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Mike Driver
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
No title available
macklin celebrini has autism
One Nice Bug Per Day
Claire Keane
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Game of Thrones Daily
tannertan36
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
occasionally subtle
Sweet Seals For You, Always
Product Placement
titsay
The Stonewall Inn
izzy's playlists!
noise dept.
pixel skylines
Andulka
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from Ukraine
seen from Vietnam
seen from Russia
seen from Norway
seen from Türkiye
seen from Venezuela
seen from Norway
@erieann19
the lighting is quite shit so I decided to brighten it a bit... and....
OMG THAT'S STEVE. BRO. OH MY GOD, THAT'S STEVE. THAT'S SOME LONG FUCKING HAIR THAT STEVE HAS. OH MY GOD, THAT'S STEVE ROGERS. STANDING IN FRONT OF SAM AND BUCKY. AFTER HE LEFT THEM. AFTER HE LEFT BUCKY. OH MY GOD.
Zutara Month 2021: A Farewell Kiss of Longing and Good Luck
In case Tumblr can’t play the video, here’s the Vimeo Link
Happy Zutara Month! (It’s funny, I was overwhelmed at the idea of Zutara month… like 30 different drawings?! No way… * proceeds to do over 100 panels for an animatic * @-@ )
And for more Zutara month fun, check out @ifyouwereamelodymeg’s Zutara EP Where the Water Flows (updated post with information about saving to spotify here) which I made art for along with @favlie and @doodleladi.
A big thank you to my friend @fictionissocialinquiry for help with the story!
This animatic came to me in a hazy naptime dream a month or so ago, but I finally had time to sit down and finish it recently. I just had a vision of Zuko and Katara in the Southern Water Tribe with Zuko about to head out on a hunting trip with Sokka and Hakoda (a la stories like the-badger-mole’s Traditional Series ), and then Katara sends him off with a giant, warm fur and a goodbye kiss. Ultimately, I wanted an excuse to do some cute domestic SWT Zutara fluff and kissing. God, I want to work on an animated romance show so bad (even though drawing kisses is so flipping hard help). ToT On one hand I wish I had it in me to do more grand animatics, but really, I like making calm fluffy things and I’m alright with that.
Music:
The Journey to the West - Princess Mononoke (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)
No monetary gains are made from these animatics. I make these for free and fun, and I want to keep it that way. They are purely fanart.
PLEASE DO NOT REPOST.
More rants and ramblings below the line
Keep reading
Oh yeah and here’s the drawing from the end. I gave up halfway through. I don’t think I have the patience for coloring/digital painting ToT but here it is, Zuko cooking a meal for Katara after the hunt n.n
Good Guy (Masterlist)
Series Summary: Steve Rogers is good at being good. In public, he is calm, kind, untouchable - the man everyone trusts, the hero everyone believes in. To you, he is something else entirely: the man who comes to your apartment when the world becomes too heavy, sleeps in your bed like he belongs there, and still calls you his friend when anyone else is watching.
Series Warnings: angst, no happy ending, toxic situationship, emotional unavailability, emotional manipulation, undefined relationship, fwb dynamics, public denial of private intimacy, Reader being used as emotional support, gaslighting-adjacent behavior, miscommunication, public confrontation, hurt no comfort, Reader has anger issues/explosive reactions, Steve is OOC, Steve is not portrayed as a good partner, emotional heartbreak, implied sexual relationship (not explicit), power imbalance in emotional investment, no use of y/n, inspired by good guy from against the current
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader
UPDATED: (coming at the end of July)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Carry You Home (Masterlist)
Series Summary: After Bucky cheats on you, you leave the Tower shattered, humiliated, and convinced that love has only ever made you smaller. Steve comes back from a mission to find you gone - and when he learns the truth, his loyalty is tested in ways he never expected.
Series Warnings: tower fic, alternative mcu, slow burn, healing arc, hurt comfort, emotional hurt comfort, angst with comfort, infidelity angst, second chance at love, cheating / infidelity, emotional betrayal, toxic ex relationship, Bucky Barnes is OOC, forced kiss, non con elements (very light), boundary violation, sexual assault implications, emotional manipulation, jealousy and possessiveness, panic attacks / panic response, vomiting due to distress, STI scare / medical testing mention, violence / physical fight, blood mention, breakup grief, trauma recovery, found family, protective steve rogers, soft steve rogers, toxic bucky barnes, self-worth issues, mentions of emotionally abusive family dynamics, reader has a difficult childhood, happy ending, MDNI, some chapters will have smut or explicit intimacy
Important note about Bucky: Bucky is very OOC in this fic. I want to be very clear about that from the start: I know he is OOC, I know canon Bucky would not act like this, and I am not presenting this as my interpretation of canon Bucky Barnes.
This story uses him in a deliberately darker, more toxic role for the sake of the angst, conflict, and Reader’s healing arc. So please, before sending me an ask or leaving a comment to tell me that Bucky would never behave this way: I know. That is what this warning is for.
I will not be replying to complaints about Bucky being written OOC. You have been warned, and if this version of him is not something you want to read, please feel free to skip this fic.
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female reader
UPDATED: 07.16.2026 || COMPLETED
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11
Part 12
Part 13
Part 14
Part 15
Part 16 (final)
I really miss those old avengers tower fics
1. Clint in the vents
2. Bruce and Tony in the lab... science bros
3. Cap being accused and called out by his team ... either it's the "language" or "I understood that reference"
4. Loki for some reason being imprisoned in the tower by Odin to learn humanity blah blah
5. Thor and his poptarts
6. Natasha and wanda being the bestie
7. Reader either dating Loki or Bucky
8. Fury calling out reader initially as a threat as they were an orphan who was a lineage of witches type of trope. OR reader is Tony's kid.
9. Bucky randomly becoming besties with Sam and them having their own fights.
10. Peter and Shuri becoming besties with reader
11. Maria, pepper, wanda, Natasha and reader having sleepovers.
12. Tony having a party every time after a mission. Everyone ends up trying to lift thor's hammer and reader turns out to be worthy.
13. Loki teaching reader how to use magic.
And the list goes on....
HOLLLYYYYYY HELLL I miss these kind of fics, it was peak Wattpad, nothing can top staying up until sunrise just to read 😭🙏
WONDER WOMAN // The Feminum Mystique: Part 2 (1976)
True back then, still true today.
Carry You Home (#16)
Series Summary: After Bucky cheats on you, you leave the Tower shattered, humiliated, and convinced that love has only ever made you smaller. Steve comes back from a mission to find you gone - and when he learns the truth, his loyalty is tested in ways he never expected.
Wordcount: 8.7k
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of y/n)
Warnings: tower fic, alternative mcu, slow burn, healing arc, hurt comfort, emotional hurt comfort, angst with comfort, infidelity angst, second chance at love, cheating / infidelity, emotional betrayal, toxic ex relationship, Bucky Barnes is OOC, forced kiss, non con elements (very light), boundary violation, sexual assault implications, emotional manipulation, jealousy and possessiveness, panic attacks / panic response, vomiting due to distress, STI scare / medical testing mention, violence / physical fight, blood mention, breakup grief, trauma recovery, found family, protective steve rogers, soft steve rogers, toxic bucky barnes, self-worth issues, mentions of emotionally abusive family dynamics, reader has a difficult childhood, happy ending, MDNI, some chapters will have smut or explicit intimacy
A/N: Beta read as always by Cassie. This is the end. Now might be a good time to tell you the title comes from Carry You Home by Alex Warren, and I think you'll see it in this final chapter
Masterlist - Series Masterlist - Prev
Two days later, you knocked on Steve’s door.
He opened it already expecting to see you, because FRIDAY had announced your return from the short mission with Clint less than ten minutes ago, and Steve had been trying very hard not to look like a man waiting for footsteps in the corridor.
He failed.
You were still in mission clothes when he opened the door. Dark tactical pants, jacket half unzipped, hair tied back but loosening around your face, a small scrape near your temple that immediately made his eyes narrow.
You saw the look before he said anything.
“It’s nothing.”
Steve did not believe you on principle.
Still, before he could inspect it properly, you stepped closer, and he forgot whatever cautious sentence he had prepared because kissing you had become its own reflex by now.
He bent and kissed you.
Not long. Not hungry. Just immediate. Warm. Relief shaped into contact.
When he pulled back, your eyes were slightly wider, mouth parted in surprise.
“Hi,” you said.
Steve smiled faintly. “Hi.”
You stared at him for another second as if the kiss had knocked loose whatever efficient plan you had arrived with.
Then you seemed to remember yourself.
“I need you to pack a bag for a few days.”
Steve blinked.
That was not what he had expected.
“A bag?”
“Yes.”
“For a few days?”
“Yes.”
He studied your face more carefully then.
You were trying to look casual.
You were terrible at it.
Well– no. That was not true. You were excellent at looking casual when you wanted to lie to enemies, suspects, colleagues, federal officials, and probably gods. But with him, lately, your casualness had tells. Your mouth pressed together a fraction too tightly. Your fingers tapped once against your thigh and stopped when you realized they were doing it. Your eyes held his for just long enough to prove you were not avoiding him, then drifted away before he could ask the right question.
“Now?” he asked.
You pinched your lips together.
Then nodded.
“Now.”
Steve looked over your shoulder into the corridor.
No emergency alarms. No Sam running toward them. No Natasha appearing with a folder and a weapon. No Fury materializing out of shadow to ruin the afternoon.
Just you.
Standing at his door, asking him to pack.
“All right,” he said.
Your eyes came back to his immediately, like you had expected more resistance.
Steve stepped aside. “Come in.”
You did.
He noticed then that you already had a bag with you, resting just outside his door near the wall. Not your full mission pack. Something else. A duffel. Civilian. Packed before you came to him.
So this had been planned.
Interesting.
Steve did not ask yet.
He crossed to his closet and pulled out his own bag. You stayed near the door for a few moments, watching him with an expression he could not quite place. Nerves, maybe. Anticipation. A little mischief layered over something heavier.
He packed practically at first.
Two shirts. Then three, because a few days from you could mean anything between forty-eight hours and “surprise, Rogers, we live in a cabin now”. Jeans. Sweater. Socks. Underwear. Toothbrush. Razor. Charger. A book from his nightstand because he had learned, over the last few weeks, that waiting with you often happened in places where he needed something to do with his hands.
You moved farther into the room and sat on the edge of his bed.
“You’re very methodical.”
“I was asked to pack for an unknown destination.”
“Maybe it’s somewhere tropical.”
Steve glanced at your boots. “It’s not.”
“Could be.”
“You would’ve told me to pack swimwear just to watch me react.”
You smiled. “Fair.”
He added another sweater.
You watched him do it.
For once, you did not tease.
That told him the trip mattered.
He zipped the bag and turned toward you. “Where are we going?”
You stood.
Your expression shifted into something deliberately innocent.
“Surprise?”
Steve narrowed his eyes.
You said it like a question, which meant you knew perfectly well that he was not going to love being deprived of information and were hoping charm would do what explanation did not.
Unfortunately for him, it worked.
Mostly because the uncertainty in your eyes was real beneath the charm.
He softened. “Is this a good surprise?”
You breathed out. “I hope so.”
That answer changed the whole room.
Steve picked up his bag.
“Okay.”
You stared at him. “Just okay?”
“Just okay.”
“You’re not going to interrogate me?”
“I’m considering it.”
“And?”
“And I trust you.”
The words landed gently, but he saw them land.
Your face softened first, then almost closed around the feeling, as if you did not want to make too much of it in case it became too large to carry.
“Dangerous habit,” you murmured.
“No,” Steve said. “Not with you.”
You looked at him then.
For half a second, he thought you might kiss him.
Instead, you turned toward the door.
“Come on, then. Before I lose my nerve.”
Steve followed.
Clint was waiting near the elevators.
That made Steve stop.
Clint leaned against the wall with a paper coffee cup in hand, looking far too pleased with himself for someone fresh off a mission. His eyes flicked from your duffel to Steve’s bag, then to Steve’s face.
“Nice knowing you, Cap.”
Steve looked at you.
You did not look at Steve.
Instead, you glared at Clint.
“Barton.”
Clint lifted both hands, coffee included. “What? I said nothing.”
“You said enough.”
“I said a normal farewell between coworkers.”
“You absolutely did not.”
Steve looked between you both. “Should I be concerned?”
Clint sipped his coffee. “No.”
You said, “No,” half a second later, but with significantly more threat attached.
Clint smiled. “Have fun.”
You pointed at him. “Do not.”
“I didn’t.”
“You were about to.”
“I was thinking it privately.”
“You don’t think privately, Clint. Your face leaks.”
Steve was starting to enjoy himself.
Clint grinned at him. “She planned the whole thing in the quinjet.”
Your glare deepened.
Steve looked at you.
“You did?”
You pressed the elevator button with unnecessary force. “He’s exaggerating.”
“I am not,” Clint said. “She spent half the flight checking routes and muttering about weather.”
Steve’s brows lifted.
Weather.
Routes.
A few days.
You stepped into the elevator when it opened and pulled Steve in by the sleeve before Clint could continue.
Clint’s voice followed cheerfully through the closing doors.
“Send pictures!”
You closed your eyes.
Steve laughed softly.
You pointed one finger at him without opening them. “Do not encourage him.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You laughed.”
“Quietly.”
“I heard it.”
The elevator began to descend.
Steve studied you in the mirrored wall. Your reflection looked determined now, but the tension was still there under your jaw.
“You really won’t tell me?”
You opened your eyes.
For a second, you looked at him through the reflection instead of directly.
“I want to show you.”
That answered more than the question.
Steve nodded.
“Then show me.”
You drove.
That was the first sign this was serious.
You had arranged one of Stark’s less noticeable cars, dark and comfortable, with enough trunk space for both bags and none of the theatrical features Tony considered essential to “fun.” Steve put the bags in back, then rounded toward the driver’s side out of habit.
You held out a hand.
“Keys.”
He paused. “You’re driving?”
“Yes.”
“You just got back from a mission.”
“It was a short mission.”
“You were shot at.”
“Barely.”
“That’s not an answer normal people use.”
You wiggled your fingers. “Keys, Rogers.”
He gave them to you.
Not because he enjoyed surrendering the wheel, but because this was clearly part of whatever you had decided, and he was beginning to understand that the trip itself mattered to you as much as the destination.
He got in on the passenger side.
You looked smug about it.
“Comfortable?”
“This feels unnatural.”
“Good. Growth.”
Steve gave you a look.
You smiled and pulled out of the garage.
For the first half hour, you said almost nothing about where you were going. You drove north through the city, merging into traffic with the kind of calm aggression Steve associated with people who had learned to drive professionally and had never fully stopped treating roads like tactical spaces. He watched the skyline shift behind them, watched your hands on the wheel, watched the mission fatigue slowly drain from your shoulders as the Tower disappeared from the rearview mirror.
That, he realized, might have been part of the point too.
Getting out.
Not because you were running this time.
Because you could leave and come back by choice.
The difference mattered.
Steve did not ask again.
Instead, he let conversation find its own shape.
At first it was practical. Traffic. The weather Clint had apparently mocked you for checking. Whether they would stop for food. Whether Steve had packed enough sweaters, because you had refused to tell him the climate but still looked personally offended by the possibility that he had underpacked.
Then it became easier.
You told him Clint had spent the mission making bird jokes at his own expense because the target had used a decoy system involving actual pigeons.
Steve stared. “Actual pigeons?”
“Dozens.”
“Why?”
“I still don’t know.”
“Did it work?”
You glanced at him. “Embarrassingly, yes.”
Steve laughed.
You smiled at the road.
That smile stayed with him for miles.
Outside the windows, the city loosened into suburbs, then into stretches of highway where the sky opened wider. Traffic thinned. The car settled into a steady rhythm. Steve watched signs pass: Connecticut, then exits he recognized less by modern numbering and more by the shape of the route. You had music playing low – not something recent, unsurprisingly. Julie London appeared once, then Nina Simone, then Etta James, then something instrumental and smoky enough to match the late afternoon light.
Steve watched your profile while you drove.
You looked focused, but not closed off.
Every now and then, your mouth moved faintly with a lyric.
He liked that.
He liked too many things.
Somewhere around the second hour, you stopped at a gas station and bought coffee, water, and a bag of banana chips you claimed were “for emotional continuity.”
Steve paid for the gas because you could not stop him from the passenger side.
You called him insufferable.
He said thank you.
The road continued.
After three hours, Steve began to understand.
It happened slowly, then all at once.
The highway signs had been telling him for a while, but he had resisted conclusion because the idea seemed too significant to assume. North. Then farther north. Past the routes that would have made sense for a casual weekend. Past the point where Boston could have been the obvious answer.
Then you passed a sign for Maine.
Steve looked at it.
Then at you.
You kept your eyes on the road, but the corner of your mouth tightened as if you knew the exact moment he had started putting it together.
He looked out the windshield again.
The sky had shifted into late-day blue-grey, clouds gathering in soft bands. Trees thickened along the road, darker and denser than before. The air seemed different even through the car windows, or maybe memory had started lending itself to the landscape before he had permission to name it.
Steve said nothing for another five minutes.
Then, quietly, “Acadia?”
Your hands tightened on the wheel.
There it was.
Not confirmation in words.
Confirmation in the breath you took before answering.
“Yeah.”
Steve sat back.
For a moment, he did not know what to say.
Acadia.
Your refuge. The woods you had fled to as a kid when your stepmother’s criticism became too much and your father’s silence hurt worse. The place you had told him about the day after leaving the Tower, when you asked for forest because the forest had never scared you.
You were taking him there.
Not to a generic cabin. Not to a hotel with room service. Not to some anonymous weekend escape designed to forget everything.
There.
A place from before.
A place that had kept you once.
Steve looked at you more carefully.
Your expression had gone fixed, eyes on the road, jaw set. For all your earlier teasing, you were nervous now. Really nervous. He could see it in the stillness, the way you waited for his reaction without asking for it.
His voice softened.
“You’re taking me to Acadia.”
You nodded once.
“I booked a small place near Bar Harbor,” you said. “Nothing fancy. Just quiet. Near enough to the park.” A pause. “I thought… we could stay a few days.”
Steve let the silence hold for a second.
Not because he wanted to make you wait.
Because if he answered too quickly, he might not get the right words.
“You said the forest was a refuge.”
Your throat moved.
“Yes.”
“And you want to bring me.”
Your eyes flicked to him for half a second before returning to the road.
“I wanted to see what it felt like,” you said.
Steve waited.
You exhaled, frustrated perhaps by your own imprecision.
“I haven’t been there in years. Not really. Not in the way that mattered.” Your fingers shifted on the wheel. “And after everything, I kept thinking about it. About the woods. About how I used to go there when I couldn’t stand being in that house anymore. It sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t.”
You gave him a brief look that said you appreciated the interruption but were not finished.
“I wanted to go back,” you said. “But not alone.”
Steve’s chest tightened.
“And not with someone who would make it about fixing me or conquering some childhood trauma pilgrimage or whatever bullshit phrasing a therapist would probably use.”
His mouth twitched.
You saw it and went on, softer now.
“I wanted to go with you.”
That left him quiet.
The car hummed beneath them. Road noise. Music low. Trees blurring dark at the edges of the highway.
Steve reached across the console and placed his hand palm up near your thigh, not touching the wheel, not interfering.
You glanced down.
Then put one hand in his for a few seconds before returning it to the wheel.
That was enough.
“I’m honored,” he said.
Your breath hitched in the smallest way.
“You don’t have to make it sound so serious.”
“It is serious.”
You huffed faintly. “There’s hiking. And probably lobster rolls. It doesn’t have to be a sacred quest.”
“It can be both.”
You rolled your eyes, but he saw the emotion you were trying to hide.
“Painfully decent,” you muttered.
Steve smiled. “You keep saying that.”
“You keep being that.”
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Steve watched the road ahead and let the knowledge settle.
Acadia.
Not just a trip. Not just a surprise.
An invitation.
A trust.
You were not only bringing him somewhere beautiful. You were bringing him somewhere that had existed long before him, before the Tower, before Bucky, before SHIELD, before all the ways your life had sharpened around survival. You were showing him a place that belonged to the child you had been, the girl who had run into the trees because home did not feel safe enough and the woods, strangely, did.
Steve thought of his sketchbooks.
Of how it had felt to let you see the pages where his private attention had lived for years.
This was your version, maybe.
Not paper.
A landscape.
He turned his head toward you.
“Thank you for taking me.”
You swallowed, eyes on the road.
“Wait until you’ve seen the motel before thanking me.”
“Cabin?”
“Technically cottage.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Probably price.”
Steve laughed softly.
The tension in your shoulders eased by one degree.
Good.
He could work with one degree.
The sun began to sink as you continued north. You stopped once more for food, nothing elaborate – sandwiches from a roadside place, coffee that tasted burned enough to make Steve privately happy and you publicly horrified. You insisted on driving still. Steve argued once. You ignored him with such clean efficiency that he gave up and settled in as navigator.
Not that you needed one.
You had planned the route. You knew it.
Of course you did.
As the road narrowed and the traffic thinned further, you started telling him pieces of memory in small, careful offerings.
Not all at once.
Never that.
Just fragments.
A bend in a road that reminded you of a place where your father once stopped for gas and bought you terrible hot chocolate. A summer when the blackflies had been unbearable. A trail you were not supposed to take alone but did anyway. A rock near the shore where you used to sit with a book and pretend you had no intention of going back until sunset forced the lie.
Steve listened.
He did not turn the stories into questions unless you left a door open.
He learned that some memories could only be shared if he did not chase them too hard.
By the time the signs for Bar Harbor appeared, the sky had gone dark, and the world outside had become mostly silhouettes of trees, scattered warm lights, and glimpses of water where the road curved close enough to the coast.
You slowed as you reached the small cottage you had rented.
It stood off a narrow road, tucked among trees, with a porch light already on and a sloped roof dark against the night. Nothing fancy, exactly as promised. But quiet. Private. The kind of place where the air itself seemed to ask people to lower their voices.
You parked and turned off the engine.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then you let your head fall back against the seat and exhaled.
“We’re here.”
Steve looked at the cottage.
Then at you.
Your face in the dim car light looked nervous again.
He reached for your hand.
This time you gave it to him fully.
“We’re here,” he echoed.
You turned your head toward him. “Still okay with the surprise?”
Steve smiled softly.
“I figured it out three hours in.”
“Yes, very impressive, Captain Observation.”
“You drove past a sign for Maine.”
“Genius-level deduction.”
He squeezed your hand once.
Then, quieter, “Yes. I’m okay with it.”
Your teasing faded.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
You nodded, but still did not move.
Steve understood.
The drive had carried them here. Movement had made the decision easier. Now the place itself waited outside the car, and stepping into it meant the surprise was no longer theoretical.
So he did what you had done for him at his doorway two days before.
He gave you the simple next thing.
“Let’s get the bags inside.”
You breathed out a small laugh.
“Practical.”
“Usually.”
“Not always.”
He smiled. “No. Not always.”
You got out of the car.
The air smelled like salt, pine, damp earth, and cold stone.
You stood beside the driver’s door for a moment, breathing it in.
Steve watched you.
Your face changed in the dark.
Not dramatically. Not like a wound opening. More like recognition. Like some part of you had been waiting for this air, this smell, this particular kind of quiet.
He came around the car with both bags.
You looked at him. “I can carry mine.”
“I know.”
“Steve.”
He handed you the smaller one immediately.
You looked pleased that he listened.
Together, you walked toward the cottage.
The porch boards creaked under your feet. You unlocked the door with the code you had been sent and pushed it open into warm lamplight. The cottage was small. Wood floors, simple couch, tiny kitchen, one bedroom visible through an open doorway, a stack of folded blankets near the fireplace.
Steve saw your eyes go to the one bedroom.
Then to him.
He said nothing.
You lifted a brow. “Problem?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He set his bag down.
You stepped inside fully, closed the door behind you, and stood in the center of the room.
The quiet here was different from the Tower.
Different from the safehouse.
It did not feel borrowed from crisis.
It felt chosen.
Steve moved closer, slowly, until he stood beside you.
You looked around the cottage, then toward the dark window where nothing was visible except the reflection of both of you standing there.
“I used to think I’d come back here when I had my life figured out,” you said.
Steve turned toward you.
Your mouth curved faintly, not quite sad.
“Turns out I got impatient.”
He smiled.
“I’m glad.”
You looked at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
For a moment, you only watched him.
Then you stepped closer and slipped both arms around his waist, resting your face against his chest. Steve wrapped you up immediately, one hand coming to the back of your head, the other settling at your spine.
Outside, the trees moved softly in the dark.
Inside, you breathed against him.
“You’re the first person I’ve ever brought here,” you murmured.
Steve’s eyes closed.
The sentence landed deeper than he expected.
He pressed his mouth to your hair.
“Thank you,” he said again.
This time, you did not argue that it sounded too serious.
You only held him tighter.
Dinner in the cottage was simple.
Not because either of you had planned it that way exactly, but because after the mission, the drive, and the emotional weight of arriving in a place that mattered, neither of you had the energy for anything elaborate. You rummaged through the groceries you had picked up on the way and declared, with great seriousness, that pasta, jarred sauce, bread, and a bagged salad counted as “rustic domestic excellence.”
Steve had looked at the jar of sauce in your hand.
“That’s what we’re calling it?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“You’re not allowed to judge. You were eating army rations before most of the country had microwaves.”
“That doesn’t mean I’ve lost my standards.”
“You are currently dating me, so clearly your standards are excellent.”
Steve had smiled at that, helplessly and fully.
He had been doing that a lot lately.
The kitchen was tiny, but warm. The old wooden floor creaked beneath your feet. The window over the sink reflected the two of you back at yourselves: you with your hair messier than it had been when you arrived, sleeves pushed up, one hip leaned against the counter; Steve standing beside the stove, stirring pasta like it was a mission requiring full tactical attention.
You teased him for checking the noodles three times.
He told you he was making sure they didn’t overcook.
You said, “That’s very noble of you, Captain Al Dente.”
He nearly dropped the spoon.
Dinner was eaten at the small table near the window with the porch light glowing outside and the darkness of the trees pressed close beyond it. You sat with one leg tucked under you, socked foot barely visible beneath the table, and told him more little fragments of Acadia – not big memories, not the painful ones first, but small ones.
The ice cream place that used to have blueberry soft serve.
The trail where you had once tripped over a root and blamed the entire forest for attacking you.
The cove where tourists always gathered at the wrong time of day and missed the best light.
The way the air smelled different before rain.
Steve listened to every word.
He could feel how careful you were being, even when you sounded casual. You were not giving him the whole of the place yet. You were handing him stones from the path one at a time, watching to see how he held them.
So he held them gently.
After dinner, Steve started clearing the plates, but you caught his hand before he could take yours.
“Leave it.”
He looked down at the dishes. “We should clean up.”
“We will.”
“That usually means now.”
“That means later.” Your fingers slid between his. “Come with me.”
Steve looked at you properly then.
The tiredness from the mission still sat faintly under your eyes, but something else had woken in you since arriving. Anticipation, maybe. Not nervous like before. Softer. Brighter. Like the cottage had only been the first door and now you were ready to show him the second.
“All right,” he said.
You smiled.
Before leaving, you grabbed a folded blanket from the back of the couch and tucked it under your arm.
Steve glanced at it. “Prepared?”
“Always.”
“That’s comforting and alarming.”
“As it should be.”
The night air hit cool and clean when you opened the door.
Steve stepped out behind you, and for a moment all he could do was breathe.
Salt. Pine. Damp earth. The faint mineral smell of stone after dark. It was nothing like New York, nothing like the Tower, nothing like the safehouse or the garage or the training room. The quiet here had depth. It was not empty. It was full of trees shifting in the dark, insects hidden in grass, distant water, and wind moving somewhere higher than sight.
You led him toward the edge of the forest.
Not far. Just beyond the cottage lights, where the grass gave way to shadow and the first line of trees stood tall enough to frame the sky. There was a small clearing there, uneven but dry, and you shook out the blanket with a practiced motion before spreading it on the ground.
Steve helped with the corners.
You sat first, then lay back without ceremony, one arm immediately going behind your head.
“Come on,” you said.
Steve lowered himself beside you.
The blanket was thin enough that he could feel the ground beneath it. Cool earth. Small ridges. The slight slope of the clearing. You shifted closer without making a comment about it, your shoulder brushing his arm as both of you looked up.
The sky opened above you.
Steve forgot, for a second, that he was supposed to say anything.
There were so many stars.
Not the faint scattered points visible from the city if one was lucky. Not the decorative glow-in-the-dark stickers on your ceiling that he had already grown absurdly fond of. This was sky as it was meant to be seen: endless, dark, alive with light. Stars crowded the black in layers, some sharp, some soft, some barely there until his eyes adjusted and then suddenly everywhere.
You were quiet beside him.
He wondered if you were watching his reaction.
Then your hand found his.
He turned his palm up, and your fingers laced through his without either of you looking away from the sky.
“There,” you said after a while.
You lifted your free hand and pointed.
Steve followed the line of your finger.
“At first it just looks like a mess,” you murmured. “But if you know where to start…”
Your finger shifted slowly, drawing an invisible shape from star to star.
“Sagittarius.”
Steve smiled before he could stop himself.
“Your constellation.”
“Mm-hmm.”
He glanced toward you.
The starlight was soft over your face, enough to sketch the line of your profile, the curve of your mouth, the faint reflection in your eyes. You looked younger here somehow, and older too. As though the girl who had once fled into these woods and the woman lying beside him now had met somewhere under this sky and agreed, for tonight, to rest.
You kept pointing out the stars, explaining the shape in a voice that grew more relaxed with every sentence.
“This is why the stickers on my ceiling look weird if you don’t know what they are,” you said. “Because constellations are mostly faith and stubbornness.”
Steve laughed softly. “That sounds like you.”
“Faith and stubbornness?”
“Mostly stubbornness.”
You turned your head to glare at him.
He did not look sorry.
You looked back at the sky, but your mouth was smiling.
For a while, you talked in low voices. About constellations. About how people made stories out of distance because otherwise the sky was too much to bear. About how Steve had once navigated with stars during the war and still trusted them more than some modern systems Tony swore by. About whether Tony would be personally offended if told that ancient sailors had managed without Stark satellite overlays.
“He would say they managed inefficiently,” you said.
“He would.”
“And then build a constellation app just to prove a point.”
“He probably already has.”
You laughed.
The sound moved into the night and disappeared between the trees.
Then the conversation thinned.
Not awkwardly.
Comfortably.
You stayed pressed against his side, your head gradually lowering until it rested against his shoulder. Steve kept looking up, though his attention shifted more and more toward the weight of you beside him. Your breathing began to slow. Your fingers in his loosened. Once, you murmured something about the stars being better here than you remembered.
Steve turned his head slightly.
Your eyes were closed.
He smiled.
“You falling asleep?”
“No,” you mumbled.
A minute later, your breathing deepened fully.
Steve stayed still for a while.
He did not want to wake you. He did not want to move at all, really. There was something almost sacred about the moment: you asleep under the stars of the place that had once sheltered you, your hand still tangled loosely with his, your face peaceful in a way he did not see often enough.
He let himself memorize it.
Not as an artist first, though a part of him was already drawing lines in his mind: your profile against the dark, the blanket beneath you, the pale scatter of stars overhead. But as a man who loved you and understood that this, too, was trust.
You had brought him to your refuge.
Then you had fallen asleep beside him in it.
Eventually, though, the air cooled further, and Steve knew staying out there too long would leave you stiff and chilled by morning. He eased his hand free from yours carefully.
You frowned in your sleep.
He smiled again.
“Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s get you inside.”
You made a small protesting sound when he sat up.
Still half asleep, you tried to help and mostly did the opposite, limbs loose with exhaustion from mission and road and too much sky. Steve folded the blanket with one hand as best he could, then crouched in front of you.
“Up,” he murmured.
You blinked at him through sleep. “What?”
“I’m carrying you.”
You made a sound of immediate objection. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Steve.”
“You’re half asleep.”
“I can walk.”
“You can barely insult me.”
That seemed to offend you on principle.
You tried to sit straighter and nearly tipped sideways.
Steve caught you easily.
“See?”
You groaned. “Fine.”
He turned so you could climb onto his back, and after a few clumsy seconds of sleepy cooperation, your arms looped around his shoulders and your legs settled at his sides. He stood with no effort at all, adjusting his grip under your thighs while the blanket hung over one forearm.
You rested your forehead against the back of his neck.
After a few steps, you mumbled, “I’m too heavy.”
Steve’s heart hurt.
Not because the statement was serious. You were half asleep and boneless against him, words softened by exhaustion. But some old reflex lived inside it, some echo of criticism you had carried from childhood into adulthood without even meaning to.
He shifted you a little higher on his back.
“No,” he said quietly.
You made a doubtful sound against his shoulder.
“I mean it,” he said.
The path back to the cottage was dark but easy enough for him. The porch light glowed ahead through the trees, a small warm square in the night. Steve walked slowly, not because of your weight, but because he liked the feel of you there. Because every step toward the cottage felt like something he wanted to keep doing, not only tonight but in every possible version of the life ahead.
He spoke softly, not sure how much you would remember.
“I’ll carry you back tonight,” he said. “And if you need it fifty-five years from now, I’ll do it then too.”
Your arms tightened faintly around his shoulders.
Steve looked toward the light waiting ahead.
“I don’t know all the ways this can go,” he continued. “Nobody does. But I don’t want you wondering where I stand.”
The cottage came closer.
Your breath warmed the side of his neck.
“In this life,” he said, voice lower now, “and any other one the universe wants to throw at me, I choose us.”
You went very still against him.
For a moment, Steve thought you had fallen fully asleep and missed the words.
Then your face turned slightly into the curve of his neck.
He felt your lips brush there, barely.
Neither of you said anything else until he reached the porch.
The boards creaked under his feet. He managed the door with one hand, carried you inside, and kicked it shut gently behind him. The cottage was warm compared to the outside, lamp still glowing over the little table, dinner dishes waiting exactly where you had abandoned them.
Steve carried you toward the bedroom.
“You can put me down,” you whispered.
“I know.”
He did not do it until he reached the bed.
Then he lowered you carefully onto the mattress, hands gentle at your waist and back, the blanket from outside folded messily over the chair. You sat there for a second, still drowsy, hair mussed, eyes heavy, looking up at him as though you were not entirely sure where the dream ended and the room began.
Steve crouched in front of you and started untying your shoes.
You watched him.
The quiet stretched.
Then, so softly he almost did not hear it, you said, “Steve.”
He looked up.
Your eyes were open now.
Not fully awake, maybe. But clear.
“Yes?”
You swallowed.
The words seemed to take effort. Not because you did not mean them. Because they were crossing a threshold you had been standing before for days, maybe longer, feeling the shape of them without yet being ready to step through.
“I love you.”
Steve stopped breathing.
The room stilled.
The lamp. The dishes in the other room. The dark window. The trees outside. Everything seemed to draw back and leave only you sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing mission-worn clothes and sleep in your eyes, telling him the thing he had never asked you to say before you were ready.
For a second, he could not move.
Could not speak.
His hand remained around your ankle, your shoe half untied.
You blinked slowly at him, and a tiny, vulnerable crease appeared between your brows.
“Was that bad timing?”
A laugh broke out of him.
Not loud.
Not quite steady.
He dropped his head for a second, overcome so completely that the only thing he could do was breathe through the rush of it.
Then he looked back up at you.
“No,” he said, voice rough. “No. That was perfect.”
Your mouth softened.
He rose onto his knees, moving closer between your legs, and took your face in both hands with the kind of care usually reserved for things holy enough to frighten him.
“I love you,” he said.
He had said it before.
More than once.
But never like this.
Never with the answer finally living in the room between you.
You closed your eyes when he kissed you.
The kiss was gentle at first because the moment deserved gentleness. Then your hands found his wrists, holding him there, and Steve felt the last of his restraint tremble – not from urgency, not from hunger, but from relief so deep it almost became grief.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“You don’t have to say it again,” he whispered. “Not to prove it. Not because I said it. Not–”
“I know,” you murmured.
Your thumbs moved over the backs of his hands.
Then, quieter, with the faintest smile in your voice, “I’m saying it again anyway.”
Steve’s eyes closed.
You kissed the corner of his mouth.
“I love you.”
He exhaled, shaken and smiling and entirely undone.
Outside, the forest held its dark around the cottage.
Inside, Steve stayed there with you on the edge of the bed, your shoes forgotten, the stars still waiting beyond the roof, and the future – uncertain, impossible, chosen – opening quietly in front of him.
During those few days in Acadia, Steve learned that places could hold ghosts without being haunted.
Not all at once.
You did not wake up the first morning and give him some carefully organized tour of your childhood pain. That was not you. Instead, you gave him pieces of it as you moved through the landscape, almost the same way you had given him details of yourself over dinner in New York.
A trail first.
Then a cove.
Then the place where you used to buy blueberry ice cream when you were small.
Then the stretch of woods where you had hidden when your stepmother’s voice got too sharp and your father’s silence hurt worse.
Steve never pushed.
He only walked beside you.
Sometimes you held his hand. Sometimes you needed both hands free, especially on uneven trails, and Steve let you move ahead when you wanted to. He watched your body remember the place before your voice did – how you stepped over roots without looking, how you turned toward certain paths instinctively, how you paused near overlooks as if some younger version of you still stood there with scraped knees and too much anger in her chest.
The forest suited you.
He had thought that before, but Acadia made it clearer. In New York, you were sharp edges and controlled movement, clever eyes and dry words and a spine made of refusal. Here, beneath the pines, near cold stone and ocean wind, something in you spread out. Not softened exactly. You were not less yourself.
You were more.
The first full day, you took him to a trail you claimed was “easy,” which Steve quickly learned meant easy for someone who used to run into the woods out of spite and had apparently never lost the habit. You walked ahead of him for part of it, boots steady on the path, hair moving in the breeze, and every now and then you looked back to make sure he followed.
He always did.
At a rocky overlook, you stopped and pointed down toward the trees.
“I used to sit there,” you said.
Steve followed the line of your finger. “There?”
“Mmh.”
“That’s not a path.”
“It was if you were determined enough.”
He looked at you.
You gave him a small, unapologetic smile.
Of course.
You told him you used to bring books there. Sometimes snacks. Sometimes nothing at all, because you had left the house too angry to plan properly. You told him that the first few times, you had been scared of getting lost, but then the fear had faded into something else. Familiarity, maybe. Control. The woods did not ask you to be prettier, quieter, smaller, easier.
The woods only stood around you and let you breathe.
Steve listened with his shoulder against yours and said, “I’m glad you had this.”
You looked out over the trees.
“Me too.”
There was no dramatic breakdown.
No swelling music.
Just you, swallowing once, then nudging him with your elbow and saying, “Come on. There’s a better view farther up, and I refuse to let Captain America think this is impressive enough.”
He laughed and followed.
The second day, you showed him the shore.
The water was cold and restless, slate-blue beneath a sky full of moving clouds. You stood on the rocks with your jacket zipped up, hands in your pockets, and told him you used to come here when you wanted the world to sound louder than your thoughts.
Steve understood that immediately.
The waves struck the rocks hard enough to turn white. Wind pulled at your hair. Salt gathered on his lips. You looked at the ocean for a long time without speaking, and Steve did not interrupt. He stood close, not touching at first, until your hand emerged from your pocket and found his.
Then he held it.
Later, you bought lobster rolls from a place you said had “survived both tourism and my teenage judgment,” and Steve watched you eat with the focused satisfaction of someone rediscovering an old favorite and trying not to admit how much it mattered.
“This is good,” he said.
You gave him a look. “Good?”
“Very good.”
“Better.”
“Excellent.”
“Now you’re learning.”
He smiled and stole one of your fries.
You threatened him with legal action.
That night, back at the cottage, you both sat on the porch wrapped in a blanket, drinking tea that had gone lukewarm because neither of you wanted to go inside. You leaned into him slowly, as if the day had finally worn down the last of your resistance to being held, and Steve pressed his mouth to your hair.
“I love you,” he murmured.
You were quiet for a moment.
Then you said, still looking at the dark trees, “I love you too.”
It hit him just as hard the second time.
Maybe harder, because this time you were fully awake.
He did not make a spectacle of it. He only held you tighter, and you let him.
On the last day, you took him to the house.
You almost did not.
Steve saw the decision forming all morning. You ate toast without tasting it. You checked the weather twice. You packed one bag, unpacked it, repacked it, then snapped at the zipper when it caught.
He said nothing.
Finally, near noon, you stood in the middle of the cottage and said, “There’s one more place.”
Steve looked up from where he was tying his boots. “Okay.”
You watched him carefully. “You don’t have to come.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
Your mouth tightened.
Then you nodded.
The house stood on a quiet road, not far enough from beauty to be ugly, not close enough to the park to feel magical. It looked ordinary. That was what struck Steve first. It had pale siding, dark shutters, a porch that needed repainting, and a narrow driveway where weeds pushed through cracks. Someone else owned it now, he assumed. Someone else had curtains in the windows. Someone else parked a car near the garage.
The world had kept using the place after you left.
That seemed cruel in a small, specific way.
You stayed on the sidewalk.
Steve stayed beside you.
For a long time, you did not speak.
Then you said, “My room was that one.”
You pointed to an upstairs window.
Steve looked.
He imagined you there younger, smaller, angrier. A girl behind glass, listening to adults fail her in ordinary ways no court would ever name. He imagined you staring out toward the trees and calculating distance. Escape routes. Time until dinner. Time until dark. How long you could be gone before anyone noticed.
He did not say any of that.
He only said, “Yeah?”
You nodded.
“She hated when I put anything on the walls,” you said. “Said it made the room look messy. So I stuck the stars on the ceiling because she didn’t look up.”
Steve’s chest tightened.
The constellation in your room at the Tower changed shape in his memory. Not just decoration. Not just teenage sentiment.
A rebellion.
A private sky where no one thought to check.
You glanced at him and seemed to read the thought.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to go back in time and fight my stepmother.”
Steve said nothing.
You stared.
“Steve.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t.”
A surprised laugh broke out of you, quick and sharp, and for the first time since arriving on that street, some of the tension left your shoulders.
“She would’ve hated you.”
“Good.”
“She hated polite men most. She thought manners were manipulative.”
Steve looked at the house again. “Sounds like projection.”
You smiled faintly. “Profiler.”
“I have an excellent teacher.”
Your fingers brushed his.
Then took his hand.
You did not cry.
He thought maybe you would. Part of him had prepared for it, not because he expected weakness, but because the place deserved tears if you wanted to give them. But you only stood there and looked at the house as if measuring it against the size it had once been inside your memory.
Finally, you breathed out.
“It’s smaller.”
Steve nodded. “Places usually are.”
“I hate that.”
“I know.”
“I wanted it to look monstrous.”
Steve understood.
If it had looked monstrous, maybe it would have explained more. Maybe it would have seemed worthy of the pain it had caused. Instead it was just a house. Wood, paint, windows, a porch. Terrible things often lived inside ordinary walls and left no mark on the siding.
You squeezed his hand.
“I don’t think I need to come back here again.”
Steve looked at you.
You were still looking at the house, but your face had changed.
Not healed.
Freer.
“Okay,” he said softly.
You turned away first.
He walked with you back to the car.
You did not look over your shoulder.
The drive back to New York began in the morning and stretched into a long ribbon of highway, coffee stops, quiet music, and trees thinning gradually into towns, then cities, then the familiar press of the modern world.
You drove the first hour.
Steve took over after that when you yawned three times in ten minutes and denied each one with increasing hostility.
“I’m fine,” you said.
“You blinked for so long I saw your soul leave your body.”
“That’s medically inaccurate.”
“Switch seats.”
“You’re bossy.”
“You’re exhausted.”
You gave him a look.
He gave you one back.
Five minutes later, he drove.
You fell asleep before the next exit.
Steve glanced over when your head tipped toward the window, then carefully adjusted the temperature in the car so you would not get cold. He lowered the music. Julie London had given way to something instrumental and soft, piano threading through the hum of the road.
For a while, he simply drove.
The landscape moved past in long, muted strips: pine, road signs, grey sky, distant water, towns with names he did not know and gas stations that all looked vaguely alike. Your breathing stayed even. One hand rested loosely in your lap. The other had drifted near the center console, close enough that Steve could have reached for it if you had been awake.
He did not.
He let you sleep.
The last few days replayed themselves quietly in his mind.
Your face beneath the stars.
Your voice saying you loved him for the first time.
The childhood bedroom window.
The house.
The way you had looked when you turned away from it.
He had known he loved you before Acadia. That had not changed. If anything, the trip had only confirmed what already existed, deepened it, given it more rooms to live in.
But something else had happened there too.
A future had begun to feel less like a dangerous fantasy and more like a place he was allowed to imagine.
That scared him.
Not because he doubted you.
Because wanting a future had always been the easiest way for the world to find something to take.
Steve kept his eyes on the road and let the thought arrive anyway.
He wanted to marry you.
Not now.
God, not now.
The knowledge came with that condition immediately, firmly, almost protectively. Not soon. Not as a reaction. Not as a bandage over what Bucky had done. Not as a way to prove that he could offer something better than the ring left in a drawer like a weapon.
Never like that.
He would not let his love become another demand placed on you too early.
But someday.
The word settled warmly and dangerously in his chest.
Someday, when the idea of marriage no longer carried the shadow of another man’s cruelty. Someday, when the word proposal did not recall a velvet box abandoned on folded shirts. Someday, when enough time had passed that asking would feel like a door opening, not a wound being pressed.
He would ask you properly.
Not in the Tower.
Not in a hallway. Not after a fight. Not anywhere that belonged to damage.
France, maybe.
The thought came so clearly that he almost smiled.
France.
You had once told him you wanted to see the Louvre one day. You loved Monet. You had a print in your room and a softness in your face whenever you spoke of water, flowers, light, paint that seemed to dissolve the world into feeling.
Giverny, he thought.
The gardens.
He could picture it with impossible ease for something that had not happened: you walking ahead of him through paths thick with flowers, turning back to say something dry about tourists or pollen or how he looked too serious for a man surrounded by beauty. The water garden nearby, green and reflective. The kind of light Monet had spent a lifetime chasing. You, finally seeing a place you had wanted in a way that belonged to joy and not survival.
Not roses.
Not lilies.
Peonies if he could find them nearby, though maybe that would be too obvious by then. Maybe he would carry no flowers at all because the gardens would already be full of them.
He would wait until you were not expecting it.
Or perhaps you would know. You always knew too much. You might see it in his face before he managed a word and smile that devastating smile of yours as if you had caught him planning happiness.
He would not mind being caught.
The ring would be different too.
He did not know how yet.
Not something chosen out of guilt or panic or the need to secure a future while betraying the present. Something that looked like you. Not too delicate. Not too obvious. Beautiful with teeth, maybe, if jewelry could be such a thing. He smiled at that.
You stirred in the passenger seat.
Steve glanced over immediately.
Your eyes remained closed. You shifted a little, turning more toward him, one cheek against the seat, mouth soft with sleep.
He softened too.
The future in his head quieted, but did not disappear.
It sat there beside him now.
Not urgent.
Not hungry.
Patient.
He could be patient. He had already promised himself that. He loved you enough to wait for every part of you to arrive in its own time. He loved you enough not to turn certainty into pressure.
But he knew.
That was the thing.
He knew.
He knew it in the same steady way he knew north on an old map, the weight of his shield in his hand, the sound of your laugh when you tried not to give him the satisfaction. He knew he wanted mornings with your toothbrush beside his. He wanted your books left open in places they should not be. He wanted bad coffee, mission reports, sketchbooks, arguments about pears, music under low lights, walks through cities, forests, and gardens. He wanted to be the person you came back to and the person you chose to leave with.
He wanted, one day, to ask.
And he wanted you to have all the time in the world before answering.
Your hand shifted in your lap, fingers curling faintly.
This time, Steve did reach over.
Gently, without waking you, he placed his hand near yours on the console.
A few seconds later, still asleep, your fingers found his.
Steve smiled at the road.
Outside, the highway carried you both south, back toward the Tower, back toward the life waiting there with all its complications and ordinary routines and fragile, stubborn peace.
Inside the car, you slept.
Steve drove.
And somewhere far ahead – in France, in a garden full of light, in a future he would not rush – he imagined himself choosing you again.
Not because he had to.
Because in this life, and any other life he could imagine, he would always do.
And that’s the end of Steve’s part of the story.
This fic was never meant to be about Reader simply “getting over” Bucky and moving on to Steve as if heartbreak worked that neatly. It was about the slow, painful, sometimes messy process of surviving betrayal, reclaiming agency, and learning that being loved does not have to feel like being chosen only after being hurt.
Steve’s role in this story was never to “fix” Reader. He was not there to erase what happened, to replace what was lost, or to rush her grief into something easier to digest. He stayed. That was the heart of it. He stayed through the anger, the panic, the ugly crying, the silence, the uncertainty, the moments where healing looked nothing like progress. He loved her without demanding that she be ready at the same pace he was.
And Reader’s journey was just as important to me. She did not choose Steve because Bucky hurt her. She chose herself first. Steve became part of the life she chose after that, not the reason she survived it.
This story dealt with a lot of heavy themes – infidelity, betrayal, trauma responses, boundaries being violated, and the complicated aftermath of loving someone who hurt you. I know it was painful in places, and I’m so grateful to everyone who stayed with it, especially through the slower chapters where the healing was quiet rather than dramatic.
A final reminder that Bucky was intentionally written as very OOC in this fic. I know canon Bucky would not act like this. This was a deliberate choice for the emotional conflict and healing arc of this particular story.
Thank you for reading, commenting, screaming, crying, and trusting the slow burn. Steve Rogers loving someone with patience, gentleness, devotion, and quiet certainty means everything to me, and I hope this ending felt like peace earned the hard way.
Reader and Steve are not perfect. Their future will still have difficult days. But they choose each other, gently and deliberately, and for this story, that is the happy ending.
GENERAL taglist: @mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin | @barewithme02 | @mathcat345 | @overwintering-soldier | @alpinebarnesworld | @alwaysreenie | @iceyyycapsicle | @karlahan
STEVE taglist:@mrsevans90 | @blobfishlol | @phoenix-in-writing | @sassandscribbles | @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog | @pattiemac1 | @fantasyfootballchampion | @theoryxwaller | @thatisamericas-ass | @allthingswickedpodcast | @katarina1224 | @kryptidfiles | @greatenthusiasttidalwave | @vicmc624 | @strangerthing93 | @scarlettbeth | @05-12-05 | @projectcutie | @cap-bot | @peachiestevie | @evilplansandstuff | @kaley0144 | @nicobidd | @i-lie-here-charmed
Carry You Home: @messageforthesmallestman | @venigrantrogers | @drdbnkl2008 | @kneelforloki | @084intheskye | @sativamommy | @itmekelpy | @radiantremnantblaze | @sirensingssmoke | @alwaysclassyeagle
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lullaby
steve rogers x reader, 4.7k
a fic about that thing when you get sleepy around the person you love. WARNINGS/TAGS: reader is a shield agent, reader's gender is unspecified, mentions of canon-typical violence, fluff/soft, the space between friends and something more
Turns out insomnia can be cured, only with very specific ingredients.
One: have Sam Wilson insist on watching Top Gun—again—when it comes his turn for a movie night pick.
This happens every two months or so. You love the man, but he needs to stop trolling at this point. After this rewatch, you’ll probably regurgitate Val Kilmer’s lines while you brush your teeth in the morning.
Wanda rolls her eyes so hard you think they might get stuck like that forever.
“This is the last time, Sam!”
But Sam smiles through the crowd’s boos. Even while the team complains, they take their positions on and around the couch anyway. Yourself included.
Because everyone loves him, and it’s just your fucking luck he loves Top Gun.
Two: find a comfortable surface.
The common room couch? Real nice surface. Of course a government-funded cohabitation facility for their top operatives can afford Egyptian cotton-upholstered furniture.
Three: be extremely tired.
The most recent mission you completed just finished debriefing in the afternoon—a few hours before movie night. It was a track-and-extract of a trafficking ring, except you got assigned the track part, and that was a lot less fun. The stakeouts were long, and the car you sat in had aged leather seats that dampened the already stale air. No air conditioning—can’t risk turning on the engine. No activity around the building you watched, either.
Stretch that out for some days, and naturally, all you wanted upon touchdown was a hot shower and a bed with springs.
Top Gun, a soft couch, and fatigue. Those three variables are enough to force you asleep, but just to be as empirical as possible, you have to list down another.
Four:
Get Steve Rogers to sit next to you.
Technically you didn’t get him to. He sauntered in late, saw the only open spot, and helped himself.
Suspicious, come to think of it. Why did nobody sit next to you? Nat and you would whisper quipped commentaries at each other. Wanda and you are close enough friends to cuddle. Sam would take the opportunity to further grind your gears by manspreading—his hobby is grinding people’s gears.
“Comfy?”
Steve is dressed in gray sweats and a simple t-shirt, its deep blue bringing out his eyes.
He’s the one who looks comfortable, if anything. You’re tempted to thumb at his shirt sleeve and ask about the thread count, but like a normal human being, you nod your yes and watch the opening credits roll.
You can feel his blue eyes on the side of your cheek before he looks at the screen, too.
The moment the movie begins proper, you find yourself muttering the opening line.
“Ghost Rider, this is Strike. We have unknown contact. Inbound Mustang. Your vector zero nine zero for bogey.”
Steve chuckles next to you and the warm sound coaxes your eyes to meet.
What happens next is automatic: seeing him smile makes you do the same.
The movie continues on, but its familiarity begs your attentions to wander. They instead pay dues to the gravity of his forearm, which nearly brushes yours. In the dim, you catch a glimpse of a vein that runs down one side like a river, and file the image away as inappropriate.
That’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. Your boss, good friend, and the entire nation’s moral compass, who keeps a list of the best places to get apple pie. You will direct your gaze with the respect he deserves.
And you do. Except in schooling your vision, your other senses betray you.
He smells good.
That thought feels way more inappropriate than looking at his forearm—which, for the record, you have seen and touched, all in a professional capacity. So you chose to stare at his hand again and hold your brain back from cataloging the scent of his soap, shampoo, or whatever combination of product that has your heart kicking like it wants out of your chest.
Steve Rogers doesn’t cure insomnia. He worsens it—or so you think.
Sleepy is the last thing you are, until the minutes tick by and sleep claims you anyway. You remember yawning while watching the nightclub scene. Iceman wore a pair of aviators indoors.
By the time the flying part of Top Gun rolls around, you don’t get to watch it: you’re knocked out cold.
─ ·✶· ─
When you wake up, cold is the last thing you are. Partly because the common room is designed to bleed with sunlight.
It’s morning, just the top of—yellow rays cut through the windows, no cloud in the sky to block its path.
Your skin feels warm.
It’s really no surprise. Steve Rogers is lying next to you.
How he is lying next to you is a surprise. The man’s broad frame looks cramped on the inside part of the couch, but nothing on his face betrays discomfort. He’s sound asleep, one arm folded under his head, the other slung loosely on your waist—not quite encircling it, just resting. His chest rises and falls slow. You realize this because you have both hands on that exact part of him.
Oh, shit. You’re touching his chest.
It turns out you shifted your palms a little too quickly, because Steve begins to stir. His tendency for alertness quickly revealed blue eyes that blinked once, twice, thrice—before his gaze eventually focuses on you. He doesn’t yawn, perhaps as confused as you are.
“Morning,” you whisper, almost sheepish.
He hums back. “Morning.”
“Uh… What happened?”
It’s quiet for a bit. You’re not sure if his brain has caught up. He’s staring—not the kind of stare you see on the field. Softer. Blue eyes study your face, then the position you’re in, piecing together the scene.
“You fell asleep last night,” he finally says, running his fingers through his hair. They fall across his forehead like the most good-looking bad news you’ve ever laid your eyes on. “Guess I must’ve fallen asleep, too.”
The untangling happens slowly. He lifts his arm away from your waist, props himself up on one elbow. You take the chance to sit and stretch, pretending that a tight neck is your number one concern and not the growing warmth on your cheeks.
“Can’t believe none of them woke us up,” you murmur. “Sam should be banned from picking Top Gun ever again.”
He chuckles. The sound still hits you like it did last night, amplified now by the lack of distance between you. But Steve finally stands up, folds his arms behind his head, then extends them. He repeats the motion a few times. You feel bad—his circulation must be damn near cut off after sleeping weird the entire night on a couch far too small for two.
“Well… at least we’re well-rested.”
You blink, taken aback.
“You slept well?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he nods, “you?”
Now that the question ricocheted back, you realize you don’t feel shitty where you should. Your limbs aren’t particularly sore. Your head feels clear after the initial fog.
Well-rested. Is this what it feels like?
“I think so,” you reply. There’s a smile on his face when you look back at him: small and slightly lopsided. He looks handsome.
Then he extends a hand, as if he knew that smile would make your knees buckle.
“C’mon, I’ll make you coffee.”
The second time happens two weeks later.
The Quinjet’s hum was almost an alien silence after the fight.
It was tough. Only three operatives were deployed: you, Nat, and Steve—top operatives, yes, but still only three. You went up against a swarm of mercenaries, their guns blazing, while the team’s equipment was mostly stealth gear not even half the enemy’s firepower.
You managed by the skin of the edge of your teeth. The word barely doesn’t quite cover it.
After putting the jet on autopilot and complaining about rancid intel with adrenaline-flooded veins, the three of you fall quiet.
Fatigue creeps in.
Last part of the mission: get through a five-hour flight back to New York.
Natasha sits in front of you, rebuilding her usual mask of nonchalance—you can see it in her sigh as she buckles up. The earlier combat chipped at her cool, and reasonably so: being in this line of work for most of her life doesn’t change the fact that it only takes one bullet to end it.
And boy, were there quite the number of bullets.
Steve chose the spot next to you, despite all the empty space in the cabin. You thought maybe he wanted to huddle, talk about the mission, see how you held up. You were the only non-Avenger in this assignment—it was reasonable to assume you wouldn’t be as used to this as they are.
But it’s been a good ten minutes and he hasn’t said a word.
A moment of uncertainty grips you. Post-mission, he’s usually corralling the team, checking morale, doing a small debrief of his own. Granted, there’s only you and Nat, so maybe there’s no need for that, but…
…is he alright?
Just as you look over to your side, concerned, you feel warmth, weight, and a brush of something soft.
You can no longer move.
Because Steve is asleep, and his head was on your shoulder.
His seat isn’t exactly glued next to yours, but close enough for him to bridge the gap. You watch the blonde strands of his hair press against the black of your tac suit and think about all the times you felt his weight on you—the most recent being his back glued to your chest while he shielded you from a bullet hail, just before you managed a rocky takeoff.
Aside from that? Fingers around your wrist during training. “Nice try,” he said once, as if your uppercut wasn’t the most predictable move ever. A friendly hand patting your shoulder after.
But never like this.
It takes a lot of effort for you to stare at something else that isn’t him.
Your gaze unfortunately lands on Nat, less than five feet in front of you.
She’s already smirking.
You look down on your lap, slightly embarrassed and left with nothing you can do. A little less than five hours to go on this flight.
Might as well get some shut-eye.
─ ·✶· ─
“Hey.”
You blink awake, nearly jumping upright. Natasha chuckles, patting her hand on your shoulder.
“Easy, there,” she nods towards the cockpit. You see a familiar sight.
“We arrived. Get some real rest after the debrief.”
You rub the sleep away from your eyes. “Thanks.”
You glance at Steve. He’s already in the middle of getting out of his seat.
You wonder if his head on your shoulder was part of a dream.
At least the third time happens somewhere with a bed, which of course you argue over.
Steve starts it.
“I’ll take the couch.”
You thumb the hem of your tank top. “You know, I was going to say that.”
“That’s kind of you,” he smiles, “but please.”
He gestures to the bed the both of you are ever-so-politely “no, you”-ing over: it’s rickety and is clothed in the thinnest sheets ever, sure, but there’s only one of it, so naturally this battle of politeness has to be fought.
You raise a brow challengingly. “If you take the couch, I’ll take the floor.”
Steve’s expression hardens like he took that personally. “No way am I gonna let you.”
“Then take the bed.”
“Where will you sleep?”
“The couch.”
“But it’ll be uncomfortable.”
“Aha,” your lips curl into a smile, “so you admit that the couch is uncomfortable.”
He looks away. You can tell he’s holding back his face from breaking out into a disbelieving grin.
Eventually, like an overly-used television trope, the inevitable consensus is that you are going to share instead.
Funny how—even during the back-and-forth—it felt like it was always going to come to this. Like you’d surrendered sharing the bed as an eventuality rather than a possibility.
Funny how you could feel him thinking the same.
Which leads you to this point in time:
Two hours past midnight, T-minus five hours before your mission starts. Nothing high stakes—it’s just the two of you—but still, at this rate, you’ll be running on fumes tomorrow.
The night coats the safehouse in darkness, bedroom included: the curtains are drawn and the night light is off to hide you better.
Even in the dim, you can glimpse the outline of him. He’s in a t-shirt and sweats again.
His weight on the bed next to you is unmistakable. You try to recall the last time you didn’t sleep alone—except for the times you fell asleep with him.
You can’t remember.
He breaks the silence thirty minutes after you said your good nights.
You’re counting.
“Can’t sleep?”
You shift from your side to your back.
“You caught me. You?”
He’s seated instead of lying down, spine pressed against the brittle headboard.
“Same.”
You pause. Look at him from your spot on the pillow. His profile is sharp where the dark should dull it, or maybe you’ve just memorized it so well. Still, there’s something unreadable about him.
“Does it happen often?” you ask.
He looks down at you, blue eyes soft. “Sometimes. Often enough.”
You let the answer sink in—Steve Rogers, super soldier, can’t sleep—and shoot him a wry smile.
“Maybe you ought to lie down, if you want to try and sleep?”
He let out a quiet, humorous huff. “Yeah, you’re right.”
Then he makes himself comfortable next to you, head finally touching the pillow. You feel the cotton of his shirt brush against your bare shoulder. His weight is more prominent now, and there’s a faint smell that reminds you of a forest after the rain. The blonde of his hair brings you back to the Quinjet—weeks ago at this point, but your eyes remember.
He’s so close. If your fingers even so much as twitch, they’ll probably kiss his.
“Why can’t you sleep?” he asks, voice low.
You stare at him. The last time you saw him sideways like this was after movie night.
Why can’t you sleep? It’s been such a big part of your life, you forget why.
“It’s just difficult for me,” you start, “but these days… I’m not sure.”
He lets you find the thread, shifting so he’s facing you. You begin to face him, too—like your shoulder blades and his are long lost twins.
You finally tell him.
“I get a feeling that something is going to happen, and I need to be ready for it.”
Something in his eyes shines just then: a mosaic mix of regret and recognition.
Thirty-three minutes since ‘good night’, and in this nocturnal darkness, you see a kind of light.
On the surface, Steve couldn’t be more unlike you. Yet you find that the two of you are more similar than you initially thought.
You’re both soldiers who are good at your job, partly because of this: the alertness in your souls that demands one eye ever-watchful. The spirit of a sentinel that doesn’t know what peace is because it’s never learned.
They say there’s no rest for the wicked. Here he is, the truest heart of them all, not even sleepy.
In his wordless glance is an understanding. You have no need to explain.
But then his eyes start to wander and you wish he would say more, because the trace of his gaze feels too intimate for teammates.
Yet it tastes familiar.
Has he looked at you like this before? Ocean blues drag a path down your face, brushing past your lips in a swoop so secret you’d miss it if you blinked. His gaze veers off the side, but not away from you. Is he studying your cheek? The shell of your ear?
What on earth does he see in you?
You speak because the space between your ribcage hurts.
“We’re gonna be so fucked tomorrow morning.”
His laugh is quiet, more apparent in his face instead of the volume of his voice. There it is, the distraction you needed—except the sensation in your chest tugs stronger. Just once, but enough for you to notice.
Of course you’d fallen for him. There’s no way you wouldn’t.
But you’re a soldier, and so is he, and there’s work to do tomorrow.
To your mild surprise—and his, in the small shine in his eyes—you yawn.
It’s strange. It should keep you up, this proximity with him. Though your relationship with Steve is comfortable, the context around this situation should make you feel more uptight rather than relax.
You think about the man in the meeting room and the man you spar with. He advocates for calm decision-making, but eggs you on with a cheeky “that all you got, agent?” on the training mat. Both versions of him are here with you. In bed. A decision he made calmly.
How is it possible to be nervous and unwind at the same time?
A few seconds pass, and you yawn again.
“That’s your cue,” he smiles wryly. It shoots an arrow through you.
“Yeah. Try to get some sleep,” you smile back, turning to face away from him before he sees the crack in it. “Good night, Steve.”
“Good night.” He says your name, and that’s the last thing you hear.
Your lullaby.
You don’t know he falls asleep right after.
─ ·✶· ─
Steve wakes up first—he has a tendency of doing that. It means he’s the first witness to a softness that wrecks him.
Somewhere in the night, your bodies turned to face each other.
It reminds him of sunflowers.
Unlike that time after movie night, there’s more space between you. A part of him mourns the distance, though sharing a bed already signals a lack of.
Another part of him is happy he gets to see your face.
You look peaceful like this. Not that you look troubled when you’re awake. Just… something about your eyes closed, the space between your brows completely relaxed, your lips ever-so-slightly parted—it’s not a sight he gets to see often, especially not in this sort of terrain.
You might be in a safehouse, and the bed springs might be rusted by age, but the thin line between consciousness and sleep encourages the mind to wander—and for a man of discipline, wandering is dangerous. It tempts him with thoughts that taste more like dreams.
What if you weren’t in a safehouse? What if this was your bed—yours and his—and sharing it wasn’t birthed out of politeness?
What if this is just something he gets to see every morning?
You stir gently. A stray strand of hair falls on your face. He lifts his hand up to tuck it back.
Stubbornly, it slips back to where it landed before. He smiles.
This dream will soon end, he realizes. In a matter of minutes, he feels the sun rising behind his back, a treacherous thing that beckons another fight for someone else’s future.
When you open your eyes, you’ll go back to being soldiers. You’ll call him Cap on the field.
Last night’s memory surfaces. He holds on to the shape of his name in your voice.
The bright morning erases long shadows. For once, he wishes it didn’t.
He allows himself one final thing.
Fingers cradle your cheek, thumb brushing the soft of it. In your sleep, you lean into his touch. His breath snags, and so does his heartbeat.
Then, after the pang’s echoes die down, Steve rests a hand on your shoulder to wake you.
The fourth time happens because you ask for it.
He’s been up reading by the lamplight, only one chapter in when he started, now halfway through—a sign that the hour is later than he thinks it is. The book isn’t a particularly riveting one, either: time passed in a crawling pace with each page. Where he thought his ambivalence towards the subject matter would put him to sleep, here he is.
Wide awake on page 257.
Awake to hear the knock on his door. Three times. Soft, almost imperceptible.
Steve stares like he knows who it is already. The book is placed on the nightstand.
He opens the door to see you.
The sight tears him two ways.
You’re in short shorts and an oversized tee that has seen better days. He would see the print on the front if you weren’t hugging a folded-up blanket against your chest. There’s a sting on his sternum—from how you trust him enough to appear at his doorstep halfway through dawn, and from the look on your face.
It’s the look of someone who’s trying their best to sleep, but can’t.
“I didn’t think you’d be up, I’m so sorry,” you breathe, surprised.
He’s aware of the concern bleeding through his every gesture. You haven’t told him what you needed and he’s already holding the door wide open.
“Hey, no, don’t be. What’s wrong?”
You part your lips, deliberating.
“I can’t sleep.”
It’s as simple as that, but he knows exactly how difficult the battle is.
He nods, feeling his jaw clench. He hides his hands in his pockets—if they had their way, you’d be in his arms by now, but that’d be selfish of him.
Because clearly there’s something you want to tell him. Something more. He watches as you seem to debate for and against yourself: the toll of sleeplessness on you renders your expressions crystalline.
He waits patiently in the doorway. A quiet encouragement that yearns to surround you in louder ways.
You finally find the words.
“The last time I had a good night’s sleep was at that safehouse.”
He remembers. It was the night he wished you weren’t just agents on a mission. It was the night he got to stare at your back, wishing for a world where pulling you against his chest won’t make things complicated.
He swallows. “Me, too.”
In time’s desert, it’s these little memories he shares with you that dot the landscape like oases. You discovered these sacred places together, where you may fix what the journey broke.
But they’re still few and far between. The rest of life is a white noise: all those mission briefs and debriefs used to mean something, now they just chip away at the memory of what sanctuary feels like.
And yet he recalls the details perfectly. Enough to conjure a balm that is his own imagination. He pretends you’re next to him, weight sinking on the bed, hair splayed on his pillow. He pretends some nights. Most nights.
Every night.
“Can I please sleep with you?”
You ask before he can offer, then cut in before he responds.
“Not like that,” you stammer, distraught, “I mean—”
“No, I know what you mean, it’s okay.”
You laugh weakly, gesturing at your blanket. “I don’t want to seem presumptuous, it’s just that my room is—”
“Four floors down, yeah,” he knows the way there because he’s considered it more than a few times.
Steve’s hand lands gently on your shoulder, guiding you inside.
“Don’t worry about it. Come on.”
You cross that hallowed threshold into his room. Steve clicks the door closed before leading you towards the bed. It’s much too dark—and too late—for a room tour, anyway.
He unfurls his comforter, and in doing so notices the way you watch him. In another time and place, he’d be more amused at the way you looked: like you were standing at attention.
You don’t climb into the bed until he does.
“So you brought your own blankie?” There was a hint of a tease in his question, though not at all unkind.
You pout, sitting on the bed. Said blanket is still in your arms.
“It’s not a blankie.”
“Then why’d you bring it?”
“I don’t know,” you shrug, “didn’t want to steal yours from you.”
He smiles, lifting his comforter as if telling you to make yourself at home in it.
“I don’t mind.”
“You sure?”
“Of course. We’ve slept in worse conditions, haven’t we?”
That pulls a smile out of you, and it scares him how pleased he is with himself.
But you settling underneath his blanket and onto the bed pleases him more. He watches on a propped elbow as you adjust your head on his pillow, and he’s grateful that you’re here—in more ways than one.
That you’re here is something he’s always thankful for. That you’re here in his room instead of the other way around is a special occasion to be grateful. Being in your bedroom—in your bed—would mean enveloping himself in you, and there was no way he’d survive that.
The thought alone already makes him want. He’s not accustomed to it.
Soon, the two of you are lying face to face. He catalogs the way you fit into his space: perfectly.
“You okay?” he asks.
You answer with a nod and a quiet “yeah, better now.”
There’s a moment where all you do is look at each other. It suspends the very thing you came looking for, eyes open, expectant.
“Steve?”
“Mm?”
Then you do that thing again when you hesitate with your words, before finally stringing them together.
Like earlier, it’s a request. As if he’d ever refuse you anything.
“Can I hold you?”
He breathes through a sudden wave of emotion, like a dislodged splinter in a dam.
You’re asking him for permission, but in doing so, he feels like he’s been given it—you want the very thing he’s longed to give you since that night on the couch.
So he doesn’t answer with words.
His arm circles around your waist while the other cradles your nape, both pulling you closer. Your legs brush. You let out a sigh of capitulation.
There’s a thrum in his spine as you move, too—you nestle your face in the crook of his neck, both hands resting against his chest. He wonders if you can feel his heartbeat.
How many lines have he crossed by doing this? The list of his transgressions runs long.
For once, he doesn’t give a damn.
He holds you tight. You bury yourself in him. The warmth that has soothed him many times seems to bleed like an open wound—there was no need to hide behind stations or the guise of propriety.
Together, the two of you are broken pieces of different things, laid in a perfect fit. Breathing. Craving the rest only the other can bring.
A hard life melting into a soft place, where he doesn’t have to choose between love and rest.
You bring him both.
“Steve?”
“Mm?”
He likes this refrain: you calling his name, him answering.
You look up at him from the hug. He dips his chin down to meet your gaze.
“Thank you.”
I should be the one saying that, he thinks to himself, but this is no time for emotional revelations. Not yet—you’re too tired for it.
So he pulls you in closer like closer was ever possible. You find shelter in the hollow of his neck again, nose kissing his throat. He strokes a gentle hand down your hair, feeling you sigh warm air against his skin. Your t-shirt is soft against his. His other palm presses steady on your back.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
Soon enough, your breathing evens. You’re asleep.
He remembers the safehouse this time, the peaceful look on your face. He remembers clinging onto those last few minutes of closeness before the call of duty snuffs out peace. The light of day always makes the lines between you that much clearer.
Like tide, you’re further away from him when the sun is up.
For now, he allows himself one small thing.
He leans down and kisses your crown, breathing in your shampoo. His lips press one, two, three more times, wandering further down: your temple, your eyelid, your cheek—each breaching a boundary.
Each bearing a promise.
There’s no assignment come morning. No more reason to run.
Tomorrow, he’ll tell you how he feels.
A thumb brushes your lower lip, careful not to wake you.
That one will have to wait until tomorrow, if you’ll let him. The only thing he can do now is dream of it.
He hopes this is the last night he’ll dream of it.
taglist: @pinksplace @thceseus @theworstwolvie
my first time writing steve...... and i broke my self-imposed ban of no writing in april for him with this idea....... if it's balls, lie to my face
@bringmeabagel thank you for the kind words it means a lot more than you think! <3
@ellenosaurusrex YES. under a blanket. in comfortable temperature. thanks for reading <3 <3 <3
Heat Signature
Pairing: Steve Rogers/F!Reader
Word Count: 9.9k
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: explicit sexual content, aphrodisiac, sex pollen, dubious consent due to aphrodisiac, established relationship, blood/injury, rough sex, multiple rounds, overstimulation, size kink, strength kink, manhandling, prone bone, possessive sex, feral Steve Rogers, gentle Steve Rogers, protective Steve Rogers, praise kink, breeding kink, creampie, unprotected sex, aftercare, emotional hurt/comfort
Summary: Steve Rogers has always been gentle with you.
When a mission exposes you both to an aphrodisiac, quarantine forces him to confront the difference between protecting you and holding himself back.
Author’s Note: steve rogers sex pollen fic for everyone who has ever looked at that man and thought “okay but what if he actually used the super soldier strength”
Steve knew how to be careful with you.
Most of the time, that was one of the things you loved most about him. He remembered which old injuries needed gentler hands, which silences meant comfort, and which meant space. Steve was good at care.
He was simply worse at understanding that care and gentleness were not the same thing.
You had tried to tell him that carefully, then less carefully. You had asked him to hold you down harder. You had asked him not to pull back so quickly when his fingers tightened on your hips. You had told him more than once that you liked feeling how strong he was.
He listened every time, and he tried because that was who Steve was. Then, inevitably, you would feel the moment he remembered himself. His hands would ease. His body would shift, giving you room you had not asked for. His mouth would soften against yours as if tenderness could cover the shape of what you wanted.
You loved him for that, too, which made the frustration even more complicated. Steve had spent too much of his life being turned into an object, a weapon, a symbol, a body that belonged to everyone except himself. You understood why he treated his strength as something that needed rules.
You just wished he would believe you when you told him that you were not asking him to forget the rules.
You were asking him to trust you with them.
The HYDRA lab was colder than it should have been.
That was the first thing you noticed when the mission turned bad, not the broken glass or the blood on your glove or the technician crawling toward the console with one shaking hand. The cold came from the ventilation system overhead, pouring through the room in steady white streams that disturbed the pale gold vapor spilling from the ruptured canister at the center of the floor.
You had already inhaled by the time Steve shouted your name.
It had happened too fast. You had thrown yourself into the technician before he could reach the alarm override, and your shoulder had struck his ribs hard enough to knock the air out of both of you. He went down. You went with him. Something cracked under your elbow.
The canister hit the floor.
For half a second, the room looked almost beautiful. Gold mist rose through the emergency lights, turning the lab red and amber at once, and you thought absurdly of sunlight in dust.
Then your throat burned.
You coughed, rolling away from the technician, and Steve crossed the room in three strides.
“Don’t breathe,” he ordered.
You looked up at him through watering eyes. “Little late for that.”
He did not smile.
That scared you more than the chemical.
Steve’s hand closed around your arm, steady and warm through the sleeve of your suit. His grip was firm enough to anchor you, but even then, even in the middle of a contaminated HYDRA lab with alarms beginning to shriek overhead, you felt the restraint in it. He was holding you like something injured. He was holding you like something he could accidentally hurt.
The thought should not have made heat curl through your stomach.
It did.
Natasha’s voice cut through the comm. “Status?”
“Exposure,” Steve said. His voice was controlled. Too controlled. “Unknown agent. Canister breached. We both caught it.”
There was a pause.
You hated the pause.
“Symptoms?” Bruce asked.
You opened your mouth to answer and nearly embarrassed yourself.
Because there was pain. There was heat. There was dizziness and a strange, liquid weakness in your knees. But underneath it all was something else, something low and humiliating and far too recognizable to deny. It moved through you with the same terrible certainty as fever.
Your fingers tightened in Steve’s suit.
You did not mean to do it. One second, your hand was braced against his chest because standing had become more complicated than it should have been, and the next, your fist was curled into the dark tactical fabric over the star.
Steve went still without pulling away, which somehow made it worse. His body changed before his face did, the breath he took too careful, the muscles beneath your hand locking as if he had turned himself into a wall through discipline alone. When you looked up, his pupils were blown wide, his jaw clenched so tightly that a muscle jumped near his cheek.
“Steve,” you said.
His eyes dropped to your mouth.
It lasted less than a second.
Then he stepped back.
The loss of him hit you with embarrassing force. It was not just emotional. Your body noticed the absence of his heat like it had been denied something necessary, and frustration flashed through you so sharply that you almost reached for him again.
Almost.
“Don’t do that,” you said.
His eyes lifted. “Do what?”
“Act like I’m the hazard.”
His expression shifted, pained and stubborn in equal measure. “You’re not.”
“You just moved like I was.”
“You’re contaminated,” Clint said over the comm, which was unhelpful even by his standards. “Technically, he’s right.”
“Clint,” Natasha warned.
“What? I’m just saying, this feels like a situation where nobody should touch anybody.”
You closed your eyes. “I hate all of you.”
“You say that when you’re scared,” Steve said quietly.
You hated him a little for knowing that. You loved him more for saying it softly enough that only you could hear, even with the comms open.
“I’m not scared,” you lied.
Steve’s gaze moved over your face. You wondered what he saw. The flushed cheeks, probably. The sweat beginning at your hairline despite the cold air. The way you were breathing too quickly. The way your hand had curled into a fist at your side because you did not trust yourself not to reach for him again.
His own color was high. It was subtle, because Steve’s body did not betray him easily, but you knew him better than most people alive. You knew the signs. The tightness around his eyes. The careful set of his shoulders. The way he kept his hands loose when he wanted to clench them.
Bruce’s voice came back, low and focused. “Extraction in two minutes. Masks on. Don’t touch the canister, don’t touch any exposed surfaces, and try not to touch each other.”
You laughed once under your breath. “Great.”
Steve looked like someone had put him in front of a firing squad and asked him to stand still.
Natasha reached you first.
She came through the lab doors in a sealed respirator with emergency masks in hand, her eyes sharp above the clear visor. She took one look at you, one look at Steve, and understood too much.
That was the problem with Natasha. She was never unobservant when you needed mercy.
“Mask,” she said.
You took it. Your fingers did not work properly on the strap.
Steve moved.
Then stopped.
You saw the exact moment he caught himself, and something inside you twisted.
Natasha saw it too. She stepped between you both without comment and fastened the mask for you, her gloved hands efficient and careful. You stared past her shoulder at Steve. He stared back, miserable and fever-bright, and did not cross the three feet between you.
The ride back to the compound on the Quinjet was worse.
Bruce sealed the rear med bay, which meant you and Steve were isolated from the rest of the team but not from each other. You sat on opposite sides of the compartment, trying not to watch the width of his shoulders, the tension in his hands, the way he kept himself perfectly still because motion had become dangerous.
“You need to stop looking at me like that,” he said.
Your gaze snapped to his face.
His eyes were closed.
“I’m not looking at you like anything.”
“You are.”
“You have your eyes closed.”
“I can still tell.”
It should have been funny. Instead, the heat in your blood sharpened.
“You’re doing it too,” you said.
Steve’s eyes opened.
He looked wrecked.
“I’m trying not to,” he said.
That was worse.
Your fingers curled against your thigh. “Steve.”
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.”
The words landed too softly to be an accusation. You looked away first because your eyes had started to sting, and you did not know whether that was the chemical, frustration, or the awful tenderness of being known by someone who was still trying to deny you what you wanted.
“I know you too,” you said.
Steve did not answer.
When the Quinjet landed, medical was waiting.
Bruce met you in full protective gear beside Dr. Cho and two nurses you recognized, all of them moving with the efficient calm of people who were worried and trying not to make it worse. Tony hovered behind the quarantine barrier, tablet in one hand, expression caught somewhere between fear and a joke he knew better than to say.
Mostly.
“So,” Tony said as you and Steve were ushered into adjoining decontamination stalls, “good news, bad news, horrifyingly awkward news.”
“Tony,” Bruce said.
“I’m just setting expectations.”
You peeled off your gloves with more aggression than necessary. “If you say anything about HR, I’m coughing on you.”
Tony took a step back. “Noted.”
The decontamination process was necessary and humiliating in the way medical procedures often were. Your suit was sealed away. Your skin was scrubbed clean. Your temperature was taken three times. Blood was drawn. Your pulse was monitored until the sound of it began to feel accusatory.
Steve was on the other side of the frosted partition.
You could hear him.
That was the worst part. His voice was low and steady as he answered Bruce’s questions. Yes, elevated heart rate. Yes, increased body temperature. Yes, heightened sensory response. No, no loss of consciousness. No, no hallucinations.
Then Bruce asked something too quietly for you to hear.
Steve did not answer right away.
Your entire body went alert.
“I’m managing it,” he said at last.
Managing it.
You pressed your eyes shut.
The phrase felt like him. Like all the disciplined, self-punishing restraint that made him both wonderful and impossible. Steve managed pain. Steve managed fear. Steve managed his anger, his grief, his strength, his desire. He managed himself so carefully that sometimes you wondered whether he understood there was supposed to be a difference between control and loneliness.
A nurse handed you a loose medical shirt and soft pants through the decontamination slot. You changed behind the privacy shield with hands that shook more than you wanted to admit.
By the time they moved you into quarantine, your skin felt too small.
The containment suite had been stripped down to a bed, a couch, a bathroom, a table with water and medical supplies, cameras in the corners, and a glass wall with privacy film currently turned opaque.
And Steve.
He entered a few seconds after you, wearing gray medical sweats that did absolutely nothing to make him less distracting. The shirt clung to his shoulders. The pants hung low on his hips. His hair was damp from decontamination, darker at the roots, and when he looked at you, you saw the same hunger he had been trying to hide since the lab.
Only now there was nowhere for either of you to go.
The door sealed behind him.
A red light blinked once above it.
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
Steve’s brows drew together. “What?”
“This is absurd.”
His mouth softened, almost. “Yeah.”
“We have fought aliens.”
“I remember.”
“You punched a robot through a wall last week.”
“It was trying to kill Sam.”
“And now we’re trapped in horny jail because HYDRA made perfume for war criminals.”
For one blessed second, Steve looked like he might actually laugh.
Then your breath hitched.
It was small. Barely anything. A minor betrayal of your body as another wave of heat rolled through you, stronger than the last. But Steve heard it. Of course he heard it. His expression changed immediately, humor gone, concern rushing in to take its place.
He stepped toward you.
Then stopped again.
Your patience, already thin, tore.
“Steve.”
His hands flexed at his sides. “I’m trying to do this right.”
“I know.”
“I need you to understand that.”
“I do.”
“No.” His voice roughened, and the sound went through you like touch. “You don’t. This isn’t just—” He stopped and looked toward the opaque glass as though Bruce could somehow help him find the words. “This isn’t normal.”
You almost laughed again, but it would have come out wrong. “I’m aware.”
“It’s affecting judgment.”
“Yes.”
“It’s affecting inhibition.”
“Also, yes.”
“It’s pushing your body toward something you might not choose if you were clear-headed.”
That hurt. Not because it was unfair. Because it was almost fair, and almost fair was where Steve did his most damage without meaning to.
You crossed your arms, partly to hold yourself together and partly because the loose shirt brushed your skin in a way that made it difficult to concentrate. “You think I wouldn’t choose you?”
His face tightened. “That’s not what I said.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m saying I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
“You’re dosed too.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“No,” you agreed. “It makes it complicated. But don’t stand there and talk like this is something happening to me that has nothing to do with us.”
Steve looked away.
The room hummed around you. Air filtration. Medical monitors. The low electronic pulse of containment systems doing their job. Beyond the glass, someone was probably watching your vitals spike in real time.
You stepped closer.
Steve noticed immediately. His eyes snapped back to yours, warning and want tangled so tightly that you could barely tell which was winning.
“Don’t,” he said.
You stopped. Not because you wanted to, but because his voice mattered. Even now. Especially now.
“I’m not going to touch you if you tell me not to,” you said.
His throat worked.
“But you don’t get to decide what I want by being afraid of it.”
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then Bruce’s voice came through the speaker.
“I’m sorry to interrupt.”
You looked up at the ceiling. “No, you’re not.”
“I’m really not,” Tony added, farther from the microphone. “But Banner is.”
Bruce ignored him. “We have preliminary results. The compound appears to be a synthetic neurochemical stimulant. It’s targeting adrenaline, dopamine, oxytocin pathways, and likely other endocrine responses. The simplest explanation is that it was designed to heighten arousal and attachment under stress.”
Steve’s expression went blank in the terrifying way that meant he was angry.
“HYDRA was using it for compliance,” he said.
“Likely,” Bruce said.
Your stomach turned.
For a second, the heat receded beneath disgust. HYDRA had always been good at finding new ways to make bodies into battlefields. You looked down at your hands, flexed your fingers, and wished you had broken the technician’s jaw instead of his ribs.
Steve moved before he remembered not to.
He crossed two steps toward you, then caught himself halfway.
This time, the aborted comfort hurt less. You could see the anger in him now, the protective instinct that belonged to you and to every person HYDRA had ever tried to use. He wanted to touch you because he was worried. Because he loved you. Because the idea of that chemical in your blood made him look like he wanted to tear the whole lab apart brick by brick.
“Treatment?” Steve asked.
Bruce hesitated.
Tony made a faint sound in the background. “Here comes the awkward news.”
“Supportive care,” Bruce said carefully. “Hydration, monitoring, temperature management. Sedation is an option, but your vitals are already volatile, and with Steve’s serum involved, I can’t guarantee a predictable response.”
You looked at Steve.
Steve was staring at the speaker.
“What else?” he asked.
Bruce was silent for long enough that your face went hot for a reason that had nothing to do with the drug.
“The compound appears to metabolize fastest after peak hormonal release,” Bruce said finally, with the pained professionalism of a man who had attended too many universities to deserve this conversation. “In plain terms, sexual release would likely shorten the active period. Possibly significantly.”
Tony, because he was Tony, said, “Or, as absolutely no doctor should put it—”
“Do not,” Bruce snapped.
Tony lowered his voice and said it anyway. “Fuck it out.”
You covered your face with both hands.
Steve looked like he might commit a felony.
“I’m muting him,” Natasha said from somewhere beyond the speaker.
“Hey—”
Tony cut off abruptly.
“Thank you,” Steve said tightly.
Bruce sighed. “To be clear, no one is instructing you to do anything. The door remains sealed until we’re certain you’re not contagious and your vitals are stable. What happens inside quarantine is up to you, within safety limits. If either of you wants sedation, we’ll discuss it. If either of you wants privacy, we can disable visual monitoring and keep vitals only.”
Your heart was beating so hard you could feel it in your teeth.
Steve said, “How long if we wait it out?”
“Based on your current levels? For her, maybe eight to ten hours if we wait it out.” Bruce hesitated. “For you, Steve, your system is burning through it faster, but the serum is making the spikes worse. Shorter duration, higher peaks.”
Another wave hit as if summoned.
Your knees softened. You caught the edge of the table, breath leaving you in an unsteady rush, and Steve was there before you could tell him not to be. His hand closed around your waist instead of your arm or elbow, and the difference was immediate enough to steal the air from your lungs.
The pressure was firm, instinctive, and devastating.
You made a sound.
Steve froze.
So did you.
It was not loud. It was barely more than a breath broken around his name. But Steve heard it, and you felt his grip tighten once before he forced it loose.
He tried to step back.
You caught his wrist. “Don’t.”
His eyes found yours.
“I can’t be objective right now,” he said.
“Neither can I.”
“That’s the point.”
“No, Steve. The point is that we know what’s happening. We know it’s chemical, and awful, and not how either of us would have chosen to spend our Friday night.” His mouth twitched despite himself. “But you also know this isn’t coming from nowhere.”
The almost-smile disappeared.
“You know I want you,” you said. “You know I wanted you this morning. You know I’ll want you tomorrow when this is out of our systems.”
His voice was low. “That doesn’t mean—”
“It means you don’t get to pretend the drug invented it.”
The words landed.
“I’ve asked you before,” you said, quieter now. “I’ve asked you to stop being so careful. I’m not saying that to pressure you. I’m saying it because I need you to stop acting like wanting you like this means I’m not myself.”
Steve closed his eyes.
“You want rougher,” he said.
“Yes.”
“You’ve wanted that for a while.”
“Yes.”
“And I keep pulling back.”
You nodded.
“I know my strength,” he said. “You don’t always know what it feels like from my side. You ask me to hold you down, and I want to give you what you want. But then I feel how easy it is to move you, and all I can think about is what happens if I misjudge it.”
Your anger softened so abruptly that it almost hurt.
You let go of his wrist and covered the hand he had resting on your waist.
“You’re allowed to trust yourself,” you said.
His laugh was silent and humorless.
“You trust me in combat.”
His expression shifted.
You pressed his hand more firmly against your waist. “Trust me here.”
Steve looked toward the glass wall.
“Bruce,” he said.
The speaker crackled. “I’m here.”
“Visual monitoring off.”
A pause.
Then Natasha’s voice, gentler than before. “Done.”
The opaque privacy film deepened until the glass became a flat gray mirror. You could still see your reflections in it, blurred and strange. You looked flushed, unsteady, your hand over Steve’s. He looked like a man trying to stand at the edge of a cliff without looking down.
“Vitals remain monitored,” Bruce said. “Audio?”
Steve looked at you.
It was a question.
Even now, it was a question.
Your throat tightened. “Off unless we call you.”
The speaker clicked.
Silence settled over the room.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then Steve said, “I need you to say it again.”
Your pulse jumped. “Which part?”
His eyes were darker than you had ever seen them. “That you want me.”
You stepped closer. His hand slid more fully around your waist, not pulling yet, but ready.
“I want you,” you said.
His breath left him slowly.
“I want you when I’m sober,” you said. “I want you when I’m clear-headed. I want you sweet. I want you careful. I want you in all the ways you already know.”
His fingers tightened.
You felt it through the thin cotton of the medical shirt.
“And I want you rougher than you let yourself be.”
Steve’s expression changed.
It was not the chemical alone. You knew that. The drug was there in the fever-bright heat of his eyes, in the tremor that moved through his hand, in the way his control looked painfully thin. But underneath it was recognition. Not surprise. He knew. He had always known.
He had just never fully believed he was allowed to answer.
“You say red, I stop,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And if anything feels wrong, you tell me.”
“I will.”
“I can’t promise I’ll be as gentle as I usually am.”
The words moved through you like a match struck in the dark.
“I’m not asking you to be.”
His hand went still at your waist.
Then, very carefully, Steve pulled you to him.
It was not rough. Not yet. It was barely more than a closing of distance, his body meeting yours with enough restraint that you could feel the shape of what he was holding back. But after hours of aborted touches and careful avoidance, the contact hit hard enough to make your knees weaken.
Steve caught you.
This time, he did not let go.
His arms came around you properly, one at your waist and the other across your back, his hand spreading wide between your shoulder blades. He bent his head until his forehead rested against yours. You could feel him shaking.
Not from weakness.
From refusal.
From the effort of not taking too much too fast.
“Steve,” you whispered.
His eyes closed. “I’m trying.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know if that helps.”
“It does.”
Your hands rose to his chest. His heart was racing under your palm, strong and fast and alive. For a second, you forgot the chemical. You forgot HYDRA, quarantine, cameras, and medical monitors. There was only Steve in front of you, still trying to be good in a situation designed to make goodness difficult.
You kissed him first.
Or you meant to.
You pushed onto your toes, and Steve met you halfway, his mouth catching yours with a sound that was almost relief. The kiss was hot, clumsy by Steve’s standards, a little too hard at first before he corrected himself.
Then you bit his lower lip.
Not hard.
Enough.
Steve made a sound against your mouth that you had never heard before.
Everything changed.
His hand tightened at your back, pulling you in so suddenly that your breath broke. The kiss deepened, lost its careful shape, and became something hungrier and less practiced. You felt the couch strike the back of your legs and realized he had moved you there without asking your feet to cooperate.
Your heart kicked.
Steve felt you tense and stopped instantly.
His mouth lifted from yours. “Tell me.”
“No,” you said quickly, almost offended by how fast he had pulled himself back. “No, I’m not scared.”
His eyes searched your face.
You reached for his hand, put it at your hip, and held it there.
“I liked that.”
Steve stared at you.
The realization came slowly. You watched it unfold across his face, not as shock but as reluctant understanding. The movement had not frightened you. The suddenness had not hurt. His strength had not been a mistake to apologize for.
You liked it.
His gaze dropped to where his hand covered your hip.
“Oh,” he said, very softly.
Your breath caught.
Because that was the moment.
Not the exposure, not Bruce’s terrible explanation, not the locked door or the privacy film or the heat crawling under your skin. This was the moment something between you tilted. Steve looked at your body under his hand and understood, maybe for the first time without softening the knowledge into something safer, that you were not merely allowing him to be stronger with you.
You wanted it.
His thumb moved once over your hip.
Then his hand tightened.
Your eyes fluttered.
Steve saw that too.
The look on his face changed again, and for one dizzy second you thought: Oh.
The realization startled you with its simplicity. Steve had not been waiting for permission to become someone else, and the aphrodisiac had not uncovered some secret cruelty buried beneath all that gentleness. He was still Steve, which was the part that made your chest ache around the heat.
But he liked this.
He liked your trust. He liked the way you responded when he stopped treating his strength as something shameful. He liked being asked for the power he spent so much time containing, and maybe the roughness itself was not the fantasy he would have chosen alone, but your wanting transformed it in his hands.
Steve Rogers did not secretly want to ruin you.
Steve Rogers wanted to give you what you asked for and had just realized that giving it to you did not make him a danger.
It made him yours.
“Tell me again,” he said.
His voice was lower.
You swallowed. “What?”
“What you want.”
You did.
Not all at once. Not crudely, though there would have been room for that in another version of the night, one without poison in your blood and medical staff outside the door. You told him where you wanted his hands. You told him you wanted his weight. You told him that when he moved you, when he held you still, when he stopped asking your body to pretend it did not know exactly how strong he was, it made you feel trusted too.
Steve listened.
He always listened.
Only this time, he did not translate every word into a warning.
The next wave of heat took both of you under.
It started with his mouth on yours, slower than you expected and rougher than he usually allowed himself to be. He kissed you like he was still giving you time to change your mind, but his hands had stopped pretending they did not know what they wanted. One stayed locked around your waist while the other slid up your back, spreading wide between your shoulder blades and pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies.
You made a small sound into his mouth, and Steve went still for half a second.
“Still with me?” he asked, breathless.
“Yes,” you said immediately. You caught his jaw in your hand and made him look at you. “Still with you.”
Something in him broke open at that.
He kissed you again, and this time he let you feel him. Not carelessly. Never carelessly. But fully. His grip tightened at your waist, and then he lifted you as if it cost him nothing at all. Your legs wrapped around him on instinct, a sharp breath leaving you when his hands caught under your thighs and held you there, suspended against his body.
“I like it,” you whispered before he could ask. “I like when you move me like that.”
His jaw flexed.
Then he carried you to the bed.
He lowered you onto the mattress with maddening control, following you down until his body covered yours and his weight pressed you into the sheets. It was not enough to trap you. It was enough to make your thoughts blur at the edges, enough to make your hands fist in his shirt while relief moved through you so sharply it was almost pain.
“There,” you breathed.
Steve’s face changed. “There?”
You nodded, pulling at him until he understood. “Stay there.”
For once, he did.
His body settled over yours, heavy and warm and solid, and the sound that left you was embarrassing in its honesty. Steve’s eyes dropped to your mouth. His hand slid to your hip, fingers firm through the thin cotton of your pants.
“You really do want this,” he said, like the truth had finally reached a place in him deeper than fear.
“I’ve been telling you.”
“I know.” His voice went rough. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize right now.”
His mouth twitched, but the heat in his eyes did not soften. “Bossy.”
“You like it.”
His hand tightened at your hip. “Yeah,” he said, low enough to make your stomach pull tight. “I do.”
Then he kissed his way down your throat.
Steve had always been careful with his mouth. Gentle presses, patient attention, the kind of tenderness that made you feel cherished and occasionally made you want to scream. This was different. His lips dragged over your skin. His teeth grazed beneath your jaw, then closed lightly at the side of your neck, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to make you arch under him.
His hand caught your waist and held you down.
You froze, but not from fear.
Steve felt the change and lifted his head immediately. “Tell me.”
You swallowed, heat rushing into your face. “That was good.”
He looked at his hand where it held you against the bed.
Then he did it again.
Not harder. More deliberately.
His palm spread over your waist, his fingers pressing into the soft give of you, and he held you in place while his mouth returned to your neck. Your body reacted before your pride could stop it. Your knees shifted around his hips, your back trying to arch even though his hand kept you exactly where he wanted you.
Steve made a sound against your skin.
It was not gentle.
It was hungry.
The noise went through you so intensely that you nearly forgot how to breathe. You pulled at his shirt, impatient now, and Steve let you drag it up only so far before he took over. He sat back long enough to pull it over his head, flushed and broad-shouldered and breathing hard, his eyes fixed on you like he was done pretending looking was enough.
You reached for him.
He caught both your wrists in one hand and pinned them carefully above your head.
Your breath stopped.
So did his.
For one suspended moment, neither of you moved. Steve’s grip was firm, but not painful. His fingers circled your wrists with terrifying ease, holding you in place while his free hand braced beside your shoulder. He looked down at you, and you watched the exact second he understood what the expression on your face meant.
Not fear.
Want.
“Okay?” he asked, his voice low.
You tested his hold, just enough to feel that you could not break it unless he let you. Your pulse kicked hard, your body going hot and liquid beneath him.
“Very okay,” you said.
Steve’s eyes closed for half a second.
When they opened, something steadier had settled there. Still fevered. Still affected. But listening.
Always listening.
He lowered his mouth to yours again, kissing you while he kept your wrists above your head. His other hand moved down your body, slow enough to give you time and firm enough to make the touch impossible to ignore. He found the hem of your shirt and dragged it up, his knuckles brushing your ribs, his palm flattening briefly over your stomach as if he needed to feel you breathe.
“I’ve got you,” he said against your mouth.
“I know.” You lifted your head as much as his hold allowed. “That’s why I want it.”
The words hit him hard. You felt it in the shudder that moved through his body, in the way his grip tightened for one second before he made himself loosen it again.
“Steve,” you said softly. “You can hold me tighter than that.”
His eyes went dark.
Then he did.
His hand closed more securely around your wrists, still careful of the bones, still perfectly aware of his own strength, but no longer treating you like you might disappear beneath it. The pressure pinned you to the mattress. His body covered yours again, and this time when you arched against him, he did not pull back.
The kiss that followed was messy and deep, full of heat and teeth and his breath catching when you rolled your hips up against his.
After that, patience failed both of you.
Clothes came off in pieces, interrupted by kisses and Steve stopping only when he needed to look at your face. By the time there was nothing between you, his hands had learned a new kind of certainty. He touched you slowly at first, watching what made your eyes flutter and your breath break. Then he touched you with more confidence, his fingers firm on your thighs, spreading you open beneath him while his mouth moved lower.
You grabbed at his hair.
Steve looked up immediately.
“Don’t stop,” you said.
His mouth curved, barely.
Then he lowered his head again, and the room slipped sideways.
You lost track of time under his mouth. You knew only heat, his hands on your hips, the rough scrape of his jaw against your inner thigh, the obscene tenderness of how closely he watched you while he took you apart. Every time your body tried to twist away from the intensity, his arm came across your hips and held you there, keeping you open for him until your hands fisted in the sheets.
“Steve,” you gasped.
He lifted his head just enough to answer. “Too much?”
“Not too much. Don’t stop.”
His gaze held yours for another second, making sure.
Then he gave you exactly what you asked for.
When you came, it was with his name broken in your mouth and his hands holding you through it. He stayed there until the last tremor passed, pressing kisses to your skin as if gentleness had not disappeared at all. It had only changed shape.
By the time he crawled back over you, you were shaking.
Steve kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. “Still with me?”
You laughed weakly. “Unfortunately for your ego, yes.”
His smile flickered. “My ego?”
“You look smug.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
He kissed you before you could say anything else, and you felt him hard against your thigh, hot and heavy and barely restrained. The contact made both of you go still.
Steve’s forehead dropped to yours.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
The question was quiet, but there was nothing casual in it. Not after everything. Not with both of you still fevered, still shaking, still aware that wanting was not enough unless it stayed a choice.
You touched his face. “I’m sure.”
His eyes searched yours.
You held him there. “I want you inside me. I want you to hold me down. I want to feel you tomorrow.”
Steve’s breath left him in a shudder.
He reached between you, and even with everything your body wanted, the first press of him made you inhale sharply. Steve stopped at once, his arm trembling beside your head.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Yes. Just slow.”
He kissed you, soft now, almost unbearably sweet. “Slow,” he promised.
He gave you slow. He gave you patient. He gave you every inch with his jaw clenched and his body shaking from the effort of not rushing, even as the chemical burned through both of you and made restraint feel like cruelty. Your hands slid over his shoulders, down his back, nails pressing into muscle as he filled you.
When he was finally seated deep, he went still.
You could feel his heart pounding.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The weight of him pinned you down, his chest against yours, his breath hot at your cheek. You had wanted his strength, but this was more than that. This was trust made physical. This was Steve giving you the part of himself he feared most and keeping it careful because you had asked him not to hide it.
You turned your head and kissed his jaw.
“Move,” you whispered.
Steve did.
The first thrust was measured, deep and controlled, and it drew a sound out of you that made his rhythm falter. His hand slid beneath your knee, lifting your leg higher around his hip, changing the angle until the next thrust made your eyes squeeze shut.
“There?” he asked, voice strained.
“Yes. There.”
His control thinned.
You felt it in the way his hips drove forward, still precise but harder now, each thrust pushing you deeper into the mattress. His hand found your waist and held you still, not letting you slip away from the force of him. The bed creaked beneath you. Your breath came in broken pieces. Steve’s mouth moved against your throat, your shoulder, anywhere he could reach.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, rough and low.
“It’s not.”
His grip tightened.
A helpless sound escaped you.
Steve groaned. “You like feeling me hold you down.”
“Yes.”
His hips snapped forward harder, and pleasure flashed through you so brightly that you grabbed at his arm. Steve stopped immediately, body locked above yours.
You shook your head before he could ask. “Don’t stop. I just—Steve, it felt good.”
For a second, he only stared at you.
Then he laughed once, breathless and disbelieving, and buried his face in your neck. “You’re going to kill me.”
“You’ll live.”
“I’m not sure.”
You smiled against his skin. “Steve.”
He lifted his head.
You wrapped your legs tighter around him. “Harder.”
The word changed him.
Not into someone else. Never that. His hand came to your face first, thumb brushing your cheek with aching tenderness. His eyes held yours, giving you one more chance, one more breath, one more place to stop.
You did not take it.
Steve kissed you, and then he stopped holding back.
He fucked you like he trusted you to know what you wanted. Like he trusted himself to listen. His body drove yours into the mattress, strong and relentless, one hand gripping your hip while the other braced beside your head. You felt surrounded by him, overwhelmed by him, held down by him, and the pleasure of it was so sharp that tears burned at the corners of your eyes.
Steve saw them.
His rhythm broke. “Sweetheart—”
“Good,” you gasped, pulling him back down. “It’s good. Please.”
His face twisted, desperate and tender all at once.
Then his mouth was on yours again, swallowing the next sound you made as his hand slid between your bodies. You came hard enough to lose the shape of the room. For a few seconds there was only Steve, his weight, his voice saying your name, his hand firm at your hip as he held you through every shaking second of it.
He followed soon after, burying his face in your shoulder with a broken sound as his body went rigid over yours. Even then, even at the edge of himself, he was careful. His hand cradled the back of your head. His weight shifted just enough not to crush you. His mouth pressed against your skin, trembling and reverent.
For a long time afterward, neither of you spoke.
Steve stayed inside you, breathing hard, his body still covering yours. You could feel him everywhere: in the ache of your thighs, the heat between your legs, the solid pressure of his chest against yours. His hand moved slowly over your hair, almost dazed.
“Too much?” he asked finally, voice wrecked.
You turned your face into his palm. “No.”
He exhaled.
“Intense,” you admitted. “But not too much.”
His eyes closed like the distinction mattered more than anything else you could have said.
You touched his cheek. “Come here.”
“I’m already here.”
“Closer.”
A faint, exhausted smile crossed his face. “That might be a medical impossibility.”
“Try.”
He lowered himself carefully, giving you more of his weight again, and you sighed with the comfort of it. His arms came around you. This time, when he held you, he did not loosen his grip before you asked.
You smiled against his shoulder.
“There,” you whispered.
Steve kissed your temple. “There.”
The serum made the whole thing absurd.
You knew Steve’s stamina. You had been dating him long enough to understand that ordinary human limits were, for him, more like polite suggestions. But the aphrodisiac took everything the serum already made unfair and pushed it into something almost ridiculous. Each time your body went loose and heavy with relief, his pulse would begin to slow for maybe a minute before another spike hit him, heat coming back into his eyes with an apology already forming on his mouth.
The third time it happened, you started laughing.
Steve looked stricken. “What?”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
His ears went red.
Actually red.
Even fevered, overwhelmed, and visibly fighting the urge to pull you back under him, Steve Rogers blushed because you had implied his recovery time was inconvenient.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
You laughed harder, then winced because your body was beginning to feel like you had survived both sex pollen and a full Avengers training circuit. “Don’t apologize. Just bring me the blue drink.”
He brought you the blue electrolyte drink. He opened it. He held it for you even though you were capable of holding it yourself, and when you gave him a look, he gave one right back.
“Hydrate,” he said.
“You’re such a romantic.”
His mouth curved, tired and fond and still hungry in a way that made your exhausted body consider mutiny.
“You love me,” he said.
“I do. Unfortunately.”
His smile faded into something softer.
The drug did not take that from him. It sharpened want, stripped patience, twisted need into something urgent and physical, but it could not manufacture the way Steve looked at you when he forgot to be afraid. That was yours. That had always been yours.
You reached for him.
He came.
The hours passed in heat and fragments. The bed. The couch. The cold bathroom tile against your feet when he helped you drink water between waves because even compromised by HYDRA’s poison and his own impossible stamina, Steve Rogers still cared about hydration. The first time his control slipped enough that his body covered yours fully, his weight pressing you down into the mattress in a way that made your mind go bright and empty with relief. When you told him harder, he believed you. When you told him wait, he waited. When you told him yes, he stopped making yes prove itself over and over before he accepted it.
At some point, Bruce’s voice came carefully through the speaker after a long warning chime, asking for a verbal status check. Steve had wrapped you in a blanket by then, one hand braced on the mattress beside your hip, his body angled between you and the rest of the room as if the sound system itself might threaten your modesty.
“We’re alive,” you called, because Steve looked like he might combust if forced to answer.
Bruce paused. “Vitals are improving.”
“Great,” you said.
“They’re still elevated.”
“No kidding.”
Steve put his face in his hands.
Bruce, clearly fighting for professionalism, said, “Do either of you require medical assistance?”
You looked at Steve. Steve looked at you.
His hair was a mess. His mouth was swollen. There was a red mark on his shoulder you were fairly sure you had put there with your teeth at some point, which meant Captain America was going to leave quarantine with visible evidence that his girlfriend had briefly lost her mind.
You felt a little proud.
Steve saw your expression and narrowed his eyes.
You smiled at the ceiling. “We need more water.”
“Sending it through the transfer drawer.”
“And maybe food.”
“Also sending food.”
“And if Tony is anywhere near the observation room, tell him I can still kill him from quarantine.”
A faint sound came through the speaker that might have been Natasha laughing.
Tony’s voice, farther away, protested, “I have been nothing but respectful during this medical crisis.”
“You told us to fuck it out,” Steve said.
“I said what the science implied!”
Natasha said, “Muted again.”
The speaker clicked off.
You closed your eyes and let your head fall back against the pillow. “I’m moving to Canada.”
Steve sat beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. “Why Canada?”
“I don’t know. It was the first place that came to mind.”
“You hate being cold.”
“I’ll adapt.”
His hand settled over your ankle beneath the blanket, warm and heavy and careful again.
The care made your chest hurt.
You opened your eyes.
Steve was looking at his hand on your ankle, thumb resting lightly against the bone as if he were cataloging every possible bruise before it appeared.
There it was.
The crash.
“Steve.”
“I’m okay,” he said.
“You are a terrible liar.”
His mouth tightened.
You pushed yourself up carefully. Every muscle objected. Steve moved to help you, then hesitated, his hand hovering near your elbow.
You stared at it.
He started to pull away.
“Oh, don’t you dare.”
His eyes jumped to yours.
“You don’t get to spend hours proving you can listen to me and then go right back to treating me like spun glass.”
The words were sharper than you intended, but you did not take them back. You were tired and sore and still flushed with the chemical’s fading heat, and you could not bear the thought of waking up tomorrow with Steve further away from you than he had been before.
His hand closed carefully around your elbow.
He helped you sit.
Then he let go.
You sighed. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He looked down.
The room was cooler now, or maybe your skin was finally returning to itself. The sheets were tangled around you, towels abandoned near the edge of the bed, and Steve had arranged water and protein bars on the table with the grim practicality of a soldier preparing supplies during a siege.
You touched his hand.
He went still, but he did not pull away.
“I remember,” you said.
His gaze lifted.
“I know you’re going to worry it was all fever and chemicals and that I’ll wake up horrified. So I’m telling you now. I remember asking. I remember you listening. I remember you stopping when I said wait. I remember you giving me water like the world’s most overqualified nurse.”
That got the smallest breath of amusement from him.
“And I remember liking it,” you said.
His expression closed.
You squeezed his hand before he could leave you from six inches away. “Steve.”
His voice was quiet. “There will be bruises.”
“Probably.”
“I was too rough.”
“You were rougher.”
His eyes met yours.
The distinction mattered. You could see him hearing it.
“You were not too rough,” you said. “If you had been, I would have told you.”
“You were drugged.”
“So were you.”
“That doesn’t cancel it out.”
“No. It means we talk about it like adults who were put in an awful situation by people who wanted to use our bodies against us.” Your throat tightened, but you kept going. “HYDRA did that. Not you.”
Steve looked away.
You shifted closer, giving him time to stop you.
He did not.
“The worst part,” you said softly, “is that I’m afraid you’re going to use this as proof that you were right to hold back.”
He did not answer.
That was answer enough.
“I don’t know how not to think about what could have happened,” he said. “I don’t know how to look at marks on you and not wonder if I misjudged. I don’t know how to be that with you without worrying I’ll become something I can’t take back.”
You cupped his face.
He went still.
“Listen to me,” you said. “I do not need you drugged. I do not need you out of control. I do not need you to become someone else. I need you listening. That’s all I’ve ever been asking for.”
His eyes closed.
You leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his.
“Sometimes I want sweet. Sometimes I want slow. Sometimes I want the way you touch me when you’re trying to remind me I’m safe.”
Steve’s hand rose to your waist, hesitant but there.
“And sometimes,” you continued, “I want to feel your strength because I already know I’m safe with you.”
His fingers tightened, not by much, but enough for you to notice.
You smiled.
His eyes opened, and this time he saw you clearly. You were tired and sore, sober enough to know what you were saying, and still leaning into his hand.
A long breath left him.
“I don’t know if I can promise to get it right every time,” he said.
“You don’t have to.”
His thumb moved once at your waist. “I can promise to keep listening.”
Your chest softened. “That’s the whole thing, Rogers.”
He huffed out a quiet laugh.
Then he kissed you.
It was gentle.
You let it be.
Gentle was not the enemy. Careful was not the enemy. You loved this part of him, the sweetness that survived war and serum and ice and every person who had tried to make him into something less human than he was.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours again.
“I love you,” he said.
“I know.”
His eyes narrowed.
You smiled. “I love you too.”
“Better.”
“You’re needy after sex pollen.”
His face went pink.
You laughed, and this time it did not hurt as much.
The speaker chimed before Bruce’s voice came through again, cautious but relieved. “Your levels are dropping. Steve’s are still elevated, but trending down.”
You patted Steve’s cheek. “Negative refractory period and slow toxin clearance. Tragic.”
Bruce coughed.
Steve closed his eyes. “Please don’t say that where he can hear you.”
Bruce, sounding like he regretted medical school, said, “You’re both past the worst of it.”
Past the worst of it.
You leaned into Steve and felt his arm come around you. Still careful. Always careful. But when you tucked yourself closer, he did not loosen his hold to give you space you had not requested.
He kept you there.
That felt like victory.
Several hours later, the door unsealed.
By then, you had showered, changed into clean clothes from the transfer drawer, eaten two protein bars, half a sandwich, and something Tony claimed was a recovery smoothie but looked like melted radioactive mint chip. Steve had refused to let you drink it until Bruce confirmed it was safe. You had refused to let Steve throw it away until you got to take a picture.
For blackmail, obviously.
The chemical had faded to an afterglow of exhaustion and tenderness by the time Dr. Cho cleared you both for release. She examined you first, clinically calm, making notes on your vitals and checking the places where bruises had begun to rise along your hips and thighs. Steve stood on the other side of the room pretending not to watch while absolutely watching.
Dr. Cho glanced between you once and said, “Any pain beyond expected muscle soreness?”
“No.”
Steve’s jaw tightened.
You shot him a look.
Dr. Cho’s mouth curved faintly. “Any dizziness? Nausea? Confusion?”
“No.”
“Do you feel safe leaving quarantine with Captain Rogers?”
Steve looked as if the question had physically struck him.
You answered without hesitation. “Yes.”
Dr. Cho nodded as if she had expected nothing else, then turned to Steve. “Do you?”
That surprised him.
It surprised you, too.
Steve blinked. “Do I what?”
“Feel safe leaving quarantine with her.”
For a second, he looked almost offended on your behalf. Then the question settled, and something complicated moved through his face.
“Yes,” he said quietly.
Dr. Cho made another note. “Good.”
When she left, Steve stared after her.
You bumped his arm with your shoulder. “Told you. Smart woman.”
He looked down at you. “You planned that?”
“No. I’m just choosing to take credit.”
His smile was small but real.
The hallway outside quarantine was empty except for Natasha, who leaned against the far wall with a paper bag in one hand and the expression of someone prepared to murder Tony Stark if necessary. She took in both of you with one sweep of her eyes, pausing only briefly on the marks high on Steve’s neck that his shirt did not fully cover.
Her brows rose.
Steve’s ears went red again.
You took the bag from her. “Please tell me that’s food.”
“Your actual clothes,” Natasha said. “And food.”
“I’ve never loved you more.”
“I know.”
Steve cleared his throat. “Where’s Tony?”
“Banned from this floor,” Natasha said. “Possibly forever, depending on whether he makes the T-shirt.”
You stared at her. “What T-shirt?”
“The one he absolutely should not make.”
Steve looked up at the ceiling like he was asking God for strength, and despite everything, you started laughing.
He looked at you like you were the sunrise and a headache at the same time.
Natasha’s expression softened by a fraction. “Go home. Sleep. Hydrate. Don’t let him brood too much.”
“I don’t brood,” Steve said.
Natasha and you looked at him.
He frowned. “I don’t brood that much.”
“That’s progress,” Natasha said, and walked away.
The elevator ride to Steve’s floor was quiet without being uncomfortable. Your body was exhausted in a deep, humming way, and Steve kept his hand around yours as if he had decided, finally, that touching you after quarantine was allowed.
“You’re thinking,” you said.
“I do that.”
“Dangerous habit.”
His mouth curved, then faded.
When the elevator doors opened, he did not move right away.
“I don’t want that to be the only time,” he said.
Your heart tripped.
Steve looked straight ahead into the empty hallway, jaw set as if he were bracing himself for enemy fire. “Not like that. Not because of the drug. I don’t want that again.”
“Me neither.”
“But what you asked for.” He glanced at you then, uncertain but honest. “I don’t want to go back to pretending I don’t hear you.”
The tenderness that moved through you was almost worse than the heat had been.
“Okay,” you said.
His brows drew together slightly. “Okay?”
“We don’t go back.”
Some of the tension eased from his shoulders.
“We talk,” you said. “When we’re rested. When there’s no toxin, no quarantine, no Tony making commentary from behind glass. We figure out what we both want. What’s okay. What isn’t. Where you need reassurance. Where I need you to stop deciding for me.”
Steve absorbed that.
Then he nodded. “I can do that.”
“I know.”
His eyes softened. “You sound very sure.”
“I am.”
“About me?”
You squeezed his hand. “Always.”
That one hit him. Steve could take praise in public if it were about Captain America, but give Steve Rogers certainty in private, and he looked like you had handed him something fragile enough to frighten him.
You loved him so much that it made you ache.
“Come on,” you said softly. “Take me to bed.”
His eyes darkened before he could stop them.
You pointed at him. “To sleep.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it very loudly.”
“I have never thought loudly in my life.”
“You are a patriotic foghorn.”
He laughed then, a real laugh, tired and warm in the empty hallway. It followed you into his apartment, into the quiet space that smelled like laundry detergent and coffee and the faint cedar soap he liked. You changed into one of his shirts because your clean clothes were in Natasha’s bag and Steve’s were closer. He pretended not to watch you do it.
The bed felt impossibly soft.
Steve climbed in after you with unusual caution, lying on his back at first as though he did not want to presume. You let him suffer for approximately three seconds before rolling into his side.
His arm came around you.
Careful.
Then, after a pause, firmer.
You smiled against his chest.
“There,” you murmured.
Steve’s chin brushed the top of your head. “There?”
“That’s better.”
His hand spread against your back.
The weight of it was warm and solid and exactly enough.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. His heartbeat slowed beneath your ear. Yours followed. The city beyond the windows moved on without you, full of noise and light and people who had no idea that the world had narrowed for a few hours to a locked room, a terrible chemical, and the difference between fear and trust.
You were almost asleep when Steve said your name.
“Hm?”
“I was scared,” he said quietly. “Not of you. Not really of the drug either. I was scared I’d find out there was a part of me I couldn’t control.”
You lifted your head.
“And then I was scared because I could control it enough to listen,” he said. “Which meant all the times before, when you asked and I pulled back, it wasn’t because I couldn’t do it safely. It was because I didn’t trust myself.”
Your throat tightened. “It frustrated me. Sometimes it hurt my feelings. Not because you wouldn’t do exactly what I wanted, but because it felt like you trusted your fear more than you trusted me.”
His face softened with pain.
“But I understand why,” you said. “That doesn’t erase it. It gives us somewhere to go.”
His hand covered yours.
“I don’t need perfect,” you said. “I need honest. And I need you to stop looking at my bruises like they’re evidence in a murder investigation.”
A startled laugh broke out of him.
You grinned. “Some of those are mine emotionally.”
He shook his head, but the guilt in his eyes eased. “You’re impossible.”
“You love me.”
“I do.”
“Unfortunately?”
His smile softened. “Never.”
That was unfair. You were too tired to be expected to survive Steve Rogers saying things like that while looking at you like you were the only place he had ever wanted to come home to.
You settled back against him, hiding your face in his shirt.
“Go to sleep,” he murmured.
“You first.”
“I can do this all night.”
“Negative refractory period and no sleep requirements. Tragic.”
“Please stop calling it that.”
“No.”
He sighed, but his arm tightened around you, and this time there was no fear in it.
Only warmth.
Only weight.
Only Steve, careful with you because he loved you.
And finally, finally, strong enough to understand that careful did not always mean letting go.
credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider and @saradika-graphics for the Captain America divider
Amazing! I love sex pollen with a side of angst, but hands down my fav line was
“You are a patriotic foghorn.”
🤣🤣
steve rogers recs
no. of fics = 26 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ last updated = 15.07.26
phantom limb | one shot, trifecta | @crybabycabin
if the fates allow | imagine, fluff | @witchywithwhiskey
lucky | one shot, flangst | @moonvis
warm | one shot, flangst | @chrisevansredbelt
i'll be here | one shot, flangst | @chrisevansredbelt
stepping on toes | one shot, flangst (more fluff) | @writing-for-marvel
lunch date | imagine, fluff | @marvelwitchergilmore
steve finally gets drunk | imagine, fluff | @brunchable
happy accidents | one shot, fluff | @54nboo
enough | one shot, flangst | deactivated blog
i vow to you | imagine, fluff, suggestive | @juniebjonesin
kiss me and i might drop dead | one shot, flangst | @heaven4lostgirls
captain domestic | imagine, fluff | @proof-that-tony-has-a-page
make them team up again | imagine, flangst | @sosa2imagines
we're all adults here | drabble, fluff | @yasministration
post-it notes | one shot, flangst | @bingbongsupremacy
better than yoga | one shot, trifecta | @marvelwitchergilmore
fall into love | one shot, fluff | @mrslilyrogers
wrapped in ribbon, wrapped in love | imagine, fluff, smut | @juniebjonesin
the notebook | imagine, fluff | @chrisevansredbelt
everywhere everything | imagine, flangst (more fluff) | @pinksplace
i'm a mess | one shot, flangst | @semper-nox
lullaby | one shot, flangst (more fluff) | @unificsation
"you don't understand" | imagine, flangst, comfort | @blackmarketfruitrollups
tears | one shot, fluff, smut | @miasvelvetvoid
years to bloom between | one shot, flangst | @peterparkive
Post-It Notes
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Avenger!Reader
Warning: None that I can think of
Summary: Steve starts leaving Post-It notes around the compound to encourage the Avengers. You’re the only one who writes back.
Neither of you ever mentions it out loud -but deep down, you know the notes mean more than they should. Are you finding love in the middle of your chaotic life... or are you just misreading Steve’s kindness? +Bonus Stuff at The End (Notes, Steve's Reaction, After you're together)
No details of the reader's appearance, race, weight, etc. Reader is however able-bodied.
*Not Proof Read*
It starts because Steve is trying.
Trying to be better. Trying to be enough.
The compound has been heavy lately. Too many missions, too many close calls, too many days where people come back with haunted eyes and blood on their boots. The usual buzz of laughter and noise has calmed into a tense silence.
Steve sees it, the weight pressing down on all of you. So he starts leaving Post-It notes.
Little things. Encouragements. Reminders that somebody sees you.
"You're stronger than yesterday."
"Thanks for having my six today."
"You matter more than you know."
You find one stuck to your laptop after a long mission, and your chest aches so badly you have to pretend you’re just tired.
Because it’s been a long time since anyone said something like that to you-without expecting something in return.
At first, everyone thinks it’s cute.
There’s teasing. Eye-rolls. Laughter.
Clint wears one on his forehead for half a day. Nat rips one in half and deadpans, “Look, now it's a 'half-assed compliment.'” Sam pins one to a dartboard and throws knives at it for practice.
And slowly, quietly, the notes stop appearing for everyone else.
Not because Steve stops writing them. Because no one answers back.
Except you.
You’re the only one who writes him back. You don't even really mean to, at first. It's instinct- this ache in your chest spilling over in ink.
One morning, when he's busy training with Bucky, you tuck a note under the handle of his shield.
"You’re doing a good job too, you know."
The next day, there's a note waiting on your coffee mug:
"I’m trying. Thank you."
After that, it's just you and him.
A secret conversation nobody else knows about, carried out in scribbled handwriting and curling edges of sticky paper. A secret conversation that's built up to mean a lot for the both of you.
Some mornings you wake up to find one on your door.
"Hope today is kinder to you."
You leave one tucked into the crack of the training room door:
"It never is. But you make it bearable."
The notes shift- slow and tender, almost too tender. You two begin to dive into a different area of your relationship, one deeper and softer. Unexplored territory neither of you have dared to enter before. One that shines light on vulnerability from the both of you.
They start to say the things you’re too afraid to say out loud.
The things that weigh on your mind when the halls are too empty and the world feels too big to survive in. Personal things you've never shared before.
The notes feel like a conversation between different versions of yourselves -the braver, softer ones who aren't so afraid to be seen.
In person, you and Steve never talk about them. You don't acknowledge them. You don't elaborate. You just keep moving through life like the conversation never happened.
But you know.
You both know.
Maybe it’s because the notes make it easier. Easier to open up. Easier to say the things you’re too scared to say out loud.
There’s none of the pressure that comes with looking someone in the eye and trying to be brave. None of the fear that they’ll see right through you -see how fragile you really are underneath it all.
Maybe it's because, deep down, you're still terrified of being vulnerable with another person.
And maybe he is too.
Neither of you really knows how to start the conversation. So you don't try.
You just keep writing.
And somehow, that becomes enough.
Weeks pass.
You almost don't notice when you start carrying the notes in your jacket pocket. It's become something so natural and comforting -a way to cope with the harsh world.
You read them over and over when missions go bad, when your hands are shaking too hard to hold a gun steady, when you feel like you don't deserve to be here. You find comfort in them in the middle of the night when the world is silent, but your mind is not.
The words are always simple.
Never elaborate. Never heavy-handed.
Just real.
And they always find you when you need them the most.
You don't realize how much it means until one day, one awful day, there isn't a note.
Not on your laptop. Not on your door. Not anywhere.
Just silence.
The kind of silence that eats at the hollow spaces inside you.
You try not to let it get to you. You fail.
Maybe it was stupid to think this meant anything.
Maybe you were just a charity case to him.
Maybe you’ve been reading too much into scraps of paper and wishful thinking.
But then, just as you're about to crumble under the weight of it all, you find one.
Not neatly placed, not obvious.
Crumpled. Half-shoved under your door. Like it was left in a hurry. Like he almost couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Your hands tremble as you unfold it. Your heart pounds, nervous to see what's inside.
It's just four words.
Scrawled in handwriting you know better than your own name by now:
"Please don't give up."
You sit down hard on the floor, clutching the note like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth.
Because he saw you. Even when you thought no one did.
Because somehow, Steve Rogers, the man who carries the whole damn world on his shoulders, still had room to carry you, too.
That night, you leave him a note.
You don't sign it.
You don't have to. You know he'll know it's you.
You stick it to the outside of his door and pray he finds it before anyone else does.
"I wasn't going to... but only because of you. You make me happy. Steve, you mean the world to me."
You don’t sleep that night, too busy tossing and turning as you anxiously wait to see what happens.
You tell yourself you’re not waiting for a reply.
You tell yourself it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t answer. You're lying.
Morning comes, gray and sluggish, and there's no note waiting for you.
Just a yawning, hollow ache in your chest you can’t quite fill.
You feel disappointed. Maybe you had read the situation wrong. Maybe you shouldn't have exposed your heart so much to the man. It felt right in the moment-natural. But maybe it was too much for the soldier to handle.
You go through the motions anyway. You have to.
Training. Weapon checks. A mission briefing you barely hear.
Oh, the mission debriefing.
You’re sitting across from Steve in the debriefing room, trying to act like nothing’s changed, trying to ignore the way your heart still stutters when you think about the note you left for him. It’s harder than you thought it would be.
He’s sitting there, too -still Steve Rogers, still wearing that perfectly calm, unreadable expression like he’s the last person in the world who could possibly be nervous. You’re probably projecting. He’s probably fine.
You’re not fine.
Your fingers drum softly against the table, your gaze shifting between the notes scattered in front of you, the faces of the other Avengers, the screen showing the mission brief. Anything but him.
It’s been hours since you left the note.
Hours since you put yourself out there, so far out, you almost can’t see the shore.
But here you are, sitting across from him, trying to act like nothing’s changed.
Like, there was no unspoken admission of everything between you in that tiny yellow square of paper.
And he hasn’t said anything.
Neither of you has mentioned it.
You almost wish he would. You almost wish he’d do something, a single glance, a soft laugh, some acknowledgment that the elephant in the room isn’t just suffocating you.
But he doesn’t.
And you’re not sure if that’s worse.
Instead, he’s talking about the mission -mission details, coordinates, all the tactical stuff that’s so second nature to him.
You’re nodding along, your mind only half in the room.
How could it be?
How could you pretend you’re not tangled up in the mess of whatever happened between you two?
You look at Steve -really look at him this time.
He’s focused and determined. Serious.
And yet...
It’s like there’s something in the air between you.
Something that’s heavy, like it’s waiting to fall.
He has to feel it. Right?
But neither of you is going to say anything. Not here. Not now. You don’t know if you’re scared of what it would mean if you did.
Or if he is.
You take a small breath and force your focus back to the mission details. You have to focus. This mission is important, and this is what you do, right? You’re an Avenger. You can compartmentalize, you can handle this. You’ve handled worse. Lives depend on you. You can't fuck up.
That's so much pressure. It's suffocating, stacking on top of the stress with Steve. But there's nothing you can do about it. This is your job.
But it’s harder when the person across from you is Steve Rogers -someone who somehow changed everything with a few quiet notes. Someone who isn’t supposed to make your heart race just by walking into the room. Someone who isn’t supposed to make it feel like the world has stopped just because he didn’t say anything at all.
This is all too much.
A small part of you wonders if you’ve made a mistake. Maybe you shouldn’t have left that note. Maybe you shouldn’t have let yourself be so vulnerable. It was too soon. He's probably weirded out. He probably doesn't feel the same. The friendship is ruined over one little note -a note with big words.
But then the tiniest thing happens.
His hand moves slightly toward the pile of notes in front of him -the ones you left out for the mission brief -and just before he grabs one to make a point, his finger brushes against the corner of your note. You know it’s yours. You can tell by the way the edge is slightly crinkled from being tucked into the pocket of his jacket. The one with your handwriting.
He doesn’t look at it.
He doesn’t acknowledge it.
He just… moves on. Like it's nothing. Like your words were forgettable.
But that small moment? It shatters you.
Because you know, deep down, that he saw it. That he felt it. That the note meant something to him, too. But you’ll never know if it’s the same thing it meant to you.
You bite your lip, trying to keep the flush from creeping up your neck. You can’t look at him. You can’t do this.
But somehow, you do.
Just for a second, your eyes flick to his face. And there it is -just barely visible, a shadow. A flicker. Something in the way his jaw tenses. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re imagining it.
Maybe it's everything.
The words you almost say -the words that almost leave your mouth, they die in your throat, buried by the tightness in your chest. So you keep your gaze low, nodding along with the others, trying to act like the weight of the world isn’t in your heart. Trying to act like everything’s normal, even though it’s not. You know it. He knows it.
And neither of you is brave enough to speak.
Later that afternoon, you're still thinking about it.
And you tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself that maybe it meant more to you than it ever did to him. Maybe you made the whole thing up in your head. Maybe—
When you get back to your room, there's a Post-It stuck crookedly to your door.
You stop breathing.
You peel it off with shaking fingers, heart rattling so loud in your ears you almost miss the words.
"Roof. Midnight. — S"
Just that. No smiley face. No little joke.
Just a place and a time, like an order you could disobey but never would.
You almost don't go. You almost convince yourself it’s safer to stay inside, stay in your room, stay tucked away behind all the walls you built around yourself. In here, you can predict what happens next. You'll binge-watch a show and try to drown the pain in your chest with distractions. Out there -on that roof...there's no telling what's next. In here, things are safe.
But the thing is -you don’t want to be safe anymore.
You want him.
You climb the stairs to the roof just before midnight, the compound quiet around you. The sky is clear and sharp above, stars scattered like someone spilled salt across black paint.
He’s already there. Leaning against the railing, looking up at the sky like it’s speaking a language only he understands.
You stop a few feet away. You don’t say anything. Neither does he.
The silence is deafening. And for a second, you think maybe you’ve made a mistake. Maybe he’s here to tell you it was nothing. That you misread everything. Maybe he's here to let you down softly before building up another wall.
You turn the Post-It over and over in your pocket with clammy fingers, wishing you were braver and knew where to start.
But then...he looks at you.
And in that moment, you realize: He’s just as scared as you are. There’s something raw in his eyes. Something almost broken. His face isn't the way it was earlier in the debriefing. His usually calm expression is more tense and nervous.
Slowly, carefully, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a crumpled stack of yellow notes.
Yours.
Every single one. He kept them. He kept all of them.
Your throat burns.
“I didn’t know how to say it,” Steve says finally, voice rough. He looks down at the notes in his hands. His thumb gently caresses the Post-it note on top of the stack, so careful like they're made of glass. “Any of it.”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
He huffs a laugh -bitter and soft. “I can fight armies. I can stand in front of bullets. But when it comes to you... I just-I didn’t know how to start.” His eyes meet your gaze.
You take a shaky step closer.
The air between you feels electric, thrumming with everything unsaid.
“I didn’t either,” you whisper. “I still don’t.”
His hand tightens around the notes.
"You made it easy," he says. "You made it feel like... maybe it was okay to be scared. As long as I wasn’t alone in it."
You feel something inside you crack, something old and brittle and terrified -and you step forward again until you're close enough to touch.
You’re shaking.
So is he.
Very carefully, like he’s afraid you might shatter, Steve lifts one hand and brushes a knuckle along your cheek.
“You’re not alone,” he says.
And this time -this time, you believe him.
You surge forward and wrap your arms around him, burying your face against his broad chest. His body radiates warmth and comfort. Immediately, you feel safe.
Steve lets out a soft, broken sound and pulls you in tighter, like he's been waiting forever for this.
Neither of you says anything else.
You don't need to.
Because you both know. You always have.
----
Extra's
The Notes
In The Beginning (Before You Respond)
"You’re doing great. Don’t forget to take care of yourself today. — S"
"Coffee's on me. Kitchen, top shelf. — S"
"That report you turned in? Impressive. Don’t sell yourself short. — S"
"Training room at 4? I’ll save you a punching bag. — S"
When You Begin Replying
"Bad day? You’re stronger than you think. — S"
"Sometimes even heroes need a break. Hope you’re giving yourself one. — S"
"Maybe. Sometimes it feels like I'm barely holding it together.
But it helps, knowing someone thinks I can. — You"
"Working on it. (Still figuring out how to not feel guilty when I take one and how to remember.) Thanks for the reminder. — You"
"The way you handled yourself yesterday… you remind me why I believe in people. — S"
"I don't always believe in myself. It means more than I can say that you do. Thank you. Really. — You"
When Feelings Develop and Vulnerabilities are Shared
"Some nights I wake up gasping. Still stuck in old battles that aren't mine anymore. Hard to remember I’m safe. — S"
"You’re not alone. I still get nightmares too -about mistakes, about people I couldn’t save. It doesn’t mean we’re weak. It means we remember. — You"
"I think the fact you worry about it means you won’t. You care too much. You feel too much. That’s what saves you. — You"
"I worry sometimes that remembering makes me dangerous.
Like I’m just waiting to crack apart. — S"
"I never learned how to ask for help. Old habits die hard, I guess. But lately... I think I'd like to try. — S"
"You don't have to do it alone anymore. You never did. (I'm still learning too. Maybe we can figure it out together.) — You"
"I saw the way you looked out for everyone today. You don’t even realize it -how steady you are. You’re the strongest person I know. — S"
"I'm scared most days that I’ll never be enough. That one day, someone will see through me and realize I’m not who they thought. (Thank you for seeing me anyway.) — You"
"You are more than enough. You’re extraordinary. — S"
The Notes That Made Both of You Wonder if There Could Be More
"You light up a room without even trying. Not sure if you know that. — S"
"You’re more than just your shield, you know. I hope you see that the way the rest of us do. (The way I do.) — You"
"I feel a little less lost when I’m around you. Strange, huh? — S"
"Don’t tell anyone, but... You’re kind of my favorite Avenger. — You"
"I’m starting to think books are better when you’re the one who recommends them. (Or maybe it’s just because they remind me of you.) — S"
"Strength isn’t just muscles and grit. Sometimes it’s quiet and steady and shows up when no one’s watching. That’s the kind of strong you are. — You"
"You make the hard days softer. Just thought you should know. — S"
Steve's Reaction To Your Note:
The hall is quiet when Steve gets back to his floor.
It’s late enough that most of the lights are off, the compound humming softly around him like a sleeping giant. He rubs the back of his neck, exhausted -physically, emotionally. He’s not even sure why he checks his door.
Maybe it’s habit. Maybe it’s hope.
And there it is -a small square of yellow, stuck crookedly against the wood.
He peels it off carefully, thumb brushing over the crumpled corners and familiar handwriting.
"I wasn't going to... but only because of you. You make me happy. Steve, you mean the world to me."
Steve stares at it for a long time. Long enough that the words blur together.
He sinks down against the door, the note clutched tight between his fingers like it might disappear if he lets go. His heart pounds quickly.
He can't believe what he's reading.
His chest feels too small, too tight, like there’s not enough room for everything suddenly crowding inside it.
Because he knows what she’s saying. God -he knows.
It’s not just about the notes. Not just about the inside jokes or the good mornings or the careful, clumsy affection that’s been blooming between them like a secret garden no one else can see.
It’s about her. Her heart. Her hurt. Her hope.
It’s about the way she trusted him enough to say it -even if she couldn't say it out loud.
And Steve...
He feels like he’s been standing at the edge of a cliff for months now, too afraid to jump. Too afraid to fall.
But she jumped first. She jumped for him.
He swallows hard, blinking up at the ceiling like maybe that'll stop the burn behind his eyes. It doesn’t.
Carefully, reverently, he folds the note and tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket, right over his heart.
Then he pulls out a fresh Post-It, his hands only shaking a little, and scribbles three words:
"Roof. Midnight. — S"
Simple. Plain.
But it’s the start of something he’s been too afraid to reach for. Until now.
Steve's heart pounds louder as he walks closer to her door. When he's finally in front of it, he's so close to pressing the note on it, when fears fill his mind.
What if he's misreading the situation? What if she doesn't like him the way he's thinking she might? What if he ruins everything they've built between them?
Steve's thoughts get the best of him. With the note in his hand, he turns back around to his room. As the distance grows between her room, his heart sinks lower. He's unsure. He's...scared.
Steve makes it to his room, setting the Post-it note on his desk. He sits on his bed, staring down at the small piece of paper with his writing. He'll decide tomorrow if he should leave it for her or not.
Tonight, he'll go through her notes again and make sure he's not reading this wrong.
After They're Together
The Post-Its don't stop after you and Steve finally find your way to each other. If anything, they multiply.
Now they're not hidden anymore. They're not careful or scared. Now they’re everywhere -like tiny, living proof of your love for each other.
You leave some for him. Next to his shield, waiting for him before training.
"The world is lucky to have Captain America. I'm luckier to have you. — You"
On his favorite hair gel, you bought when you noticed he was running low.
"Thinking of you. I hope your day is wonderful, just like you. -You"
Next to the breakfast you make for him.
"I love you more than the moon and the stars. Never forget that. -You"
Inside his pocket before a mission:
"Come back to me. (I believe in you.) — You"
He leaves them for you. On the cup of coffee he sets out for you every morning.
"Love you more than caffeine. (And that's saying something.) — S"
On your dresser, near your mirror.
"You're beautiful, even when you think you're not. Especially then. — S"
Tucked under your pillow on a rough day:
"You don't have to be strong tonight. Let me hold you. — S"
In your sketchbook, slipped between the pages:
"You make the world better just by existing. I hope you know that. — S"
Sometimes you find them in your shoes, or taped to the door, or tucked between the pages of a book he knows you’re reading. Sometimes he finds yours in his wallet, his glove, or the inside of his gym bag. You two leave them everywhere.
They're sloppier now, the handwriting messier, rushed -because there’s no more fear weighing down your hands. You don't have to be perfect for each other. You just have to be.
And when he kisses you goodnight, you swear you can still feel every unsaid word from all those early notes written against your skin.
Still there. Still unfolding. Still yours
lullaby
steve rogers x reader, 4.7k
a fic about that thing when you get sleepy around the person you love. WARNINGS/TAGS: reader is a shield agent, reader's gender is unspecified, mentions of canon-typical violence, fluff/soft, the space between friends and something more
Turns out insomnia can be cured, only with very specific ingredients.
One: have Sam Wilson insist on watching Top Gun—again—when it comes his turn for a movie night pick.
This happens every two months or so. You love the man, but he needs to stop trolling at this point. After this rewatch, you’ll probably regurgitate Val Kilmer’s lines while you brush your teeth in the morning.
Wanda rolls her eyes so hard you think they might get stuck like that forever.
“This is the last time, Sam!”
But Sam smiles through the crowd’s boos. Even while the team complains, they take their positions on and around the couch anyway. Yourself included.
Because everyone loves him, and it’s just your fucking luck he loves Top Gun.
Two: find a comfortable surface.
The common room couch? Real nice surface. Of course a government-funded cohabitation facility for their top operatives can afford Egyptian cotton-upholstered furniture.
Three: be extremely tired.
The most recent mission you completed just finished debriefing in the afternoon—a few hours before movie night. It was a track-and-extract of a trafficking ring, except you got assigned the track part, and that was a lot less fun. The stakeouts were long, and the car you sat in had aged leather seats that dampened the already stale air. No air conditioning—can’t risk turning on the engine. No activity around the building you watched, either.
Stretch that out for some days, and naturally, all you wanted upon touchdown was a hot shower and a bed with springs.
Top Gun, a soft couch, and fatigue. Those three variables are enough to force you asleep, but just to be as empirical as possible, you have to list down another.
Four:
Get Steve Rogers to sit next to you.
Technically you didn’t get him to. He sauntered in late, saw the only open spot, and helped himself.
Suspicious, come to think of it. Why did nobody sit next to you? Nat and you would whisper quipped commentaries at each other. Wanda and you are close enough friends to cuddle. Sam would take the opportunity to further grind your gears by manspreading—his hobby is grinding people’s gears.
“Comfy?”
Steve is dressed in gray sweats and a simple t-shirt, its deep blue bringing out his eyes.
He’s the one who looks comfortable, if anything. You’re tempted to thumb at his shirt sleeve and ask about the thread count, but like a normal human being, you nod your yes and watch the opening credits roll.
You can feel his blue eyes on the side of your cheek before he looks at the screen, too.
The moment the movie begins proper, you find yourself muttering the opening line.
“Ghost Rider, this is Strike. We have unknown contact. Inbound Mustang. Your vector zero nine zero for bogey.”
Steve chuckles next to you and the warm sound coaxes your eyes to meet.
What happens next is automatic: seeing him smile makes you do the same.
The movie continues on, but its familiarity begs your attentions to wander. They instead pay dues to the gravity of his forearm, which nearly brushes yours. In the dim, you catch a glimpse of a vein that runs down one side like a river, and file the image away as inappropriate.
That’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. Your boss, good friend, and the entire nation’s moral compass, who keeps a list of the best places to get apple pie. You will direct your gaze with the respect he deserves.
And you do. Except in schooling your vision, your other senses betray you.
He smells good.
That thought feels way more inappropriate than looking at his forearm—which, for the record, you have seen and touched, all in a professional capacity. So you chose to stare at his hand again and hold your brain back from cataloging the scent of his soap, shampoo, or whatever combination of product that has your heart kicking like it wants out of your chest.
Steve Rogers doesn’t cure insomnia. He worsens it—or so you think.
Sleepy is the last thing you are, until the minutes tick by and sleep claims you anyway. You remember yawning while watching the nightclub scene. Iceman wore a pair of aviators indoors.
By the time the flying part of Top Gun rolls around, you don’t get to watch it: you’re knocked out cold.
─ ·✶· ─
When you wake up, cold is the last thing you are. Partly because the common room is designed to bleed with sunlight.
It’s morning, just the top of—yellow rays cut through the windows, no cloud in the sky to block its path.
Your skin feels warm.
It’s really no surprise. Steve Rogers is lying next to you.
How he is lying next to you is a surprise. The man’s broad frame looks cramped on the inside part of the couch, but nothing on his face betrays discomfort. He’s sound asleep, one arm folded under his head, the other slung loosely on your waist—not quite encircling it, just resting. His chest rises and falls slow. You realize this because you have both hands on that exact part of him.
Oh, shit. You’re touching his chest.
It turns out you shifted your palms a little too quickly, because Steve begins to stir. His tendency for alertness quickly revealed blue eyes that blinked once, twice, thrice—before his gaze eventually focuses on you. He doesn’t yawn, perhaps as confused as you are.
“Morning,” you whisper, almost sheepish.
He hums back. “Morning.”
“Uh… What happened?”
It’s quiet for a bit. You’re not sure if his brain has caught up. He’s staring—not the kind of stare you see on the field. Softer. Blue eyes study your face, then the position you’re in, piecing together the scene.
“You fell asleep last night,” he finally says, running his fingers through his hair. They fall across his forehead like the most good-looking bad news you’ve ever laid your eyes on. “Guess I must’ve fallen asleep, too.”
The untangling happens slowly. He lifts his arm away from your waist, props himself up on one elbow. You take the chance to sit and stretch, pretending that a tight neck is your number one concern and not the growing warmth on your cheeks.
“Can’t believe none of them woke us up,” you murmur. “Sam should be banned from picking Top Gun ever again.”
He chuckles. The sound still hits you like it did last night, amplified now by the lack of distance between you. But Steve finally stands up, folds his arms behind his head, then extends them. He repeats the motion a few times. You feel bad—his circulation must be damn near cut off after sleeping weird the entire night on a couch far too small for two.
“Well… at least we’re well-rested.”
You blink, taken aback.
“You slept well?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he nods, “you?”
Now that the question ricocheted back, you realize you don’t feel shitty where you should. Your limbs aren’t particularly sore. Your head feels clear after the initial fog.
Well-rested. Is this what it feels like?
“I think so,” you reply. There’s a smile on his face when you look back at him: small and slightly lopsided. He looks handsome.
Then he extends a hand, as if he knew that smile would make your knees buckle.
“C’mon, I’ll make you coffee.”
The second time happens two weeks later.
The Quinjet’s hum was almost an alien silence after the fight.
It was tough. Only three operatives were deployed: you, Nat, and Steve—top operatives, yes, but still only three. You went up against a swarm of mercenaries, their guns blazing, while the team’s equipment was mostly stealth gear not even half the enemy’s firepower.
You managed by the skin of the edge of your teeth. The word barely doesn’t quite cover it.
After putting the jet on autopilot and complaining about rancid intel with adrenaline-flooded veins, the three of you fall quiet.
Fatigue creeps in.
Last part of the mission: get through a five-hour flight back to New York.
Natasha sits in front of you, rebuilding her usual mask of nonchalance—you can see it in her sigh as she buckles up. The earlier combat chipped at her cool, and reasonably so: being in this line of work for most of her life doesn’t change the fact that it only takes one bullet to end it.
And boy, were there quite the number of bullets.
Steve chose the spot next to you, despite all the empty space in the cabin. You thought maybe he wanted to huddle, talk about the mission, see how you held up. You were the only non-Avenger in this assignment—it was reasonable to assume you wouldn’t be as used to this as they are.
But it’s been a good ten minutes and he hasn’t said a word.
A moment of uncertainty grips you. Post-mission, he’s usually corralling the team, checking morale, doing a small debrief of his own. Granted, there’s only you and Nat, so maybe there’s no need for that, but…
…is he alright?
Just as you look over to your side, concerned, you feel warmth, weight, and a brush of something soft.
You can no longer move.
Because Steve is asleep, and his head was on your shoulder.
His seat isn’t exactly glued next to yours, but close enough for him to bridge the gap. You watch the blonde strands of his hair press against the black of your tac suit and think about all the times you felt his weight on you—the most recent being his back glued to your chest while he shielded you from a bullet hail, just before you managed a rocky takeoff.
Aside from that? Fingers around your wrist during training. “Nice try,” he said once, as if your uppercut wasn’t the most predictable move ever. A friendly hand patting your shoulder after.
But never like this.
It takes a lot of effort for you to stare at something else that isn’t him.
Your gaze unfortunately lands on Nat, less than five feet in front of you.
She’s already smirking.
You look down on your lap, slightly embarrassed and left with nothing you can do. A little less than five hours to go on this flight.
Might as well get some shut-eye.
─ ·✶· ─
“Hey.”
You blink awake, nearly jumping upright. Natasha chuckles, patting her hand on your shoulder.
“Easy, there,” she nods towards the cockpit. You see a familiar sight.
“We arrived. Get some real rest after the debrief.”
You rub the sleep away from your eyes. “Thanks.”
You glance at Steve. He’s already in the middle of getting out of his seat.
You wonder if his head on your shoulder was part of a dream.
At least the third time happens somewhere with a bed, which of course you argue over.
Steve starts it.
“I’ll take the couch.”
You thumb the hem of your tank top. “You know, I was going to say that.”
“That’s kind of you,” he smiles, “but please.”
He gestures to the bed the both of you are ever-so-politely “no, you”-ing over: it’s rickety and is clothed in the thinnest sheets ever, sure, but there’s only one of it, so naturally this battle of politeness has to be fought.
You raise a brow challengingly. “If you take the couch, I’ll take the floor.”
Steve’s expression hardens like he took that personally. “No way am I gonna let you.”
“Then take the bed.”
“Where will you sleep?”
“The couch.”
“But it’ll be uncomfortable.”
“Aha,” your lips curl into a smile, “so you admit that the couch is uncomfortable.”
He looks away. You can tell he’s holding back his face from breaking out into a disbelieving grin.
Eventually, like an overly-used television trope, the inevitable consensus is that you are going to share instead.
Funny how—even during the back-and-forth—it felt like it was always going to come to this. Like you’d surrendered sharing the bed as an eventuality rather than a possibility.
Funny how you could feel him thinking the same.
Which leads you to this point in time:
Two hours past midnight, T-minus five hours before your mission starts. Nothing high stakes—it’s just the two of you—but still, at this rate, you’ll be running on fumes tomorrow.
The night coats the safehouse in darkness, bedroom included: the curtains are drawn and the night light is off to hide you better.
Even in the dim, you can glimpse the outline of him. He’s in a t-shirt and sweats again.
His weight on the bed next to you is unmistakable. You try to recall the last time you didn’t sleep alone—except for the times you fell asleep with him.
You can’t remember.
He breaks the silence thirty minutes after you said your good nights.
You’re counting.
“Can’t sleep?”
You shift from your side to your back.
“You caught me. You?”
He’s seated instead of lying down, spine pressed against the brittle headboard.
“Same.”
You pause. Look at him from your spot on the pillow. His profile is sharp where the dark should dull it, or maybe you’ve just memorized it so well. Still, there’s something unreadable about him.
“Does it happen often?” you ask.
He looks down at you, blue eyes soft. “Sometimes. Often enough.”
You let the answer sink in—Steve Rogers, super soldier, can’t sleep—and shoot him a wry smile.
“Maybe you ought to lie down, if you want to try and sleep?”
He let out a quiet, humorous huff. “Yeah, you’re right.”
Then he makes himself comfortable next to you, head finally touching the pillow. You feel the cotton of his shirt brush against your bare shoulder. His weight is more prominent now, and there’s a faint smell that reminds you of a forest after the rain. The blonde of his hair brings you back to the Quinjet—weeks ago at this point, but your eyes remember.
He’s so close. If your fingers even so much as twitch, they’ll probably kiss his.
“Why can’t you sleep?” he asks, voice low.
You stare at him. The last time you saw him sideways like this was after movie night.
Why can’t you sleep? It’s been such a big part of your life, you forget why.
“It’s just difficult for me,” you start, “but these days… I’m not sure.”
He lets you find the thread, shifting so he’s facing you. You begin to face him, too—like your shoulder blades and his are long lost twins.
You finally tell him.
“I get a feeling that something is going to happen, and I need to be ready for it.”
Something in his eyes shines just then: a mosaic mix of regret and recognition.
Thirty-three minutes since ‘good night’, and in this nocturnal darkness, you see a kind of light.
On the surface, Steve couldn’t be more unlike you. Yet you find that the two of you are more similar than you initially thought.
You’re both soldiers who are good at your job, partly because of this: the alertness in your souls that demands one eye ever-watchful. The spirit of a sentinel that doesn’t know what peace is because it’s never learned.
They say there’s no rest for the wicked. Here he is, the truest heart of them all, not even sleepy.
In his wordless glance is an understanding. You have no need to explain.
But then his eyes start to wander and you wish he would say more, because the trace of his gaze feels too intimate for teammates.
Yet it tastes familiar.
Has he looked at you like this before? Ocean blues drag a path down your face, brushing past your lips in a swoop so secret you’d miss it if you blinked. His gaze veers off the side, but not away from you. Is he studying your cheek? The shell of your ear?
What on earth does he see in you?
You speak because the space between your ribcage hurts.
“We’re gonna be so fucked tomorrow morning.”
His laugh is quiet, more apparent in his face instead of the volume of his voice. There it is, the distraction you needed—except the sensation in your chest tugs stronger. Just once, but enough for you to notice.
Of course you’d fallen for him. There’s no way you wouldn’t.
But you’re a soldier, and so is he, and there’s work to do tomorrow.
To your mild surprise—and his, in the small shine in his eyes—you yawn.
It’s strange. It should keep you up, this proximity with him. Though your relationship with Steve is comfortable, the context around this situation should make you feel more uptight rather than relax.
You think about the man in the meeting room and the man you spar with. He advocates for calm decision-making, but eggs you on with a cheeky “that all you got, agent?” on the training mat. Both versions of him are here with you. In bed. A decision he made calmly.
How is it possible to be nervous and unwind at the same time?
A few seconds pass, and you yawn again.
“That’s your cue,” he smiles wryly. It shoots an arrow through you.
“Yeah. Try to get some sleep,” you smile back, turning to face away from him before he sees the crack in it. “Good night, Steve.”
“Good night.” He says your name, and that’s the last thing you hear.
Your lullaby.
You don’t know he falls asleep right after.
─ ·✶· ─
Steve wakes up first—he has a tendency of doing that. It means he’s the first witness to a softness that wrecks him.
Somewhere in the night, your bodies turned to face each other.
It reminds him of sunflowers.
Unlike that time after movie night, there’s more space between you. A part of him mourns the distance, though sharing a bed already signals a lack of.
Another part of him is happy he gets to see your face.
You look peaceful like this. Not that you look troubled when you’re awake. Just… something about your eyes closed, the space between your brows completely relaxed, your lips ever-so-slightly parted—it’s not a sight he gets to see often, especially not in this sort of terrain.
You might be in a safehouse, and the bed springs might be rusted by age, but the thin line between consciousness and sleep encourages the mind to wander—and for a man of discipline, wandering is dangerous. It tempts him with thoughts that taste more like dreams.
What if you weren’t in a safehouse? What if this was your bed—yours and his—and sharing it wasn’t birthed out of politeness?
What if this is just something he gets to see every morning?
You stir gently. A stray strand of hair falls on your face. He lifts his hand up to tuck it back.
Stubbornly, it slips back to where it landed before. He smiles.
This dream will soon end, he realizes. In a matter of minutes, he feels the sun rising behind his back, a treacherous thing that beckons another fight for someone else’s future.
When you open your eyes, you’ll go back to being soldiers. You’ll call him Cap on the field.
Last night’s memory surfaces. He holds on to the shape of his name in your voice.
The bright morning erases long shadows. For once, he wishes it didn’t.
He allows himself one final thing.
Fingers cradle your cheek, thumb brushing the soft of it. In your sleep, you lean into his touch. His breath snags, and so does his heartbeat.
Then, after the pang’s echoes die down, Steve rests a hand on your shoulder to wake you.
The fourth time happens because you ask for it.
He’s been up reading by the lamplight, only one chapter in when he started, now halfway through—a sign that the hour is later than he thinks it is. The book isn’t a particularly riveting one, either: time passed in a crawling pace with each page. Where he thought his ambivalence towards the subject matter would put him to sleep, here he is.
Wide awake on page 257.
Awake to hear the knock on his door. Three times. Soft, almost imperceptible.
Steve stares like he knows who it is already. The book is placed on the nightstand.
He opens the door to see you.
The sight tears him two ways.
You’re in short shorts and an oversized tee that has seen better days. He would see the print on the front if you weren’t hugging a folded-up blanket against your chest. There’s a sting on his sternum—from how you trust him enough to appear at his doorstep halfway through dawn, and from the look on your face.
It’s the look of someone who’s trying their best to sleep, but can’t.
“I didn’t think you’d be up, I’m so sorry,” you breathe, surprised.
He’s aware of the concern bleeding through his every gesture. You haven’t told him what you needed and he’s already holding the door wide open.
“Hey, no, don’t be. What’s wrong?”
You part your lips, deliberating.
“I can’t sleep.”
It’s as simple as that, but he knows exactly how difficult the battle is.
He nods, feeling his jaw clench. He hides his hands in his pockets—if they had their way, you’d be in his arms by now, but that’d be selfish of him.
Because clearly there’s something you want to tell him. Something more. He watches as you seem to debate for and against yourself: the toll of sleeplessness on you renders your expressions crystalline.
He waits patiently in the doorway. A quiet encouragement that yearns to surround you in louder ways.
You finally find the words.
“The last time I had a good night’s sleep was at that safehouse.”
He remembers. It was the night he wished you weren’t just agents on a mission. It was the night he got to stare at your back, wishing for a world where pulling you against his chest won’t make things complicated.
He swallows. “Me, too.”
In time’s desert, it’s these little memories he shares with you that dot the landscape like oases. You discovered these sacred places together, where you may fix what the journey broke.
But they’re still few and far between. The rest of life is a white noise: all those mission briefs and debriefs used to mean something, now they just chip away at the memory of what sanctuary feels like.
And yet he recalls the details perfectly. Enough to conjure a balm that is his own imagination. He pretends you’re next to him, weight sinking on the bed, hair splayed on his pillow. He pretends some nights. Most nights.
Every night.
“Can I please sleep with you?”
You ask before he can offer, then cut in before he responds.
“Not like that,” you stammer, distraught, “I mean—”
“No, I know what you mean, it’s okay.”
You laugh weakly, gesturing at your blanket. “I don’t want to seem presumptuous, it’s just that my room is—”
“Four floors down, yeah,” he knows the way there because he’s considered it more than a few times.
Steve’s hand lands gently on your shoulder, guiding you inside.
“Don’t worry about it. Come on.”
You cross that hallowed threshold into his room. Steve clicks the door closed before leading you towards the bed. It’s much too dark—and too late—for a room tour, anyway.
He unfurls his comforter, and in doing so notices the way you watch him. In another time and place, he’d be more amused at the way you looked: like you were standing at attention.
You don’t climb into the bed until he does.
“So you brought your own blankie?” There was a hint of a tease in his question, though not at all unkind.
You pout, sitting on the bed. Said blanket is still in your arms.
“It’s not a blankie.”
“Then why’d you bring it?”
“I don’t know,” you shrug, “didn’t want to steal yours from you.”
He smiles, lifting his comforter as if telling you to make yourself at home in it.
“I don’t mind.”
“You sure?”
“Of course. We’ve slept in worse conditions, haven’t we?”
That pulls a smile out of you, and it scares him how pleased he is with himself.
But you settling underneath his blanket and onto the bed pleases him more. He watches on a propped elbow as you adjust your head on his pillow, and he’s grateful that you’re here—in more ways than one.
That you’re here is something he’s always thankful for. That you’re here in his room instead of the other way around is a special occasion to be grateful. Being in your bedroom—in your bed—would mean enveloping himself in you, and there was no way he’d survive that.
The thought alone already makes him want. He’s not accustomed to it.
Soon, the two of you are lying face to face. He catalogs the way you fit into his space: perfectly.
“You okay?” he asks.
You answer with a nod and a quiet “yeah, better now.”
There’s a moment where all you do is look at each other. It suspends the very thing you came looking for, eyes open, expectant.
“Steve?”
“Mm?”
Then you do that thing again when you hesitate with your words, before finally stringing them together.
Like earlier, it’s a request. As if he’d ever refuse you anything.
“Can I hold you?”
He breathes through a sudden wave of emotion, like a dislodged splinter in a dam.
You’re asking him for permission, but in doing so, he feels like he’s been given it—you want the very thing he’s longed to give you since that night on the couch.
So he doesn’t answer with words.
His arm circles around your waist while the other cradles your nape, both pulling you closer. Your legs brush. You let out a sigh of capitulation.
There’s a thrum in his spine as you move, too—you nestle your face in the crook of his neck, both hands resting against his chest. He wonders if you can feel his heartbeat.
How many lines have he crossed by doing this? The list of his transgressions runs long.
For once, he doesn’t give a damn.
He holds you tight. You bury yourself in him. The warmth that has soothed him many times seems to bleed like an open wound—there was no need to hide behind stations or the guise of propriety.
Together, the two of you are broken pieces of different things, laid in a perfect fit. Breathing. Craving the rest only the other can bring.
A hard life melting into a soft place, where he doesn’t have to choose between love and rest.
You bring him both.
“Steve?”
“Mm?”
He likes this refrain: you calling his name, him answering.
You look up at him from the hug. He dips his chin down to meet your gaze.
“Thank you.”
I should be the one saying that, he thinks to himself, but this is no time for emotional revelations. Not yet—you’re too tired for it.
So he pulls you in closer like closer was ever possible. You find shelter in the hollow of his neck again, nose kissing his throat. He strokes a gentle hand down your hair, feeling you sigh warm air against his skin. Your t-shirt is soft against his. His other palm presses steady on your back.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
Soon enough, your breathing evens. You’re asleep.
He remembers the safehouse this time, the peaceful look on your face. He remembers clinging onto those last few minutes of closeness before the call of duty snuffs out peace. The light of day always makes the lines between you that much clearer.
Like tide, you’re further away from him when the sun is up.
For now, he allows himself one small thing.
He leans down and kisses your crown, breathing in your shampoo. His lips press one, two, three more times, wandering further down: your temple, your eyelid, your cheek—each breaching a boundary.
Each bearing a promise.
There’s no assignment come morning. No more reason to run.
Tomorrow, he’ll tell you how he feels.
A thumb brushes your lower lip, careful not to wake you.
That one will have to wait until tomorrow, if you’ll let him. The only thing he can do now is dream of it.
He hopes this is the last night he’ll dream of it.
taglist: @pinksplace @thceseus @theworstwolvie
my first time writing steve...... and i broke my self-imposed ban of no writing in april for him with this idea....... if it's balls, lie to my face
Ones hands can tell the story of how they’ve lived… and how far they have come.
I’m a sucker for Good Dad Splinter ever since I watched TMNT ‘03. That rat was gifted sapience and his immediate instinct was kindness. I love that for him.
Rise Splinter lived a rollercoaster of a life, but as a Hollywood star he remembered the names of all his stunt guys and coworkers, and as a prisoner he cared for the rat that shared his cell. His sons are very close and physically affectionate, I think that says something about how he cares? That’s just how I like to headcanon him :)
It’s interesting to explore the idea that a seemingly monstrous transformation is what pushed him to be a kinder human
Mr. and Mrs.... Rogers?!
Pairing: Spy!Steve x Spy!Reader WC: 10.5k Warnings: enemies to lovers, loosely inspired by mr. and mrs. smith, the avengers are not super mainstream in this, sexual tension, shower scene, makeout, jealousy, mean!steve at times, brat!reader, eventual smut (dry humping, fingering, unprotected p in v, edging, creampie, steve eating you out within an inch of your life (munch steve come homeeeeeeee), doggy style, tonguefucking), mentions of voyeurism, surveillance, size kink, miscommunication, angst-ish with comfort. Summary: You and Steve are voluntold you're married for an undercover mission. Should be easy, except you hate each other. +fran: this is the opening showing of the Captain Americana Film Festival and my humble contribution to Steve's birthday!!! I cannot tell you how much it filled me with joy that I sat down to write this on the 4th and actually spat out 10k words. WE ARE SO BACK!!! Happy 108th to the man who will always have my heart, has been the gold standard against which I measure every man, (this is blond man propaganda) and also my astrological twin <3 no one gets me like he does fr. ⤷ you should go listen to the incredible playlist named "mr and mrs smith [john and jane]" by marybatz on spotify
"Absolutely not!"
Fury had the timing of a tax audit to a billionaire CEO. Of course, of course, you'd be stuck playing this mission with fucking Steve.
One second you were minding your business, enjoying what was left of your coffee and your relatively peaceful morning, and the next Nick Fury was informing you that you would be spending the foreseeable future pretending to be happily married to Steve Rogers.
"You're going." Fury didn't even break stride. He rolled his eye and kept walking down the hallway toward the conference room, clearly done entertaining your complaints before you'd even finished making them, with you hot on his heel.
Your footsteps echoed in the wide hallway as you walked backwards, facing Fury. "Can't I marry someone else for this?" You pondered. "What about Barnes?"
Fury stopped so suddenly you nearly tripped. "You want to pretend to be married to Barnes?"
You opened your mouth, immediately closed it, thought for a second and shrugged, squeezing your eyes shut. "That's not the point."
"That's what I thought."
The polished floors reflected the overhead lights as the two of you moved through the hallway. “Nat, maybe? Some of those married dudes would eat up girl-on-girl and spill the beans right away. Mission would be so quick!”
Fury walked with the patience of a man who'd dealt with far worse than you. The fact that he hadn't strangled you after years of working together was honestly kind of impressive, a little endearing almost.
Both of you quickly arrived at the conference room door, Fury stopping with his hand on the handle, turning his face to you and letting our a frustrated sigh. "Do you like working here?"
You rolled your eyes, "Yes, sir." What kind of question was that?
"And what's your title?" His brow quirked up.
A confused look plastered all over your face. "Agent."
He leaned down to talk to you closer, almost like explaining rules to a petulant child, "Then be an agent." and proceeded to push the door open and hold it for you, giving you full view of Steve Rogers sitting at the head of the table with a sour expression on his face, just as displeased to have to pretend to love you for the mission.
The training room should've been empty half an hour ago, and technically, everyone was done for the day.
It should’ve been quiet—mats wiped down, lights dimmed, everyone gone for the night.
Instead, the air was thick.
Heavy with sweat, heat, and something sharp enough to make the back of your neck prickle. The entire team and a couple recruits were watching you.
Well, you and Steve.
At first not openly—no one was stupid enough to make it obvious—but they lingered. Leaned against walls, sat on benches, hovered just close enough to pretend they had somewhere else to be.
It started as any other training session did, you rotated partners, almost like shark bait: in and out, partner after partner cycling through you while you stayed planted on the mat, pushing your stamina, your endurance, your patience.
Until you ended up on the other side of the mat from Steve.
Barefoot, sleeves rolled, skin already lightly sheened with the littlest bit of sweat that somehow made him look betterinstead of worse—which was deeply, personally offensive.
Here's the thing: he was a super soldier. He had endless stamina, super strength, reflexes that outmatched 99% of the population, and he had it all with perfect blond hair and barely breaking a sweat on his sculpted body.
It infuriated the hell out of you.
He blocked every kick, every punch, and when he didn't he wasn't even phased.
It made you go harder, to the point where you found yourselves now: almost trying to hurt each other.
By then, no one was even preteding to be occupied by anything else, shamelessly staring at the two of you at the center of the mat like Oppenheimer waiting for a bomb to go off.
Steve had stopped treating you with the same careful restraint he used with newer recruits. He'd throw you harder into the mats, knock the wind from your lungs, shove you back with enough force to remind you exactly how much stronger he was, and you'd borderline play dirty.
Every hit had a little more weight behind it. Neither willing to back down. Neither willing to lose.
Sam was sitting backwards in a chair, chin propped on his arms, watching like he had front row seats to the best show of his life; Natasha looked delighted; Bucky looked concerned, brows drawn, arms crossed tight over his chest, like he was trying to decide whether to step in or let you both learn your lesson the hard way.
Steve stood opposite of you, his feet staggered and his arms up, making a "come at me" motion with his fingers. His hair was slightly mussed, a damp strand falling forward over his forehead.
"Come to daddy."
The entire room held their breaths, and you saw red.
In hindsight, you should've planned a better move than to just charge at him, the strength in your muscles and bones not being able to match his. You should've thought of something tactical, something smart.
But also… you fucking hated his guts.
Which is exactly how you ended up with your cheek and stomach pressed to the sweaty mat, with Steve's whole weight on your back, your wrists pinned between the two of you and his right arm laced under yours and up your back, hand holding your neck down.
His hands caught you mid-motion, grip iron-tight as he twisted, using your momentum against you with terrifying ease, his grip locking your body in place, the angle just shy of painful.
"You need to work on your psyche. Mind over matter." His stupid voice right in your ear made goosebumps bloom up your spine, so you did what any reasonable person would do.
You flexed the knee that was between his spread legs hard enough that you hit him square in the balls, giving you the out you needed.
You straightened on your feet, pushing damp hair back from your face, a breathless, borderline feral grin breaking across your lips as he winced on the mat in pain.
"Who's your daddy now?"
Your breathless laughter was cut short, Fury's booming voice breaking through any pain or enjoyment present in the room. "You do know domestic violence is not part of your cover story, no?"
Both of your heads whipped in the direction of his voice.
He continued to walk in your direction, dropping two folders in front of your feet, and Steve, who was still kneeling down on the mat. "Shower this off. You leave in the morning, lovebirds."
The neighborhood looked like the kind of place where people complained to the HOA because their neighbor's hydrangeas were the wrong shade of blue.
Every lawn was trimmed within an inch of its life, sharp lines cutting through impossibly green grass like someone came out with a ruler every morning.
The mailboxes all matched—sleek, black, expensive-looking—and every driveway held something polished and obscene:luxury SUV or a car that definitely cost more than your first apartment.
The houses themselves were enormous. White trim, brick facades, wraparound porches, massive windows that left little room for privacy on a street that looked like it loved to mind every business but its own.
You sat in the passenger seat while Steve drove to your home, the undercover file open across your lap like a book while your bare feet rested on the dash.
Because annyong Steve was free, and your favorite past time. "No feet on the dash."
You turned a page, ignoring him. "They're staying." You read more of the file. "It's more comfortable that way." Your light blue summer dress was bunched up higher across your thighs, and he did a double take before taking a right turn to your house block.
He sighed. "If we crash—"
"Just look at the road instead of me and we'll be fine." That made him shift in the driver's seat, straightening his posture and looking ahead, his Adam's apple bobbing in annoyance.
What irritated Steve about you was the fact that these comebacks never even seemed to make sense or be thought of, it just rolled off your tongue, almost just for the plot. And you didn't even care.
He didn't even know why you hated him so much in the first place, but he reciprocated the feeling as soon as he saw how insubordinate and bratty you were.
Steve sighed the long suffering sigh of a man questioning every life decision that had brought him to this moment. "You're impossible." Muttered under his breath.
"You're a Senior Project Manager at your own company, honey!" Fake admiration and praise filled your voice. "Oh, you proposed quick! Only a year after our first date." You turned to him, your first real smile plastered on your face. "You're so down bad."
The car came to a stop in your driveway, and Steve turned it off, unclipping his seatbelt. "Put your shoes on, we're here and I feel eyes already."
"Bossy." You muttered, doing exactly as he said. As you got out of the car, your voice went up an octave, carrying through the humid summer weather.
“Ready, honey?” you asked, slipping the word out effortlessly, like you’d been saying it for years.
He opened the front door for you, making sure whoever was watching heard him just as well, possessive in a way that made your breath hitch before you could stop it.
“After you, sweetheart.”
You'd barely had enough time to figure out which bedroom closet was yours before the doorbell rang.
ding-dong. ding-dong.
You froze in the middle of the bedroom, one hand still gripping a hanger, Steve somewhere down the hall filling a modified cabinet with all sorts of concealed weapons.
You dropped the hanger onto the bed without another thought, smoothing your hands down your dress as you moved. Steve stepped out of the kitchen at the same time, wiping his hands on a dish towel like he’d been doing something domestic instead of checking sightlines and exits.
Ben and Julie Poindexter stood in your porch like they had been plucked straight out of a catalog. They were ones you hoped to make the acquaintance of quickly, as he was the right hand of the big druglord you and Steve were tasked with making an airtight case on.
Years of field work had taught you that monsters were rarely obvious, still, some primitive part of your brain always expected criminals to look like criminals.
Instead, Ben Poindexter looked like somebody who coached Little League and had multiple PTA moms undoing extra buttons in their cardigans to get his attention. Beside him, Julie beamed, already leaning slightly forward like she couldn’t wait to know everything about you.
“Oh my goodness,” she breathed, eyes lighting up. “You must be the Adlers!” You felt Steve shift beside you, his hand coming to rest warm on your back with an ease that shouldn't be there in the best of actors.
He smiled, and it was a good one. The kind that made people relax immediately. The kind that five years ago made you—
“Guilty,” he said easily. “Frank.” Right. Frank Adler.
He extended his hand and Ben took it immediately, introducing you then. “I’m Dex,” the shorter blond said in return, just as easy. “This is my wife, Julie.”
“Hi,” you said, stepping forward like you hadn’t been mentally preparing to dismantle her entire social circle for intel. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
She lit up.
“Oh, you are just adorable,” she gushed, reaching out to squeeze your arm like you were already best friends. “We saw the moving truck this morning and I told Ben, I said, ‘We have to go introduce ourselves before everyone else gets to them first.’”
You faked confusion. "Ben…?"
He chuckled lightly in response. "That's me, I… uh… Ben's really only for her and my parents. Friends call me Dex."
You smiled back in understanding. “We appreciate that,” he said smoothly. “It’s been a bit of a whirlwind getting settled.”
“So,” Dex cut in, tone casual but eyes observant, “what brings you two here?” There it was. The first test.
You felt Steve’s thumb twitch slightly against your back. A cue , or maybe just instinct. “Work, mostly,” he said, not missing a beat. “I just transferred to oversee a new branch out here.”
Julie gasped softly. “Oh! That’s right, you’re the project manager, right? We heard something about that—”
Of course they did.
You tilted your head toward Steve, letting your smile soften just a touch as you looked at him. Pride, affection… Just enough to sell it.
“He won’t say it, but he’s very good at what he does.” You interjected, turning your sweet smile to your nosy neighbors again.
His hand pressed a little more firmly into your back before easing again. “Someone has to pay the bills,” he joked lightly, glancing down at you.
"It's a 50/50 relationship," you shot back, nudging his side with your elbow just enough to look playful. "You earn money, and I look pretty in the things it buys." Your hand reached up to scratch the freshly shaven skin of his chin.
“Wow,” Julie breathed, practically vibrating with delight. “You two are so cute.”
You laughed, soft, a little embarassed… and completely fake. Dex watched that exchange carefully. His smile stayed in place, but his eyes sharpened just a fraction.
“New couples usually take a while to settle in around here,” he said, tone still easy. “But I think you two will fit right in.”
“Well,” you said lightly, leaning just a little closer into Steve without thinking about it, “we’re counting on our neighbors to help with that.”
Julie clasped her hands together. “Oh, you have to come to dinner this weekend! Everyone’s going to be there—it’s kind of our thing.”
“We’d love to,” Steve said, lightly nodding.
Both of them smiled in satisfaction, briefly saying their goodbyes and we'll let you get settled. As they started to step back, Julie waved enthusiastically. “Welcome to the neighborhood!”
Integration happened faster and easier than either of you expected. Almost like… bait.
It started with waves.
Small, polite acknowledgments from across driveways—neighbors watering already-perfect lawns, women in linen sets pausing mid-walk with their equally curated dogs. At first it was just smiles, quick introductions repeated twice because no one actually listened the first time, or maybe they expected you to slip up.
Names, occupations, how long you planned to stay.
Somehow, without either of you saying much at all, your lives had already been filled in for you. Steve—Frank—was “the project manager from the city.” You were “so sweet” and “adjusting beautifully.”
It was unsettling.
Steve got pulled in first.
Dex made it look casual—leaning over the fence one late afternoon while Steve pretended to struggle with a hose attachment he absolutely knew how to fix.
“Couple of us head out to the club on Saturdays,” Dex had said, like it wasn’t a test. Like it wasn’t an invitation into something much bigger. “You golf?”
Steve had shrugged, wiping his hands on a towel like the answer didn’t matter. “Enough not to embarrass myself.”
Dex chuckled. “Good. Fisk hates losing.”
That was how Steve Rogers found himself in pressed polos and quiet greens, standing under the sun with a man who ran half the city from behind clean hands and cleaner money.
Wilson Fisk didn’t look like a monster either. They never did.
From the sidelines, it would’ve looked normal—three men talking shop, trading easy laughs, the soft crack of a golf ball slicing through the air.
But Steve came home with tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before, and eyes that thought too much.
You were integrated differently. Faster, deeper in a sense. If you wanna know a man, you need to know the woman in his life first. Julie took one look at you and decided you were hers.
Brunch turned into wine nights, which turned into yoga classes and impromptu shopping trips where you learned which women talked too much, which ones listened too closely, and which ones pretended not to notice everything while noticing everything.
You laughed when you were supposed to, touched arms at the right moments, let yourself be pulled into conversations about renovations and charity events and who was “having trouble in their marriage” this week.
You played the part. Perfectly.
But you also listened. And Julie talked, about Dex, about their marriage, about his schedule, the men he worked with, his "job".
About Fisk in a careful, vague way that told you she knew just enough to be useful and not enough to be dangerous.
Inside the house, however, nothing really changed. You were in bliss whenever Steve was anywhere outside of the five thousand square feet of the house. And in hell when you could hear his footsteps through the hallways.
“Why are your shoes in the middle of the hallway?” “Because I took them off.”
“You put a gun in the cereal cabinet.” “It was concealed.”
And yet, somewhere in between the arguing and the slammed cabinets and the pointed silences, you moved around each other.
Steve adjusted the cuff of his polo as he stepped out onto the green, the sun warm against the back of his neck, the grass trimmed so perfectly it almost didn’t look real. Somewhere in the distance, a fountain trickled softly—controlled, decorative, intentional.
Everything here was curated, including the people. Dex stood a few feet ahead, already mid-conversation with a Fisk, Steve immediately recognizing his big frame.
“Frank,” Dex called easily, turning just enough to wave him over. “Glad you made it.”
Steve walked up at an even pace, shoulders loose, posture relaxed, every movement deliberate in its lack of tension. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Dex clapped his hands lightly. “Let’s see if you actually know how to swing that thing.”
The game itself was uneventful on the surface, small talk, a couple of drinks over a few holes, business talk, the kind of conversation that never said anything directly but still managed to reveal everything if you knew how to listen.
Steve pretending to be worse than Fisk at golf remembering what Dex said about him not liking losing.
Well, who does? He thought.
He missed a shot he could’ve made here and there, fake grimace on his face to help sell the lie, burrow himself deeper in the web.
Dex talked the most—easy laughter, casual stories, the kind of man who filled silence before it could become uncomfortable.
Fisk didn’t, he was quieter, more measured. Almost amused.
By the ninth hole, Steve could feel the shift, the attention settling more fully onto him. He was past the evaluation phase and onto something else.
Fisk set his club aside after a clean shot, stepping back as one of the attendants moved to retrieve it. He didn’t look at Steve immediately, instead adjusting his cufflinks with slow, precise movements.
“Beautiful house you’ve got,” Fisk said finally.
Steve shrugged lightly, taking a swing of his beer. “Got lucky to swoop in right when it went on the market.”
Fisk hummed. “I find luck tends to favor the well-prepared.” Steve didn’t respond, Fisk’s gaze lifted then. “You and your wife settling in well?”
For some reason, hearing such a dangerous man mention you made him uneasy. And it shouldn't, because he hated you. Steve forced his expression to remain easy. “Yeah. She likes it here.” He paused for a second. “She’s… adjusting.”
Fisk’s lips curved slightly. “Is she?” Steve’s grip on the club in his hand tightened just a fraction.
Dex shifted beside them, glancing between the two, something quieter settling over his usual ease.
“You know,” Fisk continued, tone almost conversational, “I take a great interest in the people who choose to live in the neighborhood.”
Steve tilted his head slightly. “Seems like a lot of effort.”
Fisk chuckled softly. “It is if you don't have the… resources.”
Steve didn’t like the way he said that, didn’t like the weight behind it.
The back nine loosened things.
Or at least, that’s what it looked like.
Dex got louder, a little more relaxed with each hole, his posture easing into something casual as the game stretched on. Drinks appeared somewhere around the seventh—cold, expensive, handed off by staff who moved like ghosts—and by the tenth, the conversation had shifted.
Way less about business.
Dex snorted at something one of the other men—some hedge fund name Steve hadn’t bothered to remember—had said, shaking his head as he lined up his shot.
“I’m telling you,” the man continued, grinning like he thought he was hilarious, “if you’re doing it right, she’s not walking straight the next morning.”
One of the others chimed in with something worse, cruder. The kind of joke that got easy agreement and knowing looks passed around like currency.
Steve didn’t react, just stood there, one hand resting loosely on his club, gaze fixed somewhere out over the green like he wasn’t listening.
“C’mon, Adler,” Dex called, nudging him lightly with his elbow. “You’ve been real quiet over there.”
Steve glanced over, trying to seem unbothered. Like he didn't want to roll his eyes at everything coming out of that prick's mouth. “Just listening.”
“That’s not how this works,” the hedge fund guy said with a smirk. “You gotta contribute. You’re married, right?”
“Familiarity,” Fisk continued, almost thoughtfully, like he was discussing market trends instead of people, “breeds a certain ease.”
“Guess some guys are just more private.” Steve chimed, moving as to redirect the conversation, walking a couple steps to the next hole. "I don’t feel the need to talk about my wife like that."
Silence fell upon the group for a second, Dex interjected to change the subject quickly, but the way Fisk looked at Steve the rest of the time made he hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Steve unlocked the kitchen door, toeing his shoes off as soon as he stepped inside. The house was clean, marble countertops reflecting the golden light coming through the curtains.
A candle burned on the center island that made the house smell like a bouquet of fresh flowers, blooming in deepest winter.
The door clocked shit behind him with a soft, controlled click, as he called out "Babe?" while letting his keys rattle against the marble.
He stepped further into the kitchen, eyes sweeping automatically—back door locked, blinds angled just enough, nothing out of place. The cabinet he’d modified earlier sat closed, unassuming, hiding everything it needed to.
He called out for you again, "Sweetheart?", feet padding into the house and when he got to the bottom of the stairs, he heard the shower running on.
Steve's mind kept replaying the interactions he'd had that day, how Fisk seemed to have too much knowledge of his dynamic with you to not have—
Of course.
A man like Fisk wouldn't just intentionally have a blind side.
The motherfucker had surveillance on your house.
In your house.
The sound got clearer and clearer as he moved up the stairs. The hallway stretched ahead, quiet and sun-dimmed, and then right outside of the bathroom door, steam curling underneath it. Steve paused just outside it, his hand hovering near the frame, his head tilting slightly as he listened.
You were humming, soft and absentminded.
Like you weren’t in the middle of a mission that had just taken a very sharp turn.
He exhaled softly through his nose, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching briefly on the tension sitting heavy there.
He should wait, he knew he should. Whatever he had to say could wait ten minutes.
Five.
Hell, two.
But the words Fisk had said—had implied—sat in his chest like a weight that refused to settle. So if Fisk had creepily put surveillance in your home like Steve was 98% sure he had, you were gonna have to roll with the punches.
Steam hit him immediately, warm and thick, fogging the edges of his vision for half a second before it cleared.
Stripping his shirt, kicking off the rest of his clothes in a blur of motion that would’ve felt ridiculous under any other circumstance.
He walked into the shower, watching you let the water trickle over you, over your face, your neck, your chest, and he thanked every God he could think of that his body was cooperating and he did not have more than a half-hard on right then and there.
Which meant that you finished rinsing your shampoo off and opened your eyes to find a very, very naked Steve Rogers encapsulated by the shower stall glass around you.
With you.
All naked, and very wet, and very naked, and—
"Ahh!" You shrieked in surprise, stumbling back half a step, water splashing over him as your hands came up instinctively. "What the f—" Steve put his index finger on his lips with one hand, the other motioning to his ear and out.
We're being listened to.
"Honey," You immediately switched into your undercover tone, "you scared the crap out of me!"
Steve stepped closer, couldn't risk his voice being any louder than absolutely necessary to get you the information right then and there.
His frame in comparison to yours felt even bigger now, steam curling around him like vines. You'd blame the way your nipples hardened at the sight on the water.
“Fisk,” he whispered, barely audible over the spray. “He knows something’s off. Pretty sure we’re wired. The house is.”
Your breath hitched.
Absolutely having nothing to do with the fact that you were trying very hard not to stare at his— "Where?"
"Everywhere." He confirmed.
Water ran down both of you in steady streams, heat curling between your bodies, steam thickening the air until everything felt too close.
“Well,” you murmured, louder now, just enough for anyone listening to catch it, your tone dipping into something softer, more playful, “next time, maybe knock?”
Steve huffed out a quiet breath that could almost pass for a laugh, his forehead dipping closer to yours, but not touching, droplets of water falling from his hair onto you.
“Didn’t think you’d mind.” One of your hands braced lightly against his chest, the other gripping his arm as if for balance.
Your hand slid up to the nape of his neck, pulling the hair there enough to make him hiss. “Oh, I mind,” you said lightly, your fingers threading just a little deeper into the short hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re lucky I like you.”
You were pretty good at… faking it.
Night settled over the house smoothly, the sun bleeding into deep indigo slowly and surely until stars littered the sky and you all you could hear was the fair sound of nature beyond the glass.
The neighborhood dimmed in stages—porch lights flicking on one by one, warm squares of yellow glowing through wide, uncovered windows. Somewhere down the street, laughter carried faintly. A dog barked once, then twice, then went quiet again.
As your brain processed the information Steve had given you, you moved through the motions anyway.
Teeth brushed. Face washed. Lights turned off and on in the right order. The kind of routine that would look normal from the outside, mundane and unremarkable to anyone paying attention.
The thought sat in the back of your mind, somewhat panicked and loud, but also a constant, steady pressure.
You dried your hands slowly on a towel, eyes flicking briefly to the mirror. Your reflection stared back—hair dried and silky, skin still warm from the shower, expression carefully neutral.
Steve stood near the dresser, back half-turned to you, pulling a t-shirt over his head. The fabric stretched sinf— normallyacross his shoulders before falling into place, softening the sharp lines of him into something more… domestic.
You watched him through the mirror without meaning to, picking up a book, turning on his bedside lamp, and crawling under the covers of your bed, letting the light comforter rest on his legs and hips while he flipped through the pages with his back resting against his pillows and the headboard.
You bit your lip, thoughts blooming fast and messy under your skull, and flicked the lights in the bathroom off, walking towards your side of the bed.
Your short camisole shifted through the air as you moved, light and soft, brushing against your thighs. Steve's eyes immediately clocking your bare legs before he forced them onto the words in front of him.
You laid onto your side and closed the distance between you in one smooth motion, your body fitting against his side like that's where it was always supposed to be.
Your arm slid across his waist, your cheek pressed lightly against the plane of his pecs, and you felt the very warm, solid, real muscle of him under your face go completely still.
Not in any subtle way, you could feel the exact moment his brain short-circuited.
He turned his face just enough to look down and meet your gaze. His expression screamed an unfiltered "what the hell?"while yours softly said "we have to sell it."
He shifted, turning just enough so he wasn’t facing away from you anymore, his arm coming up—hesitant for half a second—before settling around you, his hand resting on your forearm, thumb tracing soothing patterns on the soft, moisturized skin.
As you laid there, the cogs in your brain turned. You bit the inside of your cheek lightly, the more he believes it, the quicker we get out.
You moved forward, your hand pressed against his chest, using him for leverage as you pushed yourself up, swinging one leg over his hips in a smooth, deliberate motion until you were straddling him.
The poor book slid uselessly to rest on the mattress on the other side of his body. You nuzzled your face into his neck, pretending to pepper kisses on the skin there, and Steve stiffened up.
His hands instinctively came up, not grabbing or even stopping you, just hovering at your waist like he didn’t know where they were allowed to go.
Your mouth lingered by his pulse point just long enough to make it convincing before you spoke, your breath hot against his skin. "Play along." You whispered.
You felt the tension in him—every muscle coiled, controlled, restrained in a way that had nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with the position you’d just put him in.
“Sweetheart,” he said, louder now, his tone shifting seamlessly, to something warmer, rougher, like it belonged to someone else. “You trying to kill me?”
From the outside, it sounded like a joke. A husband amused by his wife.
You tilted your head, letting your lips ghost just below his ear. “You just been working so much lately,” you murmured, just loud enough to carry.
His grip on you flexed, and he leaned into it.
“I know, baby, I know,” he said, voice dropping, threading something you hadn’t heard from him since he had your face pressed into a sparring mat through it as his hands settled more firmly at your hips, anchoring you there. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
Your stomach flipped, shameful heat pooling low in your core even though you tried to ignore it and call it by a different name.
His fingers pressed just slightly, grounding, guiding, selling the illusion with an ease that made your pulse stutter.
Steve moved, fast as always, one second you were on top of him, the next your back hit the mattress, making it dip hard beneath you as he flipped you with practiced ease, your breath catching as his weight settled above you, caging you in without quite touching.
His face dipped toward yours, close enough that your noses almost brushed.
“What you’re doing,” he murmured against your ear, his breath warm, controlled, “is reckless.”
Your fingers curled slightly into his shirt, heart beating too fast, and you tilted your head just enough to whisper back, your tone soft and teasing, so low he almost didn't hear it. “So is getting caught.”
You tilted your neck up, and your lips connected with his.
It had been weeks of little pecks, prim and proper kisses in front of your neighbors, just enough to sell it on the outside.
Holding his face in your hands and actually kissing Steve Rogers felt like a completely different experience.
His tongue licked into your mouth with an intention you never really expected from Steve. Specially a Steve that was faking it. Your hands roamed the plane of his shoulders, trying to make it seem like the actual rustling of sheets one would expect of a couple who was going to—
He should really take this shirt off.
And so your hands went to the hem of his white cotton shirt, pulling it up. Steve reluctantly let you take it off of him, leaving him only in the grey boxers that let you see he wasn't faking that much.
"Oh my God," You whispered. "Are you serious?" That was more of a hiss. Was he seriously getting hard right now?
"I know," He whispered back, annoyed, frustrated, "I know. Just shut up about it."
Oh.
He wanted you to shut up about it. He wanted you to—
The petty part of your brain took over, and before you couldn't think of a less reckless thing to do, you squeezed your legs tighter around him, bringing his bulge flush against your clothed pussy.
"O-oh—" Steve was surprised, not about the pettiness, but at the action itself. You bit your lip, almost proud of yourself, and tilted your hips up.
That earned you a scolding look.
"Mmm," you breathed, just loud enough to carry, your voice shifting instantly to a soft, breathy, higher pitched version of yourself. "Fuck, baby, right there."
Steve's ears were ringing. Mostly because he didn't know what to do with his hard cock rubbing up and down against you. “Relax,” you murmured against his jaw, barely moving your lips. “You sound like you’re filing paperwork.”
He huffed softly, turning it into something that passed. “Maybe I like paperwork,” he muttered.
You scoffed. “You do not.”
“You don’t know that.” He whined softly against you.
"You need to actually move your hips, Steve. Video needs to look like you're fucking your wife." You whispered in his ear.
It's not like he couldn't feel how wet you were, slick pressing through the cotton of your panties and onto his underwear, darkening a spot there.
“You’re unbelievable,” he breathed low, close to your ear.
“Say it louder,” you shot back quietly.
“You’re unbelievable,” he repeated, louder, tone shifting, like it meant something entirely different now.
Your heels dug into his ass cheeks, pulling him closer and closer to you, and closer and closer to the edge.
You could feel the length of him twitch with each pass of his hips, and you pictured the leaking head of him making a mess out of the inside of his boxers, precum slicking him all over.
“Okay—” he muttered quickly under his breath, breaking the moment before it could stretch too far. “We need a time frame. We can’t just—keep going forever.”
“Two minutes,” you whispered. “Make it believable.”
“Two minutes?” he echoed, actually offended. “That’s insulting.”
The thought of it sent heat down your core. His face was buried in your neck, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as your hands threaded through his hair. "Talk about me." Another perfectly placed thrust that nudged your clit. "'bout how I feel."
Steve grinded his teeth like he was fighting a mental battle between letting himself be consumed by this moment, and being proper.
You nudged him again with your heel.
"Nice and tight, sweetheart." He let his voice carry, surprisingly unwavering for how close he was. "Never get enough of your pussy."
What in the fuckity fuck?
Steve?
He almost said your name, your very real name, too lost in himself, letting his rhythm build up much too realistically, his thrusts deeper, the bulge now rubbing and nudging your clothed entrance as well.
Your could hear the sound of wet fabric shifting, your panties getting caught and letting one lip slip out of safety and closer to Steve's leaking cock.
"Frank," You said loudly, trying to catch his attention without success. "Frank." You tried again, more stern, being met with the same squeezed-shut eyes you tried to get an answer from. You dropped your voice low, hushed like a secret. "Steve."
That made him open his eyes, powder blue irises staring at you as his thursts hit a spot that had him moaning, stuttering over his own breath.
And spilling all inside his boxers, looking right into your eyes.
His hips stuttered, almost as if his body wanted to milk itself dry, and his breathing slowed.
You were speechless, big wide eyes looking up at him, genuinely not knowing what to say.
Both of you stared at each other in shock, horror, confusion as to why it felt so good to do that without someone who managed to get under your skin without even trying.
You stayed like that until you felt the warm trickle of his seed seep through the cotton of his boxers and onto the front of your panties.
Steve dropped back to his side of the bed, and both of you avoided each other's gaze, just staring at the ceiling.
"Are we—"
“…go to sleep,” you muttered.
Whatever Fisk needed proof of, seemingly he got it, since both you and Steve got invited the the biggest 4th of July bash of the neighborhood.
Right at the belly of the beast.
The whole backyard looked like something out of a magazine.
String lights draped across the perimeter, glowing warm against the deep navy of the night sky, fireworks already starting to crackle faintly in the distance.
The lawn stretched wide and immaculate, dotted with clusters of people holding drinks in delicate glasses, laughter spilling easily between them like nothing in the world could touch this place.
It was loud, busy, perfect, and underneath it all— wrong.
Steve had light wash jeans and a light blue polo on, you had a strapless summer dress and one of his linen shirts on, the shirt unbuttoned to give the air of a casual outing.
You stood near one of the long tables, fingers loosely wrapped around a Moscow Mule you hadn’t touched, your eyes scanning without looking like you were scanning. Steve was across the yard, pulled into a circle of men near the grill, one of them mid-story, the others laughing at something you couldn’t quite hear from this distance.
And there she was.
Blonde, tall, and much too interested in your— Steve.
Her hand landed on his arm like she’d been waiting for an excuse, your eyes narrowed at her as you shoved a piece of salami and cheese into your mouth.
“That's Sharon.” Julie’s voice chimed in beside you, far too cheerful for how observant she actually was. “She's new. Came to stay with her aunt a bit, they live a few strees back. Divorced. Which means she’s—”
“—looking,” you finished lightly, before finally taking a sip of your drink like you hadn’t already clocked every detail.
Julie laughed. “Exactly.”
Your eyes flicked back to Steve. He hadn’t moved away, hadn’t stepped back, hadn’t even noticed.
Of course he hadn’t.
He was listening—really listening—to whatever the man next to him was saying, nodding slightly, relaxed in that effortless way that made people lean in closer without thinking about it.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, lowering her voice just enough to feel conspiratorial. “If he's anything like Dex, he's clueless. They don’t even realize when they’re being flirted with.”
You hummed softly. "He is clueless, alright."
“He’s very charming,” Julie added, watching you now instead of them. “Frank, I mean.”
Your lips curved. “He has his moments.”
Julie giggled, and you finished downing your drink, making your way to him, wrapping a hand around his perfectly sculped bicep and turning on your smile to the sweetest setting possible.
His body reacted immediately, adjusting to your touch like it always belonged there. His gaze dropped to you, surprise flickering for half a second before smoothing into something softer.
“Hey,” he said, one hand coming up to rest at your hip without thinking about it.
“Hi,” you replied, tilting your head up toward him, your smile warm in a way that felt almost too real. “Sorry,” you said sweetly, not sounding sorry at all. “Am I interrupting?”
She blinked, then smiled tightly back at you. “Not at all.” Steve’s hand pressed slightly into your hip, a silent question that you answered it by leaning just a fraction closer into him.
“We were just talking about the neighborhood,” she continued.
“Were you?” you asked, your tone light, but your grip on Steve tightening just enough to be felt.
“Oh—yes,” she said, glancing briefly at him. “Frank was just telling us about his work.”
“Mm,” you hummed, eyes flicking up to his. “He works too much.”
Steve’s brows lifted slightly. “Oh, I do?”
“You do,” you said simply, sighing longingly, your fingers sliding absently against his side like it was second nature. “I barely see you anymore.”
Sharon laughed softly. “That’s a shame.” Steve lifted the beer up to his lips and took a swing.
“It is,” you agreed, smiling again. “But I make sure he makes up for it.”
Steve choked on his drink. Actually choked. Coughed once, quickly covering it with a laugh that didn’t quite hide the surprise.
His hand flexed at your hip. “Yeah,” he said, voice dropping just slightly as he looked down at you, something new threading through it. “I do.”
For a moment it didn't feel like pretending, but it also didn't feel real. It felt like a limbo much too similar to five years ago, when he first recruited you into SHIELD by accident.
FIVE YEARS EARLIER
Colombia had been too hot. The humid, muggy weather made your skin sticky, a sheen coat of sweat all over your arms and legs, even though you were only wearing a white tanktop and a flowy, maxi floral skirt.
Music was bleeding from open windows, people crowding narrow streets, making it the kind of place where mistakes didn’t just cost you the mission.
They cost you everything.
You’d been handling it just fine, up until you weren’t. The intel had been wrong. Or incomplete. Or leaked.
You didn’t know which yet—only that the second you stepped into that dim, crowded cantina, something in your gut twisted. Too many eyes, too many men pretending to drink, too many sharp ears and even sharper looks.
You were planning an exit strategy, a way to get out of here with as few scratches and as many of these men killed. Mid counting how many thing you could use as a weapon, in walked a picture perfect specimen.
Muscles everywhere, blond hair lightened even more by the sun, the faintest sunburn across his nose and cheeks making his blue eyes stand out more.
You turned slightly, lifting your drink to your lips like you were just another woman trying to cool off, not someone seconds away from deciding how many people she might have to kill.
He clocked the men immediately.
And then he clocked you. His broad frame faked a smile at you and stepped quickly to stand beside you at the bar, hand resting on your hip.
“Don’t,” he muttered under his breath, pretending to try to get the bartender's attention.
“Don’t what?” you shot back just as quietly, adjusting your sunglasses on your head like you were annoyed at them and happy to see him, not seconds away from being cornered.
“They’re looking for someone,” he said.
“I know.” A beat where he leaned down to whisper in your ear.
“They’re closing exits.”
And you responded through gritted teeth and a smile. “I noticed.” You let your body rest closer to his, feeling the heat radiating off of him.
Outside, thunder and lightning started, and a summer storm came pouring down.
“Babe,” you said, loud enough to carry, tilting your head up at him like you were teasing. “You said one drink.”
He leaned into you, his hand sliding from your waist to your lower back, pulling you closer in a way that felt practiced.
“Yeah?” he shot back easily. “Thought you wanted to see more of the place.”
“Oh, I do,” you laughed lightly, fingers curling into his shirt. “Just… from inside a bedroom window right now." You leaned in closer, lowering your voice just enough to make it look intimate, like you were sharing something private instead of tracking his every movement.
“Relax your shoulders,” you murmured.
He huffed softly—almost a laugh, almost something else—and adjusted just slightly, his grip tightening at your lower back like he was settling into the role instead of fighting it.
A beat passed between you—quick, sharp, charged—and then he leaned in closer, his mouth ghosting just along your temple.
“Storm’s our out,” he whispered. “We gotta go.”
“Come on,” you said, tugging gently at his shirt, turning your body into his as thunder cracked loud enough to rattle the windows. “I am not ruining my hair for this.”
“Tragic,” he murmured, letting you pull him toward the back hallway.
The rain hit hard the second you stepped out of the main room—heavy, sudden, loud enough to drown out most of the noise behind you. The narrow corridor smelled like damp wood and cheap liquor, dimly lit and barely used.
Perfect.
Your hand stayed fisted in his shirt as you stumbled slightly—just enough to sell it—as he caught you, his arm tightening instinctively around your waist.
“Careful, sweetheart.” he said, louder now, for anyone who might still be listening. “You’re gonna slip.”
The back door burst open under his hand.
Rain poured down in sheets, warm and relentless, soaking the edges of your skirt instantly as you both stepped out into the alley behind the cantina.
Steve looked around to make sure no one followed, he kept you closer than necessary as you moved, your bodies angled into each other like you were shielding yourselves from the storm instead of disappearing into it.
One block, then another, until you were far away and safe in the back alley of the Sofitel. Your clothes were soaked, as were his, your shirt basically see through, you kept moving, pulling him down the short hallway and into the first unlocked door you found—some storage room or unused guest space, it didn’t matter.
The door shut behind you with a soft click. Steve walked in last, and you didn't put distance between you two, though right now looking at him through wet lashes you wish you did.
His eyes reflected the gloomy sky outside, his lips were pink and plump, and you felt yourself being drawn closer and closer to him, as did he.
The storm outside cracked again, lightning flashing briefly through the thin curtains, illuminating the space in stark white for half a second, loud thunder taking you out of your trance, Steve jerking away like he was burned.
"I, uh… I think we lost them." Your voice was shaky and unsure.
“Not bad,” he added, quieter now, his eyes flicking over your face like he was reassessing something.
You scoffed lightly. “High praise.”
PRESENT
“Fireworks are about to start,” someone called from across the yard.
And just like that, the moment broke, and your attentions turned to the mission at hand: while everyone is distracted, get into Fisk's office and copy all of his intel.
Steve leaned down slightly as people shifted away in the direction of the fireworks, his lips brushing near your ear, voice low. “You’re laying it on thick.”
“Am I?” you murmured back, sly smirk playing on your lips.
“A little.”
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "You should go for the office. I'll keep watch."
Steve looked at you like he wanted to say something, but nodded and snuck away, your eyes immediately making sure all persons of interest were accounted for and not in the office.
The party swelled around you.
Fireworks cracked overhead in bursts of red and gold, laughter spilling across Fisk’s perfectly manicured lawn, glasses clinking, music humming low beneath it all.
Steve had been gone for about five minutes when you noticed Dex was gone mid conversation with Claire and her husband Matthew. You saw the little flop of blonde hair make its way into the house and your blood ran cold.
Steve.
“I’m gonna grab another drink,” you said lightly, lifting your empty glass as proof, bee-lining up the stairs on the porch and to the kitchen.
You moved like you weren’t tracking footsteps that weren’t yours, counting seconds, mapping distance in your head.
You slipped inside through the side door, heels soft against polished floors, your breath steady even as your pulse kicked harder.
You moved faster, turning the corner just in time to see the office door slightly ajar, light spilling out onto the hallway, and footsteps approaching from the opposite direction.
You pushed the door open and slipped inside, Steve standing by the big mahogany table with a thumbdrive pluggesd into the desktop, downloading everything.
“What—”
“Dex,” you cut him off, already crossing the room. “Coming.” His expression shifted instantly, worry, anxiety, combat.
A shadow passed the crack of the door and you closed the distance between you, pushing yourself to sit on top of the table and pulled Steve to stand between your legs. Your hands grabbed his shirt, yanking him down toward you hard enough to make him stumble.
He exhaled harshly the second your lips touched, tasting the vanilla macadamia flavor of your lipgloss. Your tongue licked into his mouth and one of his hands found the plane of your back, the other bracing against the desk behind you as he backed you further into it, the impact soft but enough to sell it.
“Mm—” you exhaled softly, the sound slipping out before you could stop it.
Your fingers thread through his hair as you sighed against him, losing yourself in the cedarwood of his cologne, the taste of beer on his tongue, and—
The door creaked open lgithly with someone's breathy "oh." coming through at the sight.
You didn't pull away, didn't even flinch. If anything, you leaned in more, your body pressing fully into his, your mouth lingering just long enough to make the moment undeniable.
You heard a the sound of someone clearing their throat, and that made both of you break apart. Your lips brushed his once more before you turned your head, like you’d just noticed her. “Oh—” you said, a little breathless, but smiling.
“Sharon,” your eyes widened slightly when you looked behind you, a flush creeping into your expression like you’d been caught.
Her gaze drifted from his hands on you to the hem of your summer dress, pulled up and draped high on your thighs, then up to your hands in his hair and Steve's face — his expression a mix of very confused, flustered, and fucked out.
Steve cleared his throat, stepping back just slightly, like he was trying to recover something that had already slipped.
“We were just—”
“—busy,” you finished easily, sliding off the desk but not moving far from him.
“…right,” she said after a second, her lips pressing into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Well, enjoy the, uh… the party."
You stifled a laugh, biting your lip, as she walked away leaving the door open behind her. You hopped off the desk as Steve got his brain working again.
“What the hell was that?” His voice cut through it, low and sharp.
You shrugged. "Saved your ass, you're welcome." You smoothed the hem of your dress against your thighs and walked around the desk, making your way out the door as Steve hushedly called out for you, swiming the thumb drive into his pocket before following you out of the house.
Your heels hit the pavement in sharp, even beats, your jaw locked, your eyes fixed straight ahead like if you didn’t look back, he wouldn’t follow.
Fuck him and his long legs that caught up to you as soon as you reached your lawn.
You stormed into your kitchen, pushing the door closed quicky to slam it behind you, but making it hit Steve on the shoulder as he crowded the space behind you. “Hey—” he pushed still, stepping closer. “No, seriously. What was that?”
You still gave him nothing, your jaw tightened. You stood with your back to the kitchen island, fingers gripping the marble, biting your own cheek. Your gaze stayed anywhere but him.
“That wasn’t about getting caught,” he said. “You knew she—” Then it seemed to dawn on him. “You kissed me to make her jealous.” His voice was incredulous, almost like he solved a decade long mystery right then and there. "You were jealous."
You scoffed, still not meeting his eye. "Jealous? Over you? Plea—"
He crowded you even more now, bending down to look for your gaze and force you to meet his, sly smile playing on his lips. "You were jealous."
You huffed, finally looking into his eyes, sunlight playing on his face making the blue just a tad lighter. Steve had his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, almost waiting for a response from you.
For what it felt like a second and a day all at once, your brain went numb.
And then your hands were on each side of his face, bringing his lips to crash into yours.
Steve's lips were warm against your mouth in the same way they were minutes ago. He stepped forward, towering over you making you tilt your head up to keep the kiss going, his hands grabbing your hips as he pressed you against the counter.
He licked into your mouth and your hands fell to the nape of his neck, his shoulders, and finally his arms.
Steve leaned over, pushing you back further, until you had no more oxygen to burn in your lungs and you broke the kiss, making him kiss your jaw, below your ear, and down your neck. "You had no reason to be jealous, you know."
He grinded his hips against yours, letting you feel the length of him hardening by the minute. "'M not jealous." You felt underwater, dizzy, borderline having fuzzies in your vision.
Steve chuckled against your neck, the warm breath making shivers run down your spine, his hands dropping to graze outside of your thighs. "Mmhmm." His right hand brushed over your thigh and made it way to your core, tickling the skin of your inner thigh.
His fingers quickly found the wet spot on the front of your underwear, kissing his way back towards your lips. When he pressed deep circled into it, he felt you sigh into his mouth.
"Steve… People might see…"
"Don't care" he pressed his fingers harder, until your hips were bucking to get more friction, and you were whining against him. Words came muffled against your mouth. "Not jealous, huh? Didn't want me a single bit, right?"
You scoffed despite youself, "You're the one that came into your pants the other day."
That did it.
Skin to skin. His rough fingers sliding through your soaked slit, dragging your arousal across your folds, teasing you right at the entrance. You broke off mid-sentence, a soft whimper catching in your throat.
His thumb easily found your clit, and one of your hands squeezed around his bicep while the other pulled at the hair at the nape of his neck, your moans getting breathier and breathier by the minute.
His fingers thrusted in and out of you bringing you to an edge so close you could taste it, letting out little pants by the crook of his neck, inflating Steve's ego, making more blood rush south. "Wanna try that again?"
He curled them just right, your slick coating his knuckles as your hips twitched against his hand.
Your head fell back, lips parting on a desperate moan. "N-not jealous…" through gritted teeth, making him click his tongue.
"Suit yourself." And just like that, his fingers were gone, slick mess on your thighs and an unsatisfied beast inside of you.
"Steve, what the—"
He pulled away the slightest bit and bent down, lacing his arm around your legs and throwing you over his shoulder, walking away in the direction of the stairs.
Steve nudged your bedroom door open once you got upstairs and flopped you down on the bed, making you bounce on the mattress.
He hovered over you, settling between your legs and rubbing the heat of him against you, while one if his hands snuck to the back of your dress and pulled the zipper down. He pulled the clothing item down your body as he kissed the same path, and soon you were only in his shirt and a thong.
Your legs opened to accommodate him further, thighs falling to your sides, and he slotted himself chest to mattress, lips barely an inch away from your pussy. Steve kissed your inner thigh once, then again, and your fingers threaded through his hair.
"She's wetter than that night," He spoke softly, but his voice had a dark tone to it, blue eyes staring up at you. "Can't blame me from coming in my boxers when," and a bite to your flesh. "you were grinding a wet spot onto me, honey."
Fuck him and that nickname.
His middle finger came to curl beyond the hem, pulling the sticky wet fabric down your thighs, and both of his thumbs spread your lips, watching your hole clench around nothing.
His gaze once again reached yours, almost asking for permission.
You didn't seem to be able to find it in you to say anything, not a single word but a quiet "Please." leaving your lips.
The second his tongue touched your slit, you were all the way back in that mission in Colombia. Wet, horny, and almost begging him.
At the first taste of you, one would think Steve got possessed, quickly settling further into the mattress and wrapping his arms around your thighs, holding them open. "F-fuck, Steve—"
He groaned against you, the vibration going through you like electricity through water. His tongue traced your entrance, nose nudging your clit, and your back arched off the bed slightly, pushing your hips closer to his face.
Steve's fingers pressed against the tops of your thighs with bruising strength, not that you minded.
Not at all.
He licked zigzag patterens up and down your slit, and then would circle your clit with his tongue, sucking the nerves into his mouth and flicking it. "O-oh my God."
He chuckled into you, "Stop squirming."
Like you could help it. Like it was your damn fault he let Sharon touch him and flirt with him and all but forced you to make sure everyone bought this sham of a marriage.
"Easier— fuck me, easier said than done, Rogers." Your nails scratched deeper into his scalp.
Steve angled his head differently so he could tense his tongue and fuck you while his thumb moved from your thigh to rub quick circles onto your clit.
Your thighs closed around his head, eyes squeezing shut as you heard him breathe heavy against you. Steve's other hand landed on your breast, kneading the skin there, pinching and pulling a nipple drawing a mewl out of you.
"Steve, Steve, I'm— fuck, I'm gonna—"
You really shouldn't have told him, though he'd know you were close judging by the little flutters of your walls around his tongue.
He pulled away harshly, chin slick and lips swollen, his hair a mess from you running your fingers through it.
He stood by the foot of the bed, stripping down to nothing watching your dumbfounded fucked out expression. Your hair was matted, your nipples were hard, and there was a wet spot on the white comforter under you.
In front of you, though, stood 230lbs of pure, unadultered, perfectly sculped by God, blond 100% American Prime Steve Rogers.
Standing naked, tall, thick and proud.
And hard.
Your mouth salivated at the sight, looking at the leaking head of him appear and disappear inside his fist with each slick stroke he gave himself. Steve caught your ankle with his other hand, and pulled you to the edge of the bed, your toes touching the soft carpet of the bedroom.
He turned you around, fingers gripping the linen of his shirt you had on, dragging it down your arms but not over your wrists, twisting the fabric around his own fist.
And just like that, you were face and shoulders down on the mattress with your wrists tied behind you, feeling him rub the head of his cock up and down your puffy slit, coating himself in your wetness.
Steve heard a muffled whine from you, any words being impacted by the fabric of the bedding, "What was that, sweetheart?" He leaned over you, the tip of him notching just a smidge further.
You turned your head to the side. "Steve, please…"
He clicked his tongue again. "No, you didn't want me, remember? Think I shouldn't even be doing this to you."
He motioned to pull out and you whined louder. "She— she was all o-over you…" Tears pricked your eyes from the pressure in your chest, from the ache between your legs, from the desperation of being kept at the edge.
“Steve, please put it in…”
"Yeah?" He gave you the cue to keep going, pushing in unbearably slow and barely any.
You nodded against the mattress. "Pissed me off." You gulped. "Please, please don't leave me like this…"
"All you had to do was stop being such a brat about it."
And then he thrust in enough to knock the air out of your lungs. The squelch of his cock pushing into you was obscene. And in your mind every inch he pushed after that thrust had one though going through your head:
There's more?!
"Oh God…"
That made Steve chuckle. "Just me, baby."
"Is— is it all in?" Your voice trembled, and if you had a mirror you'd see Steve's evil smirk as he dragged your wrists down to where your bodies connected, arching your back and hurting you with the stretch, only to wrap your delicate hands around what was left of him.
"Barely half." He grunted.
You whimpered, both in fear and anticipation, and Steve took the queue to push the rest of the way through, until your hand was flat on his pelvis, and then he let you rest against the mattress again.
"So fucking good." He gave a couple tentative thrusts. "Can feel you gripping me like you don't wanna let me go."
You moaned at the feel of him hitting that sweet spot inside of you, making your eyes roll. "So— hah! Good, Steve…"
After he felt your pussy get used to the size of him, that when he really stopped playing nice.
You could feel every ridge of him, every vein, the length of him pulsing and pulsing inside of you, throbbing against the spongy spot that made you see stars.
“Steve, please, please let me—“
Another harsh thrust interrupted you. “Tell me the truth then.”
You whimpered. The bastard was really going to make you admit it.
As you tried to think through it, brainless as you were, he slowed down, and down, until you could feel the pulse of his cock inside of you just as he could feel your walls flutter around him.
You whimpered, cheeks blushing at the thought. “I was jealous! I was jealous, okay?!” You pushed your hips into him, chasing friction harder, deeper.
“She thought she could have you and— and—“ He picked up the pace, your brain mush as your neck strained to keep your voice from being muffled. “And you’re my— Oh— oh my God!”
“Yeah?” Steve leaned over you, fingers finding your clit with ease. “I’m your what?”
You could cry. You could cry right no— oh you had tears streaming from your eyes onto the bedding. “Steve…”
His eyes rolled to the back of his head.
“That’s right, I’m your Steve.” His fingers picked up speed as did his hips, lips kissing your shoulder blade. “Come for me, pretty girl. Come all over my cock.”
“Mmmmngghhh—“ your vision went white, your body clenching tight around him and pulsing, as your moans got drowned out outside by the fireworks still going.
Steve slammed his hips deeper into you, to the point of almost painful, muttering curse words in sequence of “fuck, fuck, fuck.” until you felt him spill thick ropes of cum inside of you, filling you up until it dripped onto the floor.
As you both caught your breaths, you heard the wet schlick of him pulling out, dropping himself on the bed with a bounce.
After a minute, you spoke. "There's gonna be so much paperwork to explain all this..."
He looked at an imaginary watch on his wrist, turning to you with that boyish smile of his, sheen coat of sweat on his chest and hairline. “Got time for a couple more rounds before all that. You tapped out?”
You smirked at him, using your arms to push yourself up, hands on his chest for leverage as you straddled him, slick pussy on top of his hardening cock.
“I could do this all day, Cap.”
final thoughts: this started as me and Maddie just thirsting over the shower scene, and then... yeah... heh
🥯 glazed donut taglist: @earthsmightiestbenders @love-stucky @epiphanyrogers @pinksplace @chateaubarnes @tw1sters @avgdestitute @allthingswickedpodcast @supercoolswagicornxd
I love him, your honor. I don't know how many times I can rewatch ep4 before someone intervenes.
FALLOUT (2024) 1.06 "The Trap" | Cooper Howard / Barbara Howard
FALLOUT (2025) 2.02 "The Golden Rule" | The Ghoul / Lucy MacLean
randomly remembered "what did you do?" "maybe something good maybe something stupid" and felt my heart stop for like 5 seconds. what a scene what a show holy FUCK
