sober thoughts
“You know, you’re not 21 yet.”
“I knooooooooooooow–” You break off into a fit of giggles, going slack in his arms. “But – but Peter–"
"If Peter jumped off a cliff would you?"
"Probably, dad – hey, hey, hey, this isn’t my room–!"
The elevator is large enough that when you begin to flop around like a fish you don’t hit the walls – and, peering in the mirrored walls at your cute little wiggling, Steve can’t help but laugh. If he wasn’t so amused he’d probably give you a spank to still you.
…You’d probably like it, but still.
“I know it isn’t, baby.” He must sound so patronising, talking in that bright, simple voice that appeals to your fuzzy mind but he genuinely thinks you’re the most adorable thing he’s seen in years and this is really the only way his body will let him talk to you while you’re in this state. It’s a natural reflex. “It’s an elevator.”
“God, I love elevators.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah! They just… take you places! That’s so cool, Steve. How did you survive back in the olden days—?” You gasp then, perking up as your attention is grabbed by FRIDAY announcing your arrival to the residential floor — and then, seemingly tired out by your own constant chatter, you simply resign yourself to becoming deadweight again and hanging over his shoulder.
The common area is empty, of course, because it’s both a Saturday night and one of few days off, and you make sure to announce it as soon as he steps out of the elevator. "I miss Natasha, Stevie. Where’s she gone? Her conditioner smells like cherries, did you know that? I borrowed it once but don’t tell her that, okay?"
“I won’t, promise—”
“Hey, we’re passing my rooooooooom—!” He doesn’t even have to look to know that you’re making grabby hands for your door as you pass; he feels your body lurch up and away, and if wasn’t so genetically enhanced you might’ve sent him tumbling.
"You can sleep in my room, darling.” He can look after you better if you’re closer, and he has no doubt that you would’ve made him stay with you in your bedroom anyway — and you like his bed better; you say it’s because his thread count is higher but you had admitted (while on the brink of sleep, mind you) that you like how it smells like him. “You wanna shower?"
"Mmmmm… no.”
“You sure?”
“Yes!” Another set of wiggles, and he sees as he passes another polished wall panel that you’ve made it your goal to look over his shoulder as much as possible. “Your hand is on my butt, Stevie!"
"I know, darling.”
“I’m gonna tell Tony and Tony’s gonna be maaaaaaad~”
Yes; it’s both a Saturday night and one of few days off and that is why both you and Peter had gotten utterly and absolutely smashed. With Peter turning 21 a few months ago and his sudden desire to test his own limits it must’ve seemed like a good idea! Buy as much alcohol as possible and see how fast he can get drunk and back to sober with his spidey-genes. Steve remembers doing something along the same lines when he was younger – as you can imagine, it didn’t turn out too well.
However, you do not have spidey genes. That much is obvious when, after making the journey to his room and bending to lay you gently on his bed, you quite unceremoniously flop down like a limp piece of string.
"I like your bed,” you sigh, laying face down on his duvet. “Smells like… beard."
"Beard?” He repeats, grinning. God, he wishes he had his phone to record you with. You’re adorable when you’re whiny and nonsensical like this. Grabby, too.
“Mm.” You reach up towards him as he flits about his room, removing your shoes and your jeans for a t-shirt of his, and slipping on his pyjamas in lieu of the uncomfortable denim and Henley he’d been wearing. “You know what else I like?"
He knows that voice. Teasing and drawling and punctuated with a sweet little laugh that makes his stomach flip and his heart pound. That voice would be the death of him, mark his words.
”I liked that time when… you called me a drunk whore. When we were – y’know, doin’ the dirty.“
He knew that something was coming but he hadn’t prepared for this–
"I’ve never called you that,” he says playfully, swiping the blankets over your face momentarily. He shoves down his shock at the vulgarity – because yeah, he’s assimilating to 21st century culture but it still throws him off-guard when his pretty little baby comes out with something so dirty. He ignores that pressure in his groin that’s fighting to make itself known – but maybe if he just pretends it doesn’t exist he won’t pop a boner? He doesn’t want to go to sleep with that, and he sure as hell isn’t going to try it on with you while you’re not in your right mind.
“You haven’t? Hm. I guessed I imagined that.” Your brow furrows cutely and your nose wrinkles as a makeup wipe is brushed over your face, due in part to your own confusion and also because the wipes smell like roses and drunk you, apparently, does not like roses. “Bleh. These smell like old ladies.”
“You picked ‘em out yourself.”
“I make bad decisions.”
Another 2 or 3 wipes and the majority of your makeup is off — he doesn’t even try to coerce you into washing your face, he knows damn well you’re not getting off his bed until tomorrow afternoon.
He settles into bed beside you — noticing that instinctive way that you wriggle underneath his left arm and clutch his right in your hands. God, he loves you.
“I really can’t believe you’ve never called me that!”
“You’ve got quite the imagination on you, darling.”
“I do, don’t I?” Your eyes are already beginning to close. “But maybe tomorrow it’ll become a reality.” And then, as if poked with another bout of mischief, your eyes open and your lips press to his cheek– “Because that’s what I am, right? Your cock slut?"
Steve practically chokes on his own saliva, cheeks reddening and mouth drying–
”_____–"
You cackle, settling back down. “Okay, okay. Bedtime, I get it.”
(Steve does go to bed with a boner.)