Summary: Steve needs a favor and the last person he should trust is the only person who can help.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: mob boss reader, flirting.
W/C: 984
Word of the day (June 8, 2026) - Mafia
Notes: Set between Civil War and Infinity War.
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main
Reports filter in every few seconds now. The Falcon and his flying contraption are in the adjacent building, no doubt scanning images through the walls. The Winter Soldier is on the roof of the opposite building, with a clear line of sight despite the rain painting streaks down the floor-to-ceiling windows.
You don’t blame them. They’re being smart. Respectful, even, because they take the threat you pose seriously.
Though not officially closed, patrons and most of the restaurant's staff were made to leave a half hour ago.
Lights cast a warm glow against the dark wood surroundings, and music still plays softly through hidden speakers. A busser remains, moving between tables, clearing up after a busy dinner service. The chef waits in the kitchen for your order.
You're armed, as are the men in your employ located throughout the space. You doubt the need for violence will arise, but it pays to be cautious.
The swish of the door opening announces his arrival, and he patiently allows himself to be patted down before being escorted to your table.
You don’t bother to stand when your guest arrives at your table. Money talks, but wealth whispers, and power, real power, doesn’t grovel for attention.
Steve Rogers. The golden boy. Except these days, the shine has diminished. Exhaustion caresses his demeanor like a second skin—drooped shoulders, dulled blue irises, and the beard that has replaced the clean-cut image plastered across newspapers suggests sleep has become a luxury rather than a necessity. You're surprised he showed up.
Fingers tracing the stem of your wine glass, softly you accuse, “You kept me waiting.”
“Traffic.”
Interesting. The corner of your lips curls upward, but you keep the smile in check. Without hesitation or waiting for permission, he pulls out the chair opposite yours and sits.
Your father would have hated him immediately. You find yourself admiring his confidence.
“You’re staring,” you say.
“I’m observing.”
“That’s a polite way to put it.”
His lip twitches, but as you did, he restrains the gesture. “So is ‘business woman.’”
You softly laugh, “There it is.”
“What?”
“The judgment of my character …my reputation.”
Steve leans back in his chair, seemingly relaxed, as if he's meeting an old friend, but the tension he carries is palpable. “You're the head of the biggest Mafia organization in modern history. I’d assume you’d want a reputation.”
“My father built the empire.” You pause and shrug. “I run it. Reputation follows.”
Steve’s expression shifts, not fear or surprise, more like acceptance. “I heard rumors.”
Now you smile. “So you came to see for yourself.”
Rich amber liquid lightly swirls as you push a glass toward him. He doesn’t immediately reach for it.
“Expecting poison?”
“No.” Eyes briefly flicking between you and the glass, he smoothly replies. “You wouldn't waste good whiskey.”
“True.” You take a sip of your own drink to hide your growing admiration. “So, Mr. Rogers-"
"Steve."
The slight arch of your brow is the only indication of your surprise. "Steve. Why are you here?”
If you were anyone else, his steady gaze would be disconcerting. Instead, you hold that contact as you lean back in your chair.
“Needed to see for myself if the stories were true.”
“What stories?”
He takes his time to respond, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table. The action makes the room feel smaller, more intimate.
“About your intelligence.”
"Exaggerated, I'm sure,” you deadpan, knowing full well they are not.
“Your ruthlessness.”
“Depends on the circumstance.”
“Your beauty.”
The word lands softly, effortlessly, as if he isn't currently sitting in the lion's den while complimenting the lioness.
Rain patters against the window, refracting light from the city below into a glittery haze. The gentle sound fills the momentary weighted silence.
Crossing your arms, you lean forward to rest them on the table. “You flirt with all the crime bosses?”
Steve flashes a devastatingly handsome smile. “Just the beautiful ones.”
It appears to please him when you laugh at his reply. “Careful, Rogers…Steve,” you correct when he raises a brow, “my father used to feed men to the sharks for less.”
“Good thing you’re not your father.”
You will never admit it aloud, but you are entertained by the man. No one seems to understand, except, apparently, the super soldier who's quietly challenging you. Your father ruled through fear. You rule through loyalty. Your father demanded respect. You earn it. Steve neither fears you nor is loyal to you, yet despite going against all he believes in, he respects you.
Standing, you take another sip of wine before moving toward the window. The city, your city, sprawls below your feet. A kingdom built on secrets—a throne made of whispered threats, owed favors, and corrupt deals.
Steve joins you. Not close enough to touch, but near enough to matter.
“You know,” you quietly say, “most people prefer to actively avoid being in debt to me.”
Steve’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth. The movement is quick, barely noticeable yet impossible to miss. “I think I’ll survive,” he states, “besides, I know you're intrigued.”
“Having the infamous Steve Rogers owe me a favor would be good for business.”
Though he outwardly remains stoic, you know he's smart enough to know the consequences of what his request means for him and his teammates. Still, he doesn't hesitate. “We just need a place to lay low.”
“Half the planet is out looking for you. It won’t be easy…or cheap.”
“You seem like you can handle the challenge.”
You give him a calculated, flirty smile. “Alright, Steve, let’s discuss details over dinner.”
The charming smile you receive is slow but certain, making you wonder whether you're dealing with a future ally or a formidable opponent.
For the first time in a very long time, you're uncertain if the most powerful person in the room is actually you.
Part 2 - Trust - A simple exchange is more than it seems.
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Moira can feel Hanzo's strong grip on her hair as he dragged her along the pavement and it doesn't compare to the intense pain she feels in her stomach. But she concluded that he has done something to her without the use of weapons because she feels blood spilling from her mouth and her insides feel as though it's being ripped from her body.
Moira knows what he's going to do her, she knew the minute he came to her laboratory completely drenched in blood from head to toe. And yet despite all of the pain that she is currently in she can't help but be fascinated with his eyes. Instead of his eyes being it's usual regal blue whenever he had summoned his dragons, they had changed to this deep, dark oceanic blue where fangtooth fishes lurk. Even his dragons seemed to have lost it's aura of tamed raw power, they were like feral animals in a constant state of ravenous hunger. Every snap of their jaws had entailed death and their once beautiful scales were stained with blood and the permanent horrified expressions of its victims.
She knew that Hanzo was coming for her the minute she had heard his pained wails of agony for her slaughtering his lover, you, in an arrogant yet bold show of dominance.
Does she regret killing her?.
No, she'd do it a thousand times over if it meant more power.
It was then that Moira remembered her men telling her that Hanzo had refused to leave her side despite her being dead. She knew that irregardless of not taking the clear warning of going against the united Shimada and Vargas clan, that was brought together through marriage, into consideration by killing one of it's leaders, you, would soon bring the downfall of her family.
Moira still doesn't regret it.
Does she regret not killing Hanzo sooner?.
Yes, might as well put that loyal guard dog out of its misery.
She despised you with every bone in her body and she had found you and Hanzo's "relationship" to be utterly revolting.
The day that she had met you all those years ago she despised you, the way you spoke too others with a unique yet somewhat commanding casualness to you're subordinates, to the way you're left eye twitching had somehow struck fear into others.
All this lazy show of power that you had constantly showed to her as well as others had made her blood boil with anger.
Power is meant to be upheld with nothing but pure unforgiving control and you had treated it like it was nothing but a mere thing.
But worst of all, it was Hanzo who had made her content for you boil over. How could you render a man like Hanzo to his knees with the simplest movements?. It had left her dumbfounded, she knew of Hanzo's esteemed history and felt that a man like you should be in the forefront of the clan as its unforgiving brutal leader.
And yet Hanzo was content being you're loyal guard dog, how pathetic of him and knowing that had left her dumbfounded.
And she hates feeling stupid.
She hates being made into a fool and she was nothing but that, she was power and control and you had made her feel like anything but that.
But she supposed that none of the contempt nor the mocking pity that she feels for both you and Hanzo.
Even as he hangs her now beaten malleable body for others too see, it doesn't matter.
Even though the last thing she will hear is the foreboding growls of Hanzo's dragons, it doesn't matter.
Not even with knowing that the last thing she sees is Hanzo's empty blood thirsty eyes, it doesn't matter.
She'll die happy knowing that people like you will be remembered as a warning and that you as a person will only be remembered as nothing but a myth.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: mob boss reader, flirting.
W/C: 948
Word of the day (June 9, 2026) - Wharf
Notes: sequel to Good For Business.
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main
The air is dank. A storm had hit earlier, speeding the last vestiges of light into blackness and leaving behind a humidity that clings like spiderwebbing to the skin. Fog is slowly rolling in, swallowing the reflection of twinkling stars dancing on the water's surface. A cargo ship's horn sounds a mournful note in the distance.
On your orders, the wharf is deserted. The city glitters behind you, alive and restless, but here the world feels quiet…lonely. It's the perfect beginning for a noir-style thriller, ripe with low paranoia and fatalism.
It's why you chose it.
You don't bother to turn when the warped boards announce his arrival. As agreed, he's alone, though you know the rest of his team is nearby. Hidden in the shadows, the same as yours.
“I'm curious,” Steve says as he comes to stand beside you. “This place is pretty out in the open for a meeting spot.”
Murky water laps at the pilings, a soothing background to a tense situation. “Public places are safer.”
“For who?”
Your lips curve, but you don’t give in to it. “I haven’t decided yet.”
That earns a chuckle, and you finally look at him. Dressed in simple dark clothing with a baseball cap pulled low over his face, it's a poor attempt at anonymity for anyone who dared to look close enough.
“You look disappointed.”
Steve leans against the railing beside you, casually, as if meeting a friend. “I was hoping for a more private space.”
“For any particular reason?” you tease.
He grins and doesn’t hesitate to answer, “The company and conversation.”
You'd find that kind of confidence insufferable from anyone else, presumption bordering on arrogance. Instead, his sincerity makes him dangerously charming.
You remind yourself to tread carefully. Emotions beget recklessness. Recklessness leads to mistakes. Mistakes ensure downfall. Before the conversation can wander into precarious territory, you pull a set of keys from your pocket and toss them to him.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
He straightens, stepping closer…much closer than necessary. “No instructions?”
“The gray Honda in the parking lot. The location address is programmed into the GPS. Memorize it, then destroy the GPS before you leave.”
“And the car?”
“Yours.”
The wind whips a lock of hair across your face, and seemingly without thinking, Steve tucks it behind your ear. His finger slowly traces the shell of your ear and along your jaw. It's intentional, but you don't flinch away. The contact lasts a heartbeat too long.
The slight widening of his eyes notes the realization of what he's doing. Clearing his throat, he quickly drops his hand, as well as his gaze.
You remain silent. Mercy seems appropriate—at least this time.
“What’s the catch?”
“None.”
“For now,” he adds for you.
You gift him a small smile. “The house is off-grid. Only one other person knows of its existence.”
His brow lifts. “A house?”
“One of my private residences. If it were only you, I’d have given you something smaller. However, the women in your party deserve a little luxury.”
“The other person?"
"Someone I trust with my life."
Brows pulled together, he asks, "Luxury?"
"Crime empire."
“Crime empire," he repeats with a chuckle.
The joviality between you is comfortable and unexpected. It will become a problem if you don't stop it now.
“What do I owe you?” His eyes flick to your mouth, there and gone, but not fast enough.
“You’ll know when I decide to collect.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It was supposed to.”
“You practice these lines?”
“Comes standard with the crime boss starter kit.”
This time, his laugh is warm and unrestrained. It catches you off guard. You know that Captain America is a persona he wears for the public, and this isn't the public figure. This is Steve Rogers. This is the man behind the superhero. A man out of time, carrying too much weight on his shoulders and trying to help his friends.
His laughter fades, but neither of you moves to end this clandestine rendezvous. The harbor stretches endlessly before you, and for a moment, you contemplate how easy it would be to slip into the shadowy depths and let the weight you carry be swept away by the fog.
“I should go,” Steve mutters, breaking through your thoughts.
He seems reluctant to actually take action, so you encourage his exit. “You should.”
The broad smile and perfect teeth are infuriatingly stunning. Attraction is dangerous. Personal involvement with a client is deadly.
“Minimal contact is best,” you state, tone back to stern professionalism. "You have my direct line should something arise that needs my attention."
"What if I just want to talk?" His face is unreadable, his tone matching yours.
"Unadvisable."
"Will you visit?"
The hint of hope is fleeting in his eyes, and you bite back a cheeky remark. Instead, asserting, "My time is money, Mr. Rogers. If needed, I will be there, but there will be a cost."
The nonchalant shrug is exasperating. “I’m starting to enjoy being in your debt.” He doesn't turn to leave, but slowly walks backward, eyes hidden beneath the hat's brim.
“Then clearly I’m doing something wrong,” you scoff.
He steps into the dim halo of an overhead post lamp, which highlights that infuriating yet endearing smile. “Not from where I’m standing.” Another step, and the fog engulfs him, leaving you, once again, alone on the wharf.
The purpose of the meeting was to finalize the deal. A place for him and his team to lay low for a yet-to-be-decided favor. Somehow, it feels as if something far more invaluable took place.
His acceptance when you handed him the keys was also an exchange of trust.
Part 3 - Buried Feelings - When Steve learns you’re missing, he doesn’t hesitate to join the search for you.
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Steve waits on the porch. The state-of-the-art security system warned of the breach long before the armed man came into view.
Wanda steps up next to Steve, eyes warily looking over the man, Dante, your head of security. "He looks like a mountain put on a suit."
Steve hums at the hushed statement, "I told you to stay inside," keeping his eye on the man—the way his feet shift, finger twitching on the trigger. Dante knows a bullet won't take him out, but Steve can sense his anger as well.
“I can take care of myself,” she smiles, red mist swirling around her fingers.
“Where is she?” Dante bellows.
Steve frowns. “Not here.”
“We left a meeting hours ago. I followed her here as far as the gas station. She sent me on another errand.” His voice is dangerously calm. “She hasn’t checked in. Nobody has heard from her. Where is she?” Jaw flexing like he's grinding metal, Dante looks like he wants this to end with someone's funeral.
Icy realization hits Steve. “She’s missing?”
Dante barks a humorless laugh. “I’m not leaving here until I find her.”
Steve pulls Wanda out of the way of the charging brute, lumbering up the steps. “You’re wasting time,” he grits out.
“Rogers, I swear if you did something.”
“She isn’t here. Hasn’t been here in over two weeks.”
“When did you last speak to her?” Dante questions.
“Last night,” Steve answers. He warned that the meeting could be a trap, she'd laughed, and he could picture the eye roll that followed. “What happened at the meeting?”
“Nothing. Went to plan. It was simple. Easy.”
“Too easy?” Steve asks.
Dante purses his lips. “You think it was a setup?”
“They could have followed you. Waited until you peeled off, and she continued. Caught her off guard.”
Dante’s ringing phone halts any further theorizing. He answers with a curt, “Yeah?”
Steve focuses, wanting to hear the full conversation.
“We got the car and a body.” Steve’s heart stops until the caller adds, “It’s not one of ours. Looks like she put up a fight.”
A grim relief calms him for a moment, one of your enemies but not you. Hearing the location before Dante hangs up, he declares, “I’m coming with you."
Dante hesitates for a moment before growling. “Fine.”
The first one to fall is a low-level soldier. The second was killed execution style after refusing to give up information. The third body to drop finally gives them the secondary location where they took you.
Steve’s already moving before Dante gives the order to his men.
Rain hammers against the windshield. The countryside blurs in streaks of green and brown. Every second feels stolen, every mile feels impossible. He keeps hearing your voice, confident and amused.
“I’m not made of glass, Rogers, and my men are tough.”
God, he hopes you are too.
The windshield frames a farmhouse collapsing in on itself, surrounded by overgrown fields. Steve is out of the vehicle before it stops rolling. Fresh tire tracks lead around the back. He doesn’t wait for the others, rushing into the house, eyes scanning for anything out of the ordinary—any sign of you.
Nothing.
Reaching the back of the structure, he glares through a broken window pane, contemplating his next move. An animal darts across his line of vision, drawing his attention to a trampled area of grass, surrounding a rain-soaked patch of recently overturned dirt.
His breath falters, and he hisses out a strangled, “NO,” as if he can change reality through sheer refusal. Breaking into a run, the door doesn’t survive the collision—wood and metal explode outward from the force of his shoulder, the rotted wood wall crumbles as the ceiling caves in on itself.
Steve doesn't even notice, shouting for the others as he drops to his knees and begins to dig. His bare hands tear through earth, mud cakes beneath his fingernails, and stones rip skin from his knuckles. He doesn't hear the others, doesn't slow his pace even as more hands join the fray, because his world is washed in a sepia haze, like the old silent movies.
Minutes stretch into a lifetime, but not far beneath the surface, a thud sounds… hollow wood. The outline of the box emerges from the dirt—a crudely built coffin.
For one terrible second, nobody moves, nobody breathes. It’s been hours. Have you been trapped all this time?
Then Steve lunges forward. Pressing the tips of his fingers between warped slats, he yanks a board free. Wood groans and splinters as he continues his assault on the container. The opening frames your pale, tear-streaked face. Despite the noise of the box being destroyed and the shouts of your name, you remain motionless, and he fears that he’s too late.
Then a gasp, a cough, and a wheezing intake of breath as you frantically scramble upright.
Steve makes a sound somewhere between a relieved sigh and a laugh. Pushing the hair out of your eyes, he cups your cheek, thumb brushing a streak of dirt from your chin. “Hey, hey, look at me.”
Another choked breath, eyelids fluttering and squinting. “S- Steve?”
It's barely above a whisper, voice hoarse, but the hit of relief loosens his chest. “Yeah, it’s me. I'm here.”
Placing a shaky hand over his, you lay your head on his shoulder, whispering. "Thank you."
By the time he lifts you from the mess of wood and mud, the rain has eased to a drizzle. Someone drapes a blanket over your shoulders, Dante presses a bottle of water into your hand, then hovers close by.
Steve sits beside you on the open tailgate, one hand fixed firmly on the small of your back. The other rests on your thigh. Dried blood paints the creases of his knuckles, dirt still packed beneath his fingernails, evidence of how he saved you.
You've been staring at them for a while now, a finger lightly drawing shapes on the back of his hand. You haven't said much other than to order a hit on the person who ordered the one on you.
“You need to see a doctor.” He frets.
“I will.” You sigh, taking another sip of water. “How’s my hair?”
A few of your men bark surprised laughs, but Dante's quick to reply, “It’s terrible, boss.”
Steve shakes his head. “You were buried alive, and you’re making jokes?”
Your shoulders lift in a weak shrug. “When you say it out loud, it sounds worse.”
Dante’s phone rings, but he sends you a worried look before answering, “I gotta take this,” he says, slowly edging away, “I’ll be just over here.”
“I’m good, D.” You give him a weak smile.
“I got her,” Steve says, nodding for him to go.
Dante answers, his expression immediately changing with a promise of violence in the tense greeting, “Give me something."
Steve responds in kind when you squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”
“You already said that, but you're welcome.”
There are too many eyes, and you release his hand far sooner than he wants. If he thought you'd let him, he'd carry you to the passenger seat, drive you back to the safe house, and take care of you for the rest of the evening, or maybe a few days.
With a freer intake of breath, you plaster on a smile. “I told you so.”
Steve frowns. “Told me so?”
“I told you having the infamous Steve Rogers owe me a favor would be good for business.”
Steve chuckles. “Does that mean I’ve paid back my debt?”
“Not even close.”
“Didn’t think so.”
Part 4 - Settled - A shift in dynamics opens a path for confessions.
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Summary: A shift in dynamics opens a path for confessions.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: fluff, mention of being buried alive.
W/C: 1,602
Characters: Steve Rogers, Mob boss reader. OMC.
Notes: sequel to Buried Feelings.
Word of the day (June 18, 2026) - Entry
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main
“Rogers,” Dante nods as Steve approaches your office door.
“Dante,” Steve greets, already putting his arms out for Dante to pat him down.
Despite a modicum of respect Steve earned by helping to save your life, Dante still doesn't trust the former Avenger, so he does what he's paid to do. Finalizing the inspection, the brute of a man straightens. “She’s down the hall in a meeting.”
“Shouldn’t you be with her?”
“She’s good,” Dante chuckles. “Apparently I’ve been hovering,” he says with full air quotes. “She wanted me to meet you.”
“Do you know why I’ve been summoned?” he asks.
Dante shakes his head, pulling a key card from his pocket. “You can wait inside.” He swipes the card and holds the door open while Steve passes through.
“Thanks.”
The lock engages as Dante closes the door behind him.
He likes your office. It’s grand, but not in a flashy or stereotypical crime boss movie way. It would fit in an upscale New York law firm. Floor-to-ceiling windows—bulletproof, of course—showcase the city you rule over. It’s lived in, not just for show. He knows you well enough now that nothing is for show.
The worn leather armchair and alcohol cabinet in the corner are the only remnants from your father's era. Still, they fit well with the other decor, and Steve knows it's where you like to sit with your thoughts and a glass of whiskey after a long day.
He wanders over and pours himself a drink. You summoned him here with little explanation. He knows Dante is still looking for the man who had you taken and buried alive, Matteo Maddox.
Walking to the window, sipping from the tumbler, Steve assumes this meeting is to acquire his assistance with Matteo’s elimination. Steve looks over the city, wondering if Maddox is out there counting down his days, or if he’s smart enough to have run as fast and as far as he can.
He hears the beep of the key card on the door and turns, watching Dante hold the door for you before closing it with a soft click.
Your eyes flick to the drink in his hand, and your lips quirk slightly. He shouldn’t be this comfortable helping himself to your things, but he is, and you don’t seem to mind either.
“Thank you for coming,” You say, slipping out of your heels by the door.
“You make that sound like my attendance was optional.”
“Everyone has a choice, Steve.” Strolling over to the desk, you smile, “But I’m sure curiosity got the better of you.”
You're right. His partial smile indicates you both know it.
"Let me clarify." Reaching into the top drawer of your desk, you pull out a leather-bound notebook. “As of today, your attendance is optional.”
His brow furrows with confusion as you walk toward him and hand him the book. “The marked page,” you instruct, taking his empty glass as you pass to the alcohol cabinet.
Steve opens the book to where the ribbon page marker separates the pages. Maddox's name at the top of the page immediately has his attention.
There’s a transaction of increasing value on every line—debts owed. Except the last entry is written in your neat, precise calligraphy style handwriting. Eliminated.
Curiosity killed the cat, or so they say, and so Steve turns the page.
Another name. Another list of debts, some crossed off, some with a plus sign, and more values. Interest. He reads more pages, skimming over details, and then freezes.
Rogers, Steve.
Beneath his name is a list of items you've provided for him and his team, and each one is crossed through with a perfectly straight line.
At the bottom of the page, in bold capital letters, is the word, SETTLED. The date written next to it is immediately familiar. The day he tore through earth and wood with his bare hands to free you from an untimely demise.
“Why?” he asks.
Shrugging, you hand him a glass as you step nearer. “Because it was paid.”
“You said it wouldn’t clear it.”
“I changed my mind.”
He can tell you're sincere. It's not a misleading ploy or manipulation.
Taking a sip of his drink, he scans the ledger again. “You keep track of everything?”
“Of course.” You chuckle. “I find my method works better than yours.”
“My method?”
“You do favors and then forget they happened.”
Steve can’t help but smile. “That’s usually how favors work.”
“Not where I come from.” You carefully take the book from him, as if you think he might resist, and place it on the table.
“So I don’t owe you anything?” he asks, mind buzzing with the prospect of what this means. The relationship is no longer transactional. There is no imbalance of power.
You hold his gaze. “No,” you answer. “The safe house is yours for as long as you need it, but there are no debts owed. No favors to pay back. No obligation to me.”
Something flickers across his face, relief, hope, something infinitely more dangerous, desire.
“Don’t look at me like that, Rogers.”
“Like what?”
You almost laugh because the answer is humiliatingly simple. You’ve been looking at each other like that for months. Every time he showed up unannounced. In his voice, every time you called to check in. Every time he smiled at you like he had forgotten who you were beneath the reputation and blood on your hands, it got a little harder to ignore.
You drop your gaze and set your glass down. “In my world,” your voice is quiet like you're telling him a secret and the office could be bugged, “Nothing is free. Nobody does anything without wanting something in return. Except you.”
“If I see a situation heading south, I can’t ignore it.”
How many times has he said that to justify his actions? And how many times has it led him directly into another situation heading south?
“I’ve noticed,” you give a small smile. “But actions have consequences, Steve.”
He takes a small step closer, filled with intention. “I can live with that.”
You hold his gaze for a heartbeat and then, reluctantly, step back once before turning your back. “I kept thinking eventually you’d ask for something. A deal to write off your debt. Something I could understand.” You continue, leaning against the front of your desk. “And then you rescued me, and I realized you weren’t ever going to ask.”
“No, I wasn’t,” he agrees, “and I think you know I’d do it again, without adding it to any ledger.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
That catches him off guard. The admission is a rare thing. You’ve never said you were afraid of anything. Not when you were in a shallow grave, or the one time you ‘checked in’ unannounced at the safe house, Dante-less. You never said it, but it was obvious there had been a threat, credible enough that you’d run and hidden yourself until Dante took care of it.
“That's why you never let me get quite close enough to do something about this.”
He understands now. All the times you were close enough for him to reach out and touch, you’d back off. It wasn’t about protecting your investment. It was about not trusting that it wouldn’t come with strings.
“There was never supposed to be a this.”
He closes the distance you created. “But there is.”
“Rogers,” you warn, putting your hand on his chest to push him back, but he plants his feet. He holds your wrist, keeps your hand pressed against him.
“I know who you are. I know what you’ve done. I know all the rumors are true. There’s probably a hell of a lot more I don’t know.” His eyes never leave yours. “And none of that has ever been what keeps me awake.”
The room goes perfectly still. Even the dust motes seem to freeze. He’s fought Nazi’s, aliens, and gods. You’ve ordered executions, negotiated ceasefires of rival gangs, stared down armed men who wanted you dead, and somehow neither of you was prepared for this.
It’s not about resources or influence. It’s gone beyond protection.
“And for the record, you’re wrong,” he says, softly. “I do want something from you.”
Your breath catches, and your gaze drops briefly to his mouth. A mistake, a terrible, wonderful, beautiful mistake, because now he’s certain you’re thinking the same as him.
He leans in, cupping your face with his hands to prevent you from pulling away, and draws you into him. It starts soft, tentative. A press of lips as if he’s afraid Dante will burst in and kill him on sight for having the audacity to touch the untouchable.
Until you softly exhale into him, body melting against him as you tiptoe to slide your hands up his chest and over his shoulders to wrap around his neck. He moves his hands from your face to your waist, pulling you even closer.
It deepens, months of longing distilled into a warm and rich kiss. tongues sweeping, hands firm and certain, holding the other as close as possible without force.
You’re the first to break it, breathless, but Steve steals two more before you’ve completely dropped down to the flats of your feet.
“I didn’t want to do that when I owed you something.” He admits, “Didn’t want you to think it wasn’t real or it was just another transaction.”
You smile, then bit your bottom lip. “That’s going to cost you, Rogers.”
“I look forward to it.” He grins before kissing you again.
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