Protocol & Penance v2
$ log - steve rogers is stuck in a moral dilemma of indulging in his recruit’s sins and maintaining the good captain image! $ warn --nsfw --darkfic --fem!reader --dom!reader --manipulative!reader --sub!steve --reluctant-dom!steve --servicing!steve --whimpering!steve --dubcon --older-man-younger-woman --age-gap --moral-dilemma --power-dynamics --mentor-student --p-in-v --size-difference --worship --creampie --missionary --leashes --praise --dirty-talk --begging --crying --breeding-kink --marathon-sex-lowk --aftercare $ wc -w 3.3k $ cd masterlist $ vi protocol-and-penance (v1)
The mission had been gruelling, a blur of adrenaline and dust, but nothing had prepared Steve for the sheer, agonising weight of the guilt currently crushing his chest. He had offered to walk you home, a gentlemanly gesture to ensure your safety. But the moment the door to your apartment clicked shut, the "Captain" had vanished, replaced by a man who was utterly, hopelessly at your mercy.
Now, he was pinned between the mattress and your overwhelming presence and the unmitigated sacrilege of it.
He felt sick to his stomach, not from exhaustion, but from the way he was staining your beautiful, decorative bedsheets. The soft, intricate patterns you had chosen with such care now being bunched and wrinkled beneath his heavy, sweating frame.
Every time he tried to look away, to find some shred of dignity in the shadows of your ceiling, the leather leash you’d found tugged sharply at his neck, forcing his gaze back down to the sight of his own hands bruising your hips.
"Please, sweetheart... god, just... just close your eyes and rest," he begged, his voice a broken, desperate rasp. He was driving into you in a heavy rhythm, his hips slamming home with a force that made the bedframe groan in protest.
His large hands wandered feverishly over you; one moment they were cupping your breasts, squeezing them with a desperate hunger.
And the next, they were sliding down to find your clit, his thumb working with a frantic, rhythmic precision that made your hips arch off the sheets in a desperate plea for more. He was a man drowning, his eyes searching yours for a mercy he knew wasn't coming.
"You're so cruel... you know you're not tired, don't you? You're just playing with me," he choked out, his thumb catching the peak of your pleasure just as he drove himself deep into your heat.
He tried to slow down, to find a way to ease the pace so you might finally drift into sleep, but you had other plans. You let out a low, teasing hum, a sound of pure, manipulative satisfaction, and suddenly you locked your legs tightly behind his waist, pulling him even deeper, anchoring him to your pussy.
The movement was a silent command: Don't you dare stop.
"God, honey! Don't... don’t... don't pull me in like that!" He let out a sharp, strangled gasp as the sensation of your thighs clamping around his waist sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity straight to his brain.
The sheer audacity of your grip, the way you were physically forcing him to stay buried inside you, was the final nail in the coffin of his composure. He looked down at you, his eyes wide and clouded with a beautiful agony, seeing the way you looked up at him not with exhaustion, but with a predatory, triumphant hunger that demanded he keep going.
"You're a monster," he whispered, though there was no bite in the word, only a breathless, reverent awe. He leaned down, his sweat slicked chest crushing against your breasts, his lips brushing against your ear as he felt the leash tug sharply, reminding him that he was no longer the commander of this room, but the servant of your desire.
He was desecrating your sanctuary, staining your beautiful, carefully chosen sheets with the evidence of his lack of control, and yet, he couldn't bring himself to pull away. Every time he tried to find an exit, to find a way to end this marathon of pleasure and penance, you would tighten those legs, your heels digging into the small of his back, forcing him to acknowledge that the mission wasn't over until you said it was.
"Please... just a moment of peace," he groaned, his voice cracking as his thumb found your clit again, driving you toward a peak he knew would only fuel your hunger.
He felt the familiar, violent coil of his own orgasm building, a heavy, thrumming pressure that thrummed deep in his gut, a tidal wave of heat that threatened to drown his remaining shreds of willpower.
He was a man caught between the duty of a soldier and the desperation of a lover, and as he felt you arch beneath him, your eyes flashing with that insatiable, manipulative light, he knew he had lost the war.
There was no retreating from this battlefield, no tactical withdrawal from the beautiful, messy wreckage of your bed.
"Fine... goddammit, fine," he growled, a sound that was half surrender and half roar, as he abandoned all pretence of restraint. He gripped your hips with a bruising, possessive strength, his knuckles white as he braced himself for the devastating assault. He stopped trying to find a gentler rhythm, stopped trying to coax you into sleep, and instead leaned into the very thing that was destroying him.
He began to fuck you with a primal, unbridled ferocity. He drove himself into you with a ferocity that made the headboard crack against the wall, his breath coming in ragged, desperate snarls as he surrendered to the beautiful, messy wreckage of your bed.
"You win... you fucking win," he roared, his voice breaking as the first wave of his orgasm crashed over him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a desperate, primal mark of ownership as he poured himself into you. He felt the hot, thick flood of his cum spilling deep within you, a relentless torrent that seemed to pulse in time with the frantic beating of his heart.
Steve held you there, pinned beneath his massive, trembling frame, his hips still twitching.
Your hands, slick with sweat, wrapped firmly around his broad, trembling shoulders, anchoring him to you as the world outside your bedroom ceased to exist.
He leaned down, his movements heavy with a sudden, overwhelming tenderness, and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was painfully sweet — a desperate attempt to find some semblance of purity amidst the chaos. As you tasted him, you could taste the bitter, salt sweet tang of his penance. He was kissing you like a man seeking absolution from the very sin he was currently committing.
He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches that betrayed the war raging inside his chest.
"Let's go again, Captain," you whispered, your voice a low, sultry command that cut through his exhaustion like a blade.
He let out a long, broken sigh, a sound that was almost a whine of pure, beautiful defeat. "You had enough... Christ, baby, you've had too much " he protested, his voice cracking.
He looked down at the wreckage of your bed, at the way his essence was smeared across your skin and your expensive, decorative sheets, and a fresh jolt of nauseating, delicious panic flared in his chest.
The thought of "knocking you up" of leaving his mark so deeply, so permanently, in his own recruit sent a wave of vertigo through him. Steve wanted to pull out, to be the responsible officer, to protect your future from his own lack of restraint.
He wanted to be the man who stood at attention, the man who followed the protocol of a professional relationship, but the moment your legs locked around his waist again, pulling him back into the heat of your core, that man died a quiet, desperate death.
"You're going to be the ruin of me," he groaned, a sound that was half prayer and half curse. He could feel the weight of his responsibility clashing violently with the primal, super soldier urge to simply obey you to breed you until you were so heavy with him that you couldn't even move. The guilt was a physical ache in his chest, a sickening, delicious tension that only intensified the friction as he began to move again.
The third round was different.
The frantic, desperate energy of the first two had shifted into something more rhythmic, more deliberate, and infinitely more dangerous. Steve was no longer fighting the chaos; he was trying to organise it. He was attempting to drown the dizzying vertigo of his guilt by leaning into the sheer, animalistic simplicity of the act.
If he could just stop thinking about the rank, the mission, and the sacredness of your home, he believed it would be maintainable.
He stopped treating it like a frantic struggle for salvation and started treating it like a conquest. His thrusts became heavier, more primal, stripping away the "Captain" and leaving only the man, a man driven by a singular, carnal purpose.
He leaned down, his lips reverent as they grazed the sensitive skin of your neck and collarbone, murmuring praises that sounded more like a litany of worship than a confession of sin.
"So beautiful... my sweet girl," he rasped against your skin, his voice a low, vibrating hum. "So greedy for me... so perfect in your hunger."
He was trying to convince himself that this was normal, that a man was simply taking what he desired from a woman who was made for him. By focusing on the physical perfection of your body, the way your hips arched to meet his, and the way your breath hitched at his touch, he was attempting to drown out the moral dissonance of his conscience.
He leaned into the friction, letting the raw, unadulterated sensation of your heat swallowing him whole become his only reality.
If he could just focus on the way your fingers dug into his shoulders, the way your eyes searched for him with that insatiable, manipulative light, perhaps the vertigo wouldn't feel like a descent into madness, but a climb toward ecstasy.
Now, he was a man surrendering to a beautiful, inevitable storm. He began to drive into you with a new, terrifying confidence, his hips hitting yours with a heavy, rhythmic thud that echoed the pounding of his heart.
He was trying to make it feel "normal" to make it feel like a man simply claiming his prize but the way he whispered your name, a desperate, broken sound of total devotion, betrayed the truth.
It wasn’t just a simple fuck anymore, he was letting you rewrite his entire moral code into one single, glorious, unmitigated sin.
Every time his hips slammed against yours, he felt the dizzying sensation of his own control slipping away, replaced by a heavy, grounding lust that felt more honest than any protocol he had ever followed.
He was drowning in you, and as he felt the familiar, violent swell of another orgasm building deep in his gut, he realised he didn't want to be saved. He wanted to sink deeper into the beautiful, messy wreckage of your bed, to lose himself in the rhythm of your breathing and the insatiable, cunning heat of your body, until there was nothing left of the Captain but the man who belonged entirely to you.
The end came not with a roar, but with a total, devastating collapse of his willpower. Steve had tried to rationalise it, tried to turn the madness into a simple, carnal rhythm. But as the tension in his core reached a breaking point, the "Captain" was gone for good. There was no more protocol, no more trying to be the responsible officer, there was only the overwhelming, primal necessity of you.
His heavy, muscular arms wrapped around you with a possessive, desperate strength, pinning you to the mattress as his massive, trembling frame crushed you into the sheets.
His hands, large and calloused, moved with a sudden, frantic purpose, his fingers finding your clit and working with a desperate, expert rhythm that forced your breath to hitch and your back to arch. He watched you with a gaze that was almost feverish.
His eyes were tracking the beautiful, violent way your body buckled under his touch, driving you toward a peak that he was determined to witness.
As you crested the wave of your own orgasm, your cries muffled against his shoulder, he finally lost the last shred of his restraint. He drove into you one last time, a deep thrust that seemed to reach the very centre of your being, and then he came.
He came with a ferocity that felt less like pleasure and more like a total, unmitigated surrender of heat that seemed to pulse in time with the dying beats of his heart. Steve buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in shuddering, uneven gasps as he felt himself emptying into you, filling you to the very brim, leaving nothing of his restraint behind.
In the sudden, heavy silence that followed, as the only sound was the frantic thrumming of your shared pulse and the distant hum of the city outside, a single, brief sound escaped him.
It was a tiny, broken sob, a sound so quiet, so fragile, that it seemed to vibrate from the very depths of his soul.
It was the sound of a man who had finally, irrevocably, lost the battle against his own heart. It was the sound of the Captain finally dying, so that the man could truly live within the wreckage of your love.
He stayed there, heavy and trembling, his weight a grounding, possessive force against you. He pinned against you, his forehead resting heavily against yours as the last of his strength ebbed away.
The silence of the room felt deafening after the violence of his release, a heavy, thick atmosphere that tasted of salt, sweat, and the undeniable weight of what they had just done. He didn't pull away; he couldn't. He remained draped over you like a fallen conqueror, his heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against your own.
The sob had been a momentary crack in his armour, a brief glimpse of the man who was terrified of how much he truly wanted to belong to you, but as the initial shock of the climax faded, it was replaced by a profound, exhausted stillness. Steve was spent, physically and spiritually, his body a heavy, warm anchor that kept you both grounded in the beautiful, ruined reality of your bed.
He lay there for a moment, his heavy chest heaving against yours, the silence of the room amplifying the frantic thrum of his heart.
He knew, with the terrifying clarity of a super soldier, that his body wasn't actually done. The serum in his veins was humming, a low, insistent vibration that whispered he could go on for hours, that he could go on for hours, that his stamina was a bottomless well that could easily swallow the entire night.
But he could feel the weight of his own exhaustion, not just physical, but the spiritual fatigue of a man who had crossed every line he had ever drawn for himself. He needed to draw a line in the sand before he lost himself entirely to the beautiful, dark current of your desire.
He lifted his head, his gaze meeting yours. He saw it immediately that sly, manipulative glint in your eyes, the look of a predator who had just finished a feast but was already eyeing the next course. You looked so innocent, so deceptively sweet, as if you hadn't just systematically dismantled his entire moral compass.
"This is enough for tonight, sweetheart," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He swallowed hard, his throat tight, as he felt the leather leash tug slightly against his neck a silent, instinctive reaction from you, a silent, instinctive reaction from you, a subtle tightening of the bond that made his pulse spike with a mix of dread and desire.
"I'll eat you out in the morning, okay?" he added, his voice dropping to a soft, coaxing murmur, a final attempt to soothe the restless fire in your eyes. "Wake you up with a treat... sound good?"
He could see the gears turning in your head, the way you were weighing his bribe against your own insatiable hunger. He held his breath, watching you with a desperate sort of hope, praying that the promise of a morning "treat" would be enough to satiate the beast he had just spent hours feeding.
He watched you intently, his heart hammering against his ribs as he waited for your verdict.
For a long moment, you simply stared at him, your expression unreadable, before you finally gave a slow, reluctant nod. The tension in his shoulders bled out in a single, massive sigh, a sound of pure relief that seemed to vibrate through his entire massive frame. He didn't wait for you to change your mind.
With a slow, careful movement, he began to pull himself out of you, the sensation of his departure leaving a hollow, aching void that made him want to groan in protest even as his mind celebrated the temporary truce.
He moved with a heavy, sluggish grace, his muscles aching with a delicious sort of fatigue as he rolled away from you. He didn't linger in the warmth of your skin for long, knowing that if he stayed too close, the scent of you and the memory of your heat would pull him right back into the fray.
Instead, he stood, his large, powerful silhouette momentarily blocking the dim light of the room as he began to rummage around for a clean cloth and water.
As he worked, his movements were methodical, almost soldierly, as if he were cleaning a battlefield after the smoke had cleared. He was cleaning the wreckage, the sweat, the spilled essence, and the stains on your beautiful, expensive sheets with a quiet, focused intensity.
Every movement was an attempt to restore order to his world, to scrub away the evidence of his surrender and pretend, just for a moment, that he was still the man in command. He was still a gentleman, he repeated to himself a mantra to steady his racing heart as he worked to tidy the chaos he had helped create.
He glanced back at the bed, his gaze softening as he watched you. You were already beginning to drift, your body finally succumbing to the heavy, blissful lethargy of a post orgasmic haze. You looked so peaceful, so deceptively innocent in the dim light, as if you hadn't just spent the last few hours playing him like a finely tuned instrument.
A small, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, a silent acknowledgment at the sheer, beautiful madness of it all. He watched the way your breathing slowed, the way your eyelids fluttered shut as you finally succumbed to the heavy, delicious pull of sleep.
Steve felt a profound sense of protectiveness wash over him, a desire to shield you from the world, even as he knew you were the one who had most effectively conquered him.
He moved quietly, his large frame surprisingly silent as he finished cleaning the mess, his movements careful so as not to disturb the sanctuary he had just so thoroughly desecrated.
As he finally climbed back into the bed, keeping a respectful, almost reverent distance, he let his eyes linger on your sleeping form. He was exhausted, his muscles aching and his mind a swirling vortex of guilt and longing.
But as he closed his eyes, the last thing he felt was the lingering heat of you, a silent promise that the war wasn't over; it was merely a temporary ceasefire, waiting for the dawn to begin the next battle.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus
$ vi protocol-and-penance.txt (v1)
$ cd masterlist
