What would boobs obsessed bucky do if his son only sleeps on his mama's chest. Like he'll cry until she cradles him close and bucky is totally distraught because not only he nurses off her, now bucky can't even cuddle her at night....
i was dying writing this the whole time lmao. omg i loved it
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You’d never seen Bucky pout quite like this. Not when you teased him about his Brooklyn accent. Not when you dragged him through IKEA on a Saturday. Not even when you finished the last of his favorite cake without saving him a slice.
No, this was different.
Because your newborn son had just claimed the throne Bucky thought was his God-given right: your chest.
The baby was only three weeks old, impossibly small, all pink lips and sleepy fists. And yet he had an iron grip on the one thing Bucky Barnes worshipped most.
Your boobs.
And not just for nursing, which Bucky had tolerated in a grumbly, jealous way that made you laugh. But now? Now your baby boy refused to sleep anywhere except cradled against your chest. The moment you set him in the bassinet or even tried to roll him to his father’s side, he wailed like his tiny world was ending.
It was two in the morning when Bucky voiced the complaint that had been simmering for days.
“This ain’t fair,” he muttered, lying flat on his back beside you, glaring at the ceiling as if it were in on the conspiracy. His voice was rough from lack of sleep, but the bitterness in it made you stifle a giggle. “First he steals my spot at the table—”
“Bucky,” you whispered, careful not to jostle the baby snoozing on your chest. “He’s breastfeeding. He needs me to eat.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky grumbled. “And now he steals my spot in bed too? Doll, I used to fall asleep with my face right there.” His metal finger pointed accusingly at the exact slope of your breast where your son was snuggled, cheek squished, mouth slack.
You bit your lip, suppressing laughter. “You used to fall asleep sucking on me too, but I don’t see you crying about it.”
“Don’t tempt me.” Bucky turned on his side to glare at you, though it lacked heat. Mostly it was heartbreak. “Do you know what it’s like, sittin’ here every night, watchin’ him live my dream?”
You snorted, brushing your hand through his mussed hair. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m serious!” Bucky kept his voice low, though his indignation bubbled. “Look at him. All cuddled up on you, hoggin’ the goods. I been waitin’ all day to hold you, doll, and then—boom. Outta luck ‘cause the little punk starts cryin’ the second I touch you.”
The baby made a soft cooing noise in his sleep, nestling closer. Bucky’s bottom lip trembled. “See? He knows I’m talking about him. He knows he’s winning.”
You shook your head, trying not to laugh too loud. “He’s not your competition, Buck. He’s your son.”
Bucky groaned, flopping onto his stomach dramatically. His vibranium arm stretched across the bed like a sulking teenager. “Yeah, but he’s ruthless. Ruthless, doll. Won’t even let me cop a feel without screamin’ bloody murder. If this keeps up, he’s gonna forget I’m his dad and think I’m just some guy who walks the floorboards at night.”
Your free hand reached out, brushing his scruffy jaw. “He’ll grow out of it. He just finds comfort in my heartbeat right now.”
“That’s supposed to be my job.” His blue eyes were pitiful, huge in the dim light. “I’m supposed to be your comfort. Your pillow. Your teddy bear. Instead, I’m sittin’ here like a third wheel in my own marriage.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“Am not.”
You smirked. “Fine. You’re being adorable.”
That earned you a grudging snort, but his expression didn’t soften. You could see how much it gnawed at him. Not the baby’s needs—Bucky adored his son, worshipped him almost as much as he worshipped you. But Bucky had been starved of touch for so many years that now, in this domestic life you’d built together, he craved closeness constantly. You knew his love language wasn’t just physical—it was skin to skin, pressed tight, like reassurance that you were still here, still his.
And right now, that spot was occupied.
You brushed your thumb over his temple. “Come here.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Come cuddle. There’s room.”
Bucky gave the baby a skeptical glance. “Pretty sure the boss won’t approve.”
“Just try.”
Hesitant, like he was approaching a wild animal, Bucky scooted closer. His arm wrapped gently around your waist, and his nose brushed your hairline. The baby stirred but didn’t wake. Bucky froze, wide-eyed.
“See?” you whispered. “Not so bad.”
He let out a breath, tension melting. His chest pressed against your side, and slowly, the lines of jealousy eased from his face. “Okay,” he admitted softly. “This… ain’t so bad.”
You smiled, nestling into his embrace. “You’ll get your boobs back eventually.”
He grunted. “They better come with back pay.”
You snickered into his shoulder.
Of course, Bucky’s distress didn’t end there.
Every afternoon, when you napped with the baby on your chest, Bucky hovered like a watchdog. He tried to sneak his hand across, to rest on your waist or thigh, but the baby would fuss the second he felt competition.
One night, desperate, Bucky attempted negotiations.
“Listen, pal,” he whispered at your slumbering son, crouched by the bassinet like a conspirator. “I get it. She’s warm, she smells good, she’s got the best pillows in the world. But you gotta share. That’s rule number one in this family. Share.”
The baby kicked in his sleep, unimpressed.
Bucky sighed. “Yeah, I figured. You’re just like your mama. Stubborn as hell.”
You caught him later, slumping into bed with a tragic expression. “He said no,” Bucky muttered.
“He’s three weeks old,” you reminded him, laughing.
“Still said no.”
It wasn’t until a particularly rough night—teething pains already starting—that Bucky got what he wanted. You’d been pacing the bedroom with the wailing baby pressed to your chest, exhaustion etched into your face.
“Doll, let me try,” Bucky said gently.
“He won’t settle with anyone else,” you murmured.
“Just let me.”
Carefully, you passed the baby over. Bucky cradled his son against his bare chest, vibranium hand supporting his tiny back. He began humming softly—an old Brooklyn lullaby you’d heard him sing under his breath.
The baby fussed, whimpered… and then, miraculously, calmed. His tiny head turned, cheek pressing against the expanse of Bucky’s pec. His fist curled into the dusting of hair there. And slowly, he drifted off.
Your mouth fell open. “What?”
Bucky’s eyes lit up with victorious glee. “Ha! See? I got the magic touch too!” He puffed his chest out proudly, careful not to jostle the baby. “Guess these boobs aren’t half bad either.”
You laughed until tears pricked your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously relieved,” he corrected, gazing down at his son with awe. “Look at that, doll. He’s mine too. Not just yours.”
Your heart swelled at the sight of them, father and son breathing in tandem, both finally at peace.
Later, when you all collapsed into bed, the baby nestled against Bucky’s chest instead of yours. And for the first time in weeks, you rolled into Bucky’s arms, your cheek pillowed on the other side of his chest.
“See?” you whispered sleepily. “Plenty of room.”
Bucky’s grin was soft, triumphant. “Told you. Daddy’s still got it.”
And that night, with his family curled against him, Bucky finally slept without a hint of jealousy.
Though in the morning, when you reached for your son, Bucky tightened his hold possessively.
“Nope,” he said, eyes still closed, voice smug. “My turn. You hogged him long enough.”
“Bucky—”
“Sorry, doll. Boobs closed for business. He’s all about the chest hair now.”
You rolled your eyes, laughing into the pillow. “God help us.”
“Already did,” Bucky murmured, kissing the baby’s head. “Gave me you two.”
