#steve rogers x skinny!reader

[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! 

[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.” 

[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

[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

[hford0311]

She never looked at me that way before

Summary: From the first time you met Bucky as a 7-year-old, things got ugly quick, which established a decade-long hatred for your male neighbor who unfortunately was also your brother's best friend. Then, one night began to change your opinions of Bucky.

Tags: 1930/40s timeline. Fem!reader x Bucky Barnes. Childhood enemies to lovers.

Being Steve's younger sister wasn't the easiest thing imaginable. "But Mama!" You cried as you watched the other children in the neighborhood play. "Y/n, I said no." You huffed and plopped yourself on the floor in front of the window. "Can't do nothin' 'round here." You angrily mumbled. "Missy, you keep that attitude up, I'll find you something to complain about." Your mother called. You rolled your eyes out the window. At the ripe age of seven, you knew the unfairness whenever you looked at your brother. You were aware of the problems, but they only bothered you at times like this. However, they happened more often than not now that you were in a new neighborhood with new kids. 

A knock at the door minutes led you to race to it and open it. Your mother sighed and whispered, "I don't know what I'm going to do with you," before she walked over to the open door. "You must be Mrs. Rodgers," the woman at the door smiled with two children at her sides, "I'm Mrs. Barnes and these are my children, James and Rebecca." "Bucky, Mama," the boy groaned. The mother lightly chuckled, "Sorry, Bucky, my troublesome son." Sarah smiled back the mother. "Well, you met my troublesome, Y/n. Let me go fetch her brother," she went and grabbed Steve from the bedroom. 

"Would you be opposed to them playing outside while we get to know each other?" Mrs. Barnes questioned. Sarah hesitated, fearing Steve would have an asthma attack or worse. "I promise my children know the rules of playing outdoors. Plus, they can introduce them to the others. Be good for them to have friends before school starts." Mrs. Barnes  persuaded her. "Oh, Mama, please!" You and your brother begged. Sarah sighed, "Alright, but you and your brother have to look after each other." You and Steve cheered before following the other children outside.

Sarah anxiously watch her children play with the others in the alley from the window. It felt a little too fitting that her children were the same age of the Barnes children. "I'm sure they'll be fine, Sarah." Mrs. Barnes mentioned. The two women bonded, soon learning about each others' past and present. Meanwhile, you decided you wanted to play stickball with some of the boys. However, it wasn't that easy. Somehow, it ended with you and Bucky screaming in each others' faces. Despite the two year difference, you still stood nose to nose with the boy when you were on your toes. "If you weren't a girl, I'd hit ya!" Bucky yelled. 

Wham! Children swarmed the scene. "I wonder-oh my goodness!" Mrs. Barnes glanced out the window to witness what was happening. She quickly ran down to the alley with Sarah not far behind. "Out of my way!" Mrs. Barnes screamed and broke apart the group of children to reveal her eldest with a bloody nose. Sarah separated you from the group. You were panting and hid your bloody hand behind your back. "What happened!" "She's crazy!" Bucky yelled as an answer. "He wouldn't let me play because I'm a girl!" You yelled back. "Y/n! You do not hit!" Sarah scolded. "But-" "No buts." She huffed and grabbed your wrist, trying to avoid getting blood on her before dragging you up to the apartment. That moment defined your hatred towards Bucky Barnes. 

Soon after the initial fight and greeting, the boy could never stop coming by to hang out with Steve, leaving you to steam in irritation. However, Rebecca was able to help with the situation a lot of the time. You two loved to gossip and make fun of Bucky. Funny how the two siblings were totally different. Sarah and Winnifred were deeply grateful for the separation  of the two pairs that allowed there to be peace in the two apartments. 

***

Six years it has been and the hatred did not cease. Perhaps, it grew-- or at least the maturity level of it increased-- which isn't much to say. 

"Bucky Barnes, won't you just leave me alone!" You yelled at him when he followed you back from school. At thirteen, you didn't need a babysitter to walk you back to the apartment after the bus ride from school. His fifteen year old self mocked you from behind your back. "Such a jerk!" The words left your mouth like venom. The one time Rebecca and Steve were both sick, he decided to pester you the most, and both of your mothers wanted him to make sure you got home safe from school. "It's not like I want to," Bucky grumbled. "God, won't you go do something with Steve and get the hell away from me?" You growled. Bucky pressed you up against one of the brick buildings. His blue eyes starring into your soul, wanting to send it deep into the pits of hell. "Y/n, if I had that option, I would. Now, just stop complaining and get home." His height was beginning to tower yours. "Fine," you huffed and ducked under his arm to continue on your route. Somehow, your brother was best friends with the most annoying boy in the neighborhood, and no one else hated it as much as you did. Your mother grew to adore him as her own son. It basically led to him never leaving your apartment or dining table, which led to Barnes's home to become an escape for you. The hallway is a no man's land that neither of you were caught in besides entering and exiting the two apartments. 

At age 17, you sighed as you got off the bus from coming home from grabbing medicine and a few other grocery items for your sickly brother. The sporadic lit street light led your way home. You looked down at your clacking shoes, counting the steps you made to distract yourself from the cold and the thoughts that could enter a young woman's mind while walking alone on the street at night. You counted louder in your head when you heard voices that you didn't want to understand or hear. Be as that might be, hearing more footsteps  that were not yours could not make focusing and counting steps easy. Fingertips grazed your bicep, causing you to trip off the sidewalk and land on your hands and knees. The materials in your bag now flung elsewhere You tried scattering up, but when you turned around, you froze in fear at the stranger in front of you. He was starting to walk close to you and saying something before rapid steps and punches were exchanged in a blur of movement. 

Then, one of the blurs left and the other came into focus in front of you. The unwelcomed face became a pleasant one. "Bucky!" You breathed an exhale. His strong yet soft hands lifted you up from your stunned state. "Are you okay?" His voice was caring and gentle. "Y-yes," you confirmed, trying to steady yourself on your feet. "C'mon, let's get you home." He started to guide you in the direction. "Steve's medicine, I dropped it." You were a muttering mess in front of him, pointing in the direction of where you fell. "Stay here," His hands on your shoulders, like setting you in place before quickly snatching the med bottle in his coat pocket. "Alright, let's go, I gotcha." Bucky led you home. 

"Thank you, Bucky. I-I-" Bucky interrupted you as the pair of you made it to the landing. "You don't need to thank me, Y/n." You simply nodded and then motioned to his coat pocket, "Steve still needs those." Your old nemesis delicately placed them in your palm. "Take care of yourself," he spoke and walked to his apartment. 

The energy between the two of you would change after this night. It took about six months for a complete one-eighty change. 

Now, the hallway that separated the two apartments would be a no man's land anymore. Quite the opposite, actually. You felt your feet start to tremble when Bucky kissed you at the apartment door. "We can't let anyone know," you whispered as you broke the kiss. "Oh, not a soul," he whispered back and kissed you again. "I mean it, Bucky. Not even my brother." You scolded him. "Never, doll." He confirmed before planting his lips onto yours. "Alright, I should go before someone catches us," Bucky whispered and started to take the twelve feet to his apartment. You quickly followed him and stopped him to exchange another act of affection. "Yes, you should go...it's getting late." He took a step down to be on the same as you. "Go to bed, my Y/n doll," he planted a kiss on your forehead, "dream of me." You blushed, "As long as you dream of me, James." He stroked your cheek and took his final departure. You leaned up against the hallway wall for a moment to calm down before going back into your apartment.  

"You're late," Steve mentioned from his chair in the corner by the lamp. Your body jolted as you softly closed the door. "Jesus, Steve," you hissed and pressed your hand to your heart, "do you want to give me a heart attack?" He closed his book and stood from his spot. "Just come home on time. Mom was worried." Guilt rose in you as your brother began to trudge to bed. "Hey Steve," he stopped and turned to you, "don't worry Bucky walked me home."  It wasn't a complete lie and the statement lessened the guilt. "Good to hear you're finally getting along." He stated with a smile and goes to bed. 

***

You walked out of the apartment door, only for Bucky to swiftly pulled you over his shoulder and in five seconds, his apartment door magically sprung open and shut before Bucky put you down, his lips pressed deeply onto yours, making you pressed up against the door. "Bucky Barnes, what have gotten into you?" You giggled. He pressed his index finger to your lips. "Do you hear that?" You noticed the absence of the other Barnes family members. "What are you talking about?" You whispered in the silence. "We're here all by ourselves, Y/n doll." He grinned and pressed on another kiss. The pair of you stopped, starring into each other eyes without the desire to punch each other. 

[thezombieprostitute]

Bittersweet

A/N: Written for @the-slumberparty's Sundae Bar:

🍧Cookie Dough: bakery au – cookie dough proves that a bit of baking can make anything better. Your characters now live in a bakery au, whether they work there, or come as customers, they can’t resist the sweet aura.

🍧Birthday Cake: secret admirer – it doesn’t have to be your birthday to have this flavour. And your secret admirer leaves you gifts every day, but just won’t give you the one thing you desperately want: their identity.

🥄Graham Crackers: flashback – a brief trip into the past reveals something important.

Warnings: Coercion, Stalking. Please let me know if I missed any!

There was a time when you really enjoyed going to work. Your bakery wasn't massively successful but it did well enough. The regulars kept you in business and you were able to attract the occasional crowd with seasonal recipes. You loved baking and you loved that you could try new things along with the tried and true. Even with the protection money you had to pay out, you were still able to turn a small profit.

As much as you hated it, you had to admit they did keep things relatively safe. The grocer across the street had gotten robbed and not only had the person been caught, the store owner received all of their money back with a bonus for the employee who'd been working the register. Store owners who get the runaround from their insurance companies just have to tell the right people to get the fixes and payouts they need. So while you hated having additional expenses, at least you knew it wasn't going to waste.

But then you started getting gifts delivered to you at the bakery. Practically every day, for the past few months, you've been getting gifts of all sorts. It was cute and fun at first. A charm bracelet with a bunch of baking based charms, a small bouquet of flowers. But the,n the gifts started getting more and more personal. A book that had been on your wishlist forever but you never told anyone about, a dress in your favorite colors that fit you perfectly. You started dreading stepping into the bakery.

The small box is on your desk and you take a breath to steady your nerves before opening it. Given the packaging it could be a book. Given the way the gifts have been going, it's likely a book of photos of you. You slowly unwrap the gift and you're proven partially correct. It's a framed drawing of you, asleep in your room. It's definitely your room. All the details are painfully correct. Someone was in your home watching you sleep.

As much as you want to drop everything and cry, there is work to be done. You've got bills and employees to pay. On top of that, it's time for the quarterly protection payment. Maybe you can ask the “agent” you regularly meet up with to keep an eye out for the secret admirer. You fill up the manila envelope with the payments and head to the kitchen to get things started.

The routine is comforting. Cookies, small cakes, pastries, you could probably make these in your sleep. It does help when your employees start trickling in and taking over some of the tasks. The shop is running like a well-oiled machine and you're able to forget about the unsettling drawing in your office.

A little before time to open, there's a knock at the front. You recognize the woman, Nat, as the one who collects the payments. You quickly run up and let her in. She seems especially chatty this morning.

“Hey, did you stop wearing that charm bracelet?”

“Oh, yeah,” you reply sadly. “It's actually something I was hoping to talk to you about.” As you step into the office you hand her the envelope with the payment before pointing to the picture. “My secret admirer has gotten more and more creepy, like a stalker. It's really scaring me.”

She looks at the drawing, “they're certainly talented.”

“Oh yes,” you agree quickly, “but that's not the point. That's my room. No one has been in my room for...long enough. There've been other gifts that feel way too personal for a stranger to know. Hell, even friends of mine wouldn't know!”

Tears start forming in your eyes and Nat quickly starts trying to soothe you. “We'll look into this,” she promises. “I'll have answers for you by the end of the week.”

You nod and thank her before she leaves and you get back to work, letting yourself get lost in the rhythm of the day.

“Excuse me, miss?”

You pause on your way to your car and turn towards the source of the voice. You recognize the man, Sam, as another “agent” like Nat. “Can I help you?”

“I've been asked to bring you to The Shield for dinner. We have some answers about your secret admirer.”

“Oh, what, um, what time?”

“Now,” he replies as he motions to his car.

“But I'm not dressed for The Shield. I'm covered in flour from work. I smell--”

“Now,” Sam repeats. His tone leaves no room for argument. Your hands shake as you put your keys in your purse and sit in the passenger seat of Sam's vehicle.

The Shield is a very high-end restaurant that's known to be a favorite of Barnes, the man in charge of the Protection for your neighborhood. You're not sure why he would need to see you in person. Did you overstep when you asked Nat for help? Do they need to start charging you more because of it? Can you afford the increase?

“You'll be okay,” Sam assures. “He just wants to talk to you over dinner.”

“I don't think I can afford the meal.”

He chuckles, “it's on us. He's making you come to dinner with him, the least he can do is pay for your meal.”

You nod your understanding. At least that's something you don't have to worry about.

At the restaurant, Sam leads you past the hostess and straight to, what you can only assume to be, a VIP area. Tables are set inside of nooks, some cordoned off by curtains to promote privacy.

One of the tables is occupied by two very different looking men. One of them is big and tall with long, brown hair and stubble. The other is smaller, with blond hair and looks...familiar. He looks up and smiles as he sees you and you're hit with a memory from over a decade ago.

You were working late shift at Waffle House. Not great, but it paid the bills your scholarship didn't cover. Culinary School was your ticket out of this town and you were going to give it everything you had. And, because of class schedules, the late night shift was your only real option.

On a slow night it was just you and another server managing the floor. Curtis, the cook, was out back for his smoke break. Your one patron came up to pay his bill. He was scrawny, blonde haired, blue eyed, and very polite. Unlike other late night patrons, he wasn't drunk and didn't try flirting with you. He spent most of his meal drawing in his notebook and you noted he was very skilled. He smiled shyly and thanked you.

He went to the till to pay but went pale when his card was declined. “I...I knew I was cutting it close but...I'm so sorry! Let me try to find some cash or something!” He starts frantically pulling out his pockets.

“It's okay, I've got you,” you assure him. “It was just eggs and toast.”

“I don't want your pity,” he mumbles. “I swear I can pay.”

“It's not pity, it's kindness,” you retort. “You were a very nice customer, very respectful. Not used to that this time of night. You even let me look at your artwork. So let me thank you for being nice by being nice in return.”

His cheeks are pink with embarrassment but he steadies himself, “I...I promise I'll pay you back.”

“I'm not worried about it.”

And now that same scrawny, blonde haired, blue eyed man was gesturing for you to sit next to him at the most high-priced restaurant in the city.

“I know it's been a while,” he states calmly. “So I'll understand if you don't recognize me.”

“Eggs and toast,” you whisper, making him smile.

“I still owe you for that meal. And with interest and economic inflation, I think you could order whatever you want from this place and I'll still owe you.” His companion, the big, brown haired man chuckles. “Please, have a seat. We've got some catching up to do.”

You sit down, still feeling in a bit of shock. “What...what are you doing here?”

“Me and Bucky,” he gestures to the brunette, “run this town. We're the ones you've been paying the protection money to.”

“You're Mr. Barnes?”

“That would be me, Doll,” Bucky speaks up. “I have the more intimidating presence people expect, complete with the skills to back that up. Steve here is the brains. The devious bastard figured out how to completely run out the other rackets, making us the only game in town.”

A sudden thought hits you. You look at Steve, “those gifts I've been receiving?”

“Those were me, Angel,” he smiles. “I figured you'd appreciate a glimpse at the nice things I can give you.”

“You...you broke into my apartment...”

“I own the building so it wasn't a break in,” he calmly tells you. “I have my own key.”

You freeze up. How many times has this stranger been in your apartment? How many times did he watch you sleep? And how much power does he have that he can openly admit these things to you without fear of repercussion?

“I warned him that the drawing was a step too far,” Bucky interrupted your thoughts. “But he insisted you'd be flattered.”

“Then we got Nat's report from you,” Steve frowned. “I really didn't think it would scare you.”

“You didn't think it would scare me to have someone draw me in my sleep? Without my knowing?!” You get out of your chair and try to back away. “You've been stalking me. Invading my privacy! I never consented to any of this!”

You try to turn and walk away but you're stopped by Sam. “I promise you,” he warns, “if you leave you will regret it.”

Confused you turn back to Steve and Bucky who are out of their own seats and stalking towards you, looking angry.

“I want to be nice,” Steve tells you. “But I'm sure you can guess, I don't have to be. Neither do my friends. Now please,” he holds out a hand to you. “Please come sit, and have dinner with me.”

You want to run. You want to scream. But this man owns your business. He owns your home. If you try to get away, where could you go? You've invested everything into your bakery and have no savings. You have nowhere else you can live. He owns everything you hold dear.

You take his hand, “I'm...I'm sorry, Steve. It's a lot to take in.”

He smiles while Bucky and Sam relax. “It's okay, Angel,” he covers your hand with his. “We've got all the time to figure this out.”

Partially inspired by @theinheriteddutchess; Tagging @alicedopey; @delicatebarness; @fluxxdog; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @ronearoundblindly

[kaismasterlist]

|| Take Me To Church ||

Pairing: Skinny Choirboy!Steve Rogers | Satanist!Reader.

Description: You're the giggle at a funeral; everybody's disapproval. And yet, all Steve wants to do is to give you his life. 

Disclaimer: This is a dark AU. It will contain dark and mature content. Browse at your own discretion. Minors do not interact.

AU Track: Take Me to Church by Hozier.

Warning(s): Will contain noncon/dubcon and the like. Reader intimidates Steve but that is what he subconsciously likes so much. 

Parts;

I

[itgetsdarksometimes35]

Until My Lips Turn Blue

Warnings: This chapter: abortion, death, overall sadness. 18+

Word count: 1,076

Pairings: Soft Steve Rogers / Black reader

Summary: Reader is trying to move on from Steve.

~ indicates time change

- indicates a POV change

A/N: This is the second and last part to my first soft miniseries. Hope you enjoy and had happy holidays; I'll be writing today.

You prayed to God for forgiveness. You didn’t want to do it, but you had no choice. You couldn’t bring the baby into the world you lived in, you’d be subjecting them to pain and suffering for the rest of their life.God understood. He knew you had made the right decision.

You and Raymond stayed together through the years he was drafted, and he sent you a letter proposing. He promised to buy you a ring the second he got back home, but he just couldn’t wait for the war to be over to ask you. You replied with yes, of course, feeling on cloud nine about the new love.

Your fellow nurses saw it, too, nicknaming you Dorothy because of how you skipped as if you had on ruby red shoes. You got sent to help injured soldiers in Germany, but you sadly never saw Raymond. You kept in touch, but you longed to be held by him. 

Since you terminated your pregnancy 3 years ago, you hadn’t thought about Steve. You doubled down on your duties and your new relationship. You didn’t watch or listen to anything, and ignored posters as much as possible to avoid seeing his face.

That was until you got a letter from Peggy Carter. You were sewing a wound from a soldier when a small man in uniform came to deliver to you a letter. Inside it Peggy explained that Captain America, Steve Rogers, had been killed while in action. She was aware of your closeness, and felt it was right to inform you. His funeral would be held on July 23rd, and if you chose to come you’d be on leave for that entire week and you’d be allowed to continue after. 

Emotions you had suppressed for years came flooding back. You started sobbing as your fellow nurses came to your aid. A young nurse took the letter and read it aloud before it was snatched by one of the older women. They looked at each other, giving looks, but nobody spoke up.

~

You decided to take off for Steve’s funeral. You sat in the back as far away from everyone as you could and tried to hide. Tears slipped silently from your eyes as you mourned the loss of the man who taught you how to love. 

Steve’s body was never found because he went into the Arctic. Instead of paying respects to his body, there was a picture of him when you first knew you loved him. Before he was Captain America. Before he was big. Just when he was still that little kid from Broolyn. 

After the funeral, you planned to run as fast as you could before you could be recognized. You heard your name from someone with an accent but kept your head down as you moved through the crowd. You had almost made it to a car waiting for you when a hand grabbed your arm. You turned to be met with a woman with red lips and brown hair. 

She smiled sadly at you, tears were in her eyes. She repeated your name with the same accent from before, and you nodded. “Hi, my name is Peggy Carter. I’m the one who sent you the letter.” 

“Oh, thank you so much. I would’ve never forgiven myself if I would’ve missed this.” You nodded your head and tried to turn to leave again.

“Hang on! Could I maybe talk to you?”

You turned to the woman again. “About what?”

“Just about Steve.”

Your heart quickened. She knew about you two, you just knew it. Was she going to tell? As much as you hate to admit it, Steve could have protected your relationship, even more so as Captain America. With him gone, you were subject to be hung.

“I don’t know, I really have to get back-”

“Please.” You looked in her eyes and saw sincerity. You gave in with a nod, and she took you by the hand and led you into the now empty church. The boldness she had surprised you, but you didn’t say anything.

“So how did you know Steve?” You asked when you entered the chapel. Peggy sat you both down at the front pue, the one directly in front of Steve’s photo, before turning to you. 

“I trained with him but we soon became romantic.”

Your chest tightened and your lips twitched. You know you shouldn’t be mad, hadn’t you done worse? “Oh.”

“But I’ve come to the understanding he loved you way more than he could ever love me.”

Your head shot up to look at her. “W-what? No, Steve and I were just friends. I loved him, but as a nurse loves a patient and hopes for his well-being. That’s all, please don’t believe the rumors.”

Peggy laughed. “Oh trust me, darling, I don’t trust any rumors. How I know what I just said to be true is because Steve told me himself.” You gulped. “I love him deeply, don’t think I don’t, so that’s why I think he should’ve stayed with you. I know you refused him, but he should’ve dropped that Captain America act to be with you. He was nowhere near living his life without you, and if I ever got the chance I’d let him know just that.”

You looked at this woman’s flushed face talking about her dead lover. Your dead lover. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because Steve can’t. I’m here to tell you from now on, for Steve’s sake, don’t care about what other people say. It ruins relationships, ones that are the strongest in the world. Love finds a way, and I know if he were still here today Steve would’ve ended up with you in the end. And I’m happy about that, because when he spoke about you I saw him at his happiest. You showing up today proves to me what I was afraid of all this time. The love you two shared.” You blinked back tears as you looked at the woman.

“I’m not telling you how to live your life, I’m just telling you how not to live it. In fear.” She patted your leg before standing up and leaving the church. You looked up at the cross and sobbed. You let out the words you had left unsaid, sounds that fell to deaf ears.

You prayed to God for a time machine so you could right all your wrongs.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: Okay I just had to say this. I like to think Steve came back for reader and not Peggy :')

[a-strange-echo]

Flufftober day4: "Cinderella moment"

Pairing: Pre-serum!Steve Rogers x gn! Reader

Summary: When working on fixing a boat on a hot day, Steve can't help but compare himself to Bucky again. Luckily, Y/N is there to remind him what really matters.

Word count: 555

Warnings: self-estime issues, self-worth, other than that, none, pure fluff

Author's note: finally up to date! WOO!

Author's feelings: wasn't too sure about it at first (at think you can tell by reading it) but I'm really glad with the end and the way it turned out!

Y/N, Steve and Bucky had been friends since childhood, there wasn’t a moment when one wasn’t with the other. Even when they would fight (which was rare) it wouldn’t last long. They were best friends and will always be, no matter what happens. Bucky knew of Steve’s feelings for Y/N and would often tease him about it, although never in front of them. Bucky felt something changed in the group dynamic when they were around 19 but he was fine with it, he could manage Steve constantly gushing over Y/N when in private. He would much rather deal with a head over heels Steve that with a crying, heartbroken Steve.

“-Are you sure you guys don’t want to take a break?” Y/N asked from their sitting spot on the dock.

“-Yes, we will be over soon.” Bucky yelled from the other side of the boat.

Both he and Steve got hired by a nice old man from the dock who asked for help to fix his boat. The boys and Y/N agreed, but it was very hot today and Y/N opted to take a break and drink a nice chill glass of water while the men continued to work but with now their shirt off. Sometimes, a few young ladies and gentlemen walking by would stop to admire and talk with Bucky but it wasn’t who Y/N got their eyes on.

“-Oi, stop mashing! Poor Stevie is doing all the work!” Y/N called for Bucky. “Although I’m not complaining for I have a very good view…” they said having, indeed, a nice view of Steve’s frail back and butt. “He looks like he could use some help.”

Nobody could see it but Steve blushed like crazy from the comment. What Y/N saw however was the nasty look one of the men sent their way after assessing Steve. Their only response to that was to glare harder and appear meaner to scare the guy and to show Steve was well protected.

“-Then why don’t you help him?” Bucky asked, not really annoyed by the interruption.

“-I’m not strong enough.”

“-Y/N, I don’t need help.” Steve intervened.

“-Stevie, not to offense you, but you look like you are going to pass out. Take a break.” their voice was immediately softer when addressing to him.

Steve sighed but complied, putting the tools down and walking toward the dock, starting to feel dizzy. Y/N patted the empty spot next to them for him to sit and he did. He grabbed a coke that the old man gave them from the cooler next to him, trying to cool down. The two watched the scenery. It wasn’t the prettiest by all means but in this instant, they were the only existing on this dock. The sun was soon going to set and the distant chatting of Bucky and other passers-by were a nice change in pace compared to the buzzing of the city.

“-Do you think I could be like him one day?” Steve asked and Y/N didn’t have to look at him to know he was referring to Bucky.

“-Why should you be like him when you are already so much more?” They asked back. When he didn’t respond and only looked down, blushing, Y/N put their head on his bony shoulder. “Besides, I’ve always preferred smaller men.”

[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

[imaginedreamwrite]

Photo #2 makes me think of the omega from the Baker AU taking a selfie to ask Steve if it looked okay for her courting date. And then she accidentally sends it to one of the alphas, if not the entire group chat.

You wait, and then you wait again. When he doesn’t immediately answer your text with a picture of the dress you wanted to wear for your first courting date with Ari & Curtis, you feel confused.

Confusion is quickly replaced with mortification.

It hits you when you realize that your text was sent not to Steve solely, but the group chat with your alphas that also contained yourselves. The group chat that now was being flooded with comments, messages back and forth as your alphas swooned over the red velour dress that you chose.

You scrambled from the bed and skittered to the living room, eyes wide and your mouth open to tell Steve about your blunder. The two of you were equally dealing with a blunder that left you both feeling exhilarated by the messages being flooded to you.

“I sent the text to the group chat, and now the alphas are saying really intense yet nice things and-” you inhaled and exhaled, pacing back and forth in front of Steve.

“-I sent a picture of myself with dirty hands and cheeks from working with charcoal and I thought I sent it to you but…” Steve blushed heavily, nervously puckering his lips and digging his nails into his hand.

“But…?” You crept closer to him, looking over the phone to see the picture sent to Bucky, solely to Bucky, and Bucky’s replies being fuelled by eroticism.

“Looks like dirty boy needs a sponge bath—shut up! He did not—!” You came to sit by Steve, exchanging your phone with his to read each others messages.

“Bucky is a bit of a playboy, he’s so dirty.” Steve grinned, small, and bit down on his bottom lip. “Ari & Curtis are on their way to pick you up.”

“Bucky wants you to draw him like a French girl.” You giggled and rolled your eyes, enjoying the little chaos Bucky added.

“Hal thinks you look beautiful.” Steve slipped your phone back into your lap, and then drew his fingers across your shoulder. “You do look beautiful, baby.”

“Thank you, Stevie.” You leaned into each other, you kissing his cheek as he slipped an arm around your waist. “You’re gonna be okay here? By yourself?”

“Yeah,” he rubbed the back of his neck, blushing again, “Hal & Buck said they might come over…later…”

“Good,” you kissed his cheek again, and then stood, “I guess I better meet them downstairs.”

“Have fun, be safe, and use the pepper spray I put in your purse if you have to.”

[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

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Off the Page 2

Warnings: non/dubcon and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: skinny!Steve

Part of the Bookstore AU

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

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.

You take a page out of Maria’s book and sleep on the train. The night at the hotel wasn’t long enough. By the time you ate, you were too tired to enjoy the fancy tub and your alarm woke you well before you were ready. As your stop comes, you’re still groggy and barely ready for your evening meet and greet. 

Isn’t this the dream? Running yourself ragged as a bestselling author? Seeing all the fans who love the words that you wrote? Who see themselves in the characters you created? So much a dream that you feel as if you’re falling asleep again. 

Wake up! You splash water over your face in the bookstore bathroom. It’s not glamourous. You have the small space to refresh before you face the masses. You hoped for a smaller crowd given the time of day and the lesser known location. How wrong you are; you can hear the buzz of fans through the walls. 

“Hey,” Maria enters without knocking. She’s like that. You and your agent have gotten rather cozy in those last weeks. A bit too much at times. “Almost ready?” 

“Yeah, sorry, I... is this blouse okay?” You ask as you touch the satin, patterned with violets, “I don’t even know why I bought this?” 

“It looks fine,” she assures, “you’re not a writer if you’re not at least a little eccentric, right?” 

“Oh, and what about book agents?” You challenge, “are they all so stylish?’ 

“Of course. We’re the face that sells the tour. All you have to do is smile and sacrifice your hand to carpal tunnel syndrome,” she teases, “just you wait until the interview. That's the heavy lifting.” 

“Interview?” You check yourself one last time in the mirror. 

“Didn’t I mention? The local station wants a sit down before we’re off tomorrow,” she explains, “I said yes. It’s a decent check and good business. Any publicity is good publicity. Publisher signed off on it too so... can’t back out.” 

“Oh, and you were going to tell me when?” 

“Right now,” she shrugs, “come on, your adoring fans are waiting for their elf queen.” 

“Oof, don’t,” you cringe, “you make it sound so lame.” 

“If it was lame, you wouldn’t be here,” she asserts. 

“Suppose you’re right,” you pack your things up into your bag and shove it in the corner. “Alright, I’m ready.” 

You follow her into the hall and through to the main area of the bookstore. It’s been closed early for the event, a meet and greet exclusive to those who claimed the limited one hundred tickets for sale. Each ticket includes the cost of a free signed edition and bookmark. Funny to think you’d once been on the other side of one of these things. The eager beaver reader aspiring to be the star author. 

As you come into sigh of the audience, they cheer. You’re still not used to that either. You wave and smile out at them. The moderator, an employee of the bookshop chain, calls for their attention over the microphone and introduces you. There’s another softer round of applause. 

You take your seat on the stool and let out a breath. You start with the reading. You try not to do the same chapter, instead cycling through your favourites. Some you even know by rote now. 

Then comes the Q and A session. You know all the answers. You find it’s always the same questions. Besides, you created this world, these characters, if there isn’t anything written, then you get to decide. 

A group a giggly women finish asking their questions about the ‘rumoured’ sequel to which you give your PR friendly deflection. After them, you wait for the next person to appear. There’s some scuffling at the microphone as they lower it. You wait patiently and smile at the slender blond man. He’s vaguely familiar. 

“Hi, um, my question is, whether Emeris is truly the promised knight or if he was just in the right place at the right time?” 

You nod as you listen, your thoughts whirring. It’s not an entirely out-there question. It isn’t what he’s asking that gives you pause. You swear you’ve seen him before. 

“Well, we can’t know for sure. I like to think of the promised knight as not a specific person fated from birth but rather a possibility for all. The promised knight is the one who can step up in that time of need and do what it is needed,” you explain. “I hope that makes sense.” 

The man doesn’t speak right away, himself stalling before he can respond, “yes, I guess it does. Thank you.” 

He lingers at the microphone for a moment as he watches you. He clutches a worn copy to his chest tightly. That’s familiar too. 

Strange. You're sure there’s lots of people who double dip. You have to admit you did it once yourself. Sometimes you just need that thrill.  

The blond man steps back and lets the next person ahead of him but he doesn’t go far. He stays close to the queue of people and you feel him staring you down. Everyone is watching you but his gaze just feels so much more intense. You do your best to focus on the person at the microphone. 

Several others ask their questions or just give their praise. The man remains. You can’t shake the sense of him. He’s like a shadow. You don’t know why you’re so aware of him. 

Finally, you finish up and it’s time to announce the special prize. It’s a raffle set up by ticket number. The package isn’t anything special; a collector’s edition, a mug, and some pens that look like quills. The moderator brings up a box filled with slips and you reach inside. You read out the number and the crowd mutters. 

“Me,” a deep voice rings out, a hand popping up from lower down. The blond man steps forward and waves his ticket, “it’s mine.” 

Strange coincidence. You keep your smile plastered on. You don’t need another Maria lecture about your tired moping. You’re handed the prize basket and you carry it down to meet the man. 

“Congratulations,” you say as he meets you at the lip of the low platform. 

“Thank you,” he beams up brightly, “it’s nice to see you again.” 

You try not to show your surprise, “yeah, uh... you too.” You don’t know what else to say. You don’t remember exactly where you saw him and definitely not a name; you hear too many of those to keep track. 

“Really?” He breathes. 

“Er, enjoy your prize. Thank you so much for coming.” 

“Of course. Always. Anytime,” he avows shakily. “’To you, my queen, I bid my blood and breath.’” 

You hesitate. That’s from the book. Emeris proclaims it to the elvish protagonist on her quest to reclaim her stolen homeland. It’s flattering yet slightly unsettling to have it recited to you. 

“Have a good night,” you say gently and turn to walk back across the platform. You’re tired, you need to get out of here. 

[ronearoundblindly]

Okay, so, hear me out.

I know I've got a Beauty and the Beast AU coming for skinny!Steve, but @darsynia gave me/let me have this idea of a Cinderella AU with him, too, except he is the Cinderella character who gets transformed to live his dream for a day.

I present to you the setup of:

*All photos from Pinterest

Steven is the only child of an exiled prince, and due to happenstance of the aged Warrior King Phillips having no male heir of his own, Steve becomes true royalty overnight.

His cousins, Princesses Margaret and Sharon, angry at the circumstance of their demotions at court, offer no help to the young, small, and often sickly new king.

No one is allowed to see him until his coronation. The few knights and advisors who have laid eyes on Steve are sworn to secrecy, and though he has a mind for strategy, Steve is burdened by his appearance.

Given the coronation crown the night before the big ceremony, Steve stares deep into the massive yellow gem at its front and wishes to look like the "ruler they all want to see."

And he does.

He wears the heavy crown easily, he stands tall over most of the court, and he carries a heavy, steel sword at his hip for the first time ever without the blade dragging across the stone floor.

The court is elated. No one looks twice, not even the handful of men who knew, but that's the magic of the stone...

Steve meets a seemingly endless stream of people, but the most curious is the apprentice of King Phillips' military advisor, a young man he saw befriending a stray cat in the courtyard while everyone else ogled and angled for him. The apprentice's eyes...there's just something about them...

After a long celebration feast where he charmed the nobility with humility, practicality, and honor, Steve falls asleep small again, but certain he can win over the whole realm if he can simply be known for his actions, not his physique.

That becomes the plan; Steve will work behind the scenes, make the kingdom better for people high and low, and then he'll be loved and accepted for who he is. In the meantime, he, in his natural form, can act as a sort of messenger or page boy 'for King Steven' and move around freely. Why not? They all are on the lookout for a man standing two hands higher and broader than him.

One of his first visits is to his inherited military advisor. Of course, Steve doesn't expect the apprentice to live inside the family home, possibly somewhere on the estate maybe, but after a long ride to get there and a long discussion while sitting in the man's study, Steve asks if he might walk the garden before leaving.

He asks about the woman by the roses, and his advisor simply replies "that's my daughter."

Of course, he won't bother to introduce him. Steve's an untitled nobody like he's been his entire life thus far.

Steve might not have seen the resemblance, truly, if not for the exact movement of your finger to gently lift a wilting petal back into place.

It's the move the apprentice made when scratching beneath the cat's chin, and he'll never forget that smile.

"You," he blurts, startled at the otherwise drastic change in your appearance.

You jump back before composing yourself, shielding your eyes from the bright sun above as you look him over.

He's more alarmed by your curtsy than you are by him, watching you bow deeply where moments ago your father dismissed him offhand.

"Your Majesty," you say to the ground.

You...

You recognize him like this? How? How is that possible?

His wish was granted. They all saw a perfect soldier, but that's just the thing: you didn't want to be ruled by a perfect soldier.

You wanted a good man.

You, who secretly longs to offer more to your father and family than a bartering chip for marriage, same as his cousins, need the king to be a good man because then he'll understand this...

A/N: Ok, full disclosure, I might already be very protective of this one, so we'll see if I can bring myself to put it all out there. Anyway! Thank you for the gif, Brandy! It was a great opportunity to get this down.

Also, if it's just an idea/intro, do I include the taglist? Idk. I hate pinging y'all if it's not like a lot of content.

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[jamneuromain]

Oh hello my dear friend 🥰🥰

Ok, so... For the bingo... Can I have the request?

About the party, it's doesn't matter if it's big no not, fancy or you know, just for friends and family.

But yeah I wish for best friend reader and pre-serum Steve Rogers lol (40s isnot nessasary)

So you live in the same block or just neighbors, and he doesn't like the whole loud pary, so he said he want to leave. Of course you want to go home since you feel bored too.

But when you walk several meters from the party, you suddenly aware that you forget your jacket!! So you just tell Steve that you have to back to the party and that he can go home first.

But, when you rush into the party, take your jacket and said goodbye again to your friends. You found that Steve walk back to the front doors of the party place and waiting for you.

Have a nice day 😊😊💕😊

Hi nana😌❤️❤️ I absolutely love this idea. I might have changed it a bit into Reader looking for Steve to leave, but I think this works with the plot hehehe

Hope you'll enjoy it😘

Spiked Punch

Steve Rogers x You

Warning: Party, cursing

Summary: After two punch and being bored to death at a college party, you decide to find Steve and head home.

A/N: My seventh entry to the bingo challenge hosted by @the-slumberparty. The idiot-part came from an inspiration from @rogerswifesblog/@rogerswifesblog-updates <3

You've never been a party gal.

You hate it when it's hot and smothering in a small space.

You absolutely loathe it when there are loud music and drunken ... people involved. Seeing the drunken frat boys and sorority girls tangled up all together, kissing but looking as if they are about to suck each other's face off... just, eww.

College parties are definitely not for you.

Bucky, on the other hand, is a different human being. Bucky is enjoying the best time of his life, joining the fraternity with a bunch of stupid Greek letters on a T-shirt, partying all night and drinking till he can't tell which room is his own bedroom. That's his jam.

The last time you saw him at this party, roughly fifteen minutes ago, he was holding two sorority girls on his laps, making out with both of them, and to you, this looks like the start of a threesome. So you slipped from one room to another, trying to find Steve.

You came here with Steve. Being (almost) lifelong friend of both Steve and Bucky, you met them when you were four years old.

You don't remember any of that, but your mother told you one of the kids in this neighborhood shoved you to the curb into the traffic. And if it weren't Steve and Bucky who bravely - they are also four, by the way, ran in front of a freight car while the other pulled you to the sidewalk. You would not be still alive at this moment.

Kitchen - living room - hallway - accidentally walking into the library but the frat boys in there are burning book pages to smoke pot - one turn, then another, and you are back where you started, the kitchen.

Christ.

Only two punches and now you're unable to tell if you have entered the door to the left, or if it's the "library" you just passed. You really should have listened to Steve, who heard from his roommate that college parties always have their punch spiked.

Speaking of Steve, you really wished you could be by his side for this party but your friends dragged you away as soon as you showed up, talking about a giant slide at the back of the frat house, connecting the roof to the ground.

It's a miracle that the frat brothers still have their head and their spine intact.

This reminds you that Steve could be at the back of the house - hopefully he wouldn't be catching some sorority's eyes and got pinned to a wall and making out. Not that you wouldn't want him to get a girlfriend. No. You wish the best for him.

Absolutely the best. Which means those dumb girls with only "ten tips of making you lose more weight" in their head are no good for him.

You walk around the house to reach the backyard, where Steve sits on a bench all by himself, the phone in his hand, pending on a messaging interface.

"Hey, ready to go?" You sit down, swinging an arm around his shoulders.

Okay, so maybe you are a little dizzy due to the weird fruit punch. And your arm is a bit too tight around Steve's skinny shoulders. So tight that he leans towards you, nearly banging his head on your shoulders.

He quickly swipes the messaging app away and tucks the phone in his pocket, patting his hand on your back, hesitant and soft, "Yeah, I've been ... I'm thinking the same. Got a lecture tomorrow at 8:30."

You hum in agreement, quickly letting go of his shoulder and raising a big smile, "C'mon."

"And Buck?" Steve shrugs on his large jacket when he gets up from the bench, "should we tell him we're going?"

"Pfft." You tug on the corner of his sleeve, urging him to go, "He's a big boy. He'll be fine."

The image of Bucky tongue-kissing two girls at the same time makes you shiver. Even if you adore Bucky - you adore Bucky and Steve both, it's cringe, watching your friend making out with someone else.

And you rather not know about Bucky's (what he claimed to be - healthy) relationships, although you enjoy gossips as everybody else.

You are on your way back to your dorms. You love it that the three of you don't live far away from one another. A drop by, a visit is so simple when Steve basically lives the building right next to your place, and the frat house Bucky's living is a 10-minute walk away.

Escaping the crowd, you and Steve walk back to your places. Dim, orange streetlamps barely covers the sidewalk as you and Steve head home. Where you and Steve embrace this little peace and quiet that's hard to come by.

"So... uh... I've been texting you just now." Steve starts, awkwardly, clenching his phone in his pocket.

"Texting?" You almost forget about your phone, but surely it's in your back pocket - "Oh shit." You murmur, when your hand reminds you that your back pocket is empty, "Oh shit, my phone!" Your eyes widen in panic, while Steve takes a few more seconds to understand your trouble.

"Did you lost it? Did you bring it there? Did you-"

He looks more anxious than you are.

"I did. I checked my emails before I went inside. I put it..." your voice trails away as you try to remember, "Fuck, I think it's in my jacket. I left it in the cloak room because the house is too warm."

It is five meters away from his place, and you sigh, "Shit. Guess I have to go back and get my jacket. Look, just get inside. I'll text you when I get my phone back, okay?"

"But-"

You didn't wait for his reply before you start to run to the frat house. You hope it isn't too late for your jacket and your phone. You heard there might be pick-pocketing in some of the parties.

After what feels like forever - which is five minutes, you are relieved to find your jacket, your keys, your phone, and everything in your pocket is still intact, right where you left them in the cloak room.

You briefly say goodbye to Bucky on your way out when he's yelling for either Cherry or Cheryl at the door, though his brain is completely toasted by alcohol, and fails to match your face with his memory. You doubt he will even remember this encounter in the morning.

"Idiot." You mutter under your breath, after Bucky shoves past you, now sing-songing that girl's name, clearly way too drunk to remember anything more than the syllable "Cher".

See, that's why you hate people drinking.

As you shrug on your jacket for the chilly night, and pulls out your phone to check your messages again, you almost stumble upon someone standing right in front of you.

"Steve?" Your raise your head from your phone. You have yet to read his messages, finger hovering above the messaging app, but you are too surprised to open them anyways, "What are you doing here? I thought I told you to go back to your dorm?"

It's sweet for him to wanting to accompany you back here, and walk you home again. It really is. And you are glad to see him, even if it means you have to carry an EpiPen and an inhaler all day for him, just in case his ran out.

Steve looks pale. He is pale since he's a kid. His body can't carry enough iron so he has to take supplements to prevent him from worse affects of anemia. He purses his lips into a line, staring at you for a moment, looking sad, "It's Bucky, isn't it?"

"What's about Bucky?" Shoving the phone away, you eye him suspiciously, "Did you eat the mushrooms those sorority girls offer you and start to have visions?"

He gestures to your phone, "It's Bucky. And you don't want to..."

He didn't finish his sentence. Looking at you as if there's something way bigger than this strange conversation he is starting.

"Never mind." He murmurs, kicking a small pebble under his shoes into the grass.

"No?" You elbow his arm, "You're being weird. Spill."

"It's just..." Steve looks frustrated, "you haven't looked right since you saw him kissing. And I can't offer you any ... anything because ... And you saw my message, but don't want to answer directly without..."

"What on earth are you talking about?" You furrow your brows into a knot, "What does Bucky has to do with... whatever you're talking about? With me? And what's the message? And why are you acting strange?"

"You like Bucky!" He blurts out.

You are completely awe-struck. "WHAT?"

"You got upset when he kissed those girls! And then you came to find me asking to go home. And now you want to tell him that you love him -"

"Hold on for a second -" You growl.

"But he's drunk! I know you hate others getting drunk and you still said your goodbyes! Calling him an idiot behind his back just now because he's yelling for those dumb blondes instead of-"

Your blood has just gone cold.

He can't possibly think that you are into that sweet dumb brunet? Bucky has never been the center of your attention. And you only came to this party because Bucky said he invited -

"You're being ridiculous." You huff, barely containing your anger and disappointment as you choose to head home instead of listening to his nonsense.

"I know it's wrong of me to just send you a text and tell you how I feel about you-"

This definitely put a halt to your steps.

"-and I like you and you know Buck. You know who he is and I don't want you getting hurt-" Steve says miserably, almost at a last resort, salvaging what he clearly has ruined. A perfect friendship.

Sure, he likes you. What's not to be liked? Your humor? Your sass? Even you getting mad is cute for him. He couldn't help but say how much he likes you via words, because he's too nervous to say so in person. He should've kept it to himself, even if this means that he would be heart broken watching you smiling and laughing and treat ing him as a friend.

You turn around and take a few steps to him, making him gulp nervously, but still saying out loud, "He's a heart-breaker. We know that. You know that. I love you and I-"

Before you shut his mouth with a kiss.

And bite his plump lower lip.

"Ouch!" He covers his lips with his hand, feeling the swell where you bit him.

"You are a big fucking idiot, Steven Grant Rogers." You retort. The spiked fruit punch encourages you to swing your arms around his neck, as his body remains frozen, "There, happy? Calling you an idiot right to your face?"

"What-"

"Or do you need me to kiss you again to realize that I, in fact, love you back?"

Find my The Slumber Party Present Bingo Challenge here 👈

Questions? Comments? Requests? 👉Send them to my inbox 👂

[hford0311]

Winter fun

Pairing: *1940s!Bucky x fem!reader*

*First a little flash back to the '20s*

Even as a child, Bucky would tolerate the snow, the ice, the cold. He would stay out just as long as he needed to before going back inside. You, meanwhile, would always race for your coat, hat, and everything in between when you saw the white fluff falling from the sky.

Today was no different. You woke to see the white powder outside your window, filling the street and sidewalk. You gave a small squeal, quickly dressing in your warmest sweater, socks tights, and skirt then re-discovering your winter outerwear. "Mama! I'm going outside!" You called in the apartment right before you shut the door behind you. "Wait!" Your mother called after you, making you pause halfway down the staircase. She just managed to put her robe and slippers on before she opened the door. "You're not going outside alone." You groaned and whined. One of the doors a floor above your mother opened. "Go, shoo, and I don't want to see you back at this door until dinner!" Mrs. Barnes' voice told her oldest children. "Bucky, Rebecca, Y/n is waiting to go outside with you!" Your own mother responded to the door being shut.

Next thing you know, all three of you were playing outside. You couldn't get enough. Snow angels, catching the fresh snow on your tongue! Rebecca whispered a dare to you. You giggled at the idea and nodded. A small ball of snow molded in between your mittens. You peaked over the small fort of snow and tossed it at the back of Bucky's head. "Hey!" He yelled in protest. You quickly slumped against the wall of snow, giggling with Rebecca. It was always fun to get a rise out of Bucky when it came to a grand victory, especially with the two year age difference. Winning over an older boy was a huge brag. "Nice throw, but he's gonna be mad once when he finds out it was you." Rebecca whispered. "I can take it. I love the snow. Bucky is a baby and hates it." You whispered back. "Y/n, Rebecca, if that was you, you better come out or there'll be trouble!" Bucky called the warning. You giggled. Rebecca almost stood, but you pulled her down. "Let him squirm," you threw another snowball at his face.

*December 1941*

Snowball fights and snow angels had now advanced to ice-skating as you grew over the next ten years. Plus, you learned it was an excellent excuse to hold onto your date from the last two years, not that you ever really got to do that. Your skills were good enough for some tricks, so it never bothered you much. You dressed in your warmest clothes and started up the stairs of the apartment building. You knocked on the Barnes' family door. "Rebecca!" You called, ice-skates dangling from your shoulders. She opened her door, ready to go. Bucky a few steps behind her. "You two can wait downstairs, I'll grab Steve." The oldest of your trio stated. A bit of shock hit. Rebecca grabbed your arm, walking downstairs. "Sorry, Mom insisted that James come with us. Turns out, she end up didn't forget how we came home late last year. So, it was big brother or nothing." She rolled your eyes. You secretly didn't mind. "I still think it was worth it." You stated. Affection had grown in your heart for the only male Barnes. However, you never did tell Rebecca that.

The four of you trekked your way to the less-populated skating pond. Less people meant more room for you to try tricks and Steve could go at whatever pace he felt comfortable without glares or odd looks from others. "Yes! Look! No one's here yet!" You exclaimed and raced to the bench closest to the pond and traded your boots for skates.

Hours were spent on that little pond. However, you never got bored of it or let the cold bother you. "Y/n, let's go, the sun's starting to set!" Bucky called to you from the bench. Rebecca and Steve were waiting at the top of the hill. "Okay, just let me do one more go of it." You responded and skated across the pond, getting closer to the center. "Don't get so close to the center!" Steve yelled. You rolled your eyes and kept circling, inching closer to the middle. "It's thick enough, Steve!" You leaped and twirled. Bucky sighed as he noticed the other pair starting to shiver. "Head on back, we'll catch up with you."

Crash! Splash! Screams!

"Oh, shit!" Bucky exclaimed and ran down to the pond. All of them could only see the circle of broken ice and your splashing arms. "Bucky! Be careful!" Rebecca yelled as her brother got on the ice with his boots.

You don't remember how you got there, but you were now right outside of the building, body slumped against Bucky's chest and shoulders as he carried you. "Cold," you murmured into his ear. "I know, we'll be inside soon." He comforted.

Steve went home, Rebecca helped you change into dry clothes as Bucky did the same on his own. "You're lucky," she mentioned as you got under the blankets on your bed. "I know." She sighed and sat next to you. "If Bucky wasn't there- I-" you grabbed her hand. "Don't think about it. I'm fine." You tried to convince her. The man of the hour then appeared in the doorframe. "Mom needs you," he mentioned to Rebecca. "I'll keep an eye on her." The siblings traded places.

This time, Bucky grasped your hand, "Still pretty cold," you nodded along with him. "Scoot over," he stated, standing and taking off his second pair of shoes. You obeyed. He managed to get under the blankets and wrapped his barely warmer body around yours. "We'll warm each other up." Your foreheads were pressed together. "Thank you...you saved me." You whispered. "Anyone would've-" "No," Bucky hushed you and kissed your forehead. His blue eyes met yours. "Still cold?" He questioned. Your head nodded. "Let me fix that," he breathed and pressed his lips against yours letting the warmth spread.