For Fun and Dopamine @mlibbydp - Tumblr Blog

Foundations: Chapter 3

Word count: 6,300 | Chapter List Warnings: Upsetting descriptions of Natasha’s death, as well as Steve and Clint’s nightmares about it. Mentions of blood.

He was thankful you had agreed to his no-strings proposal. He would keep it casual. Non-emotional. In return, you wouldn’t fall for him. His heart certainly wasn’t available to give away, even if he wanted to. He wondered if his heart was locked behind the same sheet of ice he was found in all those years ago. Certainly a part of him remained there, unattainable and locked away. He’d wanted to be upfront with you about what he could and couldn’t give. He felt he had done that.

It did little to quell his nerves as he deep-cleaned the apartment he moved into a mere three weeks prior, wiping down the countertops and the front of his brand new chrome fridge. He’d taken the car to the store, picking up some extras and a bottle of wine, the rows of bottles completely foreign to him. What wine would you like? Perhaps you didn’t drink wine. He canvassed the aisle, looking left and right, head bowed, cap pulled down over his eyes. He whipped out his phone and Googled, “Nice type of wine for a lady.” An article popped up.

7 Perfect First Date Wines

Rosé was fruity and refreshing, apparently. Versatile. That seemed like something you might like. He picked up a frosted bottle with a fluted neck. Nice-looking. He eyed the $45 price tag and slipped it into his cart with a shrug.

You parked up outside the address he’d given you. His Harley sat outside the front door. Next to it, a blacked-out Audi. It was an apartment block typical of this area, built solely for Stark Industries personnel. Similar to your home, the building was one level, sprawling out laterally rather than ascending upwards, taking advantage of the ample land in upstate New York yet resembling a motel rather than a home.

You felt a strange sense of calm. Much like people who freeze in an emergency as their brains search for a reference point for the unbelievable circumstance they find themselves in, what you were about to do was so far into fantasyland that your nervous system didn’t even register it as real. It wasn’t happening. It couldn’t possibly be happening.

He had welcomed you into the kitchen first, pouring you a glass of rosé. He poured one for himself and confessed he wasn’t physically capable of getting drunk. It wouldn’t be right, he explained, to allow you any more than a glass. He didn’t want to take advantage, he told you with a shy smile, looking to his feet as he leaned against the countertop, gripping it until his knuckles turned white.

His home was nice. Clean. Clinical, if anything. The odd half-empty brown box lay in a corner, on a counter, under a bare shelf. Maybe once he unpacked it would feel cosier.

You sat on the sofa together, perched upright as though waiting to be called into a job interview rather than warming up for a night of no-strings-attached sex.

His held a wine glass, the item feeling foreign in his hand. “You, err…. you look different. From how you look at work.”

“You don’t like it?” You looked down at your jeans and black vest top, having already necked your adult grape juice.

“No, I do….”

“Well, you know, I figured it would be a little weird to rock up in a pencil skirt.”

You noticed his eyes roaming down your body, lingering on your hips, lips parting just enough to give away his secret. He knocked back his wine, hoping it for a momentary buzz that never came.

“Are you telling me the great Steve Rogers has a thing for a woman in a pencil skirt?”

“It’s just, err…. just Steve.” He scratched at the back of his head before resuming his position of hands clasped in front of him, head down.

You heard the ticking of his clock. If a pin dropped, you were fairly certain you would be able to hear that, too. This wasn’t giving fuck me senseless. You had to turn up the heat.

“You always this quiet with your women?”

“My women?” He frowned, looking across at you.

“Well, I’m sure you’ve had… guests.”

Not so much recently, he wanted to say. “Yeah. Yeah of course.” He cleared his throat.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’ve heard.”

“So let’s stick with the truth then. Tell me. What exactly is it about a pencil skirt that you love so much?”

Not only was he not forthcoming with an answer, he stuttered. He actually stuttered. The cogs of your brain slowed to a stop and began turning in the opposite direction. Was Captain America a virgin? No. Surely not. But he wasn’t used to casual sex, either. If you were honest, neither were you.

“I’m guessing you don’t like to talk dirty. That’s okay. What are you into? Anything weird I should know about?” You elbowed him, hoping it lightened the mood rather than framing you as his teasing younger sister. Nobody wants to fuck their sister.

He scoffed a laugh. “No. Nothing weird. But… for the record.” He glanced up at you, eyes full of intent. “I can talk dirty.” When you raised an eyebrow, he added, “What you don’t believe me?”

“Well, I know how you feel about strong language,” you teased.

“What, you think you have to curse to talk dirty?”

Your arms opened out in challenge. “Prove me wrong, Captain.”

The strategic solider fell silent and began looking around his home. Various corners of it. His tongue poked out to whet his lip, the look of erotic longing bleeding into his features leading you to realise he was imagining a scene. His eyes drew themselves back to you as though you were glued together by invisible strings of honey. He reached forward tentatively, relaxing a little as you leaned into his touch. He tucked your hair behind your ear and leaned forward to whisper.

“You see that wall over there? I’m gonna push you against it. Then I’m gonna kiss you. I’m gonna kiss you… God… everywhere.” His eyes closed, sighing at his own fantasy. His fingertips grazed your jawline and trailed down your neck, causing shivers of pleasure to run down your spine. “I’m gonna keep kissing you. And I won’t stop until you’re begging me to touch you. And then, when you think you can’t plead any more, I’m gonna pick you up, place you down on the bed… and I’m gonna make you sweat.”

Sweet Jesus.

You were trembling. The doe eyes, flushed cheeks and parted lips he saw when he pulled away from your ear made him want to come in his pants. He was on a roll now. He wouldn’t stop.

“You wanna know more about the skirt?” He began tracing circles on your thigh, cursing the black denim that kept your soft skin just out of reach. You managed to squeak out a yes. “That damn skirt. It makes me think very improper thoughts when I’m at work.” He bit his lip and looked at your lap. “It makes your figure look like heaven. Makes a man wanna drop to his knees.”

The visual of Steve Rogers on his knees had you shaking.

“God you drive me crazy,” he husked in your ear. His hand ran up your neck, firm enough to show dominance and gentle enough to feel safe to sink into his presence and allow him to take the lead.

“Is this okay?” He placed a light kiss on your neck. You mumbled yes. It was very much okay.

Perhaps you leaned back, perhaps he pushed, but you found yourself in a prone position on his sofa. He held his weight on one hand, towering above you, his sheer size filling your view as he kissed you. His kisses were softer than this afternoon, the desperation burned away and in its wake a deep intention to have you fully and completely in the privacy of his home. Your mind spun out. Twenty-four hours ago, this was the fantasy you nurtured in those deeply personal moments before you fell asleep.

He let out little sighs and hums of pleasure, his sensuality surprising you, peppered with an impossibly deep voice uttering sweet words of praise. “Yeah…” he breathed out with a sigh, your hand smoothing down the broad planes of his back and rounding his arse, giving it a squeeze, “…just like that.”

His hand rested in the heat of your upper thigh, feeling your inner thigh muscles twitch as you writhed under him while you made out like horny teenagers. His large palm remained there, never moving, never gripping, simply resting and feeling your warmth, his hand maddeningly close to where you needed it the most. He physically ached for you. Yet he remained completely in control.

His lips were soft, the taste of him fresh and clean, his scent taking control of your senses as you kissed him. You wrapped your legs around him in a bid to pull him closer, eliciting another little groan of pleasure from him. You felt the outline of his cock pressing into your thigh through his jeans. He was already hard.

Your skin was so soft under his fingertips as he moved his hand from your thigh to cradle your face. He gruffed out a little chuckle as you whined from the absence of his hand from your heat. You moaned when he held your face. He held it so gently as though he didn’t wish to be too firm with you. Your cheek tingled under his fingertips. He smoothed down your hair next, the smooth tresses slipping through his fingers like silk. While his lips explored your neck, he caught the scent of your perfume. It smelled strong, sexy and feminine. God you were perfect.

Unable to withstand any more of his self-imposed torment, he slipped his hands underneath your back. “I’m gonna pick you up now, baby. Press you against the wall. Is that okay?”

Your response was unintelligible mumbling, causing him to chuckle warmly. “I’m gonna take that as a yes.”

Pressing you against the promised wall, his lips were on yours, moving swiftly to your neck. Your collarbone. Your bare shoulder. He pushed down the straps of your black vest to get better access, sighing at the sight of your décolletage. He’d always loved that part of a woman. Subtly sexy. Your hands tangled in his hair, digging in hard enough for him to feel the tight muscle at the top of his neck loosen under your touch. He freed your vest from the hem of your jeans and ran the flat of his palm over your stomach as his lips pressed over your breast bone and down your chest. His pinkie finger dipped into the hem of your jeans. Just enough to make you arch your back off the wall in anticipation.

He was so hard for you. You could feel him even better in this new position. Each time he pressed himself into your hip, you moaned a little more. He held your thigh up, wrapping you around him, wanting so much to slide into you that he began to shake. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not until you were ready.

After twenty more minutes of this sweet torture, you were gasping, dripping and pleading for him to touch you. He gave a simple command, spoken softly into your ear. “Wrap your legs around me.” He scooped you up off the wall and carried you to his bedroom, a small area just off from the kitchen, looking more like a serviced apartment than someone’s permanent home and causing the liaison to feel more illicit, somehow.

You pulled the white t-shirt from him before he went down on you. His bare shoulders were a sight your brain struggled to compute. They were absolutely enormous. His arms flexed as he pulled your jeans off, your panties following, looking up at you with devastating blue eyes. You didn’t know the reason for his smile. He was remembering a mere week prior he lay in this very same bed and stroked himself to completion to the thought of you. Perhaps God didn’t really hate him. Perhaps he was finally being rewarded for all the blood, sweat and shit he’d endured over the past eight years. Nine, almost.

You came twice while he worked his tongue and his fingers between your legs. He was highly, highly skilled. True to his promise, when he brought you to the brink of your third orgasm, you were sweating. So was he. After you plummeted into the abyss thrice, you begged for him to enter you. It was as though he wanted to ensure he had done enough, given enough, been of service enough, before he felt it was appropriate to give himself the pleasure he so freely gave you.

He removed your vest, your bra and his jeans. Through his unassuming black briefs, he was visibly hard and huge. If you didn’t know better, you would assume he had a large English cucumber down his pants. You swallowed. He leaned down on his elbows and whispered reassurance. “I’m gonna take it slow, okay? If it’s too much, just tell me and I’ll stop.” He entered you gradually, his eyes never leaving your face, observing every gasp, every furrow, every twitch. You whined when he bottomed out. “I know baby, I know… I’m sorry.” He pressed his lips to yours tenderly. You had never felt anything like it. He was huge. He remained in place, stilled, positioned inside of you and kissing you as you adjusted to his size.

He was human, he had said. You were now willing to call bullshit on that.

He brought you to your fourth orgasm with his fingers alone. Still inside you, still not moving, he had reached down and pleasured you until you arched your neck and pressed your head into his pillow which was infused with his cologne.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”

When he was sure you were ready, he began to slowly thrust. Orgasm number five rocked through you in no time.

You blinked your eyes open to daylight flooding the bedroom. A distinctly masculine scent entered your nose. Similar to the first morning waking up on holiday and taking a moment to realise you’re not in your own bed, it gradually dawned on you.

You were laying on Steve Roger’s bare chest. Your legs were against his. You were both naked.

Fuck. Fuck fuck FUCK!

The repercussions of last night’s sex session were potentially career-ending. You couldn’t think about that right now, and your pussy certainly hadn’t given it a second thought when he was inside you so perhaps you shouldn’t. Your priority was simple – you had to get up, get dressed and get out. It was Tuesday morning for fucks sake. You had to be at work. He felt your body tense up.

“It’s okay,” he said groggily. “I’m awake.” His hand smoothed down your bare back before his fingers combed through your hair. “How about some breakfast?”

He swung his legs over the bed and pulled on underwear and a t-shirt, finding grey jeans on the floor and pulling them on too. You mumbled your excuses about work. “It’s 7am,” he stated. “We have plenty of time.” He insisted he couldn’t let you leave on an empty stomach. “Captain’s orders,” he added with a smirk. You excused yourself to the bathroom, thankful for the emergency toothbrush and facewash you had slipped into your bag before you left home yesterday evening. When you re-emerged, effortlessly fresh-faced, he had coffee on the go.

Looking up from the kitchen island, he beamed at you. He looked as though he was lit up from within, sunshine emanating through the windows and from the core of his very being. Maybe you were freaking out earlier. Maybe everything would be okay.

“I haven’t slept that well in… god, I don’t even know.”

I didn’t have flashbacks, he wanted to tell you. For the first time in 18 months. Instead, he opened the fridge. “Blueberries? I thought they would be nice with eggs and an English muffin. Nat used to love – ”

You were gawping at the sheer volume of food in his fridge when his words ground your thoughts to a screeching halt. He had dropped the Nat-bomb. “Natasha Romanoff?”

“Yeah.” The jug of whisked eggs looked fascinating to him all of a sudden. “She was, err… she was my partner.” The eggs sizzled as he poured them into the hot pan, scrambling them half to death with a brand new silicon spatula.

“I’m sorry, Steve. I didn’t know you were together.” You placed your hand in the middle of his back as you reached around him and placed the wholemeal muffin in his shiny chrome fresh-out-the-box toaster.

“Oh, no I meant… we were partners on missions.” His gaze remained on the eggs. “You err… get to know a person pretty well when you’re on the run together.”

When he became quiet, you asked where he kept his plates and turned the conversation to food as you plated up and sat down. He tried to get a good thousand calories in for breakfast, he told you as you ate together. Half a dozen eggs. Two slices of toast. A couple of bananas. You asked him if he’d thought about having a dozen Bantams out the back. He laughed, wiping crumbs away from his lips.

He insisted on clearing the table and washing the dishes. You really had to head out now. You were calculating the time it took to get dressed, spray dry shampoo through your hair and slap on some make-up. The time was compressing, squeezing, getting tighter, until a 9am arrival at the office seemed impossible and a shower was absolutely out of the question. You walked around the desk into the den of his home as he washed dishes. A black handgun sat on the dark hardwood. Two shell casings sat upright beside it. You rested your hand flat against the desk, peering at it. You had never seen a gun in person. Ironic, given who you worked for.

“Please don’t touch that.”

You turned to see Steve stood behind you, drying his hands on a red and white checked tea towel.

“I wasn’t, I… do you have it for protection?”

He shook his head. “Without wanting to sound proud – I’m my best defence against attack.”

He didn’t need a weapon. He was the weapon.

“I didn’t mean to snoop.”

“Yeah you did.” Though his words were firm, his lips curled up at one side. “It belonged to a friend.”

“Natasha.”

He looked down. If he was capable of crying, he would have tears rolling down his cheeks by now. In reality he hadn’t shed a tear since he saw his friend holding a burned-out gauntlet as his wife sobbed beside him.

He stepped forward, scooping up the shell casings and placing them in his pocket. “Look, it’s okay. But I think you should go.”

“I understand.” You picked up your bag and jacket.

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

“I’m okay Steve. Thank you.”

“I’ll see you at work.”

“Yeah. We’ve got another meeting tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah,” he responded as he held the side of his front door with you standing in the threshold, one foot in, one foot out. “See you tomorrow.”

“What the hell happened to you?”

If you heard it once, you heard it infinite times. Since your evening with Steve, you’d been hobbling around, your muscles in agony, your body absolutely exhausted from the athleticism of a night with a super soldier. After you had adjusted to his size, you had fucked for hours, Steve calling time on at least three occasions before you passed out on his chest. “New workout,” you had told them. “My personal trainer is BRUTAL. He’s like a drill sergeant.”

The best liars always tell the truth.

“Bitch you still sore??”

You winced as you hobbled over to the coffee station. “Yeah,” you called back to gorgeous blonde bombshell colleague who had a filthy laugh, a heart of gold, an accent like cornbread and absolutely no filter. “I’m gonna get a different trainer.”

“If you wanna talk about training, talk to the Captain.” She pointed to Steve, striding in purposefully as though he was gearing up for another presidential delivery. Fuck. You hadn’t seen him since he gave you a polite bollocking about Natasha’s gun yesterday morning.

When he reached you, he frowned. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just… been working out.”

“Sounds like you gotta tell your trainer when you’ve had enough,” he advised wryly. He looked around to ensure you were out of earshot. Without a thought for anything other than care and concern for you, he rested a daring hand on your shoulder. “You sure you’re okay? Did I hurt you?”

“No Steve, I’m good. Honestly.”

The creases in his brow said everything his words couldn’t. “I did. I hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not hurt. My muscles are just sore… like I’ve worked out.”

“It won’t happen again.” He looked down, face solemn.

Great. He was done fucking you. Oh well. It was one more night than you ever imagined you would get. A fantasy flashed through your mind like a headline – a lifetime of keeping this secret until you were on your deathbed, spouting out the ‘I fucked Captain America’ story in a mad flurry like Rose DeWittBukater revealing the truth about Jack Dawson.

He looked up, shaking his head as though he was disappointed with himself. “I’ll be more careful next time. Sometimes I don’t know my own strength. I got carried away when I was alone with you, because… because I’m so attracted to you. I’m sorry.” He gave you the sincerest, most brooding look.

You wanted to kiss him right there in the middle of the hallway, not giving a fuck who would see you. Steve ‘don’t fall in love with me’ Rogers really had a way of making you melt.

“When you’re feeling better, we’ll do it again. We’ll take it slower this time. And I’ll call time after an hour. Okay?”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Okay.”

He leaned forward, reaching around your hip to grab a coffee mug, his chest brushing past yours. He whispered. “You have no idea how badly I wanna kiss you right now.”

You bit down on your lip. Your sleepless night over having fucked things up with Steve and ending your career in the process was long since forgotten.

Concerned frowns and pursed lips watched you from the opposite side of the boardroom table. Every wince, every grimace, every time you moved… he saw it all. He felt something in the center of his chest. A warmth. A protective instinct. He hadn’t felt like this since he carried Natasha out of a collapsed army building, both of them covered in dust, surviving a SHIELD bombing due to his quick-thinking.

You kept looking over at him. Heavy dark circles lay under his eyes. He looked as though he carried the weight of the world on those impossibly strong shoulders. You had no way of knowing the type of night he’d had.

Without you by his side last night, he’d slept like shit. The nightmares were back. This time Tony’s lifeless body rested against the rock, a figure sobbing beside him. When the figure turned round, she had red hair. Natasha. Blood began pouring from her mouth. She looked down to see she’d been stabbed through the chest. He rushed over to her, holding her as she took her last breath and croaked out her final words. “Steve. You were supposed to protect me.”

The nightmares with Natasha were always the worst. Barton had refused to share details of Natasha’s passing on Vormir despite the soldier’s pleas and bargaining. This fuelled Steve’s anxieties, his brain conjuring the most horrific ways in which she could have passed. All the awful shit he’d witnessed over the past decade was gasoline on the fire. It wouldn’t have been a merciful killing. He could only hope it was quick. He took solace in the fact she wasn’t alone.

Barton did share it was her choice to sacrifice herself for the stone. That did sound like Natasha. “She was on borrowed time,” Barton reasoned. “That’s how she felt. I spared her life years back. She got this gift, this family. She said it was her time to go. It should have been me, man. It should have been me.” Steve sat stoically on the steps of Clint’s porch, his hand on his friend’s shoulder, as the archer sobbed. Steve boarded the jet parked on the flat plains of Clint’s ranch, wishing his friend well. Telling him to take care of his family. Days later, with the vanished rematerializing instantly and all chaos breaking loose, the government sanctioned global lockdowns. Steve hadn’t seen Barton since.

Clint still woke in the middle of the night to the image of Natasha falling to her death, her eyes fixed on his as her form became smaller and smaller until he couldn’t bare it any longer, squeezing his eyes shut as he heard the inevitable thud of her body hitting stone.

He lived with the guilt. Just about. She wanted him to return to his family. She wanted his children to have their father back. She wanted him to be happy again. He didn’t deserve it. It should have been him.

Steve stared at the coffee pot in his kitchen, sighing. Another night. Another nightmare. Natasha was gone. Tony was gone. Barton was on his range. Bruce was in Hawaii – allegedly. Thor was off world. Nobody had seen or heard from him. Half-cut from lack of sleep, Steve found Natasha’s gun in his hands. He would hold it sometimes. Unload it. Reload it. The sound reminded him of her. A quip as she shot an enemy, a flirtatious smile cast over her shoulder while she reloaded, hair shining even when caked in cement dust from an explosion. She held this gun so many times. It was engraved with her initials and covered with her fingerprints.

Steve sat at the conference room table, toying with the shell of the Soviat slug in his pocket that Natasha had given him years prior. It was pulled from her torso after she was shot by the Winter Soldier in Odessa, a mission long before his time. He traced a line on his thigh, imagining it was the pad of his finger tracing the scar of Natasha’s bullet wound, telling her it would be okay, promising nobody would ever hurt her again. Not on his watch.

What a fucking liar.

She was gone, and it was his fault. The time heist was made possible with Tony’s technology. But it was Cap who pushed for it. He set the strategy. He picked the teams. He paired Natasha with Barton and sent her to Vormir. He placed two unenhanced humans on the space mission. It was the wrong call. She should have been in 2012 New York with him and Tony.

If he’d made that choice, she’d be alive today.

You looked at Steve. Handsome as ever. Tired as always. He offered you a weak smile, before he stifled a closed-mouth yawn and softly rolled his eyes at the marketing bros’ monologue. You smiled back, giving the bros a side eye and raising your brows.

“It’s still weird.” The bar echoed with scattered chatter, not packed to the rafters like a Friday night before the snap. It was half empty. “It’s only half-full.”

“My optimistic little bean,” Caroline smirked, raising her eyebrows.

The plastic token buzzed on the table, indicating your platters were ready. It had become a staple after The Snap. Serving staff were stretched to their limits. Patrons chipped in. You were all in it together, or so the government slogans hammered home. The Vanished were back, and lockdowns had lifted, but hospitality had a long way to go until it was back on its feet. You thanked the petite brunette at the till, hair neatly tied back, as she handed you two plates from the kitchen. You smiled kindly upon noticing the dark circles under her eyes, and placed them down in front of Carrie, a little huff leaving your lips.

“What’s with the Dad noises.”

“Hmm?”

“You groaned when you sat down.”

Your well-rehearsed key messages rolled off your tongue, forgetting who was in front of you. “Oh. Just a workout. New trainer.”

Your friend cocked her head. “Bullshit. You train at home. Have done since the snap.”

You sighed and reached for a chunk of warm pitta bread. The enormous dollop of hummus you loaded onto it wasn’t nearly enough. You folded it into your mouth to buy yourself time, prompting a look from your friend indicating she was onto you.

“Fine,” you swallowed. “It’s a guy.”

“What exactly did he do to you? Do I need to call someone?”

“No, no. Just…. a lot of fucking.”

“Erm, excuse me when was this?”

“Monday night.”

“And you’re just telling me now. I thought we were friends.”

You laughed and forked some olives onto your small side plate. Carrie grabbed a couple of warm falafels and dipped them in hummus as you talked. “I know I should have told you. It’s… it’s kind of hush-hush. It’s someone from work.”

Yet again, the best liars always tell the truth.

God am I becoming a total psycho now that I work for Stark Industries?

“I know what this is,” she pointed to you with a spiced chickpea ball between her fingers before popping it in her mouth. “Self-sabotage. Things are going better than ever. You’re putting a spanner in the works.”

“I don’t think that’s it.”

“And you’re not telling me his job, which probably means it’s someone you shouldn’t be sleeping with.” Her silence didn’t prompt you to spill further. She continued sharing her hypothesis. “So it’s probably someone above you. Or… OOH! Someone beneath you. That’s pretty hot. You… you should be careful though, boo. You’ve worked hard to get to where you are. Just… be careful.”

You nodded as she talked, sucking olive oil from your thumb after chomping on a sundried tomato the size and shape of a shitake mushroom. “We’re, erm… kind of on the same level actually. In seniority.”

She folded her arms and leaned back now. This was more important than food. And nothing was more important than food. “So what’s with all the secrecy.”

You let out a heavy sigh. “Please, Carrie. I can’t talk about it. Just trust me.”

“Hint taken. But promise me, if you’re fucking an alien, you’d tell me?”

A laugh erupted from your throat, causing you to cough on dry falafel. You guzzled down your beer. “That’s widely considered a slur now, you know that, right?”

“Fine, extra-terrestrial being. Seriously though. Loki Laufeyson’s rumoured to be moving in, so… I’m just sayin’.”

“It’s widely accepted he’s a sex pest, so…”

She held her hands up in surprise. “Ooh! You had that big meeting last week, right? And another one on Monday and… Wednesday, was it? You gonna tell me about them or are they classified too?”

You grinned, “Yeah I can talk about them. In short, they were, how do I say it… bullshit.”

“What did those bell-ends come up with.”

“Just some shit about the stars and stripes.”

She frowned. “I thought he wasn’t going to be involved.” She replaced her gentle Scottish lilt with a very serious-sounding American accent. “Ops only.”

“He isn’t. But.” You picked up your beer again, smoothing down the edge of the label with your fingertips. You looked up for effect. “He was there.”

She slammed her palms down on the table, immediately wincing at the loud noise and the resulting turned heads. “Sorry,” she hushed before leaning in. “Sergeant Sexy was there in the flesh and you didn’t immediately text me and leave a 20-minute voice note with every single detail??”

“What can I say, it was a lot to take in.”

“So…” she made a frantic gesture with her hands. “Spill it.” When you didn’t immediately offer up juicy details, she prompted, “What was he like, was he as gorgeous in person, is he really Captain Serious, is his arse really that peachy and is it real or does he have an arse stunt double, how tall is he, what does he smell like, etc etc…”

“Okay okay… he was even more attractive in person and it was fucking overwhelming. There. Ya happy.”

“No honestly I want more, I’m insatiable.”

“Fine. He was…” your gaze drifted off to the side. “surprising.”

“Surprising how.”

“More… down-to-earth than I expected. Friendly. Kind of normal. Human.”

“Disappointing. Did he at least smell nice?”

“He smelled lovely. Not that I was, you know, close or anything.”

The best liars, the best liars….

“You know I bumped into him before the meeting. He pulled up on his Harley as I was walking into work. I tried to hurry inside but he caught up to me and we had a little chat in the lobby. Then we had the meeting. And he was… he was… gorgeous. Tall. Blonde. Blue eyes.”

“And he was wearing…?”

“To the first meeting – a checked shirt. Black jeans.”

“And the arse…?”

“Terrific arse.” You grinned at the memory of squeezing it as he made out with you on his sofa a mere four sleeps prior. “So I met him last week at that first meeting. And I talked to him after, in my office, and – ”

“He was in your office??”

“Yep and it was nerve wracking as fuck. Then…” you paused to omit the incriminating evidence. “At the follow-up meeting on Monday… there was this nice little moment where he, you know, looked at me across the table and agreed with something I’d said.” When you looked up from the table you’d been tracing circles on, Carrie had her face propped up on her hands, looking at you dreamily. “What…?”

“You sure you don’t wanna fuck him instead of the nameless wonder from corporate? If you’re gonna risk your career it might as well be worth it.”

It might have been the heat creeping over your chest and neck and up into your cheeks. Or the way your eyes shifted to the corner while recollecting the memory of your night together. But Carrie’s expression dropped as though her features were melting in realisation.

“Babe…”

“Mmmm….” You looked up, chewing your lip.

“Tell me…”

“Tell you what...?”

She widened her eyes in astonishment. “Are you…?”

Your eyes closed, a deep sigh escaping from you as though a ten-tonne truck was lifted from your shoulders. “I can’t say anything.” You looked directly at her. “So this is me, not saying anything.”

She gasped, control of her volume lost. “YOU’RE FUCKING CAPT-”

You stood and flicked over the salt and pepper with a loud, “OH MY GOD, I’m so sorry!” You made an apologetic hand gesture to the bar’s patrons, “Sorry, sorry everyone, I’m very clumsy.” As you sat, wincing from the soreness, your thumb and forefinger pinched the spilled salt and tossed it over your left shoulder.

Carrie smiled. “That was subtle.”

“Just… let’s keep our voices down. I’ll give you the full scoop at my house.”

“We can get this to go.” She gestured to the food.

“No no, they’re understaffed as it is. Let’s eat quickly and tip well.”

Carrie glanced over her shoulder and spoke in hushed tones. “Is he the reason you’re sore.”

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t he stop?”

“He did. Several times.”

“How long were you….”

“I dunno. Three or four hours. Ish.”

“Jesus.”

“I wanted to keep going.”

“Why?”

“If you had a night with… him… would you stop or would you keep going until you physically couldn’t continue?”

“I wouldn’t be able to walk for a week.”

You gestured to your tired form in agreement. “There is something else though. Something… weird. But it has to wait until my house.”

“He didn’t come.”

The piping hot camomile tea rested on coasters on the rustic pine table, years and years of drinks and snacks with friends etching scratches and dings in its surface. If she’d been holding the mug, you were sure your friend would have third degree burns by now.

“Excuse me?” She sat bolt upright.

Carrie had fished a glossy magazine from her bag during the drive to your house, insisting on reading the article aloud. “While the reclusive Avenger has barely been seen since the conclusion to the Infinity Stone War, where Captain Rogers and his team bravely brought back half of the world’s population, we at People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive panel are unanimous – there’s nothing sexier than a humble hero.”

She had flashed the cover story to you at a red light. He hasn’t responded to their emails, she told you. He hasn’t accepted the mantle of Sexiest Man Alive, rendering the annual photoshoot impossible and forcing the magazine to use AI-generated images. It seemed nobody minded the fictitious photos of Steve Rogers in his Cap suit, gratuitously ripped up in strategic places to reveal obscene arms and abs.

Back at home, you wafted the blanket to cover your feet. “Yep. He… didn’t actually come. The entire night.”

“IN FOUR HOURS??”

“Yeah.”

“Wait. Did you…?”

“Oh yeah.”

“How many…?”

“I lost count at five.”

“Fuck. Well… maybe he can’t.”

“No, I think he can.”

“Hmm. Maybe he…. won’t? He’s too righteous to come inside a woman. Very on-brand.”

“Possibly. I dunno… it just seemed like he was holding back. It’s fucking with my head a bit.”

“I know, boo. I’d feel the same. But you got fucked by Captain America for four hours and he made you come… like how many times?”

You repeated. “I lost count after five.”

“I rest my case. It’s not a bad problem to have.” Carrie picked up her tea and blew on the hot liquid. “I’m more bothered that it happened on Monday and you’re only just telling me now.”

“Well here’s some pre-warning for you – I’m fucking him again tomorrow night.”

“Text me the very second he comes.” She sipped her lemon balm tea and gave a pregnant pause. “And, err, babe…. be careful. If this all goes wrong….” she sighed, “They’re not going to fire Steve Rogers.”

Taggos:

@lokisgoodgirl @fictive-sl0th @simplyholl @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @divine-knight-hand @flesh--amnesiacunrated @skymoonandstardust @alexakeyloveloki @cabingrlandrandomcrap @cakesandtom @mrs-illyrian-baby @muddyorbsblr @irishhappiness @glitchquake @dangertoozmanykids101 @animnerd @wavyhairedvixen @emarich7 @km-ffluv @thegodofnotknowing @acidcasualties @foxherder @loz-3 @late-to-the-party-81 @mochie85 @loopsisloops @lokiandbuckysdoll @goddessgirl43 @salvatoreitmeanssaviour @jiyascepter @nekoannie-chan @looking101 @marvel-wifey-86

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

For Fun and Dopamine