Peggy Carter helped found SHIELD after Steve “died”.
It was founded at the camp that Steve trained at.
On marvel’s Agents of SHIELD, Agent Ward says “Someone really wanted our initials to spell SHIELD”
Peggy created and named the entire spy organization after STEVE’S SHIELD.
OH MY FREAKING GOD.
Bucky in Steve’s apartment a few months after they find him, sneaking up on Steve in the kitchen one morning the way less than a handful of people are capable of and slipping his hand down the waistband of Steve’s pants.
Steve going all startle-still like some kind of prey animal as he lets Bucky box him in against the counter, afraid to say anything or move at all because this is… this is Bucky wanting something with no prompting or coaxing. This is Bucky wanting him like they’re not straddling the wrong side of a century and standing on the opposite side of a lot of razor wire.
“Had a dream,” Bucky says, and his mouth’s on the back of Steve’s neck, moving around to behind his ear, wet lips brushing along his hairline. His fingers are rubbing over and down the not-so-soft length of Steve’s dick. His metal hand is cool but getting warmer where it’s fixed on Steve’s hip, like he needs to hold Steve in place, ever. Like Steve wouldn’t give him anything, anything at all.
“Buck,” Steve blurts in a shocky little whisper. He knocks the coffee mug he’d been taking out of a cabinet over with a dull-high thunk and the spoon rattles across the counter. Bucky’s got his hips against Steve’s ass and Steve can feel him, hard and burning hot, alive and right there, safe and close enough to whole for hope to stick around. There’s so much heat coming off Bucky everywhere, radiating like fever but not as dry or hinting at sickness, like he’s making up for years of ice. Steve swallows heavy enough that it hurts his throat.
“Dreamed about you—about this,” Bucky says to the back of Steve’s ear, sounding so controlled and not controlled at all, not if you know what you’re listening for. He keeps working Steve’s dick in his grip, the head dragging on the loose sweats Steve sleeps in and sending jitters down his spine. Bucky lets out a little sound, low and barely-there and everything. “Wanted to see if it felt the same.”
Steve’s trying so hard to stay still that he’s shaking, or maybe he’s just plain shaking. He shuts his eyes and he’s biting at his cheek and he still can’t stop himself shifting back into the pressure of Bucky’s hips against his ass, the weight of him at his back. “Does it?” he asks, forces it out on the wave of a shattered breath, ruts into Bucky’s fist because he can’t help it, never could.
It’s probably his imagination, his brain firing too many connections all at once, electricity sparking like cannons going off, but he thinks Bucky’s hiding a smile against his neck. He chooses to believe it anyway.
“Not sure yet,” Bucky says, hushed and going right to Steve’s gut. He thumbs over where Steve’s getting wet, sticky, and a whine breaks in Steve’s mouth and embeds in his soft palate. He has to keep his hands flat on the counter in case he cracks the surface by pressing too hard. He has to let Bucky make the first moves. He has to remember to breathe.
Bucky steps impossibly closer, fits them tighter against each other. His hand moves faster, twists. Steve stops trying to hold himself together.