A/N: this one is dedicated to my beloved olivia bc she is so sexy and yesterday was her birthday. enjoy JuliansEyepatch & im sorry it was late my love you deserve only the best
Summary: DADSFRIEND!Steve quickly becomes your outlet for curiosity. (f!reader:19, steve: 38) 3.7k words
Warnings: smut, mega age gap because ⭕️💢⭕️💢 somebody be my sugar mommy milf?, okay listen to me STEVE IS LITERALLY YOUR FATHERS FRIEND IN THIS IF THAT MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE I SUGGEST YOU JUST SKIP THIS ONE :D , innocence kink, virgin!reader, brief description of needles
His lips were the first to cross the line between playful and something much more. Much more was newly defined by the curve of your spine and the way his palms orchestrated the pitch-perfect symphony of your body.
Before that, all he was was Steve Rogers. Next door neighbor, part-time mechanic, your father's right hand man. Much more is only the space his hands traveled from ratchets and sockets to the dip of your waist. What you have now transcends modern vocabulary. What you have now is a machine Steve could never hope to dissect.
"Get your old man a beer, would ya?" your father grumbles, slumping into a lawn chair set on the patio. "And uh," he nods to Steve who hasn't stopped looking at you since you peeked through the front door, "get one for the S-O-B fuckin' with my engine."
He watches you leave, too. And he prays those little cutoffs don't attract boys with wandering hands and insatiable reckless abandon.
He wipes the sleeve of his flannel across his forehead, collecting the beads of sweat before cuffing the hems up to his elbows. Then you're back, fingers wrapped around two chilled bottles of beer, slick with icy condensation. The neck of your tank top dips low, and its just another thing for Steve to despise.
"Anybody home?" you call, shuffling up to him and popping the cap from his beer. You block the sun with your palm, still squinting to get a good look at his chest from beneath his unbuttoned shirt. The way he glows golden is incredible and beyond compare.
"Hey, hey," he says, shaking his head and plucking the bottle from your grasp, "play nice, kiddo, I could wreck this car with one loose bolt." Your bottom lip pokes out, and it kills him. Tears him to shreds at the will of you alone.
His breath catches when you flit around the truck, fingers grazing the warm hood before you hop into the passenger's seat. Without thinking, he mirrors you, letting his body settle into the driver's side with ease. Though, the leather sweats and melts under summer sun, welding to your bare skin. And right now, crappy interior have mercy on the backs of your thighs.
"It's nice," you hum, spreading your palms over the dashboard. Your cutoffs bubble open at the back when you lean forward, and Steve gets an inadvertent shot of your lacy, baby pink panties. His body and soul stalls with want when you blink up at him, chewing on your bottom lip like the little minx he knows you are.
Your father leans his forearms along the sill of Steve's window as he flashes you both a grin.
"She's lookin' good," he mumbles, nodding and eyeballing from the seatbelts of the car to the dash. "Can't wait to take her for a spin, eh?" He grabs Steve's shoulder and chuckles, squeezing when you take a glance at Steve's fists, white-knuckled around ten-and-two of the steering wheel.
You squeal and jerk forward, pawing at Steve's thigh and leaning over him to speak directly to your father. Your knee props up on the center console; you're bridged across the width of the truck with Steve's hand steadying you at the waist. His eyes go wide when your back arches, like he performed a magic trick he hadn't expected to go well. But, God, did this illusion satisfy him nonetheless.
"Maybe Stevie could finally teach me how to drive!" His gaze whips to your cheshire smile, eyes bright as you look back at him.
Your father shrugs. "Whaddaya say, pal? Let her annoy you few times a week until she's got her license," he says, "'Bout time. For God's sake, she can almost drink."
"I wouldn't, papa," you coo, "I gotta stay pure." Steve swears you wink back at him. Like you're daring him. In his hands, you're no longer that pure school girl. You seize his spine and takes his bones to leave him melting into a sticky pile of mush where a man used to be.
"Atta girl. You stay that way, sweetheart," your father says, slinking back to his rickety chair.
Steve grunts when you plop down into his lap, clutching the steering wheel tight with both hands and shifting over his thighs for comfort. Little do you know, Steve is feeling anything but. Both hands find your waist to successfully still your wiggling, hoping you can't feel the tightening of his jeans.
"What're you—"
"I could drive anywhere," you whisper like he won't catch the way your soul is wrung of light in that second. He knows all you want is out, but knowing your father, he's not sure you'll get very far.
"Not without me," Steve teases as he hunches forward, hands firm on your waist and eyes set on the peachy horizon.
"'Course not," you say, turning your head to look at him, "you're gonna keep me safe." This close, his breath fans over your cupid's bow and you watch sweat collect at his temples. Then down to his mouth, not an inch from yours as your arms go slack and your body pliant in his gravity.
His eyes shine golden, pupils swelling to take in the shape of you, slumped against him, eye contact fierce enough to keep him stuck as stone in his place. But he doesn't dare move lest the spell be broken. He would rather be forever frozen in your presence than last a day without you. His fingertips trail up the smooth skin of your thigh, eyes flickering to the bare touch.
"(Y/n), get over here, and bring that rag!"
You spring out of your seat, breathless and stumbling to the pavement as you quickly obey your father's commands and skirt back inside the house. Steve watches you, defeated and resting his forehead on twelve of the steering wheel. He gives a sharp exhale and adjusts his jeans.
"Alright, Rogers, I gotta head into town," he says, metal door handle clacking on its springs as he steps aside to let Steve slip from the driver's seat and run a hand firmly through his greased up roots. "Make sure she doesn't burn the house down, eh?"
The truck pulls forward with a low grumble and takes off down the street, leaving Steve posed in place. Some sort of modern lamentation as he longs for the familiarity of you. Chiaroscuro soft over his cheek bones then down into the contours and hard across his jaw. Defining wrinkles and gentle hollows of bone.
This walking corpse of a man trudges himself into the house, up the stairs, to your door. It's open to the sight of you perched on the edge of your bed with an unsure frown etched into your cheeks and forehead.
"Your dad went to the store," Steve says, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe. You startle and jump to your feet. A deer in headlights could not have looked more afraid. And he thinks you're gonna stay like that until he leaves, but you pad forward slowly, eyes cast down with your hands behind your back.
"So he left us all alone?" you coo, blinking up at him and simultaneously stopping his heart for the better. A damn rock in the middle of his chest would've been more useful. He shifts and clears his throat, nodding. "How cruel."
And, God, he thinks. You must be talking about yourself. No woman has ever shot him out of the sky like that before. Your precision is deadly, every move, every inch of your body perfectly calculated in an equation to drive him six feet under with a smile. Cruel doesn't begin to describe your power over him.
His mind can't register the space between you because there's barely any. And suddenly he's standing up straight, golden strands of hair sweeping over his forehead so he might get a good look at you. You're a breath away, but he doesn't dare pull you closer. If you're an illusion, he'd hate for his suspension of disbelief to falter.
You raise your fingers to feather over his forearm, tracing the soft underside, flesh of your cheek pulled between your teeth. He inhales slow and steady and dies in your hands all over again because you look up and tilt your head with a grin. Cruelty in it's purest form.
His words are spoken carefully like scripture, "should we order take out?" but the way he leans down and rests a gentle paw on your hip is anything but holy. "Pizza, maybe?" You slip your hand up his shoulder to cup the back of his neck, fingertips rolling over the bits of hair that have grown longer through the spring. This waltz is a slow moving dance, a tender game of give and take, and he's willing to take all you can give with a glance down at your mouth.
"Pizza sounds good," you say, lashes batting shut when he holds your waist with both hands and urges you to shuffle forward. Pressed up against him is such a wonderful place to be. Your palm finds his abdomen, graces the buttons of his flannel, then spreads slowly like wildfire over his ribs.
"Good," he whispers, the tip of his nose nudging your own like a small animal, curious and so careful.
"Good."
You are the nail in his coffin. His demise. It's over when you kiss his bottom lip so gently, when you tangle your fingers in his hair, when you lean into him. But then you pull away, stunned out of your mind, and his hands react before his brain has the chance to. He grabs you to hold you closer, chest expanding, filled with heat when he kisses you.
And he kisses you. His mouth is hot, and he's so gorgeous needy like that. From his throat, your touch spurs new sounds, quiet but rough and suffocated between your teeth. Like he's begging in hushed reverie, the tip of his tongue reels against your lips and surprises you with heavenly reaction, opening your jaw to him.
He is so slow and gentle and beautiful like a lost piece of artwork dripping with varnish and catching the light. He is brand new, and yet aged in cedar and ambrosia. Of the gods, though he walks the Earth like he's not some miracle boy carved from gold.
His fingertips wander beneath the hem of your top, gathering the fabric just below your ribcage, then holding back. Forehead resting against yours, his soft breath washes over your cheek, warm like the evening tide as his eyes meet your own. The pads of his thumbs rub right over each thin bone as if to memorize the careful curve of the thing keeping your heart so safe for him.
You hold his wrists weakly, pliant as he pleases, mouth open against his neck, wet kisses over his pulse. Then his hand dips to the front of your shorts, fingering over the seam at your waist and circling the clasp. Your fingers wind around the base of his palm, and he chuckles when you whine. He unbuttons them then, a breath of air caught between the two of you. Shared existence, bound by touch alone, to never be undone as far as the narrative is written.
Each rung of your zipper is more painful than the last the longer he sustains such patience and ease. In his heart, he waits for your command, but maybe the fact that you won't is what delights him so. Shorts now loose around your hips, waiting idly as he hooks his thumb into a loop and tugs enough to leave them puddled at your feet. He holds your hand, clasped in his own and close to his chest as he eyes the panties hugged around your body.
He expected such delicate garments to stay in drawers, tucked away from the meddlesome. His mouth caresses each knuckle of your fingers as his free hand feels over the lace and fiddles with the elastic.Your breath goes shaky, puffs of warmth gracing the air as you tilt your head back in earnest.
"Steve," you huff, mouth lazily forming words that never come to be. His ears perk up like a hound sniffing for blood. A bird pinched between its razor sharp teeth.
"What's the matter, honey? Too much?" As if that little smirk doesn't tell all. Never enough. But he pulls away to taunt you, poking fun at you with a cocked brow, hands stuffed in his pockets. He'll never know what does it in for him, but deep down, your pout sends him reeling like never before. God, that pout could make a saint feel filthy. "C'mon, use your words."
You look away, picking at your nail beds like a sinner in church. It hits him that you would if you could. You wouldn't even know what to ask for, let alone how to ask for it. Steve remembers what it was like to be stunned into silence at the first impure thought he had. He remembers being a virgin. He reaches to swing the door shut, and your spine stiffens, posture strict and eyes wide.
You watch him, taking a moment to breath in his stature. He seemed so slender before, but in this light, his shoulders are broad, chest puffed, thighs rounded beneath tight denim. You breath in through your nose and hold it when he steps forward, gazing up through his eyelashes with his lips parted in a gentle smile. You'd think his was innocent if it weren't for his rough hands and warm tongue.
"I'll take care of you, angel," he coos, pinching the bottom of your tank top and pulling you close. His mouth hovers by your cheek, swift breaths fanned over your warm skin like honey, thick and oh so sweet. You reach tentatively for the buttons of his shirt, each harder to undo than the last as nerves rise in your throat. He chuckles.
"You're a curious little thing, aren't you?" he huffs, teeth gritted like he's angry, but Lord knows it's because he's holding himself back.
Your voice is shaky in your mouth, clattering like cold metal over your teeth; "what do I do?"
It takes him a moment to shake off the quiet sound of your voice, like a small songbird early in the morning, warbling something so divinely melancholy. Then a smile splits his wicked face, and he takes your waist, backing you up with ankles against the foot of the bed.
All this manhandling has you dizzied up and plopped on the bed like nothing but a ragdoll. He stalks over you and flicks careless glances over your body, spreading looks like buttercream across your skin. Around your belly and the dip of your collarbone and the slant of your mouth. He savors it beneath his tongue to swipe at later when he's feeling it in his bones.
"You're so perfect. My perfect little angel," he grumbles, his now bare abdomen pressed up against your navel, lips winding hot saliva in spots over your neck and jaw. His hands fit snug between bodies, the slightest weight in the space below your heart. Like how a shot comes with that second of pressure when the needle pierces.
"You know what happens to angels when they fall, sweet girl?" he says. It's threatening and fierce, tongue pressed to front teeth, then exchanging for teeth dug into his bottom lip. The phrase is quick and precise and killer as the words swirl into nonsense in your head. He's so close to you, you could faint.
"Steve, Steve," you chant it softly against his temple, unable to control any fine motor skills you once new. He is new, and you are inexperienced, and you both could never be seen again, and it would be the prettiest crime he's ever seen.
"Atta girl," he whispers, rucking the base of your tank top up your chest and over your head with a thud against the adjacent wall.
Your cooing praises him to no end, between harsh breaths and the ticking of your fingers: "I want it, Stevie, please, I always have."
"I know. You poor thing." His tongue clicks and echoes about in your silent head, the only noise for miles until the clicking of his belt buckle. "Tell me, little one, who has seen you before? Seen this."
"No one."
"That's right." And he almost lets it slip; God, so good and pure for me, little angel. What can he say? He's old fashioned. "Perfect."
"Really?" Your doe eyes go wide, fingers curled into his sides as if you're hanging on the edge of your seat. As if you weren't born with that face. As if you don't know just how beautiful you truly are.
He only smiles. Like an idiot, at that, as he cradles your thigh in one palm and hooks it over his waist. It's all over when your eyes flutter back, exposing the whites when he grinds his cock against the elegant lace concealing your indecency. Lace can't hide how bad you want him though. Nothing can hide the fact that you've soaked through the fabric.
You gasp as he hooks two fingers into the crotch of your underwear, knuckles grazing your sensitive clit before he drags the thin material down below your knees. He blinks up at you blankly, mind blown to shreds at the sight of you. As if it's reflex, he pops his thumb into his mouth then rubs slow over your little bundle of nerves just to watch you squirm and coo with your fingers grabbing the sheets.
Nothing before, you think, has ever felt the way his rough fingerpads do along your inner thighs. He is some kind of magician, he must be, to arouse this much pleasure and be able to pluck the strings of your body like a puppeteer. His lips, too, find the soft skin just below your belly button. Torturous ministrations, truly. How can someone so beautiful be so vicious, yet graceful, of tongue.
Steve shifts, then, up your body with a lumbering sigh and his hands laced between yours. He is hard and heavy against your thigh, pressing eager to the wetness between your legs like a man starved. Egregious and so full of it, but goddamnit, is he charming. Elegant, even, to be able to harmonize with the melody of your body without lifting a finger. When he rides up against your entrance and pushes, it's over, and your body goes soft and docile. He is your numbing drug, but he wouldn't need any influence to sway your adoration. Your love.
It takes a moment to get past the beginning tightness but slipping through, deeper, is a feeling that worries away at his spine, dropping his head in a bow. His pelvis is flush with yours, pulses mixing into a flatline of heat. Your fingers mindlessly slick his blond hair back out of his face as you lazily pull him close for a kiss that leaves you in shambles when he pinches your nipple lightly.
He would speak, reaffirm your playful beauty, but he wonders if it would distract you from your desire. Though you don't think anything could.
The cadence of his hips starts slow, building and carefully stretching to fit his girth, every ridge snug and smooth and nestled before he slides back out again. His jaw hangs open against your clavicle as he jolts, rutting his cock deep. Your chest rises with each glorious breath and deflates into pleasure as a twisted smile creeps up on your lips.
He is so helpless with his cock buried inside you, head wild and wrapped over each of your little fingers with ease. His whole body tenses between thrusts, and he squeezes his eyes closed at the throbbing tight around him. It fills his ears, clogs his pores with salty sweat as you writhe and whine and beg.
The tip of his cock is slick, skilled and ramming, with each roll of his hips, into that soft spot inside you. You arch your back, and he wishes he wasn't that good with you let out a breathy moan and clamp around him like a vice. He squares his hips and slips his cock out of you just to watch you tilt your head back when he drives in, even deeper.
Something grows in you, looming as it does, like an orb of darkness holed up in your stomach. As if he senses it, Steve spreads his palm under your belly, circling his thumb once more over your clit. But this time it's different. This time, he's got a crazed look in his eye that punches the air from your lungs and wrings you dry of excuse. Your legs wind around his waist as you hold his arm tight and press the heel of your palm to your mouth.
Instinct kicks in then, and he plunges hard and fast into you, arms around your body as wet sounds flush your cheeks with heat. Your hand muffles your moans, but each little squeak cranks up the speed of his thrusts, sickeningly delicious as he brings you to your climax beneath his body.
Then the feeling dies with a burst of light. Like the butterflies of a first love sprouting new wings and tearing through your body in rage. But, oh, their anger is the very fuel of celestial satisfaction.
Your insides go tight then, and he feels it with a low grunt, a grumbled curse against your chest. So you're filled with his warmth until it drips from you like hot syrup and delighted with a tired grin on your face.
After a moment, Steve sits up, careful as he retracts and presses wet kisses over your exhausted form.
"What will your father think, angel?" he mumbles, cheeky with pupils wide as planets.
"He doesn't have to know," you whisper.
He smiles.