#the pizza tower fixation is fixating... oh lord

[kate-bot]

MY NOISE SHIRT IS HERE!!!!!!!AGRHGRHGR IM SO HAPPY WITH HOW IT TURNED OUT!!!

oh and if you want one too you can get one here!!!!!:D

the print quality is actually so good too . save me theodore...........

[heli0s-writes]

There Must Be*

Summary: Steve ponders religion on a wintry Sunday morning.  Pairing: Steve x Reader A/N: 2.1k words. Smut. Fluff. Tenderness with just a wee bit of Angst. Inspired by Arcade Fire’s “Good God, Damn”. I’ve been writing a lot of sacrilegious and Bucky stuff so here is something in the opposite direction lol. Steve needs love, too. :)

The soft glow of Sunday morning wakes Steve. A faint fluttering. Quiet rustling of branches in the breeze, as if hushing themselves. He rubs his eyes gently, brushing the sleep out of them, wiping the loose lash he feels tickling his cheek.

Tiny movements. Delicate and careful. Not even the blanket rustles to life any more than for half a second as his hand finds its way faithfully back to its former position. Warmly, tenderly, calloused palms and pads return to the softness of the arm over his chest, squeezing for just a second because he can’t help himself.

A happy sigh trills its way out beneath his chin, hot breath on his bare chest and he smiles, closes his eyes, stops himself from grabbing that arm again and rousing the lover so peacefully dreaming there.

The room is chilled, bleak in the way a winter morning feels with the seeping cold of the outside finding its way in to wrestle with the warmth. The light from the window is blindingly white— sun rays reflecting the starkness of the snow to dye it all in a shade that borders blue.

Steve is hot, as he always is. That molten magma core inside of him burns like a furnace and radiates like the sun. It’s the only reason why in the dead tundra of a New York January, he’s waking up with his clothes on the floor.

Well, not the only reason.

Last night was the reason.

An extra-large pizza, a spilled cylinder of parmesan cheese, a wrong soda accidentally delivered by a young teenage boy, and a retro record player.

A new album. Your new monthly fixation. Tracks four, seven, and nine are the best. The rest, even better. The intro? Beyond space and time and reason and rhyme, no sense in how or why she can be so good.

A triangle of thin-crust pepperoni, sausage, mushrooms, and banana peppers. Extra sauce. All shoved into your mouth as you spoke around the crunching.

You’re gonna love it. Perfect sleepover party music.

He made to comment, sleepover? But then the guitar strummed smooth and turned electric. The singer hummed and vowels crackled to life in her throat. Your foot tapped along to the beat and you grinned at him— thirty seconds in and your eyes were already wide and wondering.

He had only laughed, swallowed a mouthful and nodded along. Epithets of longing and yearning— loving in a modern age. Silvery voices harmonizing in the air of the apartment.

An album listen party, you called it. Even if it’s between two people, it’s still a party if you put your mind to it, Steve. There was a lively debate then, jibes exchanged about what you meant— if he lacked imagination in your mind, because he doesn’t. You scoffed, peeling a pepperoni off the slice in his hand and putting it in your mouth.

Not imagination, conviction.

And then a new train of thought embarked— a prod at him because before the pizza was ordered there was an argument about toppings and the debate over pineapple or not almost ruined the night. He sputtered a sound in response, but you quickly shushed him with a hiss between your front teeth. Annoyingly cute.

Your eyes are closed now, like last night when you bobbed along, mouthing the words, lips curled into a mischievous smile he longed to kiss.

He felt bad in the beginning when those thoughts surfaced. You were always friendly and sweet, silly, too. Playful, cheery, happy to be affectionate and kind and happy to receive care from others. He particularly loved your way with Bucky. Cautious only for his sake, but eager to befriend and attentive to small cues.

It was easy to fall for you.

It was easy to ask you to have coffee—outside of the Tower. Away from the monitoring and the stiff atmosphere of a job. It was easy to ask you to go steady, even if he blushed all over and you teased him afterwards because going steady was a dated term.

  The light settles on your face, your arm draped over him, bare shoulder above the comforter—that little cluster of freckles he thought was perfect.

Just perfect. How is it that you are so perfect?

“Steve?” You mumble dreamily, eyes still closed but moving behind the thin skin, coming alive.

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

A fluttering of eyelids, vision regaining and struggling to focus. A squint. Your brow furrowing slightly as you take in the room. Warm gray walls, wood framed art, mahogany bookshelves. A room that isn’t yours.

He smiles, traces the line of your jaw with a crooked pointer finger and listens to your heartbeat jump around in your chest.

Sunday morning and he’s waking up with a beautiful girl in his arms. Steven Grant Rogers, who couldn’t get a woman to look at him until he was twenty-six, used to pray on Sunday mornings that he wouldn’t get so ill and maybe grow a few more inches.

Then his prayers changed a little— he just wanted to be drafted, to defend his country, follow the fight like every other good American boy.

Then they were a rush of frantic liturgies through those wartime years— survive the serum, please Lord, keep me safe, watch over Bucky, and then, Lord, hear my prayer. I know I won’t make it out of this plane. Send my love to Peggy. Give her a long and happy life. Amen.

When he woke again, his faith had been rocked. He should have been bolstered by another chance at life, but he hadn’t been sure. It seemed wrong to be who he was—enhanced, different, a disfigurement of humanity itself.

  “Um, good morning.”

Your cheeks warm against his chest, and you tuck your face down into the space next to his ribs. He’s never seen you so shy.

Last night was close—tentative-- there was a slow kiss that suddenly turned quick. Your hand that was resting over his skimmed up his shirt and then both of you were undressed before the last track could begin.

The lights were dimmed, pizza finished, soda shared, a glass of wine stood empty on the table. Your exact words as you poured it had been Italian food goes best with red wine.

And Steve had laughed. Sweetheart, delivery pizza?

It goes best with boxed wine!

The mismatched pair of your undergarments were delicately hidden by your arms across your body—a pink sports bra and a striped yellow pair of boy shorts, faded and a little loose at the waistband. Your cheeks burned red when he observed the way the top clung to your chest, the way the hem of the leg squeezed your thigh.

I—I didn’t plan o—on...

The asymmetry was an endearing testament to the moment. Spontaneous and sporadic, fueled only by a sudden desire to touch and be touched by him. It excited him even more to know that instead of lacy lingerie and perhaps your splayed and posed form on a bed, you were showing him this.

You, just in the shape you are in, unencumbered by pretense, with a shy smile and a tummy full of butterflies migrating into him, too.

  “Last night was... um... really great.” You bury your face down into the sheets, rub your forehead into the mattress and he laughs when your hair tickles his side.

“Yeah. It was.”

  Last night had seen a part of Steve Rogers’ soul pulled apart and branded into your body. His lips memorized every inch of your skin, stretching out the desire for as long as he could because damn him if the first time might disappoint you. He heard himself whispering in the fog of his mind, while he tried to balance the sensations of your taste on his lips, your whimpers in his ears, and your skin pressed against his.

God, if you’re there—if you’re real--- if this is a dream... let me stay. Let me grow old here and wake here and love her here for the rest of my days.

Steve hadn’t quite thought about his maker for a long while. Other things occupied his mind more than the pondering of a creator and a purpose. Time hardened him and loss steeled him. But your easy smile and pop playlists cracked the veneer of Captain America right through and he was glad for it.

His new and strange life was still strange, but it became sweeter at least. Confusing, alien-invaded, super-powered, and all.

Steve’s fingers brush through your hair lovingly, smooths the sleep-crumpled side down. Against his palm, you make a pleased noise and your body flexes and scoots closer along his side. He’s highly aware of your soft breasts on his ribs, your thigh over his, your hip digging.

He can’t help himself. The hand trailing down to your neck moves on its own, chasing for more of the softness that split him open and soaked him in bliss. A gasp as his sheets slides down, revealing both bodies to the brisk air. He warms you with his large hands, running his palm from your stomach to your chest as he descends between your legs. He hangs off the edge of the bed, but it doesn’t matter much. He’s preoccupied now with only one thing.  

It’s Sunday morning and he’s making love to the most beautiful girl in the world.

You whine and exhale into his touch, arching that softness into his mouth where he is most eager. Your toes curl and he reaches with his other hand down the length of your thigh and calf, wraps his fingers around your ankle and massages you there, too.

“Steve…” Your voice is barely louder than a whimper, “Come up here.” You tug your foot from his grasp and tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him up until he’s hovering over you with a grin. He kisses your neck and places his forehead to your collar, savoring the moment he pushes in.

Hot bodies in the cold blue of winter. Faint squeaking of the bed, muffled breath, pleading, pretty words from your lips. Oh God, Steve. Steve. Oh…

You are dazed and smiling, biting a tiny bit of your lower lip as you tip your head back on the pillow. He leans further, burrows deeper, and tries to memorize the way your face looks like this— happy, breathtaking, pleasured by him. Your ankles hook around behind his back and you dig your heels into him a little more, urging. He’s deep, he’s so deep, but he fulfills your request and plunges more until there’s nothing left between the two of you.

Your eyes are shut in ecstasy, throat constricting on a dry swallow as you squeeze him in pulses, body quivering while he drags himself out and does it again and again. He’s lost in the warm velvet space inside of you, shuddering too on the edge of oblivion. Steve tries to slow down, tries to see that look again on you, but you’ve returned from the high and pinch him playfully on the arm.

He can’t help himself. You’re gazing at him so affectionately, mouth curled into a smile, lips pressed together and then against his in a brief and chaste kiss. An innocent gesture sealed over the background of his complete unraveling. He rocks one more time.

Oh, God.

It just takes the one, and he’s crumbling to pieces, hiding his face in your hair, gasping into the sheets and hoping that you’ll still look at him once the siren song of morning fades. He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous, but suddenly your hand is stroking the back of his neck and wiping away the sweat that’s collected at the tips of his hair.

“I love you, Steve.”

It’s so simple, uttered from your lips without pretense just like last night. You make room for him, rolling over on your side. Your eyes flutter again, fatigue lulling you back to the warmth of sleep under blankets. He laughs and then laughs again when you bristle irritably at the noise. Over the edge of the mattress, he tugs the comforter up and back in its place, letting the glimpse of your shoulder peek at him like before.

Sunday morning, and Steve Rogers is kissing the top of your head, heart so full of love he could burst. He wishes he could go back and tell himself back there, with his knobby knees glued stuck to those old church pews—just say, it’s gonna be okay, pal. It’s gonna be hard and terrible, but it’s gonna be okay.

He’s questioned it for so long, but after this, after knowing you and your love, he feels a little more certain.

There must be a good God, if he made you.

-

tags: @whothehellisbucky @serpentbaby @badassbaker @alagalaska @cake-writes @crist1216 @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan