It’s been just over a couple of months since that first time. Needless to say, the relationship between Steve and yourself had flourished. His de-virgining was a renaissance in a way. His creativity flowed as he sketched more, touched with dangerously enticing accuracy, and lived life with an enhanced bravado.
He reminded you of yourself in undergrad after your first time with the Jazz Studies boyfriend. As invigorated as you were back then, Steve multiplied that excitement tenfold. More heated stares, yearning kisses, and deliriously alluring lessons on how you can both guide each other into physical fulfillment. It was all overwhelming. It was all so very perfect.
Steve had finally returned home after 15 days apart. Not your longest stint but it was hard being away from each other nonetheless. Needless to say, finding him in bed asleep, duffel bag dumped in the corner, after you returned from a night out with former co-workers was absolute heaven. Lord knew you needed him. After everything that was happening, you knew it was always better when he was at home.
Home.
Somehow your home became his. He had a key. He had two drawers, all of the coat closet, and a good 30% of your bathroom counter space was laden with his toiletries.
You loved him. He loved you. Your family and trusted friends loved him. It was amazing.
And then it wasn’t.
Your happy little bubble had finally burst - somewhat. The night before he left on this most recent assignment, you two were finally spotted while out on a date night. You both wanted to venture out of your comfort zones (i.e. the apartment) and he wanted to spoil you. He dressed up in a suit that was tailored to perfection and you splurged on a simple, elegant dress that just so happened to cling in all the right areas.
You anticipated wining and dining. What you got were nosy waitresses, hosts, and patrons. In that moment, you were infuriated. Unfortunately, your anxiety and self-doubt blossomed when you overheard some of the comments that were made about you. Namely, people’s shock that the Captain America was out on a date with someone like you.
Yes. Steve was dating a woman of color. And what?!
He apologized profusely before slipping out just after the appetizers were set before you both. Quite a few $20 bills were left behind. You repeatedly told him that it wasn’t his fault but that incident did get to you. He held you close before you both agreed to go to your favorite local restaurant in Arlington. Since the beginning, you’ve frequented this bar whenever he was in the neighborhood. Though it’s on a busy street, the atmosphere inside was quiet and low-key. The food was top notch and the abundance of craft beers on tap and behind cases were astounding. The bartenders and mangers knew you both, treating Steve like a regular Joe Schmo yet fiercely protective if other customers intruded on his privacy.
Pictures were leaked a little over a week ago. You’ll never forget that moment. You had come home, trying to convince yourself to work on your dissertation when one of your best friends, Arianna, called.
You threw your keys and purse on the floor before you locked up. It was a long day. You had work. You had class. You may or may not have eaten today. It was late. Thankfully, your first appointment tomorrow was at 9:30a because rolling into your apartment at 10p was not cute.
At all.
You stared at the pile on the floor as you kicked out of your shoes and pulled off your slacks. Pants sucked. Sighing, you grabbed your clutter and threw it into your bedroom, just in front of the closet. You at least put away you pants and floral silk shirt before throwing on yet another over-sized tee that belonged to Steve.
This was the latest one. It still smelled like him. It’s gotten to the point where he buys two of certain things just so he doesn’t run out of clothes while he’s with you. Now that it’s the dead of February, you’ve taken to stealing his socks which you were now tugging onto your feet.
You recalled cutely pouting when he playfully griped about you taking over his wardrobe. And yet, whenever he was able to securely videochat, he demanded you wear something of his.
Tonight, you also pulled on his black hoodie with ‘Stark Industries’ emblazoned on it. Grabbing your phone and charger, you shuffled into the kitchen. It was too late to eat but...well, winter. You grabbed some hummus, multigrain pita chips, and a chunk of Swiss cheese you had every intentions of biting off of. No knives. No dishes. No clean-up.
Just as you were leaving your tiny kitchen, you heard your phone vibrate against the counter.
Picking it up, you heard: “Hey, bitch.”
A wide grin immediately bloomed across your face. “Hey, hooker.”
It was Arianna. Up until a year ago, right before meeting Steve, you both lived together. But once you got into your Psy.D program and started working at the private practice while she began working with the DoD, you both decided to push each other into adulthood (i.e. live on your own). You stayed in the outskirts of the Ballston/VA Square area while she moved out to Pentagon City.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing. Just got home and finding any excuse to not work on my paper.” You figured if you kept calling it that then you wouldn’t be so intimidated. Dissertations were stupid.
“Well, I got a good excuse for you.”
Suddenly your text message alert went off. You ignored it since you knew Steve was off avenging or paperworking in New York.
“What?”
“I’m not sure if you can handle it.”
“Fucker! If that’s the case then why say anything at all?” Another alert. You put her on speaker as notifications from you sister, cousin, Latesha (your other best friend), and your dad popped up. Your stomach sank. Something must have happened. Steve must need to be Captain American somewhere. “What the fuck is going on?”
News notifications cross your banners. You didn’t read any of them. You couldn’t. Cold terror pulsed through your veins.
“Turn on Bossip or TMZ...I think they’re both on. Fuck, I think CNN is talking about it.”
“What?” You took her off speaker.
You heard her sigh. “Just turn on Bossip.”
You flopped on the couch, instantly finding the remote to fire up your TV. You found the right channel with ease. You’ve seen this show. You liked this show. Alana was welcoming the audience at the start of the show.
‘I don’t even know if we should start with this. If we should end with this. Or just let the show be this. I just don’t know.’
Next to her on the couch Ronnie chuckled. ‘Ya’ll women are gonna be falling out about it any which way.’
You tucked yourself into the corner of the couch. “Arianna. This is a waste. Just tell me what they’re gonna talk about.”
“Shut up.”
‘I mean. You know my top white boy of the moment.’ Alana said.
Just last week the ladies shared the white celebrities they’d “swirl” with in a tongue-and-cheek segment. “It’s not. Right?”
“Just watch.”
‘These photos were posted hours ago. They confirm that Captain America truly loves all Americans.’
This was a reference to a PSA he made a year or two ago about We Are All Americans and loving all Americans or something.
Clear as day was a shot of the two of you at that high class restaurant from a few days ago. You could clearly see your Steven smiling adoringly at you while you were perusing the menu. You recalled that moment. You blushed when you realized that he was staring. He said he needed to take you in. Apparently, you mesmerize him every day.
You vaguely registered Tyler and Cynthia cracking jokes.
That night started off as a disaster since Steve forget to put on his glasses. (Really? A pair of eyeglasses was the be all, end all of disguises. Sounds silly but it’s worked every time until now...when he left them in the car by accident. He will never live this down.) Surprisingly, it all worked out in the end. Well, that’s all relative now.
“Fuck.”
“I know.”
“What...”
“I’m so sorry. You want me to come over?”
You made strangled noises. Again you put her on speaker as a candid video played taken from the phone of an employee? A manager? A customer? Thankfully, only he was clear as day. You recalled laughing while he bowed his head. The clip captured his playful smirk lighting up his face as he looked back at you.
Ugh. Your body sagged in bliss as you recalled that moment. The candlelight illuminated his golden brown hair. Muted, ethereal violins and cellos played in the background as the subtle sweetness of the gardenias on the table wafted throughout the small dining area.
You heard your friend call your name.
“What? Oh...yeah. I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Yeah. I’m coming over. Call out sick right now. Your clients will understand. Your boss better understand. I’m bringing wine and more wine.”
You mumbled a goodbye.
Cynthia hollered. ‘Who knew Mr. 1900s was so woke!’
‘Don’t nobody say “woke” no more.’ Tyler laughed.
‘Well, I just did.’
More cell phone shots were shown - maybe 3 or 4 more - of you two leaving, of him holding you...of his arms around you and blantatly kissing you. He was soothing and reassuring you. That night was the first time you fully saw what it was like for Steve to be burdened with the weight of Captain America. It angered you.
“Oh holy FUCK.” The last picture was of your face. It was obscured somewhat but anyone with a basic knowledge of Google Images could figure you out.
Numbly, you called your supervisor and left her a message, briefly describing the issue. If she was going to fire you because your personal relationship with Steve was plastered on - EVERYWHERE, then she wasn’t the one you should be getting your license under.
Suddenly, you were news fodder. People speculated on TV, radio, and podcasts about your relationship with Steve. The very next day, after the news broke, Steve called to apologize profusely. You tried to make a joke saying that he was too sex-drunk to remember his glasses. Seriously, that afternoon was the best. He made you cum with just his mouth and then you made sure to show your appreciation...you’re body shivered at that memory.
Since that moment, everything has been a whirlwind. Stark Industries lawyers and S.H.I.E.L.D agents were at your door the next afternoon. NDAs, security details, debriefings, and a rundown of your full history were discussed.
In all honesty, it was hilarious as Arianna opened the door to all of this in her bunny onesie and you obviously red wine hungover.
A small chuckle fell from your lips before you covered your mouth. Shaking from your musings, you tiptoed into the bedroom. Steve seemed so peaceful and you didn’t have it in you to wake him up.
Essentially, you two lived together. It was glorious and comforting as well as eye-opening. Steve had nightmares. Terrible, terrible nightmares. Sometimes he had flashbacks of combat - past and recent. Sometimes it was about losing Bucky. Other nights, he wakes up to the atrocities he witnessed at certain Nazi and Hydra encampments. And, once, he had a night terror about his drowning in that ice-cold water.
You did your best to comfort him. He didn’t need a therapist you; he needed his partner. And yet there were some awful nights when you had to go in full trauma therapist mode. One night he laughed darkly before saying you reminded him of someone he met...Sam? Apparently, he’s become his running partner after crossing paths too many times in the morning; Sam was a counselor at the VA.
Regardless of your support, he’d usually end up sleeping on the couch as to not wake you again. As if that could stop you for sneaking into the living with your favorite cuddly blanket in tow. Rarely could he put you out as you found a way to lay with (or on) him on the couch.
With that being said, you purchased a weighted blanket that stays in the coat closet for the really scary nights. Steve has commented in passing that it helped.
“Are you gonna keep staring or are you going to come join me?” A groggy voice called out in the darkness.
“Damn. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.” Easing into the room, you made quick work of readying yourself for bed.
Yawning, he responded, “It’s okay. I was trying to stay up for you and then I didn’t.”
Softly laughing, you threw on an over-sized shirt and slid between the sheets. Warm arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against his chest. Tucking a hand underneath your pillow, you smiled in the dark. With all the madness that was going on, being with him always made things seem so much better. Steve was it for you. These months have shown that not only has he been able to banish your depression when you were in great need, he empowered you.
The room stilled as you lay content to be held. Taking a deep breath, you closed your eyes enjoying the heat rolling off of him. Muscles relaxed as bones seemingly became Jell-O. With each breath you took, his cologne lingered. Clean yet deep and warm. You don’t know what he wore but it always excited you.
Nuzzling into the nape of your neck, he tugged you closer still - if that’s even possible. Moments drifted by and you assumed he’d fallen back asleep. Just as you accepted the drowsiness of earlier’s drinks and appetizers, light kisses were scattered across your neck and shoulder. His fingers barely grazed the fabric of your shirt.
“Hey,”
You attempted to suppress a shiver of excitement. “Hey to you too.”
“I missed you like crazy.”
“Yeah?” Your voice was barely a breath loud as his fingertips dragged against your lower belly.
Another kiss. “Most certainly yes.” He hummed against your skin.
“Guess what?”
“What?”
Adjusting yourself so that you were now on your back, you brushed back his hair. “I missed you like crazy too.”
“Yeah?”
“Most certainly yes.” Grinning, you leaned forwarded, pressing your lips against his.
Damn. He felt so good.
Fingers disappeared beneath his cotton shirt as they traced each powerful lines his muscles made. Though the kiss wasn’t as desperate or wanton as they tended to be during his homecoming, the immense love and desire was ever molten.
There was no need to rush. He was back in your bed. His callouses were back to create wakes of heat to ignite against your skin. His body was back to urge your own to bow to his whim. His mouth was back to retrace those tried and true routes to your pleasurable demise.
You always want to give back when he returns. And yet, here you were, shirt pulled up over your chest, legs splayed open, and panties long since forgotten. That roguish smirk was burned into your sight as his head dipped down.
Warm, moist lips barely touched you. Your hips jutted upwards, begging for solid connection. Those devastating hands held them down as his thumbs gently pulled back your flesh. You were exposed fully to him and you could have cried in pure ecstasy.
One hand drifted across your hardening nipples while your other hand sought his hair. Tugging, you moaned your need. Listening to him delight in being handled caused a sharp shock of pleasure to spark and sizzle within.
Fuck.
His tongue lapped at your clit while two finger slid inside. The movement he created with his fingers was poetry. Plain and simple.
His moans and sighs vibrated against your clit and you felt the rise. That numbing and responsive sensation that warned of your orgasm flooded your body. Holding his head close, you rode his mouth, whispering your want.
Suddenly, he was gone. Before you could cry or curse or both, your shirt was pulled over your head. His plump lips were soon covering yours. The aroma of your sweet, salty arousal clung to him. What whimpers you had were swallowed whole as his fingers slid out of you and circled your clit.
Tension in all its desirable glory continued to build. With a slight adjustment to the pressure, your eyes shut tighter, breath escaped, and body seized in pure release. Nothing could be said as you were overcome with all he gave you.
“Told you I missed you.” He whispered into your ear.
Smirking, you pull at his shirt. “Off.”
“You don’t have to do anything.”
“Fine, then. At least take off your clothes. It’s only fair.” You panted as an aftershock through your limbs.
“You know how I feel about fairness.” Chuckled your partner.
Making quick work of it, Steve was back in bed, holding you close, body fully pressed against yours. There’s something comforting about lying in bed nude with Steve. It’s not the sexual aspect (though... I mean, come on. He is sex ) but the intimacy of it. The stripped down vulnerability of it all made your heart swell.
“Better?”
“Much.” You placed a light kiss on his collarbone before resting your head on his chest. “Everything go well this trip?”
“Frankly, it could have been cut-and-dry if Tony was just a bit more patient. Never again will I take him on a stakeout unless he’s got his fancy toys and gadgets to play with.”
You couldn’t contain the laughter as you envisioned Steve handing Tony one of his “toys” to appease him while he surveys the scene.
“Glad you find this so hilarious!” He tickled you.
Huffing in giggles, you stated,“I surrender. I’m sorry.”
He kissed the crown of your head. “You know I’m sorry too.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what.”
Your body tensed. Just as you were about move away from him, Steve’s hold on you became firm - securing you in place. “Love, we have to talk about this.”
“Like hell we do.” You grumbled.
He murmured your name, a slight tint of admonishment colored his voice. You weren’t sure if you wanted to fold or fight. Without a clear decision, you remained quiet. Maybe if you don’t respond, he’ll leave it be.
“Please talk to me.”
You were a therapist. How many times have you sat with clients who just stared at you? You knew the art of waiting. You could ride the silence until the very end.
The night around you became deafening. You could hear the fridge kick on...maybe? You can hear cars puttering about from the window you sometimes kept cracked open. The heating whizzed before it turned on.
You kept waiting for him...
Yet, the longer you waiting, the more you felt he didn’t care what you had to say.
Why would he? He’s Captain America. You’ve fucked him. He’s got what he needed. There’s not much else you can do or provide.
And he’s here. And he loves you. He’s worried about this as much as you.
Tightness flooded your chest as you wrestled with folding or fighting.
That was all you ever did. No matter how much knowledge you gained, how much self-reflection you strived towards, and how much light came into your world, that damn dark depression found a way to dim your shine.
Strangely enough, your dark never fought so hard or dulled so spectacularly than with him. Steve just broke through everything.
Shit.
That’s what these last few days have been: breaking. You knew better. You knew so much better than to let this ache fester.
“I don’t want this.”
“What do you mean?”
Your throat felt like it was suddenly tearing apart. You wanted to scream and holler yet again. You could list everything that was wrong with you, the situation, this situation as it pertains to you…
That familiar ache that comforted and squeezed the life out of you settled in your limbs. Trying to take your own advice, you slow yourself down. Your work with traumatized youth and families has you well versed in the art of “coming back to the moment”. Yet, here you are - muscles taut, teeth clenched, and stomach lurking against the perceived inevitability of it all.
“I can’t do it.”
Shifting beside you, Steve gingerly intertwined your fingers. Locked tight in his embrace you attempted to focus on your joined hands.
The night is cool.
His love is strong.
Your unworthiness is evident.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?!” You all but shouted.
Inhaled breathes lingered in either chests as you both finally faced the truth.
Shit. Fuck. And damn.
It was his first night back. You envisioned this moment numerous times, especially with everything going on. Long mornings spent talking, planning, and relaxing was the tip of the idyllic dream and here you both were…
Hearing your name sighing in that exasperated manner only fueled your emotions. Flopping onto your back you cover your face. “Steve, why? How?! How do you do this? Everyone’s talking and saying dumb shit and it hurts. This fucking hurts. You know three days ago, I was meeting with a new client. She’s 10 years old, been through more than even you’ve seen, and is struggling with the transition into her adopted family. I met with her and then, debriefing with her parents for the last 15 minutes, all I get were questions about you. I can’t do this, Steve. I’m not fit for this. Let’s be real. I’m too...me for all this.”
A warm pressure was placed between your breasts. Acknowledging this sensation gave you a foothold; it was something to grab onto as your breath hitches over and over and over again.
“In One, Two, Three, Four. Hold Six, Five, Four...”
Yes.
You knew this technique.
“...one. Out One, Two, Three, Four. Again,”
He guided you through the grounded breathing technique that’s been helpful for him.
Comforting words of encouragements and care were whispered as Steve helped you regulate yourself.
Minutes later, his rich tone sounded louder. “I’m so sorry.”
“Shush. Don’t you dare apologize.” Though your hands had fallen away from your face, your eyes were still shut tight.
Whisper-soft touches grazed your side, the curve of your full breasts, and over your nipple. Licked lips parted as tender words were shared. You need this so much more than you wanted to accept.
Hearing the caustic words of a few on-air or online blowhards drown out the support expressed at every turn had drained you. Your life had been stolen and any possible complaints you may will forever be ignored. Because why should you complain when your dating Captain America? Your identity was no longer yours. It was the globe’s plaything and floating unattached was sending you towards a fiery abyss of fear and loathing.
Steve sealed his lips over your mouth, stealing what air he could. This drowning was what you needed. Gasping for more, you brushed the soft hairs of his forearm.
You truly hated yourself. Your partner had just come home from an assignment. This was his time to be cared for. He’s had a lifetime of commitments, obligations, fulfillments, and overall duty to everything and everyone possible. You were supposed to be his respite. You were supposed to be his home. Being his “so much more” was supposed to be your asset - the one thing you brought to the table and you were failing.
“My love. Please let me take care of you.”
“No. You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“That’s my job.” You pouted. You actually pouted. Lord, you were disgusting sometimes.
“And you have made me feel worthy. Every moment you can, you take care of me. Let me help this time, please.”
“Steve,”
Your heard him say you name. It sounded like a prayer - a reverent plea to every higher power to answer his call.
You felt the tears prickle behind your eyes. Your chest heaved as you succumbed to him. “Steve?”
His voice softly drifted in the dark. “Yes?”
You hesitated. “Can you please hold me? Can you touch and love me?”
“Absolutely. It would be my pleasure.”
And so he poured his tenderness into you. Slick tongue and deft fingers brought you to that edge once again. Steve saved you. He banished that fear, the hesitation, and the questions. Words of love, intimacy, and need were moaned and, as your body tightened, everything was let go.