MK 11 headcanon w/ Shang Tsung (with gender neutral terms)--mostly SFW with a hint of NSFW:
Imagine being that one couple where they worship each other nonstop--mostly in private, though
Imagine Shang Tsung being the type of man that just radiates or even declares out loud "Gods, I love my spouse"
Shang and Y/N just being each other's compliment AND missing piece
Literally the Gomez and Morticia Addams of Outworld (aside from Sindel and Shao Kahn, but I don't like how NRS completely erased her character from MK9 and MK X)
Just...man, I feel like Shang would be THAT devoted to his partner
Shang Tsung talking to someone: "I would die for them. I would kill for them. Either way, what bliss!"
Poor Bystander: "Please sir, this is a fruit stand!"
I also have a mini canon where if Y/N ever got hurt, Shang would go BALLISTIC--but in like a "calm before the storm" kinda way, but then finally go ape-shit once he finds the person responsible for hurting his partner
Shang Tsung would not stop thinking about his partner and/or their well-being while he's working in the Flesh Pits or on a mission for Shao Kahn
I imagine he's not the type to boisterously declare his love for you, so he acts similar to a cat; won't come up to you, but will happily receive/reciprocate your affection
And when he come home from said mission/work, it's nothing but cuddles and PASSIONATE love-making after so long of not seeing each other~💚
Nevermind what he bought for you while he was away, he just wants to hold you close and tight in the sanctuary of his room on his island, away from all the problems of Outworld and Earthrealm
Villains like Shang Tsung are ALLOWED to go to the extremes unlike the heroes, and I LIVE for this cliché
Sub Bucky. that's all I have. Please, queen of sub!bucky, give me a crumb😇🙏🏾
You step into the apartment, the door clicking shut behind you, and the low lamplight catches Bucky on his knees in the middle of the living room. Shirtless, dog tags resting against his chest, sweatpants slung low on his hips.
His metal hand is curled loosely on his thigh, the other resting palm-up on his knee like he’s been waiting exactly like this for hours. His blue eyes lift to yours—wide, glassy, already half-gone.
“Hi, baby,” you murmur, shrugging off your jacket. “Look at you. So patient.”
Bucky’s breath catches. A faint flush crawls up his neck. “Missed you,” he whispers, voice rough like he’s already been swallowing back sounds. “Been good. Didn’t touch.”
You cross to him slowly, letting your fingers trail through his hair. He leans into the touch with a soft, broken noise, forehead pressing to your thigh. You can feel the heat of him through your jeans.
“My sweet boy,” you praise, and the shiver that rolls through him is immediate. Decades of conditioning, of control, of violence, and all it takes is your voice to turn the Winter Soldier into this—your needy, trembling sub.
You tilt his chin up.
His pupils are blown.
“What do you need tonight, Buck?”
“You,” he breathes. “Please. Want—want to be yours.”
You guide him to the bedroom, gentle but firm, and he follows on shaky legs.
When you sit on the edge of the bed and pat your lap, he climbs into it without hesitation, straddling your thighs. His cock is already hard, straining against the thin fabric of his sweats.
You run your hands up his back, feeling the scars, the tension, the way his breath stutters every time your nails graze skin.
“Shh, easy,” you soothe as you peel his sweats down.
His cock springs free, flushed and leaking.
You wrap your fingers around him loosely, just enough to make his hips twitch forward.
“Look how hard you are for me already. So pretty.”
Bucky whimpers and buries his face in your neck. “Please… don’t tease tonight. Been aching.”
You stroke him once, slow and slightly evil, thumb circling the head until his thighs tremble. “You’ll take what I give you, baby. And you’ll thank me for it.”
He nods frantically against your skin.
You work yourself open with careful fingers, slick and patient, murmuring to him the whole time. By the time you sink down onto him, taking him in one smooth glide, Bucky’s head is thrown back, mouth open on a silent cry.
“Fuck—oh god—” His voice cracks.
His hands fist the sheets instead of touching you, because he knows the rules unless you say otherwise.
You roll your hips, setting a slow, devastating rhythm.
Every drag of his cock inside you makes his abs clench, makes those pretty little gasps turn into full moans.
You cup his face, forcing his eyes to yours. “Eyes on me, sweetheart. Let me see how good it feels.”
His gaze is hazy, wrecked.
Metal fingers twitch at his sides until you take both his hands and pin them gently above his head with one of yours.
He could break free in a heartbeat, but he doesn’t. He just arches up into you, chasing every thrust, babbling half-formed pleas.
“You’re doing so well,” you whisper against his lips. “Taking me so deep. Such a perfect boy for me.”
He keens at the praise, hips stuttering.
You ride him harder, grinding down until his cock hits that spot that makes your vision spark. Bucky’s whole body jolts with every movement, oversensitive and raw.
You reach between you and stroke him in time with your hips, and he sobs your name.
“I’m— I can’t— please—”
“Come for me, Bucky.”
He shatters with a loud, broken cry, pulsing hot inside you. But you don’t stop. You keep moving through his orgasm, drawing it out until he’s shaking, oversensitive, tears clinging to his lashes.
“Too much— too much, please—” His voice is hoarse, wrecked, but his hips still weakly roll up to meet you.
“One more, baby. You can give me one more. I know you can.”
You lean down and bite gently at his neck, right over the pulse point, and Bucky comes again with a strangled shout, body bowing off the bed. His cock gives a few weak, dry pulses, and he collapses boneless beneath you, chest heaving.
You release his hands and pull him close, stroking through his damp hair as he trembles through the aftershocks.
Soft kisses to his temple, his cheeks, the corner of his mouth.
“You were so good,” you murmur. “My perfect Bucky. So strong, so sweet. I’ve got you.”
He nuzzles into your chest, metal arm wrapping carefully around your waist, flesh hand stroking your back like he needs to reassure himself you’re real. “Love you,” he mumbles, voice sleepy and sated. “Don’t let go.”
“Never,” you promise, holding him tighter.
The room is quiet except for the sound of his slowing breaths and the occasional aftershock shiver that runs through him.
You stay like that until his body finally relaxes completely, safe and spent in your arms—your fierce soldier, soft and submissive and entirely yours.
Hell9oo! Can i get a blurb where bucky is giving reader backshots on the floor and tells her to look at her own reflection in the glass door. ‘that’s what i see every time i close my eyes.’
The cool hardwood floor presses against your knees and forearms, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from Bucky’s body behind you.
The living room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of a single lamp in the corner and the city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling glass door that leads to the balcony. Rain patters lightly against the glass, but inside, the only sounds are your ragged breaths and the slick, rhythmic slap of skin on skin.
Bucky’s metal hand grips your hip with just enough pressure to bruise in the most delicious way, while his flesh hand slides up your spine, pressing you down until your chest brushes the floor. Your back arches instinctively, ass raised higher for him. He’s buried deep inside you, thick and unrelenting, each powerful thrust pushing you forward an inch before he drags you back onto his cock.
“Fuck, doll,” he growls, voice low and rough like gravel. “You feel so goddamn good like this.”
You moan into your arm, trying to muffle the sound, but Bucky isn’t having it. He leans over you, chest to your back, hips snapping forward in a punishing rhythm that has your eyes rolling back. Backshots—raw, primal, and completely overwhelming. Every stroke hits that perfect spot inside you, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your veins. Your thighs tremble, slick with arousal, and you can feel yourself dripping down onto the floor beneath you.
“Look up,” he commands, breath hot against your ear. One large hand tangles in your hair, not yanking, but guiding. “Look at the glass, baby. I want you to see what I see.”
You lift your head, dazed, and there it is—your reflection staring back at you in the dark glass door.
The city skyline twinkles beyond, but the image in front of you is filthy and intoxicating. Your face is flushed, lips parted on a silent cry, eyes glassy with pleasure. Hair wild, strands sticking to your damp forehead. Your breasts sway with every thrust, nipples hard and sensitive against the cool air. And behind you—Bucky. Broad shoulders flexing, metal arm gleaming faintly, jaw clenched in concentration as he fucks you like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, slowing his pace just enough to make you whine in protest. He grinds deep, circling his hips so you feel every ridge and vein. “Look at yourself. All spread out for me, taking my cock so fucking well.”
“Bucky…”
Your voice cracks, a mix of embarrassment and raw need.
He chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating through his chest into your back. “No hiding. Not from me.”
His flesh hand slips under you, finding your clit and rubbing slow, firm circles that make your hips jerk.
“Every time I close my eyes, this is what I see. You. On your knees, ass up, pussy gripping me like you never want me to leave. Those pretty eyes all fucked-out. Mouth open like you’re begging for more even when you can’t speak.”
He thrusts harder then, emphasizing his words. The wet sounds of your bodies meeting echo obscenely in the quiet room.
You can’t look away from the reflection—your body jolting forward with each snap of his hips, the way your back curves so perfectly for him, the sheen of sweat making your skin glow under the low light.
You push back against him, desperate, and he rewards you with a particularly deep stroke that punches a cry from your throat. His fingers dig into your hip, holding you steady as he sets a brutal pace. The floor is unforgiving beneath you, but you don’t care.
All you care about is Bucky—filling you, claiming you, whispering filthy praises against your neck.
“See how your tits bounce?” he rasps, eyes locked on the glass too. “See how your face twists up right before you come? Fuck, that little furrow between your brows… I dream about it. Wake up hard as steel because I can’t stop seeing you like this.”
Your walls clench around him at his words, and he groans, hips stuttering for a moment before he recovers. He straightens up again, both hands on your hips now, pulling you back onto him with every forward thrust.
The angle is devastating.
You watch in the reflection as your mouth falls open wider, a string of moans spilling out that you can’t control.
“Bucky—oh god—”
“Yeah, that’s my girl. Let me hear you.”
He reaches forward, wrapping his forearm around your waist and hauling your upper body up slightly, changing the angle again. Your palms press flat to the floor for balance as he rails you from behind. The reflection shows everything: the way your body jolts, the bounce of your ass against his pelvis, the possessive grip of his hands.
You’re close—embarrassingly so—and he knows it.
His fingers return to your clit, faster now, perfectly in sync with his thrusts.
“Come on, doll. Come for me. Wanna see it in the glass—wanna watch you fall apart while you watch yourself.”
The coil in your belly snaps. Pleasure crashes over you in waves, vision blurring as you cry out his name. Your body shakes, pussy pulsing around his cock, but he doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, drawing it out until you’re whimpering, oversensitive and boneless.
Only then does he slow, pulling out almost completely before sliding back in with a deep, savoring groan. He keeps you there, impaled on him, as he leans down to kiss the back of your neck.
“Beautiful,” he whispers. “Every damn time.”
You’re still panting, aftershocks rippling through you, when he starts moving again—slower now, almost tender, but no less deep. The rain continues tapping against the glass, a soft counterpoint to your heavy breathing.
In the reflection, you see him watching you with something like reverence mixed with raw hunger.
“Again,” he says softly, nipping at your shoulder. “I’m not done seeing my favorite view.”
You nod weakly, pushing back against him, already chasing the next high.
Because with Bucky, there’s no such thing as enough. Not when he looks at you like this—like you’re the only thing he ever wants to see when he closes his eyes.
Hi there, hope ur doing good! I have a request, maybe a fluff crack fic of Bucky x reader where bucky mistakenly used reader's lip plumper for a lip balm? His lips were chapped but instead of askin them he went through their stuff and decided that it was a lip balm but it wasn't. He was extremely confused why his lips was gettin weird and stingy (cause he put A LOT). And that leaves the reader kissin his plump lips in the end? :>
Bucky Barnes is a man of many skills.
He can disarm an opponent in under three seconds. He can strip and reassemble a rifle blindfolded. He can navigate a battlefield with the kind of instinct that only comes from decades of surviving things most people wouldn’t even comprehend.
What he cannot do, apparently, is identify basic skincare products.
He truly does mean well.
His lips are chapped.
It’s winter, the air in the compound is dry, and no amount of water seems to fix it. He’s been dragging his teeth over his bottom lip all morning, frowning every time the skin pulls a little too tight. It’s irritating. Distracting. Unacceptable.
You’re not around—you’d stepped out with Natasha for something vague and suspiciously involving shopping bags—so Bucky takes matters into his own hands.
Which is how he ends up in your room.
Now, to be fair, he hesitates at first. He stands just inside your doorway, arms crossed, glancing around like the room might personally call him out for trespassing. But then his lips sting again, and he mutters, “It’s just lip balm,” like that justifies everything.
Your vanity is where he finds it.
There are a lot of things on your vanity.
Too many things.
Little jars, tubes, sticks, bottles—some clear, some pink, some with labels he doesn’t understand. Bucky squints at them like they might rearrange themselves into something helpful.
“Why would anyone need this many?” he mutters.
He picks one up. Puts it back. Picks another.
Then he finds it.
A small, sleek tube. Glossy. Pinkish.
Lip something.
Close enough.
“Yeah,” he nods to himself. “That’s it.”
He doesn’t read the label. He doesn’t question why it looks fancier than necessary. He definitely doesn’t consider why it smells faintly like cinnamon and danger.
He just twists it open and—
Applies.
A lot.
Like, a lot.
Bucky Barnes is not a man who does things halfway. If a little lip balm is good, then clearly more is better. He drags it across his lips once, twice—then again, just to be sure.
There’s a pause.
A beat.
And then—
“…What the hell?”
It starts as a tingle.
Then a burn.
Not painful, exactly, but sharp. Strange. His brows furrow immediately as his mouth goes still, lips parted slightly as he processes the sensation.
“…Why is it spicy?” he demands to no one.
He presses his lips together experimentally.
Bad idea.
“Oh, that’s—no. No, that’s not right.”
The tingling intensifies, blooming outward like a slow, deliberate reaction. His lips feel… bigger. Warmer. Alive in a way that is deeply suspicious.
Bucky strides back into the common area like a man on a mission, jaw tight, eyes narrowed.
Steve looks up from the couch. “Hey, Buck—”
He stops.
“…Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?” Bucky snaps.
Sam leans forward, eyes lighting up with immediate, malicious delight. “Oh my god,” he breathes. “Oh my god, what did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Bucky insists, which is already a lie.
“Your lips,” Sam says, pointing. “They look like you got stung by a bee. Or five.”
Bucky Barnes is a horny, perverted man. He can’t help it. He’s not use to women of the present, nonetheless YOU with your skirts and tight tops. Somehow, you actually agree to being his girlfriend, and it just gets worse from there. He’s never not hard, and it’s becoming a problem. Every time you’re out, you have to walk in front of him. Every time you even breathe a certain way, he’s taking you to bed. You have absolutely ruined him.
Bucky Barnes had always prided himself on control. Decades as the Winter Soldier had forged iron disciplines into his bone. But that was before you. Before the way you moved through the world like it was made for your curves, soft fabrics clinging in all the right places. Skirts that swished against your thighs. Tops that hugged your chest just enough to make his mouth water. Modern women were a revelation, but you—you were a goddamn apocalypse.
It started innocently enough. A coffee run turned into shared lunches, then late-night talks on the Tower balcony. Somehow, impossibly, you said yes when he asked you to be his. My girl, he’d murmured against your lips that first night, half-disbelieving. Now, three months in, Bucky was ruined. Completely, pathetically ruined.
He couldn’t stop thinking about you. Not when you were in the same room, not when you were across the city. His body had a mind of its own these days, reacting at the slightest provocation. A laugh from you. The way you stretched in the morning, arms overhead, back arching just enough to make his brain short-circuit. Even the scent of your shampoo lingering in the shower had him gripping the counter, breathing through it like a man on the edge.
“Buck, you okay?” Steve asked one afternoon in the common area, eyebrow raised as Bucky shifted on the couch for the third time.
“Fine,” he grunted, crossing his legs.
You were ten feet away, chatting with Naasha in a pleated skirt that barely reached mid-thigh and a fitted tee that outlined every perfect inch of you. When you bent to grab something from a low shelf, the hem rode up just enough to flash the lace edge of your panties.
Bucky’s jaw clenched so hard he nearly cracked a tooth. Blood rushed through him so fast it made his vision blur at the edges.
He lasted maybe ninety seconds.
“We’re leaving,” he said, voice low and rough as he caught your hand.
You glanced back at him, eyes sparkling with knowing amusement. “Already?”
“Now.”
In the elevator, he had you pressed against the wall before the doors even closed. His metal hand slid up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher.
“You’re killin’ me, doll,” he muttered, forehead dropping to yours. “Walkin’ around like that. Knowin’ what it does to me.”
You giggled and it went straight through him. “Poor Bucky. Can’t handle a little fabric?”
He kissed you hard, cutting off your teasing. By the time the elevator reached your floor, he was wound tight enough to snap. You walked ahead of him down the hall like always, hips swaying, fully aware of the effect you had. He followed close, one hand at your back, the other adjusting himself with a quiet curse.
The second the apartment door shut, he was on you.
Bucky lifted you like you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bedroom. Your back hit the mattress and he was already tugging your skirt up, fingers hooking into your panties and dragging them down your legs.
“Look at you,” he breathed, voice gone rough. “All because of me?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Dropping to his knees, he pulled you closer, spreading your thighs wide like he’d been thinking about it all day. His mouth found you instantly, slow at first, savoring, before he lost patience. Your fingers tangled in his hair as you gasped, hips lifting off the mattress.
“Bucky—”
He held you there, steady and relentless, like he needed to prove something—to himself, to you, to the entire world. When you came, it hit you hard, your body tightening under his hands, his name breaking from your lips like a plea.
Only then did he stop.
He stood, quick and desperate, shedding his clothes with rough movements. When he climbed back over you, there was nothing restrained left in him.
“You see what you do to me?” he said, voice low, strained. “Can’t go anywhere without thinkin’ about you. Can’t breathe right when you’re lookin’ like that.”
You reached for him, smiling in that way that always undid him. “Then do something about it.”
That was all it took.
He turned you over, hands firm on your hips, pulling you into position like second nature. The first thrust knocked the breath from both of you, the intensity of it making his head drop forward with a groan.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t slow. It was everything he’d been holding back all day, poured into every movement. His griptightened, his pace relentless, like he was trying to chase something he could never quite catch.
“Mine,” he muttered, almost to himself, forehead pressed between your shoulders. “You got me so gone, sweetheart. Don’t even recognize myself anymore.”
You pushed back against him, matching him, encouraging him, and that was it—whatever control he had left snapped completely.
When you came again, it pulled him under with you. He followed with a broken sound, burying himself deep, holding you there as he worked through it, like he couldn’t bear to let you go.
But even that wasn’t enough.
It never was.
Later, slower, softer, he moved with you again, like he was memorizing you this time instead of chasing something. His hand found yours, threading your fingers together, grounding himself in something real.
“Look at me,” he murmured.
You did, eyes soft, still dazed, and something in his chest tightened.
“Don’t think I’m ever gonna get used to this,” he admitted quietly. “To you.”
You smiled, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Good. I don’t want you to.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, leaning down to kiss you, slower this time, deeper in a way that had nothing to do with desperation and everything to do with something steadier. Something that scared him more.
When you were curled against his chest, hours later, his hand drifting lazily along your back, he pressed a kiss into your hair.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured.
You hummed, half-asleep. “Good thing you’re hard to kill.”
Bucky smiled into the dark, tightening his arm around you.
An adorable and pathetic love sick Bucky who tries desperately to impress the reader? That would be so perfect.
Love can turn men into idiots and make them say and do stupid things. I can imagine Bucky unable to control himself and being extremely cringe worthy in an attempt to look good in front of the reader. Everyone else gets major second hand embarrassment but she’d think it was sweet and it would work on her because she’s attracted to him too.
Why do I have such a weakness for pathetic men
absolutely, i like my my real thick and pathetic
---------
The first time Bucky Barnes tries to impress you, he nearly concusses himself on a doorway.
It isn’t even a dramatic doorway. Just the entrance to the Avengers’ common room. But you’re standing there laughing at something Sam said, sunlight catching in your hair, and Bucky—who has faced down alien invasions, HYDRA torture chambers, and a literal fall from a train—forgets that he is six-foot-something and solid as a brick wall.
Thunk.
Steve closes his eyes. Sam groans. Natasha actually hisses in pain like she felt it.
You whirl around. “Oh my god—Bucky!”
He straightens immediately, jaw tight, metal hand flexing like he meant to do that. “I’m good,” he says too quickly. “Just, uh. Testing the structural integrity.”
Sam mutters, “Of his skull.”
But you’re already stepping closer, brows furrowed in concern. You reach up and brush your fingers against the faint red mark blooming near his hairline.
His brain shuts off entirely.
He should say something cool. Something reassuring. Something suave.
Instead, he blurts, “My bones are reinforced.”
Natasha chokes on her drink.
You blink at him. “I… didn’t ask?”
Right. Of course you didn’t ask. Why would you ask if his bones are reinforced? That sounds insane. He sounds insane.
He doubles down.
“Yeah. Enhanced. I mean. Not like—like Wolverine. Not that I know Wolverine. I don’t know if he’s real.”
There is a full five seconds of silence.
Steve whispers, “Abort.”
But you’re biting your lip, trying—and failing—not to smile.
And Bucky sees it.
He sees the way your eyes crinkle just slightly at the corners. The way your mouth fights a grin. He mistakes your amusement for admiration.
God help him.
---
The next attempt happens in the gym.
You’re sparring with Natasha, quick on your feet, focused. Bucky leans against the far wall, arms crossed, pretending he just happened to be there. In reality, he’s been watching you for twenty-seven minutes and forty-three seconds.
When Natasha taps out and heads for water, you glance over.
“You wanna go a round, Barnes?”
This is it.
This is his moment.
He pushes off the wall like he’s in some kind of slow-motion action movie. Rolls his shoulders. Gives you what he thinks is a smolder.
Sam, who has wandered in for popcorn-worthy entertainment, immediately covers his face.
“You sure you can handle me?” Bucky says.
There is an audible collective inhale from the room.
You raise a brow. “Handle you?”
“I mean—sparring. Handle me sparring. Because I’m—uh—very… intense.”
Natasha whispers, “Why is he like this?”
You grin, stepping into stance. “I think I’ll survive.”
He lasts all of ninety seconds before you sweep his legs out from under him.
He lands flat on his back with a heavy thud.
You straddle his waist to pin him, breathless and triumphant. “Yield?”
He stares up at you.
This close, he can see the faint flush in your cheeks, feel the warmth of you through the thin fabric of his shirt. His heart is pounding so loud he’s positive you can hear it.
He opens his mouth.
“I let you win.”
The gym erupts.
Sam cackles. Natasha actually claps once, slow and brutal. Even Steve rubs his temple.
You blink down at him.
“You let me win.”
“Yeah,” he says, doubling down yet again because apparently self-preservation has left the building. “Didn’t want to, uh, embarrass you.”
Natasha calls out, “You’re doing that fine on your own, Barnes.”
But you’re looking at him differently now. Not annoyed or offended.
Amused.
Soft.
You lean down slightly, lowering your voice. “That so?”
His brain short-circuits again.
He nods, trying to look mysterious instead of like a man who’s currently being pinned to the mat by someone half his weight.
You hold his gaze for a beat longer than necessary.
Then you push off him and stand, offering a hand to help him up.
He takes it.
And when you pull him to his feet, you don’t let go immediately.
---
The third—and arguably worst—incident involves a smoothie.
You mention, in passing, that you’ve been craving something sweet after missions. Mango, maybe. Pineapple.
The next afternoon, Bucky storms into the compound kitchen like a man possessed.
He has Googled “how to make tropical smoothie.” He has watched three YouTube tutorials. He has, inexplicably, decided that garnishing matters.
When you walk in, he’s standing behind the counter with two glasses.
Each one has a tiny paper umbrella stabbed into the side.
Sam is at the table, openly recording on his phone.
“Hey,” Bucky says, way too casual. “Made this. For you.”
You step closer. “You did?”
“Yeah. Thought you deserved something refreshing. After, uh. Existing.”
Sam chokes. “After existing?”
Bucky ignores him, shoving one of the glasses toward you. His ears are red.
You take it, eyeing the umbrella. “This is cute.”
He freezes.
Cute.
Cute is good, right?
You take a sip.
There is a tense silence.
Natasha has wandered in now too, clearly drawn by the scent of disaster.
You swallow. Blink.
“It’s really good.”
Bucky’s entire posture changes.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say, smiling up at him. “Thank you. That was… really sweet.”
Sam lowers his phone, frowning. “That’s it? No roast? No public execution?”
You ignore him.
You reach up and adjust the collar of Bucky’s shirt. It’s crooked. Probably from him pacing nervously before you walked in.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmur.
He shrugs, suddenly shy. “Wanted to.”
The kitchen feels quieter now.
Even Sam senses something has shifted and wisely backs out with Natasha in tow.
You and Bucky are left alone.
He clears his throat. “I know I’ve been… I dunno. Weird lately.”
“A little.”
“Yeah.” He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just— I’m not good at this stuff. The normal stuff. And I keep trying to… impress you, I guess.”
The admission hangs between you.
“You don’t have to impress me,” you say softly.
His gaze flickers up, uncertain. “No?”
“No.” You smile, small and sincere. “I already like you.”
He goes completely still.
“You… what?”
“I already like you, Bucky.”
For once he doesn’t say anything embarrassing. Doesn’t posture. Doesn’t brag.
He just stares at you like you’ve handed him something fragile and priceless.
“You mean that?”
“I do.”
He lets out a shaky laugh. “So the doorway thing—”
“Adorable.”
“The gym?”
“Painfully cringe. But kind of hot.”
“The umbrella?”
You reach up, pluck the tiny paper umbrella from your glass, and tuck it behind his ear.
“Very effective.”
His breath catches.
“You’re serious?”
“Very.”
He studies you for another second, like he’s bracing for the punchline.
When it doesn’t come, something in him softens.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Then maybe I can stop trying so hard.”
You tilt your head. “Or you can keep being a little bit of an idiot.”
His lips twitch. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s working for you.”
For the first time since this whole disaster began, Bucky Barnes smiles without trying to be cool.
