#to: anika-ann

[candystevegrams]

To: @anika-ann

Dear Anika,

It is wonderful to share the love for this amazing man with a writer of your talent and passion. It gives me so much joy that our characterizations of him are so similar, and every time I read your fic, I know I’m in for a treat — thank you for sharing your talents with us. Your love and support for my writing also makes such a word of difference.

Love, @stellar-solar-flare

@anika-ann You have a candygram! 🍬

[anika-ann]

The (Un)Expected - S.R.

Type: one-shot, soulmate AU, good ol' meet-cute (soulmates meeting for the first time prompt)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader   Word Count: 8k

Summary: 

A soulmark shows the first words your soulmate will speak to you. A soulmark tells you there is the person for you out there. A soulmark tells you what to expect.

For that, Steve’s is a source of comfort and anxiety to him. You always had a complicated relationship with yours.

But maybe they will teach you a lesson in the end – that the only thing one should really expect, is the unexpected.

Warnings: brief angst, mention of cancer (not reader), canon-typical violence, mention of death (no major character), blood and injuries, language, FLUFF so take it easy on sugar before reading

A/N: written for the Community Revival Extravaganza hosted by the wonderful @stargazingfangirl18 and @labella420 . Thank you both so much for hosting and stirring life in the fandom! I loved seeing the traffic and positivity on my dash - you're doing god's work 💕

A/N 2: DIVIDER by @firefly-graphics; enjoy y'all 🥰

Steve Rogers was a sickly child.

He spent too much time to his liking in his bed – and even more time outside of it despite feeling sick for he couldn’t bear resting anymore, craving to explore the world instead – and was sneaked into a doctor’s office by his mother quite often as well. She only got him in as a favour, courtesy of her own good name – a nurse working double shifts and lending a helping hand wherever she could, a single mother working herself to a bone to take care of and set example to her only son.

A single mother, a nurse, a good person – a beautiful soul. She left this world too soon, but she left an imprint on Steve’s heart larger than any other person, perhaps besides Bucky, ever could.

All that told him, even as indirectly, that his soulmate would be one special dame. She would be kind, she would be brilliant and for that alone, he knew she would be beautiful.

Steve knew that as soon as he could read, as soon as he could decipher the words on his skinny forearm.

In a world where first words your soulmate would tell you were laced into your skin for you and your soulmate’s eyes to see only, his words told him his soulmate was a little miracle.

'I’m not a doctor yet.'

Steve had spent a fair amount of time around nurses and doctors to know that all nurses were women and the overwhelming majority of doctors were men – by the time he was ten, barely a few women were allowed to attend medical schools, let alone graduate. But you, you would be on your way to reach that. Brilliant. Driven. Desiring to help people, to heal.

It was only when other children, other guys and girls alike, began laughing at him for being too little, too weak, too bony, when his heart began to ache for a different reason than illness. If you were to be all these amazing things he had dreamed of, what were you to do with a sickly fella like him? With your words to him being these, it was a fair assumption to make that you would meet due to his health issues, perhaps a smart dame taken under a more experienced doctor’s wing during your studies. How disappointed you would be when your soulmate, the one person meant for you and chosen by destiny itself, would be… that?

That upsetting idea haunted him, hurting more than the bruises that had formed under fists of bullies Steve kept trying to save those even weaker than him from, more than stick and stones and words alike.

Then again… there was a little silver of hope in his heart, a little shy voice in his head. If you were to be his true love, then certainly you’d accept him, yes? If he tried, if he tried hard enough to be a good man, the best possible version of himself, if he worked hard to protect and feed his future family, set a good example for your future children as his mother had, worked towards making a better world, you’d accept him? If he could live with not being as great as others but never stopped trying, you would respect him and perhaps even loved him for what he was?

Then, of course, war came and those thoughts were pushed aside.

Then, he grabbed at his chance to fight that war, to do his part, to help – and incidentally, he also earned his chance to literally grow. Healthy. Strong. More worthy; but remaining good, because that was the one part of him he wanted to hold on to no matter what, that one part he would wish his love, wherever she was, would love him for, even if he suddenly shrank back into the back of skin and bones he used to be.

Then, he lost his best friend Turned into a failure.

And then… then he died.

One of his last thoughts were of you, a beautiful woman with vague appearance but strikingly kind heart and sharp mind. He prayed you’d get a new soulmate somehow, even as those cases weren’t heard of. He prayed you’d live a happy healthy life without him, at least as good as he would have tried his best to give you, to build with you, even as his own heart was breaking to pieces, regret veiling his body as water and snow and icy wind would, regret for missing his chance to meet the most special person in his world.

When he closed his eyes and still saw the white of ice and the blue of the deep sea, he’d swear he saw your face, crystal clear, for the first time – and the last time – in his life.

Seeing you, a stunning mirage, his last thought was that you were an angel gently leading him into afterlife.

When he woke up to a new millennium, one of the first things he did was checking his forearm; he words still sat there, taunting, mocking and heartbreaking, another screaming reminder of him not belonging here.

As years passed by, the sense of alienation subdued. Steve Rogers learned to belong, even as a piece of his heart was missing, longing for the past life – and the life he had never got to have – always humming in his chest quietly.

The mark on his forearm remained, a sad memento to a soulmate he had never met, turning him into a martyr.

But many people had rejected the idea of soulmates in this time, rebelling against their so-called fate, taking off on a path of searching love on their own. Steve learned they did so for various reasons – a sense of adventure before they’d truly find their one true love, a quest to choose the fortune and love on their own terms, a fuck-you to the universe when their soulmate turned out to be less than they imagined and hoped.

His own reasons, as he reluctantly started to look for a person to share his life with, were rather unique, but no one looked at him through their fingers for that. If anything, those who cared about him encouraged him, wishing for his happiness.

It was only when he got Bucky back – one of his greatest regrets not erased, not lessened since Bucky had endured unimaginable pain, but transformed, a piece of Steve’s past brought back to life – that he began to wonder about the almost blasphemous thought he had forbid himself from entertaining when he had been first brought back to life from ice.

Were you still there somewhere?

And then, a shier thought:

Is there still a chance for me to find my true soulmate?

And then, the shiest one of them all:

Is there a chance for me to find happiness with you?

When he had thought of that before, he was certain that since you were still alive – he had read reports of people claiming their soulmark changed colours if their loved one died – he had thought of you as an old lady who had hopefully lived her life as he had genuinely wished for her.

But what if fate, that little minx who had taken his best friend for life from him only to give him back, had somehow blessed Steve with a soulmark decades before you were even born? What he hadn’t lost his chance, what if you were still young enough to build a life with him? Was that even possible? There were aliens, flying suits of armour, other realms, downright magical weapons… he had been given a second chance at life. There were things happening Steve would have never thought possible before. So was there a chance…?

The idea of you being a doctor became much more plausible too – in this century, female doctors were a much more common occurrence. That, naturally, did not diminish your brilliance whatsoever, the fundamental idea of who you’d be never changing in Steve’s mind. The image only became less surreal in one way and a whole lot more surreal in another.

For his own sake, he didn’t give in into that hope fully; at least he told himself that despite lying awake at night, a ghost of a woman he had never met lying next to him, radiating non-existent warmth he wished with his whole being he could touch.

He wasn’t chasing after the ghost, didn’t allow himself that – there was no way to do so to his knowledge anyway – for the chances of success were rather slim.

But there was always hope, wasn’t there?

And the longing for love, whether it was in the hands of fate or in his own to find it, remained, built into his very body; etched into his bones, flowing through his veins, laced into his skin beyond the words on his forearm, always humming quietly in his heart.

In the age of information and science, the concept of having your ideal partner for life chosen by some mysterious abstract entity called Fate was literally otherworldly. Alien. Absurd even.

And yet, it still ruled the lives of many.

Which, in all honesty, was almost even more fascinating than the existence of soulmarks itself – the belief people had for them despite being no logic to them at all.

Perhaps it was the little piece of human soul, an inner child people so desperately wanted to cling to for its own beauty and purity, a child who never wanted to stop believing in magic, fate, dragons, mighty knights and kind-hearted ladies, in all things of fairytales and happy-endings the most. Because to a point, that was what soulmarks were – and little fairytale-like book of destiny.

One that not even science seemed capable of beating.

And you should know; you were somewhat of a scientist yourself. And despite how unfathomable the nature of soulmates was, you could not say that you rejected the idea of them, of someone who was born to belong with you, someone you could share your life with, the right partner in the crime of life. Basic bodily needs aside, wasn’t that the most fundamental need of all? To love and be loved; to belong?

Who wouldn’t wish for that reassurance that they could have that, that some strange force of universe itself created a person like that for them? They were the god’s strongest soldiers you supposed; because you were certainly not immune to that tempting comfort.

But you weren’t obsessed – and you prided yourself in the fact. Mostly because the sheer fanaticism of the world over soulmarks, the one thing that kept defying science – besides alien portals, magical blue cubes, demigods walking the Earth and things alike – was dialled up ad absurdum.

There could be billions of dollars poured into research of curing cancer. Cure autoimmune diseases. Helping the homeless. Slowing down global warming. Erasing poverty and famine. Protecting nature, endangered species. Discovering new worlds, exploring space.

But no. Governments poured billions of dollars into researching soulmarks. How was it they existed? How was it you could cut through skin, you could cut off skin and the mark would reappear somewhere else? What was the grand scheme of them? Why was it that only two people who belonged together could see them and the person speaking the words could only see it on their soulmate’s skin after they spoke the words, almost like a fail-safe that couldn’t seem to be broken with any tricks?

It wasn’t a question of physics as far as people knew; they had tried to build sets-up of various optics, thermovision cameras and complex sets of lenses and mirrors, and none of the reports you had ever heard of claimed success. It wasn’t genetic markers either; no one had discovered a sequence of DNA responsible for soulmarks, let alone turned whatever discovery they would have made into a tool of reading anyone’s but their own and their soulmate’s mark. It didn’t seem to be chemistry either; no one had made a groundbreaking discovery or at least they hadn’t informed the scientific or any other community so far.

But by gods, forget the space race. Attempting to be the first one to somehow read everyone’s soulmark and then create an algorithm to monetize it as the one and only soulmate dating app, now that was a competition overflowing with cutthroat madmen. Not to mention the crowds looking to temper with soulmarks, to make another one appear on someone’s body; or worse, to erase the original soulmark and instead design one capable of manipulating the outcome of a soulmate match.

You found the force of that obsession insane – and frankly, all the attempts morally wrong. While dedicated to science and loyal to discovery, you found soulmarks to be something sacred, one of the things that should not be touched by filthy human hands; god knew humanity, while doing a lot of good, had mucked up about just as much.

You were not alone in that belief. There were, in fact, numerous demonstrations against scientists experimenting with soulmarks, people protesting against anyone creating such tool and using it to temper with natural course of things no one fully understood, not for the lack of trying. However – as expected everywhere where politics and money were involved – these protests were in vain.

They were as vain and futile as the research of the marks itself.

As for your own soulmark, you had a rather complicated relationship with it.

On one hand, it gave you a sense of peace – there was someone for you, even as sometimes it did not feel plausible at all. You had time too – because based on those words, you would not meet your soulmate until in your twenties at least. You had plenty of time to become who you were meant to be before a man could turn your life upside down, even as that was not supposed to be what soulmates did, at least not in a bad sense of the word.  

On the other hand, it was a ball and chain. You would not find you soulmate sooner than in your twenties and sometimes, you missed them despite not having met yet. When imagining what your meeting could be like based on their first words etched into your skin, you feared they might be a little disappointed – even as you did not let that stop you from pursuing the life you wanted. And despite you wanting to choose the career either way, it felt like someone – be it god, fate or another cosmic entity humanity was yet to discover – had chosen the path for you the moment you had been born if not before.

'Doctor, are you alright?'

Four simple words that couldn’t be more ordinary and yet extraordinary for they represented one of the most meaningful encounters of your life. The source of as much comfort as anxiety.

You couldn’t stand hospitals ever since you were a child. The cold environment reminded you of the strange icy feeling that had settled in your chest over the months you had been visiting your dying father, your naïve eyes watching cancer bite off his energy and smiles first, before it swallowed his whole body and soul. He had been a ghost long before he passed; and in your mind, despite all rationality even years after, that ghost haunted any hospital you visited.

Learning what your soulmark was as a child, you had spent countless nights crying, soul torn into pieces, pushed and pulled between the visceral desire to live up to your soulmark and the crippling nausea at the mere thought of dealing with people drowned in misery caused by any illness in the cold institution they called a hospital.

However, the curious kid you had been, you had fallen in love with science itself.

And that one day at school, when a classmate of yours had brought their father to the class to talk about his job as a doctor, you had burst into tears. You began to sob in the middle of him explaining to third-graders that he was not a medical doctor, but a physicist with a doctorate earning him the degree of a doctor as well. You remembered your teacher leading you outside of class, concerned and absolutely baffled, trying to sooth you helplessly even as you were completely inconsolable – because you did not need consolation.

You were crying the happiest, most relieved tears of your life.

You could still be a ‘doctor’. And you genuinely wanted to be one, not just because of what your soulmark read. You had always wished to help people indirectly, even as you looked back at your life now. Sure, your soulmark could have been adding fuel to your drive when your motivation had been running low, but this was who you desired and was meant to become.

A molecular biologist. A doctor in making. Researching the effects of medicinal drugs with hopes to improve them.

A scientist not researching soulmarks, thank you very much.

And yes, there was the lingering feeling of missing a person you hadn’t even met yet – especially when Doctor Simmons’ face lit up like fluorodeoxyglucose in PET scans whenever she saw Doctor Fitz – but you had other things to focus on. And you had time. There was no pressure.

You were not a doctor yet, after all.

Naturally, just because you dodged the joys and sorrows of being a medical student and later on, a medical doctor, it did not mean that you had it easy. No one working on their doctorate did. But when you decided to pursue your degree and work in research, you signed up for that.

You signed up for a lot of things.

It was a little peculiar for you to be on the SHIELD campus in the science division without a doctorate. It was a known fact that SHIELD only recruited best of the best, this Science ad Technology in particular: you needed at least one doctorate to even walk through the door, which was something you were reminded a lot because you did not meet that requirement and here you were.

But SHELD owned the best equipment and you were fortunate enough to get in by the lovely game of fate, being good and driven enough and having met the right people at the right time. SHIELD Academy’s Science & Tech division had the unique equipment you often needed for your research. Your research was interesting enough for people who had perhaps more power over your little life than fate itself. Stars aligned.

It was no walk in a parc, but you were no fool; jumping after that opportunity after having one too many doors shut into your face was a no-brainer. Even though it meant signing up for a whole extra load of shit.

You signed up to be the weird girl. The privileged girl. Hell, even the stupider than local average girl, because you were only an engineer at this point.

You signed up for being the young girl, even as you had met a few people there who had started younger, having actually earned their first PhD at age 17 or less.

You signed up for mockery and misogyny, for as you were aware the level was blissfully low here compared to other workplaces, especially where science was concerned; in exact science, you observed, more than anywhere you ever heard of, it was customary to keep that one insufferable employee, because they were simply that good at their job, no matter that they had cost the department a few other employees.

You signed up for living on campus with other SHIELD recruits, which meant living in close quarters with other divisions; as a result, some days the whole area seemed to swim in testosterone emitted by the hulking special agents in making from Operations.  

But that was okay. You could do it.

There were bright sides too, many of them. Like pursuing your dream career. Being among like-minded people whose brain, to a large point, ran on the same wavelength. Hooking up with a handsome but notbrainless recruit from Operations or Communication here and there, some flings, some relationships, because if you were to wait for the love of your life, you might as well not wither completely. You were only human and you had needs along with your lifegoals.

You more than willingly signed up for working with Agent slash Doctor Jemma Simmons.  With her two PhDs and rich experience from the field, she had left the action behind in order to work on her third PhD and help humanity without having her life on the line every day. She was hard-working, with no-nonsense approach and lovely sense of humour with plenty of stories to back it up; she was overall pleasant person to work and be friends with and despite having been through amazing and terrifying experiences other people couldn’t even imagine, she remained surprisingly down-to-Earth.

Sure, she had her quirks like insisting on having a gun at hand at all times and stashing a few small vials of altered Molotov cocktail, a mixture of chemicals which would ignite upon the vial breaking, in one of the nearby cabinets – but you supposed there were worst things to get used to than that in a coworker or a friend. She used to be an active agent after all; in fact, unofficially, she remained one. Much like anyone, you knew that certain habits died hard and being through what she had been – she confessed to you that she once spent months on a nearly deserted ancient planet, among other things – left a mark. If this made her feel safer, you’d take it.

Another great thing about Jemma, Doctor Simmons, was that she was adorably English and was in dedicated relationship with Doctor Fitz who was a Scotsman, so that was the spice of long workdays at times; especially if you agreed to play Scrabble with them and a few friends in the evening.

But there were things you had not signed up for when following the alluring promise of a prestigious spot and unique equipment.

And one of them was a damn Nazi revival group in the form of fucking HYDRA attacking the lab while you were in the peaceful process of waiting for your PCR to finally be finished.

Influx of men in full tactical gear interrupting Jemma updating you the vacation plans, Fiji and all the rare species of fishes that could be observed there when scuba diving.

When you heard the first shouts, breaking of glass and dull echoes of gunshots from afar, your immediate thought was that you had been having a good day and that the experiment had been coming along nicely – and that whatever mess was happening was for sure about to ruin all your progress.

By the time panic settled in, Jemma was practically tackling you down, hand over your mouth to muffle your startled squeak at the sudden movement, her eyes alert and serious, screaming at you to keep quiet.

The sickening shouts of HAIL HYDRA, COOPERATE AND YOU’LL GET HURT LESS was what sent your brain crashing into reality; that and the distant agonized cries of people, coworkers and recruits you knew and met in the hallways every day, following the sounds of gunshots growing in volume and frequency.

You could hear Jemma shuffling next to you further.

You yourself were unable to move beyond stifling a cry behind your suddenly sweaty palm as another female voice wailed in pain.

Blood seemed to freeze in your veins despite your heart thundering in your ribcage and your temples and it helped you shit at all that you were aware that was such thing was literally impossible. By the time Jemma’s hand grabbed yours again and squeezed hard, you realized you were shaking – half in anger, half in paralyzing fear, half in utter shock. It didn’t matter it didn’t add up.

What mattered was the gun in Jemma’s hand. She was holding a gun, ready to shoot, because there were enemy agents, fucking HYDRA burst through the door, guns blazing. And killing people.

You were whispering with exasperation worth of a shout before you knew what you were doing.

“Why?! Why the fuck-“

“Probably the samples they brought in today, precious cargo,” Jemma whispered back frantically, loading the gun and reaching into another cabinet behind her. You only stared at her in utter confusion and mute horror, rapid heavy footsteps approaching and sending your already racing heart into a madness. “Gun or cocktails?”

“I can’t shoot a-!”

Before you could finish, the familiar sound of the sliding door opening and a horrifying echo of tactical boots reached your ears, a set of vials pressed into your palm.

You gulped, pulse thundering in your temples.

Those goddamn Simmons’ cocktails as you named them since she had insisted on keeping around.

You couldn’t believe the moment was here that you were actually grateful for them, even as they seemed to burn in your hand even with the vials themselves intact.

Your eyes snapped to Jemma’s face to question it wordlessly at least, but she wasn’t looking at you; she was listening intently, lying in wake as if she was the predator and not the prey you felt like.

Your own breathing seemed too loud as you allowed yourself to squeeze your eyes shut for but a moment, a desperate attempt to wake up from the nightmare; but the morning didn’t come.

Instead, a gunshot rang in the room, glass shattering somewhere above your head to your right, sending a waterfall of shards flying next to you.

And causing you to cry out in fright.

Which revealed your position to the agents flowing into the lab.

Without a thought you snapped your eyes opened, jumped to your feet and threw two vials in the direction of a black blur with a shockingly clear red patch of the mythical Hydra monster in the middle; peripherally, you saw Jemma attacking as well, deafening noise of gunshot nearly blowing your eardrum.

You crouched back behind the counter so fast you felt vertigo swing you to the left, sharp pain erupting from your palm. It was pure miracle your right hand didn’t clench in instinct and shatter the two remaining vials, setting yourself on fire as well.

As well.

Someone was screaming – a man, you realized – the acid smell of burned flesh and plastic and various chemicals punching your nose and your stomach hard. You had hit someone with the vial. They screamed because of what you had done. You had-

You had no time to feel sorry. You had no time to properly think fucking serves them right.

More steps, more gunshots, movements you weren’t sure how happened or came to you in the first place, flashes of light and crimson and noise and godawful smell--- and pain erupting in the back of your head and suddenly you were barely catching yourself on the counter with your slippery palm--- your fingers brushed metal, knees weak but hands grabbing with all your might, lifting and swinging, a sickening crack on your right before you were falling, landing on your wrist, back hitting the cabinet door and making even more noise as you sent equipment clattering around.

However, the loudest sound was another gunshot; but the strangest sound was unfamiliar whizzing and metal hitting metal and someone most definitely shouting “clear!” that sounded as distant as a whisper over the ringing in your ears.

Instinctively, your head snapped to the voice as you tried to prop up on your hands to see; the world swam in front of your eyes, dizziness forcing you to fall back on your ass and squeeze your eyes shut in hopes to stop the world from spinning, a sting in your palm drawing a hiss from your lips.

You could hear Jemma’s talking to someone, her words blurred into a mumble despite her voice sounding firm and methodical; footsteps, quick and heavy but somewhat soft, accompanied by a brush of air against your skin, making you open your eyes again just as navy blue with speckles of silvery grey glinting in a flickering light filled your vision.

Then, a face; an extremely handsome face even as a helmet made of blue similar to the rest of his suit covered the upper half of it, framing a pair of the dreamiest blue eyes you had ever seen, as beautiful as blurry as a dream indeed.

Somewhere in the back of your brain it started clicking into place – that the man in front of you looked a whole lot like Captain America and he was there to kick HYDRA’s ass; he was hunk and looked righteous and unfairly pretty, the cut of his jaw sharp enough to appear as if sculpted by ancient masters of art and it might be softened by the leather strap holding his helmet in place but that only brought out the sheer beauty of his lips even with a small bloody split on them.

And he was talking to you, his leather-clad hand gently grasping your arm as you involuntarily swayed to side when moving your head to take in the entirety of his large figure.

“Doctor, are you alright?” he asked slowly, velvety voice sweet and heavy with concern at once, the gentle but firm hold on your arm growing stronger when you blinked owlishly, the connection between the meaning of his words and his apparent intention to talk to you slow and fragile.

Your tongue felt as if made of lead even as it tasted of bitterness of adrenalin, but you willed yourself to answer, a knee-jerk reaction more than anything else.

“’mm… not a doctor yet.”

As you responded, you brain began to clear; and it occurred to you that it was a fair assumption for him to make.

You had grown used to clarifying, but hadn’t done so in months, because everyone already knew. However, he was an outsider to this lab and he couldn’t know you were the exception to the local rule. And you were wearing a lab coat, one that now had to be covered in mixture of chemicals you did not wish to identify, but perhaps you should try, because your forearm was beginning to burn.

The beautiful man kneeling in front of you silently observed you for what seemed like an eternity and half, surprise written all over his face. You couldn’t blame him; you were the weirdo of the lab. The fact the person who had purposely stacked explosives at hand was less of an anomaly than that was a thing to consider, but your head hurt too much to think about that and your heart was still beating unhealthily fast and his error seemed so insignificant in the grand scheme of things of HYDRA having attacked your lab and Captain America being right in front of you, holding onto your arm.

His soft baffled smile as he hung his head and shook it a bit with a breathless chuckle, and then lifted his downright shining gaze back to you, well that certainly made for a spectacular distraction from such unimportant thoughts.

Did his thumb just brush your arm as he still held you up a bit?

And had anyone ever told him he had a stunning smile that could melt hearts even if it was barely there and it was certainly melting yours?

“Apologies, miss. I’m going to help you get to medical, alright?” he suggested, those damn gorgeous eyes roaming your face with what almost seemed like wonder, even as his voice sounded all kinds of reassuring. “You’re safe now, I promise.”

Safe. You were safe. Because there had been HYDRA agents, but Captain America and actual SHIELD operatives had come to the rescue. And because Jemma was-

Jemma. Your straightened, dull ache pounding in your back as you did so, vision clearing a fraction with the sudden realization that you couldn’t hear your friend anymore. Your friend whom you owed your life very likely, but even if you didn’t, you would have-

You craned your neck over Captain America’s impressive frame, head snapping from left to right, nausea rising with the movement, but that didn’t matter, you had to-

You turned your alarmed gaze back to the man who was still holding you, an urgent question on your lips.

“Jemma? Is she--- Doctor Simmons, brunet, lab coat-“ you paused, realizing bitterly that you had just described half of the Science and Technology. “Female. She’s a doctor and an agent too, she was with me had a gu-“

A warm squeeze on your arm, the concern which had grown even more evident on Captain’s face melting away and giving way to a soothing smile.

“She’s alright. She’s already left to be checked up and to give her statement.”

Your shoulders sagged, your head dropping a bit; the violent vertigo that seized your body at that was not pleasant and you tried to blink it away, gaze catching the reflection of the still-blinking fluorescent lamp on the Captain’s shield.

Oh. That was probably what had made the whizzing sound before. As your brain conjured an image of that, a spinning shield flying through the air, you cursed yourself mentally for letting your mind even go there since you had already felt like you were the flying piece of metal and the thing you’d hit eventually would be the floor.

“My head is spinning,” you muttered absently as you attempted to refocus your gaze, praying to gods of religion and science alike you wouldn’t throw up on the poor caring man.

Why was he still sitting here with you? Surely there were much more important things to tend to than one little post-grad? How was he so kind and gentle? Wasn’t he known for inspiring speeches in a deep serious voice and for beating up villains with both his physical strength and brains?

So many questions and no answer in those pretty blue eyes.

In fact, the number of your questions grew exponentially when the hand on your arm released the pressure and gently rubbed your elbow instead; his free hand carefully cradled the back of your other hand, the contrast of leather and his warm skin surprisingly sensual, suddenly making you understand why so many regency era literature spoke of hand-holding as indecent even as it was barely Fifty Shades of Grey level of filth.  

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Captain Rogers said, snapping you from your thoughts. “Let me help you up and they’ll check you up too, including this nasty cut, okay?”

Huh?

Purposely slowly as not to make the vertigo worse, you glanced at your hand in his, feeling a fresh sting just by looking at your palm, your gaze instantly snapping away.

And falling straight onto two intact vials full of liquid of a distinct colour, lying carelessly about two feet away from Steve Rogers’ tactical boots. Your heart jumped in your chest, your hazy mind finally growing aware of your surroundings.

“Shoot! Careful around those, they’re highly flammable!” you warned him swiftly, his gaze snapping to the vials in question, while ours slowly trailed over the utter, utter messthe lab had become.

The sheer amount of broken glass, spilled chemicals, broken pipettes, torn papers and unidentifiable piles of junk was staggering and it was actually a miracle nothing had exploded yet – and as a cherry on top, a few feet away, a relatively small portable PCR machine, the very equipment you had been using, downright murdered along with your experiment and a smudge of blood around it. Jesus.

“Okay, that’s good to know. More the reason to get out,” Captain Rogers remarked, slight amusement lacing his voice, only growing stronger as he continued. “Keep a lot of these around?”

You could have scoffed, but you didn’t. You have no idea, pal.

“My friend is paranoid…” you explained, still staring at them, even as you mentally added ‘or not’, since those little things might have very well saved your life. As your gaze returned to Captain Rogers, your eyes caught on something else, having you sit up straighter in sheer horror. “Is that a stab wound?!”

You gulped at the sight, even as your uninjured hand instinctively reached out towards it – as if you could fix it. The already dark suit, a lovely navy blue, appeared downright black at left his side, right where it seemed to be singed by a flame.

Had that injury been there the whole damn time he had been sitting here with you, eternally patient with your slowed brain, Simmons’ cocktails lying around in one huge chemical dump in risk of exploding any damn minute?

You logically knew the answer had to be yes, but it made zero sense – and his answer made even less sense.

“Bullet, actually. Some sort of chemical damaged the Kevlar lining and they got a lucky hit. It’s just a graze.”

“A gra-“ you choked on the word, spit stuck in your throat causing you to cough and a groan escape past your lips as the sudden rapid movement sent your head pounding again.

“Hey, you-“

“You’ve been shot and you called my cut nasty?” you questioned through the tears, earning a smile worth giving up a career for – painfully warm, kind and… almost fond.

You truly must have hit your head hard.

…as if it hadn’t been evident before.

“I heal fast. You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be alright, doc.”

A knee-jerk reaction – again. What was it with him? Had he hit his head, forgetting you had already explained – you had, you hadn’t imagined that, right? – and now he called you a doctor again, turned into a familiar nickname, no less.

“I’m not a doct---- holy shit.”

It slammed into you like a train, struck you like a lightning, even as neither of those things had ever happened to you – yet, you imagined it had to feel like this.

A massive force, a force of nature, realization as bright and as unexpected as a lightning from a clear sky.

Doctor, are you alright?

He had asked that. He had asked that. He had said your words. He had said your goddamn soulmate’s first words to you, what must have been minutes ago, and only now it hit you.

You were left staring at him with wide eyes, myriad of emotions written all over his face, including  slight amusement and what you had earlier inexplicably identified as fondness, because the reason why he was still sitting here with you – though perhaps that was what he always did when rescuing, what did you know, you didn’t, this was your first meeting, that was why he had said the words – was that unlike you, he had realized you were his soulmate right away.

He kept watching you, silently letting you process the crucial revelation, a tight but no less kind smile on his lips.

“You said my words,” you said oh so intelligently. “You--- what… what did I—say?”

It was perhaps the stupidest question of all you could have come up on the spot, but you genuinely couldn’t remember – and wanted to know what words he had been looking at his whole life.

…this part of life? Or before the ice too? How did he feel about that? How did he feel about you? Was he disappointed? He didn’t look like he was, but didn’t even know what you had said—

What you did know and remember was that you were supposed to be smart and yet it had taken you an eternity to even notice you were facing your soulmate you had been probably spewing complete nonsense, you were now stammering like an idiot and for someone who had been worried, always, even if in the back of their mind, if their soulmate would find them good enough, you were generally making a bloody awful first impression.

But seriously, what had been your first words-

“You said you weren’t a doctor yet,” Captain Rogers reminded you, voice soft with affection of someone who had imagined hearing those words at least as many times as you had wondered about yours, hoping they would be pronounced by someone who’d respect you and cared about what kind of person you were, and would hopefully, eventually care for you. Loved you even. The tender way the syllables rolled of his tongue, spoken as if they tasted of honey, nearly chased fresh tears to your eyes. Alright, perhaps your first impression hadn’t been as bad as it appeared in your – albeit injured – head.  “But if you really don’t remember saying that, that’s not a good sign. We need to get you medical attention. Come on. Hold on.”

Blinking slowly, still processing the light and yet suffocating feeling that found residence in your chest as it was starting to truly settle that this man, this painfully beautiful and criminally gentle man, was your soulmate, he was leaning closer to you, his hands guiding yours to wrap around his neck, a wordless order you had obediently followed, and then one of his arms was sliding under your knees and his other wrapping around the middle of your back.

And then your vertigo hit you anew because you were suddenly up in the air, hands gripping hard at anything you could reach – conveniently, the only thing was him, because he had lifted you upin his arms, some of your weight resting against his chest – despite the pain that shot up your left hand.

“Whoa-“ And then, because your memory did serve you at least a little: “You--- have been stabbed.”

“Shot,” he repeated patiently, fondly almost, and you did recall he had said that.

You recalled despite the scent of pleasant aftershave and peak man suddenly enveloping you as much as his arms and the firm armour – or perhaps that was the muscles underneath? And those pretty blue eyes were watching you with a glint of amusement and a surprising amount of affection for a guy saying he had been hit by a bullet, while effortlessly carrying the girl he had just met in his-- very, very strong, muscly arms and perhaps your head was not only spinning because of the sudden height you found yourself at.

…amusement? How was he amused? Was that-- was that a joke? Was he making fun of his bullet wound, playing it down? 

“That’s… really not better.”

He grinned down at you as he made his way to the exit.

Walking. Watching you. Grinning and not even really looking where he was stepping.

Oh no.

Oh no, he was one of those people. You had met men like him at Operations, except for some reason – perhaps some sort of a soulmate telepathy – you had a feeling in him, that the peculiar recklessness many people from suffered, the disregard for their safety, because they could handle it, was dialled up to eleven in him. On a one to five scale. Because scaling mattered; you were a scientist. You’d know.

However, he did make it out of the laboratory without blowing anything up – perhaps at least that recklessness was balanced up by enhanced senses of a supersoldier and indeed, healing fast. And you hoped with your whole heart that walking out unscathed was a conscious effort, be it for him (somehow you doubted that) or for the cargo he was carrying (you had no doubt about that, not when he was looking at you like that). At least he had kept the helmet on; you were thankful for that, even as you’d love to see him without it.

See your soulmate.

You knew what he looked like everyone knew what he looked like. If they had missed the WW II. ed, they could barely miss the news about an alien invasion he had had a hand in stopping, the fall of majority of SHIELD, and other exciting horrifying news.

“I’ll be fine, doc. Now let’s get you away from exploding vials and lab equipment you could knock me out with. I’d rather be safe when I ask you out for dinner.”

You gulped, gripping him a bit tighter as a memory hit you – literally.

The PCR machine. You had done that. You had grabbed it and used it to smash into a HYDRA agent’s face, using the nearest improvised tool of defence. Jesus.

I really did that?

“You… saw that?” was what you asked instead, a few second ticking by as the rest of his words registered in your brain – and god, you really hoped your cognitive abilities would restore soon and the head injury had not caused permanent damage. “Oh.”

As much as your heart started pounding at that, a pleasant somersault in your stomach for a change, it was a little unfair to sort-of ask you when you were in your current predicament. Being carried like that, so close to him, so gentlemanly and tenderly handled despite your weight no doubt straining him, especially since he had been shot – grazed –, yoursenses wrapped in everything that was him and pulling you in, you were fairly certain you might say yes to just about anything he’d ask.

And not just because he was your soulmate.

Your soulmate carrying you in his arms, while wearing a very flattering suit of armour.

“If you’d like, of course,” he added with slight hesitance that only made your heart race further, because he was laying out his own heart for you already, expressive, genuine, and maybe sweetly handsy but not pushy despite his title and rank technically giving him every right to do whatever the hell he wanted. “But either way, I’ll save the real question for when I know you’re not suffering from a concussion. That sounds good?”

“Yes, Captain,” you replied dutifully. It did sound good, his consideration warming you from inside out. His voice sounded good too. “Sounds good to me.”

His smile was bright as the sun itself and basking in its light and warmth felt just as precious. Except he was to be your private sun forever shared with other to a point, but yours. Chosen by fate itself, defying all you had ever believed, beating time by decades, only so you could find each other.

“Looking forward to it, doc. Maybe I’ll get to know your name too while we’ll be at it,” he teased lightly, but without malice. “My name is Steve.”

Steve.

You knew that. You liked that.

Hand trembling a little, but not because you worried he’d drop you as you partly let go of his shoulders, you reached for the clasp on his helmet, a fluttery feeling in your chest eager to indeed see Steve rather than the Captain.

You felt your lips curl up and mirror his when he gave a tiny nod at your brief hesitation, your fingers finally undoing the strap and revealing his face with his help.

His hair was adorably ruffled, a slight shade of dust on his cheeks whispering of where the protective gear had been; but scientifically speaking, as well as speaking directly from heart, he was absolutely beautiful, his tender smile telling you he thought the very same about you.

He was meant to be yours; as you were meant to be his.

And you couldn’t wait to get to know him.

You could tell there were people around you and they were probably staring; but for the moment, you didn’t care at all. You had just met your soulmate.

And you weren’t even a doctor yet.

“It’s really nice to meet you, Steve. But I have to admit…” you said, teasing him with a pause, rewarded by his eyes earning a curious glint, “that the Doc nickname is kinda growing on me.”

Complete masterlist

Steve Rogers masterlist

Oh this feels like coming back to my roots 🤭 but hey, this challenge is a revival of all thigs good of the past, so why not go with the good old-fashioned soulmate meet-cute with a little angst beforehand, right?

AND BEHOLD I WROTE SOMETHING SHORTER THAN 10K. SHORTER THAN 8K ACTUALLY! It’s an extravaganza miracle 😂

Also. There might be some unrelated smut in the works, but I will not finish that today so... won't be part of the cum together extravaganza... ah well 🤭

Thank you for reading and potential feedback 💕

May the Fourth be with you and the rest of May be kind ✨

[mymilovesfashion]

[2024 year in review ~ Vogue Thailand]

JAN - Simona Kust

FEB - Jeff Satur, Thanapob Leeratanakachorn, Kimberley Anne Woltemas

MAR - Tilda Swinton

APR - Davika Hoorne

MAY - Bella

JUN - Baifern Pimchanok, Win Metawin

JUL - Anika Chati, Arthit Mikhail Romanyk, Supha Sangaworawong

AUG - Bright-Vachirawit

SEP - Jan Baiboon

OCT - Nayeon

NOV - Ling, Orm

DEC - Lisa

[biteofcherry]

Hello! If I may, for your little game 👀

"I can't believe you'd do this."

Make it angsty, make it sweet, make it dirty, make it nothing at all if it doesn't inspire you 🤭🥰

I hope January didn't feel endless and may February treat you well 💕

My February starts with a weekend of classes, hence playing a game tonight because I'll be suffering tomorrow 😆

As for your line...

That's Dom Lloyd in his most dramatic diva act when you buy out the strip he wanted in Monopoly🤣

You know you're going to pay for it in flesh later, but for now you're going to take away all of his fake money.

[broadwaydivastournament]

Broadway Divas Tournament: Round 1C Audios

It's what you've been waiting for. Once again, I have compiled a small collection of personally-recorded audio bootlegs pertaining to our next sixteen Divas. Unfortunately though my 55 GB folder of audios may be vast and varied, it is exhaustive, so apologies to those I have never seen (Tyne Daly, Dee Hoty, Anika Noni Rose, Linda Emond - they've all been away from New York for so long...)

See reblog for more.

[darsynia]

I am very much behind on my reading of your stories, only halfway through Just Right, buuuut. First that came to mind was 'Dine chewing on Tony - and basically admitting her love to Steve in the process - when she was to decide whether Gold Steve should come to the mission. Cause FACTS about Steve💕 (and the sideffect was sweet bonus)

Closely followed by the end of the chapter and Steve's Flustered looks good on you. Top characterisation, dear✨

Thank you so much! I really enjoyed that speech, just the idea of going off like that and the words hitting everyone who hears them in different ways?? And thank you so very much for the compliments about characterization! I really am excited about how you'll (eventually, when you have time, all good thoughts and encouragements for your academic and other endeavors!!) feel about the rest of the story! The last 3 chapters in particular 🥰💚😘

Given that there are two Steves in the story and they both need to feel in character and yet noticeably different (at least to Dine), this was very encouraging to read, thanks again!

[bronzetomatoes]

your… your name is anika? Mine is too, but with 2 n’s

doesn't count if you pronounce it ann-ika btw its ah-nikas only in here

[americas-ass-writing]

Bouquet

Steve Rogers x reader

Summary: Steve unveils a bouquet of secrets.

Words: 2.3k

Warnings: mentions of injuries, mentions of a hospital/ medbay, being soaked, I'm probably switching between tenses, probably more mistakes

A/M: this is a little birthday gift for the lovely @anika-ann 🩷 idk if you remember but we did have a little conversation about Steve using flower codes like this 🥰 I hope you enjoy!

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Dating Steve Rogers had it's perks. Like falling asleep in a warm embrace, endless treats because he felt like it, fresh flowers every Monday, surprise visits for lunch, the list goes on. But it certainly also had it's downsides. Waking up to an empty bed because he went on his morning run, waking up at 3am to an emergency callout, being alone and worrying while he's on a mission. Overall it was great though. You've never felt as loved before.

With Steve came his little disfunctionsl family that never failed to show up for you when Steve was out of town. May it be Tony bringing you a treat or Natasha inviting you for movie night or just going on a walk with Clint and Lucky. It was like you were part of their family and you're pretty sure you are.

The day started off like any other when Steve was out on a mission. You woke up to an empty bed, missing the heat Steve usually brought along throughout the night. By the time you finally convinced yourself to get up and ready for the day you usually already have a morning text from him. Every single one no matter how small or articulate brought a smile to your face. It meant he was safe and that was the most important thing. It also made you miss him more and often led to worry that it might have been the last morning text you'd ever receive from him.

Deciding you need to get ready to head to work you made your way to the bathroom and from there your day just turns south. The toothpaste you could swear was full last night was suddenly empty, the new fancy hair tool blowed out a fuse and your makeup just doesn't wanted to turn out the way you need it to. Cutting your losses you grabbed your lunch, shoved it in your work bag and headed out.

The way to work was not better. It was raining cats and dogs and on top of that storming so bad your umbrella didn't held a chance. You arrived at the office wet, cold and with a deep regret of not listening to Steve who told you to keep a change of clothes at work. Settled in at your desk you just had to vent about the morning you had. Steve always encouraged you to text him about everything, even if he couldn't answer right away. So you did just that before starting up your computer and trying to find the best position to stay out of the ac blasting air your way. You managed to get some tasks done despite your manager scrambling all the plans once again and soon found yourself taking out your lunch. The red container lid made you stop. Red was pre cut onions and garlic... Purple was your lunch. Your shoulders sacked as you opened the container and did indeed find onions and garlic chopped into cubes. Well this wouldn't suffice as lunch and it was still storming outside. What were you supposed to do? Maybe the break room had some leftovers you could grab if no one claimed them before you. Just as you were about to head there you spotted a familiar brunette at the reception. Her green eyes met yours as the receptionist points your way and her face lit up with a smile. Oh you were never happier to see Wanda strolling in for a lunch date than today!

The bag from your favourite sandwich place made your mouth water as you meet her halfway only to usher her back to your cubicle.

"You're wet!" Her concern made you remember that you where still in your now only a bit dryer clothes from this morning. As you explain the situation to her she frowns. "Well I've been shopping before this. You can change into the clothes I got so you won't get sick." Wanda's eyes are full of concern as she pulls some pieces out of a brown paper back. A pair of dark blue jeans, white sneakers and a nice blue sweater land in your hands before she ushers you off to the bathroom to change. You're so glad you share the same shoe size, the wet shoes bothered you the most. As you return she already has the sandwich, a softdrink and your favourite side set out for you, alongside her sandwich and a soup. The soup is quickly shared between you and your break is filled with laughter, reassurance that Steve will return in one piece and a warm hug goodbye. Wanda takes along your wet clothes, promising to dry them and leaves you with a new rain jacket she bought today because she thought it was pretty. As you go back to work, refueled and with your mind refreshed you never even think about the fact that you and Wanda don't share the same size.

During the second half of your shift you get a text informing you that the sent out team, alongside your beloved captain, is on their way back but that Steve is injured and probably needs surgery. They asked you to come in after you're done for the day so you're there when he wakes up. You spent the time left from your shift worrying about him and as soon as the clock strikes 4pm you're on your way out.

The rainjacket Wanda suplied you with comes in handy with the awful weather. Luckily you make it to the subway before the 5pm rush and board the line that stops closest to the tower. It takes you half an hour till you finally step into the lobby of the tower and rush to the elevator where your second favourite blonde is already waiting for you. Clint gives you a wave and an encouraging smile before he ushers you into the elevator. "He's fine. Already awake from surgery but still a bit loopy from whatever they pumped into him to make him sleep. Loverboy got shot when he went back in for hostages, you know how he is." Clint explains and hands you the cup he was holding. You know it's your favourite tea without even trying and thank you with a small smile. "He's stupid sometimes..." You attempt to joke and Clint gives you a smile and a nod.

"That he is. But he'll be fine. So throw those worries out and please enjoy him drugged up on anesthetic while it lasts. It's a rare opportunity." That is true. Normally his system burns through anything in minutes if not even seconds. The medbay team had been struggling for years till they finally figured something out that worked. And even that didn't stay long in Steve's body. You follow Clint to the room that your boyfriend is in and already hear the laughter of his best friends. Clint throws you an I-told-you-so smile before he leads you inside. Your eyes immediately fall on your boyfriend, bandaged up, with his hips awkwardly lifted as Bucky seemingly helps him get his underwear on, with the blanket hiding his modesty. Both Sam and Bucky are laughing but stop as soon as they see you. Bucky finishes what he's been doing and keeps his hand on Steve's chest to keep him from sitting up.

Your boyfriend immediately perks up when he sees you. "Sweetheart!" His goofy smile immediately falls into a deep frown when he takes you in. You step closer and cup his face softly. "Hey..." You say quietly but his frown is still in place. "You're sad..." He says it with such disappointment that you almost think he's gonna fight the entire world for you. "A bit yeah... I'm worried." You say and try to smooth out the frown on his forehead. He throws the arm that's not in a sling out to Bucky. "Buck! Give me my phone!" The order is barked a bit too loud. Everyone is confused for a moment. At the silence and lack of phone his eyes snap to Bucky with a venom you have never seen on your boyfriends face before. "Phone. Now." He barks so serious you almost ask yourself if the anesthetic already wore off. "Why?" Bucky asks, the confusion still on his face.

"She's sad! I need to send a code to Clint so he asks her to join him on a walk with Lucky!" He explains as if it's super obvious. You're confused... a code? To Clint? Your eyes wander from Steve, to Bucky over Sam and then to Clint. Bucky looks like he's mentally facepalming himself, Sam stands there as if his mother caught him doing something that's definitely forbidden and Clint hides his amusement behind his cup of coffee. "Steve. Clint is in the room with us." Bucky deadpans and Steve looks to Clint. He lights up a bit. "Oh good! Clint! Code hyacint!"

Clint chuckles and shakes his head, looking at you. He's enjoying the free show way too much after an exhausting mission. Steve's face grows angry but before he can snap at Clint you pull his attention to you. "Code hyacint? Steve what's that supposed to mean?" You ask and he just blinks at you.

"It means... That... I text that to Clint when you're sad. You like dogs and nature so I ask him to take you for a walk with Lucky." Your confusion melts away to adoration. That's so cute and considerate. You smile at him and press a kiss to his forehead.

"That's very kind of you Stevie. But I'd rather stay here and be with you at the moment. Is that okay?" You asks sweetly and he beams at you. "Yes! Do you need anything? I can text a code to someone else!" He offers with childlike excitement.

"There's... more than one?" You ask, your unsure gaze snaps at Bucky's stifled chuckle. "There's an entire bouquet." Sam grins, seemingly more comfortable with the situation now. You're confused once again. An entire bouquet? How many exactly where there?

"Don't be mad. I just don't want to lose you." Steve pouts at you. "Lose me? Steve that's insane you wouldn't lose me..." You're interrupted by a sob from your boyfriend.

"You're the best thing that ever happened to me! You're my one shot at love! I'm sorry for going behind your back but when I'm not home I need all the help I can get!" Tears stream down his face as he grabs your hand a bit tighter as if you'd run away if he didn't.

"S...so I asked them to help me! I thought of scenarios and what could help you. And then I made up a flower code for it. Like when you told me about your morning and how your clothes were wet I texted Wanda code rain lily so she would bring you new clothes. Or last week when you were sad about that friend canceling your dinner I sent Nat code sunflower for a movie night and Tony code dandelion so he'd bring your favourite snacks." You try to wipe away the tears streaming down his face. "I'm so sorry! Will you forgive me?" His sobs break your heart.

"Stevie... There's nothing to forgive... Am I a bit disappointed your friends played along without telling me? Yeah. But you just did it out of the goodness of your heart." You coo and his tears slowly stop.

"We were forced!" Sam exclaims while Bucky chuckles. You look at them with an eyebrow raised before Clint gets your attention with his confession that he just did it so he could spend more time with you. Your heart melts a little at that.

After explaining everything a bit more, Sam and Bucky being banned from the room by Clint and Steve falling asleep again you sit nest to his bed and hold his hand. Clint sits on the opposite side of the bed and reads a report on his phone while sipping coffee. Steve's act of love and service still tumbles around your mind and you can't hold yourself back any longer.

"How many codes are there?" You ask. Clint looks over his phone to you. He seems to think if he should reveal even more about their system. "Several." He answers and lowers the phone. "It started with a few but as your relationship grew so did the codes. Some were brought up by Steve and others... we're brought up by us." You lift your eyebrows in surprise at that. You don't even need to ask before Clint continues. "Yes by us. We all really like you and when he's home Steve really hogs all of your time. So it became a little competition who would get to spend time with you when he wasn't around. Wanda started it. She came up with the code to bring you new clothes... Which she did today. Tony quickly caught on what she was doing and showed Steve ten more scenarios that could happen." You chuckle at that.

"How did you keep up with all that? A list?" Your eyes wander to Steve's sleeping form. He truly is the perfect partner. How could anyone be as considerate as him? Get all his friends to go along with it so he wouldn't lose you? He would never have even without them. And his friends loving you so much they'd want to spend time with you? Your heart fills with warmth and happiness at the thought alone. And to think you'd been nervous that they wouldn't like you.

"Yeah. We have a list and we had a whole briefing." You laugh at that and Clint smiles. "He was all captain mode. He's very serious about you... Even our reassurance that you wouldn't leave him didn't calm him down." You softly start to brush your thumb over the back of Steve's hand that you're holding. "Well don't tell him or anyone else that you were right... I would never leave him. Especially not when he has such a big heart." Clint laughs and shakes his head. He pulls out his phone again and smirks at you. You know there's no promise that he'll keep that a secret but at least he won't tease Steve with it.

[chxrryhansen]

౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ Cherry’s Cevans One Shot Rec List

here you will find all of my favourite chris evans + characters fanfiction recommendations, i have many more to add and will continue to update this list. Please don’t forget to reblog these amazing writers fics as they deserve so much love!💘💘

Walk On The Wild Side - @hansensgirl

you just wanted to go for a stroll down the road—but he wants you to take a walk on the wild side. (Dark!Chris Evans)

You Better Not Pout, Better Not Cry - @hansensgirl

they know if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake. (Dark!Multi character) - i would add every single one of her fics to this list if i could💘

Sinful Devotion - @evansbby

Lloyd promises to let you go, but he demands a depraved repayment. (In other words, Lloyd pops your cherry)- my favourite writer in the whole universe💘

Smothered With Bliss - @whereireid

Is it hard being married to the most influential man in America? You most certainly think it is. — Steve Rogers: Captain America, the heart of his nation, the soul of his country. After returning home from a particularly bad day at work, Steve finally snaps, deciding you need re-educating on how to be the perfect housewife.

The Night - @misshoneybee

Working as the Barber family's nanny is a piece of cake, but what happens when the dad you've been tip-toeing around all year comes home late one night to find you asleep in his bed, wearing his favorite sweater?

Little Miss Red - @anika-ann

Ransom’s looking for a good time tonight, when you walk through the door, he knows he’ll get it. And you? Oh you’ll get it too. He's going to make sure of it.

Unholy Errand - @buckets-and-trees

You're caught in the crosshairs when a hit goes out for your boss. (Dark!Lloyd Hansen + Dark! God The Bounty Hunter + Ransom Drysdale)

What A Shirt Can Tell - @justalonelyslytherin

5+2 times Colin asked 'Is that my shirt?' plus the one time he got asked it. Aka a look through the journey of Colin and his girl, each in which his shirts play an important role.

Start Again - @wkemeup

A chemical spill, uncontrollable desires rushed to the surface, an unbridled need, and the consequences in the aftermath (Steve Rogers)

Daddy’s Little Pet - @sinner-as-saint

You and Steve are the epitome of ‘opposites attract’. He is the American hero, a super soldier who is known for his bravery, and righteousness and for being the one leading the Avengers. You, on the other hand, are a well-known fashion designer in the city. Creator and owner of your own brand, and elite boutique. At first glance, it doesn’t seem like you and Steve would be compatible. But you surprisingly are. And behind closed doors, in secrecy – you two are each other’s solace, each other’s definition of home. He’s your strong, loving and caring man. And you, his lovely, little pet whom he adores more than life itself.

Good Girls And Skype Calls - @youre-deadangel

chris gives you a treat for behaving.

Afternoon Delight - @christowhore

you're steve's live-in housekeeper and find your boss and his friends having a bbq on a heatwave stricken afternoon. they invite you to join them and show you all the pleasurable ways to cool down from the sun. (SoftDark!Steve Rogers + Sam Wilson + Bucky Barnes)

Got You - @hispeculiartreasure

The two of you had grown close over the last year; first as teammates, then as friends. You had been distant at the start, just as he had. Slowly, agonizingly - blood, sweat, and tears were definitely involved - walls were dismantled. A current of trust ran between you, one which caught Steve by surprise. As dense as he could be about matters of the heart, suspicions of his blossoming romantic feelings being mutual had proven true with a simple kiss. (Sex Pollen, Steve Rogers)

Golden Boy - @bucksfucks

you’ve always called steve the golden boy, but he snaps one night and decides to show you he’s anything but. (Roommate!Steve Rogers)

It Must Be That Old Evil Spirit - @vonalyn

There’s something unsettling about his demeanor but you can’t quite put your finger on it. As if there’s something hiding beneath the surface just waiting to pry its way out of the tight shirt across his broad frame and tear your throat out. Maybe it’s your general unease around others when you’re traveling alone, or maybe it’s just him.  (Jack-O-Lantern!Ari Levinson)

Stupid Kitty - @onsunnyside

Your father wrongfully entrusted Lloyd to care for you—it’s too bad he’ll never get you back. (Lloyd Hansen x Cat-Hybrid!Reader)

Manners- Or Lack Of Them - @rogerswifesblog

Ransom wants you, the sweet girl at the bar…but you’re not what he expected you to be. (Sub!Ransom Drysdale + Mommy!Reader)

Shadow Boxer - @mypoisonedvine

you’re stuck in the same destructive cycle with ransom, but maybe you don’t want to get out of it. (Angst + Smut, Ransom Drysdale)

It’s Not A Challenge - @gagmebucky

His jaw ticks. “It’s not a challenge, doll,” he bites out. “It’s a warning. If I tried to get inside you, I’d split you in half in the process.” His eyes flicker down, and your nipples are pebbles against the thin, easily-rippable fabric—you’re testing him, and he’s failing. “Goddamn it,” he hisses underneath his breath. “That - that shouldn’t turn you on.” Bristling, he drops his hand and pedals backward—he’s on his last thread, and it’s his sole chance to make a clear-headed decision. (Boxer!Steve Rogers)

Pretty Princess - @frostironfudge

Andy Barber gets jealous when he presumes you shared a room with one of his associates.

Over And Over - @frostironfudge

Ari Levinson is a possessive man, he'll punish you till you apologise.

Such A Good Boy - @lilacevans

You and Ari attend a business meeting, and at the beginning the other boss you're meeting with just assumes that Ari is the one in charge; however, that's not the case. While you look dainty, angelic, like you couldn't even hurt a fly, you're the one who runs the family and will not hesitate to fuck up anyone who stands in your way. (Puppy!Ari Levinson) - one of my favourite fics EVER.💘

Breathe - @buckyownsmylife

The one where the new co-star is obsessed with the idea of making Chris hers, but he makes sure to show her you’re the only one for him.

Justified - @dbnightingale24

Ransom has always been the center of your world you’ve always been the center of his. However, when he can’t change his ways and you’re tired of the heartbreak, is it really so bad if you think it’s best to walk away? Ransom thinks so. - one of the sweetest most talented writers i have ever met💘

My, My, My - @1800jjbarnes

Stevie couldn't help it. Every time he saw you, he felt himself grow heavy in his slacks. You were everything he needed. And he needed you now.

All The Time - @geminixevans-stan

He is one of the most powerful men on earth but there’s more worse than him (Dark!Lloyd Hansen + Dark!Nick Fowler)

Snack - @katherineswritingsblog

he just wants his snack- which is you.

Watchful Eyes - @espinosaurusrexex

When your best friend gets you a new job, cleaning the apartment of the most successful man in New York City, you don't hesitate to accept. The pay is more than good, and the man himself is better than any eye candy you have ever seen. Unbeknownst to you, you've caught his attention just as much. Steve can't keep his mind off you, so much so, that he drives everyone around him insane with his grumpiness when you aren't around. It seems like he has to take matters into his own hands when he realizes, you're too shy to take things further yourself. (CEO!Steve Rogers)

Cherry On Top - @dcllbows

you’ve found your favorite way to help your daddy with his grownup work. (Ddlg, Daddy!Andy Barber)

Voracious - @arilevinsons

The first time he set eyes on you; you were his sudden infatuation. (DarkProfessor!Ari Levinson)

Best Friend’s Dad - @imyourbratzdoll

you've been pining over your best friend's dad and decide to take your chance, knowing he's out and your best friend is asleep, you be a little bit naughty and touch yourself on his bed, not knowing he's coming home early.

The Breeding Ground - @fl0werfae

To others, Ari’s house was a breeding ground for him and his omega, but to him it was just fulfilling her purpose of carrying his pups. (Alpha!Ari Levinson)

My Sweet Pea - @mavsstar

Mr. Levinson lives right next door to you, the sweet, innocent college girl. Little do you know that you're Mr. Levinson's favorite neighbor. He's there every chance you need the slightest of help, maybe a little too much. (Trailer Park Au)

Like A Movie Scene In The Sweetest Dream - @worksby-d

Johnny’s always been on your “no” list, but you've finally agreed to work with him. (Pornstar!Johnny Storm)

Easy As Pie - @navybrat817

You bake pies for Andy, but you're still his favorite treat.

[candystevegrams]

To: @anika-ann

Anika you're one of the sweetest beans here ❤ I discovered you through your fic "In the Strangest Place (We Just Might Find Love)" and then found all your other beautiful works. You write Steve in a way that's just so wonderful and so easy to fall in love with. Thank you for giving me so many comfort fics that always brighten my day and thank you for being my friend. Our interactions and your sweetness mean the world to me!

@anika-ann You have a candygram! 🍬

[thereoncewasagirlnamedjane]

😭😭😭 omg thank you for taking the semi-random chance and reading this fic. pietro just needs more love!!!

also—

THE AUDACITY TO MAKE ME FEEL THINGS.

i’m not even sorry 😇💕

this body is not mine.

PAIRING — pietro maximoff x gn!reader

CONTENTS — oneshot; coarse language; angst; minimal fluff if you squint; hurt/comfort?; self-destructive tendencies; blood/injury; obviously not at all canon compliant but i honestly could not care less!

SUMMARY — your pain has made you reckless, and it's getting harder for pietro to watch you bleed.

W/C — 3.2k

✩ masterlist ✩ library blog

Like with most other things, it happened suddenly and quietly. 

One minute, you were stepping off a quinjet and onto the tarmac back at SHIELD headquarters in Washington. Your fellow agent and your best friend followed closely behind as you shared a few laughs, still high off another successful mission. The Triskelion stood tall in the near distance, the sun’s rays bouncing off its windows as you crossed the runway. You lifted a hand to shield your eyes from the blinding light for only the briefest of moments. 

The next, Steve Rogers’s voice was blaring over the PA system and you found yourself staring down the barrel of a gun. Your friend, the one who’d taken you under her wing when you first joined SHIELD, who taught you everything you needed to know about being an agent, your most trusted and respected colleague, was the one pointing it at you. 

For a moment, you thought it was all just some kind of sick joke. You told her to stop messing around and boldly pushed her hand away, your stomach dropping when the weapon fired and the bullet struck the asphalt just inches from your feet. You looked up ahead and saw the rest of your team split up, facing each other with their weapons drawn, in the exact same predicament. 

Then Steve’s speech began to register. 

SHIELD is not what we thought it was. It’s been taken over by Hydra. 

They could be standing next to you. 

If you launch those helicarriers today, Hydra will be able to kill anyone that stands in their way. 

Unless we stop them. 

And just like that, you were embroiled in a life or death struggle with the woman you’d fought side by side with for the last decade, who you would have been proud to call a sister, who turned out to be a fierce lieutenant of Hydra’s insurrection. 

You remember it all in perfect detail. The stench of gunpowder in the air, the distant sounds of explosions and falling bodies, the weight of your concealed weapon against your own hip a grim metal promise of more violence to come. 

The iron grip on your left wrist as your other hand pushed against her, trying to stop the tip of her blade from piercing your throat, her gun having been kicked out of her hands just seconds earlier. 

The desperation in your exhausted muscles as you fought back against the sharp sting of betrayal and heartbreak. 

The terrible knowledge that if you wanted to live, if you wanted the others to live, there was only one viable choice. 

Even though you ultimately emerged triumphant, the student having bested her teacher as it was always meant to be, you didn’t feel particularly victorious. 

She just looked up at you with her face split into a wide bloody smirk, like the friendly smiles and affectionate looks from your memories had been a figment of your imagination. 

And because she just had to have the last word as you raised your service weapon and aimed the muzzle at her forehead, “Hail Hydra.” 

You wake with a jolt, a scream trapped in the hollow of your throat. Your heart thunders almost painfully against your ribcage, a sheen of cold sweat clinging to your skin, and the snow beneath you stained pink with frozen blood. It takes you a few seconds to remember where you are. 

Right, the mission. 

You and your team had walked into a Hydra ambush, left with nowhere to run and facing heavy fire. In order to ensure maximum survivors, you broke away from the group despite their protests in your ear, creating a diversion long enough to allow your colleagues to pilot their jet to safety. 

You’ve managed to evade capture for now, but you didn’t escape unscathed. You feel around with trembling fingers, gasping and flinching in pain the moment they come across a wet patch on the side of your tac-suit. You lift your hand, cursing quietly when your fingers come away red, the sharp tangy smell of copper filling your nostrils. 

Your comms weren’t working. The nearest safe house, which should have a working radio, was still another two miles out, but you didn’t have the energy to get up. Your limbs felt too heavy and your head too light from the blood loss, and you’d collapsed on a frosty patch of dead grass and closed your eyes. With the trail of red droplets you’d left in the snow, it was only a matter of time before you were found. 

Whether it turned out to be friend or foe was but a flip of a coin, and, well, you’d never had much luck to begin with. 

Even as the semi-familiar contours of the surrounding forest begin to emerge from the darkness as your eyes adjust, the visceral images of your dream cling to your mind and continue to blur the lines between past and present. 

Despite a bright and full moon hanging up in the inky sky above you, a beautiful sight you hadn’t had the time or the heart to appreciate lately, something like fear courses through your veins. It’s hot and acidic, clawing its way up your throat like bile, as memories of everything you’ve lost and everything you’ve had to do that day flashes before your eyes. 

The aftershocks of your nightmare reverberate through your body, the pieces of your broken past barely held together by sheer willpower, dwindling by the day—as though a single touch could shatter you into a thousand irretrievable pieces.

Anger tears at your insides, a scorching reminder of the rage that used to fuel you through your search for order and justice. It was necessary back then, reminding you of what—and who—you were fighting for. 

Now, it impulsively propels you headfirst into whatever mission finds its path to your desk. Now, it blinds you to consequence, to remorse, to humanity as you leave no survivors in your wake. Now, that same rage leaves you feeling hollow and adrift in the aftermath. 

And despite the entire year that’s gone by since the fall of SHIELD, the spectres of your past continue to find you in the dark, waiting to drag you back into the depths of your own fears and regrets. 

What were you fighting for this whole time? 

Every single time you returned to HQ battered and bruised, every grueling hour you’d spent training your body until it screamed in protest, and every single drop of blood you’d ever spilt—whether it was your own or otherwise—what was it all for? 

You were not an agent of SHIELD, a name you used to wear like a badge of honour; it turns out you were just another unwitting, stupid puppet of Hydra. Your life’s work amounted to nothing, the name tarnished and forever disgraced. 

And now, you’re alone. 

Normally, whenever you wake up after a particularly vicious fight—something that’s been happening more and more often lately—you were at the compound, tucked away safely in a cot in the med-bay with someone sitting in the chair next to the bed, keeping moonlit vigil until you returned to the land of the living. 

A lot of times, it was Steve. He would be leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees with that all-too-familiar wrinkle between his brows, waiting for you to wake up so he could both breathe a sigh of relief and start admonishing you again without feeling too guilty. 

I have half a mind to put you on desk duty, agent. You’d long ago stopped trying to remind him that he isn’t your captain anymore, and you are no longer an agent. 

What are you, then? 

Other times it was Natasha, a painful and bright-red reminder of things that have come to pass, sporting her own bandages and bruises as she puts together her mission reports. She’s done better for herself post-SHIELD, an Avenger through and through. She has a place here, but you? You only have this job because she and Steve vouched for you, and even then there’s some constant need nagging at you in the back of your mind to prove yourself. 

Every time someone’s indecipherable gaze lingers a little too long, or even so much as looks in your direction, something pricks uncomfortably at your spine. 

Who are you? 

Whose side are you on? 

Sam. Jesus. He really has no idea just how alike he and Steve really are, does he? He would sit there with his back ramrod straight and his arms crossed over his chest, wearing Steve’s signature disapproving look as though he’d been trained to do it. But Sam would soften eventually, always, his warm eyes full of quiet worry in a way that only made it harder to face him. 

Sometimes it was Wanda, who would be tempted to use her powers to help stitch you back together. But she was still unpracticed and insecure about her magic; setting bones, staunching the free flow of blood, and suturing lacerations shut required a much more delicate touch than, say, tearing an army of robots to pieces. 

Or Pietro—

Oh. You swallow hard. That one hurts. 

Just like you, Pietro wasn’t all that intent on making friends at the compound. Wanda fared much better in that aspect, her smiles blossoming wider and wider across her gentle features the more she got to know the team. 

Her twin, however, would always brood from the sidelines, watching intently as though ready to pounce if anyone made so much as what he perceived to be a wrong move in her direction. 

He was protective, you knew; for a long time, Wanda was all he had. The two of them have been through hell and back together, but now her world was expanding to make room for things that didn’t always include him. 

The old you might have wondered if that made a part of him a little sad, but the new you—well, you couldn’t afford to worry about someone else’s sadness. His keeping to himself actually worked in your favour; you weren’t looking to be anyone’s buddy either. 

But despite the attempts at distance, being part of a team meant that he was watching your back out in the field, especially since you weren’t looking out for your own interests. One of Pietro’s strong arms would hook itself under your knees, his other wrapping around your shoulders, before he was rushing you out of the line of fire. 

He’d casually question whether you were trying to get yourself killed, not looking at you because he already knew the answer, even though you never gave him one. 

“Then do it on your own time,” he’d said as he set you back down on the ground, his voice void of emotion or warmth, but if you were to pay a bit closer attention, his brows were tightly furrowed and his mouth turned down at the corners. “The Captain is such a pain about paperwork.” 

“Was that a joke, Maximoff?” You’d rolled your eyes, not in the mood as you tried not to think about how his warmth lingered everywhere he’d touched. 

“Of course not,” he murmured as he took large strides back towards the proverbial battlefield, “is it a joke if nobody laughs?” 

And then he zipped out of sight and suddenly you were alone again, just the way you liked it. 

But the signature resentment and outrage simmering in his icy blue eyes, one you recognized all too well, didn’t seem to burn quite so hot whenever he took you back to the compound in the event your own legs wouldn’t, one warm hand on your waist and the other holding your arm around his broad shoulders. 

His calls of your name sure didn’t sound as detached and blasé as he might have liked them to, the lilt of his accent seeping into the edges of your subconscious, “Stay awake, we are almost home.” 

“Paper… Paperwork,” you muttered between laboured breaths with your eyes closed, trying so hard to keep marching in time with him. You heard him laugh—though it was more of a chuckle, so low and so brief—for the first time that night. 

His sharp edges didn’t seem quite so sharp when you searched his features for signs of deception, ones you should have recognized years ago, ones you might have ignored in the moment which ultimately cost you everything, and found none. 

Pietro would search you back, his face blank but his eyes almost like they were pleading, and you were always the first one to look away. 

Damn, it all happened so quietly. 

The tentative conversations that took place in the quiet of the med-bay—“Does it not hurt?” followed by a “Not at all” that really meant “All the fucking time”—him watching as you nursed your own injuries with a quiet stoicism that he couldn’t seem to understand. 

The late sleepless nights spent in each other’s silent company, sometimes staring off into space or distractedly at a series of flashing images on the TV. The closing distance between bodies, the soft brush of his fingertips over the swell of your shoulder, the lingering smell of soap as he sped back to his room without so much as a “good night”. 

The rush of joy when you boarded a quinjet and saw him already there, knowing that he was joining a mission with you. The thrill that shot up your spine when his hand closed around your wrist and he levelled you with a striking blue stare, a silent warning to be careful, a wordless plea to come back in one piece. The mildly triumphant looks exchanged after a mission successful, but only just barely—you knew he’d long ago clocked your growing reckless and wild disregard for your personal safety. 

Until you began waking up in the med-bay more and more, but Pietro was sitting in that chair less and less. He began asking Steve for reassignments whenever the two of you were grouped on missions together. He drew away, and it hurt so much more than having the pieces of you held together by nothing but strands of thread and rows of staples. 

“Some teammate you are,” you muttered sarcastically the next time you saw him for long enough to hold some semblance of a conversation. You meant for it to sound less like an accusation and more like a joke, like you did not care because that was the whole fucking point. You cared about nothing and no one now, so whatever they did couldn’t ever hurt or surprise you anymore. 

That pang in your chest as he kept his back to you? It meant nothing. 

That strike against a chord of longing stretched over your heart as he walked away? Inconsequential. 

And the heartache as the distance between you grew and grew, until it seemed so utterly insurmountable? What did that fucking matter? 

That, after all, had been ever constant since the Triskelion came down in a hailstorm of bullets and debris. 

But—fucking hell—you miss him, you realize. You close your eyes again, trying to fight the familiar sting of tears and the burn behind your eyelids. You miss him more than you miss your old life, your heart decides, the treacherous thing. What are you even supposed to do with that knowledge? You would never tell him, anyway. Not in a million years. 

But you are at the whim of the universe, because there’s the sound of an aircraft overhead. There’s a gust of warm wind that passes over you and it smells like jet fuel, recycled air, and slightly burning plastic. 

And then you feel it, a familiar warmth on your wrist as he presses two fingers gently on your pulse point. You hear it, the whisper of your name that sounds like it means something whenever he says it. 

You’re too tired, or maybe too afraid, to open your eyes. His warmth recedes as what sounds like the medical team takes over, crouching over you as they begin dressing your injuries and packing your wounds. The pain is less keen as sleep begins to pull you under, as they insert an IV drip into your arm, as they place you on a stretcher and wheel you back towards the jet. 

The warmth soon returns, however, lacing its way between your fingers and heating the skin of your palm, just before you fall back asleep. 

When you wake again hours later in the med-bay, you open your eyes and see the turbulent blues of a terrible sorrow. 

Pietro inhales sharply when your eyes meet, but he stays curled up in that chair, his lips looking painfully raw as though he’s been chewing on them all night. As always, his anger rolls off of him in quiet waves, and as always, it seems like he’s more angry with himself than with you. 

“You refuse help,” he finally says, breaking the silence. He turns away to look out the window behind him, watching as the snow continues to fall. “You disobey orders. You never listen.” 

You would scoff if you didn’t think it would hurt like a bitch. That’s a bit rich coming from him, since he fights Steve every step of the way almost as much as you do. 

“You’re scaring everyone,” he continues, but you know what he really means to say is that you’re scaring Wanda. He doesn’t give a shit about anyone else, after all. “It’s like you go out of your way to get hurt on every mission.” 

“Why do you care?” You snap back weakly, like a wounded animal that’s been backed into a corner. Pietro turns to face you again then, his handsome features stoic as usual, which frustrates and deeply unsatisfies you. 

“You think I want to? I didn’t!” He snarls, unfolding himself from the chair to stand, to reach out and place one hand on each side of your cot, caging you in and towering over you. “You seem so intent on dying. And I’ve had enough of watching people I love die.” 

“Oh, dear,” you lament out loud—the people he loves, he says—closing your eyes against the ache of an affliction you didn’t think you’d ever suffer again. “How unfortunate.”

“Yes,” he concurs, and he does sound rather anguished. “There is nothing we can do about it now, is there?” 

Not strong enough to stay and watch you put yourself at risk, but not strong enough to stay away when you bleed either. And then his hands are smoothing over your forehead, brushing away some stray strands of hair from your face. 

“Look at me,” he pleads in a whisper so soft, you can’t help but comply. So carefully, he leans down and brushes his lips against your brow, then your temple, the apple of your cheek. 

Each time he pulls back, you surrender a broken shard of your heart to him. He gathers them in his hands and begins the painstaking task of putting you back together. Each kiss he places on your skin comes with a silent appeal—live, live, please live.  

At least for tonight, you yield to his desperate request. 

Your sorrow can wait.

fin.

AFTERWORD — my first fic of 2025! how'd i do? 🤭

© 2025 by thereoncewasagirlnamedjane.

[anika-ann]

Restless Hearts - S.R.

Type: one-shot, established relationship, next-to-zero plot

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader   Word Count: 6,2k

Summary: Moving in together with Steve is the dream come true – or it should have been. You didn't exactly have the chance to benefit from that since he shipped off to a mission for days and is only now coming back.

You grow restless. And to make it worse, you only get to reunite with him on this stupid pompous party instead of your home. Well. Just few more hours of socializing to survive.

You could handle that, right?

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, smut, semi-public sex if you squint, unprotected sex, language, Steve being a menace, two idiots in love who can't keep their hands off of each other

A/N: written for the Smutty September Fest hosted by @mercurial-chuckles . Thank you for hosting 💕 I have chosen multiple prompts - finding a somewhat private area at a fancy party to f* and quickie where you don’t take any clothes off, just tug and pull and expose the essentials 🤭

A/N 2: DIVIDER by @firefly-graphics; enjoy y'all 🥰

Sparkling lights. Sparkling drinks. Elegant gowns and sharp suits. Subtle polite laughter and conversation occasionally interrupted by a louder exclamation and a genuine burst of laughter from the groups forming around those who knew how to charm a crowd. A non-descript music, one song bleeding into another, a few couples trying to find space on the dancefloor that had mostly changed into an agora, a space for conversation rather than for moving in well-practiced sync.

The dress skirt brushing over your knees and ankles, a slight chill on the back of your neck as someone opened the balcony doors, letting in fresh April air of New York City. The light stink of alcohol and sweat amongst the hundreds of expensive perfumes and colognes. The rich aftertaste of the sting of bubbles, sweet and spicy on your tongue.

The golden lights shone bright but intimate, reflecting in your champagne glass and prompting you to finish your first – and likely one of the lasts – drink of the night.

You weren’t much of a drinker. You indulged every once in a while, more of curiosity about what fancy brand the host had chosen for the occasion and a thing of courtesy, using the glass like a required social prop.

Such was the case tonight too – a fancy evening for investors and associates of the Earth’s mightiest heroes. Politicians, diplomats, government officials, high-ranking military officials and filthy-rich entrepreneurs – mostly not your crowd, to speak plainly. There was a slightly better company too, even if scarce: former agents and other colleagues – well-vetted beforehand, of course – scientists, non-profit representatives, veterans. Several Avengers too, of course.

But your favourite – the one who had brought you deeper into the world of superheroes – was yet to be found.  

Steve Rogers most definitely was your favourite; nearly flawless moral compass, loyal, protective of the less fortunate ones and his own. A fighter who had won and lost all too much; an artist, who saw beauty around him nevertheless. A kind soul with an enormous heart, perhaps a tad too big for his own body despite his impressive physique. Larger than life and yet somehow humble enough in his insistence that he was just a man, ordinary, like most; just lucky enough to had been given a chance to fight and to defend.

And to love.

Steve Rogers certainly was your favourite, as he should be; the goodness of the world distilled into one man, with a face and a body of worth of being sculpted by the masters of ancient arts, the warmest smile and a sparkle to his eye a testimony to his brilliant mind and wicked humour. All that at your fingertips; all that supposedly yours, as incredible as it seemed at most times.

He was yours.

Your boyfriend of four months and seventeen days.

Not that you had been counting; perhaps just a little. You were innocent in the matter, however; it was mostly your and Steve’s friends, teasing you about taking things slow. According to Bucky, had you been taking things at Steve’s desired pace, with how smitten he apparently was, he would have already had a ring on your finger.

You didn’t dare to judge, afraid of raising your hopes a little too much; however, there was something to be said about Steve Rogers in love. He made it clear; so painfully and blissfully clear, letting you feel his much-reciprocated adoration in hundreds if not thousands of little moments.

In his touch. In his words. In his actions.

Your demanding jobs perhaps did slow down your progress a bit, making even the settling on a day of your first date quite the feat; but it was one of those good things that made the waiting worth it.

If Steve was smitten, so were you; and while a proposal would feel rather rash, you certainly not at all thinking about how you’d probably say yes anyway, because you simply knew, you’d settle for moving in together.

You had moved in together, thirteen days ago.

And the move in that had left you with half-unpacked boxes, cold bed and an apartment lacking the true aura of a home, because the person you wished to build it with was godknowswhere in a middle of Siberia, having left after a passionate welcome-to-our-new-home and a message delivered at three damn forty a.m.

Steve had left the pleasant warmth of your bed at four, with a profound sleepy apology and a lingering kiss to your forehead.

Left for an off-grid no-contact mission. Lasting for days.

For all the faith you had in his skill and strength, the worry that came with him being away for so long without as much of a short text was eating at you; and then there was the matter of simply missing him, the empty feeling only accentuated by having expected to be nearer to him at last and getting this instead. You were an independent woman and you could live your life without a man just fine, but goddamn were you also a woman madly in love, missing your boyfriend.

And you were growing impatient.

You were still at your first drink, yes, but knowing Steve should appear at any moment did not help calm your nerves, the slightly uncomfortable but exciting swirl of anticipation of seeing him again – in a suit no less – as intense as the yearning for comfort of actually seeing for yourself that he was safe and sound.

He had texted you, at last, about four hours ago, that he was on his way, nothing but a couple of bruises already healing, looking forward to seeing you.

You had agreed to meet at the venue; he would be running last minute, or perhaps even fashionably late, grabbing a quick shower and a shave at his at-hand quarters at the Tower, just throwing on a suit he kept there for such occasions. You had offered to help – for the completely selfish reason of seeing him sooner and in private instead of in front of hundreds of watchful curious eyes – but he had sweetly refused, argumenting that at least one of you should be on time and promising he would find you first thing upon his arrival.

You would have grumbled if you hadn’t been soothed by the Love you, can’t wait to hold you again, he had texted after. He was a charming loveable bastard like that.

As the infamous murmur of excitement arose around you, bringing you back to the present, your eyes easily found the source of the commotion: Steve Rogers himself.

Your heart rate accelerating reminded you that not being able to meet Steve before the event might have been a blessing. Had you had the chance to get your hands on him, you two would probably end up being very much unfashionably late; a welcome home kiss would have simply not sufficed.

He was breathtaking.

The traditional black suit with navy blue glint was fitted for certain; tight where it should be, accentuating Steve’s absurdly broad shoulders and thin waist, pants no doubt hugging all the right places from behind somehow complimenting his long muscular legs too, pristine white shirt with a bowtie matching the suit; the soft blue reflection emphasized the colour of his eyes as they scanned the room without ever stopping his progress, his polite smile spreading wide when his gaze found yours, the blue of his irises turning warmer; the most beautiful feature to his face battling the magnificence of his sharply cut jaw.

The instant relief washing over you screamed of how anxious you had actually been before you had seen him alive and well; the warmth spreading through your veins whispered of comfort, a tidal wave of feeling at home after a long travel; the heat curling in your belly and sending sparkles through every nerve ending reminded you that your body had been missing him in all different ways.

Your gaze zeroed on his every step. He seemed to move too slow and too fast at once; and suddenly he was standing in front of you, one hand gently grasping yours, the other lightly laying on your waist, a chaste kiss to your temple lingering as your body naturally sought his and carefully leaned into his entirely publicly appropriate greeting. The familiar woodsy notes of his cologne and aftershave had your heartbeat pick up and instinctively move closer into his embrace and breathing in deeply, the scent going straight to your head; but following his lead, you didn’t get too close, letting the gentle timbre of his voice soothe your need for connection instead.

At last; he was home. He was here, with you, and his love, while contained in socially acceptable gestures, seemed to draw a protective circle around your pair, shining brighter and warmer than the lights and all the luxuries around combined.

“Hey sweetheart. It’s so good to see you,” he whispered, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek this time, his eyes lit alive as he retreated, a hint of a smile still playing in the corner of his lips. “And you are absolutely stunning. Almost tripped over my feet the moment I set my eyes on you.”

Resisting the urge to tenderly slap his side at the exaggeration, at making your face burn hot – and something inside you purr with satisfaction since you had chosen your outfit with care, much like your makeup and hairdo – you gathered your composure, straightening your posture and charming a smile for him in return.

In one of many late-night conversations, when he had revealed his artistic side to you, he had admitted he loved to feast his eyes on all kinds of art from the most ordinary ones to the rarest; you had understood then that while a fighter and just a man in his core, his soul was a thing seeking beauty and goodness everywhere. In both things and people. A doodle could make him smile and hum in delight as much as a painting or a sculpture, he had said shyly; a building, an arrangement of flowers, a beautiful dress too. The last one, however, he had appreciated most on a woman as bewitching as yourself, he had told you, a tender finger on your jaw, a glint of dark mischief in his eye, lips slanting over yours and stealing your breath in a matter of a second; proving he was appreciative of you just as much when you were wearing nothing at all.

This time, however, you liked to believe he enjoyed the sight of you in the dress indeed; the top was hugging your curves like a second skin, the dark crimson fabric bled into a breeze-light skirt, shorter at the front, longer at the back, offering a less-than-scandalous but still teasing peek of your legs and clear view of your matching heels.

“It’s really good to see you too, love. And you look quite handsome yourself… I nearly dropped my drink upon seeing you,” you reciprocated with a small smirk, pointedly finishing your drink at last, heat flaring in your core when you caught Steve’s gaze lingering on your lips as they barely touched the edge of the glass, not leaving an imprint despite the dangerously red colour of your lipstick.

As you set your glass on the nearest table, you took a satisfactory note of Steve’s gaze flickering even lower, and bit back a smile.

As high as the neckline of your dress was, actually reaching half-up your throat and barely but chastely covering your shoulders, the oval-shaped cut stretching from between your collarbones down over your sternum was a rather intentional trap.

And your Captain had fallen right into it, his Adam’s apple bobbing before his gaze snapped back to your face, pupils wider, irises having gained just a tad darker shade. The fresh surge of confidence was almost as intense as the swoop of desire in your lower belly, sending your thoughts spiralling far away from a behaviour socially acceptable at an event like this.

It made you want to abandon the event and let it sort itself even if Steve had just barely arrived.

Who cared anyway? Steve deserved a proper rest after a taxing mission; rest and more, whatever his heart desired. And maybe not only his heart; if you were honest with yourself, you were only a hot-blooded human being like the rest of the world and were looking forward to truly greeting Steve home in all the ways imaginable.

You could control yourself in the public, of course, and you genuinely understood the importance of networking. But you should bring up simply taking Steve home for his own good; and you could profit from it all the same. From his proximity, from the privacy of your home, from getting your hands on the insanely handsome man’s body.

Whether he sensed the sparkles in the air you weren’t sure; but he leaned towards your face, his voice dripping slow and rich like honey from his lips brushing your ear, sinful despite the words being perfectly innocent.

“It works well then, honey.” He offered you his elbow, straightening his posture as if he was so damn proud to show off what kind of a woman he had on his arm. “Let’s go fulfil our duty of mingling so we can excuse ourselves as soon as possible.”

With his last words carrying alluring notes of an intimate promise, you conceded.

Nodding, you arranged your face in a polite smile, crafted to nonchalant perfection.

“Let’s go mingle indeed.”

Indeed, let’s work so we can sneak away and go home as soon as possible.

Your plan had gone a little awry.

In the glow of delight at Steve’s arrival, you had underestimated the number of people who found it their crucial mission to meet and greet and catch up with Captain America.

You had kept up the pleasant façade through all the conversations, nodding and chuckling politely when the situation called for it; but you were growing weary and you could feel tension gradually building in Steve’s shoulders as well, the way you remained connected by at least an inch of a touch at all times permitting you to observe the change.

You had thought it would help when you subtly nodded towards the dance floor; his smile turned much more genuine as he asked you for a dance, earning your pair a breather and a moment of shared intimacy for a few songs.

But you had been wrong in your strategy; if it were possible, Steve’s jaw appeared locked even tighter than before once your reprieve was deemed to last too long and you agreed to return to socializing. His touch grew into a hold; at moments, it was but a grip, until you felt him forcefully relax and ease the pressure.

You didn’t blame him one bit.

He must have been exhausted; away from home for so long, physically and mentally drained after an intense, albeit successful mission, forced to put on a mask for everyone else’s benefit, because Steve Rogers, to a point, was a poster boy. As much as he was trying to change that, working on allowing himself to show and accept his humanity, he remained the embodiment of a hero who never gave up and raised others on his own shoulders despite scratching the bottom of the barrel of his own energy.

He remained cordial and polite and a gentleman; he offered to get you a drink as you excused yourself to the bathroom, returning only to find him – visibly annoyed, for once – trapped in a conversation with Tony. A conversation which was probably not at all important, but apparently couldn’t wait, at least in Tony’s mind.  

“Such a charming woman, standing here all by herself. How is that even possible?” questioned a voice from your left just as you pondered rescuing your boyfriend, causing you to waver.

It was a very male voice. An unfamiliar voice.

And had it been Clint or Sam or Bucky, you’d laugh at the poor line, which would no doubt be told with a drop of teasing; or in Thor’s case, entirely genuine and fitting to Asgardian but not Midgardian ways. Hearing it from a stranger, though, that made you want to roll your eyes.

You were a strong soldier of God so to speak, however; you turned to the source of the voice with a smile with just a slightly sharp edge – one the tall lanky man was oblivious to, as it turned out – and greeted him with a measured Sir.

As he introduced himself, you learned that Mr. Doctor Bowers PhD. might have had two PhDs but none of them was in taking a goddamn hint. Because now you were sort-of trapped much like Steve was, the written and unwritten rules of courtesy not permitting you to make up an excuse of needing to go to the bathroom after you had clearly just come back.

You counted seconds, pondering how soon you could leave the man behind without appearing too rude. You got to a hundred when your patience truly was wearing thin.

He was still not taking any of the hints you had dropped. Worse, even. You weren’t presumptuous enough – unlike some people in the mostly one-sided conversation – to imagine the flirting. He was clearly attempting to flirt and was failing miserably. He was shameless about it too, even if a little condescending.

Ninety-four seconds later, you had enough of him and far too little of Steve; your skin seemed to be already burning where Steve had last touched you, yearning for the contact to return in a perhaps clingy, but entirely honest way.

And suddenly, as if some miracle provided by Asgardian magic, the touch was back.

Steve’s arm was curling around your waist, his side pressing to your hip, his lips making a gentle – and strangely electric – contact with your hairline.

“I’m sorry about the hold-up, sweetheart. Who’s your… friend?”

It was a little funny, really. The man matched Steve in height, but at the biting note in Steve’s voice, he shrank at least a foot and a half.

He introduced himself after clearing his throat, maintaining the remnants of his composure which all of sudden carried no hint of the wannabe seducer. You wanted to kiss Steve right on the lips right there for that alone.

Mr. Doctor PhD also probably regretted extending his hand for Steve to shake; because at Steve’s grip, no doubt stronger than necessary despite his entirely nonchalant mask of politeness, he actually winced.

You were no supporter of violence, much like Steve, which might seem ironic to some given his profession – but the lick of heat at seeing Steve put the guy into back into his place sent a shudder of undiluted want down your spine and straight into your core, your posture involuntarily shifting in response. Steve’s hold on you tightened.

“I have to talk to my girlfriend now, if you excuse us. See you around,” Steve said, already spinning you towards the exit to drive his point to the end.

You didn’t resist.

If anything, you couldn’t walk fast enough, regretting wearing heels and wishing for a pair of sneakers instead to sneak away from the party altogether at last.

Only when Steve led you further and further away from people, deeper into the complex, your heart began thundering in your chest; you noticed that the tension in his muscles you had worried about had grew tenfold and realized that his announcement about needing to talk to you might be more than an excuse.

“Steve, are you alright?”

“Fine,” he responded flatly, yet in a voice carrying hundred times more warmth than just a moment ago.

Right. And the Sun is blue, the pigs can fly and tachyons had always been proven particles of matter.  

You swallowed the snarky response, glancing at him as you barely kept up with his long strides; still, you could tell he was holding back, having seen him march with much more hurry and relentlessness.

“Thanks for the rescue, by the way. Really,” you pipped up, one corner of your lips rising despite your stomach turning tight at the unreadable expression on Steve’s face. “Guy simply couldn’t take the hint that I only have eyes for my Captain.”

An uncomprehensible grumbly noise vibrated in Steve’s chest, his arm sliding from your waist in favour of taking your hand in his instead.

Apparently, your attempt at cheering him up failed; you should have known.

The corridor was now completely devoid of people; you had arrived to the part of the floor with three small conference rooms, one an each of them dark and empty – because everyone was at the party.

Your smile turned truly nervous at that point, your mind racing as much as your heart. Steve wouldn’t have led you here unless he wanted to urgently talk about something important. You were a little baffled as to why hadn’t he opted for the elevator and his former quarters instead; but you didn’t question it as he placed his palm on the scanner and practically threw one of the doors open and all but pulled you in, some of the lights automatically flickering to life.

That was all that your ordinary human brain had time to register.

Because then Steve’s hand found firm purchase of your neck, cupping your jaw, lips slanted over yours with ferocity and passion that had your mind snap blank and set your body on fire, your hands limply landing on his firm chest.

Oh. O-okay.

More than okay.

You were forced to walk backwards, Steve’s other hand pressing against your hip to lead your step and steady you at once; an anchor you desperately needed in the whirlwind of puzzlement and madly stirred desire. Your lips parted in invitation just before your ass hit the conference table, an unvoluntary whimper escaping you when Steve’s body aligned with yours, every single part of him bare his lips tight and wound up, his hardness brushing against your thigh.

At the small sound so willingly consumed by his demanding kiss, he squeezed your hip harder, tongue exploring hundred-times explored with delight, air stolen from your lungs, your hands scrambling to grab his suit jacket to pull him even closer.

Who needed breathing anyway?

You didn’t. And you didn’t care how you got here either, be it desire fuelled by impatience or jealousy or the endless time apart, your choice of a dress or your lipstick which you knew Steve liked so much. You didn’t give a damn.

He was the spoilsport, releasing your lips and pressing his forehead against yours, his quick breaths fanning your face, hand from your neck sliding lower, an almost inhuman sound pushing through his teeth when his fingertips found the exposed skin on your breastbone, petting the soft spot adoringly.

You had not known until that moment how much you craved his touch precisely at that spot and how weak in the knees it could make you.

“Please say y-“

“Yes,” you gasped, instantly rewarded by his mouth on yours again with a muttered but hearty-

“God, I missed you-“

-dextrous fingers sliding under your skirts and hiking the fabric up as they travelled up your thigh, Steve’s pelvis rocking against yours, creating delicious friction against your core.

“I missed you too.”

Your hands went to roam over his freshly shaven jaw, over his shoulders, pushing the jacket off just to make him growl in frustration when he had to stop touching you for two full seconds to get rid of it.

“Sorry, want to feel you,” you apologized nonsensically, every single moment of his touch going straight to your head like a strong sweet wine, intoxicating and addictive, much like his scent, his taste, consuming all of your senses.

“Need to have you-”

“You have me,” you said breathily, a plea and a promise at once, thoroughly appreciated by a squeeze to your ass, fingertips wandering towards where you needed him the most--

And then Steve halted in his progress, body turning into a statue as he came in contact with bare skin, lips stilling on yours.

You gulped, trying to judge his reaction despite your haze.

You had had… a little incident when dressing up to the nines. Your broken nail nicked your thigh-high, sending a run up your calf. Uncharacteristically unprepared, you had found out if was your only pair. And sure. You could have run to a store. You could have express-ordered; stores would trip over their feet to deliver to Ms. Captain America in need. You could have worn a pantyhose.

And yet, your mind had steered you towards the drawer where you had kept tights specifically bought for a wholly different occasion than a social outing.

Why not? Your dress was long enough. And having hoped Steve’s mission would bring him home victorious and excited, having missed all of him terribly, you thought you might at least save some time once you two would be home.

Except you weren’t at home now. But that wasn’t on you – you were completely innocent in that matter.

Except you weren’t and your tights were conveniently sewn with a large enough opening to have Steve fit his hand or other parts of his body through, leaving but a flimsy lace panties in his way.

“Sweetheart?” he rasped, licking his lips as if to tempt you further, to confess your sins born of love and lust. He pulled back just an inch, to meet your gaze, his own pupils blown so wide only a thin ring of your beloved blue remained.

You gulped; not ashamed, not truly, perhaps a little apprehensive of his judgement. You had worn what was pretty much an erotic prop to a high-class event and had you not been careful and had had an accident, anyone seeing or god forbid snapping a picture…

“I… wanted to greet you home… and feel you as soon as possible,” you admitted silently, heart thundering in your chest, in your ears, in your temples, in your fingertips fisting the collar of Steve’s shirt.

A beat of silence.

Several wild beats of your heart.

“Christ, I love you-“

You were hoisted up on the edge of the table in a lightning speed and a mouth-watering display of strength, lips devoured by Steve’s with enough force to bend you backwards, the line of your soaked panties pushed aside to not waste time indeed as Steve’s fingertips dipped into your slick with a mutual groan of pleasure.

“Steve-“

“That’s right, honey,” he whispered, lips teasing the soft skin of your throat now, “I’m here now, all yours.”

He teased your lower lips back and forth, once, twice, three times too many and then he finally entered you with two fingers, a dark chuckle coming deep from his throat at the gasp of his name, stepping closer between your spread thighs to press your legs further apart.

He pumped his fingers with ease, driving you towards the stars at a dizzying speed, pressing a soothing kiss to your sternum when you cried out at him curling his fingers just right.

“That’s it, honey… sing for me. Just for me,” he pleaded, contradicting his plea by claiming your lips again and pushing deeper, faster, wicked,your whimpers swallowed greedily, all his, just like you were, on the brink of ecstasy.

You were trembling; in pleasure, in anticipation of absolute bliss, with Steve’s hand firmly pressed to your lower back to hold you close and annihilate you in the most exquisite way known to man. His words, his touch, the husky notes of his voice, the sheer need radiating off him and still making sure you were to steal the first round of fireworks just for yourself.

It exploded through your body without warning.

You broke with a cry of his name, lips freed just so he could hear the delicious sound, so beautifully seconded by his harsh breaths and so filthily accompanied by the wet sound of your pleasure you had no capacity to be ashamed of but revelled in instead.

You knew he did too. Because he had done that to you, for you. It was his and yours and both was a privilege; and lust incarnate, as he brought you down from your high gently as it be, his hand disappearing from your back in favour of undoing his fly and zipper.

Feel as soon as possible; no time to waste. Pants shoved down only as little as necessary, boxers following, a peek of a mouthwatering – and always a little intimidating – sight was all you got.

A small startled sound escaped you when you were being pulled further towards the edge of the table without a moment of reprieve, a chuckle bubbling in your throat at Steve’s impatience – but with no malice. God knew you understood; the moment the head nudged your entrance, coating him in your slick, your orgasmic bliss was long gone, replaced by even more acute need.

You wanted him. Now. All of him. Wanted to feel him deep inside you, wanted him to fill you so completely as only he ever could, devoured by him, desired and loved.

And you wanted to make him feel as delirious with pleasure as he had made you a moment ago, wanted to make his world so hot it turned white for a moment, make his knees buckle with the force of his release.

Your gaze met his, eyes feasting at the beautiful panting mess he already was, all pristine in his suit and bowtie and ready to ruin and be ruined, lips crimson and kiss-swollen and parting with a groan as he slowly pushed into you.

“Look at me, Steve. Want you to see what you do to me,” you whispered, the little broken sound pushing past his lips the only warning you got before he snapped his hips forward with a curse on his lips and sheeted himself fully inside you at once. God, so fully and suddenly that all air got knocked from your lungs.

His hand grasped your jaw, tender but firm, a dangerous glint in his eye, thumb running over your painted lower lip.

“Oh I’m looking, honey.” His gaze flickered down as he retreated almost all the way out, shining with your arousal, and thrusted deeply again, causing your eyes to flutter shut. “And there’s nothing prettier than you falling apart for me, so let. Me. See you.”

He accentuated every word with a sharp snap of his hips, stroking and stretching your walls over and over, setting a rhythm, teasingly slow and punishingly quick, hand and lips roaming, grabbing and caressing, kisses all teeth and all soft, grip on your hips keeping you still to assure he could take you exactly as he liked and encouraging you to roll your hips at your pace as you balanced on the edge of the table all the same.

“Missed you.”

“Love you.

“Need you.”

“So good for me.”

“I’m so damn lucky.”

“Please.”

“Look at me.”

“Give it me, honey.”

Your head was spinning as you were consumed by bliss, spiralling towards your peak so fast you couldn’t tell anymore which words were yours and which were his, where you ended and he began, clinging to each other as you were carried higher and higher, your ears ringing and still allowing you to hear the clinks of the belt buckle and the sinful sound of your rapid love-making; like a lightning running through yours very being, you shattered with a high-pitched whimper of Steve’s name, an echo of a hoarse voice stringing curses and praise barely reaching your conscience.

You panted against Steve’s shoulder as he curled around you, minuscule movements of hips to ride out both of your highs, soft words spilling from his lips as he was barely caching breath himself.

You took a minute, maybe two or five, still, clinging to him all the same, the heady scent of sex and sweat weighing down the air, your tongue heavy and throat parched, fingers carding through Steve’s damp hair softly.

And still, you chuckled breathlessly as Steve kept running his warm hand up and down your back, the sound causing him to press a kiss to your lips that tasted of apology for some reason.

“Well…”

“I’m sorry for pouncing on you, sweetheart,” he muttered, a genuine note of regret nearly lost in the pleasure carried over to his voice.

Your smiled must have looked exhausted, you thought; but blissed out.

Oh, your sweetheart of a boyfriend. As if you hadn’t just both enjoyed this tremendously. Surely, he didn’t really mean it, did he?

“I’m sorry for sort-of setting a trap then…” you followed suit, the words feeling simply wrong on your tongue. “Except I’m not.”

At that, Steve lifted his head, meeting your gaze, his eyes sparkling with mischief and desire still.

“Me neither.”

You grinned, trying not to be acutely aware of his hardness still stretching you to your fullest.

Of course he wasn’t entirely satisfied. One round had barely even been enough.

“That’s what I thought. Good.”

He mirrored your expression, his grin a little boyish and devilish at once, his expression soft but somehow everything but innocent.

Yet, he caressed your face with his fingertips with tenderness, from your damp temple over your cheekbone to your jaw, gently pressing against your lips.

“I love you. And I missed you. So much. I swear I just wanted to go home – take you home, the moment I walked in,” he admitted, causing your smile to turn sympathetic.

You knew all about that; it was all you had been truly thinking about the whole evening.

“I know the feeling.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh…” you trailed off, sensations slowly returning to your body outside the all-consuming pleasure. You felt like you were burning; sweaty and fucked-out for the lack of a better term, most of your body tingling… You chuckled self-deprecatingly. “God, my legs shake so much… what did you do to me?”

Steve’s hands moved to your thighs as if he needed to feel it and steady the trembling, to help, teeth worrying over his lip, just a hint of guilt – and a whole lot more of something you didn’t dare to decode, because those were some dangerous waters.

You expected him to pull out and help you stand then, clean up; after all, he was a gentleman like that, always supporting you.

He did the former, tenderly so as not to hurt you; but not the latter. When he carefully left your body and you tried to stand, he halted your movements with tightening his hold on your thighs, his gaze roaming all over you as you glanced at him all with puzzlement.

“Steve?”

“Maybe you should lie down,” he suggested lowly, his gaze flickering from your still quaking legs to the opening of your dress on your chest and to your lips and then back.

You swallowed against your dry throat.

The dangerous waters you hadn’t dared to explore roared in the back of your head, a shudder of scalding heat running through your body.

He hadn’t cleaned up. He hadn’t tucked himself in. He was still… as always---he-

You licked your lips, your heart stumbling so hard in your chest it was almost painful.

Wordlessly but with his blown pupils observing you like a hawk, one of his hands moved to your shoulder, gently pushing, encouraging you to lie down on the desk indeed.

And who were you to protest? His gaze was once again pleading and challenging you.

Please, say yes.

Like a fallen angel coaxing you to sin; and you’d all but follow hm straight to hell, because you knew he’d show you heaven unparalleled.

The table was cold and unforgivingly hard against your back, but you didn’t care; all you cared about was Steve looking at you like that, like you were a goddess and a prize he had sworn to win, guiding your leg up to rest your ankle against his shoulder, his hot mouth pressing a kiss to your calf. His other hand pushed his pants and boxes down his legs this time, before he reached for your other leg and wrapped it around his waist, once again nudging your sensitive opening.

“Just one more, honey,” he coaxed you, as if you needed convincing, as if the tremble of your body hadn’t turned from blissful and exhausted to one of anticipation. “Just one more and then we’ll go home…”

He pressed another kiss to your calf and met your gaze as he slowly sank back in with ease, something devilish and painfully alluring flashing in his eyes as a shudder ran through your body, sensitive from your earlier activities.

“And when we’re there, I’ll take you once more… once for every day I would have made love to you, had I been in our home with you as I should have.”

In the haze of your mind, the math didn’t seem to math or even matter, even though you felt it should.

But for now, all you could focus on was Steve, finally with you, and soon coming to your shared home with you, at last.

Complete masterlist

Steve Rogers masterlist

The event's masterlist

*chuckles* I’m in danger🥹

I hope Steve makes sure she’s hydrated and eats something in between🤭 And maybe gets some sleep; not all of us are supersoldiers 🥹

ANYWAY. Thank you for reading! Drop feedback if you're willing and may September bring you many smutty cozy evenings and peace 💕

[stellar-solar-flare]

I wanted to do something positive as the year draws to an end so why not a tag game?

Name three good things about your 2024 and tag three (or more) people! Doesn't need to be anything huge like 'I got a promotion' (but you can share something like that if you want to!). All the little things count too, from enjoying time with friends to that really good dish you ate in April.

I'll start:

I found this wonderful community of writers on tumblr and made new friends here.

I was able to stick with being creative even among all the craziness of the previous year.

I got a new coffee maker and it makes my mornings so much better.

No-pressure tags: @thezombieprostitute @brandycranby @stargazingfangirl18 @anika-ann @themaradwrites

@jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @chase-your-dreams-away @darsynia @steviebbboi @mercurial-chuckles

@veltana @hawthorne-bias @jeanvanjer @krirebr

[broadwaydivastournament]

Broadway Divas Tournament Bracket: Round 1C

Round 1C starts tonight March 17th at 6:00 p.m. EST. Send me your propaganda for any of the Divas on our list, but especially those about to make their entrance. I will, once again, be traveling home from the theatre right around when this round goes live, but I have everything prepped and ready like a good stage manager should.

Round 1C: ALL POLLS HERE Bebe Neuwirth vs. Laurie Metcalf Veanne Cox vs. Charlotte d'Amboise Mary Testa vs. Betty Buckley Kerry O'Malley vs. Joanna Gleason Anika Noni Rose vs. Dee Hoty Tyne Daly vs. Katrina Lenk Linda Emond vs. Jennifer Simard LaChanze vs. Ann Harada

Rules and Guidelines

Round 1B Winners | Round 1A Winners

While Lea vs. Christine saw an unprecedented number of voters, not all polls were treated with equal vim and vigor. Don't forget local elections are as important as presidential, people.

To ease the process, starting now, all polls will be tagged and linked so you can just scroll right through and click all the buttons you want.

[bookboyfriendsficrecs]

Steve Rogers Fic Recs

Bolded = fic located on Ao3

SERIES:

Nice to Be Kneaded by @rogersideup

Nothing But the Truth by @anika-ann

Don't You Love Me by @dreamwritesimagines

Steve Rogers' NSFW Alphabet by @universitypenguin

A Blind Path Home by @imamotherfuckingstar-lord

Love on the Brain by @anika-ann

The Year of Starting Over by @justanothersong

His New Partner by @star-spangled-steve

Fools Rush In by @ronearoundblindly

When You Come Back to Me Again by @sunriserose1023

Non-Sequential by @invisibleanonymousmonsters

Out of Time by @after-avenging-hours

The Demigod From Asgard by @secretswiftymarvelfan

Stark Spangled Universe by @wiypt-writes

Tomorrow by @just-dreaming-marvel

Hacker's Heart by @bakugousaysdie (note: this series' masterlist is currently unaccesible due to a username change by the author, I have linked the tag "hacker's heart au" on their blog as that's the only way the find the corresponding stories, hopefully this works fine)

MINISERIES:

Bug and Bear and Burritos and Bandages by @real-jane

Seven Minutes Part 1 and Part 2 by @anika-ann

Start Again Part 1 and Part 2 by @wkemeup

SR Version Desperate Times and Desperate Measures by @lancsnerd

Pace is the Trick by @syntheticavenger (part 4 linked, other parts available at beginning of post)

ONE-SHOTS:

No Questions Asked by @pellucid-constellations

No Strings Attached by @viperbarnes

Nature's Beauty by @biteofcherry

How to Dismantle Steve Rogers by @jtargaryen18

Passing the Baton by @touchstarvedirl

Writer's Block by @navybrat817

Taken by @time-for-a-lullaby

Hold Onto Me by @anika-ann

[darsynia]

Oh goodness, thank you so much!! I definitely had that feeling as I was writing it that this was something I would adore to spend time with! I am seriously considering making it into a longfic with this as the prologue!

What do you think about the body of the story being the juxtaposition between 1) the two of them meeting and making those insurgency connections, planning to exploit the need for a dynasty union; and 2) their married life together after not having spent much physical time with each other, along with having to pretend to hate each other in public, while falling deeply in love in private??

monstrosity of a run-on sentence, I'm in awe tbh

Steve Rogers, Royalty AU (your call if modern/medieval/fantasy), kisses for a promise.

This got away from me, deliciously. Steve/Reader, Regency-style Royalty AU with a twist, 1,600 words.

Before I loved you, love, nothing was my own: I wavered through the streets, among objects: Nothing mattered or had a name: The world was made of air, which waited. ~selection from Sonnet XXV, by Pablo Neruda

Before I Loved You

You can’t fathom how worried Steve has been, stuck in a whirlwind of official meetings, ceremonial rites, and fasting periods that limit both his social obligations and food intake. The two of you have been playing a long game, steering your ancient families toward this union with feigned reluctance and rebellion, and the uncertainty is almost over. 

The Joining is minutes away.

Slumping your shoulders, you pretend to pick angrily at the embroidery on your lavish gown, puffing the delicate veil away from your face like a petulant child. As your king and guardian, your brother has taken great delight in putting you in the position to ‘punish’ his own overlord’s eldest son with the prospect of marrying his most recalcitrant sibling. Likewise, Steve has acted as though the wedding is a personal affront--all to manipulate your families into complacency.

The two of you had met by chance, finding a kinship in the desire for a more just judicial system and less social strata. The wider world has been innovating, yet the cluster of kingdoms on your isolated island have stayed in darkness. No more.

“It is time,” your brother sneers, wrenching you upright with a heavy hand on either of your shoulders. He starts moving, and you realize he’s shaming you, making it obvious to all attendees that you are here out of reluctance. With your face fully covered by multiple handcrafted layers of lace, you allow yourself to laugh, knowing it’ll shake your body in the same way that tears would.

Your brother’s pleased chuckle echoes in the cavernous cathedral space, but he’s too simpleminded to understand that you won’t be shamed by faces you can’t see. As it has been for the past two weeks of silence between you, your sole focus has been your future husband, the crown prince who is likely standing at rigid attention at the altar. Behind you, your simpering sisters are whispering to themselves about their own marriage prospects, each wearing a lighter veil and dressed similarly to you. The goal, it seems, is to imply that the crown prince may not be forced into marriage to you after all--after all, who wouldn't rather marry a doe-eyed simpleton instead of a mouthy bluestocking?

The utter foolishness of antagonizing one’s future overlord is completely lost on your brother--and you wouldn’t have it any other way. The only thing you wish you could have changed is the uncertainty Steve is wracked with right now.

You’re suddenly shoved forward, caught by a steady hand you’d recognize anywhere, despite the limited physical contact between you until this point.

“I’ve got you,” Steve whispers, and you catch your breath, nearly in tears. This good, decent son of a dying despot can’t know which sister he’s reassuring, but that hasn't stopped him. A fierce heat washes through you during the interminable vows that follow--you will protect this man in every way you can, up to and including razing your former homeland to the ground, if necessary.

Finally, the time comes to lift your veil and complete the ritual with a thumbprint of Sienna Flower. You don’t hold back the trembling anticipation that shakes your body, but you do cast your eyes down. This is the moment that could create diplomatic misery for your first weeks together if anyone realizes your deception, but nothing will unravel the Joining.

The little breath your husband lets out just before lifting your veil makes you ache for him, but his next actions shake you to your core. He lifts the veil and freezes still, the jitter of his hand translating to you through the filmy fabric. Steve growls a command to the Archbishop, crumpling the veil in his fist to pull you closer for a pollen-dusted thumb press that lands off-center on your forehead. Your headdress catches on the ceremonial metal of his jacket, tearing it from your head and giving you an unobstructed view of Prince Steven’s furious exit from the cathedral.

The resulting silence is broken by the sound of clapping. 

It is your brother.

*

The spoiled princess persona serves you very well through the resulting mess. All you need do is act like the world will end if anyone so much as speaks to you.

*

It is three long hours of ruthlessly suppressed glee before you’re alone again. You’d miscalculated the level of dedication your princely husband would have for his role, but you also know that he’ll be worried about your mental state, given the way he rejected you in front of that many dignitaries. It’s with a strong need to reassure him that you step into your new apartments, finally dressed in clothes that make you feel like a person instead of a figurehead. You’re almost in tears at the thought of his guilt, which helps serve your tearful encore performance--telling the palace staff they’ll won't be needed this night.

You slam the door behind the meek-looking maid who was supposed to help you prepare for bed, partially to ensure she’ll stay away, and partially to warn Steve that you’ve arrived.

There’s nothing like the feeling of triumph that comes from hearing a similar sound echoing through the warren of rooms ahead of you. It’s gentler, but so is Steve. You force yourself to take measured steps as you search for the source of the sound, passing the shadowed shapes of furniture and sculptures, followed by the painted eyes of countless portraits, until at last you reach the welcoming spill of bright light through a half-opened door.

Steve slammed it for appearances, then opened it right back up for you.

Your heart is burning through your chest as you quietly step into the room. Steve has his palms flat on his desk, head down, the metaphorical weight of the entire kingdom bowing his back.

You whisper his name and he turns, relief briefly replacing the exhaustion on his face. Rushing over, you hesitate just slightly, the learned behavior of false aversion still strong. Steve simply holds out both hands, and you place yours in them.

“You were magnificent,” he whispers.

“Don’t sell yourself short, your highness,” you grin, lifting your chin and making full eye contact with him for the first time as wife, rather than conspirator. “Before you ask, you didn’t hurt my hair or my pride, but no one in the room needed to know that.”

Steve squeezes your hands. “I--I think I’m glad I didn’t see the aftermath. I would have called on a royal escort to demand proof from your brother that you were unharmed. Even though it was my fault.” His lips twitch with amusement, and you’re captivated.

“There will still be quite a lot of deception ahead of us,” you warn. The prospect is so much easier to face now that you know what it feels like to smile with Steve.

“There’s one deception that we can dispense with forever, if only in private for now,” he says gruffly, lifting both of your hands up to kiss each in turn. “I have never been so happy, and never in all of history has a promise been kept with greater joy and hope for the future.” As he speaks, Steve pulls you toward him with a steady, loving determination, sliding a possessive hand to your back at the word ‘hope.’ You arch up and touch your lips to his as soon as he finishes, dizzy with the newness of permission. 

The kiss is revolutionary, destructive. The respectful, careful prince you’ve corresponded with in secret for months is a firebrand, taking you apart with each swipe of his tongue and grip of his strong hands. You’re being remade as someone braver, more beautiful even, as reflected in his eyes and by the way he’s touching you. You press as close as you can, anchoring yourself with a hand buried in his hair, another seeking the bare skin of his back where his shirt lifts from his waistband.

The shrill tone of a ringing bell tears the two of you apart. Brows furrowed, Steve stalks to the small door that provides crude communication between floors, spitting out a brisk ‘what?’

“Forgive me, highness. Your honored wife has dismissed her maid. I humbly ask if you wish for us to disrupt you long enough to prepare two sleeping spaces?”

“My princess shall gladly endure the duty of sharing my bed. Do not disturb us again,” Steve grits out, slamming the door shut. He turns toward you, and you watch, fascinated, as his demeanor shifts from rigidly furious prince to solicitous husband. The only common element between the two is an abiding tiredness you dearly wish to lift.

“It’s not a lie, your highness,” you point out.

Steve lets out a breath, and the last vestiges of the horrid facade he’s been forced to wear through much of his life seep away. You’ve done this, and you’ll do it again every night as long as you live, Gods’ willing.

Your husband holds out a hand and angles his head toward a closed door just a few steps away. You walk toward him, approximating the regal, joy-fueled walk you should have been able to offer him at the Joining. When you place your hand in his, the happiness you feel is strong enough to change the world.

The two of you agreed to rebuild the nation, and in so doing, revitalize the league of kingdoms into something more just, more prepared for the coming century. You’d never expected to find this much joy in the process--and it’s only day one.

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