A/N: Another old fav! Formerly titled "Gold" in the last book. I'm gonna try to start sifting through old requests and working on new stuff to mix in with the reuploads coming up!
Word count: 3.7k
Warnings: Straight up filth. I mean, really. Virtually no plot. Dirty talk, fingering, light spanking, and a whole lot of face riding. A sprinkle of dom!Steve but nothing too kinky.
Steve Rogers is America's sweetheart. He's your sweetheart too, but America had kinda called dibs first. The big bright star on his chest won't let you forget it. They're five white points that own him more than you ever could.
He's the first gilded golden boy, molded together with the dust of an old war and the American dream. A street kid with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove, made something more than man. A valiant defender of all those worthy of defending. A white knight, a saint, a shield, a true blue American patriot down to his DNA coding. Decked in stars and stripes and that big fat A on his forehead, angel wings carved to the sides and all. The metaphor is blinding, really.
It's not that you don't love that side of him. It's hard not to love a man who walks through a room like God. All righteous and pious and pure. You love him even when he's away from you, whispering comforts to the people who cry when they touch his hands and ask him to kiss the heads of their babies (which, he always does). You love him even when he comes back to you peppered in blood and another bitter victory.
But Steve Rogers is also a liar. Steve Rogers is a filthy liar, and you have no doubt he knows it too. The sweetness, the gold venire, all a farce. Now, of course, Steve is good. Better than anyone you've ever known. Honest and kind and quite probably the love of your simple, mortal life. But, well, Captain America is anything but a saint when you get him alone.
Steve Rogers is leagues away from purity when his favorite pastime is bending you over in various locations (your bedroom, the compound pool, a grimy bathroom of a dive bar, once) and burying himself between your legs. Usually punctuated with one hand fisted in your hair and his other fingers wrapped around your throat until your pulse pounds beneath them.
Eons away from being the poster boy for virtue when he's knuckle deep and growling, "Such a pretty cunt, darlin'. Tell me who's cunt this is' in your ear. He loves it too much to be, really, when he has you whimpering and keening beneath him. Dissolved by rough hands and biting teeth until you're chanting 'Yours, Steve, yours' like you're reciting prayer.
Steve's inclined to prove it to you today, laying out the contradiction as he spreads your thighs over freshly washed bed sheets and a lazy spring afternoon. It's a weekend, which means you get him entirely to yourself for two glorious days. Today, May showers keep you inside, devote a now empty afternoon to cleaning and chores that you've been piling. Steve doesn't mind.
Steve's been watching you shuffle around the apartment in nothing but his t-shirt and a pair of red cotton panties all day long, blissfully unaware of how the front of his sweats get heavier every time you bend to grab a sock you dropped on the way to do the laundry. A whole day of that, and now Steve Rogers intends to get what he wants.
He had told you as much when he'd intercepted you in the bedroom, hands gripping your hips and mouth pressing hot on your neck. Feeling your muscles tense up in surprise before you're melting into the pull of his touch. The pull of his teeth.
"Wanna make you feel good, sweetheart." A honeyed utterance between wet kisses, crowding you against the mattress. Familiar, loving.
"Wanna taste you, baby. Always taste so sweet." A compliment pressed into your belly, words that burn on your skin so soft.
YOU ARE READING
Marvel Oneshots
Fanfic"love me like a verb, like constant evolution, like a growing thing." a book of angst, fluff, and pure uncut sin about everyone's favorite crime fighters. all characters derived from the MCU.
