𝓐𝓷𝓷𝓲𝓮

And then you notice the flowers. They’re not wrapped fancy or anything—just a slightly crinkled paper sleeve, a little uneven like he picked them up last minute. But they’re beautiful. Soft colors. Fresh. Real.

“Buck?” you blink. “What—”

He shrugs immediately, like he regrets it already. “I brought you home flowers.”

“…You did.”

“Yeah.”

Silence stretches for half a second too long. He shifts his weight. Rubs the back of his neck. Avoids your eyes. “For the hell of it,” he adds quickly. “No reason.”

You sit up a little straighter, a smile already creeping in. “No reason?”

“Nope.”

“None at all?”

He walks over, a little stiff, and holds them out to you like they might explode if he doesn’t get rid of them fast enough. “Does it matter?” he mutters. “They were there. You like…pretty things. And I figured these would be pretty for you.”

You take them carefully, like they’re something fragile. “I do like pretty things.”

“Yeah, well—” he exhales sharply, clearly wanting to abort the mission, “we’ve been together three years, figured I could—y’know—do something normal for once.”

Your heart does a soft, quiet flip. “Bucky,” you say gently, looking up at him, “this is really sweet.”

He huffs, but there’s no bite to it. “Don’t make it a big deal.”

You eyes become wide in mischief. “I’m absolutely making it a big deal.”

“You better not—”

“I’m framing the receipt. I’m telling everyone. I’m—” you start giggling.

He groans, dragging a hand down his face, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth now. “You’re impossible.”

“And you brought me flowers,” you counter softly.

That stops him. Just for a second. His eyes flick back to you, something warmer settling there—something quieter, deeper than the awkward deflection from before. “Yeah,” he says, a little rougher now. “Well.”

You tilt your head. “Well?”

He hesitates again. Then, quieter— “They’re pretty.”

You grin. “They are.”

Another beat.

“And so are you,” he adds, almost under his breath, like it slipped out before he could stop it.

Your expression softens instantly. “…Buck.”

He looks like he might combust. “Don’t,” he warns, pointing a finger at you, already backing up a step. “Don’t make a thing outta that either.”

“I’m absolutely making a thing out of that.”

You set the flowers aside on the coffee table and stand, crossing the small space between you before he can retreat any further. Your hands find his jacket, tugging him closer.

“You brought me flowers,” you murmur. “And called me pretty. And tried to pretend it didn’t mean anything.”

“It didn’t—”

“It did.”

He exhales, shoulders dropping just a little, like he’s giving up the fight. “…Maybe,” he admits.

You lean up, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “I love you too,” you whisper.

He freezes for half a second—then melts, just slightly, leaning into you in that quiet way he does when he forgets to guard himself. “Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low. “I know.”

You nervously shifted from one foot to the other while waiting for Steve.

“Sweets, we did not have plans for tonight.” Bucky took your hand, squeezing it. “If you call ordering pizza a plan, we have a serious problem, Y/N.”

“It’s just…he should’ve taken me on a date, not his roommates.” You were still hurt and angry. Mitch didn’t even pretend anymore. “I think he’s not into me, Bucky. Maybe he’s seeing someone on the side.”

Bucky was about to say something when his husband walked out the door. Steve looked as dashing as his husband, and you couldn’t hide the envy in your eyes. “If only I had what you and Steve have.”

You whined, hearing Bucky say, “Stevie, Y/N still has doubts. What will we do about it?”

Steve stepped forward, offering his arm with an irresistible smile.

“Come on. Don’t let that idiot ruin your birthday. Bucky and I will help you turn your birthday into one you’ll want to remember.”

Bucky smirked, knowing about their plan to win you over. Mitch made things too easy for them, but the brunette didn’t mind.

“Trust me, we know all the good places. You won’t regret going on a date with the two of us.”

“Date—” You licked your lips and pressed your legs together, wishing these gorgeous men weren’t a pair. “I’ll invite you. The table is already under my name and…” You hastily said before your tongue could slip.

Steve was quick to stop you. “Doll, if we invite a lady, she won’t pay a single buck. Whatever your heart desires tonight, you will have it.”

“And more,” Bucky purred in your ear, his hands squeezing your sides. “Right, Stevie. She will never forget her birthday.”

You sniffled and desperately tried to push the tears away. Somehow, these two men were more attentive than the man you dated for two years. “I’d love to spend the night with you. Mitch can choke for all I care.”

Steve chuckled, “That’s the spirit, doll. We won’t talk about him tonight. Bucky and I will do our best to make you forget about Mitch.”

Bucky was quick to open the door to the backseat for you. Your heart fluttered at the gesture, but you reminded yourself that you couldn’t fall for one of them. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, Sweets,” Bucky replied with a smirk. “Steve and I will spoil you rotten tonight.”

The drive to the restaurant was filled with silence. You took your time to say goodbye to your relationship with Mitch. It was a long time ago; you just didn’t let go of him because you didn't agree with the people talking poorly about Mitch.

“You okay there, Sweets?” Bucky asked, turning around to look at you. “If you need a shoulder to lean on, I have nice shoulders.”

Steve slapped his husband’s thigh. He didn’t want Bucky to come off as needy. “Buck.” He warned. “She needs a moment without you hovering over her like a mother hen.”

“I did not!”

“I wouldn’t mind having a shoulder to lean on,” you sniffled. “Why do I always find guys who give a shit about me?”

“Steve, stop the car.” Bucky barely waited for Steve to stop the car before he was out of the car to join you in the backseat.

“What? Buck.” Steve sighed deeply. His husband could be a needy menace sometimes. “There he goes.”

Bucky climbed into the backseat to pull you onto his lap. “Let it all out, Sweets. We are here for you. If you want to cry, scream, and snuggle, don’t hold back.”

“Buck, we wanted to have dinner, remember?” Steve warned. “Just don’t get too cocky there, baby.”

“I like me a cocky man.” You tugged at Bucky’s tie, playing with the fabric. “So, did one of you ever kiss a girl?”

Steve choked on his spit, but quickly recovered when his husband replied. “Stevie did more than kiss a girl. Maybe I kissed a girl, too. Do you want to test if I still got it, Sweets?”

 “Bucky, this is not the right time to kiss Y/N. She just broke up with her boyfriend!”

“I bet you are a good kisser,” you said while twirling Bucky’s tie around your finger. “A pity you are married. I can’t kiss you in front of your husband.”

“Go ahead. He won’t stop nagging if you don’t kiss him,” Steve replied with a huff. “He’s a needy man, doll.”

“Steve is the same,” Bucky murmured. “You should kiss him later.”

Their playfulness encouraged you. You cupped Bucky’s face to press a soft kiss on his lips. He hummed against you, hoping to get more soon.

Your heart fluttered, and you wished once again that these two gorgeous men could be more than friends and a shoulder to lean on…

Part 3

You never expected to see Steve standing at your doorstep, flowers in hand, with a smile that could light up the world.

“Steve?” You ask, fully opening your door now with wide eyes. “You…what’re you doing here?”

He gives a little shrug, blue eyes bright as he holds out the flowers. Pink and yellow ones, with sensitive petals, your favorite.

“I wanted to see you,” he says with a smile. “Before I leave.”

You can’t help but smile back at him. “Well come inside!”

You could almost see the weight on his shoulders lift as you welcome him inside. He steps into your home, admiring the cozy decor as he looks around. He hadn’t been inside your home in a long time, and he makes a face like he’s admiring all the changes.

The air feels charged with anticipation as he hands you the flowers.

“Nice place,” he comments, running a hand through his golden blonde hair. He's still adjusting to his larger physique, his shoulders almost comically broad now.

“T-thanks,” you hum, taking the flowers with a little smile. “You got me my favorites?”

His face lights up—really lights up, like sunshine breaking through clouds.

“Of course I did,” he says, voice warm and sincere. “You told me once that these reminded you of your grandma's garden.” He hesitates for a second before adding, quieter, “I... remembered.”

There’s something painfully earnest in the way he watches you hold them—the kind of quiet hope that makes your chest tighten.

“Well, thank you.” You hum, reaching into the cupboard and grabbing a vase. “Can I get you something? Coffee?”

“Sure.”

Grabbing the coffee pot, you pour a cup before placing it in-front of him. He takes it from you, his fingers brushing yours and you pull your hand back quickly.

“So the um…the serum,” you say, feeling his eyes on you as you sit across from him. “It ah…really changed you huh?”

Steve takes a small sip of coffee, nodding as he savors the flavor. His eyes don't leave yours as he replies.

“It changed everything,” he admits, a trace of awe in his voice. “I look like a different person, physically. But... but mentally...” His gaze drifts, staring into the distance as if lost in thought. When his eyes find yours again, they're almost haunted. “Sometimes I feel like I'm living in someone else's body. Everything seems... intensified. Brighter. Louder.”

“How so?” You ask, tilting your face. Steve sighs, his finger tapping the coffee cup.

“Take, the sun, for example?” He nods towards your window, the light cutting in through the pane. “Its rays feel warmer than before.”

“Ah.” You hum, as if you understand but you truly don’t. Steve stands, his outer thigh brushing the table as he walks towards where you sit.

“Take you,” he murmurs, chin tilted and your back straightens. “You’ve always been pretty. But..but now you’re beautiful. Like I can see you completely.”

You feel your face grow warm at his words. Beautiful. No one had ever said that to you before, especially not someone as... well, perfect as Steve.

You find yourself staring, watching the way his muscles flex under his shirt as he shifts position, how the color of his eyes seems even more vibrant in the afternoon light. He has this effect on you, making your heart race and your mind go blank.

His hand reaches out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear and you stop breathing.

“Steve…” you whisper. He smiles, and it’s radiating and kind, and you know he’s going to kiss you. You can see it in his expression, in the way he bends close to you, brows creased.

His fingers linger on your skin, like a spark of electricity. He's close, so close you can now smell the faint, clean scent of his aftershave. You can feel your pulse quickening, and you swear you can see the veins on the back of his hand as he lifts it to gently cup your cheek.

His gaze darts from your eyes to your lips and back again. He's asking permission, waiting.

“But one thing hasn’t changed,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your mouth. You feel your lips part, lashes flutter as he leans forward, his nose brushing yours. “The way I want you.”

Your heart is pounding in your chest, your breathing ragged as he closes the space between you. His hand moves to the back of your neck, tilting your head up to meet his.

And then he kisses you. Your eyes slide shut, every fiber of your being focused on the way his mouth feels against yours. Soft, warm, perfect. His other hand wraps around your hip, drawing you to stand and pulling even closer, making you forget your own name for a second.

Steve leans in slowly, his breath warm against your skin. His lips brush against yours again, soft and tender, as if he’s memorizing every moment. The kiss lingers, gentle and unhurried, a quiet connection that feels timeless. His hand rests on your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin in a soothing rhythm, like a silent promise. The world fades, leaving only the warmth of his touch, the faint press of his lips, and the feeling of being completely safe in his arms. It’s a kiss that speaks volumes without a word, a quiet exchange of everything you both need.

You feel yourself melt into him, your body fitting perfectly against his as if you were made for each other. You run your hands over his broad shoulders, tracing the muscles that ripple beneath his shirt, relishing the new strength in his body.

Steve deepens the kiss, his hand sliding to the small of your back, pulling you impossibly close. There's a hunger in his touch, a desperation like he's afraid you might disappear at any moment. You know that he's leaving soon, and you can feel the weight of his impending absence in every press of his lips.

“Steve…” you sigh his name, and his forehead presses to yours. His thumb brushes against your lower back, and you open your eyes, finding him already looking at you. “When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow morning,” he replies, his voice soft. “Bright and early.”

His eyes don't leave yours, his hand gripping your waist just a little tighter.

“That’s too bad,” you murmur, trying to ignore the weight in your sternum.

“I know,” he says softly, leaning up and kissing your forehead. “I wish…I wish we had more time.”

You close your eyes, feeling his touch, inhaling his scent and your chest aches. You cling to him harder, burying your face. This feels too familiar, all of it - the smell of his aftershave, the strength of his body under your fingers, the way he says your name soft and reverent like a prayer.

He hugs you tight, his hand stroking your hair. You can hear his heartbeat, steady and strong but also just a little faster than normal. You know he's fighting the same battle, trying to cherish every moment, knowing it might be the last for a very long time.

You hold each other like that for what seems like hours, each second feeling like both an eternity and not long enough. Eventually, Steve releases you but keeps his hand resting on your shoulder, the touch warm and grounding. He gives you a small, sad smile, his eyes searching your face.

“Promise me something.” he says softly, the request echoing in the silent room.

“Anything.” You murmur, and he cups your face, keeping his eyes locked to yours.

Steve exhales, slow and steady, his forehead resting against yours again.

“Stay safe,” he murmurs—so quiet it's almost a prayer. “While I'm gone.” His thumb brushes over your cheekbone once more before he pulls back just enough to look at you properly. His jaw tenses like he wants to say more, but instead, all that comes out is. “I'll be thinking about you.”

“You do the same,” you whisper, and lean up, pressing a kiss to his mouth. “Don’t be a hero.”

“That’s my job, sweetheart.”

You wrinkle your nose before giving a little smile. “I know but…still.”

Steve lets out a quiet chuckle, his hand still on your cheek. He gives you a fond look, affection shining in his eyes.

“You worry too much,” he teases, but there's a hint of sincerity to his words. “I'll be fine, I promise.”

His thumb brushes under your chin, a soft gesture that has your stomach fluttering.

“Come back to me.” You whisper, and his smile falters, eyes dropping before he looks back up to your face.

“When did you get so bold?” He murmurs, and you feel too close to breaking, to crying, so you step away, forcing a laugh.

“When did you get so hot?” You chatter, pressing a hand to your lips.

Steve’s breath catches—actually catches, like you just punched the air right out of him. His eyes go wide for a second before darkening with something unreadable.

“Hot?” he repeats, voice rougher than before as his gaze drags over you in slow realization. Then—

A laugh bursts out of him, sudden and bright despite everything: startled but genuine, shoulders shaking as he runs a hand through his hair like this is the most absurdly perfect thing anyone's ever said to him.

“You,” he manages between breaths, pointing at your face with an accusing but delighted finger. “are killing me.”

You grin, the tension breaking like loose ice cubes. “My goal in life.”

Steve reaches for you and you let him, kissing you with a gentleness it makes your heart hammer and flip and summersault. You pull him to your room, fingers fumbling on his belt as he brushes the straps of your dress from your shoulders. He turns you around, kissing your neck before he pulls the zipper down, exposing your back and lets out a low hum. He dips his face, kissing your spine and you shiver, dipping your hand back to run in his golden hair.

Steve exhales a shaky breath against your skin, his hands warm and firm on your hips as he presses you back into him. His lips trail up the curve of your spine with deliberate slowness, pausing at the base of your neck to nip gently—just enough to make you gasp.

“You're killing me,” he mutters again, but this time it's strained with something far more desperate than laughter. One hand slips around to press flat against your stomach while the other tilts up—lifting just enough for his fingers brush where fabric still clings stubbornly between both bodies.

He pulls back slightly so that when he speaks next there’s no mistaking what he wants: rough velvet wrapped in an order disguised as plea.

“Tell me if I go too far.”

You turn in his grasp, looking into his face with a little shake of your head. “You won’t.”

Clothes are discarded and when he lays you down beneath him, you smile up at him, his arms bracketing beside your head. He dips his face, kissing you slowly, thoroughly, his left hand slipping between your body and gently stroking between your legs. You gasp, and he kisses your cheek, your jaw, his hand pulling back and his fingers are shiny with you.

When he takes his fingers into his mouth, licking them as he watches you, you feel your cheeks heat, warmth growing in your belly and he smiles.

“You look so pretty when you blush.” Steve says against your skin as he leans back above you.

You shiver at the feeling of him pressed against you, the way he looks at you with darkened blue eyes and a wicked smile. He leans down, his hand shifting down your leg to hook under your knee.

“Can I try something?” He murmurs, voice low and rumbling in the small space between you. His thumb presses gently into the soft skin of your inner thigh and you can't do anything except nod.

Moving down your body, Steve presses a kiss just below your belly button, then your hip bone before he slides your leg over his shoulder, dipping between your thighs. You lay your head back, licking your lips in wired anticipation and when his mouth latches to your slit, your hips nearly buck.

Steve groans against you—the sound rough and muffled, his hands tightening on your hips to keep you from squirming too far.

“You taste even better than I imagined,” he rasps when he pulls back just enough to speak, the words hot against damp skin before diving right back in with slow, deliberate licks that have your toes curling into the sheets beneath them. His nose presses teasingly between folds as if memorizing every inch of this moment—every shuddering breath above him.

His fingers dig in slightly at a particularly sharp roll of your hips: warning or encouragement? Maybe both.

You hum, back bowing and then he sits up, making you whine. He hushes you softly, crawls up your body with a little shake of his head.

“S’alright darlin’,” he hums, moving your leg wider, making space for his hips. “I got you.”

He slides in slowly, taking his time, spreading you inch by inch and your eyes roll, one hand on his chest the other clenching on the pillow by your hair. You feel so full and so warm, lips parting when he bottoms out.

Steve leans down, his face only inches from yours. He lets out a quiet, shaky exhale against your jaw, his hand gripping you so tight you'll have marks tomorrow and he knows it—wants them.

“You feel so good,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your throat, then up under your chin and you know that if you looked your reflection in the mirror now you'd have a mark in every single place he'd placed the imprint of his mouth. His thrusts are deep, slow, a feeling of never ending heat enveloping you and sweat gathers at the base of your spine.

“Sorry,” he murmurs as your cheeks heat. “I run hot.”

His hips snap forward harder on purpose just to feel you clench around him—then immediately still when a shudder runs through him at the sensation.

“Christ,” he grits out between clenched teeth before leaning in close enough for his forehead to press against yours again; sweat-slicked and panting like this is somehow both torture and paradise.

When you come undone, it’s with a gasp, a quiet exhale of breath that he captures with his mouth. You shake under him, brows tight and legs wrapped around his waist.

“Gotta…gotta let me loose honey,” Steve pants. “I’m too close.”

Part of you wants to keep him there, have him inside and let him root himself within your center; but you’re unmarried and a woman and if proof of that misdeed were to take place, you’d never be able to live in the shame of it.

You unlock your legs, and he speeds up, his hand gripping your knee and he pulls out with a jerk, his spend warming on your inner thigh. He inhales sharply, making a sound at the back of his throat before rolling to his side in order to not crush you.

With the back of your hand you rub across your forehead, glancing at him and letting out a small giggle. “You look…”

Steve's chest heaves, his skin glistening with sweat as he stares at the ceiling—dazed.

“Like I just got run over by a tank?” he finishes for you hoarsely, dragging a hand down his face before turning onto his side to face you. His grin is lopsided and exhausted, but there's something unbearably soft in the way he reaches out to brush damp hair off your forehead.

“You look...” He trails off, swallowing hard when all that comes out is another quiet groan of frustration mixed with affection.

“I look wrecked.”

“I was going to say beautiful.”

You turn away, trying to hide your smile and the flutter in your chest. Sitting up, you reach for your underwear, slipping it on before excusing yourself to the restroom to wash up. When you return, adorned in a blue robe, Steve is sitting up on your bed, his back against the headboard and he smiles, opening his arms.

You grin back and crawl across the mattress, into his arms, your cheek laying atop his chest.

Steve immediately tightens his arms around you, as if afraid you might disappear if he dares to let go for even a second. His chin rests on top of your head, fingers brushing idly over your spine in soft, featherlight touches.

“You're really not making this easy for me, sweetheart,” he murmurs after a moment of comfortable silence. You can feel the low rumble in his chest beneath your cheek.

“Me?” You whisper, trying to keep your voice light. “You’re the one that went and got all hot and attractive on me.”

Steve laughs, kissing your hair and you grin, leaning into him. It’s quiet between you both, his fingers running up and down your spine and you feel a shift in your chest.

“You were always perfect to me though,” you whisper, keeping your cheek to his chest. “I always…I always liked you. Even before the serum.”

Steve's chest feels very tight all of a sudden. He swallows hard against a lump in his throat, fingers curling into your skin almost too hard before he takes a steadying breath and relaxes, burying his face into your hair instead.

“You mean that?” he murmurs, and he suddenly sounds more vulnerable than you've ever heard him—that familiar note of insecurity seeping into his voice, and even now it's heartbreakingly endearing.

You nod slowly, your fingers gently tracing the back of his hand, grounding both of you in the moment. You can feel the weight of his words, the quiet openness in his voice, and it makes your heart ache in the best way.

“Yeah, I do,” you whisper, voice soft but sure. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

You pull him closer, burying your face in his neck, the words settling between you like a quiet promise. It’s simple, but it’s everything. You both need this—this truth, this connection. You press a kiss to his skin, your lips lingering there for a moment, reaffirming it without needing more words.

Steve's breath hitches—sharp and audible—before he lets out a slow, shuddering exhale. His arms tighten around you like a lifeline, his forehead pressing against yours as if he needs the contact to breathe.

“Then I guess,” he starts quietly, voice rough with emotion but impossibly warm all at once. “I was always perfect for you too.”

The admission hangs between you in the dim light of your room: simple and devastatingly honest because that’s just who Steve Rogers is—and maybe always has been when it comes to you.

-

When he leaves, he hugs you tightly. You shut your eyes against his chest, breathing him in as his hand runs over your hair.

“I’ll find you when I get back,” he hums. You pull back, nodding. You want to beg him to promise, to swear to you he’ll return, because you can’t lose him. Not now, not after this.

“You better,” you mutter, smiling up at him, and readjusting his tie. “I’m gonna have to bat all the girls off of you.”

Steve barks out a surprised laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he leans down to press one last lingering kiss to your forehead.

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs against your skin, voice teasing but warm—too warm. His hands slide down to frame your face for just a second before reluctantly pulling away. “I’d pay to see that.”

“Don’t be a hero, Rogers.” You call after him as he jogs down the steps.

He glances up at you, grinning over his shoulder like this is all some grand joke between you two when it’s anything but funny because you both know damn well Steve Rogers has never had an ounce of self-preservation when it comes doing the right thing.

“We’ll see,” he calls, and waves a hand before he walks back the way he had come. You wave, your fingers shaking as you close the door, and you breath out hard.

“Come back to me,” you whisper against the door, and only then do you let your eyes moisten. “Come back to me.”

-

It’s your mother that tells you first about the plane diving into the ice. You fall to your knees, and she barely catches you as you press your face into her neck, and sob.

The funeral is a grand affair. You wear black, pulling your hair behind your ears as the priest speaks into a microphone. It feels like everyone in the United States had shown up, all crying, all mourning.

But none of them hurt like you do.

You stand, numb, as the world pays homage to the man you loved. The whole goddamn world looks like it’s weeping, like the sun itself has gone out and the very sky is grey.

He was your sun. And now he is gone.

You stand when everyone stands. Sit when everyone sits. Cry silently when everyone cries. Your eyes don’t move from the casket before you—the coffin holding an empty promise for so many. The only comfort is the way your mother holds you against her side.

The years pass like a slow, aching breath.

You find his sketchbook tucked in the back of an old storage trunk—his sketchbook, weathered and worn with time. Your hands shake as you trace over the pages: rough pencil drawings of Brooklyn alleys, of Bucky who had also been lost, and half-finished portraits… and then you.

Dozens of you. Back before the serum, back when you were friends, when you had harbored a crush on the skinny boy who lived down the street. Every expression caught in quiet devotion: sleeping on your back after capturing jars of fireflies in the summer; laughing with your head thrown back; even one where he’d sketched just your eyes—like they held something sacred to him.

And beneath it all? A single line scrawled at the bottom corner:

“What I have to come back to.”

x

Taglist: @mystickittytaco @taniamiller @aquanatalie @somedayheaven

“They’re here.” Your coworker Stacy bumps your shoulders, her eyes wide and fixed across the room. “Holy shit, they’re actually here-“

“It’s their fundraiser.” You mutter, keeping your attention on a senator bumbling about near the drinks. “It would be crazy if they weren’t here.”

“Yeah, but- It’s all of them. I’ve never seen all of them-“

“Yes, you have.”

Stacy glares at you. “Well, not so close.”

You glance over, pointedly only looking at their feet. “They’re not that close.”

“I could touch one.” Stacy breathes, and you snort.

“You should go try that.”

That earns you another glare, and a smack on the arm. And you deserve it, but you just laugh and look back to your target. The tipsy, red-eyed senator who’s going to have a few more drinks, and tells you all about that bill congress is trying to pass about the Enhanced. You’ve read it three times, and it’s a disgusting invasion of privacy, but those documents were off the record. If you can get a Senator, talking about how he wants to force all superheroes to either be sterilized or record their sex lives-

Stacy pinches your arm, and you squeak so loudly it echoes off the domed, ballroom ceiling. Some attention darts in your direction, but everyone quickly loses interest when they realize it’s nothing all that interesting. Your face is burning as you smooth your dress, and it doesn’t stop burning. It feels like someone is tending to the hot embarrassment, fluttering in your tummy and restless in your fingers. Like someone is looking right through you, monitoring you, watching you-

“He’s looking at you.” Stacy hisses in your ear, buzzing with so much excitement you’re sure she’s about to turn into glitter and explode like fireworks, and you’re going to throttle her.

“He is now, because you,” you shove her shoulder. It doesn’t do anything to stamp out her thrill at your worst nightmare. “Fucking made him notice-“

“No, he was looking before-“

“No, he wasn’t-“

“Yes, he was-“

“No, he wasn’t-“

“Who wasn’t what.”

You freeze, and Stacy looks over your head with a fawning, dazed expression. You’re going to kill her. You’re going to cut her up into tiny pieces and burn them all in separate furnaces, and then you’re going to steal her dog and make it forget all about her, and marry her husband and make her cute little kid your Cinderella as bloodline punishment-

“Hi, Mr. Captain Sir.” She giggles, looking back down to you with a wide-eyed it’s him expression.

I’m going to kill you. You mouth. She doesn’t seem all that bothered by the threat.

“Uh- Hi. You don’t have to-“ You hear him shift on his feet behind you. “Steve is alright.”

You can picture him rubbing the back of his neck, trying to look smaller. More humble and approachable, when he’s a modern walking Hercules. A better version, who doesn’t kill his wife and kids. Who gets you drinks and tries to be your friend and is so stupidly polite and kind and you hate him, you hate him so much-

He says your name. You plaster on the widest, most plastic and sickly sweet smile you can manage. You want him to feel like you’re a bit of plastic that’s stuck between his teeth. To give up talking to you, because it’s not fair.

Steve’s just as handsome as the last time you saw him. And the time before that. And the time before that. If anything, he’s more handsome. You don’t know how he does it, changing absolutely nothing about his appearance and looking hotter every time you get eyes on him. His hair is styled the same as always, but it looks so soft. You could run your fingers through it and it would probably feel like a cloud. His stupid, sharp jawline is slack as you glare up at him, and he’s so tall it makes you dizzy, and he’s fixing you with that puppy look that makes you feel like you’re important to him.

And you’re not. You know you’re not.

You went down that road once. You tried to be important to him, and he said no. And he’s Steve, so he was sweet and perfectly kind about it, and still wanted to be your friend, and you’d thought you were already over it so you’d said yes.

You thought you could just be his friend. He hadn’t made anything weird. Neither of you had ever even brought up your failed attempt to ask him out again. And at the time, you’d thought you were over it.

But Steve is Steve. And he’s got some titanic hold over your heart that’s left finger marks dug in through the landscape. There’s a depression over the cavity of your chest, and your ribs have molded to fit it, and now it’s far too late to go back. You only know how to have feelings for him. You’ve tried to get over it. To ignore it. To forcibly re-mold your love into something platonic, or clawed your way through some relationships in the hope they’d help you move on.

They don’t. They won’t. Nothing can.

The big stupid boy-scout standing over you owns you completely, and you can’t even tell him without making it a problem.

Your new strategy had been to ignore him. Stacy ruined that.

She thinks he secretly has feelings for you. You tune her out every time she starts to crow and preach about it, because you know your heart is going to take it as gospel and not parody, and you can’t afford false faith. All you have is what’s grounded between your fingers.

Steve’s right here. He’s smiling at you, all pretty and nice, and you have to smile back or else it will make him feel bad. He’s got a drink in his massive hand for you. You’ve had a million wet dreams about that hand around your throat or cupping your pussy.

You’re aching thinking about it. In an ideal world, this would be the part where you ran without looking back.

In an ideal world, you’d be standing on his arm right now, instead of all stiff and weird in front of him.

You need to get a fucking grip.

“Hi.” You say, and it’s sounds lame and idiotic and pathetic-

Steve’s face splits into a big, happy smile. “Hi. How’s the night going for you, do you have your victim picked out?”

You scowl. “It’s not- They’re not victims-“

“You treat them like they’re victims.” His grin widens. “Sometimes I feel like I should be saving them.”

“They’re all fine. It’s not like I’m drugging them or something.”

Steve’s brows raise. “That makes me think you are drugging them.”

“Nuh uh.” You stick out your tongue, and he laughs under his breath.

“One day you’re gonna say something that actually gets you in trouble, you know.” He holds out the drink he brought you.

It’s your favorite. It’s always your favorite.

You told him what your favorite drink was, the very first time you attended one of these parties. He’s never forgotten since, and it makes you love and hate him all the more.

“I don’t think I will.” You mumble, both trying and desperately failing not to brush his fingers. His skin is warm. He’s warm. He’s like a walking furnace, and you’d like to just bury your face in his pecs and breathe him in and-

“Kid, you already have.”

Steve looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. His eyes are sparkling, and in the background you think Natasha Romanoff is circling like a shark, trying to get his attention, but if he notices he pretends he doesn’t. He just looks at you and calls you kid, and the word plummets like a cold stone into your gut.

Kid. That’s all you are to him. Kid.

“But if I got in trouble, you’d save me.” You take a long sip of your drink, and you like to torture yourself.

With his presence. His closeness.

How fast he nods. How certainly he answers.

“’Course I would. Already saving you by pretending I don’t see you getting all those Senators drunk.”

You laugh softly, but the sound hurts. When you look over your shoulder, Stacy’s abandoned you for the food table. You catch her eye, and she shoots you an excited thumbs up. She probably thinks this is going great.

“Are you feeling alright?” Steve says suddenly, and he sounds like he really, really cares. “You been looking kind of sick- Not that you look bad- You look good, uh- Really good, but-“

“I’m fine.” You turn back to Steve, and you wonder if he can see it.

The pain, leaking down like a toxin from your eyes. Everything kind of blurry. You’d throw up, if you didn’t think he’d take care of you after.

“Everything’s fine.”

Steve’s lips twitch. You’re not sure he believes you.

But it doesn’t really matter anyway. You’re not his to get an answer out of. He decided that.

And you’re just doing exactly what Steve wants, all the time.

“You do look nice.” He mumbles, taking a sip of his own drink, as if it could even do anything to him.

You smile, and there it is again. The shameful, unrelenting heat in your stomach. “Thanks.”

I dressed up for you.

“I think he’s in looove with you.” Stacy says, spinning around in her chair. You flip her off, not looking up from your computer.

“Is the printer out of paper still?”

“I don’t know, you print everything for me.” She pokes your chair with her foot. “Pay attention to me, I said Steve’s in love with you-“

“No, he’s not.”

“Yes, he is.”

“No, he’s not-“

“Yes, he is-“

“Is this the same thing you were fighting about last time?” Steve’s voice comes from over your shoulder, and you freeze. “Or is that just… How you two talk.”

Stacy looks awfully fucking pleased with herself for a dead woman. “It’s the same fight as last time.”

“Oh.” He pauses. You can hear his concern, and it makes you want to vomit. “Is everything okay?”

“Mhm.” Stacy beams. “Hi, Steve.”

You glance up, and Steve looks properly bemused and adorable about her whole demeanor. It makes you want to hold his face and kiss the tiny, pouting frown off his lips. You smack yourself internally. Get it together.

“Hi, Stacy.”

She almost glows. “You remember my name?”

“Yeah.” He glances down at you. “I try to remember most people’s names.”

Stacy swoons. “Of course you do.”

Steve blinks, and you clear your throat.

“What are you doing here?”

“Uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, giving you a small smile. “Lunch, remember? We planned it last week.”

Oh. You did do that. “I told you to wait outside, my boss is going to try to interview you-“

“Oh, she already did.” He laughs. “But I’m here for you, not a front page.”

You flush, and Stacy giggles like she’s watching TV.

“So…” Steve shrugs. “Lunch?”

Right. Lunch.

“How’d you even get in the building.” You grumble, grabbing your jacket as you stand. He shrugs sheepishly.

“I took a photo with the guards.”

“Steve, I told you to stop doing that-“

“It made them really happy, okay? And I went through all the metal detectors, same as everyone else-“

“I know, but you hate taking the photos, you can tell them no.”

Steve frowns. “It’s not that big an inconvenience for me-“

“But you hate it.”

“I don’t hate it-“

“Steven Rogers.”

You glare at him, arms crossed over your chest. Steve sighs, slumping like a scolded child.

“I don’t love them.” He mumbles, and you nod.

“Next time, tell them no.”

“But then I can’t come upstairs.”

You shrug, starting at the door, your shoulder bumping against his. “You can text me. Like you’re supposed to-“

“Or I can just do the photos-“

“No-“

“Bye, guys.” Stacy calls from behind you, and you look her with wide eyes. You’d forgotten she was there.

“Um… Bye.” You wave awkwardly, and she grins.

He’s here for you. She mouths, and you roll your eyes.

No hope. It just makes everything else harder.

If Steve wanted you, he’d say something. And you’re a big girl. You can handle just being his friend, because he won’t leave you alone long enough for you to properly avoid him. You can handle it.

His hand finds your lower back, when he opens the door for you. You almost trip over your feet from the dizzying touch.

You can’t handle this at all.

The most annoying part about having undying feelings for Steve Rogers is that it’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. Golden Boy Number One. Mr. Perfect Specimen.

You’re in love with the little blond boy with abs and a dopey smile and sweet blue eyes. You’re obsessed with Mr. Muscles. You lose sleep over the guy who looks like he could crush you in a headlock then kiss you to sleep after.

Incredibly original. Groundbreaking, even. The love of your life is the masculine celebrity who’s respectful and kind. Never before heard of stuff. You’re really shattering glass ceilings with that one.

You want to shoot yourself in the face.

It’s impossible to avoid even thinking about him, when he’s everywhere. You go out to the corner store, and he’s on the little TV mounted in the corner. Avengers brand yogurts line the grocery store, and you glare at Strawberries and Cream and Justice until your head hurts. He told you about that. He was pretty proud of how all the proceeds were going to charities.

“It’s a stupid name, though.” You’d said, and he’d shrugged.

“Tony says the name doesn’t matter, as long as it’s got our faces on it. Apparently that’s what people are buying for.”

He’d frowned at that, and you’d given him an affectionate smile. He hates the glory of all of this. You know he does, and you’d told him gently you’re sure people will also buy for charity.

You’d been lying through your teeth, though. When you grab the yogurt and shamefully shove it into your basket, it’s not for cancer research or orphans or to save the bees. It’s because Steve’s face is smiling at you from the plastic, and you’re no better than the fangirls who get all doe-eyed over his every breath.

Not that you’re much better about that, either.

“I could give you an interview.” Steve offers on day, when you’d been complaining to him about slow news. “It can be about whatever you want-“

“I don’t want your pity journalism, Steven.”

He frowns. “It’s not pity. I’m trying to help you.”

You shrug, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “Well, I can’t accept your help.”

“Why not-“

“It’s unethical.”

“I… don’t think that’s true-“

“Well, I didn’t earn it.”

“You don’t have to earn it.” He says, all earnest and sweet and kind, and you want to die. “You work hard, I know you work hard, and if this can help you- Here, we can do it right now-“

“I don’t have questions ready.” You cut in quickly. Flatly.

Steve just shrugs. “Make some up. I know you can.”

You wish he’d stop believing in you. It makes your heart flutter.

“I have nothing I want to ask you.” You mumble hopelessly, and he frowns.

“I don’t believe that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you always have something to ask me. To ask anyone.”

You flush, turning to the side to avoid his gaze. “Maybe I just know everything about you,” you mutter, and he snorts.

“No. You don’t.”

That gets your attention. You snap your head in his direction, and he smiles at you. Like he already knows he won.

“There she is-“

“Shut up.” You lean across the table, and his smile widens. “What don’t I know about you.”

“A lot.”

“Like what-“

“You have to ask me to find out.”

You narrow your eyes. He keeps fucking smiling.

“You suck.” You grumble.

He shrugs. “I know you think that.”

You’re both leaning across the table. If you reached up, just an inch, you’d be able to trace the line of his nose. He’s so handsome. It’s unfair, and you can feel a smile tugging at your lips in response to his.

“I’m going to punch you in the face-“

“I’d like to see you try, kid.”

Kid.

You lean back, ice water feeling like it was poured through your veins. Steve notices the shift. He frowns, but you don’t give him the chance to question it. You just push on.

“I need a napkin.” You mutter., leaning back into your seat. “To write questions.”

“Yeah. Right.” He rubs the back of his neck. Opens his mouth, then closes it again, shaking his head slightly. “I’ll go get that for you.”

Of course he will.

And when he’s talking to the waitress—paper and a pen in his hand—she twirls her hair and giggles. Same as you would, if you got to know him where he didn’t know you. Where he might just find you pretty, and give you a chance, because you were friends first and you think that’s where you all went wrong.

This all might’ve been easier, if he really was just a celebrity crush. If you loved him because he was Captain America and not Steve. Your Steve. Who brings you back two pens in case you don’t like the first, and shares his food with you while you gloss through the interview—feeling little detached from your own body, like he’s a million miles away—and touches your lower back again when you finally leave lunch.

You might’ve gotten to touch him more, if he didn’t mean something to you.

But you wouldn’t trade knowing him for the world.

And that just makes it all hurt even more.

Steve’s been trying to get you out with his team for years. You’ve said no, over and over and over. You don’t need to feel even more mortal than you already are. Don’t need the reminder that he probably rejected you because you’re not even a quarter of what he and his friends are.

Not that you think Steve would think you’re any less because you’re not enhanced. You know he wouldn’t.

Consciously. 

But that doesn’t change the reality of it. He wouldn’t want you, when he’s surrounded by other Gods, like he himself, far more worthy of his attention. You can be mean and sharp, but you don’t have the cool, collected, deadly beauty of Black Window. And you’ve heard the rumors about them.

You’ve heard all the rumors. About Steve with everyone, because people like to talk. There isn’t a pair of people on the Avengers that the public hasn’t theorized about secretly dating.

And you know none of it’s true. Steve’s told you himself.

But that doesn’t make it hurt any less, when you think about him with someone else more worthy. Someone he wants.

Which is why you didn’t want to do this. And Steve had always respected that—because he’s perfect, and he respects everything—so you’d thought you’d never have to. He asks. You say no. He doesn’t push it, or demand to know why. He waits months before asking again, and you know he only does that because he thinks you’re just too busy to go out the other times. That you’re saying no because you simply don’t have the energy, and not because the idea makes you feel itchy. And you don’t want to tell him. You like that he asks you. It makes you feel important.

But you still kept saying no.

Until Stacy overheard him ask you, and said yes for you. And Steve beamed, and you couldn’t stand to burst the delicate little bubble of his joy, and now you’re here.

Huddled in the corner of a bar with the fucking Avengers all around you. Hawkeye and Thor are throwing darts in the corner. Hulk, Black Widow, and Falcon are playing pool. The Vision is eating onion rings, and everything feels like a very, very bizarre dream.

Steve hasn’t left your side since you got here. It’s been the only anchor you have. You’d been able to hide in his shadow and duck under his arm, avoiding pressing questions and conversations you don’t really want to have. It’s not too weird for him to bring a civilian friend, at least. None of them have commented on it, besides throwing you passing looks. Steve mentioned that they all do it, from time to time.

But you’re the only one here right now. And if you could, you’d sew your hand into Steve’s so he couldn’t leave you alone.

And that’s always a little true. You want that all the time.

More than usual right now. But all the time.

“I’m going to get drinks.” He mutters, and you grab his bicep like a scared child.

“Wait- I’ll come with you-“

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” He grins down at you, patting your head like you’re a dog or something. “You don’t have to stand up.”

You want to shout at him that this isn’t about him being a gentleman, it’s about him not leaving your sight. But you’re weak. And pathetic. So you just nod, and Steve smiles at you before walking away.

You try to hide in the shadows, avoiding any attention. It doesn’t work.

“You’re the journalist.” A cool, lazy voice cuts through the air, and you look up to find Tony Stark standing over your table.

“I’m a journalist-“

“No. You’re Roger’s journalist.” Stark drawls, sliding into the booth. You stiffen, but don’t dare to move away.

That’ll make it seem even more obvious, when Steve comes back and you don’t inch away from him.

“I understand what he’s been going on about.” Stark continues, looking you up and down slowly. “Didn’t know they made them like you anymore.”

Your eyes narrow. “Like me?”

“Mhm.” Stark smirks, and you raise your chin.

“What am I like, Mr. Stark?”

He chuckles, leaning back. “Little spitfire, aren’t you-“

“Only to people who deserve it.”

That makes him laugh louder. Everything feels more and more like a fever dream by the second.

You look out to the bar, trying to find Steve. Internally begging him to come back. He’s by the bar, your drink already in his hand. It’s the same one you always get. He’s holding it close to his chest, like it’s something priceless.

There’s a woman standing next to him. Just another random girl, in a tiny dress with some pretty good makeup, giggling and batting her lashes at him.

And Steve’s entertaining her. smiling at her.

The same way he smiles at you.

You don’t want to be here. You didn’t want to be here. You don’t want to see how it’s not even the Avengers that he’d want more than you, it’s everyone else. She’s getting the same attention you try to drown yourself in, but you’re not the one who might go home with him. His grin is a little tighter with her, because he’s probably restrained and trying to play his cards right. She looks like she’s talking sweet, and he’d probably want that more than you, poking and mocking him all the time. He’s a God. He’ll say he’s not but he is, and what kind of god would want to be worshipped by someone who shows love with insults and eye rolls.

There’s a tight feeling, around your throat like rope. Your eyes are burning, and the world is blurring, and you don’t want to see this. You can’t see this.

You tried to be his friend. You really tried.

But you can’t.

“What’s wrong with you?” Stark asks, and you look over to find him watching with a strange expression.

“Nothing.” You clear your throat, fumbling for your bag. “I just- Remembered something. That I have to go do.”

You glance over to Steve again. He’s laughing at something she’s saying without shaking his head and tipping his head back, without looking away from her. Like he does with you.

“Right now.” You mumble. “I have to go do it right now.”

Stark hums, tapping his fingers on the table. “Right now, huh.”

“Yep.” You stand up, and he gives you an almost amused look.

“What is it? If it’s so urgent.”

“Stuff.” You snip.

Stark chuckles, shaking his head. “Jesus, he’s batting in a whole other sport with you.”

“What the fuck does that mean-“

“Nothing.” Stark smirks again. Like he knows something. “Go on. I’ll tell Cap you had stuff.”

You scan over his relaxed features, and he just keeps grinning, lazy and unworried. You could get an answer out of him, if you tried.

But you look up, back to Steve. And he’s grabbing his own drink from the bar. Still chatting with the girl. If he brings her back to the table, you’re going to vomit.

You have to go now.

“Thanks.” You mutter, giving Stark a tight grin. “Have a good night.”

And Stark laughs, as you turn away.

“Oh. I’m sure I will.”

You avoid Steve for a week.

Properly avoid him.

He calls ten times, just the night you leave the bar. He texts almost every hour for the days after that, and you mute him. If you look at the messages, you’re going to respond to them. If you respond to them, he’ll convincing you to talk to him. If you talk to him, or see him, or even stand near him, you’re never going to get over him.

You’re going cold turkey on him, like he’s a drug.

To you, he is. And you need to get clean. You need to move on.

Steve doesn’t come into the building to steal you for lunch, but he calls you every day. Your fingers fidget, still trying to pick up the phone.

You don’t know how you manage not to, but you do. When you ask the guards downstairs, they say he’s walked through the door and walked back out five times. You force yourself not to think about it, and somehow manage to do that too. And you’re going to be able to do this. You’re finally going to move on.

Moving on means moving. Not staying in the same little pit, waiting for his sun to change its path and shine on you. You have to climb out, and find a new place to be. Someone new to want.

You’ve done this part before. The whole dance of downloading the apps and going on the dates and telling yourself you want them, even though they aren’t Steve. But this time is going to be different. If you tell yourself that enough, it will feel more and more true.

There’s a guy you’ve been chatting with all week, and he seems sweet. He compliments you, and he was polite when you met for coffee, and he’s far from bad to look at. And it’s not like you’re going to marry him. You just need someone to be close to you that isn’t Steve.

And maybe this guy—you can’t really remember his name, but you’ll learn it—is blond haired and blue eyes and broadly built. Maybe you swiped through photo after photo, looking for a phantom of him, but that’s nobody business expect yours, and your pillow’s. It knows better than anyone that there’s only one way you can fake it.

Which is exactly what this game is. Faking it until you make it. Until you’re over Steve, and there’s never any temptation to look back.

You dress up, telling your brain you’re going on a date with Steve himself so you put in all the effort. Another thing that’s nobody’s business. You’re doing what you need to, and it’s going to get you over him. You’ve got lashes and glossy lips and heels that are going to hurt in the morning, and this guy doesn’t seem strong enough to carry you like Steve would, but that’s where you need to shut your brain up. There’s not going to be anyone who’s like Steve. This guy looks like him enough to get you out the door, but it’s not him, and that’s okay. That’s good. It’s going to help you move on. You’ve got your jacket, and your purse, and you’re going to do this and move on-

You yank the door open, and freeze.

Steve stares at you, hands his pockets, mouth hanging open.

This is usually the part where one of you says hi, but you can’t remember how to speak. He’s here. Why is he here. He’s been giving you space, because he’s amazing and polite, and it had been so much easier to pretend it was just because he didn’t care when he wasn’t right in front of you. Looking like you’d just punched him in the face, all pale with sagging shoulders and sad, dull eyes. As if he’s lost sleep.

He scans over you. Over your revealing outfit and makeover. His throat bobs, and you could swear he slouches further. When he meets your gaze, he doesn’t smile. It makes you want to cry.

“Steve-“

“You’ve been avoiding me.” He mutters, the words thick and low. “And- I’m not here to fight about it. I didn’t think you were going to open the door, I didn’t- I wasn’t going to bother you. Just- Never mind.”

 You blink. “I- What are you-“

“You got a date?” He nods to your outfit, and something in his pockets shift. He’s fisting his hands.

“Um-“ You glance to his pockets again, then back to his weighted gaze. “Yeah. I do.”

“With whom.”

Shit. You still can’t remember. “Someone I met on an app. Steve, what are you-“

“On an app.” He echoes, the words sounding hollow. He chuckles under his breath. “You know, Stark made me try those once.”

You swallow. You don’t want to hear about his dating life. “How did that go.”

“Bad. And I tried, I just…” He trails off, shaking his head, and you think you can feel his stare burrowing into your heart, shaping it even further in his name. 

This is exactly what you were trying to avoid. Seeing him makes you love him more, think about him more, need him more. He’s got a gravity over you, and he doesn’t know it, and why is he here.

“Is he nice.”

Steve’s voice is low. Pained. You don’t understand the question.

“Who?”

“Your date.” He grunts. “Is he nice to you.”

“Oh.” You forgot about that part. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

Neither of you speak for a second. Steve stares at you so hard our head spins, and you can’t look him in the eyes.

“What did I do?”

His voice breaks suddenly, and you feel the crack in your ribs. It yanks your gaze up, and you’ve never seen him so sad. Frustrated and annoyed, sure. Tense, all the time. But never just… Sad. Defeated. Like even he isn’t sure what to do. It feels wrong. Like the world is bleeding together and caving over itself.

“You didn’t do anything-“

“I must have.” He scans over your features, his own so openly aching. “You’ve never been mad at me before, and- Now you’re-“

He waves to your outfit, and you frown.

“It’s just a date-“

“Just a date.” He mutters under his breath, and your mouth falls open.

“I’m allowed to date, Steven-“

“I know you are!” His voice raises for a second, but he quickly pushes it back down. “I- I know, but that’s not- Why are you avoiding me?”

He’s pleading. It’s almost bleeding out of his voice, staining all over you, and you wrap an arm around your stomach like you can stop yourself from bleeding back. This isn’t fair. Steve’s not stupid. He can’t have just forgotten your mistake of expressing your feelings, he’s not nearly oblivious to be unable to put two and two together, and he certainly can’t be dense enough to not tie together that you’re avoiding him, and going on a date. You don’t go on dates. You’re usually too busy trying to steal some love from his shadow.

Yet here he is. Looking at you like he really doesn’t understand. Being so nice about it, when it’s clearly been bothering him. No demanding to understand. No shouting about how hurt he was. Just pleading.

Because he’s golden and perfect. All respectful, like you’re just another lady to him.

Like you’re not worth enough for him to fight a little dirtier for.

A lump is pressing up your throat. It’s a battle to hold his gaze.

“Why do you think I’ve been avoiding you.” You mutter, and he shakes his head.

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” Steve rubs his face, working his jaw. “I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what I did-“

“Steve-“

“And I’ll fix it, whatever I did, I’ll fix it-“

“You can’t fix it!” You shout.

He stumbles back like you slapped him, and tears burn at your eyes.

“You- You can’t fix it, Steve.” You whisper, staring down at his shoes. “Just- Stop.”

“Stop what?” He rasps. “I- I know I messed something up, but-“

“Stop being so nice to me.”

He’s silent for a moment. You don’t even know how to justify that one. It sounds pathetic to your ears.

“I... I’d rather not.” He mutters, and you sigh.

“Then please leave me alone.” The words hurt, but you push them out like an apple lodged in your throat. “I- I tried, okay? I really tried, but I can’t.”

“Can’t-“

“Can’t be your friend.” You whisper. The tears burn on your cheeks. “I can’t be your friend, Steve, it’s too hard. I- I-“

You sniff, and Steve rasps your name. You have to shake your head. He can’t talk right now. It’s already too hard.

“I love you.” You say, barely a breath. It doesn’t matter. He’ll hear anyway. “I love you too much, and- It’s not your fault that you don’t- That it’s not the same. But please.” You shift on your feet, hugging yourself tight. “I- I need space.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. There isn’t anything he could say to make it better, not anymore. But something in you still fractures, when he just steps to the side. Giving you a path out.

Letting you go.

You think it’s hope. The hope that one day he might feel the same, the dream that you’d tried so hard not to feed, but tended to bloom on its own. That one day he’d look at you and realize he made a mistake.

But he steps to the side. And that’s all it’s ever going to be.

A dream.

You bow your head and shuffle past him, face burning and skin crawling with shame. You’re going to go on this date and pretend like everything is fine, if you can even make it out of the hallway without breaking down. Your knees are wobbly and tears are coming faster than you can wipe away, but you just need to get out. Out of this hallway with its suffocating air.

Away from Steve, and your heart, broken at his feet.

You’ll get over it. You’ll get over it. It’s hard to breathe right now but you’ll get over it-

“God- Screw it.”

A strong hand wraps around your wrist. It takes you by such surprise you don’t even think to fight.

Steve spins your around, grabbing your jaw and picking you up in a single movement. You gasp as his lips slam over yours, sudden and demanding. He kisses you like he doesn’t know he’s already got a claim on you. Like he’s trying to brand your lips with a bruising, hungry desire. All you can do is breathlessly kiss him back, scraping at his shoulders and trying to keep up with what’s happening. Steve tastes a little like honey and salt, and you’re sure he ate something earlier but you don’t really care what. His hair is just as soft as you thought, and you’re being crushed under the force of him but it’s intoxicating and exhilarating and you feel like you’re being remade-

It’s over. Just as fast as it started. Steve stumbles back, fumbling with his hands like they’re still trying to reach you against his will. He braces them on his hips, staring at you with wide eyes.

You gape at him, trying to catch your breath. You reach up to brush your own lips, trying to make sure the tingly feeling there is real. Maybe press it deeper in, until you can feel it forever.

Steve clears his throat. You blink at him through the slowly drying tears, not really sure what’s happening.

Neither of you dare to speak. Or move. You’re breathing shallowly, like anything too big is going to tip the whole world over, and it will all slip through your fingers.

He takes an uncertain step forward, and you should take one back.

But you’ve never been all that good at moving away from him before. You have no interest in learning that skill now.

This time, you grab him at the same time he grabs you. You stumble into each other, uncoordinated and desperate, unbothered by bumping noses and smushed limbs. You just need to be close to him. To feel him as much as possible, as fast as possible.

He’s never been a drug. You’d been getting a secondary high, but this-

This is a hit.

And you need to have more.

You grab at his collar, pressing up to meet his every kiss, and you’re quickly making out with teeth and tongue in the middle of the hallway. Steve’s arm wraps around your ass, lifting you effortlessly off your feet, and you moan into his mouth.

He trips as he walks back into the apartment, and you end up pressed against the wall at least three more times before you make it through the door. Every time Steve slams you back, devoting all his attention to kissing you until you’re drooling and sloppy and just trying to push further into his open mouth. At one point he slots his knee between your thighs, and you start to shamelessly grind down as he sucks your lower lip between his teeth.

You giggle, dazed and sore with overflowing need for him. He kicks the door closed behind you, and you think you’re going to end up riding his thigh against the wall, but he starts down the hall. To your bedroom.

He makes it about five steps before you rake your nail through his hair and start kissing over his jaw. Steve moans into your ear, lagging a little sideways, and you shriek as you both topple down onto the couch.

It takes you a second to catch your breath, and that’s all Steve needs to get the upper hand. He grabs your jaw, tipping your head back as he starts to suck and nip at your neck. You squeak, grabbing his head, and he moans against your skin. His knee pushes back between your thighs, and this angle is even better than before. You can’t help the roll of your hips, down onto the muscle of his thick leg.

“St- Steve-“ You voice is high, and he hums, licking up your throat before making out with a soft spot under your jaw. “Jesus fucking- God-“

“I know.” He mutters, dragging his hand down your thigh and grabbing under your knee. He squeezes gently, hiking it up to your chest, pushing his knee down even harder than before.

“Fuck- You-“ You gasp, your pussy clenching around nothing as your clit gets rubbed through his jeans, through your panties.

At this angle, you’re almost exposed to him. Your dress pooling around your tummy, the wet spot on your underwear growing bigger and bigger. You grasp at the skirt, trying to tug it down a little. It’s one thing to be riding his knee, another for him to see you.

Steve grabs your wrist, pushing the fabric further down than it had been before. Your eyes almost cross when he starts to rub his knee back and forth, the pressure overwhelming and perfect. You didn’t think you could cum like this, but there’s a familiar pressure building up in your stomach, and you have to bite your tongue to stop a wanton moan from escaping your lips.

He sits up to look at you, and you’re sure it’s a shameful, lewd sight. Your makeup smudged, your hair ruined, a picture of depravity and sin as you chase pleasure on his leg. This isn’t the kind of thing you thought he’d be into. He’s too perfect, too good, and maybe you’ve wanted to be put in a headlock and manhandled and used, but Steve’s all about honor. You’d been so sure that, even if you got to have him, it would be lovely, vanilla sex that was filled with such emotion it would make up for the simpleness.

But that’s not what you see in Steve’s eyes. They’re hooded and black with lust. His jaw is clenched as he watches you, and he pushes your leg further up with a gentle squeeze.

“Oh-“ You gasp, trying to reach up to grab him.

Steve grabs your second wrist without letting go of the first. Holds him in one hand, and leans over you as he pins them both over your head. Your mouth falls open, breathing fast and needy. 

His own chest is heaving. He looks down to his knee against your core, and a deep sound rumbles from his chest. You’re wound so tight you’re certain you could snap, sudden and fast like a rubber band. You strain against Steve’s hold, and his attention snaps back up.

“You’re good, doll.” He coos. “Relax for me.”

You blink at him, shaking your head. You can’t stop grinding against him, but you need him close. Need to be under the pressure of his body, to feel like there’s nothing else in the world.

Steve picks up the speed of his knee, almost drilling it down into your cunt without touching you at all. You gape, head lolling to the side, and he grunts.

“Look at me.”

His voice is deep. Not a suggestion. An order.

You blink up at him, almost drooling, and he leans down until his lips are ghosting over yours.  

“I don’t want space.” He mutters. “I want you.”

You swallow, still rubbing your pussy up into his knee. “You- You can’t just-“

“Shh.” He pushes further down, until it feels like he’s almost inside of you. You snap your mouth shut. “Is that all I did?”

“Wha- Oh-“

He drags his knee in slow circles, and you make an incoherent, starved sound. Steve doesn’t even break a sweat.

“You and me.” He mutters, studying your every expression. “That’s it. That’s what was gonna make me lose you.”

“You- You didn’t lose me-“

“Almost did.” He squeezes your knee. “You walked.”

You glare up at him. “You let me-“

“No, I didn’t.” 

Steve’s lips slam back over yours, and you can’t really argue with that. Your eyes flutter as you give into the kiss, your body sparking with a million, delighted nerves. Steve groans against your lips, fucking his knee against your core, and he’s hitting your clit just right, the fabric soaked and filled with rough friction.

Your back arches off the couch as you cum, and Steve lets go of your wrists. You grab his face, trying to pull his lips closer, and he wraps around your back, holding you up. Your toes curl, body shaking as the pressure becomes sensitive, your pussy gushing and clenching around nothing.

Steve rubs your spine, kissing along your shoulder, up your neck, over your cheeks. You hum softly, floating down and tucked into his arms. He leans back against the couch, taking you with him. You slump over his chest, burying your face in his neck as his hand slips under your dress. Thick, calloused finger pads gently graze your hips and waist, and you squirm. 

“I- I didn’t want to ruin something.” He murmurs in your ear, and you pause.

“Ruin…”

“Us.” Steve’s face presses into the curve of your neck, warm breath tickling your skin. “You were my friend, we work in a lotta the same places, and I just- I didn’t want to risk that.”

You swallow, leaning back and waiting until he meets your glossy, sad gaze. You take his face between your hands, and he covers them with his own.

“I was willing to risk it.” You whisper, and he sighs.

“I know. But-“ He looks away, words choked and low. “I thought it was a crush. That you’d get over.”

You laugh weakly. “Well, it wasn’t.”

“I know.” He sighs. “Mine wasn’t either.”

You lips part with a sharp breath, and Steve looks back to you with nervous, hopeful eyes.

“I love you.” He squeezes both your hands, guiding them to his lips. “It is the same. So- Tell me that fixes it. Please.”

It does.

Just as fast as they’d shattered, your dreams weave themselves back together. They’re clearer than before. More colorful. It’s no longer like looking through a mist, or watching a reflection in the water. When you touch Steve, he doesn’t ripple away. And that’s more than enough.

You lean down and kiss him. It’s slower than the other kisses. Steve grabs your hips, but lets you press his head down. You wrap your arms around his neck, tracing his lips with your tongue, and he hums in content. Drags you further forward in his lap.

Something thick and hard presses right against you, and you almost go limp. Like your body is already trying to get ready to take it. To take Steve’s cock that can’t be as large as it feels, straining against his jeans and twitching when you drag yourself slowly back and forth.

“Hey.” Steve grunts, grabbing your hips firmly. You hope he’s holding tight enough to leave a bruise. “Easy.”

You snort, leaning back to give him a pointed look. “Easy?”

“Yeah, that’s what I-“

“I just came on your knee.”

His ears turn a little pink, and he coughs. “I, uh- Fair.”

“Mhm.” You hum, smiling smugly, and you take all the strength in your jelly legs and grind right now onto his clothed cock.

Steve hisses, his fingers digging into your soft skin. “Jesus- Baby-“

You brace your arms on either side of his head, dragging back and forth as slow as you can. Steve’s eyes flutter, his tongue darting over his lips as he watches you move on him. His muscles flex with the effort not to grab you.

You’d very much like to see him give up.

“Does that feel good?” You whisper, making your voice sweet and innocent.

Steve grunts. You’re going to have handprints on your body in the morning. The thought just makes you move faster.

“I don’t want to go slow, Stevie.” You purr, and his chest heaves under you. “I want you to fuck me. Pleeease.”

You whine dramatically, thrusting forward, and Steve’s face drops against your chest.

“Jesus, woman.” He lips graze over your breast, and you moan. “Come on, ‘s not playing fair-“

“Don’t wanna play fair.” You hum, slowly reaching between your bodies. “Wasn’t fair how you turned me down.”

“’M sorry about that-“

“You should be.” You kiss under his ear. “Hurt my feelings.”

“Thought-“ He grunts as you palm his balls through his jeans. “Thought I was helping-“

“You weren’t.”

“I got that now-“

“But you know what would make it better?” You lean back up, holding Steve’s gaze with a lazy smile.

He nods quickly, and you giggle, wiggling down onto his bulge.

“Fucking me.”

Steve looks down, and a rumble echoes through his chest when he sees it.

You’d peeled off your ruined underwear without him noticing. Leaving your bare, sweet and soaked pussy pressed against him. You moan, watching him as you grind down, and he’s so close to snapping. You can see it in the tension of his jaw, feel how his fingers keep twitching on your hips. You smile at him, licking your lips, and that dark look flashes over his features. The same one from earlier, that had him overtaking you like a storm.

Steve’s a good boy. A sweet boy.

He also doesn’t like things that he can’t account for. Used to pick fights in alleys as a kid, always wanted to be the person everyone looked to for help.

You’re sure that, between the two of you, you can let him have a little fun without compromising his moral compass.

He has to, if you’re begging him for it. Not very chivalrous, to ignore a lady in need.

“Pleaseee.” You whine again, ghosting your lips over his. “Fuck me, Stevie, fuck me until I can’t walk-“

He mutters your name under his breath, and you just pout at him.

“Make me yours, make me cry, fuck-“ You throw your head back, the teasing him going straight to your own core. “God, fucking- Please, Steve-“

That does it. The explicit, wet cry of his name seems to snap something in Steve’s resolve, and he’s on you in a blur of hands and lips. Grabbing a fistful of your ass before hauling you up his chest, kissing you breathless as he stands. He keeps carrying like you weigh nothing, and you want to be trapped in his arms forever.

“Steve- Shit-“ Your jaw drops he tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Fuck, slow down-“

“You said you didn’t want to slow down.” He reminds you in a deceptively soothing voice, big hands rubbing on the back of your thighs. “Said you didn’t wanna play fair.”

“I- Um- Ooooh-“

You drop your head against Steve’s shoulder, biting at his shirt as thick, strong fingers tease the lips of your pussy.

“Wet fuckin’ pussy.” He muses, spreading you open so the cold air hits your cunt. “Knew you got soaked for me, princess. Didn’t know it was this bad.”

“You- You-“ He needs to stop humiliating you and touching you at the same time. It makes you feel like you’re burning alive in the best way possible. “You knew?” You squeak, and Steve chuckles.

“Always knew. Told you, thought it was a crush.”

You try to twist and glare at him. “And you didn’t tell me-“

“Like you would’ve wanted me to tell you I could smell how badly you wanted my cock.” Steve smacks your ass with a scoff, and you flop right back over his shoulder.

“Fuck-“ You whimper. He’s right. You can barely even stand that right now. “Steve, please- Please-“

You’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore. Mercy, maybe. More mocking attention. Anything he can fucking give you, because you feel like you’re about to explode.

Steve spanks you again, this time on the other cheek, and you moan.

“’Course you like that.” He mutters. “Dirty girl, testing me every fucking day.”

He drags his thumb through the mess between your legs, and your pussy clenches, trying to drag him in. He laughs, pushing down for half a second before dragging down to your clit and rubbing in quick, tight circle. You gasp, pushing uselessly at his back, already overstimulated and still needing more.

“Felt that.” Steve flicks your clit, and your whole body shakes. “Greedy, princess. You’ve been waitin’ this long, you can hold it a little longer.”

“Ca- Can’t-“ You gasp, pressing your cheek against the broad muscle of his back. “Can’t, Steve- Can’t wait-“

“Yeah, you can.” He grunts. “Christ, you’re dripping all over my hand. Going to take me no problem, aren’t you, baby.”

He’s playing with your clit like it’s just a little button for his whims, and you have to bite your inner cheek to stop yourself from falling apart all over his hand.

“Steve- I- I’m going to- Oh my god-“

Steve slaps right over your pussy, the wet sound echoing in your ears as he shoves those two fingers right into your pussy. He finds your G-spot in a second, crooking his fingers and dragging them over your sensitive walls. You cum with a cry of his name, sudden and harsh. White dancing at your vision, your body seizing up as Steve dumps you down onto the soft mattress.

He presses his wrist further, folding your body up. You grab his neck for an anchor, and he kisses your wrist as he slides a third finger into your dripping mess of a pussy.

“Getting you ready.” He mutters, wiping some hair from your face. “It’s okay, babydoll, you’re doin’ real good.”

You whimper, the orgasm still shaking through you. You’re struggling to breathe when Steve finally pulls his hand away, and the loss makes you whimper.

Steve laughs softly, leaning down to kiss you all sweet and loving, like you haven’t been turned to a puddle under his hands.

“Breathe.” He murmurs, squeezing your breast gently, and you take a loud, stuttering gasp. Steve kisses your nose, smiling like he’s being offered ice cream, and you watch him in a starry-eyed daze.

You hear the click of his belt, and as much as you’d like to reach down and feel him, you can barely manage to hold onto his shoulders right now. Steve pulls slowly up with one last chaste kiss on your lips, and your breath hitches in your throat.

He’s massive. That’s the kind of dick you’ve only seen in cartoons, because even the porn industry can’t replicate it. You’re not sure how he gets around so easily in his tight suit, with that fucking horse cock acting like a third leg. Thick and veined, already beading with pre-cum as he strokes it slowly in his hand, a sheepish expression on his face.

“I was… Endowed.” He mumbles, ears red. “Before the serum. Then…”

He nods to his cock, and you laugh breathlessly.

“Jesus, Steve-“

“It won’t hurt you.” He says quickly. “I know there are those rumors ‘bout be being a virgin, but-“ He sighs, pouting slightly. “God forbid a man tell Tony Stark he doesn’t want to talk about his sex life, suddenly he’s never even touched a boob-“

“Dude.” You smile up at him, and he cuts himself off. “Look me in the eyes and tell me if I still think you’re a virgin after that.”

You tilt your head to the hallway, but Steve just frowns.

“Dude?”

“Um-“

“Don’t call me dude when I’m about to fuck you.” He grumbles, and you’d laugh at him if that didn’t make your heart skip. e

“Sorry, sir.”

You say it half to mock him, half to test something.

Steve’s jaw ticks, and his already rock-hard cock twitches in his hands. You giggle as his eyes narrow, and you’re still laughing as he prowls over you, that dark, hungry look back on his face.

“You think something’s funny?” He grunts, and you shake your head.

“No, sir.”

Steve groans, dropping his face between your breasts.

“Gonna be the death of me.” He mutters under his breath, and you’re still laughing softly.

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

You laugh again, because you’re really not. It’s hilarious, and he’s adorable, and this is going to yield some fantastic results.

Steve assesses you like you’re a mission to be accomplished. And you know him.

He never does anything halfway.

“Alright, princess.” He mutters, tapping the head of his cock on your clit. “Open.”

You squeak, still giggling, and spread your legs slowly.

The last laugh is pushed from your chest as Steve slowly starts to sink himself into your heat. Your mouth falls uselessly open as you bow off the bed, your body almost unable to rationalize how full you are. 

Steve splits you open, his cock slowly driving through you and hitting spots you didn’t even know you had. He grinds slowly down into your pussy, bullying you further open, and you think he’s found a button inside you that just makes you a limp, sensitive fuck-doll, because you whine out his name but it takes everything you have.

“I know.” He grunts, the tip of his cock pressing into your cervix. “You’re taking it, baby, there you go.”

“Steveee-“

“Feels good, doesn’t it.” He presses at sweet kiss to your lips as he bottoms out. His fingers lace slowly through yours, and you nod.

You’ve never had so many pleasure points being hit at once. Steve’s still got a hand on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers as you try to breath around him. He’s patient. You don’t want him to be.

“More.” You push out, and he raises his brows.

“Sweetheart-“

“More.” You roll up into him, moaning loudly as he hits even deeper. “Fuck me, Steve- Mmm-“

He kisses you, passionate and messy, and you almost scream in satisfaction as he starts to move.

He’s unrushed. Completely in control of you, and aware of it. His dick pulls almost all the way out before slowly pushing back in, the torturous pace making you feel like a live wire.

“Yeah, that’s it.” He coos, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “Pretty girl, you like being stuffed up with my cock, don’t you.”

“Ye- Yes-“ You tip your head back into the pillows, your free hand grasping at the sheets. “Yes- Oh my god, yes-“

Steve’s started to grind against your g-spot whenever he hits it, letting his thickness press and drag over the sensitive, gooey spot until you’re moaning and writhing around him.

“Feel that, don’t you.” He mutters, pushing in a little harder than last time. “Feel my dick inside you, baby, feels so good, doesn’t-“

“So good.” You babble, but who can blame you. “So good, Steve, you’re so-“

Your words turn into a broken moan as Steve drives back into you, and he’s going harder and harder every time. Still pulling almost fully out slowly, letting your arousal gather and drip down your thighs and ass, but then slamming back into you so hard it makes you think the world is shaking.

A breathy sound escapes your lips, maybe a plea, and Steve moves your tangled hands between your bodies, pressing you down into the mattress as he rises up for a better angle.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet.” He growls, pounding into your cunt like he owns it. “If I’d know you wanted me this bad I woulda had you all over this city.”

You whine, squeezing around him. Steve chuckles.

“Oh, you like that. Like the idea of being my good little cockslut, letting me play with you wherever I want.” 

Big, steady hands press your knees up, letting Steve hit even deeper than before. A strange, tight feeling is building in your gut, but it feels good. All of this feels so good. You’re spent and cockdrunk, but you feel used in the best possible way. The filth Steve is drawling in your ears makes your brain go all quiet. You’re just a happy, humming bundle of pleasure, Steve’s massive body draped over yours, and you’d probably do anything he wanted, if he just fucked you like this after.

“You were made for me.” He groans, lips wandering all over your face as his cock drills into you. “I’m gonna take such good care of you, baby, swear it, just sing for me, come on-“

You moan, long and loud. Steve grins, kissing under your ear.

“Good girl.” He coos. “There you go, just like that. Come on, doll, I know you’re getting close.”

You are. You’ve been close the whole time, but this feels more and more different by the second. There are wet, sinful sounds filling the room as your skin slaps together, and Steve’s breath is hot in your ear as he starts to lose a little control of himself.

He moans when you start mindlessly humping up to meet him, forcing his cock into the tightest spot into you that makes everything all colorful and hazy. You gasp softly, chasing up from a little more, and Steve wraps and arm around your back.

“Fuck- Fuck- You feel so good,” he groans your name in your ear. “So good, it’s- Christ-“

That strange pressure in your tummy is going to burst. It feels like Steve is driving right against it, daring it come undone.

“Steve.” You breathe out. “Steve- I- I’m gonna-“

He growls, deep in his chest and rolling through you.  Steve grabs you and wrestles you down into the mattress, pushing your legs up to your chest and fucking you fast and brutal.

It’s a sight above you. Steve, panting and moaning as your pussy sucks him in, glistening arousal shining all over his cock when he pulls out and smearing on your tummy. Your tight walls are starting to contract, and he doubles over, groaning your name as his thrust become shallow and unmeasured.

Tears start to stream down your face. Steve looks at you like you’re an angel, fucking you like you’re just a toy, and you can’t even remember how to tell him how good it feels.

“Steve…” You wiggle below him, crying out as he just fucks you hard. “Steve- Ooooooh-“

Your eyes roll back, the tears burning on your cheeks from the impossible to handle pleasure. Steve leans down and kisses them off your cheeks, the softness in such contrast with how he’s turning you into a bundle of nerves and tears.

“My pretty girl.” He mutters, kissing your lips sweetly. “Close. We’re so close. You can make it. Make it for me.”

You nod, almost hypnotized into agreeing. And Steve’s abusing that spot inside of you. Sensitive and overwhelming, making your toes curl and eyes cross.

“Steve- I- I can’t-“

“Yes, you can.” Not a suggestion. Steve’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing it back and forth as he ruts into you. “Come for me, now.”

The command rolls through you, and that pressure bursts. Heat washes over you, making you bow off the bed as a funny, wet feeling gushes out between your thighs. Steve groans, slamming his mouth back over yours, groaning your name as you start to milk his cock.

“Fuck,” he groans, and you wrap your arms tight around his neck. Tight enough to strangle him, if he was a normal man. But Steve just splays his hand possessively over your back and moans against your lips, driving home into your cunt as his release rippling through him.

It’s almost as good as your own orgasm. You’re tucked into a shaking, flexing heat of muscle, his deep voice moaning your name in your ear, his cock still thrusting and twitching inside you. Over, and over, and over-

You can barely breathe in the best way. You’ve never had a man cum so much. It starts just hot and sticky, then it’s drooling out, down your ass and onto the sheets. You can feel it in your throat, almost taste it, and even after Steve pulls out it’s everywhere. Painting your pussy creamy and white, branding your abdomen, your tits, your thighs.

Steve stares down at you with a gaping mouth as you both come down from the high. You laugh, hoarse and breathy.

“Woah.”

“Shit.” Steve mutters, grabbing at the remainder of the clean sheets and wiping them over your body. “I- I didn’t- I usually pull out, you just-“

“Steve-“

“We need to get you in the shower, it’s everywhere-“

“Steve-“

“I’m so sorry-“

“Steven.” You smack his shoulder, and he stops dead.

You’re already bridal style in his arms, naked and covered in his cum, some of it dripping all over the floor. You’re going to need to hire a cleaner. Or invest in really, really big buckets that you’ll keep next to the bed.

“Does that happen every time?”

He swallows, and nods.

“Uh- Not that much.” He mumbles. “But yeah.”

Pride glows in your chest. You get the most of him. “Okay.”

Steve blinks. “Okay?”

You nod, and he shakes his head.

“I ruined your room-“

“I liked it.”

He stares. You smile.

Steve rolls his eyes, and presses a kiss to your brow.

“You’re impossible.” He mutters, and you giggle.

“Yeah, but you love me. And you can’t take it back now, you already said it-“

He grabs your chin, turning it so he can fully capture your lips.

“I do love you.” He mutters against your lips. “And no one could make me take it back if they tried.”

You smile. You have no plans to do that.

Steve is somehow more than you ever dreamed. And there’s no way you’re letting him go now.

“That you’ve been wearing the same shirt for two days.”

Tony finally looks at you then, slow, deliberate, one eyebrow ticking up. “First of all, rude. Second—this is a different shirt. Same style. Elevated brand consistency.”

“You spilled coffee on the last one.”

“That was character development.”

You snort before you can stop yourself. 

That’s how it always is with Tony—too easy, too quick, like your brain runs faster just trying to keep up with him. Steve is steady. Tony is sparks. And apparently, you’re the idiot standing in the middle of dry grass.

The first kiss is not romantic. There’s no music, no soft moment, no build-up. You’re arguing. Of course you are.

“You can’t just override the system because you’re bored—”

“I wasn’t bored, I was innovating—”

“You almost launched a drone into the East River!”

“It would’ve landed gracefully—”

“Tony—”

And then he grabs your wrist, pulls you in and kisses you. It’s quick. Sharp. Like a challenge. Like he expects you to shove him away and prove whatever point he’s trying to make. Your brain screams at you to do exactly that. Instead— you kiss him back. There’s a beat. A pause.

Tony freezes just enough for you to feel it. “…Huh,” he murmurs against your mouth. Like he didn’t expect that. Like maybe you didn’t either.

You break apart first. “That—” you start, breath uneven, “—was a mistake.”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees immediately.

Neither of you move.

That should’ve been the end of it. One bad decision. One moment you could bury, pretend didn’t happen, lock it away somewhere between guilt and denial.

Except the next time you see him, he smirks. And you, you don’t look away.

It becomes a game. That’s what you tell yourself. Nothing real. Nothing serious. Just… tension. Just stolen glances across the room while Steve talks during briefings, completely unaware. Just Tony brushing past you too close in the hallway, his fingers ghosting your wrist like an accident that absolutely isn’t one.

Just you leaning over his shoulder in the lab, your voice low in his ear— “You’re distracted.”

“I’m working.”

“Your screen’s been frozen for five minutes.”

“…I’m thinking.”

“Sure you are.”

And then he turns his head just slightly— close enough that if either of you moved—

You start choosing the lab. That’s when it gets bad. Because it stops being coincidence. Stops being accidents. Starts being intention.

Steve notices, of course. Not what is happening—but that something is. “You’ve been spending a lot of time downstairs,” he says one morning, handing you your coffee.

He remembers exactly how you like it. He always does. “Tony needed help,” you say, too quickly.

Steve watches you for a second longer than usual. “…Right,” he says. And then he smiles. God, you hate that smile right now.

The first time it goes further than a kiss, it’s because of a dare. A stupid, reckless, you should’ve known better kind of moment.

“You’re not brave enough,” Tony murmurs, leaning back against the workbench, watching you like he already knows the outcome.

“Oh, please,” you scoff. “You don’t get to challenge me.”

“Then prove me wrong.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he says, softer now, “you’re still here.”

You should leave. 

Instead, you find yourself stepping closer. It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s heat and bad decisions and the kind of adrenaline that makes your hands shake afterward. It’s laughter muffled into skin because if you don’t laugh, you might actually think about what you’re doing. It’s Tony pulling back just long enough to look at you—really look at you—and for once, he’s not joking.

“…We’re definitely going to hell for this,” he mutters.

You grin, breathless. “Probably.” And then you pull him back in anyway.

After that? There’s no pretending.

You get good at it. Too good. You know Steve’s schedule. You know when he’s out training, when he’s in meetings, when he’s off-world. You know which cameras Tony “accidentally” disabled. You know how to fix your hair in reflective surfaces and steady your breathing before stepping back into normal life.

And the worst part? Sometimes it’s fun. Sometimes it feels like you’re in on a secret the whole world would explode over. Like every glance across the room is a loaded gun. Like every casual conversation is hiding something electric underneath.

Until it isn’t.

“Does he know?” The question comes out of nowhere. Tony’s not looking at you when he says it—just fiddling with something on the table, movements sharper than usual.

You hesitate. “…No.”

Tony nods once. “Good.” But he doesn’t sound relieved.

“Do you want him to?” you ask. That makes him look at you. Really look at you. Something unreadable flickers in his expression.

“…Do you?”

You don’t answer. Because suddenly, this doesn’t feel like a game anymore. And maybe that’s why you get careless.

It’s small. So small. A miscalculation.

Steve was supposed to be gone for another hour. You checked. You always check.

Tony has you pressed against the lab table again, your laughter quieter this time, your hands less certain, like something’s shifted between you and neither of you knows how to name it.

“This is a bad idea,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he says.

But his hand tightens on your waist anyway.

The door opens.

“Hey, I—” Steve stops.

Everything freezes. You pull away too fast. Tony steps back too slow. And Steve— Steve just stands there.

He looks between you. Once. Twice. Taking it in. Putting it together. “…Right,” he says quietly. Not angry. Not yet. Which somehow makes it worse.

“No, Steve—” you start, but your voice sounds wrong. Thin. Panicked. He doesn’t look at you. Not at first.

His eyes land on Tony. “…You?” he asks.

Tony exhales through his nose, jaw tight. “Look, I can—”

“Don’t,” Steve cuts in. Still calm. Too calm.

Then he looks at you. And there it is. The hurt. Sharp. Unfiltered. Real. “…How long?”

You can’t answer. You don’t even know what answer would hurt him less.

Steve lets out a quiet breath, nodding to himself. “Guess that explains a lot.”

The silence stretches. Heavy. Suffocating. “I trusted you,” he says finally. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… honest. And that? That breaks something.

You take a step forward. “Steve, I—” 

He steps back. Like your proximity burns. “Don’t,” he says again. Same word. Different meaning.

Tony shifts beside you, like he’s about to step in, to say something, to fix it— but Steve’s gaze snaps to him. “And you—” Steve starts, voice tightening for the first time, “—I really don’t have anything to say to you right now.” That lands harder than yelling ever could.

Steve looks back at you one last time. And there’s no anger left now. Just disappointment. “…I didn’t even know,” he says quietly. Then he turns and walks out. No slammed doors. No shouting. Just the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall.

Gone. The silence afterward is unbearable.

Tony lets out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “…Well,” he mutters, voice rougher than you’ve ever heard it, “that’s one way to end it.”

And you learned, very quickly, that there were two kinds of people at Avengers Tower.

The ones who liked you because your job made theirs easier.

And the ones who didn’t like you at all, because you refused to be impressed.

Tony Stark had tried – of course he had. He’d swept in during your first week with a grin and a coffee you hadn’t asked for, introduced you as “our adorable new PR wizard,” and then paused, waiting for you to blush at the attention.

You’d glanced at the cup, then at him.

“I’m legal,” you’d corrected, pleasant. “PR sits three doors down. Also, I’m not adorable. I’m expensive.”

It had been quiet for a second. Then Tony had laughed, bright and delighted, like someone had finally spoken his native language.

Natasha had watched the exchange from the corner of the room and, later, as you gathered your files, she’d murmured, “Good. Keep that.”

You did.

You kept it through briefings and crisis calls. Through damage control and fan mail and threats. Through the first time you had to explain to an exhausted team that no, they could not post a selfie holding confiscated Chitauri tech with the caption guess what I found ;) because the internet was a weapon and idiots were everywhere.

It was in one of those meetings – late afternoon, glass walls throwing sunlight across the table – that Steve Rogers first really looked at you.

Not the way people looked at you when they heard your name attached to the Avengers. Not the way reporters did when they assumed you were either a fangirl or an obstacle. Not even the way most soldiers did when they met a civilian who moved like she belonged in the room.

Steve looked like he was trying to understand how you worked.

“–and if you say ‘no comment’,” you were saying, tapping your pen against a highlighted clause, “you’re admitting you have something to hide. We don’t do that. We give them a sentence they can’t twist.”

Across the table, Sam made a face. “You mean a sentence they’ll twist anyway.”

“A sentence,” you corrected, “that makes them look ridiculous when they try.”

There was a brief chuckle. A few nods.

Steve’s gaze flicked down to your hand.

Your nails were long – neat, intentional, glossy. Not impractical, not a gimmick. Just… sharp in the way a well-made thing was sharp, a little dangerous if someone underestimated it.

His eyes lingered there for half a beat too long before he seemed to realize what he was doing. His posture shifted, the faintest tension in his shoulders, as though he’d been caught staring.

You didn’t comment. You didn’t smile.

You simply turned the page and kept talking like you hadn’t noticed.

That was, you would later understand, the first mistake he made.

Because Steve Rogers was used to being handled like a symbol.

You handled him like a person.

You didn’t tiptoe around his title. You didn’t soften your words because he was Captain America. You didn’t offer him reassurance he hadn’t earned, or flattery he didn’t want. When he interrupted once – politely, of course, because he had “politely” stitched into his bones – you met his eyes and said, “Let me finish, Steve.”

Not Captain. Not sir. Just Steve.

The room went a little still.

Steve went quieter than he already was, and for a second you saw it: the way his attention sharpened when someone gave him a clear directive. Not in a humiliating way. Not in a performance. In the same way he listened on a battlefield, instinctively, gratefully – like clarity was relief.

You filed that away without expression.

Not because you were playing a game.

Because you were good at reading people, and Steve Rogers was, despite the legend, remarkably easy to read once you stopped looking at the mask.

He sat like he didn’t want to take up space, even though he could fill a room without trying. He apologized when he didn’t have to. He asked for permission with his eyes. He carried guilt like it was part of the uniform.

And he was… so careful.

Careful with doors. Careful with tone. Careful with women. Careful with praise. Careful with himself.

It wasn’t the heroism that caught you. It wasn’t the jawline that the internet had memed into a religion, or the fact that he’d saved the world and could probably lift your entire desk without blinking.

It was the way he looked relieved when someone else took control of a situation he didn’t know how to navigate.

The way he looked safe when someone gave him rules.

The way, when you corrected him gently – “Don’t promise that. Promise what you can actually do.” – he didn’t bristle.

He nodded.

“Okay,” he said, earnest. “Okay. You’re right.”

Like being right mattered less than doing right.

The crush, on his side, happened fast.

You noticed it in small, human ways.

In how he started arriving to meetings five minutes early if he knew you’d be there, as if punctuality could be a gift. In how he looked up when you entered a room like the world had shifted slightly into focus. In how his mouth would open to say something and then close again, as though he was editing himself out of habit.

One evening, you found him in the corridor outside your office, lingering with a file folder he didn’t actually need.

“I wanted to–” he began, then stopped.

You didn’t rescue him. You just waited.

He swallowed. “I wanted to thank you. For today.”

“The hearing?” you asked.

He nodded. “You–” His gaze drifted, again, to your hand as you adjusted the strap of your bag. Those nails. That clean line of control. His eyes snapped back to your face. “You didn’t let them… turn it into something else.”

“They tried,” you said.

He exhaled, almost a laugh without the sound. “Yeah.”

There was a pause. Steve stood there like he was holding himself back from stepping closer.

You tilted your head, studying him without mercy or softness, just truth. “You came to thank me,” you said. “Or you came to make sure I got back okay?”

His ears went faintly pink.

“Both,” he admitted, because lying to you seemed physically impossible for him.

Something in your chest warmed – quiet satisfaction, not triumph. He wasn’t flirting. He wasn’t using you for comfort. He wasn’t even trying to be brave.

He was asking, in the only way he knew how, if he was allowed to want your presence.

You could’ve made it easy. You could’ve smiled and said, That’s sweet, Steve, and let him float away on that.

Instead, you took a step closer and lowered your voice – not seductive, not teasing. Simply private.

“You don’t have to earn basic kindness,” you told him. “You know that, right?”

Steve’s throat bobbed. His eyes held yours with that impossible blue sincerity. “I’m… still learning,” he said.

There it was again – that subtle readiness. The way his shoulders seemed to loosen when you spoke like you were setting something down in the space between you.

You could feel, with startling clarity, that if you told him to breathe, he would.

If you told him to stop apologizing, he would try.

If you told him he didn’t have to carry everything alone…

He might actually believe you.

And you – who prided yourself on never being pulled off-balance by charm – felt your own control shift, not in threat but in interest.

Because Steve Rogers didn’t need someone to worship him.

He needed someone who could look him in the eye and say, I see you. I’m not afraid of you. And I’m not impressed by your statute.

He needed someone who could hold the reins without cracking the whip.

You offered him your most neutral professional smile.

“Walk me,” you said, like it was a request, like it was normal.

Steve’s eyes widened a fraction, then softened. “Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yes. Of course.”

He matched your pace without crowding you. He kept a respectful distance, hands visible, like he was afraid of startling you. Like he was afraid of wanting too much.

Halfway to the elevator, you caught him looking again – brief, helpless, at your nails.

The corner of your mouth lifted, just barely.

“Do they bother you?” you asked.

Steve’s face went instantly serious, as if he’d been accused of something.

“No,” he said. “No, I– I just…” He paused, searching for a word that wasn’t inappropriate. “They’re… nice.”

You hummed, amused, and let the elevator doors swallow the moment.

But later – hours later, when you were alone and the tower was quiet – you replayed it and felt the truth of it settle in your bones.

Steve’s fascination wasn’t about your nails.

It was about what they represented.

Deliberate. Controlled. Unapologetic. A line you drew for the world and for yourself.

And Steve Rogers – good man, ruined by duty, starving for permission – had seen that line and, instead of challenging it, had wanted to stand behind it.

He didn’t know it yet.

But you did.

And you were, for the first time in a long time, interested enough to let yourself want something too.

Not Captain America.

Not the myth.

Steve.

A man who would make a perfect sub – not because he was weak, but because he was strong enough to trust someone else to hold him, just for a while.

And you were going to give him the chance to be exactly what you wanted.

The Stark Tower didn’t do “small gatherings.”

It did spectacle – floors of glass and light, music curated by someone who’d probably patented the concept of a bassline, servers drifting through the crowd like they’d been trained to look expensive. Everything glittered: the skyline beyond the windows, the champagne in crystal flutes, the jewelry on wrists that never had to check a price tag.

You’d been to enough of Tony Stark’s parties to know the routine.

At some point, he’d announce a toast that was half heartfelt and half performance. At some point, Rhodey would look like he was counting minutes. Natasha would be a red slash in a room full of neutrals, and you’d be the person people cornered when they wanted something – access, approval, a quote.

Tonight, you’d decided to meet them halfway.

Your dress was simple, elegant, the kind that didn’t beg for attention but got it anyway. Deep burgundy, fitted where it mattered, clean lines, nothing fussy – professional enough that no one could call it inappropriate, sharp enough that no one could mistake you for staff.

And your nails …

You’d taken your time with them earlier, because sometimes the smallest rituals were the only thing that belonged entirely to you. The polish was the exact same wine-dark shade as the dress, glossy, immaculate, the kind of color that looked almost black until the light hit it and revealed the red underneath.

You caught your reflection in one of the windows as you crossed the room. For a second, you looked like a silhouette cut out of the city itself.

Then someone said your name, and the evening began.

“Counsel.” Tony’s voice, warm and loud, slid through the music like it owned the room. “Look at you– this is the part where I pretend I’m not intimidated by your competence.”

You turned your head slowly, letting him come into view with that easy arrogance that had charmed the world into forgiving him everything.

“Try,” you said pleasantly. “It’s good for you.”

He pressed a hand to his chest as if wounded, then grinned. “Ouch. Okay. Fine. But if any senator tries to flirt with you tonight, I want credit for keeping you employed.”

“Tony,” Pepper called from somewhere nearby, a warning laced with affection.

He held his hands up. “I’m done. I’m done. I’m being good.”

You inclined your head and moved on. You didn’t have the luxury of being “done” at these events. You were the invisible scaffolding holding up their public image, which meant you watched, you listened, you noted who was too close to who, who had too much to drink, who had a phone out at the wrong time.

You did your rounds.

You made small talk with donors and diplomats. You smiled at a reporter you’d politely denied three times this week. You intercepted a tipsy tech CEO trying to get a selfie with Thor’s hair. You redirected a blogger who was fishing for drama about internal tensions that didn’t exist – at least not in the way the internet wanted them to.

And then – somewhere between your third glass of sparkling water and your second carefully neutral laugh – you felt it.

That quiet change in the air, the way attention moved.

Steve Rogers had entered the room.

He didn’t make an entrance like Tony. He didn’t dominate the space like Thor, didn’t glide like Natasha. He didn’t even announce himself the way Sam sometimes did, smiling like he had a secret.

Steve just… appeared. As if the room had decided to grow a heart.

You saw him before you fully registered why. Because the crowd reacted in little ripples: heads turning, posture adjusting, people angling themselves toward him like sunflowers.

He wore a dark suit that fit him too well, a tie that looked like someone had coerced him into choosing it, and that familiar expression of polite discomfort – like he’d rather be anywhere else, doing anything else, than standing in a room where strangers felt entitled to his existence.

He scanned the room the way a soldier scanned terrain. Not paranoid. Just aware.

His gaze slid over faces, paused on Tony, on Pepper, on Rhodey. Flicked to Natasha. To Sam. Then…

He saw you.

For a fraction of a second, his expression shifted. It was subtle – so subtle that most people would miss it. A softening around the eyes. A breath that changed, like the air was easier to take in.

And his attention dropped.

Not to your face.

To your hands.

You were holding your glass by the stem, your fingers curved around it, the burgundy polish catching the light in glossy flashes. He looked at it as if he’d been pulled without meaning to, like his mind had snagged on a detail and refused to let go.

His throat moved as he swallowed.

Then, as if realizing he’d been caught staring, his gaze snapped back up – fast enough to be almost guilty.

You didn’t react. You didn’t smile. You simply lifted the glass to your lips and took a slow sip, letting him sit with the moment.

Steve approached with that careful way he had around you. Like he didn’t want to crowd you, didn’t want to assume. Like he was perpetually trying to prove he could be gentle even when he didn’t have to.

“Hey,” he said, voice pitched lower than the music. “You… you look nice.”

It was an ordinary compliment. It should have been ordinary. But on Steve, it landed like a confession, because he said it like he meant it – not like a line.

“Thank you,” you replied. “You clean up well yourself.”

His ears went faintly pink. He looked down for half a heartbeat, then back up like he was forcing himself to hold the connection.

“I don’t really–” he started, then stopped, probably realizing that saying I don’t really do parties was obvious in the way he stood slightly apart from the nearest cluster of people, shoulders squared as if bracing for impact.

You saved him from finishing.

“You don’t have to perform,” you said. Quietly, so it would feel like it belonged only to him. “Just be present.”

Steve blinked, and something in him eased. It always did when you gave him a rule. A clear instruction. Something he could follow without guessing.

He nodded once. “Okay.”

His gaze dropped again – inevitable, helpless – to your nails.

You held his attention there for a second longer than necessary. Not as a tease. As a test.

He didn’t look away.

That told you everything you needed to know.

“Matching,” he said finally, voice almost rough with restraint, and then looked like he couldn’t believe he’d said it out loud.

You arched an eyebrow, amused. “My nails and my dress?”

He exhaled through his nose, a tiny sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Yeah. It’s… it’s a nice color.”

There was honesty there. Also something else. Something more instinctive than words.

A fascination that had nothing to do with the internet’s obsession with him and everything to do with the fact that you were deliberate. Controlled. Unapologetic.

Steve’s gaze lingered on your fingers as if he was memorizing them.

You were about to say something – something easy, something that would keep him comfortable – when the atmosphere shifted again.

Someone stepped too close.

At first you thought it was just the usual party nonsense – crowds, careless elbows, the low hum of bodies in a space built for looking more than moving. But then you heard a voice at your shoulder, too loud and too familiar for someone you didn’t remember meeting.

“Well, hello.”

You turned your head.

The man was maybe mid-thirties, expensive suit loosened at the collar, cheeks flushed with alcohol and confidence. His smile was too wide. His eyes were too bright in the wrong way.

You recognized him after a beat: a donor’s guest, someone you’d nodded at earlier while extracting Tony from a conversation about “weaponized clean energy.” He’d been holding a drink then too, and now it looked like he’d refilled it twice.

“Hi,” you said politely.

He leaned in, invading the space that didn’t belong to him. “I’ve seen you around. You’re… what are you? PR? Something like that.”

“Legal,” you corrected, still pleasant.

He laughed like you’d made a joke for his benefit. “Sure, sure. The scary kind. I like that.” His gaze dropped openly to your chest and then to your hands. “Damn. Those nails are lethal.”

“They’re just nails,” you said, tone neutral.

He ignored the cue. “I’m Mark,” he offered, as if his name was a gift. “You come to these things often?”

“It’s part of my job,” you replied. You angled your body slightly, a practiced move that reduced his access without looking rude.

He followed anyway, stepping into your new angle like he was chasing your shadow. “That’s a shame. Because you seem like you could use a night off.”

You kept your face composed, your smile minimal. You had a dozen ways to handle this without causing a scene. You could mention Pepper. You could mention security. You could excuse yourself with a phone call you didn’t have to make.

You could also endure it until he got bored.

You’d done this dance before.

The problem was that he wasn’t bored. He was drunk enough to mistake your professionalism for interest.

He leaned in closer, voice dropping as if he thought he was being intimate. “I could show you a good time. Get you out of this tower, away from all the… superheroes.”

Your stomach tightened – not fear, not exactly, but that familiar irritation of being treated like an object someone could bargain for.

You met his eyes, flat and steady. “I’m not interested.”

His smile faltered for half a second, then returned – harder, more determined. “Come on. Don’t be like that.”

He reached out.

Not quite a grab. Not yet.

But his fingers brushed your wrist, and the contact was unnecessary, presumptuous, a boundary tested on purpose.

You withdrew your hand calmly.

“I said no,” you repeated. Clearer. Firmer.

He opened his mouth to argue – and a presence moved at your side, cutting the space cleanly in half.

Steve.

He didn’t touch the man. He didn’t need to. He simply stepped in close enough that the drunk stranger had to decide whether he wanted to keep pressing his luck with Captain America three feet away.

Steve’s body language was deceptively relaxed. Shoulders easy, hands loose at his sides, expression polite.

But you knew soldiers. You knew men who had learned to keep violence behind their eyes like it was leashed.

Steve looked like that now.

“Hey,” he said, bright enough to pass for casual. His voice was warm, friendly, the tone of someone greeting a friend at a party.

His hand came to rest at the small of your back – not possessive, not tight. Just a light pressure, a signal to anyone watching that you were not alone. That you were claimed in the social sense of the word, protected by a narrative people understood.

He tilted his head slightly toward you.

“There you are,” he said, like he’d been looking for you.

Then he looked at the man.

“Sorry,” Steve added, still smiling. “She’s with me.”

The stranger blinked, clearly recalibrating. His gaze darted from Steve’s face – impossibly recognizable, annoyingly respectable – to Steve’s hand at your back.

“You’re–” Mark started, then laughed too loudly. “You’re kidding.”

Steve’s smile didn’t change.

“No,” he said simply.

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a fact.

The drunk man’s eyes narrowed as if trying to decide whether he could turn this into a joke. “Right. Sure.” He lifted his glass slightly, wobbly. “Well. Good for you, man. Didn’t know you were into…” His gaze slid to you again in a way that made your skin crawl. “Lawyers.”

Steve’s hand stayed steady at your back. His posture didn’t shift, but the air around him cooled.

“I am,” Steve replied, tone still polite – only now there was a quiet edge underneath it. “They’re smart.”

Mark’s laugh came out awkward, caught on the wrong side of the room’s attention. A few people nearby had started watching. Not obviously. Just… enough.

He cleared his throat and took a step back, suddenly aware that he was outmatched socially and physically.

“Alright, alright,” he mumbled, throwing up his hands like he’d been wronged. “Didn’t mean anything by it. Just having fun.”

Steve nodded once, accepting the retreat without rewarding it. “Have a good night.”

Mark lingered for half a second, as if hoping you would save his ego with a smile.

You didn’t.

He turned and disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by music and glitter and people who would forget him as soon as the next joke landed.

The space he left behind felt… cleaner.

Steve’s hand remained at your back for one extra beat, then he stepped away gently, removing the contact like he was afraid you’d interpret it as entitlement.

“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now, attention entirely on you.

You exhaled slowly, letting your shoulders relax. “Yes,” you said. “Annoyed, but yes.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “He shouldn’t have–”

“You handled it,” you interrupted, not unkindly.

His gaze flicked to your wrist, where the man had touched you. Steve’s expression sharpened with something protective and controlled.

Then his eyes dropped again, like they always did lately, to your nails.

Burgundy. Sharp. Beautiful.

His throat moved as he swallowed.

You watched him watch you, and there was a strange, intimate satisfaction in it – knowing you were the one detail in this room that could pull Captain America’s attention away from the world’s noise.

Steve’s voice softened. “I’m sorry,” he said, and you could tell he meant it in the universal way he apologized for everything. Like he thought he should’ve been there sooner. Like it was his job to prevent discomfort from touching anyone he cared about.

“You don’t have to apologize for other people’s bad manners,” you told him.

He met your eyes, and there it was again – that instinctive relief when you gave him a rule. A boundary. A truth.

Steve nodded.

“Okay,” he murmured, like he was accepting an order.

You could have thanked him. You could have let the moment dissolve back into the party.

Instead, you let your gaze dip, deliberately, to the place where his hand had been on your back – then up to his face again.

“And you,” you said softly, “don’t have to pretend.”

Steve’s brows lifted a fraction.

You took a step closer, just enough that he could smell your perfume – something warm and dark like the polish on your nails. You held his attention with a calm that was not flirting in the usual way, but was definitely something.

“If you wanted to help,” you continued, “you could’ve just helped.”

Steve’s lips parted. For a second, he looked like he didn’t know what to do with the idea that his care was allowed to be real.

“I… I did want to,” he admitted, quietly.

The music swelled. Laughter flashed somewhere behind you. Cameras caught light in the distance.

In your small pocket of space, Steve Rogers looked at your hands again – like he couldn’t help it.

You turned your wrist slowly, letting the burgundy sheen catch, letting him see exactly what he was fascinated by.

“Steve,” you said, voice gentle, but precise.

His gaze snapped up.

You held it.

And in the space between one heartbeat and the next, you watched him realize something he hadn’t meant to realize yet.

That this wasn’t about saving you from some drunk stranger.

It was about the fact that he liked being close to you.

And he was afraid of what that meant.

You gave him a small, knowing smile – brief enough to be plausible deniability, sharp enough to be a promise.

“Walk with me,” you said, like it was nothing.

Steve’s shoulders loosened, just slightly. Like the universe had finally handed him a straightforward mission.

“Yeah,” he replied, too quick, too earnest. “Yes. Of course.”

And as you turned away from the glittering crowd, Steve fell into step beside you – careful, attentive, matching your pace like he’d been doing it his whole life.

His gaze flicked once more to your nails.

He looked like he was trying very hard not to be charmed.

He was failing beautifully.

Steve’s hallway was quieter than the rest of the tower.

The music from the party died behind you as the elevator doors slid shut, muffling laughter and clinking glasses into something distant and irrelevant. Up here, the light was softer – warmer, more private – casting pale gold across clean lines and polished floors. The air smelled faintly of cedar and whatever detergent Stark Industries insisted was “luxury.”

You walked with purpose, heels measured, posture straight, like this was just another part of your evening schedule.

Steve followed.

You didn’t need to look back to know he was there. You felt him the way you felt pressure changes before a storm: his presence too attentive, too careful, trailing half a step behind you like he didn’t want to crowd you but couldn’t make himself drift away either. The ridiculous part was that if anyone had told you Captain America could look like a man being led by the hand into trouble he absolutely wanted, you’d have laughed.

And yet.

You caught his reflection once in the brushed metal of an elevator panel – eyes locked on you, then dropping again, inevitably, to your hands when you adjusted your clutch. Burgundy nails. Burgundy dress. A matching decision.

His gaze snapped away the second you met it, like he’d been caught doing something sinful.

You said nothing. You simply kept walking.

Steve’s quarters weren’t far – Stark had designed the residential floors with the same kind of thoughtful arrogance he applied to everything else, each suite spaced just far enough apart to suggest privacy while still remaining accessible for emergencies. The corridor was empty, quiet enough that you could hear the soft rhythm of Steve’s footsteps, the faint hitch of his breath when you slowed near his door.

You stopped.

Steve stopped too, like he’d been given a silent command.

He blinked at the door panel as if he’d only just realized where you’d led him. Then his gaze flicked to you – questioning, uncertain, that familiar mix of desire and restraint.

“Are you–” he began, and his voice faltered on the edge of something he didn’t know how to ask.

You turned your head slightly, letting him see your profile, the calm set of your mouth.

“Yes,” you said simply.

That wasn’t permission, exactly.

It was certainty.

Steve swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed. His hands hovered for a second, as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

You waited.

Then, like the soldier he was, he defaulted to the thing he understood: following the next step.

He turned to the panel and entered the code with careful fingers – too careful, considering the strength in his hands. The door beeped softly and slid open.

He hesitated in the threshold, glancing at you again as if still expecting you to take it back.

You didn’t.

You stepped past him first, as if the space already belonged to you. Steve followed – quiet, obedient, almost ridiculous in the way his body language shifted the moment you took the lead. Like a big dog who’d finally been told he could come inside.

The door shut behind him with a soft, final click.

His apartment was exactly what you’d expected: minimal, clean, almost austere. A few personal touches – books stacked neatly, an old record player near the window, a photograph on a shelf that looked like it had been handled often. The place didn’t scream wealth or comfort. It screamed order, the kind that came from a man who didn’t know how to rest unless the world was in its proper place first.

Steve stood just inside, hands at his sides, shoulders tense with the question he hadn’t asked out loud: What now?

You turned slowly to face him.

The lighting caught your nails when you lifted your hand, and you saw his eyes drop there again, immediate and involuntary. He looked away quickly, as if ashamed of the instinct, but the damage was done. The focus had landed.

Good.

You took a few steps closer – not fast, not predatory. Just steady, deliberate. Close enough that he had to decide whether to step back.

He didn’t.

His breath caught, subtle. His gaze flicked to your mouth, then back to your eyes. He held himself like he was bracing for something – impact, judgment, rejection.

He didn’t know you weren’t here to hurt him.

“Steve,” you said, voice low, even.

His attention snapped fully to you, like your voice was a hand on his jaw.

“It’s been several weeks,” you continued. “Several weeks that I think I’ve been pretty clear.”

He swallowed again. “I–”

You didn’t let him fill the silence with excuses.

“I’m interested,” you said, letting each syllable land with the weight of a decision. “And I think you are too.”

Steve’s throat moved. His eyes widened slightly, then softened – caught between relief and panic, like being wanted was both what he craved and what terrified him.

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

You watched him struggle with it, watched him fight the instinct to apologize for existing.

It would’ve been almost funny if it wasn’t so heartbreakingly sincere.

You tipped your head, studying him with the same calm intensity you used in hearings, in negotiations – except this wasn’t about winning. It was about truth.

“Why do you keep pushing me away?” you asked, your voice quiet enough to feel like it belonged only to the two of you.

Steve blinked.

For a second he looked like he might deny it – like he might try to fold himself back into politeness, into duty, into I’m fine. But his gaze dropped to the floor, then lifted back to you, raw and honest.

His hands flexed once at his sides. Not a threat. A struggle.

Because he wanted to reach for you.

Because he didn’t think he was allowed.

“Because…” His voice cracked slightly on the first word, and he cleared his throat, embarrassed. “Because I don’t–”

He exhaled, slow and controlled, like he was trying to hold himself together with breath alone.

“I don’t want to be another thing in your life that disappoints you,” he said finally. The words came out blunt, unpolished, too real to be rehearsed. “I’m not good at… being there. Not the way you deserve.”

You didn’t interrupt. You didn’t soften. You simply held his gaze, letting him speak.

He looked like it physically pained him to keep going.

“I’m gone,” he said, quieter now. “A lot. I can’t promise weekends. I can’t promise holidays. I can’t even–” He swallowed hard, eyes flicking away for the briefest moment. “I can’t even promise I’ll come back every time.”

The air between you tightened, heavy with what he wasn’t saying: the list of names he carried, the bodies, the losses, the guilt.

Steve’s shoulders rose with a breath, then fell.

“You deserve so much better,” he said, the sentence like a surrender. Like he’d been clinging to it as a shield because if he could convince you of it, he wouldn’t have to risk wanting you.

You stepped closer again, slow.

Steve didn’t move.

His eyes tracked you, wide and helpless, like he didn’t know whether to retreat or sink into it. Like his body was waiting for instruction.

Your hand lifted.

Not to touch him yet.

Just to hover near his chest, close enough that he could feel the heat of you, close enough that his breath hitched. Your nails caught the light – burgundy, precise, a line you drew for the world.

His gaze dropped there again, and this time he didn’t even try to hide it.

You let him look.

Then you lowered your hand, gentle, until the tip of one nail traced the seam of his shirt – barely there, more suggestion than contact.

Steve’s eyes fluttered shut for half a second.

He inhaled like he hadn’t meant to.

You leaned in just slightly, close enough that your voice brushed his skin.

“Maybe,” you murmured, “You need to let me be the one deciding that.”

Steve opened his eyes, blue and shaken, fixed on you like you were the only thing keeping him upright.

He swallowed.

And for the first time since you’d met him, he didn’t offer an apology.

He just stood there – waiting, willing, terrified – like he’d finally reached the edge of his own restraint and didn’t know how to step off it unless you told him he could.

His usual air of unyielding confidence had cracked, leaving him almost paralyzed, his blue eyes wide with a mix of anticipation and uncertainty as you held his gaze, your presence filling the room with quiet authority.

“Steve,” you said softly but firmly, your voice cutting through the tension like a gentle command. “I need you to be honest. Do you want to let me take control?”

He paused, his chest rising and falling with a deep breath, the weight of the decision pressing on him. After a moment, he nodded, his voice steady yet subdued.

“Yes.”

“Alright,” you replied, a small smile curving your lips.

“I want you to use a color system to tell me how you're feeling. Green means everything's fine. Orange means I need to slow down. Red means we stop everything. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he answered, his tone laced with submission, his eyes locking onto yours to show his compliance.

“Good. Now, undress, then lie down on the bed, on your stomach.”

You watched him intently as he began to remove his formal evening attire, the fabric of his crisp shirt sliding off his shoulders to reveal the sculpted muscles beneath, honed from years of battles and missions. His hands moved deliberately, unbuttoning his pants and letting them drop to the floor, exposing the powerful lines of his thighs and the subtle bulge of his arousal straining against his boxers before he shed those too, his thick cock hanging heavy between his legs, already half-hard from the charged atmosphere.

Throughout it all, his gaze kept drifting downward, drawn irresistibly to your long, burgundy nails – sharp, elegant talons that gleamed under the low light, each one filed to a wicked point that promised both precision and intensity. They fascinated him, those nails, a stark contrast to his own calloused hands, and you could see the way his pupils dilated every time they caught his eye, pulling him deeper into this uncharted surrender.

Almost naked now, save for the black boxer he was still wearing, his body a masterpiece of strength and vulnerability, Steve moved to the bed, the sheets cool against his skin as he lowered himself face-down, his back a vast expanse of muscle rippling slightly with nervous energy, waiting for your next move.

Steve lay there on the bed, his powerful body stretched out and exposed, every muscle taut with anticipation as the soft rustle of fabric filled the quiet room.

He heard the zipper of your burgundy dress whisper down, the material pooling at your feet in a silken heap, leaving you in nothing but your matching lace bra and panties that hugged your curves like a second skin.

The sharp click of your high heels echoed against the floor as you stepped closer, each stride deliberate, sending a shiver racing down his spine.

In his mind, the image burned vivid and unrelenting: you, stripped down to that intimate lingerie, imagining it to be a deep red hue echoing the polish on your long nails, towering over him in those heels that accentuated the sway of your hips.

His breath hitched, his face pressed into the pillow, arousal stirring deeper as he pictured your bare skin, the lace barely containing your breasts, the thin fabric of your panties riding high on your thighs.

You climbed onto the bed with graceful authority, settling your weight onto his firm buttocks, the warmth of your body pressing down through the thin barrier of your panties against his clothed skin. He felt the heat radiating from you, your thighs straddling him snugly, and as you leaned forward, your breath ghosted hot against his ear, your hair cascading like a curtain around his face.

“My nails really turn you on, don't they?” you murmured, your voice a sultry thread weaving through the charged air, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his chest, raw and unguarded.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to feel them on your skin?” you asked, drawing out the words, letting them linger as you shifted slightly, the lace edge of your bra grazing the sensitive plane of his back, a teasing whisper of texture that made his skin prickle.

“Yes, please,” he breathed, his voice husky with need, his hips twitching involuntarily beneath you, his cock hardening fully now against the sheets.

“So polite…”

You smiled against his ear, savoring his plea, then trailed your hands along his shoulders, your long burgundy nails hovering just above his flesh.

At first, your touch mimicked a gentle caress, the tips gliding feather-light over the ridges of his muscles, tracing the contours of his broad back from shoulder blades to the dip of his spine. The sensation was electric, a promise of more, his body responding with a subtle arch, pressing back into your weight.

On the second pass, you increased the pressure, your nails digging in just enough to leave faint pink trails, scratching lightly across his skin in slow, deliberate lines that followed the natural lines of his muscles. The sting was exquisite, a blend of pleasure and bite that drew a deep moan from him, his fingers clenching the sheets as his body trembled under your command, every nerve alight with the thrill of your dominance.

Seeing how eagerly Steve responded to your touch, his body quivering beneath you like a live wire, you leaned forward once more, your breasts pressing firmly against his back through the delicate lace of your bra.

Your lips parted, and you captured the soft lobe of his ear between your teeth, biting down with just enough pressure to send a jolt through him, a sharp nip that blended pain and pleasure in equal measure. At the same time, your long burgundy nails sank into the firm flesh of his shoulder blades, digging deep into the muscle, holding him in place as if to claim every inch of his submission.

He moaned deeply, the sound rumbling from his chest like thunder trapped in his throat, his hips bucking involuntarily against the mattress. He twisted slightly under your weight, not from any real discomfort but to ease the insistent throb of his swelling erection, trapped in his boxers and aching against the cool sheets, growing harder with each passing second under your unyielding control.

You released his ear with a soft, satisfied hum, straightening up slowly, your thighs tightening around his hips to keep him pinned.

This time, you didn't hold back; your nails raked down his back in bold, unapologetic strokes, carving long, fiery red welts across his skin from the tops of his shoulders to the small of his back. The scratches burned bright against his tanned, battle-hardened flesh, marking him as yours in vivid lines that would linger as reminders of this surrender.

Steve gasped sharply, his breath coming in ragged bursts, his broad shoulders heaving as the sensation overwhelmed him, a rush of heat flooding his veins that made his cock pulse with desperate need.

You continued your descent, your sharp burgundy nails trailing fiery paths down Steve's back, etching deeper red lines that bloomed across his skin like fresh battle scars.

The scratches grew bolder as you reached the waistband of his boxer briefs, the fabric straining against the rigid outline of his arousal.

With deliberate slowness, you hooked your fingers into the elastic, tugging the material downward inch by torturous inch, exposing the firm curves of his ass and the heavy weight of his cock springing free, thick and veined, already leaking a bead of precum onto the sheets below.

Steve lifted his hips instinctively, arching his back to assist you, his breath hitching as the cool air kissed his heated skin. You slid the boxer briefs further, past the powerful muscles of his thighs and calves, until they pooled at his ankles.

With a final flick of your wrist, you let them drop to the floor at the foot of the bed, leaving him utterly bare and exposed beneath you, his body a canvas of taut sinew and vulnerability.

Your nails resumed their gentle exploration, gliding feather-light over the sensitive backs of his thighs, tracing the defined ridges where muscle met skin, sending shivers racing up his spine. He tensed under your touch, his cock twitching visibly against the mattress, desperate for friction.

“Turn over onto your back, Steve,” you commanded softly, your voice laced with authority that brooked no argument.

He obeyed without hesitation, rolling beneath you until he lay supine, his chest rising and falling in heavy pants. His blue eyes locked onto you immediately, darkening with hunger as they roamed over the lingerie that clung to your curves like a second skin – the sheer lace bra cupping your breasts, the matching panties accentuating the swell of your hips, and the strappy high heels that elongated your legs.

His gaze devoured every detail, greedy and unashamed, his pupils dilating with raw desire.

You shifted to straddle his waist, your thighs bracketing his hips, the heat of your core hovering just above his throbbing erection.

Leaning forward, you dragged a single long nail across his broad chest, starting from the hollow of his throat and scratching lightly downward, over the ridges of his pectorals and the valleys between his abs, until you reached the dip of his navel. The faint red line you left behind made his muscles contract, his skin prickling with goosebumps.

“Do you like what you see?” you murmured, your tone teasing yet commanding, your eyes holding his captive.

“Yes,” he groaned, the word escaping on a ragged exhale, his voice thick with need as his cock jerked against your inner thigh, begging for attention.

You paused for a moment, your eyes locking onto Steve's with a mix of concern and command, ensuring his comfort amid the building heat.

“Still good, Steve?” you asked, your voice a soft anchor in the charged air.

He nodded eagerly, his throat working as he swallowed hard, but you needed the words.

When your fingers reached behind your back to unhook the lace bra, the sheer fabric whispering against your skin as it fell away, exposing the full swell of your breasts with their hardened nipples peaking in the cool room, he let out a low, needy sound.

“Green,” he confirmed, the word coming out plaintive and breathless, laced with desperation.

His large hands twitched at his sides, rising instinctively as if drawn to cup your bare chest, to knead the soft flesh that now hovered just out of reach.

But you fixed him with a stern gaze, your burgundy nails tapping lightly against his chest in warning, and he froze, palms hovering mid-air before dropping back to the sheets. He swallowed again, the bob of his Adam's apple stark against his corded neck, and you felt the thick length of his cock pulse beneath you, jerking against the heat of your thigh, slick with his arousal.

“Shh,” you murmured, the sound soothing yet firm, like a leash tightening just enough to remind him of your control.

You lifted yourself off him briefly, the loss of contact making him whine softly, his hips bucking upward in search of friction. Standing at the edge of the bed, you hooked your thumbs into the thin straps of your panties, sliding it down your legs with deliberate grace, the lace dragging over the curve of your ass and the smooth expanse of your thighs until it pooled at your feet.

Now fully nude except for the strappy heels that clicked against the floor, you stepped out of the garment and returned, climbing back onto the mattress to straddle his hips once more.

Your bare pussy settled against the rigid heat of his erection, the wet folds of your core gliding along his shaft, coating him in your slickness as you rocked forward experimentally.

The sensation drew a gasp from your lips, but you focused on him, leaning down to brush your nails along his jaw.

“I'm on the pill, and I'm clean,” you informed him, your tone matter-of-fact yet intimate, giving him the reassurance he needed. “So if you are too, we can go bare like this, if that's what you want.”

Steve swallowed thickly once more, his eyes wide and glassy with lust as he stared up at you, your breasts swaying gently with each subtle shift of your body.

When you rolled your hips again, grinding your soaked entrance along the underside of his cock, pressing your clit against the veined ridge, he moaned deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest.

“Clean too,” he managed, his voice rough and strained, breaking on the words as pleasure shot through him. “I want to feel you without anything between us. Bare inside you. Please.”

His confession hung in the air, raw and vulnerable, his cock throbbing insistently against your pussy, begging to slide home without barriers, to fill you completely.

You shifted your weight slightly, your thighs pressing against the sides of his hips as you aligned yourself perfectly over him, the heat radiating from your core drawing a shudder from deep within Steve's frame.

With deliberate slowness, you lowered your body just enough to let the slick lips of your pussy glide along the full length of his cock, coating every inch of his thick shaft in the warm, glistening evidence of your arousal. The friction sent sparks of pleasure racing up your spine, your clit brushing against the prominent vein that pulsed along his underside, but you focused on the way his body reacted beneath you – his chest heaving, muscles tensing under your control.

Your long, sharp burgundy nails dug into his torso first, tracing fiery paths across the broad expanse of his pectorals, leaving thin red lines that bloomed against his tanned skin like declarations of ownership.

He arched into the sensation, a low groan escaping his lips as you dragged them lower, raking over the defined ridges of his abs, feeling them contract and quiver under the light sting. Each scratch elicited a fresh sound from him – a mix of whimpers and gasps that built into a chaotic symphony of moans, his voice breaking as he surrendered to the overload of sensations.

His hands fisted the sheets at his sides, knuckles white, as if anchoring himself against the tide of need crashing through him, his cock twitching upward with every pass of your wet folds, desperate for more.

Steve's eyes locked onto yours, wide and pleading, his breaths coming in ragged bursts that matched the erratic throb of his erection against you.

The chaos of his moans filled the room, raw and unrestrained, a testament to how thoroughly you'd unraveled the stoic soldier, reducing him to this quivering mass of desire under your command.

You savored it, the power thrumming in your veins as you rocked forward once more, your pussy sliding from the base of his cock to the swollen head, smearing your juices over the sensitive tip until it glistened, slick and ready.

Finally, you reached down with one hand, your fingers wrapping firmly around the base of his cock, feeling the heat and girth fill your palm as you squeezed just enough to draw another guttural moan from his throat.

His shaft jumped in your grip, the veins standing out prominently under your touch, and you guided him upward, positioning the broad head right against your entrance.

The pressure there was delicious – your soaked folds parting slightly around him, teasing the promise of what was to come as you held him steady, letting the anticipation build between you both.

With exquisite deliberation, you began to lower yourself onto him, the broad head of Steve's cock pressing insistently against your entrance, parting the slick folds of your pussy as you sank down inch by torturous inch.

The stretch was immediate and profound, his thickness filling you in a way that made your inner walls clench greedily around him, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips as waves of pleasure crashed over you.

You paused halfway, savoring the burn of the intrusion, the way his veined shaft pulsed hotly inside your core, sending tremors through your thighs that made your muscles quiver against his hips.

The sensation overwhelmed you completely, a flood of ecstasy that blurred the edges of your vision and pulled a low, throaty moan from deep in your chest.

Your hands sought purchase on his body, those long, sharp burgundy nails driving into the firm planes of his pectorals with a fierce grip, piercing the skin just enough to leave crescent-shaped indents that welled with tiny beads of blood.

Steve bucked beneath you at the sting, his cock jerking wildly within your depths, the throbs echoing through you like rhythmic heartbeats, each one amplifying the fullness until you felt utterly claimed by him even as you held the reins.

He cried out then, a ragged sound that mingled pain and bliss, his chest rising and falling rapidly under your assault, the red marks blooming like badges of your possession across his sweat-slicked skin.

You rode the edge of that pleasure yourself, your pussy fluttering around his length as you took him deeper, the slick glide easing your descent until your ass rested flush against his groin, every inch of him buried to the hilt inside you.

The pressure against your cervix sent fresh sparks racing up your spine, your clit grinding against his pubic bone in a way that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

Leaning forward slowly, you captured his gaze with your own, the intensity in your eyes mirroring the dominance surging through your veins.

For the first time that night, you closed the distance between your mouths, your lips crashing against his in a kiss that was anything but gentle – a claiming, a conquest. Your tongue plunged past his parted lips without hesitation, invading the warm cavern of his mouth, tangling with his in a heated dance where you led every twist and thrust.

He yielded instantly, his own tongue submissive under yours, allowing you to explore, to taste the salt of his desire as you dominated the kiss, sucking on his lower lip before biting down just hard enough to elicit another muffled groan.

Steve's hands rose tentatively to your waist, fingers digging into your hips as if to steady himself against the onslaught, but you controlled the pace, rolling your hips in a slow grind that made his cock twitch deeper inside you.

The kiss deepened, your breaths mingling in hot pants, your nails still embedded in his chest as you poured your authority into every movement, every sweep of your tongue, reducing the super soldier to a trembling, moaning vessel for your pleasure.

You rode Steve with unyielding purpose, your hips circling and lifting in a rhythm designed solely for your gratification, each downward thrust grinding your clit against the coarse hair at the base of his cock while your inner muscles squeezed him relentlessly.

The friction built a fire in your core, hot and insistent, but you reveled in the way his body responded beneath you – his broad chest heaving with every labored breath, his thick shaft throbbing deep inside your pussy as if it existed only to serve your desires.

Yet even as you claimed him for your pleasure, Steve drowned in his own ecstasy, his blue eyes glazed over with raw need, lips parted in constant, desperate moans that vibrated through his frame and into yours, his hands clutching at your thighs as if you were his anchor in the storm of sensation overwhelming him.

The tension coiled tighter with every roll of your body, your walls fluttering around his length as the edge of release loomed for both of you, his cock swelling impossibly harder within your slick heat, pre-cum mixing with your juices to ease the glide.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down the sides of his face, and his abs tensed under your palms, the red welts from your earlier scratches standing out starkly against his flushed skin. You could feel it building in him too – the erratic twitch of his hips, the way his breaths came in sharp, ragged bursts, mirroring the pulse of impending climax racing through your veins.

Just as the precipice neared, you did something that shattered his focus entirely: you stopped moving.

Your body went still atop him, your pussy clenching around his buried cock but denying any friction, holding him captive in your depths without mercy.

Steve's eyes snapped open wider, confusion and frustration flickering across his features as the denial hit him like a physical blow, his mind short-circuiting from the abrupt halt in the midst of such building bliss.

“Who does this cock belong to, Steve?” you demanded, your voice laced with authority, low and commanding as you leaned back slightly, your long burgundy nails hovering threateningly over his chest.

Lost in the haze of the fuck, his body betrayed him before his mind could catch up; he rutted upward mindlessly, his hips bucking in shallow, desperate thrusts that drove his cock deeper into your unmoving form, seeking the friction you'd withheld.

A broken moan tore from his throat, raw and pleading, as he gasped out, “It's yours, it's yours, it's yours.”

The words spilled from him in a litany, each repetition more fervent than the last, his voice cracking with submission. Then, without realizing the depth of his confession, he added in a whisper hoarse with need, “I'm yours.”

Those haphazard movements of his hips – clumsy and urgent – pushed you over the brink at last. The erratic jolts of his cock against your sensitive walls ignited the spark, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave, your pussy spasming wildly around him as waves of pleasure ripped cries from your lips.

One hand raked down his torso again, those sharp nails carving fresh red lines across his abs and pecs, drawing beads of blood that smeared under your grip. With your other hand, you pinched one of his nipples hard, twisting the hardened bud between your fingers until he arched beneath you, his body convulsing in response.

The combination undid him completely. Steve's eyes rolled back, a guttural roar escaping him as he came undone, his cock pulsing in long, powerful spurts that flooded your core with thick ropes of cum, each jet coating your walls and spilling out around where you were joined.

His hips jerked erratically, riding out the climax as his muscles locked and released in tremors, his hands gripping your hips bruisingly tight while he emptied himself into you, the warmth of his release amplifying the aftershocks rippling through your body.

For a long moment afterward, you both stayed there, breaths coming in heavy pants that filled the quiet of his quarters.

The room had changed.

Not in any way FRIDAY could measure – not in temperature or lighting or air quality – but in the quieter physics of two people who had stopped fighting themselves. The suite was dimmer now, the city outside the windows turned into a scatter of lights that looked far away, like another world with different rules. Somewhere in the building, the party was still going. Music still pulsed faintly through the bones of the tower if you listened for it. Laughter still rose and fell.

Up here, it was just the two of you.

Steve lay sprawled across the bed like he’d finally run out of ways to hold himself together. The sheets were rumpled, a soft chaos that didn’t suit him and yet looked right on him – proof that he’d let something break, deliberately, and survived it. His hair was messier than you’d ever seen it, curls damp at the temples. His chest rose and fell with slow, heavy breaths, each inhale dragging him back from whatever edge he’d let you pull him to.

He didn’t look like Captain America.

He looked like Steve.

Bare in the most honest sense of the word.

His face was flushed, the line of his mouth loosened, the tension in his jaw melted down into something tired and open. His hands were still where you’d last left them, as if he hadn’t yet decided whether he was allowed to move without being told. The instinct was there – discipline carved into his bones – yet it trembled at the edges now, softened, reshaped by what you’d just done together.

He was quiet.

Not the careful quiet of a man who didn’t know what to say.

A different quiet. The kind that came when words had finally been forced to tell the truth.

Your throat felt pleasantly raw with it, the echo of his voice, that last confession – a sentence torn out of him like something he’d been guarding his entire life.

Yours.

You could still see the moment it had happened, the way his eyes had gone unfocused for a beat, then snapped back to you as if he’d woken up inside his own skin. The way his voice had dropped, almost broken, when he’d said it. Like it cost him something and freed him at the same time.

You sat up on your knees beside him, the movement slow. Not because you were afraid to disturb him – because you wanted him to feel every second of aftercare, every careful choice that came after intensity. The way the world reassembled itself once the storm passed.

Your nails – still that deep burgundy – caught the low light when you brushed hair away from your face. The color looked darker now, almost black against the shadows, but when you moved your hand the red flashed like a heartbeat.

Steve’s eyes tracked it automatically.

Even now.

Especially now.

His gaze followed your fingers with a helpless honesty that made something in your chest twist. Fascination. Relief. Hunger that had become warmth. A kind of trust that hadn’t existed before tonight.

He blinked slowly, and you watched the effort it took for him to focus fully on your face. His lashes were darker from the damp, his pupils still wide. He looked dazed in the most beautiful, vulnerable way – like the world had gone quiet enough for him to hear himself for once.

“Hey,” you murmured.

Steve’s throat moved. “Hi,” he managed, hoarse.

A pause stretched between you, heavy with everything he normally would’ve filled with apologies. With gratitude. With self-reproach.

He didn’t.

He simply watched you like he was learning you all over again.

Like he was waiting to be told what came next.

His hand twitched on the sheet, fingers flexing once as if trying to remember how to be his own person again. Then it stilled, restraint sliding back into place out of habit.

“Steve,” you said softly, and that name – just the name – made his shoulders drop a fraction, like it was permission to be small in a world that always demanded he be large.

His eyes lifted. Locked on yours. Blue, wrecked, steady.

“Do you want water?” you asked, practical in the gentlest way. “Or… do you want to stay right here?”

His breath shuddered out of him. “Here,” he whispered. He swallowed. “With you.”

The words were simple. They landed like vows.

You shifted closer, careful not to crowd him, and sat beside him on the edge of the bed. Your knee brushed his hip. You felt him flinch – not away, not in discomfort, but in awareness, like his body still reacted too strongly to you.

Your hand came down to his chest, palm open.

Not to claim.

To anchor.

His skin was warm under your touch. His heartbeat was slower now, but still heavy, still there, still proof. You let your fingers spread, felt the steady thrum beneath them, and watched Steve’s eyes flutter shut for a second as if he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to cry or laugh.

“You’re okay,” you murmured.

Steve’s mouth twitched. “I… yeah.” Another swallow. Another breath. “I’m–” He stopped himself, like he’d nearly said sorry out of reflex.

You saw the moment he chose not to.

His eyes opened again, meeting yours with that raw honesty that made him impossible. His voice came out quieter, almost reverent.

“I meant it,” he said.

Two words that contained a universe.

You didn’t ask him to repeat it. You didn’t need him to perform it again. You’d heard it the first time, in the way it had shaken loose from him like a truth he’d been too afraid to want.

Still, you wanted to mark the moment. Seal it into something softer.

You leaned over him, slow enough that he could’ve turned away if he wanted. He didn’t. He stayed perfectly still, watching you approach with that faint, instinctive obedience – like he was bracing for impact, and yet welcoming it.

Your lips met his.

Not the hungry, urgent way of earlier. Not the frantic closeness of bodies and need. This kiss was different – deliberate, slow, almost achingly gentle. You kissed him as if you were thanking him for trusting you. As if you were telling him, without words, that he wasn’t a mistake you’d make.

Steve made a sound in the back of his throat – soft, broken. His hand lifted, uncertain, hovering near your waist as if he was asking permission with his fingers.

You shifted your weight slightly, pressing your mouth to his again, and that tiny encouragement was all it took.

His hand settled on your hip, careful, warm, as though he was afraid to hold too tightly and ruin the moment. His thumb moved once, a slow stroke that felt like he was learning the texture of safety.

You drew back just enough to speak, your forehead nearly touching his.

His eyes opened, searching your face with an intensity that made your pulse stutter. He looked a little stunned by tenderness, like it was something he understood intellectually but didn’t know how to receive without flinching.

You smiled – small, satisfied, kind.

“See?” you whispered. You let your fingers slide up to his cheek, your nail grazing his skin lightly without scratching. Steve’s eyelids fluttered, his breath hitching at the sensation like it was a key turning in a lock.

“It wasn’t complicated.”

For a second, Steve just stared at you, as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. Then his face shifted – something close to a laugh, close to disbelief, close to a kind of quiet surrender that didn’t hurt.

“I made it complicated,” he admitted, voice rough. His gaze dropped to your mouth and back up again. “I… always do.”

You hummed softly, not disagreeing, just acknowledging. Your thumb traced the edge of his jaw, feeling the faint shadow of stubble there.

“You made it survivable,” you corrected gently. “There’s a difference.”

Steve’s eyes shone in the low light, and for a terrifying second you thought he might cry – Steve, who could face gods and armies without blinking, undone by the fact that someone wasn’t asking him to be perfect.

He swallowed hard. “I didn’t know I could… let go like that.”

“You can,” you said simply. “With me.”

The words weren’t a demand. They were a promise.

Silence settled again – comfortable this time. Steve’s breathing evened out, the last tremors of intensity fading into something calmer. You watched him come back to himself, watched the soldier put his pieces back together, only now the shape was different.

More human.

Steve’s hand stayed on your hip like it belonged there.

“You said…” His voice was tentative, like he was afraid to touch the memory too roughly. “You said it wasn’t about… the suit. About–” He couldn’t even say the title, like it had always felt like a wall between you.

“Captain America?” you offered.

He nodded.

You tilted your head. “Do you want me to lie?”

His mouth quirked despite himself. “No.”

“Then no,” you said. “It’s not about that.”

Steve’s eyes held yours, hungry in a different way now – hungry for reassurance he didn’t think he deserved.

“It’s about you,” you continued, softer. “The man who worries too much. The man who tries to carry everyone. The man who thinks wanting something makes him selfish.”

Steve’s throat worked. His grip tightened slightly – not possessive. Just… real.

“And the man,” you added, letting your nails trace lightly over his cheekbone, “who finally stopped pretending he didn’t want to be held.”

Steve’s eyes shut again. He exhaled, long and shaky.

When he opened them, there was something steadier there. Something almost peaceful.

“Yours,” he repeated, not as a confession this time but as an acknowledgment. As if he was testing the word in his mouth and finding it didn’t taste like shame.

You leaned in once more and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then to his cheek, then to his temple – small touches, each one a stitch pulling him back together.

“Good,” you murmured.

Steve’s lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but he seemed to run out of language. Instead, he tugged you down gently, guiding you to lie beside him. His arm wrapped around you with careful strength, pulling you into the warmth of his chest.

You settled there easily, like it was where you’d always belonged.

Steve’s chin rested lightly against your hair. His fingers – still cautious – moved once along your side as if he needed to reassure himself you were real.

Outside, the city glittered, indifferent.

Inside, Steve Rogers finally let himself breathe like a man who had been given something he hadn’t known how to ask for.

And when his voice came again, low and earnest against your ear, it wasn’t an apology.

It was the simplest truth he had left.

“Stay,” he whispered.

You closed your eyes, smiling into the quiet.

“I’m here,” you promised. “I’m right here.”

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₊⊹. Since childhood, you have been considered weird or creepy just because you prefer to observe rather than engage. Your peers would often tend to avoid you most of the time, and that took a toll on. From then on, you learned to survive in the world without expecting any sorts of companionship. Although, that doesn't mean you ached for one every now and then.

₊⊹. You would be seen observing almost anything, and you liked to do so. With hands behind your back, head tilted,  you would observe from the clouds to flowers to passerbys to nearby stray cats. You would learn so much from just doing that.

₊⊹. Since you don't speak much, you talk softly, although not quietly. When people get to know you, they grow to love that aspect of you, almost as if your voice is soothing to them. You don't play around and get to the point fairly quickly with your words.

₊⊹. Things changed once the soul stone was in your possession. Having such a powerful tool at your hands was quite scary, but soon, you grew to get comfortable with it once you got the hang of it. As if the right power came to the right person. You became less lonely afterwards. Because one of the powers of soul stone is being able to give life to inanimate objects.

₊⊹. You found this out on accident when out of nowhere you two plushies, Meep the sheep and Lilo the panda started to talk. It was fascinating how alive they were with the unique personalities you envisioned them with as a child. You soon realised that you could be in big danger because of your power. Luckily, the Avengers had your back.

₊⊹. You were offered to be part of the team, but you were not quite interested in combat. Still, they offered a place at the compound nonetheless as they preferred to keep you close, mainly Tony. He was  curious about the stone in itself and you didn'tmind entertaining him. Soon, you moved in.

₊⊹. With their help, you were able to learn your abilities which were: you can recognise souls and manipulate them,  you could converse with the dead, bring life to inanimate objects, and can reside/visit a pocket dimension called the 'Soul World'. However, what surprised you and the rest was that you didn't trade any life to possess the stone, not that you quite remember doing something similar, more like it has become a part of you.

₊⊹. You were so happy after you moved in with the rest of the Avengers. You have never felt less lonely. Of course, you didn't forget Meep and Lilo. The younger members of the team were quite fond of them. Even though you mentioned that you didn't want to engage in any fights, Steve and Natasha offered to teach you, just in case.

₊⊹. Loki and Dr. Strange offered to teach you the rules and instructions about the magic system, and the more you understood, the more powerful you felt. Strange would mentor you and take you to places for the benefit of your knowledge. You get to meet a lot of people like in Kamar Taj. However, because of your abilities, you were confronted to grant them certain wishes, such as them wanting to meet their loved ones.

₊⊹. It felt wrong to do so, and you were quite sure that actions like that could cost something. You've already seen too much despair with having to converse and deal with the dead. And you were known as the bridge between life and death. So you refrain from meeting such people. Even if you did, you'll have someone by your side helping you get through the mess  like Loki or Strange.

₊⊹. You and Loki were quite the duo. Your two plushies were very protective of you, and Loki was one of the very few people they tolerated. You were not quite sneaky or mischievous, and you don't try to be. However, Loki insists on bringing that invisible side of you. He even sneaked you into Asgard much to Thor's dismay (he only wanted to tag along...). Your love for learning magic only grew because of him and sort of dreamed that you'd get to his level. He assured you that won't happen, but he'd like to see you try.

₊⊹. Bucky and Peter were weirded out when they first saw you, and to be fair, you were just standing there eerily. They weren't aware of your intentions, and they onyl grew more nervous around you. It was after Peter broke out of the shell he decided to greet you, and soon he grew to like your company. As scary as you may sound, you bring a sort of peace to him to his stressful life, and the same could be said to Bucky. He was the first person to assist you when you wanted to roam around the city.

₊⊹. Natasha teased how he looked like a grumpy bodyguard, and the contrast was evident. Speaking of Natasha, you two match the vibes somehow, and the same could be said to Yelena, too. Something about the silence when the three of you are in public and the opposite when indoors seems to be just right. And soon Wanda and Carol would join the circle.

₊⊹.  You loved to wear flowy outfits that made you look like an angel of some sort. Bonus points if they were of light colors. You were quite proud of your taste, and others could tell even though you don't show it in your expression. You would start to ramble all of a sudden, and it only happens with someone close to you. Steve was the first person to witness it.

₊⊹. You startled him when a while ago you were just sitting by his side after dinner daydreaming about the moon, you spoke about how you wanted to live there.

"Wha-"

"It would be so nice, isn't it? Living in the moon all alone, with no worries at all..."

"Wouldn't that be boring?"

"Huh?"

"Just saying...it would be pretty lonely too, to be honest."

"I don't have an issue with being alone - although you are kinda right about the boring part."

"I...guess..."

"Hmm~"

₊⊹. They all got used to it after a while. And soon you'd be drifting your head to their shoulder deep in sleep and oh how you love to sleep. The team would find you sleeping in odd places. They would either wake you up to send you to your room or carry you to your bed. You'd feel bad after waking up if someone did carry you, and in return, you would try to bake or make something for them.

₊⊹. Despite your soft nature, you could get scary when you stand on business. After all, you're the owner of the soul stone. You could just suck out someone's soul with a flick of a wrist and many (cough cough Thanos) have tried to take that power from you and failed.

₊⊹. You are very loyal to your friends who are practically your family by now, and they could say the same to you too. They were quite glad to have someone like you with them, and a powerful ally like you would not be out of their reach for sure. However, you aren't just an ally to them, and you are quite aware of that.

Commenting/reblogging would really be appreciated. Constructive criticism is welcomed!

The distant LED lights in the corridor pulsed against your temples, each throb accentuating your mounting frustration. You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes, willing the migraine to subside, but the damn pulse oximeters clamped to your fingers constantly reminded you of your captivity.

You glanced down at the offending device, noticing that the half-empty can of ginger ale sitting on your bedside table (read: Bruce's three-tier trolley) had begun to vibrate, the carbonation bubbling up and spilling over the rim as if responding to your inner turmoil.

A surge of distress sent your pulse racing, the oximeter on your index finger letting out a shrill alarm as your heart rate spiked above 130 beats per minute. You whipped your gaze toward the mounted monitor, the incessant beeping only amplifying your growing sense of unease.

"Uh... Bruce...?" you called out, suddenly acutely aware of your solitude. You held your breath, willing the phenomenon to stop, but the unnatural tremors only seemed to intensify.

Panic rose up your throat like bile. What was happening to you? Was this some lingering side effect of whatever had been done to wipe your memory? You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your palms against your temples in a futile attempt to quell the migraine pulsing behind your eyes.

"Stop, stop, stop," you muttered under your breath, rocking slightly as the can's tremors continued unabated. "Please, just make it stop..."

Desperate to regain control, you reached out and seized the can, holding it still against the trolley. Then, taking a shuddering breath, you forced yourself to slow your racing pulse until the persistent beeping of the oximeter fell silent.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Bruce paced back and forth, his carefully-trained meek and mild demeanour replaced with agitation, while Tony remained unusually calm behind his own workstation. The silence was loaded with the heft of scientific pride taking an uncomfortable hit. A forgotten cup of coffee had grown cold nearby, sporting a label that read "Not That Kind of Doctor". A gag gift from Clint that now felt oddly appropriate.

"ZIP. Of all things. I almost can't believe it. This isn't some backyard chemistry. How did we miss that?"

Tony's response came with none of his usual sardonic flair, instead carrying an almost gentle tone that seemed foreign coming from him. "Hey, don't be so hard on yourself. You're not the only one who missed it. We were both so deep in trying to crack her physiology that we didn't see the most obvious clue."

Bruce stopped his pacing at a monitor, letting out a sharp laugh that held no humour. "But ZIP? That's basic spy toxin intel, Tony. It's one of the first things we should've spotted. Instead, I kept running circles around genetic sequencing and quantum physiology. It feels like... missing the forest for the trees..."

Tony's eyebrows rose slightly. "You mean the opposite, right? Missing the forest for the trees is when you're too focused on the details, thus missing the bigger picture."

"Semantics!" Bruce snapped, a flash of green briefly colouring his neck before receding. A tell that would normally have others backing away. Tony, however, didn't flinch, though he did eye the expensive lab equipment with sudden concern for its survival chances.

Instead, Tony slid off the stool, hands tucked casually in his pockets. "To be fair, our 'trees' were backed by quantum physics. So we went straight for the sci-fi instead of the spy-fi... We're scientists; it's what we do." He paused, glancing at Bruce's still-green tinged neck. "Though maybe we should avoid talking about anything green right now. Trees included."

The scene played out like a bizarre reflection in a funhouse mirror. Bruce's typically calm demeanour had cracked, while Tony, usually the first to deflect failure with sarcasm or ego, stood as the voice of reason.

Bruce slumped onto a nearby stool, still working the monitor, reviewing and re-reviewing your test results. "And it took FitzSimmons to spot it. There goes my credibility."

"Yeah, well, that's what you get when you bring in the kids. Hungry, relentless, looking to prove something." Tony's mouth quirked into a nostalgic half-smile. "I was like that once, remember?"

"Still, Tony... ZIP? The whole time, it was sitting right under my nose. Never thought it could be that straightforward."

"There's nothing straightforward about ZIP-induced amnesia, though, is there?" Tony scoffed.

"And yet, the kids caught it because they looked at the basics. They weren't looking for the extraordinary."

Tony gently eased the monitor out of Bruce's reach. "Look, if you insist on beating yourself up, go ahead. But keep it quick 'cause ZIP or no ZIP, there's still more going on here." He grabbed a nearby tablet, fingers flying across its surface. "If Y/N's system is flooded with this stuff, it's not a coincidence. Somebody wanted her mind wiped."

"You're right. Whoever did this... they knew what they were doing. And they knew exactly how to hide it."

"So now we know what wiped her memory." Tony's fingers paused over the tablet. "The real question is why. What were they trying to make her forget?"

A familiar gleam returned to Bruce's eyes. "One way to find out..."

Tony's grin broadened, his competitive spirit kindling. "Time to show those British nerds they're not the only ones who can crack a mystery."

Word Count: 84.5k and counting

Status: WIP

You groan and stretch out your cramped muscles. Every part of your body is stiff. Aching from sleeping in a hard chair, while that horrid man slept peacefully. Stupid man with his naked body sprawled out. There was quite literally nothing else to stare at and the chair was barely comfortable to sleep.

You sigh loudly, letting your head fall back. What has your life become? You once lived a simple life, playing around the farm. Laughing with the hired help. The help never seemed to quite do anything, he was there to learn a job, but your mother wanted him to be a kid, and for you to have a playmate. And then it was all about letting people lace your corsets up extra tight, standing up straight, pinching your cheeks to have a natural flush to your skin. Letting people mess with your hair, while it’s put up. Becoming the epitome of femininity while men gawk at you, and take bets on if your body can handle their touch, and then their seed.

Gross. Not that this place is much different. You’re still trapped against your will with nowhere else to go but to your death in the water. As cruel as Steve seems, and his words are, he hasn’t taken you against his will. The smacks across your face are enough to get your attention without hurting too much. Leaving the slightest burn and tingle to your skin. You hate it and hate him.

You glower at him. Willing him to wake up without saying anything. Let him go prance around the ship, and give you his bed for the day. You could even behave and not keep him locked out, you just want some sleep. And the bed is comfortable. Warm. Plush. And so much better than being tied into this chair like a dulled ornament.

Your foot starts a rhythmic tapping as you glare at him. He’s being ridiculous and you know that he hears you, but you don’t give him the satisfaction that you spoke first. You just want to sleep. Sleep will make you feel better and not crabby to the point that you want to hurl something at him once your arms are free.

“You’re annoying,” he groans, and turns away from you. Asshole. “Did you sleep well?” He gives a yawn while you roll your eyes. You will push him overboard the first moment you can.

“Yes, Your Highness, I slept like a princess.”

“Cheeky bitch,” Steve chuckles as he turns to his back. He stares up at the ceiling a few breaths before his head falls over to look at you. “You’ve got bite, I’ll give you that.”

“I’d like to bite you.”

“Oh, I know you would,” he sits up, stretching. Letting his long limbs pull too far from his body. His muscles flex, looking like long sinewed lines as he puts his arms above his head. Your eyes zone in on an odd mark over his chest. Most of his body is covered with scars and black ink, but one scar in particular strikes you.

“Can you draw or paint?” You scowl at him, shaking your head no. His mouth turns up in a smirk. And then he stands, naked as the day he was born, showing all his manhood to you. He takes tentative steps towards you before reaching around the chair you sit in. Grabbing onto his clothes before only taking a few steps back.

Steve drops most of his clothes on you, keeping only his pants in his hand before stepping into the legs. “I thought you wanted to bite me? Too busy staring at my cock, Siren?”

“You’re quite full of yourself.”

“You can touch it,” with his pants not fully pulled up, he steps back in front of you. Close enough that you should be able to reach out to touch him. “Go on, you wanna taste?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Did you get on your knees for your traitor?” You peek up through your lashes up at Steve, smirking. He hates talking about James, and yet brings him up.

“Oh, I got on my knees all the time. Sucked his fat cock right into my mouth. Even got on all fours while he fucks me from behind,” Steve raises his hand, and you don’t move a muscle, you stare up at him. “I dare you.”

“You’re a whore.”

“I’ve been with one man, and I’m a whore?”

“Your mouth is that of a whore’s,” he gets pissy so easily. It’s almost comical just how easily you can rile him up.

“Weren’t you the one placing your cock near my whore mouth?”

Steve pulls his britches completely up, and then reaches into your lap, grabbing up his shirt. “Things are going to change,” of course they are. “You will join me in my bed.”

“No.”

“And if I want to fuck your whore cunt, I will.”

“Over my dead body!”

“I can arrange that for you,” his lips turn into a crooked smile, showing off a gold tooth, and he winks at you. “I’d rather not have you dead though.”

“Fucking a corpse not your style?”

“No, I prefer my pussy hot,” pig. Steve slides another chair in front of you before sitting in it to put on his boots. “I went soft on you yesterday. Today you’re going to be out on the deck.”

“I don’t know anything about boats.”

“This is a ship, Siren. You’ll learn. You’ll also learn when to get out of the fucking way. “Now,” he puts on another leather boot, and then leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “I have warned the crew not to touch you in any way.”

“I suppose I’m yours?”

“That’s exactly right. I can touch you as I please.”

“I’d rather drown than be touched by you.”

“You’d probably be eaten before you drown. That dress would drag you and your perfect tits below the surface before sharks feasted on you. It’d be such a waste,” it feels as if your life is nothing more than a body for men.

“Why are you doing this? Why me?”

“Bucky made you sound absolutely delectable.”

“So you want his sloppy seconds,” the darkness in Steve’s eyes return as he glares at you. Bucky having you before him is such a sore subject. “If you wanted a virgin that only had you, I’m not your girl.”

“You’re not a girl, you’re a woman. And I don’t want a virgin. I want you. You not being a virgin is but a small issue. Let’s go,” you sit still, glaring at him. “What’s the problem?”

“You have me tied up.”

“Next time I’ll tie you in the bed,” he growls, but leans forward to undo your bindings. Keeping his eyes on your heaving chest. “They are quite lovely, Siren. They'll look better out of that dress and corset. Better with my mouth on them.”

“No, thank you, Captain.”

“I wouldn’t say that if I were you.”

“Is that not what you are?”

“Yep,” in an oddly gentlemanly manner, he reaches a hand down to you, and you take it. Allowing him to help you up, “But coming out of your mouth makes me want to devour you. So only call me that when you’re begging me to fuck you.”

“I’ll never beg for that,” he winks at you again. Cheeky bastard. He doesn’t know anything about you. He might have seen your eyes wandering over his body, but it’s because you were studying his tattoos, his scars, and that mark over his chest. A mark of ownership. A man that was once a tool for someone richer, now is treating you like you’re nothing but property. It makes no sense. But you know enough to keep your damn mouth shut until you learn more.

“You don’t have to stay with me. Just stay on the top deck, and out of everyone’s way. I’ll see to it that Nat makes sure you get your rations for today. But this is a long journey. I need you to get some sunlight and oranges,” such an odd man. Opening the door to his quarters, you gape at the already hustling around men. “We overslept. Have at it, Siren. And if anyone makes you uncomfortable. Let me know.”

Let him know. What would he do if it was him that makes you feel uncomfortable? Would he dispose of himself? Not likely. But everyone else is available to slaughter. A woman that he holds in such regard that she’s protected on this ship. From everything but him. Despicable.

There has to be a reason for all of this. There has to be a point of being taken before your marriage. Then there’s the personal disdain for James. A need to keep you alive, intact, albeit humiliated, but also this constant digging in about James. You can’t help but wonder if this was a payback for James deserting the crew that you would not have been giving such comfortable accommodations.

They weren’t perfect, and definitely not what you had grown accustomed to, but he didn’t leave you caged up with the entertainment. He didn’t refuse you food or drink, and he didn’t force himself on you. What he has done — while unwanted, at first, it made your body react.

Parts of you are confused because you desire James, not him. Except you can’t help but feel flustered with his nearness. His words. Your body reacts, and betrays you, and you fear one day he will learn of such. He’s an enigma. There’s an odd sense of familiarity, and then an overwhelming need to fight him at every turn.

You sigh as you look out at the horizon. There’s nothing but water. And him. You don’t even have to turn around to know that he is watching you. You feel his heated gaze on you everywhere you go. Even when you try to hide. He’s there. He’s everywhere. Everything. And it makes no sense.

You just want off this stupid ship and run away from him. Find a way to get back to James. You’d feel and know if he was dead. You will find him. Captain Hydra can kiss your ass.

You turn around, and lean against the railing, and cross your arms. Your eyes automatically create a line directly to Steve. Just like you knew, he’s staring at you. His brow lifts and a sly smile paints his features. Asshole. But you can’t look away. Your brow lowers, and you glare at the man that changed your life forever. Humor lights up his eyes. You won’t back down from him. No matter what.

You won’t be the first to look away. You’ll stand here for the rest of the day with your chest heaving, and your eyes squinted at him. He doesn’t deserve any relent. He deserves every ounce of your ire. Every morsel of your hatred is given to him. It’s what he deserves. It’s the only way that you can cope with things. He’s the enemy. You are not his guest, you’re a pet. And you need out of here.

“She hates me,” Steve says to Sam. His eyes do not move away from you. They haven’t. But now that he has your actual gaze, instead of your back, he refuses to look away even for a milisecond. Not to mention your sizable bosom heaving with every angered breath you take. The sea looks good on you.

The sun is making you radiant. Highlighting your every feature in the most spectacular way. You seem refreshed, even in your exhaustion. If you weren’t so stubborn he would have allowed you in his bed. And would only touch you once your body was ready for him. His grin grows larger as he envisions you writhing and whimpering in his bed. Oh the ways that he could make you come.

“She hates you because you’re incorrigible. Quit staring.”

“I often wonder what she would do if she was able to escape me. I will always find her. But just how far would she get before I had her back in my grip.”

“Are you bringing her into the council?” Steve nods his head. “And how is that going to work?”

“I’ll have her on a leash, or in my lap. I’ll have her obedient. Just wait,” your glare on him falters only enough for you to turn to your side. You can’t stand the heat of his gaze anymore. Popping your hip harder than necessary on the railing. And things happen so fast, you can’t even right yourself.

There’s something to be said about the knowledge of knowing you’re going to fall to your doom. Everything goes into slow motion. You can practically see every splinter of wood flying around you as the railing bursts at your side. The sound of the ocean gets louder, while the sounds of the crew soften to nothing. Your sight pings on Steve, and everything disappears, but him.

His arrogant grin turns into something akin to true fear, and you’re not going to be alive long enough to even ask him about it. There’s no amount of his immediate action that can stop this. You watch his face contort into a yell, and he takes a few running steps before all that is seen is the clouds, and the peeking sun. This is it. Your watery grave, and no answers to any of your questions.

What only could have been a few seconds stretches out into painfully slow minutes. The world that you have known for such a short time topples down around you before your body folds in on itself, and you break through the water. Viewing the ship and sky from a very different lens. It’s almost beautiful. Like an obscure painting, and it’s a beautiful pattern of swirling colors.

You have no more fight left in you. If there’s no James in your future, you don’t want it. And fight for what? To be back on a ship with Captain Hydra? Become his plaything. He’s taken his time, but you know exactly where this is going. You’re his property. And he can do damn well as he pleases.

So instead of fighting to be handled, you fight to die peacefully. Let your eyes drift close as the ship barrels away from your final imprisonment. You belong to the ocean now, and you’ll let it claim every part of you.

More rubbage from the broken railing falls into the ocean beside you. And it doesn’t matter anymore. You won’t be dying without falling in love. You won’t be dying because you couldn’t produce Alexander Pierce an heir. You’re dying a young life, and knowing that you lived. Maybe not to the fullest, but you lived. You had someone in your life that cared for you, not your womb, but you.

Your vision goes completely black as the arms of death circle around you. You died without being a man’s property. You died knowing you will never be told what to do anymore. You no longer have to play by the rules. You are finally free.

“Steve!” Steve doesn’t care about anyone yelling or screaming his name. He only cares about getting this cursed corset off your body. You can’t breathe, and that blasted thing is not helping.

“My knife!” Sam begrudgingly hands over a knife, and yells at the crew to make themselves scarce. Steve having a weakness is not a good thing. He’s not even sure if you are a weakness to Steve. What he does know is Steve dived into the water without a second thought of his own life. The two of you both should be dead.

Steve cuts through all the boning, ripping apart the contraption. “Steve, she’s gone,” no you aren’t. You weren’t under the water long enough. Not to mention you’re too stubborn to die now. You’ve only been paused for a moment, but he will soon remedy this unfortunate situation.

“Steve!” The captain only growls in response as he tilts your head back. Holding your nose, he presses his lips against your own, and breathes deeply into your body. Going down to your chest, he compresses hard. You will not die today. This is not the end of your story. You will come alive as a new woman.

This is not how things finish.

Things are not complete. And there is much more to do.

All you have to do is breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Take a fucking breath!

He doesn’t stop compressing on your chest, and blowing into your mouth. You will not die today.

Just fucking BREATHE!

Your blood shot eyes pop open wide as the liquid death spews out of your mouth. Your body was consumed with sea water. The very water that tried to claim you for themselves. Steve is too selfish and jealous to let someone or something claim you. You may be a siren, but you are without a doubt his.

Steve’s breath is ragged as he reaches his arms under you. You will rest in his bed. And then later he will join you. In his bed. And if you want to make a comment he will tie you to that bed, and now because of your clumsy nature, and this damn ship that is trying to take you away, you will be glued to his side. A leash indeed.

You whimper as you try to sit up. Pain thrums in your entire body, radiating from an exceptionally tender spot on the inside of your wrist. It aches and burns. Throbbing like you have been severely injured. You try to blink the clouds in your vision as you try to move. Attempting to bring a hand to your opposite wrist, and nothing happens.

Panic hits you hard in the gut, and you yank and pull at your arm. No.

“Nonononononononono,” you whisper, looking above you. Finding your arm tied to Steve’s bedpost. Gulping, you sit up and look at your bandaged wrist. Brown blood seeps through, and you try to remember all that happened. You fell. Someone got you. Someone held you.

The smell. It’s a smell you can never forget. The arms clinging tight to your body, screaming at Steve. Laughing at — you. Hands were all over you. Gripping, grabbing, pinching, holding you down while you thrashed around. The smell of scorched skin invades your memory, and you gag. Something happened in this room, and it’s something you know you won’t like. And that something is causing your wrist to tremble.

“Steve! Captain Hydra!” Your pain has turned into fury. Tied up and injured when you were supposed to be dead. “Steven!”

Steve looks up at his room with an evil sneer. You’d finally decided to join the living. He stands beside Sam, practically giddy. You sound beyond pissed. Just the way he likes you. Full of grit and anger, and still having that side of submission. He’s no dummy, he sees the way your pulse quickens when he’s close. The vein on your neck thrums out a tune that goes right to his groin.

Your eyes dilate whenever he gets near you, and he smells the heat that grows in your belly. Bringing you alive, and you fight your attraction to him. All because you have a loyalty to a one armed chum. That’s if he’s still breathing. With any luck that man sunk to the bottom of the ocean. And if he’s alive, he’ll be so disappointed in the lady turned wench to a captain. Not just some filthy lying pirate, but a real captain.

Steve will have you ruined by the time Bucky ever sees you again. If he should have the air in his lungs to do so. He wipes at his beard before marching towards his living quarters.

“Careful. That one bites, Steve.”

“It’s what I’m counting out,” Steve chuckles before leaving Sam to man the ship. A steady man, better than most on his crew. He didn’t have the sadistic side that Steve does. The complete joy and arousal Steve feels at causing pain. His bloodlust is almost too strong for his own good. Except his crew revels in a fight. Which is why none of them hesitated to hold you down.

Steve flings the door open to his bedroom, and gazes at you, while your vision throws daggers at him. You’d righted yourself in the bed, just like he knew you could. And that bandage wrapped carefully around your wrist now is discarded on the floor. His mark of an octopus with a skull face looking a bit too crude in this stage of healing.

“What the fuck did you do?”

“Claimed you.”

“You branded me. Like cattle.”

“Would you rather me have fucked you while you were unconscious?” You flinch back, staring at the man that boggles your mind. “I could have fucked you so hard, you’d still feel me in that tight little cunt. I could have claimed you by filling your belly full of my cum, and then I would just fuck you full of more, so I had mercy on you, Siren.”

“Mercy?” Your ragged skin did not look merciful. It looked infected. You could lose your hand because of this show of power, and he wouldn’t even care. “If I get gangrene from this and lose a hand, how will…” your words stop immediately, and you look away.

“You have another hand I can fuck. But I much prefer your holes,” you roll your eyes looking away. Feeling sorry for yourself has never been your style. You have to survive, or die trying. “That pretty cunny between your legs,” he inhales deeply, “I smell it from here. Or maybe your mouth. Have you drooling on my lap, and gagging on my cock.”

You gulp as you shift under your too thin nightgown. You see why you didn’t have anyone in here with you, it’s sheer. Leaving nothing to the imagination. It doesn’t hide the pebbling of your nipples. And if you were a betting woman, you would say that Steve could view your racing heart. It’s not just fear, it’s not only anger, there’s a tremor of longing for his callous power, and you hate yourself for it, “But you know what hole I really love?”

“My cunt?”

“Your ass,” you gasp, eyes going wide as you stare at him. Shaking your head no. “Why don’t you tell the heat rising up your neck, and to your cheeks you don’t want me to fuck your ass. Better yet, why don’t you tell your soaking wet pussy.”

“I’m not wet,” your voice is a soft whisper, and your eyes betray you by looking away. It’s one thing to lie to him, but you can’t lie to yourself. You feel the immense power exudes rush through your body, settling low in your belly. The heat blooms outward, creating a pool of slick in the very area you don’t want him to see. He can’t know this about you.

“Spread your legs, and show me then,” you shake your head no. Determining that you would just ignore Steve. “Hmm, I could force those legs apart. Have a taste myself.”

“You don’t taste pussy.”

“You’re right. I’ll drown in your pussy. Oh, look at those pretty nipples coming out to play. Go on, Siren. Show me your cunt that isn’t dripping on my bed,” you hold up your wrist. Exposing the charred skin. Skin that he took it upon himself to mar with his brand. “Oh, I should really clean that. That way you have both hands to hold onto my thighs while I bruise your throat.”

“You’re a pig.”

“I’m a fucking pirate, and now you’re mine. It says so on your skin,” he walks over to a chest, pulling out less than perfect means to clean your mark. Making his way to the bed, he pushes one leg of yours into the floor, leaving the other behind his body. Keeping you awkwardly spread around him, while he tends to the wound.

“I’m not yours.”

“We’ll see.”

“You could have given me more to wear than this.”

“And miss the chance to see you squirm, thinking I don’t feel the heat coming from between your thighs. You’re really cute, Siren. But I can promise you, I’m meaner than you are. I have been kind to you.”

“And how have you shown me kindness,” you yelp as Steve presses a clean rag too hard onto your wrist. “Bastard!”

“I’m not a fucking bastard, you wench. I took a kindness by putting my mark on your wrist. Typically it’s on your chest, but I truly didn’t want to see those perfect tits burned,” you suck a bottom lip into your mouth, and Steve watches the movement with bated breath. Returning to your wound. “Do you remember it?”

“Barely.”

“You had finally woken up from your topple into the water. The one I jumped in and saved you from. I gave you the kindness of rum. Let you pass out again before five of my men held you down while I seared your skin,” that’s why everything was a blur, you’d been drunk.

He wraps pieces of fabric around your wrist, tucking the end into itself before turning to you. His hand touches the stretched fabric of your nightgown, and starts to lift. An aching sob releases from your mouth, and he looks up at you. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want you to look.”

“Why?” You stare silently at him. Keeping his eyes on you, he lifts your gown, bunching it up, and lets it rest at your hip, but he still doesn’t look. You twitch on the bed nervously. Your body is on fire, and your skin prickles with his never blinking stare.

With a smile, Steve looks down to your spread core. Immediately he licks his lips. Here you are, sitting so pretty with his mark on the inside of your wrist, and your legs spread so far apart he watches your cunt shine with arousal. “This is why you didn’t want me to look.”

You try to push your legs together, but he puts a hand on each thigh, holding you apart, and pushing your legs further out. “Oh, you slutty thing, you’ve got your pretty tight little pussy leaking right onto my bed.”

He shifts his body, placing himself into the floor, and his head gets too close to your heat, “Steve, don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because, it’s wrong.”

“Like I care,” he exclaims before his head drops between your thighs. His nose strums up your weeping cunt, inhaling your scent as he does so. His tongue flattens, and he drags the muscle through your wetness, moaning at your taste. You’re drenched. You can deny it all you want, but you’re just as sick and twisted as him. For something to be so wrong, he’s got you so worked up and twisted that you're trembling.

He drags his tongue back down your seam, stiffening enough to breach your entrance. He pushes and pulls his tongue into you. In and out. In and out. Slurping up your juices from your messy cunt. You sink further into the bed, letting your back bow, and he chuckles against your core. “What?” you ask breathlessly.

“I thought this was wrong?” You look away from him, but of course, him and that mouth never know when to shut up. “It’s so wrong, and yet your body reacts so perfectly. You want more?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you never — came on Bucky’s tongue?” You turn to glare at him. Pursing your lips, and shaking your head no. “I guess you didn’t have time while you were being fucked in the alley. I’d much prefer you riding my face,” and just like he knew it would, your pulse quickens with his words. Beating so strongly on your neck that he wants to bite it.

“What does it taste like?”

“C’mere,” he says suggestively. You stare at him. Wondering if this was the best way to escape. To give into his debauchery. He wants you to go down to hell with him. You sit up calmly. “Come on,” leaning forward slowly, but Steve’s body juts forward. He crawls onto the bed, and has his legs in between your legs. Caging you with his strong arms. One hand slams on the headboard behind him, and the other lifts your head before he crashes his mouth into yours.

Your pupils turn into molten lava, and melt within your irises as you let Steve claim your mouth desperately. This isn’t sweet. This is feral. His tongue pushes into your mouth, and your sweet tangy essence coats your mouth. Your body molds with his, and you find yourself spreading further apart to accommodate his wide frame.

His hips roll into you, and his hardened cock runs over your bare, and soaked core. Over and over again. He moves his body frantically into you. Clothes keep him contained, but he moves like he’s fucking you. He moves like he hates you. Hard thrusts, and fingers that pull at your hair, then go to gripping your neck.

His movement causes the bed to bang up against the wall, and somehow your body morphs to him. Clinging to him, and wrapping your legs around him. With intentions to just feel him more. To feel his erected cock cause the most mind buzzing friction on your spread thighs.

He lets you come up for air, and you gasp at the ceiling, while he makes a mess of your neck. Nipping, biting, and suckling on your soft skin. Getting high off the salty taste of the sea on you. “Beg for it!”

“No,” you answer breathlessly. “I’ll never beg for you.”

“Fucking lying, bitch,” his movement stops, and you try to kill the whine that echoes off your body. “What was that, Siren? You begging?”

“Fuck you.”

“Nah, I won’t give you my cock until you beg me for it. I will deny you the satisfaction of finishing, but I sure as hell will make you wear my damn cum like a badge of honor,” he rips apart his pants, and pulls himself out. You don’t even care, you gawk at his silky steel rod as he fists himself. Pumping his thick girth over and over again, and he keeps you spread wide. Smiling down at your cunt, clenching around nothing,

You are a filthy little slut, and he can’t wait to paint your insides with his seed. But you will suffer. You will hate the day that you said you wouldn’t beg. He doesn’t ask but once. He pulls at himself with so much need, squeezing his cock so tight, he imagines that it’s yours. Pearls of precum shimmers at his tip.

If it wasn’t for your labored breathing, he would be pissed. But you want him just as much as he wants you. You’re a scared good girl who thinks she’s in love. You have always thought you were in love. Always promised yourself to one person, lying bitch. Your mouth lags open, and he lets himself spurt all up and down your front. Not missing the drop that gets too close to your mouth.

Your tongue slips out, and you moan at his taste. Filthy slut. His filthy slut. He’s got the time. Just a couple more weeks, and he’ll have you following him around like a bitch on a leash. Have you straddling his thigh at the council. And he’ll make sure everyone knows that every inch of your body, and every last one of your holes belong to him. And they always have.

“Oh, and, Siren?” You look up at him, chest heaving. You're angry, and he loves it. “Don’t touch yourself to make you come while I’m gone.”

“Touch myself?”

“Oh, you innocent thing,” with that, he leaves. No worries that you would ever deny him the sight of seeing you come. Sweet innocent thing indeed.

Next

Masterlist

Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @rnurse-kole @peaches1958 @seitmai

@smile1318 @andydrysdalerogers @cjand10 @midnightramyeoncravings @kmc1989

@pandaxnienke @kmm-fluv @rogersbarber @theinheriteddutchess @buckybarnesisdaddy

@distractingbeth @musingsfromthemitten @valhalla-kristin @pizzaandcrocs @massivescissorsthingperson

“Rogers.”

He blinked, pulled out of his thoughts by the heavy drop of a familiar voice.

Bucky Barnes slumped into the chair across from him, coffee in hand, tie already loosened like the day had personally offended him. “You’re staring again,” Bucky said, not even looking.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Bucky cut in, finally glancing up, one brow raised. “At them.”

Steve flushed. Actually flushed. “I don’t stare.”

“You’ll sketch them from memory later,” Bucky shot back. “Which is worse.”

Steve hated that Bucky knew him that well.

Across the room, you were mid-conversation with another professor, something about archival inconsistencies. Your hands moved when you talked—not dramatic, just enough to emphasize, to underline your thoughts in the air.

Steve’s fingers twitched.

He could already see the lines. The curve of your wrist. The way your brow furrowed when you were trying to make a point.

God.

“Just talk to them,” Bucky said, taking a sip of his coffee.

Steve scoffed softly. “Yeah, okay.”

“No, seriously,” Bucky leaned forward now, tone shifting—less teasing, more intent. “They’re not gonna bite, Stevie.”

“They’re—” Steve swallowed, glancing back at you like you might somehow hear him. “They’re brilliant. And I teach intro-level art to freshmen who still think shading is optional.”

Bucky snorted. “You’re an award-winning artist.”

“I’m a temporary placement,” Steve corrected quietly.

That always sat between his ribs like something heavy. Not permanent. Not secure. Not… enough. 

Across the room, you laughed softly at something your colleague said. It wasn’t loud, but it carried. It always carried.

Steve felt it like a pull in his chest. “I wouldn’t even know what to say,” he admitted.

Bucky watched him for a second. Really watched him. Then sighed, like this was inevitable. “Okay,” he said, standing up.

Steve froze. “Buck—”

Too late. Bucky crossed the room with that effortless confidence Steve had never been able to fake, sliding seamlessly into your conversation.

Steve’s stomach dropped.

He looked down at his sketchbook, suddenly very interested in the half-finished drawing on the page. His pencil hovered, unmoving.

Don’t look. Don’t—

“Steve?”

His head snapped up.

You were standing there. You. Up close, you were somehow worse. Better. Your eyes were warmer than he expected. Curious. Not intimidating—just focused.

Bucky stood just behind you, smug as hell.

“Uh—hi,” Steve managed, immediately hating how small his voice sounded.

“I’ve seen your students’ work,” you said, and Steve blinked.

“That’s—uh—sorry?”

“They talk about you,” you added, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “A lot, actually. You make them feel like they’re… capable. Like their voice matters.”

Steve stared at you like you’d just said something impossible. “I don’t— I mean, I just—”

“You care,” you said simply.

And it wasn’t said like a compliment. It was said like a fact. Something in his chest shifted. Bucky, traitor that he was, clapped a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Steve here also does portraits,” he added casually.

Steve nearly choked. “I—Buck—”

Your eyes lit up just slightly. “Do you?”

“Not— not really, I mean, not professionally—”

“I’d love to see your work sometime.”

Oh. Oh.

Steve’s brain completely stalled.

“Yeah,” Bucky cut in smoothly, because of course he did, “he could show you after hours. Studio’s quieter then.”

Steve turned to him in horror. Bucky just grinned. You hesitated for half a second—just enough to make Steve’s heart stutter—before nodding.

“I’d like that,” you said. And then, softer—almost like you were letting him in on something— “I think you’re underselling yourself, Professor Rogers.”

You walked away before he could respond.

Steve stood there, frozen, staring after you.

Bucky leaned in, voice low. “See? Didn’t kill you.”

You grasp onto that routine as you go through the motions. You portion out the container of steamed rice and chicken. Boring, predictable. You pop the lids on each and slide them into the fridge.

The shadows of your old life melds with his. Steve nears and brushes his hand up your back, his other moving something over the counter. He scoops up your ring and shows it in his palm. He clucks.

"I had to wash my hands," you explain.

He draws back and grabs your hand, sliding the band on with a smirk. He brushes his thumb over the stones and hums. "Looks better on."

"I know. Sorry." The fridge shuts on its own. "I was just... distracted."

"Uh huh." He clings to your hand and pulls you to face him. He puts your hand on his shoulder as his other moves to your waist. "You sure are, huh?" He stretches his thumb along your lower stomach and pushes into the cushiony flesh. "I'm not. Seems the only thing I can focus on is you, sweetheart."

He steps closer, his hand slinking around your back and crawling down to your rear. "What's next, huh?"

"Um." You try not to squirm as you touch his forearm. "I gotta shower and get my clothes ready for tomorrow."

"Mm. Can I watch?" He purrs.

Your cheeks pinch and your lashes flick. The question tingles inside you. You stare at him before you can pluck out and answer.

"If... You want." You push your shoulders up and chew your lip.

"What kinda pajamas you got tonight?" He scoops both hands around your rear. "Not that you'll be needing any."

He chuckles and leans in. You tilt your head up to meet him as he kisses you. He growls as his tongue delves into your mouth. He squeezes your ass until you can't help but push against his stomach.

"Better idea. How about I join ya, huh?" He drawls. "I used to dream of showering alone up in the pen but now it don't seem so bad sharing."

He doesn't let you answer as he kisses you again. He urges you backwards and you drag your feet around his. His touch trails up your sides and he grips you firmly.

"Baby," he parts as he leans his forehead on yours, just at the threshold of the kitchen. "You're too damn sexy."

"Mm, thanks," you eke out.

"You go get that shower started," he winks as he kneads your sides. "I'll be right there."

You don't let your hesitation show. You nod and run your hands down his arms until he lets you go. "Okay."

He reluctantly backs away and you force a smile, turning cautiously and flitting away. You're still tender from what he did in the car. He hasn't given you much of a break either.

You go to the bathroom and reach past the shower curtain to crank the water on. A shiver rolls through you as the pit in your stomach deepens. This man has gone from prisoner to warden in days.

You step back and wait for the water to warm. As steam kisses the air, Steve appears, unbuttoning his shirt. You flinch and check your reflection briefly, your features wrought with dread. Don't let him see that.

You dip your chin down and feel along the hem of your shirt. You turn your back to him as you strip it off. He strokes up your back and you shudder again.

"Mm, you know, all those days in my cot and I never could think anything as good as the real thing," he drones as he steps closer. He presses himself flush to you as he reaches around your front and undoes your fly. "Maybe more skirts..."

"I'll... Find some. Tomorrow." You promise him. "Sorry."

"Nah, don't be sorry," he bows and nuzzles your neck from behind, trailing his hands around and up to pick open the hooks of your bra. "You're perfect, sweetheart."

He pushes the straps down your arms and your bra falls to the tile. He cups your tits in his large hands and bounces them. He nips at your skin and snarls. His thumbs circle your nipples.

"You got more than I need and I'm a greedy man," he intones and kisses along your jaw. He continues to knead your chest as he rubs himself against your ass. "And I'll give you just as much, huh?"

"Mhmm," your voice trembles as it flutters on your tongue. "Y-yes, Steve."

His hands graze down your stomach, fingertips pressing into you, feeling your softness until he reaches your waistline. He hooks his thumbs under your pants and panties and eases them down your hips. He hisses and growls.

"You got the best shape to ya, baby. You know that?"

"Um, thanks..."

"I just can't help but say it, baby. It's just too good." He jerks the fabric down and you wiggle until it falls below your knees. The fabric heaps at your feet. "I'm hurtin' for ya again."

You quiver and lean back into him just to keep from collapsing into the pile of your clothes. He drags his hands to the sides of your ass and taps. "Get in the shower, now." His voice drops dangerously.

You shy away from him, afraid to move too suddenly. You pull back the curtain and slip through. He groans as he shifts behind you. You stand beneath the stream of hot water, glancing over to see his silhouette on the other side of the curtain.

He approaches and you look at the wall. You tense as he steps in behind you. The flow of cool air through the damp heat crawls over you.

His hands scale your back and his fingers curl around one shoulder. He turns you to face him. You stare up at him, shaking as his eyes rove over you. You're still not used to that. The way he looks at you is so intense; so hungry.

"God, sweetheart, I never thought much of fate before..." He backs you up so you're below the faucet, out of the spray. The cool wall radiates at your back. "But I can't help but think we were meant to meet."

He bends and reaches around you. His hands brush along your lower back and over your ass. He purrs as he gropes you again then trails down your thighs.

You yelp as he lifts you. You lean against the wall, bracing it as you whine and wiggle. He puts himself between your legs, pressing them to clamp above his hips. You latch onto his shoulders.

"Please... Put me down," you gasp as the water scatters across his shoulders and back, slaking down his chest. His perfect chest. "I... I can't--"I got you, sweetheart. You gotta trust me." His hands curl hunder your thighs firmly. His grasp on your is firm and unyielding. "You do, don't you?"

"Steve, I just... I don't like being... picked up."

You say it but you don't know if it's true. No one ever did that before. They never even tried.

"Trust," he repeats. "You listen to me now. You put me in you. Now."

You wince and bite your lip. His blue eyes bore into you as you reach down and wrap your fingers around him. He's so thick you're already clenching.

He raises you slightly as he angles his hips. You guide his tip along your lips and to your entrance. Shame scalds over you as your arousal eases his trespass. He dips into you easily, lowering you onto his length with a long snarl.

He leans in, pinning you firmly to the wall. He puts his forehead to yours and pushes in until you arch your back. Your nails dig into his shoulder as your other hand slips down his chest.

"Baby, baby, baby," he drones as he rolls his hips in a long stroke. "I could live inside you."

He plunges into you again and you squeal. You hook your hand around the back of your neck as he slides out again. You moan and close your eyes. He presses his lips to yours as he pumps into you, crushing you to the tile.

He smothers you until you can't breathe or think. A promise of how your life will be from now on. His. All his.

💙

You're not ready for the day. Not after last night or this morning. You woke up to Steve's mouth on you. You were almost late.

You're exhausted. You feel slightly grimy. You can smell his sweat on you.

It's hard to sit in the office and pretend. When the usual small talk comes, you struggle to eke out the empty lie. 'How was your weekend?' 'It was fine. Boring, how was yours?'

You sit at your desk behind the window as patients come up to ask for the wait time or check in or to get their scripts. The tasks are mindless but you can't get your head to stop.

Usually, you'd be counting down the hours but today, you don't want the day to end. The morning rushes by in the usual parade of patients. The physicians stride in and out of rooms without looking up from charts, and the nurses chatter by the coffee machine and yawn.

It's almost lunch. Sheena will cover for your hour, then you'll do hers. You're not hungry. You can't even stomach coffee.

As you sign out, a figure approaches the other side of the window. You look up, ready to apologise that you're on your way out. You bite your tongue as Steve smiles back at you.

"Hey, sweetheart, is it lunch time yet?"

You gulp and glance over at Sheena. She watches him curiously. You clear your throat and stand.

"Sure." You say. "I'll just grab my stuff."

"Don't worry about your lunch bag. I'm gonna take you out." He winks.

"Oh, okay." You get up and turn to your coworker. "I'll be back at my usual time."

"Enjoy." She says as she sends you a copy look.

You shake your head and hurry away. You squeeze by a nurse and down the hall. You grab your purse and meet Steve in the waiting room.

"Nice place," he says as you near him.

"Yeah, it's not bad." You say as you try to hurry past him.

He stops you and puts his hand on your lower back. He leans in and you turn your lips away before he can meet them. He kisses your cheek but clucks as he pulls away.

"Come on. I only got an hour." You say as you take his hand.

"Hm, okay, sweetheart." His tone is rigid. He's not happy.

He takes you into the lobby and you try to hurry him out. He slows and pulls you back to keep pace with him. You squeeze his hand.

"So where are we going?"

"You wanna chill out?" He challenges. "What was that about?"

"What?"

"You don't wanna kiss me? You embarrassed or something?" He snips.

"No, no, it's just... It's work. It wouldn't be appropriate." You stroke his hand with your thumb. "I... Here. I'll kiss you now."

You turn to him but he shrugs you off. "Nah, I get it."

"Steve, please. Really. I just... don't want to get in trouble."

"Sure, sure," he moves as his hand goes slack in yours. He stares ahead as he marches to the doors.

"Steve." You beg, stomach in tatters. "Please. It's my job."

He's quiet as he lets go of you and steps ahead. He holds the door open and waves you through. You go outside and clutch the strap of your purse nervously as you wait for him to follow.

You walk in tense silence down the sidewalk. He huffs as his fist opens and closes. He's wearing a dark blue button up and black pants, the tattoo on his chest is just visible along with the hair across his pecks.

"You really don't need to be working, you know." He says.

"What?"

"I got more than enough to take care of you." He hooks his thumbs in his pockets.

"That's... Nice but... I should work."

"Why?" He counters.

"Because... I should help out."

"I don't need your help, sweetheart. I need you." He insists. "You told me yourself, you don't like the job."

"I didn't... I said it was just a job."

"Uh huh. So where's the argument here? Just a job. Think I'm more important than that." He stops and faces you. You look at him and turn stiffly.

"I never said--"

"You're wasting your time behind a desk. We should be planning our wedding. Our life." He crosses his arms. His shoulders round. "I spent all that time locked up. I don't got time to wait for you to get home, all stressed and burnt out. No, I need you focused, sweetheart."

"Steve, I can manage--"

"No, sweetheart. I don't think you're hearing me. I come before everything. Before work, before your deadbeat brother. You got my ring, you got me." He steps closer and grabs your arms. "You're not going back there."

"Not going back?" You utter.

₊⊹. Since childhood, you have been considered weird or creepy just because you prefer to observe rather than engage. Your peers would often tend to avoid you most of the time, and that took a toll on. From then on, you learned to survive in the world without expecting any sorts of companionship. Although, that doesn't mean you ached for one every now and then.

₊⊹. You would be seen observing almost anything, and you liked to do so. With hands behind your back, head tilted,  you would observe from the clouds to flowers to passerbys to nearby stray cats. You would learn so much from just doing that.

₊⊹. Since you don't speak much, you talk softly, although not quietly. When people get to know you, they grow to love that aspect of you, almost as if your voice is soothing to them. You don't play around and get to the point fairly quickly with your words.

₊⊹. Things changed once the soul stone was in your possession. Having such a powerful tool at your hands was quite scary, but soon, you grew to get comfortable with it once you got the hang of it. As if the right power came to the right person. You became less lonely afterwards. Because one of the powers of soul stone is being able to give life to inanimate objects.

₊⊹. You found this out on accident when out of nowhere you two plushies, Meep the sheep and Lilo the panda started to talk. It was fascinating how alive they were with the unique personalities you envisioned them with as a child. You soon realised that you could be in big danger because of your power. Luckily, the Avengers had your back.

₊⊹. You were offered to be part of the team, but you were not quite interested in combat. Still, they offered a place at the compound nonetheless as they preferred to keep you close, mainly Tony. He was  curious about the stone in itself and you didn'tmind entertaining him. Soon, you moved in.

₊⊹. With their help, you were able to learn your abilities which were: you can recognise souls and manipulate them,  you could converse with the dead, bring life to inanimate objects, and can reside/visit a pocket dimension called the 'Soul World'. However, what surprised you and the rest was that you didn't trade any life to possess the stone, not that you quite remember doing something similar, more like it has become a part of you.

₊⊹. You were so happy after you moved in with the rest of the Avengers. You have never felt less lonely. Of course, you didn't forget Meep and Lilo. The younger members of the team were quite fond of them. Even though you mentioned that you didn't want to engage in any fights, Steve and Natasha offered to teach you, just in case.

₊⊹. Loki and Dr. Strange offered to teach you the rules and instructions about the magic system, and the more you understood, the more powerful you felt. Strange would mentor you and take you to places for the benefit of your knowledge. You get to meet a lot of people like in Kamar Taj. However, because of your abilities, you were confronted to grant them certain wishes, such as them wanting to meet their loved ones.

₊⊹. It felt wrong to do so, and you were quite sure that actions like that could cost something. You've already seen too much despair with having to converse and deal with the dead. And you were known as the bridge between life and death. So you refrain from meeting such people. Even if you did, you'll have someone by your side helping you get through the mess  like Loki or Strange.

₊⊹. You and Loki were quite the duo. Your two plushies were very protective of you, and Loki was one of the very few people they tolerated. You were not quite sneaky or mischievous, and you don't try to be. However, Loki insists on bringing that invisible side of you. He even sneaked you into Asgard much to Thor's dismay (he only wanted to tag along...). Your love for learning magic only grew because of him and sort of dreamed that you'd get to his level. He assured you that won't happen, but he'd like to see you try.

₊⊹. Bucky and Peter were weirded out when they first saw you, and to be fair, you were just standing there eerily. They weren't aware of your intentions, and they onyl grew more nervous around you. It was after Peter broke out of the shell he decided to greet you, and soon he grew to like your company. As scary as you may sound, you bring a sort of peace to him to his stressful life, and the same could be said to Bucky. He was the first person to assist you when you wanted to roam around the city.

₊⊹. Natasha teased how he looked like a grumpy bodyguard, and the contrast was evident. Speaking of Natasha, you two match the vibes somehow, and the same could be said to Yelena, too. Something about the silence when the three of you are in public and the opposite when indoors seems to be just right. And soon Wanda and Carol would join the circle.

₊⊹.  You loved to wear flowy outfits that made you look like an angel of some sort. Bonus points if they were of light colors. You were quite proud of your taste, and others could tell even though you don't show it in your expression. You would start to ramble all of a sudden, and it only happens with someone close to you. Steve was the first person to witness it.

₊⊹. You startled him when a while ago you were just sitting by his side after dinner daydreaming about the moon, you spoke about how you wanted to live there.

"Wha-"

"It would be so nice, isn't it? Living in the moon all alone, with no worries at all..."

"Wouldn't that be boring?"

"Huh?"

"Just saying...it would be pretty lonely too, to be honest."

"I don't have an issue with being alone - although you are kinda right about the boring part."

"I...guess..."

"Hmm~"

₊⊹. They all got used to it after a while. And soon you'd be drifting your head to their shoulder deep in sleep and oh how you love to sleep. The team would find you sleeping in odd places. They would either wake you up to send you to your room or carry you to your bed. You'd feel bad after waking up if someone did carry you, and in return, you would try to bake or make something for them.

₊⊹. Despite your soft nature, you could get scary when you stand on business. After all, you're the owner of the soul stone. You could just suck out someone's soul with a flick of a wrist and many (cough cough Thanos) have tried to take that power from you and failed.

₊⊹. You are very loyal to your friends who are practically your family by now, and they could say the same to you too. They were quite glad to have someone like you with them, and a powerful ally like you would not be out of their reach for sure. However, you aren't just an ally to them, and you are quite aware of that.

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“It’s alright,” you tell him, and you mean it.

He nods quickly, like he doesn’t quite believe you, and slips past you like he’s trying not to take up too much space in the world.

That should’ve been it. But it isn’t. You start seeing him around after that. Same corner café. Same quiet habit of sitting by the window with a sketchpad, pencil moving in soft, deliberate strokes. Sometimes he pauses just to watch people—really watch them, like he’s trying to understand them instead of judging them.

You catch him looking at you once. He looks away so fast you almost laugh. 

It becomes a pattern.

You sit a little closer each time. He notices. Of course he notices—he notices everything—but he never assumes. Never presumes.

So one day, you decide to make it obvious.

“You’re going to wear a hole in that paper if you keep staring at it like that,” you say, sliding into the seat across from him.

Steve startles, nearly dropping his pencil. “I—uh—sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“I wasn’t complaining.”

That makes him pause. He looks up at you then, really looks, like he’s trying to figure out if this is some kind of joke. Like maybe you’ve mistaken him for someone else. “You… weren’t?”

“No.” You tilt your head, smiling just a little. “Actually, I was hoping you’d draw me.”

The silence that follows is almost painful. Not because it’s awkward—but because you can see the way it hits him. Confusion. Hope. And then that familiar doubt creeping in.

“I think,” he says slowly, carefully, “you’ve got the wrong guy.”

You lean forward slightly, resting your chin in your hand. “No, I don’t think I do.”

Steve’s grip tightens around his pencil. “You don’t… know me.”

“I know you say sorry like it matters,” you reply. “I know you look at people like they’re worth remembering. And I know you keep glancing at me like you’re trying not to.”

His face goes red. Completely, hopelessly red. “I wasn’t— I mean, I didn’t—”

“You were.”

He looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole. But then you soften, just a little.

“And I don’t mind.”

That’s what gets him. Not the teasing. Not the attention. That.

After that, he lets you sit with him. Still a little stiff. Still unsure. Like at any moment someone’s going to tap your shoulder and say you don’t belong here, not with him.

But you stay. You talk. About small things. Movies. The weather. The war, in the quiet way people do when they don’t want to admit how much it scares them.

And Steve listens. God, he listens. Like every word you say is something worth holding onto.

One evening, it’s raining. The café’s quieter than usual, windows fogged, the world outside blurred into streaks of gray. You shiver a little without meaning to.

Steve notices immediately. “Here—” He shrugs off his jacket, hesitates for half a second—like he’s not sure he’s allowed—then gently drapes it over your shoulders.

It’s worn. A little too thin for the cold. But it’s warm because it’s his.

“You’ll freeze,” you say.

“I’ll be okay,” he insists quickly. “I’m used to it.”

That… does something to your chest.

You tug the jacket tighter around yourself, looking at him. “You’re always doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Taking care of people like it doesn’t cost you anything.”

Steve looks down at the table, jaw tightening slightly. “Someone’s gotta,” he mutters.

You reach out before you can second-guess it—just your hand over his. He freezes. “You’re allowed to be taken care of too, Steve.”

The way he looks at you at that moment, it’s not disbelief. It’s worse. It’s like he’s wanting to believe you. “I don’t think…” His voice falters. “I don’t think that’s really how it works.”

“It can be,” you say gently. “If you let it.”

His hand shifts under yours, hesitant… then turns, just enough to hold it back. Like he’s testing it. Like he’s afraid it’ll disappear.

Later, when you walk him home, he lingers on the steps.

“You don’t have to keep doing this, you know,” he says quietly. “Walking me back. Sitting with me. All of it.”

You smile, a little softer this time. “I know.”

“Then why?”

There it is. The question he’s been carrying since the moment you sat down at his table. Why him?

You step a little closer. “Because I like you, Steve.”

He exhales like that knocks the air right out of him. “You shouldn’t,” he whispers.

“Too late.”

A beat.

Rain tapping softly against the pavement.

Steve searches your face, like he’s looking for the catch—the trick, the moment it all falls apart. He doesn’t find one. “…You really mean that?”

The soft whoosh of the lab door broke your reverie. Dr Banner entered, his perpetually rumpled lab coat damn near endearing. Your eyes drifted to the windows beyond his workstation, where the late morning sun streamed in. Something in your chest constricted at the sight. A yearning to feel the warmth on your skin.

Somewhere out there, someone must remember your face, your voice, your real name. The thought sent an involuntary shiver down your spine.

Taking a steadying breath, you hopped off your little cot. Each step forward was tiny, cautious. A physical manifestation of your new resolution to handle things differently.

"Dr Banner," you started, carefully modulating your tone to sound as non-threatening as possible. "I've done everything asked of me. Sat through all these tests, took that godforsaken polygraph..."

He turned from his workstation, his expression already softening with understanding. There was resignation there too; he knew exactly where this conversation was heading.

"Please. Call me Bruce. We've bypassed formalities by now, don't you think?"

"Bruce," you smiled as sweetly as humanly possible, "don't you think I deserve some time to breathe? To be treated like a person, not a... specimen?"

His response came quietly, weighted with genuine regret: "Gosh, I'm... I'm sorry. This is just the safest way right now. Until we know more..." he trailed off.

Your smile faltered, something deeper than mere disappointment and self-pity welling up inside you. It radiated outward like ripples in still water. A bone-deep ache of being untethered, unknown, unstable. Your arms wrapped around your torso, a futile attempt at self-comfort, as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes.

But the loneliness... that was worse of all. It hit like a physical wave. No past, no connections, no identity, no freedom. Just sterile walls, endless tests, and faces that looked at you with varying degrees of suspicion or clinical interest.

Bruce's own expression shifted, as though he'd suddenly taken on an invisible weight. His eyes softened further, and he reached up to remove his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. The empathy rolling off him was almost tangible, as if your isolation had become a shared burden.

"I understand," he whispered, and for the first time, you truly believed he did. The way he looked at you was with the raw recognition of someone who knew exactly what it felt like to be treated as something other than human.

"I haven't been outside in days," you continued, your voice catching slightly. "I can feel every second, just ticking away. How much longer can anyone take this? Isolated from the world because you people are... afraid of me? I've done nothing wrong. I'd never hurt anyone, I didn't ask to be here..."

As the words spilled out, something strange began to happen. Your emotions swelled, growing stronger, deeper, more overwhelming with each passing second. Out of the corner of your eye, you glimpsed a faint crimson mist emerge out of thin air. But that had to be your imagination or a trick of the light through your tears. Bruce showed no sign of noticing anything unusual, though his expression grew increasingly troubled.

Your desperation continued to pour out, reaching into Bruce's consciousness and stirring something beyond his control. You watched as his scientific detachment faltered, disintegrating beneath your now-shared anguish. His eyes kept darting to your restraints, hands fidgeting with indecision. The intensity of your emotions seemed to seep into him, clouding his judgment, chipping away at his professionalism.

As if moved by an unseen force, he reached for them. His actions felt almost mechanical, as though he wasn't fully conscious of what he was doing. The familiar clicks of the releases echoed through the lab, each sound marking a small victory, a step closer to freedom.

You risked one final glance at Bruce, his eyes still glazed and distant, before slipping past him toward the door. Your bare feet made no sound against the polished floor as you fled the lab, heart thundering against your ribs. The endless corridors of the compound stretched before you, a clinical maze of possibilities, until you reached a fork in the hallway.

Reality crashed in like a bucket of ice water. Where exactly did you plan to go? This building wasn't just any facility, it was the Avengers Compound. Even if you somehow made it outside, you'd be trying to outrun enhanced individuals who'd probably tracked threats across galaxies.

Instead of fleeing blindly, you found yourself drawn to explore the compound that had been your prison. Each new corridor offered glimpses into a world you'd only seen through the lab's windows. Your cautious exploration was cut short, however, by the sound of urgent voices. Voices that had become all too familiar during your stay. The Avengers were close by.

You paused before taking the corner, pressing yourself against the cool wall. The voices carried clearly through the hallway, each one distinct. Your recent resolution to "play nice" felt suddenly hollow as you listened to them discuss your fate like you were a problematic pet at a shelter.

"Alright, so let's vote. It's been a week. I'd say that's long enough to have made a decision."

Word Count: 84.5k and counting

Status: WIP

After some trial and error, you find the door to Steve Rogers' study. It’s open, and you go right in, but stop as soon as you’re inside, not because of the opulence of the room or because Steve is looking at you from where he’s sitting behind his desk. It’s because of the man standing next to Steve. “I recognize you,” you point at him. “I’ve seen you outside my building and at the grocery store. I thought you were a new neighbour!” The man next to Steve chuckles and shrugs as Steve answers. “I needed to know who you were before taking you here-,” “Kidnapping me, you mean?” you interrupt. That makes the other man snort in amusement, but Steve only sighs and continues. “So Bucky’s been keeping tabs on you for some weeks now.” The man named Bucky pats Steve on the shoulder and says, “I’ll leave the Muse in your capable hands, boss.” When he passes you on his way out, he stops shortly to say, “It was nice meeting you properly.” You can’t find any words to answer before he’s gone, and then the first ones that come to your mouth are, “Muse?” you say and look at Steve, probably looking as confused as you feel. He doesn’t answer your question; instead, he says, “Close the door, will you?” As you do, he walks over to a seating area, sinking down in a chair, and continues, “Bucky is my right-hand man, if you need something and I’m not around, you can always go to him.” You walk further into the room, closer to him, but you’re cautious, “You had me followed?”

He never takes his gaze off you, and there is an intensity in it that makes heat simmer in your stomach, as you stop beside the chair opposite to his. “In my line of work, it’s important to know who you’re dealing with.” “And what kind of work is that if I may ask?” You’re not really ready to sit down just yet. There is still adrenaline in your veins, and your system is ready for flight if you need to. Steve smirks, “It’s the kind that the law might frown upon sometimes.”

Gears turn in your head, piecing the few things you know together. “Wait… are you the mob?” you ask, in a whisper. “Clever little Muse,” Steve whispers back. “Now, please sit.” You do as if on autopilot, while dealing with yet another shock to your system. The fact that your ex-husband has tried to mess with the mob is another confirmation of how incredibly blinded by love you must have been to not see this possible side of him. To distract your spiraling thoughts, you ask again. “Why do you keep calling me that? Muse?”

“We needed to have a code name for you, it’s always safest that way, and Muse just seemed appropriate.”

It feels as if there is something he’s not telling you, but you don’t have the capacity to figure it out right now, and with Steve in front of you, sitting in the chair, leaning back with his legs slightly spread and oozing with power, it’s hard to think straight. You have to confess to yourself that you’re attracted to him, there’s no other way around it.

Since you split with Chad, there hasn’t been anyone else. Not even a one-night stand. The burn from the betrayal was so bad, you decided to quit men all in all and just be happy with the toys in your bedside drawer, and up until now, that had not been a problem. That you had to be kidnapped by a mob boss for all those old mechanics to start working again should be a red flag, but instead, you decide to embrace it. This thing you’re caught up in is weird and could be taken directly from a novel, but you’re not gonna fight it, it’s easier to just let it play out and hope you come out of the experience intact. “Okay, so,” you shake your head in an effort to clear it. “This whole thing is bizarre, but as you said, the sooner we get started, the sooner this can all be over.” “Great that we’re on the same page, Muse. Tell me about Chad, and why you fell for him in the first place?”

The question catches you off guard, and a great big lump of nausea forms in your throat. You’ve done your best to forget about him, but thoughts inevitably pop up from time to time, though it has happened less frequently over the years. But as you begin to tell Steve, you dredge up every little detail about his charm and his smile and how he made himself out to be something he was clearly not. You tell Steve about the gaslighting that began as soon as you were married, and that you just waved it off at first, but that after a while you started to believe the things he told you, that it was your fault, that it was you who was to blame when he fucked up, when he lost his job, when he cheated. There were things you didn’t write in your book that were too personal to tell even through fiction, but for some reason, you tell Steve about it. Pouring your heart out to this unknown person is freeing in a whole different way than talking to all the therapists you’ve seen through the years.

Steve looks like he’s on the verge of a rampage, his hands clamped so tightly around the chair that his knuckles have gone white. When Chad looked like that, you were scared, and even though this isn’t him, there’s still an undercurrent of fear running through you, but at the same time, you know that Steve’s anger is not directed at you. “And since then, I haven’t seen him,” you end. Your pulse is racing, your breath is high in your chest, you feel like you’ve run a marathon but are also just about to head out the gates in a life-determining race. “Muse,” Steve says, teeth clenched tight. “Come here.” “What?” “I said, come here. Now.” Two of his fingers make a hither motion, and as if you’re a puppet on strings, you rise and go to him. A gasp leaves your mouth as he pulls you down in his lap, then he grabs your chin, stares into your eyes, and holds you firmly. “Listen to me, my Muse. When we find him, I’m going to kill him.” “Steve,” your voice trembles, but your pulse calms, and oxygen properly reaches your lungs again. “I would have done that either way, but now, after all this, I want you to know that his death will be slow and painful.” Suddenly, you’re not on the brink of a panic attack anymore.

“Why?” you find yourself asking. “Because no one should be treated like that, but mainly because he did it to you, Muse.” “I don’t want you to torture someone for my sake, Steve.” “Sorry, but you don’t decide that, I do,” he explains. “Now, say ‘Thank you’.” You swallow hard, but not because you’re nervous; a different kind of pulse quickening feeling is now residing in your body. “Thank you.”

He releases your chin, but doesn’t let you up from his lap, instead time stands still as he holds your gaze, and you’re not interested in being released from it. You want to sink deeper, explore it more. You drift closer to him, his face, his mouth. “Now, now, Muse, don’t get too ahead of yourself and do something you’ll regret,” Steve says in a low voice, breaking you out of the spell he’s put on you, making you pull back and realize what you're doing. Kissing a mob boss might lead you down a path you’re not quite ready for.

When you don’t say anything, Steve takes the lead again. “Even though I hate to talk about that sorry piece of human garbage, we need more information about him. We have most of his connections mapped out, a trace on his phone, and my underlings know to keep their eyes open. But every time we think we have him, he slips away. What is it that we’re missing?”

“I don’t know,” you tell him honestly. “I have no reason to lie to you about this,” you continue hurriedly. The last thing you want is for Steve to think you’re hiding something and subject you to some kind of torture. There might be a spark between the two of you, but you hold no illusions that he will spare you if he thinks you have information. He must see the worry in your eyes, “You don’t have to reassure me, Muse, you have no reason to protect him, I believe you.” “If I think of anything, I’ll tell you, I promise.” “I know you will,” he smiles softly. “Now, tell me about you. Bucky says you always buy yourself a treat when you run errands? What do you like best, food or things?

Before you can begin, there is a rap of knuckles on the door, and Bucky steps inside again. He doesn’t seem fazed that you’re in Steve’s lap, he only says, “Sorry, Steve. It’s urgent, we need you.” You quickly get up when Steve sighs, but he doesn’t rush out after Bucky right away, instead he stays with you for a few moments. “Get something to eat, it’s almost lunch.” “What?” you look around for a clock somewhere on the walls. “How long did I sleep?” “Twelve hours or so, it’s always a little tricky to get the dosage right, but I didn’t want to risk you waking up in the car,” Steve says casually with a shrug. “What the fuck! You drugged me?” Instantly, you’re once again outraged about the liberties he’s taken with your body. “Yes, my Muse, it was for your own good.” His hand comes to rest on your cheek, and some of the anger fades away. “You can ask me all about it over dinner tonight. But right now I have to go.” “Dinner?” confusion replaces the remaining anger. “Yes, dinner with me. I’ll find you a dress to wear.” At that, you’re reminded that you’re still in your pajamas from last night. Thank god it’s not the height of summer and you went to bed naked! “Steve, you don’t know my size,” you point out. “Wrong,” he pulls back his hand, and you immediately miss the warmth. “I know almost everything about you. See you tonight.” And then he’s off.

After standing in Steve’s office, stunned for some time, you realize you actually do feel hungry and decide to do as he suggested and locate the kitchen. At first, you’re hesitant to bother all the people there, but when one catches sight of you, they welcome you and sit you down at the island counter before serving you lunch. They go about their business as usual while you eat, and a few other people come in to get plates of food before leaving again. Everyone greets you, and doesn't seem surprised at seeing you there. It’s a little creepy not to know how much Steve has told them about you.

Once you’re done, you wander around, trying to find something to do, but you’re in an unfamiliar place, kind of nervous, and also not sure if there are some areas you should avoid. Mostly, you’re scared you’re going to stumble over something bloody you can’t unsee. After jumping at the sound of a door closing yet again, you retreat to Steve’s study.

Aside from the trauma of being drugged and kidnapped, this whole thing has certainly been good for your imagination. Your fingers are itching to write, and after months and months of treading water, you feel like you have an idea to run with. But without your computer, and not even your phone, you’re forced to do it the old-fashioned way, and you poke around in Steve’s desk to find a pen and paper. At first, you feel bad, but then you decide that if Steve didn’t want you to snoop about, he should have locked the drawers.

It’s freeing to dive into the writing, to plot a story and imagine the characters. If the main male character happens to resemble a certain mob boss, it’s not by accident. The attraction you feel towards Steve is new and terrifying, not only because of who he is, but because you have a hard time trusting your own instincts. What if you’re as wrong about him as you were about Chad? You know deep down that you shouldn’t be attracted to a man who has no trouble killing and torturing people, but the way he takes charge, telling you exactly what he wants and needs, that is so freeing after being with Chad, who was all about playing games and setting you up to fail.

You pen stills as your mind replays what happened in the chair, in Steve’s lap. He was warm and smelled so nice. You laugh at yourself and wonder if you’re so starved for touch and attention that you start romanticising your kidnapper, just because he happens to be nice to you one time. Okay, despite the kidnapping, he’s been calm and surprisingly gentle. It would have been easy for him to exploit your vulnerable state earlier, but he stopped it and then invited you to dinner. So, you’re going to have an evening dinner with a mob boss, and you have nothing to wear, except the clothes you slept in. Great. When the light in the windows starts to dim, you go back to your room with your stack of papers, and you’re not even surprised to find a dress in your favorite color waiting on the bed.

Gingerly, you pick it up, noticing how nice the fabric feels under your fingertips and that it still has the price tag on with a sum you’re sure can’t be right, but at least he’s not making you reuse the same dress as the last woman he kidnapped. For some reason, the thought of Steve and other women makes jealousy flare up in your chest, before you quickly tamp it down. “Idiot,” you tell yourself. “He’s a mob boss. There is a new woman for him every day. You’re not special.”

In the bathroom, you find your own skincare and makeup, which means someone went back to your apartment and got your stuff. Staring at it, you wonder what Steve expects from you. After considering, you do enough to make yourself look good, but you don’t want Steve to think you put in too much effort. This whole thing is hard to balance when you have no idea how the scales will tip.

Just as you’re done putting on the dress, there is a knock on the door, and you turn with a flutter in your chest, thinking it’s Steve. But it’s not. A man, clearly one of the staff in the house, comes into your room with a shoebox from your favorite brand. He leaves it on the bed with the words “I’ll wait outside to take you to the dining room once you’re done.” Unsurprisingly, the shoes fit. Two conflicting feelings fight in your body, one that it’s creepy as fuck that Steve actually knows what kind of shoes you prefer to wear, but also that it’s kind of nice that he actually cares that you’re comfortable at dinner.

Instead of examining those feelings too closely, you go out to where the man is waiting. He takes you to a dining room lit with candles and set for two people to dine. Unlike in movies, you’re not placed at opposite ends of a long table. Instead, you’re seated next to each other on the corner of a table, and it looks really… intimate. Steve is nowhere in sight, though. “Mr. Rogers is running a bit late, unfortunately.” The man explains after seating you.

While you wait, you’re served champagne, and after having slowly sipped it for some time, the starter is brought out and served with another explanation that Steve will be a while longer. You stop holding out hope for him to show up at all after you get the main course, and you enjoy the food by yourself, taking your time to savor the delicious meal.

After, you’re taken back to your room, and while you get undone you wonder where Steve is and if he is okay. Thoughts about whether he’s been shot and is in the hospital start floating around, and you wonder what will happen to you if Steve doesn’t come back. Who will take over? Will you be seen as a liability? Nervousness eats you up, feeling as if you’re on your way to another panic attack, but just then, another knock sounds at your door, and you don’t have time to call out before Steve steps into your room.

Relief floods you, but then you notice that his suit is wrinkled and even torn in places, with messy hair, and it’s impossible not to notice the dried blood on his knuckles. “Muse,” he says, “I’m sorry I missed dinner.” “Fuck dinner, are you okay?” He laughs a dry, mirthless laugh, “Some people just don’t know when to quit.” You go to him and take his hand in yours, turning it over to look at the damage. “I wanted you to know that I didn’t ignore you,” he says softly, “That I really wanted to have dinner with you.” Smiling at him, you suggest, “How about breakfast instead?” Steve cups your cheek, but doesn’t respond to the question; instead says, “I need to kiss you.” “Kiss me? Why?” “Because it’s what I planned to do after dinner tonight, and I can’t get the thought out of my head,” he explains. “Oh. Well, then I want you to kiss me, Steve.”

He does without hesitation, pulling you by your face towards him, and when you open your mouth with a moan, he’s quickly there with his tongue, exploring. You cling to his shoulders for dear life, feeling a relentless throb erupt in your whole body. You’ve never been kissed like this before. When Steve retreats, you whine, and he answers with a chuckle. “I’m in no state to take you to bed properly, my Muse, but tomorrow I’ve made sure I have you for myself the whole day. See you at breakfast.” He gives you one last kiss before he leaves you aching, drenched, and wired.