A/N: requested by bicky_boo_bear not even two chapters in and we already got submissive stevie
Summary: Steve is being a brat for the sake of being a brat. He earns a little spanking for his behavior. 2.5k words
Warnings: smutttttt, sub!steve, spanking, slight choking, brat!steve, *wiggles eyebrows* little bitch boy 👉👈, begging, edging
"Just leave me here."
"No, Steve, I want you to come." Your fingers curl around his wrist, heels dug into the carpet in desperate attempt to drag him from the cushions. You'd moved into his little shoebox apartment months before, finding the way he scribbled anything down from the stroke of your eyelashes to the city's skyline endlessly endearing.
Stubborn as ever, a gruff objection bubbles from his throat when he stands from the couch. It was beyond clear to you that Steve likes—needs to be submissive. Not only is he ordering agents around all day, but he can't get enough of the way you look riding him like a goddamn horse. And you just might thrive off his rough fingertips affording you soft touches and how his blown pupils peek through the thick of his lashes.
"Let's get this over with, then," he huffs, the corner of his mouth tugged up when you squeal and skip away, hand wrapped around and between his fingers. But you don't get very far, yanked back against the rippling planes of muscle swimming over every inch of his God-sculpted body.
"Do I at least get a kiss?" You glare at him, incredulous with a cocked brow before sighing and pressing a short, sugarcoated peck to his pouting lips. "A real kiss?"
Steve's palm finds the small of your back, fisting the baby blue cotton and puckering his lips when you cradle the back of his gold-crested skull, tugging the strands and letting your tongue into his mouth to sidle up against the pearly-white of his canines.
"Alright, pretty boy, enough. We gotta get going." And you manage to squeeze him into shotgun of your Hybrid with a deep grunt. Within five minutes, he's squirming, letting out heavy huffs as he rests the crown of his head against the fog-heavy window.
"What's wrong, soldier?" you coo, reaching over and scratch the back of his head, ruffling the bristly hair at the nape of his neck before he ducks away. "Hey—"
"The seat," he scoffs and pushes his legs straight until they ache from the lack of space, "it's too far up."
"Well, that's 'cause you got it all shoved up against the dash." You press his knee to the side, fingers curling around the thin metal bar beneath the faded polyester, and yanking it up to send his seat flinging backward. His arms stay tucked tight across his heaving chest as he blows a dangling lock of hair from his forehead.
"What now?" He lets out a rumbling sigh, flicking the tip of his finger at the little plastic flap blasting cool air over his skin.
"I'm freezing, and this—fuckin' thing isn't helping." You cock a brow at him, finger pad clicking the AC from a blinking green to off.
"Better?"
He rolls his eyes and watches you pull into a parking spot, hands moving from ten and two to twelve and four to settle between the faded white lines with barely enough space for Steve to get out without giving someone's Chevy a nice door-ding.
"Oh, come on," he whines. "You really had to park this far away, didn't you? Now I have to walk half a goddamn mile to get to the entrance. Why did you—"
"If you don't stop fucking complaining, I'm gonna bend you over my knee and spank you raw," you grumble, fingertips boring into your temples to ease a searing headache between your eyes. And it really seemed to shut him up. For now.
A semi-successful shopping trip of forgetting your list and a whole lot of griping from your personal heckler later and you're starting to understand why he always got his ass handed to him back in the day. Paper bags strewn across the dining table, you hear Steve shout from down the hallway.
"Don't bother me, I'm gonna read." You groan and follow him on quick feet, plucking him by the back of his shirt and pinning him to the wall with your fingers wrapped around his neck.
"Think you're gonna get out of it that easy?" you coo, driving your knee between his legs, just below his crotch. "You've been a fucking brat all goddamn day, so how about you be a good boy and listen for once." His face burns pink, adam's apple bobbing as a squeak gargles in his throat.
He reaches for your waist, sliding his feverish fingertips over your abdomen. A moan bubbles over his tongue when you press your thigh between his own, leaning forward and affording him the sweetest friction against his swelled-thick cock.
"Go strip and wait." Down the hall in a split second like he's being chased by a pack of rabid wolves waiting to tear him limb from limb just to snack.
You dilly-dally outside the door just to fuck with him, but the second you step through the frame, you're floored.
"What—" The plump curve of his ass hugged tight by a deep blue pair of panties. The same ones you bought and stuffed into his pocket on his birthday when he admitted he needed a new pair of boxers. But these ones have pretty red lace along the edge and a white bow at the waistband.
And they look good.
"Ass up, Rogers," you hum, watching him jolt at the sound of your voice.
"Do—d'you like them?" he whispers as he crawls up the bed, purring when the sheets soothe the warmed-up plush of his cheek. His heart thumps fast enough to flat-line at the feeling of your fingertips, suede-padded sliding up the backs of his thighs.
"Mhm, you fill 'em out real good." Palms fanned over his ass cheeks, you spread them, letting the satin panties dip between the round of his behind before you draw a hand up his back, leaving it curved.
You kneel beside the bed, pushing a strand of flaxen hair off his forehead, pressing a kiss to his cupid's bow to watch his dark lashes flit closed, casting a deep shadow over his moonlight-bathed cheekbones.
"You like being a brat, don't you?" your whisper, grinning when his eyebrows raise and he nods. "Yeah, 'cause you like when my hands get your ass all red and bruised." His bottom lip tucks between his teeth, almost enough to break the skin when a moan pours from his mouth.
"You coulda just asked instead of being a terror." You stand, pacing around the edge of the mattress, drawing your fingertip up the dip in his spine. "Complaining about every little thing. Can't just stay quiet for a fuckin' second."
He squirms as your hand glides between his thighs, rubbing your thumb up his straining shaft that leaks a bead of precum that soaks through his underwear.
"How many you want, doll face?" you coo, watching him wriggle at the sound of the pretty pet name—your pretty pet name of your own tongue. "Answer me, Steven."
"I—I—as many as you see fit, princess," he chokes out, hands pawing at the comforter when you chuckle low, the sound like candy to the sweet tooth of his mind.
"You've been so bad, Stevie, such a bad boy. How about we start with twenty? Tell me your safe word."
"White star."
"Oh, so you can listen. Go figure," you huff. You step behind him, palms kneading his ass before landing a heavy smack to the pillowy curve. He takes a sharp inhale through his teeth, muscles tensing at the swell of his chest in time with a pulsing in the tip of his cock.
"Angel—" Smack.
"What? You want something?"
"Please—" smack "—Fuck." He feels himself get harder and if his veins weren't coursing with serum, he'd be dizzy. "God, sweetheart, fuckin', your hands—" Smack.
His jaw cricks open, canines dragging against the dark sheets, eyes fluttering back when you land a sharp slap against his ass, the tan skin blooming pink, nape of his neck dappled with cold sweat. Smack.
"Sorry? I can't hear you, Stevie, gotta speak a little clearer," you say, leaning down and pressing a wet kiss to his rosy cheeks before swatting both. Reaching between his legs, you give him a rough stroke, his hips jerking forward, a labored huff wracking his throat. Smack.
"What a needy little thing. All sensitive. Let me hear you get loud, sweetheart." Smack. A deep moan rumbles his chest and his spine arches to a weak C. You draw the pad of your finger over his balls, cupping them and scraping your teeth along the rawed crook of his ass. Smack.
"Sugar," Steve whines, hips bucking and rolling against nothing when you remove your hand from the base of his silk-wrapped cock. Smack. "Please, princess, I gotta be inside you—fuck—I'm gonna—"
"Don't. Just wait, Stevie, I'll let you fill me up when you're nice and red." Smack. The sound comes off his lips, regurgitated from the cords in his throat. His fingernails tear at the sheets, a feral animal mangling helpless prey to relieve itself. Smack.
"Seven more, you're doing so good, sweetheart," you whisper, peppering your lips sloppily between his shoulder blades and to the crease of his Adonis belt. Smack. His ass blushes deep red, the outline of your slender fingers imprinted in the smooth ivory curve.
"These goddamn panties," smack, "such a tease," smack. From behind his eyelids, you see his pupils twist back, lips parting and he looks like a God. Chiseled from the sun, eyes poured from the seven seas, touch soft like a rose's petal, voice sang low and sweet by the moon's ebb and flow. Smack. Skin glowing magma-hot at the swat of your gentle palm, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
You trace his movements, from his hand slithering back to paw at his cock to the rocking of his pelvis against his own fingertips. He's wanton and starving. Smack. You thumb over a droplet of sweat, swiping it away from his temple and replacing it with a lazy kiss.
"Feel good?" Smack. He nods, soul moving so far it could be detached completely from his spine. "Yeah, but you're such a naughty boy," you coo. Smack. And just for good measure, you beckon his knees farther apart, letting him lie flat to grind his cock against the—at this point—irresistible feel of the five-hundred thread count linens. Smack.
"Last one, you gonna ask for it, sweetheart?"
"God, please, please, princess, I need it. I'm goin' fuckin' mad without your touch—I want you wrapped around me. You always feel so good—so tight, please, sugar. I'll be good, just let me—" Smack. A dry sob escapes him, body deflating into the bed, but his hips don't stop rocking even when you grab his bicep and wrench his palm away to roll him over.
Pillow shoved beneath the small of Steve's ass to ease the pressure, you strip, and he thinks he could cum at the sight of you. Nipples pert at the cold, dusk breeze that wafts through the bedroom, hair flipped over your shoulder, and he licks his lips 'cause you stalk up his body like you're a grizzly ready to devour him head-to-toe.
He scrambles out of the panties, hand fisted firm around his cock, slowly pumping when your core hovers above it, the sight enough to have him blissed out and drooling. His eyes flick over your body then to your own, pleading for that addictive feeling of your snug, wet walls throbbing around his cock.
"C'mon, princess," he huffs, palm drawing up your thigh, rubbing slow circles into your hip. You click your tongue and slip your middle finger past his lips, his saliva coating the digit with a soft sigh. His breath hitches deep in his chest when you trace lazy circles around your clit.
"Doll, please, I'm dyin' down here." He cranes his neck back, spine arching off the bed as his eyes squeeze shut, tension thick between his ears to the sound of static.
Then you sink down onto his cock, letting him fill you up, a low thrumming between your legs that quickens to his heartbeat. He squirms, body shuddering with his fingertips digging into the plush of your thighs. You start to bounce, and he's sure he'll blow right then and there.
His face goes flush, jaw cracking open with a wordless plea of deep-rooted desire. You graze your fingernails up your abdomen, and his hands squeeze to stifle a jolt of his hips and a groan gasped from his puffed chest. Your palms plant beside his head, soft breath fanning between soft kisses to his jaw and his whimpered moans.
"Darlin', feel so good, like a goddamn dream," he huffs, "All velvet around my thick cock, huh?" His voice cracks when you thrust hard and slow, the tip of his cock jamming up to the sweet spot, leaving your toes curled where they rest beside his thighs. "Please, sugar? Come on, ah God."
"You like that, baby?" He nods, teeth pulling his lip between his teeth as he groans loud and heavy.
Then he glides into you, wet and rock-hard and twitching. And he squeaks. Because you roll your hips and gasp, letting a breath out in a soft moan over the delicate shell of his ear.
"Can I—"
"Yeah, come on, big boy," you grumble, nipping his bottom lip as he growls, rolling from his throat husky with a rock of your hips and a spasm of your silky walls. He paints you wet, spilling over till you're dripping just how he likes it, all sticky and candied, moaning quiet into the lurching dark of night.
You roll off his cock, plummeting to the sweat-dampened sheets, weighty with the scent of musky wood dappled with honeyed cinnamon. It's purely Steve, blanketed rich forest and spice.
With a bottle of cocoa butter, you scoot against him, his temple pressed to your sternum and his rough palms grazing from the satin draw of your thighs to the crest of your shoulders. His eyes flutter closed, lashes batting shut when you brush a hand through his hair before squirting a glob of lotion into your palm.
"You okay, sweetheart?"
He hums, shifting closer with his pink lips on your chest and your palm spread over his sore bottom, soothing the red curve beneath your gentle finger pads.
"Thank you, princess," he whispers, voice rumbling up his chest like a prayer. "I love you."
"I love you, too, Stevie."