Hey, can I maybe request something where it’s been a long, exhausting week and you’re fairly tipsy after trying to relax with some wine, and you get a bit emotional with your boyfriend Bucky and out of nowhere start rambling something like ‘hey, can I ask you something..will you make me a mum one day? You’d be such an awesome dad, we’d be such cool parents…’ Does he get all heart-eyed at you being so cute or does he just go a bit feral at the idea
The week had wrung you out completely.
It was the kind of exhaustion that settled deep in your bones—late nights, early mornings, too many responsibilities stacked on top of each other until even breathing felt like a task you had to consciously remember to do. By the time Friday finally crawled around, you didn’t celebrate—you just…collapsed.
Bucky found you like that.
Curled sideways on the couch, socked feet tucked beneath you, a half-finished glass of wine balanced precariously on the coffee table. The TV flickered quietly, some show you weren’t really watching, casting soft blue light across your face.
He paused in the doorway, jacket still slung over his shoulder, taking you in.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice already softer than usual, like he could feel the fragile state of you from across the room.
You blinked at him, slow, a little dazed—and then your face lit up in a way that made something in his chest squeeze tight.
“Bucky,” you said, like he was the best part of your entire day.
Yeah. That did something to him.
He crossed the room in a few long strides, crouching in front of you, big hands automatically settling on your knees. “You okay?” he asked, brows pulling together.
You nodded a little too quickly. “Mhm. I’m just—” you waved your hand vaguely in the air, nearly knocking over your glass. “Relaxing.”
His lips twitched. “Relaxing, huh?”
“Mhm,” you repeated, far too serious for someone clearly tipsy.
He reached out, steadying your wine before it could spill, then gently pried it from your fingers. “How much have you had?”
You squinted at the glass like it personally offended you. “…Not enough to fix the week.”
That earned a soft huff of laughter from him, the sound warm and low. He set the glass aside and shifted, easing himself onto the couch beside you. The cushions dipped under his weight, naturally pulling you closer.
“C’mere,” he murmured, tugging you against him.
You didn’t resist for even a second.
You melted into him, head immediately finding its place against his chest, arms looping around his middle like you needed to anchor yourself there. He wrapped around you just as easily, one arm draped across your back, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head.
He pressed a kiss into your hair.
“You’ve had a rough one, huh?”
“Mhm,” you mumbled into his shirt. “Everything was stupid.”
He hummed, fingers starting to comb slowly through your hair, grounding, soothing. “Yeah? Wanna tell me about it?”
You did. Kind of.
Your words started off coherent—complaints about work, about people being annoying, about things not going right—but somewhere along the way, they dissolved into half-formed thoughts and soft, sleepy rambling. He listened to every bit of it like it mattered, nodding along, occasionally murmuring soft agreements or teasing you gently when your sentences trailed off into nonsense.
Eventually, your voice quieted.
He thought you might’ve drifted off.
Until—
“Hey, Buck?”
Your voice was small. Careful.
He stilled slightly, glancing down at you. “Yeah, baby?”
You shifted, tilting your head back just enough to look at him. Your eyes were glassy—not from sadness, but from that soft, emotional haze alcohol sometimes pulled out of you.
“Can I ask you something?”
There was something about the way you said it that made his chest tighten.
“Course you can,” he said, softer now, thumb brushing lightly along your arm. “Anything.”
You hesitated.
Then, almost like you couldn’t stop yourself—
“Will you make me a mom one day?”
The question hung in the air.
Bucky froze.
Completely.
Your words didn’t sound real at first—like maybe he’d imagined them. But then you kept going, soft and dreamy and completely unguarded.
“You’d be such a good dad,” you murmured, eyes drifting a little as if you were picturing it. “Like…so good. You’re already all protective and sweet and stuff. And you make pancakes on Sundays and—” you huffed a small laugh, a little wobbly. “We’d be such cool parents, Buck. Our kid would be, like…so loved.”
Something in his chest cracked wide open.
It hit him all at once—the image you painted so casually, like it was obvious, like it was already real somewhere in your mind.
You. Him. A kid.
A family.
His hand stilled in your hair.
“…You really think that?” he asked quietly.
You frowned slightly, like the answer should’ve been obvious. “Yeah.”
Your fingers came up, poking lightly at his chest. “You’re Bucky. You’re already, like…insanely good at taking care of people. And you love so big. It’s kind of ridiculous.”
He let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, but there was something heavier underneath it.
“Sweetheart…” he started, but the words got stuck.
Because the truth was—
The idea didn’t just make him soft.
It made him a little feral.
His grip on you tightened just slightly, pulling you closer, like he needed to feel you there, real, in his arms.
“You have any idea what you just did to me?” he muttered, voice lower now, rougher.
You blinked up at him, confused but curious. “What?”
He shook his head once, more to himself than to you, jaw flexing as his gaze dragged over your face—soft, flushed, open.
“Talkin’ about havin’ my kid like that,” he murmured, thumb brushing over your cheek. “Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.”
You smiled a little, sleepy and sincere. “Isn’t it?”
God.
That did it.
His forehead dropped to yours, breath warm against your lips as he let out a low, almost disbelieving sound. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”
You giggled softly, clearly pleased with yourself.
He kissed you then.
Slow at first. Careful.
But it didn’t stay that way.
Because the thought wouldn’t leave his head now—the idea of you like that, soft and glowing and carrying something that was both of yours. The way you said it like you wanted it. Like you wanted him.
His hand slid up to cup your jaw, deepening the kiss, something more intense creeping in. Not overwhelming—never that—but charged.
“Say it again,” he murmured against your lips.
You blinked, dazed. “Say what?”
His nose brushed yours, eyes dark, a little wild around the edges now. “That you want that. With me.”
Your cheeks warmed, but you didn’t shy away.
“I do,” you whispered. “Someday.”
That was enough.
He exhaled sharply, pulling you flush against him, burying his face in your neck like he needed to ground himself.
“Christ,” he muttered. “You have no idea what that does to a man.”
You laughed softly, fingers threading through his hair.
But then his hold softened again, just as quickly as it had tightened.
Because underneath all of that—
There was something gentler.
His hand drifted down to your stomach, resting there, almost absentmindedly.
His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter.
Full.
“Yeah,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “We would be.”
You hummed, already half-asleep again, curling into him.
“Cool parents,” you mumbled.
He smiled against your hair, eyes softening in a way no one else ever really got to see.
“Yeah, baby,” he whispered. “The coolest.”