Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader
Summary: The Avengers play a game of never have I ever. You and Steve play for all the marbles.
Warnings: Alcohol! A lot of it (but no one gets drunk). Drinking games, smut-adjacent and daddy-kink-adjacent. If you’re not fond of any of that pls do not read.
A/N: I wrote this in two hours and I’m pretty sure it reads like it. I also haven’t written in a month and it shows. This fic has nothing to do with the Netflix show and has been on my mind for a long time, so it’s completely separate! I’m a whore for Avengers fics and wanted to do something light and silly with my main man so this came out. Please let me know what you think! Enjoy. :) x
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Steve should’ve known the night would turn out like this.
As soon as he saw the crate of beer in Clint’s arms when he stepped off the elevator, then the bottle of whiskey in Sam’s hand just a few minutes later, Steve should’ve known something would happen.
He was expecting craziness, the kind born from too much alcohol, too little water, and enough time to question each other’s super-abilities to do something about them. Like the one time Clint tried to honor his super-namesake by attempting to land a dart through an apple on Bucky’s flesh hand from one of the high beams in the compound gym. He landed it a few meters off, straight into Sam’s forearm.
Or that other time when Wanda bet she could safely glide Steve onto the second-story balcony in one of the residential wings, only to slam him straight through the sliding glass doors leading inside. She’s learned not to use her powers while impaired, at least.
Or like the last time, when you and Natasha challenged one another to the world’s stealthiest game of hide and seek, just to end up chasing one another around the compound grounds for an hour because, hey, hide and seek with two of the world’s best spies would end up without a winner after the first ten minutes of looking.
Steve was expecting all of that, maybe even more.
Instead, what he gets is quiet, mellowed-out Avengers all too tired to do more than lounge around the common room, stuffing their faces with pizza and washing down their mouthfuls with beer. He blames it on the most recent mission— one he thankfully was only tasked with assigning, and not participating. It took most of the team to handle, except for himself, Tony, and Thor, who’s off-world, and everyone else is still trying to get back to the pre-mission mindset where casualties don’t exist and tactical plans are unnecessary.
It’s different, the atmosphere, when a mission takes its toll.
Natasha and Bucky retreat to their designated quiet corners in the building while Sam takes it upon himself to bake enough treats to feed a high school. Wanda follows a self-care routine that takes up to a week and involves anything from dying her hair a different, often darker, color, to redecorating her living space. Clint manages to sleep, forgoing his usual red-eyed nightmare of coffee and energy drinks, for the more humane treatment of ten-plus hours of slumber.
And you, well, you get touchy. Not in a bad way, definitely not— Steve, as terrible as it may sound, looks forward to mission decompressions like this one, where you can’t seem to get enough of him. Tired kisses at night turned to sleep in each other’s arms, only to wake up entangled and grumpy because do you really have to shower right now? and but I’m cold, or, Steve’s favorite: just need you to hold me for a while.
Steve may be a bad boyfriend for encouraging this behavior but when he has you spread out on his lap, hands warm on his thighs while you and Nat recount the story of how you managed to get information on this mission’s target, the whole of your body relaxed and soft under his hands where they rest on your side— he’ll take all of it.
Nobody’s opened up the liquor yet, for which Steve is thankful, but, again: as relaxed as tonight may seem, he knew something was bound to happen.
It only takes twenty minutes after Tony arrives, expensive whiskey in hand, for things to go downhill.
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