the return to earth/decay.

“Daddy,” you sigh, and the way the word escapes you mid-pleasure sounds so natural he almost misses it entirely.

He slows to a stop, wide eyed above you, warmth rising to his cheeks. A confusing cocktail of emotions bubble up inside him as he wordlessly watches you stiffen in shock.

Then, the shame takes ahold of you.

It had been a slip of the tongue, of course. An accident.

… right?

You shrivel up, mortified, hiding your face in your hands to escape his gaze. Ordinarily he would find this cute, but you seem sincerely embarrassed in a way he’s never seen before.

“Hey, don’t do that,” he says softly, prying your hands away from your face with a gentle grip. “It’s alright. I don’t mind.”

You blink at him owlishly, expecting him to make a joke to lighten the mood, but he doesn’t. He looks a little winded himself, even.

Is it possible that, somehow, you might both share this taboo desire…?

“I shouldn’t be calling you daddy,” you breathe, struggling to speak. “I mean, you are old enough to be my father. I shouldn’t say it.”

But your words do something unexpected to Ben. Instead of the timid response you’ve grown used to every time you mention your age gap, he sucks in a sharp breath. He throbs inside you.

All sense of self control leaves your body just like that.

He scans your expression before he starts to roll his hips again, thrusting deeply. He can feel you quiver around him in response, the tension in the room thickening.

“Say it again,” he says, knowing he won’t be able to last much longer.

You chew your lip, legs curling around his waist to keep him close, holding eye contact with him as you speak.

“Daddy,” you whisper, and that’s all it takes.

He curses under his breath above you, resting his forehead against your own as he empties himself inside you completely.

Gradually, his curses turn into praise, his heavy body pinning you to the mattress. You run a hand up and down his back knowingly, already thinking about the massage you’ll give him in a few minutes time.

He kisses your cheek warmly before you turn your head, pressing your lips to his.

“Should I call you daddy more often, then?” You tease as you part, warming his length even as it softens, feeling utterly whole like this.

Three said that Peter meant something to you, and you couldn’t have that. No, whatever this was between the pair of you was strictly transactional. It was Peter texting you late at night, the classic, you up? Gracing your screen, and every time, you would pretend to be annoyed.

As if Peter coming around to give you the greatest head of your life was an inconvenience. Tempted, the devil on your shoulder smirking, to type back, Jesus, again? but never doing it. Instead, you wrote: sure.

Still, it plagued your mind. He never asked for anything else.

It was as if he did this purely for himself.

“Oh fuck,” you mewled, clenching down tight. The hand that was wrapped around Peter’s brown curls clutched and tugged, and the unconscious movement earned you a chastised groan. It rumbled through your cunt, and the echo shot to your clit, making you close your eyes and lean back, wet mouth spilling his name into your dorm.

Peter liked hearing you.

Liked seeing you lose your mind with his head between your thighs, your pussy wet and throbbing from his mouth and fingers. It’s why he came around often. Sometimes, he wouldn’t even text, would just knock on your door -- looking sheepish from under his dark curls -- and just. Not. Say. Anything.

His silence was answer enough. You knew what he wanted. Or, needed, as you later figured out, as you saw how red he’d gotten when you told him he couldn’t come around for a bit. When you said something about focusing on exams, he’d come over anyway, whined, shuffled his feet and said, You can do your work, I just gotta…I’ll be quick.

The lack of explanation made your mind swirl. But regardless, you’d let him in and did your work with his head between your thighs. He’d tutored you, too, told you how to solve for x with his fingers inside of you. He’d said, if you let me make you come again, I’ll do your Maths work for the next week. After he’d left, you stared at the scene of the crime in pure silence.

Just…reflecting.

Peter fluttered his tongue over your swollen clit. Focused on swirling it around his tongue in sloppy, wet circles, and the thick desire that swelled between your thighs began to pool at your lower back, forcing you to arch up into it.

“Please,” you wept, even though he was giving you what you wanted. Flat on your back with his deft grip keeping your bare thighs open. It was 8 pm. He’d caught you just after your shower, so the smell of your shampoo and body wash wafted through the air – Lavender and pear.

Peter had spread you open and said you smelled like spring. You’d been far too turned on to comment on it. He grumbled into your cunt, and you managed to work out the word, more? You hummed, too drunk on him and wound tight to verbalise that yes, you wanted more. Wanted him to make you come, and come again, till all you could do was mumble his name and focus on your breathing.

He'd learnt how you liked it. Paid attention, and he was getting full scores as he pushed his tongue flat against your swollen clit and sucked. Your vision went white.

“Oh fuck – ohfuck, Peter—” you squirmed, but Peter was strong, and he held you to the bed with his vice-like grip, wordlessly saying take it take it take it.

He lapped at you, salvia drooling over your cunt and down his chin, soaking the sheets. He was always so careless. In moments like this, that nervous edge that always fluttered around him was gone, replaced by a visceral drive to either please you, or get what he wanted.

The two bled into each other.

His tempo was leisurely, but that didn’t stop the heat from washing over you all at once.

You clamped your thighs around his ears and moaned -- loud, so loud that you were sure the other students on your floor heard.

Still, the ache was erratic, “So good,” you sobbed, and you heard yourself, heard the near primal need in your voice, and the desperation made you embarrassed, made you cover your mouth with your palm and grip the sheets, willing yourself to cool it. 

“Move your hand, or I’ll stop,” he uttered against you, and your clit was so sore that the echo of his words made your eyes roll back. Peter must have seen, as he hummed a laugh, and kissed your inner thigh, “lemme hear you.”

Managing to gain some sense of sanity, you blearily blinked down at him, but all sense of stability you thought you had was wiped away when you saw Peter had his hand stuffed down his pants.

You dropped back onto the bed and sobbed.

You knew he got off on this, but Jesus Christ, you’d never seen that before.

“Gotta be kidding me,” you breathed, and Peter must have understood what you were referencing, as he buried his reddening face into your inner thigh. He let out a breathy chuckle, “’ M’sorry,” he mumbled, “usually I wait till I get home, but you’re just so hot.”

You had to stay completely still, or you’d burst. Usually, I wait till I get home?

Peter moved his face and began nuzzling the wet folds of your pussy. He bumped his nose against your clit, and you quietly choked.

Peter hummed, “couldn’t help myself.”

You figured he did something like that, but the admission made your thighs tense. You pictured him stumbling home – cheeks still wet with you – and tugging his pants down, quickly shoving his hands into his boxers and taking hold of his aching cock. Did he whimper when he came? Or was he silent, all tremors and low grunts? No. He definitely whimpered.

He was far too pretty to stay quiet.

The sudden desire to kiss him swept over you.

Reaching down, you tugged at his curls, wordlessly motioning him to move. When he did, you briefly saw the red of his cheeks and wet of his nose before you kissed him, all tongue, and tasted yourself on his pink lips.

Peter melted into you. Huffed your name like a sigh, and the sheer tenderness of it had you wrapping your legs around his back and pressing your bare cunt against his jeans.

He was rock-hard. Tentatively, you ran your nails over his chest, and dipped low, pressing between his thighs, cupping his bulge, and gently squeezing. Peter wept.

“Oh fuck,” he sobbed, as desperate as you imagined. With one hand in his hair and the other on his cock, you continued to kiss him, until the ache between your thighs became too much to bear.

“Make me come,” you whispered, “and I’ll put you in my mouth.”

Plus, the mission ran long, the debrief even longer, and he's been running on fumes for the better part of eighteen hours. Maybe this is his body reminding him that he's not actually invincible even if the serum makes it feel that way sometimes. He's tired. That's all this is.

Medical cleared him forty minutes ago. Routine checkup, vitals normal, no injuries to note. Mission success. Another HYDRA facility taken out, mostly inactive but still operational enough to need clearing. A handful of guards, computers full of encrypted files for Nat to sort through, and more dust than seemed reasonable for a place that was supposedly still in use. 

It was a weird amount of dust, actually. Steve keeps snagging on that. Active facilities don't accumulate dust like that, yet the lab was covered with the thick powdery kind that coats every surface and blooms up in pale clouds when you move through it wrong.

And move through it wrong Steve had. 

When he'd taken down three guards in the main lab, the force of the fight had sent up a particularly thick puff of it. Enough that his throat constricted and his chest went tight. A too familiar tightness, low and stubborn, like he was twelve again when every breath was a negotiation. The kind that used to plant itself behind his sternum on cold Brooklyn mornings and refuse to shift.

He'd actually coughed. Hard enough that he had to step out of the room, hand braced against the doorframe while he caught his breath like some rookie who couldn't handle a little particulate in the air. But medical had checked his oxygen levels, listened to his lungs, found nothing wrong. Probably just particulate irritation, they'd said. The serum would clear it. And they'd been right - his breathing's fine now. Everything's fine.

Steve shakes his head, swinging a leg over his bike, and heads into the building. He's overthinking. Natasha told him he looked like shit and should go home and sleep for once. He'd laughed, told her she was projecting.

But now Steve's starting to think she might've been onto something.

The building's stairwell is mercifully cool and quiet, and Steve takes the stairs two at a time like always. Five flights is nothing. He's done it a thousand times, usually without thinking, but tonight by the second floor he's warm - too warm for the mild evening. The leather jacket that felt fine on the ride home now feels stifling, clinging to his shoulders and back.

By the third floor, he starts pulling at his collar. By the fourth, he's unzipped the jacket entirely. And when he hits the fifth floor, there's a thin sheen of sweat on his neck and his breath is coming harder than it should.

Steve pauses, hand on the door to your shared apartment, and for a second he considers turning around. Going back to the compound, making medical run more comprehensive tests.

But the thought of another hour in that sterile medical bay instead of being home - instead of seeing you, sinking into that easy warmth you always seem to carry with you - stirs something wrong in his chest. Makes something tighten uncomfortably. He needs to be home. Needs the particular brand of domesticity that only exists in your shared space, where he gets to be Steve and not Captain America.

Yes. He just needs to get inside, see you, shower, and maybe eat something if you've made dinner. Then sleep for ten hours. Simple.

He pushes through the door before he can second-guess it, and the apartment wraps around him immediately - warmth, music drifting from the kitchen, the smell of garlic and pancetta that means you’re making his favorite pasta. Dropping his duffle by the door, Steve heads to the kitchen, drawn by the sounds of you humming off-key, moving around, the comfortable domestic soundtrack that usually settles something in his chest.

Some of the tension in his shoulders starts to ease. This is good. Normal. Exactly what he needs.

Until he rounds the corner and his brain stutters to a halt.

You're wearing his hoodie. Stood at the stove with your back to him, intently focused on cooking, and you're wearing his hoodie. It practically swamps your frame. The sleeves are pushed up past your elbows because otherwise they'd swallow your hands, shoulders so broad they slip off one of yours, exposing a lacy bralette strap and the curve of bare skin that Steve wants his mouth on.

And shorts. Tiny black shorts that barely qualify as clothing, just peeking out from under the hem of his hoodie, leaving your legs completely bare from where the hoodie ends. 

You're swimming in the hoodie. In something of his. The size difference so obvious it makes his hands itch at this sudden, visceral urge to grab you and see how you’d disappear under him. To see how easy it would be to cage you in, crowd you back against the counter. To get his hands under his hoodie and find out if you're wearing his scent on your skin the way you're wearing his clothes, if you smell like him now, if you thought about him when you put it on, if—

"Oh my god, Steve, you startled me!" 

The sound of your voice catches him mid thought, and his brain slams back to room. You've spun around, wooden spoon in hand, and despite the startled words your whole face lights up. There’s genuine relief there, happiness that seems disproportionate to him just walking through the door. "How was the mission? You look exhausted, are you—"

"Is that my hoodie?"

The words come out rough, almost accusatory, cutting across your concern. Steve doesn't even know why that's the first thing out of his mouth, why out of everything he could say - something normal like hello, mission was fine, dinner smells good - that's what his brain latched onto.

You blink, clearly surprised by the abruptness, then glance down at yourself like you'd forgotten. 

"Oh. Yeah." When you look back up there's mischief in your eyes. "It's way comfier than all of mine. You don't mind, do you?"

Mind. Right. 

Does he mind that you're standing in his kitchen wearing his clothes, drowning in fabric that smells like him, looking so at home and domestic and pretty that something in his chest is pulling tight enough to hurt? Does he mind that this is somehow more intimate than it has any right to be? That the sight of you in his hoodie is doing things to him that he absolutely cannot examine right now?

"No, it's fine." His mouth is dry. When did his mouth get dry? "Keep it."

"Good," you reply, grin widening. "'Cause I wasn't giving it back anyway."

There’s a teasing lilt to it that Steve feels low in his gut. Or lower than his gut. Somewhere he’s definitely not supposed to be feeling things about his roommate, his friend, the person who should feel safe and comfortable in her own home without him losing his mind over a fucking hoodie.

But God, you turn back to the stove and Steve can’t stop watching. Even as you start chattering to him about dinner, about your day, something that would normally have him leaning against the counter asking questions, he's not hearing your words anymore. Instead, Steve's gaze drops without permission, returning to the way the hoodie shifts when you move, how it rides up when you reach for the spice cabinet and shows more of how those shorts cling to your ass.

He takes a step closer without meaning to. Then another. Close enough now that your scent hits him properly and floods his senses - that particular sweetness he associates with you, but underneath it, woven through, is him. His scent. 

You smell like you've wrapped yourself in him, like you're marked with it, and the possessive bolt of heat that shoots through Steve nearly buckles his knees. His fingers curl into fists at his sides, jaw clenching as his body responds with alarming intensity to something as simple as you wearing his clothes.

The kitchen feels too small suddenly - too hot, the air too thick, and Steve can't seem to get enough oxygen to his brain. No prizes for guessing where else it's heading.

And the heat under his skin, that constant low simmer since he left the compound, suddenly cranks up to something that makes him lightheaded. His jeans are getting tight, his cock beginning to harden. And there's this clawing need building in his chest that he doesn't know what to do with, doesn't know how to control.

Of course, it's not new, the attraction.

He's been attracted to you since you moved in six months ago. Since Sam had shoved your number at him and told him his apartment was depressing and lonely and that he needed a roommate. Since you'd shown up with boxes stacked in your arms and made some joke about not being a serial killer that surprised a laugh out of him. 

Living with you has been comfortable in a way he hadn't expected, all casual dinners and movie nights and inside jokes. And yes, maybe he's spent more time than he'd like to admit thinking about what it might be like to close that distance, to make this more than friendly, to kiss you. 

But Steve's not stupid. Asking you out could ruin everything. Could make you uncomfortable in your own home, make you feel like you had to say yes because of who he is, or worse, make you feel like you had to leave if you said no. The risk of destroying this easy, comfortable thing you've built together isn't worth it, no matter how many times Sam and Bucky tell him he's being an idiot and should just ask you to dinner already.

And yet, now his body doesn't seem to care. It's like every nerve ending in his body has suddenly rewired itself to point at you like a compass finding north. Something that's making his hands shake and his brain offer up increasingly detailed images of what he could do if he just closed the distance between you, if he just reached out and—

"Steve? Are you even listening to me?"

Your voice cuts through the spiral once again and he realizes you've been talking. You've turned back to look at him, and your eyebrows are doing that thing where they draw together with worry. 

"You look really flushed." You're studying him now, concern sharpening in your eyes, and then you're moving toward him. "And you're kind of just... standing there like something's wrong."

Your hand comes up, and the second your fingers make contact with his forearm, Steve jerks back like you've burned him. Nearly trips over his own feet putting distance between you. The brief touch sends electricity straight through him, and his cock responds immediately, twitching and thickening in his jeans until they feel obscenely tight. He shifts his stance, angles his body slightly away, desperately trying to hide what's becoming impossible to conceal.

This is insane. He's going insane.

Your eyes are darting over his face now, head tilted in that way you do when you're trying to figure him out, and there's genuine worry written across your features. Everything about it - you being this close, smelling like him, looking up at him with those big, concerned eyes - is making everything exponentially worse. The ache low in his gut intensifies, spreading outward until his whole body feels like a live wire.

"Steve, are you okay?" you ask, and he makes the mistake of watching your lips form the words. "You're really worrying me."

"Yeah." His voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable. He clears his throat, trying again. "Fine. Just tired."

"Are you sure?" You take another step closer and Steve's back hits the doorframe. "You're sweating. Like, a lot. And you're breathing hard."

He is. He can feel it now, a bead of it running down his temple. And his t-shirt is sticking to his spine despite the fact that the apartment isn't remotely warm. What the fuck was happening to him? His skin feels wrong. Too tight. Prickling with something that's not quite pain but certainly is more than uncomfortable. Every nerve ending feels raw and oversensitive.

His jacket is still on and it's unbearable, too tight across his shoulders and trapping heat against his skin. He needs it off. 

"I'm fine," he lies, and even he can hear how strained it sounds. "Just—I need a shower."

"A shower?" Your frown deepens. "Steve, maybe we should call Bruce or someone, you're clearly not—"

"I'm fine." It comes out harsher than he meant it to, and he watches you flinch. Fuck. Fuck, he's making this so much worse. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I just—it's just muscle tension. From the mission. My muscles are sore and the serum makes me run hot sometimes, you know that, and I just need—a cold shower will help, it'll help cool me down and—"

He's babbling. He knows he's babbling, throwing out excuse after excuse while you stared at him like you'd never seen him before, like he's a stranger wearing Steve Rogers' face, but he can't seem to stop.

"The mission was intense," he continues frantically, needing you to believe him, needing you to stop looking so worried. "Lots of close combat and I'm just—I'm tense. All my muscles are tense. A shower will help. Just need to cool down and relax."

He turns and practically flees down the hallway, before he can say what he really needs - you, spread out beneath him, wrapped around him, making sounds he's only let himself imagine in his weakest, most shameful moments when his hand is on his cock in the dark and he pretends it's you touching him instead.

Steve stumbles into his bedroom and straight through to the en-suite, shutting the door and leaning against it like something's chasing him. His reflection in the mirror looks frantic. Face flushed dark, pupils blown so wide, chest heaving. His lips look fuller somehow, plumper and pinker, like he's been biting them without realizing.

Guilt churns in his gut alongside the relentless heat. He'd scared you. Snapped at you when all you'd done was try to help. Made you worry. Been completely fucking weird and now you probably think he's losing his mind.

Maybe he is.

Because he's so hard it actually hurts. His cock is straining against his jeans, thick and aching, pressing against the zipper unbearably. He can feel his pulse in it, each throb sending a jolt of sensation through him that was equal parts pleasure and agony. When he shifts his weight, the friction of denim against sensitive skin makes him bite back a groan.

He's never felt like this. This desperate, all-consuming need that won't quit no matter how much he tries to think it away, logic it away, force it down with sheer willpower.

Sweat runs down his temple, his neck. The leather jacket is still on and Steve tears it off with shaking hands, letting it drop to the floor. It doesn't help. Everything still feels too hot, too tight, like his skin has shrunk two sizes and doesn't fit his body anymore.

Steve's fingers fumble with his belt, clumsy in a way they never are. They're shaking now, struggling with the simple mechanics of a belt buckle while his cock throbs insistently behind the zipper.

He gets it open finally, pops the button on his jeans, and the relief of pressure is so immediate and intense that he has to brace one hand against the sink. But it's not enough. Not even close. He shoves the jeans down his hips and they catch on his thighs - still damp with sweat, fabric clinging - and Steve has to peel them off with more force than should be necessary.

His boxer briefs are tented obscenely, a wet patch of precum already visible at the tip, and Steve can't even meet his own reflection in the mirror.

The shirt comes off next, pulled over his head and discarded without ceremony. His dog tags clink against his chest, metal warm from his overheated skin. Every piece of clothing that comes off should make him feel better, cooler, but it doesn't. If anything, being bare makes him more aware of how wrong everything feels. The hypersensitivity of his skin, the way even air movement feels like too much stimulus.

Steve hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his boxer briefs, and just the brush of fabric as he moves pulls a sound from his throat he doesn't recognize. When he shoves them down, his cock springs free, completely erect and already leaking.

This isn't normal. Even for him, even with the serum's effect on his libido, this is excessive. Steve looks down at himself and feels something close to shame. 

Turning away from the mirror, Steve reaches into the shower, cranking the cold tap as far as it will go. He steps in the moment the water starts flowing and the cold hits him like a physical shock. For a blessed moment, it cuts through everything else. His overheated skin welcomes the icy spray like a mercy, the temperature difference sharp enough to make him gasp in relief. Steve braces his hands against the tile, head hanging under the stream, and tries to breathe through it. 

Tries to think about anything other than you. Anything other than your scent and your touch and the sight of you in those shorts and his hoodie.

The water runs over his shoulders, down his spine, plastering his hair to his forehead. It should help. But his cock is still hard. Still throbbing. And as the initial shock of cold fades, the heat comes creeping back. That insistent burning under his skin that the water isn't touching.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut and immediately regrets it.

Because his mind is flooded with images of you leaning over the counter in those tight little shorts, making dinner. And his traitorous brain doesn't stop there, it keeps going, imagining you in that same position but for different reasons, imagining him behind you, imagining his hands shoving that fabric out of the way to find you wet and needy for him.

"Fuck," he hisses through clenched teeth.

His cock throbs in response, another bead of precum forming at the tip despite the freezing water, despite the fact that he's actively trying not to think about you. He looks down at himself - still achingly hard, heavy between his legs - and feels another wave of confused arousal crash through him that makes his knees weak.

Maybe it's just because it's been so long?

Steve tries to think back to the last time he actually took care of himself. Weeks? No, longer than that. A month at least, maybe two. He's been so focused on missions, on taking down HYDRA bases, on being Captain America, that he hasn't exactly had time for anything "extracurricular."

This is probably the longest he's gone without any kind of release since waking up from the ice.

The serum amplified everything about him, including ramping up his sex drive to levels that had taken some getting used to. Back in the forties, right after the transformation, he'd been blindsided by it. Suddenly he'd gone from Steve Rogers who could barely keep a girl's attention to someone who had urges that were damn near overwhelming.

He'd had to learn to manage it, to deal with needs that were sharper and more insistent than anything a normal man experienced. So he'd figured out his body's rhythms, what it needed, how often. Learned to take care of himself efficiently and move on. 

Except now he's apparently pushed too far, gone too long, and his enhanced biology is making its displeasure violently known.

That has to be it. Has to be why he's reacting like this. Not because something's wrong, but because he's pent up and his body is responding to deprivation the way the serum makes it respond to everything: excessively.

And you. God, you in those shorts, in his hoodie, being so sweet and domestic, had just been the trigger. The match to kindling that had been building for weeks.

It's not pervy. It's just biology. Enhanced biology, biology nonetheless. So if he just takes care of it, he'll be fine. The need will ease, his head will clear, and he can go back out there and have dinner like a normal person instead of someone who can barely look at his roommate without getting hard.

Steve's hand drifts down his stomach almost without conscious thought, and when his fingers wrap around his cock he can't stop the groan that rumbles from his chest. The touch sends electricity up his spine, pleasure so intense it's almost painful after being hard and neglected for so long. 

He strokes slowly at first, testing, and his head falls back against the tile with a dull thunk. The cold water streams over his chest but he doesn't feel it anymore. All his focus narrows to the heat building in his core, the slick slide of his fist over sensitized skin, the way his cock throbs with every stroke like it's been waiting for this. 

And in his thoughts, you're there. 

Steve's grip tightens involuntarily and he strokes faster, chasing friction, telling himself to think about something else, anything else. But his mind won't cooperate. It just keeps offering up increasingly vivid fantasies: what you'd look like without his hoodie, whether you were wearing anything under those shorts, if you'd be wet if he checked, if you ever touched yourself in your room late at night thinking about— 

"Shit—," he curses, the sound echoing off the shower tiles. 

God, what would you sound like? The question burrows into his brain and won't let go. Would you whimper? Moan his name? Would you be loud or would you try to stay quiet, biting your lip the way you do when you're concentrating? Would you beg? He thinks you might. Thinks you might say his name all breathy and desperate while he slowly thrusts into you, feeling you stretch around his cock inch by inch. 

A low groan builds in his chest and Steve has to bite down on his lip so hard that he tastes copper. You're just in the kitchen. The walls aren't that thick. And the thought of you hearing him like this should horrify him but instead it sends another bolt of heat straight through his gut.

Steve's free hand slaps against the tile, bracing himself as his knees threaten to give out.

His cock is leaking steadily now, precum making the slide slick and easy, as his hand speeds up, rhythm getting rougher, chasing the sensation. And Steve can't stop imagining it's your hand instead of his. Your smaller fingers wrapped around him, struggling to fit around his girth, looking up at him with those eyes while you learn exactly how he likes to be touched.

Or better yet, your mouth. Fuck, your mouth. Those pretty lips he'd caught himself staring at stretched around his cock, your tongue sliding along the underside, taking him deeper while he threads his fingers through your hair, guiding you, feeling your moans vibrate around him.

A strangled sound escapes his throat before he can stop it, and Steve has to sink his teeth into his shoulder to muffle it. He's so wound up, weeks of neglect and pent-up need making him hair-trigger sensitive. His hips thrust forward into his fist, searching for more friction, more pressure, chasing the orgasm building at the base of his spine with alarming speed. 

This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong. You're his friend, his roommate, someone who trusts him enough to live with him and wear his clothes and worry when he seems off. And here he is jerking off to fantasies of fucking your face. While you wait for him to come back for dinner.

But he can't stop. Can't make his mind go blank or think of anything else.

"Fuck—" His forearm isn't enough to muffle it and Steve bites down on his own arm as his orgasm slams through him. "Oh god, fuck—"

His cock pulses in his grip, and your name tears from his throat. Thick ropes of cum paint the shower wall, more than seems possible. The serum already makes him produce more than normal, but this is excessive even for him. It's almost painful in its intensity, pleasure so sharp it makes his legs shake, and he has to brace both hands against the wall to stay upright while it works through him.

For a few blissful seconds, pleasure drowns out every other sensation in his body

Then reality crashes back in, and with it comes the guilt.

Steve stares at the evidence of his release being washed away by the spray, chest heaving, and feels the shame burn through him hotter than the need had been.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, scrubbing both hands over his face. "What the fuck is wrong with me?"

But even as guilt churns heavy in his gut, even as he tells himself he's disgusting and inappropriate and a terrible friend, he looks down and his stomach drops. He's still hard. Not just half-hard, not softening. Fully, achingly erect like he hadn't just had one of the most intense orgasms of his life. The relief he'd expected, the clarity that should have come, was nowhere to be found.

Steve stares in disbelief. The serum gives him a faster refractory period than normal, sure, but this? This isn't normal. Even for him.

He wraps a hand around himself experimentally and has to bite back a groan. The touch sends sparks through his overloaded nerves, pleasure bordering on unbearable, but underneath it the need is still there. Still clawing at his insides, unsatisfied and demanding more.

If anything, the ache in his gut feels worse now. More insistent. Like his body is genuinely angry that he came and it wasn't inside you, that it was his hand and not your body taking it, not your pussy clenching around him and milking him dry.

"No," Steve says out loud, voice hard like he's ordering a subordinate. Like he can command his own body back into line through sheer force of will. "Stop it."

This can't be just pent-up sexual frustration. Something else is happening. Something must've happened at that Hydra base. It has to that - the dust. The way it had hung in the air, gotten in his lungs, made him cough like his body was rejecting it. What if it wasn't just particulate irritation? What if HYDRA had something in that lab, some kind of bioweapon that got into his system?

Steve's jaw clenches. He should call Bruce. Should've called him an hour ago instead of convincing himself this was normal. Bruce would run tests, figure out what he'd been exposed to, synthesize a counter-agent if needed. Or Tony. Tony has access to SHIELD's entire database on HYDRA weapons, might recognize the symptoms.

But the thought of making that call, of trying to explain, "Hey, I can't stop thinking about fucking my roommate, I'm hard enough to cut diamond, and I just jerked off in the shower while moaning her name," makes him want to die. Tony would never let him live it down, would make jokes about it for the rest of Steve's natural life. 

He'd probably tell Natasha, who would tell Clint, and then the entire team would know that Captain America got dosed with some kind of HYDRA sex drug and spent the evening jerking off to thoughts of his roomate. 

Maybe it'll pass on its own. The serum processes toxins faster than a normal metabolism; whatever this is might just need time to work through his system. He can get through dinner, make some excuse about not feeling well, go to bed early. Wake up tomorrow back to normal.

Turning off the water with more force than necessary, Steve reaches for a towel. Even the act of drying off feels like too much. The terry cloth dragging across his oversensitized skin makes him grit his teeth. He manages his chest and arms with rough, perfunctory swipes, but when the towel brushes his cock he actually hisses, the sensation sharp enough to make his vision blur.

He abandons the towel halfway through, still damp, and pulls his boxers back on, hissing at the friction of fabric against sensitive skin. The compression just makes him more aware of his situation. He's tenting the boxers obscenely, the outline of his erection impossible to miss, a damp spot already forming again where he's leaking. There's no hiding this. No way to pretend everything's fine when his body is advertising exactly how not-fine he is.

And the thought of putting anything else on makes his overheated skin crawl. Maybe he could manage sweatpants. Loose ones that won't cling. And then he'll return to the kitchen, try and act normal for dinner.

Steve takes a breath that doesn't quite fill his lungs, braces himself, and opens the bathroom door.

You're in his bedroom.

Standing there with frozen peas in one hand, and a pill bottle and bottle of water in the other. The shock of it - you, here, in his space when he's barely holding himself together, when he's standing here in nothing but his boxers with his cock still straining obscenely against the fabric - roots him to the spot. Your head snaps up at the sound of the door, eyes going wide.

"Oh! Sorry, you'd been a while and you were so weird earlier and I got worried..."

The words trail off. Steve watches it happen, the way your gaze catches on his bare, dripping chest. You're trying to be subtle, he thinks, trying to make it look clinical, concerned, but there's nothing clinical about the way your focus catches on the water beaded across his chest.

Your lips part slightly as you track a single droplet running down his sternum, over the defined ridges of his abs, following its path like you're memorizing it until it disappears into the waistband of his boxers.

And then your gaze drops lower.

Steve watches your pupils dilate the moment you see what’s impossible to miss, impossible to misinterpret. Time stretches. Your breath hitches just loud enough for him to hear, and neither of you moves.

"I thought—" Your voice comes out different. Breathier. You swallow so hard he can see your throat work. "I thought these might help. For your muscles."

You hold up the peas and pills like they explain why you're in his bedroom, but your gaze hasn't moved back to his face. It's still tracking over him - shoulders, chest, the V of muscle at his hips - and Steve can see the flush creeping up your neck in real time. 

He should grab something to cover himself, should apologize, should do literally anything other than just stand there letting you look at him like that.

You start rambling now, that nervous spillover of words you do when you're flustered. "Frozen peas for the soreness, and Bruce made these painkillers specifically for your metabolism, remember? For when—"

"You didn't have to do that." His voice sounds like gravel.

"Sorry," you say quietly, and your eyes finally drag back up to his face. "I'm just… you really scared me earlier. I've never seen you like that."

The concern in your voice is palpable. But then you shift your weight and he catches the way your gaze dips again, just for a second. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips - unconscious, he's sure, but it doesn't matter because the sight of it sends heat straight through him so fast it makes his head spin.

Did you hear him? In the shower? Is that why you came to his room? Because you heard your name, heard what he was doing? The thought should mortify him. Should make him want to disappear through the floor. Instead, his cock gives an interested twitch that he knows you can see.

"Steve?" 

Your voice pulls him back. You've moved closer. When did that happen? The peas and water are on his nightstand now and you're right there, close enough that when Steve pulls in his next breath, your scent floods his senses again. But there's something else now. Something sweeter, headier, that makes his enhanced senses lock onto you like a target.

Arousal.

You're aroused. The realization slams into him with physical force. He can smell it on you, subtle but unmistakable, and every instinct in his body that's been screaming at him all evening suddenly focuses with laser precision on that single fact.

"You're still really flushed," you say, and your voice has gone soft. Worried. "And you're breathing so hard. Are you sure nothing's wrong?"

Everything's wrong. You're too close and you smell too good and he can see your pulse fluttering in your throat and all he can think about is closing that last foot of distance and finding out if you taste as good as you smell.

"I'm fine," Steve lies, and it might be the most blatant one yet.

You turn to face him fully, and the genuine worry etched in your features makes his chest tight for different reasons.

"You do so much, Stevie," you probe, and the nickname lands like a caress. "You hold so much in. You've been working so hard lately, mission after mission." You step closer and Steve's breath catches, every muscle in his body going rigid with the effort of staying still. "I'm worried about you. If there's anything I can do to help, anything at all, please tell me. I'll do it."

Anything at all.

Steve's mind immediately offers up about a dozen graphic answers to that - vivid, explicit images of exactly what you could do to help, each one more detailed than the last. He has to close his eyes against the onslaught, has to physically fight back the thoughts of your mouth on him, your body under his, the sounds you'd make if he just gave in and took what his body is screaming for. 

You don't mean it like that. You're just being kind, being a good friend, offering comfort the way you always do. You have no idea what's running through his head right now, how close he is to snapping.

"You don't—" His voice cracks and he has to clear his throat, has to force the words out. "You don't need to worry about me."

But you're not listening, or maybe you're just too concerned to care about his protests, because your hand comes up toward his face and Steve's reflexes take over before his brain can catch up. His hand shoots out and catches your wrist mid-air, and the second skin touches skin everything goes white-hot.

The touch sears through him like lightning. He can feel your pulse under his fingertips, quick and fluttering, can feel the softness of your skin, and it takes every ounce of willpower he possesses not to yank you against him right then and there.

"Let me see," you protest, and before Steve can process the words you're pulling your wrist free of his grip. A determined tug that his lust-addled brain doesn't think to resist. Both of your palms come up to cup his face, cool against his burning skin.

Steve's lungs stop working. Your hands on his jaw, your thumbs at his temples, the way you're studying him with those worried eyes while standing close enough that he can see the individual flecks of colour in your iris is obliterating what's left of his control. "Oh my god, you're burning up. Steve, you're literally…"

He can't hear the rest. Can't process words when your hands are on his face and your arousal is flooding his senses and the coil of need in his gut has pulled so tight he thinks it might actually snap him in half. All he can think about is grabbing your wrists, pulling you flush against him, finding out if your mouth tastes as good as he's imagined when he finally stops being careful and takes what he wants.

Your fingers move to his neck - checking his pulse - and Steve stops breathing entirely. His cock throbs so hard it's painful and he can feel his control dissolving like sugar in water, going from solid to nothing in seconds.

He needs. God, he needs. Needs to touch you, taste you, needs to rip those tiny shorts off and find out if you're as wet as you smell, needs to bury himself inside you until this relentless burning finally stops, needs to pin you to his bed and fuck you until you're screaming his name and all of a sudden he can't remember why he was fighting this in the first place.

"I'm calling Bruce—"

"No!"

The word comes out too loud, too violent, and Steve watches you jump. He's scaring you again and he hates it but he can't stop, can't make himself be gentle when his whole body is screaming.

"You need to leave." The words sound strangled, barely human. His control is hanging by a thread and that thread is unravelling fast. "Please. You need to go. Right now."

"What? No, Stevie, I'm not leaving when you're clearly—"

"Please." It comes out like a whine, and some distant part of Steve registers that he's begging but he's too far gone to care about pride or dignity anymore.

He takes a step back, needing distance before he does something unforgivable. "You don't—you don't understand. You need to go back to your room. Lock the door. Don't come near me."

Your expression shifts to hurt and confusion, brow furrowing in that way that makes his chest ache even through the haze of need. "Why? Steve, I just want to help!"

"You can't help with this!" Too sharp, too harsh, and he watches you flinch like he's struck you. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, just—please just go. Please."

"You're scaring me." Your voice comes out small and it kills him, absolutely kills him. "Just tell me what's wrong. Whatever it is, we can figure it out togeth—"

"I can't stop thinking about you." The confession tears out of him before he can stop it, raw and desperate and too honest. "I can't—fuck, I've been trying, I've been trying so hard to hold it together but I can't think straight and all I want—all I can think about is—"

He cuts himself off with a harsh breath but it's too late. The truth is out there now, hanging in the air between you like something physical.

You stare at him with your eyes wide, and Steve can see your chest rising and falling rapidly. Can see the exact moment his words register. The shock flickering across your face, then understanding, then something that looks dangerously close to want. Your scent spikes so sharply it makes his knees weak, that sweet arousal flooding his senses until he can barely think through it.

"Steve," you breathe, and there's something in your voice he's never heard before. Something breathless and urgent.

You take a step closer. Then another. Your hand comes up to rest against his chest, right over his hammering heart, and Steve's breath stops entirely. He can feel the tremble in your fingers, can see the way your eyes flick to his lips, and he knows with sudden, devastating certainty what you're about to do.

You push up on your toes, tilting your face toward his, close enough that he can feel your breath ghost across his lips, and Steve's last thread of control frays to nothing.

Lunging that last inch, he captures your mouth in a kiss that tries, briefly, to be gentle - some buried instinct trying for something tender, wanting to do this right. But the moment your lips part under his, a deep rumbling growl tears up from his throat and his hands are suddenly everywhere. One hand fists in your hair, gripping tight to angle your head exactly where he needs it, while the other clamps onto your waist. Tight enough that you know you'll feel the imprint of his fingers tomorrow.

God, you want to feel it tomorrow.

He yanks you flush to his body and you stumble into him with a gasp that's his undoing. Your mouth opens for him and Steve takes immediate advantage, greedy for it, greedy for every breath you'll give him, tilting his head to seal his mouth over yours properly.

His tongue sweeps past your lips to finally taste you properly, and you're even sweeter than every fantasy promised. Better than anything he imagined in that shower with his hand on his cock and your name in his throat.

When he sucks your bottom lip between his teeth and releases it slowly, you make this small wounded sound that goes straight to his cock. You feel it twitch against your stomach through the thin cotton of his boxers, and he's so big, so overwhelming, radiating heat and the salt musk smell of his sweat that makes your head spin and your thighs clench.

Heat floods his system at the knowledge that you can feel how hard he is, how much he wants you. And he knows he can't satisfy the clawing need in his gut through your mouth alone.

Steve tears himself away from your mouth and every cell in his body revolts violently like he's ripping off his own skin. A needy little protest escapes you as you chase after him without thought, lips wet and swollen and so devastatingly pretty he almost stops caring. 

"You don't," The words come out between ragged pants, his voice wrecked, barely recognizable as his own. "You don't understand." His chest heaves against yours, breath coming hard and fast as he presses his forehead to yours, hand still fisted tight in your hair because letting go simply isn't something his body knows how to do anymore. "I'm not in control right now. I don't know if I can be gentle. Don't know if I can stop once I start—"

"Then don't stop," you whisper against his lips, and your hand slides up his chest to curl around the back of his neck. "Take what you need, Steve."

And there’s no universe, no timeline where Steve Rogers could survive hearing that from your mouth, not even if he were perfectly himself. 

His last thread of restraint frays to nothing.

Steve's mouth crashes back into yours with bruising intensity, all desperate hunger and zero control. You open for him instantly, no hesitation, just pure wanting, and the primal satisfaction that rolls through his chest is almost violent in its intensity.

Then his arms slide down to grip your thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh as he hauls you up against him like you weigh nothing. You're so light in his grip, so easy to position exactly where he wants you, and the rush of it - the physical proof of how easily he can manhandle you - sends a dark thrill surging through him. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively and your body moulds to his perfectly, soft curves yielding to hard muscle, and he can feel everything.

The frantic beat of your heart hammering against his chest. The clench of your thighs around his hips. The damp heat between your legs settling right against his cock through the layers separating you, and it makes him throb so hard he groans into your mouth.

But still, it's not enough. He needs you impossibly closer, needs to consume every inch of space between you. One hand shifts to palm your ass with a possessive squeeze that makes you whimper and roll your hips against him. It's an instinctive, needy grind that drags your core along the length of his still covered cock. 

"Steve, please," you whine against his mouth. "I need—"

Your desperation makes Steve's pupils blow completely black, swallowing the blue entirely. He turns and presses you against the wall, pinning you there with the weight of his hips, using the solid surface to hold you exactly where he wants you.

"God, I know, sweetheart. I know you do," he rasps against your neck, teeth scraping your pulse point. "Tried to be good. Tried not to think about this. But so damn sweet I can’t think straight." His hands tighten on you possessively, fingers digging into flesh. "'m gonna take care of you now, I promise. Gonna make you feel perfect. Gonna stretch you open on my cock and fill you up until you can't take anymore. Fill you up so good you'll feel me for days."

Heat curls low and tight in your belly at his filthy promise, and your body reacts instinctively, clenching around nothing so sharply that a needy little moan slips out before you can stop it. Your fingers clutch at his bare shoulders, desperate for something to anchor yourself against the overwhelming reality of finally having him like this. 

All that heated muscles under your palms, slick with sweat. He’s so much bigger like this, crowding every inch of space you have, caging you in, and your head swims with the sheer physicality of him.

But it’s the heavy, hard length of his cock grinding against you through thin cotton that nearly undoes you. Thick and insistent, pressed exactly where you’re throbbing for him, dragging against you with every subtle shift of his hips. The friction makes your breath stutter, your thighs tightening helplessly around him, trying to draw him even closer, to get more of that impossible, intoxicating pressure.

Steve moves with urgency that borders on frantic, carrying you the few steps to his bed and laying you down with slightly more care than the desperation vibrating through his body would suggest. But the second you're on the mattress, that restraint evaporates. He follows you down like he's magnetised, covering your body with his.

Heat radiates off him in waves, overwhelming, consuming. His breath fans over your cheek, uneven and ragged, and when his hips slot between yours, you feel just how hard he is. Thick, straining against the thin cotton of his boxers like he’s seconds from losing his mind entirely.

"Jesus," he groans, almost a choke, forehead dropping to your shoulder as if the contact alone might save him. "I need—sweetheart, I need you, I need you so bad."

He kisses you again, harder this time, nothing gentle left in him. His mouth is hot, frantic, stealing your breath as his hands slide over you in frantic sweeps, already pulling at your clothes. It's rougher than he intends - though he’s trying, god he’s trying - but whatever is burning through him is stronger than his control.

His hoodie is the first causality, tugged over your head and tossed aside without care for where it lands. Immediately his mouth is on your bare skin, lips and teeth working down your throat to your collarbone while his hands slide up to cup your breasts through the thin bralet. 

The delicate fabric does nothing to hide your peaked nipples straining against it, and the sight combined with the feel of them hard beneath his palms makes him groan low and desperate against your skin. His fingers hook under the elastic, pulling it up with greedy, impatient hands before it can register that he should probably slow down, be more careful with you. 

But he can't. His mouth trails lower, hot and demanding as he sucks one nipple between his lips, tongue circling the sensitive peak before his teeth graze it lightly, teasing. Your fingers thread into his hair, tugging. He groans at the sting of it and sucks harder, alternating between your breasts with ravenous attention. Licking, sucking, nipping until both nipples are peaked and glistening with his spit, until you're squirming beneath him and making those breathy little sounds that drive him insane.

His hand palms and kneads the soft flesh while his mouth works, and every arch of your back, every tug on his hair, every whining plea that falls from your lips just winds him tighter. Normally could spend hours here, mapping every response, learning exactly what makes you fall apart.

But it's not enough right now. None of it is enough.

The need burning through Steve's veins is almost painful now, an ache so deep and consuming he can barely think past it. He needs more. Needs all of you. Needs to be inside you with an urgency that's rapidly shredding what little control he has left. 

His mouth trails down your stomach, open-mouthed kisses that quickly become bites, small sucks that leave wet heat on your skin. He’s losing the thread of gentleness entirely, hands already at your shorts, fumbling with the waistband for half a second before impatience overrides coordination entirely.

He doesn't mean to - or maybe he does, he can't think straight enough to know - but his enhanced strength rips through the fabric like tissue paper, taking your panties with it. The startled sound you make is half protest, half arousal, because the ease of it, the sheer strength, makes heat pulse between your legs.

"Steve—!"

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he rasps into your skin as he chucks the ruined scraps aside. "I'm sorry, I'll replace them, I promise, I just—" His hands grip your thighs, spreading them wider for him. "I need—I can't—"

But the words die in his throat completely because the sight of your pussy, slick and glistening for him, combined with your scent flooding his heightened senses, makes something in Steve's brain simply stop working. Every coherent thought evaporates, consumed by primal need. He's gone. Completely lost to whatever's burning through his veins. 

All that exists is the need to taste you, claim you, bury himself so deep inside you that he forgets where he ends and you begin.

"Look at you," Steve breathes, tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip absently, like he can already taste you. "So fucking pretty and wet for me." 

His biceps flex as he drags you down the bed effortlessly, hauling you closer with enough strength that a startled gasp tears from your throat. Your thighs end up over those broad shoulders and he settles between your legs like he's exactly where he's meant to be. His breath ghosts hot over where you're aching for him and you arch involuntarily, seeking and retreating all at once.

He's staring at your exposed pussy with an intensity that borders on feral, like you're something he wants to devour. Like's he's been starving for you longer than he'll admit.

Your cheeks burn. Heat pools low in your stomach as you try to squirm away under the intensity of his gaze, suddenly hyperaware of how exposed you are despite how desperately you want this.

"Don't," he growls against your folds, the word a dark, commanding rasp in a tone you've never heard from him before but makes heat flash down your spine.

His arms clamp tighter around your thighs, spreading you wider, pinning you in place easily. Utterly at his mercy. The possessive dominance of his grip steals what little breath you have left.

Then his mouth seals over you and any coherent thought you have dissolves into nothing. There's no teasing; whatever's burning through Steve's veins has burned away every shred of patience. He buries his face between your thighs and devours you like a man who'll die without his mouth on every inch of you. 

His tongue drags through your folds in one long, devastating stroke that punches a broken cry from your chest that you barely recognize as your own voice. Steve's answering moan is one of pure relief, rumbling from deep in his chest and vibrating against your cunt. Your hips buck helplessly in his arms as he licks and sucks with focused, consuming desperation, and within seconds you're gasping his name. 

Broad strokes of his tongue work through your slick folds, greedy in his pursuit of your pleasure and you're writhing against him, biceps flexing to keep you where he wants you. He finds your clit and sucks it between his lips with perfect pressure, circling the swollen bud with his tongue, and you grind against him shamelessly, fingers twisted so tight in his hair it has to hurt.

But Steve just groans his encouragement and you feel it everywhere, feel the way he's grinding against the mattress below seeking his own friction, aching for a bit of relief from the pressure, while he loses himself completely in the taste of you.

God, the sight of him. All flushed skin and flexing muscle, sweat making his broad shoulders gleam, chin glistening obscenely with your arousal. And those perfect plush lips are pink and swollen now, parted around another appreciative moan that makes you clench around nothing. His eyes are closed like he's savouring you, and when they flutter open to meet yours they're so dark and blown wide with need it sends another pulse of heat straight through you.

The flat of his tongue drags up again, licking up through your folds before spearing inside, and the obscene wet sounds of it mix with your gasping moans and his rough growls. One of his hands shifts from your thigh to spread you wider with his thumb, opening you up so he can fuck you with his tongue properly while his nose grinds against your clit.

The combination makes your back arch violently, pleasure spiking so sharp and quickly it's overwhelming.

"Steve—fuck—Steve, oh my god—" The words tumble out incoherent, your brain shorting out under the onslaught.

But he doesn't slow down. If anything, your babbling spurs him on. Two thick fingers slide into you, curling immediately to stroke that devastating spot while his tongue works in tight, merciless circles.You're shaking now, thighs trembling uncontrollably in his bruising grip, that coil winding tighter and tighter until you think you'll actually break apart from it.

"Need you to come," he rasps against you, and there's desperation in his voice that matches the frantic grinding of his hips against the bed, like making you come is the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity. "Please, sweet girl, need to have it."

The raw pleading in his voice is what does it. That broken desperation, the way he's begging you like he needs this more than air, sends you over the edge so hard and fast you don't even have time to warn him.

Your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, violent and all-consuming. Your back arches clean off the bed, thighs clamping around Steve's head as you cry out his name - or try to, the sound coming out more like a broken sob. White-hot pleasure explodes through your nerve endings, radiating out from where his mouth is still working you relentlessly, and you can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except shake apart in his grip.

But Steve doesn't let up. He keeps his mouth sealed over you, licking and sucking like he wants to devour every aftershock, like he's trying to pull more from you even as you're already flying apart. It's too much, bordering on overwhelming, but when you try to squirm away his arms lock you down harder.

"Stevie—'s too much—I can't—"

He finally pulls back just enough to press open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, your hipbones, working his way up your body as you try to remember how to breathe. His hands roam restlessly over your skin and when he reaches your face his lips are glistening, hair dishevelled from your grip, face flushed and chest heaving.

"Perfect, you're so fucking perfect," he rasps against your mouth, kissing you deeply enough that you taste yourself on his tongue. "But I need to be in you, need it more than I've ever needed anything." His hips grind against you unconsciously, the hard length of him pressing insistently through his boxers, now soaked through. "Need it so bad I can't think, can't breathe. Please, pretty girl, need you so bad I'm losing my mind—"

He's already moving, pushing himself up just enough to shove his boxers down with shaking hands. The elastic catches on his cock and he makes a frustrated sound, yanking the fabric down his thighs and kicking them off entirely. When he springs free, your breath catches.

He's big. Thick and flushed dark, curving up toward his stomach with prominent veins running along the length. The head is already leaking, a bead of precum glistening at the tip, and he's so hard it looks almost painful. Your eyes widen involuntarily as your brain tries to process how that's supposed to fit inside you.

Steve notices your stare, follows your gaze down, and a sound rumbles from his chest that's pure male satisfaction. The visual does something to him, you can see it in the way his pupils dilate even further, the way his jaw clenches, the way the muscle ticks. How much bigger he is than you, how easily he could manhandle you, how small and vulnerable you look pinned beneath all that muscle and raw strength.

"It'll fit," he promises, voice rough and absolutely certain despite the tremor in his hands. He settles between your thighs, caging you in completely with his body, surrounding you with heat and want. "I know I'm big, sweetheart, but you can take me, 'm gonna make sure you do."

One hand drops between your bodies and the thick head of his cock drags through your folds, gathering your slick, and the sensation punches a desperate sound from both of you. Each time he rocks forward your hips chase the friction instinctively.

His mouth finds your neck, lips and tongue working over your pulse before he sucks with an impatience that you know will bruise. You gasp and tilt your head without thinking, offering more, and Steve groans his approval against your skin. Teeth scrape over the sensitive tendon before biting down hard enough to make you whimper, and he soothes the sting with his tongue only to move lower and do it again. Marking you deliberately. Claiming you.

He keeps talking in between - words tumbling out of him like he’s not even talking to you anymore, just spilling whatever delirious need is consuming him.

“Fuck…'m gonna stretch this pretty little pussy open on my cock,” he babbles, almost dazed, eyes locked on where he’s lining himself up with you. “Fill you up so good… so fucking full. You'll feel me for days, sweetheart. Days. Gonna make sure you never forget what it feels like to have me inside you."

He's so hot and hard against you, and when he notches himself at your entrance - just the tip of him pressing in - and even that has you whimpering at the stretch. Your arms fly up to wrap around his neck, nails digging into his shoulders as you try to anchor yourself against the overwhelming sensation.

Oh god—Steve—" It comes out high and shaky, almost a whine. "Please—"

The plea tears from your throat but you don't even know what you're begging for. For him to go slower? For more? For relief from the burning stretch that's somehow perfect and too much all at once?

"I know, baby, I know," Steve coos against your throat, pressing kisses between words, and there's that desperation threading through his voice again. "Shh, I've got you, pretty girl. Just breathe for me."

But even as he's soothing you his hips press forward incrementally, working himself deeper, and you can feel every thick inch as he pushes in and your body struggles to accommodate him. The stretch burns and you bury your face against his neck with a sound that's embarrassingly close to a sob.

"Wait—Steve, you're too big, I can't—"

"You can," he pants, his voice is strained, shaking with the monumental effort of going slow when everything in him is screaming to just thrust home, to bury himself completely in your wet heat. "You're doing so good f'me. So fucking good. Just a little more—fuck—just need you to take a little more."

His hands grip your hips tight enough to bruise, holding you still while he rocks forward another inch. You're so full already and he's not even halfway in yet, your body struggling to accommodate the sheer size of him, and the whine that tears from your throat makes him groan and press his forehead to yours.

"That's it, that's it," Steve breathes, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your temple - anywhere he can reach. "I know it's a lot, baby. But you're taking me so perfect. Look how good you're opening up for me." Another shallow thrust and you whimper against his mouth, nails raking down his back. "You're doing so perfect. Gonna make you feel so good, I promise. Just let me in, baby. Let me fill this tight little pussy up like you need."

The combination of his words and the relentless stretch is overwhelming in a way that makes your head spin and your nerve endings spark. Your body reacts instinctively, walls clenching tight around the thick length of him already inside you.

Feeling your wet cunt constrict around hi breaks whatever fragile restraint Steve had left. With a low, guttural sound he slams the rest of the way in, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

The cry that rips from you is sharp and broken - pain and pleasure so intense they're indistinguishable, blurring together into something that has you arching violently against him. You're so full you can barely breathe, stretched impossibly wide around him, and the sensation is so overwhelming you almost come from that alone. 

Your walls flutter and clench around his length, desperately trying to adjust to the sheer size of him. Tears spring to your eyes, spilling over to track down your cheeks.

"Fuck—I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" Steve's voice cracks as he kisses frantically at your tears, lips pressing to your cheeks, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. "I'm so sorry, pretty girl, I didn't mean to—you just felt so good, I couldn't—"

But even as he's apologizing his hips are already moving, pulling back and rocking into you with needy thrusts. He's not giving you time to adjust, can't seem to stop himself, his body operating on pure need now.

"So tight," he gasps against your skin. "So fucking perfect around me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just need—" Another thrust, deeper this time, and you sob against his shoulder. "Need you so bad. Can't stop. Please tell me you're okay, please."

You try to speak. Try to form words through the overwhelming sensation of being so impossibly full but your brain can't form coherent words. All that escapes is a pathetic, whimpering "Stevie." 

It's all you can manage before he shifts his hips slightly, angling deeper, and on the very next thrust the blunt head of his cock grinds right against your g-spot.

Pleasure detonates through you so suddenly you can't even cry out, mouth falling open on a silent gasp as he thrusts into you again. Your eyes fly wide, a shocked gasp tearing from your throat as white-hot sensation explodes through every nerve ending.

You're coming before your brain can even register it's happening. Two thrusts, maybe three, and your orgasm rips through you like lightning.

Your whole body seizes, cunt clamping down violently around his cock as you gush around him, soaking his length and making the slide obscenely wet. The sounds falling from your lips are helpless and incoherent, your back arching clean off the bed as wave after wave of pleasure shorts out your brain completely.

"Fuck—oh fuck, that's it, that's it—" Steve's voice breaks on a groan as your walls spasm around him. "Good girl, such a good fucking girl, coming all over my cock—"

You can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except convulse in his arms while your pussy milks his cock with desperate, rhythmic pulses that has Steve following you over the edge. With a guttural snarl he buries himself as deep as he can go as his cock throbs inside you, pulsing violently as the first rope of cum floods your pussy. Then another. And another. And it doesn't stop.

"Fuck—oh fuck!" Steve's voice breaks on a groan, hips grinding into you as he empties himself, and there's so much. Too much. Your walls are coated, flooded, completely painted white with his release, and he just keeps coming. Spurt after thick spurt filling you beyond capacity until you can actually feel it. Hot and excessive and so overwhelming your body can't contain it all.

"Steve—Steve—oh god." You try to squirm away instinctively, whimpering at the overwhelming sensation of being pumped so full. "I can't—there's too much, I can't—"

But Steve's hands lock onto your hips like a vice, fingers digging in bruisingly as he holds you in place and grinds you down harder onto his cock, forcing you to take more.

"Shh, shh, you can," he hushes against your neck, pushes you down harder onto him, forcing himself impossibly deeper even as his cock continues pulsing, and more cum floods into you. "You can take it, sweetheart. Take all of it. Every fucking drop, just a little more."

Cum starts leaking out around the thick base of him, even though he's still buried deep, still pulsing, still pumping more into you. It spills out of you despite how tightly your pussy is stretched around his length, dripping down your ass and pooling on the sheets beneath you.

"Please," You're babbling now, tears flowing freely as you shake your head helplessly. "Steve, please, 's so much, I'm so full." 

"Fuck, you're dripping with it," Steve pants against your neck, hips still rocking through the aftershocks, trying to fuck his cum further into your already overflowing pussy. "Taking all of it. Every drop. Knew you could. Knew this sweet pussy was made for me, pretty girl." 

His cock gives another violent pulse and you whimper helplessly, completely stuffed, cum sloshing inside you with every tiny shift of his hips.

Your limbs feel boneless, trembling with aftershocks, and you expect him to soften now, to give you both a moment to recover. But Steve doesn't slow down. Doesn't even pause. His cock is still rock-hard inside you and his hips keep moving - pulling back and thrusting in with the same urgent intensity, maybe even more now that you're slick with both your release and his excessive cum.

A broken whimper falls from your lips as oversensitized nerves spark with each thrust. You're so full, so overwhelmed, you can barely process that he's still going, still hard, still needing.

"I know, baby, I know—I'm sorry," He sounds almost pained, teeth scraping over your pulse point before biting down. "I'm sorry, I can't—fuck, just need one more from you—just one more, yeah? Need to feel this perfect pussy clench around me again. Can you do that for me? Please, baby, just one more."

His rhythm picks up, hips snapping forward with primal desperation. You can barely nod, can barely do anything except take it as he pounds into you, the wet obscene sounds of his cum squelching with every thrust filling the room alongside your breathless whimpers and his desperate groans.

But it's still not enough for him. With a frustrated snarl Steve pulls back, and before you can even whine at the loss of him, he's grabbing your legs, pushing them up and back. Your knees press to your chest as he folds you completely in half, and when he sinks back in this new angle has you seeing stars.

"Oh god—" The broken cry tears from your throat as he sinks back in, and he's so much deeper like this. Impossibly deeper.

"That's it—yes," Steve's voice is guttural as he starts moving again. "Need to get deeper, need to—fuck, you feel that? Feel how deep I am?"

You're completely pinned beneath him, folded in half and utterly helpless, unable to do anything but take the brutal pace he sets. The new position has gravity working against you too, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and you're babbling - words tumbling out that don't even make sense.

"Can't—oh god, Stevie, you're—'s too deep, I can't—fuck—s'good—please."

Your hands scrabble frantically at his back, nails digging in and dragging down, leaving angry red crescents that make him hiss and thrust harder.

Sweat drips from his temples onto your chest, your neck, and he leans down to lick it off with a groan, tongue dragging over your heated skin. His hips never stop that relentless grinding, working himself as deep as physics will allow. Driven by something beyond his control to keep fucking into your used, dripping pussy like his life depends on it.

"Taking me so well," he pants into your neck between messy kisses. "Look at you, so good for me. Letting me use this perfect cunt."

One of Steve's hands snakes down between your bodies, finding your clit, and the second his thumb makes contact you cry out - sharp and broken - because you're so oversensitive, swollen and puffy from two orgasms already

"Steve—no, I can't—can't again, 's too much."

"You can," he insists, and his fingers start circling that abused bundle of nerves with just enough pressure. "Can feel you getting tighter already. You're gonna come for me again, pretty girl. Need to feel you squeeze my cock one more time, please."

The stimulation is so intense you need to escape it. Every muscle in your body wants to flee the overwhelming sensation, but pinned beneath him like this there's nowhere to go, no way to twist away. You're utterly trapped, unable to do anything but take it. Take his cock pounding into you and his thumb working mercilessly over your puffy clit until pleasure starts building again despite your body's protests.

"Oh god, oh my god—Steve please." You're sobbing now, tears streaming as sensation builds too fast, too intense.

But your body betrays you. The combination of his fingers and his cock and being trapped beneath him with nowhere to go builds faster than should be possible when you're this wrung out. Your pussy flutters around him, clenching weakly, and Steve groans like it's the best thing he's ever felt.

"That's it, come on, give it to me."

And you do. Your third orgasm rips through you with less intensity than the others but somehow more devastating because you're so oversensitive every nerve ending feels raw. You clench around him with a broken sob, thighs shaking violently where they're pressed to your chest.

But this time when you come down, gasping and trembling, Steve doesn't stop. Doesn't even slow down. If anything he gets more frantic, more desperate, like your orgasm just made the need worse instead of better. 

His rhythm gets more erratic, more brutal, like he's chasing something just out of reach and it's driving him insane.

"Not deep enough," he mutters, almost to himself, and there's genuine frustration in his voice. "Still not—fuck—need more, need—"

Without warning he pulls out completely, ignoring your confused whimper, and his hands are on you - gripping, lifting. You barely process what's happening before you're airborne, completely off the bed, and Steve is standing with you in his arms like you weigh nothing.

"Wrap your legs around me," he orders, voice rough, and you obey on complete instinct, the words not even processing in your brain. The moment you do he's lining himself up and pulling back you down onto his cock with brutal force.

The angle is devastating. Gravity works against you, impaling you on his full length, and the depth has you choking on a scream. You can feel him everywhere, so deep and stretching you in ways that shouldn't be possible.

"There—fuck yes, there." Steve's head falls back on a guttural moan as he starts using you, biceps bulging as he fucks you on his cock like you're a toy made for his pleasure. Lifting you up and pulling you back down with ease that should be terrifying but instead has you clenching around him.

You're completely helpless, just a ragdoll as he manhandles you exactly how he needs. Your hands scrabble desperately at his shoulders for any kind of stability. Every time he pulls you down gravity does half the work, driving him impossibly deeper, and all you can do is take it. You can't form words anymore, just needy little sounds as he uses your body. 

Your brain is completely gone, drunk on the feeling of him, on being so full, on the obscene wet sounds of his cum leaking out with every brutal thrust and dripping down both of you to splatter on the floor.

"Look at you," Steve rasps, eyes wild as they lock onto where you're joined, watching himself disappear into you over and over. "Fucking look at you taking my cock. So small I can just—" He emphasizes with a particularly brutal drop that has you wailing. "Use you however I want."

Your thighs are shaking violently, muscles screaming, but it doesn't matter because Steve's holding you up effortlessly. Using his strength to fuck you on him at whatever pace he wants, and right now he wants it hard and fast and deep.

"Steve—fuck—oh god, oh god." You're babbling, tears streaming, completely cock-drunk and overwhelmed.

"Shh, I know, I know," he coos even as he doesn't slow down at all. "But you're doing so good f'me. My perfect girl, letting me use this tight little cunt. Can feel myself in your stomach, can you feel it? Feel how deep I am?"

You can only whine in response, completely overwhelmed, pleasure bordering on too much but your body keeps responding, keeps clenching around him like it can't help itself.

The last of your strength gives out entirely. Your head lolls against his shoulder, too heavy to hold up anymore, and you're just gone. Completely boneless in his grip, every muscle turned to liquid, unable to do anything except let him use you exactly how he needs. Arms hanging limply around his neck, your legs barely maintain their grip around his waist; if it weren't for Steve's hands on you, you'd slide right off him.

"Can't—can't—Stevie I can't." The words slur together, muffled against the sweat-slick skin of his neck, your brain too fried to form anything coherent.

"I know, baby, I know, almost there." Steve assures, his rhythm getting choppier as he gets closer. "Just a little more, need—fuck—need to fill you up one more time."

His muscles flex and strain as he bounces you faster, using you like you're weightless, like you're nothing but a warm sleeve for his cock. The wet sounds are obscene - cum and slick squelching with every brutal thrust.

You're not even moaning anymore, just making these small broken sounds with every impact, completely and utterly spent. But your body still responds, still clenches weakly around him when he hits that spot deep inside.

"That's it, that's—fuck—" Steve's breath hitches and his grip on you turns almost painful. "Gonna—fuck, I'm gonna—"

His hips slam up one final time, burying himself as deep as gravity and anatomy allow, and then he's coming with a snarl, sinking his teeth into your shoulder. His cock pulses violently inside you and somehow - somehow - there's still more. 

Hot thick ropes of cum flooding into your already overfull pussy, and you can actually feel this time, the way it has nowhere left to go, just gushing back out around his length to run down your thighs, down his, pooling on the floor. It's insane. He's already filled you once and yet he's still pumping more into you, his body shuddering with the force of it, and you can only mewl meakly against his throat as he empties himself completely.

His hips slow gradually, the frantic rhythm finally easing as his cock gives one last weak pulse inside you. Steve's breathing is ragged against your hair, chest heaving, but something shifts - you can feel it in the way his grip on you gentles, the way the manic edge bleeds out of his muscles.

The burning under his skin that's been driving him insane for hours finally starts to fade. His temperature drops, the desperate clawing need loosening its grip on his chest, and for the first time since he walked through that door he can actually think.

His cock softens inside you, and the relief that floods through him is so intense it's almost dizzying.

"Shit," he breathes, and his voice sounds like his own again. Clearer. "Oh god, sweetheart, I—"

You make a weak, mewling sound against his neck and Steve's heart clenches with immediate guilt. You're completely limp in his arms, trembling, and guilt crashes through him so hard it nearly takes him to his knees.

"Hey, hey, I've got you," he murmurs, voice going soft and gentle as he carefully lowers himself to sit on the edge of the bed with you still in his lap. His hands, which had been bruising just minutes ago, turn tender as they stroke up and down your back. "You're okay. I've got you now, baby."

He's still buried inside you and he knows pulling out is going to be uncomfortable, so he takes his time. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your sweat-damp hair, while the other supports your back.

"Gonna pull out now, okay?" He waits for some sign you've heard him - a tiny nod against his shoulder - before carefully lifting you just enough to slip free. You mewl at the loss, at the feeling of his cum immediately starting to leak out of you, and Steve makes a soothing sound. "I know, I know. I'm sorry, baby. Just let me take care of you now."

He shifts you in his arms, cradling you against his chest like you're something precious, and presses a kiss to your temple. His heart is still racing but it's slowing now, the frantic edge gone, replaced with bone-deep exhaustion and worry.

"You still with me?" he asks softly, pulling back just enough to look at your face.

With gentle fingers, Steve brushes the strands of hair plastered to your sweat-damp forehead, tucking them behind your ear with a tenderness that's almost painful after the brutality of moments before. Your head lolls without the support, too heavy for your exhausted muscles, so his hand slides down to cup your chin, thumb stroking your jaw as he carefully tilts your face up to meet his gaze.

"Look at me, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. "Need to see those pretty eyes."

Your lashes flutter, and when you finally manage to focus on him, Steve's chest constricts painfully. Your eyes are glassy, still wet with tears that cling to your lashes, pupils blown wide and unfocused in a way that speaks to exactly how far gone you are. The cloudiness there, the fucked-out haze, it's beautiful and devastating all at once.

Another wave of guilt crashes through him so hard he has to close his eyes briefly against it.

Keeping one hand cupped under your jaw to support your head, he reaches blindly for the nightstand with the other, fingers finding the water bottle you'd brought for him earlier - back when you'd been worried about him, before he'd lost complete control. The thoughtfulness of that gesture, the care you'd shown him, makes his throat tight.

"Gonna get you some water, okay?" He uncaps the bottle one handed, bringing it carefully to your lips. "Small sips, sweetheart. Just a little."

You make a small sound of protest, like even that is too much effort, but he persists gently.

"I know you're tired. But you need it, pretty girl." He tips the bottle carefully, supporting your head with his other hand, and relief floods through him when you part your lips and take a small sip.

The cool water touches your lips and you drink instinctively, slow and uncoordinated, and Steve watches with laser focus to make sure you don't choke. Some of it spills down your chin and he wipes it away with his thumb, murmuring praise the entire time.

"That's it. Good girl. Just a little more."

He coaxes a few more sips into you, before setting the bottle aside. And then his hands start hovering over you like he's not quite sure where to touch, if he should touch. The contrast between how he'd been manhandling you minutes ago and this careful hesitation would be almost funny if the guilt wasn't eating him alive.

"What do you need?" he asks quietly, and there's an edge of desperation to it. "I can—do you want food? A bath? I should probably get you cleaned up." His thumb strokes almost absently along your jaw, the only point of contact he seems to allow himself. "Just tell me what you need, sweetheart. Anything. I'll give you anything."

There's an edge of desperation in the offer, like he's trying to make up for everything, trying to fix what he broke.

With what little strength you have left, you burrow closer into his chest, nose finding the warm curve of his neck, and the small movement seems to surprise him. Your breath ghosts over his skin as you mumble, words slurred with exhaustion but unmistakable. 

"Jus' want you," you mumble against his throat, words slurring together. "Don' go."

Steve goes very still. Then something in him seems to unlock, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, the frantic worry in his eyes softening into something almost reverent. His arms finally wrap around you properly. Securely. Like he's allowed to hold you now.

"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. "Okay, baby, I've got you."

Carefully, like you're something infinitely precious, he shifts you both down onto the bed. He rolls onto his side and gathers you against him, pulling you flush to his chest with one arm wrapped securely around your waist and the other sliding up to cradle your head. You immediately melt into him with a soft, appreciative sound that's almost a purr, and Steve feels some of the horrible tension finally start to ease.

"That's it," Steve whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. "I've got you, pretty girl. Not going anywhere."

His hand trails down from your hair to stroke along your thigh with soothing, repetitive motions. Soft and steady, like he's trying to ground you both. Another kiss to your forehead, then your closed eyelids, his lips lingering there as you start to drift.

"Sleep, sweetheart," he murmurs against your skin. "I'll be right here when you wake up. Promise."

You make another small sound, already halfway gone, and Steve tightens his arms around you. As your breathing evens out and your body goes completely slack against him, Steve presses his face into your hair and tries not to think too hard about what happens when you wake up. Tries not to wonder if you'll regret this, regret him. 

He should probably be planning how to explain what happened. How to apologize for losing control. How to convince you this wasn't just whatever got into his system, that he's wanted you for months, that this meant something.

But exhaustion is pulling at him too, and you're so warm in his arms, and he's too tired to fight the way his body wants to curl around yours like he can keep the world out if he just holds on tight enough.

He'll figure it out in the morning.

For now, he just holds you closer and lets himself have this - your warmth, your weight, your trust - even if it's the only time he gets it.

more mads: thank you so much for reading this absolute filth fest (like… 7k of it is smut. i’m unwell.). i hope you loved it!! if you did, please hit like or, even better, please consider leaving a comment/reblog bc it would genuinely make me grin like an idiot. my leo moon means i will literally perish without external validation. i’m tinkerbell coded. love u <33 p.s. i hope someone got the panic! at the disco reference in the title 🙂‍↕️

Curiosity piqued, you held it up to examine closer, but in the tense quiet, your hand slipped. The vial tumbled from your grasp, shattering against the cold concrete floor in a puff of iridescent dust.

Time seemed to slow as the powder billowed upward, a hazy cloud threatening to envelop you. Panic surged through your veins, but before you could even draw a breath, Steve was there. His strong arm wrapped around your waist, yanking you back with effortless power, positioning his body as a shield between you and the spreading mist.

“Get back!” he barked, his voice a low rumble of command.

In that instant, he inhaled sharply – whether to clear the air or by sheer proximity, the pollen-laced dust filled his lungs. The cloud dissipated as quickly as it had risen, leaving only a faint, sweet scent lingering in the air, like overripe flowers mixed with something primal and forbidden.

You coughed lightly, waving a hand in front of your face, but Steve released you with a steadying grip on your shoulder. His blue eyes met yours, calm and unwavering, as if nothing had happened.

“You okay?” he asked, his tone even, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve.

He didn't cough, didn't falter – his super-soldier physiology seemed to shrug off the incident like it was nothing more than a minor annoyance. Heart still racing from the close call, you nodded, grateful for his quick reflexes.

“Yeah, thanks to you. Let's just... finish up and get out of here.”

With the mission's urgency pressing, you pressed on.

Steve's focus remained razor-sharp as you rifled through the remaining consoles and data drives, extracting what classified files you could before the base's instability forced a retreat. He moved with his usual precision, covering your back without a hint of distraction, his jaw set in determination.

By the time you emerged into the crisp night air, vial incident all but forgotten in the adrenaline of success, the quinjet waited on the outskirts, engines humming softly.

The flight back to the SHIELD base was smooth, the cabin bathed in the soft glow of instrument panels.

You sat across from Steve, reviewing the downloaded data on your tablet, the steady thrum of the jet lulling you into a sense of routine normalcy. He leaned back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, staring out the small window at the passing clouds.

At first, everything seemed fine – his posture relaxed, his breathing even.

But as the minutes ticked by, subtle changes crept in. A faint warmth bloomed in his chest, spreading like liquid fire through his veins, making his skin prickle with an unfamiliar sensitivity. His pulse quickened, not from exertion, but from a growing restlessness that coiled low in his gut.

Steve shifted slightly in his seat, adjusting his legs as a subtle ache stirred in his muscles, his mind flickering with unbidden flashes of heat. He clenched his jaw, forcing his expression to remain neutral, unwilling to alarm you or risk derailing the mission's closure.

Whatever that powder had been, it was hitting him now – but he'd be damned if he'd let it show.

Not yet.

The quinjet touched down on the helipad of the SHIELD base with a gentle shudder, the rotors winding down to a low whine as the ramp lowered into the cool evening air. Floodlights bathed the landing zone in stark white, casting long shadows across the concrete.

You unbuckled your harness and stood, stretching out the kinks from the flight, your muscles still humming from the mission's adrenaline. Steve rose beside you, his movements fluid but deliberate, that familiar square-jawed resolve etched on his face.

As you stepped toward the ramp together, you turned to him with a grateful smile, placing a hand on his broad shoulder – feeling the solid warmth of him through his tactical jacket.

"Thanks again," you said softly, your fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary, "for the powder."

He nodded once, his blue eyes meeting yours briefly before flicking away, his lips pressed into a thin line.

No words came out, just that silent acknowledgment, but inside, Steve's world tilted on its axis. The simple press of your palm against him ignited something ferocious – a jolt that raced straight to his core, making his skin burn and his blood roar like he'd mainlined pure fire. Every nerve ending lit up, hyper-aware of the curve of your fingers, the subtle heat seeping through fabric.

It wasn't just touch; it was craving, raw and insistent, flooding his senses until his cock twitched involuntarily in his pants, hardening with a shameful urgency he couldn't suppress.

When you pulled your hand away to descend the ramp, the absence hit him like withdrawal – cold and aching, leaving him hollow, his body screaming for more.

What the hell was this?

He clenched his fists at his sides, forcing his expression to stay neutral, but confusion churned in his gut. That pollen... it had to be. His super-soldier serum had neutralized threats before, but this? This was unraveling him from the inside out, turning a casual gesture into a torment he didn't understand.

You walked side by side toward the debriefing wing, the base's corridors buzzing with the low hum of activity – agents rushing past with reports, techs clacking away at consoles.

Steve and you had run ops like this a dozen times, your partnership seamless: his unyielding strength complementing your sharp instincts. If anyone asked, you'd both call it friendly – professional camaraderie forged in the field, nothing more.

But that wasn't the full story. Twice, maybe three times, after particularly grueling missions, you'd ended up tangled in sheets, bodies slick and urgent, chasing release as a way to unwind the tension coiled too tight. It was practical, you'd reasoned – no strings, just sweat and gasps in the dim light of a safehouse or his quarters. A blowjob here, a quick fuck there, parting with easy smiles and "see you on the next one."

That's what you'd told yourselves, anyway, burying any deeper pull under layers of denial.

Truth was, Steve had caught himself wondering what it might be like to wake up beside you without the excuse of exhaustion, to trace your skin not just for friction but for the way it made his chest ache in a good way.

And you?

Those stolen nights lingered in quiet moments, stirring thoughts of something steadier – his hand in yours off-mission, his laugh without the weight of the world. But neither of you had voiced it, letting the "friendly" label hang like a shield.

Now, as you reached the debrief room doors, Steve cleared his throat, his voice rougher than usual.

"I'll... handle the report. You get some rest."

He avoided your gaze, already turning away, the heat in his veins pulsing harder, demanding he put distance between you before he did something reckless. His steps carried him toward the command center, but his mind raced with images he couldn't shake – your body arching under him, the sounds you'd make if he let go.

You frowned, but listened to him and went back to your office, in order to write your report.

Hours slipped by – reports filed, data analyzed, the mission's success chalked up to teamwork under pressure. The base quieted as night deepened, corridors emptying out, leaving only the distant hum of generators and the occasional footfall of night-shift personnel.

You made your way to your quarters, exhaustion pulling at your limbs, the day's events replaying in fragments: the shattered vial, Steve's protective lunge, that lingering warmth in his eyes during the flight.

A hot shower and fresh clothes waited, but as you passed Steve's door – marked with a simple brass plate, number 47 – a low groan cut through the silence. It sounded pained, guttural, like someone fighting off a wound that wouldn't heal.

You paused, heart skipping, and leaned closer to the door.

There it came again: another rumble, deeper this time, laced with something raw and desperate.

Concern twisted in your gut; the pollen's effects? Or just mission fatigue hitting him harder? You knocked sharply, three raps against the metal.

"Steve? You okay in there?"

No response, only the faint rustle of movement from within. Worry overrode protocol – you twisted the handle and pushed the door open, the hinges whispering softly.

The room was dimly lit by a single bedside lamp, casting warm shadows over the sparse furnishings: a neatly made bed now rumpled, a chair with his discarded uniform jacket slung over it, boots kicked haphazardly by the footboard.

And there, sprawled across the sheets, was Steve – completely naked, his massive frame glistening with a sheen of sweat. His eyes were squeezed shut, blond hair tousled against the pillow, broad chest heaving with ragged breaths.

One hand gripped the base of his thick cock, veins bulging along its length as he stroked himself furiously, the other fisted in the sheets. His hips bucked upward in erratic thrusts into his own palm, pre-cum slicking his fingers, making obscene wet sounds fill the air.

Tissues littered the bed around him – crumpled, stained with his release – evidence of multiple rounds, his body locked in a relentless cycle of need he couldn't satisfy.

The sight hit you like a shockwave: Steve, the unbreakable soldier, reduced to this – frantic, vulnerable, chasing relief that kept slipping away.

His cock stood rigid, flushed deep red, the head swollen and leaking as his hand pumped faster, muscles in his thighs and abs clenching with each pull. A fresh groan escaped his lips, oblivious to your presence, his face contorted in a mix of agony and ecstasy.

Heat flooded your core instantly, a sharp ache blooming between your legs. You squeezed your thighs together instinctively, the friction sending a spark through your pussy, already growing wet at the raw display. Your nipples hardened against your shirt, breath catching as you watched his fist twist over the tip, smearing cum from earlier loads down his shaft.

Steve's body arched suddenly, a guttural curse slipping out as another orgasm ripped through him – ropes of thick cum spurting onto his stomach, splattering his chest, but even as he shuddered through it, his hand didn't stop, the pollen's grip unyielding, demanding more.

Steve's eyes snapped open in the dim glow of the lamp, locking onto yours with a wild, unfocused intensity that sent a jolt straight through you. His blue gaze, usually so steady and commanding, was darkened by lust, pupils blown wide as they raked over your form standing frozen in the doorway.

“Fuck,” he growled low and rough, the word tearing from his throat like gravel, but his hand never faltered – pumping his cock with renewed vigor, the slick slide of skin on skin echoing in the quiet room.

Thick veins throbbed under his fingers, his shaft glistening from the fresh load still dripping down his knuckles, and his hips jerked upward into the tight grip, chasing that elusive peak again.

You stepped forward without thinking, drawn by the magnetic pull of his desperation, your bare feet padding softly across the cool floor tiles.

Worry knotted your stomach – he looked wrecked, sweat-slicked skin flushed from chest to thighs, muscles rippling with every frantic stroke – but beneath it, arousal coiled hot and insistent in your belly. Your pussy clenched at the sight, wetness soaking through your panties as you neared the bed, the air thick with the musky scent of his repeated releases.

“What's happening to you, Steve?” you asked, voice hushed and breathless, hovering at the edge of the mattress, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.

He tried to answer, but it came out in stutters, his breath hitching as his fist twisted over the swollen head of his dick, smearing pre-cum in a glossy sheen.

“Can't... stop it,” he rasped, jaw clenched tight, beads of sweat trickling down his temple. His free hand clawed at the sheets, knuckles white, as if anchoring himself against the tide overwhelming him.

“Been hard... fucking hard... since coming back.”

Another groan ripped free, deeper this time, his abs contracting sharply as his strokes sped up, balls drawing tight against his body.

Cum from his earlier orgasms smeared across his torso, sticky trails cooling on his skin, but it did nothing to ease the relentless throb pulsing through him – the pollen's curse turning every touch into fire, every denied inch of friction into torment.

You could see it all: the way his thighs trembled, spread wide to give his hand room, the faint quiver in his lips as he bit down to stifle another curse. Part of you wanted to reach out, to soothe the agony etched into his features, but the other part – the one throbbing between your legs – yearned to dive into the chaos, to feel that super-soldier strength unleashed without restraint.

You eased onto the bed slowly, the mattress dipping under your weight as you perched at the edge, heart pounding in your chest from the raw vulnerability etched across Steve's face. His free hand shot out like a vice, fingers wrapping around your wrist with a grip that was firm yet trembling, pulling you closer until your knee brushed against his thigh.

The heat from his body seeped through the thin fabric of your sleep shorts, making your skin prickle with anticipation.

“Could smell your juices from the door, baby,” he growled, the words rough and laced with hunger, his voice dropping an octave as his nostrils flared, inhaling your scent like it was the only thing grounding him in the storm raging inside.

Your free hand moved instinctively, sliding down to cup his balls, feeling their heavy weight in your palm, warm and taut from the relentless arousal. You massaged them gently at first, rolling them between your fingers, the soft skin shifting under your touch as his cock twitched above.

“Oh yes, just like that!” Steve's head fell back against the pillow for a moment, a deep moan vibrating through his chest, his praises spilling out in breathless bursts that fueled the fire building between your legs.

Encouraged by the way his body arched toward you, you grew bolder, squeezing a little firmer, tugging lightly to match the rhythm of his strokes, your thumb tracing the seam beneath while his groans grew louder, more desperate.

His praises spilled out in broken gasps, “God, baby, that's it... feels so fucking good,” each one fueling the fire between your legs, your nipples hardening against the thin fabric of your shirt. You pressed closer, the heat from his body seeping into yours, as his hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more. 

“Need you, baby girl. Need you so bad...”

The plea tumbled from his lips, his eyes squeezing shut as if the admission cost him everything, his hand on your wrist loosening just enough for you to shift forward.

You leaned in, drawn by the magnetic pull of his throbbing length, the air between you thick with the salty tang of his pre-cum and the faint remnants of his earlier spills. Your breath ghosted over his skin first, making his shaft jerk in response, before the tip of your tongue darted out to lap at the glistening drops beading at his slit. The flavor burst on your taste buds – salty, musky, utterly him – and you swirled slowly, tracing the flared edge of his head to collect every bead that welled up.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

The curse erupted from him in a frantic litany, his hips bucking involuntarily as his fist slowed on the base of his cock, giving you space while his free hand tangled in your hair, not pushing but holding, fingers threading through the strands with a needy tremble.

Then the begging started, raw and unending – “please, please, please, please” – his voice cracking on each word, body taut like a bowstring.

You obliged, parting your lips to take his swollen head into your mouth, the velvety heat filling you as your tongue pressed flat against the underside. He continued stroking the rest of his length with urgent pumps, the wet sounds mingling with his ragged breaths, his balls tightening further in your grasp as you sucked gently, hollowing your cheeks to draw out more of that intoxicating essence.

Steve's hands, large and calloused from years of battles, clamped down on either side of your head, fingers threading through your hair with a possessive urgency that brooked no resistance. He tugged you forward insistently, guiding his cock deeper past your lips, the thick girth stretching your mouth wide as it pushed toward the back of your throat.

The sudden intrusion made your eyes water, a reflexive gag rising in your chest, but you fought it down, drawing in a sharp breath through your nose to steady yourself. Your throat relaxed under the pressure, muscles yielding as you swallowed around him, taking every inch until your nose brushed the coarse blond curls at his base and his heavy balls rested against your chin.

A choked sob tore from Steve's throat the moment he was fully sheathed, his body shuddering violently as if the sensation overwhelmed him completely.

“M'sorry, baby, m'sorry...” he rasped, voice thick with apology and raw need, his grip loosening just a fraction before tightening again.

But the pollen's fire burned too hot for restraint; his hips snapped forward in a frenzy, fucking into your mouth with short, brutal thrusts that made your head bob in his hands. The wet, obscene sounds of his cock sliding in and out filled the room, saliva coating his shaft and dripping down to slick his sac, which you still cradled in your palm.

“Feels good– so... God, so good, baby!” Steve groaned, his words fracturing into desperate pants as he chased the building pressure, each plunge deeper and more erratic.

His thighs tensed on either side of you, muscles rippling under sweat-slicked skin, while his abs clenched visibly with every drive.

“Wanna cum in your mouth. Please. Please tell me I can cum in your mouth.”

The begging was frantic, laced with the super-soldier's vulnerability, his blue eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide with lust. He didn't wait for an answer, couldn't – his control shattered as he used your mouth like a tight, warm hole designed solely for his release, pounding relentlessly, the head of his cock battering the entrance to your throat.

Drool escaped the corners of your stretched lips, trailing down your chin in glistening rivulets that cooled against your heated skin, mixing with the tears blurring your vision. You hummed around him, low vibrations rumbling from your chest, the pleased buzz sending jolts straight to his core. Each sound spurred him on, his thrusts growing wilder, hips slamming forward with unrestrained force, his balls drawing up tight in your hand as the first spasms warned of his impending climax.

Steve's grip on your head remained unyielding, his fingers tangled tightly in your hair, anchoring you in place as he drove his cock relentlessly between your lips. Each thrust was a piston-like surge, his hips bucking with superhuman force, the thick shaft plunging deep into your throat before withdrawing just enough to let you gasp for air, only to slam back in.

Saliva bubbled at the corners of your mouth, slicking his length and dripping onto the sheets, the obscene slurps and gags echoing in the dim light of his quarters. Your jaw ached from the stretch, but the heat pooling between your thighs urged you on, your own arousal soaking through your panties as you surrendered to his rhythm.

You tilted your head back slightly, lifting your gaze to lock onto his.

Those piercing blue eyes, usually so steady and commanding, were now wild and unfocused, pupils dilated to black pools that reflected the raw hunger consuming him. In your stare, he saw it all – the thrill racing through your veins, the way your body trembled with need, your cheeks flushed and lips swollen around his invading cock.

It fueled him, that mirrored desire, making his thrusts stutter for a heartbeat before redoubling in ferocity.

Your name spilled from his lips like a prayer, over and over, mingled with fragmented praises and desperate pleas that tumbled out in a haze of ecstasy.

“Oh God, darlin’... so perfect... fuck, your mouth... please, don't stop... need you... love how you take me...”

The words blurred together, slurred and incoherent, as if the pollen had stripped away his filter, leaving only the primal man beneath the hero. He was drunk on the sensation, lost in the velvet heat of your throat clenching around him, the vibrations of your muffled moans sending shocks up his spine.

His body tensed like a coiled spring, abs contracting sharply, thighs quivering as the orgasm built to an unstoppable peak.

With a guttural roar that rattled the bedframe, Steve came undone, his cock pulsing violently as thick ropes of cum erupted into your mouth. Jet after hot jet flooded your tongue, salty and thick, coating the back of your throat while you swallowed greedily around him, milking every drop. His hips jerked erratically, grinding deep to ensure you took it all, his grip in your hair pulling just hard enough to send sparks of pain-pleasure through your scalp.

Excess spilled past your lips despite your efforts, trickling down your chin in warm trails that mixed with the sweat beading on your skin.

Steve's chants dissolved into ragged gasps, his body slumping forward slightly as the aftershocks rippled through him, but even in release, the pollen's fire lingered in his eyes, hinting that this was far from over.

Steve's fingers stayed locked in your hair, his hold firm yet trembling with the remnants of his climax as he drew you upward, pulling your body flush against his sweat-slicked chest.

His mouth crashed onto yours in a deep, languid kiss, tongues tangling with urgent hunger, the taste of his own release still lingering on your lips mingling with the salt of your shared exertion. He moaned low into the kiss, the sound vibrating through your core, a raw vibration that made your pulse race. His tongue swept across your chin, lapping up the stray streaks of cum that had escaped, the deliberate swipe sending shivers cascading down your spine.

You quivered in his embrace, your hands clutching at his broad shoulders, nails digging into the taut muscles as waves of heat surged through you, your body responding to his insatiable drive.

With a growl that bordered on feral, Steve's hands roamed downward, grasping the hem of your shirt and yanking it upward in one swift motion, the fabric ripping slightly at the seams from his super-soldier strength. Buttons popped free as he tore at your pants next, the zipper giving way under his impatient fingers, stripping you bare in a frenzy that left you breathless.

You barely registered the cool air hitting your exposed skin before he maneuvered you onto the bed, flipping your positions so you landed on your back amid the rumpled sheets, his massive frame looming over you, pinning you with his weight and intent gaze.

The sticky remnants of his earlier orgasm smeared across your abdomen as his body pressed down, the warm fluid transferring from his toned stomach to yours, creating a slick bond that glued your skin together in intimate adhesion. It cooled rapidly in the room's dim glow, but the sensation only heightened the electric tension between you, a tangible reminder of his unrelenting need.

His cock, still rigid and throbbing with unquenched desire, nudged insistently at your entrance, the swollen head parting your folds with gentle pressure, teasing the slick heat of your pussy. You arched instinctively, a soft whimper escaping as the tip breached you just enough to promise more, your inner walls clenching in anticipation around the intrusion.

"Still need you," Steve whined against the curve of your neck, his hot breath fanning over your pulse point before his lips sealed there in a sucking kiss that marked your skin.

He shifted upward, capturing your mouth again in a devouring assault, his tongue plunging deep as if he meant to consume you whole, teeth nipping at your lower lip while his hips rocked forward, inching his length deeper into your welcoming wetness.

You urged him on, your voice a husky whisper laced with desire.

"Go on," you breathed, your hands sliding down to grip the firm globes of his ass, fingers digging into the taut muscle as you pulled him closer, guiding his hips forward with insistent pressure.

The heat radiating from his body enveloped you, and you were drenched, your pussy slick with arousal that made his entry effortless – his thick cock sliding deep inside you in one smooth, overwhelming thrust that stretched your walls to their limit.

"Take what you need, Steve. I can take it, I want to. Give it to me," you moaned, the words spilling out as your legs wrapped around his waist, heels pressing into his lower back to lock him in place.

The fullness of him buried to the hilt sent sparks of pleasure shooting through your core, your inner muscles clenching greedily around his girth, milking every inch as if afraid to let go.

Steve groaned deeply, a primal rumble that vibrated from his chest to yours, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck in sharp nips that left faint red imprints. He shifted his mouth along your jawline, biting lightly at the curve before trailing down to your shoulders, sucking and nibbling with a hunger that bordered on possession.

His breath came in hot pants against your flesh, each bite punctuated by a low growl as he adjusted to the tight heat enveloping him.

Then he began to move, pulling back slowly only to drive forward again, his hips snapping with controlled power that made the bed creak beneath you.

You could swear he felt even bigger than usual, the pollen's influence swelling his cock impossibly thicker, the veins pulsing against your sensitive folds with every plunge. The friction built rapidly, his length dragging along your inner walls, hitting that perfect spot deep inside that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

A high-pitched mewl escaped your lips as pleasure coiled tight in your belly, your body arching up to meet his thrusts.

Steve's strong hands gripped your hips, lifting your ass slightly off the mattress to angle you just right, allowing him to piston harder into your pussy. Each forceful stroke slammed home, his balls slapping rhythmically against your skin with wet, obscene sounds that echoed in the dim room. The pace quickened, relentless and deep, his stamina turning the rhythm into a punishing drive that had you gasping, your slick arousal coating his shaft and dripping down to soak the sheets.

Your nails raked down his broad back, scratching fierce trails across the rippling muscles, leaving angry red welts that bloomed instantly under your touch. The marks would linger for days, a secret testament to this frantic coupling etched into his perfect skin.

Steve hissed in response, the pain mingling with his ecstasy, spurring him on as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his thrusts growing erratic, deeper, as if he couldn't get enough of the way your body yielded to him.

Steve shifted his hips with deliberate precision, angling the base of his body to target that exquisite spot deep within your pussy – the one that sent shockwaves of ecstasy rippling through you every time his cock grazed it.

The adjustment was subtle at first, but as he thrust forward, the thick head of his shaft pressed firmly against your G-spot, rubbing insistently with each powerful stroke. The sensation was electric, igniting bursts of white-hot pleasure that made your vision blur with stars, your body trembling uncontrollably beneath him.

Your fingers scrambled for purchase, nails digging into the solid expanse of his shoulders before sliding down to clutch at his bulging biceps, the muscles flexing under your grip as he drove into you relentlessly.

“Steve,” you mewled his name like a mantra, the sound high and desperate, spilling from your lips in breathless repetition.

“Please... more... I need it... Steve, please, more...”

The pleas tumbled out unbidden, your voice cracking with raw need as the pressure built inside you, coiling tighter with every targeted thrust that battered that sensitive bundle of nerves.

The orgasm crashed over you without mercy, your pussy clenching spasmodically around his invading cock, waves of bliss ripping through your core as you cried out, back arching off the bed. Your walls fluttered and squeezed, milking him in rhythmic pulses that drew a guttural groan from deep in his throat.

Steve followed you almost immediately, his hips stuttering as he buried himself to the root one final time. Hot spurts of cum flooded your depths, his release thick and copious, painting your insides with pulse after pulse until you felt utterly filled, overflowing.

Even with his cock still lodged firmly inside, plugging your entrance, you sensed the excess leaking out around him, warm rivulets trickling down your thighs and soaking the already damp sheets. He made no move to withdraw, staying seated deep within your quivering heat, as if the very idea of separation was unbearable.

Steve gave you no respite, no moment to drag air into your heaving lungs or let the aftershocks fade.

His mouth descended hungrily on your breasts, latching onto one nipple with a fervent suck that sent fresh jolts straight to your oversensitive core. He nursed at you greedily, tongue swirling around the hardened peak before drawing it between his teeth for a gentle scrape, then soothing it with broad laps.

The slight shift of his body as he feasted caused his cock to nudge against your tender walls, the fullness pressing on every raw nerve, eliciting a plaintive whimper from your throat – a soft, needy sound that betrayed how even the barest movement reignited the fire in your veins.

“M'sorry, baby. Just let me have it...” he mumbled against the swell of your chest, his voice rough and muffled, laced with apology and unquenchable hunger.

His lips released the first nipple with a wet pop, only to transfer his attention to the other, enveloping it in the warm cavern of his mouth. He suckled harder this time, drawing it deep as his hand cupped the neglected breast, thumb flicking over the slick, abused bud.

“Need to have you.” He groaned.

“Need to nurse your fucking beautiful tits. Taste so good...”

The words vibrated against your skin, his breath hot and ragged, as the pollen's grip kept him insatiable, his cock twitching faintly inside you, already stirring for more despite the fresh evidence of his climax dripping from your joined bodies.

Steve eased the pace of his movements, his hips rolling with a deliberate slowness that contrasted the frantic urgency of before, though the underlying drive remained unyielding. His cock slid in and out of your soaked pussy at a languid rhythm, each withdrawal pulling slick friction along your stretched walls before he pushed back in, filling you completely once more.

The shift allowed the sensitivity from your recent climax to linger, every inch of his thick shaft dragging against your inner muscles in a way that built the heat anew, slower but no less intense.

A low moan escaped your lips, your body already exhausted from the onslaught of pleasure, muscles aching and skin flushed with sweat, yet it bent to his command without resistance, craving the connection even as fatigue tugged at your limbs.

Your hands reached up, fingers threading through the damp strands of his hair, gripping firmly to keep his face pressed against the soft mounds of your breasts. The pull was insistent, guiding him exactly where you needed his mouth, your thumbs brushing over his scalp as you held him there, unwilling to let go.

His tongue flicked out first, lapping at the underside of one breast in broad, wet strokes that traced the curve before circling the nipple in tight spirals. Then his teeth grazed the peak lightly, nibbling with just enough pressure to send sharp tingles racing down your spine, making your toes curl against the sheets. He latched on fully next, sucking with a rhythmic pull that mimicked the subtle thrusts of his hips below, drawing the sensitive bud deep into his mouth while his free hand kneaded the other breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers.

The dual assault kept the fire smoldering in your core, your pussy clenching involuntarily around his embedded cock, pulsing in time with each suckle, the contractions rippling along his length like a teasing grip.

He was unraveling you completely, the combined sensations of his mouth worshipping your tits and his cock stirring lazily inside you pushing you toward the edge of madness, every nerve alight with overwhelming need.

And you could feel the effect you had on him too – the way his breath hitched against your skin, his body tensing as your walls fluttered around him, your moans vibrating through his chest. The pollen fueled his obsession, but your responses amplified it, turning the shared delirium into a feedback loop of raw, mutual insanity, his groans muffled against your flesh as he lost himself in the taste and feel of you.

It was as if you were drunk on pleasure, your mind hazy and swirling with the overwhelming rush of sensations that drowned out everything else.

Words tumbled from your lips unbidden, spilling out in a breathless rush – “I love what you're doing to me, Steve, oh God, it feels so good” – your voice cracking with raw need. His name escaped in a litany, a fervent prayer whispered against the heated air between you, “Steve, Steve, please,” over and over, blending into moans that you couldn't hold back, didn't want to.

He smiled against your skin, the curve of his lips pressing warm and wicked into the swell of your breast, his breath hot and ragged as he savored your unraveling. He didn't stop, couldn't stop, his hips maintaining that relentless rhythm, his thick cock thrusting deep into your drenched pussy with steady, unyielding strokes that stretched you wide and filled you to the hilt each time.

The friction built like a storm, his shaft gliding through your slick folds, the head nudging against that sensitive spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

You felt the climax crash over you then, your body seizing in ecstasy as waves of pleasure ripped through you, shivers racing across your skin and tremors shaking your limbs. Your pussy clenched hard around his invading length, pulsing in rhythmic spasms that milked him greedily, your inner walls fluttering and squeezing as the orgasm tore a cry from your throat.

Juices mixed with his earlier release flooded out, soaking his cock and the sheets beneath you, your thighs quivering uncontrollably as the intensity peaked, leaving you gasping and arching off the bed.

You moaned and whimpered in equal measure, the sounds mingling in a desperate symphony – high-pitched keens when the overstimulation hit too sharp, deep groans when the aftershocks rippled through your core.

It was too much, every nerve ending firing on overload, your clit throbbing from the indirect pressure of his body against yours, your nipples aching from his earlier attention.

Yet even as your body trembled on the edge of exhaustion, you craved more, your hips bucking weakly to meet his thrusts, urging him deeper into the slick heat of your cunt.

Steve growled low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your flesh as he lifted his head just enough to capture your gaze, his blue eyes dark with lust and something fiercer, more possessive.

“That's it, come for me again,” he murmured, his voice rough and commanding, hips snapping forward harder now, chasing his own release while prolonging yours. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh to hold you steady, pounding into you with renewed vigor that sent fresh sparks of pleasure-pain shooting through your oversensitive body.

The pollen's curse amplified it all, turning his every movement into an addiction, your shared delirium pulling you both under as sweat-slicked skin slapped together in the dim light of his quarters.

You kept whimpering, the sounds spilling from your lips in a ceaseless stream of desperation and delight, your voice hoarse from the endless cries that had torn through the air. He used you relentlessly, his hips driving forward with a primal urgency, treating your soaked pussy like nothing more than a tight, welcoming hole designed solely for his pleasure, his thick cock plunging in and out with wet, obscene slaps that echoed off the walls of his dimly lit quarters. Each thrust buried him to the root, his heavy balls slapping against your ass, the friction of his veined shaft dragging along your inner walls and stoking the fire that never seemed to die.

His face buried deep in the crook of your neck, hot breath fanning over your damp skin as he inhaled your scent like a man starved.

He kissed the tender flesh there, lips soft at first, then parting to graze his teeth along the sensitive curve, nipping lightly before sinking in with a sharp bite that made you gasp. The pain bloomed into heat, radiating down your spine as he moved to your shoulders, his mouth exploring every inch – sucking at the salty sweat beading on your collarbone, biting down on the muscle until red marks bloomed like badges of his possession.

Your body responded instinctively, arching into his touch, craving the rough edge of his hunger that the pollen had unleashed, turning the unbreakable soldier into a beast who couldn't get enough.

“Steve,” you moaned his name again and again, the syllables a broken chant that rose and fell with each punishing stroke of his cock inside you.

“Steve, oh fuck, Steve,” it poured out unfiltered, your fingers tangling in his sweat-matted blond hair, pulling him closer as if you could fuse your bodies together. The word became your anchor in the storm of sensation, grounding you even as your mind spun from the overload, every nerve alight with the electric pull between you.

Then his hand slipped between your sweat-slicked bodies, calloused fingers parting the slick folds where he stretched you open, finding your swollen clit with unerring precision.

He circled it slowly at first, the pad of his thumb pressing firm and insistent, rubbing in tight, deliberate strokes that sent jolts of pure fire straight to your core. The added stimulation was devastating, your clit throbbing under his touch, hypersensitive from the orgasms that had already wracked you. You bucked against him, your back bowing off the rumpled sheets, toes curling into the cool floor tiles beyond the bed's edge as the pressure built unbearably fast.

Your pussy clamped down around his invading cock like a vice, the muscles contracting in fierce, rhythmic pulses that gripped him from base to tip, refusing to let go. The sensation milked him mercilessly, your inner walls fluttering and squeezing in waves that drew a guttural groan from deep in his chest.

He thrust harder, chasing the edge you'd pushed him toward, his fingers never ceasing their assault on your clit – pinching lightly, then stroking faster, the dual invasion overwhelming you both. The coil snapped inside you first, your body seizing as another climax ripped through, your juices gushing around his length, soaking his groin and thighs in a fresh flood of arousal.

That was all it took for him. Steve's rhythm faltered, his hips slamming forward one final time as his cock swelled impossibly thicker inside your spasming channel. He came with a roar muffled against your shoulder, hot spurts of cum erupting from his tip, flooding your pussy in thick, endless ropes that painted your depths white.

He filled you like a reservoir overflowing, each pulse of his release pumping more of his seed deep into your womb, the warmth spreading through your core as excess leaked out around his shaft, trickling down your ass crack to pool on the sheets.

His body shuddered against yours, muscles rippling under sweat-glistened skin, the super-soldier's enhanced stamina ensuring he gave everything, yet the pollen's grip kept him hard, twitching inside you even as the aftershocks faded.

You clung to him, nails raking down his broad back, leaving red trails that only spurred him on. The fullness of him, combined with the sticky heat of his cum sloshing inside you with every subtle shift, made your head spin. He lifted his head slightly, blue eyes locking onto yours, pupils blown wide with that insatiable need, a smirk tugging at his cum-smeared lips.

“Not done yet,” he rasped, voice gravelly from exertion, as he began to move again.

Steve pulled back slightly, rising up onto his knees between your spread thighs, his cock still buried deep inside your drenched pussy, anchoring him to you like an unbreakable tether.

For a moment, he stilled his hips, the subtle pause allowing him to gaze down at the lewd sight where your bodies joined.

His thick shaft glistened with a filthy mix of his own cum and your slick arousal, the creamy evidence of his release oozing out around the base, trickling down your folds and pooling beneath your ass on the soaked sheets. He watched it drip, the pearly strands stretching and breaking as his cock throbbed faintly within you, and a low, satisfied growl rumbled from his chest, vibrating through his frame and into yours.

The sound sent a fresh shiver racing across your skin, your body still humming from the aftershocks of your shared climax.

Then, without warning, he resumed his thrusts, slow at first but building quickly into that relentless rhythm, his hips snapping forward to drive his length back into your clenching heat.

You whimpered again, the sound raw and needy, escaping your lips as the renewed friction reignited every sensitive nerve along your inner walls. His cock stretched you wide with each plunge, the veined ridges scraping deliciously against your g-spot, making your toes curl and your fingers clutch at the bedding.

He reached for one of your legs, his large hand wrapping firmly around your calf as he lifted it high, bringing your foot level with his face. His blue eyes locked onto yours for a beat, dark with hunger, before he pressed his lips to your ankle in a surprisingly tender kiss. The warmth of his mouth contrasted with the cool air, sending tingles up your leg.

Then his tongue darted out, flat and wet, licking along the delicate bone there, tracing the curve with deliberate strokes that made your breath hitch. The sensation was intimate, almost worshipful, amidst the brutality of his pounding cock.

With a firm grip, he hooked your leg over his shoulder, pressing your knee against his sweat-slicked chest to hold you open wider, exposing you completely to his gaze and his thrusts.

The new angle allowed him to sink even deeper, his balls slapping rhythmically against your ass with every forceful drive. His free hand moved to his mouth, and he spat into his palm, the wet glob landing with a soft sound before he reached down between your bodies. Those calloused fingers found your swollen clit once more, slicked now with his saliva, and he began circling it in rapid, tight motions – rubbing hard and fast, the pressure building an unbearable tension that had you gasping and writhing beneath him.

The combined assault was overwhelming: his cock pistoning in and out of your cum-filled pussy, the wet squelch of their mingled fluids filling the room, and his fingers mercilessly teasing your clit until it pulsed under his touch. Your walls fluttered around him, squeezing his invading length as pleasure coiled tighter in your belly, threatening to shatter you all over again.

Steve's breaths came in harsh pants against your ankle, his teeth grazing the skin there as he lost himself in the rhythm, fucking you with a possession that bordered on feral, the pollen's fire still burning hot in his veins.

“Steve," you whimpered his name again, in a plaintive cry, the sound breaking from your throat like a desperate plea amid the haze of overwhelming sensation.

Your body teetered on the edge of its limits, every muscle quivering from the relentless onslaught, your pussy stretched and throbbing around his unyielding cock as he drove into you without mercy.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, hot and stinging, blurring your vision as the intensity built to a breaking point – pleasure twisting into something almost painful, your nerves raw and overstimulated from the endless waves crashing through you.

But Steve didn't stop; he couldn't, the pollen's curse fueling his primal hunger, turning him into a force of nature that claimed you over and over. His hips snapped forward with brutal precision, his thick cock plunging deep into your slick, cum-soaked depths, the lewd slap of skin on skin echoing in the dim room.

"S'okay, baby," he murmured roughly, his voice a gravelly reassurance laced with possession, blue eyes locking onto yours with fierce intensity.

"I know you can take it. My good girl." The words washed over you like a balm, even as his thrusts battered your core, his free hand abandoning your clit to brace against the mattress, giving him leverage to fuck you harder.

He leaned down then, his broad chest pressing against your raised leg, the heat of his body enveloping you as he reached up with gentle fingers to brush away the tears streaking your cheeks. His touch was tender there, calloused pads tracing softly over your damp skin, a stark contrast to the savage rhythm of his pounding cock that split you open with each drive.

The care in his eyes, the way he wiped your tears so carefully, only heightened the storm inside you, pushing you closer to the brink.

The new orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, submerging you completely in white-hot ecstasy that ripped through your limbs. Your body convulsed beneath him, uncontrollable tremors shaking your frame as your pussy clamped down hard around his invading length, milking him with rhythmic spasms.

A sob tore from your lips, raw and broken, mingling with the gasps and moans that filled the air, your back arching off the bed as pleasure exploded from your core, radiating outward in shuddering pulses that left you gasping for breath.

Steve groaned at the feel of your climax gripping him, the tight vise of your walls urging him toward his own release. He pistoned into you with renewed ferocity, his thrusts turning erratic and deep, balls tightening as he chased the edge. With a guttural roar, he came for the nth time, flooding your already overflowing pussy with hot spurts of cum, his cock pulsing wildly inside you, painting your insides with thick ropes that mixed with the mess from before.

You felt every twitch, every jet of his seed filling you up, the warmth spreading through your belly as he ground against your cervix, prolonging the bliss for both of you.

Yet even as he emptied himself, his pollen-affected stamina kept him rock-hard, his shaft throbbing insistently within your fluttering heat, showing no signs of softening. He lingered there for a moment, breaths heaving, sweat dripping from his brow onto your skin, before finally pulling out with a wet, obscene pop. A gush of his cum followed, spilling from your abused pussy in creamy rivulets that trailed down your thighs and soaked into the sheets.

Gently, he lowered your leg back to the bed, his hand massaging your calf soothingly as he settled over you, his weight a comforting press while his eyes searched yours, dark with lingering need and something deeper, more vulnerable.

Steve straightened up slowly, his massive frame casting a shadow over you in the dim light of his quarters, muscles glistening with sweat that traced rivulets down his chiseled abs. He shifted onto his knees, positioning himself astride your chest, one thick thigh bracketing each side of your ribcage, the heat radiating from his skin like a furnace against your flushed body.

His cock, still rigid and slick with the mingled evidence of your releases – your juices and his thick cum coating the veined length – jutted upward, throbbing with insistent need, the tip flushed dark red and beading with fresh precum.

His blue eyes burned with unchecked lust, pupils blown wide from the pollen's relentless grip, scanning your flushed, tear-streaked face and heaving chest like a predator savoring its conquest.

He gripped the base of his throbbing cock – still rigid and veined, glistening with a mix of your juices and his own cum – and guided it downward, nestling the heavy length into the valley between your breasts. The heat of him seared against your sensitive skin, the broad head nudging insistently as he positioned himself.

With both large hands, he cupped your breasts, fingers sinking into the soft flesh, thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples before he squeezed them together firmly around his shaft. The pressure was exquisite, molding your tits into a tight, warm channel that enveloped him completely, the undersides of your mounds compressing against the sides of his cock while the tips nearly met above.

A low, animalistic rumble built in his chest as he began to thrust, hips rocking forward in a steady, deliberate rhythm. His cock slid through the plush grip of your pressed-together breasts, the friction sending sparks of pleasure up his spine, the slick remnants from your pussy easing the glide.

He watched, mesmerized, as the flushed purple head of his dick emerged from between your cleavage with each forward push, peeking out like a promise of more to come, only to vanish again as he pulled back. The sight transfixed him – the way your skin flushed deeper under his hold, the subtle jiggle of your flesh with every motion, the obscene way his length claimed this new territory on your body.

"Fuck," he groaned, the word tearing from his throat in a guttural rasp, raw with the edge of desperation that the curse amplified.

His pace quickened, thrusts turning sharper, more insistent, his balls drawing up tight as they brushed against your sternum with each snap of his hips. The super-soldier serum kept him unyielding, his stamina turning what should have been exhaustion into an endless cycle of need, his cock pulsing hotly between your tits as pre-cum beaded at the tip and smeared across your skin, marking you further.

You closed your eyes for those fleeting seconds, the world narrowing to the pounding of your heart and the ragged pull of air into your lungs.

Your mind reeled, trying to catch fragments of coherence after the brutal claiming of your pussy – how he'd stretched you wide, pounded you raw until your walls fluttered and clenched in endless surrender, leaving you sore and dripping, every nerve ending singing with overstimulation. The ache throbbed deep inside, a delicious burn that mingled with the aftershocks of your orgasms, your clit still tingling from his earlier touches.

But even in this brief respite, the press of his body, the rhythmic slide of his cock against your chest, pulled you back into the haze, your nipples peaking harder under the incidental graze of his thumbs as he squeezed tighter.

Steve's breaths came in harsh pants above you, his abs contracting with each thrust, sweat trickling down the defined ridges to drip onto your collarbone. He leaned forward slightly, one hand releasing your breast to brace on the headboard, giving him better leverage to fuck your tits with abandon. The change in angle made his cock drag more firmly through the cleft, the head bumping against your chin on the upstroke, leaving a sticky trail of pre-cum on your skin.

"So fucking perfect," he muttered through gritted teeth, voice thick with possession, his free hand returning to pinch and roll one nipple between his fingers, twisting just enough to draw a gasp from your lips.

The pollen surged through him again, heightening every sensation – the velvet squeeze of your breasts, the visual feast of his shaft disappearing and reappearing, the way your body yielded to him without question.

Your eyes fluttered open at the sharp tug on your nipple, meeting his gaze – wild, intense, a storm of blue that held you captive. The vulnerability flickered there too, beneath the dominance, a silent plea for you to anchor him in this torment.

But the curse won out, driving his hips faster, the wet sounds of his cock sliding through your cleavage filling the room alongside his deepening groans. Pressure built in his core, coiling tight as he chased another peak, his thighs tensing around you, ready to spill across your chest and neck in hot, claiming ropes.

Steve's thrusts grew erratic, his cock swelling impossibly thicker between the tight squeeze of your breasts, the veins pulsing against your skin as the pressure in his balls reached its breaking point.

With a final, savage buck of his hips, he pulled back just enough, freeing the flushed head from your cleavage, and gripped his shaft in one massive hand. Thick ropes of cum erupted from him in forceful spurts, the first jet arcing high to splatter across your collarbone and up into the hollow of your neck, warm and sticky as it began to trickle downward in lazy rivulets over your throat.

Subsequent bursts painted your chest in heavy streaks – white and viscous, landing on the swells of your tits, pooling in the valley between them, and dripping onto your sternum. The sheer volume of it, enhanced by the pollen's curse, coated you thoroughly, the scent musky and potent in the dim air of his quarters.

His blue eyes locked onto the sight, devouring every inch of your marked body with a passion that bordered on feral, flames of unquenchable need licking through his veins as if the super-soldier serum warred with the pollen for dominance in his blood.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, his chest heaving with labored breaths, but his gaze held yours captive, raw hunger etched into every line of his face – a man consumed, body and soul, by the fire raging inside him.

He released his cock, letting the last dribbles fall onto your skin, and dipped his fingers into the mess, spreading it deliberately across your breasts and down your sternum. His touch was possessive, calloused palms gliding over the slick warmth, rubbing the cum into your flesh like a claim he needed to etch deeper.

Your oversensitive skin prickled under the attention, nerves firing in sharp, almost painful bursts that drew a low, throaty moan from your lips – half pleasure, half ache from the relentless stimulation, your body trembling as the heat of his hands reignited sparks low in your belly.

Steve's control frayed at the edges, the pollen whispering urgencies he couldn't ignore, turning him into a force of nature that bent everything to his will. He grasped your hips with unyielding strength, flipping you onto your stomach in one fluid motion, your body yielding like clay under his command – limp and pliant from the exhaustion of prior peaks, yet thrumming with residual need.

The sheets pressed against your cheek as he maneuvered you, his weight shifting the mattress. He reached for the pillows scattered nearby, sliding one beneath your pelvis first, then a second, stacking them to hoist your ass upward, presenting you in a vulnerable arch that exposed the slick, swollen lips of your pussy and the tight ring of your asshole to the room's dim light.

The elevation tilted your hips just right, your thighs parting instinctively, the ache in your core pulsing anew at the promise of what came next.

“Last one, baby,” he whispered, his voice a husky rasp against your ear, laced with a tenderness that clashed against the desperation driving him.

He leaned over you, his broad chest brushing your back, and dragged his tongue along the curve of your spine – starting at the nape of your neck, where fine hairs stood on end from the ghost of his breath. The wet heat of his mouth traced downward in a slow, deliberate path, lapping at the salty sheen of sweat on your skin, following the knobs of your vertebrae with languid strokes that made your muscles quiver.

He paused at the small of your back, nipping lightly with his teeth before continuing to the swell of your ass, his tongue dipping into the dimples there, savoring the taste of you. The sensation sent shivers racing through you, your fingers clutching the sheets as his hands kneaded your elevated cheeks, spreading them slightly to expose more of you to his exploring mouth, your swollen pussy lips parting slightly to reveal the creamy mess he'd left inside, dripping down your inner thighs.

His cock, still rock hard despite the recent release, nudged against your thigh, hot and insistent, the pollen ensuring his body betrayed no fatigue – only endless, tormenting want.

You arched into the touch, a whimper escaping as his tongue circled lower, teasing the cleft of your ass before flattening against your dripping folds from behind. The position amplified everything – the pillows forcing your hips up, making your clit brush the fabric beneath with every subtle shift, while Steve's breath ghosted hot over your skin.

His fingers joined the assault, one hand sliding between your thighs to part your labia, exposing the sensitive inner flesh to the cool air before his thumb circled your entrance, dipping in shallowly to gather your arousal.

The emotional undercurrent surged too – his vulnerability peeking through in the way he murmured your name against your back, a plea buried in the dominance, as if this final round might finally sate the curse or break him entirely.

Steve sensed the pollen's grip loosening at last, a subtle ebb in the feverish blaze that had scorched through his veins for hours, leaving behind a lingering heat rather than an all-consuming inferno. His body still thrummed with residual need, his cock rigid and unyielding, thick and veined like a bull's, jutting insistently from his groin despite the exhaustion etching lines into his sweat-slicked muscles.

He hovered over you on the bed, his broad chest rising and falling in heavy breaths, the dim light of his quarters casting shadows across the powerful lines of his abdomen and the trail of blond hair leading down to where his arousal refused to wane.

His gaze dropped to the intimate evidence of your union, watching as his thick cum continued to seep from your swollen pussy, a creamy rivulet tracing down the cleft of your ass and pooling against the stacked pillows propping you up.

The sight stirred something primal in him, a final possessive urge before the curse fully receded. With deliberate care, he dipped his index and middle fingers into the slick mess leaking from your folds, gathering the warm, viscous strands of his release mingled with your own juices. He brought them up, pressing the tips against the tight ring of your asshole, the muscle clenching instinctively at the intrusion.

Slowly, he pushed inside, the lubricant of his cum easing the way as his fingers sank knuckle-deep, stretching you with a burn that bordered on exquisite.

Your body jerked sharply at the sudden penetration, a full-body shudder rippling through your limbs as the unexpected fullness ignited fresh nerves.

"Shit!" you gasped, the word bursting from your lips in a breathless curse, your eyes squeezing shut against the overwhelming sensation, lashes fluttering as your face pressed deeper into the pillow.

The jolt sent a tremor up your spine, your inner walls fluttering around the invading digits, every inch of you hypersensitive from the marathon of pleasure and pain they'd endured.

The sound of your swear drew a low, satisfied smile to Steve's lips, his blue eyes darkening with a mix of amusement and hunger as he savored your reaction.

He shifted his weight, his free hand gripping one cheek of your ass firmly, pulling it aside to expose you completely to his view – the way your hole gripped his fingers, the pale skin stretching taut around them, the faint sheen of his cum coating everything in a glossy sheen. He twisted his wrist slightly, sliding his fingers deeper, pumping them in shallow thrusts to watch the obscene display, the muscles of your ass clenching and releasing in rhythmic pulses.

All the while, his cock dragged heavily against the soft flesh of your thigh, the hot length smearing pre-cum along your skin in lazy strokes, the friction keeping him achingly hard, a promise of more if his body demanded it.

You let out a soft, needy mewl of his name – "Steve" – the sound high and breathy, vibrating from your throat as it escaped into the rumpled sheets. The vulnerability in your voice only fueled him, his fingers curling inside you with expert precision, hooking against the sensitive inner walls to press and rub at that hidden spot that made stars burst behind your closed eyelids.

He felt the immediate response, your ass contracting tightly around his digits, squeezing with a vise-like grip that pulled a rough groan from his chest, the sensation sending a fresh throb through his cock where it rested against your leg.

"God, I could watch you come on my fingers or my cock all day," he murmured, his voice a gravelly rumble thick with awe and lingering desperation, his breath hot against the curve of your back as he leaned closer, his free hand kneading the flesh of your hip to steady you.

You managed a soft laugh through the haze of sensation, the sound light and ragged, your body still quivering from the curl of his fingers.

"Not sure my body could take it," you replied, the words tumbling out in a whisper, laced with exhausted humor and the raw edge of overstimulation, even as your hips shifted subtly, chasing the pressure building deep inside you once more.

Steve's fingers kept their relentless rhythm inside your ass, plunging deeper with each twist, the slick glide of his cum easing the stretch while the burn radiated through your core, making your thighs quiver uncontrollably. The fullness pressed against nerves still raw from hours of unrelenting use, every curl of his digits sending jolts of electric pleasure-pain that arched your back and drew ragged breaths from your lungs.

He leaned forward over your prone form, his massive frame casting a warm shadow across your skin, the heat of his body enveloping you like a blanket of pure dominance.

"You've been so good for me, darlin'," he rasped, the words laced with a husky reverence that vibrated through his chest and into yours, his Brooklyn drawl slipping out in the haze of fading pollen.

His lips crashed against yours in the next instant, the kiss sloppy and desperate, mouths parting wide as tongues tangled in a wet, frantic dance. Saliva mingled between you, slick and messy, as moans escaped in unison – yours a high, keening whimper muffled against his invading tongue, his a deep, guttural rumble that echoed the pounding of his heart against your side. He devoured you like a man starved, sucking on your lower lip before plunging back in, the taste of salt and sweat sharp on his breath, his free hand cradling the back of your head to hold you steady amid the storm.

As the kiss broke, strings of saliva connecting your lips for a lingering second, Steve reached up with his thumb, gently sweeping a damp strand of hair from your flushed, sweat-slicked face. His touch was tender there, a stark contrast to the abuse his fingers delivered below, tracing the curve of your cheek with calloused reverence.

"So fucking pretty like that," he murmured, his voice thick with awe, blue eyes locking onto yours, pupils blown wide from the remnants of lust that still simmered in his veins.

The sight of you – disheveled, marked with red bites along your neck and shoulders, body trembling from overstimulation – stirred something fierce and protective in him, even as his cock throbbed insistently against your thigh.

You exhaled a soft sigh, the sound breathy and content, your body melting further into the mattress under his gaze, every muscle lax yet humming with aftershocks. The vulnerability in that simple noise pulled at him, urging him onward. Steve straightened behind you then, his fingers never ceasing their deep, probing thrusts into your ass, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room as he spread your cheeks wider with his other hand for better leverage.

The cool air kissed your exposed skin, heightening the sensitivity, while his cock – still rock-hard, veins pulsing with unspent need – bobbed heavily as he guided it toward your pussy with deliberate slowness.

He positioned the blunt head at your entrance, the thick crown nudging against your swollen folds, already slick with the remnants of his earlier releases and your own arousal.

With a gentle push of his hips, he watched in mesmerized silence as your pussy enveloped him, the lips parting greedily around his girth, sucking him inward inch by veined inch like a velvet vice. The obscene stretch was visible even in the dim light, your inner walls fluttering and clenching to draw him deeper, the creamy mix of cum and juices coating his shaft as it disappeared inside you, filling you to the hilt until his balls pressed flush against your clit. A low growl tore from his throat, primal and possessive, his fingers digging into your hip to anchor himself.

"It's like you were made for my cock," he groaned, the words rough and reverent, his body shuddering as the heat of your core gripped him tight, milking every ridge and pulse with rhythmic contractions that threatened to unravel him all over again.

Steve's fingers curved inside your ass with deliberate precision, hooking upward to press firmly against the thin, sensitive membrane that divided your body. The pressure allowed him to feel every throb and pulse of his cock as it drove deep into your pussy, the vibrations transmitting through that fragile barrier like a shared heartbeat, intensifying the fullness until it bordered on overwhelming.

Each plunge of his shaft sent ripples that his digits could sense, a dual invasion that made your inner walls clench and flutter in response, the slick heat of your arousal coating him while his cum from before lubricated the tight ring around his knuckles. The sensation was electric, a feedback loop of pleasure that had your toes curling against the sheets, your breath hitching as the dual stimulation ignited fresh sparks along every nerve.

You moaned loudly, the sound raw and broken, spilling from your lips as he rammed both holes with meticulous thoroughness – his cock slamming home in your pussy with wet, slapping impacts that jolted your hips forward, while his fingers twisted and thrust in your ass, matching the rhythm to stretch and probe without mercy. The overstimulation built like a storm, your body a live wire under his control, every withdrawal and re-entry drawing out whimpers that escalated into chants.

“Steve... Steve... oh God, Steve,” you recited his name like a fervent prayer, the words tumbling out in desperate gasps, a litany of surrender that echoed off the walls of his dimly lit quarters. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the intensity, your voice cracking with each syllable, but the plea only fueled his drive, binding you closer in this haze of primal need.

With his free hand, Steve gripped your hip ferociously, his calloused fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises, anchoring you in place as his body surged forward. The hold was unyielding, possessive, pulling you back onto him with each punishing thrust that bordered on violence, his hips snapping against your ass with bruising force to combat the creeping fatigue weighing down his super-soldier frame.

He'd cum so many times already – from his hand, deep inside you, across your skin, in your mouth – that his muscles trembled with exhaustion, the pollen's curse still lingering to keep him hard and aching despite the drain. Sweat beaded on his brow, dripping onto your back as he pushed through the overstimulation, his cock hypersensitive yet refusing to soften, every slide into your clenching pussy sending shudders through him that he masked with raw power.

The slaps of skin on skin filled the room, mingled with the squelch of his fingers working your ass, the air thick with the musky scent of sex and exertion.

He moaned your name then, the sound a guttural plea that vibrated through his chest, “Fuck, darlin'... you're perfect,” as his thrusts grew erratic, chasing the edge once more.

Praises poured from him in a torrent of husky groans, his voice roughened by strain and desire.

“This ass... so tight, takin' my fingers like it was made for it... grippin' me so good.”

His digits curled again, rubbing against the bulge of his cock through your walls, drawing a fresh wave of moans from you both.

“And your pussy– God, it's milkin' me dry, suckin' me in deeper every time... so wet, so hot for me.”

He leaned over you slightly, his breath hot against your ear, free hand sliding up to squeeze your hip harder before trailing to your waist, holding you steady as he pounded relentlessly.

“Your body's a fuckin' dream– curves I can't get enough of, skin so soft under my hands... you're mine, all mine, takin' everything I give.”

The words washed over you like a caress amid the brutality, his blue eyes half-lidded with overwhelmed lust, body glistening with sweat as he drove you both toward another shattering peak, the fatigue only sharpening the urgency of his claims.

Steve's voice rasped out the words, low and commanding, his breath hot against the nape of your neck as he leaned over you, his body still buried deep.

“Gonna be good, baby? Gonna give me a last one?” The question hung in the air, laced with that desperate edge, his cock twitching inside your pussy while his fingers remained hooked in your ass, pressing insistently against the thin wall that separated them, feeling every quiver of your exhausted muscles.

You nodded weakly, your head lolling forward against the mattress, strands of hair sticking to your sweat-dampened face.

Strength had long fled your limbs; you couldn't muster the energy to rock your hips back against his thrusts or clench around his invading digits.

All you could do was endure the onslaught, your body a vessel for the exquisite torment he inflicted – waves of pleasure crashing through you without mercy, your senses overwhelmed by the stretch of his thick shaft filling your pussy, the burn of his fingers scissoring in your ass, the slap of his balls against your clit with each forceful drive.

Your breaths came in shallow pants, every nerve ending raw and firing, leaving you limp and pliant beneath his weight.

The orgasm hit you like a thunderclap, sudden and ferocious, ripping through your core without warning.

Your mouth fell open in a silent O, no sound escaping at first as the contractions seized you – your pussy clamping down hard on his cock, milking it in rhythmic spasms, while your ass tightened around his knuckles, the dual grip sending shockwaves up your spine.

Tears streamed down your cheeks unchecked, hot trails marking the flush of your skin, born from the sheer overload of sensations: the relentless friction igniting your walls, the pressure building until it shattered you, leaving your vision blurring and your body convulsing in helpless tremors.

You gasped then, a broken sob tearing free as the peak crested, your thighs quaking, toes digging into the sheets, every inch of you alight with that blinding ecstasy that bordered on pain.

Steve groaned in approval, his free hand stroking down your side in a rare moment of tenderness amid the frenzy.

“That's it, sweetheart... so fuckin' good for me, comin' like that on my cock and fingers.” His praise washed over you, rough and sincere, vibrating through his chest as he felt your release pulse around him, your juices flooding out to slick his length even more.

But he didn't stop – couldn't stop – the pollen's grip still urging him on despite the exhaustion etching lines into his face. He withdrew his fingers from your ass with a wet pop, the sudden emptiness making you whimper, only to replace the sensation with the grind of his hips, his cock plunging deeper into your spasming pussy.

He resumed that infernal rhythm, hips snapping forward with punishing force, each thrust dragging his shaft along your sensitive walls, the head bumping your cervix as he chased his own end. Sweat poured off him, dripping onto your back, his muscles straining under the super-soldier endurance that kept him going even as fatigue clawed at him.

“Fuck... takin' it all, baby... gonna fill you up one last time,” he muttered through gritted teeth, his grip on your hip tightening to bruising levels, pulling you back onto him as his pace stuttered. The overstimulation made his cock throb painfully inside you, every slide hypersensitive, but the curse demanded release.

With a final, guttural roar of your name, Steve came hard, his body locking against yours as ropes of hot cum erupted from his tip, flooding your pussy in thick spurts that overflowed, trickling down your thighs. He ground into you through it, prolonging the jets until he was spent, his chest heaving as he collapsed forward slightly, still sheathed deep.

The room fell quiet save for your mingled pants, the air heavy with the scent of sex, his seed marking you from within as the pollen's haze finally began to lift, leaving only the raw ache of satisfaction in its wake.

After a few minutes passed in the hazy aftermath, both of you gasping for air and piecing together the fragments of your shattered composure, Steve finally eased himself out of you.

The withdrawal drew a sharp grimace across his face, his brows knitting together as the oversensitive head of his cock – still slick with your combined releases – brushed against your swollen folds. It throbbed with residual ache, deflating at last under the weight of exhaustion, the pollen's relentless fire dimming to embers in his veins. A low hiss escaped his lips, his body shuddering from the raw tenderness, every nerve ending protesting the sudden emptiness after hours of unyielding connection.

His blue eyes, softened now from the feral intensity, roamed over you as you lay there, spent and vulnerable on the rumpled sheets. Tear tracks carved glistening paths down your flushed cheeks, your eyelids sealed shut in weary surrender, lashes clumped with moisture.

The sight twisted something deep in his chest – a pang of concern cutting through the lingering haze of lust.

“Shit... You okay, baby?” he murmured, his voice roughened by exertion but laced with genuine worry, one large hand hovering uncertainly near your hip, afraid to touch and reignite the storm.

You mumbled something incoherent in response, the words slurring into a soft, breathless hum that barely formed against your parted lips. Your body felt like lead, every muscle liquefied from the marathon of pleasure and overstimulation, but instinct drew you toward him.

With a feeble effort, you lifted one trembling hand backward, fingers questing blindly through the air until they grazed the warmth of his skin. He caught it immediately, his calloused palm enveloping yours, fingers intertwining in a firm, reassuring grip that grounded you both. You tugged gently, a silent plea pulling him closer, and he yielded without hesitation, shifting his weight to slide onto the bed beside you.

Steve gathered you against his chest in one fluid motion, his arm wrapping around your waist to draw your back flush to his front, enveloping you in the solid heat of his body. The steady thrum of his heartbeat against your spine was a soothing anchor, his breath ruffling the damp strands of hair at your nape. Despite the super-soldier's frame – broad shoulders and corded muscles still humming with faint aftershocks – he held you with deliberate care, as if you were fragile porcelain in the wake of his storm.

“Fucked you good?” he asked, a hint of playful pride threading through the gravel in his tone, his free hand tracing lazy circles along your side to ease the lingering tremors.

A tired smile tugged at your lips, even as your eyes remained heavy-lidded.

“Damn right, Rogers. Don't think I'll be able to walk tomorrow,” you replied, your voice a hoarse whisper, laced with wry satisfaction and the dull throb echoing through your core – your pussy still fluttering faintly, tender and full from his repeated claims, a warm trickle of his cum seeping between your thighs as a sticky reminder.

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling deep in his chest like distant thunder, vibrating through you and drawing a contented sigh from your lips. His lips brushed your shoulder in a feather-light kiss, affectionate and unhurried now that the curse's grip had loosened.

“Want me to help you shower?” he offered, his thumb stroking the back of your hand in slow, comforting strokes, already mentally mapping the path to the bathroom in his quarters.

You cracked open one eye, peering at him through the haze of fatigue, the simple act feeling monumental in your drained state.

“Steve, at this point, you're going to have to carry me to the shower,” you admitted, half-teasing, half-serious, your body limp and boneless against him, every joint protesting at the mere thought of movement.

The air between you hung thick with the scent of sweat and sex, but in that quiet intimacy, the vulnerability bloomed into something tender, his presence a balm against the exquisite wreckage he'd wrought.

Steve leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a soft, lingering kiss that carried the weight of unspoken gratitude and affection. The touch was gentle, a stark contrast to the raw ferocity that had consumed him earlier, his mouth warm and unhurried against your parted lips, tasting faintly of salt from the sweat beading on his skin.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his blue eyes clear now, the pollen's haze fully lifted, replaced by a quiet tenderness that made your chest ache in the best way.

“Okay... Let's wash up first,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through his chest, already shifting into motion as he scooped you up into his powerful arms with effortless strength.

Your body molded against his, limp and trusting, your head resting on his broad shoulder as he cradled you like something precious. The cool air of the room kissed your overheated skin, raising faint goosebumps where his body heat didn't reach, but his embrace chased away the chill, enveloping you in the familiar scent of him – musk and clean sweat, now mingled with the sticky remnants of your shared release.

Both of you were a mess, slick layers of perspiration clinging to every curve and contour, your skin glistening under the dim light. Trails of his cum streaked your thighs and belly, drying in tacky patches that pulled slightly with each subtle shift, while his own body bore the evidence too – smudges on his abdomen and hips, his softening cock nestled against your hip, still sensitive and twitching faintly from the ordeal. The room reeked of it all, the air heavy with the earthy tang of sex and exertion, sheets twisted and damp beneath where you'd lain.

In his mind, Steve ran through a quick mental checklist, his usual focus sharpening even in this intimate haze: first, he'd carry you to the shower, letting the hot water cascade over you both to rinse away the grime and soothe your aching muscles; then, he'd strip the bed of its soiled linens, replacing them with fresh ones from the closet to create a clean sanctuary; and through the night, he'd stay vigilant, coaxing you into deep sleep with gentle touches, fetching water to keep you hydrated, his hand perhaps resting on your back to monitor your breathing.

It was the bare minimum he owed you after the way you'd anchored him through the pollen's torment, your body a lifeline when his control had shattered into primal need.

He carried you toward the bathroom door, his steps steady and sure, the weight of you negligible in his arms, each footfall a promise of care in the quiet that followed the storm.

taglist: @phoenix-in-writing @mrsevans90 @sassandscribbles

You remember it as clear as day.

Steve’s voice—which was much higher than yours back then—squealing excitedly about how he was going to become the lead guitarist in the biggest rock band to ever exist. After school, he’d always invite you over to play Guitar Hero with him and his other best friend, Bucky.

“This game blows,” little Bucky would spit, sliding the guitar strap off and setting the toy down impatiently. “I’m not even havin’ fun.”

“Don’t be like that in front of the missus, Buck!” Steve would stammer, embarrassed by how his friend was overreacting in front of you. 

It was always cute how easy it was for him to get flustered whenever you were near. 

“Just… just let her play the guitar, then.”

Bucky would roll his eyes, annoyed by how easily smitten Steve was, and hand you the plastic neck. “Fine. When your mom buys the drum kit, that’s when I’ll play.”

And the minute Sarah bought the drums, and the microphone next, it was over for the three of you. You and Bucky were at Steve’s house every day, practically joined at the hip. You would take the mic, Steve would take the guitar, and Bucky would go crazy on the drums.

Their passion for music was exhilarating, and it naturally rubbed off on you. Although your younger self didn’t understand the significance of music at the time, all you knew was that it felt and sounded good.

It was loud, jumpy, and extremely fucking catchy. 

It was ultimately you, Steve and Bucky. 

One day in high school, Steve was sitting at the edge of your bed again, idly picking out the chords of a secondhand Strat to the tune of Wake Me Up When September Ends. You were at your desk, writing in your notebook and humming quietly to yourself.

“You know,” Steve had spoken up suddenly, “you’ve got a pretty voice.”

You smiled, your eyes never leaving the page. “I know. You tell me this every time.”

“Oh?” Steve hummed, stopping his picking and setting the guitar down. “Conceited much?”

You only chuckled, shaking your head. “Well, when you remind me every single day, I start to believe it.”

Steve shifted on the mattress, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He watched the smooth movement of your pen and the way you’d chew on your lip every time you wrote an interesting line—one you would never share with the class. 

“You’re always filling those pages,” he pointed out, nodding toward the notebook. “Is it more of your poetry? Or just… thoughts?”

You shrugged, a bit shy about it. “A bit of both, I guess. Just whatever’s in my head.” 

Steve let out a low hum. You expected him to pick his Stratocaster back up and start strumming again, but he didn’t. His blue eyes brightened with an idea as he scooted closer. 

“You’ve got the voice, and you’ve clearly got the rhymes. Why don’t you try writing some songs?”

You let out a laugh before you could stop yourself. Steve was always quick with a compliment, but he had never suggested something like this before.

“Very funny, Stevie.”

“What?” he frowned slightly, though his eyes were still bright. “I’m being serious. You could totally pump out some great songs.” He leaned back, folding his arms over his chest with a smug smile. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll be the one writing the greatest hits for my band.”

“Your upcoming band?” you finally swiveled in your chair to look at him, a brow arched in amusement. “You mean the one that’s currently just you and Bucky?”

“Hey! The right guitarist and bassist will come to us soon enough,” he countered. “Just you watch.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, turning back to your desk to hide the heat in your cheeks. “No, Steve. I don’t have the talent for that. I’m not exactly musically inclined like you and Bucky.”

Steve shrugged casually, pressing on. “You never know if you don’t try.”

You knew exactly where this was going. 

After years of friendship, you knew Steve was obsessed with people reaching their ‘full potential.’ He was a person who craved creativity and expression; you were someone who craved comfort and familiarity. 

As much as you loved to read and write and sing, you knew you’d never find a stable career on talent alone.

“I’m fine right here,” you muttered, picking up your pen and trying to find your place in your notebook. “Writing poems is one thing. Putting them to music and letting people hear them is a different thing entirely.”

You hoped he’d sense your discomfort and drop it, but he didn’t.

“That’s the problem,” Steve said, dropping his playful tone with a sigh. “You always choose to be comfortable. You’re always hidin’ behind these books… or burying yourself in homework. You need to actually put yourself out there for once.”

You felt a prickle of annoyance under your skin. Rather than sounding like a best friend, he started sounding like a father. You laughed awkwardly, trying to diffuse the tension building up inside you.

“Okay, okay, I get it. Professor Rogers has spoken. Can we stop now?”

“Come on, listen to me for once,” Steve pressured, his persistence only fueling your irritation. “You’re going to spend your whole life studying things other people did instead of doing something for yourself. Don’t you want more than just…” he gestured to the stacks of books and papers cluttering your room, “…this?”

You always knew Steve meant well, but you hated how easily he could make your world feel small.

“Don’t talk to me like that, Steve—”

“You’re incredibly talented!” Steve let out an incredulous laugh. “I’m just looking out for you, sweetheart. I hate to see all that talent wasted on something meaningless—”

“Meaningless?” you scoffed, finally spinning your chair around and standing up to face him. “Are you kidding? I work hard to secure my future! I do it because I want to. You don’t ever hear me talking about how… about how…”

You paused, clenching your fists at your sides before you said something you’d regret. But Steve kept biting. He stood up, and with the massive growthspurt he had in high school, it was his turn to look down at you.

Making you feel small yet again. 

“About what?” he challenged. 

You clenched your jaw, thinking you’d get away without screwing it all up, but as you lifted your eyes to meet his—condescending and belitting—the words slipped out anyway. 

“About how you’re chasing an unrealistic fantasy!” you snapped cruelly. “I’m working for a future, Steve. A real one. While you and Bucky are just… playing around in a garage, making noise and calling it a career!”

Steve’s face fell. 

The eyes that had been narrowing down at you widened in shock, and his shoulders dropped the minute your words began to echo back in the room. In all your years of knowing him, you had never seen him look like that, and the realization that you were the cause made you desperate to turn back time, but it was all too late.

“Steve… I—”

“This is what you’ve thought?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. “All this time… while you were over at my place, or me sitting here on your bed, listening to me play… you thought it was just noise?”

Christ.

You had attacked the one thing he loved most.

What kind of friend were you?

“Steve…” your voice cracked. You reached out, your fingers hovering near his sleeve, but he took a sudden step back. “I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. You just kept pushing me… and I—”

“No,” Steve scoffed, stepping completely out of your reach. He picked up his Stratocaster, leaving nothing but a dent on your bedsheets where the guitar had rested. “I think you meant exactly what you said.”

He didn’t look at you again as he headed for the door. 

“I’ll see you around.”

Then the door shut coldly. 

Years had passed, and that was the last time you had ever truly spoken to Steve.

You had tried reaching out through texts and emails, you would even shown up at his house and waited outside his classrooms, but he never extended a hand back. He would give you a quick, dismissive side glance before walking the other way. You even tried talking to Bucky, but he would only scratch the back of his neck awkwardly and make some excuse for him.

It wasn’t entirely your fault, anyway. Right?

Steve had pushed you, and you had finally stood up for yourself. He owed you an apology just as much as you owed him one. But after all those failed attempts to resolve things, you decided to leave the ball in his court.

Now that you’re in college, the ball is still in his court. 

Unmoved.

You missed Steve dearly.

He was your only true friend growing up, and now that you’d fallen apart, there was an empty space in your heart reserved just for him. 

You thought by now you’d finally gotten over the broken friendship, but how could you? You both went to the same college, and his band’s gig posters were plastered on every wall on campus.

“CIVIL WAR” was splayed across the top in a spray painted design. Underneath was a grainy photo of the band; even through the blurry print, you could pick out Steve right in the center, screaming into the microphone. His hair was shaved at the sides and shaggy at the top, and stubble traced the line of his chiseled jaw.

He also looked like he had been working out. 

He looked incredible, and it only made your heart ache for him more.

Below the photo, a message was scrawled in a bold font that was clearly written by Bucky.

Leave your heart at the door and come rock with us at Shield Dive this Friday. Doors open at 9, good fucking music at 10.

“You goin’?” a familiar voice asked from your left.

You lifted your head, clutching your book to your chest at the sight of him. Bucky stood there with a stack of papers in his hands—more posters for the band, you assumed.

“Oh,” you breathed, forcing the kind of polite smile you’d give any other stranger. Because that’s what Bucky was to you now. A total stranger.

“No. It’s… uh, it’s not my place,” you said lightly, followed by a chuckle that sounded more like a sigh. “I’m sure you guys will sound great. You always do. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

You ducked your head, ready to end the awkward encounter, but Bucky spoke up before you could walk away completely.

“He would want you there, you know.”

You froze, but you didn’t turn around completely. You knew exactly who he was referring to, but you couldn’t let yourself believe it. If Steve really wanted you at his shows, why hadn’t he ever reached back out?

You could only look over your shoulder and give Bucky a sad, tight smile—a silent thank you for the pitiful attempt at making you feel better, though it only made you feel worse.

“No, he wouldn’t.”

It was an hour before their set at Shield Dive, and the bar was already packed—more crowded than they’d ever seen it. The small band originally scheduled to open had canceled at the last minute, and a new group had stepped in to take their place.

“Christ,” Natasha muttered, peeking past the curtains with her bass strapped to her side. “It’s a full house.” She turned to Steve with a grin. “Bet you didn’t expect that tonight, Rogers.”

Steve crossed his arms, his jaw tensing as he held back a snarky reply. He certainly hadn’t expected their rivals, F.R.I.D.A.Y., to be the ones opening for them. His pride was too strong to admit his confusion; why was a band with more hits than Civil War performing as an opener? 

He was starting to think Tony Stark—the lead singer and guitarist—was doing it just to mess with them.

Sam, sensing Steve’s irritation, clapped a comforting hand on Steve's shoulder. “You good, man?”

Bucky was watching silently. He knew his best friend well enough not to even ask. 

Whatever Steve was feeling, Bucky was likely feeling it, too. But Steve was the bandleader—the last thing he needed to do was lose his cool in front of the others.

“Just peachy,” Steve finally replied. 

He uncrossed his arms and pried his eyes away from the curtain, where Stark and his crew were setting up on the stage that was supposed to be theirs.

“We’re just going to have to play better than they do,” Steve told the group. “If half these people came for F.R.I.D.A.Y., then we’re going to be the reason they stay.”

“I know all of you folks are stoked to hear Civil War,” Tony Stark’s voice rang through the microphone, pulling Steve’s attention back to the gap in the curtain where Nat stood.

“But my gang and I have a couple of songs we want to run through for you first—” before Tony could even finish the sentence, the crowd erupted into a roar that did nothing to soothe the irritation building in the pit of Steve’s stomach.

Tony grinned smugly, his designer sunglasses reflecting the harsh stage lights. Steve scoffed under his breath. Who the hell wears sunglasses indoors?

“Covers for now. We want to keep it simple for you guys before the real show starts,” Tony said, putting a condescending emphasis on the word real. “War Machine, AC/DC—” The crowd cheered. “Spiders, System of a Down—” Groups of girls screamed Peter’s name at the top of their lungs. “And of course, Iron Man. Black Sabbath—”

The entire dive bar started to shake from the volume of people cheering and stomping their feet.

The opening chords of War Machine began to rip through Shield Dive, and the crowd went feral immediately. It was loud and as much as Steve hated to admit it, they sounded incredible. Peter Parker moved with an experienced precision that didn’t seem possible for someone who looked like he belonged at a high school prom and nowhere near a dive bar.

“I don’t get it,” Steve mumbled grumpily, his arms locked tight over his broad chest. “How does a kid like Parker end up with that crowd? He’s a prodigy. Why is he hanging out with old fucks like Rhodey and Vision?”

The audience was eating it up. 

Every single person in the shitty dive bar was tucked firmly under Tony Stark’s thumb. It wasn’t just that they sounded great, it was the principle of it. Why was someone like Tony Stark—who had enough of his mommy and daddy’s money to buy the venue—playing an opening set of covers right before theirs?

Bucky stood just behind Steve, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed in a perfect mirror of his best friend. As he watched Peter, he chewed on his toothpick, his jaw clenching as he listened to every hit of the snare.

“Kid’s alright,” Bucky mumbled. “Still not as good as me, though.”

The rest of the setlist finally was nearing its end, and as they finished Iron Man, the crowd kept roaring for more. Steve clicked his tongue and turned back to the rest of the group, grabbing the neck of his guitar.

“They’re wrapping up,” he said. “Come on. We’re up next—” 

“But before we let you go—we’ve got one more!”

Steve snapped his head back toward the stage. Tony was still standing dead center, the feedback from the speakers catching his loud, snarky voice and throwing it across the room. 

Steve’s hand tightened on the neck of his guitar. Are you fucking kidding me? 

They were already over their time.

“We’ve got a song for you folks—a special one! Because it hasn’t even been released yet,” Tony smiled, peering cockishly through his sunglasses as the crowd began to cheer again. “And we’re going to be performing it for the very first time here tonight—with you guys!”

The dive bar went ballistic. Steve was already losing his cool after finding out F.R.I.D.A.Y. was performing, and now with Stark and his goons going way past their scheduled showtime to debut a brand new song—Steve felt like his head was going to explode.

“A new song?” Bucky’s brows furrowed, giving Steve a look.

Peter started with the rapid fire snare snapping, building up to a crescendo that only Dave Grohl could fucking do with Everlong, which only built the hype of the crowd even more. 

Rhodey’s melody guitar was haunting, and the moment Tony stepped up to the microphone and sang the opening verse to the crowd, Steve knew he was cooked.

The beginning verse, the chorus—it was all incredible. If it wasn’t Peter’s drumming or Tony’s voice that sold the song, then it was Vision’s bass solo that would sell them out. It’s rare for a song to be a hit based on a bassline, but when you have a catchy Deacon or McVie style groove, you’re going to get pretty fucking far.

It was, without a question, the best song Steve had ever heard. 

It was the kind of song that changed a band’s career overnight—the kind of song he’d been trying to write his entire life.

Everyone under the roof knew it. Hell, even his own band behind him knew they couldn’t compete with that. The only way someone could successfully follow an opening like this was if they were Bowie performing right after Queen at Live Aid in '85.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Bucky breathed next to him, watching them with a frustrated frown. “They’re good.”

By the time the song ended, Steve was already feeling deeply discouraged. The crowd was loud, Steve couldn’t even hear his own thoughts cursing Tony out. 

Tony caught his breath, wiping a stray strand of hair out of his face as he smiled into the mic. He waited for the cheering to die down just enough to be heard, that smug, infuriating grin plastered on his stubbled chin.

“Wow,” he drawed. “Didn’t expect you guys to enjoy it that much—but who the hell am I kidding? Who wouldn’t like that song?”

Steve gritted his teeth. That smug asshole.

“But we can’t take all the credit for that masterpiece. We had a little help from a brilliant new talent—a dear friend of mine who’s goin’ to be running this town before long.” 

Tony pulled the microphone from the stand and stepped toward the edge of the stage. 

“She couldn’t be here tonight, but I still want to shout her out with the credit she deserves. Let’s hear it for the writer behind the music!”

And the moment Tony said your name, the world and all its sounds came to a sudden halt.

Steve no longer heard the screaming of the crowd or Tony’s aggravating voice. 

All he could hear was the echo of that name. 

Your name. 

“Steve.”

You.

“Are you okay?”

You had started writing songs? Since when? 

“Steve, we’re up—”

And out of all the artists you could’ve written for, you’d been writing for his biggest rivals?

“Steve!” Bucky’s voice cut sharply against Steve’s thoughts. “Come on. Get your head in the game, man. We’re live in—”

“Bucky,” Steve turned to his friend, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Did you not hear what Tony just said? He said her name—”

“I know,” Bucky interrupted, his face tense as he frowned. “I heard him, which fucking blows, but there’s nothing we can do about it right now.” He motioned past the curtains to where F.R.I.D.A.Y. was clearing their gear. “Right now, we have a show to perform. And we need our leader up stage and center with a clear head.”

Steve clenched his jaw. He had everything but a clear head. There were a thousand things he wanted to say—likely the exact same things Bucky was already thinking.

But his best friend was right. They had a show to put on.

“You’re right,” Steve finally sighed, nodding to himself to try and amp his energy up. “Let’s go.”

And the show they performed after F.R.I.D.A.Y. was a disaster.

It was the start of a new week, and since this morning, you’ve had an uneasy feeling in your gut.

Maybe it was the stress of all the upcoming assignments and exams that were lined up for you, but those usual anxieties have always felt familiar. This feeling was different.

You were alone in the quiet library, keeping your head down as you buried yourself in a stack of textbooks. Occasionally, you’d lift your gaze to check the clock hanging in the center of the room—but what you didn’t expect to find waiting for you was a pair of familiar blue eyes.

Steve.

Catching his eyes across campus wasn’t unusual, yet it always made your heart skip a beat—as if it were trying to reach out to him. You looked away, as you always did, and by now he’d usually look away too or already be gone, off doing his own thing. That was the end of it.

But as you glanced up again, expecting to see the empty space where he had just been standing, your heart let out another slow and painful thump.

Steve wasn’t gone. And he wasn’t looking away.

You looked away again, waited a good five seconds this time, then dared to look back up.

He was walking straight for your table, his stride purposeful with his worn messenger bag slung lazily over his shoulder. His expression was completely unreadable. You felt your breath hitch as your heart began thumping nervously.

Maybe he’s just looking for a book, you tried to convince yourself. Maybe there’s a textbook he needs for a lecture right behind me.

Your grip on your pencil tightened, and you scribbled something at the edge of the paper to make yourself look productive, waiting for the sound of his footsteps to pass. Instead, the shadow of a broad frame eclipsed the light hanging over your table.

Steve stopped directly in front of you, his presence taking over your every sense.

“I need to talk to you,” he said firmly, not even bothering to use an inside voice for the library.

It was the first time he had spoken to you directly in years, and this was the first thing he had to say? Not a simple “hello,” or “it’s been a while,” or even a “how are you?”

With his not-so-quiet voice filling the silence of the library, students who were already mildly agitated by his sudden eruption began snapping their heads toward him.

You shifted awkwardly in your seat, still avoiding eye contact. You could feel the heat of the embarrassment crawling up your neck from the collective stares of the students—and from him.

“Not now, Steve,” you whispered. 

Steve didn’t move a muscle. If anything, he seemed to plant his feet firmer against the carpet.

“No,” he said, his voice still loud enough to grate on the nerves of the surrounding students. “I think we should really talk.”

You couldn’t risk seeing whatever expression was on his face—whether it was guilt, pity, or that stubborn righteousness he always carried. You just flipped a page of your notes, the paper crinkling loudly.

“I’m busy studying, Steve,” you muttered dismissively. “Some other time.”

The wooden chair in front of you was pulled back suddenly, scraping against the carpet, and the empty space was abruptly filled by Steve’s large presence. He sat down across from you, dropping his messenger bag onto the desk with a heavy thud to catch your attention. He didn’t pull out a single book or a laptop. He just sat there, looking like a no-good dirtbag completely out of place in a library filled with students actually trying to get work done.

“Okay. Fine.” He rested his elbows on the desk, cupping his chin in one hand. “I’ll wait, then.”

The sheer audacity of Steve Grant Rogers made your skin prickle.

You tried to be the bigger person by ignoring him entirely, focusing on the work in front of you—but how could you when you could feel his gaze piercing through you the entire time? 

Curious, you lifted your head to give him a wary glance, and he caught it immediately, flashing a smile.

That ‘all-good,’ charming Mr. American smile of his.

With an exhausted sigh, you quickly shoved your chair back to get up and make yourself busy. Steve’s eyes followed you, one brow raised curiously.

“Where are you going?”

“Need to find a reference book,” you mumbled, walking off toward the tower of bookshelves before giving him a chance to respond.

You heard the groan of Steve’s chair as he pushed himself up to chase after you. You turned a corner, then another, putting rows of dusty encyclopedias between you. All you needed was a second to breathe—a second to stop your hands from shaking. Finding yourself in an empty aisle, you thought you had finally lost him. With a relieved sigh, you began browsing the shelves for a book you actually needed for an assignment.

You reached for a thick, leather-bound volume on the top shelf, straining on your tippy toes until your calves ached. Just as your fingertips brushed the spine, a large hand reached over your shoulder, hooking the book and pulling it down to help you.

You let out a relieved sigh, dropping back onto your heels. “Thanks—”

But when you turned to take it, Steve was standing right in front of you, holding the book high above his head and well out of your reach.

“I need to talk to you,” he repeated, having the decency to be at least a little bit quieter this time.

“Steve,” you sighed, reaching up for the book. “I’m really not looking forward to talking right now—”

“I don’t care,” he cut in with that look he always got when he was being stubborn.

He leaned over you, pinning you against the shelf as the book dangled in his hand. The height difference only reminded you of the night he’d looked down at you in your own bedroom—making you feel small all over again.

“I’m not giving you this book back until you talk to me.”

You scoffed in disbelief, a bitter smile straining at his audacity. “Are you being serious right now?”

When you realized he was, you shook your head and tried to push past him. “Fine. Keep it, then—”

Steve stepped to the side, blocking your exit. He pinned one arm to the shelf, his tatted forearm cutting off your path and blocking your view.

“I heard the set that F.R.I.D.A.Y. played at Shield Dive,” he said, his voice dropping. “I heard the song. Your song.”

You felt your heart drop.

In all the times Steve had performed, it had never once occurred to you that his band would cross paths with F.R.I.D.A.Y. And what did he mean, playing at Shield Dive? You’d secretly supported Civil War from the sidelines—a bittersweet loyalty to Steve and Bucky—but even you knew that Tony’s band wouldn't usually bother with a shitty dive bar.

You tried to keep your face blank, but your shaky voice betrayed you.

“I don’t… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stammered.

Steve didn’t buy it for a second. It had been years since he’d spoken to you, sure, but he still knew exactly what you looked like when you were lying.

He stepped closer, the tips of his boots nearly touching your shoes. He was so close now that you were certain if he stood still long enough, he’d be able to hear your heart beat.

“Please don’t lie to me.”

“Get out of my way, Steve,” you tried to move past him once more, your voice tight. “I need to study.”

But Steve stepped in front of you again, closing you in. He let out a deep exhale, as if he were carefully pondering every word, terrified of screwing this up even more than he already had.

“Look—I know you and I got off on the wrong foot years ago,” he said gently, his gaze softening as he caught your eye. “And I’m sorry I haven’t reached out. I just...” He paused, looking hesitant, before forcing a small, bittersweet smile. “But you’re making music now? That’s… that’s incredible.”

You bit your lip, feeling apprehensive. 

“Steve…”

“I’m really happy for you,” he said softly—so soft it sounded solemn. “I always knew you had a secret talent for that sort of thing—that song they played sounded amazing. The fact that you’re actually pursuing it… that’s really special.”

He took another shaky breath and let it out. “I’m happy for you,” he repeated, almost as if he were trying to convince himself.

You blinked at him, completely caught off guard. You had spent all this time bracing yourself for the “I told you so,” or the condescending “Why didn’t you listen to me?” that you were sure he’d eventually throw in your face. 

But it never came.

The strain in Steve’s voice gave you a glimpse into what he was truly feeling—and it resonated so sharply with your own heart, it hurt. It was a mirror of your own grief for the friendship, along with a hollow longing for each other’s presence again.

The vulnerability in his blue eyes made your shoulders ease just slightly, your tone softening.

“Thank you,” you admitted. “I didn’t think it was something I’d actually get into, but…”

Under Steve’s gaze, it was easy to trail off and feel sheepish. You wanted to open up to him, to thank him for finding your new talent, but a small, deep part of you wasn’t ready to let your walls down just yet. He had broken no-contact for the first time in years, and it was only after discovering you were writing songs for F.R.I.D.A.Y.

There had to be something more to this than a simple “I’m happy for you.”

But still, your heart missed him—and in this moment, your heart won.

“What is it that you wanted to talk about?” you questioned softly. 

Steve looked down at you, his thumb tracing the edge of the book’s spine. There was so much he wanted to demand— a thousand questions clawing at his throat. He wanted to know why you were writing for Tony Stark, of all people. He wanted to know when you’d started, and if you were doing it just to spite him after he’d encouraged you to write songs in the past.

And a part of him, the selfish part that still felt like he owned a piece of your heart, wanted to ask if you’d ever write a song for him. 

But the longer he looked at you, the clawing in his throat stopped and the words died.

You were looking up at him with such wide eyed, innocent trust. It was the look he remembered from high school; those were the very eyes he had wanted to protect and never see sad again. It was the very face he’d wanted to smother in kisses the moment he realized he loved you.

But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t ruin this fragile moment of peace by making it about himself.

Steve bit his lip, his jaw tightening as he forced his gaze away from yours. He let out a breath that sounded more like defeat than a sigh.

“I’m just proud of you,” he said, voice strained and barely above a whisper. “That’s all.” 

You stood there, stunned, because that wasn’t what you had expected at all. 

That’s all?

Before you could press him, Steve simply lowered the book and pressed it gently into your hands. His fingers lingered against yours for a second, and you wanted nothing more than to drop the book and interlock your fingers with his.

But he pulled away.

“I’ll see you around,” Steve murmured.

He turned on his heel and walked down the aisle, rounding the corner and disappearing without looking back.

Later that day, Steve found himself sitting in his living room with Bucky over. It seemed like it was just yesterday the three of you were here, playing Guitar Hero together. 

“So,” Bucky said, handing Steve a beer before plopping onto the couch next to him. “How’d it go?”

Steve brought the open bottle to his lips, staring blankly at the TV screen. “With what?”

Bucky smacked his lips. “You know what.”

Steve knew exactly what he was talking about, yet his mind was still stuck on you. After the gig at Shield Dive, he’d told Bucky he was going to talk to you in hopes of convincing you to write for Civil War instead—but God, what kind of person was he? To show up in your life after years of one-sided silence and demand something like that?

He felt like the lowest of the low for even considering it.

“Come on,” Bucky nudged his shoulder, impatient. “Well? What did she say? Did you apologize to her and then ask her like we discussed?”

Steve ran a hand through his hair. He knew Bucky wouldn’t let him live this down. Just to get him off his back, he let out a sigh and lied.

“I did, yeah.”

“And?” Bucky prodded.

“She… she said yes,” Steve swallowed, looking down at the condensation building up on his beer bottle. “She’ll write some songs for us.”

Bucky blinked, not expecting those words to come so smoothly out of his friend’s mouth.

“She said yes?” he repeated, huffing out a breath of disbelief before his grin widened. “Well, would you look at that? Your girl’s still got a soft spot for you.”

That one sentence made Steve feel ten times worse.

“Yeah,” Steve mumbled. “I guess she does.”

He took a long, slow swallow of his beer. He had always been a terrible liar, his face usually gave him away before he even finished a sentence, but Bucky was so blinded by the hope of having brand new music that he hadn’t even noticed the way Steve’s hand was shaking.

The guilt was already starting to eat at him. He hadn’t even apologized for abandoning you for all those years. He’d never apologized for belittling your dreams or making you feel small. 

Worse, he had just used your name to buy himself some peace with Bucky and the band.

“This is great news, man,” Bucky cheered, swinging a drink back with a grin. “Who knows—maybe we’ll all start hanging out again, just like the good ol’ days.”

Steve chewed at his bottom lip, his thumb mindlessly swiping over the condensation on the bottle. Every word Bucky said felt like another shovel of dirt on the hole he was digging for himself.

He knew he had to make it up to you, but the problem was, he didn’t even know where to start.

As the week went on, Steve found himself drawn to the library more and more each day.

He would linger near the bookshelves, trying to catch even a quick glimpse of you. He knew the library—in all its quiet and the scent of old paper and ink—had always been your favorite place. It was the only place he felt he could still find a trace of you.

He tried his best to look busy, picking up random books he had zero interest in and flipping through the pages just to kill time, hoping you’d walk by. 

The students nearby, actually hunched over their midterms, gave him judgmental stares. A man like Steve Rogers—the notorious lead singer of a screaming band, covered in tattoos and wearing ripped clothes—looked like nothing but trouble in a place meant for focus.

He knew what they thought of him, but he didn’t care. He was too busy scanning every passing face, his heart jumping every time the library doors creaked open, but slumping when it wasn’t you walking through them. 

Just as he was about to give up and leave, the doors pushed open once more and in you came—looking as overworked as ever, hauling a bag on your back that was nearly bigger than you were.

You made your way to an empty desk, settling in. You spread your literature and notebooks across the surface until your work had claimed nearly every square inch of the tabletop.

Steve had to bite back a smile. Despite the years of silence between you, you were still the same raging geek he remembered. He shook off his grin and walked over, stopping in front of your desk just as he had the day before.

“Can I sit here?” he asked, catching your attention. He gestured vaguely to the open chair. “I need to study for an exam and this…” He looked around at the dozen or so empty spaces nearby, then right back at you. “…is the only table available.”

You blinked. “Uh—”

But before you could even think about denying him, Steve pulled the chair out and sat down right in front of you.

Steve pulled a worn, spiral bound notebook from his bag, the edges fraying and the cover covered in stickers and faded sharpie doodles. As he flipped through the pages, you caught flashes of messy lyrics and sketches.

Your heart ached a little. 

You always remembered how much Steve loved to draw.

“I’m pretty bad when it comes to the whole studying thing,” he admitted, keeping his focus on a cluttered page. “I get distracted. My mind wanders.”

He lifted his head to look at you, the tips of his ears turning a faint pink.

“And since you’re… you know, actually good at all of that,” he gestured vaguely toward your organized textbooks and highlighters, “I figured maybe if I sat here, I’d be more motivated. Seeing you work might rub off on me.”

It was a blatant excuse, and you both knew it. 

The library was nearly empty. There were at least three other tables that wouldn’t have involved him invading your personal space. But the fact that he’d found you again— that he’d taken this specific opportunity to be near you—made your heart ache for him. 

With Steve in your presence, you always found yourself letting your heart win.

“Motivated?”

“Yeah,” he murmured, leaning forward just an inch, his tatted arm resting on the edge of the desk. “I figured I could use a good influence. It’s been a while since I had one of those.”

You shook your head, keeping your eyes down, focused on your own notebook. “Easy for you to say.”

Steve tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“Just feels like I’m getting the bad end of the bargain,” you said, looking at him through your lashes. “With you being a bad influence and all...”

Steve blinked, taken off guard by your words.

The taunt felt nostalgic—a sweet reminder of how you used to tease him for being a bad influence back when you were growing up, even though you still stuck by his side every single day.

Steve couldn’t help but smile. Despite the years and the silence between you, teasing you back still felt as familiar as breathing.

“So, me merely existing is the bad end of the bargain?” Steve grinned. “It could be a lot worse, sweetheart. I could have my guitar right now, playing Wonderwall again while you’re trying to study.”

“Oh, God,” you cringed. The sweetheart nickname didn’t even register as a surprise because of how naturally it rolled off his tongue. “That was the worst.”

“The worst?” Steve playfully scoffed, looking mildly offended. “That was your favorite song!”

You chuckled. He was still the same old Steve you remembered—so easily wound up whenever you made a comment about his music. “Only because I found your singing out of tune endearing.”

“Out of tune?” Steve repeated in disbelief, his eyes widening. “After all those years of me singing that to you... you thought I was out of tune?”

At his dramatic reaction, you couldn’t help it— a laugh escaped you, loud enough to fill the silence of the library. Your hand flew to your mouth as students and staff snapped their heads toward the noise with annoyed glares. One of them pressed a finger to their lips and let out a sharp ssshhh!

Steve was smiling so hard his cheeks actually started to hurt.

Your laugh—soft and smooth as it had always been—sent a familiar flutter through his chest. It had been so long since he’d heard it, and the sound made him want to stick by your side like glue.

“You might’ve thought that then,” Steve teased, “but I sound a lot better now.”

You didn’t doubt it for a second— you’d heard his growth firsthand from the sidelines. “Oh, yeah?”

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest tight enough that his muscles bulged against the fabric of his shirt. You swallowed hard trying not to look.

“Yeah,” he grinned proudly. “You’re just gonna have to see for yourself one day.”

You giggled again, finding it charming that he was completely oblivious to the fact that you actively listened to his music secretly. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Steve’s expression shifted, the teasing smirk fading into something much fonder. Watching the way your face scrunched up as you chuckled made his heart weak, and he blurted out the next thought before he could stop himself.

“I missed you.”

Your laughter slowly faded, and Steve mentally cursed himself.

Fuck. 

Did I just screw this up?

But then you reached for your pencil, fidgeting with it as you avoided eye contact. The warmth flooding your face told him everything he needed to know. It was every tell tale sign that you were flustered, and relief washed over him when he realized he hadn’t ruined it.

“We should… study,” you mumbled, busying yourself by shifting through your pages.

Steve’s smile returned, softer this time. He uncrossed his arms and adjusted himself in his seat, leaning back in.

“Right. Study.”

Since that day, you found yourself at the same table every afternoon with Steve sitting right across from you.

As the days passed, you started looking forward to these ‘study dates’—even making an effort to look more presentable. It reminded you of back in high school when Steve hit a sudden growth spurt, your tiny childhood crush had exploded into something much bigger, and you’d started wearing skirts and dresses to school just to impress him.

But just like back then, Steve didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he was doing his best to ignore it, keeping his gaze respectfully on yours rather than on your legs or the way your dresses accentuated your cleavage.

He told you that his scores had greatly improved since you started studying together, but you called bullshit. Every time you were together, you spent most of your time exchanging glances and cracking jokes, trying not to laugh or make noise. 

“You know, Bucky’s been hell-bent on writing a song about this one girl on campus,” Steve spoke quietly, jotting something down in his notebook. “Some angsty love song that’ll probably get us in trouble when we perform on game day.”

Having spent so much time on the sidelines, you were the observant type—it didn’t take two brain cells to figure out that Bucky had the hots for the most popular girl in school.

“That’s really cute,” you murmured, leaning your chin on your hand as you watched Steve’s pen move. “He must really like her if he’s willing to put it all into a song.”

Steve’s jaw clenched just slightly, the guilt gnawing at him again. He forced a stiff nod and looked back down at his notebook.

“It’s not cute. It’s a distraction,” Steve explained quietly. “His mind has been elsewhere lately when he should be focusing on the band. We have a reputation to keep up, and he’s…” Steve chewed on the inside of his cheek, realizing how contradictory he sounded. “…busy pining.”

You couldn’t help but let out a small, huffed laugh. “Hey, that’s a little unfair, don’t you think?”

Steve looked up, his smirk returning as he caught your expression. He leaned forward, that familiar teasing light back in his eyes. “How so?”

“Because,” you said, leaning in and holding his stare, “instead of being with the band and practicing, you’ve been here. Every single afternoon. With me.”

Steve’s breath hitched.

The library felt deafeningly quiet after your words. They seemed innocent enough on the surface, but there was something in the way you held his gaze that made the moment feel impure. His eyes dropped to your lips—which you’d applied a generous amount of gloss to, and how could he not notice?— for a split second before snapping back to your eyes.

“Yeah, well…” he said, gesturing vaguely to the books between you. “I’m also studying, remember? So… not entirely a distraction. I’m being productive.”

“Right,” you teased, your eyes still locked on his. “Very productive.”

The silence between you grew tense with everything neither of you was brave enough to say. 

You watched his eyes flicker down to your lips again, and for a second, you could’ve sworn you saw his gaze snap down to the curve of your chest pressing against the fabric of your dress.

He looked up quickly, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as if he were suddenly parched.

You felt like you desperately needed an escape route—anything to free yourself from the tension before you said or did something you would regret.

“I… I need to find a book for my, uh, lit assignment,” you stammered, standing abruptly and smoothing the skirt of your dress. “Excuse me.”

With your face burning, you fled into the maze of the stacks, desperate to put some distance between yourself and Steve. Finding sanctuary behind the empty Self-Help and Health section, you pressed your forehead against one of the wooden ledges and let out a long, shaky breath.

Fuck. Pull yourself together.

You couldn’t believe that after years of silence, you were back to sitting across from Steve every day, secretly pining for him. 

Growing up, you’d always known Steve was handsome, but now, as an adult, he had become the kind of man who made you feel something much deeper—something undeniably… sensual.

And you couldn’t help but wonder if Steve was feeling the same way.

You paced the empty aisle, biting your thumb nail as thoughts raced through your mind. 

Hey, Steve. How about instead of studying at the library, you come back to my place and we study in my room like we did in high school?

No. That sounded too desperate.

Hey, Steve. After our study session, you want to grab lunch?

Hey, Steve. When we’re done here, how about you play 'Wonderwall' for me again and prove me wrong?

“You okay?” Steve asked suddenly.

You jumped, having not even realized he’d approached you until he was standing right in front of you. “Oh! Sorry. I—uh… I was just trying to find a book—” 

You quickly reached for the shelf next to you, yanking one out to prove your point.

Steve blinked at the cover, his surprised expression slowly melting into a grin.

“A Comprehensive Guide to Sexual Wellness and Libido,” he read aloud. “Interesting assignment for a literature class.”

Your eyes went wide, and your face felt as hot as a furnace. You quickly flipped the book around to glance at the cover yourself, mentally cursing your own stupidity. 

“Shit,” you hissed under your breath.

Steve chuckled as he stepped closer, plucking the book from your fingers and gently sliding it back into the empty space on the shelf.

“Seriously,” he prodded softly, his eyes finding yours. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you dismissed quickly, your gaze dropping to your hands as you began fiddling with the hem of your skirt.

He followed your movement, taking in the way your fingers fidgeted. It immediately pulled him back to high school—to those nights spent lying close together on the grass in his backyard, counting stars while you nervously picked at the threads of the picnic blanket.

“No?” Steve drawled, his voice like velvet.

He reached out, his hand catching yours and catching you off guard. He moved slowly, interlocking his fingers with yours as if he were savoring the sensation, making up for every second of the years he'd lost holding your hand in his.

“Then why are you fidgeting, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

It wasn’t the first time he’d called you that since you’d started talking again, yet the nickname suddenly sounded different. It no longer felt like the casual shorthand of a childhood friend. 

It felt like a name you’d give to someone you loved.

To someone you wanted.

“There has to be something on your mind,” Steve murmured, his voice dropping even lower.

His free hand came up, his fingers light as he caressed your jawline. With his thumb, he gently hooked your chin, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet his eyes.

“I know that look.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “There’s nothing on my mind.”

Steve tilted his head, his expression almost patronizing as he saw right through the lie. “Is that so?”

His thumb smoothed over the glossy shine of your bottom lip, making your breath hitch. “Because there are a lot of things on mine.”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak. Your mind was too busy trying to steady your racing heartbeat to form actual words.

“Thoughts of you... suddenly wearing these pretty dresses and makeup,” Steve hummed, his eyes dark with appreciation as he took you in. “Clothes you didn’t wear before. Tell me—are you wearing them for me?”

A slow exhale left your lips as you looked up at him through your lashes. “And if I was?”

A low groan rumbled deep in Steve’s chest. All those years growing up with you, he’d always thought of you as the innocent girl-next-door, the one with her nose perpetually stuck in a book. He never imagined that years later, he’d find you like this— admitting that you’d been wearing these short dresses just for him.

And him only.

“If you were…” Steve began, his hand that wasn’t cupping your jaw traveling slowly down. His palm traced the fabric of your dress, resting at your hip. “Then that would make me so fucking happy—because after all these years, you still know that you’re my girl.”

Steve gave your hip a soft, appreciative squeeze before sliding his hand further down, his fingers brushing against your thigh as he played with the hem of your skirt.

“My best girl.”

He hooked his fingers under the fabric, slowly bunching the material upward. You felt the cool library air hit your skin for only a split second before his warm palm replaced it, pressing firmly against the bare skin of your thigh.

“Steve…”

He leaned down, his nose nuzzling the top of your head as he breathed you in, his hand sliding higher up your thigh beneath the dress, roaming freely.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your hair. “I missed you.”

Both his hands settled at your waist now, planting you firmly in place as he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.

“I missed you too, Stevie,” you breathed, the name coming out so vulnerable it was nearly a whimper. “So much.”

Steve felt his heart thump at the familiar nickname. Stevie. He’s been called that countless of times by his close friends, but every time you said it, always stirred something warm in his chest. 

And when you said it like that, breathless and nearly pleading, it made him want to do unspeakable things to you.

“You’re just asking for it now, aren’t you?” Steve growled. 

With his hands firm on your hips, he spun you around, making you gasp softly as he pressed you against the bookshelf. “Turn around. And stay quiet.”

You didn’t even have time to think before his broad chest was pinning you from behind. 

A sharp gasp escaped you as he hooked his fingers under your hem and hiked the dress up, exposing the cotton of your panties before pressing himself firmly against the curve of your ass.

“Steve—!” your face went hot at the feel of him. “You’re…” 

“Hard?” Steve finished for you. He gave his hips a slow, deep rock against you, letting you feel the heavy length of him straining against his jeans. “I know, baby. But how can I not be? Not when you’re wearing a dress like this.”

He rocked against you, slow and deliberate, his hands roaming freely over your body and bunching the fabric of your skirt into his palms. His hands were so warm, so large, you couldn’t believe that after all the years you’d spent imagining those calloused fingers on your skin, you were finally being handled like this in the middle of a library.

“Fuck,” you whimpered.

A high pitched whine escaped you when his right hand palmed your cunt through your panties underneath your skirt, his fingers adding pressure as he made circles over your clit. 

It didn’t take long for you to get wet with the way he’s handling you. 

“Oh—! Steve—!” 

“Quiet,” he growled, his other palm coming up to muffle your cries. “You wouldn’t want to get us in trouble now, would you?”

You shook your head. “Mmphh.” 

With his hand still clamped over your mouth, he gave your cheeks a squeeze as he peered over you from behind. “Will you be a good girl?” 

You nodded. 

The way Steve’s cock was suffocating in his jeans felt like pure torture. 

Everything about this could make him bust in his pants right then and there—having his childhood ex-best friend, a good girl with her perfect grades and her books, pushed up against the shelf and being touched by a loser like him was filthy. 

It was wrong, and yet, it was everything he had ever wanted.

“That’s it,” he cooed, “my good girl.” 

His fingers toyed with the waistband of your panties before sliding down to find you, his fingers pressing against your wet folds. Steve shuddered, his breathing turning heavy at the warm and slick contact.

“Fuck,” he groaned into your hair. “You’re so wet.”

A broken, muffled sound escaped you against his palm as he pushed a finger against your tight entrance. At the same time, he kept up the heavy grind of his hips against your ass, dry humping you through the rough denim of his jeans.

You mewled against his mouth and Steve chuckled darkly, pushing his finger past your tight entrance letting himself sink into your warm, tight cunt.

It was exactly how he imagined it— you felt incredible from just his finger alone, and with how tight you were squeezing him, he could only imagine how great it would feel with his dick instead.

“Mmph!” you groaned, rocking your hips back against his hand, inviting him in deeper.

The movements of your hips desperately moving for more was enough to make him go mad. 

“Desperate little thing,” Steve panted, his grip on your mouth tightening as he felt you tremble. “Moving your hips like that for just my fingers—” he ground the heavy length of his cock against you harder. “I should just pull it out, push these panties to the side, and fuck you right here in the middle of the library.”

“Ah—mmph, Steve… p-please…”

Steve added another finger, the stretch making your knees go weak. You cried out against his palm when his thumb found your clit, pressing down and rubbing to match his fingers thrusting in and out of you.

“That’s it,” he growled against your ear. “Goood fuckin’ girl.”

You gripped the edge of the bookshelf, the wood digging into your palms as your legs finally gave out. 

Steve caught you, his chest pinning you even harder against the shelf and making it shake.

“God,” he moaned. “Shit—feels so good, baby.”

His cock throbbed and twitched against the denim, the friction pushing him closer and closer to cumming. 

His mind addled with lust, he shifted his hand from your mouth, sliding his index and middle fingers between your lips instead.

With half lidded, heavy eyes, he looked down at you. Blonde strands of hair fell messily over his forehead as he stared at the way you sucked on his fingers to stay quiet, your shimmery lip gloss coating his skin.

“Pretty,” he breathed, feeling himself getting close just from looking at you, “so pretty—God, you’ve always been so beautiful.” 

Your cunt clenched around his fingers. Knowing that Steve needed you this badly—even after all this time, in every way that you had always needed him—was enough to make you cum. 

“Steevie, mmph—” you whined around the fingers sitting vulgarly in your mouth, “gonna… cum—”

Steve’s heart leaped at your words. His cock was straining, leaking a desperate amount of precum against his jeans as he rutted against you like a helpless dog.

He should have been in control, but your whines and the way you clamped down around his fingers— warm and impossibly tight—made it hard for him to keep it. 

He was going to make sure he came with you, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“Good girl,” he praised with a rasp. 

He rocked his hips against yours, making your chest thud against the shelf, the books rattling. “Fuck, I need to feel you, baby. I need you to cum for me—” 

Steve’s voice broke as his pace turned frantic. His hips moved an uneven and messy motion, humping you faster and harder until his entire body suddenly went rigid—his hips locking tight against yours as he finally let himself spill in his pants. 

Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded the front of his jeans, his cock pulsing. You could feel the warmth against your back, and you let out a sharp gasp as he rocked his hips one last time —letting the mess soak into denim and against the fabric of your skirt.

He buried his nose into the crook of your neck as he fought the urge to cry out a moan. You mewled against his fingers, your knees shaking as you fell apart.

“Steve…” you let out a breath of disbelief. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

“Fucking hell…” Steve cursed, trying to catch his breath. 

He slowly withdrew his fingers, the slick squelch echoing in the quiet aisle. 

“That was—”

The words died in his throat at the distinct sound of footsteps went near the aisle. 

You both scrambled to pull away, faces flaming with adrenaline and embarrassment. Steve moved with frantic shaky hands to smooth down your skirt and try to adjust the heavy, damp bulge in his pants.

He let out a breathless, low chuckle, shaking his head as he looked down at the mess he’d made of himself—and of you. 

“Close.” 

Since that day in the library, you and Steve had been drawn to each other like moths to a flame.

What started as quiet ‘study’ sessions evolved into sneaking away from lectures and into empty music rooms, until finally, he ended up right back where you two had first started.

Your bedroom.

Ever since that heated afternoon against the bookshelf, Steve had grown bolder. He let his fingers run through your hair, staring into your eyes longer than any friend ever should, and his hands were constantly finding excuses to touch you— even if it was just playing with the fraying wool of your cardigan. 

To anyone else, it looked exactly like dating.

And that was the problem. 

If Steve wanted a clean start with you, he wanted to do it right. But nothing about this felt… right. 

Being back in your room felt like a second chance he never thought he’d get, and as much as he craved every minute with you, guilt was beginning to churn in his gut. Bucky and the rest of the band had been breathing down his neck about the new song Steve promised you were writing for them. And as the days went on, their impatience only grew.

buck🥁: hanging out with her again and still no song?

buck🥁: and here you were, talking to me about ‘distractions’

Steve ignored his friend’s text, quickly switching it to silent. 

You pushed back from your desk chair, trudging over to where he laid sprawled across your bed, papers and books scattered everywhere. 

He smiled as you approached, haphazardly swiping the papers aside to make space just for you.

“Done studying already?”

“Could hardly call it that,” you sighed tiredly, throwing yourself onto the bed and letting the mattress sink. “It’s hard to focus when it’s raining outside. It makes me feel sleepy.” 

Steve’s eyes softened at the sight of you. Back then, every time you were burnt out from studying, you always sought comfort in his arms.

“Need a hug?” he raised his arms up, offering you a spot against his chest. You smiled tiredly, crawling over to him so you could tuck your head under his chin. He pulled you in close, resting his cheek against the top of your head.

He was happy to know that, despite how much had changed between you lately, this stayed exactly the same.

Without thinking, he tilted his head down to press a soft kiss to your forehead, and that only made you nuzzle deeper into his chest. Steve smelled exactly the same as he always had—masculine, with a clean hint of aftershave and the faint scent of leather.

“What’s on your mind, my darling girl?” he asked with a hand rubbing up and down your back. 

“I feel so overworked,” you sighed against his chest, your voice muffled by his band tee. “I’ve got all these assignments piled up—and Tony won’t stop bugging me about this new song he wants me to write.”

You could feel Steve stiffen slightly at your words.

“Is that so?”

You hesitated before answering. “… Yeah.”

When Steve had first found out you were writing songs for F.R.I.D.A.Y., you had been ready for the interrogation. 

You were waiting for the moment he would pester you about it—asking when you’d started writing and why you’d chosen that band specifically—but he never brought it up. Even after days of hanging out again, the subject remained untouched, a big elephant in the room.

Steve stayed quiet for a long second, and this time, it was your turn to press. 

You lifted your head from his chest to look at him. “What’s on your mind?”

His hands fidgeted with the fabric of your shirt—a nervous habit you remembered from years ago—and you couldn’t help the anxiety rising in your chest.

“Can I… can I ask you a question?” he murmured, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain.

You inhaled deeply, bracing yourself for the worst. “Of course. Anything.”

“Did you start writing music…” his hand paused its restless roaming against your back, and he finally looked down to meet your eyes. “… because of me?”

You blinked, the question catching you completely off guard. 

“Uh, yeah, actually,” you admitted softly. “I started writing after we… um—you know.” You looked back down at his chest, feeling suddenly sheepish. “After we stopped talking.”

Stopped talking.

Steve’s breath hitched, the guilt in his gut burning an even deeper hole. You continued before he could find the words to interrupt.

“Whenever I’m feeling down, the writing just comes freely,” you explained. “It’s like I have all these thoughts running through my mind and I have no idea how to say them out loud, so I put them on paper. When we stopped being friends, there were a lot of things I wanted to say to you—but… how could I, when you didn’t want to hear me out?”

You let out a soft, hollow laugh that had nothing to do with humor. The sound made Steve’s heart ache.

“I’m—”

“I just thought,” you cut him off, your fingers tracing a pattern on his shirt, “if I never got to say it to you in person, then at least I could write about it and keep it with me forever.”

Fuck.

What kind of person was he? To have caused you the kind of heartbreak that hurt so badly you had to resort to writing music just to survive it?

He didn’t even want to know if you had given those specific songs to Tony—because, truthfully, he didn’t care. He didn’t care who you were writing for anymore, because the only thing he could focus on, the only thing that mattered, was you.

And now that he finally had you back, he was never going to let you go again.

“Hey,” he cooed gently, one warm hand coming up to tilt your chin. “Look at me.”

You looked up, and Steve felt like the lowest scum on earth at the sight of your pained expression. You looked like you were on the verge of tears just from the recollection of the memory alone, and he hated it. He hated himself for being the reason behind that look.

“I’m… fuck. I’m so sorry,” Steve whispered, his voice shaky as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “God—I can’t believe I let my own pride get in the way of us. Fuck. I’m such an idiot.”

He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you so tight that it made you gasp against his chest.

“I wanted to reach out—I promise you,” he admitted, his lips pressed against your temple as he breathed every word. “Every single day, I would pick up the phone, or I’d walk halfway to your house… and then I’d stop. I was so scared of what you’d think of me—that I was just some…” he grimaced at the thought, “some no-life loser wasting his days on a Fender.”

He let out a short, breathy laugh, trying to lighten the mood, but he was still hurt.

“But hearing that you were writing music… it made me really, really happy, you know?”

You smiled sadly, searching his face. “Really?” 

“Really.” 

The two of you stared at each other for a long moment, the only sounds were your guys breathing, matching heartbeats, and the soft thump of rain droplets against your window. 

He was close enough to lean down and press a kiss to your lips—close enough to finally say the words he’d been wanting to say to you for a long time.

I love you. 

But instead, you cleared your throat and pulled away. You sat up on the bed, wiping at your eyes as if trying to shake away the unshed tears.

“I should… I should probably get back to studying,” you said quickly, scrambling off the mattress. The bed rustled with each movement, and Steve’s phone slid off the edge, hitting the floor screen first with a thud. “Ah, sorry!”

Steve cleared his throat, sitting up and adjusting himself as he tried to find his composure. He reached down for the phone too. 

“It’s fine—”

But you were already halfway there, picking it up before he had the chance.

“Oh, good,” you smiled, turning it over to check the glass. “It didn’t crack—”

As you went to hand the phone back to him, the screen lit up. Right there in the center of the display, the message from Bucky sat in plain sight, catching your eye before Steve could grab it.

buck🥁: hanging out with her again and still no song?

buck🥁: and here you were, talking to me about ‘distractions’

“Still… no song?” You read the words outloud, your voice small and hollow.

You glanced up at Steve, the blood completely drained from your face. Your heart felt like it had dropped straight into your stomach, yet you managed a fragile, disbelieving smile. “Steve… what is this?”

Steve’s heart plummeted. He snatched the phone from your grasp, his thumbs flying as he frantically swiped at the notifications—but it was useless. It was already too late. You had seen every word Bucky had sent.

“I-it’s nothing, I swear!” He couldn’t even look you in the eye as he swiped away at the messages, trying to get rid of them. “Buck’s just being—” 

“Is this what this is, Steve?” your voice shook, rising in anger. “You were just trying to get me to write a song for you?” 

You had walked straight into Steve’s trap. Every tear that threatened to spill out from being vulnerable with him just a second ago were now streaming down your cheeks in a hot, angry rush. 

You felt like an absolute idiot—but then again, hadn’t you been one this entire time? 

Steve scrambled off the bed, taking a desperate step toward you. He reached out, his fingers brushing your arm, but you slapped his hand away. 

“I can’t… I can’t believe you,” you choked out, your voice breaking. “This entire time… I thought you actually wanted to be my friend again. I thought you actually cared about me—”

“No, please,” he begged, his own voice cracking as he looked at you with eyes full of panic. “Please—just listen to me. It’s not like that. It’s not like that at all! Everything I said to you earlier, the things we did—”

“The things we did…” You shuddered, a sudden, violent wave of nausea rolling through you that made you feel like you were going to throw up.

You had let him touch you, handle you, and defile you in your safest place—among the very bookshelves where you usually found peace. You had given him all of that, thinking it was a reconnection, only to find out he had one goal and one goal only— to get a song out of you.

A hand flew to your face, fingers tangling in your hair as you paced the room in a frantic panic, refusing to even glance in his direction. “I’m an idiot… I’m such a fucking idiot…”

“Please—” Steve reached out once more, his voice a desperate rasp, and you snapped your head around to glare at him.

“I can’t believe I was stupid enough to think you actually wanted to be with me again—that you actually missed me, missed us,” you spat. “But the second you find out I’m writing for your rivals, you… you what? Try to get in my fucking pants just so you can be some one-hit wonder?”

Steve flinched. Every word that came out of your mouth was a knife digging into his chest—and he knew he deserved every bit of it. He wanted to explain, to grovel and beg for a second of your time, but you wouldn’t let him. 

“You have to believe me,” he pleaded desperately. “I would never do anything to hurt you—not like that. Fuck. Please, sweetheart. Just hear me out—”

Sweetheart.

Hearing the nickname now made you physically ill.

“Get out.”

Panic flared in Steve’s chest, his eyes going wide as he took another step, trying to bridge the gap between you. “Please, don’t do this—”

“Get out of my house, Steve!”

The world went dark for him. A constant, deafening ringing filled his ears, and the look of pure betrayal on your face made him want to die. He was so frozen, so eerily still in his shock, that he didn’t even resist when you grabbed his arm and began dragging him toward the front door.

He had the strength to stay rooted to the spot, to remain completely unmoved, but he was so mentally broken that his body simply let itself get dragged by you. 

He let it happen. 

It might have been the last time he’d ever feel your touch again.

He didn't even realize he was standing on the porch until the rain began to pour, soaking through his shirt in seconds. You gave him one hard, final shove. He nearly stumbled down the stairs, the sudden loss of balance forcing him to snap out of his fucked up daze just in time to catch himself.

Just as you were about to slam the door in his face, he spun around and yelled for your attention. 

“Wait!”

And to his surprise, you actually did.

You held the door open and glared at him through the downpour, but at least you were still there. 

A small, stubborn part of you still wanted to hear him, even if he didn’t deserve a single second of your time. Your mind was screaming at you to shut the door, but your heart had always been a traitor for Steve.

“What?” you shouted over the rain. 

Steve stood there, drenched from head to toe, while you remained perfectly dry save for the tears streaming down your face.

“I lied to Bucky!” he shouted, squinting against the rain. “After we found out you were writing for Tony, I told the band you were going to write for us—just to get them off my back.” 

He paused, bracing himself for the sound of the door slamming. But when it didn’t come, he pressed on, determined. 

“But I promise you—I promise you with everything I have—I never wanted a song out of you. Every word I said, everything I did with you... I meant every single fucking second of it.”

He swallowed hard, the rain masking the fact that he was crying, too.

“I don’t care about the song. I don’t care what the band thinks, or the rivalry with Tony. I just… I walked up to you in that library because I realized all I wanted was to be in the same room as you again. I wanted to be near you when you smiled. I wanted to see the way you stick your tongue out when you're taking notes, or how your leg shakes when you’re deep in a book. I missed that. I missed everything about you.”

Your hand tightened around the doorknob. 

Your mind screamed at you to shut him out, to give him a taste of the silence he had fed you years ago. But you couldn’t move.

“I’ve spent every day of the last few years hating myself for what I did to you,” he continued, his voice desperate and raspy. “And I hate myself even more for the way you're looking at me right now. If I could turn back time, if I could just apologize for being an idiot the first time around, I wouldn’t be out here in the rain, begging for the unforgivable. I’d be in there,” he pointed to the inside of your house, “on your bed, playing my guitar while you laughed at me for being out of tune.”

Rain drenched his face, his vision blurring as he struggled to keep his eyes open just to look at you. 

He sucked in a deep, shaky breath, his heart laid bare on his sleeve as he poured out the words he prayed you would believe.

“I love you,” he confessed, breathless and desperate. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. From the day you beat me in Guitar Hero to the morning we walked to high school together for the first time. I loved you even when you told me my music was just noise. I thought I’d finally moved on, but the second I saw you sitting in that library, I fell in love all over again.”

When you stayed quiet, your expression still shattered, he took a hesitant step back onto the porch. He extended a trembling hand toward you, a silent plea for permission, for a sign that he hadn’t lost you for good again.

“Please,” he pleaded sadly. “Please believe me. Please tell me you love me, too.”

You just stared at him, your brows furrowing as your expression shifted slightly. 

For a fleeting, desperate second, Steve swore he saw a flicker of forgiveness in your eyes. 

He held his breath as he waited for you to reach for him. But instead, you took a slow step back from the doorframe, your hand shaking as you began to pull the door shut.

“Goodbye, Steve.”

Days passed, and for most of them, you stayed buried in bed, skipping classes and ignoring your study sessions.

You found yourself back in the same headspace you had been years ago, after the first time Steve broke your heart. Your nose was buried deep in your journal, filling pages with sloppy, incoherent prose. 

You wrote down anything and everything that crossed your mind, no matter how little sense it made—anything to numb the hollow ache Steve had left in your chest once more. 

Steve had been blowing up your phone and showing up at your door, but every attempt at reaching out went unanswered. Tony was also blowing up your email, pestering you about the new song you were supposed to be releasing, but those emails sat unread, too.

Your world was a blur of gray silence. But as a college student, you couldn’t afford to waste your tuition sulking forever. 

Today, you got rid of the flowy dresses you picked specifically for Steve and instead wore something that well expressed how you were feeling on the inside. You dragged yourself to campus with a heavy weight on your shoulders, up until you finally made it to the front doors of the library.

A figure near the events board caught your eye, and this time, it wasn’t Steve.

Bucky stood there with a red marker in his hand, drawing a massive X across the Civil War poster he’d put up only a few days ago. He must have sensed you watching, because he turned to glance at you.

“Hi, Bucky,” you greeted him awkwardly.

He looked you up and down, taking in your miserable state, and sucked in a sharp breath. He looked guilty, and you wouldn’t have been surprised if Steve had already explained everything to him. 

They were best friends, after all.

To save yourself from the mounting tension, you gestured to the poster. “What happened to your guys’ gig this weekend?”

Bucky looked back at the crossed out flyer, a forced, lopsided smile tugging at his mouth. “Cancelled. Steve… uh, he hasn’t been feeling well.”

So much for avoiding the awkwardness.

“I see,” was all you could manage.

Your hand tightened on the strap of your bag. Just as you were about to dismiss yourself and retreat into the familiar sanctuary of the library, Bucky stopped you.

“Wait. I… about everything with you and Steve,” he started, his eyes apologetic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to break whatever you guys had going on. I…” He looked down at his scuffed Converse and sighed, clearly struggling with the words. “I just hate seeing the two of you like this.”

You didn’t know what to say. You weren’t even sure there was anything left to say. Instead, you just forced a tight, hollow smile and turned away.

“Take care of yourself, Bucky.”

After a long study session that felt agonizingly lonely without Steve’s presence beside you, you began the trek back home in the dark.

Walking alone at night should have made you alert, but your mind was too clouded with thoughts of Steve to pay attention to your surroundings. Your blood ran cold when a voice—deep and unmistakably male—shouted from behind you, making every hair on your arms stand up in sudden fear. 

“Wait!”

You snapped your head over your shoulder, panic flaring until you realized it was just Steve. The sharp spike of fear began to subside, replaced instantly by a heavy, soul-crushing exhaustion.

You turned back around, quickening your pace to put distance between you and the man who had broken your heart.

“I don’t want to talk, Steve,” you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the way your hands were shaking inside your pockets. “I’m tired. Just... go home.”

But he didn’t. You heard the scuff of his boots against the concrete as he lunged into a run, closing the gap until he was hovering just behind you.

“Please,” he rasped, his hand catching your shoulder. “I’ve been trying to find you all week. I’ve gone to every building, the library, your house… just please.”

You finally turned around, seeing his face clearly for the first time in days. Under the pale moonlight, he looked like a wreck—perhaps even more so than you. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, his hair was a wild mess, and a thick layer of stubble shadowed his jaw.

He seemed to be thinking the same of you; the moment his eyes met yours, his breath hitched. A soft, broken sigh escaped him as he extended his arm toward you.

In his hand, held out like a peace offering, was a slim plastic case. It was a burnt CD, the silver surface catching the dim glow of the streetlights. Across the front, in his unmistakable, messy scrawl, were three words.

My best girl.

Your brows furrowed as you looked at him again. “Is this a new song for Civil War?”

“It’s not for the band,” he huffed, his lungs burning as his eyes searched yours. 

He took a hesitant step closer, the CD trembling slightly in his grip as he waited for you to take it.

“I’m not the best at writing...” his voice sounded fractured and worn thin. “I usually let Sam handle the lyrics. It probably won’t sound half as good as the things you write, but it’s for you. Every word, every line—it’s all for you.”

He had written a song? 

For you?

You hesitated, caught between the urge to snatch the disc and the instinct to push him away again. But as your gaze locked with his, you knew it was a lost cause. Your heart wouldn’t let you leave him standing there like that.

As you reached for the case, your fingers grazed his for a slow second. Your warm touch sent a jolt through Steve, leaving his heart racing so violently he felt as if it were trying to escape his chest just to get closer to you.

“I don’t know what to say—”

“Don’t say anything. You don’t even have to speak to me after this,” he confessed, though he regretted the idea the minute they left his mouth. “Just… please. Listen to it.”

With a heavy heart, you let out a long sigh, refusing to meet his eyes again for fear you’d say something you’d regret.

“I’ll listen to it,” you said, your voice low and cautious. “But this doesn’t mean we’re on good terms again.”

The words stung, but Steve had expected you to shut him out completely. As badly as he wanted to pull you into his arms and beg for a real chance, he decided to take this small victory for now.

“I know,” he said, a sad, fragile smile ghosting over his lips. It was the kind of look that made your heart ache despite your better judgment. “Thank you.”

He lingered for a moment, his fingers twitching at his sides as if he wanted to reach out and tuck a stray hair behind your ear, but he caught himself. He knew he’d lost that right. Instead, he took a step back, finally giving you the space you were silently demanding.

“Just… use the good headphones,” he added with a self-deprecating huff. “The acoustics in the garage aren’t exactly professional grade.”

You managed a small, involuntary chuckle despite yourself. “Fine.”

The sound made Steve’s smile brighten. 

Another small victory.

“Good,” he murmured, quickly shoving his hands into his denim pockets before he did something stupid with them—like reach for your hand or pull you in for a kiss. “Good.” He repeated.

The conversation was clearly over, but Steve couldn’t bring himself to leave. 

Even standing there in tense silence, just having you in his line of sight was enough to make him want to stay. But he couldn’t hold onto the moment for long, as you had already turned away, heading back toward your house without a second glance.

“Goodnight, Steve.”

Steve watched you go, his voice quiet and vulnerable as you moved out of his reach once more.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Once you were back in the solitude of your bedroom, you flicked on your bedside lamp, inviting in a warm glow. 

You reached under the bed and pulled out the old CD player Steve had gifted you back in middle school—a machine he’d spent his entire savings at the time just to see you smile. And as promised, you plugged in your best headphones to listen. 

With shaky hands, you inserted the CD into the disk slot, and the machine whirrled softly until you heard the sharp intake of Steve’s breath.

Then, the acoustic guitar started to play. 

The strumming was soft, melodic, and gentle. It was a song that would never go on Civil War’s setlist, or even considered being played in a dingy dive bar. It was too fragile, too sacred. The arrangement felt like it belonged in a cathedral, with echoing chords that carried the same ethereal, pained yearning of a Buckley track.

Then, Steve started to sing.

You had always known he had a beautiful voice, but on stage, he usually buried it under layers of grit and distortion to match the band’s frantic energy. 

Here, there was nowhere to hide. His voice was steady but heavy with so much emotion, singing in a low, resonant register that vibrated right through the headphones and into your skull and down your heart. 

The song was a masterpiece of us.

It was filled with melodic shifts that he knew you loved, and lyrical metaphors that referenced books you’d always mention growing up. Who would’ve thought that someone like Steve Rogers—a notorious dirtbag in a band just as dirty as him— was capable of writing a song full of pained and yearning like this. 

By the time the song ended, you hadn’t even realized you had been crying. 

first time writing steve rogers on his own guys... kinda nervous... thank you for taking the time to read my work and i hope you guys enjoyed it!

I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

"You and your flair for the dramatic. Believe me when I say that, tonight, you've been the best plus one I could hope for. You need to iron out some wrinkles on your ability to talk without getting lost in the flow, that's all."

You, a professional yapper, raised an eyebrow, feigning offense.

"Yeah, getting advices from the president of the socially awkward club really helps me."

"Well, I can afford it," Shane's hand rested on your bare back. "People want to see me play hockey, not chit-chat."

"Fair enough."

Painfully aware his touch was reawakening feeling you had long-past buried, you shifted position on the stool and crossed your legs.

The party was just getting started and you were worn out already. Out of all the women flowing in and out of the hall, you weren't the worst-dressed —the long, black silk gown you had purchased on a whim last year finally came in handy—, but you were definitely the most anxious one.

As you finished torturing the second smooth vodka of the night by drinking it, you waited for it to graze past your throat to ask:

"Hey, would it be consired a douche move to ditch you and hit the sack? This mere mortal has an early shift in five hours."

"You're spreading yourself too thin for that shitty job."

Shane, whose hand was still on your back, did something you'd only dreamt about: he cupped your face with the other one, his thumb circling the dark circles under your eyes that makeup struggled to conceal.

Heart almost leaping out of your chest, you looked at Shane as a deer caught in headlights.

Why was he acting like that? It was not out of character for him to be affectionate, but tonight, something in the way he was moving was different.

"Okay, spit it out," you narrowed your eyes at him. "What is happening?"

He shrugged. "Is it that weird that I worry about a friend? You look like death. Also, you deserve better."

Still stunned by the sudden tenderness, you gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

"I understand, Shane, but I can't quit yet. The bills won't pay themselves, and I really need the extra money."

"Yeah, about that," Shane sat on the bar stool besides yours, his hand now on your thigh. "Come work with us."

Yes, something was definitely up, but you were too enthralled by his suggestion to worry about anything else. "Us?"

"Yeah," he clenched the dark silk of your gown into a fist, then released it. "You know tons of languages, and you're way overqualified for the job you have now. Besides, didn't you say you wanted to travel and spend more time around the world? Well, you have the brains and looks to back it up, miss. You will be a fantastic asset."

"Geez, thanks." You blinked, then frowned. He hadn't asked you a question, rather stated a fact. "Pump the brakes. 'Will'?"

Shane cleared his throat, his freckled cheeks dusted with pink. "Take your phone."

To say you were confused was an understatement.

"Wh- give me a minute."

It took you ten, actually, to fish your phone out of the purse, check every email until you found the one sent by Montreal Metros' HR team.

You read the whole thing twice, then opened the attachement linked below.

"This can't be real."

Shane kept watching as your brain finally understood what you were look at.

It was a contract.

"Per my request, our team's board drafted it a couple of days ago. I made sure there are no catches or loopholes whatsoever. It just needs a signature, and it'll be effective immediately. You can quit your shitty job, now."

He had just made possible for you to hang out more while having jobs you both loved.

You wouldn't have trusted anyone one else but Shane's foresight to deal with such an important matter.

Overwhelmed, you signed the contract right away, put away your phone and leaned closer to kiss his cheek.

Your resignation letter was going to be the first time you'd do when you woke up.

In your bed.

Happily employed by one of the best hockey teams in Canada.

"You're a mad man, Shane Hollander," you were smiling so hard it almost split your lips apart. "But I still love you very much."

All anxiety and tiredness gone, you were in the mood for celebration.

Turning to the bartender, your ordered another smooth vodka. "You know what? Make it double."

Shane sighed. "You know I can't drink tonight."

"I know," you waited for the barman to refill the glass, then raised it above your heads. "I'm drinking for you, too. It takes a lot more than a few drinks to knock me out. Remember that party where some idiot tried to challenge me at beer pong and- hey!"

You whipped your head around to see who had just had bumped into you and almost made you spill the drink.

'Almost' being the second understatement of the night, because a masculine hand engulfed the one you had around the drink.

And it wasn't Shane's.

"You drink like Russian." Blonde, curly hair brushed against your back as the other man took your drink and pressed his elbows onto the bar counter, his green eyes fixated on you.

"I like it."

All tiny hairs behind your back stood up. You knew who he was. Everyone did.

Tonight, your friend hadn't been the only major leaguer praised for his skills on ice, after all.

Shane looked behind you and scoffed. "Fuck off, Rozanov. This is a private conversation."

"But this is public space. I go where I like, Hollander, and I like it here."

His deep voice oozes cockiness, and you didn't like it. Not even one bit.

"You made your point. Can I have my drink back, now? We weren't done talking."

Rozanov shot you an enigmatic look. Then he got up, touched his lips to the glass and threw back his head.

Rage an icy fire in your stomach, you watched as the other hockey player drank your prized vodka without taking his eyes off of you.

Once emptied, he left the tumbler on the counter, tilted his head towards you again and smiled.

"You didn't say please."

You went to cuss him out in English but stopped in your tracks. Shane was right: you knew a shit ton of languages.

"How rude of me to not get on my knees for the great Ilya Rozanov," you said in Russian, words tumbling off your tongue effortlessly, "but I don't like bullies."

The sudden change of language surprised Shane, but not Rozanov.

"What a colored image. And I recognize a brat when I see one. Guess what? I love to tame them."

Okay, maybe it was the alcohol, but Ilya's voice paired with Shane's hand on your lower back had you cross your legs together harder than needed.

"Brat or not," you spat out in English, unflinching, "you owe me two drinks."

"Why think so small?"

Rozanov tapped his fingers on the counter to get the bartender's attention. Once he got it, he pointed at one of the vodka bottles in display. "May I have one delivered to my room in ten minutes, please?"

"Of course, mister Rozanov."

"Thank you," he turned to look at you again. "Play a game with me. If you win, you have back your drinks and extra vodka."

"And if I loose?"

Ilya grinned. "You will see."

All too familiar with your competitive sides, for they were so alike his, Shane stepped between Rozanov and you.

"I don't think it's a good id-"

You touched his arm to cut him off. There was no going back. "Do we really have to do this in your room?"

"Unless you want to make a fool of yourself here, yes," Rozanov stretched out his hand. "Deal?"

"One last thing: Shane comes with us."

"The more, the merrier."

"Fine, then. Game on."

You took his hand. Well, tried to, because before you could shake it, Ilya raised the back of your hand to his lips and kissed it.

Such a delicate act for an asshole like him.

As the three of you began to make your way upstairs, however, something totally flew over your head: the thrilled look Shane and Ilya shared behind your back.

Well, you were solemnly screwed.

You should've figured that much out the moment you stepped into Rozanov's hotel room.

In your defense, you were a little too preoccupied by what Ilya was planning to realize you had just walked straight into a trap.

A trap that closed shut around you when you saw the bottle and Shane locked the door.

"You good with games, yes?" Ilya asked nonchalantly, his attention focused on dragging two chairs across the carpet.

It didn't mean he wasn't staring at you, because he was and damn if he wasn't stunning.

You waited for Shane to sit on the king size bed before leaning against the wall. Those infernal high heels were killing you.

Also, you wanted a clear view of your opponent.

"As a matter of fact, I am. Can't wait to have your ass beat in a card game, Rozanov?"

"So bratty," Ilya clicked his tongue. "But no, no cards. I was thinking questions and... what was other one?"

Shane chimed in at that moment. "You mean 'truth or dare'?"

You shot him a deadly look. Whose side was he on?

"Yes! I want to play truth or dare with you."

"It's a party game. There are literally no rules," you explained, annoyed. "It's impossible to decide who wins."

"Well, you can play a variant of it. I will be the referee." Shane pointed a finger at both you and Rozanov. "I know you two so well that I can immediately tell if you're lying or not."

I know you two so well.

Before you could ask Shane further explanations, and why he seemed to enjoy so much watching you bicker with his arch-rival, Ilya clapped his hands. The motherfucker was smiling ear to ear.

"Perfect. What do you choose?"

You narrowed your eyes at him. "Truth."

"How many languages do you speak, pretty girl?"

You didn't know what took you aback the most between the question and the pet name, so you focused on the former. For that, you had a straight answer.

"Ehm, besides English and Russian? Fiv- wait, six languages. I have my final Greek exam in a week."

Rozanov turned to Shane. At your friend's affirmative nod, the other man waved a hand towards one of the chairs.

"Good. Sit."

Every muscle stiffened by the commanding tone, you held Ilya's gaze.

"I'm not a dog. Say please."

"It's like the pot calling the kettle black."

You were in front of Shane in the blink of an eye; you grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head upwards to meet your furious gaze.

"Not helpful. You gotta pick a side."

Out of reflex, he used a hand to steady himself... which happened to be your hip.

"Can't do it. If I'm biased, you two won't have a fair game. Don't you want to win?" He rubbed his thumb again on the fabric and scowled. "Hey, you're not-"

Ilya plopped into the second chair, loosened the tie's knot and then, staring intently at you ad Shane, spread his legs wide enough to stretch the fabric of the tuxedo pants.

That did the trick, because your mind spinned back to him.

After giving Shane a warning to play fair by tugging his dark, luscious hair one last time, you went to your chair but didn't sit.

"Well?"

Rozanov tilted his head again. "Sit with me, please."

Pleased with yourself for winning that round, you sat across him and crossed your legs. Close as you were, your heel grazed his thigh with every breath you took.

Ilya awarded you with a smile. "Good girl."

Speaking of breath... yours got stuck in your throat as your mind conjured images upon images of Shane and you at the beach.

If your friend was jacked, you couldn't fathom what Rozanov was packing under his clothes.

What the hell, girl? Snap out of it. He's the enemy.

Eager to get this over with without having any other horny thoughts about either men — it was bad enough you were having new ones abot Shane, but Rozanov? That was the icebreaker—, you stated:

"It's my turn, now."

"That was warm-up question. The real one is this," Ilya's arrogant smile blinded you.

"What colour is your underwear?"

"What colour is yours?" you retorted at once, heat spreading across your body like wildfire.

"Ladies first."

You crossed your arms. "I refuse to answer."

"That's a choice," Rozanov leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. "But if you don't, there's penalty."

"Which is?"

He looked at his tuxedo, then at your gown. "You take off clothes. First who ends with nothing on, loses."

Ah, there it was. The infamous catch.

You rose to your feet so quickly you almost kicked him in the sheen.

"I'm out of here."

Halfway to the door, a hand grabbed yours. This time around, it was Shane's.

"Wait, don't go yet. We thought you would've liked it."

Again with the 'we'. What was he-

Realization hit you like a truck. "I get it. You both are in this. Is the contract part of the gig, too?"

He shook his head, alarmed by your flat tone.

"No, of course not! It's one hundred percent real. I would never do that to you."

You rubbed your knuckles against your chest. Your heart was racing.

"Yet, you lured me into your boyfriend's room to play some weird strip game."

Shane's face dropped and went still. "How long have you known about it?"

"That you were not into girls? Five years, give or take."

You raised a finger, ready to answer his real question. "Or that you're dating one of the most annoyingly good-looking men in the hockey world? You gave yourself away when he spread his legs. You looked at him with heart-shaped eyes."

"Aw, you're not so bad yourself," came Ilya's voice from where he was still sitting. He had only tuned in to acknowledge your compliment, but discarded the rest. "Even Shane thinks so, you know?"

"Ilya, not now."

Overstimulated by his proximity, you stepped back to stare at them both.

"Yes, now. I deserve to know what the fuck is happening here tonight."

"You just said it."

One of the dress' straps slipped off as you turned to to Rozanov."What?"

Green eyes gazed you up and down again.

"Fuck. We want to fuck you."

The world started to spin at breakneck speed, and it didn't help the fact that Shane fixed the strap, his fingers lingering over your heated skin.

"You're joking."

"No, we're not," he met your eyes and smiled. "You're the only one I trust to share this part of me without worrying about you using it against me. And yeah, Ilya's right: I do find you hot, even if-"

"I'm not your cup of tea." You finished his sentence. Somehow, some of the weight on your chest disappear.

Yet a question remained unanswered.

"Do you really want to do this, Shane? I'd rather die before making you uncomfortable in any way, especially when it comes to sex."

He kissed your shoulder. "I do, and so does Ilya. It might not seem like it, but ever since I told him you'd be with me at the party, he couldn't wait to finally meet you."

"Did he really?" you whispered, then strutted to where Rozanov was.

"Since I'm no quitter, I'll answer your question and have my damn vodka: underneath all this, I wear my birthday suit."

Shane was about to explain what it meant, but you shushed him.

"He's a smart boy. Let him think."

Intrigued by the situation, Ilya thought it over for a minute, then looked up.

"You're naked?"

"Only one way to find out." Leaning over, you pressed a hand on his cheek. You made a mental note for the future to map every mole of his. He really was beautiful. "You know what? I dare you to touch me."

"Woah." Shane's panicked voice cut through the moment. "What about truth or dare?"

Ilya got up slowly and took off his jacket. "It can wait. I want to touch her."

You stood still as he towered over you, the hunger in his eyes hard to miss. If Shane's body heat had your stomach in a knot, Ilya's threatened to scorch you from head to toe.

"You sure about all this?" he asked, hands a hair's breadth away from you. He was being serious.

To have him ask for consent again persuaded you to stretch your arms towards him and smile.

" Само собой, Илия́. "

Of course, Ilya.

Giving the get-go in Russian put him at tease, considering how fast his hands flew to your collarbone.

He outlined its edges, then descended towards the shoulder blades, the ribs... only to brush past your clothed nipples and plunge his fingers into the deep V-neck of your gown.

Every stroke was utter torture.

"Uhm, I'm still not sure. I want to check here." He placed the other hand on your hip. "Okay?"

You gave a curt nod, aching to have him closer, too, because now you were painfully aware of Shane's body flush agaist your back —how long you'd been like that, though, you didn't know for certain.

Both you and Shane gasped as Ilya spank your ass, before his fingers slid downward and past the dress' split.

He reached the apex of your inner thighs with little to no effort, and eased two fingers inside you altogether.

Back arched at the delicious stretch between your legs, you sighed while Shane did the same, his eyes trained on Ilya's movements.

"Ah," Rozanov smirked. "So wet and naked. Naughty brat."

Too engrossed by his and Shane's proximity to form a logical thought, you mumbled something and bucked your hips towards him.

"I need more."

He chuckled, yet he caved in a bit and curled his fingers, making you squeeze hard around them.

"Say please."

Groaning a very frustrated but needy "please", you half expected Ilya to resume moving at a slow pace, just as he had done until then.

But something in your plea made his self-control snap, because before your mind could fully register what was happening, he was on his knees with part of the gown's lower part in a fist pressed against your hipbone.

And his mouth was on your most intimate flesh.

"Oh, my God." One of your hands gripped his curls, but it wasn't enough. "I-"

"I got you," Shane's raspy tone scraped the side of your neck, his breath mingling with yours. "Hold onto me."

Just as he whispered that, you threw your whole wight on him, your other hand anchored to the arm he wrapped around your chest.

He was really strong, you were dead sure of it. He could've manhandled you without breaking a sweat, if he wanted to.

The same could be said about his boyfriend, who was having the time of his life lapping up every drop of your arousal.

He kissed your inner thigh before asking: "So, who you like more, pretty girl? Me or Shane?"

Shane's grip shifted under your breasts as you moved to look down at Ilya, brain already starting to lag.

Truth was, they were both driving you insane. Yet, you weren't giving him the satisfaction to blow his ego out of proportion.

"Not everything is a competition, you know?"

"It is with us."

And with that, Ilya went full demon mode: his mouth latched onto your clit, sucking furiously as you yelped, sandwiched between him and one of the most important people in your life.

You braced yourself, Shane's presence as comforting as ever; without him holding you, you would've collapsed on the floor already.

Shane Hollander, your dearest friend and eternal crush who knew you inside and out.

Shane fucking Hollander, who was now nibbling on your ear lobe while whispering sweet nothings.

"I-It's too hot here," you managed to mumble, and he immediately hooked his fingers under the straps of the gown, pushing them past your shoulders.

The dress didn't have enough time to pool at your feet, for Ilya took care of it, first.

His hand was still fisting it, so he pulled back to yank it past your hips with a single motion, then helped you kick it to the side.

With only your high heels on, you watched as the blonde spread your legs wider, but before he could dive in again, you hid your face in the curve of Shane's neck.

Figuring you wanted to say something, he hugged you tighter, his lips crashing against your ear.

"What do you need?"

"Both of you. Naked." you panted, fighting the urge to kiss him and pull Ilya's hair. "It's not nice to leave a girl hanging like this."

"We will be, too," was the Russian boy's answer. "But not now. Later."

"We want to love you a bit longer." Shane added, then kissed your cheek. "Is it me or you look leaner than last summer?"

You were having none of it.

First, you pressed yourself against him once more, the outline of his growing erection engraved in your skin; then, without missing a beat, you yanked at Ilya's curls.

"Take them off. Now."

Luckily for you, both men complied your request.

Soon, their shirts joined your dress on the floor, and Shane's naked chest collided with yours.

Meanwhile, Ilya was enjoying the show with a wicked smile on his lips.

"Better?"

"Much better."

"Good." Without further ado, he stuffed his face between your legs again, his tongue coming out to play with your engorged clit.

This time, however, he also coated his fingers in your arousal, only to sneak them behind, between you and Shane.

"What are you d- oh."

Breathless, you keeled as Ilya spanked you.

Just a moment before he slipped both his index and middle finger, slick with your cum, into your other hole.

"You're not as tight as I thought," his voice was as deep as his fingers and tongue were going in out of you at a slow, excruciating speed. "You use dildo, right?"

Tearing your eyes away from him, and too shy to respond, you went quiet. But Ilya didn't stop.

"Am I wrong?" His attention was now on Shane.

"Nope," your fiend tilted your chin sideways to meet his lust-filled eyes. "She uses it all the time, and I remember a time when she told me she rode it so hard it snapped in half. She had to get another-"

In a desperate attempt to shut him up ㅡ he really knew a lot about your sex life; you couldn't have him air out your dirtiest fantasies like that, you kissed him on the lips.

It was supposed to be a peck, nothing more, but he held you by the back of the neck to deepen the kiss, to indulge in the taste of your lips.

Just as you were to melt into his touch, you realised you were not sandwiched between him and Ilya anymore.

Confused, you looked around only to see Shane was carrying you to the bed.

As he laid you down, you thought you heard him whisper, "It's not enough. I want more," but the moment was gone as quick as it came by.

Gentle as always, he took the high heels off your you, kissed your crossed ankles and turned to his boyfriend.

"How about you kiss me now, Ilya."

The blonde shrugged and hauled your friend in his arms, then ran his fingers through Shane's hair.

"Never a problem for me."

Your chest heavied with pride: Shane confided in you so much that he entrusted you with his most precious belonging: his love for Ilya Rozanov.

They kissed with the intimacy of two people who'd done that for ages, their bodies fitting like pieces of a puzzle.

You watched in awe as they moaned in each other's mouth, palmed their erections through the stiff fabric of the tuxedos.

"You can taste it, can't you?" Ilya beamed at Shane, who was busy unzipping both his and his boyfriend's pants at the same time.

"You taste her in my mouth and you like it."

Blood boiling at the explicit comment, you flushed and turned to look at the nightstande closest to you. Bingo.

Hands itching to pour yourself a drink, you scooted over to the bottle of vodka, and you were about to unscrew it when Rozanov's voice stopped you.

"Ah-ah. Leave the bottle. We're not done with you."

"No worries, you guys have fun. Pretend I'm not h-"

Whatever the fuck you wanted to say died on your lips, because the moment your eyes were on the boys again, you found Shane on his knees, his lips stretched around Ilya's cock.

Dear God, if this is a dream you better make sure I remember every detail when I wake up.

But it was no hallucination, just your mind struggling to wrap itself around the fact that your friend was some kind of god of deep-throating, because there was no way Rozanov wasn't big.

No, scratch that. Big and girthy.

Both of Ilya's hands went to yank at Shane's hair, a string of curses in Russian leaving his parted lips as the other man's head bobbed up and down his dick.

Their synced moans pushed aside every thought about vodka, and you found yourself getting on all fours to yet again inch closer to them, like a snake slithered forward to listen to the charmer's song.

They both looked so good that you almost didn't catch Ilya's winking at you... or that Shane had taken one f your hands and wrapped it around his erection.

"Make him cum." Ilya ordered, and you were more than ready to oblige.

You stroked Shane carefully, just to test the waters, and he bucked in your touch, eager for more.

And you did give him that by matching your movements with his as he blew Ilya's brains out—who almost broke his neck to watch you both do your thing.

It didn't take long for them to come at the exact same time with a strangled moan, Shane's ropery strings glazing your hand as he swallowed Rozanov's with a sigh.

As for you, you were too stunned to speak, or to even move away to give them space.

Not that they'd allow you to do it, anyway, because as soon as their shared orgasm subsided, the first one to grab you by the waist and bent you over to kiss him was Shane.

The taste of Ilya's scent still lingered in his mouth, and you drank it up with every clever stroke of your friend's tongue against yours.

"Not gonna lie, what you did was fucking hot." he commented when you both came up for air.

"What I did?," you slapped his chest, fighting through your throbbing pussy to keep talking. "You are... wow."

"Agreed." Ilya joined you and Shane on the bed, curls dishevelled and a loopsided smile.

"But as I said, we are not done."

You looked at his cock and gulped. He was still very hard and very huge.

"Hell, no. I can't compete with the throat goat here: he'd humiliate me. My head game is waaay weaker than his, I can tell you that much."

Shane slightly smacked your thigh, but his eyes were still dark, lustful.

"You can suck him off next time. No, we want to try something else with you."

You grinned. Next time. What a time to be alive. "Go on, tell me."

"I'd rather show you."

For the second time in the span of half an hour, Shane moved you around as if you weighed nothing.

He put you on top of him and let you adjust your knees around his hips while you pushed back your hair to better look at him.

"You want me to ride you? As you so proudly declared, I'm really good at it."

Shane smiled, his hands finding purchase of your hips as if he had done it a million times.

"Something like that, yeah."

Another naked body came into frame, Ilya's fingers tracing your spine with wanton desire.

The golden necklace he wore engraved itself in your skin as he pressed himself harder against your back, then he kissed your jaw with tenderness.

"Ready to take both?"

"Huh?" Your eyes went huge so fast you feared they'd roll out of their eyesockets.

"I can take Shane, but not you, Ilya."

"Are you implying I'm not that big?" Rather than offended by your words, Shane seemed amused by the terrified look on your face.

"Shut up, you know that it's not what I meant." You stared at Rozanov.

"If you don't fit in my mouth, you sure as hell can't down there, mister."

"You mean here?" He kneaded your ass with a hand, eliciting a soft gasp from you.

"First time, uh? It will fit. Trust me."

Shane came to his boyfriend's aid. "Hard to believe, I know, but he's right."

You thought it over for a moment, then looked them both and said:

"Well, I guess there are worse ways to die than being stuffed to death by dicks."

Then, without giving them time to reply, you took Shane's cock by the base and instead of letting him slide inside, you lifted your hips and took every inch of him slowly, bottoming out with a loud exhale he echoed.

You felt full to the brim already.

Wanting to move, you readied yourself to do so, but Ilya rested a hand on your abdomen, blocking you.

"Wait. Don't move."

He fumbled with something by the nightstand, and you thought it was lube.

You needed tons of it if you wanted to walk out of that room with your own legs.

Turned out it wasn't lube, because when Ilya whipped your head around, he was barehanded.

Knowing what was coming, Shane stood watch as he said, "Open your mouth."

You complied, and as Rozanov kissed you, liquid fire coated your mouth.

Surprised by the taste of smooth vodka, you swallowed eagerly, yet Ilya held you still as he devoured your lips with the same intensity he had while he ate you out.

"Oh, fuck." You felt Shane's cock twitch at the sight of you and Ilya making out.

By the time you parted, he was throbbing.

But Rozanov wasn't done. He spit in his hand, then gestured his boyfriend to do the same; once it was done, he kissed you again, taking your mind off from the thought of ending impaled you on his dick.

Think positive, think positive. If there's a hole, there's a goal, as poets say.

Still, as he coated his girth with both spit and lube, you couldn't help but gulp at the sensation of it against your back.

How the hell did Shane take him without dying!?

"Relax, now," Ilya kissed your shoulder and guided the tip to your other entrance, breached past it with a little scream from you.

"You're doing good. Come here."

He reclaimed your lips for a kiss, this time while teasing your perched nipples.

Shane lifted himself from the headboard to flick your clit, anything to distract you as your body accomodated Ilya's cock.

Once it did completely, you bit his lower lip and pulled Shane's hair again. "Oh, fuck."

The will to ride him or move against Rozanov was gone, replaced only by the need to not move.

The boys understood immediately, so they did all the works in your stead. They started to move in tandem: as Ilya came out of you, Shane rammed himself back inside, all as they both took turns kissing and stroking every inch of skin they could reach.

You reached your breaking point faster than usual, but it was to be expected.

"I'm close."

Instead of slowing down, the fuckers locked eyes and grinned. Oh, no.

"Who makes her cum first gets to pick a movie of his choice."

Ilya bent down to kiss him, then did the same with you. "Done."

"Guys..." you trailed off, your body bruised beyond human comprehension as they started to move, the only sound in the room the one of skin slapping against other skin.

You came unsurprisingly hard around them both, your vision going white as you felt your body collapse on Shane, Ilya following suite behind you.

Their voices came back to you in waves as you tried to detangled your limbs from theirs.

Needless to say, you failed miserably, because when you opened your eyes, you were still on top of your friend.

Something sticky was leaking out of you, and you saw both boys looking sheepisly at the mess.

"'s okay, guys," you slurred. "'m on the pill. You both are crazy as fuck, by the way."

"You put up with us, so I guess we're not so different."

Shane and Ilya helped you get off and onto the bed, crushed between their bodies. You were growing fond of the feeling by the minute.

Even if your arms were as heavy as lead, you succeeded at raising both to rest them on the boys chests.

Tracing Ilya's moles with the left one, you sighed.

"You made me cum at the exact same time, so I get to choose the movie."

"Not fair." Shane protested immediately.

"When two dogs fight, the third one wins."

Ilya drank another shot of vodka, looked at both you and Shane and asked: "Is it like 'a pound to go to poundtown'?"

Silence.

Then you bursted out laughing so loud you slapped a hand over your face to muffle the giggles, but Shane's amused chuckle had you spiraling all over again.

"Oh, my God, Ilya. Who taught you that?"

Meanwhile, poor Rozanov was at his wits' end.

"Harris- stop laughing, I'm serious!"

Shane kissed him. "Ah, Ilya, I think I'll never get tired of hearing you say such things in English."

Rozanov placed a kiss on your forehead.

"Good thing I now have someone I can talk shit about you in Russian."

Your friend copied Ilya, but rather than your forehead, he kissed your cheek.

"Pff. As if we haven't been talking shit about you in Japanese for years, already."

"Asshole. I hate you."

"Nah, you don't."

Smirking, you smacked them across their chests.

"You're both adorable. Next season, I'm going to have so much fun fucking around with other foreigner hockey players."

"Please, don't," Ilya pinned you down with his gaze. "From now, you can fuck only with a Canadian and a Russian. End of story."

Shane squeezed your hand. "Wow. You're so romantic, Ilya..."

"Fuck you."

"Yeah, yeah, I love you, too. Anyway, he's right. Again. What do you think? Do we have another deal?"

You looked at the ceiling, then back at them, another smile threatening to split your face in half.

"We most certainly do."

he always made you uncomfortable. sliding up beside you at the campfire ; his hands lingering when he patched you up ; sly nicknames that made your skin crawl. with a gulp, you flinch as the generator you’re working on finished, lighting up the spot you were hiding at.

taking in a deep breath, you stand and slowly observe your surroundings. the lack of a heartbeat and chilling feeling of being watched was absent — you were safe for now. you tread along carefully, eyes peeled for any sudden movements.

“[name],” the hairs on your arms prickle just at the sound of his voice. you don’t turn — you only continue moving forward. “we’ll be safer together. come stand with me.”

you ignore him. lips parted, your breathing struggles to steady as panic starts to build up. you can hear his feet shuffle behind you ; he’s starting to speed up to catch you. “[name], come on! it’s only us now.”

it sounds like a threat. his tone is reassuring, words light and airy, but it still feels like threat. it’s only the two of you ; no one else around. you gulp again, speeding up just a little more. he lets out what sounds like a laugh, “are we playing a little cat and mouse game?”

“go find another gen,” you call out over your shoulder. you quicken your pace a bit more, “we can still win this.”

“i did win, [name].” he lets out another laugh — it sounds menacing ; dark. everything a survivor shouldn’t be. “i’ve got you, all to my self.”

your heartbeat picks up, pounding in your ears. on the edge of a sprint now, you can see the killer of this trial in the distance. you speed up more, ignoring the muffled curse behind you as you barrel straight into their arms.

a vice grip is around their torso. arms around their waist, you bury your head into their neck as your breath leaves in panicked pants. “jus’ kill me,” you whimper out. “please.”

their hands are raised above them, weapon still poised from when they prepared to swing it at you. curiously, their eyes fly to where you came from ; to where your fellow survivor had now made himself known.

“[name],” you whimper at the sound of his voice. his eyebrows furrow, playful smile falling from his face and growing stern. “let them go. now.”

“he won’t leave me alone.” you whisper it into their chest as you burrow further into them. “watching me. waiting for me. touching me. i— he won’t leave me alone.”

their hands had fallen to your hips now, peeling you away from their torso. you whimper again but relax when they pull you behind them. just what had this man done — what had he made you feel — that was so bad you looked to a murderer for comfort? for safety?

he lets out a huff, taking a step closer. you mold yourself into their back in retaliation. “[name], come on. we have to win this game. jus’ you an’ me now.”

you want to scream at him. want to cry and yell and hit him until he stops talking ; until he stops eyeing you so desperately and hungrily. phantom fingers dance on your thighs, reminding you of the hidden touches he’d take from you ; careful whispers echo in your ears of the things he’d do to you once you were alone.

you couldn’t go with him ; refused to.

the killer of the trial made a show of raising their weapon again before they flung it toward him, hitting him directly in the chest. with a small oof!, he falls to the floor before struggling to get back up. as he limps away, he glares at you and it feels more sinister than the heart beating in your ears.

“safe.” it’s a promise. your killer pats your shoulders as gently as they can, moving you so that you’re a little more hidden. they crouch so that your eyes look into theirs, “safe.”

stay here, and you’ll stay safe. i’ll take care of him while i’m gone.

the breath of relief you let out is immediate. and it’s so stupid — how secure you do feel with someone who’s life revolves around murder. but, compared to the creeping touches and lingering gazes of your fellow survivor, they are a safe haven.

they come back after a scream of terror hits the area you’re in, drenched in blood and almost skipping with joy. gently, your hand is looped into theirs as they tug you along the map.

“home,” they say. “take you home.”

and so you’re lead to the hatch, lowered into it because your legs are too shaky to handle your own weight. before you fall, your fingers grip onto the edge of it and you peer up at the killer once more. your lower lip trembles, “thank you. i can’t say it enough — thank you.”

every trial with them after that feels gooey — warm — as you’re always saved for last and treated less harshly than the others. he never looks at you again ; instead he shakes in fear at the thought of you and the giant bodyguard you’d acquired.

lingering gazes come from outside of the campfire now — but they make you feel protected and watched over ; safe. they always manage to make you feel safe.