If you're ever worried about whether your writing is too self indulgent, I just want you to remember that Sharknado had 5 sequels. I'm only partway through watching Sharknado 6: It's About Time, but already they've traveled through time and ridden a pteronadon into a Sharknado so they could use the magic teleportation portal inside of it to travel forward in time to King Arthur's time, where they are currently battling a Sharknado full of fire-breathing dragon sharks with Excalibur, which is a chainsaw sword that calls lightning. You're fine. In fact, be a little more self indulgent if anything, because I am having a BLAST watching this specifically because I can see how much fun the writers were having.
Fanfic is the peak human experience out there . Everyday a different stranger tells me a bed time story about two fictional men we’re both obsessed with
Steve is excellent at love-making, but he needs encouragement to branch out. (Pure smut. Minors DNI. Also, this is ~5k, so enjoy...)
See where this Steve/Reader began here!
Slow and steady wins the race, but sometimes you just want to fucking lose. Like, you don’t know, pinned-down-on-the-battlefield-by-enemy-forces lose. Like conquer-your-body lose. Like he-actually-screamed-‘fuck’ lose.
You can’t tell him that, though, because he’s so sweet, so tender, so attentive that it’s just rude, right? Don’t fix what ain’t broke, ya know? He’s super! Cool. But super conservative and controlled in the sack…is just not cutting it for you tonight.
He’s spooning you after glorious, sensual love-making as happens pretty much every night you get to sleep together, but you’re wide awake and about to crawl out of your skin attack that guy every time his hot breath hits the back of your neck. You can’t wake him up, right? And even if you did, it’d be the same thing that got you so riled up in the first place. He’s a smart man. Variation keeps people on their toes, and it would keep curling your toes a lot more if he’d—
“I can hear your heart racing,” Steve mutters behind you. “What’s wrong?”
Another wave of heat hits you in just the wrong place. You’re starting to sweat, and it feels overly-stifling to be pressed so close to him. You wiggle beneath his lax arm over your waist.
He’s not hard, and he doesn’t move or acknowledge your ass rubbing against him because he’s so pristinely controlled that he won’t. He won’t get hard until you’re warmed up with his fingers—not your fingers, mind you, because he got very defensive that one time, so just his fingers—which is, again, so sweet because he is fairly large and that would absolutely hurt to not be prepared.
Still.
Let a lady know you are excited, damn it. Insert a little passion and abandon into the bedroom every now-and-then, okay. His palm moves from your stomach to your forehead.
“Do you feel sick? Fever?”
That’s so nice.
You kinda hate it. You’re sick of something, but you feel like an asshole for even thinking this way. Your fantasies of Steve branching out into various explorations got you this far, surely you can just…continue to ramp yourself up at the thought while he politely sits there and calls an ambulance, thinking you’re having a heart attack.
But you can’t say it. You can’t just turn around and say “fuck me.” He’ll get upset, not just at the language, but he’ll think you’re unhappy or unsatisfied. That’s not true, you’re just not…fully satisfied.
Steve’s breathing is pushing his gloriously broad chest against your back, and it’s part of one particular position you’ve been imagining, so of course, you whine involuntarily. That doesn’t help.
“Honey, are you in pain?”
Yeah, you’ve really done it now. He won’t go back to sleep until he gets a solid answer and it’s an explanation he believes, so you are fucked but not in the way you wanted.
“No,” you croak slightly because you’ve been salivating thinking of things for the past hour and didn’t intend to use your mouth to speak, “fine.” You can hear his perfect, concerned frown from all the way at the back of your head. What’s the worst that could happen? You sexually attack Captain America and he fights back? Great, you’re gonna die of embarrassment anyway. Crack that can of whoop-ass open and hope it lands on your left ass-cheek because—
Oh boy, you really do need to calm down.
He props himself up on an elbow.
You can do this. You’re a strong, modern woman, and you’re just asking for what you want. He’s a grown man. He can handle it. He can man-handle yo—Focus. Come on now—REALLY? That’s worse.
Every single thought you have is directing you back to that almost sore ache in your stomach. The few times you’ve tried to make light of sexual innuendo, Steve’s said you sound like Tony. Maybe you should get Tony to have this talk with him? No. Steve would never, ever speak to you again because Tony would never, ever stop talking about it.
You have no way out of this. It’s happening. He could do this all day. You wouldn’t starve; he’d bring you food and water. He’d probably even do all the physical therapy to keep your muscles from atrophying while he waits for the whole truth, but you’d still be disappointed because…he wouldn’t even tie you down.
You clear your throat and roll over. It’s dark, but you’ve both been sitting in the dark so long you can kinda see. You can see enough to be hyper-aware that you’re both naked still, which should help but does not help at all.
It’s go time, or as Tony said that once—as awful then as it is now—“clench them thighs and ride that bull, sweetie.” Oh man, you hate Tony, but you love Tony to death. What a fucking lunatic…
Steve lays down again so you are eye to eye. You can’t even see the blue of his eyes, and they’re still piercing you.
“So,” you start because maybe it’ll all fall out perfectly if you just say shit, “you’re great but—“
Steve immediately tenses all over. Great start, great plan, and you should keep your day job. Therapist isn’t for you.
“No, no, that didn’t—it’s not bad—I just can’t—“ Even though you don’t have super senses, you can tell Steve has stopped breathing. You need to fix it, and fix it fast. Desperate times call for desperate measures, so your hand goes straight to his dick, shifting you close enough to feel Steve inhale sharply. That’s enough to keep you going. “I…would like more…” You got this. You can do it. “…passion, or like, a show of passion, if you feel that way…”
Steve’s hand cups your face. “Honey, do you think I don’t love you? That’s ridiculous.”
“No, I just mean that—“ retracting your hand “—if you feel intensely…into me—“ you start talking with your hands because it fills the small space between you “—then I’d be very interested in that…sort of thing.” Awesome. You explained nothing.
He’s quiet, thinking. Then he’s thinking for too long, and that is not a good indicator. You still can’t think of any better words because he’ll take offense to “aggressive” or “rough.” In Steve’s mind, those things cannot equal love; they are demeaning and would trivialize what he values about you and what your value is as a woman and human being.
That is…so fucking nice, but would it kill him to pull your hair just a little? Hold you down just to keep an angle for—
Poor Steve’s wheels are still turning. At this rate, it’ll be morning before you ease him into your point, so you just have to do it.
“I want you to fuck me.” The whites of his eyes are definitely visible in the dark. How could they not be? There’s so much of them showing. “I understand—I know you love me, but I feel safe enough with you, and I know you won’t hurt me, so yeah…”
Oscar-worthy. Clearly. You can’t imagine why you stalled so long.
Steve says nothing, and all of the fight but none of the frustration drains from your body. Words are a minefield. You can’t say you’d like to experiment with him because duh. You can’t tell him to be more manly because also duh, and nothing is getting to the crux of what and how you want to feel except…
“I’d like us to explore,” you intone very slowly, “options…of pleasure.” The hesitation in your own voice is less than convincing, but at least none of the words should trigger an outright ‘no.’
“I’m…” Steve’s voice is extremely quiet, making it deeper and more sexual than he probably intends, so you press one knee over the other and brace for anything. “I’m not sharing you.”
You snort. Ok, so you’re not quite there, and in typical Cap-fashion, he’s hurtled right over the point and run off.
“Uh, no, babe,” you use his cheeky nickname because it’s cute that he’s so thick sometimes. “Wow, no. Okay, so—“ the hands are back flailing to help “—I was thinking more about how when I’m really excited to be with you that I feel like a powerful urgency—“
He places one broad hand against your naked hip with just a hint of grip and pressure.
You forget where the thought was going. You just had the words, or a least some words, but they’re gone now because his hand is very warm and you’re sweating again.
“Have you ever heard of the phrase—“ Het up? No, you can’t say that. He’ll be even more confused. “—wild abandon?”
There’s a rumble of recognition in Steve’s throat. You’re getting somewhere, you think. Maybe.
“And I’m not…wild enough?”
Nope. There’s clearly no way to not bruise his ego and get your point across. “Well,” your voice cracks an octave too high, “I’m tired, so this is done.” You start to roll back over, but his hand gets a lot heavier, a now distinctly firm grip anchoring your bones to the bed.
“No, this is important.” Steve almost never seems mad, but he seems…something. He shifts up again to hold his head close and over yours. “Show me.”
That’s not a request. He isn’t being polite or curious. Steve Rogers gave you an order, and damn, now you’re getting somewhere.
You’ve had the fantasies for long enough that it’s all basically muscle memory, even though you’ve never pulled Steve to you so fast, and you’ve never shoved your tongue in his mouth so quickly, and you’ve never bit his bottom lip so hard. You toss your leg up and over his and fling yourself on top of him (which basically he had to let you do because he is 100% strong and heavy enough to not have moved an inch). It almost makes you laugh when you grasp his wrists in both your hands; this wouldn’t hold him for a second, but you’re under orders now. Commit to the cause.
Show don’t tell, right? So you straddle his hips and center yourself over him before rocking back and forth in long strokes. After only a few, you can feel your wetness start to smooth over his skin, and as Steve hardens, his cock presses into your lips. You let your breath come out in hot gasps, mainly because you didn’t think to control that before the head of him is right there about to breach—
“Honey, we need a condom.”
You stop. Whatever little spell of confidence you’d been under breaks, and you release his hands before climbing off him and the side of the bed. It’s thoughtful. He’s totally right. You’re absolutely gonna hide in a corner and die of embarrassment because it’s out there now—your horny inner self has been seen. No amount of darkness can cover it back up.
You face the wall, psyching yourself up for getting back into bed, arms wrapped around your bare middle like the blanket you’re missing. Eyes shut, you try to hold your breathing steady while rustling continues behind you. It’s probably Steve just getting the blanket to cover you with. He probably doesn’t care about whether he’s turned on at all. He just wants your comfort. That’s all great, but it would also have been great to just fuck yourself on him.
And there he is, hand at the small of your back, gentle as always, cautious as ever—oh my. His hand slides down, pinky finger actually tucking into your crack before he palms the swell of your ass. That’s…that’s certainly a firmer grip than usual, and the dig of his fingers to spread you is magic. Very promising.
He leans into your ear, whole glorious body flush beside you, condom on and all, and he whispers, “anything at all you don’t like, you stop me.”
Yes, sir. “Uh huh,” you huff out instead of any coherent words. You relish the warmth on one side of you, skin chilled by the open air on the other, before Steve starts to slide down to his knees, pushing at your ass and hip till you face him.
You’re struggling to balance even until he’s holding you still, plunging his face into the nest of hair at your center, tasting the hints of slick you rubbed against him before—did he just moan?! The sound crumples your resolve to stay upright while these luxurious bursts of arousal shiver up your spine, but he’s there, super-strength and super-control coordinating to lift your legs over his shoulders and angle your descent onto the bed. It’s not a fall or a flop onto the mattress; you are flowing down to it like water, and the way Steve’s lapping at you now certainly gives the impression he’s thirsty.
Little convulsions force your hand up to your chest, useless while he’s pushing your legs apart, nuzzling to get just the angle he wants, and—oh, that moan was you that time.
Steve’s encouraged, and ‘enthusiastic’ might be too light a descriptor for the type of intent he has on your pleasure at the moment. He’s consuming every buck of your hips and shake of your muscles. He’s echoing every lost syllable from your drying mouth which pants cold air as jolts of electricity ricochet all over you, all returning to be sucked out by his ravaging attention.
This is where the trick comes: when Steve makes love to you, he wants to see you, to be face to face and ready to cradle you through your orgasm. Now you’re used to that. Now you want that closeness, but you can’t discourage this, right? This is great progress.
Doesn’t matter. You want what you want. Your hand latches onto the top of his head, fingers brutally pulling at his hair to get him up to your mouth in time. Steve stretches over you easily, curling down to meet you, and while his lips are attached to your neck for the briefest moment, your other hand grasps to line him up so he can fill you. As large as he is, you’re so aroused he practically falls in, and the all-at-once sensation has him open-mouth gasping against you before finishing his kiss. Rocking your hips drags your clit across him just enough to tip you over the edge, and you grip at his sides with weak arms.
Normally sweet and soothing with a soft touch and careful movements when you come, Steve hoists your ass up, keeping himself deep inside your fluttering walls, and bends to latch his mouth onto your nipple.
He starts thrusting again. Ragged, choked screams escape your unguarded lips. He reaches for your ankle behind his back and stretches it out, each new exposure of flesh to fresh air a rush and shiver, until his palm lies flat, pushing just above the back of your knee. He repeats this for the other side, pinning you at the edge of the bed. It’s a lot, but it’s not too much when every few thrusts, Steve moves his mouth to a new spot. He’s grounding you in this very real fantasy of yours; he’s exquisitely amateur.
Because you know Steve and Steve knows you, the excitement of him exploring this with you is magnificent. The minor hesitations in each new position for him melt away when he feels your excitement and pleasure. His mouth lands on your throat, and your fingers find his hair again. He slows and stops, arms releasing your legs.
He whispers into the skin below your ear, “do you…want to be on top again?”
It’s Steve; he can’t do dirty talk. He’ll say you’re beautiful and you feel good and parts of your body are beautiful and feel good, but he might actually burst into flames if he ever uttered the words “ride me” or “fuck me.” Oh man, is it still exciting to hear him ask though…
You nod, realizing by the stiffness of your muscles that this exploration has gone on much longer than you thought, and it thrills you. Time still gets lost and you still feel connected even when Steve isn’t embracing you the whole time. You hope he feels that too.
Steve climbs onto the bed beside you, ignoring where the pillows are and how you’d normally sleep, a testament to how invested he is in this time and possibly his own pleasure. He lays there, heavy breaths lifting his broad chest, dick hard and strained in a slick condom, looking possibly the sexiest you’ve ever seen him.
Normally, Steve likes you to come together, and that’s it. The one-for-one ratio has been broken now, making you invested in keeping this worthwhile for you both. He’s just so fucking gorgeous, and you know from months of experience that he has no fucking idea how gorgeous. You get to savor him. He’s going to let you savor his body.
You straddle him again, confidence returning as your fingers graze over his barely sweating skin, pale and faint in the dark. Steve keeps his hands up, unsure whether to return them to their previous position without your instruction. Honestly, you don’t care, too enchanted by the possibilities, your hands tucking around the hard muscles encasing his waist, leaning to kiss his sternum. All the salty skin you cover up to his throat has you in a heady focus on his every move, and you slowly lower yourself back to feeling his taut erection against your expectant cunt. Using the word, even just in your head, sets off the automated reaction of ‘things-Steve-won’t-like,’ but that fuels your urge to try anything you want tonight. You have permission. Goodness knows, Steve isn’t going to magically talk dirty.
You stretch across him to reclaim that soft spot on his neck, noticing a rumble start in his throat and that his dick pulses up just the slightest bit. Now you’re curious, beginning a tentative sweep of your hips to then tuck lower when you feel his tip pass your apex. It takes a few strokes, but then you two are aligned just right, and you can sink down his length without having used your hands at all.
The rumble becomes a groan. Steve’s arms fall, tips of his fingers brushing your knees. You untuck your hands and crawl them up to perch on his chest. Steve is staring into your eyes when you finally meet his, but in the dark, it’s not immediately obvious to you how engrossed he is. Not until you start riding him in earnest, rolling your hips and letting your hands wander more. His broad palms slide up to either side of your ass, following, not leading, planted without pressure.
Well, by all means, if he’s staring, you may as well give him a show. You begin to shift back, slowly and steadily lifting up and sliding down him, moving your hands from his chest to guide his up to your breasts. That’s a tough sell; Steve abhors any type of objectification, but by your lead, he allows it, very softly rubbing his thumbs across your nipples. He’s rewarded with more moans. He’s a quick study once you tell him a subject exists to learn.
He takes the initiative to pinch at one nipple, and you’re downright proud of him and the sound you make to encourage him, falling backwards to prop yourself up against his thigh. You watch carefully as Steve’s eyes fall from your chest to where his cock disappears inside you. His hands stall, he’s so mesmerized. Your hands stroke at his thighs in time with your up and down movements, and that confidence combined with this growing lust for the man you already have inside you pushes you to take in every inch of him you can, reaching back beneath your own ass to massage his balls.
Steve makes a strangled noise, and his hands fall to your hips again. You release him immediately about to dismount in concern that you’ve gone too far until he wraps his arms around your waist. You fall to his chest, his length still buried inside you when his hips thrust up. Steve pants into your hair before plunging his fingers through the strands and wrenching you up to face him. His hips keep thrusting. From his expression, this is barely Steve. Steve is lost in you right now, and the man who can run a marathon without breaking a sweat is exhausting the air in the room to fuck into you. Somehow the hard hold in your hair is one of the most loving things he’s ever done to you because Steve is uncontrollably feeling you, letting himself feel you, enjoying himself feeling you.
His pumping becomes erratic and suddenly he’s sitting you both up while he firmly grinds your whole body down onto him, foreheads together, mouths open and desperate just inches apart. In all the times you’ve had sex, Steve has never kept his eyes closed when he comes. It’s a night of firsts all around.
“I’m sorry, love, I…” He slowly unknots his fist from your hair and slides his hand down your damp skin to your ass, lifting the weighty cheek so you can adjust in his lap. Your shifting makes him gasp in overstimulation. You wish you could see every micro expression cascading across his features, but it’s too dark. You just have to imagine his shock, awe, and satisfaction because Steve does not like to be dirty or stuck in a spent condom. You should let him clean up.
The start of your movement is cut short by the grip at your waist. Steve nuzzles at your cheek. “You’re still—“ he brings the other hand around from your ass to flatten it low across your belly “—wet.”
You’re too taken aback to laugh but a huff and smile will suffice, leaning against his forehead. “It’s fine.”
Steve shakes his head ‘no’ a few dragging times then kisses you, deep and serious, his ‘I love you’ kiss that lasts far longer than the words would if dropped from his lips into the air. His grip relaxes as he pulls away, making you keen forward for more.
“Touch yourself,” he says into your lips just before the distance is closed. Your thoughts muddle; you’re not sure you even heard right. He gives you a quick but tender kiss. “Touch yourself for me.” There’s a twinge of excitement in that order, a bit of a dare mixed with softening lust. You activate weak thighs to prop up, but Steve has to help lift you to crawl off and towards your pillow.
You lay out, cold without him near you, as he uses the baby wipes by the bed to clean himself off. You have to close your eyes for a bit of courage. The last time you tried this in front of Steve, he openly argued that he thought it meant he wasn’t enough for you. You won’t even mention that you masturbate, even if you’re always thinking about him, even if it’s when he’s on a mission and simply can’t be there to please you. Now you’ll have even more to miss when he’s away…
He wasn’t wrong; you are still wet, and the sensitivity you feel even grazing a finger across yourself is a testament to how fucking hot the whole encounter has been. You’ve barely inserted a finger when you feel the mattress dip beneath one bent knee. You think he’s coming to take over, that he simply meant to give him a moment until he returned, but Steve crawls towards your foot instead and rests a hand on your ankle. He makes no move to interfere.
As you add another finger and curl them up inside you, you open the heavy lids of your eyes to see him settling at your feet, head lowering to kiss your inner thigh just above your knee. He’s giving you space. He might even be taking notes, but who the fuck cares when you can still see him coming apart beneath you. When you first roll your slick fingers over your clit, it feels just like his tongue did, and you’re positive you will never not think about that from now on. You’ve got so many beautiful, desperately sexy mental images of him, and they’re all cramming together to build that wildly scorching pressure that Steve Rogers has ordered you to chase. It’s distracting how many different ways you can picture taking him now that the doors are wide open and you know he can enjoy it. It’s so distracting you can’t keep any semblance of rhythm.
Steve kisses a little higher on your thigh, and you feel his hand caressing lower and lower. He’s still just watching with a hungry fascination you never would have imagined. You feel like the first moving picture he’s ever seen, something incomprehensible and distinctly desirable with this intimately exhibitionist behavior. You can’t keep up for much longer. The fantasies are breeding with reality and spawning more things you can picture and things you want to do, but Steve is there to help.
He’s ready, painting some of the slick on your inner thigh onto his middle and ring fingers, gliding them past your own as you desperately rub at your clit again. He crooks them at just the perfect angle and matches little pulses with the circles you make above until that prickling strain inside you starts to implode moments before the dam of ecstasy breaks. Steve’s mouth pushes away your hand as he sucks your nerves gloriously raw, the tip of his tongue circling just as your muscles contract, and he follows your body as it shrinks away. You half-scream encouragement while Steve doesn’t relent, replacing his mouth with his thumb as he watches your cum squirt all over his hand. Two more waves of release roll through you before it’s over.
Once he withdraws his fingers, Steve rests his palm across your drenched sex, soothing and steady, while he shifts his body around so his other hand can cup the back of your neck. He’s gentle but you’re still muttering nonsense until Steve kisses your brow.
“I’ve got you. I’m with you, love.”
You blindly tilt and stretch searching for his mouth because the edges of your numb bliss are starting to singe in the remaining embers of desire. First, your lips connect to his sharp jaw but suction there anyway, latching hard enough to leave a mark even on the enhanced man above you. Then he finds you proper, smoothing his hand from your core to the small of your back to lift you close to him, chest to chest, fingers sliding into your hair. You’re sloppy, groping and grabbing at his sweaty back, intoxicated by the intensity of his attention. He’s doing it again, grounding you via deep, solid kisses. The smoldering edges calm, still melting against the heat of him in your arms.
Eventually, Steve breaks away, settling his forehead to yours before flipping you to the other side of the mattress and covering your limp form in the blanket. It’s only when he leaves the bed and returns with towels that you realize he gave you his spot to keep you dry. He asks before delicately moving the covers to wipe your body clean, whispering little praises and sweet nothings, until tucking himself under the blanket with you, wedged together on two-thirds of your whole mattress.
Steve nuzzles into your hair to kiss the crown of your head, behind your ear, and your temple, sliding his arm to replace the pillow at your neck. He snakes an arm around your waist and down your arm until he laces his fingers into yours. He settles, saying nothing for a whole minute while you both simply enjoy the comfort of being close.
Suddenly, you hear him let out a little laugh.
“There’s my best girl’s happy heartbeat,” he sighs, kissing your bare shoulder.
Now we are getting somewhere, you think. The rest of the night is the best sleep you think you’ve ever had.
Warning: Very emotional smut which is split between two chapters. (Minors DNI) soft! but also :cough: determined!Steve.
Catch up from any point here.
He’s regretting not waiting for some water. His throat aches from all the forced swallowing. However, if he’s got to have this conversation, at least Steve’s rooms are private and have faucets.
When you open his door, you don’t turn on the lights, and his eyes shoot wide.
“Really?” You tick your head to the side with zero explanation, forcing him to enter a room he’s lived in for years as if it’s foreign soil. “Now,” you say when the door seals behind him, “you have four either normal, or more likely, heightened senses, while the other has been taken away…kinda. If—see—when you turned off the lights at the hotel, one of the things that did was make my other senses work harder to get the experience—“ you snort out a laugh but quickly stifle it “—of the room.”
He can vaguely see you in the dark, even where everyone else would see black. His sight is obviously fine. Better than fine. To his eyes at the hotel, you were the most exquisitely detailed charcoal drawing, undulating in rapture beneath him. In bright light, the fine hairs over your skin have a dusting effect like chalk, and when you’re still asleep as dawn breaks, it evokes the oil-painting mastery of the classics. You’re so peaceful, made of smooth layers of color painstakingly built into pure beauty.
None of that, however, addresses the problem. “I don’t think—I mean, I haven’t ever noticed something boosting my…feeling.”
“Yeah, it’s not the perfect metaphor, but basically, there are other pieces to, uh boy—focus—“ he hears your sharp inhale and notices you shiver “—to experiencing pleasure. That’s why I asked if you get excited before you’re touched.”
“Did you just…was that your reaction to my cologne?” He’s miffed, acutely flattered, and a little bashful.
“Yeah, yeah, crisis at hand, Sketch. Focus.” Though he inches forward, you continue. “Your thoughts are recreations or fantasies of senses.” You clear your throat and stand up tall. Steve doesn’t know why but you stare at the floor even in the dark. “For example, you’ve…made several faces that—and you don’t—didn’t even touch me, or you weren’t—but just the look…I mean, wow.”
He notices something, and he feels like an idiot for not understanding this sooner. He didn’t put it together all those times before, the ones where you looked at him a certain kind of way and (if he was close enough) he could smell you. You’re talking about a visual, auditory, or olfactory cue that had a physical response, or really anything not-physical that has a physical impact on a body. You’re talking about how he can feel when you feel, and that has never been dampened by anything. His nerve-endings don’t have to signal his brain; that part is all memory and imagination and empathy. It’s exactly like how looking at a sketch of you immerses him in the moment he was trying to recreate in two dimensions. He can hear what you were telling him as he switched from pencil to pencil.
“Just wow,” you repeat with a whisper.
Steve thinks about the time on the couch, right behind where you’re standing, and he remembers hearing your voice lower and your heart race. He remembers kissing you and being struck by how the same glorious, wet warmth from your mouth was being pumped up and down him. It’s the first time he wonders whether he has to grip himself so hard to come or whether that simply makes him come faster.
He hears your shoes thud against the floor behind him as you kick them off.
“Steve,” you purr with a smile, “what are you thinking about?”
He swallows again, having forgotten all about that water he thought he needed. Seems he is salivating just fine but can’t think of any words. Neither of you is surprised.
On the couch, you caught him off-guard, too tired to understand or protest. In the hotel, he focused on you and that was enough. Now, he feels vulnerable, exposed, even in the dark with all of his clothes on, even when you cannot see him. He can’t get his body to move.
The slow crackle of your dress’s zipper jolts him, making his own skin tingle lightly. It’s the barest rustle of fabric when it falls, a hint of midnight blue puddled against the faint cream of his carpet, and when you step forward, there it is. He can hear your heartbeat.
That rhythm soothes him every night you’re here, every night you’re with him. He hopes that becomes every night, full stop. He closes his eyes, focused on the base of it like a subwoofer in his head.
“Shall I tell you what I’m thinking?” Another step forward, thick honey words dripping into his ears.
He smells you now, breathing as deeply as he is, standing as close as you are with so little on. He’d recognize your scent anywhere, remembers how potently you stayed on his fingers, enjoys that you linger on his sheets. He may be stunned by how often you reek of excitement for him, but he’s not disappointed in the slightest. Since you’ve brought the cocktail of everything to his attention, he’s realizing how much of his own fantasizing has not been about touch. Just the sound of your voice makes him smile.
“I’m gonna marry you, Steve Rogers.”
Now, those. Those are sounds that create a physical response for Steve. His hands are at your jaw as his lips find yours, gentle, plush, hesitant with a building need. He’s still waters with an undertow raging. What Steve thinks but can’t say is that he is sick of thinking. He wants to know what it’s like to be with you, wants to know what you sound like each and every place he touches, wants to know what you taste like over every inch.
He’s so caught up in kissing that he only notices you’ve unbuttoned his shirt when his belt clinks as you untuck the ends. The base of your heartbeat reverberating in his head is matched by the slightest bit of shaking across his whole body. His insides are running in all different directions, so he tries to regroup.
“What did you call them,” he mutters between kisses, “my lips, at the hotel?”
He’s so tall that his looming slowly presses you both into the wall.
Your voice is hoarse, ragged. “What is this a pop quiz?”
The only way for him to move closer is to slide his knee between your legs, but touching you is steadying the jumpiness inside his chest. The more he cages you in, the more he feels engulfed by you, his safe space, and when he looks down, there you two are, draped in dark shades like an early Van Gogh, together.
This is the image he wants, the art he’s inspired by: you and him, happy, blended, harmonious. It makes him whole. It makes him joyous.
Steve starts with a low note, hums it deep within his chest, pitches it higher, and then drops it back down. The melody rumbles through his muscles. His body relaxes, and he can tell the moment you recognize the song. He moves his hands to your hips, the back of his fingers grazing over your nipples on the way down, just like in the hall, just like he’s thought about dozens of times. You sway together, minute shifts that shake off his final hesitations because the song is so true, just like your song on stage was earlier.
He can’t help falling in love with you. All of his senses, every single one, tell him you understand, that you are all-in, just as he is.
When he gets to that bar, the line he’s hung his fantasies on for so long, you softly sing the words, “some things are meant to be.” Your hand squeezes the back of his head, and he can feel the band of his mother’s ring glide down his neck.
His hands. His life. His whole body is yours.
Steve slides both thumbs into the elastic of your underwear and begins to draw small circles. He has to toe off his shoes anyway, so he makes a deliberate show of nudging his thigh deeper between your legs, the meat of his muscle actually holding your weight. The movement drags you against him, and the reaction is instantaneous. It’s because he can see that he knows your mouth drops open. It’s because he can hear your sharp breath and raised heartbeat that he knows how worked up you’re getting.
“Luscious,” he says, lips landing just beneath your ear, “that’s what you called them.” He begins to blaze a trail down, and finally, it’s because he can taste that he finds the spot where tart lemonade spilled on you earlier.
Salt, sugar, lemon, and sunscreen. It’s more perfect than any ‘happy birthday.’ You’re perfect and practically gushing with need of him, body writhing and whimpering beneath his broad, steadying hands.
He’s half-teasing, half-serious. The balance finally feels right. Steve is not a dominant man, but he does enjoy the exploration of, well, anything to do with you. He’s still a man—or perhaps just himself? because he isn’t judging anyone’s preferences—so embarrassment is not a turn-on for him, especially when the embarrassment is failing you. While he’s still not sure he can finish the same as you, he is determined to please you. He’s still nervous though.
“Don’t,” he starts, feeling that flutter of warrior butterflies again, “don’t let me ruin this.” Steve stretches to press his forehead to yours. “Please.”
For a moment, you hold him, quiet and comforting, before asking, “pop quiz. What did you say when you proposed?”
He’s about to recite his practiced little speech, but you beat him to it.
“You already make me happy, Steve Rogers.” You kiss him gently on the lips. “You’ve already made me a better woman.” Another kiss to his cheek. “You take on the whole world everyday, but—“ you pull him closer to whisper in his ear “—I’m gonna marry the shit outta you.”
Steve snorts. Of course. Of course, you know just how to break his little spiral of doubt. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I believe the word you are looking for, sir—” your hands slide down his torso while you smile, grabbing his belt buckle “—is insatiable.”
It’s not dominance or submission, he figures out. You two have been swinging back and forth like a tide, rolling between each other’s spaces and needs, and now, as you’ve calmed to the middle, finally in sync, it’s become a vibration, a hum of little waves that dance and sing together. Just like the words of your song: it’s a game of give and take.
While Steve’s brain is all art, music, and poetic romance, your hands pop the button of his pants and unzip them. He forgot he buried the idea of physical intimacy being fun a long, long time ago. He replaced it with thoughts of difficulty and logistics, only to pile on more strange phobia and critiques of modernity. He has to laugh, a shaky combination of self-deprecation and nerves. This doesn’t come easy to him, but that’s because he never really imagined he’d get this. Girls aren’t lining up for the guy they might step on, but girls also don’t stick around to be stepped on by a guy’s life.
But you. You’re different. Steve’s in awe of how you’ve kept all these sides of you preserved even when he has witnessed how hard that’s been. You’re still playful, poking at the hem of his bottoms to make him take them off, shivering with a giggle as his hair drags across your chest when he stands again. You’re still cheeky and serious and sexy and delicate.
Nothing, nothing he has thrown at you, purposefully or accidentally, has deterred you from wanting Steve. All of him. The complete and unabridged version. You’ve systematically excavated the original Steve, the part of him excited to love the right woman. You’ve encouraged his old hobbies and his new interests. You’ve befriended his team and stuck up for his decisions. Steve actually feels whole again, and he can’t wait to thank you for the rest of his life.
Finale posts tomorrow!
(Well, at least the finale of this part. Apparently, I can't stop writing this steve x reader pairing to save my life. It just keeps going on!)
You don’t have to write some genre-redefining masterpiece. You can write a story about two people very simply falling in love. You can just write a story about a person going to the store. You could, if you were so inclined, just re-write Star Wars but like, make all the names start with M.
Don’t let the fear of not-writing something transcendent stop you from just writing.
actually @ every fanfiction writer whether you wrote something that got thousands of reblogs and comments and became a staple in your fandom, or you wrote one fic and deleted it, or you write mutilchaptered fics that never get a final update, or write short fics, or long fics, or used to write and now you don’t, or you deleted/orphaned your works, or you only share with friends:
thank you.
sharing your writing is hard. and sometimes it’s thankless. sometimes it’s such a negative experience that I wonder how anyone does it at all. but you are needed; you are wanted. whether or not we properly acknowledge it, you are a vital part of fandom culture. thanks for sharing.
Weaponized incompetence my ass just weaponized it back. Once my dad tries to pull the “but I don’t know how to clean the counters as well as you” on my mom and she said “ok honey I’ll show you” and she made him stand in the kitchen and watch her clean the counters. Then she pulled out a bottle of chocolate syrup and proceeded to spray the entire kitchen in chocolate, hand him the sponge and said “okay now it’s your turn”
blakekathryn
kianamaiart
theartofmadeline
areudirty
origamiaround
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