“Protection as well,” he hears Rostova say. “There’s an air filter built in, and it’s flame-resistant. Here.” She reaches over and fastens it for him, two straps around the back of his head so that it covers his face from the eyes down. He can breathe through it, but he can’t. It feels like a muzzle. His chest constricts, some wire tripped inside him at that feeling of the mask against his skin—fight it. He wants it off, and he hasn’t even put it on properly. “It looks good on you,” Rostova says, but he’s already reached up, peeling it off and gasping like she’d had him by the throat. “You’ll get used to it.” He tries to hand the mask back to her, protests rising in his throat, but she shakes her head. Her eyes flit again to the camera. “Don’t fight it,” she says quietly. Fight it.
— The Winter Soldier: Cold Front
Pairing: Early CATWS era Captain Steve Rogers x SHEILD Reader
A/N: This is a fic related to Call Me Captain When I... and comes right after Mood. It is also for @avengers-assemble-bingo. #KinkyBingo. This fulfills the square: Sir/Daddy Kink This is also part of @yenzys-lucky-charm Cranky, Grabby, Stabby, Oh My Challenge. Prompt: “just the tip I promise" *holds me down and fucks me full of cum.*” I'm deep in love with Steve and Libby. Please reblog, comment, and like!
Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. All mistakes my own. Smut! This Steve curses, and he is also grumpy. Steve is weak for you but a bit of a control freak. Dominate Steve, Semi-public sex act, fingering, lots of dirty talk and verbal edging, literal edging, orgasm denial, Captain and Sir kink, size kink, praise oral (m receiving), raw p in v, creampie, aftercare, soft Steve after he cums. 😜
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I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.
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It started at the briefing.
Steve sat at the head of the table, full Captain mode. The stealth suit fit him like a second skin and you’d had to will your eyes forward more than once. His jaw was set, his focus sharp. Everyone else, Sam and a few others, listened while he laid out the plan to hunt the organization behind the ambush on your training op.
The bastards who hit you were already “neutralized,” though you had yet to learn what Steve meant by that. This mission was about the ones who’d sent them.
The ones who thought they could touch you.
It was the first time you’d worked directly with him in the field.
You were paying attention. To the plan. To him. To the way his fingers curled tight around the table’s edge. The sharp crease between his brows. The way he looked at everyone else like their Captain, and looked at you like a man who’d memorized the sound you made when you broke.
Steve’s reactions to you had always been inconvenient, but they were especially volatile now, on a mission, in uniform, with your professionalism at risk. Hundreds of people called him Captain and Sir every day, but when you said them, it short-circuited something primal inside him.
You weren’t supposed to be under his command outside of the bedroom. But this time, you were. And he was doing everything in his power to keep his shit together.
That meant no time alone. No slipping. No touching. No relief. He even insisted that you get yourself off every night to counter the maddening effects of no contact between you, but you defied him.
“Respectfully, Sir, I don’t want to.”
He’d nearly broken then, but understood. Nothing felt better than you two together. He’d decided the same. Two weeks of self-control would be hell. But he’d endured worse.
You weren’t so sure you would last.
When he asked the room, “Any questions before we move?” his gaze locked on you, unflinching.
You tilted your head innocently.
“No, Sir.”
His breath hitched. Just enough that you noticed.
Sam started talking, but you didn’t hear a word. You were too busy watching Steve’s knuckles strain, his jaw tick, and the storm brewing behind his ice-blue eyes.
He was daring you to say it again.
You straightened, hands folded neatly, waiting for him to look away.
He didn’t.
After the briefing, you didn’t even make it three steps down the hall before his hand circled your arm, pulling you into the breakroom. Not rough, but firm enough that your heart stuttered.
“What the hell was that?” he asked, voice low.
You blinked up at him, all wide-eyed sweetness.
“What was what?”
“You know damn well.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, Sir.” You leaned in, breath warm against his ear.
“Didn’t mean to distract you, Captain.”
The growl that rumbled from his chest was the sound of a man fraying at the seams.
“Keep talking like that and I’ll bend you over the nearest tactical table.”
Your pulse fluttered. “Is that a threat or a promise, Sir?”
His hand drifted, barely brushing the curve of your ass and it was subtle, calculated, and electric enough to buckle your knees.
“You’re walking the line, Lieutenant.”
You lowered your gaze, fighting for control you didn’t want.
“Apologies…”
He nodded, sharp and curt. Turned to go and you watched America’s Ass. You waited just long enough, then let the last word fall like a stone in water.
“…Captain.”
He froze. Just for a second. Shook his head and walked away.
But it didn’t end there.
On the jet, the tension only sharpened. You sat across from him, knees brushing, the hum of the engines a thin veil over the silence between you. The rest of the team prepped and chatted, oblivious.
Steve didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just watched you watch him. Your eyes dropped to his lap, tracing the outline of his cock beneath the suit. You licked your lips deliberately, remembering the weight and stretch of him.
You leaned forward, passing him a file, fingers brushing his on purpose.
“Here you go, Sir.”
Your voice was husky and he knew you were wet, and probably desperate for any contact with him. So he didn’t take the file from you.
Didn’t move.
Just stared at you, like he was one slip away from throwing you over his knee in front of God, country, and S.H.I.E.L.D.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart,” he muttered, his voice dark and tight.
You smiled, all sugar. “Yes, Sir.”
Steve’s jaw flexed as he turned to Sam, locking the need away with brutal discipline. You swallowed, steadying yourself. The mission came first.
It always did.
The mission’s success only sharpened the edge. By the time the gala rolled around, neither of you had cooled off, not even close. You’d basically begged him before the event. Your hands tangled in his shirt, your lips bruising his, your body pressed tight against his in the darkened corner of your quarters.
“Please,” you whispered. “Just the tip.”
Steve laughed against your mouth, but he’d pulled back, steady even with his pulse racing wild beneath your fingers. His hands cupped your face, thumbs sweeping over your swollen lips.
“We both know that just the tip would end up with me holding you down and fucking you full of cum, Libby.”
Your eyes rolled. “Please…”
Your wanton moan had him a hair’s breath from giving in. But you both still had a job to do.
“I want to take my time with you.” His voice was all gravel, thick with promise. “You’ll get all of me. But not now. Not like this.”
So you dressed for the gala, the ache between your thighs a constant reminder that Captain Rogers was still calling the shots. And you let him think he’d won right up until the Senator asked that question.
The man had the nerve to sidle up to you, drink in hand, charm dripping off him like oil, and ask what it was like to serve under Captain Rogers.
You didn’t miss a beat.
“Oh, I always follow orders,” you said, slow and sweet. “Isn’t that right, Sir?”
You saw it, the way Steve’s glass froze halfway to his lips, the flicker of fire in his eyes, the sharp clench of his jaw as he forced down a cough to cover the sound of his own restraint breaking.
Five minutes later, he excused himself. You followed.
The hallway was empty. His hand caught your wrist the second you were close enough, pulling you flush against him, pressing your back to the wall. You were so wet.
“Are you trying to fucking kill me?”
You blinked up at him, lashes fluttering.
“Whatever do you mean, Sir?”
His breath ghosted your lips.
“You think it’s funny? Teasing me like that. In front of him.”
You smiled angelically.
“I think it’s hot. Watching you try to keep control when all you want to do is take me apart.”
His hands tightened against the wall.
“You know what happens when I lose control, Libby.”
You smirked. “I’m counting on it.”
His hand slid down your arm, fingers curling tight around your wrist as he dragged you into the nearest supply closet. The door clicked shut, the air was charged, and you could barely breathe.
“You wanted this,” he growled pinning you back against the shelves. His hands roamed, hiking your dress higher and higher until his fingers brushed bare skin.
“You’ve been begging for it since the damn briefing.”
Your breath hitched, but your voice stayed steady.
“Still am.”
The second the word Captain left your mouth, his control shattered and he was on you.
His hand covered your mouth to muffle the sounds, the other sliding between your thighs, fingers slipping deep, parting your folds roughly, desperate to feel you. He swallowed every broken noise you couldn’t hold back, his mouth finding your neck, your shoulder, your breast. His teeth grazing, his tongue soothing, and his lips branding you.
“You don’t even realize what you do to me,” he whispered against your skin, voice cracking open at the edges.
You moaned, helpless against the waves of pleasure.
His fingers pumped harder, faster. His control slipping with every stroke. His fingers worked you harder, faster, until your legs trembled and your world seemed to bend around you.
Then, right before you came, he stopped.
“You wanna play games, Sweetheart?” His voice was velvet-wrapped steel. “You better be ready for the consequences.”
When he pulled back, he held you steady, smoothing your dress back down with those same hands that had almost wrecked you. His lips ghosted over your temple, while what he did still vibrated through both of you.
“You okay?”
You swallowed. You couldn’t even be mad at him because you knew how much you’d teased him.
“Yeah, I….you. That was…” your voice trailed off. “...Are you?”
His smirk was pure sin. “Nope.”
You laughed, breathless and wrecked.
“You know it would help if you didn’t look so damn smug.”
“Oh, Sweetheart, you haven’t seen smug yet. Wait until I give you at least three orgasms.”
“You’re impossible.”
“So you keep telling me.”
—----
The second the gala ended, you’d expected him to break. To drag you into the nearest car, or corner you in some dark hallway before the flashbulbs had even cooled.
But no.
Steve kept his distance.
All night, you’d felt his eyes track you across the room, the heat of it searing through the silk of your dress, the weight of his control stretched so tight it was a wonder he hadn’t snapped.
But he never touched you again. Never slipped. Not once.
He even sent you home in a separate car. Your heart couldn’t take it, but you knew there was more to come. And it was long past midnight when the knock came. You opened your door, heart already pounding, and there he stood.
His shirt sleeves were rolled, the tie hanging loose around his neck, his jacket nowhere to be seen. His restraint had finally cracked, written all over his face. But his voice stayed low, even.
“Pack your bag,” he said. “Now.”
You didn’t ask where. You didn’t need to. You just obeyed.
Ten minutes later, you were in his car, the city lights blurring past the windows, your thighs pressed tightly together. He didn’t speak, didn’t look at you, hands flexing on the wheel like he was holding himself together by the thinnest thread.
By the time the car stopped, a quiet, private safehouse on the edge of the city, your skin was flushed, your pulse wild.
The door had barely shut behind you when you felt it.
His hands.
One gripping your jaw, tilting your face up, the other on your waist.
“You think you can tease me like that,” he murmured, voice like gravel, “and I’ll just sit back and let it slide?”
Your breath hitched. “I wasn’t teasing, Sir.”
His eyes darkened, and the corner of his mouth lifted. not a smile, more like a warning.
“You don’t get to play innocent. Not after two weeks of ‘Yes, Sir’ and that sweet little tilt of your head. You’ve been testing me since the briefing.”
His thumb brushed your bottom lip.
“And you knew exactly what you were doing.”
You felt the heat pool low in your belly, your legs weak beneath the weight of his words, the sharpness of his stare.
“On your knees.”
The order sent a shiver through you and you dropped without hesitation, hands resting on your thighs, head tilted back to look at him, waiting.
Wanting.
He watched you for a long, heavy moment, jaw tight, chest rising slowly.
“Look at you,” he muttered, shaking his head, more to himself than to you.
“So damn pretty when you’re obedient.”
When he undid his belt, his fly, and freed his cock, you swallowed hard. The size of him, the sheer weight and length, was always a shock to your system no matter how many times you’d seen him.
You glanced up through your lashes, the shape of a question lingering in your throat.
“Go ahead, sweetheart,” he said, his voice smooth as silk.
“You’ve been begging for this with every word you’ve said for the last two weeks. Work for it.”
You wrapped your hand around him, feeling the heat, the heft, the impossible stretch of him. Your lips parted, and when you took him in, his breath hissed through his teeth, one hand threading to your scalp.
“Good girl,” he murmured, thumb stroking your cheek, the barest encouragement as you started to bob on his cock, lips stretched wide and drool pooling at the corners of your mouth.
“Look at you. Captain’s perfect little mouth.”
You worked him slow at first, savoring the low growl of his approval, the way his hips flexed, controlled even now. But when you hollowed your cheeks and looked up at him, wide-eyed, his control cracked.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”
His hand tightened on your head, hips pressing forward until you took him deeper, until tears dropped from your eyes. But you didn’t pull back. You wanted this, you wanted to watch him fall apart.
When he finally eased out of your mouth, his thumb wiped your lips, tracing the slick curve.
“Up,” he ordered softly, and you obeyed, rising to your feet. His hands were on you the second you stood, spinning you, pressing you against the nearest wall, his large body caging you in completely.
“You like making me lose control, don’t you?” he rasped against your ear, his hard length grinding against your ass through the thin fabric of your panties.
“You like knowing no one else gets to see me like this.”
You nodded, breathless. “Yes, Sir.”
His hand slid between your thighs, fingers finding you soaked and ready.
“Of course you do. You’ve been dripping for me all damn night.”
His mouth brushed the shell of your ear, voice dark and ragged.
“And I’ve been thinking about bending you over every flat surface I could find. About splitting you open on my cock until you forget your own name.”
You whimpered, grinding back against him, desperate.
“You wanted me to break, sweetheart?”
His hand gripped your hip, his other one sliding between your legs again, fingers skating through your slick.
“You’ve got me. But you’re going to pay for every second you spent torturing me.”
He didn’t take you to bed. Not yet.
Instead, he lifted you, like you weighed nothing at all, and carried you to the couch, settling you onto his lap, your knees bracketing his hips, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
You did, your gaze locking with his as he guided you down onto him, slowly, filling you inch by impossible inch until you were gasping, your nails digging into his shoulders.
“Fuck, Sweetheart,” he groaned, holding you still once you’d taken all of him.
“You feel so fucking tight. So goddamn perfect around me.”
You clung to him, barely able to breathe, stretched to the limit. It hurt so good.
“You wanted your Captain,” he whispered against your lips. “Now you’ve got him.”
And then he moved with slow, deliberate thrusts that pushed you to the edge of madness, his mouth capturing every moan, every broken plea you couldn’t hold back. And you knew, right then, there’d be no walking straight tomorrow.
And you wouldn’t have it any other way.
—---
You lost track of how many times he made you cum. His mouth, his hands, the punishing rhythm of his hips. Every part of him wrecked you with single-minded precision.
But it wasn’t until long after your voice was hoarse from moaning his name, long after your body trembled from overstimulation, that Steve softened.
He shifted beneath you, easing out of your body with care, murmuring something low and tender against your skin. You couldn’t make out the words because your brain was a fog of pleasure and endorphins. But the gentle tone was enough to settle you.
Strong arms gathered you close, one hand cradling the back of your head as he carried you to the bed like you were precious. You pressed your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the salt of his skin, the faintest scent of sweat and his cologne.
He laid you down carefully and climbed in beside you. His big hands smoothed over your hips, your thighs, his thumbs catching on the marks he’d left behind.
You didn’t mind them. You liked that you’d wear the shape of him tomorrow. On your skin. Between your legs. In the slight limp no one would question, but he would know.
“You alright?” he asked, voice low, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
You nodded, still dazed, sated and warm. “Yes, Sir.”
A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest as he pulled the blanket up over both of you.
“Didn’t mean to go so hard,” he murmured, brushing your curls back from your forehead.
“Just… you get under my skin, Libby. Make me forget how to think.”
“You didn’t forget how to think,” you whispered, tracing the curve of his bicep, the hard line of his chest. “You planned that.”
His answering grin pressed against your shoulder.
“Maybe a little.”
There was a beat of silence. Then he asked, “And you knew what you were doing at the gala.”
You smirked against his throat.
“You liked it.”
Steve groaned and pulled you tighter.
“Liked it too much. Nearly lost it when you said Sir like that in front of the Senator.”
You laughed softly.
“You like it when I say it in private more?”
His hand slid to the base of your spine. His grip was warm.
“I like it when you say it when you're wrecked. When you’re trying not to come and you whisper it like a prayer. That’s when it ruins me.”
The silence that followed was full of heat, but not urgency. The hunger had been sated. What remained was the closeness. The wanting still there, but quiet now. Like embers under ash.
You moved and winced, the soreness sparking up.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“It’s just that you’re huge,” the words tumbled out unfiltered.
Steve stilled. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” you said quickly. “No. Not even close. Just… I’m still adjusting. In my soul.”
He laughed then, head falling back, the sound full and rich and happy. It shook the bed, and you smiled against his chest, eyes fluttering closed.
His hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face up so he could look at you.
“Who knew you were this much of a brat?”
You gave him a sleepy, satisfied smile.
“Only for you, Captain. My Captain.”
His expression softened completely. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and for a second, there was something deeper than heat in the space between you.
Something like devotion.
“I’m gonna take care of you,” he said softly, brushing his thumb over your cheekbone. “Every time. Before, during, after. I love you Libby.”
You leaned into the touch.
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know, Steve. I love you too.”
And with that, he kissed you, slow and lingering, nothing like the bruising hunger from earlier. This was patient. Tender. The kind of kiss that promised more.
Not just in bed, but in the quiet spaces between missions and chaos. In the in-between moments where your heartbeat slowed and the world finally held still.
Eventually, you drifted off, curled against him, your leg thrown over his thigh, his hand resting on the curve of your hip.
And even in sleep, you felt it, his presence wrapped around you like a shield. Steady. Unshakable. Yours.
