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You shift nervously as you wait your turn to talk to the officer behind the overlarge intake desk, going over the script in your head two, three times just to make sure the words come out right when he lazily gestures for you to come up to the front of the line.
“How can I help you?” He asks, though it’s easy for you to see he’d rather be doing anything other than helping. You’d gotten all of the paperwork online, too nervous to go in and ask for it, not when you’d have to name him publicly. You tug the brim on your baseball cap down, nervously tucking in the errant curls escaping out from underneath it.
“I, um. I need to file these.” The desk is high, almost chin height, and you have to stand on your toes to slide it across the polished wood. With a bored expression, the officer stares down the line of his nose first at you, and then at the papers covered in your thin scrawl. His mustache wriggles as he loudly pops the chewing gum in his mouth.
“This is the Complaint for Order against Stalking form, you’re going to need the Affidavit and the Protective Order information form to go with this one—” He begins sliding the papers back across to you, but you put out your hand to stop it.
“T-they’re all there,” you point out. “I stapled them all together.” He glares at you in a way that makes you wish you’d gone to a different precinct altogether.
“Hm.” He snatches them back and thumbs through them, his eyes widening and then narrowing tightly as he skims the affidavit. He snorts and you wince, dropping your gaze down to the tiled floor under your feet.
“This serious?” He asks, tapping the forms with a pen. “I’m gonna be honest with you, little lady,” The officer clears his throat, and leans forward. “We get some real jokesters in here with B.S. complaints. You want to know what the last one was? ‘Spider-man stole my car.’” He mimicks the complaint in an irritating falsetto that makes you grit your teeth and swallow against the lump in your throat. Your fingers bunch in the hem of your shirt, twisting the fabric.
“Yes.”
He gathers the papers up with an exaggerated motion, tapping them against the desk to straighten them.
“Alrighty then.” The sarcasm practically dripping from every syllable makes you wince. “I’ll just pass these on to the judge.” His dismissal is clear in his voice, and you tug your cap down again before shoving your hands down into the pockets of your hoodie. Acrid bile rises in your throat as you listen to the officer grumble as you walk away, your hands clenched into tight, sweaty fists.
“What was all that about?” You glance back as you reach the exit, another female officer standing over his shoulder, staring down at the papers you’d left. He snorts.
“Another one of the crazies,” he laughs, shaking his head. “This one wants a restraining order.”
“On who?”
“Steve-Fucking-Rogers.”
—
The apartment is quiet and dark when you return, and as you shoulder your way through the door, you stumble over the pile of empty moving boxes you’d stashed in the hallway on your way out. Your new apartment is smaller than the last one, the one you’d shared with him , but that’s why you like it.
No places for him to hide.
You toe off your shoes, leaving them by the entryway as you clamor over boxes to get to your newly acquired used couch. There’s still a ton of unpacking to do, but you don’t feel like doing anything right about now, especially after going to the police station. You grimace, wrapping your arms around your middle. They’re probably still laughing at you, treating this like a prank when it isn’t one.
Cops’ll never do a thing about it, Angel, Steve’s voice echoes uncomfortably in in your mind’s ear. You can practically feel his weight on you, hot breath on the back of your neck as he raked his teeth hard across your skin. What am I guilty of? You shudder. The cable isn’t set up yet, but you’re just fine watching shows on your laptop just to cut the silence—and drown out the sound of your own thoughts. Turning the volume up as high as it’ll go, you busy yourself making something to eat for dinner.
You’re trying hard not to think about anything, not the upcoming meeting with the judge you know will be coming, not Steve, not anything. If you do, you fear you’ll be crushed under the weight of it all. With a fresh PB&J in hand, you head back to the couch. Mindlessly, you pick a show you’ve already completed as background noise, and as the opening credits begin to roll, you grab for your phone.
Unknown number : Coffee? Tomorrow?
You cock your head at your phone. It is new, and you did have trouble porting over all your contacts, a fair few had been lost in the shuffle.
Who is this? For a moment, there’s no response. You take a bite of your meager dinner, and chew it thoughtfully.
Unknown number: It’s been too long. I need to see you.
Something uncomfortable pricks at the base of your skull, sending a rolling shiver down your back and arms. You swallow thickly, and not because of the peanut butter. This is a new number. He can’t have it—he couldn’t possibly. I just got it last week. You repeat that thought to yourself as you quickly block the number and delete the message, just in case. If it’s someone important, they’ll contact you another way, they’ll—
Your phone vibrates in your hands as an email comes through. You squeak, jumping in your seat and almost dropping both your phone and your sandwich. You tap the notification, and the cold lead that had been gathering on your tongue slides down into your belly.
It’s a picture of you. From today—earlier, when you’d stopped at a coffee shop to read. It’s fuzzy, like it’s far away and through the window, but it’s still you—it’s the same fucking shirt you’re wearing now. Your stomach rolls as you read the message Steve’s attached.
Every time I see you, I can’t help but see myself inside of you.
You toss your phone to the couch as you lurch up off of it, paranoia gripping you. Nervously, you check the fire escape and then check that all the windows are locked. You draw all the blinds closed, and then stand in your living room, picking at your cuticles.
How?
You don’t know how he keeps managing to slip past every safeguard and boundary you try to set, flaunting his access to you like a game. You know, at least in part, that it’s because he was right. He’s Steve Rogers, the hero time forgot. You’re just…you. And you’re in way over your head. After a few deep breaths, you pick back up your phone, wincing at the picture as you quickly navigate out of the email thread. You block the sender—a random assortment of letters and numbers you know means he’s using a burner address—and delete the picture.
You’re tempted to respond, to tell him to leave you alone, that it’s over, done, that you won’t be coming back for seconds or thirds, but you delete every message you start to type out, knowing it will only encourage him. Instead, you send a stressed text to your best friend.
He’s at it again.
Addison ❤️❤️ : Again? Can’t he take the hint? Jesus.
It’s a relief just to be able to talk about it, though you still feel the misplaced guilt and shame Steve had managed to make yours, as though they belonged to you. You wouldn’t want people thinking badly of me over a misunderstanding, would you, Angel?
Yeah, I went to the station. They all thought it was a joke.
Addison❤️❤️: Assholes. Well, you blocked him, right?
Yeah. For like. The sixth time… I wish he would just leave me alone.
Addison ❤️❤️ : maybe he misses you.
You scrunch your nose at the phone.
Misses me? You shake your head. Like a hole in the head. You don’t get a response from Addison, and you’re not sure you want one, either. Addie had been one of the only people in your life who hadn’t liked Steve. His charm and charisma had worked on everyone else—including you. Hell, she’d even helped you get the hell out of dodge when your resolve to “stick it out” had finally broken. You check the windows and doors again, just to be safe, before you head for the shower.
In the bathroom, you angrily strip off your clothes, feeling like they’re soiled beyond the normal wear and tear of daily use. There’s a boiler room in this old building, and you’re tempted to sneak down there and toss them into the incinerator. Instead, you ball them up in shaking fists, and stuff them down into the trash bag sitting in the hallway. The water is almost too hot on your skin, but you relish the sting of it.
When you emerge, there’s a new text from Addison.
Addison❤️❤️: Why don’t I come over? It sounds like you could use the company.
You consider it as you slip into more comfortable clothing. It’s true, you don’t want to be alone, especially not now. It’s been a long time since you actually had anything resembling a girl’s night—Steve’s insistence on being included had successfully killed the majority of those outings. Your friends had borne his presence with good nature as you’d smiled through each subtle dig and veiled criticism until the invitations just… stopped coming. You don’t need them anyway, Angel, you can remember his smile as he’d clucked his tongue and tucked a finger under your chin, forcing you to look him in the eye. Jealous and petty, aren’t they?
Sure, you reply. Maybe we can paint our nails or something.
You’re expecting her to text back a confirmation, an emoji, something—but no response comes. She’s probably on the train already. Suddenly aware of how cluttered your space is, you set about tidying up. There isn’t much to be done about the boxes, but you slide them out of the walkways, and clear the couch of all the books you’d been sorting through. You jump when the buzzer goes off, twice in sharp succession. This tiny apartment isn’t like the penthouse you’d shared with Steve, a private elevator, a doorman. Another shrill buzz echoes from the intercom as you scramble over to it, muttering about Addie’s impatience.
“I’m going to buzz you up, the intercom doesn’t work both ways, stupid thing,” you say as you jab your thumb against the stiff button. You hold it long enough to ensure that she’ll have time to open the door and enter the lobby. The sound of the heavy door slamming shut echoes up the stairwell, loud enough for you to hear it on the third floor landing. Impatiently, you wait by the door, undoing the deadbolt and the lock. She raps against the door with her knuckles, and you tug it open excitedly.
“Hey, why didn’t you respond to my text—” Your voice dies in your throat, your chest tightening painfully as Steve grins at you from across the threshold. He holds up Addie’s phone, and taps the screen.
“Sorry about that, Angel. Couldn’t get this damn thing unlocked.” He chuckles at his own joke, before carding a hand through his hair. His voice seems to echo strangely in your ears, punctuated by the rushing of your own blood. You move to slam the door shut, but Steve is faster, shoving himself through the door with enough force to throw you to the ground. He locks the door after himself, taking great care to set the deadbolt and shut the peep-hole.
“G-get out.”
“Is that all you have for me?” He asks, squatting in front of you. You recoil. Steve makes a disappointed noise low in his throat. “
“S-Steve you—”
“Missed my fiancé,” he cuts you off, finishing the sentence for you. “More than anything.” He holds out a hand to help you up, but you don’t take it. After a moment, Steve sighs. “Does everything have to be so difficult, Sweetheart?” His hand wraps around your wrist, and he tugs you roughly to your feet. Used to be that you liked how strong Steve was, how easy it was for him to throw you around like a rag-doll. Now, it terrifies you. You try to rip your arm from his grip, but it’s like pulling on an iron bar.
“What did you do to Addison?” You hiss at him, fingernails digging into his thick skin as you try to dislodge him.
“She’s at home, safe and sound.” You know Steve well enough to hear the threat beneath his nonchalant delivery. “And she’ll stay that way, as long as you behave.” Slowly, you stop struggling, and the cruel smile on his face widens. “Good girl.” A shiver runs down your spine. You know he remembers how those words meant everything to you not so long ago, how hearing them inspired you to do anything you could to hear them again.
“Steve, I want you to go,” you say, your voice trembling. “I want you to—”
“And people in hell want ice water,” he sneers. “You’ve been playing very stupid games, Angel, and I don’t want to play anymore.” He cuts his eyes at you. “A restraining order? Really?”
“You’ve been following me, sending pictures—!” You huff.
“And how do you know that’s me?” He asks, turning on the smile you know so well from interviews and press briefings. “Sweetheart, I think you’re blaming me for things I haven’t done.” You don’t want to argue this with him, don’t want to play this game. Not when you know very well that you’ll lose—you always do. “If you’d just come home—”
“We broke up, Steve!” You say shrilly. “I-I couldn’t breathe without you being there, questioning me—“ Steve tugs you against his chest and you whimper.
“Clearly I was right to question.” Steve snaps. “The company you keep does say quite a lot about the quality of your decisions, Sweetheart.” You see him glance around your new home with open dissatisfaction. “I care about you. Can’t you see that?”
“You controlled me.” You whip the words back at him. “That isn’t love.” Steve cocks his head.
“Oh no?” He asks. You’re suddenly aware of how close he his, and you try to pull back but Steve doesn’t let you put any distance between you. “As I recall, Angel, you haven’t always been the best at making your own decisions. I mean, look at this place. It’s worse than the sty you were in when I met you.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “I would argue that helping you make decisions, and pointing out the flaws in your friendships is the epitome of love.” His eyes go dark and intense, so much so that you look away.
“I want you to leave—”
“Oh Angel,” Steve strokes a deceptively gentle finger down the side of your face. “I am so far past caring what you want.” The fear in your belly turns to cold lead. “What you want is to walk away, treat this—treat us—like it never happened.” He cups your chin in his hand, forcing you to look up into his cold blue eyes.
“But I chose you. You don’t walk away from me.” His fingers trail down your throat, and for a moment you wonder if he’s going to wrap his hand around it and squeeze. “Nod if you’re understanding me, Angel.” You bob your head, swallowing against the sticky lump in your throat. His eyes follow the motion, sweeping down over the curve of your breasts through the t-shirt.
He traps both of your wrists in one hand as he traces your nipple through the cotton. An uncomfortable little whine escapes your throat when he pinches. You hate the warm tingle it sends down to your core, and you fidget away from him. There’s nowhere for you to go, really, your back pressed up against the wall, and your front pressed to the hard planes of Steve’s chest. He wedges a knee between your thighs, pressing it up against your pussy through the shorts.
“S-Stop!” You squeak, and his laughter puffs warmly over your skin as he runs his lips over the curve of your cheek. His mouth crashes against yours, and he swallows your gasp of surprise. Steve’s teeth tug at your bottom lip, worrying at it until it throbs.
“You used to beg for this,” he reminds you darkly, and your breath hitches as his thigh presses harder into your cunt. “Feel familiar yet, Sweetheart?” Your head is spinning, your body reacting on muscle memory as your walls clench and milk at nothing. It’s like he knows because he laughs again, palming at your breast through your shirt with his free hand. You can feel the length of him pressing against you through the jeans, throbbing against your thigh. He tugs at the collar of your t-shirt, pulling it taut against your skin before the threads begin to pop and tear as he rips it from you.
Steve exhales a pleased sigh at the sight of you, tracing a finger between your breasts and down to the waistband of your shorts. You feel the pressure at your wrists ease, but when you look up at Steve, his eyes are dark.
“On your knees, Angel.” Reluctantly, you drop down to the hardwood floor. He’s already half hard, pressing insistently at the zipper. You undo the button on his jeans, and he springs out, the tip already bright red and leaking. You glance up at Steve, and he smirks, taking himself in hand and tapping the weeping head against your lips.
“You haven’t forgotten how, have you?” His gaze is heavy on you as you lean forward to lick at him, slimy, salty precum coating your tongue. His large hand falls to the back of your head as he hisses. You lave soft, slow strokes of your tongue against his thick, veiny shaft, and you feel his fingers knot in your hair.
“Missed this,” he groans. “Your perfect fucking mouth—” Steve’s hips jerk forward, and he holds you still as he thrusts down into your throat and stays there. Your nose is pressed against the fine hair at the base of his cock, his swollen balls against your chin. Your throat constricts around him, tears building in the corners of your eyes and leaking down your cheeks as you choke around his girth.
He pulls back, admiring the thin string of your saliva that connects your lips to his glistening cock. You a swallow or two of air before he presses against your lips again, and your mouth opens automatically. Steve lets out a choked groan as he slides home. You feel shameful wetness gathering at the apex of your thighs, and you hate yourself for it. There’s a cruelty in Steve that perhaps had been missing the last time you interacted, but that isn’t stopping your body from responding to him as if he’s trained you.
Steve wrenches you off of his cock with a growl, slamming your back against the wall as he slots his hips in between your thighs. He hooks an arm under your knee, spreading you open so he can stare appreciatively at the slick mess of your cunt. You try to close your legs and kick at him but Steve snorts at your efforts.
“All this fretting, and for what?” He presses your thighs even further apart, and gazes down almost lovingly at the sticky mess between your thighs. “Wet anyway.” You feel him slide against you, and you whimper, shaking your head.
“Steve, Steve—!” It feels surreal as he begins to breach your entrance, disbelief coloring your features as you stare up at him. He groans long and low in his throat, a shudder passing through him as his hand tightens on your hip. You’d forgotten how big he is, how much space his cock takes up inside of you. It’s like there’s no room for anything else, not even air in your lungs as Steve presses inside, inch by thick inch.
“God, yes,” he growls, eyes rolling up to the spottily painted ceiling. “You don’t know how fucking good you feel.” Your teeth sink into your lip as Steve slides in to the hilt, your cunt pulsing wetly around him. You know the response is automatic, but you hate yourself for it anyway.
Maybe he does know me better than I know myself.
The thought is fleeting though, because the burning stretch of his movement is enough to send your thoughts flying apart like glass shattering. You gasp as he draws out, only to slam back into you with a grunt. You hate this pleasure, you don’t want it, but it forces its way through your veins anyhow, burning away at your resistance. Steve fists a hand in your hair, pulling your head back as he nips at your throat. You whimper, tightening shamefully around the invading weight of his cock.
“Needed this, didn’t you Angel?” He rasps, teeth pulling at the lobe of your ear as he splits you open with long, deliberate thrusts. “It’s okay, Sweetheart. There’s nobody here to hear you admit you missed this cock.” You writhe in his arms. “So go on. Say it.” A moan gurgles up out of your throat, even as you try to choke it down. You feel Steve’s mouth curve against your throat, and you squeak when his teeth nip painfully at your flesh.
“I-I missed your cock,” you mumble lowly, and Steve thrusts in hard, stealing the breath from your chest.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you,” he sneers.
“I missed your cock!” The words end in a wail as he speeds up, heavy balls slapping against you as he ruts into you hard. The tide of pleasure you’ve been trying to hold at bay surges up over your defenses, and you sob against his chest as your toes curl.
“Shit, are you—?” Steve’s words die in a throaty groan as you milk his cock, your slick walls convulsing around him. Steve tugs up your other leg, holding you off of the floor completely as he fucks into you with abandon. “Fuck, Angel,” he growls. “No condom, but that’s alright, isn’t it?”
“No, Steve—” His lips crush against yours, and he steals the words from your tongue with his own and swallows them. He groans into your mouth as his hips still, and sticky warmth coats your insides. You stare dizzily up at the ceiling as he rests his sweaty forehead against your shoulder, his arms still locked tight around you and his cock lodged in your cunt.
When he finally pulls out of you, and lets you set your shaking legs back on the ground, you clutch the torn remains of your t-shirt around yourself. He takes another look around your apartment and clucks his tongue.
“It’s a good thing you’re moving back home.” His eyes gleam hungrily as your own stare defeatedly at the floor. “I think we’d be too loud for the neighbors.”
Fin