#silver fox and the captain

[goodgirlofglory]

Silver fox and the Captain - Chapter 5

Chapter 4 - /Masterpost/ - Chapter 6

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader

Word count: 7,1k

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, explicit language, SMUT, oral (f recieving), penetration, fingering, unprotected sex, coming inside. A little bit of angst, fluff.

Summary: Waking up from the brink of death as a prisoner/guest of S.H.I.E.L.D you finally get a few, precious moments alone with Steve. Feelings and arousal alike rise.

Note: The big smutty send-off yay! Also why it's almost three times as long as some of the other chapters lmao. Been waiting for this one. Hope you enjoy<333

Your media consumption is your owen responsibility, but I advise you not to interact if the content of the warnings upset you. Minors DNI!!!

Reblogs, replies and likes are awesome<333

Pain was the first thing to come into focus. It sheared through your unconsciousness and brought you forward like heaving you out of a dark, quiet body of water. Out from the abyss, pain dragged you forth.

You screamed, barely registering there were others with you, pulling at your limbs and speaking words to you. You kept screaming until everything went dark. 

Next time you awoke, you weren’t screaming. Barely no sound came forth from your parched throat, and you realized with a drowsy mind you were in a hospital bed. In an otherwise empty hospital room. With the most outlandish and fancy hospital machines you’d ever seen. Any of these could have you set for a year on the black market, you thought astonished to yourself as you took in your surroundings. You were in the far corner, by the window, and there were five other, empty beds in the spacious room. Across the room was a single door with a small window out to a hallway. 

Oh. Right. You'd been shot.

Wrenching your covers off, you pulled at the hospital gown until you saw your abdomen, wrapped tightly in bandages. You prodded where you felt a heated ache emanate and hissed in pain at the tender ache that responded. Several of the machines were hooked up to your arm and a flash of paranoid claustrophobia had you fighting the urge to tear them out of your flesh. Just as you started getting up, muscles aching from disuse, the door at the end of the room hissed as it slid open. 

Steve Rogers, honestly the last person you’d expect, came rushing in. He was wearing…jeans. And a t-shirt that stretched taut over his torso. His hair was tousled like he’d been dragging his hand through it multiple times, and there were slight purple smudges under his eyes. You immediately thought of his team. Did someone not make it? 

“Fox,” he said, the word whooshing out on a breath filled with so much relief you almost squirmed. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

He was worried for you. 

Behind him, a flock of doctors in white coats marched through the open door. Rogers stopped a few meters away from your bed, looking at you with that open expression. You could do nothing but look back at him as the doctors started flitting about your bed, doing this and that with the machines and IV-bags hanging by the bed. 

When one of them started asking you questions, you had to tear your gaze away from Rogers, and after another minute, he silently left the room. You felt his gaze on you as he lingered in the doorway. 

§

You were in the Avengers compound. They’d taken you with them when they left the scene of the negotiations-turned-bloodbath, and saved your bloody, stupid good-for-nothing life. Rogers told you himself as he returned later that night. Well, he didn’t say the "bloody, stupid good-for-nothing" bit. 

“The doctors told me you're stable. That you’ll make a full recovery,” he said as he lingered a step closer to the bed than he had earlier. Your eyes flickered to the chair by the bed when his did, but you made no gesture for him to sit. You were fighting the ingrained reflex to escape any situation you didn’t have a pre-planned escape route from, and you had no overview whatsoever here. There was a window by the bed, but it overlooked a training yard surrounded by a tall fence and beyond there was nothing but thick, luscious forest. Your skin was crawling with the need to get away. 

“How did they heal me so quickly? I should still be on the brink of death with a gun wound like that,” you asked. 

“We have the best medical staff here, and some pretty advanced medicine,” he answered, cryptic and a bit evasive. You wanted to press, but thought otherwise. 

Rogers looked at a loss for words as he stood there, and you didn’t know what to say either. It struck you how horrible little you knew each other. Simultaneously your cheeks heated at the memory of those things you’d thought as you had laid dying. How you’d so intensely wanted to see him in those moments, and how you’d admired him as he held you. Like a love-struck fool. 

Stupid air-for-brains, you told yourself. For even now, poised for escape and reeling with the situation, some large, looming part of you desperately wanted him to come closer. To climb into the bed and kiss you. To embrace you and let you soak in his warmth and smell and safety. 

He seemed to be reading your mind, for he made a jolting step around one end of the bed, and your tiny, instinctual, answering lean forward was all the concession he needed. In a flash, he had a knee on the side of the bed, and he leaned over to capture your lips with his - equally mindless with the urge to do what felt the most natural between you, it seemed. Something turned molten inside you. He sighed against your lips, one hand coming up to cradle your face so, so gently. Probably because you were recovering. Come to think of it, your whole body was wrought with pain, a constant sting that radiated out from your abdomen, flashing every time you moved. So you let him dish out his insistent gentleness. Just this once. 

You resolutely ignored the part of you that cried out in relief at the contact, that wailed for you to get closer, to crawl into his embrace and never leave. You would let yourself have this, this intimacy, this care. But only now, only this once, when you were too weak to push him away anyways. 

He hovered over your prone form a bit awkwardly, one knee on the bed, one foot on the floor, leaning on a hand in the mattress at the side of your hand, the other barely touching as he cradled your face. 

It was devastating all the same. You felt exposed by it, chafed on your very soul. You’d never felt such tenderness, never felt someone touch you with a care for your wellbeing, a need to care for you. It made your skin tingle in a whole new way. 

Rogers kept the kisses sweet, almost chaste. Soft presses of dry lips. Soft, warm breath fanning your skin in between. He broke contact and sat back on the edge of the bed. 

“I have to go, but I’ll check up on you later,” he said, his voice low and soft. 

“Oh,” you said, realizing with embarrassment you were ready for him to crawl under the covers with you - recovering, pain-ridden body be damned. 

“I’m really glad you’re here,” he said then, and you blanched, heat flashing through your body. “I was so …terrified when I saw you on that floor, covered in blood. So pale,” he said, voice going distant, like he was back in that hall, holding your limp body. 

You couldn’t meet his eyes. Didn’t know how. This was a form of intimacy you had no idea how to cope with. You stared down your body at your hands. You were shaking a bit. So was he, you noticed, when you peered over at his hands, perfectly and respectfully laid in his own lap. 

He got up then, and made his way to the door. You admired him, his broad shoulder stretching the fabric of his shirt obscenely. 

§

Even with the miraculously advanced medicinal treatment of the Avengers compund, recovery was slower than you’d liked. You were itching to be free of the hospital room, to move. After a week, you still had no clue where in the world this compound was, how many people were here with you, what sort of security measures you were under. They’d officially freed you from your bandages that morning, pink and tender new skin surrounding neatly stitched skin where they’d patched you up. The IVs and monitoring tubes had been removed as well, giving you another precious layer of freedom. You were convinced they had some advanced super-medicine of some kind, because there was no way you could have healed so quickly naturally. Maybe you could snatch some with you on the way out.

Not that you had anywhere to go, you realized bitterly. You could never return to your apartment, that was compromised. If Caius had sussed it out, others would no doubt manage the same if they hadn’t already. You had a sum of money stashed in an encrypted bank account online, but you needed a computer and some encryption device to access it. You had no contacts you trusted not to sell you out. And you literally didn’t even own  the shirt on your back, none of your equipment had come with you to the compound. So really, there was no use leaving. You were completely rootless, a plastic bag blowing in the fucking wind. It didn’t completely iradicate the grating need to get away though. 

To some degree, you supposed you should milk this arrangement for everything it was worth. Take whatever medicine, food, warmth and rehabilitation they would give. They would throw you out in their own time, surely. Or into some cold jail cell the sun never reached, where new dangers no doubt awaited you. 

But you still itched to get out of the bed, not used to being immobile for so long, your old instincts longing to fly over rooftops on sprinting legs. 

Rogers returned the day you got your bandages off, and honestly, seeing a familiar face in between short worded doctors and skittering nurses was a blessing. 

“Get up, we’re going for a walk,” he said as soon as he’d entered the room, dressed in a gray tracksuit.  

“Huh?” you blurted intelligently from your sitting position in the bed, idly flipping through a book someone had left you. 

“I hear you’re biting everyone’s head off complaining about being here,” he said, and there was reprimand in his voice, but also amusement. That old, curious amusement you knew so well. 

Your cheeks heated. 

“I didn’t bite everyone’s head off,” you muttered, throwing the blanket off to gently edge yourself to the edge of the bed. 

Okay, maybe you had been a bit nippy when they’d said you couldn’t leave the ward, let alone your room. Maybe you’d made some nurse cry. But it hadn’t been entirely deliberate. You couldn’t help clawing at the bars of the cage when you were used to roam free. 

“Oh, well then,” Rogers said, clearly seeing through your pathetic denial. 

You were sore and stiff, but moving with purpose felt good. You had been out of the bed, stalking around the room like some tiger in a zoo, but now it filled you with excitement to put your feet on the cold, linoleum floors. You realized a moment later you didn’t have anything but a flimsy hospital gown to wear, complete with gaps in the back. 

Just then, a gray tracksuit similar to the one Rogers wore, was tossed on the bed, a pair of sneakers joining them shortly after. 

You picked up the clothes, soft cotton in your hands, and waited for him to leave so you could change. Nothing happened for a moment, and you gave him a pointed look, trying to keep your amusement off your face. He jolted. 

“Oh, right! Sorry,” he said, quickly turning his back to you, but not before you caught a glimpse of an adorable blush sneaking across his cheeks. 

He hesitated for a moment before mumbling something to himself and then swiftly exiting the room with slightly jerking movements. 

You couldn’t stop the huff of laughter escaping you. 

What an adorable dork. 

You wouldn’t really have minded him seeing you change, (you wanted him to do much more than just look), but you figured your hospital bed in this very public space wasn’t the right place to get lost in lust. 

Exiting your room felt almost illicit after so long inside. Rogers was waiting outside, and while there were some doctors and nurses milling about in the hospital wing, no one looked twice at you. You realized you probably had the most secure escort on the grounds - if there was anyone they could feel safe to keep a prisoner in check on home field, it was Captain America. 

Rogers led you outside the compound, onto the grounds outside, and the fresh breeze and clear sky above your head was like a balm to your soul, easing a fraction of your restlessness. 

“So,” you started as you and Rogers fell into an easy stroll, “when is my transfer to the dungeons.”

You stared down at your feet, and Rogers huffed a laugh beside you. 

“Don’t worry about that right now,” he said. 

Hmph, how can I not? You thought to yourself, but said nothing. 

This was weird. Very weird. Being in the same vicinity as Captain America, but without clashing tongues or the deafening adrenaline of a shootout to flood your system. You were just…strolling. Strolling along a gravel path of a neatly trimmed green area surrounding the compound. Luscious lawns, bristling bushes, tall trees and a small pond filled with ducks. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been in a place this peaceful - at least not without something stolen in your bag or your heart in your throat. 

You were partly relishing the calm and partly crawling out of your skin at it. It was so foreign, and you couldn’t shake the instinct of locating escape routes and possible hurdles in them. 

“You’re so shifty right now I swear I’m sweating,” you heard Rogers murmur beside you after long, silent minutes, laughter in his voice. 

“I’m not shifty,” you denied weakly, though you couldn’t meet his eyes. 

He huffed. 

“Out of all the situations I’ve seen you in, this is the one that tilts you off your axis?” he teased, and though this banter wasn’t anything you hadn’t gladly and eagerly reciprocated before, it made you bristle now. 

“Well, not all of us can have the entire US government catering to our every need,” you said, and winced at your own hard, defensive tone. 

You walked ahead of him, feet carrying you as fast as you could without breaking into a run. 

He sighed behind you. 

“Okay, I guess we’re doing this,” he said. 

“Doing what?” you said. 

You whipped around as he walked after you, reaching you in three, wide strides that had your heart momentarily fluttering with adrenaline. 

“You’ve been involved in some pretty bad stuff, with some pretty bad people. I don’t think you have the most unbiased outlook on the world, here,” he said, looking down at you. It wasn’t his fault he was so tall, not really, but him looking down his nose at you still stoked your fire. 

He had no idea what you’d lived through, what your life had been like.

“Oh, and you do?” you snapped back. You scoffed. “Well-fed, well-clothed, protected and beloved Captain America. You’re telling me you know what the world looks like?” You laughed, a bit hysterical maybe, but you couldn’t control it.The life you had built for yourself over years had crumbled in a matter of days, and now the very reason it had all gone to shit was standing over you and judging you for finding a way to survive? “Please,” you continued after a moment, “you don’t know anything about what it’s like out there. I’m the very reflection of the world, and I’m not even the worst of us,” you said. 

He frowned. 

“Us? You really see yourself as a part of that world? Those people?” he asked, genuine. 

You halted. Did you? No. You didn’t, not really. You’d always seen yourself as a rootless half-thing, floating between worlds, not really touching down on either side of the line between good and bad. You didn’t kill people, didn’t exploit them, didn’t try to get rich off other people’s suffering, and that counted for something, right? Even if you did steal dangerous things and sold it to even more dangerous people…who no doubt used it to exploit, maim and murder. 

“I don’t think you’re like them, not really,” Rogers said after a moment when you remained silent. 

How could he think that, though? How could he possibly know that? 

There was a lump in your throat suddenly, unfamiliar and trembling, and the uncomfortable feeling of being vulnerable threatened to set your lungs on fire. You turned away from him, afraid he would read something on your face that would expose you, so fucking scared of him getting too close and seeing you for what you actually were; a lowly thief, one out of millions who’d tried your hand in the dealings of the black market and failed spectacularly once push came to shove. You weren’t anything special, hadn’t done anything to warrant his heroic treatment. The only reason you were even alive at this point was because of him. 

“Listen, I’m sure we could talk all day about our philosophical differences and the good and evil of the world, but I’m really not interested. If you’re not throwing me in jail, I’ll be out of your hair in no time,” you said. 

“Oh, it’s not up to me if you get thrown in jail or not. But I have given the people in charge my piece of mind about it,” Rogers said, and the underlying protectiveness in those words were enough to make your heart flutter slightly. 

No, no, no, no. You couldn’t afford growing reliant on him, on anybody. You needed to look out for yourself, to take care of yourself, everybody else be damned. 

You could feel Rogers presence behind you, sure and strong. You should never have kissed him, you thought mournfully to yourself. And yet now, when he stepped closer, coming to stand directly behind you and you swore you felt the very atoms in the air between you sizzle to life -  all you wanted, desperate and foolish, was to kiss him again. 

You turned around to face him before you even knew what you were doing, and adrenaline spiked in your system at his proximity; your chest nearly brushing up against his midriff. Just having him close made your blood sing. 

Daring to look up at him, you found him staring at you, his eyes flitting around on your face before settling on your mouth. His hand slowly, slowly came up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking over your chin so softly. He was going to kiss you, you could see it on his face, the decision being made in the moment. 

Holy shit, this was a bad idea. A terribly, wonderfully, mouth-watering bad idea. 

He started to lean in, giving you just enough time to pull away before his mouth met yours. 

You took a step back, and your heart sank at the expression on his face, the mild surprise followed by a flicker of pain before he collected his features into a controlled mask. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurted, uncharacteristically distraught by having hurt him, “I just…I think I need some…time or space or…something,” you said, trying to come up with a reason that sounded better than if I kiss you now, I won’t ever stop. 

He straightened and gave a painfully kind smile. 

“No need to apologize, I should have thought -”

“No, no, it’s fine,” you said, smiling back. 

The two of you walked back in relatively comfortable silence, having exhausted the topic of conversation for the day. When you reached the second floor of the compound, Rogers led you unexpectedly away from the hospital wing. You meandered through long halls, through open conference areas and more secluded living areas with kitchens, living rooms and gyms. You took it all in with eager eyes, scrutinizing every detail of exits and turns, mapping out the building in your head. 

When Rogers at last stopped, it was outside a neutral door amongst many in a dimly lit hall just passed the living areas. He turned to lean against the door frame, smiling a bit at your obviously suspicious face. 

“Figured you might want to move out of the hospital wing as soon as possible, it’s not exactly the most cozy place,” he said, nodding towards the door. “This’ll suit you better, I hope.”

You pointed stupidly at the door. 

“This is mine?” 

He nodded again. 

Neat. Your own room. In the S.H.I.E.L.D compound. Sheer will kept your thoughts from spiraling to unattainable and foolish dreams of companionship, safety and comfortable nights spent with team members, partners and even…found family…No! This was your room temporarily. 

“Does it lock from the inside?” you asked, stepping closer and laying your hand on the door handle. 

“Of course,” he said, straightening from his lean, and the genuine, almost offended seriousness on his face had you snorting. Well meaning sod.

You fiddled with the handle for a moment, smiling to yourself, basking in the attention he was still giving you. 

And then, because you apparently had no fucking self control, you turned on your tiptoes and kissed him, your mouth pressing to his a bit lopsided. He gave the tiniest sound of surprise, momentarily frozen, but then his hands were in your hair, cradling your head to him as he kissed you back. A hot, mind-fuddling kiss that had you wanting to cling to him, his tongue instantly invading your mouth to stroke against yours in earnest.

You fumbled with the door handle before you pushed the door open, and then the two of you stumbled, liplocked, through.

You propped yourself on the wall right inside the room, and Rogers kicked the door shut before plastering you to it, his hands on your body, his tongue feverish in your mouth, the kiss turning wet and messy. 

After a searing kiss, he wrenched himself away. You tried to follow him with your mouth, an embarrassingly needy, little sound escaping you. He put his hands on your shoulders and pushed you back against the wall, and he breathed so hard it seemed he was fighting himself to hold you at that distance instead of drawing you closer. 

“Are you sure?” he asked, and he sounded almost pained. 

“Yes,” you answered immediately, nodding eagerly, and he didn’t give you room to get any more words out before he was kissing you again, his hands trailing down your sides, squeezing your hips, swooping up and down your back to cup your ass. 

You gasped into his kiss, heart pounding from his touch. 

There was a gratifyingly hard bulge pressing into your stomach, and your blood rushed in your ears at the feeling, the knowledge that he was hard from this, that he wanted you still, that you had the time and place and the chance to have him, safe and guarded in this facility. 

And you wanted him inside you desperately. 

With shaking, fumbling fingers, you reached down and tugged first your own pants strings open before moving to his, a throb going through your body as your fingers grazed the hot, hard bulge in the soft fabric, and heard his breath hitch against your mouth. 

After tugging his strings loose, you went to tug your pants down, ready to take him inside you right then and there against the wall, but his hands around your wrists stopped you yet again. 

He leaned his forehead to yours and breathed harshly. 

“No, no,” he mumbled against your mouth, “I might have taken every chance to kiss you anywhere and at any time, but I promised myself that if I ever got the chance to have you, I would do you properly -  in a bed,” he said. 

Your breath exploded from you, a flaming lick of arousal burning its way down your body to pool down below.  

He picked you up then, hoisted you in his arms so easily you let out a squeak before wrapping your arms around his neck and your legs around his middle, and then he was moving through the dark room. 

You took the ample opportunity to kiss his neck, tasting the soft skin, taking in his musky, warm scent, loving the way he groaned deep in his chest when you grazed your teeth against his jaw and nibbled on his ear. 

He reached the bed in the room and dumped you to bounce on your back in the softest sheets you’d ever felt. The room was totally dark, the curtains drawn tight, until Rogers fumbled about and a small bedside lamp coated the room in a warm, yellow light. 

Then he crawled onto the bed, and you immediately spread your legs for him to kneel between. For a moment the only sound in the room was your mutual hard breathing.

He tentatively laid his hands on your knees, his palms warm through the fabric of your pants, and a shiver went up your body at it. At him in this bed, touching you in the bed, about to fuck you in this bed!

Rogers stared down at you, chest heaving slightly, eyes burning bright. But you could see his muscles straining, his hands twitching in their grip on your knees. 

“Are you su-”

“If you ask me one more time if I’m sure, I’ll jump out that window and you’ll never see me again,” you interrupted him, fed up with his overbearing respectfulness and way too worked up for him not to smother you into the mattress this instance.

He chuckled softly at your words, but his restraint snapped a moment later, and then he was over you, slotting himself between your legs and grinding his pelvis into you. You gasped at the rigid hardness of him grinding against your core, and he took the opportunity to lick into your mouth, the sound vibrating from his chest and through your body. 

“I need your skin,” you moaned against his lips, and he groaned again, grinding another hard thrust against you before raising himself enough to drag his hoodie off. You’d fantasized about his body for so long, relished and treasured every moment you’d felt his toned, powerful muscles underneath his clothes in those stolen moments in hidden corners and alcoves. But seeing it uncovered before you in all its nude glory put all your daydreams to shame. 

His skin was golden in the light from the bedside lamp, and the sparse lighting covered every divot and ripple in shadow. His shoulders were broad to the point of obscenity, his arms rippling and veined, promising such strength it had your thighs trembling. His pecs and abdomen were chiseled from stone, muscles rippling with his breath, his stomach tightening and untightening. You wanted to touch it all and, realizing you could, lifted your hands to trail down his abdomen, curling your fingers in the trail of soft, dark hair below his navel. He followed the movement with his eyes, but they fluttered shut when your fingertips lightly traced the bulge on the front of his joggers, felt it twitch as you teased it with a knuckle.  

He slapped your hand away, then, and before you knew it, he had wrenched your pants along with your underwear, socks and shoes off, leaving you naked from the waist down. You had but a moment for your cheeks to heat at the exposure before it deepened when he lowered himself to lay on his front between your legs, draping one of your legs over his shoulder while spreading the other out on the mattress, exposing you fully to him. 

He paused for a tiny second, and you were about to cuss him out for stalling again when he gave you an almost sheepish look. 

“I gotta say, I’m not really that experienced with this, but I really, really want to taste you,” he said, voice husky, almost pleading - like you’d deny him going down on you just cause of his lack of experience. 

Quite the opposite - you were partly elated at his confession, your breath coming out half sigh, half sob. For, living the life you had, you didn’t exactly have a trail of lovers scattered around the world. You had basically none, actually. 

You put a hand in his hair, looking down at him mere inches from your pussy. 

“I’m not really, either. Please,” you said, not sure how to confess your lack of experience yourself. 

He nuzzled into your palm before laying a kiss to it, and then he lowered himself to lay an almost coy kiss to your mound, nuzzling into the hair there. Your breath hitched at the hot puff of air against your sensitive skin, and you could feel how wet you were by the way the air cooled the slick on your skin. 

His kisses moved lower, moving over your hooded clit and then along your lips and then right over your hole before his tongue licked a broad stripe upwards towards your clit again. 

Your back arched as he delved in, and for all the fumbling and sloppiness, he brought twice the enthusiasm, and soon his hands were clutching the tops of your thighs, keeping you firmly from squirming away as he assaulted your flesh with his tongue and lips and precarious scrapes of teeth. It was all so good, so overwhelmingly good. 

He sucked your clit into his mouth, groaning when you put a hand in his hair, clutching the blond strands in your fist. You realized you could come like this, that the edge was deliciously within reach, but you were too impatient. You needed his weight on you, his cock in you. You needed him, the previous months of built up longing welling up to the surface. 

You tugged his hair hard enough for him to lift his head to meet your gaze. He looked positively drugged, disheveled, heavy-lidded, his pupils blown wide, and the amount of slick he’d gotten on his face shone on his skin and open mouth in the dim lighting from the bedside lamp. 

“I need you inside me. Now,” you breathed between hitched breaths, tugging again. 

He seemed adorably torn, like he wanted to follow your plea, but wasn’t ready to abandon his feast yet. 

He came easily when you tugged him again, though, crawling up your body with hunger in his eyes. His hands went to your hoodie, fiddling with the hem and grazing the skin underneath.

“We need to get this off you, then,” he said, voice deliciously gravelly, tugging the garment up and over your shoulders. 

You were completely naked now, a spread of goosebumps appearing where your skin met the cool air of the room. Your nipples pebbled to hardened peaks atop your breasts, and Rogers couldn’t seem to help himself as he reached down and ran the pads of his thumbs over them, almost reverently. 

Then his hands, so gentle they almost didn’t touch, slid down to the healing scar tissue on your abdomen. Honestly, it didn’t look that bad - they had put a lot of care into making it neat and smooth, and it was almost entirely healed, only a raised ridge of lighter skin remaining of the initial wound. But Rogers eyes gained a gloomy hue, fixing on the wound with brows that furrowed. 

Before you could reach out to him or say something to break the tension mounting, he hunched forward and pressed his lips softly to the scar. Your breath caught in your throat as he kissed around the area with small, lithe kisses, hands cradling your sides. 

Fuck, you thought, and wondered if you’d start crying soon for the way your throat closed up. Your breath trembled coming out of you and Rogers looked up at the sound before returning, kissing your mouth with equal care, and the kiss told you a thousand words; all his concern, care, regret, guilt and not least of all, relief. You took it all in silence, deepening the kiss as heady arousal rose between you again.  

His hardness hadn’t dissipated much, the bulge almost intimidatingly big, and there was a small wet spot shining through the fabric of his pants. It made your mouth water. 

You reached down and clasped the hem of his pants, and he helped you wrench them down along with his underwear. He kicked them off with his shoes and socks and then he was as naked as you were, crawling back between your legs. 

His skin was scorching hot against yours, his weight and size dwarfing you into the mattress, careful though he was not to put pressure on your healing abdomen. He looked down at it and then up into your eyes again. You could see in his gaze, the worry that he would hurt you. But your words from earlier probably rang in his head, and you liked that he took your threat of disappearing serious enough to head it. His cock, hot and hard, lay against your thigh, pulling your focus to it like a gravitational pull. Your skin cooled where his leakage smeared it, and you squirmed for how fucking hot it was. You nodded to him, quickly, a bit desperately, not giving a fucking damn if it would hurt. Something as stupid as a healing gunshot wound would not stop you from having Steve Rogers inside you. 

You felt your need welling up inside you at that thought. God, you wanted him so bad, felt so empty without him, needed him to stuff you and override every one of your senses. Your pussy throbbed in agreement. 

In your bold need, you reached between you and grasped his cock, skin surprisingly soft over the veiny, rock hard shaft, and fitted the leaking, shiny tip against your drenched entrance. You gulped at the size of him in your hand, but you had never been afraid of taking a leap before. 

“I’m gonna suck you off later,” you promised, not quite registering how the intrusive thought had left your mouth before you were done. You felt your eyes widen in shock at your own brazenness. You’d never sucked anyone off, why the fuck would you say such a thing. You dared look up into his eyes and found him looking at you with a mix of amusement and undilated lust. “If you want,” you added belatedly. You still held his cock in your hand, holding it to your weeping hole. It twitched in your hand as Steve smiled at you, flashing brilliant, white teeth. 

“Yeah,” he breathed. 

A thrill surged through you at his excited tone. 

“Y-yeah?” you said, so stupidly giddy that he wanted you to suck him off. 

“Yeah,” he answered, voice going low and husky, before he claimed your mouth like he just couldn’t stop himself. “But later,” he groaned against your mouth and pushed his hips slightly forward, his cock sliding through your hand and against your hole. 

You nodded, answer turning into a gasp against his still smiling mouth. 

You both looked down to watch as his tip notched at your hole, and then he slowly started working his length inside you. He groaned while your breath hitched, and, almost like you sucked him in, he slid inside until his pelvis nudged yours. 

His groan turned into a small gasping sound, a goddamn whimper, and you’d never heard such a gorgeous sound. God, he was going to be the death of you…

The pressure between your hips was exquisite, his cock literally like an anchor inside you, rooting you to the spot, making every organ and cell and atom in your body rearrange themselves to make room for him, singing with a mix of pain and pleasure you knew you could get addicted to quickly.  

“Fuck, it’s big,” you whispered, clasping the pillow under your head as your hips twitched, feeling him throb inside you. 

His brows furrowed and he bit his lip. 

“Yeah, s-sorry about that,” he said, and his muscles seemed strained as he held himself still, giving you time to adjust. 

You brought a hand up and clasped it around his neck, bringing his eyes to yours. 

“Fuck me with it,” you breathed, before pulling him down to bruise his lips with yours. 

His answering growl was almost feral, and then he pulled his hips back to grind forward, deeper, lodging himself within you in a swaying grind, back and forth, back and forth, as his tongue worked in your mouth. 

Your muffled moans were joined by the slick, wet glide of his grinding cock going in and out of you, and you hitched your knees up to squeeze his waist, tilting your pelvis to take him deeper yet. Digging your knees into his side, you sucked his lower lip into your mouth when his grinds turned deeper, when he pulled out further before thrusting in harder, working up a rougher rhythm that pounded you into the mattress. 

He groaned as you clamped your teeth into his lower lip, his thrusts going harder, and his hands went into your hair, clutching you, holding you so tightly, the sheer possessiveness in his hold made a more resounding thrill rumble through you. 

A particular thrust hit that spot inside you, nudging up against your cervix, and you squeaked, your hands clutching his shoulders. 

“That’s it,” he growled as your nails dug into his shoulders, his cock hitting that spot again. “Fuck, that’s it, god you feel so fucking good,” he continued, voice strained. 

You were gonna come, you were so close, your mind hazy with it. But you needed that final nudge over the edge. 

Like reading your thoughts, Rogers propped himself on one elbow, licked the tips of two fingers and brought them down to rub at your clit, flicking the swollen nub almost gently for the way his hips picked up, pistoning your heat. He coaxed you towards your climax, and you were helpless, your hands moving into his hair, clutching his neck, struggling to kiss him back as he pushed his tongue into your mouth again and again. 

“I’m gonna come - I’m gonna - “ you gasped, and he moaned sweetly against your lips. 

“That easy? No banter this time? No teasing?” he teased with a wicked smirk against your lips, clearly finding satisfaction in you crumbling in his hands. 

“Fuck you,” you half sobbed, half laughed in his face, his answering grin adding butterflies to the churning of pleasure in your belly. He was so deep, you didn’t know it could go so deep.

“Yes,” he sighed, continuing exactly as he had, his hips moving in a steady beat against your pelvis, bullying your cunt while his fingers moved almost teasingly against your clit, playing with you so good, keeping your pleasure so securely within his control. It was intoxicating, giving in to him like this. “God, how I’ve wanted you to,” he whispered before claiming your mouth again.  

You fell over the edge with a strangled cry, spasming out under him, your knees locking around his waist, pussy pulsing around his cock. He grinded you through it, a broken groan spilling from his mouth into yours, and then he stilled, tensing. 

You felt his cock pulse alongside your pussy, and clutched him to you as you relished him coming inside you, relishing finally, finally feeling him come. 

He slumped down over you, your chests heaving against each other, and his heavy weight was like a soothing blanket even as reality crashed down on you. You’d just fucked Steve Rogers, Captain America, and you had absolutely no idea where you stood with him, where you stood with his organisation, where you stood in the world in general. You were free falling right now, rootless and groundless, and yet, laying here under Rogers made you feel safe, if only intermittently. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck and inhaled his scent, savoring it. 

He raised himself all too soon, propping himself on his elbows and withdrawing his softening cock before you could lock your legs over his back and keep him inside. He smiled, lazy and sated, and you found yourself reciprocating earnestly, smiling stupidly up at him. 

He gave your nose a peck that irritably made your stomach flip, and then he rolled off, groaning as his back hit the mattress at your side. 

“Holy shit,” you breathed after a moment, your body aching in the most pleasurable way. 

Rogers laughed gently at your side. 

“Yeah,” he breathed, and you saw him turn his head to you in your peripheral vision. You rolled your head to meet his eyes. They were bright, full of satisfaction and still brimming with hunger. They dipped to sweep over your body before returning to your eyes. He rolled to his side and brought his hand up to trace lithe fingertips down your sternum, over your fluttering stomach, around your scar and up again. 

Your breath hitched slightly at the touch, and a new flash of arousal bloomed deep in your belly. You took his hand in yours and brought it up to your mouth. Taking one of his fingers into your mouth, you swirled your tongue around the digit, enjoying how his eyes glued to the display. The heat in his dark gaze grew with a crescendo, and a thrill went through you. 

“Y/N,” you whispered against his hand. 

His eyes widened. You kept yourself from laughing. You repeated the name, some weird feeling of release blooming in your chest. 

“That’s my name,” you continued when he only stared at you, feeling uncharacteristically shy all of a sudden. 

He repeated the name in a sighing whisper, and it felt like a prayer. Again you wondered what you had done to deserve him, deserve the sheer reverence with which he treated you. But you knew better than to voice that wonder out loud. No, you wanted to bask in it, soak it all up and lock it deep inside you where no one could reach to take it from you. 

He looked at you like he’d won somehow, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips, and you decided to let him believe it. If it kept him looking at you like that, you found it wasn’t so bad letting him think he had the upper hand. Little did he know he’d already given you so much more. You gave his body a once-over, noticing with interest that his cock was half hard again, or maybe it never went down completely. You cocked your brow at him as he kept smiling like the cat that got the milk. 

“How long before you can go again?” you asked. 

He flashed you a mischievous, almost feral grin before rolling on top of you. 

“I can do this all day.”

[elkleggs]

i love how you draw steve rogers with all my heart aahh thank you so much for sharing your beautiful art with us 🥰

Thanks so much for saying so! I love drawing Stoben Von Slutcakes sfm. Such a versatile beef bourguignon 🐣

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Jilted" - part 2

Rated: Explicit

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader

Tags: boyfriend's dad au, left at the altar, father-in-law, hurt/comfort, forbidden attraction, silver fox Steve, age gap, size kink, strength kink, Dom/sub elements, daddy kink, fingering, oral sex, grinding, sex, dirty talk, cheating

Summary: You may be a jilted bride, but you don't feel like one for long when Steve soothes the hurt in unexpected ways.

Part 2 - "Taken to Bed by a Man" (Wait! I haven't read part 1 yet!)

Only hours ago, you were walking to the altar to marry a boy, and now you’re being taken to bed by a man—that very boy’s father. The reality of it becomes very clear as Steve walks into his bedroom with you in his arms and sets you down. Your toes dig into the room’s soft carpet.

“Turn around,” he whispers.

You obey, shivering as he steps in close behind. You can hear his breathing, can practically feel his desire for you. Somehow, he seems more tangible than he ever has before. More real, more solid, and you’re painfully aware of how close he is. “S-steve,” you breathe. “I—”

“You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, cutting you off. “I’m sorry I never told you. A woman like you should hear it every day.”

You want to say something, tell him that this is wrong, you can’t do this. He’s … he’s Pat’s father, decades older than you. He’s Captain America, for Christssakes. You shouldn’t want him the way you do. And now he’s got you doubting everything, every interaction you’ve ever had with him, every lingering glance, every brief touch, every polite word. From that very first time Pat brought you home to meet his father, the famed “man out of time.”

Steve doesn’t age normally, that much is obvious. You know about the serum, know that he was in his late twenties when they defrosted him back in the ‘nineties. And thirty years later, he doesn’t look as old as he should. His body and face are still those of a forty year old, betrayed only by the edges of his eyes, by the grey creeping into his hair and beard. He’s a total daddy, a thought that you’ve been shamefully repressing for the past two years. You’ve been so embarrassed by it, thought you were being such a creep, thinking about Pat’s father that way. Has Steve really been looking at you too all this time? You open your mouth to say something, offer some protest or reason why you can’t—

“Ask me to take your dress off.”

Your whole body clenches at how deep his voice is, how close he’s speaking to your ear. You tremble, able to feel the heat of his body behind you. “Steve, I …”

“Ask me,” he whispers, fingers skimming over your neck and shoulders. “Come on, Honey. Ask me. I promise I’ll only make you do it once.”

God. You manage to choke out an overwhelmed, “Please,” and thankfully it seems to be enough for him. His fingers find the laces of your dress and begin to delicately undo them. He goes slowly, almost like he’s relishing the act of removing your wedding gown. He peels off the dress that his son was meant to remove from your body that night, the fabric falling to the floor in a quiet ‘whoosh’, and his hands landing on your waist.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, sounding amazed. You whimper and try to move away, skittish, but he stops you, pulling you back firmly against his body with a tut. “You’re okay,” he soothes, arms wrapping around you to hold you close and calm you down. “Shhh. I got you.”

“S-steve,” you breathe, overwhelmed by how wrong this is, how turned on you are when he touches you. “We can’t, I shouldn’t.”

“Why shouldn’t you?” his hot breath fans out against your ear, then he starts kissing your neck and his hands slide covetously over your body. “Wanted you for so long, Sweetheart. Wanted to give you what you were aching for.” You whimper and try to pull away, but his hand slides over your tummy and pulls you back. “It’s okay. I’ve known. You think I didn’t know? Think I didn’t see you looking at me?”

“I – I didn’t …”

“Shh. There’s a girl. Let me touch you.” He’s so effortlessly strong and it feels so good to be held still by him. He rubs your belly and his other hand slides up your ribcage. “So beautiful.” He cups your breast, fingers dipping under the cup of your bra. “God, Honey. Look at you.”

You look down and exhale shakily, your cunt pulsing at the sight of his huge hand against your skin and the delicate lace of your bridal underwear. “Steve,” you breathe, shaking from nerves and arousal. “I want …”

“What do you want?” he whispers, lips trailing over your neck. He places a kiss on your pulse point, feels how fast your heart is beating. “Want me to take control?” he offers softly, almost kindly, like he can sense how overwhelmed you are. “I can do that, Sweetheart. Make it easy for you, make all the decisions. Is that what you want, hm? Want me to lay you out on this bed and do all the work?”

It’s pathetic, how fast you whine and nod, wanting that so badly. “Yes,” you say, grabbing at his hands where they’re feeling you up. “Please, Steve. Yes.”

He chuckles, low and with just a touch of condescension, the sound going straight to your core. You squeeze your thighs together to try and get some relief, but it doesn’t do any good. “Come on, then,” Steve says, moving you with capable hands. He guides you over and pushes on your shoulders until he’s got you sitting on the edge of the bed. You’re left staring at him, standing there in front of you in his tux, looking obscenely handsome, confident, and—oh …

His cock isn’t even fully hard yet, and it’s still a healthy bulge at the front of his slacks. You feel your cheeks heat as you can’t help but stare at it. It is right there, after all. You flush all the harder when he notices you looking and chuckles at you. One of those enormous hands brushes up against the front of his pants, and you nearly moan at the sight of him touching himself.

“Don’t worry, Sweetheart,” he purrs. “You’ll get it. But first …” he sinks down to kneel in front of you, reaching for the straps of your bra. You tense when he starts to pull them off your shoulders, moving to reach behind yourself and unhook the bra, but he hushes you and stills your hands. “Shh, no. Let me do it, Honey. I want to do it.” He gets your bra off and tosses it aside, groaning as he kneels in front of you and looks his fill. “God, you got no idea,” he murmurs, sounding distracted by what he’s seeing. “No idea how long I’ve been wanting this.” His hands make an abortive move, as if he doesn’t know where or how to touch you first. “Shit, lookit you.”

“How long?” you ask on impulse, surprising even yourself. His eyes shoot up to your face, and you swallow heavily under his stare. “H-how long, have you wanted to?” you breathe.

He smiles, then his eyes trail back down and he sighs happily. He reaches out and just sort of … pets the tips of your breasts, brow pinching with want as he watches your nipples harden into firm peaks. “Jesus.” He shakes his head, like he can’t believe he’s getting to touch you. “Oh, Doll ... Since I met you.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” he says distractedly, big hands cupping your tits, making them look small and delicate against his rough palms. You’ve never noticed how masculine his hands are …

“S-since—”

“Since the first time you came in my house looking like you do, yes,” he growls, giving your breasts a squeeze. “Shit.”

His soft cursing makes you flush, feeling warm and exposed and needy and seen. “Steve,” you say, voice warbling with audible worry. You wait until his blue eyes come up to meet yours—God, are his eyes ever blue. You swallow heavily.

“What is it, Sweetheart?”

You chew your lip. “If we do this …” you fret, thinking about the wedding, about Patrick, about how fucked up this is going to make your life.

Steve’s hands smooth over your thighs. “Do you really want him back?” he asks you—knowingly. He meets your gaze without doubt, shaking his head the barest bit. “No going back,” he murmurs. You whimper, and he hushes you. “I know, Honey, I know it’s scary. But you can trust me.”

Delicately, he reaches for the clips of your garters and begins undoing them, one at a time. You’re stuck watching, helpless, as he looks you in the eye and gently eases your stockings down your legs. They’re the real deal: silk, seamed, non-elastic, and a strange feeling rolls through you as you watch Steve’s fingers move over them deftly and you realize that he likely knows what he’s doing because these were the sort that girls wore back in his day.

“Don’t worry, Angel.” He kisses the inside of a knee. “This isn’t just for tonight. I have every intention of keeping you.” His eyes flash upwards again, and you feel heat course through you at his face being right there between your legs … And at his words. He sees your face pinch with doubt and he nods. “Yeah. I told you you’re mine, now. I don’t say things like that unless I mean ‘em.”

“But …” you falter, not sure what you’re even planning to say. But I’m supposed to be engaged to your son. But I’m supposed to be married to him. But people will know, people will—

He slides his hands over your hips and starts edging your panties down, maintaining that all-consuming eye contact as he does it. “But what?” he purrs. “You worried about what people will say?”

You shake your head in denial, but the truth is that you are. Buzzfeed and CNN had been at that cathedral, goddamnit, and there’ll be articles tomorrow about what happened. What on earth will the headlines say when word gets out that you’ve traded in Captain America’s son for the Captain himself?

“You worry too much,” Steve says, easing your panties down your legs and guiding you to let them slip from your feet. He lifts your calf and kisses the inside of your ankle, smirking. “I’m Captain America, Everybody loves me. And I’m allowed to have nice things.” His gaze slides down to the vee of your legs, and you watch as his eyes rapidly darken to something greedy and ravenous. He makes a gruff sound in his throat, utterly possessive, and the next thing you know he’s shoving your knees further apart and forcing his way in, arms hooking underneath your thighs and wrapping around to hold onto you.

You squeak as his broad shoulders push your legs apart and you tip backwards. You catch yourself on your hands and prop yourself back up in time to watch the inaugural press of his mouth against your sex. And oh, it feels almost as good as it looks. You inhale sharply and your hips jump up of their own volition. He’s only pressed a chaste kiss against you, right up high on your mound, but the sight of Steve Rogers’ face between your legs, his head of silver-blond hair and his dark lashes resting against his cheeks as he noses against your most intimate place … it’s enough to have you clenching hard on nothing, slicking up so much that you can feel it getting messy and wet.

You whimper in arousal and impulsively reach with one of your hands to try and hold his head. “Jesus, Steve,” you whisper, turned on beyond belief. It only gets worse when he looks up at you again. You exhale shakily, belly heaving at the way his eyes scald you in their intensity.

“Tell me,” he rasps. “Tell me what you want me to do with my mouth.”

Jesus fucking Christ, that’s not fair. You whine and pant down at him. “Nnn, Steve …” You can’t. You can’t.

“Come on, Sweetheart,” he coaxes, voice like sin. “I know what I promised. And I meant it. I’ll take control. I’ll make it easy for you, and so goddamn good you won’t remember your name.” He turns his face and kisses the crease of your thigh, so close to where you want it. “But I want to hear you say it, first. Please. Just do that for me, Babydoll, and then I’ll make you feel so good.”

You swallow thickly, turned on beyond belief and knowing that if you want him, you’re going to have to put your big girl panties on and do this one thing for him. So, despite the fact that most of your brain cells have liquified and run out through your ears at this point—and despite the fact that you are not one for dirty talking in the bedroom—you look him right in the eyes and croak out a breathless, “Kiss my pussy, Steve. Put your mouth on me and lick it, suck—ogn …” You cut off in a moan when he seals his mouth right over your clit and sucks hard. “Oh my god.”

“Mmhm,” he groans. He sucks your folds into his mouth and flattens his tongue, rubbing it firmly against your clit and working methodically at it until it’s puffy and swollen. “Mmm. Mmph.” His sounds of enjoyment only make it filthier, and you can’t hold back your own choked off little moans and gasps at the eager way his arms grab onto you and haul you in for more, the way he purposefully grinds his face against you and uses his nose to give you more pressure from above your clit.

You wind up sobbing and tossing your head back as you feel yourself gush, and for a long moment you don’t even realize how much you're humping his face, rubbing yourself off against him, trying to get more of that sucking mouth and that lashing, sinful tongue. “Oh, shit. Holy shit …”

You should be mortified by your own desperation, by the sounds you’re making. Maybe you would be, but for the way that Steve responds to it. He growls and jerks you in harder against him, grinding his face into your cunt, sucking and slurping and then hurriedly freeing up one hand to push his fingers into you.

You cry out sharply as he tries to start with two but quickly halts when he can tell that it’s too much. He softens and slows down, kissing your clit in gentle apology, slipping one finger inside your drenched pussy instead. “There we go,” he hums in response to the pleasured sigh you give and looks up at you while he works his finger gently. “That feel good, Sugar?”

You’re gonna die from the fucking pet names, and that is perfectly okay. You nod dumbly down at him, eyes glued to his gaze once again as he fingers you. “Y-yeah,” you say shakily. “Steve …”

He kisses the hood of your clit and drags his lips over it. “Has it been awhile?” he asks, with all the tender concern of a lover who wants to please.

It makes your belly swirl just as hard as his mouth on you had, and you whimper and nod, working your hips down a little against his finger. “I h-haven’t,” you stutter, “Nn … not, oh, not in a while.” You don’t elaborate, and you sure as shit aren't going to admit it now, but the truth is you’ve been avoiding sex with Patrick the closer the big day got; telling yourself that it was to make the wedding night more special, when in reality you suspect it was something else entirely. You whimper and shake your head shyly, and Steve seems to understand that you don’t want to talk about it.

“Shh,” he soothes, kissing your thigh again as he keeps working his hand against you so gently. “That’s okay. We’ll take it slow. We’re not in any rush, ain’t that right?”

You can only whimper and nod, and he coos and smiles at you and how you’ve gone nonverbal already. “Yeah,” he purrs, smiling. “Don’t even worry about it, Babygirl. Daddy’s gonna treat this pussy right. Gonna make you feel so nice, get you real good and relaxed, teach you things you didn’t even know you could do.”

You cry out at how excruciatingly intimate those words are, at the way he kisses your hyper-sensitized clit and changes the angle of his hand, finger dragging up against your walls slower and more purposefully and firm. Your eyes clamp shut and you toss your head back with a pitiful keen. “St-eve, oh, please, please …”

“Mmhm.” He keeps going, still gentle but picking up on what you like, figuring out what makes you get louder and squirm harder. He fucks you on his hand and nurses at your clit in a constant, pulsing rhythm—steady, steady—reading your body’s cues and committing himself to the task, breaking away every once and awhile just to murmur little things against your cunt:

“That’s it, Sweetheart, just like that. Such a good girl. Keep going baby, yes. Let it come, let it happen for me.”

When you get close he stops talking, sealing his mouth to your pleasure and humming his praise straight into your skin instead. And it’s so good, building and building, and he’s doing it just right, holy fuck …

You fall to your back on the bed, Steve following right after you as it makes your pelvis tilt up, never breaking contact, never faltering as your hands scrabble and claw at his hair and your cries get louder and sharper. He holds you down as you start to thrash, desperate for the edge you can feel so close, so close …

Your legs wind up around his head and your heels dig wildly into his back, and still he doesn’t falter, grunting and slurping against you, giving you what you need so good that you sob.

“Oh please, please, Steve! I’m gonna cum, I’m–I’m gonna … ohhh …”

He groans right along with you as it happens, keeping that same exquisite pressure and pace in such an ungodly competent way that you just about scream from how grateful you are. He’s perfect. You sob as the pleasure crests and wanes so sharply, leaving you trembling and gasping breathless little “thank you’s” at him over and over again as he eases off and climbs up your body.

“Shh, sh sh. There we go. Aww, I know, Angel, I know. It’s okay. Did that just feel so good?”

He coos a rhetorical litany of gentle praise at you as he climbs up and rearranges your body fully on the bed, telling you how beautiful you are, how good, how much he wants you. His hands are everywhere, attentive and comforting, petting your legs and smoothing over your belly and chest as he gazes down at you adoringly. It’s romantic, intimate, and like nothing you ever had with Patrick.

You sigh happily and whisper Steve’s name instead, which only seems to please him more. He sidles up alongside you and slots one thick thigh between your legs. That’s when you realize that he’s still completely clothed and you make a tiny noise of protest. Though there is something deliciously dirty about him clothed and you bare, the fabric of his tux over the firm muscle of his thigh pressing up against your soaked core, you still want to feel him. “Steve,” you breathe, pulling at his shirt impatiently. “You too, please.”

He chuckles and nods, hushing your protests as he continues to luxuriate in smoothing his hands over your body. “Hang on, Sweetheart. I will, I will. Let me do this. I’ve always wanted to. Always. Don’t make me rush.”

“Steve,” you sigh.

“Shhh. Good girl. Just let me have this first.” He continues on, heedless of his own body and fully intent on yours, keeping you on that cloud of hazy, post-orgasmic pleasure.

It’s as he’s hovering over you like that, pressing you into the sheets and kissing tender affection all over your face—worshiping you, for lack of a better word—that you realize:

He’s treating you like a groom treats his bride.

Epilogue imagine/outline

Masterlist

If you liked what you read and feel so inclined, please consider dropping a tip in the Kofi🍵 cup!

This has been a fill for:

@steverogersbingo

Card: #sb3088 - stark-contrast

Square D2: "I've always wanted to do that"

@allcapsbingo

Card: sarahyellow AC1105

Square: FREE SPACE (wedding night)

@marvel-smash-bingo

Card: sarah-writes-stucky

Square N4: daddy kink

[youremyonlyhope]

It is truly a shame that Jack Harkness never got to meet Twelve.

[theknucklehead]

I always loved that ceiling mural in the library from the Pagemaster.

If I could, I'd get that painted on my ceiling.

[artist-issues]

you're fun to talk to about media so I've got something to ask.

what do you think of this trope where a lie or misconception becomes commonly accepted as truth by the characters in story? especially as a resolution.

example: in the finale of "Kubo and the two strings", the Moon King(main villain) loses his memory, so when he asks who he is, the townspeople lie to him and say he was a kind member of the community, rather than the dictator he really was.

I don't like it. I see a falsehood being widely accepted as a tragedy, and I'm just left imagining what happens if/when the characters find out the truth. I can't really take something as a happy ending when it's.. y'know, fake. I imagine you feel similarly.

but hey, I could have totally missed the point of the ending of KATTS, if you watched it, you might have seen something I didn't.

I haven’t seen Kubo in a really long time; I don’t think I was thinking critically about it the first time I watched it, so my opinion now is an afterthought. I’d have to see it again to be fair!

…But I do seem to remember that the villain is defeated with some importance placed on memory. And the identity of the monkey and that beetle warrior also have to do with the sacredness of memories. So, if that’s the case, then yeah, taking his memory away as a “good resolution” can kind of hamstring the whole theme of the movie. Unless you tilt your head and squint and go, “no, see, if all you have is bad memories, then it’s just as powerful to take those away—the point is, memories have power either way!” But even that feels a little half-baked, gymnastics-brainy.

Basically, I agree with you. A story that resolves with a character, or characters, accepting a lie as truth is always going to be a fumble of the whole story…unless it’s intended to be a tragedy, a cautionary tale. I can think of three where that’s super evident.

1 ) A Streetcar Named Desire

In this movie the main character, Blanche, is lying about who she is, for the whole story. She even has this great symbolism thing with light���she hates bright light, on the surface because she’s vain and doesn’t want anyone to see signs that she’s aging. But under the surface, the character is really an immoral, lust-filled, broken person who knows she can be cruel and isn’t deserving of love. She doesn’t want anyone to know that side of her. She hides it all under vainglory and pride. So she pretends to her sister, Stella, that she’s upright and moral and has simply fallen on hard times. But her sister’s brute of an abusive husband, Stanley, who is always 100% his authentic, awful self, sees through Blanche when she comes to stay with them. In the end, Stanley rapes Blanche and then carelessly shrugs her accusations off.

The main point of this example is that Stella, the wife of the rapist Stanley, has been portrayed the whole movie as sometimes-leaving her abusive husband…but only as far as the apartment above their own, literally right above him, so that she can easily go back to him. And at the end of the movie, when Blanche is being taken to a mental institution because she’s broken-down after being found-out as a fraud, then raped, Stella lets them take her away. And then Stella goes up to the apartment above, where she always “pretends” to leave Stanley. It’s such a halfhearted, lazy way to end a movie that’s all about desire-versus-truth. Because what it implies is that Stella is leaving Stanley for now, like she might believe that he raped her sister…but she’ll eventually go back to him. And in the meantime, Blanche goes off to the mental hospital, with this iconic line “I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers.” By which she means, “strangers don’t know what a two-faced monster I really am, so I can con them into thinking I’m a morally-upright woman fallen on hard times, and they’ll take pity on me—so sure, I’ll go with you, strange doctor I’ve never met.”

The central point of the movie is “as long as nobody looks the truth in the face, everyone can go on getting what they desire.”

Of course, that’s true. But the other truth is that, if Stella accepted what her sister and her husband really are—her sister is broken and her husband is a monster—then she could choose to rise above “animal desire.” She could choose to take care of Blanche, and Blanche would see that “someone seeing who I really am” doesn’t always have to lead to ruin and damnation. Stella could then, also, choose to really leave Stanley, for good, and be at peace, while Stanley’s “desire” would be rewarded with ruin.

But instead the opposite is what happens. Blanche goes away believing, in her broken mind, that her womanly wiles and faking will protect her from further injury, even though they never have—Stanley ends the movie exactly where he began it, screaming for Stella to come back and knowing that she will—and Stella, too, ends the movie going away from Stanley…just for a little while, until animal desire convinces her to just pretend Stanley isn’t really a monster, Blanche must be crazy, except this time, when she goes back, she’ll be carrying a child into that abusive lie.

All characters wholeheartedly embracing hurtful lies so they can keep riding their desires. I hate that movie. You could see it as a cautionary tale. Most don’t. Most see it as a movie with “hot Marlon Brando” who “really loves Stella—all the characters ‘really love each other,’ they just don’t know how to express it healthily!” 🙄

I think the worst part is that the movie behaves as if it is true that every time Blanche reveals her own brokenness or is vulnerable, the world STOMPS on her for it, nobody loves her despite her brokenness. That’s the real mistake this movie makes. It has an opportunity to show unconditional love and it leaves the audience thinking Blanche was right, and there’s no such THING as “unconditional” love, instead.

Anyway.

2) X-Men Origins: The Wolverine

This one is less thematic. But it’s just dumb because the whole movie the main character, Logan, Wolverine, is being taught that “Giving in to Bloodlust Makes You an Animal���Compassion For Those Weaker Than Yourself Makes You Human.”

So in that context, the whole narrative is centered around the exploration of “Who is Logan/Wolverine?”

…Which makes it really stupid that the movie ends with him losing his memory. So…the movie asks “Who Are You?” and right after the character figures it out, he forgets and ends it with the answer: “I don’t know who I am.”

That’s just a waste. That’s silly. It allows you to take the character to real, hearty, coming-of-age, hero-forged-in-fire, a man-born-of-tragedy places…and then just shrug all that stuff off at the end. “Never mind. But it was a fun ride, wasn’t it?”

Especially because they built it all around the dichotomy between Logan and his brother, who’s little more than an animal—and Logan and his wife, who could be an animal, but chooses compassion instead, and reminds him of his choice, too. —and then she dies, and it’s implied that maybe his brother does too, but who cares, cuz he forgets. Who cares? Not Logan. So why should the audience?

I get that they “needed” to do this so that the end of this movie sets up the beginning of the X-Men Movies, which already established that Logan can’t remember “his past.” But like…then don’t make the point of the movie “Who Am I?” just to end on “…Okay, So WHO AM I?”

It’s a fine movie up until that point.

They should’ve made the movie center around “Can’t Change What You’ve Done; But You Can Be Redeemed.” And then show his memory loss around a moment of self-sacrifice. So that it’s still tragic, but at least when he wakes up from the self-sacrificial act, he’s “a new man.” Then later, in the third X-Men movie, when Logan chooses that mutant kid over “learning the secrets of his past,” it all comes full circle, because his “self-sacrifice moment” can stay where the Old Logan died.

Anyway. You didn’t ask me to re-tell X-Men Origins: The Wolverine. But it’s the same basic premise—a movie ends with a character losing their memory, or believing a lie—whatever.

You know, actually, this one isn’t so much “believing a lie” as it is “going back to considering the lie (that he’s an animal) because all the work done to convince him of the truth has been stupidly erased”

3) The Dark Knight

Saved this for last because nobody would read all that if they saw me scratching up the beloved Christopher Nolan Masterpiece.

But The Dark Knight is a perfect example of what you’re actually talking about.

The movie is awesome until the end.

It’s not hard to guess what I’m going to say. Harvey Dent is supposed to be a shining example of a good guy, and the goodness, that Gotham is capable of. The Goodness that will ultimately defeat Evil. And Evil is represented as Chaos.

Bruce sees that and that’s why he’s willing to give everything to make Harvey succeed as the hero Gotham needs. Because if Gotham sees that evil can be conquered by doing things the right way, the orderly way, that will get Gotham out of it’s “Justice is Broken, Vengeance is The Only Form of Justice” cycle.

Then there’s the Joker. He doesn’t believe there’s any such thing as Good—it’s all just Chaos (which is evil.) And his big mission is to prove it. It’s ironic that he twists Harvey’s sense of “justice” around to this viewpoint—where Harvey uses “chance” as just another form of “retribution.”

Anyway. All of that’s interesting.

But the movie both perpetuates a lie and does so by having the characters end believing a lie.

The lie it perpetuates is “The Joker is right, there’s no such thing as Justice or Good—it’s all just chaos, but pretending it’s not can get you through the day.”

That’s the lie it perpetuates!

And how does it do that?

By having the “city of Gotham,” and Bruce himself, believe a lie.

They believe Harvey Dent really was a good guy who died a hero. Bruce believes Rachel died still waiting for him, which symbolized her supposed belief in the good of Bruce and capability of Bruce to let it all go.

And why was it important that they believe those lies? Because the supposed truth is too harsh—that there’s no Good, it’s all Chaos. And if they believe that supposed truth, they’ll all turn out like Harvey or Joker. If Bruce believes Rachel chose Harvey, he’ll supposedly give up on something important in himself.

Okay but the problem with that is you have characters believing a lie because of a truth—that isn’t the truth. It’s the same problem with Streetcar.

The people of Gotham, the worst people of Gotham, aren’t always going to choose evil. There is such a thing as justice and good. And Harvey turning into Two-Face doesn’t change that. The movie could’ve shown that. It started to, with the prisoners on the second boat choosing not to kill the civilians to save themselves.

But it chose not to make that the point of the movie. It chose to make “The Joker was Right, Good is a Comforting Lie, & the Closest You’ll Ever Get to Justice is Vengeance & Chaos” the point of the movie. By having Batman convince the whole city to believe the comforting lie, what you’re saying is, Bruce believes that the truth won’t set Gotham free, only wrap it in chains.

That’s the problem with these movies.

And that’s why I think Captain America: The Winter Soldier licks The Dark Knight hollow every time, and is all-in-all a better movie, hands down. In this continued essay—

[theflagscene]

First and Jojo do have fantastic taste in men, because damn, Peter really is a daddy! Wow! 🥵

[reploidbuddy]

So since Discord decided to be a butt and stop hosting my images for ao3 I'll be dropping some arts here B)

Starting with everyone’s character sheets from Welcome Aboard the Maria!

Didn’t give Omega a sheet bc I'm mean (/j, I just struggle to draw him actually but it's okay he gets drawn later it's not like he's THAT different)

[love-affair-with-fandoms]

Someone asked me why my “type” is silver haired foxes with blue eyes….

Agent Silver Haired Fox walked…

So that Captain Silver Haired Fox could run…

Ya girl has been thirsting after older men since day one and silver haired foxes since the early 00s 🤣

[goodgirlofglory]

Silver fox and the Captain - Chapter 3

Chapter 2 - /Masterpost/ - Chapter 4

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader

Word count: 2,1k

Warnings: Explicit language, some sexual content (ie a lot of making out and grinding)

Summary: Things flourish in unexpected, heated ways between you and the Captain, but can you afford such a distraction without tipping your whole world off balance?

You were crazy. Absolutely insane. The whole situation was completely out of hand.

And with a reckless sort of abandon, you loved it. 

You tightened your hand in the captain’s shirt and dared to slip your tongue out to swipe against his bottom lip. His lips parted on a small gasp, his massive frame trembling just the slightest. And then his tongue was in your mouth, his burly body pressing you back to pin against the wall. 

Some distant flaring alam in your head told you to get out before he had you entirely immobilized, but it was drowned out by the thrill of temptation. The sheer adrenaline of sneaking around with him, tethering the edge of danger by letting him get you in this position and then get out of it. It was heady and way too salivating to resist. 

You and the Captain had worked up a bit of a habit over the last months. A sort of dance, taunting and teasing - both for dominance and for each other.

He had cornered you in the noisy underground techno club that first meeting after you’d kissed him on the casino rooftop, and you hadn’t gotten so much more as a word out before he’d grabbed you by the scruff of your neck and laid one on you, smirking satisfied to himself when he saw you stunned expression after, your mouth hanging slightly open while your brain rebooted itself. You told him to go fuck himself before you danced with him most of the night. Then, as Black Widow sauntered up to pull him towards the night's target, you slipped away to do the same. You’d escaped with a pair of rocket boosters looted from one of Stark’s autonomous suits, but not before giving Captain America’s ass a good slap. 

You got a slap back a few weeks later when he ambushed you squatting in the rafters of the old theatre in Stockholm, watching out for the illegal trade of palladium underneath. Your ass stung like hell from the smack, but the thrill of the force and the way his eyes lit up as you scowled at him made it all worth it. Especially when you almost immediately put your hands in his hair and crushed your lips together. 

It was all fun and games, really. Lighthearted, hormone-fueled, dangerous fun, feeling like fumbling teenagers as you stole kisses from one another before the prefects caught you. It would be, anyway, if Rogers didn’t insist on getting to know you and your story in between licking into your mouth with increasing fervor. 

“Why are you doing this?” he’d ask, panting slightly, warm hands sliding up your sides. “Who’s your allies?”, he’d ask as he let you flip him over to pin against the wall. Who’s side are you on, what’s your story, where do you go after this - all these burrowing questions all in order to understand you. Being understood by Captain America was the last thing you wanted, and by the time he got around to the “I can help you if you’re in trouble,” you’d had enough, your irked mind warring with your tingling body. By then it was usually time to move anyway, but you couldn’t resist punishing him by biting his lip just the tiniest bit too hard before disappearing, hoping it would discourage him from asking all those questions. It seemed to only make him more keen if you thought about it.

In truth, you were more curious about why he had let this go on for so long. Surely he could track you down and take you out if he wanted. He was Captain America for fuck’s sake. Or were you really that good?

It was hard to keep your thoughts focused on that when his hands stroked down the back of your thighs, the Captain bending slightly at the knees before he hoisted you up. You yelped into his mouth, blood singing with excitement at his manhandling. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your glittering, red gown riding up your thighs in the process. 

You’d sought each other out in the alcove on the second floor, looking out over the highly exclusive and ridiculously lavish art galla well underway below. 

You hadn’t seen him in three months, and had caught yourself smiling stupidly as he'd approached you in a perfectly fitted black tux with a bright blue bow tie. You’d hid your smile in your martini, along with your suddenly flaring nerves, but kept his gaze as he’d sauntered up, as confident and relaxed as he always appeared. 

“As much as I enjoy this look on you tonight, there is no point in you being here today,” he’d said. 

You’d scoffed. He said something along those lines every time you saw him. 

“Elaborate, please. Why is that?” you asked, willing to play this game, already plotting out which curtain you could lure him behind. 

“I’ve let you get away with this for too long. I won’t anymore,” he said simply, eyes serious even as he let them rake over your form. Your skin sizzled with warmth under his gaze. 

You knew what he was talking about. He was adamant you not get away with any smuggled objects anymore. He’d said so for months. And even though you’d gotten away with something each time, it did get harder and harder. You’d have to resort to using dirtier tricks, more complicated tech, get closer to the action and had gotten away with less and less valuables for each encounter with the Avengers. They were strangling your income, your field of movement slowly shrinking. It was infuriating. Years and years of work - meticulous, dangerous work, your whole life - threatened by these people who thought themselves better than you because they had some government-funded agency backing them with millions of dollars and a favorable reputation. It wasn’t as if they acted any differently than the criminals. Not really. They still made and used dangerous weapons, killed and maimed, blew up buildings and destroyed people's incomes. 

You were haunted with an ever growing desperation these days, scrambling to keep your life in balance. Your contacts had started to shun you, afraid the Avengers would go after them once they got to you. Yeah, word traveled fast in the underworld, and while you didn’t think they knew you regularly tangled tongues with America’s golden boy, they knew you had S.H.I.E.L.Ds eyes on your neck. You couldn’t blame them. This was the worst thing to happen to you. 

Though, when Rogers held you like this, cradling you in his strong, capable arms, his masculine, cirupy scent of musk and spice enveloping you, it was easier to forget your blights and lose yourself to the arousal that wound up like a maelstrom inside you. God, you hadn’t felt this alive in…you didn’t know how long. It made you adamant, crazed, like some half mad animal chasing a good feeling for no other reason than that it felt good. 

And it did feel good. God, did it feel good. Rogers was sure and insistent, overwhelming and dominant, couldn’t help it with his size and strength. But he was also gentle, reverent in the way he gripped you, cradled you to him, pressed you so close you were practically glued from mouth to hip, so easily filling every crevice of your consciousness with his look and smell and taste and feel. It was like he himself couldn’t breathe properly if he wasn’t in some way touching you. He hadn’t hoisted you up into your arms like this before, though. That was entirely new, and entirely too hot. 

“Eager,” you chastised in a murmur against his lips, but your voice was raspy, betraying just how affected you were. 

He smiled against your lips, hands kneading into the flesh of your thighs as he pushed you up against the wall of the alcove shrouded in shadow, and kissed you again, tongue hot and wet in your mouth.

And while you had felt him getting hard against you before, in moments cut way too short where he’d been plastered against you and his (rather impressive) bulge had poked into your stomach, you had never had it perfectly between your legs, pressing up against you right there. He had never done anything to draw attention to it before; the perfect gentleman with a raging hard-on from a few kisses. It was adorable, honestly, and an incredible confidence boost. And so unbelievably fucking hot. You were thankful your own arousal was less noticeable in nature, since you were practically gushing into your panties at the mere sight of him these days. 

He situated himself nudged between your splayed legs, intimate and with such confidence it made your breath hitch. It was like he belonged there, like it was the most natural place for him to be. You reeled with the arousal that crackled up your spine, at this new line the two of you were crossing, inching towards something more than a kiss in the dark and a smack on the ass. 

He swallowed your hitching gasp and groaned as your hands went into his hair for something to hold on to. He ground against you with a small roll of his hips and you felt your slick panties move against the heated skin of your pussy. You moaned into his mouth and his massive, sturdy frame shivered slightly again. 

You felt an almost painful sting of possessiveness in your chest at that. This man, this strong, noble hero with the world on his shoulders, who could withstand hardship beyond imagination and be a reliable and trustworthy leader for everyone around him, trembling in your hands, breathing life itself into your dormant lungs with his hot moans of arousal, seemingly starved for touch, for intimacy…almost as much as you. 

Fucking hell, you suddenly thought to yourself. When did you start thinking like this? When had you turned into such a soppy mess? Had you gone completely soft from only this? 

Rogers’s hips rolled in smooth, steady circles against you, sending hot flames of heat up through your body, making your cheeks blaze. You had your trusted sport shorts underneath your dress, but the thin, elastic fabric and soaked panties were no barrier against his hardness. You felt it, obscene in the way it stretched his tuxedo pants. 

God you wanted it. Wanted it so much it frightened you. You blinked your heavy eyelids open, slowly coming back to reality. You always had to at some point. Tonight’s bust was the exchange of smuggled weapons disguised as an art auction in the heart of Vienna. 

You needed tonight's bust to be good. Your reserves were nearly depleted, and you had some unsavory buyers on your neck. While they hadn’t been explicit (yet), the clear dissatisfaction over your last loot had turned their otherwise neutral correspondence a bit unfriendly. You knew of the horror stories of this particular gang - how quickly smiles turned to frowns, how quickly people disappeared at their hands, and how no one dared speak a word of it after - people you’d seen in your periphery for years suddenly gone like they never existed. 

You couldn’t risk that happening to you. You needed a good hit tonight. 

“What’s wrong?” Rogers asked, and you realized you’d frozen, staring ahead into nothing, and you blinked, his face appearing, that infuriating line between his drawn down brows showing a kind of concern you just couldn’t believe he felt for you. It was a mockery, and you bristled. 

Noticing the change in you, he gently set you down on your feet again, but he kept you pinned against the wall, probably out of instinct now. He’d called you a slippery eel not too far back, when you’d successfully wiggled out of his grasp while escaping a bust in a shut down metro station in Santiago, Chile.  

“Little fox,” he said, in lieu of your name, for you hadn’t yet given it to him. 

He tried to catch your gaze with his, but you refused, a sudden, unrecognizable panic riding through your chest at the thought of tonight’s stakes. His hand reached up to graze a knuckle against your cheek, and you recoiled, furious with his tenderness, and how much a part of you wanted to lean into it. It was so fucking dangerous to let yourself turn soft. Even if Captain America might be one of the few men you could have trusted to not exploit your weakness, just about everyone else in your life would jump your ass at the first sign of vulnerability.

You batted his arm away and scrambled from between him and the wall. 

“Let me help you,” he started to say, but stopped dead in his tracks. You looked back to see him touch a finger to his ear piece, his gaze nailed to you. He seemed momentarily torn, frustration flashing in his baby blue eyes. 

“Copy, I’m on it,” he said at last, and you knew it was time to get to work. Time to get back to reality. 

You slipped from the alcove before he could lower his hand. 

[delightrolls]

An Autism Post for Autism Awareness / Acceptance Month featuring all (Current) Autistic Non OC Sonic Thunderstorm Characters 🌈♾

[silverfox-hunter]

Seems we get presents too with some lovely new pics from Martha & Lolly on twitter

[the-alphaess]

after the recent anthro mlp silverclaw, i thought i'd try my hand at other anthro/furry silverclaw variations. i've done savannah cat silverclaw before, it's probably the most fitting (and funny enough, the only drawing of her i have from her original creation date, that being 2014, is a cat-ified version of her lol)

the fox is a close second as a spirit animal for silverclaw though.

i've also made some attempts to draw her as a avian (peregrine falcon) but couldn't really make the beak work with the anthro face. perhaps i'l go back to it again after this.

[jbarneswilson]

Hey, twin ❤️ Can I hear about your samtember day 26 - rainy/cozy story please?

HELLOOOOOO SHANA! thank you so much for this ask!

tbqh, i do not remember WHICH particular samtember this was supposed to be for… 2022? 2023? ¿quien puede decir? probably the date on the file but i digress. anywhomst, it is a little interlude in my sugar baby!sam x sugar daddy!steve universe (a universe which i swear one day i will actually write and post).

here’s part of it:

Sam reluctantly gets up and shrugs on his bathrobe. Making his way downstairs, he pads into the kitchen. He sighs softly when he catches sight of Steve seated at the island, drinking coffee and scowling at his iPad.

He looks over at the doorway, expression easing when he catches sight of Sam. “Oh, hey, baby, what’re you doing up so early?”

Instead of replying, Sam gives Steve a pointed look and shakes his head in disappointment. Steve gives him a sheepish smile and runs a hand through his silver locks, in that charming way that always gives Sam butterflies. It’s no less potent even when Sam’s cranky.

ask me about my wips :)

[dragonroilz]

[mightymarvelmemes]

Mighty Marvel Movie poll! Round 1!