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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 days ago

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Stars Align 2

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Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as age gap, manipulation, power imbalance, dubcon/noncon and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Steve Rogers was one of the biggest stars of Hollywood’s Golden Era. For years, his disappearance from the spotlight has been a mystery, that is until he walks right into your life. (Old Hollywood AU/1960s AU)

Characters: silverfox!Steve Rogers, reader is named ‘Satyr’ for clarity

Note: I enjoy older music and musicals. I tend to drift into this idea whenever I’m enjoying some and I finally said fuck it.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

Steve

“Sam, wait, wait,” Steve quickly folds up his glasses and tucks them away. He doubts anyone would recognise him but New York has a way of washing the familiar faces up to the shore. “We found her.”

“What are you talking about? Don’t tell me it’s that Bambi-legged girl who fell on her face,” he scoffs and cups his hand around the cigarette between his lips, flipping up the lid of his lighter.

“No, not—if you’d stayed, you’d have seen. Dammit, it’s like you want this to go wrong,” Steve accuses.

“Me? Come on. You’ve been griping since I pulled you out of the cave. It’s not me that wants this to go wrong so forgive me for being a little wary of self-sabotage.” Sam sucks on the tobacco and lets out a puff of smoke. Steve waves away the stinky cloud.

“You know, that’s not good for you.”

“Who says? My doctor said it’ll clear up my lungs,” he snickers.

“Look, alright, there’s work to do but I’m sure it’s here.”

“Who?” Sam arches a brow.

“Again, you ran out--”

“Yeah, yeah, well, we can play doorman, catch her on the way out,” Sam shrugs and pushes his shoulders up against the frosty wind. “Hate this city, too damn cold.”

“Colder places than here,” Steve grumbles. He can’t put to words the glimmer of a memory; gunshots and smoke from mortars mingling with the breath of shivering shoulders. He shakes off the thought. “So, let’s do it. Let’s wait.”

“You think your old bones can stand it?” His laugh turns into a hacking cough.

Steve sneers and rolls his eyes. He buttons up his jacket and approaches the marquee. The theatre is dead, not even a matinee. It’s the best place for a famous face. No one’s around to see him. If they remember him.

“Stark liked the script, you know?” Sam stands across the double doors. “He laughed though. Says of course you’d only write about yourself.”

“It’s not about me,” Steve sniffs.

“Sure,” Sam scoffs and sucks on the cigarette. “Whatever you say.”

“Come on,” Steve huffs and looks around.

He’s not used to all these people. What’s wrong with him? This is his home. Or once was. Why did he ever move away?

The smell of tobacco makes him curl his lip. He never got the habit, even with soldiers in their foxholes. There’s enough stench to go around.

“So, how do you know?” Sam asks.

“Know what?”

“That it’s her.”

“She’s a good dancer.”

“Ask me, they were all pretty good, Rogers.”

“She was... different. She... did you see her? The one with no shoes?”

“No shoes? Ah Steve, not you and your bleeding heart.”

“It’s not just that. You weren’t even paying attention. We need someone who can move--”

“Saw a lot of moving,” Sam snickers.

“Cut it out,” Steve waves him off.

The doors open and they both tense. Sam holds in a mouthful of smoke as he looks at his client. Steve shakes his head; not her. The woman rushes off with a frown and tears. The rejects are on their way out.

Sam puffs out and Steve tucks his hands into his jacket pockets. He waits patiently as the other man bounces on his heels. Others burst out in spurts. One or two, carrying their jackets, tearing their call numbers from their chests, or grumbling under their breath.

Steve peers around. He catches a few stray gazes. Do they know it’s him? Does anyone recognise the grey old man? They can fix his hair when the time comes.

The trickle slows and leaves them in a chattering lull. Steve has to admit, it’s an especially frigid January day. An hour at least before a cluster of babbling women emerge. Ah, the callbacks. They’re glowing. Sam taps an unlit smoke on his silver case as he looks them over. She’s not there.

Steve shakes his head again. Sam rolls his eyes. The pairs and trios flit off, rubbing palms together, blowing into their bare hands, tapping away in their tapered heels.

“We missed her. Should’ve kept those glasses on,” Sam feels around with his lighter, balancing the cigarette between his lips.

“I wouldn’t,” Steve insists.

Sam sighs in frustration as his search comes up fruitless. “Where’s that dang--”

The door opens again and a woman tumbles out, her coat catching as it closes behind her. She squeaks and turns to pull herself free. She keeps one foot off the pavement, only her toe touching. Steve stands straight and tears his hands free of his jacket. Sam tweaks his head.

“Say, miss, you’re missing something,” Sam muses.

The woman spins and looks down at her feet, “um, yes, sir. I... know.”

She grabs the front of her coat and holds it closed against a gale. Steve can’t stop staring. He’s almost dumbfounded. Sam clears his throat and puts away his cigarette as he catches his eyes. Steve nods.

“Well, honey, what if I told you I could get you a new shoe?” Sam grins.

Satyr

The music ends. There’s less than twenty women left on the stage. The sweat drips from your hairline, glazing over your eyelids and cheeks. You ready for another round.

“2, 14, 28, 29, 33, 41. Come get your slips for the call back. The rest, thank you for coming.” The grey-haired man sat among the front row says as he stands. “Call backs are tomorrow at nine.”

Without any further acknowledgement, the six observers shuffle out in a row. You look down at the paper pinned to your dress. ‘14’. You follow the other chosen dancers to the stage manager as he hands out yellow slips of paper.

“You show up without this, you ain’t gettin’ in,” he snarls.

You take yours and smile. You can’t believe it. You can hardly fathom that you’re in New York or auditioning for Broadway. You got a call back! It’s not a guarantee but it’s something.

Yet the good news comes with a new set of worriers. You don’t have a place to stay. You can save the bus fare for your way home but for what? One night’s stay. You’re not sure you thought this out very well.

You go backstage and stop as you wiggle your toes. Oh yes, your shoes. You look in the corner where you tossed them. You find both your stockings but only one flat. You frown and spin around.

There’s a grumble among the other women. Some in an elated hush, excited for the next day, others droning in a disappointed murmur. You feel bad. You could as easily be one of the let downs.

“Hey, um,” you stop the blonde named Carla, “have you seen a shoe that looks like this?”

Her eyes drift over and she curls her lip. She scoffs and flicks her fingers in your direction. You frown as she struts off. You spin and continue to look.

The backstage area clears out as you skim every inch of the floor. Where could it be? A shadow looms over your desolate mission. You turn around to face Judith and her blunt bob.

“There’s a matinee. You better get out of here,” she says.

“Yes, ma’am, but my shoe, you see,” you show your right shoe again.

“I’m not a school marm. It’s not my responsibility to keep track of your things,” she sniffs. “Go on, take that yellow ticket before I rescind it.”

“Oh, okay, yes, ma’am. Thank you,” you attempt a smile, “I really enjoyed dancing today.”

Her brow tweaks but the rest of her face remains as still as stone. You shuffle away and grab your coat and bag, left on the floor in the carelessness of the other dancers claiming their own. You hurry off, still without shoes on, and don’t stop until you’re in the lobby.

You stop and sit and pull on your stockings. The sweat has cooled to a slimy sheen as your dress sticks to your skin. You put on your single shoe and contemplate the walk to the station. No shoe, no place to stay, this seems like less of a dream and more of a nightmare.

You get up and cross the lobby floor. You push open the outer door, the wind offering extra weight as you lean into it with your shoulder. As you do, you trip over the lip of the threshold and nearly find yourself on the sidewalk.

Your coat is trapped in the door and you quickly spin to tug it free. You balance on one foot, the cold gale swirling around you. You put only your big toe to the ground to regain your balance. Should you just hop down to the station?

You only then notice the man to your right. He makes himself taller as he stands straight and slips his hands free from his pocket. The man at your other shoulder shifts in turn. He draws your attention first as he speaks.

“Say, miss, you missing something?” He remarks.

You twitch and look down at your feet as he stares at your shoe, “um, yes, sir, I... know.”

You pull your coat shut and hug it around your front. It’s awfully chilly today. Your bag hangs heavily from your shoulder, though you didn’t think to pack a scarf. The man clears his throat as he puts a cigarette in a silver case and tucks it inside his jacket. He glances at the other man and back to you.

“Well, honey, what if I told you I could get you a new shoe?” He smirks.

Your brows pop up high on your forehead, “well, that would be mighty kind of you.”

“Mighty kind?” He echoes and again his eyes flick to the other man.

You turn to get a look at the other sentinel. You nearly cry out in surprise. No! Really?! It can’t be--

You know it’s him. There some silver in his blond and a few lines deeper around his eyes. Quite a few but not to his detriment. And his posture, you would know it anywhere.

“Steve Rogers?” You blurt out without meaning to.

He seems just as surprised as he puts his hand to the chest of his jacket and his throat bobs, “you recognise me?”

“Course I do,” you smile in a glow of marvel, “you’re... you’re... alive.”

He tilts his head and his blue eyes wander above your head. You put your hand to your cheek as you realise what you’ve said. The other man laughs once more.

“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean--” you sputter. “I love Golden Stars. It’s one of my favourites. I know the finale goes--” you raise your arms in a mimic of a couples dance, “1, 2-3, 1 2-3, 1-2 3...” you perfectly make the steps.

He stares at you, speechless. Your embarrassment swells. Oh my, you’re really making a fool of yourself.

“Well, she’s got the moves,” the other man drawls, “but can ya sing, darling?”

“I can give it a try—er, here?” You look around the street.

“You’re not from here, are you?” He chuckles as you turn to him, “go on, these people have seen worse than that.”

“Oh, well, er... um,” you swallow and search your repertoire; all you can recall is that same sequence from Rogers’ famous Golden Stars. You take a breath and clear your diaphram, “Golden stars in my eyes, golden stars at my heels. Olden days passin’ by, fading flames dancin’ high. My baby’s shine can never die...”

You continue on, focusing on the moment, though you have no idea why they’re asking for a song. Still, you could never dream of meeting Steve Rogers. Ever. It’ll be a story, even if it’s a foolish one.

You quiet as you run out of lyrics and sway, peering between the men. They’re deathly quiet. You don’t know what to say.

“That bad?” You ask with a tinkling chuckle.

The man to your left snorts, “let me introduce myself. Sam Wilson, and you are?”

“Satyr, sir, I just came from an audition,” you explain.

“Oh, we know,” he offers his hand and you shake it. “How’s about we get you some dancing shoes, if you’re interested in doing more of that.”

“What do ya mean?” You bat your lashes as your heart thumps.

“We saw you. In there,” Steve speaks at last. “You’re really good.”

You turn to him and smile even bigger, “oh, thank you. You have no idea how much that means.”

“Not as much as it’d mean if you hear us out,” Steve counters.

You give him a curious look and shrug, “I don’t got nowhere to be until tomorrow morning.”

“Great. Perfect,” he says, “Sam, where’s that joint we went to last night? It was quiet there.”

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #series #fic #stars align #dark fic #dark!fic #marvel #mcu #captain america #au #avengers #old hollywood #1960s

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forthegothicheroine · 3 days ago

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I've often thought about the cute gold diggers of the pre-code 30s (there's a depression on, who can blame me?) as compared to the black widows of the film noir 40s (let's both of us skip the innocent act.) Barbara Stanwyck was versatile enough to play both, but they conjure very different images of calculating girls out for what they can get. I have a hard time imagining Lizabeth Scott giggling in a chorus line or Jean Harlow watching a man drown without a flicker of emotion (although of course, she didn't live long enough to try.)

The gold digger is cute and spunky, and may be either ditzy or brilliantly street smart. (Hats off, as always, to the Cuphead Show for creating a G-rated version of the smart vamp in Miss Chalice.) There were evil women in the pre-code era (often played by Myrna Loy) but they tended to be more horror movie villains than girls just out to hook a rich sucker. But the power a gold digger has over men is a constant power struggle. If he cuts her off, that's it. If she ditches him, he can buy another gold digger (but never one as good as her...) There's a soft femdom (or perhaps findom) vibe to movies like Babyface or I'm No Angel, where the man voluntarily giving power to the woman (whether by choice or by trickery) is the very thing he seems to enjoy.

The femme fatale may convincingly play innocent, but I can't think of one who pretended to be cute- you either saw the "schoolgirl act" or self-possessed wickedness. There were spunky heroines in film noir (often played by Ida Lupino) but they wanted you to know how smart they were right away. Importantly, the femme fatale isn't happy with just vamping her way towards money. What makes her fatal is, of course, her willingness to kill. In Double Indemnity, former pre-code gold digger Barbara Stanwyck has already hooked her rich husband, and now she can't get rid of him fast enough. Like the gold digger, her power is limited- if a man says "no thanks, you're not worth killing for" then there's not much she can do. But the push-pull of power here comes in part from the man being a bit dirty himself. It's rare (though not unknown) for a noir dame to destroy a totally innocent man. If he isn't a bad man to begin with, he usually jumps to be one under her tutelage. Walter Neff may say "You're a little more rotten," but who's really counting? The most honest couple in film noir, Laurie and Bart in Gun Crazy, both blame themselves rather than each other, and both are right.

I don't think either archetype is inherently misogynistic or inherently empowering- any of these characters can be wildly complex, and while iconic, they weren't the only types of female characters of this era. But that push-pull of power in very different ways fascinates me.

#old hollywood #film noir #pre code hollywood

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