#skinny steve rogers

[eccentricallygothic]

| Too Sweet |

Description: You and Steve try to put 'it' in for the first time after his serum procedure. 

Pairing: Soft-Dark 40's Post-Serum Steve Rogers | Lover!You. 

Warning(s): Soft-Dark!Steve, 40's misogyny and courting bc let's be so fr, obsession, daddy kink, allusions to spanking, dumbification, power imbalance, corruption kink, fluffy smut, p-in-v penetration that y'all are STRUGGLING with, dash of breeding kink, they love each other, smut with plot.  

Note: @chxrryhansen 's new Too Sweet Steve edit is responsible for this and she doesn't even know it, pfft!

.

"Steve!" Your protest is half giggle and half whine as you wince before landing a punishing smack to your lover's shoulders. "Ouch!" His body is also vibrating due to the humor that the two of you find in this strange situation. 

"Come on, baby" he rasps out against your ear, his elbow that presses into your pillow besides your head causing it to dip towards itself. "I am trying my best here, bear with me a little" try he sure is doing. You can almost feel him fighting against his impulse to just fuck all and push inside your tiny entrance that has never faced a girth this big. 

"I knowww~" you whine as you press your knees against his sides that have become wide and muscular since the procedure. "But it's still ouchie" Steve sighs as he freezes the little bit of pushing that he was doing.

You feel bad, you really do. 

Because it is as hard for you to hold back as it is for him.

Pressed up against your lover that you haven't properly had like this in a week, your bare skins nearly leeched to each other's, one of his rough manly hands fondling your breasts as the one he's holding up his heavy body with strokes your hair to comfort you, the feeling of his stern muscles digging into the tender insides of your thighs and then his cock that you need to save your life at this point so close to your weeping walls yet so far away that you can lose your mind from the frustration. 

But it just hurts so fucking much! 

You had always thought your lover's size to be a decent one because it kept you satisfied and very happy. 

But now…

This. 

You did not want to be an ungrateful brat, as Steve would say, because you weren't a stranger to the valor that he held for his country and you had always done your best to cheer him on so you weren't to be misunderstood.

But good Lord above, they had swapped your cotton candy lover for a rough and tough beast who couldn't bear you being out of his sight for more than a few minutes. 

It seemed that whatever voodoo they worked in that fancy machine had also amplified his obsession with you, like everything else. 

Steve sighs as he kisses your cheek softly. You understand that he's a man and he has his needs that he has been compromising for a week because you recoil at the sight of his cock each time he tries to seduce you. "I've already stretched you out with three fingers, baby. At this point I might as well put my fist in there" you're on thin ice and you know it. 

No man is as considerate as he has been all these days as it is. 

Your cheeks burn and you flush hotly in embarrassment, letting out another whine as a result before landing a flustered punch on his arm. "I- It's not my fault if your fist would still be smaller than your dick!" Though your tone is one that has gotten you bent across his lap more times than you can count, the manner in which the indirect praise boosts his ego saves you this one time.

And his fingers weren't the easiest thing in the world either because they've grown three times their size!

"Aw, is Daddy's cock too big for your little baby pussy, honey?" You cannot help but let out a horrified guffaw as you cover your mouth, eyes wide. 

"Oh, my GOD, Steve!" He is grinning at how appalled you look because of his obscene words. "Stop with that! I told you the other day that it's not right!" You have no idea how, but two months ago your lover had picked up this strange pet name for himself that he liked to use whenever you two were having an intimate moment. 

"Oh, but baby" your back arches in an instant as you grunt and feel your claws fly to his shoulders that they dig into. He has started to push again. But your pussy is nearly as stubborn as he is, it seems. Because neither wants to back down. "Who put it in your pretty little head that you can decide what's right and wrong around here?" 

Your thighs tremble at the authority in his tone and you whine, feeling your ass cheeks clench at the way the girth of his tip feels around your sore band of muscles. Fuck, this is like losing your virginity all over again but only worse. 

You almost feel mad at yourself.

Because you're so wet and prepared.

Ready.

Just why can't it go where you need it most?!

"N- No…" The smell of his shampoo hits your nose when he dips his head into the crook of your neck to make a new love bite, both to try and distract you as well as mark you as his. "D- Didn't mean that, Shtevie, sowwy~" you mumble meekly and he deeply hums against your skin. 

"Good girl" if it weren't for the way in which one of his hands lovingly caress your scalp, you would have teared up due to how small you suddenly feel. "Now shush up for Daddy and let him do this bratty little pussy in" an involuntary gasp leaves you again but you suppress it by kissing his moist temple so he can't hear it and think you are being disrespectful. Your baby pussy has irritated him enough this past whole week already. 

"Owiee…" You grunt again as you feel it breach its way into the initial curve as it has been doing for hours now. "S- So big, Daddy" what? No! You're not like your naughty lover! Y- You're just trying to somehow calm him down so you don't get in trouble! 

Like you did when you initially did not respond to his unrelenting advances in school and he ended up scoring really low in a test because of that so he dragged you out of drama class to bend you over and teach you a thing or two about manners and how to treat those who are nice to you. Then he made you apologize, kiss his cheek and cook him dinner at your house to make it up to him. 

You are glad he did that though, because Steve is your once in a lifetime and there can never be another like him. 

He just knows best. 

But that doesn't mean you are okay with getting punished just because your pussy is too tiny!

"Good babygirl" your lover grunts against your nipple that his mouth is latched onto now, hips doing their best to not damage you but still weasel his cock past the hard round shaped barricade of your pubic bone. "I know it's scary but you can trust Daddy because he knows that if that pretty little pussy can push out his brats one day, it can surely take this cock too." Steve loves how you shudder under him at the thought but still answer him Yes, Daddy. 

Because you are all his to do with whatever he pleases.

That is the reason why he shook hands with HYDRA and wiped out SHIELD the day he was transformed. 

Because HYDRA had promised him a comfortable future with you where he would not have to part with you for too long but still provide you the life that you truly deserved as his sweet little girl who loved and accepted him in a state that everyone had treated as a laughing stock. 

You were worthy of the world.

And he was determined to give it to you. 

.

I didn't mention the hydra plot twist up there because well, surprise! 

[caplanbuckybarnes]

Take a Chance of Me (Skinny!Steve Rogers)

Summary: Steve visits the Metropolitan Museum of Art on 5th Ave. in NYC and meets you there. Skinny!Steve AU

WC: 550

Warnings: preserum steve, fluff

A/N: i'm locating all of old fics on here. i'm located a TON of them already. *Most* of them are already on ao3 or you to enjoy.

Read on Ao3!

-

Being as he was, Steve always felt out of place. He never held a girl’s attention like his best friend, Bucky. He never had a first kiss, a first date, nothing. He was always stuck at home with his mother to care for him. Of course, Bucky was always hanging about or dragging him places– which Steve never minded. He held Bucky to high standards because, for once, Steve had someone to hang with, someone who didn’t treat him like he was so fragile. Someone who saw Steve for who he was.

Steve had met Bucky a few years ago. He was maybe thirteen or fourteen. Who really remembered? He was fighting a bully in an alleyway next to an ice cream shop. Well, the bully was fighting, and Steve was groaning and hacking up a lung, trying to defend the poor cat that the bully had been torturing.

Bucky had heard the grunts and trash cans being knocked over and of course, he was drawn to the noise. He’d watched for only a second before he had sighed and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, preparing to lay one on this bigger guy. Bucky had taken a few steps into the alley and clocked his fist right into the man’s skull, causing him to stumble forward and lose his balance. “Come on, punk.” He called, beckoning over to the little blonde man, who had a bloody and what looked to be a broken nose. He’d taken the shorter man back to his home, where Bucky’s mother had helped him heal. Steve stayed at Bucky’s house every day after school for the rest of the month.

So now, it was years later. Bucky had gone off to fight in a war America had no business fighting in. Steve had walked around, finally making a stop at the  Metropolitan Museum of Art, where he studied the paintings and sculptures to pass the time. He thought about everything in his mind. He thought about how he’d wanted to become a professional painter. He thought about his friendship with Bucky. He thought about his mother and how grateful he was that she was with him.

Steve thought about many things as he strolled through the rooms, looking at everything around him. He’d been so busy looking he hadn’t noticed you were just as preoccupied looking as well. He’d bumped into you, knocking you both onto the ground.

You let out a surprised cry as your butt had collided with the marble flooring, knocking the brochure out of your hand.

“I’m-I’m sorry,” Steve mumbled as he scurried to his feet and helped you to your own.

“It’s okay!” you nearly giggle at the redness on his face.

“Are you hurt?” he asked you, voice timid and unsure.

You shook your head, grinning at the small, handsome blond man. “No, of course not. It was hardly a fall.���

He nodded, running a hand through his short locks of hair. “Um-”

You only shrugged before gently intertwining your arms together, making Steve stutter even more. “Would you like to take a tour with me?”

“Yes.” He blinked, not knowing what else to say, thinking about how proud Bucky would be of him had he been standing next to him. “Of course, I would.”

“Great!”

--

Please give this a reblog if you enjoyed <3

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Wasted 11

Warnings: drug dealing/use, violence, noncon, and the usual. Proceed with caution.

Feedback is always welcome. Love you and thanks for the wonderful responses so far.♥♥♥

The other girl in this one is from Black Light

Part of The Club AU

Throughout the night, you find yourself thinking of Bucky. Not in any meaningful way, merely wondering how someone as nice as the man beside you came to be friends with a pill-pushing brute like him. Steve is too sweet to believe and you know better than to buy anything at face-value but you’ve yet to find a crack in the veneer.

As he asks for the check, you pull your purse into your lap. He peers over, “oh, don’t… I got it.”

“Really, it’s nice of you to offer,” you try to factor out the chunk from your cut for the night. “I don’t mind going half–”

“My mother would pale if I didn’t insist,” he reaches over to clasp his hand over your purse before you can pop open the flap. It’s the boldest move he’s mad all night. You relent, he doesn’t have to twist your arm, your bills are already doing most of that. “I had a really good night, it’s worth it.”

You smile. A real smile. You can’t lie and say you didn’t. 

“I did too,” you say, “thank you, Steve.”

He blushes and turns to watch the server as she approaches again. He fumbles around his jacket and takes out his wallet. His hands are shaking. You’d finally calmed his nerves but they just as quickly bubble up. Bucky is less than an honest man but you suspect he didn’t lie about everything.

But what did he tell Steve? Is this a date? Or are you a hired escort? That makes your chest twinge. You’ve never been overly sentimental, you’ve had your share of one night stands, but you don’t want this to be like those.

As Steve folds up his wallet and thanks the server, you brush his arm with your knuckles, “hey, do you wanna walk through the park? Elizabeth Square is near here, I’ve never been to see the fountain.”

He turns to you with wide eyes, “really?”

“Sure, why not? Unless… I’m keeping you.”

He shakes his head and a broad grin spreads across his pointed features, “I’d love that.”

You nod and gather up your purse. You stand and pull on your jacket as Steve rises on the other side of the table and smooths his jacket. His pants are a little too long but he looks nice. You can tell he put a lot of thought into tonight.

He gestures you ahead of him, “ladies first.”

You accept and lead him between the tables. He’s quick as you reach the front door and flits around to open it for you. He really is playing the gentleman well.

As you get outside, you wait for him on the sidewalk and as he nears, you turn to walk parallel with him down the wide pavement. He’s quiet as he twiddles his slender fingers at his side. You take out your lip gloss to retouch your lips, twisting the cap on and tucking it away before you figure out what to say.

“You don’t really think I’m a lady, do you?” You kid.

He peeks over at you, “of course I do.”

“Steve,” you hum, flattered by his sincerity. You don’t know what to say. 

You sidle closer with your next step and take his hand, twining your fingers through his as he flinches. He jitters then squeezes. You can feel him beaming.

“I like you, Steve,” you say, “but I think I might disappoint you.”

“You could never,” he counters.

“We barely know each other.”

“Yet.”

“Steve,” you chide as you turn through the archway of Elizabeth Square. You look up at the big letters wrought in iron. “I’m trying to warn you.”

“I don’t need to be warned,” he says, “I can handle it. I can handle you.”

You almost laugh. He’s brave when he wants to be. Just like back in the coffee shop.

You near the fountain and sigh, watching the water lap down over the lit basin. Heat seeps into you from your interlocked hands as he stops beside you. You both just stare at the spouting streams.

You tug on his arm and turn to him. He glances over shyly, “this is romantic, isn’t it?”

He chuckles nervously, “sure.”

“I think… if you want to,” you push your shoulder up and tilt your head, “it might be the perfect time to kiss me.”

He gulps and shifts to face you, “really?”

You arch a brow, “my lip gloss tastes like cherry.”

His mouth opens slightly and he sways, “cherry?”

You smile and lean in, stopping just before him as you pucker your lips. His brows rise high on his forehead and his cheeks brighten rosily. He steps close and meets your lips with his as he closes your eyes and you do the same. He presses against your lips before he shyly recoils.

He lets go of your hand and covers his mouth, “sorry, I never– was that bad.”

“Not at all,” you flick your lashes open, “that was sweet.”

“Sweet?” He murmurs.

“Come on,” you turn and sit on the wide ledges of the fountain, “we can work on it.”

“Work on it?” He squeaks.

You slap the marble next to you, “Steve, let me show you how to work in the tongue, that’s the fun part.” He looks like he’s about to faint. You laugh as he sits stiffly and you rub his back, “or not.  You don’t have to do anything you don’t like.”

“No, I want to,” he pokes his tongue out to lick his lips, turning his head to you slowly, “you’re right, it’s cherry.”

You giggle and lean on the heel of your hand, bringing your other hand to his cheek. He grabs your wrist and pulls your touch away, surprising you as he frames your face instead. He grips your chin as he leans in and smushes his lips to yours again. 

You open your mouth slightly and slip your tongue along his lips, welcoming him in. He takes your invitation as his hand crawls up your jaw, firmly holding your head. You lean into him, purring as you rest your hand just above his knee. Why hadn’t you tried a nice guy before?

[antigone-ks]

Lantern of Evil, Chapter Seven

MARVEL MASTERLIST

CHAPTER SIX

This chapter contains some sexual content

Chapter Seven: In September, When the Leaves Come Falling Down

I saw you standing with the wind and the rain in your face/ And you were thinking 'bout the wisdom of the leaves and their grace/ When the leaves come falling down/ In September, when the leaves come falling down

____________________

Now, they just cuddle up, and oh, boy! How you feel!

You sure can love ‘em when you’re not behind the wheel!

There’s a great attraction,

Lots of satisfaction,

Sittin’ in a rumble seat.[1]

Steve takes a deep breath and wills the song out of his head as he watches you slide into the seat of his car. From this angle, he’s got a killer view of your décolletage and a desperate urge to just find some quiet place to park like a couple of teenagers.

Do teenagers even do that anymore? he wonders as he circles the car to the driver’s side. They’ve got a lot more options than we ever did. Not that he’s ever been parking, but he’s heard stories. Probably not all true, now that he thinks about it, just boys bragging about stuff they wished they could do. Bucky had caught one of them out, once, boasting about getting up Millie Finch’s skirt in the backseat of a Packard.

“You don’t have a Packard, you chump, and Millie Finch was at the pictures with me last night.” And the guy – Steve can’t remember his name anymore – had gone off with his tail between his legs.

“You weren’t at the pictures last night, Buck,” Steve said when the other guys were out of earshot. “We listened to the game, and then Five Star Theater came on and we kept trying to draw on a Clark Gable mustache.” They’d been fifteen or sixteen, if Steve recalled correctly, and if young Bucky had more luck with facial hair than Steve, it wasn’t by much.

“Yeah, but he was lying anyway,” Bucky shrugged. “And even if he wasn’t, you can’t kiss and tell. At least not with names. If I found a girl sweet enough get in the backseat with me, I wouldn’t tell her name around for the fellas to laugh at.”

He had found a girl, Steve was pretty sure, not long after that. It might even have been Millie Finch, but true to his word, Bucky never said.

What Bucky had said had been enough to keep an impressionable young man up at night for a very long time after.

Steve checks the rear-view mirror as he buckles himself in. The backseat isn’t as big as an old Packard’s, but you’d both fit.

“That was fun,” you say.

Especially with him being little. Might be harder to squeeze back there when he’s six-two again.

“Grant?”

Of course, you could always be on top. Steve is slammed with the sudden, visceral image of your skirt raked up to your hips, the straps pulled down so he can fill his hands with your breasts, riding him to kingdom come.

“Grant?!”

He gasps as your fingers slide along his, and looks at you with eyes blown wide and dark.

“Can you breathe?”

“Yeah!” He can, when he remembers to. “I just.” Calm down, sport. She oughta have better than you pawing at her in a car. “I just wanted to tell you how beautiful you are.”

You squeeze his fingers and smile shyly. “You keep saying that, it’s gonna go to my head.”

Steve tucks a lock of hair behind your ears and whispers, “I hope so.”

***

It’s a short drive to your house, but long enough for your nerves to ratchet up to unbearable levels. Your hands are twisting in the fabric of your dress; it’s obvious enough that you’re worried Grant will notice, but he’s staring straight ahead, his own hands clenched on the steering wheel tight enough you think he might dent it.

You’re both quiet as the car sighs to a stop. Grant slides out of the driver’s seat and you have the wild impulse to dart toward the house without waiting for him, to escape whatever this is, to outrun the air between you, thick with possibilities.

You don’t.

You wait for him, for his hand reaching out to take yours so gently, for his eyes piercing yours with such intensity, like he’s reining in something dark and wild and dangerous. He grips you firmly as you climb the porch steps, his hand settling on your waist as you rummage for the key, stroking upward to the bare skin between your shoulders. You draw in a sharp breath as his hand reaches the back of your neck, firm and warm, and when you look at him he’s so close your nerves are on fire.

“Is this . . .?” His breath is hot against your skin. “Can I . . .?”

“Yes,” you murmur, and tremble as his lips brush your cheek. You have a moment to think, soft, and then his mouth is on yours.

It’s a slow, gentle, yearning thing, this kiss. It tastes like water in the desert, like months of longing fulfilled. His lips are plush and warm, patient as he coaxes you into him. When you open to him, when his tongue slides against yours, you both still for an instant, then he makes a noise low in his throat and takes your face in his hands. They’re calloused, the skin rougher than you’d realized, but his touch is so tender, so reverent.

This is it, you think, your mind gone indolent with pleasure, this is how it should be. All this time, it’s Grant I was waiting for.

Your hands slide under his jacket to feel his skin, hot beneath his shirt, and he breaks the kiss with a gasp as your fingernails scratch along his waist.

“Doll –” he says, but you brush your lips against his and he growls and he’s not as gentle this time but it’s so good; you can’t catch your breath but who needs air? He pulls you close and you know he wants you, you know it, you can feel it against you, and thank god for short men because if he moves against you just right it’ll be right there, right where you need it.

A light crosses over you, a car moving slowly down the street. You freeze, and Grant slumps back away from you. You fumble the door open hurriedly and pull him inside, into the living room that’s entirely too bright. You stand there, looking at each other with identical frantic expressions, your lips ruddy and swollen, twin patches of red on his cheeks.

“So,” you say at last. “Did you want to come in?”

He barks out a laugh, and if his eyes are less hungry, there’s no shortage of fondness in them.

“I have tea,” you offer. “Or wine, if . . . or there’s –“

Grant ducks his head, shoves his hair out of his face, looks up longingly. “Can I kiss you again? Will you let me?”

Let you? I’ll cry if you don’t.

He kisses you until your lungs burn, hands drifting slowly over every inch of exposed skin. You don’t realize you’re moving until the back of your legs bump into the sofa and you reel a little, only his grip keeping you upright. You can feel his laughter rumbling up from his chest and you pull away, mock-glaring.

“Are you trying to get me in a compromising position, sir?”

He beams at you, resting his forehead against yours. “Yes,” he says, pecking at your mouth.

“Yes,” he says, lips caressing your jaw.

“Yes,” he says, gripping your hair so he can trail kisses down your neck.

“Yes,” you say, turning and pushing him toward the sofa. He pulls you with him, and you fall together, just catching yourself on the edge of the seat, legs to the side, leaning over him. You raise yourself up, suddenly self-conscious, holding your weight off him. He doesn’t seem to notice; at this angle his face is even with your bosom and he looks . . . well, he looks like a man who’s just landed face-first in boobs, to be honest. Like this is the most thrilling thing that’s ever happened to him. He feels you shifting and wraps his arms around your waist.

“Don’t go,” he tells your chest.

“I’m not, I’m just trying not to crush you.” He does look up then, pulls your face down to his and kisses you sweet and slow. His hands move lower; you feel the fabric of your dress slide against your legs, just high enough to let you move.

“Is this okay?” he murmurs, and you take a shuddering breath and nod, and then his hands. His hands are on your skin, helping you shift your legs and straddle him. His hands, calloused and warm and gentle and hungry, rest inside your knees, and his mouth is devouring yours, and you sink against him and he arches, your shared gasp echoing in the space between you.

He’s toying with one strap of your dress, kissing along your shoulder, his other hand in your hair. He slides the strap down your arm, follows it with his mouth, then his breath dusts across the suddenly-revealing neckline of your dress.

You whimper, and he kisses the swell of your breast. “I could live here,” he murmurs. “Right here, right where it’s almost indecent. It’s perfect.”

He pulls your head down to his. “You’re perfect,” he whispers against your lips.

You’re floating, weightless and trembling in his arms, whispering, “I love you.” His eyes burn into yours, fiercely and ravenously, and he jerks the other strap down and mouths at your breasts through their lace coverings. You arch against him. “Grant, oh god, Grant –“

It’s like he’s been doused with icewater. His whole body jerks, and all the hunger drains from his face. His looks away, his eyes hooded.

“Grant?” Your voice comes out a little frantic, and you find the presence of mind to rein yourself in as he pulls back and scrubs his hands over his face. No, not now. What did I do wrong? What did I do?

You knew this would happen. You knew it. He doesn’t want you, not like that. You’re good enough to fool around with, but you’ll never be someone he could love.

“I have to – I can’t – this isn’t right,” he says, quietly, almost to himself.

You freeze, hands stiff where they fell from his body. You can’t even turn your head to look at him. When he shifts your hips to the side, you go, half-falling onto the sofa, legs tangled in your skirt. You feel emptied, hollowed-out.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

The hollowness fills with rage. “Well, that’s okay, I guess. I guess it’s okay. I guess it’s good that you didn’t fuck me, then tell me you don't feel anything for me. Glad you’re doing the right thing here.”

“Doll, no – that’s not what –“

“I asked you, Grant. I asked you what this was, and you said –“

“I know what I said, sweetheart. I meant it. I do have . . . I have so many feelings for you, but I can’t –“

“Quit lying to me, please.” The room goes quiet. Your chest hurts and you take a deep breath, trying to hold back your humiliated tears.

“Okay,” he says. His hand slides over yours and you jerk away. His face falls. “Right, okay.”

Grant takes a deep breath. “My name isn’t Grant Stevens. It’s Steven Grant Rogers. Steve Rogers.” You stare at him. “I’m Captain America,” he says, like he expects you to believe him. Like he believes it, himself.

“Oh my god.” You bury your face in your hands. “Is this a joke? I just asked you not to – Jesus Christ, Grant. Just say you don’t feel like that. It’s okay. I was stupid to think you would. Say you were just trying to get laid –“

“Hey, no, that’s not fair.” His voice is louder, almost commanding. “You know it’s not like that.” You should know, but the shame you feel won’t let you believe it.

“What is it like, Grant? How am I supposed to – You sit there and you tell me these ridiculous lies. Like, how could you possibly think that’s okay.”

He flinches like you’d hit him. “I’m not lying. I was just – no, I was lying to you, and I’m sorry, but I thought they’d fix me and I could tell you then, and then it was taking so long and I should have stayed away from you but I couldn’t, and then you said you noticed me and then you were wearing my jacket –“ his hands grasp yours, tighter now, so you can’t pull away. His voice is frantic “– and letting me draw you and, and no woman ever noticed me like this, not like this, not except – and I knew I had to tell you but. But.”

“What is wrong with you?” You can’t hold them back anymore, the tears are streaming down your face.

“I’m so sorry, I’ll prove it – “ 

“Please leave.”

“Sweetheart – “

“Don’t. Don’t you ever.”

He squeezes your hands so tightly that you wince, then drops them abruptly and stands. His breath is harsh, not-quite whistling, and for a wild second you hope it hurts, then –

“Your inhaler,” you say into the stillness.

“I’m fine.”

He turns away, wiping at his cheeks with the back of his hand, and walks out the door. You clutch your hands together, willing yourself to be quiet, at least until he’s out of earshot. You listen for the sound of his feet on the steps, his car door slamming, ears straining, but there’s nothing but silence for long minutes, then –

“Lock the door.” You start violently at the sound of his voice.

“Sweet – doll – you gotta lock the door. I can’t leave till I know it’s locked.”

Jesus fucking Christ, this man.

Numb, you cross the floor and turn the lock, then throw the deadbolt for good measure. It cracks like thunder in the stillness.

You hear him sigh. “Okay. I - I . . .” then you do hear his steps, his door, hear the engine start and the sound of tires on gravel. You slide down the door, dress raking up to your thighs the way it had only a few minutes before.

And then you let yourself cry.

[1] “Get ‘Em in a Rumble Seat,” Harry Reser’s Six Jumping Jacks, Vol. 2, 1928, http://www.heptune.com/lyrics/getemina.html. Accessed 31 July 2019.

____________________

Van Morrison – When the Leaves Come Falling Down

I saw you standing with the wind and the rain in your face/ And you were thinking 'bout the wisdom of the leaves and their grace/ When the leaves come falling down/ In September, when the leaves come falling down

Read Chapter Eight

[jimothys-custom-funkos]

“I don't like bullies; I don't care where they're from.”

Marvel's What If Inspired Pre-Serum Steve Rogers

[captainjimothycarter]

Sweet, Sweet Mouth

Steve visits his wife while she’s working late and Peggy has an idea on how to pass the time, using Steve’s sweet, sweet mouth.

Bingos: Comfort Object - @cabottombingo Under-negotiated Kink - @thebo3bingo B5: Trans Partner - @steverogersbingo Relationship: Steve Rogers/Peggy Carter Warnings: Trans Woman Peggy Carter, Blow Jobs

Darling, I am so very sorry but it looks like I won’t be home in time for date night. I’m not even sure when I’ll be home. There was another emergency that needed my immediate attention. - PC

Come to my office and we can do a date night here. Plus, I could do with the company. - PC -- “Mrs. Carter, your husband is here to see you.”

Thanking Stark’s AI, Peggy pushed herself back from the desk and smiled at her darling husband, becoming him close with a crook of her fingers.

“How are you, Pegs?” Steve asked her, setting down the coffee he’d gotten her and immediately straddling her lap. “Is Stark driving you up the wall?”

“You know it,” she mused, pecking his lips and wrapping her arms around him. “He’s been attempting to micromanage from Japan, I had to finally end the call so I could focus on cleaning up his mess.”

[geeky-politics-46]

I have so many stories started right now I don't know what to finish first!!! Not just for our Strange boys too. There's a few with Bucky, a few with Bucky and Stephen, a couple with Steve, and one with Steve and Bucky.

Also why does pre-serum Steve get me kinda hot? Also good boy virgin-y post-serum Steve. It's the same reason I love Sinister the most isn't it? I know everyone usually goes for Nomad Steve, but I like them evil or very innocent apparently.

Lookit'! So cute! I wanna ride him until he breaks!

[artistexe]

Steve Rogers, 1942

[hamilpop]

Steve Rogers & Peggy Carter X 2

"Skinny" Steve and Agent Carter from "Captain America: The First Avenger" as well as Incognito Capt. "Roscoe" Rogers and S.H.I.E.L.D. Director Carter from "Avengers: Endgame"

All four designs available now at my shop!

[maxriderg]

Folks, allow me to share this and welp, have a Happy 44th Birthday to the one and only, Josh Keaton himself because of well, not only Today is his 44th Birthday but also, it would be the perfect time to celebrate the return of one of the greatest Spider-Men of all time to the big screen too and well, here we go.

[eccentricallygothic]

yeah yeah maybe i am ovulating, maybe i am disgusting

but one thing i know for sure is that

i am a 6' busty babe and

i would love for this man to fold me like his laundry

because like, everybody would think i call the shots because of how polite and soft he is overall and the size difference, of course plus me being a seasoned brat

only for me to act smart or big and he only gives me a look and i pathetically whimper and curl into his side, muttering apologies and pressing soft kisses along his humble shoulder

even better if i am wearing heels <3

[antigone-ks]

Lantern of Evil, Chapter Six

MARVEL MASTERLIST

CHAPTER FIVE

Chapter Six - September, We Danced

September morn/ We danced until the night/ Became a brand new day

____________________

You’d agonized over what to wear: to be as historically accurate as possible, or to look good. They were very definitely two different things; the early 30s still had the loose, figure-skimming silhouette of the 20s, and it made you look like a box with hair. On the other hand, there were a lot of vintage-ish dresses that could hit the basic notes, but wouldn’t make you try and wrangle your chest into the period-appropriate flatness that you’d never achieve anyway.

And Grant likes your boobs.

You push down that highly inappropriate thought, but you have caught him looking a couple of times. Not down your shirt or anything, he’s classy about it, he just . . . notices. In a not-just-friends way.

He called you beautiful, your mind sings. He said he can’t breathe sometimes. Which, ok, asthma. But even so, it pointed to him wanting more than holding hands, and cuddling at the movies, and that time on the bridge when he looked at you and made your skin catch fire. That was weeks ago, and he’s freer with his touches now – kissing your hand, keeping his arm around you almost all the time . . . but he’s holding back from more. You haven’t met his friends. He keeps having reasons not to meet yours. You don’t think he’s ashamed of you, not really, but . . . but why else? your brain asks, because your brain is an asshole that can’t make up its mind.

You don’t want to push him, but you do want to know. Something. You need to know something.

So you’d found a gorgeous blue velvet dress that only needed some gauzy little sleeves attached to make it work pretty well. There were a couple of guys at the shop when you were trying it on; the big broad-shouldered brunet in the long sleeves said it made you look like Jean Harlow, and his boyfriend (you assumed), a handsome black man with an amazing smile, said it reminded him of Jane Russell. Pair it with t-strap flats, because you’re not trying to stand in heels for four hours, and some moderate buttressing underneath, and you flatter yourself that you might get a couple of Tex Avery-style reactions.

Or just one.

Just the one that matters.

You tuck the bag with your sweaty old clothes under one of the refreshments tables. It seems like everyone who’s ever walked through the historical society’s doors have been decorating, prepping, and generally fussing all day long. You’ve got just enough time left to mutually exclaim over each others’ clothing before the (hopefully well-heeled and generous) throng arrives. You’re sharing squeals and flattering remarks with the other volunteers, when the society president enters like the prow of a ship, in a dress that’s almost certainly a real vintage Schiaparelli.

“Ladies! and gentlemen,” she nods toward you all. “Thank you for all your hard work, conceiving and organizing our annual fundraiser. The center looks beautiful, and I’m delighted that so many of you have chosen to follow the theme . . . to the best of your abilities,” she says, side-eyeing some of the group. If she includes you in that, at least she doesn’t look at you while she does it. “And I am most gratified to tell you that this event is already a success. Thanks to a generous donation from the Stark Foundation, we have made our budget for the next fiscal year!”

“For the next ten fiscal years,” the vice-president mutters, sounding awed.

“Does that mean we don’t have to dance?” one of the volunteers asks, a college girl teetering in heels that look amazing and terrifying.

The president doesn’t dignify that with a response, just sails on into the foyer to start greeting the incoming donors.

The early trickle of guests turns into a deluge. There are so many people dancing, so many crowding around the refreshments and the side tables, so many spilling out onto the lawn where it’s almost quiet enough for a conversation. Someone managed to get the air conditioning turned up, but you’re still sweating a little within the first ten minutes.

“Do all your events go this well?” you ask Kate, who’s also working refreshments. She’s in a beaded black number that almost looks like a real period outfit, if you ignored that the bottom turns into chiffon pants. Kate is a freaking genius.

She laughs delightedly. “I think everyone heard the rumor.”

“What rumor?”

“That the Avengers might show up. Or maybe just Tony Stark. He’s been pretty generous to every charity and nonprofit in the county since they moved upstate.”

You’d forgotten that the Avengers facility was nearby. That did explain why your Stark grant was tied to local research.

“They’re not really, though, are they?” It was a ridiculous rumor, but after that donation . . .

You share a speculative look, and Kate shrugs. “They better let me out to dance with Captain America, is all I’m saying.”

Lila, resplendent in a floral silk, leans over. “I’d buy everybody’s tickets and trade them for one dance with the Black Widow.”

“She could kill you with her thighs, Li.”

“God, I hope so.”

That’s all the conversation you have time for, as a song ends and another rush starts. You’re trying to dab discreetly at your face with a napkin when the president sweeps by and takes your arm.

“You don’t want to be stuck behind this table all night, do you? You ought to dance.”

This is an unexpected twist; you aren’t sure she knows your entire name, and she’s not tugging at Lila or Kate.

“I’m fine here – I don’t even know how to dance,” you demur, but she’s having none of it.

“There’s a gentleman asking after you. He’s made a very nice donation . . . but of course you don’t have to,” she says soothingly. “He did indicate that you knew each other.”

Grant?

You can’t see him over the crowd, but as you get closer to the door you catch the light glinting off his golden hair. His face lights up as you come into sight, and he stands up straight and brushes his hair out of his eyes.

“You look beautiful.” His voice has a little gravel in it, which honestly is better than oogah-horn eyes any day.

“So do you! Or, handsome. You look handsome.” He’s wearing dress greens so crisp they could cut paper, absolutely period-perfect.

“What, you think fellas can’t be beautiful?”

You feel giddy and young, just standing there looking at each other.

“I haven’t had any gin,” he says, that slow, crooked grin spreading across his face.

“Well, then. Got your tickets, sailor?”

“Soldier,” he corrects, and hands up a fucking fistful of them. You stare, and burst into the hardest, bone-deepest belly-laugh you’ve had in years. He scuffs his feet and looks up at you sheepishly, then holds out a hand.

Grant tugs you gently to a less-inhabited corner of the dance floor as a slower song begins, one that you can just sway to and still call it dancing. There’s a fumble of hands and elbows, then he’s got you in the right position, holding one of your hands in his, the other on his shoulder, so close your breasts nearly brush his jacket as you move together.

Thank god for the buttressing, or it wouldn’t take too many songs before everyone could see how you feel.

The first song passes without words. You spend a lot of time looking at your feet, even though you’re not really moving.

“You’re doing fine,” he says, and your head jerks up, expecting to see him laughing at you. His eyes are soft, instead, his head tilted a little to the side. You can feel your cheeks going at least three-alarm.

“I like your dress. It’s really soft”

Oh god. Oh god, my hair’s going to catch fire.

“I . . . I like your uniform. It looks vintage.” At least you can still talk.

“Nah, just a costume. You’d have to special-order to get ‘em this small during the war. And the army fussed about special orders.” His smile is wry, and his brow furrows.

“Well, that was silly of them,” you say firmly.

“Think I’d’ve made a good soldier?” he asks.

“I think you get pretty determined to do whatever you’ve decided on. So yeah, if you decided to do that.”

His grip tightens on your hip, and he pulls you fractionally closer. “You really know how to make a guy feel special.”

“Likewise.” It’s not a great reply, but you don’t have a lot of breath to work with. You wonder if he’ll kiss you tonight, know that he won’t, and kick yourself for feeling disheartened anyway.

You gaze at each other for a moment, then Grant clears his throat. “It looks like your dance is a hit,” he says.

“Yeah – oh! Did you hear? The Stark Foundation made a massive donation, so even if nobody showed we’d still be in the black.”

“The, the Stark Foundation?” He looks startled, then his eyes narrow. “How would they even hear about . . .”

“Dunno,” you must, puzzling at his odd reaction. “The regulars say he’s been making donations everywhere since the whole, you know, relocation thing.”

“That’s true . . .” he says. “Still . . . oh, well. That’s nice of him. Of the foundation.“

“I guess someone also started a rumor that the Avengers would be here.” His grip tightens, and he’s holding you indecently close, as Madam President would no doubt say if she saw. You watch the color drain from his face. “Grant, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” His arms loosen, and you step back a little.

“Oh, no. Are you on the wrong side of the Avengers? Did you design logos for supervillains?” you tease, and it works – he laughs and draws you back into proper form.

“No, no, I just –“ his ears are turning pink again “– I just don’t wanna have to share my girl with Captain America. Or the Falcon.”

“I very much doubt Captain America would be interested in your girl.” My girl my girl, your brain singsongs at you.

“Captain America would adore you,” he breathes, and oh gosh, you might actually get that kiss tonight. “And I hear the Falcon is very charming. Has a great smile.”

“Well, they’d have a very long wait,” you say. “I’m pretty sure all those tickets have me booked solid for the night. But I do have a friend who’d mortgage her house to dance with the Black Widow.”

“That’s a brave lady,” he laughed. “But. But would you rather?” You look confused, and he plunges on. “Would you rather dance with Captain America? Or someone like him?”

Is it possible he doesn’t know how you feel? Sometime very soon you’ll need to kiss all his doubts away. “Now, why would I want to dance with Captain America when I’ve got –“ you check his double bars “– Captain Stevens?”

Another song begins, Paul Anka instructing his partner to put their head on his shoulder, and you and Grant share a giggle as half the room obeys. “That would never happen at a real taxi,” he says, “not unless a fella paid extra and the chaperone wasn’t looking.”

“I think a lot of them are married, or partnered up,” you respond. “I wouldn’t put my head on just anybody’s shoulder, either.”

“Would you put your head on mine?” he asks, the words spilling out so quickly you barely catch them. Just as his gaze drops, embarassed, you bite your lip and gently lay your head down against his jacket. His heart is beating so fast, you can hear it pounding through the wool. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and presses his cheek against your hair. You can’t breathe at all, your heart is galloping like the Kentucky Derby, and if you stand up straight you’ll likely faint.

When’s the last time a man made you feel like this? Made your skin hot all over, gave you goosebumps through the heat? Took your breath away with a look, made you feel weak and powerful all at once? Held you like you were precious, like you deserved his tenderness? When’s the last time you were so in love?

In love. Oh, no.

Grant makes a quizzical noise and holds you tighter, his hand rubbing your back. “It’s ok; I’ve got you,” he murmurs, breath soft against your cheek.

Please, please let that be true.

Paul turns to Frank, Frank becomes Sidney, and on and on. You don’t make it back to the refreshments tables. Miraculously, you don’t step on Grant’s toes, even when the music speeds up. You do get a little crick in your neck after a few songs, so the head-on-shoulder thing has to stop, but then Louis and Ella wax poetic about dancing cheek-to-cheek. It’s the easiest thing in the world to step closer and press your cheeks together. Grant’s cheeks are on fire, too, and it makes you feel better about your own thermonuclear facial bombs.

And then the last song ends, and no more follow. You both look up; the hall is half-empty. Kate’s packing up the refreshments; she catches your eye and gives you an enthusiastic thumbs up, then waves at Grant when he looks over.

“Guess I monopolized you all night,” he says, not sounding a bit guilty about it.

“Well, gotta keep the customer happy.”

“I can help you clean up?” He hasn’t quite let go of your hand; his thumb brushes over your fingers, and you guide him over to Kate, praying that she’ll be discreet about –

“Hey! You must be Grant!” – about that. Kate’s beaming at him as he shakes her hand. “We’ve heard . . .” she glances at you “a little about you. Not a lot. A reasonable amount of information. Mostly good.”

“Mostly?” Grant directs his question toward you.

You shrug and load a tray of punch cups onto the rolly cart thing. “You like Ellsworth Kelly. Lines must be drawn.”

He huffs at you and hefts a punchbowl. “No eye for color, you.”

“Black and white aren’t colors, Grant.” You’ve had this argument a few times.

“You’re one step above a Philistine.” But he’s smiling as he carries the bowl off toward a group of students browbeaten into doing the washing.

“So he’s nice,” Kate muttered. “Not what I expected, but still a cutie. And he’s got it bad for you.”

“No, he doesn’t,” you giggle, because that’s what you’re supposed to say. “Does he?”

“Honey, he bought a hundred and fifty dance tickets.”

You run the math in your head. “That’s like seven hours of dancing.” And like fifteen hundred dollars.

Kate shimmies at you. “Maybe he thinks you’ll dance for him once he takes you home.”

“No . . .” Yes! “And anyway, I thought Lila was giving us both a ride?”

“Not you. Not anymore.” A worrying smile spreads across her face as Grant comes back to the table. “Sorry, but Lila’s been called away. We’re all going to have to find rides home.” Lila is standing ten feet away, busily wrapping up leftover cookies with a smirk on her face.

“I can take you home,” Grant offers.

“You –“

“That’s so sweet of you,” Kate says. “Such a gentleman.”

“Have some cookies,” Lila adds, handing over a package.

“We’re not done cleaning up, though . . .” you say, feeling overwhelmed and cared for, even if it is a little overbearing.

“We’ve got it; you go have fun.”

“Don’t get fresh!” Kate calls after you, as Grant propels you toward the door.

“But get a little fresh!” Lila laughs.

Dress inspo:

____________________

Neil Diamond – September MornSeptember morn/ We danced until the night/ Became a brand new day

READ CHAPTER SEVEN

[holylulusworld]

OMG! This is one of my favorite stories I have written so far. You made it even better by giving it so much love to leave such an awesome comment...no this whole epos made me tear up.

Thank you so much for taking your time and telling me what you loved about my story.

Weakling

Summary: Your Stevie was always a weak little alpha, but you didn’t care. He was your soulmate. What happens when he comes back, but isn’t the same man leaving you to go to war?

Pairing: Skinny!(Alpha) Steve Rogers x Omega! (plussized) Reader; Alpha!Steve Rogers x Omega! (plussized) Reader; a hint of Peggy Carter x Steve Rogers

Characters: unnamed alphas, Bucky Barnes, Peggy Carter

Warnings: angst, violence, skinny Steve, overprotective/caring omega, snarky comments, she takes no shit from anyone, implied smut/loss of innocence on both ends, cuddling & snuggling, longing, scenting, sadness, homecoming, Peggy is a bitch in this, implied smut, fluff, implied characters death

A/N: This story is non-canon compliant. Steve and Bucky come home after the war.

Words: 3k

Divider by @firefly-graphics​

“I can do this all day,” you can hear your best friend, your alpha, and the secret love of your life say. You listen closely, try to find out if he got into trouble once again. Steve tends to end up cornered by stronger alphas. “Come on, I am waiting.”

“Did ya hear, that little boy threatened me,” a rough voice growls and you start to run toward the noises. You can hear punches get thrown and your heart speeds up seeing three tall alphas corner your Stevie.

Weiterlesen

[ronearoundblindly]

Some Steve for you to enjoy 🥰🫶🏻

Gurl, this f***ed me up! I wanted to try to make it a snippet of Item 107 or The Cinder King, but the muses were just like "you know what you need? emotional damage." So now here we have my first semi-legit period piece (which has zero useful era detail eh) and truly is just the carrier for skinny!Steve love. Hint: It's thirsty, smutty love with hardly any plot ANGST.

Hello and welcome to Lexi's most self-indulgent fic ever. It's got everything: crippling insecurities about my real-life stuff, horniness unmatched even if there were sex pollen shot directly into their faces, and everyone is touch-starved. \o/ Enjoy! WC probably close to 3k but idk because I'm too afraid to look back at it. *slams post button*

Turned away again, Steve "4F" Rogers steps out of the recruitment center to see you standing there, staring up at the posters promising glory.

People hustle around you, several even knocking into you, but you remain transfixed, invisible. You're clutching your purse like a lifeline.

Down one step, worn-through shoes barely hiding every seam in the cobblestone, Steve has to get closer because that's the direction of home and a lonely, empty apartment he can hardly afford. He has to pass by. He has to, but then he sees the amber light reflect on trails of tears down your cheeks.

He has to stop.

"Miss?" Steve clears his throat, his own arm smacked by a rowdy man who then swats at your ass just as Steve tries to get your attention again.

You jolt and turn to him in surprise, hand flying up to cover a sob, sweeping to wipe the evidence of emotion from your face.

Fast--faster than Steve really processes--he's shouting for the guy to apologize before the guy makes to advance, Steve presses himself between you and the asshole still laughing at disrespecting you, and then he--Steve--is getting shoved into the alley with you still at his back.

It's dusk. The alley is nearly black. Steve can hear you crying but he's slipped on the stones wet from an afternoon rain. He scrambles to right himself.

Amidst the cries, he hears grunts of anger and resistance, terror creeping into his chest as Steve thinks you're being assaulted.

"Piece of shit," you bite out. The silhouette of you hurling your bag at the man's face repeatedly is clear from where Steve crouches, backlit as you are by the movie theater marquee.

Then the guy is down on the ground, too, being stomped on by your two-inch heel. "Piece of fucking shit."

"Woah," Steve jumps forward to hold you back. "Woah, language, ma'am. Let's go. Just leave him."

He has a weak arm around your waist, but you kick at the man one more time for good measure, hissing "liar" before turning to follow.

Your hand in his, Steve hurries through the streets, picking the ones he knows are busier but maneuverable to make sure you're not being pursued. Each time he looks back, he sees your sinking face, more tears, more exhaustion, and he makes a flash decision.

He doesn't stop until he locks the door of his apartment behind you both, and you break down on the bare wood floor.

"You hurt? Did he hurt you?" Steve's boney knees land a few inches from yours and he leans over, his long fingers brushing over your pinned hair and stiff curls that dislodged in the commotion. "You're alright. You're safe here."

Where your legs crumple underneath you, your slip lays over your thigh, uncovered by the skirt pooling on the other side of your hip. He can see the outline of a garter strap and the top of your stocking beneath the silky material. Steve's always loved pretty, delicate things. He also loves the faint bulge of flesh around the restraints.

There's meat on your bones, something to hold onto, and he shakes his head, chastising himself for noticing all the wrong things about the crying woman in his home. His lonely, empty home.

Steve attempts to think of anything other than your body.

"Do you know him? What'd you call him a liar for?"

You sigh in defeat, hands flopping into your lap, and confess that it wasn't about him so much as a man not here anymore. Gone. To war. You tell Steve a rambling tale of excuses and snide comments, of a parting that left you wondering why that man--any man--bothered to be with you in the first place, of a surety that you weren't ever wanted.

"I thought he loved me but he lied."

Steve sits cross-legged in front of you now, enthralled and utterly confused. Why would anyone...?

"That's the worst part," you exclaim, voice cracking. "I don't know. I'll never know." Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your skirt. "I heard today that he died. Don't know where. Don't know when. And I hate that I still care."

"But he wasn't good to you," Steve soothes and wraps his hand around yours, "and he wasn't good for you."

All you do is shrug and hide your face. Tears falls to the fabric below your eyes and seep through in dark patches.

He scoots forward and lifts your chin with a gentle nudge. When your puffy red eyes meet his, he's struck by how lucky he feels to see you like this. It's odd to think someone who knew you more and for so much longer couldn't feel infinitely more attached and protective. You're so vulnerable, so open, so...

"You're beautiful." Steve's tongue swipes over his dry lips. "You're so beautiful."

The words are loaded heavier than tanks and pack the punch of a bomb. He can tell you don't truly hear him by the way you shrink and shake your head out of his hold.

"Don't do that," he pleads. "Please don't hide from me."

"You don't know me."

"No, but I--"

"You don't even know my name!"

He sits back and offers his hand.

"Hi, I'm Steve. It's nice to meet you, and I think you're beautiful."

"That's stupid," you lash out, bitterly spitting the half-hearted, heart-breaking words. "You must be an idiot, Steve."

It's not the first time he's heard it, but it is the first time he's not mad at hearing it. He believed those things, too, long ago, before his mom convinced him to see the possibilities in one's struggles. If you perceive it as an obstacle, it is an obstacle. Perceive it as an opportunity instead and use it. Those aren't her exact words, but Sarah Rogers has so many different ways of teaching the same fundamental lessons that Steve can't remember the phrases anymore.

He can remember the feeling. He remembers seeing both obstacles and opportunities.

"Is it stupid to want to touch you?" he whispers. "Because I would love to touch you."

The question is purposefully leading since he knows from your story that's exactly what you long for. It'll be more impactful if he shows you he longs for that too.

Slowly--so slowly--his hand comes up to your cheek again, his fingers tucking behind your neck.

"I don't want your pity." There's still bitterness but no power behind it. You gently shift closer and meet him halfway.

He's kissed girls before, he's fooled around, and he has, in fact, slept with one girl. They went all the way--twice--which means Steve knows what it is to be pitied intimately. He knows what it's like to want something so badly you don't care what the motivation is.

You deserve to know his motives.

"I don't pity you." His focus falls to your quivering lip. "I want to make you happy." He's close. He's so close his breath rolls warm over your face. "I want to make you smile."

A soft whimper leaves you just as his mouth arrives.

"I want you," he says into the kiss.

Instead of fighting, you grab at his jacket, pulling him until you're both falling into the stand lamp. You taste of salt and something sweet he can't put his finger on. Steve resolves to put that on the list of things to find out about you.

He keeps kissing you as you both fall, the lamp now wedged at an angle by the side table. Despite the tangle of tongues, Steve keeps his hands to himself. He doesn't quite have enough answers.

"What do you want, beautiful?"

Hesitant as he pulls away, gripping worn leather like your purse in the street, your eyes dart between his. You're a dream beneath him, but that sounds too selfish to voice.

"May I..." Steve is already panting "...get you off the floor? More comfortable?"

Maybe you haven't been able to say the words, but Steve doesn't need more convincing to know you want him.

He could tell from the way you pawed at him. He could tell from the multiple times you crashed him into the walls along the hall to makeout more. He could tell from the way you melted like hot butter at his every returned touch, but finally, you two made it to his bed.

He'd be embarrassed by the lumpy old thing if there weren't a curvy, luscious dame standing with wide legs at the foot of it, letting his tie slip through your hands as he sits stunned.

Steve swallows thickly.

"Let me see you." It comes out as more of an order than the hopeful question he intended, but when he sees the command shiver through you, he feels six-foot-six and powerful as all hell.

You two share the burden of unbuttoning all of your layers, spinning you a few times to release front and back and side to side. His hands spread and roam to relish each garment, each moment, until you're top half is naked.

He stares, fierce blue irises muted by the dim light on his bedside table, 'beautiful' on his lips every second you spend with your finger yanking the knot of his tie and sliding off the bond. When you lean to pop his shirt buttons, your breasts hang in his face.

Steve stops you by your wrists, peaking up at you through his long lashes as he takes a nipple in his mouth. He keeps thinking it--beautiful--while his tongue sweeps flat across pebbling flesh. Each subsequent swirl has you melting again, pressing more of you to his face, dragging nails up his chest, sighing long and deep. When he switches to the other side, your fingers bury in his hair. He takes his time to worship you, tracing his own fingertips around the hem of your slip and garters.

He doesn't get impatient, if anything Steve feels greedy for wanting more, for praying this lasts forever, for needing all you're willing to give.

His teeth graze your skin in wanton lust, and you flinch in surprise, knocking you off-balance.

You fall to your knees on the mattress, straddling Steve's slender body beneath your hot core.

"Sorry," you mutter, wriggling to stand, forcing Steve to wrap his arms around you and halt your retreat. "I'm sorry. I don't want to hurt you."

"You can sit on me morning, noon, and night," he rasps. "I won't complain. I'll thank you, beautiful."

He groans pathetically when you relax, the grind of your ass making his slacks pinch tighter and tighter. Steve lets his head fall back on the sheets, eyes fluttering shut. The army might not want him, the world outside may forget he ever existed, but you see. He could get addicted to this feeling. He might get lonely without it.

Steve isn't strong enough to keep hold of you, but your weight never leaves, his erection still slotted between your cheeks. His mouth drops wide when your hips roll. Steve whines when you rise up enough to resume unbuttoning him. His lungs and heart go into overdrive, but even so, Steve doesn't want you doing all the work.

He flips you--using the sum total of his strength--and shuffles backward to stand, ripping the tails of his shirt from beneath his belt and shucking off his trousers. That part he could have been more patient for, but Steve smirks and brushes away the hair falling in his eyes, chest heaving from exertion.

He's pleased to see you watching him, ogling his body without judgment. You look like you want to eat him alive, and he is perfectly fine with that.

His palm lands on your knee to sneak higher beneath your slip, nimble fingers popping the clasps along your stockings and hooking through the band of your underwear. You lifting for him is all the permission he needs. Steve leaves your slip, garter belt, and stockings in place, and in a cheeky twist, he lets your underwear hang off one of your ankles, kissing your inner thigh, pushing your knees wider for him to fit.

He throbs in his boxers at the sight of your sex.

Nerves roil in his belly at the idea he is solely responsible for your pleasure. As he glances up to you, propped up on your elbows with a fearful and expectant gaze, he sees a poster promising honor and glory, a service to be proud of, and for the first time, he has doubts.

You see it in his eyes.

"Steve?"

He wants to participate and show that he's worthy of you.

This isn't about him though, and Steve Rogers is nothing if not dedicated anyone other than himself.

"Right here." He snaps back to reality, laying his hand to your thatch of hair and gently teasing his thumb along your folds. "I'm right here, beautiful."

It's an honor to touch you. He's proud of the moan elicited because he strokes over your clit rhythmically. The glory of watching you writhe is all his.

Steve's breath stays rapid as yours picks up. You're fisting the sheets, slick pooling beneath the pad of his thumb, helping him pick up speed. He dips into you, tests the breach while pushing his boxers down, and crawls over the edge of the bed. Like magnets, you guide each other higher till the pillows cradle you.

You're a broken record, repeating a desperate loop.

"Steve," you whimper.

"Won't ever lie to you." He captures your lips again. "Want you so badly. I'll want you all the time."

Steve doesn't understand why you won't talk to him, so he slows, eyes questioning and brow furrowed. You have to see. The light is right there.

Bottom lip trapped, you still say nothing, but your arms raise to his smooth face and plead in the silence.

He wants the same thing. He wants to feel. Not just the sting of rejection. Not just the slippery, rough stones through his shoes. Not just the empty ache inside. He wants to feel like someone cares whether he lives or dies.

You care even when you don't want to, but Steve can earn you, your care, your smile and your tears. He'll get up and come home to you every time. He needs you to come home to.

Otherwise, this is a lonely, empty apartment. Otherwise, he is a lonely, empty man.

Your hands bring him close, lips pausing just before contact while Steve sinks two fingers into you.

You gasp. His fingers curl. His thumb goes back to work. You kiss him with what little breath you can hold between muted cries until Steve notices your roving hands tug at his waist.

He wants the same thing.

Sitting back on his heels, Steve drapes your thighs over his, his slick fingers spreading you. He's mesmerized watching his cock disappear inch by inch, and the caress of your walls shuts down all other brain function. All he can do is slide against you, bent into your soft body, your breasts padding his jerky thrusts, the base of him perfectly laving the hood of your clit in the growing mess.

You're wet, and he's driven wild by the need to make you come. He tries to sit up again, to play with you properly, but he's stopped by the weight of your legs crossed behind his ass, the strength of your thighs anchoring him in place.

Steve takes huge, deep breaths through his nose because he won't last concentrating on how your body bounces and ripples, plush beneath his boney form.

You get wetter, looser in a welcoming way that spurs him to drive himself home faster. He sucks in air, though it's futile once his heavy balls start to seize.

Suddenly, you shout, stretching to push yourself completely flush with his pelvis, and he has to pull out, keeping aligned with the cut of you as aftershocks make you mindlessly hump him. Steve's cum shoots all over his belly and your chest, some drops dampening what clothes he didn't discard, stains of joy replacing stains of sadness.

His chest might explode. He's gasping, taxed beyond his naughtiest dreams, head lolling toward the ceiling with his throat high.

He feels your legs fall away, and Steve hopes for an instant that you embrace him even though he might suffocate in the process.

The envelopment never comes. The world is fuzzy and too warm beyond him.

He hears the sink in his bathroom turn on just as he lands palms-down on sweaty sheets. He tries every trick he knows to calm down. The water still runs after all the time it takes for him to recover and stand. The closer he gets to the doorway, the clearer the sound really is.

Sobbing.

"Beautiful? What's wrong? Did I--"

The faucet squeaks off, and you barrel out, nearly running him over, your arms covering your chest and your disheveled hair hiding your face.

"What are you doing? Are you cold?" Steve tries.

"I'm disgusting," you hiss in a mad dash for the pile of clothes on the floor.

He trips over his feet to stop you, corralling you as best he can, but you're quick. You certainly have fight in you. Steve only want to show you you do not have to fight him.

"Come back to bed," he commands hopefully, grabbing your wrist as you scoop up your wrinkled dress. "I should clean up, but please, please, come back to bed."

There is something broken and fearful in the way you finally meet his eye. He's torn apart, shredded down to nothing in a single look. That's not how a feral animal sees the world; that's how an animal, abused and betrayed, locks the world out.

Your protection is what you really took off for him. Your thick armor is what Steve got past.

"I didn't lie." He lets go of you and steps back as calm as his rasping breaths can manage. "I want you. I want you to stay." He wonders whether he ought to cover himself, too, because perhaps total vulnerability makes you more nervous.

So he presents himself as an opportunity, not an obstacle.

Steve finds his boxers a foot away and says one more time, "I hope you stay."

Unmoving, your eyes follow his walk to the bathroom, and in the split second he's looking down to turn the tap, you're gone.

Disappointment floods his system, but like all the other stamped failures in his record, Steve goes through the motions of caring for a body that thwarts his desire to live at every turn. In fact, it tries to die so often, he's always surprised to find himself here, staring at this mirror again, wondering why he gets back up.

He's also surprised to find you here, in the bed with the sheet pulled up to your chin, nodding to the side table where you've placed a cup of water.

The tiniest of genuine smiles curves your lips.

Steve's home is neither lonely nor empty anymore. He could cry.

A/N: this got so incredibly out of hand... I'm so sorry. But also, thank you for reading!

Tags: @supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555

@yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn

@late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay @astheskycries

@rogersbarber @blogbog710 @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

O Chilly Night

Warnings: no warnings because I let this be a sweet one. however I could see this Steve getting dark after this story hehe.

Summary: You go skating and fall in a way you don't expect. (plus!reader)

Character: skinny!Steve Rogers

Day Twenty-Two of the December Daze Challenge.

Prompt - i didn't fall on the ice, it was a trick 

Note: As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

The blades glide beneath your feet as your legs move without thinking. The noise of sharp edges slice across the ice as bodies float in pairs and trios, swirling and swerving in laps around the grand oval rink. Electric lights sparkle all around, intertwined with holly and berries in a festive scene. Cheery laughter and cutting whoops fill the crisp air around the clouds of warm breaths. 

Patricia and Joyce skate behind you, slower as they aren’t so confident in their balance. You keep a relaxed pace and spin to face them, moving backwards as they cling to each other. Joyce chatters and touches her cheek. 

“It’s awfully cold out,” she complains. 

“We’ve been inside all month,” you counter. “I’d rather this than to sit at the typewriter a moment longer.” 

“Mm, I’d rather the warm office,” she grips and Patricia nods in agreement. 

You chuckle, “well, Merry Christmas to you.” 

“I’d like it a lot more if it was in June,” Joyce leans into Patricia. 

“We can get some cocoa after, there’s a stall nearby,” you say. “I told you to bring a scarf.” 

“Thank you, mother,” Joyce sneers. 

“Would you like mine?” You ignore her venomous retort. 

“No, I want to stop. I’m dizzy. This is boring,” she whines. 

“Well, there are benches,” you shrug, “you could take a rest.” 

“Fine, but I’m not waiting on you all night,” she sniffles and cups her nose. 

“I’ll come with you. These skates are too small.” 

You smile through the tug in your cheeks. You thought your new coworkers would enjoy the night out. The rink seemed to be a nice seasonal attraction. Market stalls, skating, and even a horse-drawn sleigh. You might try that next. They seem more comfortable sitting down. 

The head for the closest exit and you turn to skim away, keeping a mellow pace. A raucous thunder of laughter and jeers rise from the other end of the rink and you peek over to see the reason. A group of six men pass by a body on the cold surface. The ice seems to steam around the small figure splayed there. 

No one stops. No one even seems to care and more laugh at the poor soul’s plight than worry for it. You sweep down the center of the ice, swooping between other skaters, and stop to bend over the man in his wool coat. His cap is off his head, pillowing it over the ice, and his scarf is twisted down his front. You didn’t expect a man, not at his size. He's rather spindly and the fall might’ve broken something. 

“Sir,” you eke out, “are you alright?” 

He groans and opens his eyes. They are big and blue around his beakish nose. His gives a pained grimace. “I must be. I thought if I kept my eyes closed I might melt into the ice.” 

“Did you hit your head?” You wonder. “Can you get up?” 

He stares at you, his irises gleaming in confusion as he searches your face. He looks around then nods. “Yeah... I’m good,” he assures you. “Thanks for asking.” 

“Here,” you offer your mittened hand. “You shouldn’t stay down there or you might stick.” 

His forehead creases and his mouth upturns. He snorts, “that’s silly.” 

He looks at your hand and reaches for it hesitantly. You grasp him and do your best to plant your skates. He’s not very heavy. You get him on his blades but he wobbles precariously. 

“Sorry, I’m no good at this.” He clings to you as his feet slip. “My friend wanted to come but...” he glances around. “He’s late.” 

He’s not very tall, even on the skates. And somehow standing, he doesn’t look much bigger than he did on the ice. The hollow of his throat is deep and his jacket is at least two sizes too big. His cheeks and nose are red from the cold. 

He finally lets you go and puts his hand out to balance himself. You bend and scoop up his hat. You hand it over as your cheeks bulb in a smile. 

“You sure you didn’t hurt anything?” 

He stares at the hat before he takes it and covers his messy blond hair. “Just my ego.” 

“We all fall when we learn. That's how you learn, what matters is you get back up,” you say. 

“Yeah? Well, it helps if we have someone to help us up,” he snorts. 

“I guess,” you shrug. “It’s just what you do.” 

“Really? Cause everyone else just laughed at me.” 

“That’s more their problem than yours, I’d say,” you tut. 

“Well, thanks. I appreciate it.” 

“Not at all. Merry Christmas, sir.” 

“Yeah, uh, you too,” he looks down sheepishly. “Can I ask how you got so good at this?” 

“Not by honest means. I used to sneak out when my mother wasn’t looking,” you snicker. “Kept a better eye on me after I fell under the ice.” 

He laughs, “hm, guess I’ll have to keep practicing.” 

“Um, I hope your friend shows up soon. Mine are waiting,” you point over your shoulder. “But, uh, do you want some help to the edge? You can lean on the posts.” 

“I think you’ve done enough,” he chews his cheek. “Think I see my buddy.” 

He raises his hand and you turn to look. You can’t see much over the bodies all around you. You’re not sure how he can see more than you. Oh well. 

“Well, have fun and... be careful,” you slowly turn and drift away. You should go find Patricia and Joyce. 

You step off the ice and sidle to the side. You look up and down the benches but don’t see them. There’s families, dads on one knee tying their kids’ skates, mothers checking their coat buttons, and adolescents impatient to go out and find their friends. 

You go around the perimeter, walking on your blades, but don’t find your fellow typists. You stop to change into your shoes, knotting the laces of your skates to hang over your shoulder. You hook your bag strap over them and get up to search the picnic tables. 

Your feet hurt as you come up fruitless in your hunt. You finally give into the disappointment and sit on your own. You stare at the stall as you mull over whether to get a cider or cocoa to soothe the wound. They left you. So much for friends. 

You untangle your skates and set them on the bench next to you. You rub your mitts together and contemplate whether it’s even worth it to spend the nickel. You shield your hurt behind a smile that aches in your cheeks. You miss home. You don’t know why you moved to the city. Like that man said, people just laugh at your pain. 

“Excuse me, miss,” his voice startles you as the thought of him seems to summon his appearance, “I didn’t get your name.” 

You look up at the thin man, his nose even redder than before. He holds two steaming mugs. You blink and utter your name. “What’s your name?” You ask. 

“Steve,” he grins. 

You look at the cups, “you found your friend?” 

“Sure did, he’s racing on the ice,” he says. “I don’t wanna break my tailbone so I thought I’d step off. Er...” he looks down at his hands, “can I sit with you?” 

“Oh,” you look around at the full tables. “I guess. I’m taking up a lot of room, aren’t I?” 

He sets the mugs down and sits. He sniffs and scratches his nose as he beams at you. He’s speechless as you try to figure out what to say. 

“Um, I got you cocoa,” he slides a cup across. “To say thanks.” 

“You...did?” Your brows rise in surprise. “That’s so sweet, you didn’t have to do that.” 

“I don’t mind,” he assures you. “So, where are your friends?” 

Your lips straighten. You can’t lie, you’ve never been any good at it. You reach for the mug, your mitten brushing his, and you pull it closer. 

“They left.” 

He hums, “really? Why would they do that?” 

You shrug, “too cold, maybe.” 

“Nah, I'd say they’re too cold,” he scoffs. 

You laugh softly, “you’re too nice. It’s my fault. I asked them and wouldn’t take no for an answer. I just thought...” you trail off. “Well, it doesn’t matter what I thought.” 

“Sure it does,” he leans his elbows on the table as he cups his hands around the mug. “If they don’t think so, then toss them. They’re missing out.” 

You look up at him and blink away the heat in your eyes. Perhaps he isn’t the friend you expected, but you think you made one nonetheless. You smile and blow over the mug. 

“Thank you, Steve,” you lift the cup, “for everything.” 

“It’s nothing,” he pushes his shoulders up as he stares at you with his bright eyes. “It’s just a cup of cocoa. You’re the sorta girl who deserves anything she could dream of.” 

[pararave]

one lucky guy from Brooklyn