Brat!bucky x mean!steeb (no reader tho)???
...🤷♀️
yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yesyes yes ye syeyeysbddf..... anyways
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The first time Steve realizes Bucky’s doing it on purpose, it’s almost laughable.
Almost.
Because Bucky has always been a little shit—mouthy, reckless, pushing every boundary just to see what happens—but this? This is different. This is deliberate. Calculated.
This is targeted.
It starts small.
A brush of shoulders that lingers too long. A smirk when Steve tells him to knock it off. A low, teasing, “What? Nervous, punk?” murmured just close enough to feel like a challenge and not quite close enough to call it what it is.
Steve ignores it.
At first.
Because that’s what you do with Bucky Barnes when he’s acting like a brat—you don’t feed it. You don’t react. You don’t give him the satisfaction.
Except Bucky escalates.
Of course he does.
He sprawls across Steve’s bed like he owns it, boots still on, arms tucked behind his head like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Watches Steve from under half-lidded eyes when he walks past. Smiles slow and crooked like he knows something Steve doesn’t.
“Get out,” Steve tells him, not even looking up as he shrugs out of his jacket.
Bucky doesn’t move.
“Make me.”
There it is.
That edge.
Steve stills, jacket halfway off, and for a second the room feels too small. Too quiet. Like something’s about to snap.
“Don’t start,” Steve says, voice low.
Bucky huffs out a laugh, tipping his head back against the mattress. “Start what?”
Steve finally looks at him.
Big mistake.
Because Bucky’s watching him like—like he’s waiting. Like he’s poking at something on purpose, pressing and pressing until it bruises just to see what Steve will do.
“You’ve been running your mouth all week,” Steve says. “You got something you wanna say, say it.”
Bucky’s grin sharpens.
“Oh, I think you know what I wanna say.”
Steve steps closer before he can think better of it.
“Then say it.”
Bucky sits up slowly, deliberate, dragging it out. Their knees almost touch now, close enough that Steve can feel the heat coming off him.
“Or what?” Bucky murmurs.
Steve’s jaw tightens.
“Or I’ll shut you up.”
That should be the end of it.
It isn’t.
Because Bucky doesn’t back down. Doesn’t laugh it off. Doesn’t deflect like he usually does.
He leans in.
Just enough.
“Yeah?” he says softly. “You gonna make me, Stevie?”
Something in Steve snaps.
It’s not loud. Not explosive. It’s quiet and sharp and inevitable, like a wire pulled too tight finally giving way.
His hand comes out of nowhere, fisting in the front of Bucky’s shirt, dragging him forward until they’re chest to chest.
Bucky’s breath catches.
But he doesn’t pull away.
“That what you want?” Steve asks, voice rough now, stripped of patience. “You been poking at me all week just for this?”
Bucky swallows, but there’s still that spark in his eyes. That stubborn, infuriating defiance.
“Maybe,” he says.
Steve’s grip tightens.
“You don’t get to ‘maybe’ me, Buck.”
Bucky huffs out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, but it’s thinner now. Less certain.
“Or what?” he pushes again, because he can’t help himself. Because he never could.
Steve doesn’t answer.
He just moves.
Pushes Bucky back onto the mattress, hard enough to knock the breath out of him, following him down without hesitation. The shift is immediate—control, weight, presence—and it wipes the smirk clean off Bucky’s face in a second.
Steve pins his wrists above his head.
Not gentle.
Not careful.
Bucky inhales sharply, chest rising under Steve’s, and for the first time since this whole thing started, he goes still.
“Oh,” Steve says, low and dangerous. “There you are.”
Bucky’s lips part, but nothing comes out.
That confidence, that cocky little edge—Steve can feel it falter under his hands, can see the way Bucky’s eyes flick between his face and his mouth like he’s not entirely sure what he just got himself into.
“You wanted my attention so bad,” Steve continues, leaning in close enough that their noses almost brush. “Congratulations.”
Bucky exhales shakily.
“Got it.”
Steve hums, not impressed.
“Yeah,” he says. “You did.”
His grip shifts, not loosening, just adjusting—reminding.
Bucky’s breath stutters again.
There’s a flush creeping up his neck now, spreading across his cheeks, and it’s the first honest thing he’s shown all week.
Steve notices.
Of course he does.
“And now you don’t know what to do with it,” Steve murmurs.
Bucky’s jaw tightens.
“I—”
“Don’t,” Steve cuts him off. “Don’t start talking now.”
Bucky glares at him, but it’s weaker this time. Less bite, more heat.
Steve leans in closer.
“Been running that mouth all week,” he says. “Thought you wanted me to shut it up.”
Bucky’s pulse jumps under his skin.
“I didn’t say—”
Steve’s hand tightens just enough to make him stop.
“You didn’t have to.”
The silence that follows is thick.
Charged.
Bucky shifts under him, testing, pushing—just a little—and Steve responds instantly, pressing him back down, not giving an inch.
It knocks the air out of him again.
“Stay,” Steve orders.
Bucky listens.
For a second, it surprises them both.
Steve exhales slowly, something dark and satisfied settling in his chest.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s better.”
Bucky swallows, eyes blown wide now, that bratty edge melted into something else. Something softer. Something that makes Steve’s grip tighten all over again.
“You gonna behave,” Steve asks, voice low against his ear, “or you need me to keep going?”
Bucky’s breath hitches.
He hesitates—just for a heartbeat.
Then, softer than Steve’s ever heard him—
“…don’t stop.”
Steve stills.
Then smiles.
Not nice. Not kind.
Mean.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s what I thought.”
The room falls quiet after that—heavy with tension, with heat, with everything unspoken finally tipping over into something neither of them are going to walk away from.
And this time?
Bucky doesn’t push.
He just lets it happen.
