#obedient steve

He had left before the sun could judge him, leaving water and snacks on your nightstand, a final, lingering instinct of the gentleman he was supposed to be before retreating to the sterile safety of the Avengers Tower.

Everything felt normal until the briefing. He sat at the head of the table, the stoic Captain, until the doors opened and you walked in. The air left his lungs. Seeing you in tactical gear, looking bright and unbothered, sent a jolt of pure, terrifying electricity through his spine.

"Captain," Tony’s voice cut through the haze, announcing the new recruit, but Steve could barely hear him. "This here's our new recruit, assigned for —"

All he could see was the curve of your hip and the memory of how that hip felt pinned beneath his palms just hours ago. He spent the rest of the briefing in a state of quiet, agonising paralysis, his mind a battlefield of duty versus desire.

Once the team dispersed, he retreated to the sanctuary of his office, desperately trying to bury himself in tactical files to regain his composure. A sharp, rhythmic knock shattered his focus.

"Come in," he managed, his voice sounding far too strained even to his own ears.

The door swung open, and there you were. You didn't look like a soldier; you looked like a temptation. You sauntered toward his desk with a confidence that made his heart hammer against his ribs, a playful, knowing glint in your eyes that told him you hadn't forgotten a single second of the night before.

Tony’s voice drifted off into the background, a meaningless hum compared to the thundering pulse in Steve's ears. He watched, paralyzed, as you closed the distance between the door and his desk. You didn't offer a salute or a formal greeting; instead, you leaned over the mahogany surface, your eyes locking onto him with a predatory sweetness that made his throat go dry.

"Captain Rogers," you purred, the title sounding like a delicious mockery in the quiet room. "Ready for my orientation?"

Steve cleared his throat, desperately trying to summon the commanding officer he was supposed to be. "Yes. We'll start with the tactical overview, and then — "

He was cut off by the sensation of your hand sliding across the desk, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his uniform trousers. He gasped, a low, broken sound, as you pulled yourself closer, your body humming with a shameless, unbothered energy.

"Then we'll — we'll go over the training schedule," he stammered, his eyes darting toward the heavy office door as if the Avengers themselves might burst in at any moment.

His moral compass was spinning wildly, screaming at him that this was unprofessional, scandalous, a complete betrayal of the discipline he stood for. But then your fingers tightened on the fabric of his trousers, and the scent of your skin that intoxicating, familiar warmth hit him like a physical blow.

"Forget the schedule, Steve," you whispered, leaning in until your lips were a breath away from his ear, your voice dropping into a low, obscene velvet that made his blood boil. "You were much more focused on my 'training' last night. Why are you acting so shy now? Is the big, brave Captain Rogers afraid of a little misconduct?"

He let out a choked groan, his hands instinctively reaching out to steady himself on the desk, his knuckles turning white.

The air in the office was thick enough to choke on, heavy with the scent of your perfume and the suffocating weight of Steve’s conscience. He tried to stand, to reclaim the authority of the uniform, but your hands were already moving, brazen and unyielding. When your fingers hooked into his waistband, a frantic, desperate sort of tug, his breath hitched in a jagged sob of pure conflict.

"This is highly irregular," he rasped, his voice cracking as he tried to force a sternness that was rapidly dissolving into lust. "You are a recruit, and I am your commanding officer. There are protocols, there are rules, for a reason!"

He was lecturing you, his blue eyes wide and pleading, as if he could convince his own soul to stop betraying him. He was a man of honour, a man of the old world, and here he was, being dismantled by a woman who looked like several faces younger than that scruffy face of his.

"Steve," you whispered, the use of his name a direct assault on his remaining defences. You both were standing up now, his attempts in placating the situation losing at each step of yours, till you stood right in front of him, past his desk.

Before he could protest again, you reached down and seized his large, trembling wrist. With a strength born of pure intent, you guided his hand beneath the hem of your pencil skirt. The moment his warm skin met the slick, heated silk of your inner thigh, his eyes blew wide, his entire body jolting as if struck by lightning. You nudged his large palm further up, making his knuckles bump against your clit momentarily.

"See how wet I am for you already?" you murmured, leaning in so close his beard brushed your cheek. "Do you miss me? Because I do. I really loved our night together — let me have more."

"We — we shouldn't," he groaned, though his fingers were already curling, instinctively seeking more of you. "The team — Tony could walk in — and you’re too you — fuck, I’m your damn Captain now."

His thumb brushed against your most sensitive heat, and the way you arched into his touch unashamed and hungry sent a wave of pure, unadulterated sin through his veins. He was a man of principle, a man who believed in the sanctity of the chain of command, but as he looked at you, the 'Captain' was losing the war to the 'man.'

"Christ, you're so young," he continued, the words a frantic, dying plea for a restraint that no longer existed.

Then, you changed tactics. You pulled back just enough to tilt your head, widening your eyes into a look of pure, innocent vulnerability. Those big, doe eyes, so wide and seemingly earnest, were the ultimate deception.

"Please, Captain," you whispered, your voice dropping into a sweet, melodic lilt that sounded like the perfect, obedient recruit. "Your recruit is calling on you."

The actual audacity of it, the way you played the part of the innocent subordinate while your body practically screamed for his touch was the final blow to his crumbling resolve. Steve let out a defeated, guttural sound, a noise that was half prayer and half growl. His moral compass wasn't just spinning anymore; it had been tossed out the window entirely.

"God help me," he breathed, his hands moving with a sudden, desperate purpose.

He didn't even wait to fully undress; the urgency was too high, the tension too thick. He stepped forwards, his large hands catching your waist to guide you. With a frantic sort of grace, he grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair and spread it across the polished mahogany, a silent, instinctive gesture of the gentleman he still desperately tried to be, even as he prepared to ruin his reputation.

He turned you around, pressing your chest down against the soft fabric of his jacket, shielding your skin from the cool, hard wood of the desk. He moved behind you, his breathing heavy and ragged, a stark contrast to the disciplined soldier the world knew him to be.

Those tentative hands scoured the hem of your skirt, massaging those hips like last night, before hitching up your skirt. Steve fiddled with his drawer briskly, grabbing the lube and slickening his fingers.

You sigh sweetly at the familiar feel of a finger breaching in, then another, forming a steady rhythm. It was just enough to get your pussy to loosen up a bit, even despite the mess you’d already been making.

As he guided his cock into you, a low, primal groan escaped his throat, his forehead dropping to rest against the nape of your neck. He was still fighting it, still feeling the phantom sting of his conscience telling him this was wrong, that he was supposed to be your mentor, your protector not the man currently driving you into the mahogany.

But as he began to move, the rhythm of his hips became a desperate, driving force that drowned out every single moral objection. He was lost to the sensation, to the way you gripped the edge of the desk and the way your breath hitched in perfect sync with his.

Meanwhile, you simply leaned into the friction, a silent, satisfied smirk playing on your lips as you felt him lose himself in you. You knew exactly what you knew exactly how to break him. As he drove into you, his movements were heavy and uncharacteristically frantic, a man trying to outrun his own guilt with every thrust.

He was still the Captain, still the man of honour, but the way his fingers dug into your hips told a different story: a story of a man who was utterly, hopelessly conquered by the very person he was supposed to be leading.

The rhythmic thud of his body against the desk, muffled by the expensive fabric of his jacket, was the only sound in the room besides his ragged, desperate breathing. He was lost in the friction, the heat, and the sheer, delicious wrongness of it all. Every time he tried to pull back, to find some semblance of professional distance, you would let out a soft, needy whimper or tilt your hips back to meet him, dragging him deeper into the sin.

As the tension reached a fever pitch, a sudden, sharp sound from the hallway the distant, muffled laughter of Tony and Clint sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through Steve. His eyes went wide, a flash of panic momentarily eclipsing the lust. Before you could let out a triumphant, loud moan of pleasure, his large, calloused palm slammed over your mouth, muffling your voice into a soft, vibrating hum against his skin.

He was frantic now, his movements becoming a desperate, driving rhythm, his hips slamming into yours with a force that made the heavy desk groan under the weight. He was caught in a maddening loop of self inflicted torment.

With one hand pinning you down, silencing you, and the other gripping your hip so hard his knuckles were white, he was fighting a war within himself. He didn't know if he was trying to save his own legendary reputation or protect yours from the scandal of being the girl who "corrupted" the legendary reputation or protect yours from the scandal of being the girl who "corrupted" the paragon of virtue.

"Shh, honey — please, just a little longer," he whispered against your ear, his voice a ragged, broken thing.

He was shaming himself with every thrust, his mind a frantic litany of this is wrong, this is madness, she's your responsibility, yet his body was telling a completely different story. He was worshiping you, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your neck, his rough beard scratching deliciously against your flesh as he peppered you with sweet, desperate kisses.

He was murmuring praises into your skin, the same low, gravelly tones he’d used in the dark of your apartment, telling you how incredible you felt, how beautiful you were, how he couldn't get enough of you. It was a beautiful, chaotic contradiction: a man performing an act of pure, adulterated act of devotion while simultaneously feeling like a common sinner.

Every time he felt the swell of a moan building in your throat, he would press his palm harder, his eyes darting toward the door with a frantic, wide eyed intensity that was almost comical if it weren't so intense. He was a man on the brink of a total breakdown, caught between the urge to pull you close and weep with the sheer, delicious wrongness of it, and the urge to pull away and hide his face in his hands in shame.

"You're so good — so perfect," he groaned, the words a whispered confession against your skin, even as his inner monologue screamed about the breach of protocol. He was losing himself to the rhythm, to the way your body seemed to mould perfectly to his, and to the intoxicating realisation that despite all his rules and all his duty, he was utterly, hopelessly addicted to the way you made him feel.

Even in the throes of a scandalous, desk bound frenzy, Steve could not help but be the man he was raised to be. He was hyper aware of your pleasure, his focus shifting from his own mounting desperation to the way your body was beginning to tremble and tighten around him. He felt the tell-tale tremors of your orgasm beginning to ripple through you, and instead of rushing his own end, he leaned into it.

As you began to whine, the sound muffled and desperate against the heavy heat of his palm, he didn't pull away. Instead, he cooed to you, a low, soothing rumble in his chest that was pure sweetness.

"That's it, sweetheart — just let it go. I've got you," he murmured, his voice a gentle anchor in the storm of your sensation. He guided you through the climax, his movements becoming rhythmic and steady, providing the exact stimulation needed to push you over the edge to the very end. Those familiar digits returning to rub feverish circles to your clit was just enough.

He held you through the waves of your release, his hand still firm but tender over your mouth, his eyes closed tight as he fought the urge to groan your name to the rafters. Only when your breathing began to level out, and the frantic tension in your muscles subsided into a soft, post orgasmic glow, did he allow himself to lose his own battle.

Steve was teetering on the precipice, his muscles coiled like a spring, his entire being focused on the singular, driving need to finish. But even as his control slipped, that ingrained, old fashioned gentleman surfaced one last time. He slowed his pace just a fraction, his voice dropping to a gravelly, desperate whisper that vibrated against your ear.

"Where —" he gasped, his eyes searching yours with a raw, unshielded intensity. "Where do you want it, honey? Tell me."

He was giving you the choice, a final, frantic attempt to maintain some semblance of respect even as he was losing his goddamn mind. You didn't hesitate. With your face pressed against the cool fabric of his jacket, you let out a muffled, needy mumble against his palm.

"Inside."

The word hit him like a physical blow. It sent a violent spark of moral ambiguity deep within his soul. It was the ultimate transgression to leave his mark inside his own recruit, to be so intimate, so unashamedly primal in the very place where he was supposed to command respect.

For a split second, his eyes squeezed shut, his mind screaming about the mess, the impropriety, the sheer audacity of it.

But then, a more practical, almost protective thought flickered through the haze of his lust. He looked down at the expensive mahogany of his desk and the fine fabric of your pencil skirt, and he couldn't bear the thought of a messy, unseemly spill that would leave a trail of evidence for the rest of the team to find. He wanted to be careful with you, even now.

With a final, shuddering groan that he had to swallow back into your shoulder, he drove himself home. He let out a long, low breath as he surrendered to the sensation, filling your pussy completely. He let out a long, shuddering breath, his entire frame trembling as the heat of him flooded you.

For a moment, he just stayed there, anchored to you, his forehead pressed hard against the curve of your shoulder as he tried to process the sheer, glorious sin of it all. The silence of the office felt deafening, broken only by the frantic, uneven rhythm of his breathing and the distant, muffled sounds of the Avengers Tower continuing its life outside his door.

He felt a profound sense of both exhaustion and a strange, terrifying exhilaration. He had broken the rules, shattered the decorum, and completely compromised his position. Yet, as he felt the warmth of himself inside you, he couldn't bring himself to regret a single second of it.

He was the Captain, the paragon of virtue, but in this moment, he was just a man who had been utterly, beautifully undone by the woman he was supposed to be leading.

As the final tremors of his release subsided, the heavy, primal fog in Steve’s mind began to lift, replaced by the sharp, stinging clarity of reality. He stayed draped over you for a few moments longer, breathing in the scent of your skin and the musk of their shared sin, before the Captain in him forced his eyes open. The war between his desire and his duty wasn't over, but the immediate crisis of the moment demanded action.

True to his nature, even in the aftermath of such a scandalous encounter, he didn't leave you a mess.

With a focused, almost frantic sort of care, he moved to clean you both, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he used tissues to ensure no trace of his surrender remained on your skin or the fine fabric of your skirt. He straightened your clothes, smoothing the wrinkles in your pencil skirt and adjusting your blouse with the precision of a man preparing a soldier for inspection. He was trying to erase the evidence of the last minutes of absolute chaos, acting as though you two had just finished a standard tactical briefing rather than a frantic, desk bound tryst.

When he was finished, he reached into his desk drawer and handed you a bottle of water, his eyes lingering on yours with a mixture of lingering heat and profound, weary affection.

"Drink," he commanded softly, his voice still a bit too low, a bit too husky. "You need to stay hydrated."

He watched you with a bated breath as you took a sip, your eyes dancing with a mischief that told him you were perfectly aware of the havoc you had just wreaked on his soul. You stood up, smoothed your skirt one last time, and began to saunter toward the door with that same, unbothered confidence that had drawn him in at the bar.

Just as your hand reached for the handle, you paused. You turned back, casting a playful, wicked glance over your shoulder. A triumphant, knowing smirk played on your lips, the kind that promised this was far from the last time you'd be breaking his composure.

"Thank you for the orientation debrief, Captain!" you called out, your voice bright and perfectly professional, though the underlying lilt of mischief was impossible to miss. "Can't wait to see you on the op!"

The door clicked shut behind you, leaving the office in a sudden, deafening silence. Steve remained frozen, the ghost of your touch still burning against his skin and the weight of your words hanging in the air like a challenge. He didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't even attempt to fix his own dishevelled hair. Instead, he slowly sank back into his heavy leather chair, the strength seemingly drained from his very bones.

He let out a long, shuddering exhale and dropped his head into his hands.

His fingers pressed hard against his temples, as if he could physically squeeze the scandalous images of your body against his desk out of his mind. He was the leader of the Avengers. He was the moral compass of a nation. He was supposed to be the man who did things the right way, the man who stood for discipline and decorum.

And yet, here he was, sitting in his high backed leather chair, feeling the lingering, heavy warmth of you still deep inside him, his heart hammering a rhythm that felt less like a soldier's march and more like a sinner's confession.

He could still hear the echo of your voice that bright, teasing lilt ringing in the quiet room. Can't wait to see you on the op!

It wasn't just a professional sentiment; it was a promise. A promise of more stolen moments, more broken rules, and more of the delicious, terrifying way you could make him forget every single thing.

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