Steve Rogers Imagines

Backseat

A/N not my story all credit to tropicalcap on Tumblr, go find her and check out her other stories! Only re-posting so i can easily find the story again when i want :-)

Warnings: Smut with a capital SM 18+

f whatever greater power out there doesn't mean for you to die in combat, it sure as hell wants you to die in a car while Steve is driving.

He's an absolute menace behind the wheel. There could be nowhere and nobody important waiting for him wherever he needs to be, but as soon as the speedometer needle goes one mile per hour below the speed limit, he's honking and tailgating and becoming every sensible driver's worst nightmare. Interstate highways may as well be Formula 1 tracks, the way he drives— speed limits are only suggestions, and going eighty in a sixty-five is par for the course.

Steve knows what he's doing when he drives. His senses are sharp, alert as to any potential danger on the road even though he's usually the potential danger on the road, and that's what makes you trust him only a little bit when driving. Still, you'd very much appreciate not dying in a fiery ball of steel just because a dumbass super soldier couldn't stand going the speed limit.

Most of the time, you're good about not letting him behind the wheel. You race to the driver's side any chance you get, but sometimes there's hours of driving ahead after missions and between the two of you, only one is a serial speeder. It's worth it to risk a mild heart attack with him driving if it means you'll get home sooner.

It seems like you've been driving for an eternity now. Your eyes dart to the dashboard, narrowing at the double-digit speed thirteen miles over the limit. Somehow you've made it from the HYDRA base you were scouting across state lines in only three hours, which means Steve's been speeding pretty much the whole time. Your narrowed gaze roves over his body— anyone would think he's abiding to vehicular laws, the way he's sitting so casually.

And the thing is, he's always like this.

Steve could be dealing with the worst bout of road rage on this side of the continental United States, or driving close to a triple-digit speed, but he'll never show it. He'll still keep the same face, his features calm and collected, the only giveaway to his annoyance or concentration is the slight furrow of his brow, the small downturn of his lips.

He drives with one hand on the steering wheel, the other thrown lazily over the console to rest on your thigh or resting against the driver's side window, completely unbothered by the fact that he's driving everyone in the car with him towards a quick death. Still, his thighs spread open on the seat look so inviting, like they're begging to have you between them.

It's late at night and there's not many people on the interstate. It would be so easy to bend down over the center console and slide his sweatpants down, breathe in that musky scent that's just Steve and get your mouth on him. Or maybe you could just reach inside and make him come just with your hands, get him worked up in here so he can fuck it out on you later, when you get to the hotel.

Or maybe... maybe it'd be easy to slide off your own pants and underwear and climb into his lap, ride him slow while he drives, a hand on the wheel and one on your hip as he fucks up into you, filth spilling from his mouth—

Except. It's more of a death wish than anything else. If he drives this recklessly now, getting him aroused while he does it is certainly a disastrous move.

There's still a good eight hours on the road left after you stop to sleep for the night, but your hotel feels like it's further and further away with every minute that passes, your eyes trained on Steve's thighs.