whore-for-chris-evans
Dear reader, bend when you can...
...snap when you have to. 18+, she/her, Leo, married to Steve Rogers (I wish) || Demi-bi || Lazy (That's not such a great thing to annouce here though) || Foodie || You *probably* came here from my YouTube so you'd know the rest of my bio from there
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Tony: I apologize for saying 'fuck' in front of Peter.
Steve: You just said it again.
Peter:
Tony: I am not a role model.
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When Bucky hugged Steve for the first time since he got the serum, they were alone in a tent. They had just got back to the base camp after their miles long walk back from the hydra base and they were both exhausted.
Steve is situating himself around the very nice, fancy tent that he insisted on sharing and Bucky hasn't taken his eyes off him since he saw him from the table he was strapped onto. Steve. Little Steve. Steve who got sick every winter and who's asthma played up every summer. Steve who had been 5'4 and had remained as such since he was 14. Steve who got into too many fights and never won but not once for lack of passion.
Bucky has to say something, because he hasn't been saying anything since escaping the base and now he feels like he's about to boil over. "Steve"
The same big blue eyes he's always known greeted him and were quick to lace with concern. "You okay, Buck?"
And generally speaking no, Bucky was not okay, he'd been experimented on, he'd been taken by the enemy and strapped down to a goddamn table and he couldn't even remember half of what they did to him there.
For all Bucky knows he could drop dead at any moment but he isn't thinking about that, because he's thinking about how Steve is here, in front of him, all 6'2 of him. He's thinking about how the breath exiting his mouth doesn't follow with wheezing, or how he can take the full rib expanding breaths when he needs it without coughing until there are tears forcing themselves out of his eyes.
Bucky steps forward, his hand gently presses against the expanse of Steve's chest. He stops himself from gawking considering the fact you could park an eighteen wheeler on this thing, he even opens his mouth to say just that but then he feels Steve's heart beat, steady and pumping under his palm.
It's only slight considering the amount of muscle and thick bone in the way but he can feel it all the same and it's not stuttering and irregular. It's pumping blood, lots of blood wherever Steve needs it, constantly and in all the right places instead of spending most of its time in the lowest point of the body.
If Steve were to get sick this heart would help him get better instead of having to fight to keep itself working, and his new lungs might get congested but they wouldn't spasm every time he needed a breath of fresh air. Steve won't be laying in bed all winter sick and out of his mind with any and every illness that has always loved making his life a living hell.
Steve is healthy.
And suddenly feeling overwhelmed, Bucky clears his throat and blinks away any escaped liquid from his eyes, which are very pointedly looking towards his hand. Because if he looks up at Steve and sees those blue eyes all concerned, seeing right through him like they always do, he really will loose it.
"You're okay.." He mumbles mostly to himself.
It comes off as a statement more than anything and a chocked out one at that but Steve knows, because he always knows what Bucky is trying to get at. He places his hand over Bucky's wrist and just holds him, his hand is steady and must be magical because Bucky grows calm at the touch.
"I'm okay."
Feeling himself falter at the affirmation, he leans in, arms wrapping around the waist he could once circle completely with one arm. But he almost backs out as quickly as he started it, the foreign body giving the wrong signals, like hugging a coworker or a distant relative you see once a decade.
But taking a deep breath to centre himself, Steve smelled like he always did, plus the scent of cheap soap hardly lingering, faded from the long day they both just had.
And when he ran his hands over his back he could feel the familiar humps of his spine and count them all the same. Even Steve's hands find the same spot on Bucky's back as they always used to, where his ribs end and his back start to dip in at the start of his waist.
Bucky can still reach the hair at the base of Steve's head and run his fingers through it like he used to see Steve's ma do when they were young.
Now Steve sighs into the hug and Bucky squeezes tighter since he knows he won't be doing any damage. They stay like that for a long time in their own personal world, the centre of their own solar system, everything else moving around them, floating within their orbit.
When they pull back, Bucky's hands linger on Steve's waist for longer then they should and when he looks up Steve's eyes are so full of admiration but his nose and eyebrows are scrunched up like he's got something to say.
Bucky takes his hands back to his sides. "what?"
"We aren't going to leave each other again, okay?" He says it so sure, like they aren't going to be in the heat of battle every other day but Bucky wants it just as bad as he does so he nods and smiles.
"You're stuck with me pal, I'm not going anywhere"
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“Life is tough my darling, but so are you.”
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No one:
Chris: 🕺🏻 (imagine that's him on one foot)
can we appreciate how cute chris and sebastian sound filming their fight scenes together
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Someone else too lurked in the shadows among the crowd, being proud beyond measure of his BFF. And when the crowd disperses, and everyone heads their ways, he waits for his BF to take him home. P.s. It’s okay to believe there was some truth to Bucky’s texting comment, though he was carefully listening to Sammy without missing a beat, as was the person he was texting.
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Fugitive: Nomad Steve x Reader 🍆
Summary: In a barely-disguised ploy to keep warm while on the run, Nomad Steve pleasures you wearing his slutty fingerless gloves.
Contains: Nomad Steve who’s horny AF but also super safe and gives top-tier aftercare.
Warnings: Fingering, quickie, Steve being a little perverse.
Words: 1,300
“Remind me to intercept a wire transfer from Stark next time we go on the run.”
The motel room was covered in years of dust, the brown windows thick with grime. A lone lightbulb hung from the low ceiling, its ruched off-white shade long-since pulled down during the final moments of a vodka-fueled bender, the faint stench of a stag party still hanging in the air and lodging itself into the pores of the woodchip-papered ceiling.
And more to the point, it was freezing.
Ordinarily the grounded, low-maintenance gent, Steve was tentative as he rested a forearm on the wall above the dirty window. He wrinkled his nose. “Well, at least no one’s gonna find us.”
“For a start off they can’t see through the glass, so.”
He stood straight, hooking his fingers into the belt loops of his tactical suit. “That’s what I meant.”
“Was it a tactical decision, Rogers?” you teased.
His gaze raked up and down the yellowed wallpaper. “No. But it was cheap.”
You squatted down next to the radiator, careful not to kneel on the brown carpet, inexplicably spiky and hard as though something had spilled and dried out. You didn’t want to imagine what. Gloved hands turned the radiator dial. It spun underneath your hand.
Steve’s matter-of-fact tone drifted in like a cool breeze. “It’s broken. That’s why he gave it to us so cheap.”
“Well call me cynical if I don’t trust the word of a guy working the graveyard shift in a motel on the fringes of the sleaziest city in the country.” You continued teasing the loose radiator dial to no avail.
“You cold?”
“Freezing.”
“Come ‘ere.” The softness in his voice made you feel a solid ten percent warmer.
He leaned against the least grimy wall he could find, arms inviting you to press yourself against him. He stroked your hair, despite his voice taking on a darker tone. “You know in the army, we had a couple tricks to keep warm.”
“Oh yeah?”
“We used our body heat.”
“I like the sound of this, Rogers.”
He was, clearly, about to demonstrate. You stepped back to observe.
“First hot spot. Under the arms.” He wrapped his arms around himself, high across his chest, tucking his hands underneath his armpits. “Next, back of the knees.” He bent one leg up, placing his hand in the nook with a scissored hand. “Now, of course everyone knows the warmest place on the body.”
“I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”
He scratched at his beard, the backs of his fingers grazing his lips. “Well, I’m gonna need you against the wall.”
Silently, you complied.
“The warmest place,” he spoke softly as though sharing state secrets, kneeling in front of you as he spilled the intel. “Is…. here.” He slid his hand in the upper apex of your thigh. He whispered in earnest now, eyes wide as he gazed up at you. “Put your legs together for me.” When you obeyed, closing your thighs around his hand, he groaned.
“You getting warm there, Rogers?”
“Oh yeah….” His eyes were closed, lost in the sensation, the brown leather of his fingerless gloves visible only above the wrist, the bulk of his hand keenly swallowed by your flesh. “God…..”
He always did this. Right before.
The body of a soldier married with the heart of an artist, Steve was sensual. He loved sensations. Touch. Scent. Taste. And when he felt something that was particularly pleasurable, no matter how benign or platonic, he would close his eyes and he would moan.
Just like he was doing now.
Still kneeling, he looked up at you once more with devastating baby blue eyes framed by a head of messy dirty blond hair. “You gonna help keep me warm, comrade?”
“Is this what you did in the army?”
He blushed, head hanging, a gloved hand pressing against his thigh as he rose to his feet.
You would definitely ask him about his army stories later.
Not that you needed verbal foreplay. The sight of him like this was enough. Steve Rogers. America’s goldenboy. Reduced to a desperate man on the run.
A fugitive.
His clean-cut appearance disintegrating in time with his reputation, he wore a beard and messy hair. His hands were dirty. Literally. Figuratively. You recalled your first memories of the squeaky-clean soldier who joined the team, a squaddie so obedient he would raise his hand to be excused from meetings, even if it was to leave for two minutes to use the restroom. That man was gone. The brute towering above you would take what he wants. When he wants. With who he wants.
You swallowed, slickening at the thought. Arousal fluttered in your belly, breath following suit. The blond mercenary noticed the change in your breathing pattern. He closed the space between you, his body pressed against yours, hand long since discarded from the heat of your thigh. His right hand moved to the top of your zipper, sliding it down wordlessly as his eyes bore into your soul, while his left forearm pressed against the wall above your head, steadying him. His scent a heady mix of sweat and testosterone. You observed his chest rising and falling, his breathing deep, slow and steady.
Your zipper reached your waist. Tenderly, he cupped your chin between his thumb and forefinger, placing a chaste kiss on your lips. Ironic, given the debauchery you were about to partake in. Perhaps that was why. Perhaps it evened it out.
Perhaps you didn’t care.
Perhaps your brain went blank when he positioned his leg next to yours, the length of his cock pressed into your hip, clearly visible despite the thickness of his suit. Your brain rebooted, coming back online solely with the sound of him unbuckling his brown leather gloves.
“No,” you husked. “Keep them on.”
A sly smile crept onto his face, visible through the thick fibres of his beard. His eyes narrowed. Head cocked. “Kinky, huh.”
Both leather gloves touched your face, strong hands holding your cheeks as he kissed you firmly. Messy kisses, clashing teeth and ragged breaths gave way to the descent of his gloved hand, squeezing down past the zipper of your black tactical suit and into the heat of you.
“God, you’re wet,” he gasped between kisses.
His fingers were inside you within moments, digits penetrating you like a piston, the edge of his fingerless gloves catching your clit on way in, and out, in, and out…. your torso writhing up the wall, overcome by the sensation.
“Fuck,” he breathed, biting the bare skin of your clavicle. There would be marks hidden underneath your suit tomorrow.
He bucked his body into you, groaning, cock pressing into you and driving you to the brink of insanity and veering over the edge like a car on a dirt road, tumbling over the precipice and into the valley below.
You grabbed at the nape of his neck, clawing his skin with the tips of your fingernails, firmly pushing his face into the soft corner of flesh at the base of your neck. His fingers continued their attack, the leather relentlessly teasing your clit and causing heat to rise in your cheeks. He moaned as you pulled at his hair, the heat exploding in your belly like fireworks and bursting through your cells, the force of your climax plowing into you like a freight train. A lone ragged cry escaped your lips amidst the moans, the pleasure too much as he sealed the deal with a talented thumb over your sensitive bud.
You became weak, boneless, in the aftermath of his attention, collapsing into him, knowing he could hold you and trusting that he would. Your heart pounded, breathing fast as though you’d run 10k, head resting against his chest. He stroked your hair.
“Hey. It’s okay. Shhhh.” One firm hand held your back. The other cradled your head. Little hums of satisfaction tumbled from your lips. Eventually, after an age, you looked up. A smiling super spicy super soldier greeted you.
“Feelin’ a little warmer?”
“Warm? Cap, I’m on fire.”
Taggos: (Happy Easter, all! 🐣🪺🌸)
@lokisgoodgirl @fictive-sl0th @flesh--amnesiacunrated @skymoonandstardust @alexakeyloveloki @cabingrlandrandomcrap @cakesandtom @mrs-illyrian-baby @muddyorbsblr @irishhappiness @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @glitchquake @dangertoozmanykids101 @animnerd @wavyhairedvixen @emarich7 @km-ffluv @thegodofnotknowing @simplyholl @acidcasualties @foxherder @salempoe @loz-3 @late-to-the-party-81 @mochie85 @loopsisloops @somewereinthegalaxi @lokiandbuckysdoll @meg81589
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Watched a bit of catws then I can’t stop drawing stevie🥺
Tagging some moots: @anxiousgirlsarehotter @shamrockqueen @cinnamoncascadian @rillils @kittybeansbarnes @buckgasms @justarandomgirly
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Bucky: If I run and jump at Steve, he will most definitely catch me in his arms.
Bucky, running toward Steve: COMING IN.
Steve: NO! I’M HOLDING COFFEE-
Steve: [drops coffee to catch Bucky]
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Steve's love language is... words of affirmation roasting.
CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE FIRST AVENGER (2011)
CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE WINTER SOLDIER (2014)
[id in alt]
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want to be clear that if i ever talk about a headcanon and then later discuss a headcanon that is directly contradictory to the first one, that’s because headcanons exist in a quantum state where they are all simultaneously true and not true up until the point where i discuss it in detail, in which case that is the one that is true in that instance. schroedinger’s headcanons
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Who’s afraid of little old me? YOU SHOULD BE.
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Steve, gardening: Hey, can you bring me the hoe?
Thor: Yeah, sure.
[A few minutes later]
Thor: Here you go.
Steve:
Thor:
Tony: Why am I here?
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my entire decision making process as an adult™ is the question “would steve rogers approve?” and if the answer is no i just don’t do the thing
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also a big fan of when steve is stupidly insanely turned on by tony because the fact that tony is the man he loves just makes him hotter and tony is getting off on the emotional intimacy which he didn't even think was possible (the secret ingredient is that he's also in love)
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You wouldn't last an hour in the asylum where they raised us
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