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Steve had been struggling. Leadership, as it turns out, can make people controlling. Who would’ve guessed (not Steve, apparently). So, when he came to you, pleading “please, baby, I gotta fix it,” you obliged. Steve—Captain America himself—could lead armies, could haul twenty men on his shoulder, but couldn’t loosen up. It was funny, truly. Part of the reason you even said yes is because, other than him being your boyfriend, you thought it might be amusing.
Having Steve in front of you, chest heaving and sweaty, rope being carefully tied over skin? Less amusing, more arousing. For you, that is. He found himself pouting, biceps flexing occasionally with pure strength—if he wanted out, he could snap the ropes at any time, you both were well aware of this fact. No amount of pretty knots could restrain Steve when he wanted to get out.
He gritted his teeth, muttering, but let you continue. “You know, doll, when I asked for help?” His arms flexed against the ropes, testing them, just to feel the bite against his skin. “Not what I meant.” He stayed put, though, and that stubborn obedience made your smile widen.
He’s, to put it bluntly, very bratty. When he doesn’t get his perfect way, he gets uptight, pouty. Not always in public, what with keeping up with appearances and all, but alas. No wonder he needs help loosening up. He’s tighter than a Christian girl on prom night.
“I just want to help you. Take you out of your comfort zone. Maybe amuse myself, just a little,” you laugh, hands securing one knot, making sure he feels the fibers against his skin, dragging gently across skin that is heated to the touch. “Baby, I’m really helping, just relax? You’re gonna tear the rope with all that muscle.” Compliments, you have noticed, soothe his ego, make him less bratty and more confident in himself. Sure, it circled back to leadership and control—but maybe, just maybe, this could break the cycle.
He huffs, but listens. Which is much to your liking. Captain America, boiled down to a man in ropes, listening and staring up at you with eyes that, truly, shouldn’t be legal? Well… most would sell their souls just for a glimpse of this. You get to live it every day.
Once finished, ropes decorating his muscular body like artwork, twisted fibers contrasting with his soft skin, you smile, leaning over him. Your lips hover right over his. “My love, I must say, I think I prefer this,” you whisper, eyes flicking over his face curiously. He doesn’t seem entirely upset—how could he? You’re a beautiful woman, tying him up, and then telling him you like it! Any man would die for this. Steve’s just grateful you chose him. His head cocks to the side.
“Yeah?” he asks, voice just a little soft. He doesn’t want to be quiet. Quiet means he gives in immediately. Which he, hardheaded man he is, refuses to do. “I don’t see how it helps. Anyone other than you, I mean.” His brows furrow, resisting in the way he knows you like, lips curled into that all too familiar and all too petulant pout.
Cocking a brow, you simply rest a hand on his thigh, pretending to consider his words. “Trust me. You always trust me, don’t you, baby?” Steve hates how easy this gets to him.
You know him too well.
Shifting, you let your hand brush higher on his thigh, resting on his waistband. His shirt was taken off but his pants remained, just for ease. The ropes over his chest tighten with the urge to pull away. His eyes narrow slightly. Letting your hand roam, you scrape your nails down his abdomen, fingertips occasionally touching at the dips between muscle and fat and skin, worshipful. He takes it, hips jerking at the sensation.
Despite all his training, all the fighting, his tough guy persona, Steve is, without a doubt, sensitive. The lightest touch—your finger tracing lines down to his waistband—is enough to make his heart stop and jump, beating quickly. It’s enough to make him sweat.
“Sweetheart,” he grunts out, watching you.
You shush him immediately, placing a finger over his lips.
“Let me help you.”
He groans. Pouting, he keeps watching, skin crawling and covered in goosebumps. Both hands, moving down, rest on his lap. His cock twitches with immediate interest and you smile. He wants nothing more than to have you on him, to be over you, to hold you, to have that control. But Steve needs to learn to lack it. Which is, he notes, difficult. Feeling you palm him through his pants fills him with thoughts that he’s sure are not helping his case. He bites back a pathetic whine.
Your fingers slowly fiddle with the button of his jeans, gently pulling and pushing. You take your time, keeping them on, just holding and tugging at his pants. His hips jump up in his eagerness to be touched. The movement causes your hands to halt in their place. “Steve, calm down,” you huff, amused. It is, however, extremely arousing to know he gets so excited just at the feel of you messing with the fabric covering him, not even touching his skin yet. It is very unfair—both for him and you. He can feel every little thing, body on edge, as you tease.
He stares up at you, missing his usual control, and frowns, eyes big and pleading. “Doll. Please?” His voice slips, cracking just enough to make him embarrassed, as he lets his mental desperation turn verbal.
This newfound begging makes you smile. He’s struggling in the ropes—you can hear the knots creaking, struggling under Steve’s strength. It’s admirable, really, that they haven’t burst yet. Not only is Steve holding himself back, but the ropes are containing the strength he isn’t pulling his punches with.
Your hands finally—finally—dip beneath his waistband and tap the skin there. You go no farther than fingertips yet. His skin is flushed, hot to the touch, nearly burning you. When his squirming gets too unbearable, you decide to pop the button of his denim, letting him get some relief from the overwhelming fabric. He sighs—very audibly—and shifts. This change in pace has clearly pleased him.
You palm over him through his boxers, heat against heat, until he whines. The ropes tighten, digging into skin, until he stops. The red ropes look like gift wrap on Christmas Day. And, without a doubt, Steve is a gift from Santa.
Tugging the denim lower, you give yourself more access, using it to yank his boxers down, letting them rest below so you can let his cock spring free. Steve, the ever modest man, flushes. “Look at you, Mr. Captain America. Put that strength to good use for me, yeah? That endurance? Just stay still,” you whisper, one hand gently smoothing over his shaft, palm barely grazing the skin. He whimpers almost immediately, the sound pushing past his lips before he can help himself, and he tries to cover it with a groan.
“Don’t.” His teeth are gritted, tense, as he stares at you. “Don’t tease.” Unfortunately for Steve, this is your whole plan in a nutshell. Your hand grips him just briefly before letting go and choosing to draw circles on his pelvis instead. This action—or rather the lack of action—makes him pouty. “Doll?” He tries, head tipping back, a pathetic expression on his face.
Weak woman that you are, you let your hand return, gently gripping him at the base before dragging up, then down slowly. “My love, relax. I’m taking care of it. You need to learn to trust, to relax, to let others be in charge.” Steve’s eyes screw shut and his lips part on a gasp. After being held in ropes and essentially told no, this gentle work feels like heaven. Even a gentle breeze can feel like full-gust winds in the heat.
He knows he wants more—you know it too—and he knows he can break out of this and get more. But? He doesn’t. His body stays still as you slowly but surely work him over. Though his stamina is unmatched, Steve is weak when it comes to being edged this way. Being teased, denied, put in his place—it all makes it harder for him to hold off, harder to keep himself in check. You don’t like that—you want him to relax, to let himself get out of check, just once.
Your hand stops. His body jolts like it’s been electrocuted as his hips buck in your hand to try and regain the friction. “Steve. Relax. I won’t say it again.” Mean, cruel, cold, and surprisingly effective. His eyes widen briefly at the tone, clearly surprised because you’ve never spoken to him this way, then relax. He’s starting to get it, much to your liking.
His hips buck once more—lighter, like he’s trying to be gentle about asking for more. You oblige, working him again, stroking slow and steady until he starts squirming. His tip leaks pre-cum in a continuous stream of liquid, clear and smooth, rolling against heated flesh. He’s close, you both can tell. His whole body feels like it’s on fire, his head is swimming, and he keeps bucking into your hand.
You squeeze tighter, tugging at him. The change in force causes him to groan—loud. Your name slips from his lips until he chokes on his gasps, your speed increasing to match your grip, wanting to see the expressions he’ll make and the sounds he’ll sputter on. A pleading “sweetheart” echoes from him before he finishes, face twisted as his body jerks. You watch his hips, specifically—the pitiful way they jerk as his cock spurts hot, sticky, white cum onto you and him both. His whole body trembles with the need to get out of the confines of the ropes surrounding him, to hold you, to be in bed with you again. Steve has always been somewhat clingy with you, especially after sex. And during, as a matter of fact. It takes him several moments to catch his breath—his lungs are practically burning. Yours are too because just seeing him like this makes it hard to breathe and think straight.
He calms, body still, and stares up at you. “Untie me?” He asks, gentle, no longer being demanding or controlling—clearly rattled by the way you handled him.
You smile, shaking your head. “Just… Hulk out of them, big guy. I know you can,” you reply, almost snorting on laughter.
Steve glares at you. Sure, he can, but it’s humiliating. Doesn’t a single part of you find it as dehumanizing as him? Don’t—well, maybe, he supposes, you just like seeing his muscles. That softens his glare instantaneously. He pauses in consideration before nodding. It takes a moment, but Steve manages to brute-force himself out of his ropes—your ropes. He stands on shaky legs, pulls you up to stand with him, and smiles his charming smile. “I love you, sweetheart.”
His lips find yours, shaky and desperate, as he holds you. He’s never had a long resting period—but he also pushes himself. You both know it. However, you don’t say anything, simply move him to the bed and hold him.