A Queen’s Diary

[heldbybarnes]

Hihii Ms.HBB, may i request popstar!reader and bucky barnes? Something like taylor swift and travis kelce because aaaaaa i just love them so so much and i will love you forever for thisss🤩🤩❤️ xx

Bucky Barnes did not understand pop music.

He understood playbooks. Understood the way a crowd shifted when the momentum changed. Understood the hum of a stadium before kickoff—the kind that vibrated through your bones and told you something big was about to happen.

He did not understand shimmery bodysuits.

Or friendship bracelets.

Or why the hell seventy thousand people were screaming your name like you were oxygen.

But he did understand you.

He’s standing just offstage in a plain black tee and jeans, ball cap low over his eyes, built like a tank among teenage girls and their handmade signs. He looks slightly out of place. Intimidating. Stoic. Massive arms folded over his chest.

And absolutely wrecked.

Because you’re out there in thigh-high boots and a custom sequined bodysuit, hair whipping in the wind machine, pointing to sections of the crowd like you personally know each and every one of them.

“This next song,” you grin into the mic, breathless and electric, “is about taking a chance on someone who looks intimidating but is actually just a giant softie.”

The stadium roars.

Bucky freezes.

Steve, beside him in a vintage tour hoodie you gave him, elbows him hard. “That’s you, punk.”

Bucky doesn’t respond. He can’t. You’re looking straight at him when you sing the first line.

The song is new. Not released. Not on any album. The internet is going to lose its mind.

It’s playful. Flirty. All teasing lyrics about “the big bad soldier with the sweetest heart” and “hands strong enough to break bones but gentle in the dark.” You’re practically glowing as you sing it.

And when you get to the bridge?

You change one lyric.

Originally it was: “He caught the ball and caught my heart.”

Tonight?

You grin, eyes locked on him. “He caught my heart before the ball.”

The scream that erupts is feral.

Bucky’s ears burn red.

Because yeah. You did.

---

The world had not known what to do with the two of you.

America’s sweetheart pop icon and the gruff, hyper-private professional football player who barely tolerated interviews.

You met at a charity gala—he had gone because Sam guilt-tripped him. You had gone because it benefited veterans. You were both cornered near the bar, equally uncomfortable with flashing cameras and fake smiles.

You’d offered him a drink recommendation.

“Trust me,” you’d said, sliding the glass toward him. “You look like a whiskey guy but you need something lighter.”

He’d raised a brow. “And you know that how?”

“Because you’ve been scowling at that glass for ten minutes like it personally offended you.”

You were bold. Unafraid. Bright in a way that didn’t overwhelm him.

He fell first. Everyone could see it.

The first time you attended one of his games, you wore his number on a cropped varsity jacket and sat in the VIP suite with his sister and Steve.

The camera cut to you after his first touchdown.

You were on your feet. Screaming. Hands cupped around your mouth.

“That’s my man!”

The clip went viral within minutes.

Bucky tried to pretend it didn’t affect him.

It absolutely did.

He’d never had someone so openly proud of him. Never had someone look at him like he was something to celebrate instead of something to survive.

After the game, still sweaty and flushed, he’d barreled into the private hallway and scooped you up without warning.

“You see that catch?” he’d demanded.

You laughed, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Oh, I saw it. I wrote a whole bridge about it in my head.”

He kissed you like the world wasn’t watching.

It was.

The internet broke again.

---

Tour life was chaos.

Flashbulbs. Paparazzi. Think pieces dissecting your every expression. Conspiracy theories about whether he was “too serious” for you. Whether you were “too shiny” for him.

Bucky ignored all of it.

The only thing he cared about was the way you collapsed into him after shows, makeup smudged, voice scratchy, smelling like sweat and perfume and adrenaline.

“Did I sound okay tonight?” you’d mumble against his chest in the tour bus bunk.

“You sounded like you owned the damn planet,” he’d answer every time.

You wrote songs in hotel rooms with your feet in his lap. He’d sit there quietly while you strummed, occasionally offering the most unexpectedly poetic feedback.

“That lyric?” he’d say softly. “It’s better when you don’t rhyme it. Feels more honest.”

You’d blink at him.

“James Buchanan Barnes, are you secretly a songwriter?”

“No,” he’d shrug. “Just know when something feels real.”

You started keeping a note in your phone titled: Things Bucky Says That Wreck Me.

It got very long.

---

The first time he brought you home for the off-season, it wasn’t glamorous.

No cameras. No stylists.

Just a small town. Bonfires. His friends from high school who stared at you like you’d descended from another galaxy.

You wore jeans and one of his old flannels and sat on the tailgate of his truck while he tossed a football around.

Later, when it got dark and the fire burned low, you leaned into him and whispered, “You know I don’t care about the fame part, right?”

He looked down at you, jaw tight. “I know.”

“I care about you.”

He swallowed hard.

Because for someone who lived her life in stadiums, you’d chosen quiet with him.

And that meant everything.

---

Back in the present, the final chords of the surprise song echo through the arena.

You’re breathless, flushed, eyes shining.

“Thank you,” you say into the mic, voice soft now. “For letting me write about love when it’s good. When it’s safe. When it feels like home.”

Bucky’s chest feels too tight.

The lights dim.

You disappear backstage moments later, still buzzing.

The second you’re within reach, he’s pulling you into him. Lifting you clear off the ground.

“That song,” he mutters into your hair.

“You liked it?” you tease.

He sets you down slowly, hands framing your face like you’re something breakable. Precious.

“I don’t deserve that.”

You roll your eyes. “Too late. Already wrote it.”

He kisses you, slow and certain.

“You make me better,” he murmurs.

You smile softly. “You make me brave.”

Somewhere outside, seventy thousand people are still chanting your name.

But in this quiet backstage hallway, it’s just you and him.

The popstar and the athlete.

The love song still echoing in his ears.

[heldbybarnes]

Bucky Barnes and learning all the new things that come with parenthood! being milk drunk, newborn scrunches, the tiny noises at night!!! I'm so soft for this, please see the vision <3

There isn’t a single, cinematic moment where Bucky Barnes suddenly understands he’s a father. It’s quieter than that. Softer. It seeps into him in the spaces between heartbeats, in the way he reaches before he thinks, in how the world narrows instinctively to the small, warm weight resting against his chest.

The first night home, the apartment feels different. Not louder—though it will be—but fuller. Charged. Every sound means something now.

You’re half-asleep in bed when he sits upright beside you.

“She made a noise,” he whispers urgently.

You blink. “Babies make noises.”

“No, this was different.”

From the bassinet comes a tiny snuffle. A soft, congested little puff of air. Then a squeak. Then silence.

Bucky is already on his feet.

He leans over the bassinet like he’s guarding something sacred. In the dim light, her face is scrunched, lips pursed, fists curled up near her cheeks. She lets out a faint, dramatic sigh and settles.

“She’s fine,” you murmur.

He doesn’t move. His metal fingers hover over the edge of the bassinet, not touching, just close enough to feel her warmth.

“I know,” he says quietly. “I just want to make sure.”

That becomes a pattern. The tiny grunts at two in the morning. The sharp little inhalations that make his heart leap into his throat. The hiccup-squeaks that have him leaning over her in seconds flat.

He learns quickly that newborns are noisy sleepers. He learns that half the sounds that send him into a panic are just her adjusting, stretching, existing.

He doesn’t stop checking.

He just checks more calmly.

---

Days blur together in a haze of feedings and naps and the soft shuffle of his socked feet across the nursery floor. Bucky moves like he’s afraid of breaking something at first. He holds her like she’s made of glass.

But babies aren’t glass.

They’re warm and wiggly and surprisingly opinionated.

The first time he feeds her on his own, he looks terrified.

“What if I do it wrong?”

“You won’t.”

He settles into the couch, broad frame carefully arranged around her tiny body. His flesh hand supports her head. His metal hand steadies the bottle with slow, precise movements, adjusting the angle every few seconds like he’s calibrating delicate machinery.

She latches onto the bottle with surprising determination.

“Oh,” he breathes, stunned.

Her cheeks puff in and out as she eats. There’s milk at the corner of her mouth. Her eyelids grow heavy halfway through, fluttering lazily.

By the time she’s done, she’s completely limp against him. Boneless. Milk-drunk and content. Her mouth hangs open slightly, breath warm against his shirt.

Bucky just stares.

“She looks like she just had the best day of her life.”

You smile from where you’re watching. “She probably did.”

He adjusts her carefully against his chest, letting her rest there. And something in his shoulders softens. Something in his spine unwinds.

“She trusts me,” he says quietly.

It’s not a question.

It’s wonder.

---

He becomes obsessed with the way she curls.

It happens most often after diaper changes or baths. The second she’s laid back down, her knees pull up instinctively. Her arms tuck close. Her whole body folds inward like she’s trying to recreate a shape she remembers.

The newborn scrunch.

The first time he notices it, he freezes mid-swipe of a burp cloth.

“Hey,” he calls softly. “Come look at this.”

You step closer, and there she is—tiny and folded, face scrunched in mild outrage at the cold air.

“She looks like she’s trying to go back,” he murmurs.

Your heart squeezes at the tone in his voice.

“She’ll stretch out more as she grows.”

He doesn’t like that answer.

He scoops her up before she can protest, bringing her against his chest. Instantly, she curls there too. Tucks in. Fits.

His chin rests lightly on top of her head.

“Okay,” he whispers to her. “You can stay right here for now.”

He memorizes that feeling—the way her body molds to him. The way her breathing evens out when his does. The way her tiny fingers flex against his shirt like she’s anchoring herself.

Sometimes he’ll catch himself just watching her sleep against him, counting the rise and fall of her chest like it’s the most important job in the world.

Maybe it is.

---

Parenthood, he realizes, isn’t one big transformation. It’s a hundred small ones.

It’s learning the difference between her hungry cry and her overtired cry.

It’s recognizing that little “neh” sound she makes right before she starts wailing for food.

It’s discovering she calms faster when he hums low in his chest rather than sings.

It’s the way he instinctively sways now, even when he’s holding nothing at all.

One afternoon, you find him in the nursery rocking chair long after she’s fallen asleep. He hasn’t put her down yet. He just sits there, moving gently back and forth, eyes distant.

“You can lay her down,” you whisper.

“I know.” He looks down at her, at the way her cheek is squished against his shirt, at the faint milk-sweet scent clinging to her. “I just… I don’t want to miss anything.”

You understand what he means.

He’s missed enough in his life.

He won’t miss this.

---

Weeks pass, and he grows into it without noticing.

His movements lose their hesitation. His hands become sure. The metal one that once hovered now cups the back of her head with confidence, adjusts her swaddle, pats her back in slow, steady rhythms.

He doesn’t flinch at every noise anymore.

But he still wakes before the monitor even crackles.

He still leans over the bassinet sometimes just to make sure she’s real.

One night, when the room is lit only by the faint glow of the hallway light, she wakes fussing. Not crying. Just unsettled.

Bucky lifts her first.

He presses her gently against his chest, one broad palm spanning her tiny back. She squirms for a moment, then stills. Her fist finds the collar of his shirt.

His voice is barely more than a rumble.

“I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

Her breathing slows. Her body relaxes fully against him, milk-drunk from the earlier feed and heavy with sleep. She makes a small, satisfied sigh and melts into him.

He exhales like he’s been holding it all his life.

Later, when he climbs back into bed, he doesn’t say anything dramatic. He just reaches for your hand in the dark and squeezes it.

There’s awe in him still. There probably always will be.

But it’s steadier now.

Less panic. More certainty.

He knows the nighttime noises. Knows the newborn scrunch. Knows the weight of her, the smell of her, the way she fits against him like she was always meant to be there.

And as he drifts to sleep, the bassinet pulled just a little closer to his side of the bed, one thing settles deep and solid in his chest:

For the first time in a very long time, he isn’t bracing for something to be taken.

He’s building something instead.

[heldbybarnes]

picturing Bucky and reader!wife when she is pregnant with their first baby and he is also trying to avoid any foods you can’t eat because of the pregnancy and even not drinking at a dinner out with the team because he doesn’t want you to feel left out, even if you tell him you really don’t care lol

Bucky doesn’t say a word about it the first time you notice.

You’re in the compound kitchen, belly still small enough that only you and the mirror and Bucky’s hands can really tell the difference. You’re standing at the counter with a bowl of strawberries you rinsed three times because pregnancy brain has convinced you that bacteria is a personal enemy, and Bucky is behind you—close, warm, careful—reading something on his phone with the intensity he usually reserves for mission briefings.

You lean back into him and tilt your head. “What’re you doing?”

He angles the screen away like you’re not allowed to see the world’s least thrilling secret. “Nothing.”

That’s Bucky-speak for everything.

“James,” you sing, because apparently pregnancy has also turned you into the kind of woman who can’t resist teasing her husband at eight in the morning. “Let me see.”

He sighs like he’s deeply burdened, sets his phone down, and slips his flesh hand around your waist—fingers splayed under your ribs like he’s grounding himself. His metal hand, cooler, steady, cups the underside of your stomach like it already knows what it’s meant to protect.

Then he says, flatly, “Apparently you can’t have deli meat unless it’s heated until it’s steaming.”

You blink. “Okay.”

“And the fancy soft cheeses are a risk,” he continues, voice tight. “Unless they’re pasteurized. But some places lie about it. There’s a list.”

You stare at him for a beat. “Are you… studying my food?”

His jaw works, and you can see it—how seriously he’s taking this, like your pregnancy comes with an enemy dossier. “It’s not just your food,” he mutters. “It’s ours.”

You laugh, soft and helpless, and he looks offended by it—not angry, just… wounded that you’d find it funny when he’s clearly doing Something Important.

“Oh my God,” you say, leaning back into his chest. “Bucky.”

“It’s not funny,” he insists, but his voice drops, gentler. “It’s… you. It’s the baby.”

“I know,” you whisper, and you cover his hand on your belly with your own. “I know. But you don’t have to do this like it’s a war.”

“It is,” he says instantly, and then pauses like he realizes how insane that sounds out loud. He clears his throat. “I mean. It feels like it.”

There’s a moment where the kitchen is just the hum of the fridge and the distant sound of Sam talking too loudly somewhere down the hall, and Bucky’s breathing at your back.

Then he adds, quieter, “I don’t get to mess this up.”

Your heart tugs—so hard it almost aches. You turn in his arms, press your palms to his chest, and look up at him. “You’re not going to mess this up.”

His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up. Like he wants to believe you, but belief has always been something he has to earn.

“Come here,” you say, and you kiss him—slow, patient, the way you’ve learned he needs when he’s spiraling quietly.

When you pull back, he exhales like you’ve just loosened a knot under his ribs.

“Okay,” you murmur. “But if you start grilling waiters about pasteurization, I’m going to die of embarrassment.”

“I’ll be subtle,” he promises.

You raise an eyebrow.

He looks you dead in the face and says, “I will not be subtle.”

---

It starts small. It always does with Bucky—quiet adjustments he thinks you won’t notice.

He reads labels with a frown deep enough to be carved in marble. He asks you, Can you have this? like it’s a life-or-death question and not a jar of sauce. He gets rid of the smoked salmon in the fridge without telling you, like he’s disposing of contraband. He swaps out your coffee for decaf the second you mention that caffeine makes you nauseous now, and when you make a face, he offers you his own mug like a peace treaty.

Then he stops eating things you can’t eat.

You’re the one who notices first in the most mundane way possible: you’re both at the kitchen table with lunch, and his plate looks… suspiciously identical to yours.

You narrow your eyes at his sandwich—turkey, but the turkey is steaming. Like he nuked it until it was basically a tiny protein volcano.

“Bucky,” you say, slowly. “Why is your turkey… hot.”

He doesn’t even glance up from where he’s peeling a clementine for you like you’re a delicate Victorian heroine. “Because deli meat is a risk.”

“I know mine is hot,” you say. “Why is yours hot?”

He finally looks at you like you’ve asked him why the sky is blue. “Because you can’t have it cold.”

“Baby,” you try, reaching across the table to touch his wrist. “You don’t have to suffer with me.”

His mouth tightens. “You’re not suffering.”

“I mean—” you laugh a little. “Okay. It’s not suffering. It’s just… annoying. And I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything I do.”

He stares at your hand on his wrist, like he’s watching the point of contact anchor him. “I want to,” he says simply. “It’s easier.”

“Easier?”

His eyes lift to yours. “If I do it too, I don’t have to watch you do it alone.”

That… hits you. The way everything with him comes back to loneliness, to being left behind, to watching other people carry pain while he stands helpless on the edge of it.

You swallow. “I’m not alone,” you whisper.

He nods like he hears you, but he doesn’t look convinced.

So you squeeze his wrist and change tactics.

“Okay,” you say, brightening. “Then you can do this with me, but you have to let me pick one thing you don’t copy.”

His brow furrows. “Why.”

“Because I’m your wife,” you say, like that should settle the entire argument, “and I’m exercising my marital rights.”

He exhales through his nose. “Fine.”

“Good.” You point with your fork. “You are allowed to eat sushi when we go out.”

His whole face goes still. Like you just told him you’re planning to juggle knives.

“No.”

“Bucky—”

“No,” he repeats, firmer.

You blink. “That’s not how compromises work.”

“I don’t care,” he says, and there’s that protective steel in him, the same one that makes him step between you and danger without thinking. “I’m not eating sushi while you can’t.”

“I don’t even want sushi right now,” you protest. “The smell makes me want to cry.”

“Then it’s settled,” he says, like he’s won.

You laugh, helpless, and he watches you like the sound is oxygen.

The first time it becomes a team thing is at dinner.

It’s one of those rare nights where the whole crew is off at the same time—no missions, no emergency calls, just a reservation at some place in the city that Sam found and insisted was “normal people good” and not “Tony Stark good.”

You’re sliding into the booth beside Bucky, adjusting your coat over your belly, when the server comes by to take drink orders.

Sam orders something fruity and bright and immediately starts flirting. Nat orders vodka like it’s a personality trait. Walker is already annoying. Even Steve—who has been trying to be chill since getting back—is eyeing the beer menu like he’s studying history.

The server looks at you. “And for you?”

You smile. “Just water, please.”

Bucky doesn’t hesitate. “Water for me too.”

You whip your head toward him. “Bucky.”

He keeps his gaze on the server like this is the most normal thing in the world. “Water.”

The server nods and leaves.

The second she’s gone, you lean in. “You can have a drink.”

“I don’t want one,” he says.

“You always want one,” you hiss, because this man has discovered the simple joy of a cold beer after a long day and clings to it with the devotion of a convert.

He glances at you, expression flat. “Not tonight.”

“James,” you warn.

He reaches under the table and laces his fingers with yours—metal and flesh warm against your palm. His thumb rubs slow circles like he’s calming you on purpose.

“I don’t want you to feel left out,” he says quietly.

You stare at him. “I do not feel left out.”

“You will,” he insists.

“I won’t,” you insist back.

He holds your gaze like he’s bracing himself. “I don’t like it.”

You soften. “You don’t like what.”

“The idea that everyone gets something you can’t have,” he admits. “Even if you say you don’t care. I care.”

Your throat tightens, and you lean your shoulder into his arm. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know,” he says, and there’s a flicker of relief in his eyes—like being called ridiculous is safer than being called sweet.

Across the table, Sam squints at your drinks. “Why do y’all have water? Are you two in trouble?”

“We’re hydrating,” you say brightly.

Bucky, deadpan: “She’s pregnant.”

Sam freezes. “Oh.”

Nat leans forward, eyes lighting up. “He is doing the sympathy thing.”

“It’s not—” you start, but Bucky cuts in.

“It is,” he says calmly. “I’m doing it.”

Clint snorts. “That’s—”

Steve shoots him a look that could cut glass. “Don’t.”

Clint shuts up, miraculously.

Sam points his straw at Bucky. “So you’re not drinking for nine months?”

Bucky’s chin lifts. “If she’s not.”

Your eyes widen. “Babe—”

Bucky looks at you like you’re the only person in the room. “Unless you tell me you want me to,” he adds, softer. “If you actually want me to have a beer, I will.”

Your chest swells, hot and tender.

You could push. You could argue. You could insist you don’t care.

But then Bucky presses his lips to your knuckles under the table—quick, secret, like he can’t help himself—and you realize this isn’t about rules or food or alcohol.

It’s about him choosing you, over and over, in a thousand small ways. Him standing beside you so the world feels less sharp.

So you squeeze his hand and give him the gentlest compromise you can.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “You can have a drink at home sometimes. When I’m asleep. Like a little forbidden bachelor.”

His mouth twitches. “That sounds depressing.”

You grin. “It’s romantic. You’ll be thinking of me.”

“I’ll always be thinking of you,” he says, like it’s not even a line—just a fact.

And when the server comes back with your waters and sets them down, Bucky slides yours closer first, like you’re the priority.

Like you always have been.

Like you always will be.

[heldbybarnes]

Hell0! sorry i don't have anything specific, but can we get some dad bucky??

ooooh, since it's mothers day soon let's see what i can manage here 😏

--------

The craft store on Mother's Day is not somewhere Bucky Barnes wants to be.

He stands in the aisle like it’s enemy territory, two kids flanking him with deadly serious expressions.

“Dad,” your daughter Anna whispers, clutching a basket already overflowing with glitter glue, construction paper, and suspiciously large googly eyes. “Mom deserves the best.”

Your son Henry nods gravely. “The best.”

Bucky exhales slowly. “She does,” he agrees, voice softening in a way that would make any Avenger do a double take. “So we’re gonna make sure she gets it.”

The night before Mother’s Day becomes Operation Spoil Mom Rotten.

The kitchen table is commandeered after you go to bed. Bucky shoos you off with a kiss and a casual, “Don’t come out here, doll. Highly classified.” You roll your eyes but obey, trusting the conspiratorial grin he gives you.

In the quiet of the living room, he ties an apron around Anna—backwards—and hands Henry safety scissors like he’s arming him for battle.

“Okay,” Bucky says, crouching down to their level. “We gotta think. What does Mom love?”

“You,” Anna blurts immediately.

Henry grimaces. “Ew.”

Bucky laughs under his breath, scrubbing a hand down his face to hide the pink climbing up his neck. “Besides me, smartass.”

“Flowers,” Henry says decisively.

“And hugs,” Anna adds.

“And coffee,” Bucky mutters, thinking of the way you cradle your mug every morning like it’s holy.

They get to work.

There is glitter everywhere. It ends up in Bucky’s hair, in Henry’s socks, somehow on the dog. Anna insists on cutting out paper hearts that are more oval than heart-shaped. Henry writes “I LUV U MOM” in crooked block letters that he refuses to erase because “it’s authentic.” Bucky helps them glue photos onto a poster board timeline of “Best Mom Moments,” complete with stick-figure drawings of you cheering at soccer games and kissing scraped knees.

At one point, Bucky steps back, metal arm crossed over his chest, flesh hand on his hip, surveying the chaos.

“It’s perfect,” he says firmly when Henry frowns at a smear of paint.

“It’s messy,” Henry counters.

“Yeah,” Bucky replies, voice thick with something warm and certain. “So is love sometimes. That’s how you know it’s real.”

They fall asleep on the couch before midnight, glitter-dusted and triumphant. Bucky carries them to bed one by one, tucking them in with the kind of tenderness that would undo you if you saw it. Then he sets his alarm for 5:30 a.m.

Because breakfast in bed doesn’t make itself.

The kitchen is quiet and dim when he starts. Pancake batter is mixed with intense concentration. Anna insisted on chocolate chips shaped into hearts, so Bucky carefully places them with surgeon-level precision. Henry stands on a stool cracking eggs like it’s a competitive sport.

“Don’t burn them,” Anna warns.

“I won’t,” Bucky promises, flipping a pancake with exaggerated flair.

They plate everything on your favorite tray—the one with the chipped corner you refuse to throw away. Fresh strawberries, scrambled eggs, heart-shaped pancakes, a mug of coffee just the way you like it. Anna adds a dandelion she picked from the yard and declares it “a special Mother’s Day flower.”

Henry tucks the crafts under his arm like sacred offerings.

Bucky pauses outside your bedroom door, looking at his kids. Their hair is messy, faces bright with anticipation.

“Okay,” he whispers. “On three.”

They burst in like a joyful ambush.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” they shout in unison.

You jerk awake, blinking at the sudden light and the sight of your family beaming at the edge of the bed. Bucky stands behind them, tray balanced carefully in his hands, blue eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

You push yourself up on your elbows, already tearing up.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, voice thick. “What is all this?”

Henry climbs onto the bed immediately, shoving the poster board into your lap. “We made it.”

Anna thrusts a glitter-splattered card toward you. “I used extra sparkle because you’re extra special.”

You laugh, the sound shaky and overwhelmed, and pull them both into you, pressing kisses to their cheeks.

Bucky sets the tray down carefully and climbs onto the mattress too, crowding around you so you’re cocooned by limbs and warmth and love.

“You did all this?” you ask him quietly.

He shrugs, like it’s nothing, but there’s pride in his smile. “They had the ideas. I just… assisted.”

You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers through his metal ones without hesitation. “Thank you.”

He leans in and kisses your temple, lingering there.

“You’re the best mom I’ve ever seen,” he says softly. “You make this house… home.”

You sniffle, swatting at him half-heartedly. “You’re trying to make me cry before I’ve had coffee.”

“Already did,” Anna announces cheerfully.

Breakfast is messy and loud and perfect. Syrup drips onto the sheets. Henry tells an overly detailed story about how he almost dropped an egg. Anna explains every single craft decision with dramatic flair. You eat heart-shaped pancakes and sip coffee and feel like your chest might burst.

Later, when the kids are off playing with their new art supplies and the house settles into a peaceful hum, Bucky finds you in the kitchen, rinsing plates.

He comes up behind you, sliding his arms around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.

“You don’t gotta do dishes today,” he murmurs.

“I know,” you say, smiling into the sink. “But I like taking care of things.”

He turns you gently in his arms, backing you up against the counter. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs brushing lazy circles through the fabric of your shirt.

“We see you,” he says quietly. “All the stuff you do. The lunches, the bedtime stories, the way you always know when one of them needs extra hugs. You hold us together.”

Your throat tightens.

“I love being their mom,” you whisper. “And I love being yours.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “I’m not one of the kids.”

“Debatable,” you tease.

He kisses you then, slow and sweet and full of gratitude. It’s not heated or rushed—just steady and deep and certain. The kind of kiss that says we built this life together and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

When he pulls back, he presses his forehead to yours.

“Happy Mother’s Day, baby,” he murmurs. “You deserve the world.”

You smile up at him, heart full.

“I already have it.”

[navybrat817]

Lean On Each Other

Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Pregnant!Female Reader

Summary: You are tired, which is the norm for you nowadays, and share a sweet moment with Bucky.

Word Count: Over 1.8k

Warnings: Established relationship, pregnancy, pet name (sweetheart for you, baby nicknamed Sprout), stretch marks (they are beautiful), mention of serum, tiredness, fluff, feels, domestic life, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Lovelies, I have been exhausted for some time now and this popped into my head for Soft Echoes, Strong Roots AU. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You stretched out on the bed with a small sigh, ready to put the day to rest. It was peaceful in your room with no appointments or demands to take up your time. Bucky would join you once he shut everything off and double checked the locks. It was such a small domestic and protective thing and it brought a soft smile to your face.

This was your life. Your home. Your family.

You were already half asleep when Bucky settled behind you, the mattress dipping under his weight. You were surprised you weren’t out the moment your head hit the pillow. His arm slid around your waist automatically, his palm resting on your stomach protectively. He exhaled against your neck, his chest solid and warm against your back.

Everything felt right when he held you like that, his presence wrapping around you as naturally as the blanket keeping you warm.

“You feeling okay, sweetheart?” he asked, his thumb brushing the curve of your belly like he was trying to memorize the feeling.

You hummed in response, not quite opening your eyes. “Hmm. Just fine.”

The room felt more calm and quiet, like the world and time itself slowed down for the two of you.

Well, three of you.

“Not hungry?”

“You made sure we ate plenty,” you answered.

“Good.” Bucky nuzzled your skin, drawing a small laugh from you when his stubble tickled you. “And now you need rest.”

“That’s why I’m already in bed,” you teased.

“Good,” he said again.

The last few weeks had been chaotic. Not bad, thankfully, but busy in a relentless way. Appointments and every day life stacked on top of you until you felt stretched thin. Your energy seemed to go just as quickly as it came. Some days you felt like you were chasing the clock, always a step behind when your body was working overtime to accomplish everything. You just couldn’t seem to keep up.

Bucky noticed.

Of course, he did.

It was in the way his brows pinched when he looked at you, cataloguing every yawn and when your shoulders slumped. His voice softened whenever he said your name, the sound soothing when exhaustion seeped in. He began to carry you around without you asking, leaving no room for argument. He tried to take things off your plate, too, even when he had his own things to do.

“You’re gonna run yourself into the ground at this level, sweetheart.”

“Bucky, I’m pregnant. Being tired comes with the territory. That’s just how it is.”

You said that because you believed it. Because you had to be strong and prove you could handle it. Life wasn’t about to give you a pass because you two decided to have a baby.

But Bucky saw through that.

“I’m your husband and the father of our child. You can lean on me instead of trying to do it all by yourself. Just like I lean on you some days.”

The words carved their way into your heart and didn’t leave.

Because he was right. Some days when the world felt too heavy, he looked to you for support. You were there for him without question. And he was there for you, too.

It wasn’t out of obligation to give and take nor was it the kind of thing where you kept score. It was out of love and devotion, something that made you both stronger. Neither of you had to carry anything alone anymore.

The truth of that eased something in your chest you hadn't realized was there until you exhaled.

“Guess what?” he asked, his voice light and breaking through your thoughts.

“I thought I was supposed to be resting, not talking,” you replied, giggling again when his teeth nipped your skin. “Okay, okay. What?”

“We should be getting the pictures tomorrow.”

You smiled happily. “Really? That’s great!” you replied, your baby moving around as if they felt how excited you were.

A bright light within the business was the recent maternity photoshoot. The weather had been perfect, you wore a beautiful dress, and Bucky smiled so much in and out of the photos you were certain his cheeks ached. He already picked out the space on the wall where he wanted them hung up and there was an empty frame on his desk waiting for the right picture. He was so happy.

You both were.

“I know they’re going to be perfect,” he said quietly, chuckling under his breath. “And Sprout’s been busy today. Kicking like they’ve got somewhere to be.”

Your smile widened and you shifted just enough to press back against him. “I think they get that from you.”

Your baby must’ve picked up his old dancing skills because they did a fantastic number on your bladder earlier in the day.

At least you made it to the bathroom in time.

He huffed under his breath. “Hey. I was a perfectly calm kid.”

You opened your eyes and turned your head just enough to give him a look over your shoulder. He smiled and your heart beat faster. His blue eyes softened when his fingers traced your belly again, touching one of your stretch marks through your shirt. He traced it like it was something sacred.

You both bore life-changing marks on your skin, your bodies telling stories that only the two of you would ever fully read.

“You keep touching them,” you whispered, not accusingly. More like awe.

“I do,” he agreed, pressing a kiss to your neck and shifting your body so you didn’t have to keep looking over your shoulder. “I know you don’t think they’re pretty, but they’re one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”

You blinked, only semi-surprised. “Really?”

Bucky always found a way to make you feel beautiful and desired. Whether it was through his actions or words, he never wanted you to doubt yourself or how much he craved you. You were certain he would do that for the rest of your lives. But since you got pregnant, he took it to another level of worship.

Not that you would ever complain about having his attention and focus.

“I mean it. Your body is changing because our baby is growing and it’s so beautiful. We made this. You and me.” His fingers moved again, tracing each mark with intention. “I’ve seen a lot of things. Stuff I wish I could forget. But this?” He let out a shaky breath, his hand pausing to cradle your stomach tenderly. “This is the best thing I’ve ever been part of.”

Your throat tightened. Your eyes watered. Damn hormones kept making you emotional. Except it wasn’t the hormones at all. It was just you in love with this man.

A man who loved you and your baby with his entire being.

“How are you so perfect?” you asked.

His nose scrunched when he laughed, the sound making your heart feel full. “Sweetheart, I’m so fucking far from perfect.”

You took his face in your hands, refusing to let him think of himself as anything less . “Bucky Barnes, listen to me.”

“I always listen,” he swore, solely focused on you. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”

It took you a second to speak since having his full attention was overwhelming in the best way. “You are the best husband and provider. And not just because you fix the sink and bring me ice cream and validate my feelings when I’m insecure. You love, take care of, and respect me. You remind me that I don’t have to go it alone,” you said, your gaze affectionate when he leaned into your touch. “And I know you’ll be the perfect father.”

“You think so?” he asked after a moment, his voice thick.

“I know so,” you said.

He quickly closed the small gap between you, kissing you so deeply that it stole the breath from your lungs. “Thank you.”

Your heart beat wildly. “You have nothing to thank me for,” you said, your face twisting at the particularly hard kick in your stomach and making Bucky frown slightly. “Our baby really is a mover.”

Along with his dancing skills, you guessed your baby would have his agility and strength. You were thankful they hadn’t kicked through your stomach. Your husband may have gone off on someone who suggested it could be a possibility thanks to the serum. They hadn’t looked you in the eye since, much to your better half’s satisfaction.

No one would ever look out for you more than him.

“Hey, Sprout. Your Mama’s been working extra hard lately. Growing you takes a lot out of her.” The fondness in his voice was enough to make a tear fall. “She’s magical and stronger than I’ll ever be, but we need to make sure she gets enough rest for both of you. Maybe we can start with gentler kicks? Can you do that?”

The kick under his palm was much softer, like they understood.

His eyes lit up and your chin wobbled. He looked so happy. You knew some days he still couldn’t believe he got to have this, but no one deserved it more.

“They really can understand me,” he said in awe.

“Of course, they do.”

They loved the sound of his voice.

“Thank you, Sprout,” he whispered, sliding down the bed enough to kiss your stomach. “You get some rest, okay? We love you.”

You sniffled when he moved back up to hold you again, his lips finding yours in a soft kiss. “And did you, a super soldier, seriously call me strong? And magical?” you asked so you wouldn’t ugly sob from how sweet he was being.

“You are strong and magical. Sprout agrees,” he said gently but firmly before he kissed your tear away. “But even the strong and magical need rest.”

You stifled a yawn, your eyes slipping shut. You did need the rest. “Will you be here when I wake up?”

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” He nuzzled your neck again and kept you close. “I love you both so much.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “We love you, too.”

“And I’m gonna spend the rest of my life trying to deserve this,” he admitted quietly. “You. Sprout. All of it.”

Your hand covered his and your baby rolled beneath his palm, both of you leaning into him and seeking to comfort him before his thoughts spiraled. “You already have,” you assured him. “Trust us.”

You and Bucky built a life and home together, one that he more than deserved. You were partners in life and love. That love extended to your baby and would only continue to grow.

Tonight you didn’t have to think of anything beyond the walls of your bedroom. You could simply rest in his arms and let everything else be. And he’d watch over you while you slept like the hero he was.

And a man in love.

I hope you lovelies all have enough spoons, get the rest you need, and have someone to lean on. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[buckets-and-trees]

This is so soft and warm. A reassuring hug to read. Bucky’s so devoted. And they do both take care of each other!

[contractuallycursed]

A SoHo Sighting, Unedited. Exclusive Source, Photos Included.

The images below circulated briefly and without resistance. They were published as a routine sighting, absorbed seamlessly into an existing narrative, and treated as self explanatory.

Nothing about that process was unusual.

What followed was.

The Photos, As Seen...

Taken in SoHo, outside Cartier on Greene Street, in December, the images appear unremarkable in the way most celebrity sightings do. The framing is slightly off, the focus imperfect, and the angles suggest haste rather than intention. They read as casual, accidental, familiar.

A recognizable face, a luxury storefront, an older companion. Enough context for the viewer to assume they understand what they are seeing without asking questions.

Those two images were submitted to DeuxMoi by an exclusive source. The post went up shortly after, accompanied by a caption that treated the sighting as credible on its face.

No verification occurred. The images were not checked, the source was not vetted, and the circumstances were not interrogated. The caption’s certainty did the rest. By the time readers reached the end of the post, implication had already hardened into assumed fact.

Under normal circumstances, the story would end there.

⚠️ Spoilers below. Proceed if you're curious, not if you're comfortable.

How This Came to Us

After the sighting was submitted, but before DeuxMoi published it, we received an email from the individual who had just sent the sighting.

They contacted us deliberately. In previous posts, we were the only ones to consistently and publicly challenge DeuxMoi claims, her sourcing practices, and her habit of substituting confidence for verification. They had been watching quietly, observing how dissent was dismissed and how certainty was rewarded.

In that email, they explained how the images were created, why only two were sent, and why DeuxMoi was chosen as the test platform. The intent was not spectacle. It was observation.

They wanted to see what would happen if a submission looked right, sounded right, and fit cleanly into an already accepted narrative.

They waited to see whether the post would be questioned, verified, or slowed down.

It was published exactly as submitted.

On Our Role in This

We didn't coordinate this test. The source acted independently, submitted to DeuxMoi, then contacted us with proof of what they'd done.

We could have disclosed immediately. We didn't. That choice matters: premature disclosure would have let DeuxMoi pull the post, claim it was caught in review, and continue unchanged. The value here isn't that fake images existed, it's that they were published without verification, defended with certainty, and monetized behind a paywall.

We created nothing. We fabricated nothing. We documented a system failure in real time. But we're not neutral observers. We received evidence of active deception and chose strategic documentation over immediate intervention.

What Verification Would Have Caught

The photographs were not real.

Not in the sense of being sophisticated or technically advanced, but in the simpler and more uncomfortable sense that no one ever asked whether they were real at all.

They passed because they resembled content DeuxMoi publishes every day, because they aligned with an existing narrative, and because familiarity replaced scrutiny.

This was not a failure of technology. It was a failure of editorial process.

This is not just a question of credibility. It is a question of responsibility.

A Little Reminder for the Gospel-Readers

Yes, those pixels are convincing enough for some to treat as fact. Thankfully, not all of us are that gullible. We've been calling out Anonbelle and all her Anonbelles and Anonbeasts this week for circulating fake couple images. Guess what? Generating false images of Sebastian hanging out with his family and friends is just as ridiculous.

Yet somehow, when these land on a "credible" feed, they’re instantly accepted. Photos or no photos, facts or fiction, verification or not, confidence does all the heavy lifting. Skepticism? That’s reserved for when we actually provide proof.

Tiny takeaway: if it's on the feed, it must be true… apparently. (wink wink) if you catch my drift.

On Integrity, As Defined Elsewhere

When questioned in the past about how she determines whether a sighting is real, particularly when no photos are provided, DeuxMoi has been explicit about her standards.

In response to readers asking how credibility is assessed, she wrote:

"You're demanding information no journalist would ever disclose, then acting bewildered when you don’t get it. That’s not curiosity, that’s a fundamental misunderstanding of how reporting works. My refusal to hand over sources isn’t 'drama', it's standard practice. If that strikes you as laughable, that’s on whatever planet you’re operating from, not on my integrity."

And elsewhere:

"I appreciate the suggestion, but please don't tell me how to run my business. This sighting is 100% not baseless. I only post things that I’m confident in. Thanks!"

These statements claim professional standards. That claim carries responsibility.

Here, fabricated images were published without verification and sold behind a paywall as a real event involving a real person.

And here's where "confidence" meets consequence:

Publishing AI-generated images of a public figure behind a paywall isn't just ethically dubious, it's legally precarious. In 2023, reality star Kyland Young sued deepfake app Reface for using his likeness without permission to sell app subscriptions.

Tennessee's ELVIS Act, signed in March 2024, prohibits unauthorized commercial use of likeness and creates liability for those who distribute or publish such content, not just those who create it.

Scarlett Johansson's legal team pursued action against an AI app that created unauthorized promotional content using her likeness commercially.

The pattern is clear: unauthorized use of name, image, or likeness for commercial purposes, including paywalled content, violates state publicity laws. That fabricated nature? Doesn't shield the publisher. It aggravates the violation.

The source offered the bait, but the negligence was entirely theirs. If Sebastian Stan chose to pursue this, three elements are demonstrably present: (1) his likeness was used, (2) for commercial purposes (subscriber-exclusive content), and (3) without consent.

Congratulations, DeuxMoi. You've just created a legal case study with receipts. If Sebastian Stan were a litigious man, this post would currently be serving as Exhibit A.

Maybe you can try verifying a defense attorney next. I'm sure "trust me bro" holds up great in court. And when the papers arrive, you can always print the subpoena on a hoodie, or better yet, make the deposition a subscriber exclusive.

Confidence isn't a legal defense. Verification is. Enjoy the precedent, Melissa.

Why This Test Was Predictable

Sebastian Stan was not incidental to the outcome. His name consistently generates engagement while rarely provoking skepticism. Sightings involving him, particularly those adjacent to Annabelle Wallis, are routinely treated as self validating.

This pattern has been reinforced repeatedly through posts framed with certainty, defended aggressively in comments, and later clarified with language such as "definitely," without corroborating evidence. The lovely A.A. addressed this pattern weeks earlier in a separate post.

Within that context, a sighting did not need proof. It only needed to resemble what readers had already been trained to accept.

And it did.

How Certainty Sounds in the Wild

Before any verification occurred, before context existed, and before questions were asked, reactions across comment spaces settled almost immediately into confidence, not just in the sighting itself, but in us, because apparently skepticism only applies when we actually provide proof.

The following excerpts are reproduced verbatim.

"New blind item, with photo evidence so not very blind, of Seb at a Cartier store with his mom allegedly ring shopping. Watch them say it's untrustworthy because it’s a blind item 😭"

"Well they evidently had the chance to take a picture when he was outside. I don't get what's all this agitation and will to not believe it was a true story about this sighting."

"Good for them but i genuinely hope Annabelle doesn't see this because she deserves the surprise."

"It is reliable sometimes. This time at least there were pics so he was, in fact, outside with Georgeta."

"And the girls from Tumblr were saying that they're going to break up before 2026 skjsksjsk how do they feel now."

"👀 Paparazzi ruining possible surprise of whatever he was going to buy."

"This time ofc I believe this was 100% real."

"The more exposed information that gets out there about their motives and pretend CAA sources, the more their daily and loyal followers will stop sending anon questions. Bless Contractually Fake 😂"

"Also love how the blind about Annabelle sending in anons is being considered gospel by them even though they sent it but the DM one… 😂😬"

"They are crashing out big time. No ‘shipper’ blog is going on about that picture as much as them. Lame."

What matters here is not the mockery. Mockery is expected.

What matters is the contradiction embedded in these responses. Skepticism was reserved exclusively for the people questioning the sighting, while certainty was granted instantly to the sighting itself. The presence of images was treated as verification. The narrative assembled itself fully formed, and dissent was dismissed before it could even be articulated.

The same voices that routinely argue blind items are unreliable accepted this one without hesitation, not because it was stronger, but because it aligned. Disbelief became selective. Trust became automatic.

Familiarity did the work verification was supposed to do.

What Was Not Published

DeuxMoi received two images and nothing more.

Below are the additional original "photographs" from the same "set", shared with us by the source. Their purpose is not persuasion, but continuity. They establish authorship and demonstrate what was consciously withheld.

Two images read as incidental. A larger set suggests intent. That distinction matters in gossip spaces where credibility is performative and restraint is mistaken for authenticity.

Proof, Not a How To

We are not releasing prompts, code, or instructions, and we are not inviting replication.

What we are providing instead are materials that establish origin, timing, and sequence. These include screenshots from the source showing the original Instagram DM submission sent to DeuxMoi, captured prior to publication.

These materials confirm that the images existed, were submitted, and were published without follow up. Nothing more is required.

The Submission Itself

What ultimately matters is not how the images were made, but how effortlessly they slipped through the system once they arrived.

Two images showed up via Instagram DMs, captioned with a wink and a nod but not a shred of evidence. They were published immediately, treated as gospel, and nobody bothered to check the metadata, trace the file origins, or ask if AI had a hand in them. Those technical failsafes that usually catch fakes? Completely skipped. Instead, confidence did the heavy lifting while skepticism stayed home sipping tea.

This was not a glitch. It was the system working exactly as intended. The result was not deception through cleverness, but through absence. Absence of standards, absence of verification, absence of accountability.

The sighting did not succeed because it was convincing. It succeeded because it required nothing at all.

Unless the system changes, this will happen again. Verification. Transparent sourcing. Actual standards. Next time, we might not be the ones receiving the email first. The infrastructure remains operational, paywalled, and confident.

Confidence isn't proof. A storefront isn't a witness. A paywall doesn't transform fiction into fact.

—Contractually Fake ;)

P.S. After all this, I'm taking a nap. Holding receipts is exhausting. —I.A.

[mrs-stans]

The Falcon and the Winter Soldier Gag Reel

[bubbarnes]

from cartier' instagram - may 08, 2024.

[justarandomgirly]

Omg full version!!!

[caro-lines-blog-deactivated2024]

[rainbowkisses31]

The Falcon and The Winter Soldier Bloopers

[soliloquent-stark]

a boy who does not want to go to war -> a man who's only lived war - @sunnysideprincess

marvel parallels 24/?

sebastian stan in captain america: the first avenger (2011) and the falcon and the winter soldier (2021)

[bubbarnes]

“... hey! what are you doing here?”.

[jenniquinn]

This scene always breaks my heart