Summary: Steve came home from the war to a wife that could not deal with the emotionally, mentally, and physically changed man before her. Dealing with it the only way he knew how, Steve buried himself in his work. After saving hundreds of lives in one heroic act, Steve finds himself put on bodyguard duty. Also known as a glorified babysitter.
It wasn’t easy being the daughter of insanely rich and successful businessman, Phil Coulson. After multiple death threats, your overbearing, worries-too-much father decides you need a bodyguard.
Word Count: 4,816
Warnings: Language, angst, blood, violence, explicit sexual content, major character death, possibly more to come.
Author’s Note: GIF Credit [X]
My work is not to be posted on any other sites (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my express written permission. Reblogs are fine.
Before you knew it, a week flew by and, whether either of you liked it or not, the two of you fell into a steady rhythm.
Every morning he would knock on your door before entering. It was his second day on the job that he learned to knock when he stormed in and found you standing there, naked as the day you were born, screaming at him to, “Get the fuck out!”
Now, you couldn’t really be mad at him; it wasn’t his fault. How was he supposed to know that you loved walked around naked after showering? It wasn’t something that you shouted from the rooftops.
Steve would greet you with a tight smile and a cup of your favorite coffee before ushering you down the hall, into the elevator, through the kitchen of the hotel, and straight to the car. He wouldn’t say anything during the ride to your office or to one of the many interviews, even during slower traffic.
He would make sure your office – and bathroom and every other meeting room you would be using – was cleared before allowing you entry, then he would position himself at the same spot, stand the same way, and watch everyone with the same intensity, no matter if they were homeless or some kind soul that was delivering their donation by hand. The man was frustratingly always on duty, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Wanda, Pietro’s sister and your assistant, commented on it every day. “Doesn’t the man ever smile?”
“I think his face would crack if he did that,” you chuckled.
She continued to stare at Steve. “He’d be sexier if he smiled.”
“Wanda,” you playfully gasped.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she teased back, thickening her accent, standing straight as a board.
You narrowed your eyes and pointed a finger at her. “Don’t you start.”
Before waltzing out of your office, Wanda stuck out her tongue.
Late nights were a common occurrence for you. There was hardly a time where you didn’t leave before ten, only to pour yourself a healthy serving of whiskey to warm your insides as you buried yourself in more work once Steve annoyingly cleared the rooms and left with a mumbling of, “Goodnight, ma’am.”
More often than not, you would fall asleep, files spread out on the comforter, laptop open and running. And then, the process would repeat itself the following morning.
It was early afternoon, and you were going over the list of questions about to be asked during the live interview when your temporary assistant, Natalia, came in. There had been a family emergency back in Sokovia, both Wanda and Pietro flew out the night before. You told them there was no hurry to come back, that they could take all the time they needed, their jobs would be there for them upon their return.
The red head crossed the room as her eyes roamed over Steve’s hulking frame. “The coffee shop was packed,” was her explanation for being late.
“It’s fine,” you assured her even though irritation and lack of caffeine was making you irritable and short-tempered.
Without looking up from the papers, you reached out for the coffee, but Nat was still ogling Steve, therefore not paying attention to how close the two of you were. She slammed into you and the coffee erupted between your bodies, completely drenching the champagne colored shirt you were wearing.
“What the fuck?” you hollered.
Nat clapped a hand over her mouth as a laugh burst out of her. “I’m so sorry, Miss Coulson.”
“I’m due on set in five minutes,” you ground out angrily. “And I don’t have another shirt.”
Steve stepped away from the wall. “Give her your blouse, Miss Romanov.”
“Yeah, right,” she scoffed in disbelief. “It’ll never fit her. Can’t we dry it out?”
You weren’t sure if she meant it the way it sounded or not, but you glared at her nonetheless. “What do you expect me to do? I need something, Natalia. There’s not enough time to borrow one from wardrobe, they’re on the other end of the building.”
With a heavy sigh, Steve pulled out the comm from his ear and jacket at the same time that he shrugged out of the jacket. He loosened his dark tie, all while you and Natalia looked at him; you with a question in your eyes, and Natalia with sheer amusement and lust.
“Fresh on this morning, ma’am,” Steve said calmly.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you groaned. It wasn’t that you were unappreciative of the gesture, you just weren’t sure about the fit.
Steve was tugging the shirt from his pants and undoing the buttons. “My shirts are altered to fit over my ballistic vest so the chest-to-waist ratio should be compatible.”
With a tight smile, you took the proffered shirt and set it on the couch. You glared at Nat, the woman responsible for the whole thing. “You, fuck off and organize Rogers a new shirt.”
After rolling her eyes, she stormed off with a huff and slammed the door behind her.
“You’ll have to tuck it under your jacket, ma’am,” Steve said, putting on his suit jacket over the ballistic-vest-and-white-cotton-covered chest.
“Thank you,” you huffed in relief. When Steve didn’t move to turn around, you cleared your throat. “Some privacy, please?”
With a shake of his head, he spun on his heel, giving you what little privacy he could. “Yeah, of course.”
You quickly put on Steve’s shirt and found yourself smiling at the heat it still held, the way it smelled like him; spiced leather and fresh soap. After tucking it into your pants, you gave the all clear for Steve to turn around and pulled on the jacket you had been wearing.
“Good timing, ma’am. One minute to set.”
Maria Hill, the replacement driver for Pietro, drove the town car through the downtown traffic with ease. She didn’t try and make small talk, which made Steve feel better. No conversation meant he could focus on a safe ride back to the motel, it meant that he definitely was not thinking about the way Y/N’s silk shirt clung to her breasts and the brief flash of her flesh he saw in his peripheral as he turned around.
Nope. Definitely not. Because thinking about that – soft skin and curves – meant he was distracted, and distracted meant he wasn’t doing his job.
“I’ll have the shirt laundered tonight,” she said, rescuing Steve from his own mind.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he gruffed, unconsciously shifting in his seat.
She must have noticed it, because she asked, “Are you alright, Rogers?”
He smiled tightly as he glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Because, if you’re not, you can talk to me abou-”
A series of bullets slammed into the driver’s side window, denting the bullet-resistant glass, pulling a surprised scream from Y/N. The car swerved slightly at the impact of the bullets. Maria sped up, trying to get to a safe spot.
“Down,” Steve shouted at Y/N as he scanned the passing scenery. “Go, Miss Hill. Hurry.”
“I’m trying,” Maria ground out.
The next set of bullets shattered the glass completely, and killed Maria instantly as they pierced through her head and neck. Y/N – slouched down in the seat – was screaming and covered in blood while only the left side of Steve’s face was colored with crimson.
There was a moment where it felt as if time slowed down. Steve felt like he was back on the battlefield, the sound of heavy fire bringing a surge of memories he wasn’t prepared for. The air in his lungs felt thick, tangible, like water, smothering him from the inside. Screams from the backseat bled through slowly until it was all he heard, snapping him back to reality.
Steve gripped the wheel as the car veered out of control and urged it toward a parked car. “Ma’am! Stay down,” he hollered over the spray of bullets against the side of the car. “The bullets can pierce the windows but they can’t get through the armored metal.”
Y/N threw off her seatbelt and hunkered down onto the floor, shaking uncontrollably and a yelp or a scream bursting out of her as more bullets hit the steel at her back.
Steve’s knees were on the floor and he was bent over the seat as he spoke into the comm. “Control, Sierra Zulu 7-9. Status Zero, Prospect Ave. I repeat, Control, Sierra Zulu 7-9. Status Zero, Prospect Ave. Lavender is under heavy fire.”
“Sierra Zulu 7-9, control, received. All call signs proceed to Prospect Avenue asap,” the sound of Rhodey’s voice in his ear was calm, a stark contrast to the chaos happening outside.
“We’ve lost Maria,” Steve added grimly. “We’re sitting tight, waiting for backup.”
Rhody came back with, “Wilco.”
More bullets slammed into the metal and Y/N whimpered as her blood-smeared hands gripped the leather cushion, her nails digging in.
“It’s okay, ma’am,” Steve assured her, hands covering hers, one eye peering at her through the small gap between the seat and the car. “It’s okay. The bullets can’t get through the armor plating. It’s okay.”
She was shivering and panting, probably going into shock. At the rate things were going, Steve wasn’t sure how much more she could take.
“Control, 7-9 Sierra Zulu,” he ground out.
It was Rhodey again. “Go ahead, 7-9.”
“We need armed support and air ops to the scene as operational priority,” Steve told the man on the other end, wincing as more bullets hit the car.
“Task force commander is deploying to the scene,” Rhodey informed him. “Area being cordoned off and unarmed held back. armored reconnaissance vehicles en route, ETA two minutes.”
Steve gave Y/N’s hand a squeeze. “Two minutes, ma’am. We sit tight. You’re going to be fine.”
More bullets, louder than before, pulling more screams from Y/N. She was wincing and jumping, the white around her eyes becoming more visible.
“You’re doing really well, ma’am,” he told her calmly. “You’re doing great.”
Jesus Christ. Does he have a gatling gun up there? As soon as that thought entered his mind, more bullets sprayed against the car, rocking it with a creak, Y/N screamed again, her voice shattering with the intensity of it.
“It’s okay, ma’am. It’s okay.” Steve licked his chapped lips as he desperately looked around.
He reached up and adjusted the rearview mirror in the hopes that he could see where the heavy fire was coming from. When he couldn’t see anything but the road behind him, he grunted in irritation. The only way he could really see anything was from outside the vehicle.
Goddamn it.
Y/N let out a keening sound as he climbed over Maria and opened the door. “No, please no.”
“It’s okay, ma’am,” Steve called out over the gunfire. “It’s all right.”
He dropped down to the pavement and pulled Maria’s lifeless body out of the car, leaving it sprawled on the sidewalk. Before he closed the door, he peered into Y/N’s panic-filled eyes. “Stay down, ma’am.”
Gunfire erupted once again as he closed the door, and Y/N let out an ear-piercing scream that covered Steve in goosebumps. He crept along the side of the car and dug out his cellphone. By the trunk, he turned on the front-facing camera and held it up, snapping a picture as more bullets slammed into the car.
His hands shook as he zoomed in on the picture, moving it around until he found what he was looking for; a burst of color around the muzzle. The shooter was on the roof of an apartment building to the south.
With the phone in his pocket and a shuddering breath pulled in, Steve called out to Rhodey. “Control, Sierra Zulu 7-9.”
“Go ahead, 7-9.”
“Shooter is located on the roof of Pascoe House, one thousand feet south of current location. Single shooter only,” was Steve’s updated information.
“Received, 7-9,” was all Rhodey said.
Steve grunted in disapproval. “Where are those armored vehicles?”
“ETA two minutes.”
“You already said two minutes,” Steve growled, frustration fueling the anger in his belly.
He opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat, Y/N’s surprised yelp greeting him. “Ma’am, I need to get you to safety.”
She was gripping the seat in front of her, keening and shaking, wide eyes flicking around wildly.
“Ma’am, this is what I do, trust me.” Steve shifted the car into reverse and adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see where he was going.
“4-7, 7-9, back-to-back on two,” he bellowed into the com.
“Go ahead, 7-9.”
“We’re sitting ducks here. Lavender on the move,” was the last thing Steve said to Rhodey. “Here we go ma’am.” He pushed on the gas and sent the car speeding backwards, narrowly avoiding the parked cars.
“Stay down, ma’am.” Bullets sprayed against the car and rear window, shattering it, sending glass on the seat and into Y/N’s hair.
“You’re doing great, ma’am.” Despite the screaming and shaking, she was doing really well. Steve had seen men and women in the war react far worse than Y/N was at the moment.
He kept driving the car, eyes pinned to the rearview mirror. Y/N started sobbing and trying to curl in on herself when bullets pounded into the roof. “The roof armour will protect us, ma’am.”
“Soon, he won’t have a line of sight,” he mumbled to himself. Bullets hit the hood and headlights as Steve turned the wheel. He shifted into drive and pulled into the parking garage.
At that moment, three unmarked squads and an ambulance pulled up. “We’re safe now, ma’am. Hold tight. Don’t move, ma’am. You’ll be fine.”
Steve jumped out of the car and she screamed in protest, her hands shooting out to grab him. “Take care of Lavender,” he instructed Sam Wilson, one of the other members of the team.
“Cap,” Sam said with a nod, handing Steve an AR-15.
Steve strode into the apartment building as he pulled out his badge and tucked it into the front pocket of his suit jacket. “Armed police!” he announced himself. “Get down, stay down! Remain calm. I need access to the roof.”
People hit the floor with surprised shouts at the sight of Steve jogging toward them, weapon raised, finger ready to squeeze the trigger at a moment’s notice. “Stay down! Remain calm. Officers will be arriving.”
“This way,” One of the security guards instructed as he approached Steve and showed him to the elevators, riding with him to the highest floor.
When the two men emerged, Steve ordered that the security guard show him to the roof.
The older man pointed to a door before opening it. “Though there, and up.”
Steve took the stairs three at a time, gun raised, eyes scanning every inch of the path he was taking. He slowed down when the space before him opened up. There was a platform made out of metal grating above his head, construction equipment scattered throughout the open area, and six steps that lead to the roof.
Heavy footsteps hit the steel above him and his heart jumped into his throat. Pulling in a deep breath, Steve trained his gun on the assailant and tracked him as he walked. As soon as a set of work boots cleared the last step, Steve called out, “Armed police!”
The man hung his head, hiding his face. He set the large black gun case onto the floor and shook his head.
“It’s over,” Steve said in a huff. “It’s over.”
Steve’s stomach dropped when the assailant muttered, “For me.”
Shit, no. Not him.
Bucky raised his head and stared hard at his friend. “Not for you. You can finish the job.”
“Job?” Steve choked out. “What job?”
“Somebody’s got to stop Coulson. And the only way to do that is through Y/N.”
Steve was shaking his head. “That doesn’t make sense, Buck.”
“I’m fucked,” Bucky scoffed as he pulled out a pistol from behind his back.
“No, Bucky. Don’t,” Steve said thickly.
Bucky pulled back the hammer and pressed the barrel under his jawline. “Someone’s got to stop Coulson. Get it done, Stevie.”
“Don’t!” Steve shouted, but it was too late. Bucky pulled the trigger and dropped to the ground.
The sight of Bucky’s lifeless body lying in a growing pool of his own blood made Steve’s stomach roll and pitch. He bent at the waist, gun at his side, dangling from his fingers, and pulled in shuddering breaths until the nausea and tears passed.
Gritting his teeth and squaring his shoulders, he stood and spoke into the comm. “Area secure.”
You were sitting on the loveseat, hunched over, elbows on your legs, a glass of whiskey in your hands. Every inch of you was cold and shaking.
“You’re in shock,” an EMT had told you as a blanket was draped around your shoulders, pity flooding his eyes.
They wanted to take you to the hospital, but you argued with them until it felt as if you were going to pass out. The only reason you were back at the hotel was because your father had rushed over, swept you into his arms, and had you in the backseat of his car.
Steve came out of the apartment building almost an hour later, ducked into the car, and instructed the driver to go, not saying a word the entire ride back. Even standing there, in your hotel room, he remained standing, his expression stoic and cool.
Once inside your room, the first thing you did was run into the bathroom and rip off your clothes. You threw them into the trash and turned on the shower as hot as it would go. You stood under the stream of water, scrubbing yourself almost raw, refusing to look down as crimson water swirled around your feet.
After changing into a pair of sweats and t-shirt, you poured yourself a drink and sat down on the loveseat. The silence was almost deafening, throbbing in your ears until you couldn’t take it.
“Why were the police held back?” you blurted out.
Steve cleared his throat before answering. “It wasn’t safe for unarmed officers to go in.”
“No, I don’t mean them,” you groaned heavily. “The armored vehicles.”
“We were under attack, ma’am. You, me, members of the public,” he tried explaining further.
You shot off the couch after downing the rest of your drink. With shaking hands, you refilled it, tears threatening to fall. “Maria was blown apart.” The glass slipped from your grip and hit one of the other glasses, making you jump.
Steve was at your side, close enough that the lapels of his jacket brushed against you as he straightened the glasses. “Ma’am, are all right?”
You clenched your jaw painfully. “Just answer the question, please, Steve.”
“I can’t imagine for a moment the armored response vehicles were being held back without good reason,” was his soft reply. “First priority is preservation of life.”
“I was being shot at,” you sputtered, wiping angrily at the tears on your face. “We were being shot at.”
Steve’s hand drifted over yours, a breadth away from actual contact. “Ma’am, why don’t you sit down and let me take care of this?”
You looked at him through your lashes as your fingers flexed, skimming the underside of his. The breath caught in your throat at the way he was looking at you; pupils expanding, flicking over your features, settling on your lips. You leaned into him and pulled in a deep breath through your nose. God, he smelled amazing.
“I’m not the Queen, Steve,” you exhaled, the air thickening in the small space between you. “You’re allowed to touch me.”
Steve’s eyes flashed as he watched you tentatively raise your face, brushing your nose along his jaw and chin, your hand turning over in his, nails catching on the callouses. A shudder ran through and settled deep in your gut at the mere thought of his rough touch on your skin.
You half-expected him to pull away, to storm out the door and demand to be removed from duty. So, when he let out a stuttering breath as your lips smeared across his, you seized the moment and, using one of his lapels for leverage, kissed him, hard, tongue probing between his lips.
With a moan trapped in the back of his throat, Steve wrapped an arm around your waist and hauled you off the floor. You curled your legs around him, squeezing him with your thighs as Steve pressed you to the wall, his feet spread for leverage. He dominated the kiss and your senses, practically smothering you with his hulking frame.
You shoved off his jacket and went to work on the straps of his ballistics vest as he bit and licked down your neck and jaw, pulling away just long enough to rip the vest over his head, followed by the cotton undershirt. His skin was hot under your touch, muscles twitching and rolling with every move he made. You raked your nails through his hair, tugging on the short strands, squeezing the back of his neck and shoulders.
Christ, the man’s shoulder-to-waist ratio was driving you insane.
Steve was kissing you feverishly, shoving his hands under your shirt and dragging his calloused fingers along your skin before cupping your breasts, his thumbs sweeping over your nipples, the flesh tightening at his touch. Your back curved off the wall, a whine bubbling against his tongue. He ripped off your shirt, his pupils all but exploding at the sight of you half-naked and whining for his touch.
With a hand secured at the small of your back, Steve resumed kissing you and carried you into the bedroom. He laid you on the bed, his hips rolling, his fingers digging bruises into your sides and breasts as he kissed and bit and licked his way down your body, tugging off the sweatpants you were wearing.
“Legs open,” he instructed darkly, hands on your knees.
You obliged, even going so far as to reach down and hook your hands behind your knees, spreading yourself wide open, presenting yourself like an all-Steve-could-eat buffet. A fresh wave of lust surged through at the sight of his cock growing and twitching behind the slacks he was wearing.
Steve ran his nose along your inner thigh and made a lewd, yet appreciative sound when he buried his nose in your short curls and breathed you in. His calloused touch was like sandpaper, opening you up, pressing into you, tongue and teeth working on your clit.
With your feet on his shoulders, you grabbed your breasts, squeezing them, tugging on the nipples, moaning heavily at the zing of pain it added to the immense pleasure that was building. He had two fingers inside of you, three knuckles deep, curling and twisting them, seeking out the spots that were most sensitive, the ones the would send you reeling.
You came with a strangled gasp of his name, thighs shaking, pressing against his head. He didn’t try and stop you, rather it seemed to spurn him on. He worked harder, stroking you faster, rougher, as if you were the very thing that could satisfy his craving.
Steve sat back, fingers deep in your pussy, and wiped your cum from his face, a salacious smirk tugging at his lips. With one hand, he worked open his pants, stepping out of them after they slid down his legs. You could do nothing but lay there, panting, watching as he pushed down his boxer briefs, gripping his cock with fingers that were dripping with your slick.
The air caught in your lungs at the sight of him; long, thick, and pre-cum weeping from the tip as he languidly stroked himself, bottom lip trapped between his teeth. You pushed up to your elbow, opened the drawer on the nightstand, and snagged a condom, ripping it open before handing it to Steve. You would have offered to put it on for him, but your legs felt like jelly and you didn’t trust them to support you.
After rolling the condom down his impressive length, Steve settled himself between your legs, the underside of his cock rubbing deliciously against your pussy as he kissed you. As the kiss grew heated, he reached down and gripped himself, pulling his hips back just far enough that on the next roll, he would be inside of you.
You felt every ridge, every pulsing vein; it was like velvet stretched taut over rock solid muscle, dragging gloriously against your walls, and it was breathtaking. Finally, he was buried to the root and watching you with dark eyes as your body struggled to accept him. Large hands grabbed your hips and rolled them, pulling a drawn-out moan from deep within you. You would have loved to take your time, to feel every-fucking-thing, but Steve had a different plan.
You scraped your nails down his back, marking him, making him hiss and arch. You’d had sex before, been fucked so many different ways you’d lost count, but never had you been fucked so goddamn good that you had forgotten what day of the week it was. And then Steve’s thick cock was dragging in and out of you, stretching your walls, that delicious burn taking your breath away, and making your eyes cross.
It was all grunts and groans, words of encouragement and praise that got lost amidst the wet slap of skin on skin. It was getting to be too much, you felt like you couldn’t breathe, but in a fucking good way; it only drew the coil tighter.
He pounded into you relentlessly, his balls slapping your ass echoing the incessant squeaking of bedsprings, the headboard thump-thumping against the wall, and the way you were saying his name, telling him to fuck you, “harder and faster,” that you were just about there, you just needed…
Steve slid a hand between your sweat-slicked bodies and rubbed your clit with his calloused thumb. The blunt edge of his nail scraped over the throbbing bundle of nerves, instantly snapping the coil painfully, but in a never-want-it-to-end kind of way. You came with a shattered cry, your vision and hearing completely taken over by everything having to do with Steve and his cock and your pussy clamping onto him so tight that he snarled.
It was sinful, the way he swore and ground out your name. The pulse and twitch of his cock as he somehow buried himself deeper just as he came sent an aftershock through you that made your already overstimulated pussy constrict again. Steve stilled for a moment, grunting as if he’d been hit in the gut, his hips jerking once, twice, three times until he blew out a bone-shuddering breath and dropped his forehead to your shoulder.
You were so lost in euphoria that you didn’t feel Steve push off of you and the bed. When the fog began to life, you felt a warm cloth between your legs. You sighed blissfully and reached down for his hand, but just as your nails skimmed his fingers, he pulled away.
“Get some rest, ma’am. You’ve had a long day,” Steve gruffed. He bent down and grabbed his clothes before exiting the room, undoubtedly gathering his shirt, vest, and jacket.
You heard him get dressed as you shoved off the bed, snagging your robe from the chair as you hurried out of the room. “Steve, you don’t have to go.”
He ran a hand through his tousled hair, making it look presentable to anyone else. “Yes, I do, ma’am.”
Steve was right, you knew that. If he didn’t emerge from your room at some point, rumors would start swirling that there was something more going on than a professional relationship. Yeah, okay, Steve had just fucked your brains out, but it wasn’t like you weren’t a grown ass woman that could make up her own mind and fuck who she wanted.
You gave a curt nod and moved to the table where your previously-poured glass of whiskey sat. While you drained it, Steve opened the door and left, closing the door quietly behind him. You heard him tell the agents outside that you were finally resting and shouldn’t be disturbed.
The whiskey was still warming your chest and belly when you went into your room, standing by the door that connected your rooms. You tracked Steve’s heavy footsteps as he entered his hotel room, walked into the bedroom, and sat on the bed. You could hear him sigh and mumble something unintelligible, probably as he ran a hand over his face.
You were about to turn away when his gruff voice stopped you cold. “Sharon, I… I need to talk to you.”
SIX
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