#steve x reader

You, across the hall, with a smile that knocked him out and a voice that made him understand the sirens in the old stories a little better. Steve had thought moving out of the Avengers tower and into a normal brownstone apartment would help him feel normal—help him adjust, he’d told Tony, pushing off the demands that he stay—but it was the greatest mistake of his life.

He’d expected a kind older woman, or a grumpy, silent man. Maybe a young teacher with no time for him, or a blue-collar worker that reminded him of Bucky, who he’d learn to call a friend. Instead he got you.

It was dangerous in a way he couldn’t name. Attraction was one thing. Something he’d felt before. Girls in the 40s that he didn’t stand a chance with, so he didn’t bother. Peggy, which had been a little more real, but ended in a kiss and goodbye that he wasn’t going to chase ghosts about. All the girls Nat tried to set him up with, where the attraction died quickly under a light. Nat herself, when he’d been a little  lonely, and she’d been flirting for fun.

But you… You lasted.

You lasted, and with every small interaction, Steve’s desire only grew. And grew and grew and grew and grew, until it was a hungry beast in his chest that howled and would not be ignored.

“Rough day?” He asked when you came into the building late at night, soaked to the bone and staring at your shoes.

You looked up at him, and his heart goddamn stopped. He’d been down here to get the mail. He hadn’t cleaned up—he never really did—but under your gaze, he felt bigger than a mountain and smaller than an ant, all at the same time. If that was how you looked after a rough day, Steve was a goner. Pouty lips and shining eyes like an angel, wet clothing clinging to your body so he could see every dip and curve, a wiser man than Steve would’ve called himself a goner, and Steve didn’t count himself any kind of wise man.

“Not my best,” you said, smiling slightly, and Steve’s lips twitched.

He chuckled, unsure what else to do with himself. He rubbed his neck—it was getting awfully hot in the air conditioned lobby—and failed to look anywhere else but you.

“You need a jacket?” He asked, trying to help, and you gave him a strange look.

“I- I think I’m okay now,” you’d wrapped your arms tight around your body. “I am inside.”

You were inside. Steve could’ve punched himself in the face. “Could keep you warm,” he offered, seemingly unable to stop himself. “It’s- Elevator gets drafty.”

The elevator did not get drafty. The stairs got drafty. And Steve was a fool, a goddamn fool who’d never learned how to flirt with a girl, let alone a pretty girl, let alone the prettiest girl he’d ever seen, who smiled at him like he amused her and watched him with a gaze that he thought could cut him right open and make him offer up his heart-

“Okay.”

Steve blinked. “Okay?”

You nodded, still smiling. Shifting on your feet. Steve wanted to sweep you off them, spin you around, pin you to the wall and make you really, really warm in way that counted, and claimed, and-

He coughed. He coughed loudly, loud enough to make you look a little surprised. He pulled off his jacket—the brown leather one Tony bought him, to make him look at least a little less like a boy scout when he was bashing head in, the one that could probably buy the whole building if Steve bothered—and pushed it into your hands.

Your fingers brushed his wrist. They were small than his own—obviously, he was massive—and warm and seemed to be made of lightning. Steve almost shivered. Your smile widened, and he almost fell to his knees.

“I hope your day gets better,” he rasped, and then he ran. His heart had never pounded this loud in his chest. A smile had never followed him all the way from the scene of the crime into his daydreams. It haunted him for weeks, until he was waking up with images of you—soaked and smiling at him—fresh in his hungry mind, forcing all the blood in his brain to his cock, making him hard and sensitive and strained like a teenager finding out that boobs could be soft.

You had nice breasts. Steve could see your nipples through your wet clothing, and he’d watched to palm and massage them, maybe kiss them and suck on them, under you were covered in love bites and pulling at his hair. You’d make sweet sounds and grind up into his body as he kept you pinned below him, needy and content as his tongue flicked against your peaked nipple. Your back would arch and you’d call his name and thrash below him and-

Steve came in his hand, groaning your name to silently judgmental walls. He’d made a mess of the sheets. He’d made a mess of everything, and he rubbed a hand over his jaw, screwing his eyes closed tight enough to hurt.

He’d jerked off since he got out of the ice, but it had been maintenance, his head empty of real thoughts, his body moving on quickly after. 

That had been different. His hands were sticky, and even he washed then, he could still feel the heat. He could feel it everywhere. He closed his eyes, saw your smile, and grit his teeth.

No. Steve Rogers did not count himself a good man. But he did count himself an honorable one.

And he was in deep, deep trouble.

He wasn’t stalking you. He swore he wasn’t stalking you. He’d really just needed coffee, and he hadn’t had a clue that you were going to be right there, across the counter, smiling like he was a pleasant surprise.  

“Oh- Hi, Steve!”

You said it so sweet. You said it in a way that Steve hadn’t known his name could be said, like a song, like a prayer, like something actually worth saying. He opened his mouth to greet you, but nothing came out. Nothing could come out. All his words were lodged with desire in his throat, and his eyes were latched to yours like magnets to metal, and his face was burning like it had been set on fire, and he couldn’t even remember what he’d ever been doing here before.

Sam coughed behind him. A little too loud, but enough to make Steve shake himself out of it. He grinned at you sheepishly. Your smile hadn’t fallen for a second, but Steve didn’t let himself think too hard about it. You were at work. You were just a kind person. He was the weirdo, getting tight pants from the sight of you, thinking about weaving his hand though your hair and pulling you across the counter into a long, deep kiss. You’d moan into his mouth and grab the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer. He’d help your legs wrap around his waist, holding you upright with nothing but his hands, showing you that he was strong, that he could give you anything you want, everything you deserve-

“We’ll take two Americanos,” Sam clapped his shoulder and took over, and Steve swallowed.

He’d blown it. He hadn’t even gotten a word out to you, and you were punching in the order, and he’d just stood here like an idiot-

“I didn’t know you worked here,” he blurted, and you laughed softly.

“I pick up shifts,” you shrug. “Little extra money, you know.”

Steve swallowed and nodded. He didn’t know anymore, with the whole Tony thing, but he used to know. “Well, if you- If you ever need help,” he rubbed his neck, trying to smile kindly. “You know where to find me.”

That made you pause. You looked him right in the eyes, something shining over your features that Steve couldn’t read, and he could feel his heart in his hands. He tried to keep his smile casual, but he was sure he was starting to look crazy. You tipped your head, and a loose strand of hair was poking over your brow. He wanted to brush it away. That would be the worst possible thing he could ever do.

“Do you want me to drop off your jacket?” You asked softly, and Steve could swear he saw Sam’s ears perk up in his periphery. “I can stop by tonight-“

“You can keep it,” Steve said, because that’s simply too beautiful a thought to pass up. You in his jacket again, for a while, smelling him in the fabric, maybe thinking of him every time you wear it. “It’s yours.”

You falter, and Steve thought he might’ve somehow said the wrong thing. He started to correct himself, but Sam bumped his shoulder and reminded him that there was a long line behind them. Steve smiled apologetically and dropped a hundred dollars in a tip jar. Your eyes widened, and you seemed seconds away from protesting, so Steve turned and ran. Again.

Only this time, you’re still across the room. And he doesn’t dare to hope it, but he can imagine that every time you scan the crowd, you’re looking for him.

If you were, you could have him.

If the café was empty, he might’ve done a lot of things differently.

And it’s not, but that doesn’t stop his mind from wandering to fantasy. To a world where, instead of fumbling like an idiot, he leaned across the counter and flirted until you were the one flushing and eagerly nervous. Steve would reach over and brush the hair from your face. He’d cup your cheek and lean forward, giving you a second to pull back, and then—when you didn’t—he’d kiss you.

It would be perfect. Warm and soft,  a little wet, a little messy when you started to get desperate, but Steve would meet you halfway. His lips would press harsher over yours, and you’d let out a breathy, surprised giggle. He’d moan into your mouth and now he’s on the other side of the counter with you.

He hauled you up his chest and let his lips wander. He sucked and licked soft, sensitive skin, marking under your jaw and at the base of your throat. You cried out his name and pulled his hair, arching up into his touch, begging for more.

“Steve,” you mumbled, writhing against him. “Steve- Please.”

And he never denied you anything. He laid you down on that goddamn counter and kissed down one of your arms, pushing up your shirt with slow, teasing hands. You let out slow, unsteady breathes, so he squeezed under your ribs on one side and kissed under your breast on the other.

“Breathe for me, honey,” he muttered against your soft skin, slowly pulling down your pants. “I’ve got you. Gonna make you feel so good.”

You nodded and let out a nervous, eager breath. Steve smiled and kissed over your stomach, slowly spreading your knees, massaging your thighs.

And your pussy was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. Glistening and ready for him, already pulsing a little, smelling like a drug he was about to become happily addicted to. Steve made out with your inner thigh, eyes locked onto yours, slowly watching you work yourself up at the sight of him on his knees.

“Just- Just-“ You pushed his head a little, and he chuckled, nipping at the little mark he’d left on your thigh.

“Impatient,” he scolded, smiling wide. “Lucky you’re so beautiful, baby. Makes it hard to tell you no.”

You whined, and it turned to a loud, echoing moan when Steve finally gives you what you want. He pressed his face right into your core, licking a thick, slow stripe up your dripping pussy. You shook, legs locking around his head, grinding into his face as he devours every inch of your most sensitive spot. His tongue swirled around your clit before he latched he lips around the little, swollen nub. He flicked back and forth as fast as he can, feeling you gushing on his chin, and moans against you.

You’re perfect like this, so perfect he could die. Making the best sounds he’d ever heard, rolling around and mewling as he ate you out, twitching and calling his name and-

“Steve.”

Sam snapped his fingers in  Steve’s face, and he flinched. The fantasy dissolved, and he was still in the crowded shop. You were calling his name, holding up the coffees for him and Sam.

Steve cleared his throat and glanced down. He was hard, but wasn’t noticeable.

He hoped.

He prayed.

He got the coffee from you, and your fingers brushed again, and he swore he was going to fall down. Sam was smirking when he got back. Steve sighed and gave him a tight, stern expression.

“Not a word,” he grunted and Sam’s eyes gleamed.

“Hey,” he raised his hands. “Didn’t say a thing.”

Steve grunted. He didn’t need to hear it. Didn’t want to hear it. He was a pervert and he knew it, and Sam didn’t need to say what he already goddamn knew.

And Steve had a horrible, horrible feeling, that it was only going to get worse from here.

The walls were thin. Steve was sure it was going to get him killed.

He’d been trying. He’d been trying so hard, it was starting to get noticeable. He’d go to the coffee shop every day, but he needed coffee every day, and when he saw you he’d only let himself fantasize about your lips for the brief space between talking to you and waiting for his order to be ready. Your fingers would brush, he’d smile politely, and walk away like a normal man. No visible boner, no weird sounds, no long stares. He didn’t even let himself linger in the lobby, hoping you’d be there. When you passed in the hallway and your shoulders brushed, he’d only let himself trace the searing, invisible mark you’d left against him when he was safely alone in the elevator.

Even in meetings, he kept himself hyper focused so he wouldn’t get lost in daydreams of your mouth on his neck, your body in his hands, your voice in his ear as he unraveled you with a single hand.

Sam pushed it sometimes. Steve hadn’t expected anything else, after the coffee shop incident. He was mostly counting himself lucky that Sam hadn’t told Nat, because that would’ve been a real big problem.

It was just teasing. Steve could handle that. He deserved it.

“You’re thinking about her again,” Sam whispered to him in the jet, and Steve didn’t dignify it with a grunt.

Of course he was thinking about you. He was always thinking about you.

Sam chuckled to himself, taking Steve’s silence for the agreement it was. “Jesus, man, you look like you’re about to cry or something-“

“Sam,” Steve shot him a look, and Sam’s whole face gleamed with delight.

“Wow,” he shook his head. “That bad? I mean, knew it couldn’t be good with how you went all-“ Sam stiffened up, putting on comically large eyes in a mockery of Steves.

And Steve groaned, rubbing his face like he could scrape off the heat it gave him to think of you. “You have no idea,” he muttered, and Sam really didn’t.

Because Steve had been trying. He was going to keep trying until all these lovely, wrong feelings dissolved or he simply died.

The odds weren’t tipping the way he wanted them to.

He might need to move soon, to keep himself from losing his mind.

The walls were so, so thin.

Most days it amounted to nothing but hearing your voice and gritting his jaw. Most nights he’d hear you drop something and swear so loud the building seemed to rattle, and he’d laugh to himself and smile at where he imagined you to be. He’d think about running in to save you from a heavy pot, and you’d swoon, and when he asked you for coffee—coffee you didn’t make me, he’d try as a joke, to show you he could be funny—you’d say yes.

He never did anything but think about that, of course. You deserved more than a lewd, lustful old man who didn’t have a job he counted as real. Steve was just the guy they’d shot up with steroids. There wasn’t anything phenomenal about him that didn’t exist in a better man, who didn’t have very lucid dreams about pinning you to his bed and eating you out until you cried.

When he was masochistic, Steve would stare at the wall—the wall, the one that was the source of all his wishes and desires and sins, that blocked him from having the one selfish thing he’d ever wanted, and should never be allowed to have—and he’d listen for another man’s voice. In a blessing and a curse, he never heard one. Sometimes he’d think he was, but it would just turn out to be some show you were watching.

And maybe Steve eavesdropped on that. And maybe that was creepy. But he wanted to know what kind of things you liked, and he told himself he’d never, ever invade your actual privacy.

He told himself that. He reminded himself that he was being good—he was trying to be good—and if you ever did have someone over, he’d leave the building for the rest of the day. He couldn’t help the super soldier hearing or the thin walls. You had no idea that when you so much as showered, Steve had to go out for dinner, because he could hear the water hitting your bare body, and it made standing rather difficult.

So Steve told himself he’d go.

He should’ve known better than to think he’d be able to keep that promise in a way that mattered.

He’s never been a heavy sleeper, but that’s never been a problem. Some nights he lays awake and listens to your heartbeat, just to be sure you’re safe.

One night, your heartbeat stuttered, and his eyes shot open. He was sitting on the edge of the mattress before he could understand that he was moving. His hands fisted in the sheets as he listened closer, trying to evaluate if you needed him. For normal, Captain America reasons, he listened more carefully than he ever had in his life.

Then he heard it.

The moan.

It wasn’t a moan of pain. Steve had heard enough of those in his life to name them. Your moan was too long, too breathy. Your heartbeat was fast, but not erratic, and your moans were restrained. As if you were trying to hold them back. As if you couldn’t help them from falling out. 

And then Steve could smell it. He can actually fucking smell it. The arousal leaking between your thighs, seeping through the windows and air vents. He closed his eyes and took a ragged, deep breath. He was really trying to ground himself, but now he could taste it, and he was worse than a doomed man.

He needed to move. To leave. To give you space for your… you time. You didn’t know he was listening. You’d probably be mortified if you did, and get that pretty flush and small, stumbling voice that popped up whenever you were noticed, not that he’d been paying attention too closely. This was wrong. So wrong.

But Steve could hear the wet, slippery sound of your pussy as you touched yourself. He could hear every little hum and sigh of pleasure, and he imagined himself swallowing them with his lips. He imagined himself being there, in your bed, moving your hands away from your body and replacing them with his own. He’d slide two thick fingers into your little pussy, watching your face contort with need and your lips form a breathy plea of his name.

“Open up for me, doll,” he’d murmur, and your legs would spread wider, even as he rubbed against a gooey, needy spot deep inside of you.

Your clit would pulse for his attention, and he’d offer it with his mouth. He’d finger fuck you faster than you could touch yourself, and the room would fill with the slap of his wrist and your cries for him to let you cum.

He’d hold it off. Not because he was cruel, but because he wanted this to last. He wanted you crying and begging for his cock, so he knew that you wanted this as bad as he did. He wanted to bully your g-spot until you were dripping down his wrist, so he could sheath himself deep inside of you without any resistance.

Steve was hard now. So hard he had to take off his sweats, had to palm his cock, just so he didn’t groan and alert you of his presence. You might not be able to hear him swiping pre-cum from his tip or beating himself into his hand, but the thin walls went both ways. You’d hear him moaning your name.

Or maybe you wouldn’t, because the next thing Steve heard was the slam of a drawer, and the buzz of something electric.

A vibrator.

You were using a vibrator. You were pressing it to your wet, needy pussy and rubbing the head against your clit until a soft sob of pleasure fell from your lips. You were writhing on the bed, panting and humping it like you were in heat, and Steve could picture your beautiful face, slack and taut all at once. He pumped his cock faster and faster, honed into your every moan, every squelch of your cunt on the toy, and he was clenching his jaw like it was wired to hold back cries of your name as he approached the edge.

He could make you feel better than the vibrator. You’d never need it, if you had Steve. And you wanted it, he’d make that better too. He’d hold you, standing between his legs, and he’d press the head of it right against your cunt. He’d splay his hand on your lower back and rub it in tight circles until you were wobbling and seconds from collapsing. He forces you to stay upright, to take it, to say please before you came, and then he’d kiss your breast and tell you to let go.

You’d cum. You’d cum so hard your legs gave out, and you’d collapse over his chest. You’d make all those gorgeous sounds you were making right now, from the sobs to the moans to the strangled whine that sounded too much like his name-

Steve came in his hand. He came hard. He came so hard his vision went spotty and he had to grab a pillow to muffle his voice. His cum sprayed all over his thighs, all over the mattress, all over the floor. He collapsed back with a groan, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing his jaw.

There was no coming back from that. No way he was ever going to look you in the eye again.

But he could’ve sworn, in the lustful haze, that you had really, really been crying his name.

Once he’d smelled it, it never seemed to go away.

When Steve wasn’t around you, it clogged up the air like mist in the summer, humid and thick and impossible to escape. He could smell it at meetings, on his bike upstate, across the world on a mission. He was days away from just asking Banner to neuter him like a dog, because he must be going into some kind of animalistic heat.

His solution was to avoid you. When he was close, he couldn’t be trusted. The smell always seemed to double, even triple, when you were so much as in the building. He could lock himself in the cell of his room, but even the hallway near you was dangerous. He knew he wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, ever, but it was still violating to be near you and unable to think of anything but the smell of your wet pussy, the way he wanted to pin you to a wall or sit you on his face, how he’d let you walk all over him for the rest of his life if it meant he got to crawl over your perfect body, every night.

And he got good at it. At being polite and kind and passive to you. He stopped himself from going to the coffee shop. When you passed him in the hall, he pressed against the wall to avoid touching you and getting a hard-on. He held the door open and stood on his toes, just to ensure your head wouldn’t bump his bicep when you dunked under his arm.

Even that was toeing the line. It was too easy to get lost in the fantasy of wrapping his arm around your neck—tight enough to make you dizzy and giggly, but never enough to hurt—and hold you to his chest while he bullied his cock in and out of your tight, warm cunt.

God, he might be the worst man alive.

So he stuck to the avoiding plan, and it was working. It was really working, until it wasn’t.

Until suddenly, you were everywhere.

“Hi,” you said, standing in his doorway late at night, smiling like you didn’t know what the hell you did to him.

Steve swallowed and dipped his head. “Hey.”

“I- Um-“ You shifted nervously, suddenly not looking him in the eyes. “I made you- I had- There was-“ You took a deep breath, and Steve frowned.

If there was someone or something threatening you, he’d take care of it. He’d always take care of it. He’d always take care of you if you let him, and God he hoped you’d let him, what he wouldn’t give for you to let him-

“Pie!”

You shouted it, and Steve’s been on duty too long. He thought it was a code word for a second, and his brow knit tight, his brain going into overtime to try and figure out what kind of threat pie was. Then you held out the box—he didn’t know how he’d missed it, but everything around you always becomes fuzzy and unimportant, pale in comparison to your color—and he gets it.

You were offering him pie.

You were offering him pie.

“I thought you’d like it,” you murmured, and your heart is quiet but fast. You still wouldn’t look at him.

That goddamn smell was going to make him start drooling if he wasn’t careful.

“If you don’t want it, I have co-workers-“

“No!” Steve was the one shouting now. He’d seen your co-workers, at least at the café. Weird little men who looked at you like hunting dogs. He hated them. He hated them being close to you. He hated that he wasn’t much better. “I can take it,” he gave you a kind smile, reaching for the box. “Thank you.”

And you smile at him, and the world felt a little lighter. His fingers brushed yours, and he forgot to pull away, and he decided that was fine. He was being normal. He could be normal about you.

And if he jerked off to the idea of you wearing nothing but an apron and sitting on a kitchen counter while Steve devoured you the same way he’d devoured the pie, that was nobody’s business.

After that, the universe seemed to be playing a trick on him. You seemed to pop up near him every day, sometimes twice, always where he couldn’t excuse himself and leave. You were in the mail room, and you asked him about his day, and it would be rude not to tell him. You were in the grocery store and told him what you were cooking for dinner, and offered to bring him some when you were done. Steve’s felt his crush burning and molding into something that was going to be solid, and it made the daydreams worse, and he couldn’t rip himself away if he tried. And you were at the bar Sam dragged him out to over the weekend, and you slid up to his side and talked to him more than your friends for most of the night, and Steve told Sam not to say a damn word on the way home or he’d tell Tony about the ant-boy incident. And you were reading a book in the laundry room, and trapped him in a long, amazing conversation about authors and pop culture and all the things he wanted to make more time for.

“You should watch Cunk on History,” you suggested, that flush always seeming to be over your cheeks. “It’s- Well, it’s comedy, but I think you’d like it. And it covers more modern history things as well.”

And Steve realized two things at once.

You knew he was Captain America. Of course you knew he was Captain America. Why wouldn’t you have known. Maybe that’s why you’d always been so nice to him, although that didn’t seem like you, especially after the glare you’d given Sam when he interrupted your conversation at the bar. So you knew, and you didn’t care, and you called him Steve because you just saw him as Steve.

And you thought about him.

That one was like seeing the universe.

You thought about him.

“I’ll try that, doll,” he said with a smile, and your breath hitched slightly. The smell got stronger.

Steve hadn’t meant to say it. It just slipped out, but-

You didn’t seem to mind. Given the shy way you smiled and stared at your fingers, you’d liked it.

Steve got himself off that night, to the thought of just that alone. “Doll,” he’d say to you, rubbing your waist and holding you over his chest. “Look at you, tryin’ so hard.”

You’d whine and dig your nails into his chest. Steve would groan your name, trying to keep himself from losing it too fast. It was a herculean feat, with your pussy clenched around his cock and your hips rocking back and forth. Your tits would bounce so perfectly, your head would toss back as you cried for his help, and when you came you’d milk his cock until his eyes rolled back in his head.

He wouldn’t be done with you there. Super soldier stamina was good for a lot of things, and he’d make sure you knew it. He’d wrap his arm around your waist, pin you on his cock, and fuck up into you with short, brutal thrusts. You’d start to babble and tremble with pleasure, and Steve would attach his lips to your throat, sucking a possessive mark so everyone knew you were his, his, his-

He came in the shower with his head bowed, his fist cracking through the tile where he’d braced himself upright. His release dribbled down the drain with the last drops of his dignity, and he let out a ragged, hopeless breath. He could handle this. Being close to you without having you.

He didn’t think he had any other choice.

It got out of hand. Steve didn’t drop the line. He held it with clenched fists and a sweat dripping down his brow, every single moment near you a temptation that he couldn’t afford to give into.

But oh, if he didn’t think about it.

When you were together—often, now, so often he knew people whispered about it and he couldn’t bring himself to care—Steve was able to keep himself together. It was when you were apart that things become… lewd.

You went for a walk in the park after getting coffee. You laughed and he hung onto the song like it was the sweetest music, because anything that came out of your mouth was greater than the truest, highest gospel of the church. There was a baby sitting at the picnic table across from where you got ice cream, and you smiled at it with a soft expression. The baby giggled. Steve felt something very, very obscene and starved stir in his gut, and he knew he wasn’t nearly strong enough to stop it. All he could do was hold it back until he was alone, and you were safely on the other side of that wall.  

Then he let go. He let go so he could get himself back on the leash, so he could be near you without losing it. He’d already lost it. But Steve called that his iron cross to bear.

That day, it was all thoughts of you, pliant and whining below him, being fucked so slow you had to feel every goddamn inch, had to take it until your eyes crossed and you were begging for him to let go. To take you over the edge with him, to feel him in the deepest, most primal way possible. And Steve gave it to you. He’d give you anything, even if it was only in his head.

He imagined cumming inside of you. Stuffing you up until he was dribbling down your thighs, fucking himself back into you until you were moaning and writhing with the feeling of him, claiming you completely. He imagined using his cum like lube, sliding the hot, thick white liquid over your clit, making your hips jerk and tears flow down your cheeks as you came, again and again and again.

Steve thought about marking you with it. Painting your soft abdomen with it, your cheeks, your breasts. And then he was thinking about stuffing up your smart, swollen lips. How hot your mouth would be, how pretty you’d look on your knees, staring up at him under fluttering lashes like he was a better man than he could ever be, but wanted to become for you. You’d drool around his cock and hump the air and swallow the ropes of cum, letting everything you couldn’t get—a fair amount, Steve had been known to rip socks clean open—cover your chest and cheeks. Steve would smear it over your cheek then pick you up and kiss you properly, deep and soft and long.

The next day he ate dinner in your apartment, and didn’t let himself breathe too deeply. There was a drawer, in your bedroom, filled with your panties. He had to stop himself from taking just one. It was a line he wouldn’t cross.

That didn’t stop him from looking into your room and seeing the mirror across from your bed. And after dinner he stood in the shower, thinking about shoving your face into the bed and dragging your ass up in the air.

“Look at you, honey,” he’d rasp, grabbing your jaw and forcing your gaze to the mirror. “Prettiest girl in the world.”

And you were. You’d be even fucking prettier under him, clawing at the sheets and arching your back, pushing your knees wider and watching Steve fuck you until your head was empty. He’d slap your clit when he wanted you to cum around him, but he wouldn’t stop there. He wanted you wrecked and broken, still watching his cock slide in and out of your pussy when you could barely keep your eyes open. He wanted you to see yourself the way he saw you.

Perfect.

“You’re dating her,” Sam told him, and Steve waved it off.

“We’re friends-“

“Friends who do everything together?”

Steve sighed. “We do things together too, Sam-“

“Yeah, but I don’t fawn over you, Cap.” Sam rolled his eyes. “You wish you could get me as- As hopeful and horny as she is.”

Steve had laughed, but his mind had wandered. You didn’t get hopeful and horny. You got doe-eyes sometimes, and your lips would get all puffy when you chewed them, but Steve just paid closer attention to those things than anyone else.

He’d paid enough attention that he could paint you from memory. His sketchbook was filled with your face, and he kept it under his mattress where it would never be found. Steve would draw you, then jerk off to the thought of tossing you around his room until you were soaked and giggling and shivering at his lightest touch. He might be the worst man in the world.

You didn’t want him. You’d never want little Steve Rogers and his perverse, animalistic thoughts. Especially now that you were his friend, and he was certain of three things.

He loved you. Whatever this beast was might spit in lust and desire, but he’d really be happy just being your friend forever, because at least he’d be allowed to love you like that.

You deserved better. That one was simple.

And he was going to spend the rest of his life close to you, dreaming about you, and whispering your name to the sheets as you stayed his secret, most sacred wish.

Steve is bigger when he’s over you in bed.

Shirts only restrain the power of his muscles, the way they ripple and flex with every movement. His massive chest consumes your whole vision, as he prowls over your body. He’s warm to touch, and he holds your shaking hand to his pec, smiling down at your slack face.

“Easy, honey,” he murmurs, and all you can manage is a weak sound in response. 

You’re at his mercy like this. He could have you any way he wants, and god, there are so many ways. He could mouth and suckle at your breasts while his hand worked you open, two fingers knuckle deep and his thumb making brutal work of your clit. He could lie between your thighs and make out with your aching, needy pussy, forcing you to squirt on his face, over and over and over again until you’re sobbing and screaming his name.

He could pump his cock over you and not allow you to touch. Forcing you to find friction in the sheets as he strokes himself and you watch with starry eyes.

He could twist you in any way you want to be twisted. Over his lap so he can palm and spank your pretty ass then stroke your pussy with his palm. Trapped beneath him with your arms pinned to the mattress, forced to take his massive cock until your vision goes white. Steve could fold you in half and spit on your clit while he fucks you so slow you can’t take it, then flip you onto your stomach and rut into you so fast you can’t even speak.

He could do anything. You’d let him do anything, you’d sit at his feet at the hope he’d put his cock in your mouth, you’d sit on him until you were shaking and thrashing for any reprieve, but Steve would hold you down and force you to feel every inch of him, filling you up until your cunt was soaked and you had to bury your face in his neck to hide the tears.

Steve could just kiss you and whisper filth in your ear and make you touch yourself as he hovered over you, teasing you sides and whispering what a good little slut you were, all his, always his, always his-

You cum, hard and fast. You have to shove it away from your overstimulated pussy, raw from just the one orgasm.

Steve would give you more, you think as you roll your hips. He’d touch you better than you can even touch yourself.

If only he’d see you, the way you see him. Sometimes you think he does. Sometimes he goes red and stares at you a little too long, and you can forget what a horny little weirdo you are, pining over him like some fangirl, dreaming about him every night.

You can never be sure though. And if he thinks you’re only his friend to fuck him, you’ll never forgive yourself.

But that doesn’t stop you from moaning Steve’s name loud enough that you know he’s going to hear, shaking in your bedsheets and smiling at the ceiling.

You hope this time, finally, he’ll do something about it.

✦End note: i did a fic like this with bucky and i loved it so much i fear i had to do it with steve too. i hope you enjoyed it as well!✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

"Fuck.. Steve"

you were sat on your small bedroom desk, pushed between the wall and Steve's body, your legs apart wrapped tightly around his waist pulling him closer, his hands flat on the table beside your ass.

your dad was at work and El was at Max's so fortunately for both of you, you could be as loud as you wanted. which Steve loved.

"Oh god"

the wooden table was creaking under you in time with Steve's rhythmic movements, the back of it hitting the wall every time.

your school work was long gone, in a messy pile on the floor, crushed by your makeup bag which spilled out products all over the carpet.

that was not on your mind right now.

as your hands reached up around Steve's neck, you pulled on the hair at the bottom of his head, forcing a deep groan from his throat.

throwing your head back, you gave him a fresh patch of skin he was yet to claim with this mouth. he immediately jumped at this opportunity, latching onto your neck, sucking and biting at the flesh until purple marks blossomed under his lips.

"Fuck—"

the more you pulled on his hair the faster his hips moved, causing the heat in your lower stomach to grow.

one of his hands moved from the edge of the desk to grip onto your hip, helping you to meet each of his movements.

"fuck yes baby" He breathed into your neck, his lips pressing into the sensitive spot under your ear sent you over the edge.

you let out a choked moan, tightening your legs and arching your back causing you to slightly lift up off the desk beneath you subsequently causing Steve’s climax.

you dropped your head down onto his shoulders as his movements died down and his other hand came up to cradle your neck, holding your close to his body.

your chests rose and fell in sync as you started to come down from your highs, sweat slicked bodies pressed together trying not to move and spread the mess between your legs.

but unfortunately that sweet moment of quiet bliss was cut unexpectedly short.

the sound of the front door aggressively slamming shut made you both throw your heads up and look to your slightly open bedroom door, Steve almost dropping you with shock.

"shit is that—"

"can't be- he's at work"

as your desk, where you sat naked infront of steve, was inline with the door, Steve quickly and instinctively carried you away, reluctantly separating himself from you as he did.

"[Y/N]?" Hoppers voice echoed loudly into your room.

"shit it is"

"what do we do"

Steve dropped you down into your bed and scrambled at the floor, getting his jeans back on.

your heart was racing as you do the same, grabbing a stray pyjama shirt from your bed and pulling on your underwear.

"[Y/N] ARE YOU HOME?"

"why does he always sound so angry—"

Steve was awkwardly fumbling with his jeans as you found his polo shirt, lifting it up and pulling it over his head, helping him to get decent as quick as possible.

you step away and head to the door, shushing Steve and pointing to the window urging him to prepare to escape out of it.

"yeah I'm here.." you finally emerge out of the door and are faced with your dad right by your bedroom.

"is someone else here?" he questioned immediately, voice thick with suspicion.

"what no?" you squeaked, wincing at your own attempt at a lie.

"I thought I heard"

"no."

he tried to peer around your body to look into your room, instead you stepped out further and shut the door on him, smiling up awkwardly when he furrowed his brows in confusion.

"why is there loads of stuff on the floor?"

"what?"

"it looked like all your desk stuff was on the floor"

"oh right, yeah I needed space for a project I was doing earlier, just haven't cleaned up yet..."

you tried to stay as calm as possible, inching past your dads huge body and into the kitchen as if that's what you came out to do anyway.

"why are you home so soon?" you attempted to change the subject.

"I left my hat"

"oh no, your hat"

"I know.. heartbreaking" his tone softened to match yours, causing your heart to calm slightly.

".. you should really get ready and go outside at some point today" he continued as he picked up his hat from the couch

"oh yeah.." you muffle as you shove some bread into your mouth. "yeah definitely"

you weren't sure what you were doing but you just wanted to look busy and focus on standing up straight, like your secret boyfriend didn't just fuck away your ability to think or stand straight.

"slow down with that" he pointed to the loaf of bread in front of you. "we need it for tonight" he said cautiously, squinting his eyes with definite suspicion.

you slowly look down at the piece in you had in your hand and turn around to see your dad approach the front door.

"I'll be back about 5, but im picking up El from maxs”

“okay, yeah see you later!"

“your shirts inside out by the way”

and with that he was out the house, door shutting harshly behind him, leaving you in silence. slowly, your peer down to your tshirt and notice that one, it’s steve’s shirt and two, it is inside out.

brilliant.

you drop the bread and run back to your room, bursting through the door just hoping that Steve hadn't ran away during the events that took place outside.

instead of seeing him half out the window like expected, he was standing at your desk re-organising everything that he had previously pushed off.

"Steve.."

"close call right.. I'm guessing he didn't say anything" he awkwardly laughed.

"no.. but I really thought he was going to for a second"

"safe for another day..”

he let go of the last book and turned to face you properly, stretching his arms out asking you to take them.

you step forward quickly but are stopped by steve’s hand on your shoulder, his brows furrow and he tilts his head looking at your shirt.

“yes i know.. dad pointed it out”

pulling you into his embrace with an amused smile, he runs his hands down your back and over your bum, giving it a playful squeeze.

"so... he's definitely gone now?"

you look up and are met with a cheeky smirk which you couldn't help but match, and you didn't even have time to answer before he was guiding you over to your bed and undressing you once again.

praying not to be interrupted.

taglist: @kalunacow @ladystardussstt @maferin @whoxoxovi @offbrandhandymanny @khaibdl @eller41 @songkangslvr @dragemballz @miahslt91

You sat on the edge of the couch, watching Steve flip through a stack of old polaroids spread across the coffee table. His forehead was creased in deep frustration. He held up a photo of himself standing next to Dustin outside the high school, a broad smile on his face, a thick white bandage wrapped around his head.

"I don't remember this," Steve said, his voice quiet, almost hollow. "I asked Dustin about the scar behind my ear yesterday. He told me I got thrown into a cabinet by some guy named Billy. But I have zero memory of ever meeting anyone named Billy."

You swallowed hard, keeping your hands folded tightly in your lap so he wouldn't see them tremble. A familiar, metallic taste lingered at the back of your throat, the faint side effect of using your ability.

"Steve, people forget things sometimes," you offered softly. "It was a stressful year."

"No," Steve said, looking up from the table. His brown eyes were wide, filled with a sudden, painful clarity. "It's not just a bad memory. I was looking through my old senior yearbook last night. There are entire months missing from my head. I remember high school, and then suddenly I remember working at Scoops Ahoy, but everything in between is just blank space."

He stood up, stepping closer to where you sat. He looked down at you, not with anger, but with a deep, aching betrayal.

"The radio tower," Steve continued, his voice cracking. "The underground tunnel under the pumpkin patch. Dustin keeps talking about these crazy things we did together, and every time he brings it up, I feel this weird phantom pain in my chest, but my brain is empty. And then I remembered how your nose bled last month when I woke up on the basement floor after the storm."

He knelt down in front of you, placing his warm hands over yours. His touch was gentle, which made the reality of what you had done hurt even more.

"It's you, isn't it?" he whispered. "Every time something terrible happens, every time I get hurt... you take it out of my head."

A heavy tear slipped down your cheek. You couldn't look him in the eye.

"You were bleeding, Steve," you confessed, your voice breaking under the weight of the secret. "You were screaming in your sleep for weeks after the lab. You couldn't close your eyes without seeing those creatures. I couldn't fix Hawkins, and I couldn't stop the monsters, but I could stop your pain. I just wanted you to be happy."

"You took my life away," Steve said quietly, a tear cutting through the dust on his cheek. "You took my memories. The bad stuff sucks, Y/n, I know it does. It terrifies me. But those terrible nights are why I care so much about Dustin and the kids. That pain is how I know I survived. When you wash it away, you leave a ghost behind."

He pulled his hands back slowly, the space between you suddenly feeling like an ocean.

"I love you," Steve said, his voice trembling as he stared at the blank polaroids on the table. "I really do. But I need my past back, even the parts that burn. You have to promise me you will never touch my head again."

You nodded slowly, accepting the bitter truth of his words. You had tried to shield his heart from the dark, but in doing so, you had robbed him of the very courage that made him who he was.The room went dead silent, the weight of his request hanging heavily between you.

"I promise," you whispered, the word tasting like lead on your tongue. "I'll never touch your memories again. I swear it, Steve."

Steve let out a long, shuddering breath and leaned his forehead against your knees for a second, just grounding himself. He didn't walk away, and he didn't raise his voice, but the distance between you felt terrifyingly real.

He slowly stood up and began picking up the polaroids from the table, stacking them neatly one by one.

"I don't want to forget the bad stuff if it means forgetting how we got here," Steve said, his back turned to you as he slipped the photos into a desk drawer. "Because every time I wake up with a blank spot in my head, I feel like a piece of me is missing. And I need to know who I am, Y/n. Even if it hurts."

He turned back around, resting his hands on his hips, looking at you with that quiet, tired resolve.

"So, from now on... we deal with it together. No shortcuts, no wiping the slate clean. If I get beat up, if I get scared, you let me feel it. Deal?"

You looked up at him, wiping a stray tear from your cheek, and nodded. "Deal."

Steve offered a small, sad attempt at a smile, stepping back over to the couch and sitting down beside you, leaving just a few inches of space between you. He reached out, hesitating for a fraction of a second, before gently sliding his fingers into yours.

He couldn't get back the years you had taken, but for the first time, he was holding onto the present with both hands.

Worrying your bottom lip, you look down at your masterpiece. It’s not bad, actually! It’s round, golden brown, and smells like vanilla. 

Now, for the frosting. 

It doesn’t take long for you to whip it up, and it glides onto the spongey surface better than you expected. You’re so focused on layering it on smoothly and evenly that you don’t even hear when the shower turns off. 

Finally, after one last swipe of your spatula, you stand back to survey your work. Thick, white frosting coats the cake, and your mouth waters just looking at it. 

Just then, a door opens past the kitchen and your pulse leaps. Swiping a hand under the plate, you balance the cake in your arm and turn—right as Steve rounds the corner. 

You gasp and try to recover at the last second, but it’s too late. 

“Hey, babe, what are you—”

Steve stops short, lips parting in surprise, as the cake slips down the plate and plants right onto his hairy chest. 

You’re caught red-handed, but you can’t help but notice how the evening light paints his broad shoulders in a dusky glow, and turns the water droplets from his hair into little sunlit beads that roll down his strong stomach, disappearing into the towel wrapped around his waist. 

At the sight of that towel, you seem to remember that he just showered— and now he’s literally wearing a cake. 

Your eyes meet. 

“S-shit!” you stammer, springing into action. “Steve, I’m so sorry!” 

You try to scoop the cake back onto the plate, but his warm hand finds your hip and your grip slips, sending a glob of white frosting down into his happy trail. 

“Was this for me? I told you not to do this,” Steve warns with a soft laugh. “Here, just—”

He grabs the plate with his other hand and pushes the smeared cake back onto it, then gently pries it from your hands and sets it on the counter. 

Now, with his birthday gift out of the way, you have a mouthwatering vision in front of you. You should definitely be helping him clean up, but right now, you’re too busy staring. The frosting mats down his chest hair, smearing down his toned torso, and you can’t help yourself. 

Before he can say anything, you lower your mouth to his chest and lick a line through the soft sugar, right between his hairy pecs.

His breath stutters out of him, and his fingers tighten on your hip. Sugar blooms bright and sweet on your tongue, and mixed with the salt on his skin, and the soap from his shower—the concoction is heavenly. 

“Jesus,” he huffs when your tongue flicks his hard nipple. “Baby…”

His chest hair tickles your nose as you press into him, licking him with broad, firm strokes, making sure you get every bit of it. 

“You just had a shower, Stevie,” you sigh against his skin, lips fluttering over his racing heart. “And I got you all messy. Let me clean you up.”

A rush of arousal pools between your legs as you fall to your knees right there in the kitchen to mouth at that line of course hair, sinking your teeth into the softness of his stomach right where the towel sits as you swallow another mouthful of frosting. 

His erection tents the towel, and he sucks in a breath when his length bumps into your chin, but your hands find his calves, thumbs pressing into the muscle there, a soft reminder that you’re here, worshiping him, wanting him to feel desired.

Steve rakes a hand through his hair, tipping his head back with a groan before looking down at you again through heavy lashes. 

“Yeah, okay,” he rasps. “Maybe I’ve changed my mind on the whole birthday thing…”

a/n: what if I told you that i pictured steve & reader from sugar rush the whole time I was writing this. a special thanks to jess, christina, and jasmine who helped me build this scene :) 🩶

In the passenger seat, Steve was holding onto the door handle so hard his knuckles were completely white. Every time the monster snapped its jaws just inches from the rear bumper, he looked like he was about to jump out of his skin.

"Is this thing getting closer?!" Steve yelled over the deafening noise of the engine and the creature's shrieks. "Because it feels like it's getting closer!"

"Hold on!" you shouted back, slamming your foot onto the gas pedal and downshifting with brutal precision.

You whipped the steering wheel hard to the left, sending the car into a smooth, deliberate drift around the sharp bend. The creature lunged, missing the trunk by a hair, its claws scraping uselessly against the asphalt as it skidded out of control on the loose gravel.

Steve blinked, staring at you in absolute disbelief. "Where the hell did you learn to drive like that?!"

"Who do you think keeps the local street racers from wrapping their cars around trees every weekend?" you said, a sharp, adrenaline fueled grin breaking across your face. "I'm the designated driver for idiots with fast cars, Harrington. Now grab that bat in the back!"

You stomped on the brakes, pulling a sharp U-turn that lined the front bumper directly up with the disoriented creature in the middle of the road. With zero hesitation, you floored it.

Metal hit flesh with a sickening thud, sending the beast tumbling over the hood and into the ditch. You threw the car into park, grabbing a heavy wrench from the floorboards, stepping out into the cool night air to make sure it stayed down.

Steve stumbled out of the passenger side, his breathing wild and ragged. He watch you handle the situation with terrifying, effortless efficiency. There was no panic in your eyes, no hesitation.

Once the creature was completely motionless, you turned back to the car, wiping a streak of dark grease from your forehead. "See? Easy."

"Easy?" Steve's voice cracked.

He didn't look impressed. He looked terrified.

He marched over to you, his face pale in the faint moonlight. "Are you crazy?! You just rammed a shadow monster with a sedan! You could have been killed!"

"Steve, calm down, we're fine," you said, taking a step toward him. "I had it under control."

"No, you didn't!" Steve yelled, stepping back and shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. He dragged a hand through his hair, his voice suddenly thick with emotion. "You're supposed to be... you're supposed to be safe! You deal with teenagers racing muscle cars on county roads, not literal demons from another dimension!"

You softened, realizing the anger in his voice was actually pure terror. "Steve..."

"I can't do this, Y/n," he whispered, staring at the ground, his chest heaving. "I'm the one who's supposed to protect everyone. I'm the one who deals with this crap. I watch Eddie go, I watch Max, I watch all of them... I can't watch you get dragged into this too. I can't lose you."

"You're not losing me," you said firmly, stepping into his space and forcing him to look at you. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You need to stay away from me," Steve said, his desperate eyes giving away the terrifying urge to push away the people he loved just to keep them out of the splash zone. "If you stay around me, around the kids, you're gonna end up getting hurt."

"I just took down a monster with your front bumper, Harrington," you said quietly, offering a small, reassuring smile. "I think I can handle hanging out with you."

Steve looked at you for a long moment, the fear slowly giving way to exhaustion. He let out a shaky breath, finally stepping closer and pulling you into a tight, frantic hug, resting his chin on top of your head as the engine idle hummed in the quiet night.