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Cover Story

Summary: Two days into a cover mission, you and Steve are already frighteningly good at playing newlyweds: hand in hand, pet names on autopilot, smiles for the neighbors. It’s supposed to be safe. It’s supposed to be fake. But the more convincing the act becomes, the harder it is to remember where the cover ends… and what it’s waking up between you.

Wordcount: 12.4k

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of Y/N)

Warnings: MDNI, porn with plot (for once), pronebone, unprotected p in v, big dick Steve (I mean... yk what I mean...), fake marriage au, undercover au, mission partners to lovers, friends to lovers, slow burn (but make it fast), mutual pining, pet names (honey, baby, sweetheart, doll), domestic fluff, protective steve rogers, sam wilson is an idiot

Elixir's Arcade Event: Flush with "Do I need to remind you that we're not actually married?" + "Do you know how hard I'm trying not to kiss you right now?" + "We're not supposed to do this." - "Then stop kissing me like that."

A/N: I was a little stuck with this one at first, because I knew I wanted it to be smutty, but at the same time I had no inspiration apart from some "vanilla" sex. And then, Cassie talked to me about the lack of pronebone fics with Steve, and I had no idea what that was, and looked it up, and I went "Oh. That. I want to write that." So, this one got @blobfishlol 's stamp of approval.

Masterlist

The plan had come out of Sam’s mouth like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“You’ll go in as a married couple.”

You had stared at him over the edge of the briefing table, waiting for the punchline to land.

It didn’t.

Sam, completely unfazed, had leaned back in his chair and shrugged like he’d just suggested ordering takeout. “It’s clean. It’s believable. People don’t look too hard at married people.”

Across from him, Steve had gone very, very still.

Which, in your experience, usually meant he was either biting back a comment… or bracing for impact.

You took a slow breath through your nose.

“Sam,” you said, carefully. “Do you realize who he is?”

Sam blinked. “Yes?”

“You know, the part where he’s–” You pointed at Steve without even looking at him, because it felt like pointing at a monument. “–Captain America.”

Steve’s ears turned pink. Of course they did.

Sam lifted his hands. “I’m aware.”

“So walk me through this,” you pressed, leaning in. “Walk me through how this is supposed to work in a world where everyone and their grandma recognizes his face.”

“It’s a cover,” Sam insisted. “Not a red-carpet announcement.”

You let out a laugh that had no humor in it. “A cover. Right. Because nothing says ‘low profile’ like Captain America suddenly having a wife.”

Steve cleared his throat, very quietly. “It doesn’t have to be–”

“No,” you cut in, because if you gave him room, he would try to smooth it over, and you were not in the mood to be smoothed. “No, Steve. We’re not doing this thing where we pretend it makes sense just because Sam said it with confidence.”

Sam’s smile widened, annoying and victorious. “Confidence is important.”

“It’s implacably stupid,” you snapped, and you didn’t even feel bad about it. “It’s the kind of stupid that only sounds brilliant if you say it fast and then leave the room before anyone can argue.”

Bucky, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, made a noise that might have been a laugh if he’d ever allowed himself joy. Natasha’s eyes flicked to you, sharp with interest – like she was watching a fire catch.

Sam pointed a finger at you like you were the one being unreasonable. “Okay, hear me out.”

“No.”

“Just–”

“No.”

Steve shifted again, his gaze fixed somewhere near the schematics, like the diagram might save him. “It’s… not the worst idea.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Don’t.”

His mouth shut. The pink in his cheeks got worse.

Sam seized the opening like a man starving. “Thank you! It’s not the worst idea.”

You looked between them – Sam with his smug optimism, Steve with his painfully earnest discomfort – and felt a headache blooming behind your eyes.

“You’re telling me,” you said slowly, “that we’re going to walk into a place crawling with people who have televisions and internet access, and our plan is… what. Hope nobody says, Hey, isn’t that Captain America? and then immediately follows it with, Wait, why is he wearing a wedding ring?”

Sam tilted his head. “People will assume he has a life.”

“Steve doesn’t have a life,” you said flatly, then immediately regretted the words when Steve’s expression flickered – something quick and wounded that he covered before it could fully exist.

You exhaled, rubbing your forehead. “Okay. That came out wrong.”

Steve shook his head once, small. “No, you’re… you’re not wrong.”

That was worse.

You straightened, forcing yourself back into the argument because it was easier than looking at the way his hands were folded so tightly in front of him.

“It’s not believable,” you said, more controlled now. “It’s not clean. It’s not anything. It’s a neon sign. People don’t look too hard at married people? They look at him.”

Sam leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes bright. “That’s exactly why it works.”

You stared at him.

Sam smiled like he’d been waiting for this moment. “They’ll look at him and stop thinking. They’ll fill in the gaps themselves. Captain America is married? Sure. Why not. It’s not like the tabloids haven’t tried to marry him off a hundred times.”

Natasha made a thoughtful sound. “He’s not wrong.”

You turned to her. “Don’t you start.”

Natasha’s mouth curved. “I’m not starting. I’m observing.”

Bucky hummed. “It’s gonna be funny.”

You glared at him. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I’ve had a hard life,” he deadpanned. “Let me have this.”

Steve finally lifted his eyes to you. And there it was again – that quiet steadiness that made you feel seen in the most inconvenient way.

“I’ll do whatever makes the mission safer,” he said, simple as that. “If it’s a bad idea, we’ll find another cover. We don’t have to force it.”

Sam pointed at him again, triumphant. “Look at that. Team player. America’s husband.”

“Sam,” Steve warned, but it had no bite. It never did.

You pushed your chair back with a scrape that sounded louder than it should have in the sterile briefing room.

“It’s stupid,” you repeated, because you needed them to understand that you meant it with your whole chest. “It’s stupid and I’m not backing down. There are a dozen other covers we can use. Hell – put a fake mustache on him. That would be less recognizable.”

Sam’s grin widened to something almost affectionate. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

“I will end you,” you said, without missing a beat.

Natasha’s eyes gleamed. “Please do it quietly. Some of us are trying to work.”

Steve’s lips twitched, traitorous. He looked away quickly, like smiling at you was a secret he couldn’t afford.

That – that was the problem.

Not the ring. Not the paperwork. Not the logistics.

The problem was that this ridiculous idea had already started to pull at something that had been tight and controlled between you and Steve for months. A thread you both pretended wasn’t there. A tension you both filed away under not now and not allowed and don’t even think about it.

And Sam, in all his “brilliant” stupidity, had just yanked on it with both hands.

“We’re not actually married,” you said, pointing at Steve again like it would somehow anchor reality.

Steve nodded, earnest. “I know.”

“And we’re not going to act like we are,” you added, sharper. “We’re going to act like… like two people who–”

Sam cut in immediately, delighted. “Like two people who love each other.”

You made a sound of pure, visceral disgust. “Absolutely not.”

Steve’s breath caught – so soft you almost missed it – and his eyes flicked to yours.

For a second, the room faded. The table. The files. The mission.

Just his gaze. Just the way it held too much.

Then he blinked, and it was gone, tucked back behind the shield he wore even when the shield wasn’t in his hands.

Sam clapped his hands together. “Great! So we agree.”

“We do not–” you started.

“–agree,” Sam finished, completely ignoring you. “Rings, names, backstory. We’ll workshop it. Steve, you’re gonna have to get used to saying ‘my wife’ without looking like you’re about to apologize.”

Steve’s face went red so fast it was almost impressive.

You threw your hands up. “This is incredibly stupid.”

Sam beamed. “See? You’re already saying it like it’s a catchphrase.”

You glared at him so hard it should’ve set him on fire.

Steve shifted beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, and his voice dropped just for you – low, quiet, sincere.

“We can still say no,” he murmured. “If you want. I’ll back you.”

You should’ve said yes.

You should’ve grabbed onto that lifeline and dragged yourself out of this before it became something you couldn’t control.

Instead you looked at him – at the honesty in his eyes, at the way he offered you safety even when it meant making himself uncomfortable – and something in your chest went soft in the worst possible way.

And Sam, watching the two of you with the satisfied patience of a man who knew exactly what he was doing, just smiled wider.

“Come on,” he said, already gathering the folders. “It’s gonna be fine. Everybody loves a wedding story.”

You muttered, under your breath, “I hate you.”

Sam didn’t even pretend to be offended.

“I know,” he said cheerfully. “Now pick a date. Nothing says ‘committed’ like a date.”

Steve made a strangled sound.

And you realized, with dawning horror, that this mission wasn’t going to be dangerous because of the target.

It was going to be dangerous because of the lie.

By the time you reached the apartment, you already hated everything about Sam’s “brilliant” plan.

It wasn’t a safehouse in the usual sense – not a bunker, not a sterile S.H.I.E.L.D. box with reinforced doors and cameras in the vents. It was an ordinary unit in an ordinary building with beige walls and a lobby that smelled faintly of old mail and someone’s reheated pasta.

Normal.

That was the point.

You went up the stairs with your duffel biting into your shoulder, Steve a step behind you with his own bag like he wasn’t Steve Rogers, like he was just another man moving in with his wife.

The thought made your jaw tighten.

Inside, the apartment was… decent. Small, clean, staged. The kind of space someone had rented out furnished and forgotten about. A neutral sofa, a little kitchen, a table with two chairs. A framed print of something abstract on the wall that looked like it had been chosen specifically because it meant nothing.

You dropped your bag by the entryway and did a quick scan out of habit – sightlines, exits, hiding spots, anything that could turn into a problem.

Then you walked toward the bedroom, pushed the door open, and…

Of course.

One bed.

One, single, wide bed that took up most of the room like it had been placed there to make a point. Crisp white sheets. Two pillows. A faint scent of detergent and that slightly too-sweet air freshener smell that every “temporary” apartment seemed to have.

You stood there for a second, staring at it like it might multiply if you glared hard enough.

Behind you, Steve halted in the doorway. You didn’t have to look at him to know he’d clocked the same thing.

Silence stretched.

You exhaled slowly, turning on your heel. “I’ll take the couch.”

Steve’s head lifted, as if he was going to argue – and of course he was. Because Steve would rather sleep on broken glass than let someone else be uncomfortable.

“I can–” he started.

“You can take the bed,” you cut in before he could do the whole gentle martyr routine. “This isn’t a debate, Steve.”

His brows drew together. “It’s not fair.”

“It’s a mattress,” you said, grabbing one of the throw blankets from the sofa like you’d already decided. “I’ll survive.”

He opened his mouth again…

And the doorbell rang.

Sharp. Immediate. Like the universe had impeccable comedic timing.

You froze.

Steve’s entire posture changed in an instant – from awkward and domestic to alert and ready, the kind of switch that always made you remember he was built for war even when he was holding grocery bags.

You moved toward the door without thinking, peeking through the peephole.

A couple stood in the hallway: middle-aged, friendly faces, the kind of people who waved at neighbors and remembered birthdays. The woman held a small plate covered in foil. The man wore a baseball cap and a curious smile.

Neighbors.

Great.

You pulled the door open and forced your expression into something approachable.

“Hi,” you said, brightening your voice just a touch. “Can I help you?”

The woman’s face lit up. “Oh! Hi. We’re so sorry to bother you, we just– we saw someone moving in and thought we’d come say welcome. I’m Linda. This is my husband, Mark. We’re right across the hall.”

You smiled, polite. “That’s really nice, thank you.”

Before you could add anything else, Steve stepped up behind you.

And then it happened so smoothly you almost didn’t register it until you felt it.

His arm came around your shoulders – warm, solid, familiar – pulling you in just enough to make it natural. Not possessive. Not dramatic. Just… intimate, in that casual way couples were intimate without thinking about it.

Like he’d done it a thousand times.

Your body reacted before your brain caught up: a stiff little jolt in your spine, your breath catching in the back of your throat.

Steve didn’t hesitate.

“Hi,” he said, easy, friendly, utterly un-Captain-America in the best way. “I’m Steve. Thanks for coming by.”

Then, without even looking down, he tipped his head toward you and added, voice softening just a fraction, “Honey, do we still have those waters in the fridge?”

Honey.

The word landed like a hand on your pulse.

Not because it was loud.

Because it was right – in the worst possible way. Like his mouth had shaped it naturally. Like it belonged there. Like you belonged there.

You felt the neighbors’ eyes flicker between the two of you with immediate approval, the way people did when they sensed something familiar and comfortable.

Linda beamed. “Oh my God, you two are adorable.”

Mark nodded, grinning. “Yeah. Welcome to the building.”

You forced a laugh that sounded a little too high in your own ears. “Thanks.”

Steve’s thumb shifted against your shoulder, a tiny squeeze – a silent play along.

Your brain finally caught up enough to do its job.

You leaned into him, just slightly. Let your shoulders relax. Let your body lie as convincingly as your mouth was about to.

“Sorry,” you said, aiming for warm. “We just got in and we’re still… unpacking.”

Linda lifted the plate. “We brought you something. Banana bread. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s fresh.”

“That’s so kind,” you said, accepting it with both hands. The foil was still warm.

Steve’s arm didn’t move.

His presence at your side was steady, reassuring, and suddenly far too distracting.

Linda’s gaze dropped – naturally – to your hand. To the ring.

And then to Steve’s.

Her smile widened like you’d just confirmed something she wanted to believe. “Newlyweds?”

Oh, for the love of–

You felt Steve’s breath change. Not a flinch, exactly. Just a fractional pause, like even he hadn’t anticipated the direct hit.

But he recovered instantly.

“Yeah,” Steve said, gentle, almost shy. “Pretty recently.”

Your stomach flipped.

Linda clasped her hands together. “That is wonderful! Congratulations!”

Mark chuckled. “You picked a good building, man. Quiet. Safe.”

Steve nodded. “That was the idea.”

You kept smiling, kept your face smooth, kept the lie sitting on your tongue like it hadn’t just scorched your throat.

“Thank you,” you managed. “We’re… we’re happy to be here.”

Linda’s eyes softened in that way women’s eyes softened when they thought they were looking at something sweet. “Well, if you need anything – sugar, flour, a screwdriver, someone to take a package – you just knock.”

“We will,” Steve promised. “Thank you. Really.”

They said their goodbyes after another minute, still smiling, still satisfied.

You kept waving until the elevator swallowed them.

The second the door clicked shut, you exhaled so hard it felt like you’d been holding your breath for hours.

Steve’s arm fell away immediately, like he’d been burned.

The warmth it left behind on your skin was almost worse.

You turned slowly, banana bread still in your hands like evidence.

Steve stood a few feet away, eyes on the floor for a beat, then up to you – apologetic already forming on his face.

“I’m sorry,” he started.

You held up a hand. “Don’t.”

His brows knit. “I just– it was automatic. I thought–”

“I know,” you said, because you did. That was the problem. It had been automatic. Instinctive. Like his body knew the role.

Like he’d wanted to play it.

You set the plate on the counter a little too carefully.

Then you looked back at him, trying for exasperation and landing on something softer you didn’t want.

“Honey?” you repeated, dryly.

Steve’s face went red in a way that would’ve been funny if it didn’t make your chest ache.

“I panicked,” he admitted.

“You panicked and your brain decided ‘honey’ was the best option.”

Steve’s mouth opened, then closed. “I–”

You shook your head, letting out a small, incredulous laugh. “This is going to be a long few days.”

His gaze flicked to the bedroom door behind you.

Then to the couch.

Then back to you, like he wanted to say something responsible and didn’t know where to put it.

You could see the thought forming – the inevitable argument about who slept where, about propriety, about comfort, about what you were “supposed” to do.

And then, like the universe wasn’t done tormenting you, you heard footsteps in the hall again. Another door opening. A murmur of voices.

Other neighbors.

More eyes.

More “welcome” smiles.

More rings to notice.

Steve’s shoulders squared subtly, the way they did when he stepped into a role.

When he looked at you this time, there was an apology in his eyes – and something else, too.

Something you didn’t let yourself name.

“Okay,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. “Ground rules.”

Steve blinked. “Ground rules?”

“You do not call me honey,” you said firmly.

His lips twitched, helpless. “What about–”

“No.”

“Amazing,” he murmured, like he couldn’t help it. “Because I was going to suggest we–”

The doorbell rang again.

You both froze.

Steve’s gaze slid to yours, and for half a second, you saw it: the way he was already bracing to put his arm around you again.

The way you were already bracing to let him.

You swallowed, stepped toward the door, and forced your best smile back into place.

Behind you, Steve moved closer – close enough to feel.

Close enough to make the lie believable.

And you hated how easily your body adjusted to it.

By the end of the first day, you hated two things with equal intensity.

Sam’s smugness.

And how quickly your body learned the rhythm of the lie.

Because outside the apartment, Steve didn’t just play along. He inhabited it like he’d been born knowing how.

It started small – almost reasonable.

A “honey” murmured at the corner store when you reached for the wrong brand of coffee filters. A “darling” said with a soft laugh as he held the door open for you, palm resting at the small of your back like it belonged there.

The first few times, it made your spine go rigid.

Not because it was inappropriate – you’d done worse covers than this – but because it was Steve. Because his voice did something unfair to those words, like he meant them even when he absolutely couldn’t.

And the worst part was that it worked.

The cashier looked at you and didn’t see an Avenger and an agent. She saw a couple. A man with a patient smile, a woman rolling her eyes affectionately, two people bickering gently over which cereal was “actually edible.” She saw normal.

The building’s doorman learned your faces. The elderly lady on the second floor smiled at you like you were her favorite kind of story. The guy with the dog stopped giving Steve the suspicious once-over after the second day, because Steve had started crouching down to scratch the dog’s ears like he didn’t have a single dangerous thought in his head.

And you…

You held his hand.

Not dramatically. Not with some performative squeeze meant for an audience. Just… naturally.

Because it was easier.

Because it was safer.

Because once you’d done it once, your fingers started reaching for his the next time without you even thinking about it.

Two days.

Two days and your body began to anticipate the warmth of his palm before your brain could remember why it was a bad idea.

You ran the perimeter as if you were just stretching your legs after unpacking, strolling past the same coffee shop twice, ducking into a small bookstore, lingering at the window of a florist for no reason other than to look like you had time.

Steve walked beside you like he belonged there.

Sometimes his arm would slide around your shoulders with that same easy familiarity, tugging you in against his side when you crossed a street. Sometimes his hand would settle at your waist when you paused near a storefront, a light pressure that felt like an anchor.

He said your name less.

He said darling or honey more.

And each time he did, it got… easier.

Less jarring.

Less like a performance.

More like a habit.

You told yourself it was because repetition made anything feel normal. That this was just conditioning. That if you repeated a lie often enough, it stopped feeling like a lie.

It was a comforting thought.

It was also a dangerous one.

By the second night, you’d stopped flinching when he touched you.

By the second night, you’d stopped fighting the instinct to lean into him.

By the second night, you’d caught yourself laughing at something he said while his arm was around you – and you’d forgotten, for half a second, that anyone was watching.

You’d forgotten the mission.

You’d forgotten you weren’t supposed to let this seep under your skin.

That was what terrified you.

The third morning should have been routine.

The apartment was quiet in that early way, the kind of quiet that felt domestic whether you wanted it to or not. Pale light spilled through the blinds. The building’s pipes hissed somewhere in the walls. The scent of coffee hung in the air, warm and grounding.

You were sitting at the small table with your laptop open, hair still messy, one knee tucked up under you. A map and a list of names were spread out beside the keyboard, the practical skeleton of the operation laid bare.

Steve moved around the kitchen with a kind of careful ease you didn’t know he had – barefoot, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from the shower. He’d taken the couch the first night. You’d argued. He’d insisted. You’d rolled your eyes and let him, because it was easier than acknowledging how the idea of sharing the bed made your pulse do stupid things.

He’d taken the couch the second night too.

You’d told yourself that proved you were both being professional.

You were still telling yourself that when he approached with a mug in each hand.

He set one down in front of you – black, two sugars, exactly how you took it – like he’d been doing it for years instead of… forty-eight hours.

Then he tilted his head, mouth curving, voice soft with that morning warmth that made you want to throw something at him.

“Here you go, darling.”

You froze with your fingers hovering over the keyboard.

It wasn’t the word.

It was the way it came with no hesitation at all. No performative wink. No glance toward a window to check who might hear.

Just… natural.

Intimate.

Like you were alone and it was real.

You looked up slowly.

Steve was still smiling, but there was a question in his eyes too – like he wasn’t sure why you’d stopped moving. Like he was just… existing in the habit you’d both built.

Your gaze flicked to the coffee. To the mug. To his hands, big and steady and careful not to spill.

Then back to his face.

“You’re getting comfortable,” you said, suspicion sharpening your tone on purpose, because if you didn’t make it a joke, it would turn into something else.

Steve blinked. “What?”

You nudged the mug slightly, as if moving it could shove the moment back into place. “With the… pet names.”

His mouth opened like he was going to deny it. Then he seemed to think better of it.

A faint flush crept up his neck.

“I thought–” he started, then stopped, because whatever excuse he had didn’t sound convincing even in his own head.

You leaned back in your chair, lifting an eyebrow.

And then you let it land exactly where it needed to.

“Do I need to remind you we’re not actually married?”

For half a second, Steve just stared at you.

Like the words had yanked him out of a daydream.

Like you’d pulled a thread and something inside him had gone tight.

His gaze dropped to your hand – to the ring that still sat there, simple and cruel – and his jaw worked once, as if he was swallowing something he hadn’t meant to taste.

Then he looked up again, and the softness in his expression didn’t disappear.

It just changed.

“I remember,” he said quietly.

There was no defensiveness in it.

No embarrassment.

Just… truth.

And for a moment, the apartment felt too small. The air too warm. The coffee too rich in your throat.

Because he wasn’t arguing.

He wasn’t correcting you.

He was simply acknowledging the line you’d drawn – and the fact that he’d stepped close enough to it to make you nervous.

You forced a small, dry smile, because you needed control back in your hands.

“Good.”

Steve’s eyes held yours, steady and too honest for seven in the morning.

“I’m not doing it to–” he began, and stopped again, like he was choosing his words with care. “It’s… habit. Like you said.”

“Right,” you agreed quickly. “A habit.”

He nodded once, but his voice was lower when he added, almost like he couldn’t help himself–

“It’s easy.”

You didn’t breathe for a second.

Easy.

Like it didn’t cost you anything.

Like it didn’t twist something in your chest every time he called you darling.

Like it didn’t make your skin remember his hand around your shoulders before you’d even stepped outside.

You looked away first, because if you didn’t, you were going to let him see too much.

You reached for the mug, wrapping your hands around the heat like it was something solid to hold onto.

“Let’s just… keep it outside,” you said, casual on purpose. “In here, we can be normal.”

Steve’s lips quirked faintly. “Normal.”

You shot him a look over the rim of your coffee. “You know what I mean.”

His smile softened – gentle, almost fond.

And that was the real problem.

Because you were starting to recognize that look.

Not from missions.

From moments.

“I do,” he said. “I’ll– I’ll be careful.”

Careful.

You nodded, taking a sip, letting the bitterness ground you.

Then the quiet stretched, filled with the small sounds of morning – the building settling, the distant hum of traffic, the faint clink of Steve setting his own mug down.

You told yourself you’d put the line back where it belonged.

That you’d reminded him.

That you’d reminded yourself.

But when you stood a few minutes later to grab the printed file from the counter, Steve shifted to make room for you in the narrow space.

And as you passed him, he murmured, almost too soft to hear, “Sorry, honey.”

The word curled around you like smoke.

You stopped for half a beat.

Steve went still too, like he realized what he’d done at the exact same time you did.

Then you exhaled slowly, not turning around.

“This is going to be a long mission,” you muttered.

Behind you, you heard the smallest sound – not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.

And Steve, voice warm with something dangerously close to amusement, answered anyway.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

The invite had come through one of the informants like it was nothing.

A “small get-together.” A “few people.” A “chance to be seen.”

Which, translated into your world, meant: a room full of eyes you couldn’t afford to trigger.

It wasn’t black-tie. No glittering ballroom, no orchestra, no photographers. But it was still the kind of evening where people noticed details. Where you couldn’t show up in tactical gear and a hoodie without sticking out like a warning sign.

So you made an effort.

Steve did too.

That was part of the problem.

He’d swapped his usual mission-friendly layers for something softer, cleaner. Dark jeans, a button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, the collar open just enough to look relaxed. His hair was still Steve-hair – stubborn and slightly unruly – but he’d tamed it a little, like he’d actually stood in front of a mirror and tried.

You hated how unfair it was.

How one small shift made him look less like Captain America and more like… a man.

A man you had to pretend was yours.

You chose something simple. Nothing that screamed date night, nothing that made you feel like you were trying too hard. Just a dress that hit your knees and a jacket you could move in, your hair pinned back enough to keep it out of your face. You’d checked the seams, the pockets, the way the fabric fell – because even when you were dressed like a civilian, you still thought like a soldier.

In the hallway mirror, you’d both looked almost… believable.

Steve had glanced at you, then away, like looking too long would be a mistake.

“Ready?” he’d asked.

You’d swallowed. “Yeah.”

And then you’d stepped into the lie together.

The party was in someone’s apartment a few blocks away – bigger than yours, warmer, louder. The kind of place where furniture got pushed back to make room for bodies and music and laughter. Someone had lit too many candles. Someone had put together a playlist that tried hard to be cool.

There were drinks on every surface.

There were clusters of people talking with their whole hands. Couples leaning close. Friends laughing too loudly. A dog weaving between legs like it owned the place.

Normal.

That was the point.

You and Steve slipped into it like you belonged there.

He rested a hand at your back when you moved through the crowd. You smiled at strangers. You laughed at jokes you barely heard. You nodded along to conversations about work and rent and the building’s plumbing like you weren’t mentally mapping exits.

You played your role.

He played his.

And together, you were… seamless.

A couple.

A unit.

Steve’s “honey” came out at the right moments – just loud enough for other people to register, just casual enough to feel real. He introduced you with an arm around your waist. He let people assume things about you without correcting them.

And the room accepted it.

The dangerous part was that you started to accept it too.

You should have paced your drinking. You knew that. You always knew that. But the atmosphere was easy, and the conversation was harmless, and it felt good – too good – to let your shoulders loosen for once.

Someone handed you a glass of something citrusy and sweet. Then another.

Steve didn’t say anything at first. He watched, as he always did – quiet, protective, letting you make your own choices.

But at some point, you realized his hand had moved from your waist to your hip, firmer now. A silent reminder. A steadying weight.

When you glanced up at him, you found his eyes already on you.

Careful.

A little concerned.

A little… something else, maybe.

“You okay?” he murmured, close to your ear so no one else could hear.

You smiled, too bright. “I’m fine.”

Steve’s thumb pressed once into your hip. “You’re flushed.”

“It’s warm in here.”

His gaze dipped to your mouth. Came back up.

“You’ve had a few.”

“Captain,” you teased, leaning in just enough to make it look affectionate, “are you monitoring my alcohol intake?”

His mouth twitched. “Someone has to.”

You laughed – real, this time – and Steve’s expression softened like that sound had hit him somewhere tender.

It made your stomach flip in a way you didn’t have permission to feel.

So you drank again, because it was easier than thinking about it.

You left at the right time.

Before anyone got too drunk to keep their stories straight. Before the noise turned sloppy. Before you started forgetting why you were there.

Steve guided you out with a hand on your back and a polite smile, thanking the host, waving to people you’d spoken to for exactly twelve minutes and would never see again.

Outside, the air was colder, cleaner. The night pressed against your skin like a reset.

You inhaled too deeply and swayed just slightly.

Steve’s hand immediately tightened on your arm.

“Easy,” he said, voice low.

“I’m fine,” you repeated, stubborn.

“I know,” he replied, and there was something in his tone – patient, affectionate, impossibly gentle – that made you look at him.

Really look.

Streetlight pooled gold on his hair. On the line of his jaw. On the collar of his shirt, open at the throat like he wasn’t wearing armor for once.

His face was relaxed from the social performance, but his eyes were still sharp, still tracking, still Steve.

Only now, with the alcohol warm in your blood, you couldn’t keep your mind on the mission.

You saw the way he’d smiled at the dog. The way he’d said your name like it mattered. The way his hand had stayed on you the entire night, not for show, but because he didn’t seem to want to let go.

And something in your chest went strangely quiet.

When you reached your building, you fumbled slightly with the keys.

Steve took them from your hand without a word, unlocked the door, held it open. His shoulder brushed yours as you stepped inside.

You were too aware of that brush.

Too aware of him.

The elevator ride was short and silent.

In your apartment, the familiar blandness hit you – neutral walls, neutral furniture, neutral space that was supposed to be a base and not a home.

Steve set the keys down, loosened his shoulders, exhaled like he’d been carrying the night for both of you.

You turned to face him.

The room was dim. Just the kitchen light, soft and yellow, catching the edges of his features.

You stared.

Not like you normally did, quick and pragmatic, checking for tension, scanning for stress.

Different.

Longer.

Like you were seeing him as something other than a teammate, other than a symbol, other than a role.

Steve noticed.

Of course he did.

His gaze flicked to your eyes and held, suddenly still. Something changed in his posture – not alarm, not defense.

Awareness.

A careful kind of attention that made your skin prickle.

“Hey,” you said, and it came out quieter than you meant it to. Almost tender.

Steve didn’t answer right away. His throat worked once, like he was swallowing.

He took a step closer.

Not enough to crowd you.

Just enough that you could feel the heat of him.

And when he spoke, his voice was low – roughened by restraint, by the whole night of playing husband, by the way you were looking at him now.

“Do you know how hard I’m trying not to kiss you right now?”

The sentence hit you like a shove.

Not because you hadn’t felt the tension.

But because he said it like it was the truth. Like he couldn’t carry it alone anymore.

Your breath caught, your pulse spiking under your skin.

“Steve…” you whispered, and you didn’t know if it was a warning or a plea.

His eyes dropped to your mouth again, just for a second – like he was measuring the distance. Like he was imagining it. Like he was fighting himself with everything he had.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t touch you.

He just stood there, hands loose at his sides, looking at you like he was asking permission without daring to ask.

The alcohol in your blood made you brave in the worst way.

Or honest.

You took a small step forward, closing the space he refused to close.

And you tilted your head, voice soft, almost teasing – but your eyes were serious.

“Then don’t look at me like that,” you said.

Steve’s breath stuttered.

His jaw clenched.

“We’re not supposed to do this,” he murmured, like the words cost him.

You could almost hear the mission between you. The rules. The consequences.

You could almost hear Sam’s laugh if he knew.

And still – you didn’t move away.

Instead, you lifted your hand, not touching him yet, just hovering near his chest, feeling the heat radiating off him.

“Steve,” you said again, quieter. “You’ve been calling me honey all week.”

His eyes flicked up, sharp with something raw. “That was for the cover.”

“And what about the way you held me tonight?” you asked, too softly. “Was that for the neighbors too?”

Steve’s throat bobbed. His voice came out even lower.

“Stop,” he warned – not harsh, not angry. Just desperate.

“Why?” you whispered.

Because he was losing, and you could see it.

Because you were losing too.

He swallowed, eyes burning into yours like he was trying to memorize you before he did something he couldn’t take back.

“Because if you keep talking,” he said, “I’m not going to be able to stop myself.”

The air between you tightened.

Your smile trembled at the edges, not quite playful anymore.

“Then stop trying,” you breathed.

And that was the moment.

The exact moment when Steve’s restraint cracked – not into violence, not into recklessness.

Into want.

His hand lifted, finally, and hovered by your cheek like he was still giving you a chance to back away.

His voice was barely a whisper.

“Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

You just leaned in.

Steve kissed you.

It wasn’t careful, not this time – not the gentle, testing press that left room for doubt. This was heat and momentum, the kind of kiss that swallowed the air between you like it had been starving for it.

His hand found your jaw, thumb braced beneath your ear, and you felt the tremor he tried to hide. Like even now, even with his mouth on yours, some part of him was still fighting – counting consequences, holding the line by sheer force of will.

You made a small sound against his lips, and it was like the last thread snapped.

Steve pulled you closer, chest to chest, the slide of fabric and warmth and breath. Your fingers fisted in his shirt, dragging him in because you couldn’t do anything else. Because you didn’t want to.

You broke apart only to breathe, foreheads nearly touching, mouths still brushing – stolen seconds, stolen air.

His eyes stayed on you, dark and wrecked with restraint.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he breathed, the words catching between your mouths like a prayer he didn’t believe in anymore.

You almost laughed. Almost.

Instead you kissed him again, and the sound he made was all frustration and surrender.

He moved you without thinking – one step, then another – until your back hit the wall. Not hard. Not violent. Just decisive, like his body knew exactly where it wanted you. Like he needed something solid behind you to stop himself from falling.

His hands came up, sliding into your hair, fingers spreading at the base of your skull to hold you steady, to keep your face exactly where he wanted it. The tenderness of it should have felt contradictory with the hunger of the kiss, but it didn’t.

It felt like Steve.

Like devotion, even when it was dangerous.

Your breath hitched as he kissed you again, deeper, slower, like he was learning the shape of your mouth by force. Your hands slid up his sides, gripping him like you could anchor yourself to him and keep the whole world from tilting.

Between two kisses, you felt his forehead brush yours.

“We really–” he started, voice ragged. “We–”

You cut him off by pulling him back in, your mouth demanding his until the thought evaporated.

He kissed you like he was trying to convince himself. Like he was trying to forget. Like he was trying to remember, all at once.

When you finally managed to speak – when your lips parted just enough to let words slip out – you were still pinned there, still held in place by his hands in your hair, his body a shield in front of you.

“Then stop kissing me like that,” you whispered, breathless and accusing and not meaning it at all.

Steve stilled for the smallest second.

His eyes flicked over your face – your mouth, your eyes, the way your hands were still gripping him like you were afraid he’d disappear.

His thumbs pressed gently against your scalp, grounding, reverent.

And then he leaned in again, lips brushing yours like he couldn’t help it.

“I can’t,” he murmured.

The admission hit harder than any of the kisses.

Because it wasn’t an excuse.

It was surrender.

You swallowed, your pulse a loud, reckless thing in your throat. Your fingers slid up, catching at his collar, tugging him down again. You wanted to taste the truth of what he’d just said until it stopped making you feel like you might break.

Steve’s breath shuddered against your mouth.

His hands held your head carefully as he kissed you – like he was afraid of hurting you, like he was afraid you might change your mind, like he needed you to stay right there because if you moved away he’d come apart.

You felt the restraint in him anyway, under the hunger. The way he kept stopping himself from crowding you too hard, the way his hips stayed just far enough back, the way he kept his hands only where they could steady you.

Like he was drawing the line with shaking hands.

Like he didn’t trust himself not to cross it.

You pulled back a fraction, just enough to look at him.

Steve’s eyes were blown wide with want, his breathing uneven, his mouth swollen from kissing you like he’d forgotten how to do anything else.

He looked… undone.

And still, even like this, there was a question in him. A need to be sure.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered again, voice breaking at the edges, as if saying it cost him.

Your chest rose and fell too fast.

You could feel the mission hovering in the air like a ghost. The rules. The rings. The thin walls. Tomorrow.

But Steve was here, in front of you, holding your head like you were precious, kissing you like he couldn’t survive without it.

You lifted your hand, sliding your fingers along his jaw, feeling the roughness of stubble there.

“No,” you breathed. “Don’t.”

The sound he made was almost a groan – caught in his throat, swallowed by the next kiss as he pressed his mouth to yours again like you’d just given him permission to breathe.

His lips moved to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your jaw – slower now, reverent in a way that made your skin prickle. He lingered like he was trying to map you. Like he was trying to memorize the places that made you go still.

You tilted your head back instinctively, giving him more.

Steve paused, his forehead resting against yours again, his hands still in your hair, holding you there.

“You’re sure?” he asked, quiet and wrecked.

Your answer came without hesitation, even if your brain was still screaming about consequences.

“Yes.”

Steve closed his eyes like that single word had finally broken him.

Then he kissed you again – deep, aching, unhurried – and his lips pressed harder against yours in the dim light of the kitchen, his strong hands tangled in your hair, tilting your head just right to deepen the kiss.

His fingers threaded through the strands with a firm grip, holding you steady as your tongues met in a slow, heated dance that sent sparks racing through your body. Each swirl and flick left you both gasping for air, breaths mingling in short, ragged bursts between the press of mouths.

Your arms slid up around his broad neck, pulling him closer, fingers digging into the muscles at the base of his skull. He responded instantly, his large hands dropping to your thighs, gripping the soft flesh there with effortless strength. In one fluid motion, he hoisted you up as if you were weightless, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The cool edge of the kitchen counter brushed your back for a split second before he spun you both, pinning you firmly against the wall with his solid frame.

The impact jolted a soft moan from your lips into his mouth, and he swallowed it greedily, his kisses turning fiercer, more demanding.

His body trapped yours there, hips grinding subtly against you, the hard line of his cock already straining through his pants against your core. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the way his chest heaved with every breath, matching the wild thrum of your pulse.

For what felt like an eternity but was probably only moments, you lost yourselves in that wall-bound embrace–lips bruising, tongues battling, hands roaming just enough to tease without mercy.

But soon, the thin barriers of fabric became unbearable, a frustrating veil between skin and skin. Your fingers clawed at the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward to expose the chiseled planes of his abs, while his palms slid under your dress and went up your body, calloused thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, making your nipples harden instantly under the touch.

He broke the kiss just long enough to growl low in his throat, eyes dark with hunger as they locked onto yours. “Doll,” he murmured, the word rough and intimate, before his mouth claimed yours again. One hand stayed firm on your thigh, keeping you elevated, while the other pushed your dress higher, fingers tracing the edge of your panties, dipping just beneath to feel the damp heat waiting for him.

Steve's hips rolled forward in a deliberate grind, the rigid length of his cock pressing insistently against the damp fabric of your panties, sending jolts of friction straight to your core. Each subtle thrust built a mounting ache between your thighs, his body heat seeping through the layers as he trapped you more firmly against the wall.

His mouth left yours with a wet pop, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. He nipped there lightly, then sucked harder, marking you with a blooming heat that made your pulse thunder in your veins.

His lips wandered lower, brushing over the exposed curve of your collarbone, then dipping toward the swell of your breasts where your dress had ridden up. The fabric bunched awkwardly, but he didn't care – he kissed and licked at whatever skin he could reach, his breath fanning across your chest in ragged exhales.

One hand kneaded your thigh, fingers digging into the muscle to hold you steady as his hips kept that torturous rhythm, rubbing his erection along your slit through the barriers, teasing your clit with every pass.

Your fingers twisted deeper into his hair, clutching the thick strands like a lifeline, pulling him closer as if the touch alone could ground you amid the whirlwind of sensation. The pull elicited a low groan from him, vibrating against your skin, and he rewarded you by sucking a spot just above your pulse point, his tongue swirling to soothe the sting.

Your body arched into him instinctively, breasts pressing against his chest, nipples pebbling painfully against the confines of your bra, begging for more direct attention.

He shifted slightly, his free hand sliding up your side to cup one breast fully, thumb circling the hardened peak through the thin material. The pressure was exquisite, bordering on rough, and you gasped, your grip in his hair tightening enough to make him hiss in pleasure.

“God, sweetheart,” he rasped against your throat, voice thick with need, before his mouth returned to yours in a brief, devouring clash – tongues tangling fiercely while his grinding grew more urgent, the seam of his pants dragging over your soaked folds.

“Steve,” you panted, the word escaping in a breathless rush as he pulled back from the kiss just enough to draw in air, his lips hovering inches from yours, swollen and glistening.

"Yeah?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through his chest into yours, eyes dark and locked on you with an intensity that made your stomach flip.

"Bedroom. Now. Need you inside me." The demand tumbled out, raw and urgent, your body thrumming with the ache he'd built, every nerve screaming for more.

A deep growl tore from his throat, primal and possessive, as his arms tightened around you.

He glanced down to ensure your legs were locked around his waist, your fingers still buried in his hair, and then he moved – super soldier speed turning the world into a blur. In less than fifteen seconds, the cool tile of the kitchen floor gave way to the plush carpet of the bedroom, the dim lamp casting golden shadows across the king-sized bed.

He lowered you onto the mattress with controlled strength, his body following yours down until he hovered above, caging you in with his broad frame. The weight of him pressed you into the soft sheets, his hips settling between your thighs, that hard cock still straining against his pants and nudging insistently at your core.

Without pause, his mouth crashed back onto yours, kissing you like a man deprived of his fix – desperate, devouring laps of his tongue against yours, teeth nipping at your lower lip to draw out a whimper.

His lips trailed fire along your jaw, then down to the curve of your neck, sucking and licking at the tender skin there.

"Bet you taste as sweet as honey," he whispered hotly against your pulse, his breath fanning over the damp marks he'd already left, one hand sliding up to tangle in your hair and tilt your head for better access. The words sent a shiver racing down your spine, your hips bucking up to grind against him in response.

"But need to be in your pussy now," he added, the confession rough and edged with hunger, his free hand yanking at the hem of your dress to shove it higher, fingers hooking into the waistband of your soaked panties and tugging them aside.

You arched beneath him, legs spreading wider to accommodate his bulk, the friction of his clothed erection dragging over your bare folds making you gasp into his mouth. He groaned at the feel of your wetness coating him through the fabric, his hips thrusting forward in a sharp snap that had the head of his cock pressing right against your entrance, teasing without entering.

His mouth returned to your neck, biting down gently as he rocked against you, building that slick heat until you were writhing, nails scraping down his back under his shirt, desperate for him to follow through on that promise.

Your hands fumbled with the buttons of Steve's shirt, fingers trembling from the heat coursing through you, while his strong palms worked at the zipper of your dress, yanking it down with impatient tugs. Fabric whispered against skin as it peeled away – his shirt tossed aside to reveal the sculpted planes of his chest, muscles rippling under your touch; your dress shoved up and off, leaving you in just your damp panties, which he stripped next, the cool air hitting your exposed folds like a shock.

He shed his pants in a swift motion, kicking them off, his thick cock springing free, heavy and veined, the tip already glistening with pre-cum. You reached for him, wrapping your hand around the base, stroking once, twice, feeling him throb in your grip, but he captured your wrist gently, guiding you back to the bed.

Naked now, skin flushed and slick with sweat, you collided again in a frenzy of kisses – lips crashing, tongues tangling in wet, open-mouthed exploration.

He positioned himself between your spread thighs, one hand bracing beside your head, the other gripping his shaft as he dragged the swollen head of his cock through your slick folds. The first slide coated him in your arousal, his length gliding easily now, lubricated by the evidence of your need.

You moaned into his mouth, the sound muffled as his glans nudged your entrance, parting your lips just enough to tease penetration before pulling back, only to repeat the motion – rubbing up to circle your clit with deliberate pressure.

Each pass sent sparks exploding behind your eyelids, your hips jerking up to chase the friction, a sharp gasp escaping when the broad tip bumped your sensitive nub, nearly slipping inside but holding back at the last second.

“Oh fuck,” you whimpered, the pleasure coiling tighter in your core, your walls clenching around nothing, desperate for him to fill you.

He groaned low, his breath ragged against your cheek, hips rolling in a slow, torturous rhythm that had his cockhead kissing your clit again and again, dipping shallowly at your opening each time, stretching you fractionally before retreating, building the ache until you were dripping onto the sheets.

Your teeth grazed his lower lip in a playful bite, nipping just hard enough to draw a hiss from him, and you pulled back slightly, eyes locking with his heated gaze.

“Want you to take me from behind,” you moaned, the words laced with urgency, your voice husky from the moans he'd already pulled from you.

He panted, chest heaving, his cock twitching against your thigh as he processed your plea.

“You want that?” he rasped, voice thick with desire, one hand sliding down to squeeze your hip possessively.

You nodded fervently, biting your lip as another wave of need washed over you.

“You want me on top of you?”

“God yes. Want to feel you everywhere,” you confessed, arching into him, your breasts pressing against his chest, nipples pebbling from the contact.

“Okay. Okay baby, let's do this,” he murmured, his tone rough with promise.

With gentle but firm hands, he rolled you over, helping you shift onto your stomach, your cheek pressing into the pillow as you stretched out fully on the bed. Your legs parted instinctively, ass lifting just enough to present yourself to him, the cool air kissing your exposed pussy.

Steve settled behind you, his thighs bracketing yours, the heat of his body blanketing your back as his cock rested heavy along the cleft of your ass, still slick from your arousal. His hands roamed your sides, thumbs tracing the curve of your waist before one slid up to cup your breast, pinching the nipple lightly, while the other gripped your hip, positioning you just right.

Steve lowered his body over yours, the solid heat of his chest pressing against your back as he aligned himself fully behind you. One strong arm braced beside your head, muscles flexing to hold most of his weight off you, while his other hand wrapped around the base of his cock, the thick shaft sliding down from the cleft of your ass to nudge insistently at your slick folds.

He dragged the swollen head through your wetness once more, parting your lips before pressing forward, the tip breaching your entrance with a slow, deliberate push.

The stretch hit you immediately, his girth forcing your walls to yield as the head popped inside, filling you just enough to steal the air from your lungs. Your breath hitched sharply, a gasp escaping as your body tensed around the intrusion, the sensation bordering on overwhelming.

“God, you're big,” you murmured, eyes fluttering shut, lashes brushing your cheeks while you focused on the burn of accommodation, your inner muscles clenching involuntarily around him.

His hand released his cock, leaving it buried to the tip as he reached for yours, fingers seeking and finding your own splayed on the sheets. He laced them together tightly, his grip firm and reassuring, palm rough against your softer skin.

Leaning down, Steve's lips found the curve of your shoulder, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along the slope, then trailing up to the sensitive skin at the nape of your neck. His breath fanned hot there, stirring the fine hairs as he nuzzled closer, teeth grazing lightly before soothing with his tongue.

“Breathe for me, doll,” he whispered against your skin, voice low and gravelly, laced with restraint as he held himself still, letting you adjust.

“Let me in. Let me make you feel good.”

You drew in a shaky inhale, the air filling your lungs as you relaxed fractionally, your free hand clutching the pillow beneath your cheek.

The fullness at your core pulsed with each heartbeat, a mix of ache and promise, your arousal easing the way as he began to inch deeper, the veined length of him sliding past your gripping entrance. His hips rocked gently, feeding more of his cock inside with controlled thrusts, the friction igniting sparks along your nerves.

Steve's mouth continued its worship on your back, kissing the knobs of your spine, sucking lightly at the juncture of neck and shoulder, marking you with faint red blooms that would linger as reminders of this moment. Your joined hands squeezed, anchoring you both as he sank further, the weight of him grounding you in the building pleasure, your moans mingling with his soft grunts of effort and desire.

Steve pushed forward with a steady roll of his hips, the remaining length of his thick cock sinking deep into your pussy until his pelvis pressed flush against your ass, his balls nestling heavy against your clit.

The full invasion stretched you wide, every inch of him buried to the hilt, filling you so completely that your walls fluttered around the pulsing heat of him, a deep ache blooming into exquisite pressure that radiated through your core.

He stilled there, his breath ragged against the back of your neck, giving you those precious seconds to adjust to the overwhelming girth splitting you open, your body trembling as it accommodated the sheer size of him, slick arousal coating his shaft and easing the burn into a throbbing need.

His lips brushed your ear, voice dropping to a husky growl as he murmured filthy words against your skin, each one sending fresh sparks of heat coiling in your belly.

“Fuck, doll, your pussy's gripping me so tight, like it never wants to let go,” he rasped, the obscenity vibrating through you, making your inner muscles clench involuntarily around his buried cock, squeezing him in rhythmic pulses that drew a low groan from his throat.

“Gonna ruin this perfect little hole for anyone else– make it mine, all mine.” The dirty promises ignited your arousal further, your hips twitching back instinctively, chasing the fullness as wetness seeped around where he filled you.

“Move, please,” you begged, the words spilling out in a breathless plea, your fingers tightening around his in a desperate squeeze, nails digging into his knuckles as you held on, the interlaced grip your lifeline amid the intensity. The ache inside you demanded friction now, your body craving the slide and drag that would turn the stretch into shattering pleasure.

Steve obliged with a slow, experimental thrust, pulling back just enough to feel your pussy cling to his retreating length before driving forward again, the motion deliberate and controlled, his cock plunging deep once more with a wet, obscene sound.

The sudden glide hit every sensitive spot inside you, the head nudging against that hidden bundle of nerves, and a sharp wave of ecstasy ripped through you, forcing a high, mewling cry from your lips – almost a whimper, raw and unrestrained, your back arching as stars burst behind your closed eyelids.

“You like that?” he murmured into the hollow of your ear, his free hand sliding up your side to cup your breast, thumb circling the hardened nipple as he held himself deep again, the question laced with dark amusement and hunger, his hot breath teasing the shell of your ear while he waited for your response, his cock twitching inside you in anticipation.

“Yes,” you panted, the word escaping in a ragged breath that caught in your throat, your body still reeling from that first thrust.

“Feels – oh! Feels so good, Steve!”

The pleasure crashed over you in waves, your skin prickling with goosebumps as shivers raced down your spine, every nerve ending alight from the way his cock filled you so utterly, the stretch turning into a delicious burn that made your toes curl against the sheets.

Steve's mouth found your shoulders again, his lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the slope of your skin, trailing up to your neck where he nipped gently with his teeth. His free hand gathered the strands of your hair, pushing them aside with a tender sweep to clear the path for his kisses, his breath warm and uneven against your damp flesh as he savored the taste of you, the salt of your sweat mingling with the faint scent of your arousal.

He established a steady rhythm then, his hips snapping forward in measured strokes, pulling his thick cock almost all the way out – enough to let your pussy walls drag along the veined length, clinging desperately – before slamming back in with a forceful push that buried him to the root, his pelvis slapping against your ass with a sharp, wet smack.

Each thrust drove deeper, the head of his cock grinding against your inner walls, hitting that spot inside you that sent jolts of ecstasy sparking through your core, your juices slicking the way and easing the glide while your body adjusted to the relentless pace.

“Been wanting to– ah, fuck,” he groaned, the words breaking off into a guttural moan when your pussy clenched around him again, the involuntary spasm milking his shaft in tight, fluttering squeezes that made his control waver, his fingers tightening in yours as he fought to keep the rhythm.

The sound of his voice, raw and strained, only heightened your own building tension, your hips rocking back to meet his thrusts, chasing the friction that had you gasping.

“God, do that again, baby, please?” he begged, his tone laced with desperate hunger, the plea vibrating against your ear as he leaned over you, his chest brushing your back, the heat of his body enveloping yours like a blanket of fire.

This time, you did it on purpose, focusing on the muscles inside you and contracting them deliberately around his buried cock, squeezing him in a slow, pulsing grip that rippled from base to tip, feeling every ridge and vein throb in response as you held him tight, your arousal dripping down your thighs from the effort.

“Oh, you feel like heaven, doll,” he rasped, the praise spilling out in a low rumble that made your heart stutter, his thrusts picking up speed now, pounding into you with more urgency, the bed creaking under the force as his balls slapped rhythmically against your clit, building the pressure toward an inevitable peak. His hand released your hair to slide down your side, gripping your hip to angle you better, pulling you back onto him with each drive, the interlaced fingers still locked as he anchored you both in the storm of sensation.

Steve's lips returned to your neck, pressing fervent kisses along the sensitive curve where your pulse hammered wildly, his tongue flicking out to taste the sheen of sweat there as he sucked lightly, drawing a fresh wave of heat through your veins. The sensation sent sparks racing down your spine, amplifying the building pressure in your core, your body arching instinctively into him.

You moaned deeply, the sound raw and unrestrained, vibrating from your chest as your fingers clenched tighter around his, nails digging into the back of his hand in a desperate grip, seeking an anchor amid the overwhelming tide of pleasure that threatened to sweep you under.

“Steve,” you gasped out, the warning laced with urgency, your voice breaking on his name as the first tremors of your climax coiled tight in your belly, your pussy fluttering erratically around his plunging cock, the walls gripping him in spasmodic pulses that made your thighs quake.

“I’m– Steve– Gonna–”

“I know, honey,"“he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and ragged as he maintained that relentless rhythm, his hips driving forward with unyielding force, each thrust burying his thick length deeper, the slick sounds of your joined bodies filling the room like a primal symphony.

He didn't falter, didn't slow, instead pushing you closer to the edge with every measured snap of his pelvis against your ass.

“Can feel your pussy squeezing me,” he growled low, the words vibrating through you as his free hand dug into your hip, holding you steady for his assault, his cock stretching you wide with every withdrawal and re-entry, the veined shaft dragging along your inner walls and sending jolts of electricity straight to your clit.

He delivered another powerful thrust then, the head of his cock slamming against that sweet spot deep inside, grinding insistently as his balls slapped wetly against your swollen folds, the impact ripping a cry from your lips.

“God,” he groaned, the exclamation torn from him in a guttural burst, his body tensing above yours as your contractions intensified, milking his dick in rhythmic squeezes that had him shuddering, his control fraying at the edges.

“You gonna drive me crazy. Your cunt feels too fucking good.”

The words, filthy and possessive, tipped you over the brink.

Your orgasm crashed through you like a storm, your pussy clamping down hard around his cock in vise-like waves, convulsing as ecstasy ripped through every nerve, your vision blurring with stars while your body convulsed beneath him. Juices gushed from you, soaking his shaft and dripping down your thighs, your moans turning into breathless sobs of release as the pleasure peaked, leaving you trembling and spent, your inner muscles still twitching in aftershocks.

Steve followed moments later, unable to hold back against the vise of your climax. With a final, deep thrust that seated him fully inside you, he came undone, his cock pulsing as hot spurts of cum flooded your depths, painting your walls with his seed in thick ropes.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, groaning your name like a prayer, his body jerking with each release until he was utterly drained, collapsing partially over you while still lodged deep, both of you panting in the hazy aftermath, the air thick with the scent of sex and satisfaction.

Before his full weight could pin you down in the languid haze of release, Steve shifted with deliberate care, rolling onto his side and easing his spent cock from your pussy in a slow, slick withdrawal that left you feeling achingly empty, a warm trickle of his cum seeping from your folds to dampen the sheets beneath you.

The sensation drew a soft whimper from your lips, your inner walls fluttering in protest at the loss, still sensitive and pulsing from the intensity of your shared climax.

He gathered you close without hesitation, his strong arms wrapping around your trembling form, pulling your sweat-slicked body flush against his chest where his heart thundered steadily, a rhythmic counterpoint to your own ragged breaths.

One hand splayed possessively across the small of your back, fingers tracing lazy circles over your skin, while the other cradled the nape of your neck, tilting your face up to meet his gaze – those blue eyes softened now, filled with a tender affection that contrasted the raw hunger of moments before.

His lips found yours in a gentle kiss, unhurried and deep, his mouth moving with a reverence that spoke of more than just the physical sating; his tongue brushed yours lightly, tasting the salt of your shared exertion, as he poured quiet reassurance into the connection.

You melted into him, your hands sliding up his broad shoulders to tangle in the damp strands of his hair, returning the kiss with equal softness, the world narrowing to the warmth of his embrace and the subtle press of his body against yours, bodies entwined in the quiet aftermath of passion.

The bedroom was dim, lit only by the thin spill of streetlight through the blinds and the soft glow from the hallway you’d forgotten to turn off. The air still felt warm, heavy with the aftermath – quiet in that particular way a room became when it had held too much breath.

You lay tangled together on the bed, bare skin against bare skin, the sheets kicked into a messy heap around your legs. Steve’s mouth was still on yours – slower now, unhurried, like he was making sure you were still here. Like he was learning you in a language that didn’t require urgency.

His hand traced the line of your jaw, knuckles brushing your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest tighten. When you sighed against his lips, he kissed you back, softening into it until the kiss became less about hunger and more about… staying.

Eventually, you pulled away just enough to breathe.

Steve followed, his forehead resting against yours, his thumb still stroking your cheek in an absent, reverent motion.

“Hi,” you whispered, because your brain had decided that was the only safe word in existence right now.

Steve’s answering smile was small, almost shy. “Hi.”

Your laugh came out quiet, shaky around the edges. You tucked yourself closer, as if proximity could make the world stop moving. Steve’s arm tightened around you, pulling you in until you were pressed against his chest, your ear over his heartbeat – steady now, slower than before.

You listened to it for a few seconds, letting it ground you.

Then reality, rude and persistent, slipped back into the room.

You shifted slightly, drawing back just enough to see his face in the low light. “We should talk,” you murmured.

Steve’s eyes opened fully. A flicker of seriousness crossed his features – immediate, attentive, the soldier in him snapping back into place.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Okay.”

Your fingers traced idly over his shoulder, a nervous habit. “We… can’t let this screw up the mission.”

“We won’t,” Steve promised at once, firm. “I won’t let it.”

It wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t a denial of what had happened. It was a vow, plain and simple.

You nodded, swallowing. “And when we go back to the base…”

Steve’s jaw tightened. You could see him thinking – logistics, fallout, consequences. Who would notice. Who would talk. How it would change the way people looked at you. At him.

“How do we handle it?” you asked softly.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. He just watched you, eyes moving over your face like he was trying to hold onto every detail.

Then his voice dropped even lower, a whisper meant only for you.

“Honestly?”

“Yeah.”

Steve exhaled, slow. “I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”

Your throat tightened.

You looked away for half a second, because the words hit too close to what you’d been trying not to want for too long. Then you looked back at him, the truth already climbing out of you like it had been waiting for permission.

“It’s been months,” you admitted, barely audible. “Months since I stopped wanting to be… just your colleague. Or just your friend.”

Steve’s expression softened in a way that made your stomach flip. Like he’d been holding the same confession between his teeth, afraid it would cut someone if he let it go.

His hand slid up to cup your cheek again, thumb brushing beneath your eye with impossible gentleness.

“I’ve always wanted more,” he said, voice rough. “From the moment we–” He hesitated, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to say it. “From the moment our eyes met the first time.”

You stared at him, stunned by how simple he made it sound. How true.

“How long ago was that?” you whispered, half a joke, half a plea.

Steve’s mouth curved faintly. “Long enough.”

Your laugh was breathless. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know,” he murmured, and the way he said it was fond. Warm. Like he’d finally stopped fighting the idea of being happy for five seconds.

Silence settled between you again – thick, intimate. Steve’s thumb kept stroking your cheek like he couldn’t stop, like touching you was an instinct now.

You laced your fingers with his, pressing your palm to the mattress beside your head.

“Okay,” you said softly, as if naming it could make it real without breaking it. “We finish the mission.”

Steve nodded once. “We finish the mission.”

“And when we go back,” you continued, voice steadier, “we don’t hide it.”

His gaze sharpened, searching you. “Are you sure?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

A beat of silence.

Then Steve’s face changed – something like relief sliding through him so visibly it almost hurt to witness. As if he’d been bracing for you to take it back.

He leaned in and kissed you again, not hungry this time. Just grateful. Just certain.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Okay,” he whispered. “No hiding.”

You let out a slow breath. Your heart felt too full, too loud.

“And if anyone has a problem,” you added, because you couldn’t help yourself, “they can–”

Steve’s smile flickered, amused despite himself. “They won’t.”

You huffed softly. “You say that, but…”

The image hit you then – Sam’s face when he found out. The grin. The commentary. The insufferable victory lap.

A smile tugged at your mouth before you could stop it.

“Sam is going to be unbearable,” you said, voice warm with resignation.

Steve’s eyes crinkled at the corners, his thumb still tracing your cheek like he’d never get tired of it. “Yeah.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were still smiling. “I’m already regretting telling him later.”

Steve’s hand drifted down, the back of his knuckles brushing your skin as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His gaze stayed locked on yours, steady and tender.

Then, in a low murmur – half promise, half threat – he said, “I’ll make him pay during training.”

Your laugh came out quiet, bright in the darkness.

“Please do,” you whispered.

Steve kissed the corner of your mouth, lingering there as if he didn’t want to move away.

And for the first time since the mission began, the lie felt less like a trap and more like the strange, accidental path that had finally led you somewhere honest.

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