There’s a poignant kind of irony in Harry explicitly writing and performing Season 2 Weight Loss — a song about being brave enough to step away from the limelight to grapple deeply with his reason for being/creating, in hopes of coming back a better, truer, more authentic artist despite the risk, the probability, of the world’s wholesale rejection of his this newer (truer) version of himself — and people still genuinely thinking his current lack of virality is actually a skills issue. That he’s lost his aura, or whatever.
No guys. That’s the point. He’s culling the fanbase. He saw through you, not the other way around.
Lord knows how many times I wanted to shake that man out of cuteness
i have such cuteness agression towards bucky barnes. LET ME AT HIMMMMM
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You don’t remember when it started.
Maybe it was the first time Bucky smiled at you—really smiled, soft and crooked, eyes crinkling in a way that made him look younger than his hundred years. Or maybe it was the first time he got shy about something stupid, like admitting he’d never had Thai food before and asking if you’d show him what to order.
Whatever it was, it’s escalated.
And now you are pacing in the kitchen at the compound at seven in the morning because your boyfriend just walked in wearing gray sweats and an oversized Henley, hair still messy from sleep, and you are experiencing a violent emotional crisis.
“Morning, doll,” he mumbles, voice all gravel and warmth, pressing a kiss to your temple as he reaches around you for a mug.
You physically recoil.
He blinks at you. “What?”
“I need you to stop,” you say, pointing at him like he’s committed a crime. “Immediately.”
“Stop what?”
“Existing like that.”
His brows knit together in confusion. He looks down at himself. “Like… in sweatpants?”
“You’re doing it again,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face. “You just woke up. You’re all soft and sleepy and you called me doll like that and I—” You make a strangled noise. “I want to grab your face and shake you.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“…You want to what now?”
You stomp closer, grabbing his shoulders. He stiffens slightly—always that reflex—but then relaxes when he realizes it’s you.
“I want to squish you,” you explain desperately. “You’re too cute. It’s overwhelming. It makes me feel violent.”
His mouth twitches.
“You think I’m cute?” he asks carefully, like this is a trap.
You make an aggravated sound and dig your fingers into his sides.
“Yes, you absolute menace. You’re disgusting. Look at you.” You shake him gently. “You’re six feet of assassin and you still get pouty when the dog ignores you.”
“That dog likes Sam better,” he mutters defensively.
You make another strangled noise and actually shove your forehead into his chest.
“See?! That. That tone. I can’t handle it. I want to bite you.”
Now he’s laughing.
Full, breathy, slightly embarrassed laughter that makes his shoulders shake.
And that’s it. You snap.
You grab his face in both hands and aggressively smush his cheeks together.
“You are so cute,” you growl, squishing his lips into a fish face. “Do you have any idea how cute you are? It makes me want to scream.”
He tries to talk, but it comes out muffled. “Mmph—”
“I want to shake you like a soda can.”
He finally pries your hands away, though he’s still grinning. “Most people don’t threaten bodily harm when they think someone’s cute.”
“It’s a psychological phenomenon,” you argue. “Cuteness aggression. When something is so adorable your brain doesn’t know how to process it.”
He leans closer. “So your solution is assault?”
“Yes.”
He hums, considering that.
“Well,” he says slowly, sliding his hands around your waist, “if you’re gonna assault me, at least do it properly.”
You blink. “What?”
And then he leans down and nuzzles his face into your neck.
It’s unfair.
Completely unfair.
He rubs his stubbled cheek against your skin like a giant, needy cat. His hands squeeze your hips gently. He exhales warm against your collarbone.
You actually make a distressed whimper.
“Stop,” you gasp. “You can’t escalate.”
“Oh, I can,” he murmurs, and presses a slow kiss to your throat.
Your hands clutch into his Henley.
“Bucky,” you warn, already trembling with the effort of containing yourself. “If you keep being soft like this I’m going to suplex you.”
“Wouldn’t recommend it,” he says, amused. “I’m heavier than I look.”
“You are not helping!”
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are still soft from sleep, lashes low, mouth curved in that gentle almost-smile.
And there it is again—that overwhelming rush. The urge to squeeze him, bite him, bury him in blankets and never let him face the world again.
“You’re doing the face,” you accuse.
“What face?”
“That one. The one where you look like you’ve never done anything wrong in your life.”
His expression falters. “I have done many things wrong—”
“I KNOW,” you cut in quickly, grabbing his jaw again. “That’s what makes it worse! You’re a terrifying assassin with a metal arm and you still get excited about matching pajama sets.”
“They were Captain America themed,” he defends.
You lose it.
You grab him again and shake him more dramatically this time. He lets you, laughing breathlessly, hands steadying your waist so you don’t actually topple him over.
“I can’t stand you,” you declare. “You’re too much. It’s unbearable.”
“Most girlfriends say that when they’re mad.”
“I’m not mad! I’m overwhelmed by affection!”
His laughter softens.
And then—because he’s him—he reaches up and gently cups your cheek.
The shift is subtle but immediate. Playful melts into something warm. Intentional.
“You don’t gotta fight it,” he says quietly. “You can just… like me. Y’know.”
You stare at him.
And suddenly your chest feels tight for an entirely different reason.
“You absolute idiot,” you whisper.
His brows lift slightly.
“You think I’m trying to fight it?” you murmur, stepping closer until your foreheads touch. “I feel like this because I like you so much it’s stupid. It’s embarrassing.”
His thumb brushes your cheekbone.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” he says softly. “Nobody’s ever looked at me like they wanna… what was it? Shake me like a soda can?”
You huff a watery laugh.
“Well. You deserve it.”
He studies you for a long second, something vulnerable flickering across his face.
Then, very deliberately, he puffs his cheeks out again.
Your eyes widen.
“Oh my god.”
“Go on,” he teases gently. “Do your worst.”
You lunge.
He laughs as you squish his face again, peppering aggressive kisses across his cheeks and jaw, muttering half-feral praise into his skin.
“Stupid handsome super soldier,” you mumble between kisses. “Ridiculously soft, unfairly adorable man.”
He wraps his arms around you, holding you steady while you maul him affectionately.
And when you finally stop, breathless and flushed, he presses one soft, deliberate kiss to your mouth.
“You done?” he asks.
You narrow your eyes.
“For now.”
He grins.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I was about to make you cute enough to feel violent too.”
Your stomach flips.
“Oh no,” you whisper.
And then he scoops you up, and suddenly you’re the one being attacked—buried under ticklish kisses and warm laughter, both of you dissolving into a heap of affection and ridiculousness in the middle of the kitchen.
Cuteness aggression goes both ways, apparently.
And honestly?
You’ve never been happier to feel slightly unhinged.
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