the stealth suit
You don’t know what it is about it that drives you mad. In reality it’s simply a piece of fabric – multiple fabrics, kevlar and leather and whatever else, you’re not bothered with figuring it out. Dark navy, verging on black, padding on the shoulders and elbows and knees. Steve Roger’s stealth suit is the simplest on the team and yet–
Okay, so maybe you do know what it is that makes your mind go fuzzy. Maybe it’s the firm, stern way he holds himself, maybe it’s the way he rolls up the sleeves to his elbows, maybe it’s the fact that the entire suit is a symbol of his time as a war criminal – and what can you say? You’ve always had a thing for bad. And Steve Rogers wears bad real nicely.
“Fuck me,” you breathe, sitting up in bed. There’s a mischievous glint in Steve’s eyes and – not for the first time – you wonder if you really are the bad influence. “W-why didn’t you get changed?"
A mission in Argentina which apparently called for Nomad and not Captain America. A mission which he’d officially returned from as of 15 minutes ago. And if your last remaining brain cells serve you correctly, Nomad is the one that stands before you. Not Captain Rogers, not Stevie.
"Thought you liked my stealth suit, sweetheart. You want me to take it off?"
No. God no. A pathetic whimper gets caught on your throat – the smile he gives you is nothing short of wolfish.
“No, I didn’t think so.” He moves slow and sure, power rippling under every muscle, and you genuinely feel your mouth watering. You feel like one of Pavlov’s dogs – though being conditioned to find a ruggedly handsome Steve Rogers attractive doesn’t seem like the worst fate. “You remember that one dream you had before?”
As if you could forget the image of Steve fucking your brains out – you, completely naked, him in his stealth suit. You’d woken up at 2 AM, soaking, and he’d had to take care of you with his fingers – but he’d also teased you relentlessly in the morning, so. Pick your poison.
You clear your throat, feeling uncharacteristically timid as he looms over you. What a coincidence that you’re now at crotch-height. “Y-yeah.”
A hand pets your hair gently – and you’ll admit, you practically preen at his affection, letting your chin be tilted back seconds later to look up at him. And God, he really, definitely, is not Stevie. Eyes too dark, grip on your jaw too tight – but it’s delicious, and when he opens his mouth–
“Well? Hop to it, darlin’. I don’t got all night.”