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witchywithwhiskey · 2 months ago

Text

if the fates allow

pairing: avenger!captain america!steve rogers x tall!shield agent!female reader

summary: steve rogers accidentally got drunk at the avengers tower christmas party, and you're the one tasked with helping him get to bed. it's a good thing you have plenty of practice keeping your crush on him a secret.

warnings: sexual tension, steve is drunk, reader is conflicted (nothing happens while steve's drunk), feelings are expressed, kissing, sleepy cuddling, i think that's pretty much it!

word count: 2.9k

a/n: here's my december 13 fic for @the-slumberparty's december daze challenge, using the prompt: "I didn't know the egg nog was spiked!" tried to keep this one short and sweet so that i can catch up, so if something doesn't make sense, just ignore it i guess! also this is my first time writing a specifically tall!reader and that was nice since i'm on the taller side 😅 hope y'all enjoy!! ♡

december daze challenge masterlist

“I didn't know the egg nog was spiked!”

Steve Rogers’ voice was louder than it needed to be, and so close to your ear that you winced a little. You kept walking, a massive arm looped around your shoulders while you half-carried the ungodly large body of Captain America and tried not to think about how good he smelled.

Why exactly you had been tasked with helping the very drunk Steve Rogers to his quarters after the Avengers Tower Christmas party was still a bit of a mystery to you. You’d seen Natasha Romanoff and Tony Stark with their heads bent close, like they were conspiring about something, and the next thing you knew, Bruce Banner was asking you to help Steve get to bed.

The phrasing of the request had sent your heart skittering in your chest, even under the less-than-ideal circumstances of its reality. You’d had a crush on Steve Rogers since you’d met him as part of your SHIELD assignment to Avengers Tower, and you liked to think you’d kept it secret from everyone.

But, well, you did work with spies for a living, and you had a feeling Natasha and Tony’s conspiring had something to do with your predicament.

You’d tried to protest Bruce’s request. Sure, you were one of the taller female SHIELD agents, but you were by no means the strongest person on your team, especially when it included Brock Rumlow. But apparently everyone else had gone home or they were helping someone else, and you were the only one who could do it.

Frank Sinatra’s “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” had been playing from the sound system of the Avengers Tower lounge as you’d made your way over to where Steve lay sprawled across the entire length of a sofa. He was singing along to the Christmas song—loudly and off-key—and nerves and excitement had fluttered through your belly like snowflakes on a winter wind.

You’d shoved your emotions away and put on the professional mask you always wore around Steve, pasting a polite smile on your face as you leaned over him and told him, in a not unkind voice, that you were going to help him get to bed.

He’d given you a dreamy smile and did his best to help you lift his large body from the sofa while you’d ignored the way the snowflakes in your tummy had swooped at his happy expression and close proximity.

With one arm wrapped around Steve’s waist and the other holding onto his wrist so his arm wouldn’t fall from your shoulders, you lifted a leg and kicked the elevator call button with your foot, only remembering to check to make sure no one was around after you’d done so.

Oh well. If you’d flashed someone with the move, the most they’d see under the short skirt of your cocktail dress was the gun strapped to your thigh and the shapewear the tight, clingy garment had required you to wear. Thankfully, no one was around except the super-soldier draped across your shoulders, his head propped sleepily against yours.

“Of course it was spiked, captain,” you said, picking up the thread of the conversation he’d started. Your voice was patient and professional, if a little cold. “It was Stark’s Christmas party—he spiked all the egg nog with Asgardian liquor.”

The doors of the elevator slid open soundlessly and you huffed a sigh of relief as you dragged Steve in. You made sure he was propped up against the corner of the elevator, then stepped away to hit the button for his floor. As discreetly as you could, you wiped some sweat from your brow before turning back to Captain America.

The expression on Steve’s face drew you up short. He was…not frowning exactly. Was that a…pout?

You tilted your head to the side, your eyes poring carefully over Steve Rogers’ familiar features—the little pinched line between his brows, the dimmed sparkle of his blue eyes, the protrusion of his lush lower lip. You forced yourself not to linger on his mouth, even though it looked particularly inviting…

Yes, that was definitely a pout, you decided.

Before you could wonder about what you’d said to garner such a reaction from Steve, he was talking. Or, rather, muttering.

“I don’t like it when you call me captain,” he grumbled.

The elevator was nearing Steve’s floor so you moved closer to him again, ignoring the way your body warmed when you pressed into his side and lifted his arm over your shoulder. The fresh scent of him wrapped around you like the most delicious blanket, and you wanted more than anything to be able to breathe it in until it lived permanently in your lungs.

“What should I call you then?” you asked, mostly to distract yourself from your body’s reaction to Steve. He was drunk, and you needed to get yourself under control.

You tried to pull him out of the corner, but you didn’t have enough leverage and instead of budging the big super-soldier, you bounced back into him, landing against his hard chest with a surprised little “oomph.”

Before that moment, you’d known, in theory, that you were only a couple inches shorter than Steve Rogers. But it was easy to forget because he had such a large presence, and he could very easily toss you around that mats of the Avengers Tower gym with his super-strength.

However, in that moment you learned that the minimal height difference between you and Steve Rogers had a consequence you hadn’t considered. When you fell against his chest, your face was almost perfectly level with his—specifically, your mouth was almost perfectly level with his.

You could taste the Asgardian rum on Steve’s breath and the thought of closing the distance and licking it from his lips was far more tempting than it should’ve been.

“Steve,” he rumbled, his arm tightening around your shoulders and hauling you even closer. “You should call me Steve.”

Your soft curves molded to the hard planes of his body and your breath caught in your throat as your mind raced, trying to figure out what he was doing. His blue eyes were dark, even under the bright lights of the elevator, and they were fixed very firmly on your lips—but they were still glazed from all he’d had to drink.

“Steve,” you said, his name soft and tortured as it fell from your lips, your eyes dropping to his mouth.

You knew you couldn’t kiss Captain America while he was drunk, and you knew that if he tried to pull you any closer, you’d have to push him away. But you wanted so desperately to close the distance between your lips, the desire felt like it might incinerate you from the inside out.

The ding of the elevator arriving at Steve’s floor brought you back to reality and you jumped away from the super-soldier, shaking your head at yourself as you grabbed his arm and heaved his weight onto your shoulders. You dragged him out of the elevator on stumbling feet, your mind spinning with what you’d almost done—what Steve actually had done.

For all the time you’d crushed on Steve Rogers, he’d never shown any indication of reciprocating your feelings. He’d always been just as professional and aloof as you’d been, and you’d taken that to mean he didn’t have any interest in you outside of work. But you were beginning to rethink your assessment…

Thankfully, Steve remained quiet and well-behaved for the trip down the hall to his quarters, and getting him inside seemed a bit easier after your practice with the elevator. You half-carried him to his bed and it took only a little push to have him sit down on the soft mattress.

Somehow, the movement left you standing between Steve’s spread legs, his arm curled around your waist from where it had fallen off your shoulder. His face was close again—closer than it should’ve been as he looked up at you from where he sat.

“Pretty…” he murmured, the fingertips of his free hand reaching for you but hovering just a hair’s breadth away from touching you. “You’re so…pretty.”

Heat suffused your cheeks and you ducked your head. “Steve,” you whined softly, your fingers wrapping around his wrists, trying to extricate yourself from his hold. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,” he said softly, your name falling sweetly from his lips. He brushed his thumb over your cheek so gently, it made your knees wobble.

You’d managed to get some distance from him, but the sound of your name made you stop. You looked at Steve, and his eyes were still slightly glazed from all the spiked egg nog he’d drank.

You huffed a laugh that was sad and humorless. Of course the only time Steve had shown any interest in you, he was drunk.

“Tell me that again when you’re not drunk and maybe I’ll believe you, Steve,” you said, a little forlornly, and pulled his hand away from your face, dropping it in his lap.

Stepping backward, you broke out of his hold, ignoring the way he was pouting again.

“Stay with me,” Steve said, his fingers catching the tips of yours as you turned away.

The desperation in his tone halted your retreat. When you looked at Steve again, his eyes were a little clearer, and his expression was pleading. You didn’t know if it was the best idea to crawl into bed with Captain America while he was drunk.

You were pretty sure he’d fall asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, so nothing would happen, but you worried about your heart. If you spent a whole night sleeping in Steve’s bed, breathing in Steve’s scent, it would be that much harder to pretend you didn’t have feelings for him. And you couldn’t seem to imagine he had feelings for you, despite what he’d said.

“Please,” Steve said, his voice cracking slightly. His face was washed in the dim light of the New York City skyline filtering in through the windows, and he looked like a work of art come to life, flawlessly gorgeous features and perfectly expressive eyes.

Your heart thumped in your chest, and were helpless to resist his request.

“OK,” you whispered, twining your fingers with his and giving his hand a small squeeze while you smiled shyly.

Steve beamed happily at you and then flopped back on the bed. A grin was still fixed on his face while he kicked off his shoes and fought to pull down the blankets so he could slide under them.

You bit back a laugh at his gleeful reaction, shaking your head as you went to the bathroom to clean off your makeup and strip out of your gun holster and shapewear. Thankfully, your dress was comfortable enough to sleep in for one night.

When you returned, you found Steve passed out under the covers still wearing all of his clothes. You took a moment to appreciate his handsome features, softened in sleep, and then slipped into bed beside him, leaving plenty of space between your bodies.

It took you a little while to fall asleep, but the quiet, steady snores coming from Steve helped lull you, and eventually you drifted off.

The soft wintry light of the morning sunrise was just beginning to peak over the Manhattan skyline when you roused, your body bathed in a nearly overwhelming heat that came from something pressed against your back and banded around your waist.

It took you a long, groggy moment to realize the source of that heat was Steve Rogers.

At some point in the night, he must’ve moved closer and wrapped himself around you because one of his arms was curled around your waist while his broad chest was pressed flush against your back. You were so close together, you could feel his steady heartbeat against your spine.

You must’ve shifted even to wake him because you heard the tenor of Steve’s breathing change. He buried his face in the back of your head and took a deep breath before letting out a contented sigh.

“Pretty girl,” he mumbled, the words muffled and barely discernable. His arm squeezed tighter around your waist, dragging you even further into the wondrously warm cage of his body.

The sound of you sucking in a sharp breath was loud in the silent bedroom and Steve suddenly tensed. Quick as a flash, he removed his arm from around your waist and shuffled back a few inches, giving you space.

Cold flooded in, even while you were still buried under the blankets, and you had to fight off a shiver. You missed his warmth, but you also needed to understand what was going on. You took a deep, steadying breath and then rolled over, looking at Steve warily.

He was propped up on one arm, his blond hair mussed from sleep and his cheeks tinged pink from embarrassment. But his blue eyes were clear and curious, watching your reaction with interest.

“What did you call me?” you asked in a trembling, hesitant voice. It probably wasn’t the first question you should’ve asked, but you had to know if you’d heard him correctly, and if he’d known he was talking about you when he’d said it.

Steve must’ve recognized the uncertainty in your voice or on your face because his expression softened and he lifted his hand, his fingers tracing the air next to your cheek. He was deliberately not touching you, and you had the urge to close the distance and feel his warm contact.

“You said to tell you you’re pretty when I wasn’t drunk anymore,” he said, his voice low and rough with sleep. His eyes had been wandering over your features, like he was trying to memorize the way they looked in the wintry morning light, but his gaze caught yours before he went on. “Well, I’m not drunk and you’re still the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

“Steve.” His name was a soft, desperate sound, your heart racing into a gallop as you tried to process the fact that Steve Rogers thought you were pretty.

Before your mind had caught up, your hands were moving, reaching for Steve, eager to drag him closer. Your fingers were curling around the lapels of his dress shirt and you caught a glimpse of his crooked smile before you were both closing the distance between your bodies, his mouth slanting to yours for a kiss.

Heat and pleasure filled your body and soul, and you kissed Steve Rogers for the first time, your lips pressed together ungracefully in your excitement. After a few moments of blissful fumbling, you settled into a rhythm that was as delicious as it was delightful, made all the more breathtaking by the way you could feel Steve’s reverence for you in the way he held you.

It was a long time before you came up for air, and when you did, you laughed giddily when you saw the way Steve’s eyes were glazed over, a dreamy smile curling his lips, and you knew your expression matched his. He was drunk on kissing you, just as you were drunk on kissing him.

Steve dropped one last sweet kiss to your mouth and then he rolled you onto your side, tucking you into the warmth of his body while you both faced the windows, watching the sun rise over Manhattan. You were for a moment quiet as you enjoyed being with him, but something still bugged you.

“I still don’t understand why Bruce asked me to help you to bed,” you said, your fingers playing with Steve’s hand that was clasped in yours. “But I’m glad he did, since it led us to this.” You pressed a kiss to his palm, marveling at how even that part of him smelled fresh and wonderful.

At your comment, Steve made a rough sound in his throat, something halfway between a cough and a laugh. It piqued your curiosity and you turned your head, catching his eye over your shoulder.

“That might be my fault,” he admitted, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks. “I may have confessed to Nat that I think you’re pretty—and she’s been trying to set me up for ages.”

Suddenly, everything from the night before clicked into place. Natasha and Tony’s conspiring, the way your SHIELD teammates were all otherwise occupied, the fact that Bruce—the least devious, and therefore, least suspicious of all the Avengers—had been the one to ask you to help Steve.

It was all a very elaborate setup, and you had to feel a little impressed with Natasha, even as you rolled your eyes because it didn’t need to be so complicated. She could’ve just asked if you were interested, and then set you two up on a normal date. Instead, she’d concocted an elaborate scheme, just to get you and Steve alone.

But you had to admit, it did work…

“You Avengers can never do anything the easy way, can you?” you teased, grinning at Steve over your shoulder. You reached back, fingers twining in his hair and pulling him close enough to brush a kiss to his lips.

“Now, where would be the fun in that?” Steve murmured playfully against your mouth, kissing you more deeply before settling back down on the bed.

For the next little while, you watched the December sunrise with Steve Rogers, basking in the feeling of being in his arms while he idly hummed “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” in between brushing delicious kisses to your neck.

You did have yourself a very merry Christmas indeed.

december daze challenge masterlist

#steve rogers #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fic #steve rogers fanfic #captain america steve rogers #steve rogers one shot #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers au #chris evans #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans characters #chris evans fluff #christmas fanfiction #december daze #witchywithwhiskeywork #tall reader

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