Hey @doctorhelena!! I had SO MUCH FUN writing this for @steggyfanevents!! I hope you enjoy it!! You can read the fic here or on AO3! https://archiveofourown.org/works/76352396
all the ways you knock me breathless
Rating: PG-13
Setting: Los Angeles, 1947 (Agent Carter Season 2)
Bernard the flamingo was staring at him again.
Steve paused halfway down the stairs of Howard Stark’s ostentatious Los Angeles home, Howard called it a “residence”; Steve called it a mansion, and made eye contact with the bright pink flamingo currently standing in the foyer for no reason other than “he likes the acoustics in here.” Howard said that with a straight face. Howard could say anything with a straight face when he was proud of himself.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Steve muttered, trying to sidestep Bernard’s accusing gaze. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”
Bernard, beak gleaming, absolutely judged him anyway.
Steve sighed. “I know it’s date night. I’m going.”
Bernard said nothing, as flamingos generally do, but the silence felt pointed.
a few hours earlier
Peggy answered her desk phone at the SSR like she was picking up a live grenade.
“Carter,” she said crisply, posture perfect, voice clipped, completely not-betraying that her heart always did a soft, embarrassing swoop whenever a certain miraculously alive, very secret boyfriend called her during work hours.
On the other end, Steve pitched his voice lower, softer, the tone he used only for her. “Hey, sweetheart.”
Peggy nearly flung the receiver across the office.
“Can’t use that word,” she hissed under her breath, eyes darting to where Sousa was rummaging through case files and where Rose was typing with the competence of ten very caffeinated women. “I am at work.”
“I know,” Steve said, far too amused. “I can hear you glaring.”
“I am not glaring.”
“You’re definitely glaring.”
Peggy smiled despite herself, shoulders loosening. “What do you need?”
“Well,” Steve said, drawling just a little, “I was thinking I could take the most remarkable woman I know to dinner tonight. Somewhere with food that isn’t from Howard’s fridge.”
Peggy pinched the bridge of her nose. “I told him to label that jar.”
“I know. He told you he would,” Steve said. “And then he stuck a pink note on it that said ‘danger?’ with a question mark.”
“That man should not be allowed near chemicals.” She leaned closer to the receiver. “Where?”
“Santorini’s. Eight o’clock.”
Her heart fluttered. He always picked places with dim lights and dance floors, the one indulgence they allowed themselves in public. “Eight,” she murmured. “I’ll be there.”
“I’ll have the blue dress smuggled to you so you can work late if you need to,” he said quietly, the warmth in his voice enough to turn her spine into something unreliable. “You look beautiful in it.”
Peggy forced a professional tone, even as she blushed. “Rog— I swear—“
“See you tonight,” he said, smug that he had her flustered enough to almost let his name slip out at work.
She hung up before she could accidentally call him darling.
several hours later
Steve arrived at their spot ten minutes early because he was built from old-fashioned duty and pathological punctuality.
He’d worn a suit, not Stark-flashy, just clean and dark and a little sharp around the shoulders. He didn’t look like Captain America tonight. He looked like someone who wanted to hold Peggy Carter’s hand under a restaurant table.
Eight o’clock passed.
Then eight fifteen.
Then eight thirty.
Peggy was never late unless something had gone truly wrong.
Peggy was never late unless something had gone truly wrong.
His stomach twisted. He tossed cash on the table and stepped into the street.
“Please just be a lead,” he murmured to himself as he jogged toward the distant parking lot. “Please just be work. Please don’t be—“
A metallic thud cut into his thoughts.
Steve froze.
There, in an alleyway, was Peggy Carter, his Peggy, in her blue dress, hair that was perfectly curled now mussed, lipstick immaculate, expression murderous, knee planted on Rufus Hunt’s chest as she yanked him up by the lapels and slammed him back into the pavement with efficiency born from experience.
Hunt groaned. Peggy didn’t.
Steve’s jaw dropped. “Peg?”
She looked over her shoulder, only slightly out of breath. “Darling. You’re early.”
“It’s— it’s eight thirty.”
“Oh.” She blinked, then punched Rufus Hunt across the jaw with the air of someone turning off a lamp. “Well, he was following me from the office. Tried to drag me in here. That was rude.”
Hunt slumped motionless.
Peggy stood, smoothing her dress, only a touch disheveled, cheeks flushed and eyes bright and absolutely, devastatingly stunning.
Steve’s brain short-circuited.
“I’m ready for dinner now,” she said, brushing her hands together.
Steve stepped toward her, voice hoarse. “I have never been more attracted to you in my life.”
Peggy’s lips curled. “Is that so?”
“Peggy,” he whispered, grabbing her waist like he was afraid she’d vanish, “you took out Rufus Hunt in heels.”
“It was barely an inconvenience.”
“I want to kiss you breathless.”
Her smile was slow and victorious. “Then you’d better walk me to the car.”
thirty minutes later
They arrived at Santorini’s an hour late and entirely unapologetic.
Peggy’s hand stayed in his under the table. Steve kept brushing his thumb along her palm and finding excuses to touch her. At one point, she leaned in to murmur a joke about Howard’s last disastrous gala and Steve nearly choked on his drink.
They danced, closely, quietly, like two people dancing together for the last time. She rested her cheek against his shoulder. He pressed a kiss to her temple under the soft temple lights.
The band played something slow. Peggy swayed against him, and Steve closed his eyes, memorizing the moment like he always did.
Later, when she kissed him outside the car, he kissed back with all the relief he’d swallowed earlier.
the bernard situation
They crept into the Stark residence near midnight, whispering and laughing, shoes in hand, trying to be silent.
A terrible idea, because Howard Stark lived here.
They tiptoed through the hallway…
…and froze at the unmistakable silhouette of Bernard the flamingo standing in the middle of the carpet like an avian sentinel.
Peggy narrowed her eyes. “Why is he inside?”
“I don’t know,” Steve whispered. “I think he’s here to intimidate us.”
“Steve,” she whispered, “he’s a lawn ornament.”
“Howard treats him like a security guard.”
Peggy approached with caution.
Bernard, squawking loudly, remained blocking the path.
“SHHH!” Peggy hissed. “Do NOT wake Howard, or I’ll—“
“Peg, I think you’re louder than him…” he interrupted gently. She glared.
Footsteps echoed. Edwin Jarvis appeared in his robe, holding a cup of tea, looking like a man who had been waiting up on purpose.
“Oh good,” Jarvis said brightly. “You’re home. Mr. Stark was concerned you were, how did he put it, ‘sneaking around to canoodle.’”
Peggy’s face went scarlet. “We were on a date, Mr. Jarvis.”
Ana peeked around the corner with a grin far too delighted. “A very late date.”
“We lost track of time,” Steve said quickly, his face somehow redder.
“With your lips?” Ana teased.
Peggy covered her face with both hands. “Bernard is judging us. Mr. Jarvis is judging us. Ana is judging us. I cannot live like this.”
“Oh nonsense,” Ana said, walking over to kiss Peggy on the cheek. “We’re thrilled for you.”
Steve squeezed Peggy’s hand. “It was worth it.”
She lowered her hands, eyes softening when she looked at him. “Yes,” she whispered. “It was.”
Bernard squawked accusingly.
Howard, somewhere upstairs, shouted, “IF YOU HURT BERNARD YOU’RE PAYING FOR HIS SURGERY!”
Peggy groaned into Steve’s shoulder. Steve laughed.
And they slipped upstairs together, hand in hand, hearts light, knowing they’d face tomorrow’s chaos the same way they faced everything; side by side, secretly and stubbornly in love.
Summary: Somewhere between strategy maps and artillery fire, Peggy Carter realizes that desire can be as distracting as any enemy operative. Steve Rogers has always looked at her like she's something precious. The trouble is, she wants him to stop being careful.
The war reduces everything to essentials.
Cold. Hunger. Fear. Orders. Survival.
By the time Peggy Carter realizes what day it is, she is already standing at the head of a long wooden table inside a draft-swept command tent, briefing men twice her age on an operation that could cost them their lives.
Her voice is steady. Crisp. Unimpeachable.
But beneath the wool of her uniform, beneath discipline honed sharper than any blade, her body feels… unsettled.
Overaware.
Every nerve feels tuned too tightly, like a violin string drawn to the point of snapping. The air brushes against her skin and she notices it. The scrape of fabric at her thighs registers like friction. Even her pulse feels heavier, lower.
It is biological. Predictable. Irritating.
She refuses to let it show.
She gestures to the map. Explains the river crossing. Outlines extraction routes. The men listen.
And yet she is acutely conscious of a single presence at the far end of the table.
Of blue eyes that do not wander.
Of broad shoulders filling out a uniform in a way that still feels faintly miraculous.
When the briefing ends, chairs scrape back. Boots thud into mud. The tent slowly empties.
Except for him.
“Peggy,” says Steve Rogers quietly.
She does not turn immediately. Composure first. Always.
“Yes, Captain?”
She hates the slight roughness in her voice.
He steps closer. The scent of clean soap and metal clings to him, familiar, grounding, and tonight disastrously distracting. There is a faint bruise along his jaw she hadn’t noticed before.
“You’ve been quiet,” he says. Not accusing. Just concerned.
That concern, that steady, gentle watchfulness, slides beneath her armor like a blade.
“I’ve been working,” she replies evenly.
“You’re always working.”
He’s closer now. Close enough that she can feel the heat radiating from him despite the chill in the tent. Close enough that the low hum inside her seems to sharpen into something with teeth.
It would be easier if he were arrogant.
If he preened under attention.
Instead, he looks at her like she is something fragile and formidable all at once.
She lifts her chin. “Was there something tactical you wished to discuss?”
His mouth twitches faintly. “Yeah. The entry point. If we shift twenty yards east—“
He reaches for the map still spread on the table.
His fingers brush her hand.
It is barely contact.
Barely.
But the reaction is immediate and visceral. A pulse of heat low in her abdomen that makes her breath catch before she can stop it.
His head lifts instantly.
“Peggy?”
Her body has never betrayed her like this.
Artillery rattles somewhere in the distance, but inside the tent the air feels heavy and still. Charged.
She could step back.
She should.
Instead, she finds herself stepping closer.
“Do you know,” she says quietly, her voice far softer than intended, “how distracting you are?”
His brows knit. “Me?”
“Yes. You.”
There is a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, and something else, something that mirrors the tension winding through her veins.
“I don’t mean to be,” he says.
“That’s precisely the problem.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s steadying himself against something invisible.
The space between them narrows to nothing.
She becomes acutely aware of everything; the rise of his chest, the breadth of him, the way his hands hover at his sides as though afraid to reach for her without permission.
The war has taken so much.
Tomorrow he will walk into gunfire again.
Tomorrow is never guaranteed.
The thought sharpens the ache inside her into something almost unbearable.
“Peggy,” he says, her name reverent and low.
She reaches for him first this time.
Her palm slides up the solid plane of his chest, feeling the steady thurm of his heart beneath wool and muscle. He inhales sharply. His hand settles at her waist, firm but cautious, as if she might disappear if he grips too tightly.
The contact sends a shiver down her spine.
“You look at me,” she murmurs, eyes fixed on his mouth, “as though I am breakable.”
His thumb tightens fractionally at her hip.
“You’re not breakable,” he says. “But you are precious.”
The word lands like a match struck in darkness.
Her control thins to a thread.
She kisses him.
Not hurried. Not frantic.
Deliberate.
Her mouth presses to his, warm and claiming. He freezes for a fraction of a second, stunned, and then responds with a hunger that feels carefully restrained, like a dam holding back a flood.
His hand slides higher along her back. Her fingers curl into the fabric at his shoulders.
The kiss deepens, not explicit, not reckless, but chaarged with everything unspoken. Weeks of glances held a moment too long. Of hands brushing and withdrawing. Of shared danger and sleepless nights and the constant awareness of mortality.
His restraint makes it worse.
The way he kisses her like she is something to be handled with care.
The way his breath falters when she presses closer.
The way his body answers her instinctively but does not take more than she offers.
When they part, the silence between them feels fragile.
His forehead rests against hers. Both of them breathing harder now.
“If I don’t stop,” he says quietly, voice strained in a way she has never heard before, “I might not.”
The admission sends another slow wave of heat through her.
“And if I don’t,” she replies, equally breathless, “I won’t want you to.”
That does it.
His hand tightens at her waist. Not rough. But certain.
The tension stretches, trembling, a line pulled taut between restraint and surrender.
Outside, a truck backfires. Reality crashes back in.
He exhales slowly, forcing distance between them, though his fingers linger at her hip as if reluctant to let go.
“After the mission,” he says, voice low and steady with effor. “When we’re not about to walk into hell.”
She studies him, this man who could overpower her easily and never would without her say-so. This man who waits. Who chooses patience over impulse.
The wanting inside her does not diminish.
It deepens.
“After the mission,” she agrees.
He brushes his thumb once, just once, along the curve of her waist before stepping back.
The absence of his warmth is immediate and almost painful.
Peggy Carter straightens her jacket. Smooths her hair. Reclaims her composure piece by piece.
But as she watches him leave the tent, broad shoulders squared, shield slung over his back, her body still humming with restrained promise —
She allows herself one private, dangerous thought.
read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/4OmGdkI
by 0XYG3N1UM
A MCU fanfic I made back in 2022-2023. Do make fun of it.
Words: 290, Chapters: 3/11, Language: English
Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Categories: F/M
Characters: Thor (Marvel), Jane Foster (Marvel), Sylvie (Loki TV), Loki (Marvel), Original Female Character(s), Sam Wilson (Marvel), Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter, Original Children of Peggy Carter and Steve Rogers, Original Male Human Character(s)
Relationships: Loki/Sylvie (Loki TV), Jane Foster/Thor (Marvel), Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Loki (Marvel)/Original Female Character(s)
Additional Tags: Crack, Not Serious, Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Pregnancy, Birthday Party, Love at First Sight, Jealousy, Second-Hand Embarrassment, Crazy, Babysitting, Love Confessions, Comedy, Bad Ending, Conflict, Sex, Disguise, Yandere, Love Potion/Spell, Kidnapping, Good Loki (Marvel), Public Humiliation, Stupidity, Out of Character, Implied/Referenced Character Death
read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/4OmGdkI
Three things registered immediately as the pod doors opened. The colors. So many colors. So much depth. Is that what green really looked like?
Then the noise. Everything hummed with life. Hearts pounded, pulses thrummed. He could hear the buzz of the lights and the fading groan of the machine.
But the last thing he registered were the matching disappointed looks on Phillips’ and Erskine’s faces.
Howard Stark walked around to the front, ripping off his goggles. “Aw man…” the scientist sighed. “No go.”
Steve looked down and frowned. His skin was faintly glowing, and the sickly pale sheen was gone. And he wasn’t as skinny as he had been going in. But he looked just slightly less rail thin than before.
The men who were up in the observation room were shaking their heads and gathering their belongings. One man, tall and thin with dark hair, was studying him carefully, before tucking a cigarette case in his pocket and walking out the door.
Suddenly Agent Carter was in front of him, her brown eyes roaming over him in concern, “are you alright?”
He nodded, “yeah, I can see colors… and I can hear out of my bad ear.”
“Great,” Phillips bit out, “we fixed the pipsqueaks problems. But not ours.” He turned to Erskine, “what happened?”
Erskine began to poke and prod at his body. “There is a change. Not as drastic as we might have hoped of course.”
“He’s still a toothpick!”
“He’s fine,” Agent Carter defended him. “This machine could have killed him!”
“No, hey—“ Howard interjected, “—I did all the calculations.”
“My formula was perfect,” Erskine said softly.
Steve never did know how to back down, “then it’s probably my fault. I was too sick to begin with. You should have chosen someone else.”
summary The story of how Peggy Carter knows the 1943 Billboard hit by heart.
rating teens and up audiences
relationship Steve Rogers/Peggy Carter
chapters 1/5
words: 2,678 [out of ???]
tags #POV Peggy Carter, #Movie: Captain America: The First Avenger (2011), #Canon Divergence - Movie: Captain America: The First Avenger (2011), #Song: Star-Spangled Man With A Plan (Marvel), #Inspired by Music, #Captain America USO Tours (Marvel), #Wartime, #Wartime Romance, #Fluff, #Fluff and Angst, #Angst, #Angst with a Happy Ending, #Additional Tags to Be Added
note a gift for the 2024's edition of the Steggy Secret Santa [@steggyfanevents]
[...] Peggy was so certain she would never see Steve Rogers again. A certainty that saddened her, much to her surprise. How did she come to value him so highly and so suddenly?
Plenty of GIs tried to court her before and she paid them all no mind. Duty reigned supreme in her heart and she was no schoolgirl, no boy chaser. She valued her purpose above all else, especially over the fleeting interests of men.
Not that Steve tried to seduce her like those rascals, to be fair. He never leered, just admired. No flirting, just sheer honesty. And, God, what honesty that was. As she stood in line, her mind went, without permission, to that car ride to the Brooklyn laboratory just weeks ago.
He, so earnest and flustered, had called her beautiful…
Anyway, she had a job to do.
Yet, there she was, in line to see Captain America’s USO show in New York instead. On opening night, no less!
It was ridiculous.
Lately, her life was just that. Absolute poppycock. However, Margaret Elizabeth Carter did not cause the ridiculousness; she only experienced or witnessed it… until today.
She was being ridiculous. No one else.
Actually, she and Senator Brandt. He used the Allied Forces’ only Super Soldier for pantomime instead of fighting Nazis. Poor Steve. He got all he sought after and, somehow, lost everything.
They all did.
Erskine, who became a close friend, had died, as had the Super Soldier army idea. Outmatched and facing Nazis wielding incredible, maybe alien, weaponry, the Allies could only oppose them with unremarkable men and weapons.
Summary: It is a beautiful Thursday in 1970, and Margaret Carter is having a very bad day. (It's about to get worse. It's about to get better.)
7.5k, Peggy/Steve, Explicit, Endgame Fix-it (sort of), Peggy's POV, the author likes Peggy and is determined to give her good things.
Margaret Carter dislikes Thursdays.
Most people dislike Mondays. Most people are idiots.
Nothing good ever happens on a Thursday. When Emma fell from the tree, breaking her arm and chipping her front tooth—not even her baby tooth, of course—it was a Thursday.
When Scout the cat had eaten an entire bouquet of lilies and racked up a thousand-dollar vet bill because the children wouldn’t stop crying (and honestly, Peg wasn’t much better), it was a Thursday.
When Jack was sent home from school for fighting for the third time in a row and the principal uttered the words, Perhaps it’s time to look into some specialized help with him… all right, that had been a Wednesday. But the next day had been a Thursday and Peg spent the entire day fighting the school board and the psychologist and the principal and it wasn’t until Friday that they’d found Jack the “specialized help” in the form of a different school altogether. Jack would graduate at the top of his class in three weeks’ time and start at Yale in September.
Hopefully not on a Thursday.
Today is a Thursday. It isn’t shaping up to be any different, and it starts when night sweats wake her at one in the morning...
Find out how Peggy's day is going to get worse before it gets much, much better on AO3.
I will eventually clean this up and post to AO3, but I’m bordering on being late for work because of this ficlet.
I think we all need this right now.
Fic: Tomorrow starts the work. (1/1) Steggy
You can see this as either a part of my Dissents Speak or Seven if we’re lucky Universes…
~*~
It was a devastating blow.
Sitting, watching the results come in.
Watching each state turn red.
“Red Mirage, blue wave,” Steve muttered to himself as he paced between phone calls and texts, over and over for hours on end, managing the flow of information between Peggy and the outside world.
“It’s not coming,” she finally conceded, holding back tears.
“It’s still-“
“No,” she finally interrupted him, sniffing back her emotion. “No. It’s not coming.” Peggy stood, pulling at her shirt and reaching for her jacket. “I’ll have to meet with everyone, put together a speech.”
”I don’t understand how,” he said softly, looking between her and the screen, devastated and forlorn and confused. “We worked so hard, we told the truth, we showed everyone what the difference was…”
”And they weren’t ready,” Peggy said softly, sadly, as she reached for him, entwining her fingers in his. “So may people are, but not enough understood what was at stake.”
”What… what do we do?” He stammered, clutching her hand tight.
She looks at the TV, muted, with the prediction blaring in bold letters across the banner at the bottom: they’ve lost. It’s undeniable. “We try to sleep. We concede gracefully.”
Peggy smiles at him, reaching up and letting her hand run over his cheek. “You never even considered the possibility, did you, darling?”
Steve shakes his head. “I don’t understand how…”
She sighs, full of love for the man before her, his optimism and his passion, and for the loss they’ve both now suffered. For the loss so many have suffered.
“Neither do I,” she reminds him gently, “but I need you to.” She can only smile at his quizzical look. “Tonight we can be sad, but tomorrow starts the work. This was an election, not a sentencing. Nothing is written in stone. For every policy, for every bill, for every ideaology he puts forward, we need to be there, ready to fight for what we know everyone deserves.”
He shakes his head, astounded at her strength. “I’m just- I’m so fucking tired, Peg…”
”Aren’t we all, darling?” She can’t keep the bone deep weariness out of her voice. “But we carry on, because that’s what we do. We carry on, because someone needs to fight, to educate, to do. The more we do, the more others will, too. If we stand still, if we get bogged down by this defeat, nothing will change. We will create that destiny for ourselves. Tomorrow is still unknown, and I’m going to do damn well everything in my power to make sure it isn’t the outcome I’m afraid of.”
He pulls her into his arms, holding her tightly. “You’re right.”
She laughs, even if a tear does escape her eyes. “Of course I’m right, darling.”
”Tomorrow starts the work,” he affirms, stepping back and running his thumb over her cheek, wiping away her single errant tear.
She smiles up at him, tinged with fear and loss, but full of the hope she never gives up on, “Tomorrow starts the work.”
