there are probably a billion versions of this on your dash already

Never Forget (Part 2) - Steve Rogers

Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Steve Rogers x Reader 

Summary: Your second date with Steve doesn’t go exactly according to plan.

Word Count: 1302

Warnings: A bit of Steve-disapproved language, and lots o’ fluff.

A/N: I was so happy to see how many likes and reblogs part 1 got! Thanks to everyone who is reading this! Let me know if you actually want a part 3 to this or something different. Make requests, give me prompts. Gif is not mine– credit to the owner.

Originally posted by sincerelysaraahh

“Motherfucker!”

You looked at your hand, which was bright red from where you’d just burned it on the frying pan. Immediately, you dashed over to the sink and ran it under cool water, letting out a heavy sigh of relief. It was a small burn- nothing a little Neosporin and a bandage couldn’t fix. 

It was probably a good thing Steve hadn’t arrived yet. Get all your ‘Motherfuckers’ out now, you reminded yourself. 

This was your second date- you, cooking dinner for him, at your apartment. The first date had been dinner and a movie- well, dinner and half of a movie. Steve had gotten a call to go to work in the middle of it, and had to leave you all by yourself in that theater. And you were slightly irritated, yeah, but at the same time, you understood that ‘work’ for him was saving the planet from an alien invasion or rescuing hostages from a pirate-raided aircraft carrier. So you just reminded yourself that he wouldn’t leave unless it was important.

You were making him homemade pizza, an easy recipe you had learned from your mom while growing up. After patching up your burn, you turned your attention back to the pizza. You had the crust just slightly baked already, and now it was time to top it. Shit, you thought, scratching your head inquisitively. What does he like on pizza? 

You glanced at the clock- there was about fifteen minutes before he was supposed to arrive. You thought of all the possible toppings you had in your fridge, and just decided he could pick what he wanted. So you grabbed the spinach and the peppers and olives, pepperoni, ham, cheese, and pizza sauce all out of the refrigerator, and assembled them on the table next to the partially-baked crust. Realizing you still looked like garbage, you rushed into your room, ripping off your sweats and changing into a pair of jeans, and a not-covered-in-flour t-shirt. You double checked your hair, and applied light makeup just to cover a few blemishes. 

Then you buzzed around the living room, straightening out the throw pillows on the couch and the magazines on the coffee table. You wanted things to look nice, and who could blame you? A superhero was coming over.

After making sure everything was all straightened out- and almost exactly on time- there was a knock at the door. You took in a deep breath, walked over to the door, and opened it. “Hey!” You said, maybe sounding a little too excited. 

On the other side of the door, there was Steve. He was so cute. He had on a plaid shirt tucked in to his slacks. Everything was so clean-cut and adorable.

“Hello,” he chuckled, and you stepped aside to let him in. “Wow, it smells really good in here.” You shut the door and smiled. “What are you making again?”

“Pizza,” you replied, making your way into the kitchen. He followed you. “And I realized I never asked what you liked on pizza, so I just thought we could top it together,” you leaned against the table in the kitchen, presenting your topping station.

Steve smiled slowly, and your heart fluttered. You’d definitely gotten more comfortable around him since your first, and second, meetings. However, he still made  you feel nervous, but in a really good way. Like you were constantly on a hot-air balloon ten-thousand feet in the air. 

“I’ve never actually made pizza before,” he admitted.

“First time for everything, then, I guess?”


You’d let him pick the music, and of course he’d decided on some old-school, smooth jazz. The pizza was in the oven- topped with literally everything you’d put on the table- and now the two of you were sitting on the couch, just talking and waiting for the timer to go off. 

“I feel like I’m in an elevator,” you laughed as a saxophone solo ended.

Steve laughed, shaking his head. “You can change it,” he said, glancing over at the speaker. 

“No, I like it. It’s nice.” 

You listened to the music- it was kind of relaxing and you could definitely see this lulling you to sleep. 

“Did you have to work today?” Steve asked, and you shook your head.

“No, I get Saturdays off. Did…” You trailed off.

“What?” he asked, poking you in the leg. 

“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head lightly.

“No, you were going to say something. What?” he asked again.

You shook your head again. “Well, I was just going to ask if you worked today. But I figured you probably couldn’t tell me.”

Steve knitted his brows together, and sighed. “I mean, yeah, you’re right. But I can tell you some things, I think. As long as you swear not to tell anyone.” 

“I swear,” You said, and held up your pinky for good measure. He linked pinkies with you, smiling goofily, and you swore. 

“We had an intense training today- the Avengers,” Steve said. You nodded. “Just a lot of working out and throwing things- nothing crazy.”

“Right, right, nothing crazy,” You deadpanned, rolling your eyes playfully. “Probably just, you know, tossing train cars in the air and catching them, and shooting off high-tech bazooka guns.” 

Steve laughed. “I think you would be pleasantly surprised with what we actually do to train.”

“Then I’ll just keep my version of it,” you said.


“I thought I set the timer for twenty minutes!” You exclaimed, frustrated, as you held a burned pizza in your oven-mitt-covered hands. Sighing, you set the pan down on the stove and crossed your arms over your chest. 

“It’s alright, Y/N,” Steve said, leaning against the counter. 

“No,” you huffed, looking at the settings on the oven. “It’s not- I’ve made this pizza dough a billion times. I need to know what went wrong.” 

“And they say I’m dramatic,” Steve muttered, and you glared at him. “Woah, sorry,” he said, his eyes widening slightly. “Scary Y/N.” 

You stuck out your tongue playfully before looking at the oven again. After some ‘intense’ investigating, you realized that the temperature of the oven was wrong. Instead of 350 degrees, you had somehow set it to 450. 

“Dammit,” you murmured, sighing heavily. You looked over at Steve, realizing that pizza-induced anger was probably not super attractive to him. “Sorry,” you said, a disappointed tone present in your voice. “I just wanted tonight to be special, and I wanted to impress you, and cook for you, and have a nice dinner.” 

He shook his head, taking a step forward. “Tonight already was special,” he said, reaching down and grabbing your hand. A million fireworks lit off- this was the first time he’d held your hand before. “You don’t need to try to impress me, Y/N,” he said, smiling down at you. “I really, really like spending time with you, homemade pizza or not.” 

His hand was like twice as big as yours as he interlocked your fingers, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Your bodies were so close- you’d not been this into someone in a long time. The jazz was playing in the other room, and it didn’t matter that your whole apartment smelled like burned pizza. Everything was alright, and you felt safe here, one hand locked onto Steve’s, the other wrapped around his torso. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to let him take care of you, so long as you could take care of him from time to time. 

You ended up ordering Dominoes’ and cuddling on the couch, your head against his chest and his arm around your shoulders. He didn’t have to leave halfway through, which was nice, and you fell asleep on his chest, the sounds of jazz and his big, strong heartbeat lulling you to sleep.