically—gentle pressure. The bench doesn’t budge.
His eyes flick to you, uncertain.
“You’re stuck,” you say, voice calm. “And that’s the point.”
Something like relief crosses his face, quickly buried.
You step around him to face him again.
“Say your safe word,” you instruct.
He frowns. “We need one?”
“Yes,” you say, and don’t let him argue. “Pick something you won’t say by accident.”
His lips part. He thinks.
“Starling,” he says finally.
A strange choice. A soft one.
You nod. “Starling means everything stops immediately. No questions.”
He nods too, solemn.
Then you touch him.
Just a fingertip along his jaw, the edge of his mouth, the curve of his throat.
He inhales like he’s been starving.
“Tell me where you hold the most tension,” you murmur.
“My shoulders,” he says, voice strained.
You slide your hands up, kneading the thick muscle there, feeling how hard he is even while he tries to relax.
“Good,” you say. “We start by making you feel good without making you lose control.”
He lets out a shaky laugh.
“That seems… unlikely,” he admits.
You smile, slow.
“That’s why you hired me.”
You take your time undressing him, not because you’re kind, but because every second he has to wait is a lesson.
Patience. Control. Listening.
His shirt comes off first, folded neatly like he still thinks he’s in danger of wrinkling it. His skin is warm, gold under the lights, covered in faint marks that look like they came from things trying and failing to hurt him.
You trail your fingers along one of them, and his chest rises sharply.
“Sensitive?” you ask.
“Everywhere,” he admits. “I… I feel things strongly.”
You hum, pleased.
His pants come next. His boxer briefs after that.
When he’s bare, he looks almost embarrassed by how perfect he is—like it’s an accident he keeps apologizing for.
His cock is already hard, thick and heavy against his abdomen, and the sight of it makes your mouth go dry.
You don’t touch it yet.
Instead you undress yourself slowly, letting him watch. Letting his eyes take you in like he’s afraid if he blinks, you’ll vanish.
You climb onto the bench carefully, straddling his lap. The cuffs pull his arms back just enough to keep him open, vulnerable.
His breath catches when your bare skin meets his.
“Okay,” you say softly, hands on his shoulders. “Rule one: you don’t move unless I tell you.”
His eyes widen. “I—”
“Do you understand?” you press.
He swallows hard. “Yes.”
“Good,” you whisper, and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
He trembles.
You reach down, wrap your hand around him once, just enough to make him jerk.
He sucks in air like he’s drowning.
“Still,” you remind.
He goes rigid, fighting himself.
You slick him with your palm and then lift slightly, guiding him to your entrance.
He looks at you like you’re about to save him.
“Tell me if you’re okay,” you say.
“I’m okay,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “Are you?”
You smile.
“I’m better than okay.”
And then you sink down onto him.
He makes a sound that doesn’t belong to someone who is also supposed to be Superman.
It’s too broken, too needy—like something inside him finally snapped in the right direction.
You set your hands on his chest, feel the thunder of his heart under your palms, and move slowly.
For a few minutes, it almost feels gentle.
Almost.
His restraint is visible, the way he holds himself back like he’s gripping a wild animal by the throat. He stays still when you tell him. He bites down on every instinct to thrust up into you.
You roll your hips, take him deeper, and he shudders so hard the bench creaks.
“Good,” you murmur. “That’s good control.”
His laugh is breathless. “I’m trying.”
“I know,” you say, and lean down to drag your mouth along his throat.
He goes taut.
Your teeth graze his skin—just a hint—and he gasps, eyes squeezing shut.
“Still,” you warn.
He obeys.
You should be proud.
Instead you feel the ache of temptation, the way you want to push—just to see what happens when he breaks.
You pull back, meet his gaze.
“Tell me what you want,” you say.
His eyes are bright, desperate. “You.”
“That’s not specific enough,” you tease.
He swallows.
“I want to move,” he admits. “I want to—fuck, I want to take control.”
You tilt your head. “And what happens when you do?”
His jaw clenches, shame flashing. “I don’t know.”
“That’s why we’re here,” you say softly, and then, like kindness, “We’ll do it in steps.”
But the truth is you’ve already decided.
You don’t want to fix him.
You want to be the line he crosses and can’t uncross.
You shift your hips faster, riding him with more intent, your breath starting to hitch. His eyes track your movement like he’s trying to memorize it—like he’s afraid he’ll never get this again.
“Clark,” you breathe, and his focus snaps to you instantly.
“Yes?”
“You’re doing so well,” you praise, and feel his whole body tense at the words. Praise hits him like a drug.
You smile at that. File it away.
Then you press a hand to his jaw, force him to look at you.
“I’m going to let you move,” you say. “But you have to listen. If I say stop, you stop.”
His breath is ragged. “I will.”
“If I say slow down, you slow down.”
“Yes.”
“If I say ‘Starling,’ everything ends.”
He nods hard.
You hold his gaze another beat, as if you’re making sure he means it.
Then you shift your weight forward, bracing your hands on the bench near his shoulders, and whisper:
“Okay.”
“Move.”
The change is instant.
Clark’s hips drive up like he’s been shot out of a cannon—and then he catches himself, stops mid-thrust with a strangled sound. His muscles are shaking with effort, his face tight with restraint.
He looks at you like he’s waiting for punishment.
You moan instead.
“Good,” you gasp. “Yes—like that, but slower.”
He forces himself down to something controlled, something almost human.
Almost.
The bench groans again under the new rhythm, the metal complaining in stressed little screams.
You wrap your legs tighter around him, taking him deeper, and his breath breaks.
“You feel—” he chokes, eyes wild. “You feel so good.”
“I know,” you pant. “Stay with me.”
He nods, jaw clenched, and keeps moving.
It’s still controlled, still careful—until you tilt your hips just right and a sound tears out of him, raw and helpless.
His thrust stutters.
You feel the edge of him slipping.
And you—god help you—you lean into it.
“Clark,” you moan, and his eyes snap to yours.
“Don’t hold back from me,” you say, soft as a sin. “I can take it.”
He freezes.
“That’s—” he starts, panic flickering. “That’s not—”
“You hired me because everyone else got hurt,” you whisper, lips close to his. “Let me be different.”
It isn’t fair. You know it isn’t.
But you watch the words land like a match in dry tinder.
His control wavers.
He swallows hard. “Are you sure?”
You nod, slow. “Yes.”
You are sure of one thing only:
You want him ruined.
You want him addicted.
You want him looking at you like the only safe place he’s ever had.
You shift again, and he groans like he’s in pain.
His thrusts speed up, heavier now, the force behind them increasing. The bench starts to shudder under you, bolts vibrating.
“Slower,” you tell him, testing.
He slows—barely.
“Good,” you murmur, and then you give him what he really needs: permission dressed up like trust.
“That’s it,” you whisper. “Use me.”
A sound rips out of him—too raw, too broken.
His hips drive up harder.
The bench squeals, metal legs flexing under stress that wasn’t meant to exist.
You brace yourself on his chest, fingers digging in.
He looks at you like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing he can grab.
“I’m going to—” he gasps, panic rising. “I’m going to lose it.”
“Then lose it,” you breathe, and roll your hips to meet him.
He tries to stop. You feel it—the way his body fights, the way he attempts to pull back, to slow down, to do the right thing.
But you keep moving.
You keep coaxing.
You keep whispering the exact kind of praise that makes him unravel.
“Good,” you moan. “So good, Clark—God, you’re perfect—just like that—”
His restraint snaps.
Clark’s thrusts turn brutal, unstoppable. The room fills with the sound of skin meeting skin, the bench crying out under every impact.
The reinforced steel legs buckle with a sharp, violent shriek.
The entire frame dips.
Padding tears with a ripping sound like fabric giving up.
You yelp, startled, but his hands—still cuffed, still restrained—flex helplessly as his body surges upward again, chasing you like he’s lost the ability to think.
“Clark!” you gasp, half warning, half name-saying prayer.
He looks wrecked, eyes blown wide, mouth open in a sound that’s more animal than man.
“I can’t stop,” he chokes.
You should say Starling.
You should end it.
Instead you hook your legs tighter and pull him deeper.
“Then don’t,” you whisper.
The bench gives another sickening groan, steel joints cracking under pressure. One of the anchor bolts shears clean off with a metallic snap, skittering across the floor.
Clark makes a broken sound and slams up into you again, harder, the force rattling your teeth.
The pleasure is too sharp, too intense, turning your limbs weak. It feels like being claimed by something holy and catastrophic.
Your body takes it because you told him it could.
Because you wanted this.
Because you wanted to be the proof that he can lose control and still not destroy the person beneath him.
His breath is a ragged roar in your ear. “Tell me to stop,” he begs, even as he keeps moving. “Please—tell me to stop.”
You bite your lip, eyes stinging with the strange, vicious tenderness of it.
“Look at me,” you demand.
He drags his gaze to yours, frantic, guilty, desperate.
“You’re not hurting me,” you lie—because you can feel bruises blooming already, can feel the way tomorrow will ache, can feel the risk like a thrill under your skin.
“You’re making me come,” you say instead, and watch something shatter in his face.
His thrusts turn feral.
The bench finally gives up completely.
Steel legs fold inward with a violent crunch. Padding splits, foam spilling out like a wound. The entire structure collapses under you, dropping you both a few inches onto the floor with a crash that echoes through the bunker.
Clark freezes instantly—panic flashing so hard it’s almost blinding.
“Oh my God,” he gasps. “Are you—”
You grab his face with both hands.
“Don’t you dare leave me,” you snap, voice shaking.
He stills, eyes wide.
“I’m here,” he whispers, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks. “I’m here.”
You’re still straddling him despite the ruined bench, still full of him, heat pooling between you. The cuffs pull at his wrists awkwardly, but he doesn’t even seem to notice them—he’s too focused on you, on the fact that you’re breathing.
“Move,” you tell him, softer now. “Finish.”
His throat works. “I—”
“Clark,” you murmur, and tilt your hips just enough to make him shudder. “You can. I’m right here.”
He exhales like surrender.
Then he starts again—slower now, careful, shaking with the aftershock of fear and need. His control returns in pieces, as if the crash sobered him.
His eyes never leave your face.
“Tell me if it hurts,” he begs.
“It hurts,” you admit, because honesty matters now, when the danger is real.
His whole body locks. “Starling?”
You swallow, pulse racing.
You could stop.
You should stop.
Instead you shake your head.
“It hurts because you’re real,” you whisper. “Because you’re—because you’re you.”
His face crumples, relief and desire twisting together.
You roll your hips, slower, meeting him halfway. You make it something you can both survive.
When you come, it’s with your forehead pressed to his, your hands cupping his jaw like you’re holding him together. Your whole body clenches, and Clark makes a sound like grief as he tries not to move too hard.
“Good,” you whisper shakily, breathless. “Good—there, just like that—”
He loses himself again, but this time it’s not violent.
It’s desperate.
He comes with a broken sob, hips jerking up, eyes squeezed shut, face twisted like he can’t believe he’s allowed to feel this.
When it’s over, he goes still—shaking, breathing hard, the cuffs still holding his wrists back like a reminder that he can’t take what he wants unless someone gives it.
You stay on him, chest rising and falling, listening to his heart slam against his ribs like it wants out.
Slowly, he opens his eyes.
They’re wet.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers immediately. “The bench—I—”
You touch his cheek, thumb smearing the corner of his mouth.
“It’s just a bench,” you say.
His laugh is a broken thing. “It was reinforced.”
“And you’re Superman,” you reply softly, like it explains everything and nothing.
He looks past you at the wreckage—steel twisted, foam spilling, bolts scattered. His face tightens, shame starting to rise again.
“I shouldn’t have—”
You interrupt him by pressing your mouth to his.
It’s not gentle.
It’s a claim.
He kisses you back like he’s starving.
When you pull away, you keep your forehead against his.
“You didn’t hurt me,” you say again, firmer this time. “You scared yourself. There’s a difference.”
He swallows. “I lost control.”
“You listened when I told you to slow down,” you remind him. “You asked permission. You checked on me. You stopped when the bench broke.”
His breath shudders. “Because I thought I’d killed you.”
You smile faintly, wicked and soft all at once.
“But I’m here,” you say. “And you’re here. And you’re not alone in this.”
Something shifts in him at those words—something that looks suspiciously like hope.
And you hate how much you like being the one to put it there.
He stares at you like you’re a miracle.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
You could tell him the truth right then.
That you didn’t come here to fix him.
That you came here because you wanted to be the one person he couldn’t forget. The one person his body would learn as safe, not because you’re a saint, but because you’re selfish enough to want the weight of him.
Instead you brush your thumb over his lower lip and say, “We can keep training.”
His eyes widen, earnest. “You’ll come back?”
You lean in, mouth close to his ear.
“That depends,” you murmur.
“On what?”
You pull back just enough to look at him, let him see the edge of your smile.
“On whether you can handle the fact that I’m not doing this for free,” you say.
His brow furrows. “You named a price.”
You hum. “Not that kind of payment.”
He blinks—confused, vulnerable.
You kiss him again, slower now, letting it sink in.
“When you start to trust me,” you whisper against his mouth, “you don’t get to decide you’re better off without me.”
His breath catches.
It’s an ugly thing to say. Possessive. Sharpened by intent.
He should flinch.
He doesn’t.
He looks at you like you just handed him permission to stop running.
“I don’t want to be without you,” he admits, voice shaking.
The words land in your chest like a trophy.
Good.
You ease off him carefully, body aching, and reach up to undo the cuffs. Your fingers brush his wrists, already reddening from the strain of holding him back.
His hands come free, and for a second he just stares at them like he doesn’t trust them.
Then he cups your face with both palms—so gentle it’s almost reverent.
“I thought I couldn’t have this,” he whispers. “I thought it would always be—dangerous.”
You swallow, throat tight.
“It is dangerous,” you say honestly.
His eyes flicker. “Then why—why would you—”
Because you want to be wanted by something that could destroy you.
Because you want him tethered to you by guilt and need and the memory of how good it felt to finally let go.
Because you want to be the pretty little casualty he can’t walk away from.
You don’t say any of that.
You just press your hand over his heart and feel it hammering.
“Because you’re worth the risk,” you lie, and watch his face soften like you’ve given him everything.
He kisses your knuckles, careful.
Then he looks over your shoulder at the wrecked bench again, and a hysterical little laugh escapes him.
“I’m going to have to replace that,” he says, voice hoarse.
You glance back at the twisted steel and torn padding, the foam spilling like snow.
“Consider it progress,” you say.
He shakes his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—relief and awe mixed together.
Then his gaze returns to you, and the smile fades into something deeper.
“I can’t—” he starts, then stops, as if he’s afraid to name it.
“Can’t what?” you ask softly.
He steps closer, slow like he’s approaching a wild animal.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he admits. “Even before—before tonight. I—”
He laughs once, bitter at himself.
“I thought I was being selfish. Wanting someone. Wanting this.”
You tilt your head, feigning curiosity while your stomach flips with satisfaction.
“And now?” you ask.
His eyes burn into yours.
“Now I think I’ve been starving,” he says.
You let the words sit there, heavy and hot.
Then you step into him, press your body against his, feel the way he goes still like he’s afraid to break you even with a touch.
You reach up, thread your fingers through his hair, and pull his mouth down to yours.
“Then eat,” you whisper.
His hands slide to your waist, shaking.
“Are you sure?” he asks again, like it’s his religion now.
You smile.
“Yes,” you say, and mean it in the worst way.
Because he thinks this is the beginning of his control.
And maybe it is.
But it’s also the beginning of something else—something messier, darker, more tangled.
A need he’ll start to associate with your voice, your touch, your permission.
A tether that will tighten every time he comes apart in your hands and finds you still there afterward, warm and breathing and refusing to be scared.
You kiss him until his control starts to fray again, and you feel the moment it happens—the instant his body remembers what it did to that bench, the instant guilt rises like a tide.
You pull back and cup his face.
“Look at me,” you say.
He does immediately.
“You’re not a monster,” you tell him.
His eyes shimmer.
“And you’re not alone,” you add, softer. “Not anymore.”
He exhales like a man being forgiven.
Then he pulls you into his arms, careful as a prayer, and holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored to the world.
You close your eyes against his shoulder, smiling to yourself.
Because this is the part he doesn’t understand yet:
You’re not here to save him from himself.
You’re here to make sure he never finds his way back out of you.
Reader and Bucky have been together for a couple months now but he’s never been able to make her cum until he finally does and it’s easily his greatest achievement and he thinks it’s sooooo hot🤪🤪
For the first two months of your relationship, Bucky treats your pleasure like a mission he cannot quite complete.
Not because he doesn't care.
Quite the opposite.
The man is absurdly attentive.
He remembers how you take your coffee, which side of the bed you prefer, the exact brand of shampoo you use. He notices when you're tired before you do. He can tell from a single glance whether you've had a good day or a bad one.
And when it comes to intimacy?
The effort he puts in should honestly be studied.
He's patient. Gentle. Eager. Always asking what you like, always paying attention, always trying.
The problem is that your body has never exactly cooperated with anyone before.
It's not unusual for you. You've spent years assuming that getting all the way there just wasn't something that happened easily for you. You've had partners who got frustrated. Others who stopped trying altogether.
Bucky never does.
Not once.
Every time you're together, his only concern is making sure you feel good.
Every single time he notices you getting discouraged, he cups your face and kisses your forehead and says, "Hey. No pressure, sweetheart."
Which somehow makes you love him even more.
Bucky starts treating the whole thing like a puzzle he hasn't solved yet. Not in a way that makes you feel pressured—if anything, he's careful to make sure you never do—but you know him well enough to recognize that particular look in his eyes. It's the same expression he gets when he's trying to assemble furniture without instructions or when someone tells him something can't be done. Determined. Focused. Completely unwilling to give up.
"You're thinkin' too hard."
His head snaps up from where he's stretched across the couch. "I am not."
"You absolutely are."
"I am not."
"You got the face."
Bucky narrows his eyes. "What face?"
"The mission face."
The look of personal offense that crosses his features nearly makes you laugh. "There is no mission face."
"There is."
"There isn't."
"There really is," you insist, and by then you're already giggling. Bucky responds by hauling you into his lap with a dramatic grumble, burying his face against your shoulder while muttering about betrayal.
Somehow, that's what changes everything.
Not that night, and not even the next. There isn't some magical breakthrough or sudden discovery. Instead, the pressure simply fades away over time. The two of you stop treating intimacy like something with a finish line and start enjoying it for exactly what it is: being close to each other.
Somewhere along the way, it stops being about what might happen and becomes about the way Bucky looks at you like you're the best thing that's ever happened to him. The way he presses sleepy kisses to your forehead before either of you are fully awake. The way his face lights up whenever you walk into a room. The way he touches you so carefully sometimes, as if you're something precious he's still amazed he gets to hold.
Safe.
Wanted.
One rainy evening, curled together beneath tangled blankets while the steady patter of rain taps against the windows, something finally clicks.
There's no expectation hanging over the moment. No goal. No pressure. Just warmth, comfort, and the overwhelming certainty that you're loved exactly as you are.
At first, you barely notice the shift. Only that something feels different. Your breath catches. Your fingers tighten against his shoulders. Then suddenly the feeling rushes over you so unexpectedly that a startled laugh slips out before you can stop it.
Bucky freezes.
His eyes go wide.
"Were you laughing?"
You can hardly form a sentence. "No."
"You were."
"I wasn't."
"You absolutely were."
Then you watch realization begin to spread across his face in real time. First confusion. Then suspicion. Then hope.
And finally pure disbelief.
His mouth actually falls open.
"Wait."
You immediately start laughing again.
"Bucky—"
"No, wait."
Both of his hands cup your face as though he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go. His eyes are enormous.
"Doll."
"Oh my God."
"Doll."
The grin stretching across his face grows wider by the second.
"DID THAT JUST HAPPEN?"
You immediately hide your face in your hands.
"Bucky—"
"IT DID!"
His voice cracks with excitement. He actually sits upright, pointing at you like he's presenting evidence to a jury.
"You did!"
"Oh my God, stop."
"You did!"
"Bucky!"
The man looks like he just won the lottery. His grin is so wide his cheeks have to hurt.
"I am gonna frame this moment."
"You cannot frame an orgasm."
"I'm gonna find a way."
"Bucky."
"I'm tellin' Sam."
"If you tell Sam, I'll kill you."
He nods immediately. "Fair."
Still grinning like an idiot, he flops back onto the mattress beside you. You shove his shoulder, fighting your own smile.
"You're ridiculous."
"I know."
The teasing remains in his expression, but something softer slowly settles underneath it. The excitement doesn't disappear—it probably never will—but now there's something emotional woven through it, too.
Something that makes your chest ache.
Because when he looks at you, he suddenly looks close to tears.
"You happy?"
The question catches you completely off guard.
He isn't asking about his performance or about himself. He's checking in on you.
And that's when you understand what this has really been about all along.
Not his ego. Not some personal accomplishment. Not proving that he could.
He simply wanted you to experience something you'd always felt was out of reach. He wanted you to know you deserved good things. Wanted you to feel cared for, cherished, and loved.
Wanted you to be happy.
Your eyes sting unexpectedly.
"Yeah."
Bucky notices immediately.
"Hey."
His fingers slip between yours.
"You okay?"
You nod.
"Yeah."
Your voice comes out softer this time.
"Just happy."
The smile that spreads across his face could power an entire city.
"There she is."
You roll your eyes. "There who is?"
"My girl."
Your heart doesn't stand a chance.
Because despite all the celebrating, despite the fact that he's clearly treating this like the greatest achievement of his life, what matters most to him is still you. It always has been.
Bucky pulls you against his chest and wraps both arms around you. You settle there, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat while the rain continues outside.
Several minutes pass before he breaks the silence.
"So."
You groan immediately.
"No."
"I'm just saying—"
"No."
"I think this officially qualifies me as an Avenger-level hero."
You bury your face against his shoulder while his laughter rumbles through his chest.
And even though he's absolutely going to spend the next six months acting like he deserves a medal for this, you find you don't mind nearly as much as you should.
Because he's smiling.
You're smiling.
And somewhere inside that ridiculous head of his, James Buchanan Barnes is probably already designing the trophy.
Reader always falling asleep next to Bucky, yes. BUT. Hear me out okay, Bucky always falling asleep next to reader. Pre-relationship. All reader has to do is be in the same room as Bucky and he's out like a light. It becomes comical because the team tries to figure out who it is and stay w Bucky alone to see if he falls asleep, but it's not until he's sitting alone with reader that he passes out within the minute. The team thinks it's funny, Bucky is embarrassed, but reader thinks it's cute and gets him to start sleeping in her room so he can sleep properly 😋😋
It truly was an acccident.
You’re in the common room late one night, curled up on one end of the couch with a blanket tucked around your legs and a file open on your tablet. The compound is quiet in that rare, fragile way it only ever is past midnight. You hear the soft, familiar whir of servos before you see him.
“Can’t sleep?” you ask without looking up.
Bucky grunts something noncommittal and drops onto the opposite end of the couch. He’s fresh from a shower, hair damp and pushed back, wearing gray sweats and a black Henley that stretches across his shoulders. He smells like clean soap and something warm and distinctly him.
You hum in acknowledgment, keep scrolling.
It’s less than three minutes before you glance over and realize his head has tipped back against the cushions, mouth parted slightly, breathing slow and even.
You blink.
“Barnes?”
No response.
You lean closer. He’s out cold.
You stare at him for a second, then snort quietly to yourself. He had been tense when he walked in, shoulders tight like piano wire. Now he looks… soft. Younger. Peaceful in a way you don’t get to see often.
You slide the blanket off your legs and drape it over him instead.
The next night it happens again.
And the next.
It becomes a pattern so quickly it’s almost ridiculous. You’re in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while he nurses a cup of tea? He’s asleep at the table before it cools. You’re on the training mats stretching after a workout? He sits down “just for a minute” and is snoring softly within five. You’re on the Quinjet, shoulder brushing his, and he’s gone before takeoff.
The first time Sam notices, he nearly chokes on his drink.
“Man,” he says slowly, eyes bouncing between you and the unconscious super soldier slumped in his chair, “I have never seen him do that.”
“What?” you ask innocently.
“Sleep. Like that.”
You glance at Bucky. He’s folded in on himself in one of the common room armchairs, chin tucked to his chest, looking so deeply asleep it borders on absurd.
“Maybe he’s tired,” you shrug.
“Uh-huh,” Sam says, squinting.
Natasha catches on next.
She tests it.
One evening, she corners Bucky in the kitchen while you’re still in the gym. She talks to him about mission reports, about old Hydra intel, about nothing at all. She even sits him down on the couch and lowers her voice to that smooth, soothing cadence she uses on frightened witnesses.
He doesn’t so much as yawn.
You walk in ten minutes later, towel around your neck, cheeks flushed from sparring.
“Hey,” you say, smiling when you see them.
Bucky looks up at the sound of your voice.
And promptly passes out mid-sentence.
Natasha stares at him.
Then at you.
“Oh,” she breathes.
Within a week it’s a full-blown investigation.
Clint tries keeping Bucky company in the rec room. Steve insists on staying up with him one night to “see what’s going on.” Sam even suggests it might be some weird delayed serum side effect.
Nothing.
Bucky stays stubbornly, frustratingly awake with everyone else.
But the second you’re alone with him?
Lights out.
The breaking point comes during movie night.
The whole team is sprawled across the couches. Bucky is sitting ramrod straight on one end, clearly determined to prove a point. He even says as much.
“I’m not tired,” he mutters, jaw tight.
You bite your lip to keep from smiling and sit beside him anyway. Not touching. Just close enough that your knees almost brush.
The movie starts.
Thirty seconds later, his head tips sideways.
And lands squarely on your shoulder.
The room erupts.
Sam howls. Clint actually applauds. Natasha hides her smirk behind her hand. Even Steve’s lips twitch.
Bucky jerks upright, horrified. “I wasn’t— I didn’t—”
“You were snoring,” Sam informs him gleefully.
“I was not!”
“You absolutely were,” Clint says. “Like a tiny chainsaw.”
You’re laughing now, warmth blooming in your chest as Bucky’s ears turn pink.
“It’s not funny,” he grumbles, refusing to look at you.
It is funny.
But it’s also… something else.
Because you’ve started to notice the details. The way his breathing evens out almost immediately when you’re near. The way his shoulders drop. The way the constant, subtle vigilance that hums beneath his skin finally goes quiet.
It hits you one evening when it’s just the two of you in your room.
He hadn’t meant to come in. He was pacing the hall after a nightmare, trying not to wake anyone. You’d opened your door at the sound of his footsteps.
“You okay?” you’d asked softly.
He hesitated.
Then nodded, once.
“C’mere,” you’d said, stepping aside.
He perches on the edge of your bed like he’s afraid it might bite him. You sit cross-legged across from him, close but not touching.
“You don’t have to stay,” he says roughly.
“I know.”
You talk about nothing. About the new recruits. About a recipe Sam ruined. About the weather.
His eyelids start to droop.
You watch it happen in real time.
“Buck,” you murmur gently.
He blinks at you, trying to fight it.
“You’re safe,” you tell him, because you think maybe that’s the key. “You can sleep.”
It’s like someone flips a switch.
He sways once.
Then slumps forward, forehead pressing lightly against your shoulder as he goes completely limp.
You freeze for a second.
Then slowly, carefully, you ease him down against your pillows and pull the comforter over him.
He doesn’t stir.
The next morning, the team finds him there.
In your bed.
Still asleep.
Sam leans against the doorway, grinning. “Well. Mystery solved.”
Bucky groans and buries his face in your pillow. “Kill me.”
You just smile, brushing your fingers gently through his hair.
“Or,” you say sweetly, “you could just start sleeping in here.”
His eyes flick up to yours, wary but hopeful.
“You serious?”
“Seems like you only sleep when I’m around,” you shrug. “Might as well get a full night out of it.”
There’s a beat.
Then, slowly, shyly, he nods.
The team never lets him live it down.
But that night—and every night after—Bucky falls asleep within minutes of you climbing into bed beside him.
