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ronearoundblindly · 2 years

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Super-Human Resources

Steve Rogers x older!Reader continued from this ask from @nana1000night

Prompt: What if the reader is older than Steve, like...10 years maybe(?) She could see his shyness, ambition, and gentleness when they first meet. She never thought Steve would fall for her because of their age gap and she's insecure about herself...

Warnings: this is very rough for me, really dialogue-heavy and not balanced, etc. I may return to elaborate or edit, but I'm desperate to get on with the end of Dignity. I loved--loved--this dynamic and could totally see this being a bigger thing. I boiled it down to this fluffy/angsty/cute-ending thing. Some language and implied smut. Serious miscommunication.

[adorable dividers that I am obsessed with by @silkholland]

Steve sets down the tablet victoriously. “And…that’s all of the recruits, so let me know what else you’ll need to start the new hires on personnel benefits. We’ll meet back—“

He finally glances at the clock. It’s 6:40 pm and he’s been talking at you for two hours.

“Why didn’t you stop me? I’m sure you have to go home to…”

You offer him the same studied smile you always try to and gently shake your head. “I figured we could just push through and get this over with. That way you didn’t have to make another trip down here tomorrow.”

Steve frowns. “But someone must be waiting for you?”

Way to rub it in, Cap. “No,” you assure him, packing up your laptop and a few files in your old leather briefcase. “No one.”

“No plans? It’s Friday. Don’t people…what is it that people go out and do these days?”

“Alexis next door seemed pretty excited about a pub crawl a few hours ago. Though in another few hours she might regret that. Actually, she’s probably too young to really notice a hangover,” you joke, pushing out your chair when you’re ready to go.

He rushes to stand. “Then at least let me…offer you dinner here. You won’t have to—“

A hand up is all it takes to rein him in. “Not necessary, sir. I’ll be fine at home.”

“I’ll walk you out,” he jumps politely, opening your office door so that you have to squeeze past his beefy body into the empty hall. Everyone really has gone home.

He shoves his hands in his dark jean pockets, and you regulate your breathing as best you can all the way to the door.

“Beautiful bag,” Steve says just as you two reach the lobby.

“Oh, thank you.”

“Looks well-loved,” he adds softly, running one finger along the top seam.

Why is that so sensual? He’s touching a bag. Get it together.

You giggle nervously. “Yes, very—“ adjusting the strap closer on your shoulder “—it was my high school graduation gift. Sent me off to college like a real professional, but I guess that makes it…pretty old.” The flutter in your gut wavers your voice slightly. You can’t wait to leave.

“Still pretty though.” Steve looks you dead in the eyes, and your heart stops.

You gulp finally, breaking from the crystal clear blue gaze that holds you so softly in a make-believe universe for that split second. “Have a good night, sir.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His eyes follow your movements out. “You, too.”

Even when you’re fresh and clean, the long work day washed away, the mirror doesn’t lie. You look tired, skin duller than you remember, eyes crinkling at the corners more than before, a few additional grays dusting your temples.

It’s so stupid to think of him that way, to think he’s looking at this and seeing anything he likes more than he’d find on that gorgeous young hire the next office over or that toned and bright-eyed recruit down the hall or…well, anybody, really.

Your flesh reminds you more of the stretched and worn leather of your briefcase every day. You’ve collected more products to correct you, things designed for anti-you to no avail.

But.

Even if it’s not real, even if it doesn’t mean anything, it’s so nice to be looked at by Steve Rogers. You have to remember he’s not actually interested; he’s just a gentleman raised to be kind.

He does it again. Not right away, but a few weeks later, Steve yammers on about two dozen employee ‘incidents’ that aren’t really incidents for you to handle. You can advise him on which representatives to speak with about follow-up actions with the other agents, or techniques to facilitate healthy dialogue on the subjects, but no more. Please, no more.

5:58 pm and you swear Steve has checked the clock at least three times. He has to know he’s gone over, but he also knows you have nowhere to be and no one special. Shit. That’s pathetic. You should have hinted at some sort of life outside of work.

“Pardon the interruption,” F.R.I.D.A.Y chirps over the intercom system, “but Captain Rogers, your delivery has arrived.”

“Thank you. Be right up.”

Saved by the AI. “I’ll let you get to it,” you say, smiling and rising from your seat.

“Oh, it’s just dinner. Enough for two.” He motions you to the door like before, his gaze a hair more piercing. “I…brought the pub crawl to us, if you’d like to join me?”

The air conditioning blasts into your office like the frigid arctic, but you are sweating suddenly. You’re covered from head to toe, layered to hide all those ‘indecent’ things about the aging body that no one, young or old, likes to be reminded of. Even if you were muscular with perky curves, your skin is looser and there’s a permanent crease down your chest, the wrinkle from consistently sleeping on your side at night. Higher necklines and longer sleeves became mandatory for you five years ago.

He leads you to the elevators with a light hand at the small of your back. He’s had two dozen beers, one can or bottle of each brew, sent in with an enormous tray of finger foods. You think about adding that you don’t eat that much, though it all looks good and you’d like to eat more—you don’t want to look like a pig in front of Captain America—but he eats over 80% of the tray without batting an eye.

“Metabolism,” he shrugs when your eyes go wide at his fourth full plate.

Must be nice. “I don’t remember what one of those is like,” you quip back.

You two split each beer, and while the cups are small and Steve drinks about two-thirds of them all, you’ve consumed your own six-pack by the end. Conversation became a lot lighter at some point—maybe sample four or five?—and Steve’s thrown out some candid moments about his struggles with modern life.

You agree with him about online dating: horrid. You agree it’s difficult getting to know new people when there’s an expectation of labeling everything (or not labeling anything.) Steve would not have been a free-love hippie, it seems, if he’d been awake during the ‘60s and ‘70s. It’s difficult to know what to do or say around women for him. He says it’s easier around you.

“Maturity deflates that 'pressure to impress' pretty quickly,” you chuckle, a hiccup latched at the end. Damn, is it the alcohol or the carbonation? Maybe it’s simply because there’s no pressure to be coy around someone who can’t be interested in you? Either way, you take another bit of food and forget to worry about how your midsection looks sitting in the chair comfortably, unbuttoning the first two buttons of your blouse. That A/C isn’t helping much again.

“Another drink, ma’am, or more water?”

“Makes me feel old when you call me that.”

“I say it out of respect, but it’s also. I feel like a…a teenager around you, ya know, nervous.” He slides his hand up and down his leg, blushing.

“It's alright. I’m not going to report you for treating me with respect, Steve.”

“And if I don’t?”

It’s so quiet, you’re not sure you heard right. You take a huge swig of water to justify how loudly you swallow that feeling, that sizzling longing that creeps up like kudzu, taking over your body. Liquid coats your throat, mouth, and lips, yet you’re bone dry with nothing to reply. “Don’t do what?” Did he just threaten to not treat me with respect? As in…something disrespectful? Like…sinful?? Is it a sauna in here?

“I think you’re sexy,” Steve firmly breathes.

You snort—because what else do you do in a dream that’s so ridiculous it gave itself away?—and swirl the rest of your water around, guzzling it. You’ll need to wake up to pee soon if there’re this many fluids involved. Does beer make you dream weirdly? It must if it conjures this subconscious scene. Any minute now, you’ll wake up. You’ll see.

“That’s..uh..a little inappropriate, Captain,” you glob out between clearing your throat and squirming in your chair, “but it’s a good line.”

“I can keep them to myself, my inappropriate thoughts—“ you choke and sputter for a moment, but he continues “—if that’s what you want.” Steve leans forward over his knees, eye-level with your chest and peering up through his lashes while emphasizing a rugged, “ma’am.”

Your body vibrates off of your chair and automatically steps to add some distance between you. Part of your job is anticipating problems and conflicts before they arise, but you’re blind-sided by Steve’s attention. No, can’t be. If the blood rushing past your ears is this loud, perhaps you heard wrong?

It’s a blur of blue eyes. You’re rattled by his deep timbre, coherency drowned out by fizzy, hoppy, wheat water. The moment Steve’s chest touches yours, and he leans down, thumbing at your temple with a heated palm on your cheek, you have to close your eyes to ground yourself because nothing you’re seeing can be real.

“We’re both adults,” he whispers, the words heavy and dripping down your insides to your core. “We both want the same thing, so we should just—”

“Yes.” You cut him off, crashing your lips to his.

His other hand spreads across your hip and ass.

“Show me how to please you.”

With that, Steve uses your melting gasp as an invitation to claim your mouth.

Steve Rogers really didn’t have anything to worry about. Even without extensive sexual experience, he’s a fast learner. So attentive. You throw him a bone with some advice now and then, a pointer or two, something just to show you remember the deal.

“Most women don’t like ____.”

“Some women prefer ____.”

“Not everyone will do ____.”

Steve takes it all in stride, and he also gets better and better at listening, turning the conversation back to you. Anything he likes in bed, he’s sure to check-in if it’s alright with you. He’ll make someone (or many someones, no judgement) very happy someday.

He takes your cues on giving you space so that he won’t seem clingy to a potential girlfriend. He regularly texts to ask how your day is going or has gone. Best of all, he remains stone-cold professional at work. That makes the most sense for when this arrangement needs a clean break.

Until then, the sex is unbelievable, and it’s so freeing to not worry about keeping yourself lady-like and mysterious over the weeks. You can wake up with your puffy under eyes and tangled hair. You can sit around and read in your baggy pajamas. You don’t have to hide that you do, in fact, function like any other human. You burp, you fart, you poop and pee. Sometimes you just smell. Who cares? You aren’t gross about it, but the amount of time you save not avoiding Steve while your body happens to be a body is a lot. It’s a scary amount of time you would avoid him to appear perfect. Good god, why?

You’re spoiled now. You may never bother with a real relationship again, except you know this will end eventually.

For now, you can eat and drink whatever you want around him. You can say no to things. You can tell him when you dislike something or when you’re bored or want to be alone. You can just be yourself, and it’s awesome. You can say the bad joke and stupid puns that come to mind. You can poke fun at him and laugh at his jabs at you.

It’s awesome. Honestly, get yourself a man to inoculate from womanhood. Easy-peasy, ass, and squeezy.

His ass? Oh, yeah, because…yeah. Dat ass. It’s worthy of mention and thoroughly distracting.

You’ve even had the gumption to slap it a couple of times. Whatever. He seems to like it. No big deal.

This goes on for a few months. Your time together hasn’t escalated above texting during the week and ‘lessons’ over the weekend. Steve is…well, he’s perfect, really. He won’t need you for much longer, and you’ve made your peace with that, so you’re surprised when Steve comes to your office one Tuesday morning.

“Hey,” he starts with a smile, checking over his shoulder. “Got a minute?” He motions to shut the door.

“Sure,” you shrug, “did I forget someone’s intake today?”

“No. No, nothing like that.” Steve nervously wrings his hands. “Tony’s forcing me to take vacation. He booked this whole resort thing on an island or something.”

“Ok…you probably need it. When was the last time you took time to yourself?”

His scowl suggests that’s exactly what Tony Stark said.

“It’s this weekend.”

You startle at that. “Oh. Well, no problem it’s not like—“

“You want to come?”

Now you’re speechless. Does he think he can’t handle traveling with a significant other? Does he get irritable when away and need practice handling it?

“I know it’s last minute,” he continues, “but I’d love for you to join me. You deserve a break, too.”

You agree, and suddenly realize that you haven’t vacationed in a long time for the same reason: you didn’t want to go alone.

The place is spectacular, and how did you ever doubt when you knew Tony fucking Stark booked it?!

Steve did great on the trip out, stopped at the convenience store when you forgot your motion-sickness meds, was very patient when you couldn’t lift your bag to the overhead by yourself, and walked slower than he probably thinks is humanly possible down the long terminal to the resort shuttle. His average-joe ball cap did nothing to hinder his Greek-god stature, but you both got lucky that no one openly recognized him.

He’s been fun and playful, the perfect mix of caring and care-free. He’ll make a lovely boyfriend to someone, and you’re bubbling with excitement to tell him he’s ready.

“Ready for what?” Steve smiles at you over the dinner table in the fancy, seafood restaurant in the main hotel.

“To graduate,” you chuckle, lifting the glass to toast him.

He lifts his own glass with a confused look. “What exactly am I graduating from?”

You take another sip of champagne in triumph. Eh, so you’ve had a few glasses. Who cares? You made Steve Rogers into perfect boyfriend material, and he’ll be comfortable with himself that way from now on.

“What do I call it,” you muse, “my little School of Sexual Awakening? Ha!” You’re so funny, but you have to do better. Steve doesn’t get the joke yet. “I mean, it’s a good thing, Steve. You’re going to make someone very happy after this.”

His face drops like a stone.

“What,” he deadpans.

“I know. I know you’re probably nervous, but you really are ready. You just gotta bite the bullet and put yourself out there—“

“But…I’m with you.”

“No, like a real relationship, with someone you’re actually interested in.“

He’s silent, so silent the murmuring of other patrons seems to get sucked into the dense void of noise around his intense glare

“I’m sorry,” Steve says in a voice deeper than usual. “What do you think we’ve been doing?”

“Practicing. Getting you ready to get back out there in the modern dating world.”

“We’re…” Steve puts down his glass so carefully that his delicacy might be the thing that breaks it. “We’re not dating?”

You’re starting to think the alcohol has made you less understandable.

“Well, we…you wanted practice. You were feeling uncomfortable around women and worried about trying online dating. You didn’t want to go through a bunch of beginnings of relationships without knowing how to sustain them, right, so we…”

“Started dating because I’m comfortable with you.”

Yeah, but not like that. That’s not funny. He’s not great with the jokes yet, you remind yourself.

“Right, so there was little to no pressure because we’re both adults.”

“—fairly certain that’s still true—” His steel gaze is hardened and unwavering.

“And that since we both wanted...ya know, to feel good and less uncomfortable…then we should just…”

“Date,” he interjects.

“…fuck,” you finish. “Wait. What?”

“I was saying we should date when you kissed me.” Steve adjusts stiffly in the thin dining room chair, and hiss-whispers across the table, "have you been pity fucking me this whole time?!"

Even though you’re brain grinds to a halt, your skin crawls and your insides burn. Your legs start moving without your ok. They’re racing down the stone path to your shared hut so fast that Steve has to jog to keep up, but he has the decency not to speak until you’re both behind the closed door of the bungalow.

“You…you’ve gotten better at flirting with the girl’s in my department.” Talking with your hands doesn’t seem to be helping you process this any faster; it’s just a nice way to burn off some of this terror.

“I talk to other women, yeah.” He looks a lot calmer than you. He’s not shaking and pacing around. “It’s easier to when I can politely say I’m seeing someone. I thought I was taken. I never flirted with anyone other than—well, NOT you, apparently.”

“You’re serious???”

Steve needs to learn the finer points of a joke if he thinks this is a good one. He starts yelling back anyway.

“Why do you think I am not serious? What makes you think that’s all this was?”

“You wanted practice! You said so.”

“No,” he quits screaming, “I wished I had more practice before finding someone I wanted—” Steve blushes ferociously “—so I wouldn’t feel…unsure about…you know. We are—I mean, I thought we were dating.”

You have to laugh. “Steve, you don’t want to date me.”

“I have been for months.” He’s getting closer.

“No, but I’m…I’m…You can’t…I wouldn’t have…We were having fun. I thought I was…like a stepping stone or something.”

His arms reach out as if to grab your shoulders, but he makes no contact. “We had fun. As a couple. Why would I use you for anything else?!”

“I’m average, Steve. I’m old!”

“I’m a hundred and five.”

You slap his arms away. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Currently, I’m convinced I have never known what you mean.”

“It’s not funny!”

“That we can agree on,” Steve bites back.

“It’s not funny,” you repeat through tears.

“Sweetheart,” Steve tries with sympathetic eyes, “why? Did I not make you feel loved? You thought I didn’t want you? How?!”

“Because.” It’s the only word that will come out as he takes you in hand and pulls you to his chest. Everything reels around you. It’s not your fault. You were protecting yourself. You were being logical and friendly. You were helping him out. You were genuine but…completely guarded in the most important way.

“So I have a couple of essential questions.” Steve brushes his thumb over that gray patch at your temple. “Any chance you’d like to date me?” He huffs at the whine and frown drawn from you. “I should specify. This would be real dating, where neither of us is flirting with—“

You shove at his chest indignantly. He plants a kiss on your forehead in response.

“—or dating other people, and we are both actively aware that we are, in fact, dating each other. Do you want that?”

You roll your face deeper into his chest, nodding.

“Ok, and any chance that before having an actual, real-life, both-of-us-knowing-we-are-dating-each-other first date you’d agree to live in this room with me for three days?”

That earns him a real slap to the side, and eventually, several slaps to his glorious tush.

“Just because I behaved like you were every other man I know…”

“It’s cute,” he whispers, “in a slightly insulting way, but it’s cute.”

A long hug follows, one where you both lean in and hold tight. He plants another kiss to your forehead every time you snuggle further.

“Now…” Steve lets the word rumble around in his chest. He knows what that deep sound does to you. You said all women would like that, so he plans to reserve it for only you. “May I prove how much I want you, ma’am?”

If you enjoyed this work, please consider liking, commenting, and/or reblogging. Thank you for reading!

SR Taglist: @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @fallinallinmendes @im-a-slut-for-fluff

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