A/N: PART TWO TO THRILL ME HALF AS MUCH FINALLY 🙌🙌 i think this is the most wonderful thing i will ever write and i dont know how to go on authoring after this
Summary: America's Golden Boy shows up at your door. You're his girl after all. 3.4k words.
Warnings: smut, but like soft, very very minor body dysmorphia on steves part, nervousness, some shouting/anger, begging, subby steve
"Steve?" you whisper.
"I think so."
"The hell did you do with my Stevie?"
...
"Darlin', come on, you gotta believe me. I'm right here, it's still me," Steve begs. He pines. He could die.
He had waddled inside carefully and shut the door when you backed away from him. And you're pacing the room like a caged animal. It weighs on his shoulders, looming like a nightmare.
Then you stop—fiddling with your own fingers—and turn toward him. Your rage is damp like a stormy sea, and the tears well in your eyes so bad he might fall to his knees.
"How could you?" you huff, pressing your pointer finger to the center of his chest. "You left us, Steve—"
"I know—"
"No, you left me. And now you're back with no warning whatsoever and you're a different person or what and... and you left me." His chest burns at the waver in your voice. You bow your head in defeat, something he knows better than most.
Silence hangs in the air, heavy like guilt and dripping like candle wax. You lift your head just to stare blankly at the neck of his tee. He did leave you. And he can't take it back, he knows it. But he has to try. Because:
"I came back," he says, "for you."
He's grinning like a dope, and it's hard to frown at him when your intent falters for a moment. But oh, do you frown, eyes glossy and that scowl tormenting him worse than the war across the sea.
"Don't pull that bullshit with me, Rogers, you—you can't just run off. Not like that," you huff, dodging eye contact and crossing your arms over your chest. "Not without a kiss goodbye."
He thought a new body would mean a higher charm tolerance, but no, you prove him wrong and cloud his mind with a single clause. Then you blink up at him and there goes his last coherent thought. It all adds up to you anyway. Lord knows he kept every picture, every drawing, every note. Every memory stays stuck in his head and hands for eternity now, and to seal his fate with a kiss would be the nail in his well-varnished coffin.
"Honey—"
But your arms drop to your sides, and your chin wobbles like a child who scraped her knee skipping down the sidewalk. His hesitation cost him the only thing he had left in this world. You were all he wished for, and now he's sure you'll never look him in the eye again. But he needs you to know everything he did was for you. He chose war and bloodshed and chaos because when he came back, the world might be better for you. And God, you'd call him stupid for that because, and he should know by now, any world with Steve Rogers is your ideal world.
And so, he cannot and he will not let you slip away. Not after spending the better part of his life devoted to loving you.
You spin on your heel, but he catches your wrist before you can turn your back on him. His hand is hot and heavy wrapped around your forearm. He presses the pad of his thumb to your palm as you crumple into the hard planes of unfamiliar muscle. Yet, somehow, this chest is still his even if he has tripled in size, that's still his heart and his lungs. You meet his eyes up through your lashes, a short breadth away from his clavicle where your body molds into the dips and curves like fine silk.
His smile is charismatic as ever, though, curled up around the corners like he knows a secret, and he's dying to tell you. He holds you like a porcelain doll with his hand spread along your back to keep you intact. Safe.
"Hey, where d'you think you're goin'?" The bastard hasn't changed a lick.
"Lemme go, creep," you whisper, combatting the smile that blooms across your face.
"Not until I pay my dues, darlin'. Sounds to me like I gotta bounty on my head. Heard anything about... oh, I dunno, a kiss?"
You squint and scrunch your nose at him. Admittedly, you thought he would be different. Like his mind would be scrambled. Molded and reformed. A perfect soldier. But he's Stevie, the scrawny kid from Brooklyn with too much grit for his body. Now he fills it out nicely.
"Hmm... maybe you should get your hearing checked 'cause last I heard it was a couple."
Steve leans closer, holds you tighter, and says, "A couple?"
"Yup!"
"Ah," he stands straight again, and you feel every inch of his body stretch and contract, "really? I thought it was a dozen."
"I think a baker's dozen might be more appropriate."
"You think so?"
"I know so, Rogers. Might I remind you who you're talkin' to."
"Not at all, your highness," he teases, pinching your side. You shriek and swat at his hand.
"Steven Grant, where did all your manners go?"
"Awh, you know me, sweetheart, never had 'em."
"'Course not," you whisper, taking his chin with your gentle fingers and tracing the curve of his plump bottom lip with your thumb, "What was I thinking?"
You bat your eyelashes at him, and he swears he can hear his heart beat right in his ears. Loud enough that you can probably hear it, too, and he goes pink in the face. Because you're closer than you've ever been before. You're closer than anyone's ever been before, come to think of it. His touch-starved brain buzzes and short circuits every time you take a breath. He's hardwired to you, interconnected and flowing through you with each smile.
"Probably jus' distracted." He shrugs, snaking his arms further around your back with a sigh.
"Yeah? You think you're all that, Rogers?"
"Oh, and more, honey." He laughs soft and low, sweet in your ear, and you melt like hot sugar, bubbling up and caramelizing over a stray glance. He's spread warm over your psyche like no other. You go dizzy with yearning whenever he's close to you. And whenever he's not.
"Then what does that make me, huh?" You pout. Though, he finds the attempt adorable. It's not a pout if you're grinning through it, he thinks. His heart bangs around as he leans close and mulls over all the times he's wanted to do this but could never kick up the courage. Your eyes slink shut to savor the sheer anticipation of it all. He's drawing you out on a silver sheet in golds and purples with the conviction of a poet, a writer, a painter. A romantic. A lover.
"Makes you my goddess," he whispers.
The shape of his mouth fits against yours like long lost pieces in a puzzle. And, Oh My God, he's kissing you. To his delight, you kiss him back with a deep breath. The way you smile into his mouth sends him spiraling, ribcage filled with roaring flame to swell his chest and drag you closer.
And you think you've never been kissed before. Not like this. Not so close you can feel his breathing and taste his mirth. He is your lover man, and you are his best girl. God, does it show. He's holding you so tight and yet so careful, hot water daring to slip through his fingers if he moves even a wink. He slips his tongue against yours and teases a soft moan from your throat.
"Steve," you huff, "where the hell'd you learn all that." He pulls away from you, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth
"Hey, I had a lotta time to practice, sweetheart. Can you blame me?"
You gasp, and his heart drops.
"You no good scoundrel, kissin' other dames while you were away," you tease, knockin' your clenched fists across his shoulder with the kinda concentrated look you'd see on a lawyer or some big shot like that.
"Wouldn't dream of it, angel," he coos, leaning in again, so smug he's whirring against you. You're practically beside yourself with something new. Unbridled something new, you think. Because his hands go a little lower than before and something new becomes something real when you stop kissing him to take a breath. "What's wrong, 'd I go too far? Gosh, I'm s—"
"No, you dope," you whisper. Earnest makes you duck your head and hold his wrists in your gentle grasp. He's never been held like a paper doll. Not in this body and not while he was well, at least. And the look you give him could shred him up: "Did'ya miss me, Captain?"
His eyes go wide like he's seein' his Ma in the flesh.
"Like hell, darlin'." His fingertips press, now, into the soft silk of your little blue nightdress, only to realize that's all you're wearing. And it could fit in his palm.
"Yeah?"
"Mhm."
"Ah," you huff, lifting his big hands from your body until he's holding the phantom of your figure and watching you twirl to the other side of the loft in the moonlight pouring through the window. "Seein' as we're just a couple'a unmarried beatniks... guess it's not too lawful for you to see me in my slip, huh?"
He swallows thickly. "Not even a bit, darlin'."
"Uh-huh, so... should probably take it off, don't'ya think?"
His body goes full rigid, joints all stiff as he watches you turn to face the wall and pinch the thigh-high hem of satin. He has to thank whoever's doin' this to him, but he has to do it later because he's way too focused on the slow sway of your hips.
Oh.
Oh.
You're teasing him. And he's letting you. Hook, line, and sinker, he's got magma spewing hot through his veins, up his jugular, and in his ears. He's overheating knowing how bad and for how long he has craved this very moment. The times he felt guilty thinkin' about you. All this time, he was on your mind, too.
You glance over your bare shoulder. "Stevie?"
He's right up behind you in a second, all that adrenaline finally good for something. He has no idea what he's doing, but he knows it's you. And you're everything. So he takes the muted sapphire material in delicate hands and drags it up your torso, over your head with an "up."
Your body reacts to his reactive body: warm behind you until you melt like ice into his crevices and divots. The gown drapes along the floor with a shared sigh, and he's got his hands cradling your tummy and inner thigh. So forbidden before, you're his little apple. And he never minded serpents anyway.
This dance is uncharted, and you're two lonely crews in the same boat. Navigating. And he maps your body like it's scripture, remembering each place he used to love drawing and all the new places he would learn to.
Then you press soft into his body—a body he's never fully looked at for himself—and make him feel shiny and brand new and yet. Antique. The renaissance of boy. He can't deny your sensuality. You are pure femininity in his hands, and he is an inexperienced bastard desperately searching refuge with his hands. You are his promised land.
He traces the unfamiliar valleys—between your supple breasts with his fingertips, along your spine with a knuckle, between your thighs with patience. He can feel your buzz, your high, and wants to guide you in all the ways he doesn't know how.
But you rest your head back against his shoulder, and suddenly, it's not so tough anymore. Each sigh is a new breath. An exciting exhale. But every soldier must lie in wait, and here is his glorious battlefield. Waiting for the wreckage of you and him.
His mouth against the column of your throat, his thumbs massaging slow bruises into your navel, he wonders why on Earth anyone would make him wait to feel your beauty up close. That's just selfish. Or maybe he is coveting and it's a sin, but Lord help the coveted if Steven Rogers is a sinner.
Wilderness grows in his belly when you whine, and he wills himself to stop leaving marks all over her. The fellas will call you a little share crop for months. Unless he keeps you holed up and satisfied for longer. You let out something soft—catlike—and reach back for his trousers when he tsks.
"Not here, darlin'. I gotta take care of my girl, don't I?"
"Oh, Rogers, you tease," you whisper, turning in his arms and effectively stopping his heart.
"Nah, just wanna treat you right, is that so bad?"
"If you take a second longer, I'll scold ya for it."
The chuckle gutters out of him like he's choking. In the sweetest way, you take the breath from him: reaching your delicate hand into his chest cavity just to stall for lost time. All with a well-and-good smile. And every time he's imagined this—embarrassingly enough—it's been in your baby pink bedroom. Haloed and pressing his fingertips to your lips as you both glow like ovens.
But neither of you get that far tonight.
You push him onto the couch that whines under his weight because it was a better option than the floor. But he's never been pushed onto anything. And he's pretty sure he likes it a whole lot. Especially after you've climbed on top of him: smiling down at him like he's a slice of key lime pie. Like you're about to be his cherry on top. And he's about to understand why the guys are rambling goin' on and on.
"I liked you better short," you whisper, already so beautiful in the night light. His mouth already restlessly hot and dangerously wet against your skin as he shifts his pants open.
"Why?" he pants, needy and grasping for everything he never thought he'd have, without an ounce of self-awareness. Life is good with you on top of him. "'Cause I was easier to tease?"
"No."
You go all stern. He stops to take a breath. Oh. Suddenly, he can't see straight. And you're just waiting above him. And he gets real embarrassed when he lets out a little whimper. But you don't laugh. You smile, but you're not cruel. Even if it's a malicious tell; you have a horrible pokerface. Or he's just been manipulated out of a jackpot.
What you don't tell him is that he has been everything since the day you met. His flaxen hair foreground in the carnival lights kept your glass half full while he was away. And nothing could change your love for your Stevie. You'll tease him to his deathbed because it'll keep him blush and happy. You liked him short and you loved him short. You love him, still, but you'll always love the boy you met. Even when he changes into Captain America.
"Sayin' you don't like me anymore, darlin'?"
"Nuh-uh."
You're so soft lookin' down on him like that. Perched like a tabby and just as precious. He wishes he had his camera or sketchpad or something—anything to let him keep this. They can take it all away as long as they leave you for good. He doesn't know what he'll do when they send him away again.
Except right now, you're moving your hips like that, and he was hard before you sat on top of him. Now everything feels soft except him. His body is a raging forest fire, and you're all twigs and straw getting him riled up.
"Sweetheart, I'm—"
He cuts himself off, and the lewdness embarrasses him to hell and back. He covers his own mouth like he's in a convent and like his noise is anything to be ashamed of.
He relaxes when you lean down and flatten your tongue just below his ear, taking one of his big palms and letting him cup wherever you like. Dipping into your fresh springs and trying his best to hold it together. And failing.
"You're what, Stevie?"
He can't articulate anything with you reaching between your thighs to dip into his waistband. Tremors roll through his bones. He's an uncontrollable force worse than gravity, but you're world-renowned science coming to defy him. Forever, you'll defy him. And when you finally get your hand around him, his back arches. "Fuck."
"Ah, a sailor," you poke, sucking his bottom lip into your mouth like a lollipop. Like he's cherry flavored and sugary, when he's just some dope who's do goddamn glad he landed in your cupped palms. Speaking of cupped palms.
It's unfair the hold you have on him. Letting him defile you and desecrate your pretty apartment. But you feel so good in his hand: perky and silk all wrapped in one. He's spiraling into daydreams of your body dressed in inappropriate things. Oh, he's a sinner now. When he used to dream of you, it was holding hands or reading over dinner. Now, his head is stuffed with the part of your hip that swoops, or the plush petals of your pussy settled against his flexed thigh. He'll always ignore the way he begs, though.
"'S not fair, baby, won't ya give somethin' to me?"
With one hand, he fumbles embarrassedly with your breast, and the other grabs at your hip, ushering you down on his tensed leg. He knows you're just getting him worked up on purpose. You've always teased him, but this takes the cake. Buttercream and all, fists full of vanilla and sugar, moist with sweat.
"Like that, Rogers?"
His jaw ebbs between open and closed, moaning all the way: getting too loud and then too soft. You chuckle at his subtle indecisiveness. But now his pants are tossed to the floor, and he can barely get enough into you to feel this ecstatic, but he does.
He never thought he'd get this far, but now that he's here, he wants it all. He wants to be taken like he's nothing and everything. He wants to feel powerless only inches inside of your velvet. He thrashes back, and both hands tear into the couch cushions. His teeth grate together when your thighs meet his sides and go pliant. He's all in, willing to lose all his chips on a moment like this.
His body is stove hot; if you touch him now, you'll boil over. And boy, are you touching him. Your hand on his shoulder makes him feel weightless, and with one short lift of your hips, he's floored. He won't last. You both know it.
"C'mon, lucky," you whisper against his bobbing throat, "gimme all ya got." You smile, and he can feel it. He can tell when your teeth scrape his jugular that you're enjoying this. And when you clench down on him, he can't breathe. It's like he's back to ninety-pounds in bed with a bowl of soup. But nowhere near as ill. Just on top of the world and breathless. Like he's falling. Like he'll never feel this way again.
And you start to laugh.
And he goes limp beneath you. He licks his lips like a satisfied cat and can almost feel the thick dripping from between your legs. New and glad it's you. As much as you'll tease him for it, he knows you like having something to hold against him. Even if it's just you.
Sitting up, you run your fingers through his wet hair and kiss his forehead.
"You're a wild ride, Stevie."
He's catching his breath when you roll off of him, leaving him sticky and good as gone as you blink up at him from the space between him and the couch. His smile is righteous. "The hell was that?"
"That good, huh?" you ask. His fingers creep down your side to find your own. With a tempered sigh, your entangled hands rest against his slowly rising abdomen: soft muscle just resting with him. Coming down. He blinks hard, and when he looks down at you again. he's crazed.
"Your turn."