Steve Rogers Oneshots

A Word Portrait of Steve Rogers

[Warnings: Bit of angst, fluff, reader is a simp (like me), Steve is a literal Adonis, feelings that reader hasn't confessed...and oh! Swearing

Steve Rogers x gn!reader]

How can someone be built so fucking perfectly? Like, there are handsome men around the world, and there's this beautiful masterpiece of a man.

You're not sure if anyone quite catches the difference between the two. When you call a man handsome, he's easy on the eyes. But when you call a man beautiful, it means there's an other-worldly aura to his attractiveness.

Like Steve Rogers does.

He is six feet away from you right now, oblivious to your wonder-filled gaze. You are incapable of taking your eyes off him. He has all five of your senses captured; every nerve of your body is currently relaying information only about him. You watch him like a hawk, unknowingly taking note of every little line in his face, the slight dimples when he flashes that lop-sided smile, every twitch of his lips, every tap of his fingers against the hard cover of the book he's reading, every time he licks his lips after taking a sip of his morning coffee.

When he smiles at one of Sam's jokes, it seems as though someone finally drew the curtains out of the way of light, because the room is definitely brighter now. When he talks, his voice, to your ears, is the closest, humanly comprehensible representation of what heaven sounds like. When sunlight falls on him, it appears as though he were crafted out of the same yellow rays that light up the earth in the daytime.

For a moment, he seems divine. Ethereal. Other-worldly. You're positive he'll have wings growing out of his shoulders any moment now.

A bit of golden hair falls in his face, and as he brushes it out of there, you notice his eyes (for the millionth time). They're the most wonderful shade of blue, a shade perhaps destined to remain forever unreplicated. They're the color of an ocean you've seen only in the dreams you can no longer recall. There are tiny flecks of green in them as well, somehow adding a touch of believability. They're filled with a certain sharpness too - a glint that could easily be molded into commanding professionalism, a calm threat, effective persuasion (he is a master at that), alluring sex appeal or simply playful, yet witty humor - depending on what the situation called for.

Those very eyes flick to you every once in a while, but your cognitive thinking is too preoccupied to warn your body that you're running dangerously out of breath. Though, you would gladly die if you were allowed to leave in the same state that you are in now.

His arms are formidably well-built (like the rest of him) and impossibly powerful, but radiating warmth and comfort (if only you were ever lucky enough to feel that). His hands, being those of an artist (a remarkable one at that), are perfectly shaped; however, you've also seen the way they operate in battle, the enormous strength that they hold. Despite that, you just know that his hands could be just as caring, as tender, as gentle as dew on a petal. His nails are always neatly trimmed, adding to the perfection.

He carries himself with a hard-to-achieve blend of confidence and humility, which, in the end, melts into heavenly grace that surrounds his form.

But,

You have seen beyond the surface.

You have watched the confusion and panic on his face morph into hardened resignation upon taking in the new world. You have watched his composure fall apart, you have seen his façade crack. You have found him silently screaming at night, his mind trapped in its own web of painful memories he aches to forget, even in his sleep. You have held his hands as he has poured his feelings out to you - all the loss, desperation, helplessness and anguish. You have wiped his tears, patted his back, stroked his hair (his mother used to do it, and now that he has found out you have the same habit, he keeps finding excuses to get you to do it because it's a strange source of homely, familiar comfort in a time and space far away from his own). You have sat beside his head, singing him into a peaceful, dreamless slumber when falling asleep on his own has proved too impossible.

Which is why you know.

He isn't a god. He's still a human. He really is the same kind of creature as you (boy, aren't you lucky?)

But damn, if he isn't the best fucking specimen of the species you've ever seen.