#muse verse

She was in sunglasses and cutoff shorts and a top that was going to haunt a few men tonight. One devastating leg was crossed over the other, and her head was thrown back as she laughed at something Ari had just said.

Steve didn’t move.

You looked up at your husband and saw it hit him: not jealousy, but recognition.

That was the girl. 

The one Bucky had said might just be it for Levinson. The one who walked into his life and somehow made him decent. And the way Ari was looking at her?

Yeah. She was it.

You bumped Steve’s hip.

“What’s that face?”

Steve didn’t answer. Just watched as Ari leaned in slightly to say something to her. Watched the way her mouth curved, slow and tentative, not giving him too much of her. 

“She’s gonna ruin him,” you murmured, admiration threading through your voice. 

“God, I have to meet her.”

You stepped forward before Steve could overthink it.

“C’mon,” you said, breezy as hell.

“Let’s go meet the girl who finally shut him up.”

You didn’t wait for permission. You didn’t need it. You made a beeline down the aisle and Steve followed, stoic and careful, but something tight flickered in his jaw.

—---

Steve’s arm was wrapped tight around your waist, like he needed the contact to breathe evenly. You were making him hot, sure, but he wasn’t totally focused on you or the game. 

He was watching Ari out of the corner of his eye.

He didn’t trust him.

But Levinson wasn’t looking your way. His hand rested on Muse’s thigh, their heads tipped together, a whisper slipping between them.

Steve exhaled.

It had taken a model to distract Ari Levinson. Someone bold enough to match him. Smart enough to hold him. And beautiful enough to make him forget anyone else.

Not that Steve had ever truly worried.

If it came down to it, he would’ve broken Ari in half. 

End of story. 

But that wasn’t what this was. He didn’t want a fight.

He just wanted you.

And in the quiet relaxing of his shoulders, you felt it, his relief.

You reached up and kissed his jaw, the way you always did when you could feel his temper running hot beneath the surface. 

A grounding touch. A reminder.

“I’m yours,” you whispered. “You know that, right?”

His eyes closed for a beat. Then he leaned in and kissed your temple.

“I know.”

You smiled, wicked and sweet.

“Good. ’Cause you in that hat and those jeans are making me wet, Mr. Rogers. There’s no other man for me here than you.”

Steve huffed a laugh, something primal flickering behind his eyes.

“Goddamn right.”

But you weren’t done with him.

—-

You’d been teasing Steve since the minute you sat down from talking to Muse. The scent of lust and love in the air had you feral.

It began with you leaning in to Steve a little closer than necessary. Then your fingers danced on his thigh, featherlight every time you reached for your drink.

You’d laughed louder when Muse said something sharp. And you’d reapplied your gloss in slow, hypnotic strokes that caught the stadium lights, and Steve couldn’t stop watching.

By the fourth, you were shifting just to watch him squirm. Uncrossing and recrossing your legs with deliberate grace, the hem of your tennis dress sliding up inch by inch until his brain short-circuited trying to follow it.

It wasn’t just the dress. Or your laugh, It was the way you looked at him, eyes all heat, lips parted, with your breath grazing his neck.

“Peach,” he breathed, barely audible.

“What?” you asked innocently, as your hand inched higher.

“You wanna start something in the middle of a baseball game?”

You grinned. “Who said I was starting it? You throwing caveman vibes has me about to get on my knees right here in the stands.”

His cock throbbed in his jeans.

He clenched his jaw, trying to breathe through the way your leg brushed his, the way your gloss gleamed under the lights. 

He remembered that gloss smudged on his cock. 

On his stomach. 

His nipples.

You turned your head and licked your lips and Steve nearly came undone.

He leaned in like he was whispering something, but his mouth found your neck instead, lips dragging against the spot that always made you sigh. And you did, breath catching, thighs pressing together, heat blooming between your legs so fast it made your head spin.

Ari noticed. Eyes flicked to Steve’s hand and then to your mouth.

Muse caught it too.

“Oh my god,” she whispered.

“They’re like this everywhere,” Ari muttered, resigned.

And you were. No shame.

By the fifth, you were in his lap.

Steve’s knuckles turned white where he gripped your hip, guiding your rhythm just enough to make you feel it. Make you remember. 

The press of your ass against his jeans was enough to make him see stars, but he kept it slow and controlled.

Barely.

You were both pretending to watch the game. But you hadn’t seen a single play since the fourth inning. 

You tilted your head, let your hair brush his cheek, let your teeth catch your lip just as you rocked against him again. Every movement shot fire through his spine.

He was one second from dragging you out of there.

“You gonna be good, Mr. Rogers?” you whispered.

He groaned, quietly desperate.

You barely made it to the end of the game.

—----

Steve was on you the second the door clicked shut. Not rough. Not frantic. Just pure wound up heat. He’d been white-knuckling his restraint the entire night.

He caged you against the hallway wall, lips crashing into yours, hot and claiming. You let him take for a moment, let his tongue slide deep, his teeth catch your bottom lip.

But then you flattened your hands to his chest and pushed him back.

“Strip,” you said softly.

Steve’s chest rose, then fell. He didn’t move fast enough. You tilted your head. 

“You don’t get to fuck me tonight, Rogers.”

His cock twitched. You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. 

“You’ve been misbehaving in public. Touching me like that at the game. Making Muse blush. Making Ari jealous.”

He exhaled a shaky breath against your throat. 

“You loved it.”

“Oh, I loved it,” you whispered.

“But that doesn’t mean you get to cum easily.”

“I just want to worship my wife, Peach.”

You drew back enough to meet his eyes, molten blue.

“Worship?” you repeated.

“You sure about that, Mr. Rogers?”

He nodded.

“Every time. Every inch of you.”

You smiled slowly. 

“Good. Then get on your knees.”

The words hit him like a bullet. You felt it in the shift of his breath, the twitch of his fingers, and the brief falter in his composure before he dropped.

Just like that.

To his knees.

At the foot of the bed, in front of you. Looking up like he knew exactly who was in charge.

All Steve needed was to belong to you.

You let your tennis dress fall in one smooth motion, the soft fabric pooling at your feet and his eyes devoured you. You stepped closer. Close enough that your thighs framed his face, close enough that your fingers tangled in that perfect hair and tugged until he met your gaze.

“Then worship.”

And he did.

He kissed the inside of your thigh, then higher, his tongue dragging along your skin, tasting salt and heat. His hands greedily grabbed your ass, pulling you closer.

“Perfect,” he rasped.

“You’re so fucking perfect. My good girl.”

You guided him where you needed him, your cunt already slick, already aching. He opened his mouth like he was made for this, tongue flicking and curling deep into your wet heat.

Your gasp punched the air and your knees nearly buckled.

“That’s it,” you whispered, pressing his face tighter to you.

“You want to be good? Make me fall apart.”

He moaned against your cunt and doubled down, ams tight around your thighs, tongue circling and dipping, his mouth wet and unrelenting.

You rolled your hips into his mouth and you were so wet and perfect on his tongue, so fucking powerful above him, that Steve had to try to focus. 

He just needed to stay grounded and to make you cum. 

That was his only job.

His only purpose.

You’d told him to worship. And he meant to do it.

And every second you moaned, every time your fingers tugged his hair tighter, every time your thighs clenched around his head, he felt himself slipping.

And then you said it.

“Good boy.”

God, your voice. Your praise.

It made him feel split open. Like everything inside him was raw and soft and trembling. 

He hadn’t even touched himself.

He didn’t need to.

The words wrapped around his spine like a fist and something cracked open inside him. His pulse surged. His hands gripped tighter, and his hips twitched helplessly in mid air.

He tried to breathe through it. Tried to fight the heat crawling up his spine. He clenched his jaw and buried his face deeper between your thighs like he could outrun it.

But he couldn’t.

Not from the way you smelled. 

Not from the way you tasted. 

Not from the way you owned him with nothing but your voice.

You said it again. “Good boy.”

And Steve Rogers came in his fucking jeans.

He choked down a moan against your pussy as his cock throbbed and he came, hard, in his pants like a virgin who couldn’t hold it.

No friction. No hands.

Just the heat of you.

The sound of you.

The unbearable beauty of submission.

Heat flooded his jeans.

His hips bucked once, involuntarily, but he kept licking you through it because he didn’t want to stop. 

Because he didn’t want to miss the sound of you gasping. 

Because he hadn’t made you cum yet. 

Because he was yours.

“Being in love with a beautiful woman is hell on your ego.”

Steve had said it to Levinson, smug and knowing. But now with his face soaked, his thighs shaking, and his cock still twitching in his wet jeans, he felt it in his soul.

You were beautiful and devastating and so far out of reach, even when you were right on top of him.

And somehow, still, you were his.

And when he looked up at you, he was hard again before his heart even slowed.

—----

You knew when it happened.

You felt it his whole body tense, the soft, stifled moan against your cunt, the way his body twitched. His shoulders shook. His face was wrecked.

And then you realized it.

“Steve…” you murmured, and tipped his chin up. His lips glistened. His eyes were dazed.

“Did you just come?” you asked.

He swallowed hard.

“Yeah,” he said, barely audible.

“I...I couldn’t help it. You said…”

“‘Good boy,’” you finished for him.

“You came in your jeans from eating me out.”

His face flushed with embarrassment. But you weren’t done.

You kissed him hard, tasting yourself on his lips.

“That is the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

He still looked stunned.

“I need to make you come again…”

“You will,” you promised.

“On your back.”

You stripped him slowly, jeans damp and clinging to his thighs. He looked wrecked and gorgeous. 

He was yours.

When he laid back, cock twitching with the beginnings of another erection, you ran your mouth down his chest, licking the evidence off his skin and dragged your tongue up the length of his cock.

He shouted your name.

You straddled him, slick still smeared on your thighs. You teased the head of his cock along your folds, watching his throat work.

“No hands,” you said. “You made a mess in your pants for me, now you’re going to lie there and take it.”

He whimpered.

Steve Rogers, ruthless former crime boss, at your mercy. 

You took his hard huge cock in your hand, tutting at his oversensitivity, and sank down on him slowly, until you were seated all the way, hips flush to his.

His beautiful neck tipped back with a guttural groan as you fluttered around him.

“You’re already hard again?” you teased, grinding once.

“God, Stevie. One taste of me and you lose your fucking mind.”

His whole body arched.

“Please, Peach…”

You rocked slowly, just enough friction to make him twitch, but not enough to let him finish.

“You gonna come again for me, Baby?” you purred.

He shook his head, trembling.

“Can’t,” he whispered. “Not yet. Too much.”

You leaned in closer, nose brushing his, your breath hot against his cheek.

And then you whispered it again: “Good boy.”

That was it. His hands clenched at his sides, white-knuckled on the rug.

His body arched beneath you, every muscle locking as he came again, this time inside you, this time so raw and needy he didn’t make a sound, just a long, broken gasp as he flooded you.

You didn’t stop. You rocked through it, holding his shoulders down, making him feel it, making him sob through the overstimulation.

When his body finally went limp beneath yours, when his eyes fluttered open, wide and dazed, you leaned down and kissed his jaw.

“I love you like this,” you whispered. “All messy and feral. And all mine.”

His arms finally came up to wrap around you, trembling but tight. You curled up on his chest, both of you panting, wrecked, and soaked with each other.

He laughed, exhausted and wrecked for you.

“I think you’re gonna kill me,” he said.

You smiled.

“Not yet.”

—-

You woke up sticky, flushed, and still a little drunk on power.

Steve was sprawled on his back beside you, mouth slightly open, one arm flung across his eyes. You ran your fingers lazily along his chest, tracing the light scratch marks you'd left the night before. He stirred under your touch, groaning low in his throat.

“You alive?” you asked, voice still thick with sleep.

“Barely,” he rasped. “Pretty sure you broke me.”

You smiled, slow and smug. “You begged me to.”

He turned his head toward you, blinking through the haze. His hair was a mess, cheeks still rosy, and his lips were a little swollen.

“I still can’t feel my legs.”

You kissed his shoulder. 

“You don’t need them for what I have planned later.”

He laughed easy. The kind of laugh that belonged to a man completely undone and completely in love.

You stretched slowly and settled against his chest, resting your chin just below his collarbone. His hand slid into your hair, absent-mindedly stroking as the silence shifted, warmer now.

“You saw the screenshot of the ultrasound Bucky sent?” you asked, your voice bright with excitement. “And the bump pic?”

Steve hummed, a little stunned at your smile.

“Yeah. She’s starting to show.”

“She looks so good,” you murmured. “She’s glowing!”

“Bucky’s still in shock,” Steve replied.

“He texted me right after they found out the sex. Said, ‘Am I allowed to cry at a gender reveal or is that soft?’”

You snorted.

“That is soft. But we love him.”

Steve laughed under his breath. 

“Yes. Even if he still pretends I didn’t catch him crying at the wedding.”

You both went quiet for a second, remembering.

The island had been glowing that night. Pale stone altar, sunset in the background, string quartet playing something romantic and slow. You and Steve had danced barefoot in the sand. It was perfect and your cousin was so happy.

“God,” you whispered. “That wedding.”

Steve shifted to see you better.

“You thinking about it? Want one?”

He asked it carefully. You could hear the tension underneath, like he was afraid you’d say yes, that you regretted what the two of you had done. It had been just you and him, a quick elopement before the holidays. 

A stolen moment of peace in a city where nothing stayed quiet for long.

You shook your head.

“Not that. Ours was perfect. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

He relaxed slightly.

You trailed your fingers down his chest, your touch softer now. 

“I meant… how ready they looked. Ahhhh! The picture with their hands on her little belly. The way he looked at her when she wasn’t watching.”

You hesitated, then added, quieter, “It was more than just being married. It was making a life.”

Steve didn’t say anything. Just kept watching you.

“I want that,” you said.

“Eventually. I really do. But not yet.”

He nodded once, slowly.

“I want to learn you,” you said.

“Before everything changes. Before there’s diapers and bottles and spit-up on your ties. Before I’m someone’s mother. I want to just be yours first.”

His thumb brushed your cheek, lingering.

“You already are.”

You kissed his palm. 

“I mean really be yours. Without rushing. Without timelines or countdowns or expectations.”

“I don’t want to rush it either,” he said.

“I like waking up with you like this. Just us.”

“Me too.”

He dipped his head and kissed the corner of your mouth. 

“We’ve got time. And you’re going to be the most terrifying, beautiful mother anyone’s ever seen. But right now?” 

His fingers slid to your hip.

“I want you selfishly.”

“Greedy,” you teased, tugging his hand back to your waist.

“Absolutely.”

You curled into him, the conversation folding gently between your bodies. 

No pressure. 

Just heat and love and the sense that you had time.

-----