I have a fluff request thats been running around my brain for a while now. I'd imagine Bucky would sleep talk and usually it's out of discomfort or pain because of his nightmares and stuff. But what if one night it's random and actually funny because he's just spitting out bullshit and we're staring at him like 'wtff?'. Like he makes no sense to the point where we have ti whip out the notes app to write this pure comedy down. Bonus if we bully him about it for the next week :)
I love your writing and hope you're doing well 💕
Bucky doesn’t usually sleep talk in a fun way.
Most nights, if he does make noise, it’s clipped breaths or half-words pressed through his teeth, brows knitting together as if his dreams have weight. You’re used to it—used to the way your hand slides to his chest automatically, grounding him, whispering his name until his breathing evens out again.
So when he mumbles something at two-thirty in the morning, you’re already halfway awake, body tensing out of instinct.
“…no, that’s—” he huffs, lips moving against the pillow. “That’s not structurally sound.”
You blink.
Once. Twice.
Your eyes flick to his face. He’s still dead asleep—mouth slack, lashes resting against his cheeks, one arm flung over your waist like he’d drag you back if you dared escape.
“…Bucky?” you whisper.
He snorts softly. “If you add glitter, it compromises the integrity.”
You clamp a hand over your mouth.
Because that is—absolutely not a nightmare sentence.
You hold your breath, listening. His face scrunches like he’s deeply offended by whatever dream-logic he’s dealing with.
“I told you,” he mutters, voice suddenly stern. “Chunky glitter only. The fine stuff is—” a pause, a tiny sigh. “—a betrayal.”
You lose it.
The mattress shakes with the effort of holding in laughter. Your shoulder jerks, and Bucky grunts, tightening his arm around you reflexively.
“Mm. You’re warm,” he murmurs, face burrowing closer to your neck. “Don’t tell Steve. He’ll want a blanket meeting.”
Your eyes burn. Tears slip free.
This is it. This is the moment.
You carefully, delicately reach for your phone on the nightstand, moving like you’re defusing a bomb. The notes app opens with a soft glow, illuminating the absolute serenity of Bucky Barnes’ sleeping face while he continues to say the most unhinged nonsense you’ve ever heard.
You start typing.
2:37 AM — Bucky Sleep Lore
“Needs structural integrity.”
“Anti-fine glitter.”
“Chunky glitter is law.”
“Betrayal.”
As if summoned by your attention, he keeps going.
“They didn’t even seal it,” he scoffs. “Just slapped it on there like—like a raccoon with ambition.”
You bite your lip so hard it almost hurts.
“A raccoon with—”
“—tools,” he finishes solemnly. “Which is dangerous. Raccoons shouldn’t have tools.”
Your phone wobbles as you add it to the list.
Then he shifts, brow furrowing like he’s reaching the climax of his dream’s argument.
“And another thing,” he mutters, finger twitching against your hip. “If you’re gonna call it tactical, it needs pockets. That’s just fashion lying.”
You wheeze.
Bucky exhales sharply, like he’s won whatever imaginary debate he was having, and relaxes completely—melting into you, breaths deep and even.
Out cold.
You stare at him in the dark, chest aching with fondness and barely-contained laughter.
“…what the hell is going on in that head of yours?” you whisper, brushing your thumb over his cheek.
He snores softly in response.
The next morning, you keep your mouth shut.
Barely.
Bucky wakes up first, like always, pressing a sleepy kiss to your shoulder before slipping out of bed. You watch him move around the room—stretching, pulling on a shirt, yawning like he didn’t just accuse fine glitter of betrayal in his sleep.
He pours coffee. Offers you the first sip.
You smile innocently.
All is quiet. Normal. Domestic.
Until later that afternoon.
You’re curled on the couch together, his arm heavy over your shoulders, a movie playing that neither of you is actually watching. Bucky’s attention drifts down to your phone when it buzzes.
“What’re you smiling at?” he asks.
“Oh, nothing,” you say too quickly.
His eyes narrow.
“Show me.”
You hesitate. Just a beat too long.
“…Babe.”
You sigh, dramatically. “Okay, but you cannot get mad.”
That immediately puts him on edge. “Why would I get mad?”
You turn the phone toward him and scroll.
His face changes in real time as he reads.
Confusion. Suspicion. Horror.
“…what is this,” he says slowly.
You clear your throat and read aloud, unable to resist.
“‘Raccoons shouldn’t have tools.’”
His ears turn red.
“‘If it’s tactical, it needs pockets.’”
“Why is my name at the top,” he demands, mortified.
“And my personal favorite,” you continue sweetly, “‘Chunky glitter only.’”
Bucky buries his face in his hands with a groan. “Oh my God.”
“You were very passionate,” you add. “Honestly, I respected the conviction.”
“I was asleep,” he protests, voice muffled. “That doesn’t count.”
“Oh, it absolutely counts.”
He peeks at you between his fingers. “Did I… say anything bad?”
You soften instantly, thumb brushing his knee. “No. Nothing like that. Just—absolute nonsense.”
He exhales, relief loosening his shoulders.
Then you grin again.
“For the record,” you add, “I agree about raccoons.”
He groans louder.
For the rest of the week, you are unbearable.
You point out pockets in his jackets like they’re divine intervention.
You send him glitter memes—chunky glitter memes.
When he meticulously organizes gear, you nod solemnly and murmur, “Structural integrity.”
By day three, he’s glaring at you over his coffee.
“Are you ever gonna let this go?”
You lean across the table and kiss his cheek. “Absolutely not.”
He sighs, but he’s smiling—soft and fond and a little embarrassed.
That night, as you drift to sleep with him tucked warm and solid around you, you whisper, “Hey, Buck?”
“Mm?”
“If you start arguing with imaginary raccoons again, I’m charging admission.”
He hums sleepily, lips brushing your temple.
“…only if they don’t have tools.”
You laugh quietly into the dark, holding him close—grateful that sometimes, even with all the weight he carries, his dreams can still be ridiculous.
