⋆｡𖦹° are you lucid? ⭒˚｡⋆

Steve moves towards you, messing with his hair on the way, but when he starts to sit beside you, you stop him with a hand on his arm.

Scooting backwards, you press yourself into the cushions and spread your legs to give him space to sit in front of you.

“Wha—right there?” he asks, blinking down at you, mussed hair haloed by the light of the TV. 

"Yes, right here.”

He chuckles softly, shaking his head before turning around and collapsing into the makeshift seat you've provided. 

"This what you wanted?" he grunts, letting all his weight fall back onto you and press you into the couch. “You sure?” 

“Mmhhm,” you breathe, wrapping your legs around his hips, and your arms around his broad shoulders. He's so warm. You bury your face into his shoulder, inhaling the scents of fresh grass and humid summer air. “Where does it hurt today?” 

He sighs, absently watching the sitcom on the TV from under heavy lashes. “Everywhere.”

You rest your chin on his shoulder. The laugh track plays quietly through your house just as the first raindrop hits your window pane.  

Every time a storm rolls in, Steve gets this way. 

His old wounds have long since healed by now, but under intense shifts of barometric pressure, they come back to haunt him, driving a gnawing, clamping ache into his body that whisks away his concentration and make it hard for him to breathe. 

When the weather changes, he’ll say that bone in his nose aches, or that joint in his shoulder is killing him. But his side hurts the most. Those frayed nerve endings and hairline fractures in his ribs never got proper care thanks to his neglectful parents who never noticed their son was in pain.

Through the years, you’ve found a way to help him. Fill his mind with pleasure instead, and make him forget—even just for a minute. 

So, your hands start to roam. Traversing him in that way only lovers do—those who know someone else’s body better than their own. Curling over his forearm, brushing the hair there with your thumb. Caressing the rough knuckles on his hands. Trailing the bulge of his bicep, his capped shoulder, until finally skimming up the side of his head to plunge your fingers into this hair. 

Steve sinks further into you with a groan, but his shoulders tense when he hears you take a stuttering breath. 

His hands fly to hold yours still on his body. “Shit, ‘m not crushing you, am I?"

You shake your head, lips trailing the vein in his neck. “Relax, Steve. Let me make you feel good.”

You hear him swallow hard, hesitating. Then, finally, his hands fall away from yours, giving them permission to drift down to his waistband. He helps you out, undoing the button on his khakis for you. You shift behind him and reach down further until your fingers brush his cock, already straining against his boxers. 

Steve sighs, hips shifting as he chases your touch. “Baby, you know you don’t have to if you don’t wan—”

“I want to,” you say. “Let me fix it.”

His heavy palm comes down on your shin in his lap, warmth bleeding from his fingers. It’s a grounding, touch, not meant to stop you. Something to keep him centered while pleasure and pain war inside, threatening to pull him apart. 

You brush your fingers across his hard length, earning a soft groan of approval. Weighing the velvet steel in your hand, you wrap your fingers around him and squeeze at the base, just how he likes it. 

He curses, his head falling back against your shoulder just as thunder rolls in the distance. His lashes flutter shut, throat bared in the TV light, and you swear you’ve never seen anything more beautiful. 

You stroke him slowly. Languidly. The pleasure glides through his veins like silk, stealing the bite from his wounds, relieving the teeth digging into his ribs, before pooling into a different kind of pressure low in his abdomen. One that’s dull, and drugging, and promises relief. 

“Relax,” you whisper again against his ear.

Steve obeys, his body going a little more pliant. His thighs fall further apart, pinning you into the soft cushion. But his weight on you isn’t the only thing that steals the breath from your lungs. It’s the way he finds sanctuary in you. You love him like this. Open, and trusting, and wanting. Needing you, even when he’s in pain. Especially when he’s in pain. 

Your hand falls into the tempo he needs without him having to ask. It’s still slow, but steadily grows harder, grabbing that thread of need from inside his hips and pulling it tight. 

His back rises and falls with uneven breathes against your chest, but he stays still. He knows better than to buck up into your touch. If his hips lock up, your hand disappears. His shoulders tense, and your kisses stop. 

He has to be relaxed, pliant, and totally at your mercy for this pain relief to work.

Outside, the sky darkens further, turning that mottly shade of blue. The one you’ve seen bloom on his body time and time again over the years. The rain starts to fall steadily, tinking and plunking onto the glass pane.

Your knuckles rasp against his pants as you touch him, your forearm catching on his shirt with every stroke, and when your tongue darts out for a taste of his salty skin, and you’re rewarded with a moan that sends heat licking up your spine. 

He must really be hurting today. By this point, he’s usually trying to catch you by the ankle and pull you underneath him, pushing your legs apart and dragging his tongue through your pussy before you're done with him.

You shift underneath him, the heavy, slick weight of your arousal pooling in your panties, but you’ll deal with that later. Right now, you just want him pain free.  

His cock jerks in your hand, precum smearing across your fingers as his hand squeezes your shin, the other grasping uselessly at the couch cushion beside him. 

From this position—his head resting on your shoulder—you can only see the slope of his nose against the storm clouds, but his eyes are screwed shut, his brows furrowed even as little huffs leave his parted lips. 

You drop a sweet, reassuring kiss to one of the moles on his face. 

Steve’s always struggled with accepting care. It’s taken a long time to get him here. 

Hooking your ankle around his knee, you pull your leg towards you and spread his thighs even wider so your other hand can crawl underneath his arm and disappear into his shirt.

He turns his head and trails his lips across your cheek, your jaw, until finally you turn and capture his mouth with yours. His tongue dips into your mouth as your hand travels over his ribs, his scars, with soothing, sure touches that have him groaning into the kiss. 

But when his socks start to whisper against the carpeted floor as he tries to get leverage to shove his hips up into your touch, you break apart and pull your hand from his dick.

You’ve practiced edging Steve many times, so you don’t even have to say anything for him to get the picture. 

“Just feels so good,” Steve groans. “Sorry, I—yeah.” 

Rain pelts the window now, drowning out the distant laugh track on the TV, and Steve's heartbeat kicks up against your palm.

A hiss of pleasure escapes him when your touch resumes, but you tighten your grip, jerking him steadily until he swallows hard and relaxes again. 

You press gentle, openmouthed kisses along the column of his neck, his curls brushing your ear as his sounds grow breathier and louder. And when his cock thickens in your hand, you know he’s close. 

You bite your lip as his hips go stiff. Listening to him pant like this is really working you up. Finally, he groans, and jolts in your hold as hot ropes of come paint your knuckles. 

You slow to a stop, still kissing his neck to bring him down, making sure he's utterly relaxed before slipping your hand free. 

Steve tips his head back onto the couch and looks over at you, his eyes shining with love, but they darken swiftly as he watches your fingers disappear into your mouth, your pink tongue swirling around to catch every salty drop of him.

“You gonna let me take care of you, now?” he rasps, eyes on your mouth. 

You smile softly. “Steve, you’re hurting—”

“Not anymore.” 

His arm wraps around your waist, and then he shifts you lengthwise across the couch, his body following you down.

“You gave me my fix," he says, trailing a hand between your bodies, and your breath hitches as his long fingers disappear into your panties. “Now, let me give you yours.”

a/n: Woke up this morning to a thunderstorm and plans to write something completely different. But, when I put pen to paper, this is what happened instead. It's been a minute since I've written something completely new and not from my drafts, so I'm not complaining. (It’s probably also due to the fact that I'm still thinking about Steve and reader from Truce)

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