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stevie’s side profile☺️

me, sees a kid in a captain america costume which is pretty much just the helmet and a t-shirt with the logo: hey that's adorable, you're the best captain america i've seen all day

kid turns around, clutching a captain america poster: no

i'm not captain america

i'm agent phil coulson

STEVE ROGERS + Stealth Suit

awake or alive

I think you made my heart a pancake with how freaking sweet this was. Nothing is better than soft and protective Steve, and the way you wrote it 😩

I loved it! Thank you so much for writing 💙

your heart a pancake

pairing: steve rogers x reader

summary: when you're drunk and stranded at a bar and your boss calls you, he's not happy—and he ends up giving you a ride home on his motorcycle.

warnings: fluff, flirting, drunk!reader, an almost-kiss

word count: 2.8k

a/n: day 7 of my 30 day writing trope challenge is drunken confession. i've had the idea for this one for a couple days—i drew inspiration from a scene in the book in a jam by kate canterbary, which i read a couple months ago and loved! so please enjoy some sweet, fluffy flirting 😁

-

Oh no. You were drunk, in a bar, and your boss was calling you. 

Well, Steve Rogers wasn’t technically your boss. He was your team leader, but that wasn’t an easy relationship for your non-SHIELD friends and family to understand. So you just referred to Steve as your boss. 

But why was he calling you?

For a moment, you considered not answering. And, in fact, while you were still debating whether it was completely necessary to answer your team leader’s call so late at night—it was after 10pm!—the ringing stopped. You breathed a sigh of relief, then went back to searching the bar for the rest of your SHIELD team, who you’d joined for drinks.

After you’d made a complete lap of the place and determined they weren’t all in the bathroom—the bathrooms were tiny and couldn’t fit five men, especially since Rumlow was built like a brick house—you had to face the facts: They’d ditched you. Or they’d forgotten you. You couldn’t decide which option was worse.

You slunk over to the bar and plopped down in a stool, trying to pull up a rideshare app and make your way home to nurse your bruised ego. The bartender plopped a glass of water down in front of you, giving you a sympathetic smile, before she moved away to help some other patrons.

You were just about to plug in your address and call a car when STEVE ROGERS appeared on the screen. Fumbling your phone in surprise that he called you again, you accidentally hit accept. For a stunned second, you wondered if you could hang up before he noticed, but thought better of it. Wincing and taking a sip of water, you held the phone up to your ear. “Hello?” you answered, an inconvenient hiccup bubbling up your throat.

Steve paused on the other end of the line like he wasn’t sure he’d dialed the right number, and when he spoke it wasn’t his normal friendly commanding voice—his tone was darker, like he was angry. “Agent, are you drunk?”

“Yes,” you said, not even bothering to consider lying. Your brain busy anyway, it was focused on trying not to hiccup again. You gulped down water to quell the stupid sounds.

“Where are you?” he asked, his voice still menacingly low. 

You could barely hear him over the din of the crowd, but something about the deep richness of Steve’s voice curled up in your chest and settled there. You shook your head as if to clear it of the silly thought and refocused on your team leader’s words.

He was still speaking, asking, “What’s the name of the bar?”

“Oh, um,” you trailed off. Rumlow had given you a ride from SHIELD HQ, and you’d just followed along like the new recruit you were, trying so hard to fit in with your team. Who had all ended up leaving you there. In a bar you didn’t even know the name of. Your shoulders sagged as you curled in on yourself. “I don’t know,” you admitted in a hushed whisper. “I came out for drinks with the team, but I don’t know where they are, I think they left.”

Another pause sounded down the line. And then you knew you were drunk because you could’ve sworn you heard Steve curse. Steve Rogers never cursed. It was something the team razzed him about all the time. But you swore you heard it. Then Steve was talking again and you had to push your shock aside to listen.

“Are you OK, are you safe?” he demanded to know. 

For the first time since realizing you’d been stranded in the bar, you looked around. While it wasn’t the nicest establishment, you didn’t feel particularly unsafe. And the bartender was nice enough that you figured she’d step in if someone started bothering you. So you told Steve you were OK. “I was just about to get a car home,” you said in conclusion.

“Just stay right there,” Steve said, his words slightly skewed like he was talking through gritted teeth. “I’m coming to get you.”

“You really don’t have to,” you tried to say, but he cut you off.

“I’m coming to get you,” he bit out before hanging up.

You thought that was a little rude, hanging up without saying goodbye, but you shrugged it off and turned back to your water. You figured if Steve wasn’t there by the time you finished it, you were well within your rights to get a car instead of waiting for him.

It wasn’t too much later, and you still had a quarter of your water left, when Steve stomped into the bar. Steve Rogers wasn’t typically the type to stomp—he knew how to be light on his feet despite being an over-six-foot super-soldier—and something in your chest seized up when you realized you were in trouble. You watched him approach with wary eyes.

He came to a stop beside you, reaching for your glass and sniffing it before setting it back down. “Water?” he asked for confirmation. You nodded obediently. “You’ve got more sense than Rumlow, Rollins and the rest of them put together,” he said offhandedly, but the compliment went straight to your gut, doing something funny to your insides.

Oh no. Oh no. You couldn’t do this. You couldn’t be drunk around your boss—especially when you had a stupid crush on your boss.

“I really would’ve been okay getting a car,” you said in a small voice, trying to look as not-drunk as possible.

Instead of responding, Steve pushed the glass toward you. “Finish your water and we’ll go,” he said, and though his words were ostensibly an order, his voice contained only a fraction of its normal commanding steel. He sounded soft, almost affectionate.

Before that thought could solidify in your mind, you shook your head again to clear it and grabbed the water, downing the rest in one go. When you glanced up at Steve, he still had anger and concern written all over his face, but there was something like amusement deep in his blue eyes. You could get lost in those eyes if given half a chance.

So you didn’t give yourself a chance. You grabbed your things and stood up, wobbling only a little, shooting Steve a proud smile when you managed to keep your feet under you. The super-soldier just shook his head a little, placed a hand on the small of your back and led you out of the bar.

“How’d you find me, anyway?” you asked as you stepped carefully around tables and other bar patrons, leaning into Steve’s strong, steady side when needed—which was a lot. “I never told you the name of the bar.”

“I called Rumlow and got it out of him,” Steve muttered, tugging you along, his hand replaced with his full arm when he realized you needed a little more help walking than he’d anticipated. “Also told him if he ever pulls this shit again, I’ll personally make sure he never sets foot in the field again.”

You gasped exaggeratedly. “Steve! You said a bad word!” you cried, only then remembering he’d said one on the phone, too. “You said lots of bad words,” you mumbled, something like confusion in your voice. 

Steve just chuckled and kept leading you along, stepping outside into the warm night. When he came to a stop on the sidewalk, you realized he hadn’t driven a car to get you. No, he’d brought his motorcycle. Your heart lurched with fear, flashing back to all the times your mom had warned you to never get on a motorcycle. Looking down at yourself, wearing a simple floral dress that hit you just above the knee, you knew you were dressed nowhere near appropriately for riding a motorcycle. 

“What’s the problem, agent?” Steve asked from beside his monstrosity of a vehicle.

Apparently alcohol loosened your tongue, because you told him the truth even though it was a little humiliating. “My mom said she’d kill me if I ever got on a motorcycle,” you whispered. You winced at yourself, knowing it made you sound young and silly to be afraid of your mom.

But Steve grinned. “Your mom sounds like a smart woman,” he said, stepping up in front of you and placing a helmet on your head, fastening the strap beneath your chin. “But I promise you’re safe with me,” he went on, adjusting the strap to make sure the helmet fit snugly.

Your heart fluttered at his words, and you internally told your organs to calm the hell down. He was talking about his motorcycle, nothing more. Even though you wished he meant more.

“Okay,” you said in a small voice. When Steve stepped away to hike a leg over the motorcycle and sit in its seat, you could breathe easier. “But if I end up as a pancake, you get to tell my mom,” you said as lightly as you could manage even though your heart was pounding both from fear and excitement at getting to ride Steve’s motorcycle.

Steve grinned again and patted the seat behind him. “Sure thing, but I’m not planning on letting you turn into a pancake anytime soon,” he said. 

You believed him. So you secured the strap of your crossbody bag over your shoulder and bunched your dress between your thighs before throwing a leg over the seat behind Steve. You shifted around until you were sure you weren’t going to flash anyone and settled into the seat, placing your hands tentatively on his sides over the brown leather jacket he wore.

He turned his head to look back at you, a smile curving his lips that you couldn’t quite interpret. Then he grabbed your hands and pulled your arms around his front, tugging you closer on the seat until your chest was flush against his back. “Hold on tight, sweetheart,” he threw over his shoulder before starting the engine and easing away from the curb.

Once the motorcycle began to move, you clung to Steve, your thighs hugging his tightly and your fingers digging into the hard abs you could feel beneath his t-shirt. Steve didn’t go too fast, but it was exhilarating all the same, the warm summer evening wind caressing your skin. When Steve came to a stop at a light, you were trembling with excitement, but then he turned to ask if you were cold, and you realized you were. He quickly shed his jacket and stood so he could wrap it around your shoulders. You smiled up at him as you pushed your arms through the sleeves.

Steve’s blue eyes sparkled with something you couldn’t identify as he stared down at you, happy and smiling and wearing his jacket. It looked a little bit like desire and possessiveness, but that couldn’t be right so you stopped trying to guess. 

It wasn’t until the light changed and the cars behind you began honking that he broke away, sitting back down and revving the motorcycle to take off again.

You pressed close to his back, feeling the warmth of him through his t-shirt. You’d gotten used to riding on the motorcycle, and you felt safe with Steve, assured in the knowledge he wasn’t going to let you get hurt. So you let yourself bask in the feel of his hard body against yours, his thick thighs strong between your legs and his broad back sturdy against your chest. All the way to your apartment, you couldn’t wipe the grin from your face, too intoxicated from the feel of the wind on your cheeks and Steve’s closeness.

But all good things must come to an end, and eventually Steve pulled up in front of your building. It was a nice little renovated townhouse that you shared with a couple roommates. You lingered for a moment, trying to commit to memory the feel of being wrapped around Steve, and he seemed happy enough to let you. Finally, you pulled away and hopped off the motorcycle, but when you moved to undo your helmet, Steve followed you, unsnapping the clasp for you. 

You grinned up at him. “You didn’t turn me into a pancake,” you said, and blamed your still drunk brain on thinking that was a completely normal thing to say after your team leader gave you a ride home from a bar on his motorcycle.

Steve chuckled, looking at you like he thought you were cute. “I told you, sweetheart, you’re always safe with me,” he murmured, brushing some of your windswept hair back over your shoulder. He was staring at you, something warm and deep swirling in those blue eyes of his, and you could feel fluttering somewhere in the vicinity of your stomach and chest. Actually it was just about everywhere in your body. Like you were a bottle of seltzer filled to the brim with bubbles, about ready to explode.

“No I’m not,” you whispered the confession, unable to bear it if he laughed at you or didn’t take it seriously. “Not when you look at me like that.”

“How’m I looking at you, sweetheart?” Steve asked, his breath ghosting over your cheek. Only then did you realize how close he’d gotten, stepping into your space and towering above you. You could feel the warmth radiating from his chest and your body swayed toward him, wanting to bask in that warmth. 

You were at a loss for words. You didn’t know how to explain the way Steve was looking at you, only the way it made you feel. He made you feel like the prettiest girl in the world, and at the same time, he stirred up something wild inside you that made you want to jump into his arms. But you couldn’t say all that—you couldn’t tell your boss the way he looked at you made you want to fall in love with him, and then fall into bed with him. Though not necessarily in that order.

“Steve,” you said instead, his name a whispered plea, trying to tell him with that single word you couldn’t bear it if he hurt you. Being pancaked may have been unlikely, but getting your heart broken wasn’t. And you needed him to know he had to be careful with all of you.

The corners of his mouth kicked up and he ducked his head closer. You felt the ghost of him on your lips before his mouth pressed to your cheek, dropping a lingering peck to your soft skin. He paused a moment, nuzzling you lightly like he couldn’t bear to pull away just yet. 

It was a promise, a reassurance, you felt it deep in your bones. But then he was straightening and whatever fuzziness you’d felt in your chest had spread to your head because you felt dizzy from how close you’d come to kissing Steve.

When you gathered the courage to look up at him, he wore an affectionate smile. “You need to drink some more water, and sleep,” Steve murmured, cupping your chin in one hand, his thumb swiping over your lower lip while he stared at your mouth. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning and we can talk, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whispered in response, fascinated by the soft way he was looking at you. You could get used to Steve Rogers looking at you like you were the most precious thing in the world. 

“And no more going out to strange bars with Rumlow and Rollins, got it?” Steve asked, squeezing your chin a little to get your attention. “I want to know you’re safe.” His blue eyes were dark, some of that anger and concern resurfacing.

Something finally occurred to you. “Were you worried about me, captain?” you asked, almost too excited by the idea to get the words out.

“Of course, I was,” he said instantly, like he didn’t have any interest in hiding how much you meant to him. Steve pressed a kiss to your forehead. Another promise. “Go inside, get some sleep, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“G’night Steve,” you said shyly, before turning and making your way to your front door. Just before you went inside, you turned back to the street and found him sitting on his bike, watching you. It was only then that you realized you still wore his jacket, but the way he looked at you, it was like he enjoyed seeing you in his clothes.

Steve waved and called goodnight, urging you to go inside. But it wasn’t until you were safely inside your apartment, the lights on and the door safely locked behind you, that he got on his motorcycle and drove away.

Even though you were still drunk, you knew the warmth and happiness curling up in your chest had nothing to do with the alcohol you’d consumed. It had everything to do with the blond super-soldier who made you feel more safe and cherished in less than an hour than anyone else had in years. You didn’t know where things would go from there, but you decided you trusted Steve to keep you safe—and that included your heart. 

Steve Rogers wouldn’t make you or your heart a pancake.

⫸⫸30 Day Writing Trope Challenge Masterlist⫷⫷

STEVE “DID YOU GET YOUR TICKETS TO THE GUN SHOW” ROGERS

CHRIS EVANS: Oh right, a little bit of bicep porn. I really, genuinely did mess something up in my arm doing it. It’s a really unnatural position to be in–you’re trying to flex, you’re trying to look good, like, it’s not a utilitarian shot, it’s really just trying to look good

Steve Rogers leaves dishes in the sink.