I'm Getting Too Old for This Shit

Darcy spritzed her wrist and sniffed.

Nope. Still maybe too much amber.

She huffed and leaned over her lab bench, elbow-deep in notes and beakers, hoping to somehow nose-blind herself into certainty. Creating a custom perfume had seemed like a fun hobby—something tactile and grounding, something to distract her from the endless swirl of weird Avengers-adjacent politics. But now she couldn’t tell if it smelled right. Did it scream “science goddess” or “trying too hard”?

She was so deep in her own second-guessing that she didn’t notice him right away.

Steve stood just inside the open door of the lab, wide-eyed and visibly rattled.

“Uh,” she blinked. “Hey?”

He stared. “What... what is that?”

Darcy lifted the perfume vial. “This? It’s just a thing I made. Sorry—if it’s too strong, I’ll—”

He was already crossing the room, footsteps slow but deliberate, like he was fighting something primal. She watched, frozen, as his jaw clenched and his nostrils flared again.

“You made this?” he asked, voice hoarse. “It’s on you.”

She nodded, uneasy. “Yeah, I was just testing it out—”

And then Steve Rogers, Captain America, American apple pie in human form, dipped his head, grabbed her by the waist, and buried his face in the side of her neck with a choked-off groan.

Darcy squeaked. “Steve?!”

He jolted back like he’d been caught humping a couch.

“Fuck—sorry—I didn’t mean—Christ,” he stammered, backing up with both hands in the air. “I just—can I take you to coffee? Or dinner? Or—anything. I’ll stop. I’m so sorry.”

Her brain still hadn’t caught up. Her skin burned where his nose had been. Her thighs pressed together without permission.

“...Can I say yes and pretend none of that just happened?”

He blinked. “You’re not weirded out?”

“I’m turned on and weirded out,” she said honestly. “But mostly turned on.”

That was all it took. It happened all at once.

Steve surged forward, grabbed her by the waist again, and kissed her like he’d been starved for years. No hesitation. No restraint. His mouth was hot and open, his tongue sweeping in deep, hands dragging her flush against him like he couldn’t bear even a molecule of space between them.

She moaned into his mouth, arousal striking her like a fever. He was hard, thick and unrelenting behind the fly of his jeans, and it took only seconds for him to back her into the nearest counter.

“You smell like everything I’ve ever wanted,” he muttered against her skin. “I couldn’t fucking think straight.”

“Then stop thinking,” she whispered, and pulled his belt open.

He didn’t hesitate. He shoved her skirt up around her hips, dragged her panties down her thighs, and dropped to his knees like a religious obligation.

Darcy gasped as he hooked her leg over his shoulder. His breath was hot on her inner thigh.

“Steve—holy shit—”

“Let me have it,” he growled. “Let me taste what you smell like.”

And then his mouth was on her.

His tongue swept over her with obscene hunger, hot and greedy, like he needed to memorize every part of her with his mouth. He flattened his tongue and dragged, slow and heavy, then sucked her clit between his lips until she gasped and bucked and grabbed fistfuls of his hair.

She didn’t know when she started moaning his name. Didn’t care.

“Fuck—Steve—I’m gonna—”

“Come on me,” he panted, voice dark and ragged. “Come on my fucking tongue.”

She shattered. Her thighs shook. Her back arched off the lab counter as he groaned into her, tongue flicking relentless, hands anchoring her like he could keep the world from slipping out from under them both.

When she finally came down, panting and limp, he stood—eyes dark, lips wet, erection pressing against his boxers—and yanked his cock out like he couldn’t take another second.

“Please tell me you want more,” he said, already lining himself up.

She reached for him, voice wrecked. “Don’t make me beg.”

“You’re gonna anyway,” he growled, and pushed inside.

She screamed.

He was huge, thick, the stretch delicious and blinding. He barely gave her time to adjust before he was slamming into her, mouth latched to her neck again.

“Fuck—you feel so good—better than anything—”

“Steve—”

Her fingers clawed at his shoulders. Her legs wrapped tight around his waist. The countertop rattled under them, equipment threatening to crash to the floor, but she didn’t care. He was pounding into her like he meant to stay there.

He cursed into her mouth. Called her perfect. Made for me, so fucking sweet…

She came again with a strangled cry, and that did it. He followed her with a guttural noise that was almost a roar, spilling inside her in thick, pulsing waves, hips stuttering even as he kept thrusting through it.

When he finally stopped, both of them breathless and wrecked, he slumped forward, forehead against hers.

They were still halfway clothed. Her leggings hung off one ankle. His jeans were around his thighs. They were going to have to bleach this countertop a couple times.

Darcy was the one who spoke first.

“So, uh. Still want to get that coffee?”

Steve smiled, and it was wrecked and beautiful.