vamplett 𓈒 ۫ ୨୧

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.

Sam and you had been dating for a while now, a couple weeks maybe. It was amazing, you couldn’t possibly have asked for a better boyfriend. Sam is sweet, attentive, smart… Everything you could want in a man and more– you’re lucky, really.

It’s fairly ‘new’ so it hadn’t gotten much farther than making out and maybe some hand stuff whenever Dean left y’all alone in whatever shitty room you’re sharing for the week.

Tonight was no different. Dean had disappeared about two hours ago with some excuse about ‘following a lead’ despite very clearly heading to the bar. The cowboy movie the eldest brother had rented was still playing on the TV– mostly background noise given both of y’all are busy in your respective reading. Sam is sitting beside you on the bed, long legs spread awkwardly in the too-small mattress to hold up his laptop. You’re sitting crossed legged on the mattress, an old lore book on your lap which’s letters started blurring together about an hour ago. Your eyes skim over the same paragraph for what feels like the hundredth time before drifting sideways instead, landing on your boyfriend’s profile illuminated by the glow of his laptop– his brows are pinched together in concentration, one hand absently rubbing at his jaw while the other taps against the keyboard. His hair is messy from constantly running his fingers through it which Dean would definitely tease him for if he were here, making some comment about ‘needing a trim’ or something like that.

Cute. Annoyingly cute for a man his size.

Almost like he can feel you staring, Sam glances over, lips twitching instinctively upon catching you looking, his dimples showing. “What?” He asks, clearly amused.

“Nothing” You huff softly, it was half-defensive and half-fond at his boyish grin.

A quiet chuckle leaves him, warm and genuine as he closes his laptop– almost like he was waiting for an excuse to finally get a break from endless research. “You haven’t flipped a page n’an hour” He points out.

“That I haven’t” You hum in response, closing your book and setting it down somewhere on the bed. “Became too much ‘bout twenty minutes ago” You burrow your face into his chest, easing into the familiar comfort of his warmth.

Sam doesn’t tease you– he could– instead, he wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer while pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Deserve a break then” His voice rumbles softly beneath your cheek, chest warm against yours. For a moment, neither of you move.

The movie keeps playing quietly in the background– muffled gunshots, old country music… But it all fades underneath the slow drag of Sam’s fingers up and down your back– comfortable, intimate. You tilt your head just enough to look up at him, chin resting against his chest. “You saying I worked hard?”

Sam huffs out a quiet laugh, dimples deepening. “Mhm– very demanding job, staring at the same page for an hour”

“Oh, shut up”

Your hand pushes halfheartedly at his face, but he catches it easily, large fingers wrapping around your wrist just to keep you close. The smile on his face softens, puppy eyes fixed on you. Not enough to make you uncomfortable– never that– but enough that warmth starts creeping into your cheeks under the weight of his attention, a nervous smile on your face. “What?” You murmur quietly.

“C’mere” The words are barely out before he’s leaning down to kiss you. Slow at first– lazy, warm, familiar– the kind of kiss that feels like being wrapped up in a blanket after a long day.

Somewhere along the moment, Sam’s hands gently coax you onto your back. His broad chest is now hovering over you, shoulders tense from holding his bodyweight up. One hand carefully slides under (his) your shirt, slowly easing it over your body without even breaking away from the kiss. He’s moving out of instinct now– fully focused on you and your body. His mouth trails from yours down to your neck, kissing his way down the sensitive skin while his thumb gently brushes your ribs. You’re completely lost in the feeling of him, solid and warm, his lips working that sensitive spot below your jaw that always makes you melt for him– legs opening to accommodate him between them and hands going around to clasp at his shoulders.

Your gaze is half lidded, lips parted in soft breaths while watching your boyfriend slowly kiss down your torso. Once Sam reaches your navel, he pauses– looking up at you with wide, pleading eyes– quietly asking for permission. “Mhm” You nod softly, fingers threading through his hair to brush it away from his face.

Sam doesn’t need anymore encouragement, quickly turning his attention back to the skin below him. He’s face to face with your clothed core, all his focus onto the lacy fabric. God. He hadn’t noticed the tiny bow on the front– how hadn’t he noticed that? A low, choked groan escapes him, eyes fluttering shut before reverently kissing it. His thumbs hook on the elastic, pulling it off your body– his mouth follows the movement, soft little pecks all over your legs before turning his attention back up to your core. You’re too distracted to spot how he pockets the underwear– not that you would’ve minded.

“God” He groans under his breath. It’s the first time he’s seen your pussy this close. He’s seen literal angels before– he’d still choose this as the most beautiful sight in the world– you. Spread out beneath him, glistening with need. “So pretty” He adds quietly, finally meaning down to lick a slow stripe up your folds.

“Shit, Sam–” You moan, thighs trying to clap around his head but your boyfriend’s hands are fast to hold them down, leaving you open for him.

He starts slow, long stripes of his tongue over you weeping slit– testing, assessing. Like everything else, Sam takes eating you out with attention to every detail, testing and pushing to see what things made you moan louder for him. Each sound, each sharp breath makes his hips subconsciously press down into the mattress– not out of greed– but purely out of overstimulation. The feeling of your legs wrapping around him, your taste on his tongue, everything is too much for Sam. God you were perfect.

“Need you, Sam– please” You protest in a needy moan, hips bucking up to meet his mouth in a desperate attempt to bring him even closer.

“What’dyou need, honey?” Sam asks, warm breath fanning over your core as he pulls back just enough to look up at your face. He’s wrecked– his pupils are blown, his hair’s a mess, there’s a patch of wetness surrounding his mouth.

You’re too far gone (and embarrassed) to voice exactly what you want, instead leading his hand to your entrance. The focused frown on your boyfriend’s face eases at the feeling of your hand on his, quickly understanding and taking over– one of his long fingers slowly pushing in. You have to hold back a literal sob– the stretch of your walls around him being overwhelming in all the best ways. He starts slow. Deep, careful curls of his finger before easing another one in.

It doesn’t take long for you to start moaning for him again, your hips pushing down to meet each thrust like you can’t bear the thought of being empty. Sam’s tongue starts lapping at your clit, lips wrapping around it with maddening pressure. Each suck of his mouth is accompanied by him humping the bed– shameless groans and moans escaping him and vibrating against you. “M’gonna–” You try to warn him, but Sam simply hums against you. Apparently already knowing your body better than you. He simply doubles down his efforts, each curl of his fingers pressing deeper inside you while he keeps making out with your clit. If you knew any better, you’d say he’s enjoying it just as much (or more) than you are– but you’re too busy coming undone to notice it.

Sam works you through it, drawing it out as much as possible. Slowly thrusting his fingers in and out while peppering soft kisses to your thighs. He waits until your breathing evens out before slowly pulling his digits out of your pussy, sitting back on his heels to taste them– eyes closing in bliss with a shameless groan.

“Sam–” You protest in embarrassment– though your attention is pulled elsewhere when you notice the damp patch on the front of his jeans. “You didn’t” Your voice is etched with awed disbelief, a whole new wave of arousal flooding down to your core.

you hold your hand up, betrayed. “i’ve been attacked.”

his face shifts from alarm to confusion to something dangerously close to amusement. “attacked?”

“don’t laugh.”

“i’m not laughing.”

“your mouth is thinking about it.”

he presses his lips together, which is basically a confession.

you glare at him, but your finger is starting to throb, hot and sharp and annoying, and the offended little burn of it makes your eyes prickle more than you want to admit. not crying. absolutely not. just… your body being sensitive.

sam notices, and his teasing fades immediately. “hey,” he says, softer. “let me see.”

you hesitate for half a second, embarrassed by how badly you want the comfort. then you give him your hand.

he takes it carefully, like you’re something breakable and not someone who just declared war on an insect. his thumb rests under your palm, warm and steady, while he bends closer to check the sting.

“it left the stinger,” he murmurs.

“asshole.”

“a little.”

“sam.”

“sorry.” his mouth twitches again, but his hands stay gentle. “come on. i’ve got tweezers in the car.”

“you have bee tweezers?”

“i have regular tweezers.”

“for bee emergencies.”

“apparently.”

he guides you back to the impala, one hand hovering at your elbow though you’re perfectly capable of walking. it should feel ridiculous. it doesn’t. it feels sweet in a way that sneaks under your ribs and sits there.

sam sits you on the passenger seat with the door open, then crouches in front of you, knees nearly touching yours. “hold still,” he says.

“i am still.”

“you’re flinching.”

“it’s an emotionally scarring experience, sam.”

he looks up at you then, and the fondness on his face is so bare you almost forget your finger hurts. almost.

the stinger comes out quick. you hiss anyway, and sam instantly rubs his thumb over the uninjured part of your hand, slow and soothing. “sorry,” he says.

“i’m being pathetic.”

“no, you’re not.”

“i screamed over a bee.”

“you were startled.”

“i want compensation. weren’t you almost a lawyer? do something.”

“that’s fair.”

you laugh before you can stop it, and sam smiles, small and pleased, like he fixed more than the sting.

he cleans the spot with an alcohol wipe, then wraps your finger with a tiny bandage from the first-aid kit. it looks absurd. one little beige strip around the evidence of your near-death experience.

“there,” he says. “better?”

you look at your hand still resting in his. then at him. “maybe.”

his thumb hasn’t stopped moving. “want me to get you another soda?” he asks.

you lean back against the seat, trying very hard not to smile too much. “only if you protect me.”

sam’s eyes warm, soft and shy around the edges. “always,” he says, too seriously for a joke.

and your finger still aches, but now his hand is around yours, and you’re a little embarrassed by how much that helps.

“You’re joking.”

You looked up from your spot perched on the counter, oversized sweatshirt stretched over your rounded stomach. “I’m not.”

Bucky stared at the combination in your hands like it had personally offended him. “Baby, that is a crime.”

“It’s delicious.”

“It’s disgusting.”

You took a loud, deliberate crunch before dragging the pickle through another swirl of chocolate. “You’re just closed-minded.”

“I’m not closed-minded,” he argued. “I’m sane.”

The look you gave him was deeply unimpressed.

Pregnancy cravings had become a regular occurrence over the last few months, but this one might’ve been the worst yet. Earlier that week, you’d cried because the diner down the street stopped serving curly fries after ten. Two nights ago, you’d demanded peanut butter toast with hot sauce at one in the morning. Bucky had made it without complaint because he adored you, but even then he’d looked mildly traumatized.

This though?

This was villain behavior.

“You want some?” you asked sweetly.

“No.”

“You didn’t even think about it.”

“I did think about it,” he said. “I thought absolutely not.”

You shrugged, entirely unbothered, and continued eating while Bucky made himself tea. He kept glancing over his shoulder at you with increasing suspicion.

The worst part was the sound.

Crunch.

Then the soft scrape of pickle against ice cream.

Crunch.

It shouldn’t have smelled good together, but somehow the salty tang mixed with the sweetness in a way that kept making his nose twitch.

Bucky narrowed his eyes.

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

“I literally offered you some.”

“You’re trying to trick me.”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” you gasped dramatically. “I would never.”

“You absolutely would.”

You grinned around another bite.

God, you looked cute.

That was the problem. You could be sitting there eating drywall and he’d still think you were adorable.

Pregnancy looked painfully good on you too, which Bucky tried not to think about too hard unless he wanted to combust on the spot. The softness in your cheeks, the glow in your skin, the way your stomach curved beneath his shirts—it made him emotional in ways he couldn’t explain.

He crossed the kitchen and settled between your spread knees automatically, large hands resting on your hips.

“How’s our girl tonight?” he asked, rubbing your belly gently.

Right on cue, the baby kicked.

Bucky’s entire face softened instantly.

“There she is,” he murmured.

You smiled down at him, carding your fingers through his hair. “She’s been moving all night.”

“Probably trying to escape because of what you’re feeding her.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m serious,” he said solemnly. “She’s fighting for her life in there.”

You laughed so hard you nearly snorted, and Bucky felt his chest tighten with affection. He loved making you laugh lately. Loved seeing you happy when pregnancy had been exhausting on your body.

Then you held the pickle toward him again.

“One bite.”

“No.”

“One.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You made me try sardines.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“You weren’t pregnant and emotionally unstable.”

Your mouth dropped open in betrayal.

Bucky grinned.

“You’re evil,” you informed him.

“Maybe.”

But you kept staring at him with those big hopeful eyes, and unfortunately for him, Bucky Barnes had never been capable of denying you much of anything.

Especially now.

Especially when you were carrying his child.

With a heavy sigh, he leaned forward.

“One bite,” he warned.

Your face lit up triumphantly.

“Oh my god, yes.”

“This better not ruin my life.”

“It’ll change your life.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

You guided the pickle toward his mouth like you were feeding a wild animal. Bucky took the smallest possible bite, already grimacing before he’d even tasted it.

Sweet chocolate.

Cold vanilla.

Sharp vinegar.

Salty pickle.

His eyebrows furrowed immediately.

You watched him expectantly. “Well?”

Bucky chewed slowly.

Then paused.

Then frowned harder.

Because the horrifying part was—

“…it’s not terrible.”

You gasped like he’d just confessed his love all over again.

“I knew it!”

“No, hold on—”

“I knew it,” you repeated louder.

“It’s weird.”

“But good.”

He hesitated.

“…a little.”

Your victory screech echoed through the apartment.

Before Bucky could defend himself, you shoved another bite toward him and he actually accepted it this time, which was probably his first mistake.

His second mistake was taking a bigger bite.

Because somehow it worked.

The crunch with the creaminess. The salty and sweet together.

Bucky looked deeply disturbed by his own reaction.

“I hate this.”

“You love it.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

He pointed accusingly at you. “You’re not allowed to tell anyone about this.”

“Too late. I’m telling Sam immediately.”

“Baby.”

“I’m putting it in the baby book.”

Bucky groaned, resting his forehead against your stomach while you laughed. He could feel the vibrations of it beneath his cheek, warm and alive and so overwhelmingly you.

After a moment, your laughter softened.

“You really don’t think I’m gross?” you asked quietly.

Bucky looked up immediately.

“What?”

“The cravings. The crying. Me waking you up at weird hours.” You gave a tiny shrug. “I know pregnancy’s kinda… weird.”

His expression melted so fast it made your chest ache.

“Doll,” he said gently, sliding his hands over your thighs. “You’re growing our baby. You could ask me to grill a watermelon at four in the morning and I’d do it.”

You snorted.

“Actually,” he added thoughtfully, “that might be better than the pickle thing.”

You laughed again, and Bucky leaned forward to kiss you softly.

Sweet chocolate still lingered on your lips.

“…Okay,” he muttered against your mouth. “Maybe give me another pickle.”

Your eyes widened in delight.

“Oh, you are SO obsessed with this now.”

“I’m literally not.”

“Sure, honey.”

Bucky sighed dramatically as you handed him another chocolate-covered pickle.