#lovehaterelationship

The new Captain America. Polished. Poised. Impossible to ignore.

You haven’t spoken in years. Not since before the shield. Not since your company—the one that takes in reformed assassins, mercenaries, anyone clawing toward redemption—started showing up at the same tables as government liaison teams.

You’re not supposed to mix. Not really. Sam deals in symbols; you deal in scars. The tension isn’t personal—at least, that’s what you’ve told yourself every time his name crossed your desk.

But now he’s here. Same space. Same music. Same ache.

You catch him looking. Just once. A flicker. Like a nerve being touched.

Your throat tightens.

I come up hard, baby, but now I’m fine I’m checkin’ trouble, sugar, movin’ down the line.

His gaze flickers again—subtle but electric, like a spark across dry grass. Neither of you moves closer—too much unsaid, too much ground lost, too many battles fought inside your own heads.

The room spins quietly around you, but the space between you feels like a war zone.

You look away, eyes drifting down to your glass. The bitter scent of cheap wine curls up to meet your nose—sharp and unforgiving. The liquid slides past your lips, cool and hollow, pooling deep in the pit of your stomach like a slow, aching weight you’ve carried too long.

You lift the glass again, pretending the burn distracts from the tight knot coiling in your chest. Around you, laughter bubbles and conversations hum, but all you hear is the quiet pull of that familiar tension—like a thread stretched taut between you and Sam, ready to snap or pull you closer.

You look up again, hoping to catch the subtle smirk he always had plastered on his face or maybe, just maybe, the playful glint in his dark brown eyes. Instead, you meet the wall he stood in front of just minutes ago.

Panic doesn’t bloom—not quite—but something close settles just beneath your skin, sharp and searching.

You scan the crowd slow and deliberate, refusing to look like you’re looking. He’s too big to disappear, too steady to slip through cracks. Somehow, he always knew how to move when you least expected him.

There’s only three things that’s for sho’… The lyrics haunt you now, threading through your thoughts like smoke. Taxes, death... and trouble.

And Sam Wilson? He was all three at once.

“Lookin’ for someone?” Sam’s voice cuts through the haze as he appears in your vision. The distance—once large and escapable—is now a memory.

Now he’s close. Close enough to feel—the heat radiating off him like tension in a too-warm room, thick and heavy. Like standing at the edge of something and knowing it’s about to give.

You almost smile.

Almost.

“Sam Wilson,” you say finally, feeling the wine settle in your veins. “Last person I expected to see.”

Sam Wilson, in a suit that fits like a tailored dare, hands in his pockets like he’s got all the time in the world. His eyes don’t flicker or dance—no, they hold. They see. It’s not polite observation. It’s history, memory, ache. He watches you like he remembers everything—how you sounded, how you left, how you never quite looked back.

Sam hums low, the sound curling in his throat like a secret. “Yeah,” he says, eyes never leaving yours. “I could say the same.”

He doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t need to.

It’s there in the way he shifts his weight—subtle but solid—like he’s trying to figure out if you’re still the same person who left that hotel room at 3 AM with nothing but a nod and a locked jaw.

“I didn’t think you still came to these,” he adds. Casual. Too casual.

You lift a brow, lips curving just slightly at the edges. “Well, potential clients,” you say, eyeing him slowly—up, down, and up again. “Old friends.”

Sam tilts his head, that crooked almost-smile still playing at the corner of his mouth. “So,” he says, voice low and threaded with something just shy of teasing, “you out here recruiting? Looking for new clients… or old trouble?”

You take your time with the sip this time. Let the wine settle on your tongue. Let the pause stretch long enough to feel deliberate. Then you lower the glass, eyes cutting toward him with a glint he knows too well.

“Both,” you say simply. “There’s a new Avengers lineup forming. You know how it is—everyone wants in before the press release drops. Not to mention, you got your own team.”

Sam raises a brow, hands still tucked in his pockets. “You trying to build your own team now?”

“I’m helping the people no one else will touch,” you reply, letting the edge slip into your voice. “You’ve got your clean-cut recruits. Hawkgirl, Captain Marvel, She-Hulk. Meanwhile, I’ve got three ex-Widows, a former Ten Rings operative, and a guy who used to rob banks in a ski mask and now teaches mindfulness.”

That gets a real smile from him, brief but bright. “Think you can rival the New Avengers?”

You shrug. “I'm not forming a team for them. I'm preparing yours.”

The smile falters. Just slightly. His jaw tightens—not in annoyance, but something closer to realization. You don’t flinch or soften it. Let the weight of your words settle between you—real, sharp, and too heavy to ignore.

Sam straightens a little, the light in his eyes shifting. Serious now. “That’s not your style,” he says quietly. “You don’t build things for other people.”

You tilt your head, the corner of your mouth curving. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m building second chances. What you do with them is up to you.”

For a beat, neither of you speak.

“You know how often I have to deal with the fallout of your making, Sam Wilson? Some new villain-of-the-week wants your head on their mantle. That shield of yours tossed in the corner of their room like trash,” you lick your lips, remembering, “that is until I reform them. Now, they want to be your right-hand man.”

Sam’s gaze doesn’t break, but his jaw tics. Once. Twice. Like he’s biting something back. Maybe pride. Maybe guilt. Maybe the same thing that’s been thrumming between you since the second you locked eyes in this damn ballroom.

The music dips into a hush before the next swell, and in that quiet pocket, your words hang there—half accusation, half offering.

He doesn’t respond right away. He just watches you like he’s remembering every argument you two ever had. Every time you pressed him to look at the world differently. Every time he wanted to grab your wrist and pull you back before you walked away.

And maybe—just maybe—every time he didn’t.

Sam leans in close. “I still remember the way you had my shield thrown in the corner of the room. Your clothes with it.”

Your lips part, just slightly, but no words come. Because you remember too. The weight of the shield against the hotel floor. The scrape of your zipper. The sound of your breath catching. His hands everywhere. The ache of something you shouldn’t have wanted so badly.

“You think I forgot?” he murmurs. “You think I didn’t notice the way you left it there? Like all of it—me, the shield—meant the same damn thing.”

You swallow hard. The wine on your tongue turns sour. You look away—but only for a second. He doesn’t let you drift far.

“I didn’t forget,” he says, softer now. “And don’t act like you did.”

And just like that, Trouble Man hits its chorus again. Loud. Heavy. Meant to be felt.

“I’ll remind you,” Sam says, voice thick with heat and certainty, low enough to settle under your skin. He leans in, eyes never leaving yours. “Just say the words, baby.”

Then he pulls back—slow, smooth, unfazed.

And walks away.

No glance over his shoulder. No lingering hesitation. Just long strides and all the pride in the world like he didn’t just set your entire bloodstream on fire and leave you standing in the ruins.

You watch his back disappear into the crowd, jaw tight, heart thudding like a war drum in your chest. The wine in your glass trembles.

And Marvin sings on, the orchestra bleeding into the ache:

I come up hard, baby, but now I’m cool...

It took you exactly 19 minutes and 13 seconds to find him.

Not that you were counting.

Not that you watched the clock tick past every painfully slow second while you made small talk with some diplomat’s assistant who smelled like expensive cologne and colonialism.

Not that you replayed his voice in your head—the low, just say the words, baby looping over and over like it was stitched into the beat of your pulse.

But still—19 minutes and 13 seconds. That’s how long it took. A new record.

By the time he spotted you, you were already leaving a breadcrumb trail behind you: a napkin with your lipstick, a perfume scent, or a broken heart. Whichever it was, Sam didn’t fall for it. He knew the song and dance. Knew where to go, and where the two of you were headed.

The door creaked softly behind him, the sound swallowed by the hush of the room. Neutral walls, dim lighting—some nondescript office buried in the east wing of the building. Empty, quiet, untouched.

Except for you.

You were perched on the edge of a sleek desk like you owned it. One heel dangling from your fingers, the other kicked off to the side. Legs crossed, dress pulled just high enough to be a problem.

Sam stood in the doorway, unmoving. Watching. Waiting. You finally lifted your gaze, slow and deliberate, as if you’d been expecting him all night.

Because you had. His expression didn’t change—just the clench of his jaw, the slow drag of his eyes down your frame and back up again, like he was counting sins.

Then, without a word, he stepped inside and shut the door behind him. The click of the lock was louder than it should be. Final. Familiar.

“I wasn’t sure you’d follow,” you murmured, tossing your heel gently to the floor with a soft thud.

Sam’s voice was low, rough, full of something he’d been swallowing since the moment he saw you. “I would follow you to Hell if it meant I’d have you forever.”

He took a step closer. Then another. And just like that—you weren’t avoiding anything anymore.

You smirked, your voice velvet and loaded. “You talk a lot for a man who hasn’t earned the right yet.”

Sam didn’t rise to the bait. He just stepped closer, eyes dark, calm—hungry. Then, wordlessly, he sank to his knees in front of you, steady hands dragging the hem of your dress up with reverence and intent.

One of your legs lifted, draped over his shoulder like instinct, your heel dangling from your toes. The air was thick, the low hum of Trouble Man bleeding through the walls like a promise. You threaded your fingers through his close-cropped hair, nails gently scraping his scalp as you tugged his gaze upward.

“Go on, Captain,” you murmured. “Show me what all that discipline’s good for.”

His breath ghosted over your skin—warm, controlled, reverent—and then his mouth found you.

You gasped, head tipping back as your spine curved into the glass behind you. His lips latched onto your folds with the kind of hunger that made you forget how to stand, how to breathe. His tongue licked long, deliberate strokes before circling your clit, sucking it into his mouth like he needed it.

“Sam…” you breathed, the name slipping out like a prayer laced with sin.

He didn’t stop. Just moaned against you, the sound vibrating deep where you needed him most. He looked up as he licked, watching your body tremble, your eyes flutter, your jaw go slack.

You held him there, hands tangled in his hair, grinding into his face as he pushed two fingers inside you—slow, then deep. Curling. Stroking. Finding that spot like he’d never forgotten it.

And he hadn’t.

Your thighs began to tremble, your body arching toward the edge of something that had nothing to do with control. He took it all—your cries, your slick, the way your hips bucked into him as you shattered.

He stayed with you through it, lips wrapped tight around your clit as your orgasm ripped through you in waves.

The aftershocks made your vision blur, but you could feel him kissing the inside of your thighs, slow and soft, beard rough enough to leave a memory behind.

When you finally opened your eyes, he was standing again, towering over you, his lips swollen and glistening, that smug smile written all over his beautiful face.

“Done bossin’ me around?” he asked, voice rough with lust. “Or you want me to keep proving my worth?”

You reached for him, breathless and ruined, smile lazy and satisfied.

“Shut up,” you whispered, pulling him between your legs. “And remind me why I shouldn’t leave you again.”

His grip on your hip tightened, anchoring you to the edge of the desk. The cool wood pressed against the backs of your thighs as he lined himself up, breath ragged against your shoulder. Sam’s other hand slid up your waist—slow, deliberate—his thumb brushing the soft dip beneath your ribs.

Then he pushed in—slow, thick, all-consuming.

You gasped, head falling back with a sharp cry as he bottomed out, the stretch dizzying, overwhelming. The music outside—the quartet’s rendition of Trouble Man—poured through the office walls, rich and thunderous, masking the sound of your moan like it was part of the score.

Sam groaned low in his throat, sliding nearly all the way out before snapping his hips forward, slamming back into you with punishing precision.

“Fuck, Sam—!” you choked out, hands flying to brace yourself against the desk. He gripped your hips and drove into you again, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the room like percussion.

“Whose is it?” he growled, leaning over you, the heat of his chest against your back. His pace didn’t falter.

Your spine arched, your head thrown back with a ragged cry. “Yours!” you yelped, voice cracking as he hit the same deep spot again, again, again. Your slick coated him, the sound of it filthy and unashamed.

He chuckled darkly, proud and breathless, and pulled out just enough to slam forward harder—his upward stroke punching a scream straight from your lungs.

“Shit—Sam, oh my fuck—” you babbled, hands scrambling across the desk, trying to push back against the pace, but it was useless. He was relentless. Glorious. Ruining you, just like he promised.

His hand cracked down on your ass, the sting sweet and shocking. You gasped, the force of it sending you straight into the edge of another climax.

“Don’t run,” he said, voice gravel and heat. “Take it.”

And you did—crying out as your hips jolted forward, your orgasm crashing down like a tidal wave. You clenched around him, legs shaking, barely holding yourself up as your body trembled beneath the weight of it.

But Sam didn’t stop. His grip dragged you back, slamming your hips flush against his cock with a groan torn from deep in his chest.

“Keep still,” he growled through gritted teeth, thrusts turning brutal, wild.

This was the man you craved every night with a hand between your legs.

You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—all you could do was feel. Feel the wet slap of your bodies, the stretch, the slick, the way your pussy hugged him tight, soaked and desperate.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty with your mouth open like that,” he murmured, watching your face twist in bliss, watching you fall apart for him. Over and over.

His other hand found your clit, fingers rubbing fast, messy circles in time with his thrusts.

“Fuck—fuck—Sam—!” you sobbed, body convulsing as the tension inside you snapped again, the second orgasm ripping through you like fire in your bloodstream.

You gushed around him, trembling, ruined.

Sam hissed between his teeth, hips stuttering. “That’s it, baby. Just like that.” His name was the only thing you could say, over and over, a prayer and a curse, lips parted, vision hazy.

Your cheek pressed to the cool desk, breath fogging the surface with every broken moan. Your nails scratched helplessly at the wood, searching for something to hold onto—because it sure as hell wasn’t going to be him. Sam had you. Fully. Unforgivingly.

“Fuck, Sam,” you whimpered, voice strained and wrecked.

Sweat dripped from Sam’s temple, landing hot on your back. One of his hands left your hip to thread into your hair, tugging your head up just enough so he could hear every sound you made, every filthy little sob.

“You miss this?” he asked, voice like gravel and thunder. “Miss the way I fuck you stupid?”

You choked on a laugh, but it dissolved into a gasp when he slammed into you again, so deep it punched the air from your lungs.

“Say it,” he growled, thrusts brutal, timed with every pulse of your clit beneath his fingers. “Say it, baby.”

“I—” you breathed, blinking through stars. “I missed it. Missed you.”

He growled your name, low and guttural, right against your neck, before his mouth found your skin—biting, kissing, claiming. You arched into him, feeling the heat build again, unbearable and addictive. The rhythm of your bodies grew faster, messier, louder.

You screamed his name again as the final orgasm crashed over you, harder than the last, your whole body tightening before unraveling completely. You clenched around him, milking every last stroke until he finally groaned, long and deep, spilling into you with a final snap of his hips.

You were still pulsing around him, still trembling as he leaned down and kissed you—desperate and slow, all tongue and teeth and want.

You moaned into his mouth, your fingers slipping into the curls at the back of his neck, holding him there like if you let go, you’d come undone all over again.

Eventually, he eased out with a slow groan, and you whimpered at the empty slide, his release and yours dripping down your thighs. He caught it with his fingers, rubbing it lazily across your swollen folds before pressing one last kiss to the inside of your knee.

His release, hot and thick, mingled with yours and slid down the insides of your thighs in a slow, filthy trail.

Sam watched it for a beat, then brought his fingers down to catch it—rubbing it back into your sensitive folds with the same reverence he once used to touch your cheek.

You twitched beneath him, still overstimulated, still clinging to every last wave.

He leaned down and pressed a final kiss to the inside of your knee—soft, lingering, like it was a vow only you were meant to hear. Then another kiss, higher this time. A path. A question.

He rested his forehead against your leg, catching his breath.

Outside, the music swelled again—strings rising, Marvin’s voice melting through the walls like heat. There’s only three things that’s for sure... taxes, death, and trouble.