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Ahhhh! I thought I was gonna end this chapter in angst cuz they haven’t told mom & dad yet, but instead I’m stressed out!

So good! Can’t wait to see what happens next, even if it raises my blood pressure.

Honey Girl. Chapter Eight.

chapter one. chapter two. chapter three. chapter four. chapter five. chapter six. chapter seven. series masterlist. the playlist.

Chapter Synopsis - Turns out, you’re not the only ones with a secret.

Pairing - Dadsbestfriend!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader - soulmate au

Warnings - cursing. mentions of hospitals/medical settings.

Word Count - 5k

Authors Note - I promise that the reveal was supposed to be in this part!! but I hit 5k words real quick and thought rather than rush it, I’d give it its full own chapter. guess what’s coming next ;). as always, thank you for your love and support and patience and encouragement and kindness. don’t know where I’d be without it <3

as always, if you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging!! reblogs are the only way to circulate my writing, which generates more of it. feel free to send me a comment or an inbox, too!! thanks, my loves!! <3

Masterlist. Inbox.

The sun beams through the white linen curtains, salty ocean breeze drifting through the open window. The rays warm your skin as you kick off the sheets, stretching your arms above your head. You turn over, to find the space next to you empty.

Rubbing the sleepiness from your eyes, you yawn, inhaling the scent of breakfast. Throwing on Bucky’s soft blue button up, you pad out to the kitchen to find him at your stovetop, shirtless and sun kissed.

“I’m getting the full girlfriend experience, huh?”

He grins at the sound of your voice, entire body lighting up with it.

“Girlfriend,” he laughs. “This is the soulmate experience, baby. It’s even better.”

You shake your head, but you can’t fight the smile that etches itself on your face. He looks so at home here, so comfortable. He reaches up to grab a plate from your cupboard, and you feel the sudden urge to burst into tears.

He knows where everything is.

He’s learnt his way around the kitchen just like he’s learnt his way around your heart. Your soul. Your very existence.

“You okay?”

He turns off the burner and glides over to you, warm hands finding your hips like it’s second nature.

“What’s wrong? You like pancakes,” he teases, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead tenderly. “Oh no. Did you want waffles?”

You shake your head, swallowing down the lump in your throat.

“I’m fine,” you say, but your voice cracks instantly.

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

He says it so gently, so carefully. You feel like a precious flower, something to be taken care of, cherished, loved. No one has ever made you feel like this.

“I just realised you… fit, here. Like you were always supposed to. I can’t really remember what this apartment was like before it had you in it too.”

Bucky cradles your face in his hands, tilting your head up to look at him.

“Wherever you are. That’s where my home is.”

You surge forwards to press your lips to his, alive and buzzing with the electricity of being loved so wholly. He reciprocates instantly, wrapping his arms around your back to pull you closer, so you’re chest to chest.

“Your pancakes are going to burn,” you mumble, forehead resting on his.

“Let them.”

“No, don’t let them. I’m not calling the fire department today.”

He laughs, kissing you again chastely before returning to his original position. He plates up your breakfast - pancakes, fruit, granola and yoghurt, with fresh coffee in your favourite mug.

“I could get used to this.”

“And you will,” he flirts, kissing the crown of your head. “Every day for the rest of your life, baby. You’re gonna have to wake up to my face forever.”

You pretend to shudder, laughing when he pinches your side.

“Come on, trouble. Let’s eat breakfast on the balcony and pretend we’re on a tropical vacation somewhere.”

“Sounds perfect.”

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

“We’re really doing this.”

You look up at Bucky, the heavy weight of his arm around your shoulders acting as a grounding agent. Your plates are discarded on the table, cleared and finished, the two of you curled up in your loveseat. The sun is getting warmer, and it’s bringing out Bucky’s freckles, all boyish and glowy.

“We don’t have a choice.”

“Honey girl, there’s always a choice.”

“Not this time,” you sigh, shifting so you can face him properly. “I wanted to do this on our terms, and now I feel like I’ve been forced into it. It isn’t fair.”

“We can wait,” Bucky reassures, confident and understanding. “We don’t have to do anything until you’re ready.”

“I am ready. I have been for a while. It just sucks that it feels like I’ve been pushed in a certain direction, you know?”

“I know,” he soothes, work rough fingertips tracing patterns on your bare legs. “But like you said, we were going to do it anyway. This is still our choice. These are still our terms.”

You press your lips onto his cheek, chuckling when his stubble tickles your skin. He retaliates by attacking you with kisses, planting them all over your face, wherever he can reach. You squeal, hands flying out to his bare chest to try and stop him.

“Your neighbours are going to think there’s a murder happening,” Bucky laughs, fingers sliding up your shirt to rest on your ribs.

“Oh no, they love you too much for that.”

He quirks his eyebrows in surprise.

“They do?”

“The lady that lives next door, Mrs Daniels - she’s like ninety, has that white cat you always see?”

Bucky nods in recognition, so you continue.

“She talks about how handsome you are every time I see her. Always asks when the ‘man that looks like a movie star’ is coming over next.”

He laughs, shaking his head as you tease him.

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious! She probably watches you come and go from her balcony. She’s gonna love it in the summer, when you turn up in your short shorts with no shirt on.”

Bucky chuckles, pulling you into him and leaning his head on top of yours.

“Don’t be jealous, baby. You’re the only one for me.”

“I better be,” you chide jokingly, pinching his thigh in warning.

“I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”

There’s no humour, anymore. Just love. So much love.

“I’m here now,” you whisper. “And I’m not going anywhere. Ever.”

Bucky leans in to press a kiss to your lips, gentle and filled with a lifetimes worth of promise.

“I love you, honey baby.”

“I love you, Bucky Barnes.”

You let the morning sun slip over you like silk sheets, warm and smooth and completely luxurious. Bucky’s steady breathing grounds you slowly as peace and contentment settle into your bones, weighted and calming. No matter what happens today, you know one thing for certain - you have the security of Bucky’s love to fall back on.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

You’ve been sat in Bucky’s truck for twenty five minutes.

It’s parked down the block from your parent’s house, just out of the way. You were pulling in to their street when you panicked, begging Bucky to stop the car so you could breathe for a second.

“Sweet girl, we’ll be fine.”

“I know. I know,” you exhale. Inhale again. “Why is this so hard?”

“Because we’ve been thinking about this moment ever since that first night.”

“It’s almost been a year.”

That seems to stop Bucky in his tracks for a second.

“It… it doesn’t feel that long. Feels like yesterday. But also, somehow, like I’ve loved you my whole life.”

You lean over the console to kiss him softly, trying to ignore the hummingbird fluttering of your heart in your chest.

“Honey, I can feel your anxiety, remember? If you don’t calm down a little, we’ll both collapse.”

“Sorry,” you laugh, taking a deep breath. “Sorry.”

Bucky intertwines his fingers with yours, thumb running over the backs of your knuckles. Soothing, like a field of lavender gently blowing in the breeze on the first day of spring.

“We have to do it sometime.”

“I know,” you nod, squeezing his hand once, twice, three times before pulling away and fixing your hair in the tiny mirror. “Let’s do this. Now or never.”

You pull up outside your childhood home, instantly relaxing a little at the sight of the colourful drapes and flowers in the windows.

“Shit, Buck. We haven’t even planned what we’re gonna say.”

“We don’t need to. Just speak from your heart, baby. I’ll follow your lead.”

When you walk up the driveway, you know there’s no turning back. You also know that the weight on your shoulders will feel a hell of a lot less heavy when you leave. It’s a double edged sword, but you’re ready to wield it, with love as your armour and Bucky as your shield.

You stand a foot apart and ring the doorbell, bouncing nervously on the soles of your feet.

“Hi, sweetheart. Oh - hey, Buck.”

“Hi, Mama.”

“Hi, Lori.”

“Didn’t expect to see you both today.”

You go to speak, but she continues quickly.

“I’m glad you’re here. We need to talk to you both about something. Come in, come in.”

You look at Bucky, realising suddenly that your chest is filled with a foreign anxiety. It’s his.

You squeeze his hand chastely as you walk past him to enter the house, kicking off your shoes in the hallway.

There’s something in the atmosphere when you walk into the living room. The sun is still shining, everything is in its rightful place… but it feels wrong. You know Bucky feels it too, judging by the way his muscles tense next to you.

“Is everything alright, Mama?”

You hate the way your voice sounds like a child’s, small and naive. Your Dad is sat on the couch waiting, always happy to see you. You press a kiss to his cheek before taking a seat across from him, Bucky sitting next to you. Your Mom joins your Dad, both of them looking at you with too much compassion for a normal day.

“What are you two doing here?” your Dad asks, voice still full of light.

Something inside of you is telling you to abort mission, postpone until further notice. You listen to it, wondering for a second if somehow you and Bucky can send messages to each other telepathically all of a sudden.

“Mama said you needed to talk to me. To us.”

He looks taken aback, only for a second. Something like sadness flashes in his eyes before he paints that familiar smile right back on his face.

“Yeah, we do. You sure you don’t wanna tell us why you’re here, first?”

“It can wait,” you reassure, catching Bucky’s minute nod from the corner of your eye.

“Okay,” your Mom begins. “First of all, I need to tell you not to panic, okay? It’s going to seem super scary, but it isn’t.”

Bucky slides closer to you by a millimetre, but you feel it like it’s a mile.

“I don’t really know how to tell you this, honey, so we’ll just start from the beginning. Jack?”

Your Dad nods before taking over the storytelling.

“It all started last year. I was doing some work in the backyard. One minute I was mowing the lawn, the next I was lying on the ground.”

All of the colour drains from your cheeks, and Bucky slides ever so slightly closer again.

“We thought maybe it was heat stroke, or dehydration. No cause for concern, and nothing your Mom’s iced tea couldn’t fix.”

She takes his hand in hers, both of them with their eyes fixed on you.

“But then it happened again. In the shower, this time. I didn’t hit my head, luckily, but I did whack my shoulder against the tiles, which hurt like hell.”

He laughs, and so does your Mom, but you’re not sure what’s funny. Anxiety is rolling off you in waves so strong, Bucky’s worried he might pass out.

Your Mom takes back the reigns, continuing.

“I was insistent that he saw a doctor, which he was reluctant about. Luckily, he agreed, finally,” she gives him a look, “and we got referred to a specialist.”

“What kind of specialist?” you choke out. It feels like someone is sitting on your chest, constricting your lungs with every passing minute.

“A cardiologist.”

It seems to be that word that unravels everything for you. All you can think is cardiologist heart attack cardiologist surgery cardiologist. Serious. Serious. Serious.

“Sweetheart?”

You grab Bucky’s hand, praying that the familiar touch will ground you back down to Earth. When it doesn’t, you feel like you’re falling, down and down and down with no end in sight.

“Honey, it’s okay. Hey, listen to me. You’re okay.”

Your Mom sits down on the other side of you as your Dad kneels down, forcing you to look at him.

“Sweetheart, don’t panic, okay? Everything’s going to be fine. I know it’s scary, but I’m okay.”

“For now,” you whisper, limp in your throat forming.

“I know it’s a lot to take in, and I know it’s probably not what you were expecting us to say. We thought we’d wait until we had answers to tell you… but it’s taking longer than expected. Which is why we’re telling you now. We don’t want you to feel like you’re in the dark.”

Bucky’s running his thumb over the lines on your palm, reassuring and steady. He knows exactly how to comfort you, like a warm blanket wrapped around your shoulders. If you listen carefully enough, you can hear the drumming beat of his heart. You tune into it, letting the familiar rhythm calm you down.

“Sorry,” you murmur. “I’m being dramatic.”

“You’re not being dramatic,” your Mom responds, squeezing her hand over your knee. “It’s overwhelming. And we’ve just… thrown it at you, with no warning. It’s a lot to take in.”

You’re anxious and scared and completely lost. You’re also safe and home and completely surrounded by love from all sides.

“I’m okay,” you nod, taking a deep breath.

Your parents return to their couch across from you, but Bucky’s hand doesn’t let go of yours. If they think it’s strange, they don’t say anything. You have a feeling they’re a little preoccupied.

“Now what?”

“Your Dad is still undergoing tests to get to the root of the issue. Whatever they find, we know we’ll all be okay.”

“Your Mom’s right. I have an appointment this afternoon for an EKG. They’re trying to rule things out slowly. We’ll get to the bottom of it, sweetheart.”

“Are you okay?” you ask, suddenly realising you’ve accidentally made this about you.

“I’m fine,” he laughs. “Seriously. I know it’s scary, but I feel good in myself for the most part. The most annoying thing is that I can’t predict it - it just happens. Very inconvenient, if you ask me.”

Your parents laugh, and this time, you try to chuckle with them.

“You’ll keep us updated, won’t you?”

Bucky’s voice surprises you, somehow. His fingers are still intertwined with yours, but you’ve been so focused on your Dad, you almost forgot he was there.

“Of course, Buck.”

“And if you ever need a ride to an appointment or anything, all you gotta do is ask, alright?”

“You offering to take me on your motorcycle?”

“Sure,” Bucky laughs.

“Absolutely not,” your Mom says at the same time.

You chuckle for real, now. This feels like normality - the four of you, joking around. You have to remind yourself, sometimes, that Bucky knew your Dad before he ever knew you. You were away at culinary school when they met, but you were told stories instantly about this new guy in town who bought the old Garage and drives a cool truck. Your Mom, of course, didn’t fail to mention his big blue eyes and chocolate brown hair, or the way his shirt hugged his biceps. You thought she was exaggerating, when she said he was handsome.

Oh, how wrong you were.

You’re one hundred percent sure you’ve never met a more beautiful person. Maybe it’s your Tethering talking. Maybe it isn’t. You’re not unaware of the way people look at Bucky - he’s got this old school movie star thing going on, and people seem to eat it up. You get it. You get it more than anyone.

But it isn’t his pretty face that makes your heart skip a beat. It’s just him. Him, with his contagious smile and healing laugh and observant eyes. Him, with his confident demeanour but gentle touch, his mind reading abilities, his talent for making you feel like you’re the only person in the room. He’s a rarity, Bucky Barnes. A diamond in the rough. You remind yourself everyday how lucky you are.

He knocks his knee into yours, pulling you out of your daydream. He gives you a look that asks are you okay? to which you nod subtly in reply. A conversation, somehow both silent and loud.

“As much as I’d love to stay here all day, we should get ready to go. My appointment is soon.”

Your Dad strides over to you, wrapping you in his arms. You instantly feel like a little girl again, safe and protected no matter what. You bury your face into his chest a little more, inhaling the familiar scent of your home.

“Everything’s okay, sweetheart,” he whispers into your hair. “Promise.”

You nod against him, tightening your arms ever so slightly. He gives you a squeeze, letting you know he got the message.

As you’re putting your shoes on in the hallway, you can hear your Dad and Bucky chatting away about the baseball game from the previous night, routine easily resumed. Your Mom brushes your hair back from your face, looking at you carefully.

“I almost forgot why you came here in the first place, babygirl. What’s up? What did you want to tell us?”

Your heart skips a beat and Bucky feels it, glancing over to you with concern in his ocean blue eyes.

“It’s okay, Mama. It can wait.”

She raises her eyebrows in scepticism.

“Promise,” you reassure. “Another day.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but lets it go anyway, pressing a kiss to your cheek gently.

“We’ll call you after his appointment and let you know what they say. We love you. So much.”

You hug her fiercely, realising that you don’t do it often enough.

“Love you guys. More than anything.”

Bucky gives you a nod that tells you he’s ready to go, both of you leaving a little different than you entered.

“Call us as soon as you get out of that room, okay?”

“We will, Buck,” your Dad laughs, mock saluting his best friend.

Bucky chuckles, falling into step next to you as you walk down the driveway. You make your way down the street, out of your parents view, before your knees give out. He manages to catch you just in time, strong arms wrapped around your middle. You both sit on the kerbside, Bucky rubbing soft patterns into your back through your shirt.

“Baby, hey. You okay? Talk to me.”

You take a deep breath, looking at him with watery eyes.

“What if it’s bad, Buck?” you whisper. “I can’t do this without him. He’s the best Dad in the world.”

Bucky pulls you closer, fitting you into his side perfectly. Two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, made for each other.

“They don’t lie to you, honey. They’d tell you if it was really serious. All you can do is wait, and hope everything will be okay. Which it will.”

You rest your head on his shoulder, letting his warmth calm you down.

“My Mama knows something.”

“Like what?”

“About us. She didn’t say anything, but I could see it on her face. She didn’t push it any further, but she was definitely suspicious.”

“We’ll tell her soon. Give it a little more time.”

You nod, wrapping your arms around his bicep tightly. He presses a kiss into your hair, inhaling the scent of your shampoo as he does it.

“Let’s go home, hmm? We can sit in the sun for a while, chop up that pineapple we bought yesterday.”

“Sounds perfect,” you whisper, looking up at him.

The afternoon hits his face just right, all warm yellow light and soft angles on his cheeks. The intermittent salty breeze ruffles his hair, all fluffy and sea swept. He looks like an ancient statue, a work of art from the renaissance, a museum piece. The sun could burn out tomorrow, but you’ll have a life source forever. Your Soulmate.

Bucky takes your hands in his and helps you to your feet, heavy arm slung over your shoulders as you walk back to the truck.

Your light in the dark. Your water in the desert. You’ve never been more grateful for him.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

“Close your eyes.”

Bucky’s driving you home, the sound of the ocean waves hitting the shore a replacement for the radio.

“What?”

“Close your eyes, sugar. I want to show you something.”

“How are you gonna show me if my eyes are shut?”

He chuckles, pinching your thigh.

“Just shut up and close your eyes.”

You smile gently before doing as he says, covering your face with your hands for good measure.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise. You’ll like it, I promise.”

You relax back into the seat, allowing the breeze from the open window to whip through your hair. Eventually you come to a stop, Bucky clicking off your seatbelt for you.

“Keep ‘em closed.”

Bucky sprints around to the passenger side, swinging open the door and wrapping his arms around you. He practically carries you out of the car, ensuring you don’t trip while you have no vision. He plants you on two feet, making sure you’re steady before he lets go of you.

“Okay. Open your eyes.”

You blink slowly, adjusting to the brightness of the afternoon.

You’re in the middle of nowhere. The two of you are stood on a huge, grassy plot of land, overlooking a small cove of the beach. You’re tucked completely out of the way, not a neighbour to be seen. All you can hear is the ocean, the birds, and the sound of your thumping heartbeat.

“Where are we, Buck? It’s pretty.”

He takes your hand, looking out towards the water.

“This is gonna be our house.”

Your head whips around in shock, confusion written all over your face.

“What?”

Your voice is barely above a whisper, but Bucky hears it, clear as day.

“I bought this land years ago, when I moved to town. I always knew I wanted to build a place of my own, but I could never get the plans off the ground. Something didn’t feel right. And then our Tethering happened…”

He squeezes your hand tightly, pulling you into his side.

“And everything fell into place. I was waiting for the right moment to show you, and it feels like you needed it today.”

You can’t speak. You’re completely lost for words, looking out at the perfect view. Turning to him, you throw your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of it and inhaling.

“Thank you,” you murmur into his skin. “It’s so perfect. You’re so perfect.”

“I’m so lucky,” he chuckles. “My God, you were worth the wait. I’d wait another ten lifetimes if I meant I got to love you again for one of them.”

You’re glad he’s holding onto you, or you’re convinced your legs would give out. You lean up to press a kiss to his lips, savouring the spearmint on his tongue.

“I love you,” you pray into his mouth. “I love you so much I can barely breathe.”

He kisses you back, harder, determined to show you exactly how he feels about you. Your fingers tangle into his hair, making him groan as you tug. His hands slide down to your ass, gripping harshly as he pulls you into his front. He wants every inch of you pressed together.

When you pull away, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You can have anything you want, you know.”

“Hmm?”

“With the house. I know we talked about it that night, at dinner in California. But if you think of anything else you’d like, all you gotta do is tell me.”

“One storey or two?”

“I was always thinking two.”

“Then I’d like a balcony, on the master bedroom. I love mine back at my apartment, especially in the summer.”

“Done,” he confirms, pecking your lips again.

“And a porch,” you whisper. “That we can sit on and watch the waves, when we’re old and grey.”

“I’ll be grey a lot sooner than you,” he jokes.

“You’re a lot more relaxed than me,” you laugh. “So I doubt that, actually.”

You rest your head on his warm chest, both of you swaying to the song of the ocean.

“We’ve got plenty of time, Buck.”

“All the time in the world, honey girl.”

The two of you stay wrapped in each other for a little while longer, enjoying the company of the one person you were destined for.

You can’t remember why you were ever so against soulmates. Loving Bucky is the easiest thing you’ve ever done.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

The two of you spend the rest of the afternoon curled up on the balcony, letting the sun warm you from the outside in.

“Pineapple will always remind me of those margaritas,” Bucky smiles, throwing a piece into his mouth. “Our first date.”

“And last, apparently,” you laugh. “We haven’t been on one since.”

“I mean, we sort of date everyday, right?”

“Yeah, I guess we do. After we’ve told my parents, we don’t have to worry anymore. We can go out whenever we want, whenever we want.”

“Exactly,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss you tenderly. “Not long now.”

The sound of your phone ringing startles you both, your hand flying out to find it in the cushions of the loveseat.

“Hello?”

“Oh, thank God. I half thought you were dead.”

“Not dead, Lacie. Just busy.”

She laughs, and you realise suddenly how much you’ve missed that sound.

“You’re back in town, right?”

“Yeah, just for a few more days. Then I’m gonna go back to Cali and pack up my stuff for good.”

“Perfect! Me and you are doing dinner tomorrow night. I want you to meet Cameron.”

“Really? Finally! I’m so excited, Lace. Your place, or are we going out?”

“Come to mine. Cam is the best cook, seriously. I’ve gotta run, we’re picking out a couch today. A couch, babe! Can you believe it?”

“Happy couch shopping, you two,” you laugh. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you.”

“Love you, bestie! Bye!”

You can’t help but smile when you hang up the phone.

“She’s gonna love having you back home again, isn’t she?”

“Oh, yeah. I can’t wait to see her more. I know she’s been so busy with her soulmate and me with work and with you, but I miss her like crazy. We text all the time, but it isn’t the same.”

“She knows about us, right?”

“Yeah,” you giggle. “She was the first person I told.”

“Thought so,” he laughs, pulling you back into his side. “Knew you wouldn’t be able to keep it from her for long.”

“She can practically read my mind. It was easier to avoid the truth over the phone, but the minute I saw her in person, I crumbled. She gives me this look, and I’m done for.”

Bucky chuckles fondly, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I can’t wait to get to know her properly.”

“Oh, she’s gonna love you.”

“I hope so.”

“She will, trust me. She used to talk about how hot you were all the time. Pre-Cameron, of course.”

“I’m glad you’re finally getting to meet him.”

“Me too. I feel guilty, you know. It was the biggest moment of her life, and all of a sudden I’m up and leaving across the country, barely keeping in touch through scattered text messages. I was so wrapped up in you and in work, that I wasn’t there for her like I should have been.”

“I’m sure she’ll understand if you say this to her, honey baby. You have to remember that her Tethering was a lot less complicated than ours. They just got on with things, as easy as can be.”

“I guess you’re right,” you murmur into his chest. “I’ll tell her all of this when I see her tomorrow.”

He wraps both arms around you, pulling you impossibly closer. You relax instantly, the warmth of his skin and familiarity of his touch soothing you like melted honey.

Your phone rings again.

“I bet it’s Lacie moving the plans around,” you chuckle. “She always underestimates how long it takes her to get everything ready.”

You find your phone from under the cushion and answer it.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Mama?”

“Where are you?”

The sun disappears behind a cloud, sending a shiver down your spine.

“I’m at home.”

“I need you to go and get Bucky, and come to the hospital.”

Your heart stops in your chest, and Bucky has to breathe for the both of you.

“Why?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

“I’ll explain when you get here, but it’s more serious than we thought.”

She sounds scared, which in turn terrifies you. She’s the bravest person you know, your Mom. If she’s afraid, you know it’s bad.

“Okay,” you choke out. “I’m leaving right now. I, uh, I’ll get Bucky, and - do you need anything? Does Dad? I can bring whatever… whatever you need, what do you need?”

“Nothing, baby girl. Just you guys, for now, okay?”

“Okay. Yeah, okay. I, uh, I- I- I’ll leave right now. Where is he?”

“Follow the signs for Cardiology when you get here. Room 4.”

“He’s in a room? In a bed? Mama, please. What’s happening?”

You’ve never heard your voice sound so weak. You’re kicking yourself internally - you have to be strong for her. You need to be.

“Baby, just get here as soon as you can, okay? Get Bucky to drive. I love you.”

“I love you too. So much.”

You try to hang up the phone, but your hands are shaking so much that you’re unable to press the red button. Bucky does it for you, intertwining your fingers with his.

He pulls you to your feet, smoothing your hair back from your face.

“It’s all going to be okay, honey. Put your shoes on and grab your purse. I’ll get my keys.”

He kisses your forehead gently, letting his lips linger for a second before pulling you inside and shutting the balcony door.

He doesn’t let go of your hand the entire time, even as you drive to the hospital.

You feel like you’re drowning. Repeatedly slipping beneath the surface of the water, lungs heaving, desperate to stay afloat.

Bucky feels it, too. All he can do is hold your hand and hope for the best.

All he can do is hold your hand and hope for the best.

tag list part one

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#bucky barnes x reader

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exposition-belongs-somewhere · 7 hours

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Saving Part 2 BikerBucky Barnes x Reader

Warning: Age gap, abuse, violence, forced relationship, dub-con, sexual acts, other themes

Summery: The reader never knew the real Bucky Barnes until that night.

Bucky led you to a office in the back after having Your father thrown out of the bar, You were sat in a chair He was kneeling in front of you dabbing your split open lip with a wet cloth,

It was silent You could see some of the tattoos exposed on his hand that disappeared under his leather jacket. You yourself had one tattoo, A small dove Tattoo on your wrist,

“It doesn’t look too bad.” He says he sounded irritated, who can blame him your father hit you so hard your surprised he didn’t knock you into next week, But this is the first time he’s done it in public.

“Let me see if I can find some ice for your cheek.” He says standing up still you say nothing, what could you say? Oh hey I’m nineteen still living at home and my father beats the snot out of me just for the fun of it.

You hear the door open and see Bucky walk in with a bottle of beer,

“Sorry the Ice Machine is acting up, need to get that damn thing fixed.” He grumbles handing you the beer,

“It’s alright.” You say below a whisper

“By the way I’m James but everyone calls me Bucky.” He says you press the beer to your cheek,

“Y/N” You say

He’s leaning against a desk with his arms crossed,

“I know I seen you working at the strip club.” He says

You nod

“Does this sort of thing happen often?” He finally asks

You knew you couldn’t tell him the truth,

You shake your head no,

“He was just a little drunk.” You say

“Doll, Tony is just a little drunk, When you are that drunk that you hit a woman you are beyond drunk.” He says

“Yeah..” You sigh and stand up,

“Thank you for your help James but I better get him home before he causes more trouble.” You say handing him the beer bottle,

He chuckles, and walks behind you he towers over you, your head coming to his chest,

“When is your day off?” He asked before you could leave the room,

“Excuse me?” You asked,

“You heard me doll.” He says you turn fully around you are looking up at him in confusion,

He is smirking,

“Tuesday.” You say

“So tomorrow.” He says

You nod not realizing that was tomorrow,

“Then I’ll pick you up around seven.” He says

You look at him confused,

“Um thank you for the offer but..” You begin trying to make up an excuse

“It’s the least you can do, for making me patch you up.” He says tucking some of your hair behind your ear,

“Besides I’m not one to take no for an answer.” He says smiling down at you

You were speechless, You lick your lip but nod

“Good girl.” He says smiling down at you

He walks you out to your car, shoving you still drunk father in the car,telling him if he doesn’t get in the damn car he was going to kick his teeth down his throat, and since James was built bigger than you father, Your father gulped but listened and got in the car, You walk over to the drivers side, He opens the door for you,

“I’ll see you tomorrow doll.” He says kissing you on the cheek,

You nod getting in the car buckling up and starting the car, He shuts the door and you drive off back to your house,

Bucky smirked watching your car disappear in the distance as you drove away, Steve was now standing next to him, He couldn’t help the way he felt when you called him James, No one ever called him James, but when you did it brought something out in him,

A sense of relief and also turned him on majorly,

“She seems a bit shaken up.” Steve says bringing Bucky out of his thoughts,

“Probably from us roughing up her old man, She’ll get over it.” Bucky says as the two walk back into the bar,

“I still can’t believe he hit her, I thought he broke her cheek how small the girl is.” Steve says

Bucky chuckles

“She’s tougher than she looks.” Bucky says

As you park the car outside the house, your father slams the car door once the two of you were inside the house, he pinned you to the wall by your throat.

“You ever embarrass me like that again I will kill you!” He yells

“Your the one who was drunk.” You rasp out he lets go of your throat and back hands you that you fall to the ground, He starts kicking you in the ribs,

“Don’t you ever come looking for me again!” He yells as he continues to kick you You cover your face with your forearms, Making sure he doesn’t get you in the face again,

He grabs you by the hair yanking you to your feet making you look at him,

“Do we understand each other?” He sneers

“Yes.” You grit out

He lets go of you,

“Good now go make dinner.” He says storming off,

You let out long shallow breaths from the incident trying to calm your nerves, You knew he was going to react this way but you had to get him because you were worried he would drive home drunk killing someone on the way.

You sigh holding your side as you made your way to the kitchen to make dinner even though it’s past three in the morning, his schedule is so screwed up from drinking himself stupid at all hours, You wonder how he’s not dead from liver damage,

You sigh placing your hands on the counter deciding to just make soup if he’s not satisfied or hasn’t passed out drunk yet he can make his own damn food.

You biggest worry was how you were going to hide your injuries from James now.

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exposition-belongs-somewhere · 1 day

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Eight-Thirty PM

CEO!Steve Rogers x CEO!Reader (from It Had To Be You series)

Summary: Steve returns after a long business trip.

Warnings for smut. Yeah, it's not rocket science. They bang in the office. Yes, of course, on the desk. Yeah, up against the window, too. And a chair. And the floor. Look, it's just smut (with very light bondage, consensually unprotected sex, hint of marking kink, dirty talk, and the ever-expected fact that I'm going to hell). WC 3k

MINORS DNI, 18+ ONLY. There's plenty for you to read on my Light Masterlist, but this work is not for you!

“Why are you still here?”

Your head shoots up from your tablet. You didn’t think he’d come back to the office. Steve’s plane landed only an hour ago, and after a grueling two weeks of flying around the world to five different countries, you thought you’d see him tomorrow after he’s slept off the jet lag.

Overnight bag in hand, your co-CEO and boyfriend is still wearing an overcoat and work suit from meetings on the other side of the Atlantic just twelve hours ago.

You’ve been in this office just as long, finishing up the odds and ends from new contracts.

Giving a quick shrug, you answer, “You know damn well I don’t leave until the day is done.”

He sighs dramatically in your doorway, giving a pointed glare to the clear night that has fallen outside. If he’s brought his bag all the way up though, Steve planned to work, too, the hypocrite.

“What’s left?” He drops his bag in the corner, the door automatically swinging shut, and walks to your side, planting one hand by your elbow and one on the back of your chair to peer at your screen.

For the last fifteen minutes, you’ve been scrolling mindlessly through news articles, dreading going to your empty apartment for one more night. You’d hoped Steve would call when he landed, ask you out to dinner, or immediately back to his place, so you waited and zoned out.

“Ah yes, pressing stuff,” he grumbles at your social media feed. “How dare I interrupt this?”

You drop your hands to your lap and spin toward him.

“How else am I supposed to keep you supplied with soothing yet hilarious animal memes?”

Steve hasn’t changed his lean over you, so his face is just there, within reach, but you hold firm.

He lifts the hand from the desk to stroke your cheek, voice like warm honey tea. “Of course. That makes sense.”

Like a magnetic dance of alignment, he shifts and so do you, forcing you to rise from your chair. Words don’t come to mind while Steve crowds your space, hands deftly finding your hips and petting—pushing, rather—you back towards your office window.

“Is this new? I like it.”

The blouse you bought in Japan, the perfectly tailored pencil skirt is from Italy, and your ability to resist his presence was on loan. Time just expired.

His long fingers bunch the thick fabric of your bottoms higher and higher until your thinly veiled ass presses against the window for the whole world to see. Not that anyway cares; not that anyone can look in when you have an unobstructed view out to the water. You couldn’t care less when Steve is back.

He’s back, back here, back by your side, back against your body, a thin, reinforced pane of glass separating you both from a thirty-story, sheer drop. If you could shift your feet six inches farther, you’d be flying like a superhero above New York City.

That’s ridiculous. There aren’t people who can fly. Superheros don’t exist…but if they did…

Steve Rogers would be a prime specimen. He and his broad, stabilizing hands—the ones anchoring your hips to that precariously invisible wall, the ones suspending you between ecstasy and terror—would definitely classify as hero-level marvelous.

Your skin buzzes, alive and anticipating. Your mind drowns in the wave of rich, comforted by the scent flooding the air around you.

That damn soap.

Those broad hands move up your sides, gripping so firm and hot your blouse wrinkles in their wake until his fingers finally reach the column of your neck. He replaces the grounding effect of pinning you with a deliberate thrust of his hips. His breath rolls between his fingers at your throat. The sensation brings you back from truly floating.

“Precious…”

Your leaden eyelids struggle to open. You hadn’t realized they were even closed. When he fills every sense, what’s lack of sight? He’s just so wonderful to feel, and he’s almost too glorious to behold: dark, blown pupils; tongue striping across his bottom lip; pristinely coifed hair slightly out of place in his rush to corner you.

You missed him. You missed this because this is Steve in your space, and he doesn’t invade. No. Steve enlightens the world around you. He lifts your work-weary soul up another thirty stories high and makes you believe that thing he’s always saying to you.

You’re amazing.

You sure as shit feel amazing when the first prickles of his beard scuttle across your jaw, the distance between you so minuscule now that you’re left with a void of all else but him and his oh-so-smooth, plush lips grazing yours.

With a shaky, deep breath and a sensual rasp to his voice, Steve starts, “So about the Cloutman contract…”

You almost laugh, but you almost slap him, too.

He just won’t quit. It really is so marvelously irritating.

“Shut up,” you huff into his mouth before taking hold of his lapels and making him.

You offer your best reciprocation of hot hands all over him, sliding beneath his coat and blazer to wrap his heaving chest and cling while he shrugs the layers off. Your tongues dance and slow. Your mouths suck and nibble. Your lips touch and tease.

You could not go on like this all night. You need each other after this long apart.

“Got any condoms in your office,” you ask during one break for air.

Steve freezes.

You didn’t actually anticipate the answer would be ‘no.’ Somehow, though he’s never dated much, though he’s rarely even touched you in the office these last two months of dating, you expected him to have…some sort of manly stash everywhere.

“Not in your bag?” you try.

Steve looks horrified, huffing, “You weren’t on the trip with me.” Why would he need condoms without you? his look continues silently.

You bite your lip and try not to laugh.

Door to door, the office to his place is over half an hour, the office to your place takes forty-five minutes on the best day, and to a drug store and back here would cost both twenty minutes and your dignity. You would never send a driver on that kind of errand, so you keep mulling over your options

Steve’s so disappointed, in mourning for his last moments before even more travel, running his fingers along the silky fabric of your blouse, the supple leather of your skirt, and the soft cotton of your panties.

“Maybe we should sit,” you suggest, thinking he’ll walk you over to one of the three chairs in the room, but Steve plunks his ass down right on his coat pooled atop the carpet.

He pulls you into his lap, hands still roaming your clothing. He seems resigned to staring at the sliver of your décollet�� beyond your collar, and it’s natural to tease him by starting to unbutton it. Two weeks is too long to go without seeing that slack-jawed look of envy for the fabrics that are allowed to kiss your skin all day. He’s as ravenous as an addict before they fall right back off the wagon.

“Okay,” you say finally.

Steve absently repeats you, but you’re solid in your decision.

Last week was your period, there are no fluctuations in your cycle to concern you, and you even thought that was a lucky break while your new-ish boyfriend was away. Then the word’s meaning seems to dawn on Steve.

“Okay-okay?” He swallows thickly.

Your top is undone, so you start on his, pulling the Windsor knot loose from his neck and moving slowly.

“Oh-kay,” you repeat, button by button.

Steve inhales sharply through his nose. “Like okay we don’t have one?” His face exposes his thoughts tentatively, a spark of something akin to hope here, a flicker of darker desire there. “You want me to…” he puffs out his chest “…and then I’ll just—“

“—come inside me.”

“—pull out,” he finishes. “What?!” It’s the world’s smallest exclamation. All the air rushes out of him. His blue eyes shadow as if dusk hit the harbor in a sudden eclipse.

You push the crisp white shirt over his broad shoulders.

“Precious,” Steve breathes, “are you sure?” Once the sleeves are off his arms, he pets down his beard. “You…”

“Uh-huh.” You nod, sliding off the navy tie.

“You’re sure,” he says again, unconvinced, short-circuiting. “I never…”

You understand his hesitation, you really do, but Steve doesn’t have to become a broken record questioning your choices. It’s a reasonable call in your monogamous relationship, and if he fucking ruins this for you after waiting half a month for his return, you’re gonna…you’re gonna…get ideas.

Ideas like this one.

You take Steve’s hands in yours and start wrapping the tie around his wrists.

He says nothing. He doesn’t even look down. He just stares at your face as you concentrate on tying a couple of knots on the makeshift binding and glance back up at him. He keeps his hands together, suspended between your bodies, unwilling to move yet.

So you keep working.

You undo his belt and unzip his pants, watching his lips fall open and the thoughts racing behind his eyes slow down. It’s a hard reset—one making Steve harder and harder beneath your touch.

“Hey, Captain,” you husk, leaning into his paralyzed hands only to have him recoil in alarm, “whatcha thinking?”

His long fingers grip gently at your face, face close to yours. Steve licks across his lips excruciatingly slow. “Say it again.”

“Fuck me.”

He growls, sweeping his arms over your head and pinning you to his chest. With ease, Steve rolls onto his knees and rises, carrying you until your ass hits the chilly wood of your desk. He drags his body between your wide legs.

“Say it again.”

He bends forward, forcing you to lay back with his bound hands cradling your head, heat surging down your body when his warm skin sits flush down your torso.

With his lips latched just below your ear, you whisper in his, “I want you to come inside me.”

You feel his teeth graze your throat as Steve grunts involuntarily, ripping his hands out from under you and shoving down his pants and boxer briefs. He orders you to remove your panties, demands you unhook the front clasp of your bra, and presses his erection to your core. He praises your exposed beauty while shushing your incoherent whimpers. His arms push past your shoulders and settle beneath the small of your back, angling you perfectly for his cock to slide back and forth through your folds, his hips nudging that too-long neglected bundle of nerves.

No more long, solo business trips, you think before your mind blurs in the low lamp light, you won’t survive another absence.

He spreads your arousal between you for an agonizing eternity, swipe after swipe, making you cry out every time the head of him notches in just the right spot. He could be in you right now. He could be fucking your brains out. At least that would give you reason to be this stupidly cock-crazed already.

“Didn’t use to need it like this,” Steve mutters into the valley of your breasts. “Went so long without. Can’t now.” He nips at the swell of you. “Not a day—not a night without…wanting this.”

He’s slow to push the head in, having foregone stretching you on his fingers, but he lavishes your nipples with attention enough to have you mewling for more.

“…wanting you…”

You gasp as his edging progression throbs across your whole body. His thick length and dextrous tongue coax every thrill back to the side of pleasure that curls your toes and shakes your thighs around him. He thrusts shallowly before pressing deeper, bullying a nipple with strong suction as he struggles to control himself.

“Missed you. Missed you so much.”

It makes you soar to hear him so broken, unable to separate his need for your company from his need to bury himself in you, unable to rein in his raw, animalistic desire to fill you in any way.

Steve fights this nature.

He fights to be respectful. He fights to be appreciative. He fights to ensure you always feel seen as more than just a woman, but right at this moment, it is the greatest accomplishment of your career to override the genius mind of Steve Rogers and make him crumble in worship of your pussy.

When he’s fully seated within your walls, you shiver straight into his embrace.

“I love you,” you breathe, pulling your arms out from beneath his to card through his hair.

Steve whines at the intimacy, muttering how good you feel into your neck before finding you for a kiss.

“I love you, too.”

Your spit-slicked nipples graze his rough chest hair with every bounce of Steve’s frantic and increasingly wild thrusts. His excitement fuels yours, his moans turning to groans while your core heats up like a kettle on the cusp of whistling.

“Are you sure?” he asks, but he sounds so wrecked, so incapable of any rational thought that isn’t pure praise of you.

His huge hands cling to your shoulder blades. The bite of short fingernails barely registers on your sweating skin. All you can do is scream in warning.

Your body clamps down, fluttering a strong and desperate rhythm of its own against him.

“Oh fuck, precious,” Steve pants, hustling to move his arms back around to your front, pressing into your tight stomach, imagining the glide of his cock beneath his palms as he holds you still.

He’s lost and lust-drunk, focused on pumping you full of his cum and relishing the new sensation. His eyes shut, lashes kissing his cheeks, and his head lolls back in one last choked shout.

It’s so much wetter combined with you, so much nastier and possessive.

He kneads gently at your belly, still pushed in as deep as he can be, and lets out a breathy chuckle in utter, debauched bliss.

A second later, Steve easily twists out of the looped tie, tossing it in a heap beside you on the desk and petting every inch of you he can reach as he comes down.

His descending calm only sends you reeling.

You watch the corruption of man in 4K high definition as Steve succumbs to this new, greedy delight. You see the very moment it dawns on him that he’s a righteously common man—replete with vice he’s unlikely to recover from. His downfall keeps you floating on shockwaves like you’re in a mosh pit, his every expression pushing you back into the fog of orgasm.

You did this. You did this to him as much as he did this to you.

Eyes glazed and dark, Steve’s fingertips finally trace the joint of your hip.

The tickle makes you buck against him, knocking him back a little, and slowly, Steve does pull out entirely. He never lets go of you though.

His thumb finds your clit and starts up another leisurely pace. He sits his bare ass on your office chair and looks directly at your exposed sex, staring as the stimulation makes you clench.

You hear the powerful man between your legs roll forward for a better view.

You feel him leaking out of you and know he’s holding that gaze for a moment longer before yanking out a few tissues from the box in your drawer and wiping up what he can. He’s gentle, but he doesn’t have to be so slow to clean you.

You expect that to be it.

He’s brought you back down—albeit teasingly,—returned from his trip to some feral, nomad land, and that’s likely the end of your romp at work with straight-laced, kind Steve Rogers.

But his hot hand finds your calf, lifting your leg to drape over his shoulder. He doesn’t even wait until the other leg is moved into place before his lips lock around that sensitive nub still aching from attention.

He goes to town, particularly ravenous for more noise, pausing for long periods to caress and nuzzle the plush skin of your thighs. He whispers how he likes the smell of you two together, how it’s stronger, maybe because he’s been away, how you smell potent and ready for him, and he didn’t hurt you, did he? He just wanted you so bad. Needed you.

You lean into his new-found obsession, steadily rising high again, body and soul.

Did he like marking you? you ask. Will he keep thinking about it?

Will he want to keep you full and watch it overflow from you?

Is he ready to fuck you again already?

Your words don’t even shame the golden boy begging to suffocate between your legs; they only encourage him. He has you gushing again in minutes. It takes longer for the sparking electricity of your high to dissipate than it did to build the charge.

He simply watches with a smile on his face and his lips sliding across the tender back of your knee.

Eventually, you sit up, gasping for air, blouse and bra still trapped on your elbows, skirt still hiked up to your waist. No more words pass between you. You hold each other in an adoring gaze, giggling when he has to help you put your feet back on the ground.

You fluff your destroyed hair and step onto wobbly legs. Steve races to help, but you only move to straddle him in the chair, your hand finding his still-slick cock that’s well on its way to hard. His eyes meet yours and never falter, his hands steady beside your arms in case you need his strength but untouching while you jerk and toy with him. He unabashedly shows you the full mess of him you’ve made, like you let him see of you.

You look over to the clock near the door.

8:30.

The night is still young, and you missed your boyfriend. He’s full of surprises and you want to explore at least one more before breaking to head home.

@bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @rach2602 @patzammit @royalwritersoftheuniverses @supraveng @1950schick @yiiiikesmish

A/N: Hey gang, so I'm in a phase of this emotional cluster-fuck that I honestly cannot tell if my work reads well? Normally, I have a decent radar for the quality I'm looking for/proud of, but lately, absolutely nothing makes par. I'm kinda relying on you guys to tell me if and when we get to a point that it's bad and maybe I need to take a real break. I PROMISED SINFUL SUNDAY THOUGH, so I do hope it was at least passable as entertainment! 💚💜

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

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exposition-belongs-somewhere · 1 day

Text

I. Love. Sarah.

The First Eighty-Three Hours (5)

CEO!Steve Rogers x CEO!reader

Redo (see previous or series)

Summary: The perfectly frustrating Cap to the end of your day. Steve isn't being who you expect, but he's definitely who you want.

Warnings for smut (MINORS DNI), talking, so much talking, and hilarious use of a John Walker insert. Honorable mention to Sarah Rogers. WC ~3.5k

In a perfect world, you wouldn’t be concerned with the state of your apartment, but you ponder how clean the carpet is as you and Steve shuffle newly bare feet across the threshold of your bedroom. You wouldn’t think about if you tossed yesterday’s clothes all the way into the hamper. You wouldn’t think of the few work papers at the corner of your unmade bed as you rustle up a condom from your bedside drawer. You wouldn’t think of the bit of dust you can see in the temporary lamplight. You wouldn’t think of whether your bra and panties are of a sensual enough quality to feel good against Steve’s fingers and skin. You wouldn’t think about the smorgasbord of dinner on your breath or if your shave has lasted long enough to still be smooth.

In a perfect world, you’d be lost in a rush of passion, a flurry of limbs, but that’s difficult to do with all that shit on your mind.

It’s also impossible to do when he won’t fucking move.

“Seriously? You’re balls deep in me, and you want to negotiate.”

Steve’s body remains still atop yours, slotted between your legs, thick between your folds, almost throbbing within your walls. “I said I wanted to talk,” he says casually, fingering over the tender skin behind your ear.

“In the middle of sex?!”

He stutters as if wounded. “Since when is me entering you the middle of sex?”

“That’s not funny.”

You have zero intention of letting him win, even as Steve bends his leg up flush against the back of your thigh, supportive and caging.

“I’m not laughing.” He hikes the other leg into position like he’s settling in for a long haul, and the minute shift makes you keen. Of course, this is only fuel to his slow-burning fire.

“You are in the process of getting what you want, so I get at least a—” Steve tenses his thighs, bouncing you ever-so-slightly forward “—taste of what I want.”

Damn it. Damn him, you are hating to love this right now. Almost no movement at all has you trembling against sheets you’re sort of sure you cleaned last week, but you can’t even give him the satisfaction of a moan.

He waits in your silence, running his nose up your petulantly raised neck before sighing, “fine, I can just leave—“

“If you dare,” you threaten, grabbing at his thick, retreating arms weakly.

And he doesn’t, to his credit. He doesn’t leave you. He sits back on his heels, your ass propped up on his thigh, cock still mostly buried in your heat but not as deep as before. That’s the punishment

“I hate you,” you whisper on instinct.

“I bet,” Steve chuckles, causing itty-bitty shifts that torture you further.

It takes you a long time to come up with the words but Steve remains patient, hands roaming your body in a gentle caress.

You finally rush your response in hopes of not whining needy in the middle. “I live to work and something that should have been good turned to shit.”

He curves down to kiss across your chest, giving a shallow thrust of encouragement.

“I earned this,” you moan. You’re only half-sure you meant your new title. “I want to be so…good at it, but they just—“ you swallow on a dry throat though you’re salivating when he takes a nipple into those plush lips.

“Then let me help, Preci—“

“YOU CAN NOT—“ you explode without warning.

He stops moving, releasing any touch of you above the waist.

“I’m sorry but you can’t, Steve. You can’t. If you help, then that proves I couldn’t do it on my own and don’t deserve to be there.”

“But you do,” he says sincerely, propped up on his elbows, close but not confining.

“Yes. Yes, I do.” The conviction in your own voice astounds you. This is the first time you’ve truly meant it; the first time believe there’s no other way your life could have gone.

And you’re pissed.

It’s overwhelming and unfair and nearly impossible to explain, and for the love of all that is holy, will he just fuck you already?

You cover your face with your hands and growl. This time, the rumble of frustration inside you is what jolts electricity through your core.

“It’s…this is just something I have to deal with the slow way. Nothing will fix it.”

“Nothing,” he repeats questioningly. Steve clearly does not enjoy that ambiguity. There’s always a solution for him, but that’s the key: there is always a solution for men like him.

“I can’t undo people’s opinion of me. I can’t stop their assumptions. Gossip doesn’t care about facts. I have to slowly, agonizingly rewrite it. I have to prove myself, and then I’ll have to prove myself again. They don’t have to care, but I’m going to have to do it anyway.”

It’s his turn to be quiet. Steve takes a moment to lean down until his forehead touches yours.

“Okay,” he mumbles.

“Okay?”

“I won’t do anything unless you want me to, but I’m right beside you.”

“Thank you.” You cup his face with one hand, scratching at the edge of his beard.

One big hand of his slides to brace your ribcage. He rolls his hips back before pumping into you.

You’re drenched and you didn’t even know it. The glide of his sheathed length is indescribable, a smooth raking over your every nerve.

His lips find your ear. “And we can slowly—“ he kisses that sweet spot on your neck “—agonizingly—“ he lets your arms slot over his, broad shoulders tensing with his new pace “—work together.”

The overwhelming escalation of pleasure shoots a taut band down your whole body, forcing you to stretch out like a cat, hands flat against the headboard, muffling soft pleas. You have no clue what you’re pleading for, but you have no control anymore.

Steve tucks an arm into the rigid arch of your back and grabs your ass, hoisting you closer, giving you leverage to roll in tandem with him.

“This help? You want this, precious?”

You climb so high so fast that you feel light-headed, suffocated by the raging intensity of his affection.

He seems…very excited, too, as he pants into the thin sliver of air between you.

“Every morning. Every night. Whenever you want. Whatever you want. Whatever you need.” His deep, husky voice is doing as much for you as the friction of his body, especially when he groans, “fuck. Anything for you.”

It’s just not possible for him to feel this good and be this good and be this bad all at once. There’s no way he’s real, you’re convinced. Where the hell did he come from? He’s not even human, is he?

“Who cares,” Steve babbles against your slick skin. Apparently, you said some of that aloud. “M‘here with you. ‘Coming for you.”

Your orgasm detonates. That forced stretch locks your muscles in place for a seizure of ecstasy. A cry cuts off halfway, turning inward to fuse with your superheated core.

He grunts three words with his last thrusts, and you shake, swimming too deep in your own pleasure to hear. His weight pins you to the sweaty sheets and the Earth.

“I love you,” Steve repeats, no more than a whisper.

Your whole body shivers, walls clenching around him again.

You want it. You want to argue that he’s full of shit, that he can’t possibly because it’s day four. You think you should fight it. You should tell him he’s wrong, but you want it. You want his love.

But he didn’t just say it for you. He’s said something true. Steve’s an honest man and has never lied to you. You also know that he never says anything just because it’s what people want to hear.

You aren’t prepared to receive that gift or give it back. You’re not ready. You’re frozen, waiting until your shock thaws.

You stare at the ceiling fan and think of the Ikea furniture and how it looks in the sad glow of the bathroom light as Steve cleans up. You think of all the corners you did not deep clean in there. You think of how many products you left on the countertop and if the soap dispenser is still nearly empty. Shame crawls over your cooling skin while you cover up with a blanket that you can’t remember washing recently.

You can’t…you can’t think of anything else.

“Did I push too hard?”

You shake your head as he gets back into bed. “Hey, I’m sorry if I—“

“No,” you say meekly. “Don’t.”

Steve stretches out beside you, not reaching for the blanket. He only moves to smooth your hair out of your face.

“You deserve so much better than today. You’ve earned this. I just want to help, so what can I do?”

You take his hand in yours, a serious heft in your tone. “Please, don’t try to help again.”

“Again? When did I…?”

“You tried and failed two and a half years ago at the Donatelli fundraiser.”

Steve thinks back, confused.

Of course, he wouldn’t have noticed then and he wouldn’t think of it now. “I brought a date. You told him I was ‘your responsibility' and to leave.”

“That guy? No, but he made you look miserable the whole night. He barely spoke to you.”

“So you said…?

Steve adjusts himself a little self-consciously on the bed. “What? I’m concerned about all my employee’s happiness, and you were miserable. He wasn’t right for you.”

“But that’s not what you said, is it?”

“Is there a difference?”

“Between my entire self belonging to you versus you giving a shit about your workforce’s quality of life?” You prop yourself up sideways on one elbow. “Yes. Big damn difference.”

“The guy neglected you the whole dinner,” he continues to defend.

“Steve, I paid him to neglect me. John Walker is an escort. He was there to get people off my back about never having a plus one. I gave him money to not bother me while I was still expected to work that night. Normal dates don’t like that.”

“Nobody cares if you—“

“You bet your ass they care,” you burst. “They cared tonight how expensive my clothes were. They cared that my word had the backing of a man on the phone today. They definitely cared that I was perpetually alone at events. Doesn’t matter if I was fine with it.” You throw up a hand before falling back down to the pillow. “I even thought Walker was doing well enough to be a repeat date because—my god—the grief I would be spared!” Shifting your voice in mock horror, you imitate, “‘Again?’ ‘Don’t work so hard. You’ll seem unavailable.’ ‘Don’t act so superior. No one wants that.’ ‘Always uneven numbers at the table.’

“But how could I possibly ask him to come back when you had to go full white knight? And all while having some name from the Stark Rolodex beside you. See, when you do it, it’s fine. When I—“

You’re finally too angry to continue. Your chest heaves in frustration, and your throat tightens, eyes prickling.

After a thick pause, Steve tries, “my mother raised me to—“

“Your mother is not an excuse for you to be a hypocrite or bury your head in the sand,” you snap. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

You are, essentially, as not sorry as you have ever been, crossing your arms across your bare chest and huffing loudly.

It’s his turn to prop himself up to look at you. “This is why I wanted to talk. For the record.”

You sigh. “Noted.” After another beat, your voice is quiet again. “Nothing is going to make them stop. This is my reality, and in the nicest way possible, you cannot help. You didn’t mean to, but your ‘help’ partly, accidentally, inadvertently made it this way. I’m not blaming you. It’s not your fault just like it’s not my fault. That’s the perception though. Doesn’t go away when you deny it, and I’m not gonna sit here and lie to make you feel better about it. I’m too tired for that.”

Ok, fine, you vaguely regret going on a tirade immediately after sex, but bottling it up wasn’t helping, and sugarcoating it is a waste of time.

Steve, to his credit, takes it in stride, shuffling closer and running a finger up and down your shoulder. It tickles.

“You are amazing though.”

Definitely not human.

“Thank you,” you allow. “I am also…truly exhausted.”

“Catch-22, precious. If I let you work less—“

“—then the whole company assumes you favor me—“

“—which I do, but not like that. Except. Yes, like that but this isn’t the reason that I’d…“ Steve scratches the back of his head, waiting for you to save him from the hole he’s digging to China, and you do take pity on him. He’s too cute to say no to.

“Welcome to womanhood, Mr. Rogers, the place where you cannot win, no matter how long you fight or what army you have on your side.”

Unpredictably, he huffs and spins to find his phone from his discarded pants over the side of the bed. You have to clutch at your blanket while the springs bounce you in return.

Of course, this conversation would inspire something about work. It’s not long before he settles back into position silently, the slow consistent rattle of your overhead fan churning away.

“I still mean it,” Steve whispers.

Fuck. Do you have to talk about that now?

Carefully, you choose your own words. “I know. That’s…it’s really hard to accept.”

Steve waits for you to roll over and meet his eyes in the dark. When he takes your hand again, he adds, “then I’m doing a bad job.”

“You’re working against a lifetime of shit.” Your voice is no louder than your breath, but he simply kisses the back of your hand.

“I hate that I’ve added to it.”

This sincere bastard. The more he talks, the more you realize why you’ve been working so damn hard for so long: it’s not just for a paycheck, it’s not just for your reputation, it’s not even for the company. It’s Steve. You’ve been working to get Steve Rogers whatever he wants because you knew he was different. He’s worth it.

He’s worth it, but he is just a human. He can’t fix everything. He can’t change the past. He’s not predictable in this dynamic, and you have to ask.

“No redos, Steve. So what do you do next?”

He takes a big breath that puffs out his chest and pulls you close, blanket and all. With the determination of a man who’s already spent twenty years on a singular focus, he concludes, “keep working, obviously. Listen. Learn.” He drops his voice at the end. “Love you till you feel it.”

There you both are on that lonely, desert island together, no one in the world but you two, and he’s warm like the sun and the sand on the beach.

“Could take a long time,” you admit.

“Think I wasted a few years already.”

“Not a waste. Never a waste. You were being you, and I—“ You lean further, far enough to shield your face from sight, close enough to touch your nose to the hollow of his clavicle. It takes a few seconds to get the words out.

“I love you, too.”

While you wrangle the runaway surge of emotion from your confession, Steve’s finger tugs at your chin until his lips can find yours.

Soft.

Soft, endless devotion.

How one kiss can be so thorough in its effect on your body, you’ll never know because his words continue the sweet assault.

“I mean all of it though. Whatever I can do, whatever you want, I’ll do it. Whatever you say.”

You preen at the offer, rubbing your cheek against the bristle of his beard. “That’s a lot of power, Captain. What if I don’t use it wisely?”

“I trust you.” So simple yet so much more intense than its predecessor. “So…”

“So,” you repeat, biting your bottom lip in thought, a brash swell of mischief replacing some of the moment’s aching tenderness, “you can start by getting out of my spot. I sleep on that side. And we’re gonna go brush our teeth because—“

“No dragon breath,” Steve diligently remembers.

“Exactly. Good boy.” You give his cheek a playful pat and find your pajamas.

The dance of ritual in the bathroom is surprisingly smooth, peppered with teasing and longing glances. This is the most comfortable you’ve ever been in unknown territory, and you suddenly look forward to Steve getting cozy in your life, in every aspect.

He places the new toothbrush you fished out of your goody bag from the dentist a month ago—his toothbrush now—right beside yours in the holder and smiles wide.

“Feeling better, precious?”

You shrug. It’s the most honest answer you can give. The rollercoaster of the day has only added to the theme park of the weekend, and you are tired but with a tinge of something else. The mischief is growing.

You brush your fingers down his bare abs. “Maybe…feeling powerful.”

Steve clears his throat. “Oh?”

Your eyes raise to meet his just as your hand flicks the light switch.

Steve says nothing of consequence as you both get dressed for work. He has fresh clothes at the office, so he doesn’t put on any more than his slacks and shirt, tossing his suit jacket and coat over his arm before holding the door open for you.

When you get to the curb, however, there are two cars, and he walks you to the one that is not the company’s.

The window rolls down.

“Hello, dear,” Sarah Rogers trills sweetly. “We are going on an adventure.”

You say a quick hello in return and step out of the way, thinking Steve has simply forgotten to mention plans with his mother.

He shakes his head and opens that door for you, too.

Even though it’s written all over your face, you still blurt out, “I don’t understand.”

“We,” Sarah emphasizes, “us ladies have an important meeting to get to. Hop in.”

You slide into the passenger’s seat staring all the while at Steve. He gives nothing away in his soft smile, looking to make sure you’re settled inside before shutting the door and leaning into the open window.

His smile widens. “I got to thinkin’ last night—“

“—a dangerous business, son,” Sarah chides.

You desperately try not to laugh. You’ve known this woman is sharp since the first phone call you fielded from her in the early days at AmCap, but to watch this closely is another beast.

“Indeed,” Steve clicks his tongue, but you see a faint hue high on his cheeks. He looks back at you with that same smile.

That’s when it occurs to you: it's not Steve's smile. It’s your smile. That soft, charming, gooey-around-the-edges, ready-to-comply smile is reserved for you.

“What we talked about, ‘figured if I can’t help, maybe Ma can.”

“Oh, that’s not—“ you turn to Sarah “—please, you don’t have to—“

“Nonsense!” She hits the button to roll the window up, forcing Steve out and back up onto the curb.

“Alright, I’ll see you at the—“ He waves at the end, knowing you can’t hear, and pets down his beard, amused as he walks to the usual black SUV.

“You’ll see, dear. I’m a collector. You’re doing me a favor really. I don’t have a CEO yet.”

As Sarah pulls out into traffic, you sneak a glance back as Steve ducks into his ride. “A collector of what?”

“Women. Powerful women, to be exact, and you and I are going to dine with a few. Best I could do on short notice, but we’ll have Hope Van Dyne, member of the Board of Directors for Pym Tech. You’ve worked with them, I think?”

“No, ma’am. Their contract was before my tenure, so I never met anyone from there.”

Mama Rogers deftly navigates the city streets. “Ah well, this is perfect then. Natasha seemed downright eager when I mentioned you’d be coming—“

“Romanoff?!” Your voice cracks accidentally. It was only a few days ago, but her first impression of you was not your finest moment seeing as you were a bit drunk and cranky.

“Yes, and if her sister decides to grace us with her presence—“ Sarah rolls her eyes “—you’ll be in for a real treat.”

You swallow thickly and wait for elaboration.

“Personal stylist to the stars. Yelena Bolova,” she explains with a flourish. “Don’t tell me Stevie plays off like he’s had no help with his wardrobe…”

Your grimace must give your answer away, and Sarah raises a delicate, judging, blond eyebrow before moving on.

“Shame my colleague Claire from the hospital couldn’t join. Another time. Ah—she’s here! Just pulled in, you see? That’s Jen, dear. Jen Walters. Brilliant legal mind. Very down to earth.”

“Wow, so who’s not here?”

“Of my regulars—I love hosting the girls whenever I can—Doctors Maya Hansen and Jane Foster and soon-to-be Doctor Darcy Lewis are at various foreign locations for their research. Not together though. Wildly different fields. Also Securities Director for…a very large capital operation that shall not be named, Maria Hill.”

“Has Pepper Potts never joined you? You’ve known the Stark’s as long as Steve has, right?”

“Oh yes.” Sarah parks the car but doesn’t begin to get out for the valet. She turns to you with a guilty expression. “Truth be told, Ms. Potts called me first. I didn’t wait for Stevie to text me before ringing the girls because I’d already put this off for too long. You see, I’ve always admired your work ethic, but it felt an imposition to spend time with your boss’s mother when you were clearly dedicated and very busy. I was so proud of you for whipping some sense of…well, life, I suppose, back into that boy—man,” she corrects with a hand on your arm momentarily. “All that can wait though. Come, dear. Let’s lift you up after yesterday. You deserve better.”

Like mother, like son. You can see it in her smile. The Rogerses epitomize strong gentility.

“One warning though. If you ever call us ‘Ladies Who Lunch,’ you are out. No questions asked. No exceptions. I cannot stand that trivializing shit.”

You fight to wrangle your grin into an acceptable smirk, but it seems the whole family is full of surprises.

Right before you enter the restaurant, you set your phone to silent and see a text from Steve.

It’s just a red heart emoji, but your own heart swells with pride and a flutter of realization. You love that man, you trust him, and most importantly, you trust that things will be okay.

This concludes the main story of Steve and Precious. They will return in two planned one-shots (and probably more, let's be honest), but for now, I hope you were satisfied by this tale! Thank you for reading, and I'd love to hear your thoughts. 🤗😘

@bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @rach2602 @patzammit @royalwritersoftheuniverses

[Eight-Thirty PM]

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

#stever rogers x reader

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exposition-belongs-somewhere · 2 days

Text

The First Eighty-Three Hours (4)

CEO!Steve Rogers x CEO!reader

Dinner (see previous or series)

Summary: The most nerve-racking part of your official first day isn't what you expect.

Warnings for frustrating gossip and misogynist behavior, as well as light and suggestive language. This one is a bit of a rollercoaster, FYI. WC 3.5k

You never believed it more than today: Mondays are the fucking worst.

It started normally. You woke, dressed, and came to work early. You exchanged a few texts with Steve, all sweet but about real business, and you looked forward to ticking off lots of things on the to-do list, especially since as co-CEOs, you both can split up the top-level tasks.

It goes to shit almost immediately.

Security hasn’t updated your badge clearance for the building but has managed to delete your old security details in preparation for the change in title. You know a few of the front desk guards, but not all of them, not the ones working this morning, and since the building houses multiple company corporate offices, they see a lot of people come and go. Topaz has to come down and escort you up as if you are her visitor.

You can’t get mad—though you are fuming—because it’s a simple tech error that one call can correct. It’s about the most pleasant call of your whole day.

Each of the other companies you call has been in contract with American Capsules for at least a year. Some CEOs, some COOs, one CFO, you know every man (and they are all men) you speak to, and at a point in every single call, a variation of “are you sure? Put Rogers on” gets thrown in.

You have a headache from rolling your eyes so hard. You come up with highly creative ways to say that you have been on the line for most, if not all, of their previous discussions with Mr. Rogers, and that he, in fact, asked you for final assurance that his information was correct during most, if not all, of those calls. To some extent, you know this company better than Steve Rogers.

No one seems to fucking care. It’s a Monday. You’re a woman. You were just an assistant.

“I’d feel better if I hear that from him.”

That’s the kicker.

God forbid you get emotional, but baby-boy over here really needs to feel reassured. At least that man did not refer to you as some sort of dessert.

My name is not ‘sugar,’ it is not ‘cupcake,’ and it is not ‘gumdrop,’ you old farts. However, the nicknames come from men aged 31 to 63, so…woohoo, consistency.

The fun doesn’t end there. Your only in-person meeting decides to regale you with a story of how he’s more qualified than you.

“It’s a shame I never got to apply,” he scoffs in what he probably thinks is a casual way but it’s just derogatory. “Guess you had the inside track, huh? You and Rogers spend so much time together…”

Do not scream ‘fuck off.’ Don’t do it.

“Steve saw my dedication to this company, yes.” You fake-laugh to the door to get him to leave. “You’d hate the hours anyway, Paul. I know how much you love those Napa Valley vacations, and I’m afraid that just wouldn’t work here.”

You managed to not make the door hit him on the way out. Now you kinda want a cupcake.

At lunch—which you eat at nearly three in the afternoon—Topaz tosses out a comment about how you must be excited to spend some of that raise money, freshen up your wardrobe, maybe buy a new car or upgrade your apartment. You do not have fucking time for her shit.

Steve comes in to check a few things with you, dedicated to his professional persona, which is great because you need to feel like work is work and home is home right now. The lines cannot be blurred when everyone around you thinks they already are.

Plus, you’d likely bite his head clean off if he dared say the word ‘precious’ after the morning you’ve had.

Keeping to work only is not that difficult because you’ve been ignoring how delicious Mr. Rogers looks in a suit for years, except there may be a few random phrases he accidentally says that make your thighs clench. Most of them are mild threats to the men who’d behaved badly towards you, but Steve doesn’t seem to know what they did. He’s simply annoyed that they insisted on speaking to him instead of confirming details with you.

The most peaceful part of the whole day is about seven minutes between two calls. You drink a whole glass of water with the door shut and get to stare out the window. The cityscape should remind you of sex. Good sex. Great sex. But no, all you really think about is chatting with Steve whilst having that morning coffee. You hated to replace the scent of his soap with your body wash after going home, and you washed your hair thinking of how to describe the ritual to him.

Other than that seven minutes in heaven, you never calm down. You end up still at the office until 6:20. There’s no chance to run home and change. You’ll have to go to dinner with Pepper and Tony in what you’re wearing.

Steve holds your coat up in the hall. He jokes that the perk of having a driver is that you can both leave your workbags in the car. He doesn’t sense anything is really wrong, and he says it again.

“You were amazing today.”

You don’t fucking feel like it.

During the ride to the restaurant, you are on the verge of rage tears. If tomorrow goes just as badly, you may break your desk phone. Employees knowing about (or acknowledging) your heightened status is hit-and-miss. Some offered congratulations while a fair few—shockingly all men—still rampantly demeaned you in hopes of getting a second with ‘your boss.’ It felt like high school all over again to hear girls whispering about ‘sleeping her way to the top’ in the bathroom. Bitter is not a heavy enough sentiment for how you feel in this stupid fucking car going to a stupid fucking meal while you still have a stupid fucking amount of—

“We’re here,” Steve says softly, a hand grasping your thigh briefly, telling you to wait while he gets your door.

You’re distracted on the walk inside, automatically letting him take your coat and check them in the lobby. Your mind is elsewhere when you step up to the hostess desk.

“It’s…I’m sorry, I don’t know who the reservation is under, but party of four—“

Damn. You think of something you need to tell Topaz and an amendment for a contract stipulation tomorrow.

As you scurry to pull out your phone, the maitre d’ clears his throat.

“Ma’am, this establishment has a dress code.”

It hardly registers. You have on a blouse and trousers with broken-in heels that don’t blister your feet. Your tits and ass aren’t hanging out. Mission accomplished. Let’s get on with it.

“I’m covered,” you mutter, texting Topaz.

“I’m afraid I can’t allow you to dine with us in that.”

You finally look up and see the clear disdain on the man’s angular face. Even the host is in a full tuxedo.

“Rogers!”

Tony yells from the doorway of a private room far beyond the main dining room and bar. He’s oblivious to disturbing anyone else’s meal, but it’s possible half of these people eat here explicitly to see Tony Stark and say they eat where he does.

Steve returns to your side, and while The Tony Stark and The Steve Rogers exchange a brief hug, you stare right into the maître d’s eyes and purse your lips.

“M’Lady,” Tony coos, leaning forward to kiss your cheek, “or should I say ‘my hero?’” He smiles and turns excitedly. “Hope you brought your appetites. I ordered one of everything. This way—“

“One moment,” you halt, lifting a finger, looking the angular man square in the face with your head held high. “Do we have a problem?”

Sheet-white, the host has a new pallor. Good.

“What’s this,” Steve asks quietly.

“No, ma’am,” the maitre d’ gulps, pure terror flashing in his brown eyes.

Your own eyes drop to his name tag. “Thank you, Lyle.” Smiling as you slowly rotate to your date, you let out a tense breath.

“After you,” Steve offers, smiling too.

You don’t want to start the night off on the wrong foot by explaining that exchange, but your hands smooth any piece of fabric they can get to nervously.

Tech guys in Silicon Valley go everywhere in ratty tees and cargo pants, and they’re probably openly welcomed into the nicest places. Steve’s in a perfectly nice suit, but nothing fancy. Hell, Tony wears a Black Sabbath shirt under a blazer. Why just you?

Your clothes are fine, not haute couture, but you have no desire to maintain a wardrobe that requires more time and effort than your day job. You know what Steve spends on dry cleaning and tailoring. When would you find the time? Plus, there’s a thin line between fashionable, functional, and cumbersome—

Whatever. Pepper will understand if it’s brought up…except she’s in a gorgeous sheath dress and Louboutins. Pep’s always been like that though, impeccable taste, and she’s the reason you found that gala gown from a store you wouldn’t have set foot in otherwise.

Dinner does start out well. Tony is beyond appreciative (about the weekend), and Pep is gracious and sympathetic (about your long day, no details). There’s a bit of discussion about the differences between Tony/Pepper’s setup and yours/Steve’s.

Pepper is the CEO and the only CEO of Stark Industries because Tony’s the innovator. Steve, who has always been the actual and active leader of his company, now shares those responsibilities with you. He makes an off-hand remark about still being crazy busy today, and your hands tremble faintly. You move them to your lap, trying to calm down. You’re finding it hard to jump into conversation—since you’ve spent years as a silent observer to Steve’s meetings—and transitioning to full participant isn’t natural yet.

Tony wasn’t joking about the food. Five appetizers show up and litter the table. Everyone tries everything they fancy and nothing they don’t. The not-empty plates are replaced by eight entrees laid in their wake.

This is weird. Delicious, yes, but wasteful and formal, and you’ve hit your limit. You open your mouth to excuse yourself for the ladies’ room, but the double door opens again. The chef has arrived with an off-menu addition. Tony is thrilled.

The plate, however, is placed directly in front of you.

“Something special,” the chef beams, “for you, Señorita Cappy.”

You recognize the dish and the man suddenly.

“Oh gosh, Maximus!” You take his outstretched hand, and he kisses the back of it. “I had no idea you—it’s been so long. You’re here now?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says in a thick accent, “thanks to yourself.”

“Consider me put in my place,” Tony grumbles playfully while Pepper and Steve look at you with curiosity.

“Ah,” you flounder to take the lead in speaking, “well, for one of the first catered events after I started at AmCap, Chef Maximus was part of the staff—but not a cook! I remember—a tragedy really, because he wanted so badly to debut this—“ you showcase the plate before you with a flick of your hand “—traditional meal from his hometown. I put him in touch with a client—Bonterouss, if you remember him,” you toss to Steve. “He’s an entrepreneur that had mentioned cuisine as a passion, and…”

You shrug the rest off.

Maximus is effusive beyond reason, and after quite a few “you’re welcome”s and “you earned it”s in hopes that he knows you’re very happy for him (but need this to be done), he wishes the group a fantastic meal, excusing himself.

It’s nice to see him, of course, and it’s so wonderful he’s doing well.

Tony grabs a fork and reaches to try the new addition on the table.

Steve and Pepper say some nice things about how nice you are and how wonderful you’ve done since they all met you. Nice and wonderful. You feel anything but nice and wonderful.

Your façade crumbles. The rollercoaster of the day has wrung you dry and now it wrings actual tears from you.

Tony doesn’t skip a beat and says to let it out or drink up. Steve rubs across your shoulders and tries to tell you again how amazing you are, but that brings on a few sobs. Pepper, bless her, helps you both to the restroom like you wanted to do before the dam broke.

In addition to pauper’s clothing—apparently—you have no makeup left after as quick of a recap and cry as you can manage in the loo.

“Sweetheart, you’ve done exceptional work, and you’ll continue to do so.” Pepper trashes the last of the cloth-like paper towels in the bathroom lit by two chandeliers.

One last sniffle. You’re allotted only one more sniffle, you tell yourself.

“And what about the rest?”

Her smile is sweet. “If you want, you know I’m always willing to go shopping with you, but if you don’t care, then fuck them.”

You quickly consider what Pep might spend on hair and makeup and clothing and cleaning that clothing…since you know what half that costs for Steve. You can’t decide if your stomach wants to wretch or to binge the feelings away.

“As for…men?” Pepper braces herself on the marble vanity and meets your eye in the mirror. “It takes a lot of time. Too much time. It’s a complete waste of time, and some of the jerks never learn. You will put in far more effort than Rogers needs to, and frankly, he may never understand.” She turns to you and questioningly reaches for the exit’s handle. “He’s a good guy though. He may be one of the few who listens at very least.”

That’s an exhausting thought in and of itself, but you nod.

Back at the table, Steve immediately asks if you’d prefer to leave. It’s too dismissive to answer that it was only ‘women’s issues’ because the cause was men. You struggled to do your job today because men seemingly could not accomplish their own jobs with a woman anywhere in the mix, even one they’ve all dealt with before.

But she’s got authority now? Inconceivable. They need to speak to Rogers.

That is horrifyingly inefficient. Also, of course, it’s not all men. Some will be perfectly professional around you while wondering if you’ll blow them for some more authority. Others will use any excuse to claim your accomplishments just aren’t the same as theirs. The exact same men who will say you fucked for your job will bemoan that you don’t try a little harder with your appearance, which is just—just—

You have to arrest that train of thought.

“No, I’m fine. Just tired,” you assure Steve.

Tired of everyone’s shit.

Breathe. Calm. Sip your wine. Don’t kill Stark when he asks what the hot gossip is from the toilet. First-day jitters stories are exchanged around the table. It’s supportive but unhelpful.

You weren’t nervous. You were sabotaged.

That isn’t what you want to talk about though, and you frown at Steve hoping he takes the hint.

He slyly puts his hand on your knee and squeezes gently. In his deep, commanding voice, Steve deliberately cuts into a moment of side bickering between the other couple.

“Anyway…”

Everyone straightens in their chair a little. There’s that press of your thighs again. How very Captain-ly of him, you think.

“Right,” Tony blurts, “now it’s my turn to be sad-sack.” He fishes around for another bite of something. “Who wants to hear about Galmira?”

The irony is that you did a lot better at dinner once the discussion became work related but not related to your experience of work. You catch Steve eyeing you once or twice, he half-heartedly mentions that they could talk about something else, but you lean to whisper “whatever gets me through this, ok” in his ear as a plea for the night to end without you looking like the awkward duckling.

There were four desserts and another special thing sent out from Maximus. Tony, of course, paid.

Steve is quiet during the car ride to drop you off at your apartment. He fidgets with his phone and seems to be checking and rechecking for emails that aren’t arriving.

“May I come up so we can talk,” he mumbles, setting the phone screen down in his lap.

You take a big breath and scratch at your eyebrow. “Steve, my place is not like yours.” The day is getting to you, and all you want is to wash it away or drown out how you felt like you weren’t good enough even though nothing really changed. You don’t think you can handle commentary about your actual home. “I don’t have a doorman that will bring me a swag bag or whatever. I don’t have two bathrooms…or bedrooms, for that matter, or a massive kitchen or giant windows.”

Steve picks at a bit of lint on his pant leg.

“Do you want those things?”

At first, you think it’s some sort of bizarre proposal, not completely out of the question for a man who told you he’s in love with you before your first date. Still, you peer at him with harsh condemnation.

“Because if you don’t want those things, then why would I care if you have them? Aside from being a biohazard or full of rats, I don’t see any reason that I’d be bothered.” Steve pockets his phone. “There are no rats, right?”

Those rage tears are starting a slow surge forward. “I mean it. I don’t live like you.”

“Precious, for most of my life, I didn’t live like I do now.” He turns to face you as best he can on the back seat. “Ma and I had just this side of nothing after my dad passed. She still lives more like you than me—or, I’m assuming closer—but I know she likes it that way. She’s comfortable. I’m comfortable. Are you?”

That all sounds sweet, but you don’t trust it. Everything feels precariously balanced on keeping any semblance of Steve’s respect since you felt an overall backslide at the office today. Work is work and home is home. What you need is home to still be the place you believe Steve Rogers wants you, a place where you are precious not indigent.

The car pulls up before you can truly respond.

“At least let me walk you to your door?” He makes no move to touch you, respectfully.

While you gather your briefcase and purse, you make a decision.

“No, you can come up.”

It sounds less than sure, but that’s just it. Of all the things in life that you are not sure about right now, Steve Rogers is the one thing you are sure of.

Steve isn’t asking to come up with any expectations (other than to ascend a staircase and have a door unlocked). He simply asks to let you know you have options to choose from to feel better: alone or company.

He’s also—in his own hyper-efficient, maddeningly puppy-dog way—telling you that you deserve to feel better, to feel confident, to feel comfortable.

He confirms morning pick-up for the two of you with his driver. He politely follows you to your door, three steps behind. He says exactly zero words in response to laying eyes on your living space. He takes your coat again to hang his and yours by your door.

For some reason, it strikes you that they look good together, your coats, right there in your apartment, and you release an enormous sigh as you plop your bags down at the dinette.

“Don’t fret,” he soothes, finally closing the distance between you to cup your face and kiss your forehead, “I’ll be honored to smell like you tomorrow.”

Your thighs clench and you swallow loudly.

Steve backs up, beet red at the collar of his shirt. “Soap,” he yells. “I meant your—“ He pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut, muttering, “real question is whether I need another drink or if that means I’ve had too many…”

He rubs the nape of his neck, jutting a thick, veiny forearm close to your face, and it wafts that damn air of comfort right at you. A lock of hair dislodges and tickles his forehead. He bites at his pink bottom lip. He’s magically confident and shy, thorough but clueless, too grand and too adorable all in one ripped, muscular package dropped off neatly in your living room where it visibly does not belong.

Today was hard, but this guy makes the night look easy.

So you just fling yourself on him, cheap-but-not-cheap clothing and all.

Fuck it. Earn that cupcake.

Oooooo, big shock, I couldn't keep it to the estimated number of chapters...again. There will be at least one more. Fairly certain it will just be the one if my outline holds (she says with absolutely zero confidence while thinking of three other side-plots) and will probably have a bit of smut. Who knows. I sure as shit don't. These two just lead me around blindly...

I see what I did there, whoops. Makes sense now.

[Last Part]

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#steve rogers x reader

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exposition-belongs-somewhere · 2 days

Text

Of COURSE Steve wants to show her off. He’s friggin perfect.

The First Eighty-Three Hours (3)

CEO!Steve Rogers x CEO!Reader

View (see previous or series)

Summary: Tactile-obsessed, sweet Steve shows you what it's like to be his partner in every way.

Warnings: THE PHOTO (oh, sry, but this is the moment to use this, Danke, ayanemoonlight), smut, MINORS DNI. Also a warning for the fact that I went all in on crazy-adorable, super-loving Steve, and I don't even care if no guy has ever acted like this in the history of the world. Screw it. He's fluffy. I give up. WC 3.6k

Pulling out the BIG GUNS sorry not sorry.

Yet again, you were wrong about Steve Rogers.

He may be a businessman. He may be crazy rich. He may be a workaholic. He may not have really noticed anything except that you are a workaholic, too, but he’s still thorough, strategic, and patient in his attention to you now.

Other men try to rush in the heat of the moment. Kissing means groping means you’ll have sex, so like, just shove it in, yeah? Who gives a shit about foreplay when you two will end up in the same place?

Steve.

Steve gives lots of shits about foreplay as it turns out. He likes the feel of you, even with clothes on (and it helps that some of it is his clothing, sure). He likes the difference between skin and fabric, just as he was enthralled by the linked metal of your earrings compared to that one pulse-thrumming spot on your throat and the delicate flesh pulled across your solid collarbone.

You shouldn’t be surprised; the guy listens to old-timey jazz. Of course, he enjoys slow, exploratory, romantic touch. Steve’s spent three years getting to know one thing about you very well: you work. You work quickly and all the time, meaning you never slow down, meaning you take no time for yourself, meaning you’ve given all of your time to him and his company.

So, while he has you, he’s making his time all about you.

Steve pulls away from you just as you were getting a good grip on his bottom lip with your teeth. Damn.

“I want you to need me like I need you,” he hushes. His hand slides down over the front of your sweats, palm cupping your sex as he presses gently, rubbing against you. It's not a tease. He's making an offer. “What do you want, precious?”

You have to inhale sharply through your nose while worrying your swollen lips. “For the first time in my life,” you exhale, eyes shut momentarily to gather a thought, any thought will do, “I really, really, really want vanilla ice cream.”

Your fingers climb from his firm chest to his neck and rake through his beard. His dilated, dark eyes race across your features until you see it dawn on him.

He’s dessert now.

Steve’s not speaking much after that. His touch says more.

A grip on your hip: I’m desperate for you.

A pet of your waist: you’re gorgeous.

A rough but enticing squeeze of your breast: you drive me crazy.

Holding your shoulders: are you with me?

Fingers laced in your hair: I can’t stop.

His kisses remain leisurely but intense. He takes more time to suck on your tongue, run his over your teeth, and nibble at those swollen lips he created.

He’s a businessman. He’s taking inventory, and as a businesswoman so are you.

He likes your hands deep in his hair, likes it when you pull a little bit, likes when you hold his face close, and he really likes that friction when you stretch your legs over his lap to stroke at his hardening length.

He breaks with you after what seems like a momentary eternity, short of breath despite his immense endurance.

“Condoms’re…bedroom,” he blurts, and he doesn't wait for your response, swinging your legs to the floor, playfully pushing you off of the couch, a man on a mission.

You chuckle as he vaults the coffee table and races ahead, rustling in a drawer somewhere.

The lights are off in the bedroom, unlike when you changed from your shower, and now that the interior is so dark, the panoramic corner windows sparkle like geodes. The city is magnificent from up here. You can’t help but step closer, scanning the skyline. Illuminated offices in towering buildings pierce glowing cloud cover speckled with flashing airplane signals.

With the kitchen lights on, only half of this had been visible in the living room.

Clearly, it’s good to be the boss.

This time, you see no reflection as Steve returns to your side, running a finger across your neck, playing with a ghost earring. Then his lips replace the delicate graze. His beard prickles, a sensation that radiates far beyond the skin it actually touches. His fingers tangle with the wisps of hair at your nape.

He won’t let you turn around, his other hand firmly gripping your side.

“No rush,” he says. “We both got something beautiful to enjoy right here.”

That one statement melts a spike of tension lingering in your neck from the day. Your head falls back, temple resting on his.

“That’s it. Let me take care of you.”

His breath is hot and the whispered words tickle. Your neck quickly tenses again as you make little gasping sounds, shivers running up and down you uncontrollably.

That fucking beard.

His grip releases and shifts over your stomach, tucking up under his shirt but sweeping his touch back and forth just above the waistband of your bottoms. The hand high at your neck drops, drops, drops, low down your back to briefly palm your ass before rising, up, up, up the t-shirt to smooth across the bare skin of your side and farther to cup your breast. He tests, feeling across smooth bare skin, the stretchy lace of your bra, and the pebbling flesh of your nipple once he tucks the fabric away.

He doesn’t say it, but you’re both thinking the same thing: why are either of you wearing clothing?

The good news is you are plenty warm to go without both the tee and sweats, but frustratingly, Steve makes no attempts to remove any—of yours or his. He’s just extensively, endlessly tender and thorough.

He’s a rich man. He’s indulging in excess until you find out this is a bit of payback.

“Woke up with my hand right here,” he groans into your ear, tracing above the waistband of your pants, “you’re so soft, it made me…”

You can turn only your head. “Hard?”

Steve’s tongue darts across his bottom lip as he takes a long moment to blink, nodding.

“Yeah,” he smiles, leaning the mere inch to answer against your mouth, “had to release all that—“

“—pent up energy,” you complete.

He nods again. “Finishing my sentences now?”

You shrug slightly, prompting Steve to readjust his hands and roam some more.

“It’s a good line. I’ll make note, sir.”

His laughter can’t stop his deep groan when he realizes your thumbs have notched beneath your pants and underwear to shimmy out of them. You only have to push them past your thighs before they fall to the floor. His lips find the sweet spot behind your ear, rewarding, encouraging, until he breaks to allow your shirt—his shirt—over your head.

The bra, well…

Its removal is a preview of how adept Steve’s fingers are.

“Let me…” he huffs, nudging for your thighs to open and spread your legs, but he still sounds as if he’s asking.

Your feet part to bracket his. Your head falls back to his shoulder again when his hand dips lower.

This. This is a tease. The slow drag through your folds even though you’re wet as the Hudson down there, the slow mapping of the most reactive spots, one single digit breaching you to barely the second knuckle.

“Steve.”

And that. That is definitely begging.

A gentleman to his core, Steve obliges, pulling you flush against him to gain the best access to your mouth, breasts, and pussy. Relentless and torturously skillful, his fingers take you apart.

The city lights provide so little cast-off into the room that there’s no chance to be self-conscious. Most of Steve’s face is in shadow when you turn to him. The sharp angles shaded in black shift as he asks “does that feel good,” as he leans to plant a sloppy kiss against your cry for more, as he demands you come for him.

So polite. So fucking devastating.

Your body sags into his embrace when that solar flare of ecstasy hits, and Steve walks to few steps forward to rest your knees on the huge armchair by the window—the perfect reading nook, you’d thought earlier, now more like the perfect sex swing. His fingers keep pumping you through the unsteadiness of climax.

He removes his hands only when he knows you have your balance, dropping a peck to your shoulder blade just as you hear the zip of his pants and the soft thunk of denim and hardware hitting the floor.

“Knew this city was noisy,” he chuckles, ripping the condom wrapper open, “but this is the best it’s ever sounded.”

Your mind’s gone a bit hazy in the afterglow, bracing yourself on the arm and back of the huge upholstered chair to look down on New York City like you own it.

“Precious,” Steve checks quietly.

“Yeah, boss?” Your head juts back automatically.

That’s the oddest that word has ever sounded, trapped between its retirement as of a whopping day and a half ago and the completely fucked-out rasp of your voice. You both smile at the blunder.

“No, doll. Equals,” he reiterates with a slow, gentle kiss.

His fingers roam back to make sure you’re still ready. Three fingers can still slide in easily with a naughty wet squelch that halts Steve in his tracks a moment.

His head falls to your shoulder while you listen to that same wetness stroke over his dick. “Why did I waste so much time,” he mutters. “Why couldn’t I see?”

You have to look back and stare at him.

Face now squarely forward, the night lights paint his features apologetic. Steve’s blue eyes, navy in the dark, beg you…for what?

The man has already professed he’s in love with you. He’s already declared he valued you from day one. He’s already given you half of his company—his life’s work.

This whole night is making up for years of potential, all those weeks you put your personal lives aside for the good of the business, but none of it do you consider ‘wasted.'

Without turning the whole of your body, you grab Steve’s hand and bring it to your chest, not to grope but to hold. He sweeps stray hair behind your ear, searching your face.

“Let it go,” you whisper.

You lift your clasped hands to your lips, and his face goes soft and adoring, his warm body moving to press against you but not solely in the heat of passion…until you suck one of his fingers into your mouth.

Your gazes are locked. The blood rushing out of Steve’s brain is obvious as his chiseled and beautiful form stiffens and preens to be near you, touch you, take you. Every breath he heaves lowers to a grunt, somehow signaling ownership and surrender simultaneously.

You’re ready, but you’re not. How could you be ready for the stretch of him that evicts logic from your mind even as your body enlightens? How could you prepare for such tenderness even as he manhandles you with every thrust? How could you desire anything other than just how this is?

Steve fawns over the expanse of beautiful skin across your back. He plays with curving your torso up and down based on how you grip the chair or how he grips your body. He excites at every moaned plea and high whine that tumbles from your kiss-swollen lips.

You’re both sweating by the time another orgasm has you face-planting into the cushions topping the chair, screams muffled but so very well-earned. Steve stands still behind you for a long moment, hands at your hips, thumbs digging into the small of your back.

He’s close, but why is he holding back?

You can tell he wants to move, but instead, he watches you, relishing every tiny aftershock that grips him before shooting a shiver up your spine and a gasp out of your lax mouth.

Oh. Of course.

Steve’s planning, strategizing how to take you next, and perhaps it’s the double orgasm so far, but your confidence soars. Remember, he’s not the only boss now.

You bounce your ass back to force him out of you, sitting in the chair even as sweaty as you are, and look up at Steve. You expect him to be smug, or at least focused on getting himself off now that you’re taken care of, but no.

His eyes are screwed shut, and since you aren’t up against him anymore, he bends to prop himself up by the chair’s arm, face close to yours, erection red and angry, visible even beneath the condom and in the low light.

“You feel so fucking good, precious,” he pants.

Because Steve Rogers doesn’t curse, you either have a third, mini-orgasm right then or a mighty big aftershock from your last. His admission makes you clench so hard that your whole body shakes.

Yours. He’s all yours. He wants you. He needs you. He’ll get you all over him.

Your lips find his first, pressing him back as you rise then walk him blindly to the edge of his bed. He whispers your name softly, over and over, as his hands wander and his thighs brush against yours, slippery cock pinned between you.

He starts to spin you, but you don’t want that.

“No.” You firmly plant your feet in front of his, pushing gently on his chest. “Down.”

Steve’s eyelids remain heavy and fall closed again as he hits the mattress beneath him, grabbing for you. You lift each unsteady leg one at a time to straddle him, rocking yourself over the length of him as his hands find anything on you they can reach.

You lean to give him a delicate kiss. Steve has done exactly as he promised; he took care of you, and now it is your turn.

He’s a workaholic. He needs a break.

You grab his wrists and push them back to the bed. When he tries to fight the hold, you move them together above his head, spreading that wide chest of his taut but not quite vulnerable. Every short, desperate breath is pronounced, but he fights again. You press him down more fervently, his eyes locking onto yours. One long and lustful look and Steve relaxes, his arms remaining on the sheets without your weight.

“Good boy,” you coo and roll your hips again.

He may be obedient and patient as you grasp and realign him, he may be controlled and steady as you sink back down and take him deep, but his mouth runs wild as you begin to ride him. He’s whining and cursing, curling his fingers into fists and releasing them each time he praises you.

“That’s it, precious.”

“Don’t stop.”

“You’re so tight.”

“Fuck me. Fuck me harder.”

By that time, you’re slamming your ass down to meet his thighs as fast as you can, but that teasing bit of friction on your sensitive clit makes you want to drag over the v-cut of his pelvis.

“Uhhh,” he moans, clapping his hands to his face because they’ve nowhere else to go, “I’m close. So close. Please, let me touch you.”

You nod furiously as you bounce, thinking he’s going to still your hips and pump until he comes, but no. Again, no.

One huge palm finds your breast and pinches your nipple, and you yelp, suddenly feeling the sharp flush of another release building. Then his other thumb finds your wanton bundle of nerves and circles.

Your turn to whine. Your turn to “fuuuuck.”

Rough and deep, commanding as you’ve ever heard that low timbre, Steve groans, “good girl.”

And that’s it. You’re done for.

You have to tip your hat to Steve Rogers’ flawless strategy because just as your walls seize and flutter against him, stilling all your other movement while the waves crash through you, he’s thrusting shallowly, growling for a long beat. He ruts up sporadically, milking every drop of his cum into that well-abused sheath of latex.

Your head is thrown back, eyes closed, and your mind floats behind the twinkle of stars. Steve goes limp beneath you until catching his breath, then raises himself, sitting at the edge of the bed with you wrapped in his arms.

When you come back to your body and look at the man beneath you, the man between your legs, the man still balls-deep inside you, your very first thought is how pristinely his hair lies. That’s not fair. You must look like a train wreck, so you rub your hands in and muss his hair, your lips pursed in concentration.

“There,” you huff. “Better.”

Steve laughs, resting his forehead on your chest.

“You’re perfect,” he mutters into your skin. “The best.”

He holds on as long as he can before you insist on cleaning up.

You chuckle, warm water running into your open mouth as the shower streams across you and Steve.

“It’s a soap. You smell like soap.”

You raise the little wedge up to show him as if he doesn’t know about its power. That magical, intoxicating scent that’s driven you wild for days is just soap, and you have to laugh because really most of the effect is Steve himself, though the result is wonderful. The way he smells isn’t all that comforts you; it’s the man behind it.

The slippery bar shoots out of your hand and hits the marble floor.

“Trying to give me a show, precious?”

“No, I—“ just as you get ahold of it, the damn thing flings itself across the shower floor again “—swear I’m not trying to—“ You pop back up with it proudly caught.

“Nicely done,” Steve beams, shrugging, “still a bit of a show.”

You continue to lather over one leg, but—disaster—the bar slips off of your foot.

“Oh, I see your ploy.” He bends to retrieve it this time, ass high in the air, flexing muscles as he rises again. “Well-played.”

If only you were that smart…

“May I wash your hair?”

Always so polite—except for all that sexy swearing in the bedroom—Steve presents his bottle of two-in-one shampoo and conditioner at the ready, and you smile.

“That’s not quite…Don’t worry about it.”

“But I want to,” Steve whines, pouting as you finish lathering your other leg and hand him the soap again.

“It’s okay, Steve. I just wouldn’t use that on my hair. I’ll wait until I’m home.”

“Then you’ll show me?” He squeezes out some gel for himself and starts tussling it into his locks.

“If you really want, I guess.”

The suds drip down his face until he submerges into the massaging surge of water. “Good," he concludes, eyes closed until he's rinsed. "I want to know how to take care of you.”

Where the hell did this guy come from? What the hell was Sarah feeding him this whole time? Did he drain some sort of perfection quota from heaven? Was he dosed with some serum to turn him into this?

It barely matters. He's just Steve, so you relent. Even as you shake your head, you relent. “Sure, Captain.”

The nickname makes sopping-wet Steve grab you and tuck you against him, rubbing his beard along your neck, but he’s careful as always.

He keeps your hair out of the spray. Because it’s what you wanted. And Steve—you’re learning, slowly and cautiously—will do anything you want, anything to make you happy.

It is pretty late when you two finally make it into bed. Steve’s doted on you every second since you stopped emergency work on this failed day off, but he takes a moment as he sets up his and your phones on the chargers to check his messages.

He lets out a huff, and it doesn’t sound good.

“What is it?”

“It’s not important,” Steve dismisses, dropping the device to his nightstand and tossing his covers aside.

“Seriously?” After all the chaos of the last two days—of the last three years, if you’re keeping score—he should know not to delay handling a situation.

“Tony,” he sighs, “Tony invited us on a double date on Monday. He’s still in Galmira, but he thinks he’ll be back by then.”

“No.”

The last thing you need is another formally informal event with Stark and Pep, and any more discussion of it will only remind you of how stressful this crisis was.

Steve tries to explain. “He wants to celebrate how well you and Pepper managed today.”

“No.”

“I just thought—“

You fling yourself onto your back dramatically. “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“That’s why I tried not to tell you.”

"Ugh," you grunt out. “Try harder next time, Steve.”

Flat but leaning on one elbow, he swivels his head and sasses back, “I will.”

You attempt to hold onto your annoyance, but he nears with a silly stern expression. It’s too cute. You burst out laughing.

“Ma’am,” Steve deeply warns, closing in still. “Ma’am, I’m gonna need you to take this seriously.”

You fling your arms around his neck, kissing his nose. “Oh, shut up, Captain.”

“You like that, huh?” His eyebrows quirk.

“So do you,” you grumble, wiggling to get deeper into his arms, into that cloud of soap scent and Steve.

His lips brush yours, your bubbles of giddiness all bursting at once in the heat of his attention.

“I do.”

He forgets to switch his lamp off for your next serving of dessert.

Sunday morning, Steve wakes before you again, but this time brings your coffee right up to the bed. Shirtless and wearing—oh for fuck’s sake—your grey sweatpants, he towers over you, bathed in the bright, early light. It looks foggy and gray outside, but Steve Rogers creates his own sunshine.

No one has a right to look that good…

…and yet…that’s the guy who broke your PR on your first night (second, technically) sleeping together. Shit, third if you count him drunk in your hotel room a while back. Ok, well, you've just never come that many times in one night.

You sip your coffee and sigh contentedly.

“So dinner tomorrow night with Stark and Potts?”

Steve cocks a signature eyebrow above the rim of his steaming mug.

Your eyes narrow in thought. How bad can it be? You’ve worked with all of them for so long that this one change in dynamic shouldn’t be too difficult to manage.

“Fine,” you mutter into your cup.

His phone is whipped out of that pant’s pocket at record speed, too, and just for a moment, you glow with the thought that he wants to show you off as his girlfriend.

[Next Part]

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exposition-belongs-somewhere · 3 days

Text

Ooooh. I want to know what they’re planning…

Two Bosses Part 11

You’re married to Boston’s most infamous crime boss. What happens when the one from New York wants to steal you away?

Starring: Mob!Ransom Drysdale x Female

Warnings:18+.NSFW! Unprotected Sex. Violence. Arranged Marriage. Ransom and Steve being menaces. Possible emotional abuse. More warnings as this series unfolds.

Word count: 2546

Divider by: @firefly-graphics

The city lights shimmered below as you stood on the balcony of Steve’s penthouse, the cool night air nipping at your skin. It’s been three months since that day, the day that Ransom almost had you killed. Three months since you’d fled his oppressive grasp, seeking refuge and a new life with Steve. While Steve had provided you with everything you desired, from luxurious clothing to a lavish lifestyle, there was one thing he couldn’t give you: complete freedom from your past.

Inside the penthouse, Steve paced restlessly, frustration evident in his every movement. “I don’t understand why he won’t sign the damn papers,” he muttered, taking a hand through his dark blond hair.

You sighed, coming in from the balcony and wrapping yourself around Steve from behind, pressing your cheek into his back. “He’s a control freak. He wants to keep me tied to him, even if it’s against my will.”

Steve’s eyes soften as he turns in your arms to look at you. “I promise I’ll do whatever it takes to protect you and your family. Even if your father’s debts are the reason you got involved with Ransom in the first place.”

You leaned into him, taking comfort in his warmth. “Thank you. It means the world to me that you’re willing to help, even though you believe that my father doesn’t deserve it.” You take a deep breath before asking a question you’ve asked before, knowing Steve’s answer won’t change.

“I’d really like to see my mother. I promise to be careful.”

Steve’s face fell, his eyes filled with regret. He pulls away slightly, his hands gripping your shoulders as he struggles to find the right words. “I wish I could make that happen for you, I do. But it’s too dangerous. Not only is Ransom not signing the divorce papers, but he’s gone silent. We don’t know where he is, or what he has planned. All we know is he’s not going to go away quietly, and I would never be able to forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

Tears well up in your eyes, as you process his words. While you understood the risks involved, you longed to see your mother, to ensure she was safe, to let her know that you don’t blame her for what happened to you, that she was just as much a victim when she was betrothed to your father. It’s the not knowing that weighs on your heart. “I know you’re trying to protect me, it just hurts not being able to see her.”

Steve pulls you close, enveloping you with his arms. “I know, and I’m so sorry I can’t give that to you. I hate that it’s the one thing that you want and need that I can’t provide for you. But please believe me when I say that I’ll do anything to keep you all safe.”

As you stood there wrapped in Steve’s arms, you realize all over again the depth of his love and concern for you. Despite his inability to grant your wish, his unwavering commitment to your safety warmed your soul.

Steve slowly pulls away from your embrace, a mixture of concern and affection filling his eyes. “I know this has been difficult, but we can’t let it consume us. How about we take a break tonight? Maybe we could go to dinner at one of my restaurants in the city, or if you prefer, we can order in, have a movie night?”

You look up at him, appreciating his effort to lighten the mood and provide a momentary escape of the chaos that’s surrounding you. The idea of a quiet dinner with Steve sounds amazing, and you’d like the chance to momentarily forget the dangers that could be potentially lurking in the shadows.

“A quiet dinner out does sound nice,” you replied, a smile pulling on your lips. “It’ll be good to get out and get our minds off things for a while.”

Steve’s face brightened at your response, grateful for the opportunity to spend quality time with you away from constant threats and worries. “Great, I’ll call and let the staff at Alice know we’re coming tonight. Let’s make a night to remember, just the two of us.”

As Steve reached for his phone to make arrangements, you stepped into the closet, intent on making the most out of tonight. It feels like forever since you’ve had a decent night out, and both you and Steve need a break. You’re prepared to leave all your worries at home tonight as you step out for the evening with the man you love. It kind of feels like a new beginning, even if it’s just for a few hours.

Ransom sat across from Curtis, the weight of their shared vendetta filling Ransom’s study. The two men tried and failed to bring down Steve three months ago,and now Curtis has come to Ransom with a supposed new plan that he believed was foolproof to get them what they both want.

“You’re sure about this?” Ransom asks, his voice filled with skepticism. “Our last attempt didn’t go as planned.”

Curtis leaned forward, his features burning with determination. “This time will be different. I’ve spent months studying Roger’s movements, his habits. I know how to catch him off guard. That cocky shit won’t even see it coming.”

Ransom raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite his reservations. “Go on.”

Curtis laid out his plan, each step with meticulous precision. From kidnapping you to taking out Steve and seizing control of his mob empire, every aspect was thought out to minimize risks and maximize their chances of success. Ransom didn’t want to admit it, but he was impressed.

“As long as we stick to the plan, I don’t see how we could fail.” Curtis concluded, his confidence unwavering.

Ransom mulled over Curtis’ plan while he sipped his scotch. The plan was ambitious, but if executed correctly, it would bring down the fall of Steve’s empire and allow Curtis to take over what he believes is his birthright. It would also bring you back to him, and oh the things he had planned for you for thinking you could leave him.

“Alight.” He finally said, a sinister smile slowly spreading across his face. “Let’s do it. But we have to make absolutely sure that nothing goes wrong this time.”

Curtis nodded, his mind already focused on the task at hand. “Don’t worry, I’ve got all the bases covered. We’ll strike when they least expect it, and by the time they realize what’s happening it will be too late.”

As the two men delved deeper into their twisted plot, the stakes grew higher, the shadows of betrayal and deceit stretching ever darker. Unbeknownst to you and Steve, a dangerous game was being played behind the scenes, one that could shatter your world and change your lives forever.

As the night wore on, Ransom and Curtis solidified their alliance, their determination to bring down Steve and reclaim what they believed was rightfully theirs, the driving force of their partnership. The stage was set for a confrontation that would test loyalties, unveil dark secrets, and determine the fate of all involved.

As you and Steve settled into your seats, the warmth of candlelight casted a soft glow on your faces. Steve poured each of you a healthy glass of rich red wine. A perfect compliment to the decadent Italian dishes that awaited you.

“To us,” Steve toasted, raising his glass to you with a tender smile.

“To us,” you echoed, your eyes twinkling.

You and Steve both needed this night out to reconnect, and you’re thankful that you have a man by your side to remind you that you need to take breaks when you can’t see it for yourself. Despite the current challenges that you may be going through as a couple, he was your beacon of light shining through the storm.

With the food gone, and a second bottle of wine finished, it was time to go home. As Bucky drove you back to the penthouse, the glow of the city lights illuminating the car’s interior, you found yourself drawn to him, craving the comfort and warmth only he could provide. You moved closer, wrapping your arms around him and pressing your lips to his in a gentle kiss.

“Thank you, Steve,” you whispered. “Tonight was just what I needed. It felt good to escape from everything and just be with you.”

Steve smiled, his eyes reflecting the love and adoration he felt for you, “I’m happy I could give you a break from all the worries and stress, even if just for a little while. You mean the world to me, and seeing you happy is all I could ever ask for.”

You continued to cuddle Steve in the back of the car, you were consumed by the peace and contentment that only he could provide. You must have dozed off because the next thing you knew, you awakened to Steve gently nudging you awake. The night out may be coming to an end, but the rest of the evening is just beginning.

Steve had some last minute business he needed to attend to so he suggests maybe a nice hot shower or bath to help you relax, and he promises to join you as soon as he can.

Eager to make the evening even more special you decide to prepare the bedroom for Steve’s return. You adjusted the lights to create a soft romantic glow, casting a gentle luminance that added to the room’s ambiance.

Feeling playful and wanting to surprise your man, you carefully go through your lingerie collection, selecting a new piece he hasn’t seen before. The delicate fabric felt luxurious against your skin, and you couldn’t help but feel the thrill of excitement at the thought of Steve’s reaction when he saw you in it. With everything in its place, you turn on the shower, stripping while the bathroom fills with steam. You can’t wait for Steve to come to bed.

While you’re in the bedroom, Steve is in his office having just hung up the phone with one of his associates. Still no updates on Ransom, and the eyes he has watching your ex say he’s not moving the way he used to. He doesn’t want to share his concerns with you because he doesn’t want you to worry, but he’s scared. If anything happens to you he’ll never forgive himself.

Pouring himself a glass of bourbon from the decanter he kept on his desk. Smiling, he reached into one of his drawers where he's been keeping something very special hidden. Carefully concealed in a velvet box was a breathtaking diamond engagement ring, a perfect symbol of his love and devotion to you.

As Steve holds the ring, he thinks of your face. He’s been waiting for the perfect moment to propose, wanting to ensure everything was in place for a future together before he pops the big question. With your divorce from Ransom still pending, he knew now wasn’t the right time, but he wanted to be prepared for when it was. He couldn’t wait when he got to place it on your finger.

Tucking it back into the drawer he goes to find you, following the soft melody that drifted from the slightly ajar mater bedroom door. As he pushed the door open further, his breath caught in his throat at the sight before him. There you were, standing by the window bathed in the soft light from the bedside lamp. You were wearing the most alluring lingerie he had ever seen, a delicate lace that left little to the imagination, accentuating every curve.

For a moment time seemed to stand still. Steve’s eyes met yours, the tension thick as the music in the background acted as a soundtrack to this moment between you. Steve approaches you slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, and you return his hunger with a burning desire that radiates in your own gaze. Taking you into his arms he pulls you close, crushing his lips to yours in a kiss that leaves you both breathless and weak. Your tongues dance together, tasting and exploring each other as Steve’s hands roam over your body like it’s the first time.

You moan softly as he cups your breasts, his thumbs brushing your nipples through the lace fabric of your bra. Dipping his head down he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, suckling it through the fabric. Tangling your fingers through his hair you gasp, bringing him in closer to feel more of his touch.

Steve continues to tease and torment your nipples as you writhe in his grasp. You’re panting now, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. You move your hands down his body, fumbling with the zipper of his pants. Freeing his cock your hand wraps around his girth and you begin to stroke him.

Steve’s head falls back as your hand moves up and down his cock. He can feel his balls tightening, and he knows that he won’t last long- not with the way you look and how you’re touching him. His hand snakes between your bodies, and it's his turn, his hand cupping your cunt through your panties. You’ve soaked through the delicate garment, and he feels your heat- your need.

Hooking his finger in the waistband of your panties he pulls them down roughly, helping you step out of them and kicking them aside and turning you around. Steve had every intention of taking his time and worshiping you, but once he had you in his arms something feral took over. Pushing you up against the wall he presses his cock against your slick entrance. All it took was you pushing back against him, and a breathy “please…” and he thrusts forward, burying himself inside you to the hilt.

You both groan as he fills you, your bodies coming together in a rush of passion. Steve starts to move, the sound of skin slapping as he pounds into you. It's not enough so you start backing yourself onto him, meeting each of his thrusts, the sound of your sex filling every corner of the room.

He can feel his orgasm building, the impending release tightly coiling in his balls. His fingers seek out your clit, and he rubs circles around it, moving faster and faster until you’re screaming your release. Your cunt clenched around him, sending him over the edge. He thrusts deep, his cock pulsing as he empties his seed deep within you.

Steve holds you there, and you’re both panting as you catch your breath, the aftershocks of your orgasms rippling through your bodies. Slowly pulling out of you he spins you, capturing your lips once more, whispering “I love you,’ against your mouth. You’re wrapped up in each other, Steve gathering you in his arms and tucking the both of you into bed. As you lay there, you smile as you feel your eyes grow heavy, content in this moment knowing that your bodies, hearts, and souls were one.

But alas, bliss wasn’t meant to last. Not when Ransom and Curtis were lurking in the shadows, determined to tear your empire apart.

Part 10

Tags: @biteofcherry @saiyanprincessswanie @patzammit @hamiltonofjakku @late-to-the-party-81 @smile1318 @flowerjewels @missvelvetsstuff @marvelwolf @isysen @seitmai @forever-until-theend @emerald-evans @elizacusi-blog @km-ffluv @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @buckets-and-trees @laumoly @infantasywonderland

#stever rogers x reader

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exposition-belongs-somewhere · 3 days

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The First Eighty-Three Hours (2)

Moves (see previous or series)

It Had to Be You series featuring CEO!Steve Rogers x CEO!reader

Summary: It's a beautiful morning until a crisis arises.

Warnings: cursing and suggestive language, Steve being too f***ing cute because I gave up fighting it, mentions of a non-fatal incident oversees WC 3623

There are two white pills and a glass of water staring at you when your eyes open.

Cheeky, but appreciated.

There’s no movement behind you, only a fluffy blanket draped from your shoulders to your toes. Steve isn’t in bed anymore, and a whirring sound wafts in from the living room, accompanied by the scent of freshly-brewed coffee.

In the safety behind thick blackout curtains and a cool blue glow of morning, you take your meds and water. The whirring stops, replaced by grunting.

What the hell is he doing out there?

You debate putting your bra back on—even though it’s a rather fancy one that would not compliment the very old baseball tee that hits you mid-thigh—but decide who cares if he can see your nipples when he spent all night within reach of them. Your head hurts anyway. Priorities.

Coffee is in the air, so you make your way out of the cave.

Pushups, that’s what he’s doing. Pushups with a clap at the pinnacle. He’s prone beside his bike machine and punching bag. His home gym is set up behind the couch so he can watch TV. Steve’s still in only boxers, face parallel with the ground as his muscles strain across his arms and down his rippling back. You can’t help but lick dry lips and wonder if you’ll get to keep watching him all morning (and where the mugs are).

The coffee pot makes a clack when replaced in its hot plate, and Steve startles, palms landing on the floor harder than before.

He’s not angry. He grins from ear to ear, clamoring off the floor to stride over.

“Mornin,’ precious,” his deep voice rumbles as he closes all of the distance between you and bends down.

He almost connects before you turn and push him away. “EW, no! Have you no shame?”

“What,” he laughs, grabbing the hand in his face to kiss it instead.

“It’s bad enough I was…I overdid it last night, but please don’t add the second terrible impression of morning breath. My heart can’t take it, Steve.”

He kisses the hand again and reluctantly lets it go as you scurry away to the other side of the kitchen island, mug in tow.

“Fair warning,” he adds, pointing to the coffee, “that will not make your breath better.”

He chuckles, but it’s not funny to you. You were supposed to be cute and sexy and elegant. Instead, you have bedhead and dragon breath and men’s clothes on, but damn, do you need this coffee.

Steve mentions something about breakfast—eggs, you think he says—while you hear a phone buzz.

“Is that you?”

“Don’t know,” he shrugs.

That’s unlike him; he’s as glued to his phone as you are. Where is your phone?

You’re swiveling around, frantically trying to remember what you did with all your things last night, when you see it plugged into a charger on the TV console.

“Don’t,” he pleads, “let’s just have a nice—“

“Why are there four missed calls from Pepper? Did she call you, too?” You frantically unlock it and speed-read the messages. “Steve, what the hell?”

“I told her we’d address it when she has more information but otherwi--“

“Hey, Pep, I’m here,” you say the instant she answers, “what’s going on?”

“There’s been an accident. The joint factory in Galmira.”

“Yes, I know the one.” You return to stand beside the island. Steve’s already given up and returned to the stove, a copious display of glutes and thighs aimed right at your still slightly swimming vision.

Focus.

“There are injuries,” she continues. “Tony’s already flying there.”

“Shit,” you mutter, switching straight into problem-solving mode with only one sip of coffee in you, “okay.”

“I know Rogers wanted to wait to get the lay of the land,“ Pep continues while you throw a glare so forceful at Steve’s back, you swear he hunches under the heat of it without having turned around, “but I’m—I’d like you on a few of these calls since we don’t know which products or equipment malfunctioned.”

“Right.” You race back to the bedroom.

“And then we can split off getting answers from there…”

While she rattles off any other details she can think of, all you have is your dress from last night, staring at you from the pile placed on your side of the bed—nope, not your side, just the side you slept on for one night. A dress with a very wide neckline won’t do for video calls on a Saturday morning (or for speaking to a bunch of men from the Middle East), so you improvise and fish a black tank top from one of Steve’s drawers and tear a white button down off a hanger in Steve’s closet. He’s eyeing you questioningly before you toss the phone to him, damned if you’re worried about Pep’s judgment of being in his apartment. You have work to do.

“Potts, it’s me. She’s dressing. What’s—has Tony landed yet?—yeah—“ Steve wanders back out to the kitchen while you hurriedly change. “Ok, I can do that—yes. Yes. I’ll be at my phone now, too.”

You steal a black belt to synch at your waist, fold out the collar, roll up the sleeves, and set to using your touch-up makeup from last night as a full-face look. Your date jewelry adds enough of a feminine touch that the effect isn’t half bad…from the hips up. Otherwise, you’re still in his boxer briefs and some borrowed socks because the floors are chilly, but no one will know while you sit at a desk chair.

You’re booting up Steve’s desktop in the ‘away office’ within five minutes.

Pepper has already sent six texts with more instructions and details, but you’re tired and a little hungover. You’re squinting at your phone and the computer screen wearily.

Steve brings in your abandoned coffee, phone, and a plate of scrambled eggs, flipping the fork around for you to take.

“That’s nice but I can’t fucking see, so—“

He sets the mug down and, with his other hand, pulls out a pair of readers from the pen holder by the computer.

That will do.

He doesn’t have to say anything. You know he’s wishing you luck. You know he’ll be handling a different angle of this from the other side of the apartment, but you wish you had time to thank him. You’ll have to tease him about being your assistant when this is over. That moment feels so far away.

Five hours, a translator, and almost ten supervisors, floor managers, safety officers, and engineers later, you have a better idea of what happened in the factory, but you still don’t know why.

Tony found unsafe materials. “They’ve switched it. They’re painting flammable lining in containers transporting—you guessed it—flammable shit!”

It’s not the agreed material in the contract, not allowed or supposed to be used in the capsules and armaments.

Once you were set up on conference calls, Pep pivoted to PR, joining Steve for news interviews lined up all afternoon.

Your next job is figuring out where in the supply change the wrong material was manufactured and used. How long has it been going on? How many transport capsules have been shipped (and refilled and shipped again) with the faulty lining? Nightmare stuff. You’ve been a CEO for less than twenty-four hours.

Your morning translator has to go; it’s the third shift there, so another has to be coordinated stateside. That’s when you realize you haven’t even gotten up to pee, and you look over at the water and lunch at the edge of the glass desk that Steve brought in…when was that? An hour ago? Two?

When the next contact says they’ll be available in a bit, you take the chance to duck out of the office. You’re almost caught on live, national television pants-less but dive into the hall bathroom just in time. Jake Tapper and all his viewers do not need to see that. Today feels like a rough enough first-, second-, whatever-impression, and it’s not even over.

You finish in the bathroom and try to listen for their interview to conclude, but it goes on forever since Tony has phoned in from Galmira with updates and corrections to earlier reporting.

You hear footsteps.

“Psst, Bosslady,” Topaz whispers while knocking on the door to the office.

You open up to show her where you actually are. She carries your briefcase and a bag of clothes for you. Wonderful. Not embarrassing in the slightest to be found in a man’s shirt and underwear the day after you’re promoted, to say nothing of the fact you are in his apartment that way. You still thank her profusely, and she says she’ll be back ‘again’ later.

How many times has she been here today? Steve must have called her in and given her instructions to go to your apartment and get some things. Good lord, it’s just all bad, no matter how you try to spin it in your mind.

There’s no time to change fully, so you pull on the first bottoms you see in the bag and sneak back into the office.

By 7 PM you know it all came down to gas prices and profit. The correct substance to line the containers safely weighs more than the bad material, and rather than lose out on the lucrative contract established with Stark Industries, one factory produced the lighter material before shipping it to Galmira. The truckers spent less on transport, and the origin factory shared the extra savings.

The actual cleanup of this mess will take weeks, but there’s nothing more you can do right now. None of the injuries were life-threatening, and there were no casualties. You’ll have to take that as a win even though it does not feel like one.

You’ve been in Steve’s office so long that the night sky through the tall windows disorients you.

You hear him bolt off the couch at the sound of the door and rush over to you. He cradles your face, and the very first thing he says is “you were amazing today.”

It feels like you’ve been knocked down by an explosion. It feels like you’re responsible for people getting hurt. It feels like you should have seen it coming or noticed something was off before.

Steve pulls you into a hug that crushes all those feelings to dust. He still smells like pure comfort, and damn it, you need to find out what that means.

“All important question, precious,” Steve mutters into your hair, “what do you do to wind down? Because you’ve earned it tenfold.” He pulls back only to fiddle with your earring, letting it drag and dangle along your neck and his fingers. He does have a tactile obsession.

“Go home usually,” you sigh. A shower, now that you consider you’re likely still covered in alcohol sweat from last night.

“If that’s what you want,” Steve allows with a smile, “or you could let me take care of you…”

You ignore how thick the air becomes between you, how warm the back of his fingers are on your neck, how really fucking good he smells. “You want to watch trashy TV and eat ice cream? Doesn’t sound up your alley, Rogers.”

He shrugs.

“I just like that you’re here. You were amazing today,” he repeats. For a moment, you'd forgotten this man already confessed to being in love with you. “I don’t think they’ve even finished filing the paperwork and your day off—“

“—our day off—“

“Yeah,” Steve glows at your choice of words, “our day got shot to hell. I really want to promise you that there will be more time for us, but—“

“You can’t.”

You’d think less of him if he tried to promise that because you know Steve as a rational man who doesn’t sugarcoat anything…which is why all these small, romantic touches feel so intense. You’re amazing? He wants to take care of you? He wants to run his company with you? The moment—hell, the last few weeks—has been surreal.

Steve looks dejected for a moment, his response coming low and intimate in the mere inches between you. “I can’t believe none of this has put you off me yet.”

His brooding is adorable. How can such a large man be so cute? That’s not a fair outlier in the human race.

You have to deflect or you’ll just attack him right there in the hall, in his clothes, in sweatpants, without having a proper shower. It just won’t do.

“If that is your way of telling me there is no ice cream here…” you drawl.

He peers at you through his long lashes. “Only vanilla.”

“Oh,” you hiss dramatically, “you’re gonna have to do better than that, Stevie.”

Something about the way you say his name triggers his boyish energy, and he alights with ideas to please you. “Chocolate syrup? Caramel? Candy pieces?”

Steve’s even cuter trying to salvage your mood. It’s as overwhelming as the tedious workday was.

“Do you have any of those things?” You have to grab his hand still playing at your earring. It’s distracting.

“Give me a half hour,” he beams, then his eyes go soft. He grips at your hand gently. “You’ll stay?” There’s that intimate voice again. He’s got no right to be that invested in your happiness, but that strange olfactory comfort envelops you like a blanket and drips down your spine.

You sheepishly nod, infected by Steve’s excitement as he releases any bit of you he’s still touching and commands that you take your time to take care of yourself until the order comes.

He hasn’t completely left ‘bossy’ behind, apparently.

For a man so into his physical fitness, holy moly Steve Rogers bought a lot of candy. His excuse is that he forgot to ask your favorite before you got in the shower, but he’s already opened three bags of various things and seems to be ‘testing’ the flavors with his own bowl of ice cream. From his face when you walk back into the kitchen—in your own sweatpants and his t-shirt again because Topaz didn’t bring your pajamas, both a good and bad thing, you guess—Steve is not a fan of sour gummies or crunchy candy in his boring sweet treat.

Take care of you? The spread looks like he’s taking care of an army.

Your relaxing shower may have given you a small boost, but you’re still exhausted from the day’s whiplash.

He lets you dole out your choices from the makeshift buffet and puts the carton back in the freezer while you tuck yourself into the couch. The TV remains off because the view of the city from his floor-to-ceiling windows is spectacular. You can see his reflection in the panes, too, and catch Steve pausing at the counter to look at you and smile.

It isn’t the ice cream that sends a shiver racing up your spine; it’s that little look of pure adoration that has you fluttering with a different kind of anxiety.

You expect him to take the other side of the couch and face you, but instead, he plops down on the middle cushion and makes a gesture for you to stretch your legs out over his lap. He keeps his bowl held high until you’re situated and he’s satisfied. You both snack in silence for a few minutes. Occasionally, Steve looks out of the window to see what you see. He’s taken off his dress shirt for the interviews earlier and simply sits in jeans and his skin-tight undershirt.

It’s not nervousness that keeps the quiet between you, you realize. Steve Rogers is just a very simple man. He doesn’t push conversation or familiarity. He really enjoys (and seems to embody) comfort. He is 100% dedicated to his work and his company, but somehow he is not all consumed by it. He doesn't have to force that separation between Mr. Rogers and Steve.

“So this is what I do after a chaotic day,” you confirm, breaking your own spell of reverie. “What do you do?”

He stares down at the bowl of fat and sugar, chuckling at the irony. “Well…I work out usually.”

“Twice a day? That seems like overkill,” you snort back. How dare you. How dare you not support the maintenance of that glorious hunk of muscle before you. Eat your dessert and be grateful.

“No,” he corrects, his spoon clattering down, “just at night to release all that pent-up stress. I find it relaxing.” Steve swivels his head around, pointing at the bookcase, too. “Also reading—“ he gestures to the walls “—and sketching. Used to paint more, but it’s messy for this space.”

That’s when it occurs to you. All the times you were here and helping with furniture, etc., Steve never had an art delivered. It’s all just showed up between your visits.

“Did you…” It’s your turn to spin around now. “Are all these your works?”

He nods without looking you in the eye, munching on something from the vanilla pool in his bowl.

“I’ll have to really look at them in the light then…”

You almost say ‘tomorrow’ but stop yourself in time. You presuming to spend even more time in his home after an accidental 36 hours seems too much, but that brings you back to something else.

“So…why were you exercising this morning?” You shovel a big glob of ice cream in your mouth and wait for your trap to catch.

“Because,” Steve starts but quickly clamps his mouth shut and blushes, spinning the spoon around vigorously in his soupy confection.

“Pent up were you?”

“I swear, that was not a come-on,” he whispers, shifting around beneath your legs, likely regretting that he pinned himself there.

The brain freeze is worth every second. “I know, but if it were…I’d be flattered.”

He still won’t look up at you. He leans to put his dish down on the coffee table and takes a keen interest in the material of your grey sweats. So soft. Steve likes soft things.

“I’m really bad at this,” he admits after you resume eating in triumph. “I don’t know how.”

“To what?”

“Date.”

“No one does,” you laugh. Can you even call any of the time you’ve spent together a real, actual date? Barely. That doesn’t really matter when you’ve still learned so much about him. Dates or not, this time has felt different. “It’s like raising kids. Everyone has an opinion and no one follows their own advice.”

Steve guffaws, jostling your tangled legs and—if you’re not mistaken—pulling you closer. “That’s profound, precious.”

You wish you had any nickname for him that wasn’t ‘boss,’ something just for him and just from you. “You liked that, did you?”

“Yes. Yes, I did. I gotta remember that for Ma. She’d die laughing. Her friends will love it, too.”

“I’ll make note of it.” That was one of your lines. You’re in assistant mode again.

Steve smirks.“You think that up or is it a quote?”

“Just made it up, right there.”

“Genius.” He’s whispering again, eyes jumping between yours, palms firm against your legs, keeping you in place. “Knew I hired you for a reason.”

You get that he isn’t intensionally taking credit or diminishing you, but you have to tease him a little. “So you could harness the power, huh? Control the genius for yourself?”

“No.” Steve quietly settles back into the couch cushion, gaze unwavering. “To show you what I saw minute one, what I still see but I think you don’t.”

You put your bowl down beside his. “And what’s that?”

“I can’t survive without you,” he breathes, then Steve swallows loudly and stammers. “Sorry, that sounded more romantic than…Professionally, I needed—need you.”

He’s right there, inches away, and all you can think to do (that isn’t straddle the guy) is to play with the hem of his t-shirt at your thighs.

“You and Topaz sure saved my ass today though…”

“But I couldn’t have done that,” he blurts back, shifting to face you without removing your legs. “Not on day one. You can delegate. I can hire an assistant who then delegates for me. You have no idea what you meant to me—I mean, you were the first person in a long time who made me feel supported rather than the one person keeping the ship afloat. I forgot we’re just supposed to be the captains, not the ocean.”

We. Steve already lumps you in with that statement. He really has seen you as a partner for longer than you’ve seen yourself that way, but you can’t quite take the compliment.

“Sure, Captain Rogers.” Cheeky.

Steve continues to wax philosophical on his mild and creamy sugar high.

“Well, when you feel like the ocean, all you think about is lifting the ship. No time for anything else.” He peeks at you through his lashes again.

“Anything?” You chirp. Oh yeah, that doesn’t sound desperate at all.

“I’m trying,” he huffs. “Like I said, I don’t know how. I’m pretty boring.”

“Like vanilla ice cream.” You’re the one whispering now.

Maybe it’s the sugar or the compounded fatigue of the day’s chaos, but your hands aren’t content with the shirt anymore. They fly up to cup Steve’s face, and his radiant and welcoming blue gaze begs you to just go for it.

“And I’m your candy topping, captain.”

Oh, he liked that, too, but hopefully, he will not tell his Ma about that one.

Steve’s strong arms haul you forward against his chest, and who the hell knows who started the kiss because no one is going to end it while there’s oxygen in the room, co-captains orders.

[Next Part]

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

dividers by @firefly-graphics and @silkholland

@bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @rach2602

#steve rogers x reader

194 notes · View notes

exposition-belongs-somewhere · 4 days

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Oh my gawd. He’s so cute. 🥹

The First Eighty-Three Hours (1)

Signature (see previous or series)

Summary: Your appointment as co-CEO of American Capsules and Steve Rogers' girlfriend starts out rocky.

Warnings for drinking, wtf cute behavior (yeah, it needs a warning), atypical escalation of a relationship (we going in all the wrong order), and insecurities of reader (vague). WC 3135

Your palms sweat as HR goes over the specifics, a Stark tablet set before each of you in Mr. Rogers’ office.

Here are your duties.

Here is your salary—holy shit.

Here are the other non-disclosures and waivers and legal details.

Initial. Initial. Sign. Initial. Initial. Date. Sign. Date. Sign. Date.

The tip of the stylus must be getting hot at this point.

Steve—Mr. Rogers until that last ‘enter’—hasn’t looked up at you once. He’s been the epitome of professional, and more distant than the last six months total, since the charity gala, the same night he offered you a ride home and you two shared what could be described as a ‘chaste kiss.’

Though your lips barely touched, the effect was anything but innocent. He’d moved across the plush leather seat, palm on your cheek and fingers resting along the thundering pulse of your neck. You swallowed thickly and watched his eyes follow the descent to your cleavage. Combined with his soft lips and the prickle of beard, chaste or not, tongue or no, you were ready to take him right on the not-quite-spacious-enough town car floor.

The only touch he’s given you since: a graze of fingers when exchanging file papers and a lead out of the elevator first with a precariously light push at the small of your back.

Somehow his restraint just makes you ache for him that much more.

Then that last keystroke pops, and the deal is sealed.

Mr. Rogers asks for the rest of the staff to leave you and him to ‘the mountain of work ahead,’ and it’s difficult to describe the difference between the man who politely ushers a half dozen people out and the one who turns around once the door is shut behind them.

The difference is Mr. Rogers versus Steve.

Specifically, the man who turns around is the Steve that has professed that he is in love with you, and his body language finally morphs to showing it.

He moves toward you like a tidal wave, tall as the skyscraper you’re standing in before, suddenly, he stops short. His momentum—or your anticipation—slaps you right between your thighs, forceful as if he’d kept going. You almost whine when he doesn’t touch you.

In the late afternoon light, Steve holds you perfectly still with his gaze only, his breath hot across your face.

“This okay?”

Your body temperature just shot up ten degrees. It’s not enough, you want to say, but instead, you nod.

Finally, his huge hand slithers around your waist, his fingertips oh-so-gently coaxing you forward. Steve’s whole job is to make moves, and your whole job was to take orders. You can make any moves you want now. It’s encouraged. To be a leader, you have to set an example, right?

You lean forward, tilting your head, watching him mirror you. Steve’s eyes fall heavy, prepared to accept your touch, but you stop short, too. He seems confused—and a little frustrated—by your hesitation, so he erases the distance between you.

Steve Rogers tastes like minty chapstick with a hint of black coffee. He is quite literally bittersweet. It’s glorious. His fingers cradle your head, and his body molds to yours. You’re pinned against the solid wood of his desk, but while the energy feels frantic, his lips remain supple, gently caressing yours. They’re still simple kisses but powerful in meaning. Steve’s eyes are still shut as he speaks, not moving even an inch from you.

“I wanna take you out for a drink. To celebrate. What’d’ya say?”

Your hands find their way beneath his suit jacket, nails raking over his clothed shoulder blades, and Steve growls, latching onto your neck. It’s been an emotional and ego-boosting day, so you’d like nothing more than to collapse to the floor with Steve between your legs. It’s impossible to tell if his chivalry is the eye of the storm or a cover for the devastation that lies beneath. You want to find out though. You want to know him.

“Precious. Answer please.”

You punctuate your ‘yes’ with a squeeze of his firm ass.

That’s brought him back to reality, and Steve pulls away, licking his bottom lip and petting down his beard to compose himself. He rattles off which bar he’s thinking would be appropriate for the occasion, something very upscale and exclusive. He says it’ll be more private.

As soon as his office door opens, Mr. Rogers is back, albeit with a warmer smile.

You go home to get changed and meet him at the rooftop bar, trying not to second guess every bit of your outfit or makeup or accessories or hair. It’s hard not to overthink something so new even though Steve’s seen you in all states of composure for years, but it never mattered before.

He didn’t call you precious before either, and that does things to you.

The bar may be exclusive and fancy but it’s busy on a Friday night, so Steve leans in close to talk to you, the same hot breath dancing across your decolleté. You get a close-up and unimpeded view of his bare forearms in his rolled-up sleeves. You can now map the evenness of his beard and the few thinner patches unique to Steve. You noticed the first grey in his hair two years ago, and its’ slowly grown into its own tiny frosted forest on each side of his chin. For a half-hour and one drink, you have your own little bubble universe to chat and laugh in. He’s…okay at keeping work out of the conversation, but you’re not excellent either, probably because work is about 90% of both of your lives.

His hand over the back of your seat allows his thumb to sweep over your uncovered arm. Even though the spot makes you self-conscious, he relishes the softness and repeatedly returns to the spot. When he has to turn on his stool, he pointedly presses a hand to your knee or thigh then reaches over to open a tab or slide your drink to you.

Right when he orders another round, a woman drags her hand down Steve’s arm and whispers something in his ear. She has to lean directly over your knees to do this, but that doesn’t stop her. Steve’s brow furrows even as his cheeks bloom rosy. In your opinion, he’s not quite rude enough when he dismisses her attention, but he picks up his story about his friend you’ve never met in person but spoken to on the phone, Bucky Barnes, easily.

However, she’s just the beginning.

Steve Rogers is both handsome and well known. Women, and men, approach him frequently, for pleasure and business, and that same shift in demeanor happens over and over again. Mr. Rogers is polite to anyone speaking to him, gingerly saying ‘no, thank you’ and ‘some other time perhaps’ when they talk shop or ask leading conversational questions. Steve looks at you with an apology radiating from his soul.

You’re not mad. You can’t be. He’s not doing it on purpose. He even evokes your new title whenever AmCaps is mentioned. It’s a nice gesture to show your importance, but it does nothing to soothe the awkward flare of butterflies bouncing around your insides.

When conversation flowed in that magical space of just you two, you nursed your drink. Now he’s stopped, so you have nothing else to occupy your mouth and hands. You keep drinking because they just keep coming. Not enough of the glasses are filled with water.

The bar gets busier, and you two move to a set of tufted benches around a tiny circular table. It acts like an invitation to imposers to sit on Steve’s other side and get comfortable. Just when he seems as annoyed as you and might be getting up to have you both leave, Steve is planted back in the chair by a heavy hand.

A tall black man with an eye patch leers down at him, but Steve exclaims in joy.

He hugs the man he calls Fury (someone you don’t know by reputation, meaning the acquaintance is old and a longtime dormant or possibly very personal), introduces you (briefly), and greets the redhead with Fury.

Natasha Romanoff, who you have spoken with but only twice and have never seen in person, is a partner for capsule transport across Russia and Eastern Europe. She settles in the seat beside you which gives the distinct impression that Steve is now occupied and Natasha knows it.

Your disappointment must be obvious, but the absolutely gorgeous redhead says nothing. Instead, she keeps up a decent conversation—a perfectly interesting one actually—about…something, but you hit a wall; you’ve tipped the scales from tipsy to drunk, and it doesn’t feel good.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Romanoff—“ you blurt, standing and grabbing your purse.

“Call me Nat. Please.”

“Nat,” you sigh, “it was very nice speaking with you—“ what the hell are you doing out here? This isn’t a date. If it were, chalk it up as one of the worst dates you’ve ever been on because you’ve gotten more time in with the really hot foreigner than Steve himself “—but I really should be getting home.”

The redhead frowns and then snaps her fingers loudly.

Steve jumps and turns like he’s heard a dog whistle, eyes huge and attentive. That’s a fucking skill. How did she do that and where can you learn it?

You’re pulling your coat on while Nat mutters none-too-softly for him to “get his shit together and get his lady home safely.”

You want to protest, to say you don’t belong to him and you can take care of yourself, but your head aches and the room is starting to spin a few degrees before it settles. You feel stupid and exposed.

Fury calls out that he’ll be in touch, but Steve doesn’t turn around. His arm holds you up as his thumb pets the thick felt of your coat along your waist, pressing you into his hard side. His stride shortens to keep your pace, not his.

He profusely apologizes for how the evening has gone.

Steve’s apartment is within walking distance, safer than riding alone in a cab after midnight while your head swims, and the fresh air helps settle some of your anxiety but only the surface layers. The darker ones creep forward with the tears behind your eyes.

“What if I can’t do this?”

“Nonsense,” Steve whispers, his arm steady and warm.

“I don’t have the experience for it, Steve, and then there’s you…” A bubble gets lodged in your throat. The thoughts are going everywhere at once. “You don’t know me. You couldn’t possibly—“

“Evening, sir,” Steve’s doorman, Pietro, greets, rushing to assist your entrance.

You can’t even imagine how you must look right now. Glistening cheeks from falling tears. Stumbling in heels and wearing a date dress. You were barely on a date.

Pietro still smiles kindly. “Miss,” he nods. “You two have a nice night.”

You turn into Steve’s chest, unable to hide your embarrassment. The boy knows who you are and that this is not your normal way of entering the building.

“Thanks, Pete, oh. Can you have a ‘home away’ kit sent up?”

“Right away, Mr. Rogers.” In your mind, you imagine Pietro is thinking up the word in Sokovian for…well, it isn’t a nice term.

You flit back and forth between composure and melodrama. One second you’re moaning about making a fool of yourself and the next you’re convinced you’ve handled this better than anyone can expect. It’s all very confusing.

A small victory is won when the elevator’s mirrored walls show that you at least look far better than expected.

“How you feeling,” Steve mutters as the upswing wobbles you a bit.

You cover a giggle-sob because it’s tragic and funny, and this is who you are but not who you want to be. The first thing you can think of is a comparison. “I’m not hugging your legs and sniffing your crotch, so that’s…an improvement.”

It takes him a second to understand. “I didn’t.” Steve’s horrified. “No. I didn’t?!”

You don’t say it out loud but toss an admission into your gaze at his reflection. The doors open on his floor, and Steve gets out his keys. Keys you also have. As his assistant, you frequently came by this very apartment to gather things or drop them off. Should you give the key back now?

Steve starts sliding the collar of your coat open, offering to take it.

“Ok, well, if I did that,” he chuckles, dumbfounded, “I feel like I’ve earned being barfed on, so chuck away.”

“Don’t—“ It’s too soon to joke, especially after the elevator ride.

“Sorry.” He tosses your coat onto the hall table and gently holds your bare arms, thumbs brushing back and forth again, on your skin again and then gone. “I’ll get you some water.”

“This isn’t sexy,” you whine. “You shouldn’t see me like this. Not now.”

He’s laughing from the kitchen, calling “now what?”

You can’t bring yourself to say it, and after a whole glass of water, you can’t look him in the eye when you finally do. “Not after you said you’re in love with me.”

You expect him to walk it back, to tell you you’re getting ahead of yourself or you misunderstood, but Steve smiles, taking the empty cup back.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, all-knowing precious, but I believe that implies I’d like to see you, this or any other way.”

Still doesn’t make this sexy, you think.

There’s a knock at the door, and when Steve returns he holds what looks like a swag bag.

“Some essentials. Bathroom’s all yours. I’ll make sure the spare room is all set.”

He kisses your forehead and walks on by. The small bits of heat from his touch leave you colder than the room really is.

Inside the beautiful, spacious bathroom—the master bathroom, the one attached to Steve’s bedroom because he’s pretty sure there are no towels in the other one—you try desperately to sober up. The black bag with a satin ribbon handle holds face wash and lotion, hand cream, toothbrush and paste, and even a pack of lavender wipes. You scrub yourself almost all over with those by the time you realize…you have no change of clothes. So much for emerging without shame of your predicament.

Weakly, you call for Steve through the bathroom door.

“I brought some comfy stuff if that’s what you’re after,” he calls, hesitant and soothing from the other side. He puts the garments in the hand you shove out through a crack in the door. His footsteps get softer but don’t go very far.

You assume he’s sitting on his own bed, just waiting. Waiting for his precious to need something. That brings a whole other feeling churning through your gut.

When you emerge in a huge baseball t-shirt and a pair of very soft and very stretchy boxer briefs as your only underwear, Steve smiles.

“Spare room is ready.” He leads you down the hall as if you haven’t been in his apartment dozens of times, but that was when you were his assistant. That was before. You brought up dry-cleaning and watered plants. You let in repairmen and facilitated deliveries and renovations. You know the spare room is called ‘the away office’ because most of it is a computer and desk in the center pointed toward one wall. During video conferences, no one can tell there is even a bed in there, or closets, or an exit. Only artwork and shelving are visible.

Your feet just stop working in the middle of the hall, twisting along the cold hardwood while you guiltily look around but not at him.

Steve lets go of the door handle to return to your side.

“You ok? You feeling sick? There’s another bathroom right—“

“No.” You’re struggling for the words, gnawing on your bottom lip at the memory of minty balm. “I…”

He’s patient, hands sweeping up and down your arms, testing if your skin is too cold, but that’s not what the goosebumps are from. The hall is too dark to see the blue of his eyes, but his posture leans more intensely toward you than at the gala. He looks like he adores you in his t-shirt as much as he adored you in a fancy, formal gown.

You stare at your hands and run fingernails beneath each other.

“I don’t want to be alone.”

A microphone shoved in your mouth would not have heard it, you’re sure. You even mumbled it as much as possible, just so you can tell your brain that it was said and to leave it now. Somehow, he still caught it.

“Hey—” Steve tucks a finger below your chin and lifts “—what do you want?”

The alcohol is what answers next. Two words and a prayer.

“Hold me?”

He ticks his head as if you struck him. “Yeah? That’s what you want?” The corner of his mouth twitches as Steve holds back a grin. “I’d like that.” Once again, he leans in to kiss your forehead, but this time he lingers, whispering into your hair, “I want that, too. Come on, doll.”

He tucks you in and finally gets out of his own date clothes. He asks if it’s okay that he sleeps normally, which you find out means only boxer briefs. He even warns you when he’s turning out the light, slowly crawling under the covers and waiting for your lead.

You turn over to face him—what you can see of him as your eyes adjust to the dark—and hear him slide his hand across the silky sheets.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Steve responds as your fingers find his hand. After a beat, he shifts a few inches closer. “I’m sorry about tonight.” His voice is quiet like he’s confessing a secret. “I thought we could just…have a nice time out.”

You sniffle, but even as the headache starts settling behind your eyes, you can’t stop one last jab from falling out of your mouth. “Should have let me make the reservation, sir.”

Steve grunts out a reluctant laugh and maneuvers you both together in the middle of the bed. Your cheek rests against his smooth chest, and his arm drapes over your side, pinning the puffy blanket across your hip and shoulder. His skin is warm, very warm, and smells like comfort. Your buzzed brain finds no other label for the scent. Steve just smells comfortable, and you snuggle into him as flush as possible.

“Next time, precious,” he mutters, words now thick with sleep. “I’m all yours.”

[Next Part]

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

@bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @rach2602

#steve rogers x reader

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exposition-belongs-somewhere · 4 days

Text

Two Bosses Part 10

You’re married to Boston’s most infamous crime boss. What happens when the one from New York wants to steal you away?

Starring: Mob!Ransom Drysdale x Female Reader, Mob!Steve Rogers x Female Reader

Warnings:18+.NSFW! Unprotected Sex. Violence. Arranged Marriage. Ransom and Steve being menaces. Possible emotional abuse. More warnings as this series unfolds.

A/N: The muse has been musing! I’m so thankful! Hopefully I can keep this creativity flowing! I think I said almost the same thing the other night, but I’m excited after not being able to write anything for a long time. I hope you enjoy this next part of Two Bosses!

Word Count: 1980

Divider by: @firefly-graphics

The plaza is quiet. Too quiet. Although there are a few people milling about, Steve picks up on the silence immediately, uneasy settling in the pit of his stomach. He should’ve been firmer with his rejection of coming here when you received Rose’s message.

“Wait here.” He commands, exciting the vehicle before you could protest. Bucky rolls down his driver side window as Steve approaches.

“I don’t like this..”

“Neither do I.” Steve looks back in the direction of where he came, scanning the surrounding area to see if he could see anything out of place. “Stay close. Stay aware. If anything starts to go down…” He focuses on Bucky, the life long best friends having an understanding where words don’t need to be spoken.

“With my life.”

Steve nods, surveying the scene around him before giving direction. “Let’s go.”

He strides back to the car, opening your door and helping you out. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, sweetheart.” He places a protective hand on the small of your back, shielding you from the parking lot with his hulking frame. You see Bucky and Sam flanking you, a giggle bubbling in your throat.

“We don’t need the calvary, I’ll be quick.”

His jaw sets in a hard line, his arm wrapping around your body. You feel the tension flow through him, and you reach up to comfort him, your fingertips lightly brushing against his beard. He leans into your touch as you round the corner to “To You From Me,” and it’s comforting how in tune you are with each other so quickly.

Rounding the corner to the shop, the expansive windows show it’s still dark, but that doesn’t alarm you right away. It’s understandable that Rose would wait for you to open if she was having a computer problem she couldn’t fix. No back office computer means no way to cash out customers when they are ready to check out.

Your keys slip easily out of your pocket. Unlocking the front door you expected to see Rose out front greeting you, but the space is empty.

“Rose?” You call out dropping your bag on the counter. The silence is deafening, Steve’s hair stands up at the base of his neck. Something’s off. He grabs your arm before you can enter your back office.

“Steve…”

It’s his dark laugh that stops you in your tracks. Ransom steps out from the shadows, his eyes flickering between you and Steve. He appears cool and collected, but inside you know he’s seething.

“I was starting to worry about you kitten. It’s not like you not to come home.”

Steve is between you two in an instant, pushing you behind him to shield you from Ransom’s cold stare. “She has a new home now. She’s no longer your concern.”

“Is that so?” Ransom chuckles, his tone ominous. “But we took vows, you know, what was it we said?” He fishes in his coat pocket, pulling out a small package of Biscoff cookies. “Oh right, till death do us part.”

Stepping around Steve you scoff. “Ransom, you never cared about what vows we took. If you did I wouldn’t have found you balls deep in another woman’s pussy.” You don’t know if you should laugh or hurl a heavy object at his head. “You don’t want me, you just don’t like to lose.”

Ransom bites into a cookie, his gaze never leaving you as he plops down into the office chair behind the counter. “Kitten, we had a deal. You marry me, your father’s bad dealings get erased, and your family is protected. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to them would you? What would your father do if I made him watch me put a bullet in your mother’s skull?”

Surging forward, Steve forces Ransom to his feet by the lapels of his coat, slamming him into the nearest wall. “This ends now, Drysdale.” He snarls while Ransom laughs maniacally. So many things were happening at once that if you weren’t there, you might have not believed that this was happening. Glass shatters around you as a bullet pierces the windowpane, whizzing past your head and lodging into the wall. Dropping Ransom, Steve whirls around, shielding you with his body before pulling you to the ground.

“Stay low. I got you.”

The gunfire was like thunder, loud, booming and unrelenting. Chunks of drywall covered your bodies as Steve tucked you under his arm pulling you with him as he crawled along the floor. The feeling of inevitability washes over you, a darkness settling in your stomach. This is the way you die.

A heavy hand falls to your foot fingers wrapping tightly around your ankle. Ransom’s lips curl into a snarl as he roughly pulls you to him, his arms caging you in as he crawls over you. His eyes are cold and piercing, sending a shiver throughout your body.

“You’re mine, kitten,” a sickening smirk slowly forming across his face. “When will you get it through your thick skull that I always win?”

A display case explodes above you as a bullet passes through sending shards of glass everywhere. What you couldn’t have seen was the trajectory of the shot shifting when the bullet penetrated the glass, ricocheting off one of the metal hinges and lodging itself into Ransom’s bicep.

“Motherfucker!” He roars, turning away and using his free hand to put pressure on the wound. Blood seeps through his fingers, and you watch with wide eyed terror, frozen as horror continues to unfold. The world around you suddenly becomes quiet. It’s as if your brain is protecting you from the savagery unfolding around you, so there you sit, amongst the broken glass and bullet casings when his voice cuts through the turmoil.

“You’ve got this, sweetheart. We can get outta here. Just come to me.” Steve’s voice is the beacon of light you needed to guide you through the storm. Amidst the chaos you feel a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins snapping you out of your paralysis. As Ransom grapples with the searing pain in his arm you take the opportunity to flee, your heart pounding against your ribs like a caged animal. Crawling to Steve every crunch is a reminder of the danger surrounding you. With a mixture of fear and determination you dart to the Salvation of Steve’s arms knowing that this confrontation is far from over.

Steve guides you through the disarray, Bucky and Sam clearing a path to the SUV. Steve throws the door open, pushing you inside and following, slamming the door behind him and screaming at Bucky to get outta there. Once on the road you finally allow yourself to relax, crumbling into Steve’s arms with a sob.

“Let it out, sweetheart, it's ok.” He pulls you into his chest and just lets you cry. Doesn’t try to fix anything, doesn’t offer advice, just lets you do what you need to do to feel better. It’s been entirely too long since you’ve had someone care for you, to put your needs before their own, and Steve’s done that from the first instant you’d met. Without any regard for his own life he shielded you with his own body. Ransom would have used you as a sacrifice to protect himself.

As you gather yourself after your emotional release you gently pull away from Steve’s embrace, meeting his eyes with gratitude shining in your own. “Thank you, Steve,” you say softly, your voice trembling with the weight of emotion. “For everything. For being there. For caring. For… for putting yourself in harm's way to protect me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” You reach out, squeezing his hand in reassurance, hoping he understands the depth of your gratitude.

Settling in his lap your hands frame his face, your fingers softly stroking his thick beard. Your gaze meets his, sparking with an unspoken connection that’s been growing between you. You don’t notice when Bucky presses the button to bring up the privacy screen as the world fades away as you move your lips closer to Steve’s. There was a moment of hesitation, a silent question lingering between you before your lips met in a tender, passionate kiss. Time stood still as you lost yourselves in each other, the world around melting into nothingness, leaving only the warmth of your embrace and the promise of what lay ahead.

“I told you, I got you,” he leans in close, his breath soft against your cheek as he moves to nuzzle into the crook of your neck, taking a deep breath and inhaling your scent. You stay like this a while in silence, the beating of your hearts falling in sync.

“I can’t bring anything to the table, at least not right now. Ransom will never let me take anything from that house.” Fresh tears stream down your face which Steve quickly wipes away with his thumbs.

“I’ll get you anything you want, everything you need. I promise.” His voice is filled with determination, offering you the reassurance you need in a time of uncertainty. “We’ll find a way through this together,” he murmurs softly, his words a comforting melody in the midst of upheaval. Wrapping his arms around you he holds you close, silently vowing to protect and provide for you, his unwavering commitment echoing in the depths of his gaze.

The weight of your worries begin to lift as you rest against him, replaced by a sense of security. You know it’s crazy, moving from one man anchored in a life of organized crime to another, but as ruthless as you know Steve could potentially be, you can’t ignore the tenderness he shows in this moment. It’s a stark contrast to the danger you’ve known, and it feels like the right choice. He feels like the right choice. Despite the uncertainties and risks there’s a flicker of hope in your heart, a belief that with Steve by your side you can leave behind the shadows of your past and embrace your future filled with love and endless possibilities.

Pulling up to Steve’s hotel the SUV barely comes to a stop before Sam opens the passenger door, Steve stepping out and offering you his hand. He leads the way inside, the lowlights of the lobby casting a golden glow along the handsome features of his face. He makes a brief stop by the concierge, asking for a bottle of the establishment's best champagne to be sent to his penthouse suite.

After a shower you smile when you find a cozy cream lounge set laid out on top of the bed, a thoughtful gesture from Steve that warms your heart. Dressed in the comfortable attire you step into the main room of the suite to find Steve waiting for you, with a fire flickering in the fireplace and two glasses of bubbly poured and ready to drink. As you approach he turns to greet you with a smile, and pulls you in for a long embrace. He hands you a champagne flute once he lets you go, raising his in a toast. “To new beginnings.” Clinking your glasses together, you seal it with a kiss.

“Never been shot before?” Curtis’ voice cuts through the tense atmosphere as Leo strips himself of his suit jacket and vest, using the latter to tie a makeshift tourniquet around Ransom’s wounded arm staunching the flow of blood. Wincing in pain he allows Leo to help him up but as soon as he’s on his feet he shrugs him off and pounds his fist against a nearby wall. The physical pain pales in comparison to the blow to his pride. He’s accustomed to always being in control, to serving violence, not being on the receiving end. The realization fuels his determination and hardens his resolve to never let you walk away.

Not now. Not ever.

Part 9 Part 11

Tags: @biteofcherry @saiyanprincessswanie @marvelwolf @isysen @seitmai @patzammit @late-to-the-party-81 @hamiltonofjakku @flowerjewels @missvelvetsstuff @forever-until-theend @emerald-evans @km-ffluv @mrsmischief209 @buckets-and-trees @laumoly @smile1318 @infantasywonderland

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exposition-belongs-somewhere · 5 days

Text

I do enjoy Topaz. 🤣

Eighty-Third Time's the Charm (4)

CEO!Steve Rogers x assistant!Reader ~WC 2.9k

Dance (see previous or series)

Summary: How smooth of a talker is your boss? And what could happen if he weren't your boss anymore?

Warning for alcohol consumption and some really awful, creepy behavior from a business connection of Steve's. 😒😒😒 Toxic men are the worst.

This is bad. You’re staring and silent and it’s getting awkward…or it should be getting awkward if Steve—Jesus, get it together—if Mr. Rogers, your boss, lest you forget, weren’t also staring right back at you.

The moody lighting of the room splashes green across his ocean irises. It’s mesmerizing as they accent the soft medium blue of his jacket.

The jacket which your hand is petting.

“Sorry,” you gush and step back out of what is surely his very personal, private space, “very soft.”

Some other random guest touches your back to squeeze past you, but since your back is essentially naked, it startles you to press forward. Steve catches you in both arms, cold whiskey glass touching your bare arm. An actual shiver rakes through your spine.

“Yes, I—“ he inventories every minute physical reaction you’re having “—I have a tactile obsession.” He releases you when steady. “So my ma says. I like soft things.”

Your gut clenches at his dropping tone, and the clenching drops deeper. Your thighs press together while you adjust your stance.

“Let’s get you out of the doorway,” Steve soothes, offering his arm.

You smile at the floor while your hand slides over not just the muted, brushed fabric but the hard muscle of his bicep beneath it. How can you be expected to not give it a squeeze? That would be ridiculous. Wow. His arm is thick and meaty, and you should not be thinking about the effort it takes to maintain that…but you are.

“So Boss, seems you and Topaz survived well without me…”

Your feet move aimlessly in whatever direction he’s leading you, and you fully expect to lift your head and greet Tony. Instead, you sidle up to a stretch of the bar without other patrons.

“Drink?”

“Just a club soda for now,” you say quickly, shaking your head, tickled again by your earrings. “Probably still a little dehydrated after the flights.”

“Ah, right—“ Steve flags the bartender and gives the order for his refill and your water “—how are your parents? You had a good time? Flights were ok? When do you want to see them next? Do you have siblings?”

You’ve gotten to give only one-word answers during his sudden interrogation. Fine. Very. Yes. Don’t know. What? “Did your mother tell you to get to know your employees or something? What’s with the twenty questions? Sir, why aren’t you answering me about work?”

“It’s a party. Why can’t we talk about not-work?” Steve’s boyish in his whining.

“Because every event like this one for the past several years has been about networking for you and Mr. Stark. What’s cha—“

“Have you thought any more on it?” Steve scoots the water on the marble countertop closer for you, leaning in with that soft jacket and soft gaze. “The new position?”

Involuntarily, you gulp and then reach for your glass.

“That sounded more scandalous than intended—” Steve blushes “—but you know what I meant.”

“I do know, and I get that I seem overwhelmed from time to time because it is a lot of work. But I can assure you. I was perfectly happy with my job, even before you started all this.”

“Are you? You never wanted more?” He’s intense and still has his broad, touchable body right in your reach.

You take a sip and lick your lips. “You’re still doing it, Steve. Asking questions.”

“That’s the first time you’ve called me Steve without being angry at me.” He smiles, though it’s not smug.

Well, touché, since that wasn’t a question. “Not angry,” you mutter, running a finger up and down the side of your glass, “just disappointed.” A classic dodge to put him in his place.

You can feel the heat of his blush before you even look back up.

“I keep asking because we’d be equals. We are now, but your title doesn’t reflect that. I’d like it official—“ he tilts his head and lowers his already sultry voice “—on paper.”

Blood is not rushing to your face this time.

You have to chug some water to swallow the lump in your throat. “I don’t think I follow, sir.”

Steve sucks in a breath and clicks his tongue, staring down at the melting ice in his brown liquor. “And we’re back to sir,” he chides. “Ya know, you could probably be my boss.”

“Co-boss,” you correct with a smirk, still drinking.

“Doesn’t sound as good.”

“Sounds better than unemployed to me.” At this rate, you’re going to be sipping at an empty glass or the ice will crash down across your face. Maybe you could use the impromptu cold shower.

He snaps innocent blue eyes back to you. “That’s not an option…”

“Then what?” You basically whisper as the song ends and your glass makes a loud thunk on a thin paper napkin. Because it’s just you and him on an empty, private island, alone. Just for a split second.

Steve looks away first, eyeing guests clapping for the big band, and he swigs the last of his drink.

“Care to dance?”

He doubles down by offering his hand as your lead.

You can blame the clamminess of your fingers on the sweating, chilled cup if necessary, but Steve doesn’t mention it. His skin feels warm against yours.

It’s instrumentals only, but the song sounds familiar. Steve watches as you think through the notes trying to figure out how you know it.

He smirks, waiting. You expect him to look away when you meet his gaze head-on, but he gently smiles, shifting focus only so far as your other eye, your earrings, your mouth. He’s…quite something to look at, too.

“I swear I do remember this,” you finally say in frustration. It’s also giving you something else to focus on rather than the feel of his hand on the bare skin at the small of your back. You were right; the dress makes you feel a bit naked. You look around to see Tony and Pepper dancing, no doubt sassing each other, but Pep looks happy. Her dress is blue but just as low and draped in the back. For the record, you notice, Tony’s hand is on Pep’s clothed hip, nothing more.

“It had to be you,” Steve finally says, bringing you back, heightening your awareness of how close he’s tucked you to him, nearly chest to chest. “Wonderful you.”

Thank god for the sticky petals over your nipples or you’d be putting on a real show in addition to the band.

“What,” you breathe.

“It had to be you,” he repeats, blue eyes locked on yours, “the song. Frank Sinatra, well, if there were vocals.”

You can only nod. You hardly understand that words form language right now. He’s so very close and warm. He’s physically surrounding you. Where his body isn’t, his attention is, and the scent of whisky lingers in between.

Softly, softer than any man has a right to say without running the gamut of feelings, Steve blurts, “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.”

It’s a statement absent of conscious thought; he’s just let it slip out while his hot hand leaves your back to brush one of your earrings over your collarbone and out of the way. He touches an errant strand of your hair. He’s lost for a second, but then the song stops and the room claps again.

Your brain returns to your body.

“Probably because I am your eyes, ears, and your right hand, sir.”

Steve blushes furiously again, dropping his hand and looking away, scanning the bar area, surveying the room. Anything to not reply. He finally clears his throat.

Oh. Oh. Did you just infer that…oh god. NO.

Before you can correct your phrasing, Topaz appears beside Steve and mutters that someone he wants to see has arrived. He’s instantly professional again, like a soldier prepped for battle. There’s a brief instant when he pulls at his jacket and locks onto you as if asking ‘how do I look? Am I ready?’

You give him a handsome smile, and Steve beams back. He takes your approval and steps away, Topaz following.

You’re left to contemplate your dry throat and whether the condition stems from real dehydration or whatever that was with—

“If it isn’t the most coveted helper in town,” a man enthusiastically cries, leaning into your view from god-knows-where.

Patrick Sauter Jr.—the boy king of his father’s legacy company, the lush and loon himself—plants himself in front of you with what he’s sure to think is a dominant and manly stance, customary four fingers of liquor in his glass, sloshing about.

“’S’it true you’re a free agent now? I’d be happy to snap you up as my own—“ his eyes drag too far down your body for too long “—if Rogers is done with you.”

He’s an utterly foul man.

“Mr. Sauter,” you try to start.

“Ricky,” he interrupts, “please, call me Ricky, at least until we’re in the office if you know what I mean. Ya know, there’re a lot of perks to being so close to the big man. I’m as dedicated to my employees as they are to me.”

His hand raises as if to play with your earring, too, but he gets distracted and takes a gulp instead. He jumps back in as if someone asked him to.

“Spend plenty of time with my girls. Late nights are unfortunately required sometimes, but that’s the cost of doing business. It’s hard work, but I bet you can manage it.”

You’re about a half-second from vomiting directly in his face when Topaz magically appears again.

“Boss,” she all but shouts, deliberately waiting for Sauter’s confused look, “Mr. Rogers has requested your help with a pitch. I believe you know the fig’res best.” She nods to follow.

“Sorry, Ricky. You’re barking up the wrong tree. In fact, you were speaking to a CEO of American Capsule.” You gather up a handful of skirt to turn away. “Don’t worry. I’ll be sure we revisit your contract as soon as possible.”

The man really tries to grab at your wrist and keep you there. “Hold up.”

Ricky stumbles before the blood completely drains from his face, eyes off to the side.

“Ah,” the rumble of Steve’s voice sounds from just behind you, “told Mr. Sauter the good news?”

“Yes, though I understand it can be frustrating filling a position no one wants.” You can’t help it. Your words are cold and cutting, and that piece of shit needs to leave.

Steve fakes surprise. “Oh, no, Junior. Another secretary?”

“Executive assistant,” Ricky grumbles before draining his whole glass.

Steve wonders aloud. “Do you need too much assistance you think?”

And you piggyback. “Perhaps they should only have to do your typing for you?”

Sauter can’t take the jabs. He excuses himself roughly and nearly jogs back to the bar.

Thirsty and flustered, you feel gross after the exchange and start wringing your hands to shake off the ick.

“Alright?” Steve lets his eyes flicker over you but doesn’t stare. Instead, he sweeps two glasses of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter.

You take one and gulp half of the flute down, clinking the rim to Steve’s glass with a look that says ‘I hated everything about that conversation.’ Then the second half is gone and you look around for another waiter.

Steve offers the other glass. “They’re both for you, precious. I’m not mixing.” His smirk catches both corners of his lips, but his head drops. “Too old for that,” he mutters.

You’re not sure if he meant the alcohol or the pet name, or if you’re too old for it or he’s too old to say it. The butterflies doing a Broadway show in your gut don’t care what the answer is.

Steve gestures in the same direction as Topaz pointed. “Could I—could we talk somewhere quiet?”

You’re done with both champagnes by the time you’ve found an alcove deeper in the building. Everyone gathers by the windows or the balconies since it’s a beautiful clear night with a great view of New York. Most of the nerves from Sauter’s horrible play at you have dissipated, but less than an hour of this gala has sent you on a rollercoaster ride to last for days. Running a multi-million dollar company looks like a cakewalk comparatively.

“So I take it that’s a yes on the raise?” Steve sets the glasses down on a small table and buries his hands in his pockets. “Though I guess you’d have said anything to shut that guy—“

“Why are you pushing this?”

The question just falls out. You’re almost positive you know what the answer is, but it’s been three years.

He swivel-walks back into your proximity. This is the shyest you’ve ever seen Steve Rogers. “I want to be equals.”

“You said that.”

Steve stares at his shifting toe on the carpet. “Because…it’s because I can’t very well date a subordinate.” He leans in, less than a foot from you now. “And because I can’t stop thinking about you.”

He’s not making eye contact and using his business voice to carry him through, but then it drops lower. Breathy. Intimate.

“Because I’m in love with you.”

He could not fucking possibly. You’re stunned at his choice of words. Dumbfounded. Not silenced. “Mr. Rogers—“

“Steve, please.”

“—not until the paperwork is signed, thank you. Anyone ever tell you to perhaps not profess your love for someone before a first date?”

Steve lifts wide, gorgeous blue eyes to yours. “It’s…been vaguely advised over the years.”

He’s adorable, and he knows it. He’s somehow inching ever nearer just by breathing heavier, the whirl of whisky returning.

You shake your head. “What would your ma say?”

“Well, with any luck she’ll never repeat the phrase ‘wet your dick’ ever again.” Rightfully, Steve stops advancing on that one.

“Oh, I did say that, didn’t I?” Your arm reaches out, capping the distance with a hand against his chest, fingers tucked beneath a velvety lapel.

He’s dapper and lovely, infuriating and obsessed with work, but he…wants you. It’s clearly written all over his face. This sorta thing is why he can’t play poker with Stark. Steve’s obvious, and—what did he say earlier?—how have you never seen it before?

“I am sorry for that.”

“She’s heard worse,” he chuckles, laying a hand over yours. “Does produce quite the visual though.”

“Sir,” you warn, and he rolls his eyes, acquiescing to quit teasing. His thumb grazes over your knuckles a few times. He seems perfectly content to simply stand with you. You’d like that as well, just in different shoes.

Your heart restarts when his other hand cups your face, his skin feels cool now compared to your heated cheeks, and a confession drops out like releasing a burden.

“I missed you. I thought about you, too.”

He’s practically salivating looking at you, head tilted, voice huskier. Steve lets his lips make their way down to yours while whispering, “you did?”

A deafening tap tap tap of a microphone jolts you both out of the moment.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the auction is about to begin. Make your way back to the stage, and let’s have a round of applause for the band. They’ll be back after our festivities!”

You clear your throat and smooth down your unwrinkled dress, shaking off the haze of Steve in order to compose yourself. Your earrings tickle your neck again. It makes you think of how the back of his fingers felt there.

“Shall I get you a drink, sir? You’re looking a little piqued.” You’re just going to have to ignore the fact that your panties are a little piqued, too.

Steve’s stayed soft and fixated despite the interruption. “I can do that. Let me.”

“I’m sure I can manage.”

No offense, but you’d also like to dump that ice down your front while you’re at it, but his hand finds yours before you can rush off.

“Let me take care of you.”

“That’s not part of your job description.”

“It’s not. It’s my pleasure.” Might be clear skies outside, but lightning strikes the word like a grounding rod, whispered and thunderous only to you. “I’d like for us to go on a date.”

“Where would you take me?”

His eyes darken two shades at the innuendo. He’s pressed to your side like he belongs there. It feels like he does. “Anywhere,” he breathes. “Everywhere.”

You glance over your shoulder at that. “Bad boy.”

Steve’s eyes go black for a split second before he looks away and adjusts his suit jacket, finally dropping your hand. He busies himself with his cufflinks, muttering “well played” just as Topaz strides over in her golden jacket and long skirt.

“Bossman, some schmuck named Eli Pobintz is insisting on a word.”

Steve sighs his way back into battle mode and groans. “Here? And we don’t call him a schmuck.”

“I believe what Mr. Rogers means to say is he’s a prick. A little prick.”

“Excuse me, ladies.” Steve walks off wearing a smirk beneath fiery eyes.

You hate to see him go, but you love to watch him walk away.

“Great ass,” Topaz grunts and turns back to you. “So, Bosslady, you two sharing a room?”

“What?!” Your hand flies up to your chest, exposed by more than just your dress.

“Office. You gonna share his or get your own?” Your assistant’s tone is casual, flat, and all-knowing.

You’re gonna need another champagne.

[Next Part]

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

Y'all, why is this so fun to write????

Also, taglist whoopsy: I have no clue whether peeps from the Fools series list want to be on this one and/or all posted fic, so I'm gonna play it safe and wait until anyone asks. You'll have to DM or reply; I won't assume to ping!

@bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @whiskeytangofoxtrot555

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

#steve rogers x reader

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exposition-belongs-somewhere · 5 days

Text

Caught

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: masterbation, fingering, unprotected sex, creampie, implied cockwarming, Steve talking his shit, I think that's all- this is unedited

Genre: fluff and smut

Summary: As the title implies, you get caught... by Steve lol

***

You sigh to yourself as you sink into the warm water in your bathtub. It's been a long day and you're relieved to finally unwind with your bubbles, candles, and music. Truthfully moving into the tower means you don't get much time to yourself and you're in dire need of some self care. You take a moment to trail your hands across your skin, first over your neck, down your chest, then over your tummy until finally, your fingers skate across your sex. Your breath hitches when your digits brush against your clit. You dip your middle fingers between your folds, caressing your inner walls. You start slow, just allowing your body to catch up to your mind. As the slickness of your arousal grows, your movements adjust accordingly, pumping faster as the minutes go on. Your chest heaves from your ministrations, quiet whimpers escaping your parted lips. Now, properly horny, you pivot your attention to your clit, a louder moan leaving you at the feeling of your fingers against the sensitive bundle of nerves.

You almost scream when your bathroom door swings open suddenly.

"Steven Grant Rogers what the hell are you doing in here?!" You gasp adjusting yourself to look less compromised under the bubbles. If there was such thing as a guardian angel they'd make sure by some magic Steve hadn't heard you before coming in despite his super soldier senses.

"I- heard a sound... and I was concerned." He says. Guess that's a no on the guardian angel thing. Awesome.

"And you didn't want to knock before rushing in here?" You blink at him.

"Well- if you were in trouble that'd be a waste of time."

"You know if you were looking for an excuse to see me naked I would've much preferred you just ask." You joke, hoping the comment will make him embarrassed enough to rush out with an apology so this conversation can be over.

"Wait I- but that's not- sorry what?!" Steve fumbles over his reply, shaking his head at you.

"I'm joking Steve, this is very awkward. I'm dispelling tension." You explain. He frowns at you for a moment and then his eyes widen.

"Oh I'm interrupting....." He trails off oddly.

"My bath. Yes. Thank you for noticing finally?"

"No that's- that's um- that's not what I meant." He says clearing his throat.

"Well what are you talking about then Rogers?" You ask.

"I just picked up on what the sound I heard was actually about. I am so sorry about interrupting."

"It's fine dude, you can just- leave." You say. Or if you really wanted to make it up to me you could help me pick up where I left off.

"That was a joke right?" Steve falters.

"What?" You frown at him.

"About me... helping you."

"Oh- that was an inside thought. You can just- disregard it."

"To clarify, you don't actually want my help. Do you?"

"Are you offering?"

"I guess I am."

"Don't bite off more than you can chew, Steve." You warn. Steve sits on the edge of the bathtub.

"You're underestimating me y/n."

"Well- you're welcome to prove me wrong, if you think you can."

Steve rolls up the sleeve of his shirt and plunges his arm into the water. His hand quickly finds your leg beneath the water. He glides up your thigh, stopping just short of your center.

"Wait, I need you to understand that if we do this that's it you know. If I fuck you, I'm keeping you."

"Then you'd better make me want to be kept." You say, challenge clear in your voice. You catch Steve's eyebrow twitch up momentarily but instead of quipping back he tilts his head and slides his hand the rest of the way up your leg, fingers dipping into your wet heat easily. You take in a sharp breath as his fingers curl against the roof of your inner walls.

"I'm going to find out every little thing that makes you tick." Steve says softly, though his fingers are quickly gaining speed between your legs.

"You'd need more than a few hours for that one darling." You say breathily, struggling to respond with his ministrations, his shirtsleeve darkening as water sloshes against it, his earlier attempt at preventing that proving fruitless. Steve pivots his attention, his fingers drawing up to rub tight circles against your clit and you throw your head back with a moan. Your hands clutch the side of the tub as he touches you, your whole body buzzing from the heat between your thighs.

"I'm sure I can spare the time." He hums.

"Oh fuck-" You jolt, feeling your orgasm build under his touch.

"Come on princess, I can tell you're close. Let go for me." He says. Your body tenses momentarily before your back arches as your orgasm washes over you. Steve steadily works you through it, only pulling his fingers from you when the spasms around them have lessened.

"God." You breathe out, slumping back against the tub as your chest heaves.

"Good girl." He says kissing your forehead. He drains the tub and grabs the shower head, rinsing suds from your skin before helping you out of the bath gently.

"You know Stevie, you didn't have to do that. I would've gotten to it." You tell him. Steve pulls you close and lifts you onto your bathroom counter.

"I know you're very capable. But I'm far from finished with you and I'd hate to cover your bed in soapy bath water. I'm sure that'd feel very uncomfortable for you as it dried, too." He says, peppering your throat with kisses and bites as he speaks.

"How very considerate of you." You quip with a breathless chuckle.

"It's a selfish act if I'm honest. Can't have you distracted." He says. At some point, Steve must've freed himself from his pants because as he says this you feel him nudging against your entrance.

"I doubt that's a problem you would have Captain." You tell him, your sentence punctuated by him thrusting into you. You moan at the feeling of just how full you feel with him inside you and drop your head to his shoulder.

"Are you alright y/n?" He asks softly, his hand on your hip, stroking gently.

"Fine just- fuck it feels good the way you fill me." You groan.

"Yeah?" He pants.

"Yeah- god Stevie please move."

Steve tightens his hold on your hips and starts a rhythm. His thrusts are strong and steady, and deep, so deep. Your nails dig into his shoulders, clawing against his skin as he fucks into you forcefully.

"Dammit. You're so- soft, and warm, God you feel so good around me." Steve mutters against your neck. Steve is unrelenting in his thrusts, the feel of him inside you pulling moans and whines from you that he can't get enough of.

"Keep going Stevie, please, please, keep going." You pant, grinding against him.

"Fuck- y/n. It's like you're trying to kill me." He grunts. Steve pulls you impossibly closer to him, driving his hips relentlessly. You can feel your muscles tightening, your orgasm bubbling dangerously below the surface. "You're close, aren't you? I can feel it." He huffs out.

"Yeah- yeah I'm close, but I want you to cum with me Stevie. Wanna feel it in me Stevie." You punctuate your words with nips and licks at his throat and he reacts with a shudder as one of his hands reaches between you to find your clit. The added stimulation quickly sends you over the edge and the feel of your walls clamping down on his dick pull Steve over it with you, the hot feeling of his release painting your walls only adding to your satisfaction. You stay like that for a moment, wrapped in each other's arms, breathlessly basking in the afterglow.

"How are you feeling princess?" He asks eventually.

"Good- albeit a little shocked. Had no idea you rocked like that, Stevie."

"That was only the beginning, but if I don't pace myself I'll break you, and that's no way to start a relationship." Steve leans back enough to stroke your cheek and give you a wink.

"To be fair we've already started in a weird way and I'm a lot more resilient than you're giving me credit for here Rogers." You poke his chest.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes actually." You nod.

"Well, then I guess it's only fair I test that out." He says, lifting you off the bathroom counter. You let out a gasp as the movement jostles you on top of his dick that's still buried inside you. It's only now, when you register that he's still hard, do you consider that you may be in over your head. That super soldier stamina is no joke! But you're not about to back out now, especially not when you're possibly going to have your every fantasy turned into reality. This definitely beats any of the self care you were planning on for your evening.

***

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exposition-belongs-somewhere · 6 days

Text

Eighty-Third Time's the Charm (3)

CEO!Steve x assistant!Reader

Balance (see previous or series)

Summary: At Steve's suggestion, you get an assistant of your own...right before a huge event.

Warnings: light angst, some language, miscommunication, possibly poor editing WC 2.3k

Topaz is a very nice lady and all, but what the fuck is she doing at American Capsules?!

Ok, well, Topaz is…not exactly nice. She’s got an attitude that could drown fish in the sea and a resting face that could curdle milk. She is, however, magnificently efficient. After only a week, you’ve grown so fond of her thick Kiwi accent barking at you to go home or go out to drinks that you find your cheeks hurting from smiling.

The thing you don’t understand though: does Steve think you can’t handle this job on your own anymore? You’ve been fine for three whole years without help. Yes, the company has grown consistently in that time, but a point of pride for you has been setting up most departments to run steady and necessary communications through you (and between themselves) to minimize Steve’s time dealing with minor fires instead of the big-picture stuff. This was done on purpose. In theory, you’ve got less impending work to do day-to-day now than you did when you started.

So why, why, is Topaz here?!

You talk poor Pepper’s ear off about it in the dressing room of an extremely fancy designer boutique while trying on potential dresses for an upcoming fundraiser hosted by Stark.

“I don’t think you need to worry about it so much,” Pep offers, smoothing the slinky blue gown over her hips. “Maybe he really is just trying to lessen your burden.”

“Why is Rogers suddenly thinking of my burden? That might have been helpful that spring he decided all transport would be carbon neutral within sixty days before pissing off the Bermuda with Stark—ugh, I’m not sure about this one,” you sigh, pulling the heavy velvet curtain back. “I look like I’m naked.”

Pep’s face lights up. “Buy it,” she says immediately and flatly, “because if you don’t I’m buying it for you.” She straightens her posture and smiles. “It’s on Tony’s account, for my birthday he missed.”

“No, that’s not necessary. It’s just…”

One shade away from your skin tone? Too booby? The most flattering thing you’ve ever seen on your body? Yeah, it is. That’s the magic of this silky cut and draping.

Pepper cocks an eyebrow. “Yes,” she mutters, “you’ll need some jewelry, too.”

It’s one afternoon when you’ve had to put out more fires than usual and Topaz is pressing for an explanation of what’s happening that you snap.

“It will take longer to tell you than to just do it. Please, give me a second.”

Your assistant is insistent though. “Well, how the hell am I supposed to take over for ya if you won’t let me learn,” Topaz complains between phone calls.

Your eyes go wide, and your jaw drops.

Whipping around in your chair, you stomp to Steve’s office without a second thought and throw open the door.

“You’re fucking replacing me,” you scream at the startled man sitting atop the edge of his desk.

He stands at attention so fast that his pant leg gets caught on the corner, and he grabs at the run while you close more distance.

“I work for you twenty-four-seven for like one thousand days, and this is how you repay me? You make me train my own replacement?” You’re so stunned and enraged that your arms go up, indicating every piece of art on the walls, every bit of furniture, all of it which you chose for him. “Steve, I have done EVERYTHING for you except get your dick wet, but god knows, that’s what you have Stark for. You asshole!”

Then you get in his face. “I understand that you think you are some high and mighty, super-savvy business man who can do no wrong because money is the root of all power or some bullshit, but this—“ you poke your finger into the chest of his impeccably tailored suit “—is a shitty thing to do.”

Lowly, after the adrenaline ebbs over the cliff edge, you finish, “I thought you were better than this.”

Steve stands dumb-founded before reaching out a hand, but it’s not towards you.

“I’mma call you back, ma.”

“You do that, dear,” Sarah Rogers chirps with what might be the faintest chuckle before Steve cuts off the line.

His eyes remain fixed on yours while his head turns. “Topaz,” he calls, “could you shut the door, please.”

“What an excellent idea, sir,” the woman drawls, with heavy judgment, before obliging.

Steve blinks for the first time since you barged in and offers you a seat. You staunchly refuse.

He starts with your name—your first name—and suddenly you’re sure this is it; you’re about to be fired from the first job you’ve ever actually loved. Maybe you should sit down, but your legs won’t move.

“So I hate to admit that this…wasn’t my idea, but the plan was to—ok, Tony let slip the other day that he plans to name Ms. Potts his CEO.”

You make a questioning face and scowl. “Good for her. What, so you planned to pimp me out as his assistant, too?”

“Oh my god—“ Steve rushes forward to grasp your shoulders before thinking better of it and dropping his hands to his pockets “—no. NO. No, I just didn’t want to make it seem like I stole his—right, no, I was hoping that once Topaz is trained and can take over for you that you’d be my co-CEO.”

“What the hell.”

It’s not a question because there’s too much blood rushing to your face to comprehend any answer given.

“See, it’s just now occurring to me that this looks bad, and that’s probably why I should always run ideas by you first.” Steve runs his hand through his hair nervously. “So if you think about it, this kinda proves my point, and uh, even though I’m gonna need to explain that to my mother, I feel pretty confident in the plan still.”

What the hell. Your brain can’t process both the flattery and the mortification at the same time, and you collapse into one of the ergonomic leather chairs facing Steve’s desk, mouth agape for who knows how long before finally responding.

“I see.”

Yeah, that’s all you’ve got.

“Right, well—“ he takes up residence in the other chair and leans forward as close as he can “—I know that the workload for your current position means you don’t get to see your family very often, and I’ll understand if you’d just like to stay at this level with Topaz to help out. That’s fine. That’ll work, too, but you step in and help with my actually job so much that the title might not be much of a difference in what you already do…

“You still with me over there?”

“What? Yes.” You’d zoned out looking through the windows in disbelief. “I…I’ll need to think about it.”

“Of course,” Steve says, standing and fixing his jacket. “I—I didn’t mean to upset you. I thought—“

“Thank you, sir,” you breathe, making a b-line for the door as quickly as possible, unable to meet his eye. “I’m going to step away for lunch for a minute, but—“ get out, get out, get out “—Topaz will—“ get out right now “—be here.”

You just barely glance back as you slide back over the threshold. Steve stands with the smallest, fondest smile on his face.

Get the fuck out right now. Go, go, go.

“Sir,” you nod one last time and watch his smile grow. You smile, too, but only on the other side of the door.

You still haven’t decided what to do by the time Topaz is ready for a test run. At Steve’s suggestion, you take a few days off to visit your parents, and if anything is truly needed, Topaz can get in touch.

“A dry run, if you will,” Steve said, “plus I know where to find you in case of real emergency.”

It’s dumb that you thought about him showing up on your parents’ doorstep your whole plane ride there, right? It’s awful that you eagerly anticipated texts from either of them, isn’t it? It’s sad that you pictured drunk-Steve, curled up like he was on your hotel bed, more than once in your childhood home, maybe?

Yes, but that doesn’t stop you. In fact, you don’t receive a single text, email, or voicemail from your boss the entire trip except one message after you land in New York again.

S. Rogers: see you at the gala. Topaz and I did great!

So your triumphant return (and Topaz’s magnificent success) culminates in Stark’s fundraiser. Pepper shares her town car to the venue with you. She’s just come from having a stylist do her hair and makeup, a special treat for herself, and she did offer to have you join. You weren’t prepared for all the fuss. It made things feel too important when you are essentially a wallflower for an event with actual celebrities and rich people—very rich people.

Exiting your apartment, you felt nice, but when you see all the perfectly coifed patrons on the actual red carpet, you deflate.

“Mind if I go around the back, Pep?”

She’d disappointed, of course, but she would never want to make you more uncomfortable. Before you wisk yourself away with your silky train behind you, she is sure to mention that your dress really is gorgeous and you wear it like a champ.

“Just know you’re a natural,” she whispers, grasping your hand gently over your bejeweled clutch.

She’s so genuine it makes you blush. See, now, she will make a great CEO.

“Meet you inside,” you wink.

A lot of the banquet and catering staff for these events work with both Stark Industries and American Capsule regularly, so you walk by many familiar faces and receive a gentle chorus of hellos to “Señorita Cappy.” You smile shyly and feel just as on-display as you would with the press outside. You can’t remember the last time you showed this much skin.

The service elevator is packed with waiters, but everyone smiles at each other. There’s a moment of camaraderie, a fortifying breath before every single person including you has to put on a performance.

The staff motion for you to exit first, but you blame your dress and say you’ll wait till last. They don’t argue—bless them—because you need the few extra seconds to be ready.

You missed work the last few days. You missed the rush and the routine and the challenge and the chaos. You missed…

Nope. Just take a deep breath. Step out. Drop the train of fabric and walk.

You think back to how you looked in the mirror at the boutique when you first tried this on, conjuring up that confidence without a reflection around you. Doesn’t hold all that well, so you pop into the ladies’ room to pat some cold water on your flushed chest. Then you can see. Then you can smile. Your hair and makeup look just how you wanted, and if you’d gone to a professional, it may have looked too overdone for the simplicity of the rest. Delicate, single-strand gold earrings frame a bare neckline, and since you don’t have rings to wear, Pepper suggested a thin, golden charm bracelet.

Maybe you should have chosen differently. Sometimes, when you turn your head too far to the side, an earring tickles across your collarbone, reminding you that there’s just these three millimeter straps holding the whole getup.

Too late now. Don’t sweat. Ugh.

You slurp some cool water from your cupped palm and blot your lipstick once more.

Go time, damn it. You think of your dad cheering his favorite sports team, hearing his ‘go get ‘em, tiger’ loudly in your mind. That makes you excited. You’ve got this.

You plaster on a soft smile to walk by the main elevators where a thin sea of guests pool. You get a few glances and nods. You’ve been in meetings with about a quarter of the men here, and they seem to notice that.

Your neck tenses absently as you round the corner into the solid wood ballroom, and there’s no buffer. Steve Rogers is just right in front of you. He’s all you can see. Even with the nearly fifty feet between you two, you’re sure there wasn’t a second that his eyes weren’t already on you.

He stands shoulder to shoulder with Tony by the bar, lips parted but unmoving as Stark rambles and sips his scotch.

You can’t even see the blue of his eyes. You’re pinned in place.

He mouths—well, he probably says it but you can’t hear—an ‘excuse me’ to Tony and makes his way towards you, a pristine velvet tux jacket stretched across his frame like a sin.

You grin at his approach. You couldn’t stop if you tried, but it catches across his face, too.

When he’s close, Steve swings his arm out.

“You look—“

Oh god, this must be the most inappropriately scandalous dress. You shouldn’t have listened to Pepper. She can pull this off. You’ve never tried. Why would you pick today to test it out?

“—spectacular,” Steve finishes, dragging his gaze all the way to the floor before closing the last few feet between you. His hand snakes a few gentle inches across your barely covered waist to draw himself near. He kisses your cheek. “Just marvelous, doll.” He pulls back and with less than an ounce of pressure against his fingers, he holds you in suspense.

“Welcome home.”

Well f*** me, gang. This is gonna be a lot longer than three parts, and I've decided as a series, it will be called "It Had to Be You." Damn if I'm not loving the shit outta these two though.

[Next Part] Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi

dividers by @firefly-graphics

#steve rogers x reader

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exposition-belongs-somewhere · 6 days

Note

why do I feel like bee is only used to seeing “monies” as wads of 100s. if she saw $1 or pennies she’d be like 🤔

And it's all Bucky's fault😂

Imagine Bee accepts the dollar with a confused 'oh...tank you'. It looks like her Papa's monies but there's only one. This can't be right. The bluey sticker she put on it didn't make it any better. Bee knows who can fix this. She turns the cash over in her little hands, staring down at it before hopping over to Bucky's office.

She climbs up the tall chair in front of his desk. Struggling to get herself up even as she pointedly ignores the smaller chair Bucky had made for her. Knowing better than to dare insult her by asking if she needs any help, Bucky closes his laptop, patiently waiting with an amused glint in his blue eyes. After a minute of 'dabs it' and near falls, she makes it, planting her feet in the seat.

"Papa you wanna trades?" She holds up the dollar, a grin on her face. Her gaze dips to the sticker and she shrugs. "It's a wittle bit pwetty. You wants it?"

Bucky can't say no to his baby girl. It’s a weakness he will never remedy. "Of course I do."

Without hesitation he goes over to her. Leaning against the side of his desk, one leg crossed over the other, he pulls a stack of money out of his wallet. He keeps cash on hand for two reasons. Emergencies and his Bumblebee.

It's a quick exhange. Her dollar for his hundreds. Bee studies her monies with a pleased smile. That's better.

She leaves a kiss on his cheek, her 'tank you Papa' floating behind her as she skips out of the room.

"Anytime Bumblebee." A soft laugh leaves his lips. Bucky tucks the dollar into his empty wallet where its going to stay for years. He goes back to work, determined to make even more 'monies' for his sweet Bee and her mama.

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exposition-belongs-somewhere · 7 days

Text

That was not how I expected that to end. 🤣 But I kinda love sheepish Steve.

Eighty-Third Time's the Charm (2)

CEO!Steve x assistant!Reader

Summary: What should be a standard business trip with your boss, Steve Rogers, becomes a little harder to manage.

Life (see previous or series)

Warnings for drinking and zero editing.

You’re asleep with your sensitive feet sticking out past the bottom of the bed, blanket kicked away, when Steve calls you. You have no clue what time it is.

“Yeah, boss,” you start, on autopilot in your grogginess.

“Uh, yeah, are you the assistant?” It’s not Steve clearly.

“What? Who is this?”

“Steve is uh…” a hilariously high giggle blasts through your phone speaker “…yeah, he’s gonna need some assistance when his taxi gets to the hotel.”

“Barnes? Is this—put St—put him on the phone.” Now you’re awake but in a very unpleasantly anxious fog.

“Bucky, please, doll, and I could put him on the phone, but he’s not exactly coherent right now. Stevie can’t hold his liquor like he used to.”

“Mr. Barnes,” you sigh, flinging your legs off the bed and rubbing your tired eyes, “where is Mr. Rogers right now?” You’re firm but calm. You can hear that Bucky is not sober enough to notice any subtly in how you handle him.

“He is leaning—very happily—“ Bucky’s voice sounds farther away for a moment “—look at you all smiles, bud! Oh, Steve, Steve, that’s it, that’s your taxi!” His voice gets louder. “What hotel, doll?”

You’re still confused but tell him, and Bucky responds with the taxi number. Just before the line goes quiet, you hear Bucky mumble, “your girl’s in your pocket. She’ll carry you across the threshold, punk.” Then there’s two popping sounds (pats against Steve’s coat, you assume).

“Shhhut up, jerrrk,” Steve’s deep voice slurs.

No one has hung up the call. You listen to Steve babbling to the driver while sliding on the hotel’s complimentary slippers. All your packed shoes would rip open your blisters.

Then you realize you’re in pajamas—tasteful ones, yes, but they’re pants and a long-sleeve button-down top (because good lord they blast ice into these rooms, but it makes sleep so cozy). You’re not going to haul your drunk boss across the lobby in pajamas and slippers.

Your casual dress and slippers will do just fine. Unfortunately.

It’s only five or so minutes after you get downstairs that the taxi pulls up to the curb in front of you. You press ‘end call’ on your phone finally.

Steve isn’t visible. He’s laying across the seat.

First things first, pay the poor man charged with getting the other poor man here.

Steve is clutching his coat around himself and smacking his lips when you open the door. You tap his hip. His face lights up like Christmas day.

“HEEEEY!”

Oh, fucking yikes, he’s trashed.

You’re not sure how you manage moving the bulky bro (because he is 1000% behaving like a frat boy on the way upstairs: finger guns pointed to the desk clerk, lewd reference to ‘going up’ at the elevator) all the way to his door. He’s lucky you don’t just drop him right there in the hall.

He can’t find his room key, and you give up. You just start walking him to your room.

You’re exhausted, and your feet throb under your weight and his. You aim him for the bed. He misses. Steve slides right down to the floor and tries to tell you a funny joke some guy named Wilson told him.

You narrowly lose a fight within yourself to scream in his ear.

Instead, you rummage in your ditty bag and find a travel bottle of pain meds. You fill a water glass, shove it in his face (some sloshes on your hand and drips to his lap which gets you a chuckle of ‘tryna get me all wet, huh’), and roll your eyes as he drinks and hands it back. You refill the glass and plunk it onto the night stand with the meds. You’re not gonna bother helping him in the morning. He’s on his own.

“Ok, mister,” you warn him, returning to his side about to help lift him, but Steve wraps his arms behind your knees and hugs.

His face presses into your thighs, and you’re tilted off-balance, hands flying out to hold you up against the bed. This might be the least professional moment of your three years working with Steve Rogers. How could it not be?

Your dress isn’t long enough to cover the back of your knees when bent over like this, so the fabric slips out of his grasp and it’s just bare hands against your bare skin.

Have mercy. His large palms are so hot against the very sensitive flesh essentially just below your ass. It takes all your concentration to not clench your thighs against his face.

Steve takes a huge, deep breath, and by god, if he didn’t pay you so well, you’d slap the ever-loving shit out of that man.

Cheeky bastard even mumbles, inches below your crotch, “should get in bed.”

“I’m attempting to do just that, sir.” Don’t murder your boss, you remind yourself, that would be unilaterally bad. Your irritation is unmatched, but it’s a disarming fluster that wiggles you against him.

He releases your legs with a flourish and a giggle. “Right. You’ve got to keep me on track.” He tucks his elbows onto the mattress and awkwardly hoists his body up, slithering over the covers until he gets to the pillows.

Thank god you get a king bed when traveling. After grabbing an extra pillow from the closet, you slam it down between his side and yours. You lock yourself in the bathroom while redressing in your full-coverage pajamas (leaving your bra ON which alone should earn him a harsh pinch) and tuck yourself under every layer possible at the other edge of the bed.

The clock reads 1:49 AM.

It’s still raining the next morning. People-watching out the window isn’t as good when umbrellas just bump against each other and everyone looks down with their hoods up. You keep watching, at the same table from yesterday, until the server comes back to ask what else you may need.

Past her is a straight line-of-sight to the elevators, and there’s Steve, black sunglasses on and in different, fresh clothing. Seems he found his damn key finally.

“Refill for me. Another coffee. Black, please, and the breakfast sampler thing. Oh, and another water. Thank you.”

Steve nearly runs into the woman as she spins on her heel. He doesn’t get out the full word ‘sorry,’ just a kind of hissing noise that goes unnoticed in the server’s shock and haste. He delicately scoots into the seat across from you, head low, adjusting the glasses to sit as close to his eyes as possible. After a beat, he clears his throat.

“I don’t normally…”

You smirk. “I know.”

Steve presses a hand over his mouth. “I don’t remember the last time I…”

“I imagine.”

“I hope I didn’t…” He waves the hand around waiting for you to interpret the options.

You don’t take the bait.

“Hope you didn’t what?” Your eyes are innocent as you tilt your own cup to your lips. The shades make it impossible to tell, but you’re fairly sure he watches your every move.

Coffee is placed in front of him, and you’d think Steve’s been in a desert for forty nights and just stumbled upon an oasis.

He drinks it too fast.

“Fuck me, that’s hot.” His head raises. “Sorry, I…this isn’t my finest hour.”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

Steve licks across his lips, letting his shoulders sag.

You’re not great at hiding how amused you are. “No worries. Recoup. Rally. We’ve only got the one long lunch meeting today, and then your deal dinner with Sauter. You’re on your own for that one though, remember.”

He keeps sipping the coffee and hissing at the heat. For such a smart man, he sees to be having a lot of trouble with basic thermodynamics. “Where are you going?”

“To shower,” you snort. “Couldn’t well do it with—never mind. Your food is on its way. Eat it. Did you take the pills by the bed?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How many?”

“Two.” Steve holds up the fingers to match.

“Good boy.” Shit. The words just fall out before you can stop them. You duck your face down trying to compose yourself. You don’t see his reaction. He says nothing in reply, however, meaning now is as good as ever to get the hell out of here.

The instant your butt leaves that cushion—tablet, laptop, purse, and phone in hand— Steve adds “only when sober.”

That shower is looking colder and colder by the second. Your thighs press tightly together on the walk back to your room.

You’re not sure how, but Steve does rally, and he rallies exquisitely. He’s in fine negotiating form during the lunch, each side gives a compelling presentation, dick-waves an appropriate amount, and it looks like you’re in business for another solid partnership.

This contract is likely to be twice as long though, so you basically live-tweet the details to the legal department as the conversation happens. That’s why you’re so valuable to Mr. Rogers. Three steps ahead of him while he’s two steps ahead of everyone else.

Your parents confirm your dinner reservations for that night and say they are about to start the drive into town. Luckily, the lunch meeting is all for today because with the added back and forth travel time, dinner needs to be earlier. They’ll joke about you becoming one of them: an old person who eats at 5:30. In all honesty, that sounds wonderful. You want to (and need to) get a good night’s sleep, alone, before traveling back tomorrow.

Pepper texts you that she can do lunch after your flight lands. Tony has already scheduled to bogart Steve the rest of the day. You’ll just have Pep drop you at the offices. It’s all very neat and tidy.

You’re all dressed down and ready to see family, half-packed and all sorted, when there’s a knock at your hotel room door. Through the peephole, you see Steve.

“Yes, boss?”

“Sauter cancelled.” Steve pushes in just enough to hold the door open and frown. “I swear, that guy is…if he hadn’t inherited his father’s business, he’d be face down at a bar.”

Or asleep in his assistant’s bed, snuggling a pillow for dear life. You don’t say that.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Should I check on another reservation somewhere for you? Tony knows people in every damn city, so I doubt you’d have to eat alone.” You grab your purse and the folded stack of Steve’s removed layers from the day before and squeeze past him in the doorway. “Here’s these.”

“Thank you.”

It’s a fairly comfortable silence, and you think he’s just heading in the direction of his room until he turns to the elevators with you.

Mom texts you that they are about to pull up to the hotel, but they hit a weird one-way street and need to do a bit of a U-y. She’s probably laughing at Dad’s grumbling.

“Feet feeling better?” Steve stares down at your gym shoes.

You warned your parents you’d be ultra casual, but it works for the sports bar they chose. Your family loves a good chain restaurant. Nothing fancy for those folks.

“Yes, but not a hundred percent yet. Don’t be alarmed if I’m wearing flats in the office all week.”

“I’ll be prepared to look five inches lower.” Steve rubs at his neck. “Maybe I’ll book a massage after such a trying time.”

You let out a resigned sigh. “I can set that up for you, sir. No problem.”

“I’m just messing with you—“ you both exit the elevator “—I can speak to woman shorter than me without hurting myself, ya know.”

Steve has no idea how poorly worded everything he just said is, and you stifle a laugh.

Then he oversteps.

“So where are we eating?”

You whip around so fast your purse smacks his arm. “We? No, I’m having dinner with my parents.”

“I’m sure they’re lovely.” Steve grins.

You sweep your hand in front of you with finality. “No. Absolutely not, Steve. I haven’t gotten to see my parents in person for the better part of a year because I work for you. You had plans. So do I. I’m sorry Sauter bailed, but you’ll just have to manage on your own.”

He’s…shrinking into that bulky body of his like a wounded animal, blue eyes shining with apology.

“I,” Steve stammers, “you should see your parents more often.” When your head tilts in a ‘no shit’ reaction, he adds, “I didn’t realize the work was…that much for you.”

Aaaand there’s your mom, flagging you down from the passenger seat of the car outside the lobby.

“It’s not—I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean any offense. I just—“

“I get it,” Steve interrupts with a tight smile, holding up his own hand to acknowledge your mother’s efforts. “You should have time for loved ones. I’ll manage.”

He grips the jacket, vest, and tie to his chest, buries his free hand in his pocket, and nods a goodbye before walking away.

Dinner is great, but you feel guilty the entire time. However, you make a point to mention work and Steve as little as possible, and you do not push for the meal to be over any sooner than your parents want. Still, they have a drive ahead, but they love you very much.

There are tons of kisses and hugs on the pavement outside the hotel before vigorous waving and blown kisses towards their car as it fades into traffic. It was so nice to see them. You miss them already, but your heart is full.

You’re in that sweet spot of happy but ready to rest when you walk into the lobby, and right there, all the way down the long stretch of marble, sits Steve Rogers at the bar. He doesn’t look sad, but it makes you sad. He sent about a dozen texts in the last few hours, noting things to discuss or handle at another time, stating that you don’t have to respond. He just wants to remember all the work stuff.

That’s fair.

Still sad.

Steve smiles and politely responds to a question from the bartender, absently glancing toward the entrance before stopping mid-word upon seeing you.

You try to nod a hello and goodnight, but he gestures for you to join him. That’s not his work face though. He wears the more casual, comfortable cadence that you’ve seen when he’s with Tony, the one that drapes over his chillier demeanor when business is concluded.

“How was dinner? How are your parents?” Steve beams, laser focused on listening to your every word.

The bartender glides over and asks for your drink order, and you turn to check with Steve that you aren’t interrupting anything.

“Never,” he assures.

The way he smiles at you, shoulders slightly hunched over the bar so you’re eye-to-eye in the hightop chairs, little crinkles framing his bright blue eyes, it all has you very warm all over.

That’s new.

You aren’t fucking blind. You’ve always known your boss is a handsome man, but he’s never directed any of that charm at you. He’s polite, professional, and poised…except last night/this morning when he squished his face into your thighs.

“I had a thought,” he interjects, breaking your bizarre brain tangent.

You swallow thickly, watching his lips wrap the rim of his beer bottle.

“It’s probably time you had an assistant.”

Wait. “WHAT?”

Honestly, I'm having a criminal amount of fun writing this so to the Anon who brought this up: ILOVEYOUIHATEYOU. Everything else has been set aside for this >_<

dividers by @firefly-graphics

[Next Part]

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

#steve rogers x reader

277 notes · View notes

exposition-belongs-somewhere · 7 days

Note

Steve has no idea how to flirt with the girl. So cute.

Whattt I just read the Mr and Mrs Smith thing and I loved it it was so frkn good!! love the movie too . It made me think of Tony and Peppers dynamic so if you'll like an au could we get the girl Friday thing where Stevie is more of an idiot than usual, they are pretty smart as individuals but they both share one brain cell when they're together still she puts out all his fires I think it'll be nice to have someone do that for Steve as opposed to Steve always doing that for ppl.

CEO!Steve x assistant!reader (see series)

This got way longer than I intended, but it took everything in me to minimize this to a one-shot (well that f***ing escalated! It's a three-parter now). 😂 Warnings for zero editing and drinking. Non-powered, modern AU btw. This part is ~2.5k

Eighty-Third Time's the Charm (1 of 3 yeah, yeah, it's 4 + a 5pt follow up now, haha, joke's on me): WORK

Steve’s been the logistic coordinator for Stark Industries since Tony took over for Howard. Howard hired Steve to acquire and transport materials for his early projects, and Steve’s own business grew from there. He now handles most of the further distributors for Stark Tech across the globe, and you’re his secretary.

Assistant.

Right hand.

Ok, well, maybe both of Steve’s hands and his mouth because his brain is already doing ninety things at any given moment. He needs a lot of help, and that takes time. Unreasonably lengthy amounts of time that can (and do frequently) span more than the average working and waking day.

You’re happy to do it. You love the work. It’s a challenge in quantity, not quality, and most of the men (because it is almost entirely men) who you deal with are happy to do as they are told when you smile and make them feel heard.

Really, the only challenge is to smile that much in person and on video calls. You never thought you’d be so excited to handle something by email every now and again.

Trip #83 with Steve Rogers takes you both three days overnight to a big city not far from where you grew up. You even have a few school friends who live in town, and you’ve made very tentative plans to see an old high school flame if the schedule permits, which it just barely seems to as the clock inches past 6:37.

Those 7 o’clock drinks can’t pour themselves fast enough.

In your hotel room, you’ve just shed the professional pant suit for light, breezy dress (something both easy to wear and easy to pack) and are in the process of typing out a confirmation of the restaurant when the call waiting comes up.

Steve.

“Hey, where is the contract for Sauters’?”

“We confirmed it all with them before the flight here, boss. Why—“

“I want the language changed to reflect payment before they take possession. They’re delinquent again. I’m not gonna allow them to keep profiting off of our efficiency while they sit with a thumb up their butts.”

“Sir, it really would be more impactful if you just said asses. I don’t think your mum is going to hunt you down for that.”

“Absolutely not. Ok, room 1512, bring the copy and patch in legal.”

“Wait, boss, I—“

The boop boop boop lets you know you’ve been hung up on, and you’re about to pass the feeling on to cute Jimmy from fourth period senior english. Damn. You rewrite the text and send your apologies.

Steve’s all in a flourish, head run amuck with little things to change here and there in the 26-page agreement. It all takes another three and a half hours. He had room service delivered, has poured you both a splash of something from the mini bar, and finally, finally sits down and looks at you.

“What is that,” he blurts.

It takes a moment to figure out what he means.

“A dress, sir. I…I was…I’d made plans for drinks with a friend.”

“Here?”

“I grew up about an hour away, yeah.”

He swirls his drink around, not admitting—though it’s painfully clear—that he had no idea you weren’t from New York. He looks at his watch for the first time all day.

“Ah, I suppose apologies are in order for…” He waits for his bait to catch.

“Jim,” you slowly add. “Don’t worry. I let him know the instant you called. I’ve met you. I knew how this would go.”

How much of this scotch did you sip all at once? You don’t normally talk to Steve—Mr. Rogers— like that, but he seems good and chastised for a moment, draining his tumblr in one go and returning to the bar.

“Well, I can’t replace Jim—“ he spikes the name with sharp tone you’ve never heard before “—but I can offer you a drink here.” His gaze, once it finds yours after dragging up your legs, is expectant and intent. It’s the first time he’s ever waited for an answer from you that he didn’t already know before asking.

It’s also the first time you aren’t quite sure you understand what Steve is asking. Eighty-three trips in and countless hours with the man, and this is the least prepared you’ve ever felt.

“Already had mine, sir.” You set your empty glass down on the small table between you. “We have a long day tomorrow, or rather, I do, but I’ll be sure to inform you when the Sauters are settled.”

It’s just instinct to smooth the front of your dress when you stand, but the rake of Steve’s eyes forced down you by the move completely throws you.

“I’m sorry you wasted an outfit,” he adds, quietly, too low and deep to not sharply flame a heat that sparks out of nowhere in your gut.

“Right.” You gather up your things. “No great loss. It’ll keep. If that’ll be all, boss?”

When your eyes return across the room, Steve’s standing there with an empty little bottle still tilted over his glass. He’s just staring, lost in thought about god-knows-what.

“Get some sleep,” he mutters absently.

“Of course.”

You pour your own drink from your room’s mini bar and take a long bath. You’ve been up since 5am in order to get you and Mr. Rogers to the airport in time. That’s what you blame your runaway thoughts on. You do everything for that man. You know practically everything about that man. You know that he hasn’t gone on any sort of social date in at least seven months (a fact even his mother calls to remind you of), and you know that Tony takes him out to gentleman’s clubs and has women serve them at all their joint business dealings.

You have literally sat beside Pepper Potts and joked about this while watching Tony get a lap dance and Steve chat up a waitress. Why your mind still entertains those thoughts after all you know is beyond human understanding, and after a day like today, you can hardly categorize yourself as human.

You need the rest for sure.

You’re already back on the phone by breakfast time, consuming strong tea and a croissant bite-by-bite while the American Capsules’ legal discusses the changes with SauterCorp’s legal.

Line-by-fucking-line.

You knew this would happen. It’s why you told them to start early. Of course, the team members you are on the phone with are different ones from last night because those folks worked late and are off work to make up for the overtime. You’re breathing in the smell of your drink with closed eyes like it’ll mainline the caffeine up your sinuses to your brain.

When you open your eyes, Steve’s pulling out the chair in front of you, ordering his own breakfast and motioning for a fresh pot of tea. He says nothing while you work.

Plates of food arrive and Steve reads the paper, glancing up every so often when you write a note to yourself about a follow-up after the call. After a while, he pushes a plate of scrambled eggs towards you and flips over a fork for you to take. He doesn’t take no for an answer, but since the call is finally wrapping up, you oblige and wolf down a few bites before typing out an email of your notes.

Steve asks a few questions of his own while refreshing both cups of tea and not bothering to offer sugar for yours. You…weren’t aware he knew that about you.

Until the car comes in an hour to get you to your next meeting, there’s nothing on the agenda, but you fully expect Steve to cram in a breakdown of the afternoon. Instead, he sips tea and folds the paper round and round until he’s done with all his interesting bits. You get to people watch, pedestrians outside the floor to ceiling windows of the hotel’s café bustling past in both directions.

Your attention is brought back when the table is cleared off, but Steve is no longer focused on the paper or the people. He sits and watches you again.

You smile as politely as you can even though you feel pinned down in the stare. “We better get going,” you advise, packing your things away.

Steve does put down his cup but doesn’t move otherwise.

“It’s your color.” He squints just slightly at his own revelation, relaxing back into his chair. “The dress.”

You have to swallow and clear your throat at that. “Yes, I suppose it’s one of my favorite colors.”

“It suits you.”

There’s no irony. Steve simply looks at you, blinks, looks some more, and it’s like you accidentally sat down naked in the lobby. His blue eyes are just that piercing.

“Thank you,” you say out of habit more than understanding and hurry on with the day.

It pours down rain for most of the afternoon, drenching your shoes as you traipse back and forth to the car with Steve. You have an umbrella, but nothing stops the puddles invading.

“I can’t do this,” you finally snap on the way back to the hotel. You’re on the verge of tears. The sides of your leather heels have rubbed the back of one ankle and the top outside of the other foot raw, almost/possibly bloody. It takes effort to peel them off your skin, and you hiss in pain.

Steve sits across the backseat completely horrified.

“I know, I’m so sorry. I’ll put them back on—“

Steve puts a hand out to stop you.

“Driver,” he calls, “is there a first aid kit back here? No, no, we just need a few bandaids.” The reassurance cuts off panic from the front, and after the click of the glove compartment sounds, a small box is offered through the window. Steve thanks him.

“I can do it, sir. Please don—“

That stare pins you again, and there’s dead silence in the back while your boss rips open a few wipes, cleans the blistered skin, dabs antibiotic ointment on the broken parts, and smooths the coverings overtop. You can’t help but notice how tender his touch is, but he’s just being thoughtful. It doesn’t mean anything.

As Steve returns to his seat (after it feels like a struggle to break eye contact), he gets a call.

His friend Bucky Barnes is in town, too, on a quick layover before a transatlantic flight and long business trip. The two don’t get to talk as much as they’d like, and you know they don’t see each other very often either.

“Of course, we’ll do dinner, Buck. Name the place.”

We will do what now?

You start waving your hands and miming towards your feet.

Steve eyes you a second. “No, right, I will meet you there in—driver, how long is it to Chinatown from the hotel? Yeah, so about an hour from now? Excellent.”

You might have interpreted that wrong. He meant ‘we’ as in him and Bucky, no doubt. In case he didn’t though…

“Shall I call and make reservations for you two?”

“He’s handling it. Traveling with a few associates who know the area and the restaurant.”

“It’s a good one. You can dress down there.”

Steve offers a ghost of a smile as he looks down at his layers of clothing, pondering. He glances at your bandaged feet and looks like he’ll say something before shucking off his coat, and then his suit jacket, and then his vest.

Without a word, you hold out your arm to take the unnecessaries back upstairs.

“You don’t have to,” Steve all but whispers.

He’s never questioned using your service. Ever. He tosses the clothes onto the back-facing seats across the car and undoes the first two buttons beneath his tie. The car stops at the entrance just as he pulls the tie loose.

Shoes in one hand, briefcase slung over your shoulder, you sigh loudly and hold out your hand again very close to his face.

Steve drapes the tie across your palm.

“Have a good dinner, sir.”

You collect the rest and walk in barefoot. You don’t look back.

Next Part Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi

Again, full disclosure: I have never seen the movie His Girl Friday. Just going off a synopsis and running away with it, but now that I've PLOTIFIED the whole damn thing, you're getting three cute-ass chapters *and you'll like it* bwahahahahaha

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