eleanordawson

One second you were minding your business, enjoying what was left of your coffee and your relatively peaceful morning, and the next Nick Fury was informing you that you would be spending the foreseeable future pretending to be happily married to Steve Rogers.

"You're going." Fury didn't even break stride. He rolled his eye and kept walking down the hallway toward the conference room, clearly done entertaining your complaints before you'd even finished making them, with you hot on his heel. 

Your footsteps echoed in the wide hallway as you walked backwards, facing Fury. "Can't I marry someone else for this?" You pondered. "What about Barnes?"

Fury stopped so suddenly you nearly tripped. "You want to pretend to be married to Barnes?"

You opened your mouth, immediately closed it, thought for a second and shrugged, squeezing your eyes shut. "That's not the point."

"That's what I thought."

The polished floors reflected the overhead lights as the two of you moved through the hallway. “Nat, maybe? Some of those married dudes would eat up girl-on-girl and spill the beans right away. Mission would be so quick!”

Fury walked with the patience of a man who'd dealt with far worse than you. The fact that he hadn't strangled you after years of working together was honestly kind of impressive, a little endearing almost.

Both of you quickly arrived at the conference room door, Fury stopping with his hand on the handle, turning his face to you and letting our a frustrated sigh. "Do you like working here?"

You rolled your eyes, "Yes, sir." What kind of question was that?

"And what's your title?" His brow quirked up.

A confused look plastered all over your face. "Agent."

He leaned down to talk to you closer, almost like explaining rules to a petulant child, "Then be an agent." and proceeded to push the door open and hold it for you, giving you full view of Steve Rogers sitting at the head of the table with a sour expression on his face, just as displeased to have to pretend to love you for the mission. 

The training room should've been empty half an hour ago, and technically, everyone was done for the day. 

It should’ve been quiet—mats wiped down, lights dimmed, everyone gone for the night.

Instead, the air was thick.

Heavy with sweat, heat, and something sharp enough to make the back of your neck prickle. The entire team and a couple recruits were watching you.

Well, you and Steve. 

At first not openly—no one was stupid enough to make it obvious—but they lingered. Leaned against walls, sat on benches, hovered just close enough to pretend they had somewhere else to be.

It started as any other training session did, you rotated partners, almost like shark bait: in and out, partner after partner cycling through you while you stayed planted on the mat, pushing your stamina, your endurance, your patience.

Until you ended up on the other side of the mat from Steve. 

Barefoot, sleeves rolled, skin already lightly sheened with the littlest bit of sweat that somehow made him look betterinstead of worse—which was deeply, personally offensive.

Here's the thing: he was a super soldier. He had endless stamina, super strength, reflexes that outmatched 99% of the population, and he had it all with perfect blond hair and barely breaking a sweat on his sculpted body.

It infuriated the hell out of you. 

He blocked every kick, every punch, and when he didn't he wasn't even phased. 

It made you go harder, to the point where you found yourselves now: almost trying to hurt each other. 

By then, no one was even preteding to be occupied by anything else, shamelessly staring at the two of you at the center of the mat like Oppenheimer waiting for a bomb to go off. 

Steve had stopped treating you with the same careful restraint he used with newer recruits. He'd throw you harder into the mats, knock the wind from your lungs, shove you back with enough force to remind you exactly how much stronger he was, and you'd borderline play dirty.

Every hit had a little more weight behind it. Neither willing to back down. Neither willing to lose.

Sam was sitting backwards in a chair, chin propped on his arms, watching like he had front row seats to the best show of his life; Natasha looked delighted; Bucky looked concerned, brows drawn, arms crossed tight over his chest, like he was trying to decide whether to step in or let you both learn your lesson the hard way.

Steve stood opposite of you, his feet staggered and his arms up, making a "come at me" motion with his fingers. His hair was slightly mussed, a damp strand falling forward over his forehead.

"Come to daddy."

The entire room held their breaths, and you saw red. 

In hindsight, you should've planned a better move than to just charge at him, the strength in your muscles and bones not being able to match his. You should've thought of something tactical, something smart. 

But also… you fucking hated his guts. 

Which is exactly how you ended up with your cheek and stomach pressed to the sweaty mat, with Steve's whole weight on your back, your wrists pinned between the two of you and his right arm laced under yours and up your back, hand holding your neck down. 

His hands caught you mid-motion, grip iron-tight as he twisted, using your momentum against you with terrifying ease, his grip locking your body in place, the angle just shy of painful.

"You need to work on your psyche. Mind over matter." His stupid voice right in your ear made goosebumps bloom up your spine, so you did what any reasonable person would do.

You flexed the knee that was between his spread legs hard enough that you hit him square in the balls, giving you the out you needed. 

You straightened on your feet, pushing damp hair back from your face, a breathless, borderline feral grin breaking across your lips as he winced on the mat in pain. 

"Who's your daddy now?" 

Your breathless laughter was cut short, Fury's booming voice breaking through any pain or enjoyment present in the room. "You do know domestic violence is not part of your cover story, no?"

Both of your heads whipped in the direction of his voice. 

He continued to walk in your direction, dropping two folders in front of your feet, and Steve, who was still kneeling down on the mat. "Shower this off. You leave in the morning, lovebirds."

The neighborhood looked like the kind of place where people complained to the HOA because their neighbor's hydrangeas were the wrong shade of blue.

Every lawn was trimmed within an inch of its life, sharp lines cutting through impossibly green grass like someone came out with a ruler every morning. 

The mailboxes all matched—sleek, black, expensive-looking—and every driveway held something polished and obscene:luxury SUV or a car that definitely cost more than your first apartment.

The houses themselves were enormous. White trim, brick facades, wraparound porches, massive windows that left little room for privacy on a street that looked like it loved to mind every business but its own. 

You sat in the passenger seat while Steve drove to your home, the undercover file open across your lap like a book while your bare feet rested on the dash. 

Because annyong Steve was free, and your favorite past time. "No feet on the dash."

You turned a page, ignoring him. "They're staying." You read more of the file. "It's more comfortable that way." Your light blue summer dress was bunched up higher across your thighs, and he did a double take before taking a right turn to your house block.

He sighed. "If we crash—"

"Just look at the road instead of me and we'll be fine." That made him shift in the driver's seat, straightening his posture and looking ahead, his Adam's apple bobbing in annoyance.

What irritated Steve about you was the fact that these comebacks never even seemed to make sense or be thought of, it just rolled off your tongue, almost just for the plot. And you didn't even care. 

He didn't even know why you hated him so much in the first place, but he reciprocated the feeling as soon as he saw how insubordinate and bratty you were. 

Steve sighed the long suffering sigh of a man questioning every life decision that had brought him to this moment. "You're impossible." Muttered under his breath. 

"You're a Senior Project Manager at your own company, honey!" Fake admiration and praise filled your voice. "Oh, you proposed quick! Only a year after our first date." You turned to him, your first real smile plastered on your face. "You're so down bad."

The car came to a stop in your driveway, and Steve turned it off, unclipping his seatbelt. "Put your shoes on, we're here and I feel eyes already." 

"Bossy." You muttered, doing exactly as he said. As you got out of the car, your voice went up an octave, carrying through the humid summer weather. 

“Ready, honey?” you asked, slipping the word out effortlessly, like you’d been saying it for years.

He opened the front door for you, making sure whoever was watching heard him just as well, possessive in a way that made your breath hitch before you could stop it.

“After you, sweetheart.”

You'd barely had enough time to figure out which bedroom closet was yours before the doorbell rang.

ding-dong. ding-dong.

You froze in the middle of the bedroom, one hand still gripping a hanger, Steve somewhere down the hall filling a modified cabinet with all sorts of concealed weapons.

You dropped the hanger onto the bed without another thought, smoothing your hands down your dress as you moved. Steve stepped out of the kitchen at the same time, wiping his hands on a dish towel like he’d been doing something domestic instead of checking sightlines and exits.

Ben and Julie Poindexter stood in your porch like they had been plucked straight out of a catalog. They were ones you hoped to make the acquaintance of quickly, as he was the right hand of the big druglord you and Steve were tasked with making an airtight case on.

Years of field work had taught you that monsters were rarely obvious, still, some primitive part of your brain always expected criminals to look like criminals.

Instead, Ben Poindexter looked like somebody who coached Little League and had multiple PTA moms undoing extra buttons in their cardigans to get his attention. Beside him, Julie beamed, already leaning slightly forward like she couldn’t wait to know everything about you.

“Oh my goodness,” she breathed, eyes lighting up. “You must be the Adlers!” You felt Steve shift beside you, his hand coming to rest warm on your back with an ease that shouldn't be there in the best of actors. 

He smiled, and it was a good one. The kind that made people relax immediately. The kind that five years ago made you—

“Guilty,” he said easily. “Frank.” Right. Frank Adler. 

He extended his hand and Ben took it immediately, introducing you then. “I’m Dex,” the shorter blond said in return, just as easy. “This is my wife, Julie.”

“Hi,” you said, stepping forward like you hadn’t been mentally preparing to dismantle her entire social circle for intel. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

She lit up.

“Oh, you are just adorable,” she gushed, reaching out to squeeze your arm like you were already best friends. “We saw the moving truck this morning and I told Ben, I said, ‘We have to go introduce ourselves before everyone else gets to them first.’”

You faked confusion. "Ben…?"

He chuckled lightly in response. "That's me, I… uh… Ben's really only for her and my parents. Friends call me Dex."

You smiled back in understanding. “We appreciate that,” he said smoothly. “It’s been a bit of a whirlwind getting settled.”

“So,” Dex cut in, tone casual but eyes observant, “what brings you two here?” There it was. The first test.

You felt Steve’s thumb twitch slightly against your back. A cue , or maybe just instinct. “Work, mostly,” he said, not missing a beat. “I just transferred to oversee a new branch out here.”

Julie gasped softly. “Oh! That’s right, you’re the project manager, right? We heard something about that—”

Of course they did.

You tilted your head toward Steve, letting your smile soften just a touch as you looked at him. Pride, affection… Just enough to sell it.

“He won’t say it, but he’s very good at what he does.” You interjected, turning your sweet smile to your nosy neighbors again. 

His hand pressed a little more firmly into your back before easing again. “Someone has to pay the bills,” he joked lightly, glancing down at you.

"It's a 50/50 relationship," you shot back, nudging his side with your elbow just enough to look playful. "You earn money, and I look pretty in the things it buys." Your hand reached up to scratch the freshly shaven skin of his chin.

“Wow,” Julie breathed, practically vibrating with delight. “You two are so cute.”

You laughed, soft, a little embarassed… and completely fake. Dex watched that exchange carefully. His smile stayed in place, but his eyes sharpened just a fraction.

“New couples usually take a while to settle in around here,” he said, tone still easy. “But I think you two will fit right in.”

“Well,” you said lightly, leaning just a little closer into Steve without thinking about it, “we’re counting on our neighbors to help with that.”

Julie clasped her hands together. “Oh, you have to come to dinner this weekend! Everyone’s going to be there—it’s kind of our thing.”

“We’d love to,” Steve said, lightly nodding.

Both of them smiled in satisfaction, briefly saying their goodbyes and we'll let you get settled. As they started to step back, Julie waved enthusiastically. “Welcome to the neighborhood!”

Integration happened faster and easier than either of you expected. Almost like… bait. 

It started with waves.

Small, polite acknowledgments from across driveways—neighbors watering already-perfect lawns, women in linen sets pausing mid-walk with their equally curated dogs. At first it was just smiles, quick introductions repeated twice because no one actually listened the first time, or maybe they expected you to slip up. 

Names, occupations, how long you planned to stay.

Somehow, without either of you saying much at all, your lives had already been filled in for you. Steve—Frank—was “the project manager from the city.” You were “so sweet” and “adjusting beautifully.”

It was unsettling.

Steve got pulled in first.

Dex made it look casual—leaning over the fence one late afternoon while Steve pretended to struggle with a hose attachment he absolutely knew how to fix.

“Couple of us head out to the club on Saturdays,” Dex had said, like it wasn’t a test. Like it wasn’t an invitation into something much bigger. “You golf?”

Steve had shrugged, wiping his hands on a towel like the answer didn’t matter. “Enough not to embarrass myself.”

Dex chuckled. “Good. Fisk hates losing.”

That was how Steve Rogers found himself in pressed polos and quiet greens, standing under the sun with a man who ran half the city from behind clean hands and cleaner money.

Wilson Fisk didn’t look like a monster either. They never did.

From the sidelines, it would’ve looked normal—three men talking shop, trading easy laughs, the soft crack of a golf ball slicing through the air.

But Steve came home with tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before, and eyes that thought too much.

You were integrated differently. Faster, deeper in a sense. If you wanna know a man, you need to know the woman in his life first. Julie took one look at you and decided you were hers.

Brunch turned into wine nights, which turned into yoga classes and impromptu shopping trips where you learned which women talked too much, which ones listened too closely, and which ones pretended not to notice everything while noticing everything.

You laughed when you were supposed to, touched arms at the right moments, let yourself be pulled into conversations about renovations and charity events and who was “having trouble in their marriage” this week.

You played the part. Perfectly.

But you also listened. And Julie talked, about Dex, about their marriage, about his schedule, the men he worked with, his "job".

About Fisk in a careful, vague way that told you she knew just enough to be useful and not enough to be dangerous.

Inside the house, however, nothing really changed. You were in bliss whenever Steve was anywhere outside of the five thousand square feet of the house. And in hell when you could hear his footsteps through the hallways. 

“Why are your shoes in the middle of the hallway?” “Because I took them off.”

“You put a gun in the cereal cabinet.” “It was concealed.”

And yet, somewhere in between the arguing and the slammed cabinets and the pointed silences, you moved around each other.

Steve adjusted the cuff of his polo as he stepped out onto the green, the sun warm against the back of his neck, the grass trimmed so perfectly it almost didn’t look real. Somewhere in the distance, a fountain trickled softly—controlled, decorative, intentional.

Everything here was curated, including the people. Dex stood a few feet ahead, already mid-conversation with a Fisk, Steve immediately recognizing his big frame.

“Frank,” Dex called easily, turning just enough to wave him over. “Glad you made it.” 

Steve walked up at an even pace, shoulders loose, posture relaxed, every movement deliberate in its lack of tension. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Dex clapped his hands lightly. “Let’s see if you actually know how to swing that thing.”

The game itself was uneventful on the surface, small talk, a couple of drinks over a few holes, business talk, the kind of conversation that never said anything directly but still managed to reveal everything if you knew how to listen.

Steve pretending to be worse than Fisk at golf remembering what Dex said about him not liking losing. 

Well, who does? He thought.

He missed a shot he could’ve made here and there, fake grimace on his face to help sell the lie, burrow himself deeper in the web.

Dex talked the most—easy laughter, casual stories, the kind of man who filled silence before it could become uncomfortable.

Fisk didn’t, he was quieter, more measured. Almost amused. 

By the ninth hole, Steve could feel the shift, the attention settling more fully onto him. He was past the evaluation phase and onto something else. 

Fisk set his club aside after a clean shot, stepping back as one of the attendants moved to retrieve it. He didn’t look at Steve immediately, instead adjusting his cufflinks with slow, precise movements.

“Beautiful house you’ve got,” Fisk said finally.

Steve shrugged lightly, taking a swing of his beer. “Got lucky to swoop in right when it went on the market.”

Fisk hummed. “I find luck tends to favor the well-prepared.” Steve didn’t respond, Fisk’s gaze lifted then. “You and your wife settling in well?”

For some reason, hearing such a dangerous man mention you made him uneasy. And it shouldn't, because he hated you. Steve forced his expression to remain easy. “Yeah. She likes it here.” He paused for a second. “She’s… adjusting.”

Fisk’s lips curved slightly. “Is she?” Steve’s grip on the club in his hand tightened just a fraction.

Dex shifted beside them, glancing between the two, something quieter settling over his usual ease.

“You know,” Fisk continued, tone almost conversational, “I take a great interest in the people who choose to live in the neighborhood.”

Steve tilted his head slightly. “Seems like a lot of effort.”

Fisk chuckled softly. “It is if you don't have the… resources.”

Steve didn’t like the way he said that, didn’t like the weight behind it.

The back nine loosened things.

Or at least, that’s what it looked like.

Dex got louder, a little more relaxed with each hole, his posture easing into something casual as the game stretched on. Drinks appeared somewhere around the seventh—cold, expensive, handed off by staff who moved like ghosts—and by the tenth, the conversation had shifted.

Way less about business. 

Dex snorted at something one of the other men—some hedge fund name Steve hadn’t bothered to remember—had said, shaking his head as he lined up his shot.

“I’m telling you,” the man continued, grinning like he thought he was hilarious, “if you’re doing it right, she’s not walking straight the next morning.”

One of the others chimed in with something worse, cruder. The kind of joke that got easy agreement and knowing looks passed around like currency.

Steve didn’t react, just stood there, one hand resting loosely on his club, gaze fixed somewhere out over the green like he wasn’t listening.

“C’mon, Adler,” Dex called, nudging him lightly with his elbow. “You’ve been real quiet over there.”

Steve glanced over, trying to seem unbothered. Like he didn't want to roll his eyes at everything coming out of that prick's mouth. “Just listening.”

“That’s not how this works,” the hedge fund guy said with a smirk. “You gotta contribute. You’re married, right?”

“Familiarity,” Fisk continued, almost thoughtfully, like he was discussing market trends instead of people, “breeds a certain ease.”

“Guess some guys are just more private.” Steve chimed, moving as to redirect the conversation, walking a couple steps to the next hole. "I don’t feel the need to talk about my wife like that."

Silence fell upon the group for a second, Dex interjected to change the subject quickly, but the way Fisk looked at Steve the rest of the time made he hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Steve unlocked the kitchen door, toeing his shoes off as soon as he stepped inside. The house was clean, marble countertops reflecting the golden light coming through the curtains.

A candle burned on the center island that made the house smell like a bouquet of fresh flowers, blooming in deepest winter.

The door clocked shit behind him with a soft, controlled click, as he called out "Babe?" while letting his keys rattle against the marble.

He stepped further into the kitchen, eyes sweeping automatically—back door locked, blinds angled just enough, nothing out of place. The cabinet he’d modified earlier sat closed, unassuming, hiding everything it needed to.

He called out for you again, "Sweetheart?", feet padding into the house and when he got to the bottom of the stairs, he heard the shower running on. 

Steve's mind kept replaying the interactions he'd had that day, how Fisk seemed to have too much knowledge of his dynamic with you to not have—

Of course.

A man like Fisk wouldn't just intentionally have a blind side. 

The motherfucker had surveillance on your house. 

In your house. 

The sound got clearer and clearer as he moved up the stairs. The hallway stretched ahead, quiet and sun-dimmed, and then right outside of the bathroom door, steam curling underneath it. Steve paused just outside it, his hand hovering near the frame, his head tilting slightly as he listened.

You were humming, soft and absentminded.

Like you weren’t in the middle of a mission that had just taken a very sharp turn.

He exhaled softly through his nose, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching briefly on the tension sitting heavy there.

He should wait, he knew he should. Whatever he had to say could wait ten minutes.

Five.

Hell, two.

But the words Fisk had said—had implied—sat in his chest like a weight that refused to settle. So if Fisk had creepily put surveillance in your home like Steve was 98% sure he had, you were gonna have to roll with the punches.

Steam hit him immediately, warm and thick, fogging the edges of his vision for half a second before it cleared. 

Stripping his shirt, kicking off the rest of his clothes in a blur of motion that would’ve felt ridiculous under any other circumstance.

He walked into the shower, watching you let the water trickle over you, over your face, your neck, your chest, and he thanked every God he could think of that his body was cooperating and he did not have more than a half-hard on right then and there.

Which meant that you finished rinsing your shampoo off and opened your eyes to find a very, very naked Steve Rogers encapsulated by the shower stall glass around you. 

With you.

All naked, and very wet, and very naked, and—

"Ahh!" You shrieked in surprise, stumbling back half a step, water splashing over him as your hands came up instinctively. "What the f—" Steve put his index finger on his lips with one hand, the other motioning to his ear and out.

We're being listened to.

"Honey," You immediately switched into your undercover tone, "you scared the crap out of me!"

Steve stepped closer, couldn't risk his voice being any louder than absolutely necessary to get you the information right then and there. 

His frame in comparison to yours felt even bigger now, steam curling around him like vines. You'd blame the way your nipples hardened at the sight on the water. 

“Fisk,” he whispered, barely audible over the spray. “He knows something’s off. Pretty sure we’re wired. The house is.”

Your breath hitched.

Absolutely having nothing to do with the fact that you were trying very hard not to stare at his— "Where?"

"Everywhere." He confirmed. 

Water ran down both of you in steady streams, heat curling between your bodies, steam thickening the air until everything felt too close.

“Well,” you murmured, louder now, just enough for anyone listening to catch it, your tone dipping into something softer, more playful, “next time, maybe knock?”

Steve huffed out a quiet breath that could almost pass for a laugh, his forehead dipping closer to yours, but not touching, droplets of water falling from his hair onto you.

“Didn’t think you’d mind.” One of your hands braced lightly against his chest, the other gripping his arm as if for balance.

Your hand slid up to the nape of his neck, pulling the hair there enough to make him hiss. “Oh, I mind,” you said lightly, your fingers threading just a little deeper into the short hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You were pretty good at… faking it. 

Night settled over the house smoothly, the sun bleeding into deep indigo slowly and surely until stars littered the sky and you all you could hear was the fair sound of nature beyond the glass.

The neighborhood dimmed in stages—porch lights flicking on one by one, warm squares of yellow glowing through wide, uncovered windows. Somewhere down the street, laughter carried faintly. A dog barked once, then twice, then went quiet again.

As your brain processed the information Steve had given you, you moved through the motions anyway. 

Teeth brushed. Face washed. Lights turned off and on in the right order. The kind of routine that would look normal from the outside, mundane and unremarkable to anyone paying attention.

The thought sat in the back of your mind, somewhat panicked and loud, but also a constant, steady pressure. 

You dried your hands slowly on a towel, eyes flicking briefly to the mirror. Your reflection stared back—hair dried and silky, skin still warm from the shower, expression carefully neutral.

Steve stood near the dresser, back half-turned to you, pulling a t-shirt over his head. The fabric stretched sinf— normallyacross his shoulders before falling into place, softening the sharp lines of him into something more… domestic.

You watched him through the mirror without meaning to, picking up a book, turning on his bedside lamp, and crawling under the covers of your bed, letting the light comforter rest on his legs and hips while he flipped through the pages with his back resting against his pillows and the headboard.

You bit your lip, thoughts blooming fast and messy under your skull, and flicked the lights in the bathroom off, walking towards your side of the bed. 

Your short camisole shifted through the air as you moved, light and soft, brushing against your thighs. Steve's eyes immediately clocking your bare legs before he forced them onto the words in front of him. 

You laid onto your side and closed the distance between you in one smooth motion, your body fitting against his side like that's where it was always supposed to be. 

Your arm slid across his waist, your cheek pressed lightly against the plane of his pecs, and you felt the very warm, solid, real muscle of him under your face go completely still. 

Not in any subtle way, you could feel the exact moment his brain short-circuited.

He turned his face just enough to look down and meet your gaze. His expression screamed an unfiltered "what the hell?"while yours softly said "we have to sell it."

He shifted, turning just enough so he wasn’t facing away from you anymore, his arm coming up—hesitant for half a second—before settling around you, his hand resting on your forearm, thumb tracing soothing patterns on the soft, moisturized skin. 

As you laid there, the cogs in your brain turned. You bit the inside of your cheek lightly, the more he believes it, the quicker we get out. 

You moved forward, your hand pressed against his chest, using him for leverage as you pushed yourself up, swinging one leg over his hips in a smooth, deliberate motion until you were straddling him.

The poor book slid uselessly to rest on the mattress on the other side of his body. You nuzzled your face into his neck, pretending to pepper kisses on the skin there, and Steve stiffened up.

His hands instinctively came up, not grabbing or even stopping you, just hovering at your waist like he didn’t know where they were allowed to go.

Your mouth lingered by his pulse point just long enough to make it convincing before you spoke, your breath hot against his skin. "Play along." You whispered.

You felt the tension in him—every muscle coiled, controlled, restrained in a way that had nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with the position you’d just put him in.

“Sweetheart,” he said, louder now, his tone shifting seamlessly, to something warmer, rougher, like it belonged to someone else. “You trying to kill me?”

From the outside, it sounded like a joke. A husband amused by his wife.

You tilted your head, letting your lips ghost just below his ear. “You just been working so much lately,” you murmured, just loud enough to carry.

His grip on you flexed, and he leaned into it. 

“I know, baby, I know,” he said, voice dropping, threading something you hadn’t heard from him since he had your face pressed into a sparring mat through it as his hands settled more firmly at your hips, anchoring you there. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Your stomach flipped, shameful heat pooling low in your core even though you tried to ignore it and call it by a different name. 

His fingers pressed just slightly, grounding, guiding, selling the illusion with an ease that made your pulse stutter.

Steve moved, fast as always, one second you were on top of him, the next your back hit the mattress, making it dip hard beneath you as he flipped you with practiced ease, your breath catching as his weight settled above you, caging you in without quite touching.

His face dipped toward yours, close enough that your noses almost brushed.

“What you’re doing,” he murmured against your ear, his breath warm, controlled, “is reckless.”

Your fingers curled slightly into his shirt, heart beating too fast, and you tilted your head just enough to whisper back, your tone soft and teasing, so low he almost didn't hear it. “So is getting caught.”

You tilted your neck up, and your lips connected with his.

It had been weeks of little pecks, prim and proper kisses in front of your neighbors, just enough to sell it on the outside. 

Holding his face in your hands and actually kissing Steve Rogers felt like a completely different experience. 

His tongue licked into your mouth with an intention you never really expected from Steve. Specially a Steve that was faking it. Your hands roamed the plane of his shoulders, trying to make it seem like the actual rustling of sheets one would expect of a couple who was going to—

He should really take this shirt off. 

And so your hands went to the hem of his white cotton shirt, pulling it up. Steve reluctantly let you take it off of him, leaving him only in the grey boxers that let you see he wasn't faking that much. 

"Oh my God," You whispered. "Are you serious?" That was more of a hiss. Was he seriously getting hard right now?

"I know," He whispered back, annoyed, frustrated, "I know. Just shut up about it."

Oh.

He wanted you to shut up about it. He wanted you to—

The petty part of your brain took over, and before you couldn't think of a less reckless thing to do, you squeezed your legs tighter around him, bringing his bulge flush against your clothed pussy. 

"O-oh—" Steve was surprised, not about the pettiness, but at the action itself. You bit your lip, almost proud of yourself, and tilted your hips up.

That earned you a scolding look. 

"Mmm," you breathed, just loud enough to carry, your voice shifting instantly to a soft, breathy, higher pitched version of yourself. "Fuck, baby, right there."

Steve's ears were ringing. Mostly because he didn't know what to do with his hard cock rubbing up and down against you. “Relax,” you murmured against his jaw, barely moving your lips. “You sound like you’re filing paperwork.”

He huffed softly, turning it into something that passed. “Maybe I like paperwork,” he muttered.

You scoffed. “You do not.”

“You don’t know that.” He whined softly against you. 

"You need to actually move your hips, Steve. Video needs to look like you're fucking your wife." You whispered in his ear. 

It's not like he couldn't feel how wet you were, slick pressing through the cotton of your panties and onto his underwear, darkening a spot there. 

“You’re unbelievable,” he breathed low, close to your ear.

“Say it louder,” you shot back quietly.

“You’re unbelievable,” he repeated, louder, tone shifting, like it meant something entirely different now.

Your heels dug into his ass cheeks, pulling him closer and closer to you, and closer and closer to the edge. 

You could feel the length of him twitch with each pass of his hips, and you pictured the leaking head of him making a mess out of the inside of his boxers, precum slicking him all over. 

“Okay—” he muttered quickly under his breath, breaking the moment before it could stretch too far. “We need a time frame. We can’t just—keep going forever.”

“Two minutes,” you whispered. “Make it believable.”

“Two minutes?” he echoed, actually offended. “That’s insulting.”

The thought of it sent heat down your core. His face was buried in your neck, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as your hands threaded through his hair. "Talk about me." Another perfectly placed thrust that nudged your clit. "'bout how I feel."

Steve grinded his teeth like he was fighting a mental battle between letting himself be consumed by this moment, and being proper. 

You nudged him again with your heel. 

"Nice and tight, sweetheart." He let his voice carry, surprisingly unwavering for how close he was. "Never get enough of your pussy."

What in the fuckity fuck?

Steve?

He almost said your name, your very real name, too lost in himself, letting his rhythm build up much too realistically, his thrusts deeper, the bulge now rubbing and nudging your clothed entrance as well. 

Your could hear the sound of wet fabric shifting, your panties getting caught and letting one lip slip out of safety and closer to Steve's leaking cock. 

"Frank," You said loudly, trying to catch his attention without success. "Frank." You tried again, more stern, being met with the same squeezed-shut eyes you tried to get an answer from. You dropped your voice low, hushed like a secret. "Steve."

That made him open his eyes, powder blue irises staring at you as his thursts hit a spot that had him moaning, stuttering over his own breath.

And spilling all inside his boxers, looking right into your eyes. 

His hips stuttered, almost as if his body wanted to milk itself dry, and his breathing slowed. 

You were speechless, big wide eyes looking up at him, genuinely not knowing what to say.

Both of you stared at each other in shock, horror, confusion as to why it felt so good to do that without someone who managed to get under your skin without even trying. 

You stayed like that until you felt the warm trickle of his seed seep through the cotton of his boxers and onto the front of your panties.

Steve dropped back to his side of the bed, and both of you avoided each other's gaze, just staring at the ceiling. 

"Are we—"

“…go to sleep,” you muttered.

Whatever Fisk needed proof of, seemingly he got it, since both you and Steve got invited the the biggest 4th of July bash of the neighborhood. 

Right at the belly of the beast. 

The whole backyard looked like something out of a magazine. 

String lights draped across the perimeter, glowing warm against the deep navy of the night sky, fireworks already starting to crackle faintly in the distance. 

The lawn stretched wide and immaculate, dotted with clusters of people holding drinks in delicate glasses, laughter spilling easily between them like nothing in the world could touch this place.

It was loud, busy, perfect, and underneath it all— wrong.

Steve had light wash jeans and a light blue polo on, you had a strapless summer dress and one of his linen shirts on, the shirt unbuttoned to give the air of a casual outing. 

You stood near one of the long tables, fingers loosely wrapped around a Moscow Mule you hadn’t touched, your eyes scanning without looking like you were scanning. Steve was across the yard, pulled into a circle of men near the grill, one of them mid-story, the others laughing at something you couldn’t quite hear from this distance.

And there she was.

Blonde, tall, and much too interested in your— Steve.

Her hand landed on his arm like she’d been waiting for an excuse, your eyes narrowed at her as you shoved a piece of salami and cheese into your mouth.

“That's Sharon.” Julie’s voice chimed in beside you, far too cheerful for how observant she actually was. “She's new. Came to stay with her aunt a bit, they live a few strees back. Divorced. Which means she’s—”

“—looking,” you finished lightly, before finally taking a sip of your drink like you hadn’t already clocked every detail.

Julie laughed. “Exactly.”

Your eyes flicked back to Steve. He hadn’t moved away, hadn’t stepped back, hadn’t even noticed.

Of course he hadn’t.

He was listening—really listening—to whatever the man next to him was saying, nodding slightly, relaxed in that effortless way that made people lean in closer without thinking about it.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, lowering her voice just enough to feel conspiratorial. “If he's anything like Dex, he's clueless. They don’t even realize when they’re being flirted with.”

You hummed softly. "He is clueless, alright."

“He’s very charming,” Julie added, watching you now instead of them. “Frank, I mean.”

Your lips curved. “He has his moments.”

Julie giggled, and you finished downing your drink, making your way to him, wrapping a hand around his perfectly sculped bicep and turning on your smile to the sweetest setting possible. 

His body reacted immediately, adjusting to your touch like it always belonged there. His gaze dropped to you, surprise flickering for half a second before smoothing into something softer.

“Hey,” he said, one hand coming up to rest at your hip without thinking about it.

“Hi,” you replied, tilting your head up toward him, your smile warm in a way that felt almost too real. “Sorry,” you said sweetly, not sounding sorry at all. “Am I interrupting?”

She blinked, then smiled tightly back at you. “Not at all.” Steve’s hand pressed slightly into your hip, a silent question that you answered it by leaning just a fraction closer into him.

“We were just talking about the neighborhood,” she continued.

“Were you?” you asked, your tone light, but your grip on Steve tightening just enough to be felt.

“Oh—yes,” she said, glancing briefly at him. “Frank was just telling us about his work.”

“Mm,” you hummed, eyes flicking up to his. “He works too much.”

Steve’s brows lifted slightly. “Oh, I do?”

“You do,” you said simply, sighing longingly, your fingers sliding absently against his side like it was second nature. “I barely see you anymore.”

Sharon laughed softly. “That’s a shame.” Steve lifted the beer up to his lips and took a swing.

“It is,” you agreed, smiling again. “But I make sure he makes up for it.”

Steve choked on his drink. Actually choked. Coughed once, quickly covering it with a laugh that didn’t quite hide the surprise.

His hand flexed at your hip. “Yeah,” he said, voice dropping just slightly as he looked down at you, something new threading through it. “I do.”

For a moment it didn't feel like pretending, but it also didn't feel real. It felt like a limbo much too similar to five years ago, when he first recruited you into SHIELD by accident. 

FIVE YEARS EARLIER

Colombia had been too hot. The humid, muggy weather made your skin sticky, a sheen coat of sweat all over your arms and legs, even though you were only wearing a white tanktop and a flowy, maxi floral skirt. 

Music was bleeding from open windows, people crowding narrow streets, making it the kind of place where mistakes didn’t just cost you the mission.

They cost you everything.

You’d been handling it just fine, up until you weren’t. The intel had been wrong. Or incomplete. Or leaked.

You didn’t know which yet—only that the second you stepped into that dim, crowded cantina, something in your gut twisted. Too many eyes, too many men pretending to drink, too many sharp ears and even sharper looks. 

You were planning an exit strategy, a way to get out of here with as few scratches and as many of these men killed. Mid counting how many thing you could use as a weapon, in walked a picture perfect specimen. 

Muscles everywhere, blond hair lightened even more by the sun, the faintest sunburn across his nose and cheeks making his blue eyes stand out more. 

You turned slightly, lifting your drink to your lips like you were just another woman trying to cool off, not someone seconds away from deciding how many people she might have to kill.

He clocked the men immediately. 

And then he clocked you. His broad frame faked a smile at you and stepped quickly to stand beside you at the bar, hand resting on your hip.

“Don’t,” he muttered under his breath, pretending to try to get the bartender's attention.

“Don’t what?” you shot back just as quietly, adjusting your sunglasses on your head like you were annoyed at them and happy to see him, not seconds away from being cornered.

“They’re looking for someone,” he said.

“I know.” A beat where he leaned down to whisper in your ear.

“They’re closing exits.”

And you responded through gritted teeth and a smile. “I noticed.” You let your body rest closer to his, feeling the heat radiating off of him.

Outside, thunder and lightning started, and a summer storm came pouring down. 

“Babe,” you said, loud enough to carry, tilting your head up at him like you were teasing. “You said one drink.”

He leaned into you, his hand sliding from your waist to your lower back, pulling you closer in a way that felt practiced.

“Yeah?” he shot back easily. “Thought you wanted to see more of the place.”

“Oh, I do,” you laughed lightly, fingers curling into his shirt. “Just… from inside a bedroom window right now." You leaned in closer, lowering your voice just enough to make it look intimate, like you were sharing something private instead of tracking his every movement.

“Relax your shoulders,” you murmured.

He huffed softly—almost a laugh, almost something else—and adjusted just slightly, his grip tightening at your lower back like he was settling into the role instead of fighting it.

A beat passed between you—quick, sharp, charged—and then he leaned in closer, his mouth ghosting just along your temple.

“Storm’s our out,” he whispered. “We gotta go.”

“Come on,” you said, tugging gently at his shirt, turning your body into his as thunder cracked loud enough to rattle the windows. “I am not ruining my hair for this.”

“Tragic,” he murmured, letting you pull him toward the back hallway.

The rain hit hard the second you stepped out of the main room—heavy, sudden, loud enough to drown out most of the noise behind you. The narrow corridor smelled like damp wood and cheap liquor, dimly lit and barely used.

Perfect.

Your hand stayed fisted in his shirt as you stumbled slightly—just enough to sell it—as he caught you, his arm tightening instinctively around your waist.

“Careful, sweetheart.” he said, louder now, for anyone who might still be listening. “You’re gonna slip.”

The back door burst open under his hand.

Rain poured down in sheets, warm and relentless, soaking the edges of your skirt instantly as you both stepped out into the alley behind the cantina.

Steve looked around to make sure no one followed, he kept you closer than necessary as you moved, your bodies angled into each other like you were shielding yourselves from the storm instead of disappearing into it.

One block, then another, until you were far away and safe in the back alley of the Sofitel. Your clothes were soaked, as were his, your shirt basically see through, you kept moving, pulling him down the short hallway and into the first unlocked door you found—some storage room or unused guest space, it didn’t matter.

The door shut behind you with a soft click. Steve walked in last, and you didn't put distance between you two, though right now looking at him through wet lashes you wish you did.

His eyes reflected the gloomy sky outside, his lips were pink and plump, and you felt yourself being drawn closer and closer to him, as did he. 

The storm outside cracked again, lightning flashing briefly through the thin curtains, illuminating the space in stark white for half a second, loud thunder taking you out of your trance, Steve jerking away like he was burned. 

"I, uh… I think we lost them." Your voice was shaky and unsure. 

“Not bad,” he added, quieter now, his eyes flicking over your face like he was reassessing something.

You scoffed lightly. “High praise.”

PRESENT

“Fireworks are about to start,” someone called from across the yard.

And just like that, the moment broke, and your attentions turned to the mission at hand: while everyone is distracted, get into Fisk's office and copy all of his intel. 

Steve leaned down slightly as people shifted away in the direction of the fireworks, his lips brushing near your ear, voice low. “You’re laying it on thick.”

“Am I?” you murmured back, sly smirk playing on your lips.

“A little.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "You should go for the office. I'll keep watch."

Steve looked at you like he wanted to say something, but nodded and snuck away, your eyes immediately making sure all persons of interest were accounted for and not in the office. 

The party swelled around you.

Fireworks cracked overhead in bursts of red and gold, laughter spilling across Fisk’s perfectly manicured lawn, glasses clinking, music humming low beneath it all.

Steve had been gone for about five minutes when you noticed Dex was gone mid conversation with Claire and her husband Matthew. You saw the little flop of blonde hair make its way into the house and your blood ran cold. 

Steve.

“I’m gonna grab another drink,” you said lightly, lifting your empty glass as proof, bee-lining up the stairs on the porch and to the kitchen. 

You moved like you weren’t tracking footsteps that weren’t yours, counting seconds, mapping distance in your head.

You slipped inside through the side door, heels soft against polished floors, your breath steady even as your pulse kicked harder.

You moved faster, turning the corner just in time to see the office door slightly ajar, light spilling out onto the hallway, and footsteps approaching from the opposite direction.

You pushed the door open and slipped inside, Steve standing by the big mahogany table with a thumbdrive pluggesd into the desktop, downloading everything.

“What—”

“Dex,” you cut him off, already crossing the room. “Coming.” His expression shifted instantly, worry, anxiety, combat. 

A shadow passed the crack of the door and you closed the distance between you, pushing yourself to sit on top of the table and pulled Steve to stand between your legs. Your hands grabbed his shirt, yanking him down toward you hard enough to make him stumble.

He exhaled harshly the second your lips touched, tasting the vanilla macadamia flavor of your lipgloss. Your tongue licked into his mouth and one of his hands found the plane of your back, the other bracing against the desk behind you as he backed you further into it, the impact soft but enough to sell it.

“Mm—” you exhaled softly, the sound slipping out before you could stop it.

Your fingers thread through his hair as you sighed against him, losing yourself in the cedarwood of his cologne, the taste of beer on his tongue, and— 

The door creaked open lgithly with someone's breathy "oh." coming through at the sight.

You didn't pull away, didn't even flinch. If anything, you leaned in more, your body pressing fully into his, your mouth lingering just long enough to make the moment undeniable.

You heard a the sound of someone clearing their throat, and that made both of you break apart. Your lips brushed his once more before you turned your head, like you’d just noticed her. “Oh—” you said, a little breathless, but smiling.

“Sharon,” your eyes widened slightly when you looked behind you, a flush creeping into your expression like you’d been caught.

Her gaze drifted from his hands on you to the hem of your summer dress, pulled up and draped high on your thighs, then up to your hands in his hair and Steve's face — his expression a mix of very confused, flustered, and fucked out. 

Steve cleared his throat, stepping back just slightly, like he was trying to recover something that had already slipped.

“We were just—”

“—busy,” you finished easily, sliding off the desk but not moving far from him.

“…right,” she said after a second, her lips pressing into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Well, enjoy the, uh… the party."

You stifled a laugh, biting your lip, as she walked away leaving the door open behind her. You hopped off the desk as Steve got his brain working again. 

“What the hell was that?” His voice cut through it, low and sharp.

You shrugged. "Saved your ass, you're welcome." You smoothed the hem of your dress against your thighs and walked around the desk, making your way out the door as Steve hushedly called out for you, swiming the thumb drive into his pocket before following you out of the house. 

Your heels hit the pavement in sharp, even beats, your jaw locked, your eyes fixed straight ahead like if you didn’t look back, he wouldn’t follow.

Fuck him and his long legs that caught up to you as soon as you reached your lawn. 

You stormed into your kitchen, pushing the door closed quicky to slam it behind you, but making it hit Steve on the shoulder as he crowded the space behind you. “Hey—” he pushed still, stepping closer. “No, seriously. What was that?”

You still gave him nothing, your jaw tightened. You stood with your back to the kitchen island, fingers gripping the marble, biting your own cheek. Your gaze stayed anywhere but him.

“That wasn’t about getting caught,” he said. “You knew she—” Then it seemed to dawn on him.  “You kissed me to make her jealous.” His voice was incredulous, almost like he solved a decade long mystery right then and there. "You were jealous."

You scoffed, still not meeting his eye. "Jealous? Over you? Plea—"

He crowded you even more now, bending down to look for your gaze and force you to meet his, sly smile playing on his lips. "You were jealous."

You huffed, finally looking into his eyes, sunlight playing on his face making the blue just a tad lighter. Steve had his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, almost waiting for a response from you. 

For what it felt like a second and a day all at once, your brain went numb. 

And then your hands were on each side of his face, bringing his lips to crash into yours. 

Steve's lips were warm against your mouth in the same way they were minutes ago. He stepped forward, towering over you making you tilt your head up to keep the kiss going, his hands grabbing your hips as he pressed you against the counter. 

He licked into your mouth and your hands fell to the nape of his neck, his shoulders, and finally his arms.

Steve leaned over, pushing you back further, until you had no more oxygen to burn in your lungs and you broke the kiss, making him kiss your jaw, below your ear, and down your neck. "You had no reason to be jealous, you know."

He grinded his hips against yours, letting you feel the length of him hardening by the minute. "'M not jealous." You felt underwater, dizzy, borderline having fuzzies in your vision. 

Steve chuckled against your neck, the warm breath making shivers run down your spine, his hands dropping to graze outside of your thighs. "Mmhmm." His right hand brushed over your thigh and made it way to your core, tickling the skin of your inner thigh. 

His fingers quickly found the wet spot on the front of your underwear, kissing his way back towards your lips. When he pressed deep circled into it, he felt you sigh into his mouth.

"Steve… People might see…"

"Don't care" he pressed his fingers harder, until your hips were bucking to get more friction, and you were whining against him. Words came muffled against your mouth. "Not jealous, huh? Didn't want me a single bit, right?"

You scoffed despite youself, "You're the one that came into your pants the other day." 

That did it. 

Skin to skin. His rough fingers sliding through your soaked slit, dragging your arousal across your folds, teasing you right at the entrance. You broke off mid-sentence, a soft whimper catching in your throat.

His thumb easily found your clit, and one of your hands squeezed around his bicep while the other pulled at the hair at the nape of his neck, your moans getting breathier and breathier by the minute.

His fingers thrusted in and out of you bringing you to an edge so close you could taste it, letting out little pants by the crook of his neck, inflating Steve's ego, making more blood rush south. "Wanna try that again?"

He curled them just right, your slick coating his knuckles as your hips twitched against his hand.

Your head fell back, lips parting on a desperate moan. "N-not jealous…" through gritted teeth, making him click his tongue. 

"Suit yourself." And just like that, his fingers were gone, slick mess on your thighs and an unsatisfied beast inside of you.

"Steve, what the—"

He pulled away the slightest bit and bent down, lacing his arm around your legs and throwing you over his shoulder, walking away in the direction of the stairs.

Steve nudged your bedroom door open once you got upstairs and flopped you down on the bed, making you bounce on the mattress.

He hovered over you, settling between your legs and rubbing the heat of him against you, while one if his hands snuck to the back of your dress and pulled the zipper down. He pulled the clothing item down your body as he kissed the same path, and soon you were only in his shirt and a thong.

Your legs opened to accommodate him further, thighs falling to your sides, and he slotted himself chest to mattress, lips barely an inch away from your pussy. Steve kissed your inner thigh once, then again, and your fingers threaded through his hair. 

"She's wetter than that night," He spoke softly, but his voice had a dark tone to it, blue eyes staring up at you. "Can't blame me from coming in my boxers when," and a bite to your flesh. "you were grinding a wet spot onto me, honey."

Fuck him and that nickname. 

His middle finger came to curl beyond the hem, pulling the sticky wet fabric down your thighs, and both of his thumbs spread your lips, watching your hole clench around nothing. 

His gaze once again reached yours, almost asking for permission. 

You didn't seem to be able to find it in you to say anything, not a single word but a quiet "Please." leaving your lips. 

The second his tongue touched your slit, you were all the way back in that mission in Colombia. Wet, horny, and almost begging him.

At the first taste of you, one would think Steve got possessed, quickly settling further into the mattress and wrapping his arms around your thighs, holding them open. "F-fuck, Steve—"

He groaned against you, the vibration going through you like electricity through water. His tongue traced your entrance, nose nudging your clit, and your back arched off the bed slightly, pushing your hips closer to his face.

Steve's fingers pressed against the tops of your thighs with bruising strength, not that you minded. 

Not at all. 

He licked zigzag patterens up and down your slit, and then would circle your clit with his tongue, sucking the nerves into his mouth and flicking it. "O-oh my God."

He chuckled into you, "Stop squirming." 

Like you could help it. Like it was your damn fault he let Sharon touch him and flirt with him and all but forced you to make sure everyone bought this sham of a marriage. 

"Easier— fuck me, easier said than done, Rogers." Your nails scratched deeper into his scalp.

Steve angled his head differently so he could tense his tongue and fuck you while his thumb moved from your thigh to rub quick circles onto your clit. 

Your thighs closed around his head, eyes squeezing shut as you heard him breathe heavy against you. Steve's other hand landed on your breast, kneading the skin there, pinching and pulling a nipple drawing a mewl out of you. 

"Steve, Steve, I'm— fuck, I'm gonna—"

You really shouldn't have told him, though he'd know you were close judging by the little flutters of your walls around his tongue. 

He pulled away harshly, chin slick and lips swollen, his hair a mess from you running your fingers through it. 

He stood by the foot of the bed, stripping down to nothing watching your dumbfounded fucked out expression. Your hair was matted, your nipples were hard, and there was a wet spot on the white comforter under you. 

In front of you, though, stood 230lbs of pure, unadultered, perfectly sculped by God, blond 100% American Prime Steve Rogers. 

Standing naked, tall, thick and proud.

And hard.

Your mouth salivated at the sight, looking at the leaking head of him appear and disappear inside his fist with each slick stroke he gave himself. Steve caught your ankle with his other hand, and pulled you to the edge of the bed, your toes touching the soft carpet of the bedroom.

He turned you around, fingers gripping the linen of his shirt you had on, dragging it down your arms but not over your wrists, twisting the fabric around his own fist. 

And just like that, you were face and shoulders down on the mattress with your wrists tied behind you, feeling him rub the head of his cock up and down your puffy slit, coating himself in your wetness. 

Steve heard a muffled whine from you, any words being impacted by the fabric of the bedding, "What was that, sweetheart?" He leaned over you, the tip of him notching just a smidge further. 

You turned your head to the side. "Steve, please…"

He clicked his tongue again. "No, you didn't want me, remember? Think I shouldn't even be doing this to you."

He motioned to pull out and you whined louder. "She— she was all o-over you…" Tears pricked your eyes from the pressure in your chest, from the ache between your legs, from the desperation of being kept at the edge. 

“Steve, please put it in…”

"Yeah?" He gave you the cue to keep going, pushing in unbearably slow and barely any. 

You nodded against the mattress. "Pissed me off." You gulped. "Please, please don't leave me like this…"

"All you had to do was stop being such a brat about it."

And then he thrust in enough to knock the air out of your lungs. The squelch of his cock pushing into you was obscene. And in your mind every inch he pushed after that thrust had one though going through your head:

There's more?!

"Oh God…"

That made Steve chuckle. "Just me, baby."

"Is— is it all in?" Your voice trembled, and if you had a mirror you'd see Steve's evil smirk as he dragged your wrists down to where your bodies connected, arching your back and hurting you with the stretch, only to wrap your delicate hands around what was left of him.

"Barely half." He grunted.

You whimpered, both in fear and anticipation, and Steve took the queue to push the rest of the way through, until your hand was flat on his pelvis, and then he let you rest against the mattress again. 

"So fucking good." He gave a couple tentative thrusts. "Can feel you gripping me like you don't wanna let me go."

You moaned at the feel of him hitting that sweet spot inside of you, making your eyes roll. "So— hah! Good, Steve…"

After he felt your pussy get used to the size of him, that when he really stopped playing nice. 

You could feel every ridge of him, every vein, the length of him pulsing and pulsing inside of you, throbbing against the spongy spot that made you see stars.

“Steve, please, please let me—“

Another harsh thrust interrupted you. “Tell me the truth then.”

You whimpered. The bastard was really going to make you admit it.

As you tried to think through it, brainless as you were, he slowed down, and down, until you could feel the pulse of his cock inside of you just as he could feel your walls flutter around him.

You whimpered, cheeks blushing at the thought. “I was jealous! I was jealous, okay?!” You pushed your hips into him, chasing friction harder, deeper.

“She thought she could have you and— and—“ He picked up the pace, your brain mush as your neck strained to keep your voice from being muffled. “And you’re my— Oh— oh my God!”

“Yeah?” Steve leaned over you, fingers finding your clit with ease. “I’m your what?”

You could cry. You could cry right no— oh you had tears streaming from your eyes onto the bedding. “Steve…”

His eyes rolled to the back of his head.

“That’s right, I’m your Steve.” His fingers picked up speed as did his hips, lips kissing your shoulder blade. “Come for me, pretty girl. Come all over my cock.”

“Mmmmngghhh—“ your vision went white, your body clenching tight around him and pulsing, as your moans got drowned out outside by the fireworks still going.

Steve slammed his hips deeper into you, to the point of almost painful, muttering curse words in sequence of “fuck, fuck, fuck.” until you felt him spill thick ropes of cum inside of you, filling you up until it dripped onto the floor.

As you both caught your breaths, you heard the wet schlick of him pulling out, dropping himself on the bed with a bounce.

After a minute, you spoke. "There's gonna be so much paperwork to explain all this..."

He looked at an imaginary watch on his wrist, turning to you with that boyish smile of his, sheen coat of sweat on his chest and hairline. “Got time for a couple more rounds before all that. You tapped out?”

You smirked at him, using your arms to push yourself up, hands on his chest for leverage as you straddled him, slick pussy on top of his hardening cock.

“I could do this all day, Cap.”

final thoughts: this started as me and Maddie just thirsting over the shower scene, and then... yeah... heh

They had been planning this for weeks.

Steve smiled when he saw them. “Evening, ladies. Glad you could make it. Private session, just us. Should be good.”

Natasha returned the smile, easy and a little playful. “We’ve been looking forward to it, Steve. Your classes always leave us… worked up.”

Wanda laughed softly, shooting Natasha a quick glance. “Yeah. Very… intense.”

Steve chuckled, unaware. “That’s the goal. Let’s warm up first. Breathing, then some sun salutations.”

They started on their backs for deep breathing. Steve’s voice was low, steady, guiding them. “In through the nose… hold… out through the mouth. Feel the ribs expand.”

While Steve had his eyes closed demonstrating, Natasha slipped her hand into her pocket and pressed the remote once. Low buzz.

Wanda’s breath caught for half a second. The vibration settled right against her clit, gentle but constant. She opened her eyes and looked at Natasha. Natasha’s lips curved in a tiny, wicked smile.

Wanda mouthed silently: Bitch.

Natasha mouthed back: Shhh. Breathe.

They moved into cat-cow. Steve walked slowly between the mats, correcting gently.

“Natasha, keep the movement slow. Good. Wanda, drop your shoulders a little more… perfect.”

On the next inhale, Natasha pressed the button again — medium. Wanda’s arms trembled. Her pussy was already starting to get wet, the thin fabric of the panty growing slick against her swelling clit. She bit her lip hard.

Steve noticed the slight shake. “You okay, Wanda? We can slow down.”

“I’m fine,” Wanda said, voice a little breathier than usual. “Just… feeling the stretch today.”

Natasha’s smile widened. She pressed once more. Higher.

Wanda’s thighs clenched. The buzz was now a steady, pulsing throb right on her clit. Pleasure was building fast, low in her belly. She tried to focus on the movement, but every time she arched her back the vibration seemed to press harder.

They flowed into downward dog. Steve moved behind Wanda first.

“Wanda, let’s check your alignment. Hips up a little higher… good.” His large hands settled lightly on her hips, thumbs brushing the top of her ass. He adjusted her gently, fingers warm through the thin fabric.

Wanda almost moaned out loud. The combination of his hands so close to her ass, the deep stretch, and the relentless vibration on her clit was making her dizzy. Her pussy was soaked now. She could feel a tiny trickle of wetness starting to escape the edge of the panty.

Steve moved to Natasha. “Nat, same thing. Hips square.” His hands on her hips this time. Natasha pushed back just a fraction, her ass brushing lightly against the front of his thigh. Steve’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly. He stepped back quickly, professional again.

Natasha glanced at Wanda and raised an eyebrow. See? He’s already feeling it.

Wanda’s eyes were glassy. She nodded slightly.

They moved through warrior one, warrior two. Every time Steve corrected form, his hands lingered a little longer. On Wanda’s outer thigh. On Natasha’s lower back. He was trying to stay focused, but he couldn’t help noticing how the tight pants clung to their curves, how their sports bras stretched over full breasts, how a light sheen of sweat was already appearing on their skin. When they bent forward in triangle pose, he saw the way the fabric pulled tight between their legs. He looked away quickly, cheeks faintly warm.

Professional, Rogers. They’re clients. Focus.

But his body wasn’t listening. A low, heavy heat was starting to build between his own legs.

Natasha kept the vibe on Wanda at a steady medium-high. Wanda was fighting it now, breathing hard through her nose, thighs trembling in every standing pose. Every few minutes Natasha would glance at her and smile, then press the button a little higher for a few seconds, then back down — teasing, never letting her quite tip over.

During one long hold in warrior two, Wanda whispered under her breath, just loud enough for Natasha to hear, “You’re evil…”

Natasha whispered back, “You love it. Don’t you dare cum yet. We’re saving that for later.”

Steve heard the soft exchange but not the words. “Everything alright over there?”

“Just motivating each other,” Natasha said smoothly. “Right, Wanda?”

Wanda’s voice was tight. “Mhm. Very… motivating.”

Steve smiled, unaware of the game. “Good. That’s what I like to hear.”

They moved into standing forward fold. Steve came to Wanda again.

“Let’s open those hamstrings properly. Fold from the hips… I’ll support you.”

Wanda bent forward slowly. Her ass rose high, yoga pants stretching shiny and tight over the round, firm curves. Steve stepped in close behind her, placed both large hands on the outside of her thighs, and gently pressed downward to deepen the stretch. His thumbs rested just below the swell of her ass. He could feel the heat of her skin through the fabric. The scent of her arousal was faint but unmistakable now — sweet, musky, warm.

Wanda’s legs were shaking visibly. The vibration on her clit was constant and merciless. Her pussy was throbbing, soaked, clenching rhythmically around nothing. She could feel how wet she was, how the fluid was starting to soak through the panty and into the yoga pants. Every time Steve’s hands pressed, it pushed her hips back slightly, changing the angle of the vibration.

“Breathe into it,” Steve said quietly, voice low and calm. “You’re doing great, Wanda. Just a little deeper…”

Wanda tried. She really tried.

But Natasha chose that exact moment to press the remote to maximum.

The sudden jump in intensity ripped through Wanda like lightning.

Her clit pulsed hard. Her pussy clenched violently. A helpless, broken moan tore from her throat.

“Oh—fuck—”

Her body locked up. Then it happened.

A powerful, hot gush of clear fluid burst from her. It soaked straight through the thin layers and sprayed out in a short, forceful arc, running down her inner thighs in shiny rivulets and splashing onto the mat between her feet. Some of it hit the floor right beside Steve’s sneakers. The wet sound was obscene in the quiet studio. More followed — smaller pulses, but steady, soaking the crotch of her pants completely and dripping steadily onto the mat.

Steve froze, hands still on her thighs.

“Wanda—?” His voice cracked. He saw the dark, spreading wet patch, the puddle forming, the way her legs were trembling uncontrollably. He smelled it clearly now — pure, sweet arousal. She had just squirted. Hard. Right in front of him.

Wanda stayed bent over for a few seconds, panting, small aftershocks still making her pussy twitch and leak. Then she slowly straightened, face flushed deep red, but there was a dazed, satisfied little smile on her lips.

“I… I couldn’t hold it,” she whispered.

Steve’s mouth was open. His professional mask had completely shattered. His eyes were wide, pupils blown. He looked down at the puddle, then back at her soaked pants, then at her face.

“I— Jesus, Wanda. Are you—? Did you just—?”

Before he could finish, Wanda’s eyes flicked to Natasha. A silent signal.

Natasha’s finger was already on the remote.

Steve turned toward Natasha, still flustered, trying to regain control. “Okay, let’s… let’s check on you, Nat. Maybe we should take a quick water break after—”

He placed his hands lightly on Natasha’s hips to guide her into the next adjustment.

Wanda slammed the button to maximum.

Natasha’s reaction was louder, dirtier.

“Ah—fuck—!”

Her whole body jerked. The vibrator went from zero to brutal in an instant. She had been wet for twenty minutes already, watching Wanda suffer so beautifully. The sudden intensity slammed into her clit like a shockwave.

Her pussy clenched hard. Then it exploded.

A thick, powerful jet of squirt erupted from her, soaking her yoga pants instantly. The fluid gushed down her legs in a shiny stream, hit the mat with an audible splash, and spread in a large puddle that reached Steve’s feet. Natasha moaned again, louder, knees buckling. One hand flew out and grabbed Steve’s forearm for balance as her body kept pulsing, kept squirting in smaller, messy bursts.

Steve stared, completely stunned.

He saw everything — the way Natasha’s pants clung transparently to her pussy, the continuous leaking, the raw pleasure twisting her beautiful face. The scent of both women’s arousal was thick in the air now.

And his body betrayed him completely.

Blood rushed south so fast it made him dizzy. His cock thickened, hardened, lengthened in seconds — a heavy, aching weight pressing against the tight compression fabric. The outline was unmistakable: thick, long, the head already starting to leak pre-cum into the fabric. It tented his pants obscenely, curving up and to the left.

He tried to cover himself with one hand, stepping back.

“I— I need to step out. Just for a minute. Water break. I’ll be right back—”

Too late.

Both women had seen it.

Natasha, still panting and leaking, grinned slowly, eyes dropping to the massive bulge.

“Oh, Steve…”

Wanda licked her lips, staring openly. “Look at that. Our Captain’s cock is hard for us.”

Steve’s face flushed dark. “Girls— this is— I’m your instructor, this isn’t appropriate—”

Natasha stepped closer, still a little shaky on her feet. “Steve. We’ve been wet for you for twenty minutes. And now you’re standing there with that…” She nodded at his crotch. “Don’t tell me you don’t want this.”

Wanda moved to his other side. “We planned it. The vibes. The timing. We wanted to see if we could break that perfect Captain America control.”

Steve looked between them, breathing hard. His cock throbbed visibly in his pants, heavy and insistent.

“I… you two are…” He swallowed. “This is insane.”

Natasha reached out slowly and placed her palm right over the thick bulge. She felt the weight of it, the burning heat, the way it pulsed against her hand.

“Fuck,” she whispered, almost reverent. “It’s even bigger than we thought. So heavy…”

Wanda’s hand joined hers, cupping the heavy sac beneath. “God, the weight of it. I can feel it throbbing.”

Steve groaned, head falling back. His professional resistance was cracking fast.

“You… you really planned this?”

Natasha squeezed gently, feeling the thick shaft twitch. “Every detail. And now we’re going to take care of this for you. Unless you really want us to stop.”

Steve looked at her, then at Wanda, then down at their hands on his cock. His voice was rough when he finally spoke.

“…Don’t stop.”

Natasha’s smile was pure satisfaction. “Good boy.”

They moved at the same time.

Natasha grabbed his right wrist, Wanda his left. They pushed — not gently — driving the super-soldier down onto his back on the mat. Steve could have stopped them easily. He didn’t. He let them.

They hooked their fingers into the waistband of his compression pants and peeled them down slowly, inch by inch. His cock sprang free with a heavy, audible slap against his lower abs.

It was massive.

Thick as Natasha’s wrist at the base, long enough that the flushed, leaking head reached well past his navel. Heavy veins ran along the shaft. The whole thing was flushed dark, rock-hard, and visibly heavy — the weight of it made it rest thick and full against his stomach even when erect. A fat bead of pre-cum welled at the slit and slowly rolled down the head.

Both women stared for a long moment.

“Holy shit, Steve,” Wanda breathed.

Natasha wrapped her hand around the base and lifted it. The weight was real — it had actual heft, warm and pulsing in her palm.

“God… it’s so fucking heavy,” she murmured, stroking once, slow. “Look at the size of it. No wonder you walk like you own the room.”

Wanda leaned in and dragged her tongue slowly up the entire underside, from heavy balls to leaking tip. “And it tastes good too.”

They took their time.

Natasha held the thick base while Wanda sucked the head into her mouth, cheeks hollowing. Then they switched. Natasha took more of him, gagging softly when the head hit the back of her throat, but she didn’t pull back — she pushed a little deeper, eyes watering, spit dripping down the shaft onto Wanda’s waiting tongue.

Steve’s hands fisted in the mat. His voice was hoarse. “Fuck… girls… your mouths… it’s too much—”

Natasha pulled off with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting her lips to his cock. “Too much? Or not enough?” She licked a long stripe up the side. “We’ve been thinking about this cock for months, Steve. How it would feel. How heavy it would be in our hands. How it would stretch us.”

Wanda was licking his balls, sucking one into her mouth gently, then the other. “And now we have it. All of it.”

They edged him like that for long minutes — slow, wet, messy double blowjob. Taking turns deepthroating as much as they could, licking each other’s spit off his shaft, talking to him the whole time in low, filthy, natural voices.

“Feel how hard you are for us?”
“You’re leaking so much already… so turned on watching us squirt all over your mat.”
“God, your cock is twitching in my mouth. You like when we share it?”

Steve was panting, hips jerking in small helpless thrusts. “You two… planned this… made me watch you… fuck— Nat, your throat— Wanda, don’t stop licking there—”

They brought him right to the edge twice, then backed off, smiling when he groaned in frustration.

Finally Natasha sat back on her heels, lips shiny. “I think he’s ready for more.”

They stood up together. Slowly, teasingly, they peeled off their soaked yoga pants and the ruined vibrating panties. Both pussies were glistening, lips puffy and dark pink, inner thighs shiny with squirt and arousal. Natasha’s was neatly trimmed, a small strip of red hair. Wanda’s was smooth and bare.

They stood over Steve — one on each side of his torso — and started touching themselves.

Natasha sank two fingers deep into her dripping cunt and pumped slowly, thumb circling her swollen clit. Wanda did the same, eyes locked on Steve’s face and his still-hard, spit-slick cock.

“Watch us,” Natasha said, voice husky. “Watch what you do to us, Steve.”

They fingered themselves openly, wet sounds filling the studio. Their breasts swayed gently with the movement — full, soft, nipples tight and dark.

Wanda came first this time. Her pussy clenched around her fingers and a hot gush sprayed out, arcing beautifully and splattering across Steve’s chest and abs. The fluid was warm, clear, and there was a lot of it. It soaked into his white tank top instantly.

Natasha followed seconds later, her own squirt hitting Steve’s neck and jaw, some of it landing on his lips. She kept rubbing through it, small aftershocks making more fluid leak out and drip onto him.

They didn’t stop. They kept going, bringing themselves to another orgasm each, soaking him further until his tank top was transparent and clinging to every ridge of muscle, until his cock and heavy balls were glistening with their combined squirt.

Steve was breathing like he’d run ten miles. His cock was rock-hard, twitching, pre-cum mixing with their fluids.

Natasha wiped her wet fingers across his lips. “Taste us.”

He did — tongue coming out to lick her fingers clean. His eyes were dark, hungry now. The last of his resistance was gone.

Wanda straddled his face, lowering her soaked pussy onto his mouth. “Lick me, Steve. Clean up the mess we made for you.”

Natasha straddled his hips, grabbed his heavy cock, and rubbed the thick head slowly through her dripping folds.

“God, look at the size of this thing,” she murmured. “It’s going to ruin me.”

She sank down slowly.

The head pushed her lips apart, stretching them wide. Natasha moaned long and low as inch after thick inch slid inside her. She could feel the weight of him — the heavy, solid drag as gravity pulled her down onto that thick shaft. Her pussy stretched around him, fluttering, trying to take every bit.

When she finally bottomed out, her ass resting on his hips, she was panting.

“Fuck… so full. I can feel how heavy it is inside me. It’s pressing so deep…”

She started riding him — slow at first, lifting up until just the head remained inside, then sinking back down. Her full breasts bounced with every movement, soft flesh rippling and swaying, nipples tracing small circles in the air. Steve’s hands came up to grip her hips, helping her move.

Wanda ground on his face, moaning as his tongue worked her clit and pussy. “Yes— just like that— eat me while she rides that big cock—”

Natasha picked up speed. The wet sounds were filthy — her soaked pussy sliding up and down his thick shaft, squelching every time she dropped down. Every few strokes she would squirt again, small gushes that sprayed out around his cock and soaked his lower stomach and balls.

“Feel that?” she gasped, riding harder. “Every time I cum on your cock it gets even wetter. So fucking big and heavy… stretching me so good…”

Steve groaned into Wanda’s pussy, hips starting to thrust up to meet Natasha’s downward strokes. His super-soldier strength made every upward thrust powerful, lifting her slightly.

Wanda came hard on his face, squirting directly into his mouth. Steve drank it down greedily, tongue never stopping.

They switched.

Wanda took his cock next, sinking down with a long, broken moan. “Oh my god— it’s even thicker from this angle—” Her breasts bounced heavily as she rode, the soft globes jiggling and swaying hypnotically with every rise and fall.

Natasha sat on his face, grinding her pussy against his tongue while she reached down to rub Wanda’s clit at the same time.

“Look at her tits bouncing while she fucks you,” Natasha said to Steve, voice teasing. “You like that? Watching her ride your heavy cock?”

Steve’s answer was a muffled groan and a hard upward thrust that made Wanda cry out.

They kept going — switching positions, taking turns, edging Steve mercilessly. Every time he got close they would slow down or pull off, laughing breathlessly when he growled in frustration.

“Easy, Captain,” Natasha teased, stroking his soaked cock slowly. “We’re not done with you yet.”

At one point both girls were on him at once — Wanda riding his cock, Natasha sitting on his face — while they leaned forward and kissed each other messily above him, tongues sliding together, hands in each other’s hair.

Steve was lost in it. His hands roamed their bodies — gripping Wanda’s bouncing ass, squeezing Natasha’s breasts, thumbing her nipples. He thrust up into whoever was on his cock with powerful, controlled strokes, making them squirt again and again.

The mat beneath them was a complete mess — shiny with squirt, spit, and pre-cum. Steve’s tank top was ruined. His heavy balls were soaked. He didn’t care.

Finally they decided to finish him.

They pulled off and knelt on either side of his head again. Natasha and Wanda stroked his cock together — fast, tight, both hands wrapped around the thick, heavy shaft.

Steve’s voice was wrecked. “I’m— fuck— I’m gonna cum—”

They aimed it at their faces.

He came hard.

Thick, heavy ropes of cum erupted from him in powerful spurts. The first hit Natasha across the mouth and cheek. The second painted a long stripe over Wanda’s forehead and dripped into her eye. More followed — rope after thick rope — covering both women’s faces, landing in their open mouths, dripping down their chins onto their breasts and Steve’s stomach. There was so much of it. Super-soldier stamina made the orgasm last and last.

Natasha and Wanda kept stroking him through every pulse, milking him, cooing softly.

“Look at all of it…”
“So much cum… all over our faces…”

When he finally stopped twitching, they leaned in and licked his cock clean together — slow, thorough, tongues meeting around the sensitive head. Then they turned to each other and kissed deeply, sharing his cum between them, letting it drip messily from their lips.

They collapsed on either side of him, breathing hard, bodies slick and shining.

Steve lay there staring at the ceiling, one arm wrapped around each woman, chest heaving.

Natasha nuzzled into his neck, voice lazy and satisfied. “Told you we had plans.”

Wanda traced a finger through the mess on his abs and brought it to her mouth. “And we’re nowhere near finished with you, Rogers.”

Steve turned his head, looked at both of them — faces streaked with his cum, eyes bright, bodies pressed against him — and let out a low, rough laugh.

“You two are going to be the death of me.”

Natasha grinned and reached down, wrapping her hand around his still-half-hard, heavy cock.

“Good thing you’re a super-soldier then.”

She gave him one slow, deliberate stroke.

Steve’s cock twitched, already starting to fill again.

Wanda laughed softly against his chest. “Round two?”

Steve’s hand slid down to grip Natasha’s ass, then Wanda’s.

“…Yeah,” he said, voice low and rough. “Round two.”

The End

His entire presence commanded obedience. Authority. 

Steve's star-spangled broad shoulders, squared when he stood with his hands on his belt ever the proper man, drew every eye in the room to him like a magnet. 

His voice never wavered when barking orders left and right, always a man with a plan. If strategy A failed, he was already halfway through strategy B, and had already thought of a third alternative. 

The entire weight of the world had always been on his shoulders, for the better part of 108 years. 

Steve is, however, much like a working dog. He's restless. He needs a job to do, and do well, even when his actual job stresses him the fuck out.

So when he's walking up the stairs of your condo in the Village, his throat tired from yelling over gunfire, his feet exhausted from running miles in combat boots, and his shoulders tense from holding back frustration during the debrief, the sound of your voice while you talk on the phone is a soothing balm for his soul. 

He unlocked the door and walked in, the dimly lit apartment making him feel like he could finally let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. 

You were curled up on one end of the couch, throw blanket lazily over your legs as a candle burned on the kitchen isle and some trashy reality TV on, while you talked with your best friend on the phone about the events unveiling in front of your eyes.

Your weekly debrief, you called it. Steve thought it was cute. 

"Okay, but here's the thing," you were saying into your phone, eyes glued to the television. "I don't actually think she's mad about the text messages."

Steve really didn't understand half the appeal of those shows. Every week he'd come over and find some new catastrophe unfolding. Someone was cheating on somebody, someone was throwing a drink, someone was crying in a confessional interview, someone was apparently there "for the wrong reasons."

And somehow you knew every single person's name, history, motivations, and interpersonal grievances.

Steve let the door latch with a soft "click" and he dropped his duffel by the counter and shrugged his shoes off.

You turned your head at the sound immediately, your face softening the instant your eyes locked with his. 

There was something about being looked at like that after a day spent getting shot at, yelled at, and blamed for things outside of his control.

Something about knowing there was one place in Manhattan where nobody expected Captain America.

He was just expected to be Steve, or Babe, or Honey, or Stevie, or—

"Hold on," you told your friend, reaching out to him with one hand, which he knew was code for "come here and kiss me".

He smiled with the side of his mouth and complied, walking over until he was behind you, making you tilt your head back to kiss him, a little murmured "I missed you." against his lips before you went back to your conversation. 

He finished walking around the couch, laying down on top of you as you made space of his waist and torso between your legs, his arms instinctively wrapping around your waist as he nuzzled his face into your sternum.

Steve Rogers melted.

That was the only word possible for the exhale he let out as soon as your fingers tangled in his hair, nails gently scraping at his scalp as he let his entire weight just rest on you. 

"You okay, baby?" Your voice was low, not even a hair above a whisper, and he just hummed in agreement against the soft fabric of your tank top.

"Do you need to go? Baaabyyyy." You rolled your eyes at the phone. 

"Don't start."

"Oh, I'm absolutely starting. Did Captain America just come home and immediately turn into a golden retriever?"

Steve huffed a quiet laugh against your shirt. Your hand immediately moved to the back of his neck, nails grazing softly until you pushed your hand past the collar of his cotton shirt, scratching lightly at his back. 

If he was a cat, he'd be purring right at that moment.

"No, because listen," you told your friend, eyes narrowing at the screen. "The issue isn't that she lied." Steve watched you. "The issue is that she lied badly." Completely, utterly, disgustingly in love. "Those are different crimes."

Blue bird sky eyes that look up at you like you invented spring. Like your voice alone makes flowers bloom and birds sing. 

His chin rests comfortably on your stomach, one arm draped across your waist while your fingers absentmindedly travel back up to continue scratching at his scalp.

The way you laugh when someone says something stupid on the show makes him understand poetry. Because regular sentences in language aren't enough to explain what it feels like when somebody becomes your favorite thing in the entire world.

Steve had always been… tactile when he was tired. Like a working dog, he'd find something to occupy his mind until he was so tired, the inside of his skull was nothing but tv static.

Not clingy, exactly just drawn toward you in the same way a sunflower turns toward sunlight.

His fingers slipped beneath the edge of your thank top, resting against the warm skin of your side, fabric riding up and exposing your stomach to him as he pressed absentminded kisses against the skin there. 

Your eyes flickered to him, another kiss on the lower left side of your stomach, big calloused hands pushing your shirt a smidge up again. 

When he grazed the skin with his teeth and soothed it with his tongue, you realized what he was getting at. Some flavor of "I gotta go, love you, bye" and the call was disconnected. 

"Steve." No answer. His hands slowly came back down the length of your waist, "Steve." He was in his own little world, fingers hooking them hem of your sleep shorts and pulling them down.

You let him, because what woman in her right mind would prevent Steve from seeking comfort, specially if that comfort was eating your pussy until you saw double?

He threw the shorts somewhere in the room, nothing but a grunt here or a groan there coming out of his mouth in the meantime. 

You put your right foot on his chest softly, as to catch his attention, sparkling eyes looking up at you with a little "hmm?" to match. 

"Are you okay?"

He sighed happily. He knew you knew you didn't have to worry about him, he's a super solder, a hero, a goddamn Avenger, what could a mere civilian like you do?

But he still loved your worry. Loved… your love. 

Steve chuckled softly and kissed the inside of your ankle, something along the lines of "always okay when I'm with you" being printed against the skin of your leg as his kisses went higher and higher and higher.

He stopped quickly when he got to your core, place a wet kiss over your panties and pulling them down your legs in one swift motion. The plane of his chest resting against the couch as he settled your legs over his shoulders. 

His arms wrapped around you legs, hands resting on top of your thighs to keep you open for him. He nuzzled his face against you first, eyes closed as he licked a flat, wide strip up your cunt.

The soft gasp coming from your lips only spurred him on, your left hand reaching down to tangle in his blond locks again while your right hand rested on his forearm.

Steve looked like he was in a trance. Hypnotized by the taste of you. He hummed against you, satisfied you were giving him what he wanted. Letting him take what he wanted. 

His tongue was soft, warm, wet as it lapped against your folds. He'd tense the muscle closer to your clit and circle it with his tongue before sucking it between his plush lips, only to slow down and do it again. 

The day had scraped him raw in a hundred tiny ways, and now he was tucked into the safest place he knew.

You.

"Mmmm, that feels good…" You settled further into the couch, letting your legs fall open around his head as he lazily made out with your pussy. His right hand reached up to shove your shirt further up, massaging your breasts once they were exposed, rolling and tugging on the nipple.

His tongue zig-zagged between your folds, bottom to top, and he sucked your clit briefly, setting it free with a soft "pop" once he felt your thigh twitch. 

"Needed this," he kissed your inner thigh. "needed you." Steve leaned further down, tensing his tongue to tease your entrance, and then burying his face in your heat. 

"Oh! Oh, G— Steve, f—mmm…" you were already babbling. The feel of his hot tongue inside of you made your hips jerk, his nose nudging your clit in the process. 

The wet noises were loud enough he could hear them even though your thighs were squeezing around his head. And God, this is what he needed, plush skin and muscle tensing under him, suffocating him in all that was you. 

"Gonna co—hah!—come all over your pretty face." Steve moaned, he moaned into you, hips grinding onto the couch cushions as yours did so against his face, pushing himself to be impossibly close to you. 

He sucked your clit into his mouth again, his tongue flicking it while it was trapped between his lips. 

Your moans grew louder, sharper, until you soaked Steve's lips and chin in wet pleasure. He let you ride the wave of your first orgasm, aftershocks flowing through your body like electricity through water. 

He dragged his right hand down from your breast to rest above your pussy, keeping you where he wanted you, and used his thumb and index finger to spread you further.

"Baby, please…" It was a mix of oversensitive and hungry pleas, which Steve took as a green light to keep going. He flattened his tongue again, licking long paths bottom to top, dipping his tongue in your entrance, and then keeping the path up.

You supported yourself up mostly by your right elbow and your grip on Steve's hair, staring at the scene in front of you with your mouth hanging open, panting. 

His left hand travelled down and he covered his index and middle fingers in your slick, pulling away ever so slightly to pool spit in his mouth and let the hot saliva flow softly from his mouth onto your clit. 

His fingers drove into you slowly with a wet squelch echoing into the room, curling them towards him when he got your folds to touch his palm. "Was only gone a day, sweetheart." He pumped his fingers. "How come you're so tight still, mmm?"

He chuckled when you had no response but a needy whine, the scene was a sight, really. Captain America absolutely lost in the pleasure of seeing his girlfriend completely pliant, missing any bottoms, with her tank top bunched up above her breasts, while he had a soaked face and a raging hard on. 

Humming as he licked and teased your clit once again, this time pumping his fingers in and out, and again, again, again, until he slurped every single drop of your second orgasm, feeling you squeeze your cunt around his fingers while your thighs squeezed every thought that didn't revolve around you right out of his skull.

You pulled him up forcefully by the collar, crashing your lips together, moaning as you tasted yourself on him. Your tongue licked into his mouth like you alone could make him forget everything that happened during the mission, even without knowing details. 

Your hands grazed down his chest over his shirt, quickly finding the hem of his sweats, palming him through them. "Did you touch yourself while I was gone?" His voice was breathy against your lips, almost strained. 

You shook your head, biting your lip. "Not as good when it's not you."

Steve whined, like audibly whined at your praise as you pushed his pants down enough to free his cock. "Good girl."

It slapped against your stomach heavy, hard, and leaking, and Steve immediately reached down to rub the head up and down your slick.

"Put it in, baby, please." You sucked on his bottom lip. "Missed you so much."

Steve chuckled as he lined himself up with your entrance. "Me or him?" He didn't wait for an answer, in days like these he never did. He just pushed his entire cock in to the hilt, knocking the air out of your lungs. "Me. Or. Him?" He asked again. 

Your eyes squeezed shut, "You, baby, fuck—" you panted against his mouth, tiny puffs of air matching his every thrust. "Missed your voice, your scent, your laugh—" another harsher thrust knocked the thought out of your head. "Missed your cock too, ah!"

You felt every drag of him inside of you, the vein on the side that split into two, the bulbous head of him that notched so perfectly around the spongy spot inside of you, you'd think they made him in a lab. 

Well, they did. But you're pretty sure the SSR had no involvement in how perfect Steve Rogers' dick was. 

That was all him. 

He reached down to snake his arms under your knees, bringing your legs further up and out, until his pelvis was flush with your entire bottom. 

"That's a good girl." He sighed, pulling all the way out only to slam all the way back in again. "Always so good."

The more Steve fucked you, the less oxygen you felt you had in your lungs. Every muscle in your core was tightening by the second, everything becoming too loud, too hot, too heavy, too good.

"Gonna fill you up, sweetheart. You want that?" His lips dropped to your neck, sucking and licking on the skin there. You nodded. "But I need you to come on my cock, Princess. Can you do that for me?" 

You nodded even more enthusiastically. 

Steve licked his thumb and down to your clit it went, making your eyes cross and roll and the wave of pleasure crashed onto you again. He felt you clamp down on him, shudders licking up his spine as rope after rope of cum leaked out of him.

Steve thrusted both of you through the aftershocks, until he finally let his entire weight rest onto you as your nails once again grazed his back and neck. 

He lifted his head from where he was resting his forehead against your collarbone and gave you a peck on the lips, then another, then another, until it turned into a slow, deep kiss. 

He motioned to pull out and start to clean up, but you squeezed your legs around his waist. "Just stay with me a little longer here, Stevie." He looked at you like he always did when you asked that, when he knew you asked for it more for him than for you, but still gave in, staying with you until your breaths evened out while the TV played in the background. 

bro honestly idk what took over my body in this ovulation... I already humped my husband every single day this week. THE SHACKLES.