That's right, guys... I finally reorganized after 2 years of writing. Enjoy<3
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Requests- Info (Open)
I'll write pretty much anything, so don't be afraid to ask!! I absolutely love it when you guys submit requests and it keeps me busy. Ask anonymously if you want, I don't really mind. Alsooo just specificy like if you want the more headcannon-ish style thing (like what I have for Subby! Jason Todd or OlderBF! Bruce Wayne) or if you want like an actual one shot. Im super excited to see what you guys will come up with!
Friendly reminder that writers are people, too. Yes, it may take a while to respond to an ask. No, I don't really want to write everything that you guys request. No, I am not obligated to appeal to your every demand, and nobody else is, either.
STEVE ROGERS holds on to you for dear life when he sleeps.
It seems childish, almost, that such a seasoned, experienced soldier requires such simple comforts to get any rest. You don't seem to mind it, though.
Back when he served in the 40's, it was unthinkabke for a man to need those kinds of luxuries. Hell, he probably would've gotten the shit beaten out of him for voicing such desires.
But then he met Peggy.
Oh, how he yearned for her.
Her smile held the warmth of a thousand hugs, and even a brush of her hand against his left Steve spiraling. Captain America genuinely thought that he would marry her, if he survived the war.
That was before he went into the ice.
The only thing he had to hold on to during what he thought would be the last few moments of his life were the controls of the plummeting aircraft.
He could look all he wanted at the photo he kept of Ms. Carter, but she was much too far to touch and hold.
With you, though, he has a second chance.
Within your eyes, he doesn't see a replacement for Peggy; he sees a chance for both of you to have the relationship and comforts you deserve.
So, yes, Captain America sleeps clung to your side like a loyal pet.
Yes, he yearns for your presence on those long missions away from your embrace.
Yes, Steve Rogers misses a few nights of sleep if he must.
Because he needs you more than he needs rest, more than he needs any kind of sustenance.
And if he has to bear being the punchline to some of Bucky and Sam's jokes about him being a lapdog, then so be it.
At least he has the warmth of your body next to his every time he enters the calm state of surrender.
Masterlist
A/N: this has been on my mind for a while, so consider this an apology for being MIA for so long lol
I miss you, how’ve you been diva?? Hope you’ve been good. UGH WHY WAS THAT SO DRY
Hi diva!! I miss you sm💗 i literally think abt you every time i think about my steve fics lol
Im doing okay, just going through a ton with finals and a new job!! Also, I had to file a police report against my old boss last week so that was insane. But anyway, I promise ill get back to writing again soon!! Maybe I'll pick up the last fic I was working on after I get home from work tonight. Tysm for asking I love you guys!
just a reminder that this blog is run by someone who:
— is anti ICE & fascism
— is pro-choice & feminist
— supports trans & queer people
— hates generative AI & capitalism
— supports immigrants & people of color
— is pro-environmentalism & social justice
— supports palestine & all other territories unjustly suffering
A short preview of what ive been working on for Steve💗💗💗
"Your pulse is racing,” he notes, as if he could just continue with his life without your previous conversation.
“You’re standing between my legs, Steve. What did you expect?”
It’s meant to be teasing, to be a lighthearted jab at just how clueless Captain America can manage to be. The words falter as they form on your lips, however, coming out as a soft whisper among the ambient buzz of the medbay.
He knows you’re right– he’s far closer than what’s considered professional– but he doesn’t move. Steve’s eyes are hard to read on a good day, mevermind right now when they’re staring so deeply into yours. If you didn’t know better, though, you’d say that there’s something akin to longing within them.
“Do you want me to move?”
There it is: the out you normally would have been looking for. He’s giving you a chance to pull away, to have things go back to normal and act like none of this ever happened. It’s an easy escape, really… all you have to do is say ‘yes.’
Chat im working on something AMAZING for steve😋 its gonna be a kinda slow burn with eventual smut and should be out within the next couple of days
Also!! I am quitting my job, I'm putting in my two weeks as soon as I have another one lined up bc i no longer feel safe at my current job👍 and yknow what the pay isnt even that good.
Chat should I quit my job? My boss just yelled at me after i joked abt doing my bfs nails saying things like "what the fuck is wrong with your generation?!" And "men cant get their nails painted! Its not natural and immoral!"
She also has some very interesting things to say abt lgbt people and LOVES trump
HIIIII I missed you so I had to come back 😛. Can you pls write something about how Steve rogers would be with a really high maintenance girly girl that’s also lokey kind of weird as fuck (litt me). Thank you queennn. MWAHHH 💋
THE ULTIMATE GUIDE TO STEAL CAPTAIN AMERICA'S HEART
Steve Rogers x High Maitenence! Reader
HIIII MISSED YOU TOO💗 trust ill get to the req you just sent in too but i thought itd be weird not to answer the older one first. Also i wanted to try something a little different with this one so I hope you like it!!
#1. Know What to Wear
"It's ugly."
"It's practical," Tony corrects, barely sparing a passing glance at the outfit as he does so. For a man who designed an entire armoured suit in a cave with a bunch of scraps, he has absolutely no taste when it comes to aesthetics. "Fire resistant, armoured in all the places that matter-"
"It's attrocious," you counter, pulling slightly at the neckline of the uncomfortable uniform. It's scratchy in all of the worst spots, dragging across sensitive skin that might as well sense that this isn't the soft, pillowy fabric you've grown accustomed to. "And itchy."
"Sweetheart, it's only one mission-" Steve tries to reason, but he's quickly shut up by the pouty glare you shoot him.
"The seams are all uneven, Stark," the words come out with such aggression that, if he hadn't known you, Tony probably would've taken it as a threat. "I'll be chaffing in, like, twenty minutes, max!"
"Well, we can't always get what we want, now can we, Mrs. America?"
"Fine, I'm off the mission then. Go find somebody else to dress up like some discount Martha Stuart."
That gets Tony to look up from whatever project he's working on. "No you're not."
"Try me, tin can."
It doesn't take long for him to shoot a glance to Steve, who's mouthing 'just let her' while perfectly within your view.
"Let me guess," Stark sighs, "you want to wear the pink dress instead?"
"Is the sky blue?" You ask sarcastically, a hand coming to your hip as you continue to stare. "If I'm playing dress up for some info, then I'm doing it my way. Besides, I get mean when my skin gets irritated."
Your comments earn a small smile out of Steve, who's really trying not to crack and chuckle at your attitude.
"... Fine. But if you get caught, you'll be the one explaining to Fury."
Satisfied, you give a curt nod and attatch yourself to Steve's arm before turning towards the hallway.
"You drive a tough bargain," he jokes, blue eyes meeting yours for a moment before turning to the space in front of him. "I'm actually impressed."
You shrug, as if you didn't just annoy the richest man in the city into letting you wear customized gear for a mission. "Just wanted to make sure I'm comfortable and confident."
#2. Value Your Possessions
"Sweetheart, are you sure you didn't leave it in the-" Steve's voice is calm, borderline soothing, if you let it be, but he gets cut off by your agitated sigh nonetheless.
"I know it's not there, Steve!" You're not trying to shout, hell, you're actively trying not to, but the words just come out before you can stop them. Even taking a deep breath or two doesn't seem to ease your frustration.
"You're just as beautiful without the lipgloss, doll. We can look for it after-"
The glare you shoot him silences him quickly, the words dying on his tongue before you become more upset. Rationally, you know that the lipgloss isn't a big deal; you can buy another one after the party. Irrationally, you feel like you'll die of embarassment and everyone will know that you lost your favorite lip gloss right before and point at you while laughing.
Will that actually happen?
Probably not.
Does your brain think it will?
Absolutely.
Steve sighs slightly, leaning against your bedroom doorframe. His suit is perfectly pressed and fits against him like a second skin that you'd really love to peel off any other time. The sight of him so well put together genuinely makes you want to cry.
Why would he choose you?
You're not put together enough for somebody like him.
He's going to leave as soon as he realizes just how much of a mess you are.
You're so lost in your thoughts that you don't even notice Steve leaving, heading to another part of your apartment. That's when the thoughts really start getting to you.
Oh god he's leaving.
He's finally packing his things because he's so sick of you.
Where are you going to stay tonight?
Maybe Natasha has some extra room-
Something being placed in your palm stops you mid-thought, though. Something... Suspiciously lip gloss shaped. Steve had stepped back into the room before your thoughts could get any deeper. You didn't even hear his footsteps approaching until he was right in front of you.
"In the bathroom drawer," he states simply, a small, knowing smile spreading across his face, "where I told you to check."
Genuinely, you were about to make contingency plans on what to do if he just walked out on you over losing a lip gloss. And he's smiling. He's literally being cheeky about being right.
Something about it almost makes you smile. Almost. A small curve takes over your lips- not enough to be a smile- but that's enough for Steve. And, for the first time in the past hour since your frantic search for your beloved cosmetic, you actually breathe.
"Shall we?" He asks, putting an arm out for you to wrap around.
You're sure you'll pounce on this man at some point tonight, whether it's because of his manners or how damn good that suit looks on him.
#3. Be Yourself
Your vanity is absolutely covered in makeup swatches. Some are pink, others are red, and there are even some hints of purple in the mix. Hell, there are even some colors that you know don't suit you, but you bought them because you thought they were gorgeous.
It's definitely a sight to behold.
"Sweetheart, have you seen my-" Steve has barely come around the corner before the bomb of lipsticks and eye shadows nearly blinds him. "Oh."
You look and feel like a child caught with their hand in a cookie jar. Your arms and hands are covered in swatches, too, and you've probably got some product on your shirt. There's silence for a while as Steve just stares in equal parts amusement and concern. "Hey..." You break eventually, putting down whichever shade had been captivating you last.
"You uh... Playing a bit of dressup?"
"Yeah..."
Then just more silence.
Until you burst out laughing, undoubtedly smudging some of the swatches on your arms as you cross them over your stomach. "Steve, I swear to god, I'm not crazy!" You attempt to reason, but the words come out weak amongst your fit of near-snorts.
Steve can't help but chuckle a little, too. For the first time since this situation started, he actually takes a couple of steps into the room. He takes a seat on the side of your shared bed, knees almost brushing against your vanity chair.
"Do you... Need a fresh canvas?" He offers, rolling up a sleeve before sticking his bare arm out. The backs of his arms have a small amount of hair on them, but not enough to mess up your swatches at all. His forearms are perfect, too, with smooth skin and minimal scarring from all of the battles he's endured.
A smile creeps up from your cheeks, making your face just a little bit sore. "That would be lovely, Captain," you tease slightly, running light fingers across the flesh.
"Anything to help a civilian, ma'am."
Ugh. He's hot and funny.
It makes you want to roll your eyes and giggle at the same damn time.
You start out simple, trying out a few lipsticks that you're a little unsure about. Occasionally, you draw little hearts and other shapes into his skin. Steve smiles every time, pressing light kisses to your forehead at ever chance he gets.
It's peaceful. Domestic. Very much unlike the explosion that must've happened on your vanity.
Does Steve particularly want to be rocking a bunch of makeup swatches on his arms like he walked to close to the tester isle in Sephora?
No.
Will he do it anyway, for you?
Without a second thought.
Steve doesn't go out of his way to wipe off any more than he has to until it eventually fades away. When it does, though, he makes sure to pick up a few new shades for you to test on him. "Quality control," is what he calls it.
You call it making him the prettiest boy at every single one of Stark's parties.
So obsessed with the idea of messy ex! Roy who you *always* end up hooking up with when you run into him. One day you’re telling him you hate him, he’s toxic, you never want to see him again- two weeks later you run into him at the bar and he’s fucking you in the bathroom, sending you back to the dance floor with your panties soiled with his cum. At this point everyone has given up on trying to keep track of y’all’s relationship status.
BAR BATHROOMS
Ex! Roy Harper x Fem! Reader
Warnings- Orgasm Denial, PiV, Unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, chronically online whores), hinted infidelity, slapping, degrading, and lmk if you see any more that i missed!
A/N: holy crap this has been in my inbox for months and this snow storm literally just gave me sm motivation. Ik I haven't been posting a ton recently, but y'all sre always welcome to send in reqs! And to those affected by the snow storm this weekend, please stay safe!💗
Look, seeing Roy wasn’t really part of your agenda tonight, alright? Especially at your job.
Working as a waitress at Coyote Ugly’s definitely was not where you saw yourself ending up when you were a child, but it paid the bills. Plus, the tips were pretty decent, considering there were some absolutely nasty men hanging around most nights just to see some pretty girls dance on the bar top.
It was a fairly new job, too. Or, at least, you weren’t working there around the time that you and Roy were together.
Alright, “together” is a strong word. A very strong word, for that matter. Most of your relationship was just hanging out at your apartment (he didn’t want Lian to be around his love life), maybe smoking a bit of pot, and fucking like rabbits until the sun came up. And honestly? You both liked keeping it that way. It was simple, noncommittal, and a whole hell of a lot easier than working out both of your issues.
The night was relatively calm, only a couple of guys making crude comments as you hopped on up to the bar top. “Rollin’ (Air Raid Vehicle)” was playing, and almost every girl in the joint sang along if they knew it. At that point, the loud noises and obnoxious scents, mostly including sweat, alcohol, and marijuana, just didn’t get to you like they used to. Hell, you barely even flinched when a couple of cups smashed while you swayed your hips to the beat, doing the choreography engraved into your brain since your first day on the job.
Then came the mass number of giggles from the corner of the joint. Now that is a rare sound that you’re just not used to yet. You looked up, just out of habit, and saw the most repulsive sight imaginable.
Roy mother-fucking Harper with a bunch of women and men surrounding him like an art piece. You didn’t see his face, but you really didn’t need to; the red hair and backwards hat that you’ve stolen more times than you could count gave it away.
He didn’t know that you worked here. At least you thought he didn’t. It didn’t matter- you didn’t want to see his smug face with those giggly, tipsy girls practically licking his biceps. Even the thought grossed you out a little.
As soon as the song ended, you had your heart set on taking your break, at least to get away for the next fifteen minutes of your shift. If not forever. Maybe you could just run away to another city and never run into him again.
No, that’s too cliche… Another country would work far better; there’s less of a chance of running into him. Canada wasn’t sounding too bad at the moment.
You’re pretty sure you ran faster than a track star making your way to the back. Roy was out of sight, probably with some girl talking about how her boyfriend wouldn’t have to know if he took her home. It was actually disgusting.
Who needs a boyfriend, anyway?
You genuinely thought you escaped his stupid face once you made it into the bathroom, the door slamming shut behind you. The sound probably went unnoticed by the rest of the patrons, anyway. Smells emanated from the restroom, as well, but at least they mostly consisted of perfume and cleaning supplies (thank God for the janitors being so damn quick).
Maybe you could just hide away until the end of your shift. He'd surely be gone within the next half hour or so, right?
And, for a few minutes, you thought you were safe. Nobody came in, and not a single person even knocked on the door. You had your own little safe haven within those four walls, and you intended to keep it that way.
Until the door burst open.
Your head whipped around, half expecting it to be some drunk broad, half expecting it to be a clingy Roy who's had just a bit too much to drink.
It was both. Pawing at eachother. Practically undressing each other with their hands down eachothers pants
Was it gross? Hot? You really weren't sure. What you were sure of, though, was that you wanted nothing to do with it. Or rather, him.
The frustrated sigh that tore its way from your lungs got his attention in a flash, bright and wide eyes staring up at you like a child caught snooping where they shouldn't. His reaction was almost immediate, pulling away from the woman virtually smothering him in slobbery kisses.
"How 'bout you wait outside, gorgeous?" He suggested to the blonde, a string of saliva still connecting their mouths like some filthy string of fate. "I'll take care of this, sweet, considerate dancer so we can have some time alone, alright?"
The mock sweetness in his voice like poison, leaving a disgustingly bitter taste on your tongue. You almost roll your eyes before he shoots you a small wink, one that says 'I'm absolutely taking your sweet ass home tonight.'
The woman leaves one more lewd kiss upon his lips, practically tongue fucking him before leaving with swaying hips and smudged lipstick.
You know you don't have the rights to Roy like that anymore. You know that whatever semblance of a stable relationship you had with the ginger was long gone before you saw him tonight. You don't know what comes over you, but the utter anger and hurt that seeing Roy with another woman makes your blood boil. You don't think until after the sound of your hand striking his cheek echoes through the tile walls.
Roy didn't move, stumble, or even flinch. He stood still, eyes staring directly into your own. The blood rushing to the red spot on his cheek was almost enough to take the pressure away from his painfully hard cock. Almost.
"You done?" He asks, voice quieter than it was with the previous girl but holding just as much weight. Roy stands over you now, cheeks red while crowding you back into the cold tile wall. It's not threatening- you know Roy would never lay a finger on you like that- but it's definitely authoritative.
Some part of his gaze makes you want to fight back, make a bigger scene, and prove to yourself that you're above him. "I..." The word comes out so much more hesitant than you would have liked. So much for putting up a fight. "Yeah," you add afterwards, the sound so quiet that you're not sure if he even heard you.
"Good..." he mumbles softly, the sound of his voice echoing softly off of the bathroom walls, "that's good..." The sound is almost like a groan, like some kind of noise he's been holding in since the last time he saw you beneath him. A hand comes up to your cheek then, ostensibly soft and caring, but you know the truth behind his touch. You know exactly what kind of trouble Roy is looking for the moment that his thumb brushes against your lower lip.
Maybe you're looking for trouble, too.
You probably should have pulled away when his lips met yours in a fierce kiss. But did you? Absolutely not. His mouth is wet, hot, and sloppy against yours, his tongue pressing insistently on the seam of your lips. He tasted like whiskey and strawberry lip-gloss- from that bimbo chick, no doubt.
This entire situation would be embarrassing to you on any other night of the week, but it's Friday... Why not have a little bit of fun?
Roy was quick to press you against the wall as soon as you reciprocated, one hand cradling your head against the cold tile while the other began to knead and palm at your ass. A few sounds escaped his lips between heated kisses, mostly consisting of light moans and sighs. Any other time, you probably would have given him shit for it. But some part of you, deep down, is getting off on your ex being such a whiney whore for you.
Before you know it, Roy's grinding into you like a wild animal, letting out soft huffs and moans right into your mouth. He's hard, almost painfully so, and you know it. Maybe it was the sharp pain of your hand gliding across his cheek, or maybe it was the sight of you all dolled up to dance for some sleezebags at work. Either way, it has him going like there's no tomorrow.
"Where do you get off," he pants between kisses, lading a small smack to your rear, "slapping me like that?" He punctuates the end of his question with another smack, rubbing and kneading the spot afterwards. "You think you're just so high and mighty treating me like shit, hm?"
"Fuck you, Harper," you hiss slightly, pulling away from his feverish mouth. There is not a single person that makes your blood boil and panties wet like Roy, and you know it.
"You wish."
He knows it, too.
You waste little to no time unbuttoning your denim shorts, nearly ripping off your panties as you expose your lower half. If Roy was shocked at all, he was certainly doing one hell of a job hiding it as he pulled down the zipper on his jeans. His tip was leaky and an angry red, just begging for your attention like it always did.
Pathetic, you thought.
Roy's hand was warm as it gripped at your thigh, hitching one leg up over his hip and taking a nice, long look at your weeping cunt. "Fuck..." he murmured, letting his free thumb press a quick swipe to your achy clit. The moan you let out in response genuinely made you want to die.
And Roy? He had the audacity to laugh at you. God, he pissed you off without even trying. You would have made a snarky comment, calling him needy and a man whore, you really would have! But the sudden press of his thick tip against your entrance made your breath stutter like the air had been knocked out of your lungs.
"Look at her..." Roy all but moans, sliding his tip through your slick, coating it like some obscene porno, "she's just begging for me, ain't she?"
At this point, you've had enough of the games and mocking. Hell, you'd had enough of that far before the two of you went your separate ways. Without giving him any kind of response, you push your hips forward just enough to take his tip inside of your tight pussy.
"Fucking Christ, babe." The whine he lets into your shoulder is louder than anything you've let out yet tonight, echoing slightly throughout the bathroom. "So fucking tight... it's like you've been waiting for me."
You'd be lying if you said that you didn't let out any embarrassing noises, either, but Roy's comments were able to drown out any of your own responses. Even just his tip was thicker than you remembered, stretching the sensitive muscles of your cunt far more than your own fingers ever could.
"As if," you reply snarkily, almsot like an annoyed teenager in a movie. You'd probably cringe at how cheesy that was if Roy wasn't already pressing his hips snug against yours.
His pace isn't fast, but it isn't exactly slow either. Something about the rhythm is just so uniquely Roy.
You hate it, you try to convince yourself. You hate every damn thing in this godforsaken city that even resembles Roy Harper. His hats, those stupid polarized sunglasses he loves so much, the waterbottle he left on your kitchen counter.
But you kept all of it.
And you kept running back to him.
You hate Roy Harper. But you love the way he fucks.
His fingers tug your hair back harshly, earning a startled noise from deep within your throat. "Look at this," he grunts out, hips still beating against yours in a way that makes you see stars, "not even a single mark on this pretty little throat."
Roy's lips begin sucking at your unmarked skin greedily, like whatever he takes will never be enough. He's a black hole: a gap in the universe that draws everything close to it before destroying it all. But you knew that from the moment you met.
Your nails dig into his shoulders, undoubtedly leaving crescent-shaped marks on his pale skin beneath his shirt. The ginger lets out a whiny moan, like some boytoy in a porno. He's always had a thing for marking, but your touch just really gets something in him going.
It isn't long before he's actually whining like a bitch in heat, sucking deep, purple marks into your skin as if it'll shut him up. Hips collide with yours haphazardly, pulling out with his tip just barely inside before pressing in again.
"Oh, god..." Roy moans. Actually fucking moans. As if he isn't the one in control. "This pretty pussy's gonna milk me dry..."
His face is beet red- no doubt from a combination of alcohol and physical exertion. You know the look in his eyes, the one that says he's so close to blowing that he might actually pass out. The one that tells you you're probably not going to tip over that edge before him.
It makes you angry, honestly, that he has the nerve to come to your work, get in your pants, yet you're the one that won't be satisfied in the end. Actually, it has you fuming, because there's no way you're about to let that much pleasure be stripped away from you by an absolute loser.
You're so caught up in your silent brooding that you barely even notice Roy pulling out, only looking down when you hear his high-pitched moans and feel the warmth of his semen on your thighs. You certainly don't miss the way he aims for your panties as it spews out in thick, white ropes.
"What the actual fuck, Harper!?" You whisper yell, as if it'll redeem the noises that have come out of that bathroom in the past fifteen minutes. "Really? You just had to cum in my favorite fucking panties without even getting me off?"
And Roy?
He laughs. Actually laughs.
"Don't get your panties in a twist, babe," he jokes, throwing on one of those smiles that screams 'I know you liked it.'
You stay silent, giving him the worst death glare he's seen in his life.
"Yeah, okay..." He adds in a self deprecating whisper, "didn't think that'd go over super well." The two of you are silent as you clean up, Roy handing you paper towels from the dispenser before tucking himself back into his jeans.
Note to self, those bar bathroom paper towels don't do shit to soak up cum, especially from your panties.
There's a moment, after you've both cleaned up, that you just stare at eachother. You could yell, scream, hit him again... Make him regret ever leaving you. Or you could kiss him senseless and make him finish the job.
You do neither, turning away before he has the chance to speak.
"Oh, come on, pretty girl..." He begs, almost grabbing your wrist before deciding better of it at the last moment, "What time do you get off work tonight?"
You snicker, looking back for a brief moment before opening the bathroom door to the chaos of the bar, "Wouldn't you like to know, weather boy?"
jason todd, who moans like a pornstar. first they're raspy and deep, the kind you'd expect from a burly man who drives a motorcycle. but as he gets closer to the sweet taste of release, the noises become pitchy, almost whining. he's embarrassed by how easy he sounds; the way a well placed nip of your teeth can pull a broken, whiny noise from the man's throat, no matter the length he goes to hide it.
jason todd, who can't shut the fuck up when he's inside you. it's like his brain shuts down; he's unable to stop himself from saying "you look so pretty like this, ma," when he's folding you in half, his lips between his teeth like it'll keep the sound of low, broken whimpers from leaving his throat. it never does.
jason todd, who underestimated how much he'd end up liking the feeling of your hands wrapped around his neck, just barely providing a hint of pressure. something about it just makes his mind feel fuzzy with pleasure, like nothing matters but the feeling of your fingers on his skin and the feeling of being inside you.
jason todd, who wants you to smack him around a little during sex. you're riding him, hips slamming down over his in a sweet rhythm. yet it's not enough; he's perilously close to the edge, but jason just needs... needs... "hit me," he babbles from beneath you, his brows furrowed in flustered frustration, "hit me, ma."
your hips stutter as you cock your head, murmuring a low, "what?"
"hit me, i... i need--" he groans in quiet frustration, "smack me, baby, please."
and ever one to please, you do.
the moan jason lets out is sinful. its a broken, needy thing; the kind of sound you want to keep for yourself alone, like a treasured secret.
Pls make a imagine or smth with Steve rogers but its new years themed where you’re both eating grapes under a table but you can’t stop laughing and whatnot so you don’t finish the grapes in enough time? Idc how you do it, I love your writing regardless. You’re an angel, mwah.
STEVE ROGERS is willing to humor your New Year's traditions, even if he's literally never heard of them before.
When you asked him to pick up grapes from the store earlier that day, he didn't think much of it. He'd never turn down going out to get you something if it made you happy.
The refrigerated section of the store, however, seemed oddly barren of grapes. There were only five or so bags left, despite there not being many people in the local market. Huh. Weird. Must be a ton of people who make those cheese and grape boards for parties.
At least, that's what he chalked it up to.
You greeted him with the usual kiss on his cheek and "thank you" when he arrived home, grocery bags in hand. He brought home some wine, too- just in case you felt like having a glass to celebrate when the clock finally hit 12:00 AM.
It wasn't until two minutes before midnight that you ushered him over, already sat beneath the table with a pile of grapes in your hands. "Steve, come sit! I don't want you to miss it," you beamed, patting the spot next to you. You nearly dropped a grape in the process.
"Miss what, exactly...?" The words came out with a confused lilt, his brow furrowing slightly as he watched you get comfortable under the dining room table.
You looked at him with just as much confusion for a moment before realizing that you've never actually explained the whole grape thing to him. "It's for good luck in the new year," you explain, moving over as he takes a seat next to you, "You're supposed to eat twelve grapes under the table in a certain amount of time once it's midnight."
Steve lets out a soft huff of a laugh at that, taking the small pile of grapes you've offered him before throwing an arm around your shoulders. "That explains why there were only a few bags left at the store."
A small tablet was already sat in front of the two of you, counting down the second until midnight. You couldn't help but stare at Steve's smile as the countdown hit five seconds.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
In a flash, your mouth was stuffed full of grapes. Really, you could only fit three or so without choking, but you were blasting right through them.
Steve wasn't too far behind, trying his best to stay "gentlemanly" and not overstuffed his mouth. Within a few seconds, he was straightening his back out to get more comfortable.
Until you heard a loud 'thump!' next to you. Well, more like above you
Steve's laughter filled the air beneath the table, muffled slightly by the grapes still sat on his tongue. His free hand was rubbing the back of his head as he tried to contain himself.
You felt bad, sure, but you really couldn't stop yourself from giggling just as loudly, falling into his side as your midsection locked up. "Oh my god," you get out between short huffs, "you okay there, Cap?"
Steve nodded, a few small chuckles still escaping him as he pulled you in for a kiss. It was messy, fun, and full of promises for another worndful year together. When you finally pulled away, his picture-perfect smile was still intact.
"Happy New Year's, sweetheart."
AN: Oh my god i literally couldn't help myself writing this. I actually freaking loved the idea of this, even though I've actually never done the grape thing. Fun fact, I actually timed up Peacefield by Ghost to the countdown so the guitar in the intro would play at 12
i hope you plan to keep writing for marvel/steve rogers bc i NEED more!!!!!
STEVE ROGERS loves with actions, not words.
Of course he tells you just how much he loves you at any given moment- there's no doubt about that. Especially in his line of work, where any interaction between the two of you could quite possibly be the last.
Steve has never hesitated to hold the door open for you, buckle you into the car, or press a kiss to the side of your mouth when he comes home to find you already asleep. It's just all a part of who he is, really.
All of that, of course, translates to under the sheets, as well.
On the rare occasion that you've managed to stay up late enough to catch him coming home from a long day, it's impossible to get his hands off of you. It's almost like he's everywhere and nowhere all at once, his hands moving at what might ad well be lightning speed.
It's never about the sex with Steve, it's about the intimacy of it all.
It's about being able to hold your sweaty body against him, rubbing soothing circles into your back and pressing a kiss into your hair. It's about being able to smile and laugh slightly when you make eye contact afterward. It's about existing in the same space, so content and satisfied that neither of you needs to speak.
That says so much more about his love for you than words ever could.
AN: anon, i love you for sending this request in. i was literally so worried that nobody would like/want me to post any marvel stuff (specifically americas ass) on this blog, especially since the fic i posted last night didn't do as good as some of my other ones and you literally just saved me from a world of self doubt💗 feel free to request anything specific for americas golden boy because god dayum I have some ideas in stock
Kinda slow burn ish?? Idk this is my first time writing for Marvel and I sincerely hope I dont offend my loyal DC fanbase lol
Your hands shake far more than they should after this kind of mission, the faint tremors nearly timed up with your uneasy breaths. Your armor feels too heavy, too tight, too hot- just too much. Its flexible material is caked with blood, not much of it being your own. It nearly sticks to your skin as you peel off whatever you can without being entirely exposed.
The medbay is near silent, only the faint hum of distant machines filling the void in the air. It's hard to tell whether the silence makes the post-mission heavier or lighter. A clock ticks nearby, its metronome-like rhythm providing something other than your brief inhales and exhales to focus on.
The mission was relatively simple, on paper. Get in, get the files S.H.I.E.L.D. needed from the facility, and get out. It should have been easy, but you knew better than that from the moment you stepped foot in the secured building.
No real casualties occurred, except for the usual bruised rib or battered face. You made it away with only a few red marks scattered around your body, most of which were on your back.
You were going to just patch yourself up, cleaning out any particularly nasty wounds with a bit of peroxide before calling it a day. Natasha asked if you needed any assistance before she left, and you reassured her that you had it covered.
You severely overestimated the reach of your arms behind your back.
Your upper limbs felt twisted every which way, struggling to reach the last couple of lacerations on your upper back. Honestly, if any one else saw you right now, you'd be suffering from the worst embarrassment of your life.
A soft, unmistakable clearing of a throat breaks the quiet.
You freeze.
For a split second, panic flares, because you know that sound. You don’t have to turn around to picture him standing there, broad shoulders probably filling the doorway, posture too straight for someone trying to pretend they weren’t watching. Heat creeps up your neck as you fumble to straighten, arms dropping awkwardly to your sides.
Damn you for not taking some sort of gymnastics course when you were younger.
“Sorry,” Steve says quickly, voice low, almost apologetic. “I— Didn’t mean to startle you.” There’s a pause, hesitant, like he’s debating whether to say anything else at all. “Natasha said everyone was cleared, but I just wanted to make sure you were… okay.”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, nodding slightly before forming a response. “Yeah,” you answer, a little too fast. “I’m fine. Just...apparently not as flexible as I thought.”
There’s the faintest huff of a laugh behind you, surprised and immediately stifled. Silence stretches again, thicker this time, until you hear him shift his weight.
“Looks like you missed a spot,” he says, careful, eyes already pointed anywhere but your bare skin. “On your upper back. If you want, I can—help. Just to clean it.”
You hesitate. It shouldn’t be a big deal. It’s Steve Rogers: your teammate, your friend. Still, the thought of him that close sends an unexpected flutter of nerves through you. You feel oddly uncomfortable with the idea of him seeing you vulnerable.
“…Okay,” you say finally, quieter now. The sound, though near silent, feels like it echoes through the room.
He approaches slowly, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might send you bolting. You hear the soft clink of a tray shifting as he reaches for antiseptic and gauze. When his hand finally touches your shoulder, it’s feather-light, almost a question. His fingers flex slightly, pressing gently into the untouched skin before he can stop himself.
“Tell me if it hurts,” he murmurs, voice nearly carried away by the sounds of miscellaneous machines around the medbay.
The first swipe of cool antiseptic makes you inhale sharply, flinching away from his touch slightly. Steve immediately stills, pulling back just enough to not make you feel crowded.. “Too much?”
“No—no, it’s fine,” you assure him after dissecting your brain for just the right words to say. “Just surprised.”
“Right. Sorry.” His touch resumes, gentler this time, methodical. He works in careful strokes, focused, like he’s afraid of doing something wrong. You can feel the warmth of him behind you, solid and steady, close enough that you’re acutely aware of every movement, every breath.
Neither of you says much.
The silence isn’t uncomfortable exactly. Just… charged. Like you’re both suddenly aware that this is different from passing weapons in the field or standing shoulder to shoulder in a briefing room. This is quiet. Personal. His thumb brushes your skin accidentally, and you feel him tense, clearing his throat again as if grounding himself.
“All set,” he says eventually, stepping back a little too quickly. “They weren’t deep. You’ll heal up just fine.”
You turn to face him, catching the way his ears are faintly pink. For a moment, neither of you knows what to do with your hands, your words.
“Thanks,” you say softly, the sound almost lost in the silent room.
Steve nods, offering a small, polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It almost seems like his smiles never do that, nowadays. “Anytime.” Then, after a moment or so, “Really.”
And then he leaves, just like that. The medbay door hisses open and closed while his footsteps get further and further. You don't turn your head in time to see him look back at you just before he walks out.
The air feels stale, heavy. Like something inside of your mind trying to claw its way out without your permission. No, stop that, you think internally, stop feeling weird around him.
Your mind, of course, doesn't listen. The next meeting you had was absolute torture.
The conference room is already half full when you arrive, lights dimmed just enough for the holographic table to glow faint blue. The air smells like coffee that’s been reheated one too many times and ozone from Stark’s tech. You take your usual seat without thinking, muscle memory guiding you more than conscious choice, and only realize your mistake when the chair beside you shifts.
Steve sits down.
It shouldn’t matter, really- Steve has always sat next to you. It’s like some silent routine that the two of you have fallen into within the past few years. But everything just feels so… tight. Like there isn’t quite enough room for either of you and you have to squish in an uncomfortable amount.
He stays respectful, of course, keeping his distance whenever possible. The real awkward parts don’t happen until after the meeting has already begun.
Fury begins one of his usual speeches, boring and to the point (much to Tony’s dismay, eating a donut he got from who knows where across the table from yourself and Steve.) It's still routine, with a couple of snickering comments thrown out here and there.
But as soon as you grab one of Stark’s tablets in front of you to get a better glance at the presentation, your arm brushes right up against Steve’s. Your heart genuinely might have stopped for a moment before continuing its normal ‘thump,’ though certainly at a quicker rate.
“Sorry,” the word comes quicker than you thought possible, probably even swifter than the actual contact you made with his arm. God, this has to be in the top ten of your most embarrassing moments. It actually feels worse than that one time you sent a text about Steve to him instead of your best friend.
“It’s alright,” his response is soft and quiet, though you can’t tell if his tone is so gentle because he’s talking to you, or if it's because he doesn’t want to hear shit from Nick later for not paying the utmost attention to the debrief. You can’t get yourself to look at him long enough to notice the slight flush of his ears and cheeks. He’s thankful you didn’t.
You can’t help that you fidget a lot during meetings- they’re really just too long and boring not to find something else to occupy your mind with. At first, you twirled a pen around your fingers like some sort of butterfly knife. Force of habit, you suppose, considering how often you use them on the field.
But even that starts to bore you after a while.
Your knee bounces next, the toes of your shoes tapping against the ground silently. It’s a steady rhythm, one that you’re able to perfect without taking too much of your attention away from the key notes of the meeting. The tapping actually almost keeps you engaged, ebbing away at the restless feeling growing deep within your mind and bones.
Until your leg brushes right up against Steve’s.
You swear the universe just has it out for you today.
Your mouth moves to apologize, leg already stopping its repetitive motion and foot resting softly against the ground- but Steve stops you. “Don’t worry about it,” he mouths silently, eyes barely breaking away from the main presentation. You swear you feel Natasha’s eyes on the two of you and your awkwardly tense behaviour, but you try as hard as you can to ignore it.
Her gaze lingers on both of you, and there’s no doubt that she sees the far off look in your eyes and the faint pink color gathering on Steve’s face. Nat is absolutely clocking whatever is going on between the two of you, and you know damn well that you won’t be able to live it down. Later, she’ll probably ask if she can officiate the wedding just to tease.
Sooner or later, though, your fingers begin to toy with the pen again. It's a sleek, black metal- probably one of those nice ones that you took from Tony’s workshop without him noticing. The motion is mindless, just some sort of flow that you memorized while toying with the writing utensil. Your hand slips under the meeting room table, resting upon your knee while your fingers stick with the familiar movement.
Steve notices- of course he does.
He doesn’t look away from the presentation, doesn’t shift closer, doesn’t make eye contact with you… He just lets his fingers slide away from his lap and onto your knee, touching in a way that feels like he might not be there at all. Steve’s face is a light shade of pink, but other than that, he remains completely focused on whatever Fury has to say.
You freeze.
For a while, nothing happens. His fingers just stay resting softly upon your knee, right next to your fingers curled around Stark’s pen. But eventually, his palm opens slightly as he rests it over yours. He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t pull, just… stays there. Silent. Unwavering.
Your shoulders feel locked, like you couldn’t make them loosen up even if you tried. You don’t look at Steve- you don’t dare. You know damn well that if the two of you made eye contact right now, your entire friendship would be destroyed. You really don’t want to feel awkward whenever you look at the only person you work well with on field after this.
Steve’s jaw tightens, like his mind finally caught up with what his body was doing. He doesn’t move away instantly, doesn’t brush it off like a complete coincidence. He lets his touch linger, the warmth of his palm seeping into the top of your own hand. Then, just as quiet as his fingers came, his touch retreats.
The pen slips out of your hand shortly after that.
Neither of you says a word.
Not until the meeting is finally over and he brushes past you softly. “Great job in there,” he mentions softly, not waiting to hear your response. You don’t follow him- you honestly don’t think that your rapid heartbeat could handle it. You watch him leave with a gaze that's downright embarrassing.
The next few weeks are quieter than you expect. Not necessarily calmer- things never are as an Avenger- just quieter. Like the Earth knows that something is coming up but doesn’t have the audacity to make it happen just yet.
Steve keeps sitting next to you during meetings and debriefs. It feels far more deliberate now than it did before, his shoulder so close that you could nearly feel the heat radiating off of him. The two of you never touch, though- or at least not on purpose. The accidental brush of your hand against his arm is more charged than it used to be.
You begin to recognize his presence before even looking for him. His breathing is familiar, a pattern that you probably couldn’t tear out of your brain even if you tried. Even the way he sits down has a place in your mind, especially the light groan he lets out more often than not as if the mere action of resting takes a toll on him.
Steve notices everything now. The way your fingers start to twitch when you’re overly tired. The way your breathing struggles to even out after a mission that hits particularly close to home. He starts handing you water before you even know that you’re thirsty, whether it’s at the end of one of your workouts or post-training match. Sometimes, his hand will find your shoulder or elbow in passing, always lingering just long enough to be felt but never long enough to be questioned.
You started doing it, too.
You’ll wait for him after a mission, not leaving to head to your room until he’s off the Quinjet. You linger around the gym until he’s done training, even if you tell yourself you’re just cooling down. You even started bringing him coffee on mornings that he’s up before you, which is certainly more often than not.
But nothing happens.
And it’s the absolute worst experience of your life.
There are moments, a lot of them, where it almost does, though. Sometimes you laugh together just a bit too long to just be friends, and sometimes neither of your hands moves away quick enough when they brush against each other under the table. Too many nights are spent with your bodies too close together on the couch to just be a coincidence, your knees barely brushing against each other with each passing moment. Neither of you breaks the spell, though, instead choosing to stare blankly at the same television screen like it can break the invisible tension between you two.
Steve hesitates before leaving the room that you’re in, glancing back with just that tad bit of longing that makes your chest and lungs burn. You, unknowingly, start watching him leave whenever it happens.
The gym is quiet tonight, unlike during the more reasonable hours of the day. Nearly all of the lights are dim, and only Steve’s punches can be heard echoing through the vast space. It isn’t unusual for him to be down here so late, but it is, in fact, odd for you to be in the same space, as well.
Your footsteps are quiet, almost hesitant, on the concrete floors. Steve notices them anyway- he always does. The art of noticing comes so naturally when it’s about you. It always has, and Steve reckons that it always will. His punches don’t stop right away when you enter, your body only a couple of steps behind his.
Both of you know that you didn’t come down here just to work out.
“Looks like you could use a new set of wraps,” you mention quietly, your voice sounding foreign in the quiet area. You know how far he pushes himself, just how long he’ll let himself go without bothering with simple things like knucklewrap. Your gaze stays on his red, cracked hands for what feels like hours, until Steve finally turns around to face you fully.
The gym is silent now, the lack of sound feeling like a weighted blanket upon your heart and lungs.
“I’ll be alright,” he deflects carefully, yet he still stops beating the punching bag like it owes him something. He always stops for you. Steve doesn’t pull away when you take a few tentative steps forward, either.
That’s what really makes your chest ache like there’s no tomorrow.
Up close, there’s far more damage than you thought to the thick skin of his knuckles. The skin across his right hand is split, blood already dried to the slightly swollen flesh. There’s even a few specks of the dried crimson across the training mats beneath you, along with small scraps of his previous wraps. A slow and steady exhale escapes your nose as you reach down for the first aid kid tucked beneath the bench.
“Sit,” you request quietly, internally feeling just a little bit weird about bossing around the Captain America.
Steve hesitates for a moment, exactly like you knew he would, before eventually giving in and lowering himself onto the metal bench. His shoulders practically sink as soon as he does, bleeding out whatever tension they’d manage to retain for however long he had been down here. You kneel in front of him without a second though, taking both of his battered hands into your lap. They’re warm- incredibly so- and still shaking.
You take your time with them, gently brushing over the worst of the damage with your thumb before carefully removing the old tape. The sound of it tearing is too loud in the gym, but Steve doesn’t seem to mind much. He doesn’t flinch away from the faint sting of adhesive breaking away from his skin, but he watches you from beneath his eyelashes. You both know you can feel his gaze burning into you, but neither of you make it stop.
You clean up each little abrasion carefully, dragging the gauze over his skin with something akin to reverence. His fingers will twitch now and then, a slight tremor that has nothing to do with cooling down after nearly beating a punching bag to death. You can feel the weight of them in your lap, his jaw set like he’s just given you a piece of him that he has no way of taking back.
The wrap comes soon after you begin cleaning him, the pristine white sticking out against the inflammation and irritation of his skin. You’re unreasonably careful as you bring the roll of wrap around his hands, as if this is what will make him break into a million pieces as opposed to the workout that lead you both to this point. Steve isn’t fragile, far from it, actually, and you know that. But something inside you wants to treat him with the same kind of care and tenderness that one would with a fragile doll.
Eventually, he’s wrapped well enough to fight the Hulk with his bare hands.
You don’t let go. Neither does he.
Your gaze doesn’t meet his at first, instead focusing on your thumbs gently making their ways to his wrists and pausing to rub across the skin. When your eyes finally meet his, though, you both know what's coming next. You’ve both known since the day he cleaned those nasty gashes along your back and hesitated before leaving you all by yourself.
Steve’s jaw is set tightly, like he’s refraining from saying something irreversible, something that could change how you see each other from now on. The slight furrow in his brow looks similar to the one he gives you in the middle of a mission, waiting for your signal to continue. You don’t know if you could live with yourself if that signal never came at this moment.
His breath feels hot and heavy against your face, and you can only imagine that yours feels the same to him. Steve’s eyes have that kind of hesitant determination that you only get to see when he knows he’s making a reckless decision, one that could change the trajectory of an entire operation.
You nod slightly, fingers still tracing along his forearm damp with sweat. What you’re nodding to- you’re really not sure. Maybe you’re telling him that yes, you are here, or maybe you’re telling him that you know exactly what tension he’s feeling around you. Either way, he takes it as an order of such importance that it simply can’t be executed wrong.
Steve takes that as his command, a silent order in the middle of a battlefield.
Slowly, his head dips down closer to yours until your foreheads touch. Neither of you has broken eye contact- you wouldn’t dare. Your lips meet softly, pressing together in the kind of way that only weeks of tension and hesitation could create. Steve is stiff for a moment or two before pressing back, letting his lips move against yours like they’ve waited for decades.
But just as soon as it happened, he pulled away.
It’s not with haste- actually, it almost seems like he had to force himself to do so. You know it’s probably for the better if you don’t continue this right now, especially in the middle of the gym on some dirty training mats. The two of you sit in silence for what feels like forever before he finally lets out a whisper.
“We should-”
“Yeah,” you continued for him, the sentence still left incomplete. You stand from your spot on the floor with ease, and Steve follows from the bench not too long after. Neither of you speaks as you each pack up your belongings, eventually turning off the gym’s lights as you both exit the room.
It feels like the tension might genuinely be impossible to break, but at least he walked you to your room at the end of the night. That is certainly something new.
