maybe you've already done something like this and i just haven't seen it? but what about bucky and pregnant!reader and she wakes up and he's talking to the baby in her tummy and it's just really cute ? or something like that
ps i love your writing you're a blessing to tumblr <3
i don't think i have? honestly even if i did i'll keeep writing it. i love dad!bucky!!
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You wake to the sound of his voice.
It’s soft and gravel-rough in that way it only gets first thing in the morning, a low murmur that hums against your skin before you even realize you’re smiling. The sheets are warm, sunlight slow to creep through the curtains, and for a few moments, you let yourself drift between dreams and reality — half-asleep, half-in love.
Then his words filter through the haze.
“…and that’s why we don’t tell Mama about the last cookie, okay? Between us.”
You have to bite your lip not to laugh.
He doesn’t know you’re awake. He’s propped up on one elbow beside you, metal arm resting protectively over your bump, the other hand smoothing across your skin in slow, reverent circles. His hair is mussed, sleep still clinging to him, and there’s something heartbreakingly gentle about the sight — Bucky Barnes, six-foot of ex-super-soldier and world-class menace, whispering secrets to the life he helped make.
You open your eyes just enough to see him fully.
He’s talking directly to your belly.
“You kickin’ your mama again, doll?” he murmurs, voice so soft you almost can’t hear it. “You gotta take it easy on her, yeah? She’s already doin’ all the hard work bringin’ you here.”
Your heart flips over. He’s smiling. That quiet, secret smile he only wears when he thinks no one’s looking — the kind that says this is mine without a single word.
He traces lazy patterns over your stomach with the pad of his finger, watching the faint ripple where your baby shifts in response.
“Oh, I felt that,” he says, grinning wider. “That’s my girl. Or my boy. Don’t matter — I already love you so much it’s kinda unfair to everyone else.”
You can’t help it; you laugh softly into the pillow.
Bucky freezes.
His head snaps up, caught mid-confession, cheeks pinking. “You were supposed to be asleep,” he mumbles, sheepish.
“I was trying to be,” you tease, voice still thick with sleep. “But someone was out here telling our unborn child about cookie crimes.”
He chuckles, the sound low and rumbling through the bed as he leans down to kiss your forehead. “You heard that, huh?”
“Every word,” you grin, catching his hand where it rests on your bump. “You’ve been giving full-length monologues to our kid again?”
Bucky shrugs, feigning nonchalance, but his eyes are warm and a little glassy. “Gotta start early. They’re a captive audience right now.”
You brush your thumb over the inside of his wrist. “What were you telling them this time?”
He settles closer, his chest against your side, his chin hooking over your shoulder so he can keep one palm spread protectively over your belly. “Oh, you know,” he says softly. “The important stuff. That Mama’s the bravest person I ever met. That she snores sometimes, but I still love her anyway.”
“Bucky Barnes.”
He grins. “Just a little. Like a tiny bear. Cute.”
You elbow him gently, but he catches your hand before it lands and presses a kiss to your fingers. “Told ‘em about how lucky they are,” he murmurs, “how I used to think my heart was too beat up to ever feel this happy again. But then you came along, and now there’s two of you.”
Your throat goes tight. “Buck…”
He looks down at your stomach again, fingers splayed like he’s trying to memorize every curve. “Sometimes I still can’t believe it,” he admits quietly. “That we get this. A home. You. Them.”
You slide your hand into his hair, scratching lightly at the nape of his neck. “You deserve this,” you whisper. “Both of you do.”
He lifts his gaze to yours, blue eyes swimming with emotion. “I don’t know what I ever did to—”
“You loved me,” you say simply. “That’s all it took.”
Something in his expression cracks, softens. He kisses you — slow, almost reverent — before resting his forehead against yours. “You always say things like that before you make me cry.”
“You’re allowed to cry,” you murmur. “You’re a dad.”
That earns you another small, wet laugh. He shakes his head, wiping at the corner of his eye with his thumb before returning it to your bump. “You hear that, little punk? Mama says I can cry now. Don’t you go tellin’ Uncle Sam I’m gettin’ soft.”
The baby shifts beneath his palm, a faint flutter that makes him freeze. His whole face lights up like the sunrise. “Hey,” he whispers, awed. “You feel that?”
You nod, watching him more than the movement itself — how he instantly melts, how every scar and shadow on his face seems to disappear beneath pure, unguarded joy.
“They know your voice,” you say softly. “Happens every time you talk to them.”
Bucky leans down, presses a kiss to the spot that moved. “Hi, sweetheart,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Your mom’s right, huh? You know me already.”
He stays like that for a long time — just breathing, whispering little nothings into your skin. Promises. Dreams. He tells them about Coney Island, about how they’ll never have to be afraid of loud noises because Daddy’s got ‘em covered. He tells them about Brooklyn accents and the right way to fold pizza slices. He tells them about love — the kind that’s steady and patient and louder than any storm.
You listen with your eyes closed, one hand in his hair, the other resting over his.
When he finally looks up again, his smile is lazy and tender. “You think they can hear me?”
You nod, voice barely a whisper. “They can. I think they love you already.”
He hums at that, something between disbelief and gratitude. “Good. ‘Cause I love ‘em too.” He presses another kiss to your stomach, lingering there as if he can anchor himself in the warmth. “More than I ever thought I could love anything again.”
“Hey,” you say gently, brushing his cheek. “You’re a good dad already, you know that?”
He looks up, startled. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you smile. “And you haven’t even met them yet.”
He exhales, shaky, a little overwhelmed. “Guess I’m just makin’ up for lost time.”
You tilt his chin up, kiss him slow. “You’ve got all the time in the world now.”
For a while, there’s only quiet — the kind that fills a home instead of haunting it. You feel his heartbeat against your back, his thumb rubbing slow circles over your belly as the baby settles again, content.
When you finally speak, your voice is sleepy, soft. “What were you saying before I woke up?”
He huffs a small laugh. “Oh, uh… I was tryin’ to convince ‘em that cookies are a breakfast food.”
You giggle. “And what did they say?”
“They kicked twice, so I’m takin’ that as agreement.”
“Of course you are.”
He grins into your shoulder, pulling you closer until his chest is pressed against your back and his arm is draped protectively around both of you. “Get some more sleep, doll,” he whispers. “I’ll keep talkin’ to ‘em.”
And you do — drifting off to the sound of his voice, low and steady, telling your baby about everything he loves in this world.
You, mostly.
