avengers x male reader (requests are open)

STEVE ROGERS

“You ever try writing about World War II?” you slurred, gripping your half-empty glass like it owed you money. “It’s like trying to explain calculus to a hamster.”

Your friends snorted as you slammed your laptop shut at the bar counter. A tab on your browser read: “WWII’s Forgotten Heroes – Draft 4.5”.

“Dude, you’ve been at that thing for a week,” Nate said, chewing on a mozzarella stick. “You’re basically living in the library.”

“I am the library,” you muttered. “A stressed-out, underfed, emotionally unstable collection of dusty war books.”

Tasha leaned over and snatched your beer. “You need a break. Or an intervention.”

You groaned. “How do I make a story about real people feel real when all I have are letters, censored reports, and maybe one grainy photo of some guy looking vaguely heroic in sepia?”

“You want real?” Nate grinned. “Ask Captain America himself.”

You blinked. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll just call him up, ask him to pop open his 1940s memory vault and narrate my final paper. Maybe toss in some war trauma and a personal anecdote or two.”

Tasha raised an eyebrow. “You won that writing award last semester. Dare’s a dare.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I am. Go to the Avengers Compound,” Nate said, grinning like the devil. “Tell him you’re writing a paper. He’s got a soft spot for nerds. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Humiliation? Arrest? Spontaneous combustion?”

They stared you down.

You slammed your drink and stood, wobbly but determined. “Fine. If I get tackled by a super soldier, this is on you.”

The Next Morning — Avengers Compound

Your head was a war zone of its own by the time you arrived at the sleek, intimidating gates of the Avengers facility. A bag hung off your shoulder, filled with notes and printouts you barely remembered stuffing inside.

“I’m here to see Steve Rogers,” you told the guard. “It’s… about history?”

A pause. A radio click. Then: “He’ll see you. Go to the east wing, third floor. Knock once.”

You blinked. He’ll see me?

You were expecting to be kicked out, not let in.

The walk down the hall felt like stepping through a dream—glass walls, glowing tech, the occasional casual god or superspy in spandex jogging by.

You finally reached a wooden door. It was humble, polished, with a small gold nameplate that read:

Steve Rogers.

You knocked.

“Come in,” said a voice—gentle, deep, and unmistakably him.

You stepped inside.

The room was warm, lined with shelves and old books. There were vintage posters, black-and-white photos, and a sketchpad on the table. And sitting there, in a blue sweater and reading glasses, was Captain America.

You blinked.

He looked up. “You must be the college kid with the World War II paper.”

You cleared your throat. “Y/N L/N. Uh. History major. Columbia.”

Steve gave you a soft smile and motioned for the chair opposite him. “Have a seat. I’m a sucker for history nerds.”

You sank into the seat, unsure if you were still drunk or just stunned.

“I, uh,” you fumbled for your bag, “I didn’t think this would work.”

He chuckled. “I didn’t think I’d still be giving interviews seventy years after the war.”

You pulled out your notepad and recorder. “I wanted to write about the people behind the medals. The forgotten guys. The ones who didn’t make it into the textbooks. But it’s hard when all you’ve got are faded archives and propaganda posters.”

Steve nodded, folding his hands on the table. “Most of those guys were forgotten. Not because they didn’t matter, but because history likes simple stories. Heroes, villains. They don’t leave much room for nuance.”

“Then maybe,” you said, voice softer, “we should tell the nuanced ones.”

Steve looked at you for a moment. “You remind me of Bucky. He used to say stuff like that.”

You blinked. “James Barnes?”

He smiled wistfully. “He hated attention. Said real heroes didn’t need monuments. But he deserved one.”

You hesitated. “Tell me about him?”

And so Steve did.

The next two hours blurred into something sacred. He told you about Brooklyn before the war—“dirtier, but with better delis”—about stolen boots, frozen foxholes, the day Peggy punched a general, the smell of gunpowder in snow.

He described the Howling Commandos, Dum Dum Dugan’s laugh, and the way soldiers looked to each other in the silence between battles.

You found yourself lost in it—his voice, his gaze, his hands making small gestures as he tried to capture decades of pain, loyalty, and fading memory.

And then, you asked quietly, “Did you ever regret it? Becoming… this?”

Steve looked at you for a long moment. “Sometimes. But then I meet someone like you. And I think… maybe it was worth it. If people still care enough to ask.”

Your heart did a thing. A stupid, hopeful thing.

You laughed nervously. “My friends dared me to do this.”

He raised a brow. “So I’m a dare now?”

“Kind of a sexy dare, if I’m honest.”

Steve chuckled, cheeks slightly pink. “You’re bold for a historian.”

“I’m drunk for a historian.”

“Still?”

You leaned back. “The hangover’s worse than a Nazi bullet, probably.”

He grinned. “You’d be surprised.”

Then there was silence.

And then:

“Would you…” he paused, fiddling with a pen, “maybe want to come back sometime? I’ve got more stories. And I don’t get many visitors who aren’t here to ask about Thanos.”

You smiled.

“I’d like that.”