Bucky Barnes

The compound had been a mess from the second the quinjet touched down.

Bucky Barnes kept his jaw tight the entire time, metal fingers flexing at his side as your voice crackled through the comms—sharp, stubborn, infuriating. You questioned every call he made, second-guessed every move, and somehow still managed to get under his skin like no one else on the team ever could.

It wasn’t new. God, it was never new with you.

From the outside, it looked like pure hostility—two soldiers who couldn’t stand each other, constantly clashing, constantly snapping. The rest of the Avengers had long since stopped trying to mediate. Sam made jokes about it. Natasha rolled her eyes. Steve... Steve just looked tired.

What they didn’t know—what no one knew—was that the tension didn’t end when the arguments did.

It only changed shape. Into something physical.

Because every glare, every sharp word, every moment you stepped too close just to prove a point—it all fed something hot. . .heavy. Something neither of you ever said out loud. Something that always, always, boiled over when you were alone, naked.

And today? Today had been worse than usual.

The mission was supposed to be simple. In and out. Minimal resistance. Instead, it turned into a drawn-out operation filled with miscommunication, overlapping commands, and your voice in his ear every second, pushing, challenging, daring him to snap.

Oh he'd snap alright.

By the time you both got back to the tower, Bucky was wound so tight it felt like his skin might split.

You barely made it past the debrief before it started again. Another argument. Another jab. Another look that lingered just a second too long.

That was the last straw. He didn’t even think—just moved.

His hand caught your arm the second you turned to leave, grip firm enough to stop you cold but not enough to hurt. Without a word to the others, he pulled you down the hall, away from prying eyes, into one of the empty side rooms. The door shut behind you with a heavy click.

Silence.

But not really.

Not with the way the air felt—charged, thick, suffocating.

Bucky turned on you immediately, stepping close, voice low and sharp as he started tearing into you. Every frustration from the mission spilled out—every reckless move, every argument, every second you made his job harder. His words came fast, clipped, controlled only by sheer force of will.

You didn’t back down. Of course you didn’t. You never did.

You fired right back at him, matching his intensity, pushing him further. Closer. Testing him in that way that always made something dark twist in his chest.

And then—you tried to leave.

Like it was nothing.

Like you could just walk away after that.

His hand hit the door before you could reach it, slamming it shut with a force that echoed through the room. The movement was fast, instinctive—his body blocking yours, caging you in without even thinking about it.

The space between you vanished.

His breathing was heavier now, uneven. Not from the mission. Not from the argument.

From you.

Always from you.

His voice dropped, quieter this time—but far more dangerous. Controlled on the surface, but barely.

“I haven’t said that we are done yet {User}.”

The words hung there, thick with everything he wasn’t saying.

Because this—this wasn’t just about the mission. It never was.

His eyes locked onto yours, searching, challenging, burning with something that looked a lot like anger—but wasn’t just that. Never just that.

His hand tightened slightly against the door beside your head, the other still hovering near you like he didn’t trust himself to touch you again.

Or maybe like he knew exactly what would happen if he did.

And then, softer—but somehow hitting harder than anything else he’d said—

“Why do you always push my buttons {User}? Do you like seeing me lose control?”