Last night I helped my 5 year old niece through an anxiety attack in the car. It was a full blown episode that had her screaming and crying. The cause was her 18 month old brother puking and, as someone who has a fear of puking, it completely set her off.
And when I was telling my mom about it, she said her gut reaction would have been to tell my niece “that’s enough!”
It made me realize that unless you have dealt with anxiety as an every day thing, you might not know how to help someone through an anxiety attack. Especially if it’s a kid.
Obviously kids throw fits all the time, but if the kid is cowering, expressing any sort of fear or saying they are scared, it is very likely it’s an anxiety attack.
So here are some tips for helping someone through an anxiety attack:
1. Don’t scream at them or tell them to calm down. It doesn’t help. It can actually make the attack worse.
2. Be encouraging. Remind them to take take deep breaths. Sometimes that can be enough, but sometimes they are so worked up that it can’t help the situation.
3. If possible, get them to walk around. Movement can sometimes help.
4. Distract them by suggesting ways to use their five senses, but especially sight and touch. Have them tap their fingers one at a time. Have them count cars or trees out the window. Just get their focus off the thing causing them anxiety. I’ve read in the past that if you can ground yourself in reality during an anxiety attack (which is mostly happening in your brain), it can help you through it.
5. Once they are able to communicate with you, ask them if there is anything you can get for them. A lot of us who deal with anxiety have developed coping mechanisms that can help us fully come down or at least steady ourselves from an anxiety attack. So they might have a song they wind down to, have headphones, have a texture keychain, etc. that they can’t get to but might help.
The goal to helping someone through an anxiety attack is to make them feel safe. Because a full blown anxiety attack is a scary, full body episode that can leave the person completely drained.
Once the anxiety attack has passed, some people might be ready to talk about what caused the attack (if they know) while others might not be. That’s ok.
However, if you are a parent/care giver of a child who had an anxiety attack, I encourage you to speak with the kid or take them to a professional to see if they need further assistance. And/or help them develop the coping skills to help them from getting that worked up in the future.
I really hope this helps someone. I’m glad I was with my niece last night and that I was able to help her calm down. In this specific situation, we started with finger tapping on the car door and then added counting trees out the window, then red cars. She went from hysterical to calm enough to give her mom a sassy response to something in less than 5 minutes.
Summary: For Y/N, the resident who has been iced out of the day shift for nearly two years, the day dr Robby returns from his sabbatical turns into a chaotic mess she cannot escape. They must navigate a professional minefield where every look is a challenge and every word is a reminder of the day everything was destroyed. He’s trying to find a way to keep his sanity, while she’s trying to survive, both determined to forget what the past carries. But you cannot outrun the past.
Pairing: Michael Robinavitch x resident!reader
Word count: 58k
Warnings: age gap relationship, unhealthy relationship dynamics, swearing, angst, fluff, mentions of sex, descriptions of blood, illness, injuries and death, mentions of chronic illness, mental health issues, suicide, physical attack and murder, drugs. It's not a casual read, choose what is best for you.
A/n: Most of the medical cases are based on real life events or inspired by what I've experienced working in the pitt as a junior doctor. Some inaccuracies may be tied to the differences in the US/European healthcare systems. The story was meant to be published at once, but due to Tumblr's rules about story lenghts, I've had to separate it in sixteen parts posted back to back. The word count is for the entire story, not each separate part.
Hate it when TikTok farm cosplayers and cottagecore types say stuff like "I'm not going to use modern equipment because my grandmothers could make do without it." Ma'am, your great grandma had eleven children. She would have killed for a slow cooker and a stick blender.
I’ve noticed a sort of implicit belief that people used to do things the hard way in the past because they were tougher or something. In reality, labor-saving devices have historically been adopted by the populace as soon as they were economically feasible. No one stood in front of a smoky fire or a boiling pot of lye soap for hours because they were virtuous, they did it because it was the only way to survive.
Sweet Child O Mine: Bucky Barnes x Reader (Chapter 6)
Summary: Y/N and Bucky become good friends after Steve (her ex-boyfriend and his ex-best friend) goes back in time to be with Peggy. They are thrown for a loop when the lawyer of one James Steven Carter appears. The alias of a now dead Steve Rogers, the lawyer reads off a will giving Y/N and Bucky custody of Steve’s orphaned baby great granddaughter, Annie. Y/N and Bucky must now come to terms with Steve’s departure, becoming adoptive parents, and maybe even their own feelings.
Bucky spends the next few weeks adjusting to his new role, guardian. Now that Yori solved their unhappy baby issues, Bucky didn’t think of taking care of Annie as a grueling chore, one that tested the limits of him and Y/N. In fact he found himself enjoying it. He sprawls out on the floor during tummy time, adjusting his body in hopes that Annie mimics him. They sit on the couch, tiny baby tucked in his arms, conversing. Annie would babble, and Bucky would talk to her like he would any other person. “Is that right?” More babbles. “Oh we only have three eggs left? I’ll add it to the grocery list.” Another babble. “I know, that shirt is not Sam’s color.” Annie takes naps snuggled into his chest, Bucky lays down, keeping watch over the child.
On one of these occasions, Y/N leans against the washer, basket forgotten on the floor as she examines the scene. Bucky, a man built out of war, blood, and metal, cradling a little girl like she is the most precious thing in the world. A pang surged through her chest, and Y/N contemplates the meaning. This was her dream once, domestic life with a super soldier, keeping house while raising little ones of their own. But it had been a different soldier in her dream, someone she once loved who discarded her. Yet somehow, she didn’t feel as sad as she should have. Seeing Bucky, her best friend, doing this with her, something just felt, right.
“You okay?” Bucky asked from the couch.
“Mhmm?” Y/N stood to attention, the bittersweet thoughts floating out of her head as quickly as they came. “I’m fine. Just thinking.”
Bucky held Annie to him with one arm, propping himself on his other elbow so he could look at Y/N better. “About?” He scanned her face, a concerned expression showing through.
Y/N strode over, perching on the arm rest at his feet. “How I once imagined Steve doing this with our kids,” she admitted. Bucky opened his mouth to say something, but she continued quickly. “How nice it is to see you in that role instead.”
“Nice?”
Y/N’s cheeks light on fire, unexplainable heat simmering under her skin. “You just…..you look at peace,” she said. “Calm. Not that you’re not calm at other times but,” she sighed, searching for words. “I imagine it just feels good for you. You told me once that you believe that when people look at you, they see a hardened killer. And I’ve seen you in public, you go stiff, rigid. Like you’re afraid of existing as yourself in case someone feels endangered by you. But Annie, she doesn’t see you as danger. She sees you as warmth, safety, a comfy pillow. That must make you feel some type of way.”
Bucky considered her opinion, eyes flitting down to Annie. Even in sleep, she must’ve sensed his presence. Her tiny mouth curled into a smile, little fists flexing and clinging tighter to his shirt. Bucky returned the smile, hand gently smoothing the wispy blonde hair at the back of her head. “Yeah,” he said with finality. “It is nice.”
Y/N averted her eyes for a second, blinking before Bucky glanced back up.
“You’re safety too,” Bucky found her face a second too late, not seeing the shift. “To Annie I mean.”
Y/N shook her head. “Nah, she adores you. I’m just Temu Bucky, acceptable when you’re busy and not around, but she likes you better.”
“That’s bull-“
“Come on Buck, you’ve never noticed how when I hold her sometimes, she makes grabby hands at you instead?”
“That was only once or twi-“
“Or how she always quiets down sooner for you than me?”
He shrugged. “I’ve never timed it.”
“I’m pretty sure when I answer to her waking up, she pouts more.” Y/N rose, returning to the task of switching out laundry loads.
Bucky’s eyes followed her every move, examining her body language. But Y/N was an experienced hero just like him, she willed her body to move as nonchalantly as possible, keeping her face tilted out of Bucky’s eye sight. Still, the seed was planted in Bucky’s brain; Y/N is insecure. What should I do? Quick make her laugh!
“You know,” Bucky laid back down, adding a drawl to the second word. “Annie isn’t the only one who thinks I’m a pillow.”
Y/N froze, dangling a shirt of hers from her fingers in the middle of the transition between the washer and dryer. “Oh?” Her voice came out a bit too high.
“You were sleeping on my chest last night,” Bucky added casually.
“W…was I?” Y/N stammered, dropping the shirt.
“Yeah, you get a little close when you get in a good sleep,” Bucky teased, a wide grin on his face.
Y/N didn’t need to turn her head, she knew Bucky was smiling right now. “If you have such a problem with it, why don’t you push me away?”
Bucky’s face turned pink. “Wh-what?”
“You heard me,” Y/N said. “You must really like being a pillow.” She waved her hand dramatically. “James Buchanan Barnes. War hero. Super soldier. Giant pillow. Would be great for your Tinder profile, if you ever wanted one.”
Bucky’s free hand clutched the couch, fingernails digging in so hard he could feel the threads threatening to pop. “T-t-Tinder? Me? Why would I when I….” He caught himself just in time, and luckily for him, Annie let out a small yawn, eyes fluttering open. “Hey sleepyhead,” he said, feigning that he stopped to react to the baby. He peered back up at Y/N, diverting. “Wanna go for a walk in a bit?”
Y/N finished up with the laundry, unaware of Bucky’s secret. “Yeah. Sure.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bucky took on another role as well, one he was familiar with in a past life, now with a new context, watcher.
That first night Y/N feel asleep on him, something shifted. The piece of himself that he kept restrained for years. The thing he didn’t dare name. The emotion that made him feel warm and human for the first time in a long time, but was also a betrayal to someone who once said he would be with him till the end of the line.
He tried not to, but he found his eyes always searching for Y/N, melting when he noticed the tiniest of details. The curve of her lips when she smiled unconsciously in her sleep. The way her hair stuck up in the morning before she fixed it. How her tongue stuck out when she was focused on something. Her giggles when Annie kicked her legs when she was happy or when she molded Annie’s hair into a mohawk as a joke during bath time. The way she held Annie as if it was the most natural movement for her. How she had the way Bucky liked his coffee memorized. The way she subtly gave Bucky bigger portions when it was her turn to make dinner. The little electric jolt he’d feel when she put her hand on his back as she tried to pass him. The feeling of loss when her body left the bed to tend to Annie at night. Her little contented sighs when she sat next to Bucky, leaning into him a little bit.
Or now, sitting in the midafternoon daylight, shadows from the leaves above them dappled across her face, the sun forming a halo behind her as she grabbed the handle of Annie’s stroller and rocked it back and forth, talking to the baby. Fuck, Bucky thought to himself, his heart pounding, breath feeling shaky. Steve you’re a fucking idiot you know that? And I’m pathetic, pining for his girl like that.
Annie sneezed in her stroller, a little snot bubble forming at her right nostril. Without hesitation, Y/N brought the sleeve of her jacket up, using it to wipe the baby clean. Bucky flailed for a second, his body feeling like he was in free fall despite being securely sat on the bench. Y/N looked at him, brows furrowed. “Bucky?”
Bucky swung his hands like an idiot. “There was a bee. Didn’t want it stinging Annie.” He cringed as soon as he said it.
Annie cooed in her stroller. Y/N leaned forward, conspiring with her. “I know, Bucky is a really good protector. You’ll always be safe with him around.”
“Both of us,” Bucky interjected. “Y/N is badass too.”
“Hey,” Y/N nudged him, the touch sending another one of those delightful sparks through his veins. “No cussing in front of the baby.”
Bucky smiled, indulging in the softness of the moment. “Fine, Annie, you’ll always be safe with both of us around.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bucky roamed the streets, searching for the bar Sam and Joaquin had invited him to. He didn’t want to leave Y/N alone with Annie, but she insisted. “Go,” she said with a wave of her hand as she sat Annie in her playpen for tummy time. “Have fun. You need it.”
When Bucky protested, she scrambled behind him, attempting to move him forward with strong pushes. “We’ll be fine.”
And so he ended up here, paused on the concrete sidewalk, utterly lost at the instructions Joaquin had sent him. “Dammit Joaquin,” he muttered, vibranium thumb tapping the screen so he could call him when another call came in. One he wasn’t expecting. He hit accept quickly, confused.
“Hello?”
“Bucky,” Y/N’s voice sounded small.
“Y/N? What’s going on? I can barely hear you.”
“We ran out of diaper cream,” she explained. “So I took Annie to the store around the corner. But….”
Bucky heard Annie’s tiny whimper, the shuffle as Y/N moved around to soothe her.
“Bucky there’s a guy here. He’s been following Annie and I around the store. Annie’s in the sling, I can’t fight-“
“I’m on my way,” Bucky said, spinning on his heel and running back the way he came. “Stay on the line with me okay?”
“Okay,” Y/N whispered back.
Bucky wove through the pedestrians, heart racing. “Is there a bathroom you can lock yourself in?”
“No, I looked, he could foll- HEY!”
A clattering sound hit Bucky’s ear, followed by muffled words and Annie’s crying.
“Y/N?” Bucky asked, voice shaking. The line clicked at the other end. “Shit!” He took off as fast as his legs could carry him, ignoring the indignant cries of people he bumped into. After what felt like hours, Bucky reached the door of the convenience store. Throwing it open, he whirled his head around when he heard a scream from Annie, rushing in that direction.
“Back the fuck up!” Y/N yelled from the aisle next to him.
Bucky turned the corner, seeing Y/N backed up against a freezer door, shielding Annie with her arms as she aimed a kick at the crotch of man towering over them. The man side stepped, laughing. “What’s a pretty little thing like you gonna do?”
“It’s not her you have to worry about,” Bucky growled, snatching the man’s shoulder. The man barely turned around when Bucky’s fist met his nose. A loud crack sounded through the aisle, accompanied by a yell from the assailant as he fell to the floor. Bucky bent over him, yanking him up by the shirt. “Get up!” Bucky commanded, shoving the guy back. “Get the fuck out, or I’ll make you regret it.”
The man didn’t need to be told twice, scampering off like a fox being chased off by a watchdog.
Bucky watched him with a stone cold glare. “Bucky.” The shaky voice snapped him out of it. He turned, noticing the scared expression on Y/N’s face, the glassiness in her eyes as she tried to soothe the baby strapped to her chest. “Bucky I’m sorry,” Y/N continued. “I should’ve brought the stroller so I could fight him off. I was so scared I d-d-didn’t-“
“Hey, hey,” Bucky said softly, approaching her. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, his other arm coming up to rest a palm behind Annie’s head. “It’s okay.”
“I’m…..I’m a superh-h-ero,” Y/N choked on a sob, “and I couldn’t fight him off for her!”
“Shhh,” Bucky shushed, rubbing up and down her back. “It’s not your fault. Let’s get you two home.” He guided Y/N towards the door. “I’ll get the groceries later okay?”
“Your plans with Sam and Joaquin?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Bucky said. “All that matters is that get my girls home safe.”
Both Y/N and Annie paused, peering up at him with curious eyes. Heat creeped up Bucky’s neck when he noticed. “What?”
Y/N blinked at him. “You just called us your girls.”
Bucky felt like he was going to spontaneously combust. “Well…cause you…are my….ya know…my girl roommates….that’s what I meant,” he stuttered like a lovestruck teenage boy. Y/N bit her lip to keep from laughing. Bucky sighed, annoyed with himself. “Let’s just go home.”
Y/N glanced down at Annie, who grinned at her, like she knew something Bucky didn’t. “Yeah,” Y/N said, letting Bucky lead her while giving Annie a a confused look. “Home.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The moment Y/N stepped through the door, her body sank in on itself, the fear and adrenaline taking its toll. Bucky noticed immediately, taking Annie out of the sling and helping Y/N remove it. Y/N exhaled in relief. “Thanks.”
Bucky adjusted Annie in one arm, the strap of the sling in the other. “No problem.” He took a step towards Annie’s bedroom, but Y/N held her arm out to stop him.
“I’ll take it,” she said calmly, “I’m heading back there anyway.”
Bucky handed her the sling, eyes locked on her face. “You sure you’re okay?”
Y/N wrung the strap of the sling in her hands. “No. I’m not. I could’ve easily fought that guy off but I just froze.”
“You didn’t freeze,” Bucky reassured her. “You were thinking about protecting Annie.”
“Protecting,” she scoffed, “yeah right.”
Bucky took the sling back from her. “Y/N be serious, how were you going to fight with her strapped to your chest? She would’ve gotten hurt if you tried. You did the best thi-“
“I’m going to take a nap,” Y/N interrupted, stomping past him.
Bucky stepped out of her way, watching her. “We’ll check on you in a bit,” he called out.
“Okay,” Y/N mumbled, shutting the bedroom door on him. She leaned against it, forehead pressed to the wood, the events from earlier replaying in her mind. Anger surged through her body, making her feel worse. She let out an annoyed noise. “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!” She insulted herself, left hand smacking against the wall with each word.
The frustration made her fingertips itch; there was no way she could nap now, she needed to do something. She turned her head towards her and Bucky’s shared closet, knowing that somewhere in there was a box from when they rearranged their apartment that they never had time to sort through. Pushing off of the door, Y/N strode over, opening the closet and sliding the box out. She sat crosslegged on the floor, flipping the tabs up.
At the top of the box was a burgundy leather scrapbook labelled “Our Family” in gold letters.
Y/N’s fingers skimmed across the texture of the worn leather, tracing over the bumps and cracks. The rational part of her brain screamed at her not to open it, but the part of her that was curious was louder. She took the book out, setting it in her lap and opened. The first page contained a black and white photo of Steve and a strong looking woman with perfectly styled dark hair. Steve and Peggy, September 1945.
Y/N gasped at the photo, she had heard of Peggy, but never seen a picture of her. Steve had a compass he kept with him at all times, his prized possession, he never let Y/N touch it, so she never saw the photograph inside, even though she knew it was there. Her index finger drew an outline around Peggy. She’s so much prettier than you.
The next page had a clipping from a newspaper article announcing engagements. Margaret Elizabeth Carter to wed James Steven Carter. A photograph of their wedding was underneath. Y/N cringed at reading Steve’s alias; all it proved was that lying came easily to Steve. To her and to society.
Y/N flipped through the pages, her heart sinking lower and lower into her increasingly acidic stomach with each photograph. Steve and Peggy on their honeymoon. Various photos of them in rebuilding efforts and Peggy’s duties in SHIELD. Peggy pregnant, rubbing her belly. A baby boy with his hands clenched into angry little fists. Buchanan Grant “Buck” Carter, June 14, 1955. Steve, Peggy, and Buck throughout the years, it appears that he was their only child. At some point the photographs switched to color, Steve and Peggy’s hair greying, wrinkles forming on their faces. Growing older. Still happy.
A photo of Steve and Peggy with a now grown Buck and a woman in a white dress. Buck and Jane Wedding Day, June 27 1985. The type of photos repeated, another pregnant woman, another baby boy, Steve and Peggy’s grandson, Annie’s father. James Roger Carter December 5, 1990. More growing up, more growing old, more happiness. At some point Buck and Jane die. Peggy dies. James gets engaged to a woman named Nadine.
Steve stands beside James at the wedding. Rinse and repeat. James and Nadine have maternity photos and then a page with a newspaper clipping face down, like Steve couldn’t bear to include it, but knew it was vital to the Carter family history. Y/N flipped it over. Obituaries. She turned the scrap back around, moved to the next page where a very familiar little girl stared up at the camera. Annemarie Carter February 22 2024.
There’s a couple of pictures after that, ones Steve must’ve taken on a smartphone. Poorly arranged selfies of him as a very elderly man, holding his great granddaughter, him smiling at his greatest treasure.
The door to the bedroom opened, Bucky entering with a mug in his hand. “Hey, I put Annie down for a nap, figured you could use something to cheer you uh-“ he cut himself off, seeing the final picture of Steve and Annie in Y/N’s hands.
Y/N’s shoulders shook. She stared up at him, tears streaming down her face. If Bucky asked her, she would not be able to tell him when she started crying. She sniffed, gazing back down at the scrapbook.
Bucky lowered himself, sitting next to Y/N. He set the mug off to the side on the floor. With steady hands, he reached for the scrapbook, prying it gently from Y/N, whose hands trembled once they had nothing to hold. Y/N’s breath came out at the loss, ragged and choked, like she hadn’t breathed for a long time. “I can’t do anything right,” she whispered.
“Don’t,” Bucky started. “You’re amazing.”
“Amazing?” She asked. “If I’m so amazing, Steve would’ve stayed. He would’ve loved me. This life that he has with her,” she gestured at the scrapbook. “I’ve never seen her before, Bucky, she’s so pretty. Better than me.”
“Y/N, please.”
“If I had just been better. If I loved him the way he needed. It’d be our fam….” She sobbed, emotions too strong to finish the sentence. “I’m so inadequate.”
Bucky’s hands flew to her face, cupping her cheeks and forcing her to look at him. “Don’t talk about yourself like that,” he wiped at her tears with his thumbs. “Y/N, you are amazing. You’re one of the best mission partners I’ve ever worked with. You’ve saved me and Sam multiple times. You’re the brains of our operations. You’re kind and witty and funny and if you weren’t my roommate I’d probably be doing a lot worse than I am.”
Y/N sniffled. “You’d be fine.”
“Fine? If I didn’t have you I’d be a mess! And without your cooking, I’d be living off of, I don’t know, beers and canned chili!” He tried to bring some humor to the situation.
Y/N laughed, a brief smile flashing across her face. “Plums.”
Bucky released her head. “Huh?”
“You’d be livin’ off of beer and plums and chips,” Y/N clarified. “Like you were in Romania.”
“So you see my point then?” Bucky replied.
Y/N snorted. Bucky leaned in closer, wrapping her in a hug. “Steve’s a jerk,” Bucky continued. “Don’t let his mistake make you feel like shit.”
Her fingers fisted the fabric of his shirt. “I don’t know how not to.”
Bucky pulled back slightly, a serious expression in his face. “I know. I’m the same way. We’re working on that in therapy. Speaking of. Y/N, please don’t be mad but, I have an appointment tomorrow and, especially after today, I think you should go.”
Her brow arched. “You want me to go to your government sanctioned therapy with you?”
Bucky held his hands up in a neutral gesture. “You don’t have to but I figured it would give us both a chance to decompress. Professionally. Or whatever the fuck.”
Y/N considered for a moment. “Okay. Yeah I’ll go.”
“Good.” Bucky said, hopping to his feet. He bent down, scooping Y/N up.
She flailed, Bucky had never picked her up before. “Bucky! What are you doing?”
Bucky walked her over to the bed, shifting her weight onto his metal arm so he could pull the blanket back. “You’re gonna sit here,” he said gently, placing Y/N down and bringing the blanket up over her legs. He then went to retrieve the mug, handing it to her. “Drink your hot chocolate. And then take your nap like you were supposed to. Got that?”
Y/N held the mug with one hand, the other giving him a sarcastic salute. “Yes Sarge.”
Bucky gave her a curt nod, turning toward the door. Y/N reached out, hand wrapping around his wrist, tugging.
“Bucky,” she pleaded. “Stay? Please?”
Bucky maneuvered the blanket so he could sit next to her, also covered with the blanket. He raised his arm in invitation. “Yeah,” he said as she tucked herself underneath his arm, comforted by his touch. “I’ll stay.”
It's really funny to take Spanish with people from different Spanish-speaking countries, because the ones from South American countries are like "Yeah no one uses vosotros, we don't know what it's doing here" and the ones from Europe are like "If you don't give our beloved second-person plural its due respect, the Hounds will find you"
I love how tumblr is full of people who aren’t afraid to hang around on the bottom rung of the moron ladder. You make me feel better about every stupid thing I’ve ever done in my life including the time I glued fake moustaches to my eyebrows.
pairings: steve rogers x f!stark reader mans best friend masterlist | part one series synopsis: Your coworkers notice you’re flushed. Distracted. Smiling at nothing. They don’t know that a man who looks like he could bench press a tank is absolutely wrecking you with basic human decency. warnings: mdni! steve being the perfect man, reader is horny for her man, smut (sex on the couch…. and the kitchen island….. and the shower, reader wants to be in control but submits to steve, soft!dom steve, spit kink, oral fem receiving, unprotected piv, reader bites steve, spanking/slapping, choking, maybe breath play, cumplay, spit kink, definitely missing some lol), pet names (angel, baby), reader wears lingerie, astrophysics talk, reader is lowkey a cute horny nerd, nat and wanda mention, fluff, no angst in this one, just them both being in love, not proofread. total word count: 7k mia’s love note: gif made by me, do not reuse. this is the second part to manchild, a fic that is apart of the mbf series. I encourage you to read that prior to this.
You groaned lightly as you shifted in Steve’s arms, turning until your back was pressed flush against his front. His body was solid and warm behind you, an anchor you hadn’t realized you’d been craving until you woke up wrapped in it. One of his arms was slung lazily around your waist, heavy and protective even in sleep, his other tucked beneath the pillow.
A light smile grazed your hazy features as the memories from the night before came rushing back, vivid and dangerous and entirely too tempting for early morning thoughts. The way Steve kissed. Slow at first, hesitant, like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast. And then the way that hesitation vanished, replaced by something darker, more confident. The way his hands had held you like he already knew exactly where you belonged.
God.
You were getting warm just thinking about it.
Your thighs pressed together instinctively, your breath catching as the sensation lingered longer than it had any right to. There was something almost dizzying about knowing that Captain America, the man the world worshipped for his restraint and honor, had kissed you like he wanted to forget everything else existed.
A part of you felt relieved.
Relieved that you had finally said it out loud. That you both had. That the tension that had been poisoning every shared space for weeks had finally snapped instead of suffocating you slowly. You had spent so long wondering if you were imagining it, if you were projecting something that wasn’t really there.
You weren’t.
Turning around fully in his arms, you didn’t care if you woke the super soldier next to you. If anything, you wanted him awake. Wanted him aware. Wanted him to feel the same certainty thrumming through your chest.
You pressed soft kisses over his bare, muscular chest, your lips lingering against warm skin, your hands braced on either side of him. His heartbeat was steady beneath your mouth, strong and grounding. You kissed along the faint trail of hair there, letting yourself enjoy the way his body reacted even before his mind fully caught up.
Steve let out a low, husky groan, his abs tensing beneath every kiss. His arm tightened reflexively around you, his fingers flexing against your back. “what are you doing?” he teased you.
This time it came way easier. His teasing sounded natural, unguarded, like he wasn’t afraid of the words landing wrong anymore.
“oh nothing,” you said with a cheeky grin as you shifted, kneeling between his bare thighs. You continued to lick and kiss along his chest, slowly, deliberately, tracing your way down until you reached the very prominent v line that disappeared beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.
Steve sucked in a sharp breath, his head falling back against the pillow. For a moment, he let himself get lost in it. His hands slid into your hair, not pulling, just holding, his thumbs brushing along your scalp like he was grounding himself there. His breathing grew uneven, his chest rising and falling faster as his hips shifted almost unconsciously toward you.
For a few seconds, the good soldier vanished.
There was only the man, heat and want and the intoxicating realization that you wanted him just as badly as he wanted you.
Then he caught himself.
Steve let out a steady breath, controlled but strained, before his hands moved up under your arms and he pulled you up his body suddenly. You let out a surprised squeal when he flipped the two of you around like it was nothing, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he braced himself over you.
He was over you now, eyes dark, jaw tight, breathing still a little rough. “none of that.”
You pouted up at him, deliberately exaggerated, your hands resting on his shoulders. “why not?” you whined.
His expression softened immediately, like your voice had flipped some internal switch. “because i want to take you out on a real date before i get you back in my bed like that again,” Steve said.
There it was.
The good boy was back.
You smiled despite yourself, something warm and fond blooming in your chest. “wasn’t good of me to do that last night shoulda waited,” he added, guilt creeping into his tone like he thought he’d crossed some invisible line.
“Well captain I personally had a great time, morals aside,” you teased, leaning up just enough to kiss the tip of his nose.
He let out a low groan at the nickname, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “not making this easy for me doll,” he said softly. “just so beautiful.”
Your heart stuttered at the sincerity in his voice.
“well guess what?” you said.
“hm,” he hummed, his nose brushing yours.
“I love you.”
You needed to say it again. Needed him to hear it when you were fully awake, when there was no doubt or haze to blame it on. You needed him to know that you meant it just as much in the quiet morning light as you had the night before.
His eyes softened instantly.
“I love you too baby,” he said, leaning down to kiss you.
The kiss was slow, unhurried, his lips moving against yours like he had all the time in the world. For a second, he forgot himself again, deepening it just a little, his hand sliding to your waist, his thumb brushing bare skin beneath your shirt.
Then he pulled back, breath uneven, resting his forehead against yours like he was physically stopping himself from going further.
The next week was torture.
Not because Steve pulled away.
But because he didn’t.
The torture starts quietly.
That’s the worst part.
It’s not dramatic or obvious or explosive. It’s subtle. Domestic. Soft in ways that get under your skin and stay there, burrowing deeper every single day until you feel like you might actually lose your fucking mind.
It begins the morning after.
You are standing in the kitchen, hair still messy, wearing one of Steve’s shirts that he insists is too thin to be appropriate but does not say anything about because he likes the way it hangs off your shoulder. You are halfway through making breakfast when you hear movement behind you.
Steve steps up without a word.
He does not grab you. Does not crowd you. He simply reaches past you to grab a mug, his chest brushing your back for half a second too long. His hand steadies the counter near your hip instead of touching you.
That restraint makes your stomach flip.
“I’ll get it,” you say automatically, reaching for the pan when it started to sizzle.
“I’ve got it,” he replies easily, already taking over, already flipping the eggs like this is his kitchen and his place and his life you are standing in.
You watch him for a second, confused by the calm competence of it.
Then he says it.
“Hey,” Steve adds casually. “Why don’t you sit. I’ll finish up.”
You blink. “You’re… cooking?”
He glances over his shoulder. “Yeah.”
“And you’re not doing the whole ‘I can’t relax unless I’m useful’ thing.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “I am being useful.”
You laugh, but it sounds breathless. “I live here. You don’t have to do that.”
“I know,” he says gently. “I want to.”
That should not do what it does to you.
But it does.
Later that night, after dinner, you are rinsing plates when Steve steps in behind you again.
“I’ll wash,” he says.
You turn slowly. “What.”
He reaches for the sponge. “You cooked.”
“So?”
“So I’ll wash the dishes.”
You stare at him like he has just spoken an alien language.
“Steve.”
“Yeah?”
“No man has ever offered to wash dishes in my presence without being asked.”
He pauses, genuinely surprised. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
Something crosses his face then. Not pride. Not smugness. Something quieter. Something like sadness.
“Well,” he says, rolling his sleeves up, “that’s bullshit.”
You stand there watching him scrub plates like it is the most natural thing in the world, forearms flexing, jaw relaxed, humming faintly under his breath.
Your brain short circuits.
Why are my clothes still on.
You don’t say it out loud.
But it sits there. Loud. Persistent. Pulsing.
The next day, you’re at work when your phone buzzes.
Steve.
Just a text.
“Hope your day’s going okay. Don’t forget to eat, you skip lunch when you get busy.”
You stare at the screen.
Heat curls low in your belly.
He didn’t need anything. He did not ask a question. He just thought of you and reached out.
You text back.
“You checking up on me, Captain?”
His response comes almost immediately.
“Always.”
You have to put your phone down.
Your coworkers notice you’re flushed. Distracted. Smiling at nothing.
They don’t know that a man who looks like he could bench press a tank is absolutely wrecking you with basic human decency.
That night, you try to fuck him.
You plan it.
You are sitting on the couch, legs tucked under you, watching something you are not actually paying attention to. Steve is beside you, close but not touching, like he is constantly aware of boundaries in a way no one ever has been.
You shift closer.
Then closer again.
Then you climb into his lap without a word.
Steve freezes.
Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. “Steve.”
His hands come up instantly. Not grabbing. Holding. Firm but controlled. “Hey.”
You kiss him.
It’s not slow.
It’s hungry and messy and desperate. You kiss him like you have been thinking about it all day, because you have. His mouth opens instinctively, responding before his brain catches up.
For a moment, he is lost.
You feel it. The way his grip tightens. The way his breath stutters. The way he kisses you back like he might forget every promise he made himself.
Then he pulls back.
Not abruptly. Reluctantly.
He presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard.
“I want you,” he says quietly.
Your stomach flips. “Then why are we stopping.”
“Because,” he says, voice rough, “I meant what I said. I’m taking you out.”
You groan softly, frustrated. “Steve, this is torture.”
He smiles faintly. “You have no idea.”
You lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “Why are my clothes still on.”
That makes him laugh. Low. Warm. Dangerous.
The next day, he comes over with a box.
“Ikea,” he says.
You squint. “What.”
“You mentioned your nightstand wobbles.”
You didn’t remember mentioning that.
He did.
He spends the afternoon on your floor, cross legged, screwdriver in hand, focused and patient and irritatingly good at following instructions. He asks you to hand him things. Says thank you every time.
You sit on the bed watching him, absolutely feral.
His hair falls into his eyes. His shirt rides up when he leans forward. His hands are steady and capable and gentle even with cheap particle board furniture.
You imagine those hands on you.
You shift.
Steve looks up. “You okay?”
“Fantastic,” you lie.
He smiles and goes back to work.
When he finishes, he stands, wipes his hands on his jeans, and looks at you like he just built a house.
“There,” he says. “Sturdy.”
You swallow. “You’re trying to kill me.”
He tilts his head. “What.”
You shake your head, laughing under your breath. “Nothing.”
He kisses your forehead instead of your mouth.
And somehow that is worse.
The torture escalates. It’s no longer subtle. It’s intentional. It’s devastating. And the worst part is that Steve still has no idea what he is doing to you.
It starts with communication.
Actual communication. Not vague. Not inconsistent. Not hot and cold.
Consistent.
He calls you when he says he will. If he’s running late, he tells you. If a mission changes, he explains. If he’s tired, he says so. If he misses you, he doesn’t dress it up or hide it behind humor.
You are sitting on your couch one evening, scrolling aimlessly, when your phone rings.
Steve.
You answer immediately.
“Hey,” you say, trying not to sound breathless even though your heart jumps every time.
“Hey,” he replies. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”
You close your eyes.
“That’s it?” you ask.
“That’s it,” he says. “Didn’t want anything. Just thought about you.”
Your thighs tense.
You have never had a man call you without an agenda. Without wanting something from you. Without trying to steer the conversation somewhere physical.
Steve just listens.
Asks about your day.
Remembers details.
“You said your meeting was today,” he says. “How did it go.”
You blink. “I forgot I even told you that.”
“I didn’t,” he replies easily.
After you hang up, you stare at the wall for a full minute.
Why am I this turned on.
It gets worse.
You come home one night exhausted, shoes kicked off by the door, bag dropped wherever it lands. Steve is already there, sitting at your table, reading something on his phone.
He looks up immediately.
“You look wiped,” he says.
“I am,” you admit.
He stands. “Sit.”
You raise an eyebrow. “That sounded like an order.”
He smiles. “Please.”
You sit.
He brings you water. Then food. Nothing fancy. Just something warm and filling.
He sits across from you but does not eat.
“You’re not hungry?” you ask.
“I am,” he says. “But you are more important.”
Your chest tightens.
This isn’t fair.
This is not fair at all.
Later that week, you try again.
Harder.
You corner him in the kitchen. You press him back against the counter. You kiss him until your lips are swollen and your head spins. Your hands slide under his shirt, mapping muscle you already know too well.
Steve groans. He kisses you back. Deep. Hungry. His control slips. You feel it in the way his hands grip your hips, in the way his breath stutters against your mouth.
For a moment, he is gone. Then he pulls away again.
His hands stay on you. Firm. Steady.
“God,” he murmurs. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Then stop fighting it,” you say softly.
He presses his forehead to yours. “I’m not fighting you.”
“Then what are you doing.”
“I’m choosing you,” he says. “All of you. Not just this.”
Your heart slams against your ribs.
No one has ever said that to you.
You want to scream.
You want to rip his clothes off.
Instead, you step back, frustrated and flustered.
“You’re a menace,” you tell him.
He smiles gently. “You knew that.”
The date looms closer.
And Steve gets worse.
He confirms plans. Actual plans. Time. Place. Details.
“I’ll pick you up at seven,” he says. “Wear something comfortable. We’ll walk a bit.”
You scoff. “That’s all I get.”
“That’s all you get,” he confirms.
You spend the next two days spiraling.
You can’t sleep. You replay every interaction. Every look. Every small touch he denies himself.
You vent to Natasha and Wanda.
“He washed my dishes,” you say like it’s a crime.
They stare at you.
“He built my furniture,” you continue. “From Ikea.”
Wanda crosses her arms over herself biting her cheek to hide a smile.
“He texts me to remind me to eat,” you add. “He asks before touching me. He calls just to talk.” you say rubbing your hands down your face. “And his dick is huge.”
Silence.
Then Natasha says, “Oh my God, you’re doomed.”
You are.
The night before the date, Steve comes over briefly. Just to drop something off. A jacket. Because he checked the weather and it might be cold.
He does not come in.
He stands in the doorway, hands in his pockets.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.
You look at him. Really look at him.
His hair is grown out just enough. His beard is trimmed but still rough. He is wearing dark colors again.
Everything you like.
Everything he knows you like.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” you accuse.
He smiles, slow and soft. “Doing what.”
“Being like this.”
“Like what.”
“Perfect.”
His expression changes then. Serious. Intent.
“I’m not perfect,” he says. “I’m just trying to be good to you.”
Your throat tightens.
You lean forward and kiss him. Soft. Brief. Controlled.
He doesn’t deepen it.
He just rests his forehead against yours for a second.
“Tomorrow,” he whispers.
You watch him walk away, heart pounding, body aching, mind screaming the same thought over and over.
And tomorrow is going to ruin you.
The date starts quietly. Which somehow makes it worse.
Steve shows up right on time, like he said he would. Seven sharp. No rushing. No knocking twice. Just a calm, steady presence at your door that already has your heart racing before you even open it.
When you do, he stops. Actually stops.
Not dramatically. Not like he’s trying to make a point. Just enough that you notice his breath hitch before he recovers.
“You look…” he trails off, visibly searching for the right word.
You lift an eyebrow. “You’ve faced aliens. Use your words.”
He smiles, soft and a little stunned. “Beautiful. Wonderful. Prettiest girl i’ve ever seen.”
That should not hit the way it does.
You grab your jacket and step out, locking the door behind you. He waits. Doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t crowd you. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, watching you like he has nowhere else he would rather be.
He opens the car door for you.
You pause. “You know I can do that myself.”
“I know,” he says easily. “I still want to.”
That familiar heat curls low in your stomach again.
The place he takes you is small. Intimate. Warm. Nothing flashy. No Stark level extravagance. Just good food and quiet music and lighting soft enough that you can actually see each other.
You relax into it faster than you expect.
Conversation flows easily at first. Safe topics. Funny stories. Shared memories from when you met six years ago and long nights and the strange limbo of living in a world that constantly feels like it might end.
Then he asks you about your work.
Not in passing. Not politely. Not as a filler conversation topic.
He leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes intent. “Tell me what you’re working on now.”
Your face lights up instantly. Excited to be able to talk about your new project.
He notices. That alone nearly does him in.
“Well,” you start, already smiling, “okay. So you know how we’ve been mapping exoplanet atmospheres using spectral analysis.”
He nods. “I know the words you just said.”
You laugh. “That’s fair. Basically, we’re looking at light patterns to figure out what gases are present around planets we can’t physically see.”
“Which tells you what.”
You’re on the edge of your seat, his tone showing how deeply interested he is in what you’re saying.
“Whether they could support life,” you say quickly. “Or at least conditions similar to it. But what I’m excited about is that we’re starting to refine the noise reduction algorithms. Which means clearer data. Which means we can stop guessing so much.”
He watches you like you’re the most fascinating thing in the room.
“You’re excited,” he says softly.
“Always,” you admit. “I get to wake up and think about things that are older than time itself. That’s insane.”
“You’re so beautiful,” he says fondly.
You grin. “Thank you.”
You launch back in without hesitation.
“And now they’re talking about bumping me up to lead on the next project. Bigger funding. Bigger team. More responsibility.”
His eyes widen. “That’s huge.”
“It is,” you say, practically vibrating. “And I’m terrified.”
“Why.”
“Because it means I have to fight harder to keep it mine.”
He tilts his head. “What do you mean.”
You take a breath. “Everyone keeps assuming I’ll fold into Stark Industries eventually. Or jump into Avengers research. Like that’s the obvious path.”
“And it’s not.”
“No,” you say firmly. “I love my dad. I respect what he built. What you all do. But I don’t want my work to exist in his shadow. I want my name attached to something because I earned it.”
Steve’s chest tightens.
You don’t notice.
“I want to discover something because I chased it,” you continue. “Not because someone handed me a lab and a budget and said ‘here, be brilliant.’”
“You’re already brilliant,” he says quietly.
You wave him off. “You know what I mean.”
“I do,” he says. “You want it to be yours.”
“Yes.”
You talk faster now. Freer. You ramble. You sketch diagrams in the air with your hands. You explain concepts he absolutely does not understand. You offer to take him to your office to show him some of your work.
He asks questions. Simple ones. Thoughtful ones.
“So when you say expansion,” he says, “that’s the universe literally stretching.”
“Yes,” you say eagerly. “Exactly. And we still don’t know why it’s accelerating. That’s the part that drives me insane.”
His mouth curves into a smile. “I like it when you get like this.”
“Like what.”
“Like you forget the rest of the world exists.”
Your cheeks warm. “I’ve never had someone actually want to hear this stuff.”
“That’s insane,” he says. “You light up.”
He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t redirect. Doesn’t try to impress you. Not like other men would.
He just lets you be brilliant.
And it’s driving him absolutely fucking crazy.
Because you’re not trying to be cute.
You just are.
Your eyes are bright. Your hands animated. Your passion raw and unfiltered. You talk about dark matter and probability and models and failures like they are personal challenges instead of abstract concepts.
You talk about mistakes you’ve made. Equations that didn’t work. Data that disappointed you.
“I love it,” you say softly. “Even the frustration. Especially the frustration, that’s when I work my hardest.”
Steve swallows. “You’re incredible,” he says.
You shrug, suddenly shy. “I just really love what I do.”
“I know,” he replies. “That’s what makes it incredible.”
When the night winds down, he walks you home.
Slowly.
Like he’s not in any rush to end this.
At your door, he hesitates.
“I had a really good time,” he says.
You smile. “Me too.”
He leans in.
Just enough. Then stops.
“Can I kiss you.”
Your breath catches.
“Yes,” you
The kiss is soft. Controlled. Bief.
He pulls back like it physically pains him.
“Good night,” he says.
You watch him walk away, heart pounding, mind racing, body aching.
And the only thought in your head is this.
How is a man who respects me this much also driving me completely insane.
You’re trying really hard not to let your sexual frustration take over your entire life.
You really are.
But the kiss Steve left you with last night wasn’t enough. Not even close. It lingered like a bruise you kept pressing on, a memory that replayed itself every time you tried to focus on literally anything else. His mouth. His restraint. The way he stopped himself like it physically hurt.
You can’t stop yourself from wondering why he didn’t just take you right then and there.
Why he let you stand there shaking and needy and aching while he walked away like the strongest man in the world wasn’t barely holding himself together.
So on your lunch break, you venture down to Soho.
You don’t tell yourself it is a bad idea.
You tell yourself it is just shopping. You love to shop.
You find the lingerie almost immediately. Deep blue. Rich. Dangerous. The kind of blue that looks expensive and intentional and sinful. Lace so delicate it feels like a secret against your skin.
You smirk when you realize the color matches Steve’s suit.
That feels important.
It’s late by the time you finally leave your office and get home. You shower quickly, heat steaming the bathroom, hands lingering just a little too long where you wish his had been. You slide into the lingerie slowly, deliberately, admiring the way it hugs you, the way it makes you feel powerful and reckless all at once.
Over it, you pull on a silky slip dress. Modest enough. Innocent enough. Something that passes easily to anyone who does not know what is underneath.
But up close.
Up close, it is something else entirely.
You step into your black Louboutins, the heels sharp and unapologetic, and head toward the elevator. Each click against the floor feels like a countdown. Your heart pounds harder the higher the elevator climbs.
When the doors finally open on Steve’s floor, you step out with an air of confidence you don’t entirely feel but refuse to surrender.
“Stevie?” you call softly as you walk inside his apartment. You move toward the couch and sit down, crossing your legs slowly, deliberately. You fix your hair like you aren’t vibrating under your skin. “Baby?” you call again.
Footsteps sound from down the hall.
Steve appears in the doorway wearing nothing but a white towel slung low around his hips, water still dripping down his chest, sliding along muscle and disappearing into the fabric. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends, his skin flushed from heat.
And fuck.
You couldn’t be happier you’re wearing that lingerie under your dress.
Because you came here with a plan.
He looks at you, concern crossing his face instantly. His eyes trail over you, slow and thorough, like he’s checking for injuries, like his body is already cataloging you out of instinct.
That concern turns you on more than anything else could have.
“You okay angel?” he asks, stepping closer, sitting down beside you on the couch.
His legs widen.
He must have forgotten he is only wearing a towel.
Or maybe he doesn’t care.
Your gaze drops anyway. Thick thighs. Solid. Powerful. Your mouth waters even though you can see almost nothing.
“So good Stevie.”
The words come out softer than you intend.
He exhales slowly, like he’s grounding himself. His hand rests on his knee. Close. Too close.
You lean in closer, your hand sliding up his damp thigh, fingers brushing the edge of the towel. The heat from his skin radiates through your palm, and you feel your core clench with need. "I missed you," you murmur, your voice low and teasing as you push him back against the couch cushions. Your lips crash into his, tongue demanding entry, tasting the faint mint from his shower. He groans into your mouth, his hands gripping your waist, but you take charge, straddling his lap in one fluid motion.
The towel loosens under your weight, and you feel the hard length of his cock pressing against your thigh through the thin fabric. You grind down slowly, savoring the way he twitches beneath you. "Fuck, Steve," you whisper against his lips, nipping at his bottom one before sucking it into your mouth. Your hands roam his chest, nails scraping lightly over his nipples, making him hiss.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes darkening as they drop to the silky slip dress clinging to your curves. "What are you wearing under there, angel?" His voice is rough, fingers toying with the hem, inching it up your thighs.
You smirk, grabbing his wrist to stop him for a moment, asserting your control. "Something for you to discover." But even as you say it, his free hand cups your ass, squeezing firmly, and a shiver runs through you. You rock your hips harder, feeling the dampness between your legs soak through the lace.
Steve's restraint snaps when you lift the dress just enough to reveal the deep blue lace peeking out, matching the suit he wore earlier that day. His eyes widen, pupils blowing with feral hunger. "Jesus Christ," he growls, flipping you onto your back in an instant, pinning your wrists above your head with one large hand. The shift is so quick, your breath catches, and that initial spark of dominance you held flickers out, replaced by a rush of submission that makes your pussy throb.
"You did this on purpose," he says, voice laced with possession as he yanks the slip dress up over your head, tossing it aside. The lingerie hugs your body perfectly, the deep blue lace sheer enough to show your hardened nipples and the outline of your slick folds. He stares, chest heaving, before leaning down to capture your mouth in a brutal kiss, tongue fucking into you without mercy.
You moan, arching up, but he holds you down, his towel finally slipping away to reveal his thick cock standing rigid against his abs, pre-cum beading at the tip. The sight makes you whimper, and you strain against his grip, wanting to touch him. Instead, you turn your head, sinking your teeth into his shoulder in the first bite, hard enough to leave a mark but not break skin. He grunts, the sound vibrating through you, and thrusts his hips forward, his cock sliding along your lace-covered pussy.
"Naughty girl," he murmurs, releasing your wrists to trail his hand down your body. His fingers hook into the lace panties, ripping them aside with a sharp tug. The cool air hits your exposed wetness, and you gasp as he presses two fingers inside you without warning, curling them to hit that spot that makes your vision blur. You buck against his hand, but he pins your hip with his other arm, controlling the pace.
The heavy makeout resumes, his lips bruising yours, teeth clashing as you kiss like you're starving. You bite his lower lip this time, the second mark of your teeth on him, drawing a low rumble from his throat. He retaliates by wrapping his hand around your neck, applying just enough pressure to make your head spin, the feeling sending sparks straight to your clit. "Breathe for me," he commands softly, loosening slightly before tightening again, his fingers still pumping in and out of your dripping pussy.
You nod frantically, your control fully surrendered now, body melting under his touch. "Please, Steve," you beg, voice hoarse. He smirks, withdrawing his fingers and bringing them to your mouth, making you suck them clean while he lines up his cock at your entrance.
With one smooth thrust, he buries himself inside you, bare and deep, stretching your walls around his girth. You cry out, nails digging into his back as he starts a relentless rhythm, hips snapping forward. The lingerie top is still on, lace rubbing against your sensitive nipples with each movement, heightening everything.
He spanks your ass lightly once, then twice, the sting blooming into heat that makes you clench around him. "That's it, take my cock," he growls, hand returning to your throat cutting off your air just enough to make stars dance in your eyes before releasing. You bite his neck in response, teeth grazing his pulse point as he fucks you harder.
Sweat slicks your bodies, the couch creaking under the force of his thrusts. He angles his hips to grind against your clit with every plunge, building that coil in your belly tighter and tighter. Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his back, urging him deeper. The room fills with the wet sounds of skin slapping skin, your moans mixing with his grunts.
"Gonna cum inside you," he warns, voice strained, his soft dom side shining through in the way he watches your face, ensuring you're with him. You nod, lost in the haze, and when he pinches your nipple through the lace while choking you lightly one last time, you shatter. Your pussy spasms around his cock, milking him as waves of pleasure crash over you.
Steve follows seconds later, burying himself to the hilt and flooding your insides with hot cum, rope after rope painting your walls. He collapses onto you, both panting, his lips finding yours for a softer kiss now, the feral edge sated but the heat lingering.
"My perfect angel," he whispers, nuzzling your neck where your bites mark him, a satisfied smile on his face.
Steve lifts you off the couch effortlessly, his arms cradling you like you weigh nothing, cock still semi-hard and slick with your combined release as it slips from your pussy. A trickle of his cum leaks down your thigh, warm and sticky, and he notices, his eyes flashing with renewed hunger. "Not done with you yet, angel," he murmurs, voice husky from exertion, carrying you toward the kitchen. The cool tile floor contrasts with the heat of his body pressed against yours, the remnants of your lingerie bra the only thing left on you now, lace damp and clinging.
He sets you down on the edge of the kitchen island, the marble cold against your heated skin, making you gasp. Steve drops to his knees between your spread legs, hands gripping your thighs to pull you closer. "Look at that," he says, thumb brushing through the mess of cum seeping from your swollen folds. "My cum dripping out of your pretty pussy. Gonna clean you up first." His tone is gentle but commanding, that soft dom edge making your core flutter.
Before you can respond, his mouth descends, tongue flat and broad as he licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, tasting the salty mix of his seed and your arousal. You moan, head falling back, fingers threading into his damp hair. He groans against you, the vibration shooting straight through your nerves, and laps deeper, sucking his own cum back into his mouth before swallowing with a satisfied hum. It's filthy, the wet sounds echoing in the quiet kitchen, his lips smacking as he devours you, tongue plunging inside to scoop out more.
Your hips buck involuntarily, chasing the pressure, and he pins you down with one hand on your stomach, the other sliding up to fist your hair at the nape of your neck. He tugs sharply, forcing your head to tilt back, exposing your throat as he eats you out relentlessly. The pull sends a delicious sting across your scalp, and you love it, whining his name, legs trembling around his shoulders. "That's my girl," he praises between licks, his free hand kneading your ass, fingers digging in. "So responsive, taking everything I give you."
He works your clit with firm sucks and flicks, building that pressure again until you're grinding against his face, his chin glistening with the mess. Your release hits hard, pussy clenching as you flood his mouth, and he drinks it down, not stopping until you're shuddering, oversensitive and boneless.
Rising up, Steve wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on yours, dark with desire. His cock is fully hard again, super soldier stamina kicking in, thick and veined, ready for more. He pulls you forward by the hair once more, gentler this time but still firm, guiding you to lie back on the island. The marble chills your spine, but his body heat warms you as he steps between your legs, rubbing the head of his cock through your slickness.
"Open up," he says softly, and when you part your lips, he spits into your mouth, the warm glob landing on your tongue. You swallow eagerly, the act making you feel claimed, dirty in the best way. He thrusts in then, bare and deep, filling you completely in one go. You cry out, walls stretching around him, still sensitive from before. He sets a steady pace, hips rolling to hit deep, the island rocking slightly under the force.
His hand moves to your face, thumb pressing against your tongue as he fucks you, pushing it down to make you drool. Saliva spills from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin onto your chest, mixing with the sweat beading on your skin. You suck on his thumb messily, eyes watering, loving the way he controls even this, his thrusts growing harder, more insistent.
"Fuck, angel, I love losing control with you," he growls, voice rough and sexy, laced with raw need as he pounds into you, the slap of his balls against your ass loud and obscene. "You make me want to ruin you, take you apart until you're begging. No holding back, just us." As Captain America, he’d spent so long being the perfect soldier, always in control. But here, with her, letting go like this... it's freeing. Finally free to just feel, to fuck without the weight of the world. The thought races through his mind, fueling his rhythm, making him drive deeper.
You clench around him, the words and his thumb pushing you toward the edge again, drool slicking your lips as you moan around it. He spanks your thigh lightly, the sting adding to the chaos, before pulling out just enough to flip you over, but he pauses, breath ragged, cock twitching against your entrance. "Not yet," he whispers, nuzzling your ear. "Think you can handle the shower next? I want to bend you over under the water, make you scream my name again." His hand strokes your side possessively, setting the stage for more, his stamina far from spent.
Steve scoops you up from the kitchen island, your body limp and buzzing from the aftershocks, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. “Love you Stevie.” You smile lazily.
His cock, still buried halfway inside you from the last thrust, slides out with a wet pop, more of his cum leaking down your inner thighs to mix with the slickness there. “Love you more Angel.” he kisses your forehead. He doesn't bother cleaning up, just carries you through the apartment, the trail of mess smearing against his abs as he walks. The shower in his bathroom is spacious, all sleek tiles and rain-head fixture, and he kicks the door open, turning he turns the shower on before setting you down gently under the spray.
Hot water cascades over both of you the moment he twists the knob, steam rising fast as it soaks his skin and yours. The lace bra clings transparently now, nipples pebbled and visible through the wet fabric, but Steve doesn't remove it yet, his hands roaming your curves instead. “Bend over for me, angel,” he commands softly, voice cutting through the rush of water, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades to guide you forward. You brace your palms on the tiled wall, ass arching back toward him, the position exposing everything, your pussy still swollen and dripping his release.
He steps up behind you, broad chest flush against your back, the heat of him overwhelming even in the steam. Water streams down his face as he gathers your hair in a fist, pulling your head back just enough to expose your neck. The tug makes you gasp, a fresh wave of arousal pooling between your legs. “Good girl,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear before he nips at the lobe. His free hand slides down your side, over your hip, to spread your cheeks, thumb circling your entrance teasingly. “So full of me already, but I need to fuck you again. Can't get enough.”
Without warning, he spits down onto your pussy from above, the warm saliva mixing with the water and his lingering cum, making everything slicker. You moan, pushing back, and he lines up his cock, thick and throbbing, pressing the head against your hole. He thrusts in slow at first, letting you feel every inch stretching you open, the water making the slide obscene and easy. Once buried to the hilt, he groans low, hips snapping forward in a building rhythm, the slap of wet skin louder than the shower.
His grip tightens in your hair, pulling harder to arch your back further, forcing you to take him deeper. Each pull sends sparks of pleasure-pain down your spine, and you love it, crying out his name as he pounds into you. Water splashes everywhere, rivulets running down your body, over your breasts, dripping from your chin. Steve reaches around with his other hand, fingers finding your clit to rub firm circles, the pressure making your knees buckle. He holds you steady, body caging yours, dominating every movement.
“Open,” he says roughly, and when you turn your head as much as the hair pull allows, he leans in, spitting directly into your waiting mouth. You swallow it down, the filthy act combined with his cock hitting that spot inside you making your walls flutter. Drool escapes your lips from the intensity, mixing with the water streaming over your face, and he chuckles darkly, thumb pushing into your mouth now to hook against your cheek, stretching it as he fucks you harder. “Look at you, drooling for me like a needy little thing. My perfect angel.”
The words send you spiraling, and you bite down on his thumb lightly, not hard enough to hurt but enough to mark, drawing a hiss from him that turns into a growl of approval. He spanks your ass then, the wet smack echoing, skin blooming red under his palm before the water washes it away. Another spank follows, lighter but stinging just right, and you clench around him, so close. His hand leaves your hair to wrap around your throat from behind, applying that controlled pressure, making your vision spotty with pleasure as oxygen dips.
He chokes you gently while thrusting relentlessly, cock dragging against your G-spot with every plunge, the mess of cum and water squelching around him. “Cum for me again,” he demands, voice strained, his own release building. You do, shattering with a scream that bounces off the tiles, pussy milking him as waves crash over you. Steve follows seconds later, burying deep and flooding you with hot spurts, his groan muffled against your shoulder as he bites down there, marking you back.
He doesn't pull out right away, staying connected as the water rinses some of the evidence away, but not all, his cum starting to leak out around his softening length. Releasing your throat, he turns you slowly in his arms, kissing you deeply under the spray, tongues tangling in a softer but still hungry makeout. “You're incredible,” he whispers against your lips, hands cupping your face. “But I'm not done. Bedroom next? I want you on top, riding me until we both can't move.” His eyes gleam with that endless stamina, promising more rounds in the night ahead.
I’m going to pretend that I’m not going feral for Grimm after starting to rewatch it, and that I’m definitely not slightly distressed by the lack of active fandom this show has.
PSA: if you're watching the new Knives Out mystery (Wake Up Dead Man), please be aware that around 1 hr 34 minutes in, there's a series of flashing/strobing lights. the sequence lasts about a minute.
