a/n: first attempt at fluff and a short drabble (I think?), need to work on imagery more but I’m kinda proud of this ngl
When you told your husband, Sukuna, that you were expecting, he was elated. Don’t get me wrong he was worried as well, he wasn’t used to being soft until he met you, and you changed the way he viewed the world.
However when you both found out you were expecting a girl, he couldn’t be more happy. He launched himself into baby prepping, decorating the nursery, thoroughly researching a reliable car seat, and setting up her college tuition, which you thought was ridiculous as you’re only 5 months into your pregnancy.
When your baby girl finally blessed his world, he sobbed. It was very unlike him, he didn’t even sob this hard at the wedding! He was an angel throughout postpartum, never letting you stay up for too long, waking up to feed your baby and changing her diaper throughout the night so you could catch up on sleep.
Although, Sukuna opting to spend more time with the baby had ulterior motives. He wanted his daughter to be a daddy’s girl. He wanted to go on daddy daughter dates, dances and what not with his beloved daughter. He wanted to be the perfect father, the one he never had. He tried to make the best of his time spending with her, as she always spent more with you anyway.
To his surprise, she much rather be with you than with Sukuna. When she’s sobbing her poor little heart out at night while she lays in her crib, Sukuna tries and I mean really tries to comfort her but unfortunately she’d much rather be comforted by her mommy.
Sukuna tried many ways to make her first words be “dada”. Showing wedding pictures of both of you to your daughter,
“This is dada, da-da” he points to himself in the picture while your baby sits in her high chair waiting for her food.
“And this is Mother, mother” he said while pointing at you.
Your baby however, unamused. She’d been saying “mama” these past few weeks, Sukuna just never heard for it himself.
“So your first word better be ‘dada’. I buy you everything you need and even that ugly ‘labubu’ thing that everyone has these days.” He says while feeding the baby.
“I’m home!” You walk through the front door, before closing it and heading towards the dining room right next to the kitchen. “How are my favorite people doing?” You say while setting your things down at the table.
Much to Sukunas dismay, your daughter uttered words he never thought he’d hear first. “Mama!” She giggled, reaching out her tiny little arms while you approached her and kissed her plump cheeks.
“Hi baby! I missed you. I hope daddy wasn’t troubling you too much.”
He grumbled, “We were doing just fine.”
You glance at the wedding pictures in his hand, “why do you have our wedding photos?”
He sighed, “I was trying to get her to say ‘dada’, but apparently she has a favorite parent and it’s not me.”
“I mean.. I am her mother.”
“And I am her father..” he scrunched his eyebrows. “Are we both just stating facts here?”
“Look kuna, she doesn’t have a favorite parent! And besides I carried her for 9 months. I had terrible morning sickness throughout all of it. I think her preferring me is what I deserve.”
“You’re right, you did go through all of that.” He sighed and placed a tender kiss on your temple.
He wanted a boy. Someone who he could be rough with, who he could wrestle and play in the mud with.
A boy who would play monster trucks with him, one who’d be a destructive little power house like himself.
Someone who would inherit the throne. Who would rule with an iron fist, just like him.
But instead of a rowdy little boy, he got her.
A dazzling, glitter obsessed, unicorn loving girl.
She left sparkles wherever she went, sassed people without even realizing, and insisted on being grown enough to wear mommy’s heels, despite only being three.
So as Sukuna stared at her, stickers plastered across his frowning face, lipgloss smeared against his lips sloppily, and pink hair pushed back with a cat headband, he grinned.
Not because he could see his daughter becoming like him, a brute, no. But instead because he saw her growing up to be like you.
A kind, gentle-hearted woman, who could love even the baddest of bad.
⤿ DICK GRAYSON has been your husband for years, and yet he still finds ways to make you fall more and more in love with him every day.
!! no warnings. fluff. fem!reader. established marriage. mom!reader. pregnant reader. DILF GRAYSON HUBBA HUBBA. dick being 10/10 husband and dad. domestic fluff. ENJOY. COMMENTS ENCOURAGED.
The morning sun filtered through the kitchen curtains, casting golden stripes across the countertop where you were attempting to make pancakes. Attempting being the key word, because your daughter had very specific opinions about the shape they should be.
"Mama, that one looks like a blob," your daughter, Lily, announced from her perch on the kitchen stool, her dark hair (which she got from her father) still mussed from sleep.
"A blob can be a shape," you defended, flipping the admittedly misshapen pancake.
"Not a good one."
You were about to respond when a pair of strong arms wrapped around your waist from behind, and lips pressed against your neck. "I think your blobs are perfect," Dick murmured against your skin, his voice still rough with sleep.
"You're biased," you teased, but you were already melting back against his chest, the familiar warmth of him seeping through your thin sleep shirt.
"Oh definitely," he agreed, spinning you around with the easy grace that never quite left him, even in domestic moments like these. Even after seven years of marriage, three years of parenthood, and countless mornings exactly like this one, your breath still caught when those blue eyes focused on you like you were the only person in the world. "Biased toward my beautiful wife who's making breakfast for our family. Sue me."
"Daddy, you're being gross," Lily groaned at him, though she was grinning.
"Gross?" Dick gasped in mock offense, releasing you to scoop Lily up in one fluid motion, flipping her upside down as she shrieked with laughter. "I'll show you gross, little miss."
You watched them with a smile, turning back to rescue the pancakes before they burned. This was your favorite version of Dick Grayson — not Nightwing, not even the charming socialite he could be when the situation called for it, but this one. The one barefoot in pajama pants and an old Gotham Knights t-shirt, hair sticking up in every direction, making your daughter giggle so hard she could barely breathe.
"Dick, the baby," you warned, and he immediately righted Lily, settling her back on her stool with an apologetic kiss to her forehead.
"Sorry, Mama's right. Gotta be careful with the little guy." His hand found your hip, thumb stroking absently over the small bump barely visible beneath your shirt. Four months along, and he still looked at you like you'd hung the moon.
"Or girl," you reminded him, plating the pancakes.
"Or girl," he agreed, stealing a piece of bacon from the plate. You swatted his hand, but he caught your wrist, bringing it to his lips. "Have I mentioned you're gorgeous this morning?"
"You mentioned I make good blobs."
"The best blobs." He grinned, that devastating smile that had made you fall in love with him in the first place. "But seriously, you're glowing."
"That's sweat from standing over a hot stove, babe."
"Nope, definitely glowing." He released your wrist to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek. "Most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
"You said that last night." You shook your head a bit sheepishly and nudged his arm
"I'll say it tonight too." He leaned in, and you met him halfway, the kiss soft and sweet and tasting like stolen bacon.
"Still gross!" Lily announced, but she was smiling around a mouthful of pancake.
The morning continued in comfortable chaos. Dick helping Lily get dressed while you cleaned up breakfast, the three of you negotiating what constituted appropriate clothing for a trip to the park. (Lily wanted to wear her tutu. Dick supported this decision. You were outnumbered, and you didn't mind because she looked so damn cute.)
By the time you made it to the park, the sun was high and warm, and Lily was racing toward the playground with the boundless energy of childhood. Dick's hand found yours automatically, fingers lacing together as you walked.
"Think we'll be able to keep up with two of them?" you asked, watching Lily scale the climbing structure with an ease that spoke to her genetics.
"Are you kidding? We're going to be outnumbered and exhausted." Dick brought your joined hands to his lips, the biggest grin on those lips of his. "I can't wait."
You laughed, leaning into his side. "You're insane."
"About you? Absolutely." He tugged you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Have been since the day we met."
"That's not what you said when we met. I believe your exact words were 'nice to meet you' and then you spilled coffee on my shoes."
"I was distracted by your smile," he defended. "And I bought you new shoes."
"You bought me very expensive new shoes and then asked me to dinner."
"Best investment I ever made." His arm slipped around your waist, hand splaying possessively over your hip. "Look at me now. Beautiful wife, amazing daughter, another baby on the way, and I still get to come home to you every night."
You tilted your head up to look at him, finding his expression soft and open in the way it only was with you and Lily. "You're really happy?"
"Happy?" He stopped walking, turning to face you fully. Both hands came up to frame your face, and the intensity in his eyes made your heart skip. "I'm so far beyond happy I don't think there's a word for it. You're everything, you know that? You and Lily are my whole world."
"Dick," you breathed, and he kissed you again, deeper this time, pouring years and years of love and devotion into it until you were dizzy.
"Mama! Daddy! Watch me!" Lily's voice broke through, and you pulled apart, both turning to watch her hang upside down from the monkey bars.
"Very impressive, baby!" you called, and Dick whistled his approval.
"She gets that from me," he said proudly.
"The showing off or the acrobatics?" Your eyebrows raised, accompanied by a wink and a smile.
"Both." He grinned proudly at that. "Come on, I'll push her on the swings. You can sit and look beautiful."
"I can push my own daughter on the swings."
"I know you can. You can do anything." His hand squeezed yours. "But you're growing a whole human, so let me take care of you both. Please?"
The please got you, the way it always did. You let him lead you to the bench near the swings, settling down with a sigh you hadn't realized you'd been holding. Pregnancy was easier the second time in some ways, harder in others, but having Dick by your side made everything better.
You watched him push Lily, his laughter mixing with hers as she demanded "higher, Daddy, higher!" He obliged, of course, because Dick Grayson had never been able to deny his girls anything. The sun caught in his dark hair that was greying at the roots, and his smile was bright and unguarded, and your chest ached with how much you loved him.
Later, after the park, after lunch, after Lily had been coaxed into a nap with promises of ice cream later, you found yourself in Dick's arms on the couch. His hand was tracing lazy patterns on your stomach, and you were playing with his hair, and everything was perfect and quiet and right.
"Thank you," he said suddenly, voice soft.
"For what?"
"This. All of this." He shifted to look at you, and there was something vulnerable in his expression. "I know I'm not always here," he continued. "I know some nights I come home late, or bruised, or..."
You pressed your fingers to his lips, stopping him. "You're here now. You're here every morning and every moment you can be. You're an amazing husband and an incredible father. I knew who I was marrying, and I love every part of you." You smiled at him, your head tilted to rest on your arm. You meant every word, truly, and you knew he did too.
"Plus, it's not like you're out late doing bullshit, you're out late being a literal superhero, vigilantes.. whatever you wanna call it." You couldn't help the teasing smile that came to your lips with that.
His eyes shimmered, and he caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "How did I get so lucky?"
"I ask myself the same thing." You smiled, cupping his cheek. "Though I think it might have something to do with you being charming and handsome and making me laugh even when I want to strangle you."
"I am pretty charming," he agreed, and you laughed, the sound making him grin. "And handsome. Don't forget handsome."
"Impossible to forget." You kissed him, slow and sweet. "You're also so humble."
"My best quality." He pulled you closer, until you were practically in his lap, his arms wrapped securely around you. "I love you. So much it scares me sometimes."
Summary: You’re preparing dinner with your two daughters while suffering from a migraine. When your lovely congressional husband gets home he sees you struggling, he sends you to bed and handles it all himself, giving him a new respect for all that you do.
Trigger Warnings: Migraine; daughters; new math (hence the gif); feelings of having to do it all yourself, even when working through pain to do so, and guilt when you can’t.
Author’s Note: I'd have sworn I wrote this fic before, but apparently I only just outlined it. So I finished it. Enjoy the fluff.
Masterlist
Your migraine snuck up on you, like a shadow slipping under the door, then bloomed behind your right eye mercilessly.
You stood at the kitchen counter, one hand braced against the cool granite while the other dragged a knife through carrots that were far too bright. The overhead lights were painful. Each fluorescent hum vibrated against your skull. The steady thock, thock, thock of blade against cutting board landed like a metronome inside your brain.
It was fine. You could handle it. You’d handled worse.
Your younger daughter’s squeal erupted from the living room, sharp, delighted, and entirely innocent, and it pierced through you like a dentist’s drill. You inhaled through your nose, slow and measured: oxygen in, pain out.
It didn’t work.
“Mama!” she announced, then squealed again right in front of you.
The sound struck your skull, and your vision flared white at the edges.
You inhaled sharply and forced your expression into something pleasant through sheer will.
“Hi, Ladybug,” you said gently. “What do you have?”
She proudly raised a spoon and slapped it against your thigh.
Your nerves flared in brief, offended protest.
“Okay,” you murmured, reaching down. “Let’s not—”
She darted away, giggling, spoon held aloft like a trophy. She made a beeline for the cabinet you forgotten to child-lock, again because you had been juggling a million other things.
You took one step after her, and the migraine surged, hot, precise, and mean, so hard you had to stop.
Your older daughter’s chair scraped as she stood. “I can get her,” she offered, already moving, helpful in that earnest elder daughter way that made your chest squeeze.
“No, love,” you said quickly. You didn’t wanted her parenting her sister while you stood there pretending you were fine. “It’s okay. I’ve got her.”
You bent and scooped your toddler up mid-wobble. She immediately twisted to look at you, offended at being contained, kicking lightly against your hip and squealing again in protest.
It was thankfully lower in pitch this time, but it was still loud.
You adjusted her weight, tucked her closer, and kept your voice steady. “No cabinet raids. Not tonight, my little love.”
She stared at you with solemn toddler judgment, then stuck the spoon in her mouth.
You turned back to the stove because dinner was happening whether you were in pain or not. The onions needed stirring. The pasta water needed salt. The sauce needed attention. Everything needed you all at once, and you felt pulled in four directions, with the headache as the fifth.
Your eight year old hummed thoughtfully while her pencil scratched across paper. The sound was sandpaper on bone.
You adjusted your daughter on your hip. She smelled like applesauce and baby shampoo. Normally it would have made you smile, but tonight, it was simply one more sensation.
The front door clicked open. You didn’t need to look to know your husband was home. The house shifted when he arrived, as though familial gravity recalibrated around his presence.
“Hello, my girls,” Bucky called, his voice warm yet worn at the edges.
He was still in his suit jacket, tie loosened a fraction like he tugged at it on the walk from his office because he couldn’t stand it tight another second. His hair was slightly rumpled, his jaw shadowed with stubble that suggested a day that felt like a week. He looked like he’d been holding himself together in public the same way you been holding yourself together at home.
You straightened instinctively, smoothing your expression into something you hoped was convincing. You could get through dinner. Just dinner. After that, you could collapse.
He stepped into the kitchen doorway, his gaze finding you first, like always.
But his smile didn’t linger in admiration and love like it usually did. You could tell he was assessing you.
You turned back to the stove before he could study you too closely. “You just got home, sweetheart. Go take off your jacket and relax.” You stirred the sauce, though you couldn’t remember adding salt. Had you added it?
The words sounded smooth, but silence stretched behind you. You felt him step closer.
“Doll,” he said, low and quiet.
You hated that tone. It meant he saw right through you and already made a decision.
“I’m okay,” you insisted without turning around. The kitchen lights pulsed; your stomach rolled. “It’s just a migraine. I took a pill. It’s nothing I haven’t before. Let me finish dinner for you and the girls.”
He moved into your space with gentle certainty, his large hand settling at your waist.
“You’re squinting,” he said. “And you haven’t blinked in about thirty seconds.”
You forced your eyes wider to prove a point. It made everything worse. “I’ve got it handled.”
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I can see that.”
Your daughter squirmed in your arms, reaching for her father. Bucky’s vibranium hand slid securely beneath her and lifted her from your hip in one seamless motion. The sudden absence of her weight made you sway.
“I can still cook,” you protested. The words come thinner now. “Butterfly needs help with her math, and you just got back from work. You’ve been in meetings all day.”
“And I’m home now,” he said, making it sound simple.
“Dinner’s halfway done—”
Your toddler patted his cheek and babbled something happy. Bucky pressed a distracted kiss to her head without looking away from you.
His voice softened. “Go,” he said quietly. “Please? Let me take care of it.”
The words struck your heart tenderly, because even though he was tired himself from a long day, he was willing to take over and let you rest. Because your well-being was important to him.
You hesitated, because you always did, because you’d trained yourself not to be a burden, because your brain still insisted that handling everything yourself was safer than letting go.
He reached past you and took the wooden spoon.
“Upstairs,” he said gently but firmly. “Dark room. Ice pack. I’ll bring you water.”
“I can’t just—”
“You can just.” He leaned down and pressed a careful, featherlight kiss to your temple. “You don’t get points for suffering through it.”
Your older daughter appeared in the doorway, wide-eyed. “Is Mom okay?”
Bucky shifted the other higher on his hip. “Mom’s got a headache,” he said easily. “So I’m taking over. Think you can be my sous-chef tonight?”
Butterfly straightened immediately, solemn and proud. “Yes, sir.”
You wanted to argue again, to insist on finishing dinner, on being helpful, on being useful, but the room tilted, and the relief of letting someone else carry the evening was so strong it made your eyes sting.
You felt his warm hand settle at the small of your back, guiding you toward the stairs.
Your legs felt heavier than they should have.
Halfway up, guilt clawed its way through the pain. You were supposed to handle this. Other mothers handled worse. You’d handled worse. You hated feeling fragile, hated needing rescuing in your own kitchen.
At the top of the stairs, you turned back. He was still there, watching to make sure you made it the rest of the way. He shoo’d you onward with a tilt of his head.
And so you let the bedroom swallow you: blackout curtains drawn, blessed darkness wrapping around your aching skull.
Downstairs, you heard your toddler’s delighted babble, your oldest’s earnest questions, and cabinet doors opening and closing.
And under it all, Bucky’s steady, capable voice, entirely at ease.
A different kind of quiet settled over the house as you finally closed your eyes.
*****
Bucky stood in the middle of the kitchen for a full three seconds after steering you upstairs, toddler balanced on his left hip, oldest hovering at his right elbow, and simply took inventory.
The onions were soft but threatening to burn. The carrots were half-chopped. The cutting board looked like you’d been mid-motion when he walked in. The pasta water hadn’t quite boiled yet. The sauce was bubbling.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
He fought aliens on battlefields where goats had grazed the day before. He survived HYDRA brainwashing and found love. He’d run for elected office with his shadowy past and won.
This should be easy.
The little one buried her face in his shoulder and gripped his shirt with both fists like she was afraid he might evaporate.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “We’re good. We’re fine.”
The older reached for a wooden spoon before he could stop her.
“Nope,” he said automatically, taking the spoon from her. “Not near the stove.”
“It needs stirring,” she said, offended.
He given her a look. “You are eight.”
“And I know when it’s burning,” she replied with your signature sass, like only someone 8-going-on-18 can, and held up her worksheet. “And I need help.”
He glanced down at the paper like it might bite him.
“Show how you use eight and five to get ten,” she read, tapping the line with her pencil.
Bucky blinked at it.
“Ten?” he repeated. “Eight plus five is thirteen.”
She nodded vigorously. “That’s what I said.”
He felt a surge of completely irrational vindication for something so simple. “Right. So we’re correct.”
“But it says get ten,” she insisted.
He squinted at the worksheet, shifting his daughter higher on his hip when she started to slide. She immediately grabbed his loosened tie and shoved it toward her mouth.
“Absolutely not,” he muttered, gently prying it away. “That tie’s already a long day.”
Butterfly watched the exchange, unimpressed. “Daddy.”
“Right,” he said, dragging his attention back to the page. “Ten.”
He looked at the numbers again. Eight. Five. Get ten.
“What the heck is this?” he muttered.
She brightened like she’d been waiting for that line. “My teacher says it’s ‘New Math,’ but that it’s not ‘new’. It’s just better.”
Bucky furrowed his brown and huffed a quiet laugh. “Better for who?”
He glanced toward the stairs instinctively, like he might call up to you for backup.
“Does your mother understand this?” he asked.
She nodded immediately. “She understands it, but she said she doesn’t like it.”
“Okay,” he said slowly. “If your mother understands it, then it to make sense. Somewhere.”
The pan given a warning hiss.
He turned a “sh—” under his breath into a “shoot” and pivoted, using the wooden spoon and stirring the onions one-handed.
The toddler objected to the angle change by leaning back dramatically, threatening to throw herself out of his arm like a tiny, uncoordinated protester. He tightened his hold without looking, enhanced reflexes compensating for her wobbly rebellion.
“You are clingy tonight,” he told her quietly.
She pressed her face into his shoulder in response, as if that settled it.
Butterfly sighed loudly. “Daddy.”
“Right. Math.”
He turned the heat down and scanned the rest of the counter. Carrots. Pasta. He could do this.
“Okay,” he said, pointing at the numbers on the page. “Maybe it meant you take eight… and needed two more to get to ten.”
She looked at him quizzically. “Okay…”
“So if you have five—” He paused, letting her work it out herself.
Her pencil hovered. “You take two from the five? That makes eight into ten.”
“Yup. Then you have three left,” he said slowly. “Because five minus two is three.”
She started writing. “So it’s ten and three?”
“And ten plus three is thirteen,” he said automatically.
Butterfly looked up at him, brows furrowed. “That’s what we said before.”
“Okay,” he said. “So maybe the point isn’t to get ten as the final answer. Maybe it was to show how you made ten first. Like how you rearranged the numbers to make it easier to do in your head.”
Butterfly’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Ohh… Mrs. Mulligan said something about making ten.”
He pointed at the worksheet with a grin. “There. That’s it, then. You took two from five, added it to eight, that gave you ten. Then you three left. Ten and three made thirteen.”
She slowly smiled. “So they’re teaching me how to do the math I do in my head, but making me do it on paper.”
He’d be damned. The little bugger was right. “Yeah, Butterfly,” he muttered. “That’s school for you.”
He turned back to the stove, juggling one kid on his hip while reaching for the half-chopped carrots. He scraped them into the pan one-handed, missing a few that scattered across the counter. He grabbed them and tossed them in.
The pasta water finally begun to bubble. He dumped salt in, then the noodles, stirring awkwardly while trying to keep the littlest Barnes away from the steam.
“No,” he said firmly, angling her away. “That’s hot.”
She pouted.
He kissed her hair automatically, watching the stove like it was a volatile negotiation.
He could feel the tempo of the kitchen now, the way you must: what needed stirring, what needed lowering, what could wait thirty seconds and what couldn’t.
And beneath it all was the steady pull of two kids needing different things at the same time.
His oldest cleared her throat. “Can I show you the next one?”
“Sure,” he said, not looking away from the pan.
She waited for him.
He sighed and turned, giving her his full attention like he seen you do when you make them feel like the only person in the room even when three things are on fire.
Ladybug chosen that exact moment to squirm violently.
He adjusted without thinking, tightening his hold, bracing her against his chest.
*****
Dinner was slightly overdone by the time he plated it. The onions were darker than intended, the carrots softer.
He set a plate in front of the oldest, then maneuvered the toddler into her high chair with practiced efficiency. She protested the transition from hip to seat.
“I know,” he placated her. “I know. I’m the worst.”
He spooned pasta onto her tray, blew on it, and popped one elbow noodle into his mouth to test the temperature.
She immediately grabbed a fistful and smeared it across her tray.
He intercepted the second handful mid-air on the way to her hair.
“Food goes in your mouth,” he informed her solemnly.
She grinned at him like he was hilarious.
By the time both plates were mostly empty, Bucky’s tie was speckled with sauce, his sleeve was sticky, and the baby’s face looked like she’d lost a fight with a tomato.
He wiped her down with a damp cloth in swift, precise motions: cheeks, chin, hands, between fingers. It was military efficiency applied to pasta cleanup.
His oldest watched him with open amusement. “You missed a spot,” she said.
He narrowed his eyes. “Where?”
She tapped her own cheek.
He wiped away the imaginary spot of sauce and sealed it with a kiss to her cheek. “There,” he said, “all clean.”
Ladybug leaned forward and pressed a sloppy kiss to his jaw in response, leaving a wet mark behind.
He snorted softly.
Bedtime was mercifully short; pajamas were put on and teeth brushed with minimal argument.
Until his oldest handed him a hair tie.
“Mom does it,” she said, sitting cross-legged on her bed.
He looked at the hair tie and sighed.
“How hard could it be?” he muttered.
Five minutes later, she was staring at her reflection with mild concern.
The ponytail was functional, if slightly to the left and angled. The hair was in the elastic, so he counted it as a win.
“It’s kind of lopsided,” she said.
“It’s fine for bedtime,” he replied defensively.
She studied herself another second, then shrugged. “Okay.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Goodnight, Butterfly.”
“Goodnight, Daddy.”
The toddler had already been half-asleep when he laid her down, thumb tucked into her mouth, hair a mess against her forehead. He was grateful she didn’t need her hair done for bed.
When he finally made it back downstairs, the house was quiet.
The kitchen was a mess, but a manageable one. He moved through it methodically: plates into the dishwasher, counters wiped, backpack checked.
He paused with his hands braced on the counter.
This constant recalibration, tracking heat and hunger and homework and moods, never made the news. It wasn’t flashy. It simply got done. Every single day.
He looked around the kitchen one more time. It was mostly clean. A slightly crooked stack of plates didn’t fit in the dishwasher, a wooden spoon was abandoned in the sink.
He rubbed a hand down his face, exhaustion settling into his bones in a way that felt different from battlefields or Capitol Hill.
“I never thought fighting aliens would be easier than raising two girls,” he muttered to himself.
Then he turned off the kitchen light and headed upstairs.
*****
The bedroom had been dark for hours.
You weren’t sure when the sharp edge of the migraine had dulled into something survivable, only that the room had stopped spinning and the pulse behind your eye had receded to a distant, manageable throb. The curtains were drawn tight, sealing out the streetlights. The air smelled faintly of lavender from the diffuser you’d turned on in desperation.
You were floating somewhere between sleep and awareness when the mattress dipped.
The sheets shifted as Bucky eased himself under them, slow enough that the bed springs barely protested. Even exhausted, he was so careful with you.
You stirred anyway.
Your body knew when he was near.
“Hey,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep and the remnants of pain.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he answered softly.
The fatigue in his tone threaded through you more effectively than any alarm. Your eyes opened to the dark, adjusting just enough to trace the outline of his shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” you said immediately.
The words came like muscle memory. “I didn’t mean to just leave everything to you. Dinner and homework and—”
“Stop,” he said. You felt his hand find yours under the covers, squeezing once. “Don’t,” he added, gentler now.
You swallowed. Guilt had been waiting for an opening all evening. “I hate when I can’t just push through.”
He shifted closer, the mattress dipping again as he turned toward you fully. His fingers slid into your hair, slow and careful, like he was untangling your wayward thoughts. His thumb settled at your temple, brushing lightly over the place that had hurt most.
“How’s it now?” he asked.
“Better,” you admitted. “Dull. Manageable.”
He kept his thumb moving in small, steady arcs, not pressing too hard. The pad of it was warm and soothing. You let your eyes close again as his hand continued its slow rhythm through your hair. His other arm slipped around your waist, palm spreading against your back.
“The girls okay?” you asked.
“Alive,” he replied dryly. “Fed. Clean enough to pass inspection.”
A small smile tugged at your mouth. “How bad was it?”
There was a pause, just long enough for honesty.
“Nothing catastrophic,” he said. “Dinner was a little overdone. Ladybug thinks gravity is a joke. And apparently eight and five make ten before they make thirteen.”
You laughed softly, the sound barely more than breath. “Yes, they do.”
“Yeah, well.” His thumb paused, then resumed. “It took me a minute, but we got there. You know, you are so smart. How do you just understand this new math stuff?”
Even in the dark, you could hear the genuine bewilderment under the teasing.
You opened one eye. “Of course I’m smart,” you said lightly. “I married you. Math is much simpler compared to figuring you out.”
He snorted under his breath, the sound warm against your forehead as he leaned in to press a kiss there.
“That logic feels suspicious,” he murmured.
“It’s airtight.”
His hand slid from your temple down to the curve of your neck, then back into your hair again, slower now.
“You do so much that I don’t even see.” He said, his palm at your back rubbing once in a thoughtful line. You felt something in your chest loosen.
“It’s just… stuff,” you said, though without conviction.
“It’s not just stuff.” He didn’t say it dramatically or turn it into a speech.
You turned your face into his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him: soap, starch, a faint trace of the outside world he carried home every night. His body relaxed into you, matching your own.
“I don’t like sitting out,” you admitted quietly. “It feels like I’m failing.”
His hand stilled at your back, then pressed you closer.
“You going upstairs before you pass out in front of the stove?” he said softly. “That’s not failing.” His thumb brushed once more over your temple. “That’s having a limit and respecting it.”
Down the hall, the house was silent. No small footsteps, no requests for water. Just the low hum of the heater and the steady cadence of his breathing.
“I’ve got it,” he added, quieter now. “When you can’t. I’ve got it.”
You believed him. Not because he was strong or capable or frighteningly competent when he decided to be, though he was all those things.
But because he didn’t keep score. When you couldn’t handle something, he stepped in. When he dropped the ball, you picked it up. You were partners in life and in love.
Your hand slid up his chest, curling into the fabric of his white undershirt. His heart beat steady beneath your palm. You matched your breathing to it without thinking.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
There was only the warmth of him along your front, his hand resting wide and sure against your back, and his thumb tracing idle patterns through your hair.
The migraine faded further into the background.
After a while so did the guilt.
In the dark, wrapped in the quiet of a house you’d both built and held together in different ways, you let yourself simply rest.
And he stayed awake just long enough to make sure you did.
The batfam is sick! Good thing the best doctor in Gotham is on the case!
Word Count: 3,702
💮Masterlist💮
"Oh my poor babies," you muttered as you marched into the manor's large kitchen.
Your six year old daughter Martha sat at the counter nibbling an apple you cut for her earlier.
"Everyone is sick Mama?" she rubbed her temples, an action she got from watching you. "That really sucks."
You almost laughed at your little girls honesty and obliviousness. The culprit of this whole snotty infestation couldn’t stop clinging to her big brother Dick when he was leaving with his siblings for an extensive group mission. Dick caught her flu, and passed it along to everyone. The harsh winter weather and everyone insisting they were fine, resulted in a lot of sick vigilantes.
You, Bruce, and Alfred were spared since you three were at home helping Martha feel better and disinfecting every inch of the Manor. But now you three needed to take care of more flu victims that were quarantining at the Manor. Sending them back to their teams bases would just spread the flu to more people.
Your body moved on auto pilot as you quickly thought of your game plan. Little Martha watched you put on your apron and pull out a pen and notepad. You rapidly scribbled meals and ingredients, leaving the notepad every so often to look through the fridge and cabinets. A focused scowl plastered on your face as you moved.
Martha sniffled, her voice cracking as she spoke. “We have to help them, Mama. They need a doctor! They need you!”
You looked at her teary eyed face and rushed over to her. You bent down to her eye level and gently took her tiny hands in yours.
"I can't help them like a doctor does honey. I'm a pharmacist. So I work with medicine. You know the nasty stuff daddy and I gave you when you were sick," Martha nodded. "That's what I work with. Doctors tell you that your sick, and they talk to me, so I can give their patients the medicine they need to feel better. Does that make sense?"
Martha gave a firm nod. "So…we need to get a doctor to say they're sick…and the doctor makes you make them feel better."
"Something like that, yeah."
Suddenly Martha's face lit up. “I’ll get my kit!” She hopped off the stool and ran off, leaving you a little confused.
But when she came back a few minutes later, all of your questions were answered. Martha walked in with her doctor play set. The kit came in a large plastic suitcase on wheels, and came with a children's doctor coat, a mask, and 30 play pieces.
She stopped in front of you, a large triumphant smile on her face. "Doctor Martha is here!"
Just then, Bruce shuffled in — sweats, hoodie, hair slightly mussed, empty mug in his hand. The world’s greatest detective looked like a man who hadn’t slept in a century.
"And daddy can be my nurse," Martha declared.
Bruce turned around, "Huh?"
Bruce knocked on Dick’s door with the practiced patience of a man who hadn't already received twenty-seven texts from Dick that morning. He wore his fluffy white robe as his doctors coat, and a black surgical mask on his face. Martha stood beside him, doctor kit rolling behind her, doctors coat buttoned to the top, mask slightly askew, and play clipboard clutched with Hello Kitty paper close to her chest.
“Come in,” Dick croaked, voice rasping like he’d swallowed gravel.
He was a mess. Hair everywhere, wrapped in two blankets, a cold pack sliding down his forehead. One arm hung dramatically over the side of the bed.
Martha gasped. “Oh no! He’s very sick, Daddy.”
Bruce nodded gravely. “Critical condition.”
Dick peeked an eye open. “Is that my favorite doctor?”
Martha marched forward. “Yes! Doctor Martha Wayne. And this is Nurse Bruce Daddy.”
Dick grinned weakly. “You brought backup. Good. I wasn’t sure I’d make it.”
Bruce took out his phone and dialed your number. He put it on speaker.
“Hey, Doctor Wayne,” your voice came through the line, cheerful and steady. “How’s the patient?”
“Hi, Mama!” Martha chirped. “He’s very hot and sweaty,” Martha reported, pressing her toy thermometer to Dick’s forehead. “And his hair’s going crazy. That means fever.”
Bruce added, deadpan: “Fever of one hundred and… dramatic.”
Dick stuck his tongue out at Bruce and readjusted his ice pack.
You chuckled. “Understood. Doctor Martha, what do you think he needs?”
“Soup, juice, and snuggles,” she said decisively.
“Prescription approved,” you said. “Pharmacy will prepare chicken noodle and vegetable juice. Nurse Bruce Daddy, make sure he doesn’t leave bed.”
“Copy that,” Bruce said.
Dick pouted. "I don't like vegetable juice!"
You said a firm "Too bad." and hung up the phone.
"Who made her the boss?”
Bruce tucked one of the blanket around him, “Her doctorate.”
Martha peeled a sparkly unicorn sticker from her kit and stuck it carefully on Dick’s hand.
“There. That’ll make you brave. Because uniforms are brave."
Dick smiled, small and soft. “Already working, Doc.”
As they stepped out, Bruce texted you:
To: "My Home ❤️": Patient Dick is stable. Diagnosis: severe silliness, light fever, 80% improvement after sticker treatment.
Your reply came quick.
From : "My Home ❤️": Pharmacy delivery driver (Alfred) will deliver chicken noodle soup in 20 minutes. Next patient.
Bruce glanced down the hall where the rest of the manor waited in various stages of misery. He sighed, adjusting the toy stethoscope hanging from his neck.
“Come on, Doctor. We’ve got a long day ahead.”
Martha grinned, tugging his hand. “Let’s save more people, Nurse Bruce Daddy.”
The next door was half-closed, a low voice grumbling from inside.
“Come in if you dare,” Jason muttered, muffled by a pillow.
Martha didn’t hesitate. She pushed the door open, tiny doctor coat flapping dramatically. “Doctor Martha Wayne, reporting for duty!”
Jason groaned. “Oh no, they sent the tiny one.”
Bruce followed her in, phone in hand, expression neutral. “Nurse Bruce Daddy assisting.”
Jason peered up from his blanket cocoon. “You’re kidding me.”
Bruce started typing, voice flat. “No, but I will be documenting your symptoms for [Name].”
Marta climbed onto the edge of the bed, stethoscope around her neck, eyes sharp with professional focus. “How are you feeling, big brother Jay?”
He coughed once, wet, deep, and chesty. “Fine.”
She gasped. “Ew! That cough is not fine!” She pressed the plastic stethoscope against his chest, listening intently to absolutely nothing. “Hmm. Your heartbeat sounds… spicy.”
Jason squinted. “Spicy?”
“That means you’ve been eating too many chili dogs,” she said with great authority.
Jason's eyes narrowed at his sister. "Who told you!?"
Bruce called your phone immediately.
"Status report," you asked with a tone too playful to be completely stern.
"Doctor reports patient has "spicy heartbeat.” Likely due to diet of street food and vengeance," Bruce reported.
"Incorrect," Jason weakly pointed at a shaky finger at Bruce. "Street food and spite. Vengeance is your thing."
You let out an amused huff on the other line. "Understood. Prescription: extra-large super green smoothie and no chili dogs until he gets better."
Jason sat up. “Wait, no chili dogs? Don't I need, like, protein or something?"
Unfortunately for Jason, you already hung up before you could listen to his objections.
Martha scribbled on her clipboard, tongue poking out as she wrote. “What Mama says goes.”
Jason sighed, slumping back. “You're brutal like mama.”
Martha patted his arm. “That’s because I care.” She reached into her kit and produced a bright red sticker shaped like a lightning bolt. “You’re strong like Flash. You’ll feel better soon.”
Jason looked at it for a long moment before peeling it carefully off and sticking it on his bedside table lamp. “Thanks sis.”
As they left, Bruce sent one last text:
To: "My Home ❤️": Patient grumpy but compliant. Sticker therapy successful. Moral high.
From: "My Home ❤️": Sounds like you . Next.
Martha tugged Bruce’s hand toward the next hallway. “Come on, Nurse Bruce Daddy! We still have a lot of sickies to fix!”
Bruce smirked faintly. “Lead the way, Doctor.”
The door to Tim’s room was cracked open, the faint glow of a laptop screen flickering inside. Bruce sighed before even knocking. “He’s working,” he muttered.
Martha frowned. “He’s supposed to be resting!”
She pushed the door open and marched straight in, the toy stethoscope bouncing against her chest. “Patient Timmy!” she announced. “You are not allowed to do science when you’re sick!”
Tim turned in his desk chair, coffee mug in his hand, dark circles practically engraved under his eyes. “It’s not science, it’s—”
“Work,” Bruce finished sternly. “Is that coffee!?”
Martha let out a high pitched gasp. "I'm telling Mommy!"
Tim slumped. “Traitor!”
"Get him to bed Nurse Bruce Daddy!"
Bruce didn't hesitate. He rushed towards Tim, but Tim was stubborn. He jumped out of his chair and used it as a shield. "Cut it out Bruce! I'm fine!"
"Don't make this harder than it needs to be," Bruce pulled the chair away from Tim and tossed it to the side.
Tim lunged towards his bed and clumsily wrapped his duvet around his shoulders. "I'm in bed! I'm in bed! Layoff Nurse Terminator!"
Bruce gave a stern nod and went to pick up Tim's chair. Meanwhile Martha climbed into Tim's bed, wooden tongue depressor in her hand. "Say ahh Timmy."
"Okay, just not too far Martha. I almost threw up last time."
"Okay."
Tim opened his mouth, letting Martha slowly and carefully press his tongue down with the depressor. Tim was patient as she examined the inside of his mouth for…something.
Martha nodded like she suddenly got all the answers she needed. She dropped the depressor on Tim's bed and started scribbling on her clipboard.
Tim leaned over to see what she was writing. "Is it serious doctor?"
Martha didn’t look up from her clipboard. “Yes. Yucky breath and tired eyes.”
Tim groaned into his blanket. “Ruthless.”
Bruce thumbed his phone.
To: "My Home ❤️": Patient Timmy diagnosed with ‘yucky breath and tired eyes.’
The reply came fast.
From: "My Home ❤️": Italian meatball soup, lots of water, and mint mouthwash before anyone else suffers.
Tim pulled the duvet higher over his head. “Tell Mom I’m not talking to her anymore.”
Martha smiled proudly, setting a panda sticker on his nightstand. “He’s getting better already.”
Cass’s door was closed, soft music humming from a speaker on the other side. She sat cross-legged on her bed, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, eyes closed as she breathed slowly through a sore throat because her stuffed up nose wouldn't allow something as silly as breathing.
Martha peeked in, whispering, “We have to be quiet, Nurse Bruce Daddy. She’s sleeping sitting up.”
Cass’s lips curved into a small smile. “Not sleeping,” she rasped gently.
Martha crept closer. “Hi, Cass. I’m Doctor Martha. You don’t feel good?”
Cass shook her head, voice barely above a whisper. “No I don't Doctor Martha. Can you help me?”
Martha pulled out her trusty clip board. "What are your symptoms?"
"Sore throat. Stuffy nose. And I'm really tired."
Bruce stayed by the doorway, pulling out his phone.
To: "My Home ❤️": Patient Cassandra reports fatigue, sinus congestion, and sore throat. Calm and cooperative.
The reply came a moment later.
From: "My Home ❤️": Apple cinnamon oatmeal with honey. Tell Doctor Martha to be extra gentle with her big sister.
Martha reached into her kit, placing a toy thermometer against Cass’s cheek. “Hmm,” she murmured. “You’ve got the sleepies. But don’t worry, I’ll fix it.”
Cass watched her little sister with patient amusement. “Sleepies, huh?”
“Yup. Doctor’s orders — oatmeal, snuggles, and a nap.” Martha opened her case and pulled out a small stuffed axolotl and gave it to Cass. Next she peeled a gold star sticker from her clipboard and pressed it gently to Cass’s shoulder. “For being the quietest patient ever.”
Cass signed thank you, her movement small and soft. Martha brightened and awkwardly mirrored the sign back, making Cass’s eyes glimmer with pure affection.
Bruce sent one last text before pocketing his phone.
To: "My Home ❤️": Stuffy deployed. Sticker therapy successful. Patient Cass resting.
From: "My Home ❤️": Good job! Previous patients received food and medicine. I eagerly await another update.
Cass reached over to squeeze Martha’s tiny hand. “Good doctor,” she whispered.
Bruce knelt beside her and whispered, “You’re four for four, Doctor. Who’s next?”
Martha’s eyes lit up. “Steph! She’s a silly patient. We have to hurry!”
Martha knocked three times before kicking open the door. “Doctor Martha Wayne!” she announced grandly. “House call!”
Steph, bundled up in a mountain of purple blankets, peeked over the top with mock fear. “Oh no, the doctor’s here! Everyone hide the candy!”
Bruce followed her in, phone already out with you on the other line. “Patient appears conscious and sarcastic.”
“Symptom confirmed,” you said seriously, the sound of a knife cutting something on the other line.
Steph laughed, voice hoarse but light. “You’re getting good at this, kiddo.” She patted the bed beside her. “Come on, Doc. You better check my vitals before I die of boredom.”
Martha climbed up, pulling out her toy stethoscope and placing it on Stephs back. “Okay. Deep breaths.”
Steph exaggerated it, huffing like she was blowing up a balloon. Martha nodded gravely and tapped her pen. “Diagnosis: funny lungs.”
You paused your food cutting. "So patient Stephanie exhibits excessive humor and mild congestion. Got it. Prescription: chicken and dumplings, orange juice."
Bruce dipped his chin once in acknowledgment. "Better add one less joke per minute to her prescription."
Steph blew a raspberry at Bruce. “You and [Name] are no fun.”
Martha gasped. “You can’t talk back to the pharmacy!”
Bruce added, “That’s an automatic fine.”
Steph chuckled, her laugh turning into a cough. Martha instantly reached for her toy thermometer and pressed it to Steph’s forehead. “You’re hot!” she blurted, eyes wide.
Steph smirked. “Thanks, I know.”
Martha blinked, confused. “No, I mean your head! You have a fever!”
Steph’s laughter broke into another cough, and Martha’s little hand flew to her back, rubbing in small circles. “Careful! You’re gonna choke on your funny!”
Bruce spoke into his phone. "Patient laughing through cough. Doctor applied small-hand comfort technique."
A kitchen timer rings mid-call. "Ah, the next round of food is done. Tell Doctor Martha she’s doing wonderfully. And remind Steph to drink her water."
Steph retreated back into her cocoon, only her sweaty forehead visible. "Yes ma'am."
Martha tore off a shiny purple cat sticker and stuck it right on Steph’s forehead. “For bravery and too many jokes.”
Steph gave her a weak salute through her blankets. “Best doctor I’ve ever had.”
Martha giggled and hopped off the bed. “Next patient, Nurse Bruce Daddy!”
"Yes Doctor Martha."
Martha didn’t even knock this time. She flung Duke’s door open like a superhero making an entrance. “Doctor Martha Wayne! And Nurse Bruce Daddy!”
Duke sat in the middle of his bed, oversized hoodie on, and a box of tissues balanced on his lap. “Wow, I got the A-team,” he said, voice stuffy but amused.
“You sure did,” Bruce replied, tone flat but eyes warm. “Let's get to work doctor.”
Martha squinted, studying Duke like a detective at a crime scene. “You sound funny.”
“Because my nose is broken,” Duke said with a sniff.
Martha gasped. “You broke your nose!?”
Duke chuckled. “I mean it’s stuffy.”
“Ohhh.” Martha nodded sagely and pulled a toy otoscope from her kit. “Hold still. Doctor Martha will fix it.”
Duke leaned forward obediently while she shined her little plastic light up his nose. “Hmm,” she hummed, dead serious. “Too much nastiness in there.”
To: "My Home ❤️": Patient Duke experiencing nasal congestion. Doctor’s official diagnosis: ‘too much nastiness.’
Duke waved to Bruce to catch his attention. "Tell [Name] my head is pounding from the congestion."
Bruce did what he was asked, and got a text from you minutes later.
To: "My Home ❤️": Administer Pedialyte with emergency congestion and headache medicine set for immediate Alfred delivery. And tell our doctor she’s brilliant.
Martha beamed as Bruce read the text aloud. “See? Mommy thinks I’m smart!”
Duke gently pat Martha's head. “I’d trust you with my life, Doc.”
She reached into her kit and handed him a bright yellow sticker shaped like the sun. “For being the sunshine brother.”
He smiled, pressing it to his hoodie. “Best sticker ever.”
Bruce typed one more note.
To: "My Home ❤️": Patient Duke stable, morale high. Sunshine sticker issued.
Duke raised an eyebrow. “You’re really into this, huh?”
Bruce smiled and shrugged. “Doctor’s orders. And I wanted to make sure everyone's okay.”
Duke looked down at his hands, trying to use his hood to hide his bashful smile. "Thanks Bruce. I appreciate that."
Martha clapped her hands together. “Only one left!”
Bruce glanced down the hall toward the last closed door. “Damian.”
Martha nodded with determination. “He’s the grumpiest patient of all. We have to be brave, Nurse Bruce Daddy.”
Bruce sighed, resigned. “Lead on, Doctor.”
The door to Damian’s room was shut tight, a hand-written note taped to it: DO NOT ENTER.
Martha squinted at it. “He’s scared,” she said defiantly.
Bruce deadpanned, “That’s one interpretation.”
She knocked anyway. “Doctor Martha Wayne! Open up! I have to tell mommy you're sick and give you medicine!”
A muffled voice shot back, sharp as a blade: “Leave the cure by the door. I require no assistance.”
Martha stomped her foot. “He’s refusing treatment!”
Bruce sighed. “He’s refusing everything.”
She turned the handle and pushed the door open before he could stop her.
Damian stood near his desk, arms crossed, sword propped within reach—because of course it was. Titus lay nearby, ears back like he’d already accepted defeat. Damian’s voice was hoarse, his nose red, but his posture screamed battle-ready.
“I’m fine,” he said curtly.
“You’re sniffly,” Martha countered, marching right up to him with her toy thermometer in her right hand, and her toy otoscope in her left.
“That’s not a medical term.”
“You're not a doctor! You don't know!”
To: "My Home ❤️": Patient Damian still in denial. Sword present. Proceeding with caution.
A second later:
From: "My Home ❤️": Be careful. Apply stubbornness-countermeasures. Preparing emergency grilled cheese and tomato soup. Administer stealth affection STAT!
“Sit,” Martha ordered, pointing at his bed.
Damian scoffed. “You are not qualified to give orders.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “She has more medical experience than you do, son.”
“Because I trained with assassins, not—” Damian let out a hard sneeze, knocking the wind out of him so hard that he went into a coughing fit.
Martha pointed a finger at her brother dramatically. “Evidence! You are sick!”
He scowled. “That was dust.”
“There’s no dust in my patient rooms,” she said firmly, stepping closer to him and holding out her plastic thermometer. “Hold still!”
Damian dodged left. “I will not.”
She huffed, trying again. “Hold still or I’ll tell Mommy!”
Bruce said slowly, “That’s an effective strategy.”
Damian froze mid-step. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Martha tightened her grip on her thermometer. "Yes. I. Would."
Bruce jumped towards Damian, embracing the boy in a tight bear hug. "Gotcha."
Damian wiggled is shoulders and kicked his feet, but his congestion left him weak and breathless. He gave up his fight almost as soon as he started. He dangled helplessly as Martha stared up at her helpless brother.
Damian looked back at her, his expression somewhere between disbelief and betrayal. "This isn't care! This is tyranny!”
She scribbled on her clipboard. “Diagnosis: very dramatic. Needs puppy snuggles.”
Damian sighed heavily. “Fine. Administer whatever treatment you deem necessary. Quickly.”
Bruce released his hold. When Damian silently climbed into bed, Bruce typed one last note:
To: "My Home ❤️": Patient Damian finally compliant. Diagnosis: dramatic fever and acute denial.
From: "My Home ❤️": Good work. I knew I could count on you.
Martha beamed, placing a tiny dinosaur sticker on his wrist. “For being brave and only a little grumpy.”
Damian studied it like it was radioactive, then muttered, “Tch. It’s acceptable.”
Titus barked once, tail thumping on the wood floor.
Bruce crouched beside his daughter. “That’s all the patients, Doctor.”
Martha jumped, proud smile still in place. “We did it.”
“You did,” Bruce said softly, kissing the top of her head. “Now let’s report back to the pharmacy. And tell mommy the good news."
For the first time all day, you weren’t juggling medicine bottles, boiling pots, or a buzzing phone. You sat curled up on the living room couch, a thick blanket on your lap, tea steaming between your hands, firelight flickering against the walls.
Alfred had taken care of the final deliveries himself — insisting that Doctor Martha’s patients deserved proper presentation. He’d left the soup trays and medicine bottles neatly arranged on a rolling cart and disappeared down the hall like the guardian of a very tired hospital ward.
A few minutes later, the familiar tread of heavy steps echoed across the floor. You looked up as Bruce appeared in the doorway — hoodie rumpled, hair even more of a mess, and your daughter fast asleep on his shoulder. Her tiny doctor’s coat was crooked, her mask off, and her stethoscope and clipboard securely in Bruce's free hand.
“She insisted on checking Alfred one more time, even though he wasn't sick,” Bruce murmured, voice low so she wouldn’t wake. “Declared him fully cured.”
You smiled. “And what about you, Nurse Bruce Daddy?”
His mouth curved faintly. “Completely healthy.”
“Good,” you said softly, patting the couch beside you. “Because I’m prescribing rest, cuddles, and cookies.”
He set Martha gently in your lap, her tiny hands instantly finding you. “Mission complete,” she mumbled into your shoulder, half-dreaming. “All better.”
You gently kissed her head, your heart full of love and content. “Best doctor in Gotham.”
Bruce’s gaze softened. “No arguments here.” He carefully sat close to you. Allowing you to smoothly cuddle into his side.
You leaned into him as the fire cracked softly, the manor finally still — every tick of the clock a small, steady heartbeat of peace.
That Tumblr post about a dragon losing her clutch of eggs so she adopts an office build of humans, but with the 141
No one knew what to make of you perched on the bases main building with your wings spread in the sun. You were a massive creature, almost to big for the roof of the building. It was a miracle you hadn't crumbled it or caved in the ceiling under your weight.
No one wanted to approach you. You were there when the sun came up, rumbling away as you watched everyone walking around base. They were wary of going anywhere near you, but you hadn't made yourself a threat. Yet.
"Thought dragons didn't nest near humans." Johnny murmurs nervously as he watches Nikolai and Price climb the ladder on the side of the building.
"It's rare, but not unheard of. Maybe it's here for tanks and stuff? Things to horde?" Kyle took an anxious breath when Price and Nik reached the top of the building and stepped over the ledge. Too close for his comfort, especially when your large head lowers down towards them.
"Hi, little ones.." You rumble quietly as you settle your chin to the roof. "Did you climb all the way up here?" John clears his throat as he shares a quick look with Nik. Out of all the questions he was ready for you to ask, that wasn't one of them.
"Yes, we did, we wanted to see what you wanted. Do you need something from the base?" Price asks. Dragons didn't ever threaten humans unless they were disrespectful of their territory. But this was new ground for Price. He'd never had a dragon come to him before.
"No, little one. Just want to keep an eye on my babies." You softly nudge his belly with your snout. "Be careful going down. Very fragile body." You rumble, giving Nik the same soft nuzzle. You watch with a close eye as they descend back down the ladder before returning to your sunbathing.
"Lost clutch syndrome?" Nikolai nods in agreement. "Anything we can do?"
SUMMARY :: Milo discovers that his dad exists on the TV, in photos, and apparently everywhere else. Matt almost has a heart attack about it.
FEATURING dad!Matt Sturniolo x mom!reader REQUESTED? yes.
WARNINGS :: Crying.
AUTHOR'S NOTE :: that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.
"Ring ring." Milo says very seriously into his toy phone.
He presses the bright plastic receiver hard against his messy light‑brown hair, nearly covering one of his eyes with it as he squints down at the colorful buttons.
"Hello?" A pause. "Oh. Yes. 'anana."
Then he slams the receiver down with a loud plastic clack and immediately looks up to check if Matt is still on his phone.
He is, and that seems to satisfy him enough.
Milo grins, a wide, crooked little thing, and grabs the phone again, pressing it back to his ear while he sits on the floor in the middle of a soft play rug, toys scattered all around him.
"Hello? Dada?"
"Hi, baby." Matt answers automatically, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt.
He had pulled his own phone out of the pocket of his hoodie the moment Milo started the game, because apparently this was his life now, participating in extremely important fake phone calls before eleven in the morning.
Milo beams.
Matt leans back against the wall near the hallway, shoulder resting against it while his attention drifts between the tiny human on the floor and the TV across the room.
Yesterday's video plays there, already several minutes in. Nick and Chris are stretched across the couch watching it, as they usually do after they post a new video - which isn't very often these days.
Behind the kitchen table, Y/N sits mashing banana into a plate with oats and honey by its side, glancing over every few seconds.
Chris snorts as he glances toward Matt.
"He still thinks you're on the phone with him?"
Matt doesn’t even try to hide the laugh that escapes him.
"Yeah." He says, rubbing a hand over his bearded jaw. "Kid's committed to the bit."
On the floor, Milo presses the plastic phone so hard to his ear that his whole head tilts with it.
""anana? Yes, please."
"You should actually call him." Nick mutters, barely looking away from the TV. "He'll shit."
Matt huffs.
"He does that enough." His eyes drift back to Milo just in time to watch him slam the toy phone down again with a triumphant little smack. "Trust me."
Milo giggles to himself, delighted, grabs the phone again, and turns in a small distracted circle between his toys before focusing on the shape pieces. He mutters to himself, and makes quick work of finding where everything goes. He dumps it all out again and starts over.
"I gotta get you more complicated puzzles now that you're two." Matt says, putting his phone back inside his hoodie's pocket before wandering over with Milo's sippy cup in his free hand. "You've basically cracked the code on that one, munchkin."
"Game, game." Milo announces proudly. "Fix game!"
"Yeah." Matt says, dropping down to sit on his heels beside him and setting the cup on the floor. "You fixed it. And fixed it and fixed it and fixed it." He reaches over to push Milo's messy hair back as the kid starts stacking the monkey piece again with his little nose scrunched up.
Matt tilts his head at him, warmth blooming in his chest.
"Do you know you're cute?" He asks. "Because it's important to me that you know."
Chris watches the two of them for a second, amused, before leaning forward slightly.
"Milo." He calls. "Dada's completely whipped, huh?"
Milo's head pops up immediately after listening his own name being called - he's in that age now.
He looks straight at Chris, but the movement pulls his gaze past the couch, and directly to the TV right as the video cuts to a close shot of Matt.
Milo freezes, his brows pulling together as he stares at the TV.
"Dada?" He asks before slowly, very slowly, turns his head and looks at Matt. "Dada?" He asks again, more intensely this time.
"What?" Matt smiles. "What's happening right now?"
Milo looks back and forth between the TV and Matt, and Matt's face hurts trying not to bust out into full hysterics. Milo's eyes stop on him and they go very, very wide, but he doesn't say anything, like he's trying to figure it out.
Nick finally glances away from the screen, catching the exchange, while Chris is already watching with a grin that's getting wider by the second.
Milo's entire tiny brain is clearly working overtime.
"Who's that, bug?" Matt asks, pointing toward the TV. "Huh? That guy looks familiar. Is that dada's clone? No way. No way, right? You gotta get him."
Milo squints at the screen like he's personally offended by it before he shakes his head once, very firmly, and pushes himself up onto his feet.
The toy phone gets abandoned on the rug as he toddles across the room with determined little steps.
"Dada!" He shouts, both hands slapping against the TV screen where Matt's face fills the frame. "Dada! Dada! Out!"
Behind him, Chris makes a choking noise trying not to laugh too much as Nick rolls his eyes, his hands holding his phone up, probably recording the moment.
On the TV the scene cuts to something else, causing Milo to gasp.
Tiny feet thump quickly across the floor as he rushes back toward Matt.
"Dada." Milo says urgently, patting Matt's knee like this is somehow his responsibility.
Matt reaches out and cups his little face, kissing the top of his messy hair, inhaling the scent of strawberries from his shampoo.
"Yeah, that was weird, huh?" He says, still laughing under his breath.
"Dada! 'Pooh show?" Milo asks.
Matt ruffles his hair.
"Nope, no Winnie the Pooh show right now." He says. "Your uncle's are using the TV. We have to share things, remember?"
"Pooh, dada." He repeats, a small pout forming on his pinkish bottom lip. "Dada!"
Y/N snorts from the kitchen, pouring oats above the smashed bananas before mixing it with honey.
"Snack time, honey." She calls.
"Cheese!" Milo yells, smiling big to his dad. "Pooh show, dada! Pooh show, please!" He tries again, taking a couple of uneven steps backwards when Matt gets up, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
"No cheese. And no Winnie the Pooh show." He says, heading toward the kitchen. "You're getting mashed banana with honey and oats. Very fancy cuisine. No complaints accepted."
Milo complains anyway.
Matt can hear him behind him, little feet shuffling and the plastic phone immediately getting abused against the floor again.
"Does Milo want apple juice or orange juice?" Matt calls, pulling open the fridge.
The bottles rattle in the door.
From the table, Y/N looks up.
"Orange juice." She says. "More vitamins."
"Bossy." Matt says automatically, but he grabs five oranges anyway.
He sets them on the counter in front of the small juicer.
Behind him, Y/N stands and walks over, throwing the banana peel in the trash bedore wrapping her arms around his waist from behind, her hands slipping under the hem of his hoodie to rest against the warm skin of his soft stomach.
"You like it."
Matt huffs a quiet laugh.
She presses a kiss to his shoulder, breathing in the soft mix of detergent and the soft cologne he'd sprayed on earlier.
"You're damn rig-"
They hear a crash, a bunch of shit falling, followed by the worst sound in the world; Milo screaming, and then falling into hysterics.
Matt's stomach drops straight through the floor.
"Milo?" He calls, turning around just to see that Milo isn't in the living room anymore, and he can tell exactly where the sound is coming from. It's in his old bedroom, and Milo is crying and this isn't fucking good, what the hell happened-
He's running before his brain catches up, rounding the corner toward the bedroom.
"I'm coming, buddy!"
He skids into the room.
Milo is on the floor surrounded by fallen toys and blocks, a couple of picture frames knocked over beside him.
His little face is red, soaked with tears, lip trembling violently.
Matt's legs nearly give out.
"Hey, hey, hey-" He breathes, dropping down immediately.
He scoops Milo up and starts checking him over quickly.
"You okay?" He asks, voice tight. "Talk to me, bug."
Milo wails harder.
Matt brushes his fingers through his hair and finds it. There's a small bump on his forehead under the messy strands.
"Oh no." Matt breathes.
Behind him Y/N rushes in and drops beside them.
"What happened?"
Matt sits back onto his heels and pulls Milo into his lap, holding him against his chest while Milo clings to him.
"I don't know." He says, biting his bottom lip uncertainly.
Y/N gently strokes Milo's hair.
"Hey, hey, monkey... it's okay." She murmurs softly. "Deep breaths for mama, yeah?"
Matt himself sucks in a couple uneven breaths, still staring at the bump like it might suddenly get worse if he looks away. He runs his thumb over it again, pushing Milo's messy hair aside to get a better look.
His brain is absolutely not helping.
It looks huge.
It's probably not huge.
But Milo is crying like the world ended and Matt's heart is somewhere near his throat.
"What were you doing, bug?" Matt murmurs, rubbing Milo's side and pressing a careful kiss near the bump. "Huh? What happened? You're okay. You're okay. We're going to the hospital." Y/N shakes her head, her eyes looking right inside his. "No- no, we're not- I mean we could. I could. I might-" Y/N raises her eyebrows. "No. You're fine."
Milo keeps crying, little hiccups breaking through the wails as he leans back against Matt's chest.
Behind Milo, Y/N keeps running gentle fingers through his hair.
"Hey, baby boy." She whispers softly. "It's okay. Mama and dada are right here, hm?"
Chris and Nick appear in the doorway, both carrying worried looks.
"He okay?" Chris asks carefully.
Matt nods quickly even though he's still checking Milo.
"Yeah. Yeah. I think so."
Y/N gives Milo one more absentminded pat on the head before reaching out and lightly squeezing Matt's bicep to get his attention. When he looks at her, she tilts her head slightly.
"Are you okay?"
Matt just nods. A small movement, but enough.
She gives him a soft, understanding smile.
"I'm going to finish the juice. You guys need this moment."
Then she slowly stands, quietly giving them space. Nick and Chris exchange a quick glance before following after her.
"Shh." Matt murmurs again, rocking Milo slightly. "We're good, munchkin. Dada has fallen off way worse stuff than this. Like... a lot worse stuff. So you're already doing great. Amazing, even."
"Dada." Milo cries, voice small and shaky.
Matt wipes the tears off his cheeks with his thumb.
"You're okay, buddy." He whispers. "We're okay. Everything's okay."
"Dada." Milo says again, pointing past them with a trembling finger.
Matt frowns and follows where he's pointing.
One of the framed photos from the shelf had fallen sideways when everything crashed down.
It's a picture of him and Milo from a few months ago, both of them grinning like idiots at the camera.
Milo keeps pointing, still sniffling.
Matt blinks and then it clicks. Him on the TV, and now in the photo.
"Oh my God." Matt breathes, a soft laugh breaking through the leftover panic. "Were you trying to figure out if that was the same thing?"
Milo sniffles.
Matt picks up the photo and holds it up in front of him. Immediately Milo reaches out and pats his own face in the picture.
"Yeah." Matt says, a little breathless with relief. "That's us."
He taps the frame lightly.
"This is a picture, buddy. A photo. When someone takes one with the camera and it goes flash."
Milo hiccups.
"Pic." He says quietly.
"Picture." Matt corrects gently. "And before, dada was on the TV. That's a video. Moving picture."
Milo studies it for a second before pushing the photo away and burying his face into Matt's shoulder.
He's still a little upset.
Matt exhales slowly, putting the photo back where it was, feeling grateful that the glass in it didn't break.
He rubs Milo's back.
"C'mon." He murmurs. "Let's go sit with mama and eat your snack before I actually lose ten years off my life."
From the hallway Nick snorts, still not going back to the couch in case anything else happened.
As if anything would happen with Milo in his overprotective dad's arms.
"Too late." He says. "You looked like you were about to pass out."
"Shut up." Matt mutters, standing carefully with Milo still clinging to him.
When they get back to the kitchen table, he sits and settles Milo in his lap.
Y/N slides the little Spider‑Man plate toward them, smiling softly.
"Here, baby." She says gently, her smile stretching as Milo leans over to take her middle and index fingers in his small hand.
Matt picks up the small red spoon and scoops some of the banana, oats and honey mixture.
Summary: A weekend without race, work, or meetings, just a lazy Saturday morning for two. Well, two and a half?
Words: 2.4K+
Warnings: pregnancy, years of dating, romance, cute, jokes, mentions of the baby's gender.
Author: English is not my first language, so please excuse any spelling, grammar, or slang errors that may appear in the story. You can also request stories on my profile. 🇧🇷❤️
MASTERLIST
The first rays of morning light filtered through the thin curtains of their small Australian apartment, casting a soft, golden glow in the room, despite the typical morning chill.
Y/n slowly opened her eyes, just enough to adjust herself better on the warm mattress, pulled the covers up to her chin, and glanced at the clock on the bedside table. 7:45. She smiled to herself, that kind of lazy smile you get when you realize the day is clear, free, and entirely hers.
She snuggled closer, seeking the warmth of the blankets, and that's when she felt a hand touch her belly under her sweatshirt. The touch was warm, familiar, automatic. A caress that was already part of their mornings.
Y/n smiled even wider, placed her own hand on top, and began to gently slide back to sleep.
As the world began to blur again, a soft murmur came from Oscar behind her, disrupting her return to the comfort of the dream.
"Shhh!" He whispered, but too loudly for the silence of the room.
Y/n opened her eyes instantly, completely bewildered, especially after the little kick she received in her stomach.
"Come on, it's still bedtime..." Oscar grumbled, and she lifted her head slightly. Another insistent little kick. "Baby, be quiet, Mommy is still sleeping. And Daddy wants to too, get comfortable and sleep..."
And that's when she realized who he was trying to negotiate with.
Y/n let out a giggle that seemed gigantic in the middle of that silent room. Oscar opened one eye lazily, lifted his head and smiled in that lovestruck way that always melted Y/n's heart, then threw himself back onto the pillow, closing his eyes as if nothing had happened, which only made her laugh even more.
"Oh my god, what was that?" She tried to stifle a laugh, whispering.
"The baby!"
"Yes, the baby was quiet until you told him to be quiet." Y/n rolled her eyes, but her smile remained firm.
"This baby is jealous because I'm hugging the most incredible woman in the world, that's it!" Oscar announced as if he had discovered a great mystery. He moved closer, hugged Y/n tightly, and ended up squeezing her belly as well.
"Or maybe she's asking for help because you're suffocating the baby." She retorted just as he kicked her again, right near her hand.
"It's envy!" Oscar insisted, still with his eyes closed and his face hidden in her hair.
Y/n laughed loudly. "Ouch! Don't talk to our baby like that!"
"I'm just kidding, I'm just kidding..."
"Apologize!"
"My baby, sorry for bothering you..." He said, and Y/n nodded slowly. "But you started it first!"
"OSCAR!" Y/n tried to turn around, but he turned her back and laughed.
"I love my baby, but I want to sleep more and he won't stop kicking my hand."
"Oh sure, because kicking your hand is worse than kicking my guts!" She retorted with pure mockery, making Oscar laugh.
"I'm sorry, my love..."
"Hmm..."
Silence filled the room for a few seconds, until another kick, stronger this time, landed exactly where Oscar's hand was. Y/n let out a chuckling sigh as Oscar straightened his posture as if he were dealing with a mini-villain.
He gently pulled Y/n closer, brought his face near her stomach, and rested his forehead against it, as if he were talking to a very important and very temperamental being.
"Listen here, baby..." He began in a totally theatrical tone. "Let's make a deal: you let Mommy and Daddy sleep for another hour, and I promise that later today we'll put on that cheesy playlist your mom likes, and you can dance however you want in there."
"Osc!" Y/n gave him a light tap on the arm, laughing. "Our baby isn't making any deals, love."
"Yes, he will. He's a Piastri. And Piastri honors agreements."
"Piastri is a handful before eight in the morning, that's for sure." She retorted, just as she felt another little push right where Oscar was resting his face.
Oscar stood up slowly, completely indignant. "Did you see that? He pushed me!"
"You deserved it."
"I am his father!"
"And he already realized you're dramatic." Y/n laughed, and Oscar lifted his head, smiling at her.
He took a deep breath, keeping his face close to his stomach, and his fingers began to gently caress the sweatshirt, as if trying to calm a tiny creature determined to cause trouble. A smile appeared on his lips, the kind that only came when he forgot someone was watching.
"You know I already love you very much, right?" Oscar began very softly, his voice a sweet tone that could melt anything. "Even though you kicked me out before breakfast..."
"Kicking you or kicking me?" Y/n raised her eyebrows, and Oscar made a dramatic gesture for her to be quiet.
Y/n laughed loudly and the baby stirred again, almost as if in response.
"Yes, I felt it. You don't need to hit me to say you love me too." Oscar smiled. "I imagine you in there, all curled up, tiny, trying to find a way to get attention."
Y/n simply watched, her hand running through his hair, her heart spreading warmth in her chest.
"Hey, but let me tell you a secret..." Oscar continued, even more softly. "I wake up every day missing seeing you. Even though I don't know you yet."
Y/n's heart swelled so much that it felt hard to breathe. Seeing Oscar there, her childhood best friend, her boyfriend, the father of her baby, completely smitten, talking to a baby who was still the size of a mango, was something she could never have imagined on her own.
The pregnancy hadn't been planned, even after six years together and several conversations about the future. The shock was real; time seemed to stand still when they found out, but everything fell into place the moment they heard that strong, fast, and determined little heartbeat on the first ultrasound.
It was there that they understood that there was more love between them than they had imagined, and because of the little miracle that was slowly growing inside her.
There was another movement, a slight one, as if the baby were just snuggling inside the belly, settling into the warmth, without haste, as if searching for the perfect position to continue that peaceful morning.
"And when you're born, I promise I'll show you everything. The tracks, the cars, the beautiful places... but I also promise to hold you whenever you want." He slides his hand under her sweatshirt and across her belly in a long caress. "And if you want to wake up early, that's fine. But... try not to kick Mommy, okay? She's the fragile part of the team." Oscar stifles a laugh.
Y/n playfully frowns. "I heard that."
"Okay, okay..." Oscar smiles without even lifting his head. "Mommy is the beautiful part of the team." The baby moves again, right in his hand, as if answering. Oscar sighs, completely enchanted. "I know, I know... you think she's beautiful too. We agree on that."
Oscar was still nearby, his body pressed against hers, running his hand back and forth across her belly in an almost hypnotic motion while Y/n gently stroked his hair. They remained silent, simply feeling the small kicks that came and went, as if the baby were participating in that moment for the three of them.
"Do you think he..." He pauses and smiles crookedly. "...or she... Well, our baby... who will he look more like?"
Y/n bit her lip lightly, thinking. "I hope it looks like me, of course. Imagine how unfair it would be to come with your perfect face."
Oscar slowly raised his head, offended in the cutest way possible.
"My perfect face would be a genetic advantage, okay?"
"Advantage? Honey, you had mushroom hair until you were thirteen."
"I even said hi to you with that hair back then, remember?" Oscar retorted, lightly touching her nose. "And you still thought I was handsome."
"I thought you were cute. It's different."
"But cuteness wins hearts." He smiled victoriously before resting his cheek against his belly again. "But... I think this baby will look more like you."
"Do you think so?"
"Yes. He's already stubborn... just like that." He chuckled softly when he felt another little kick. "And you're always answering everything."
"Oh, shut up!" Y/n said, laughing, and Oscar gave his stomach a light pat, indignant.
"Shh, don't swear in front of the baby."
Y/n laughs loudly and Oscar smiles and sighs contentedly, completely melting from that affection.
"Do you think it's a boy?" he asked, his voice soft, almost curious.
"I don't know..." Y/n smiled. "Sometimes I think it's a girl. Because it moves a lot. And because... I don't know, I have this feeling that there's a crazy little girl in here."
"A crazy little girl with the last name Piastri. Brilliant, that's it!" Oscar chuckled softly.
The belly gave another small movement, as if the baby had given an inner giggle or was asking for more attention. Oscar touched the spot with his thumb, a delicate and tender caress.
"I just hope he's healthy and happy," he murmured.
"That's how it's going to be. Because you'll be my dad." Y/n replied without hesitation.
Oscar lifted his head and smiled in that way he only had for her.
Y/n smiled, sliding her fingers along his neck as Oscar lay back down on the pillows. He kept one hand on her belly, a warm, protective touch. The baby's kicks gradually slowed, as if settling into the warmth of that hand, nestled and content.
"We need to start thinking about the bedroom..." Y/n whispers.
Oscar raised his head, thrilled at that moment.
"I've already thought about that! We could paint a wall green. Or yellow. NO! PAPAYA ORANGE. Because I still haven't given up on my theory that they're twins."
"Oscar." Y/n narrows her eyes, suppressing a laugh. "They're not twins."
"You don't know."
"I know. I had the ultrasound and we both only saw one baby, remember?"
"Ultrasound can be deceiving sometimes."
"Osc, you've become a doctor now?" She laughs.
"Okay, fine... just one baby." He sighs, but the smile doesn't fade. "But a baby with a perfect room."
"And what would be perfect?"
"There have to be little stars on the ceiling."
"Little stars?" Y/n raises an eyebrow.
"Yes. Moon-shaped lamps. A fluffy rug. And teddy bears. LOTS of teddy bears."
"Do you want to turn the baby's room into a planetarium?"
"So what?" Oscar shrugs. "Baby Piastri is going to be the happiest child in the world."
Y/n bites back a smile. "I think it's perfect."
Oscar flashes a small, but radiant smile. "And a beautiful crib. Made of light wood. And... we need to buy those tiny clothes. The ones that make me emotional every time I look at them."
Y/n laughed, remembering the last time the baby received a new outfit from the grandparents.
"It's because you cried when you saw a yellow jumpsuit the size of our hand, Osc."
"It was so small..." He protests, embarrassed. "I kept imagining him... or her... Our baby. In there."
Y/n feels her heart melt again, smiling at the memory and how excited Oscar was to meet his baby.
The baby finally stopped kicking, as if tired after so much movement. Silence returned to fill the room, soft, lulled by the calm breathing of the two and the golden light that tried to filter through the curtain.
Oscar kept his hand there, firm, gentle, as if preserving that peace was the highest priority in the world. Y/n moved closer, resting her forehead on his shoulder as he slowly stroked her, almost enchanted by the tranquility.
"Did you notice that the baby always calms down when I'm like this?" Oscar murmured, still looking at her belly. "It makes it seem like I know what I'm doing..."
Y/n gave a small, sleepy smile. "You know."
Oscar chuckled softly, almost in disbelief. "I don't know, love... sometimes I wonder if I'll be able to be everything this baby deserves. If I'll know what to do when he cries. If I'll know... how to teach him the right things."
She turned her head, resting her face more comfortably on his shoulder.
"Osc... you're already everything the baby needs." Her fingers traced a slow, caressing path up his arm. "If he takes after you, he'll be the calmest baby in the world. So peaceful." She smiled. "He's already perfect."
Oscar sighed slightly, melting. "What if I take after my sisters?"
Y/n lifted her face, laughing. "Oh... oh, we'll never sleep again."
They laugh.
"That's what I'm saying!" Oscar put his hand to his chest, feigning despair. "If you drag the girls down... our lives are over. Edie was a terror when she was younger."
"Osk, stop." She laughed, lightly patting his arm. "It doesn't matter who he takes after. He'll be ours. He'll be amazing. And he'll be loved in an absurd way. That's enough."
Oscar took a deep breath, almost emotional, before resting his cheek against her belly again. The gesture was slow, careful, full of silent meaning. He stayed there, still, as if listening to something only he could hear.
Y/n felt her heart soften once more. "I was already in love before. But seeing you like this... it feels like everything becomes even bigger."
Oscar raised his head just a little to look at her.
"I just want the baby to be happy. Whoever it is. However it is."
"It will be." She assured him, running her fingers along his neck. "Because it will be you and me. And because... well, we can handle it. We always have."
He smiled before lying back down on the pillows, pulling Y/n with him. She snuggled against his chest, and his hand remained on her belly, protective and reassuring. The baby settled there too, quietly, as if listening to everything.
The morning grew even slower, enveloped in a cozy atmosphere that only the three of them understood.
"And do you think the baby will like cars? I don't want to pressure them... but if they don't, that's okay. We'll find something else fun to do. Like... Or... I don't know... Lego."
"Maybe." Y/n sighed, reassured. "But I think she'll like it. There's no way she wouldn't like it when she grows up hearing you talk with all that passion."
Oscar bit a smile, his cheeks flushing, as the two lay there in silence for a few minutes, simply feeling each other's warmth and the comfortable weight of the morning. They didn't even notice how much time passed until Oscar's eyes suddenly widened, and he lifted his head in surprise.
"Did you feel that?"
Y/n already knew. She bit her lip, trying to hold back a laugh.
"That was the baby, right?" Oscar asked, alarmed. "It was, like, REALLY strong!"
Y/n couldn't help but laugh. "Honey... it wasn't the baby."
Oscar blinked. "No?"
She placed her hand on her own stomach, laughing even harder. "It was my stomach. I'm hungry."
Oscar stared at her for a second, incredulous, before bursting into laughter and burying his face in her neck.
"Oh my God, I thought the baby was... I don't know... being born."
Y/n laughed loudly, resting her face against his chest. "Impossible, I'm only four months along."
Oscar sat down slowly, still laughing, and kissed her forehead. "Okay, my girls are hungry."
"It could be a boy too!" Y/n reminded, pointing at him.
"My girls!" Oscar repeated, getting out of bed and stretching his arms. "...or my boy. Or my hungry little alien, it doesn't matter. I'm going to make breakfast for my whole family."
Y/n smiled broadly, watching him walk excitedly to the door. The baby, snuggled up and quiet, seemed to agree with the plan.
Author: I love writing about babies, baby fever, cute pregnancies... (of course, when the couple is together). And if you liked it and have any ideas, you can send them to me in the question box on my profile. 🩷✨️
