Things that might have been
Steve/female, Steve/Bucky, Steve/Coulson. Explicit.
Also at AO3.
What people don’t know about the Super Soldier Serum is that it didn’t just give Steve Rogers super strength and make him taller and more muscular. It enhanced everything about him: vision, hearing, sense of smell, coordination, balance. Sense of touch, taste, appetite. His metabolism was four times normal, so he had to eat four times as much as everyone else. His cells regenerated four times faster than normal people, so his hair and nails grew four times as quickly. His courage, determination, and loyalty were enhanced; so was his insecurity. Unfortunately for Steve, while his modesty was enhanced, so was his sex drive.
Steve was on tour with the USO for a year, socking Hitler in the jaw and selling war bonds in tights. He was a big enough hit to not have to share his hotel room in each city they visited, and after hours backstage surrounded by half-dressed showgirls, it was a relief to be able to retreat to his room alone and take care of business. It was practically a daily ritual: rehearsal, sign autographs, rehearsal, dinner, show, more autographs and photos, then back to the hotel room to jerk off. When that was out of the way he was able to relax enough to read the evening paper, write letters to Bucky, or do some sketching.
Steve might have done that every night of his tour. He might have gone home alone and touched himself, thinking of the half-dressed chorus girls. He might have thought about the fans who blushed when they asked for his autograph. He might have thought about Peggy. He might have been alone every evening, but on the other hand one night it might have gone like this:
Steve paused when an attractive blonde with generous curves asked for his autograph, and thought about taking her home with him. She was last in line for a photo, and she might have let her hands wander a little more than was appropriate when he put an arm around her for the camera. He let his hand linger on her waist, thinking that would be all, and he’d have some more to think about when he got home alone.
Instead, she asked him if he had plans for the evening, said what a big fan she was, asked if she could come backstage. Everyone else was gone for the night, so Steve led her down to the stage, up the stairs, and behind the curtain. She admired the rack of red, white, and blue dresses, the helmets, the boots; she ran her fingers along Captain America’s shield and asked to see his dressing room.
Steve might have hesitated. He might have wondered if she was a “nice” girl. She took a few steps closer to him, close enough that her breasts were brushing against his chest, and put her hand on his arm, thumb rubbing circles on his bicep. She said something like, “I’ve seen all your films,” or “You’re so handsome,” or “I’d love to get to know the man under the costume.” She might have said nonsense, but the way she said it let Steve know that she really wasn’t a “nice” girl after all, and maybe that was okay.
He brought her back to his dressing room, let her kiss him, let her slide her tongue between his lips. His hands slid up and down her sides, feeling her hips, waist, the side of her breasts. He might have wanted to feel the front of her breasts, or the curve of her ass, but he might have thought that she wouldn’t let him. He might have thought all she wanted was a kiss. He might have been wrong.
She pulled his hand up to her breast and reached down, running her other hand over his chest and stomach to brush over the sudden aching hardness that wasn’t concealed at all by Steve’s tights. He closed his hand over her breast, rubbing a thumb over a hardened nipple, and moved his other hand down over her ass.
She walked forward then, backing Steve into the room, towards his dressing room mirror. He fell back into the chair when the back of his knees hit it, and she climbed on top of him, straddling him. She pulled his shirt off, struggling a little with how tight it was, and her mouth curved into a sly smile when his body was bared before her. She struggled with his tights, and he had to lift his hips up off the chair to push them down. He put his hands on her thighs, sliding them up over the end of her stockings under her skirt, tracing the garter straps upward. She kissed him again, one hand on his cock and the other one tracing the muscles of his chest and arms.
Steve’s hand found its way between her legs, and he was surprised at first that she wasn’t wearing panties. Then he might have laughed, and realized this was exactly what she had been planning the whole time. His fingers slid inside her, and she made a noise low in her throat and moved forward, grasping the base of his cock and positioning herself over it. He groaned when she lowered herself onto him, and pushed his hands under her blouse, lifting it up above her breasts and mouthing her nipples through her bra. She struggled a bit with the position, and he moved his hands to her hips, holding her up easily with his enhanced strength, lifting and lowering her in a steady rhythm.
She braced one hand on his shoulder and reached between her legs with her other hand, rubbing her clit until she was gasping, panting for air. Steve kissed her neck, her ear, her breasts above the lace of her bra. He tightened his grip on her and moved her faster, bringing her down harder, until she tensed around him, her head falling back, eyes closed and mouth open. He might have had that same expression on his face moments later, fingers clutching spasmodically at her hips.
Afterwards, she laughed and straightened her outfit. She kissed him sweetly, took her autographed photo, and left him there in his dressing room, naked and disheveled. When he got back to his hotel room that night, he might have gone straight to the newspaper and the letters and the sketching.
***
Steve and his team had routines they’d developed: a routine for planning the mission, a routine for setting up camp, a routine for breakfast, a routine for stress relief the night before an operation. Some things always happened the same, no matter how deep into enemy territory they were. Steve always laid out a map, opened his compass, and pinpointed their location before he started talking. He always organized the primary strategy, and let everyone else decide exactly how they were going to secure an escape route, or disable a sentry, or bomb a truck.
When they set up camp, they always laid out their sleeping bags in the same arrangement, and took watches in the same order. Bucky always complained about rocks digging into his back, Morita always complained about the cold, and Dum Dum always complained about Bucky and Morita complaining. If they were behind Allied lines, and near a friendly town, the day before a mission would always involve a trip to a brothel to relieve some of the tension. If they were in enemy territory, the night before a mission there would always be a quiet circle jerk, each man who wasn’t on watch tucked into his sleeping bag and pretending that nothing was going on.
On a cold night in February, they were far behind enemy lines and preparing for a raid on a Hydra armory. Steve and Bucky always laid their sleeping bags next to each other, and this night, too far in enemy territory to chance a fire, they had laid them closer than usual to share body heat. That night might have been like every other, or it might have been like this:
Falsworth might have started first, or Morita. Either way, with everyone arranged more closely than usual, there was no denying the rhythmic rustle of hands moving under blankets, or heavy breathing. Steve was slow to start, mind still racing with thoughts of the next day’s work, but the sound of Bucky’s breathing quickening next to him was not easy to ignore. Steve slid his pants down around his hips, licked his palm, and reached down to stroke himself. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his thumb over the head, moved his hand down to roll his balls.
Steve was halfway there, listening to Bucky breathing harder and harder, when Bucky hissed, “Steve--” in a strangled voice, and Steve said, “Yeah,” and unsnapped the side of his sleeping bag. Steve released himself and reached out, not so very far, sliding his hand into Bucky’s sleeping bag. He fumbled a bit with their height difference, searching, and Bucky shifted, canting his hips to put his erection in Steve’s hand.
Bucky reached out too, fingers tripping down over Steve’s stomach, bumping into the head of Steve’s cock. He closed his hand around Steve, squeezing, and Steve drew in a breath a little more sharply than before. Bucky might have smiled, or he might have gasped when Steve began to stroke him in earnest. They both closed their eyes, and they might have been thinking about other people, or about each other. Even if Steve thought of Peggy, there was no way he would mistake the wide, calloused hand on him for a woman’s. On the other hand, Steve might not have thought about anything at all.
Steve and Bucky might have stroked each other in the same rhythm, or they might have been slightly off. Bucky finished first, forehead pressing into the ground, breath coming out in a soft huff. He sped up his hand after that, grasping Steve just a little bit tighter, and it wasn’t long before Steve was coming too, biting his lip and trying not to make any noise.
They pulled apart then, wiping their hands and snapping back up their sleeping bags. They might have only done this the one time, when it was cold and they were so close together in the dark.
***
In the course of the eight hours Steve had been on the helicarrier, he had “run into” Agent Coulson fifteen times. Coulson had shown up to take Steve on a tour, to walk him to a briefing with Fury, to make sure he knew where to find his uniform, to make sure he knew where to find food, and had just happened to be in the same hallway over and over and over. Steve was used to dealing with fans, but he’d never had to work with one before. He spent a decent amount of time during those past eight hours trying and failing to come up with ways to settle Coulson down a little.
When there was a knock on the door to his room, Steve set aside the files he’d been reviewing and wasn’t surprised at all to find Coulson there. Coulson had a bag in his hand, and said, “I thought you might be hungry so I picked up a sandwich for you. Turkey okay?”
Steve might have said, “Sure, thanks,” and taken the bag and gone back to reading his files. He might have invited Coulson to eat lunch with him, hoping that they could have a normal meal together and move on with their lives. On the other hand, he might have remembered all of the material they’d give him on the new millenium, and said, “Look, Agent Coulson--”
“Phil,” Coulson corrected, “call me Phil, please.”
“Phil,” Steve continued, “I’m going to just come out and say this because I’m told that is the thing to do nowadays. If you want to be friends, you don’t have to try so hard.” Coulson -- Phil -- looked like he was about to say something, but Steve continued anyway. “If you want to have sex with me just say so. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve slept with a fan, and I haven’t gotten laid in 70 years, so . . . “
Phil’s eyes widened, and he froze in place. Steve might have thought he’d read the situation entirely wrong, or that the briefing files that said now it was okay for two men to have sex hadn’t been entirely true; he blushed, opened his mouth to retract his entire statement, saying, “Maybe I misread--”
He was cut off by Phil’s mouth pressing down on his own, hesitant, as if he still wasn’t sure that this was okay. Steve tilted his head back and leaned into the kiss, and Phil’s hands came up, one on Steve’s shoulder and the other on the back of his neck.
Phil pulled back then, the bag with the sandwich forgotten on the floor by the doorway, and said, “You did mean right now, didn’t you? Because I would really, really like to suck your dick, if that’s alright with you.”
“Yeah,” Steve replied in a slightly strangled voice, “that would be great.” He reached out and pulled Phil back down, shoving the suit jacket off and tugging at Phil’s tie while he rubbed his tongue against Phil’s. Phil climbed onto the narrow bunk Steve was sitting on, knees on either side of Steve’s hips, and started unbuttoning Steve’s shirt, kissing along his jawline. Steve gave up on the tie and reached down to unbuckle Phil’s belt, undoing the fly on his pants and reaching a hand inside. By the time Steve closed his hand on the hard length of Phil’s cock inside his underwear, Phil had gotten his buttons undone.
Phil drew his breath in sharply then, almost laughed, and said, “As much as I want to revel in ‘Oh my God Captain America is giving me a hand job,’ can you stop for a sec so we can get your shirt off?” Steve let go of Phil, shrugged out of the button-down, and pulled his undershirt over his head. He might have laughed when Phil licked his lips, and reached back into Phil’s pants, or he might have grabbed Phil’s ass and pulled him closer to grind his hips against Phil’s, or he might have done both.
Steve tugged at Phil’s tie and said, “Your turn,” letting Phil remove his clothes while Steve stroked him, twisting his wrist and rubbing his fingers over the tip. Phil was breathing heavily by then, having all his fantasies come to life, and ran his fingers over Steve’s chest, tickling over his nipples and sliding along his abs. He struggled a little with Steve’s belt buckle when Steve’s mouth closed on his neck, when Steve’s left hand traced over his back, his touch firm and solid. Steve took a moment to reach up and and touch his fingers to Phil’s lips, letting Phil suck them into his mouth eagerly, then put his hand back into Phil’s pants, moving more easily with the added moisture. Steve increased his pace, distracting Phil so much that he couldn’t manage to coordinate his fingers enough to undo the buckle.
He grabbed Phil’s ass and pulled him closer, rubbing himself against Phil’s thigh while Phil choked out, “Jesus, I’m gonna--”
“Yeah, come on,” Steve said, cutting him off; Phil made a low noise in the back of his throat and came all over Steve’s chest and stomach. Phil dropped kisses all over Steve’s face, gathering up his wits enough to put his pants back together and climb off of the bunk. He kissed his way down the dry parts of Steve’s chest, finally unbuckling the belt and sliding Steve’s pants and underwear down over his hips. Steve’s breath hitched when Phil closed his fingers around the base of Steve’s cock, holding him steady, then he groaned, head falling back against the wall, when Phil licked up the length from base to tip. Phil ran his lips down the underside, open-mouthed, then back up again; he held his lips at the tip for a moment, then let Steve’s cock slide between them, taking him as far down as he was able.
Steve might have touched the side of Phil’s, head, ruffling through his hair, or he might have gripped the edge of the bunk, fingers digging in. Phil stayed down for a minute, tongue curling up and down without moving his lips, then started moving, hand filling in the space where his mouth couldn’t reach. Steve clutched at the bunk, breath coming faster; he might have closed his eyes, or he might have watched Phil’s mouth. Phil swirled his tongue around the head each time he lifted up, humming against the weight of Steve’s cock in his mouth. Phil gripped Steve’s thigh with one hand, kneading the muscles up near his hip, and sped up his rhythm.
Steve couldn’t last long after 70 years asleep; when Steve came, Phil swallowed him down, holding on until Steve’s hips stopped twitching and his breathing began to slow. Phil pulled off slowly afterward, and sat next to Steve on the bunk. They were silent for a few minutes, Steve recovering and Phil with a dazed expression on his face, and then Steve might have turned to Phil and said, “I could really go for that sandwich now.”
***
When Steve woke up in the 21st century, after the initial confusion, he was angry. The first thing he had asked for was a full report of the remainder of the war, and when he read about the atom bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, he felt sick to his stomach. All the time he’d fought for his country, believing in the integrity of the American people -- it felt like a personal betrayal to know that those same people had sanctioned the horrific murder of so many civilians. He’d moved on to reading about the Red Scare, Cold War, Korean War, church bombing in Birmingham, Vietnam, Agent Orange, My Lai, the first Iraq War, the second Iraq War, Abu Ghraib, Afghanistan--
It had been seventy years. People were supposed to evolve, improve, become morally stronger and better. Instead, they continued to massacre each other. It was like nobody had learned anything and it made Steve very, very angry.
So he would spend all his time in the gym at the New York SHIELD office, beating up heavy bags until they fell apart. When his anger at the modern world started to burn out, after about two hours of punching, it would be replaced with a different, sadder anger. Bucky, Peggy, his team -- he had lost them all, failed them all. If he had been able to land that plane safely, and gone on to keep fighting, would they have dropped those bombs?
Steve would punch the bag again and again, until his knuckles bled and he wasn’t sure if it was sweat or tears stinging his eyes. For the first few weeks, that was all that he did: punch, eat, sleep, punch some more. After a while, the anger burned itself down to a simmering rage that he could ignore most of the day, but which would boil up late at night, waking him up and sending him back down to the gym. After a while, he started venturing out into the city. He didn’t go to Brooklyn, or to Coney Island, or to anywhere that would remind him of the past. Instead, Steve frequented a small cafe near the SHIELD office, drinking good coffee and bringing along a notepad to sketch modern people going about their business.
In fact, he’d almost settled into a routine when Fury recruited him during one of his late-night punching sessions. He was tempted to refuse, but without SHIELD Steve wouldn’t have a roof over his head or a dime to spend, so he figured he owed Fury at least one job.
Steve had known from his time in the SSR that friends are forged in the heat of battle, but somehow he hadn’t expected to find that to still be true. Before Loki’s attack, Steve was angry and alone, disillusioned with the world. But after? Somehow in the middle of all the fighting, Steve realized that there was still something worth fighting for. Something in the fear and determination in the eyes of the ordinary people who helped others reach safety. Something in the way that a crisis brought out the best in all of his teammates -- something that made them a team. After Loki, Steve had a purpose again.
After Loki, the anger began to drain away.
Steve’s favorite cafe reopened quickly, trying to bring in business with tables set up in the street. The glass doors and walls of the building had been shattered, but the kitchen was unharmed, and with a backup generator they were able to keep almost everything running. He came by the third day they were open, with his sketchpad, and started drawing the battered landscape of New York.
A distracted waitress finished up at the next table over and hurried up to him, fumbling with her apron to pull out a pencil and pad to take his order. “What can I get y--” she began, then finally looked straight at Steve and dropped her pencil.
Steve bent to pick up the pencil and hand it back to her, confused. Beth was his waitress more often than not when he came here, and they were on a first-name basis, so he wasn’t sure why she would be surprised to see him. “I’m glad to see you, I hope you were home safe somewhere out of the way during that attack,” he said. “Still got the same coffee I hope?” She blinked at him for a moment, not speaking. “Beth?”
She finally said in a small voice, “You saved my life.” Abruptly Steve remembered seeing her, one of the hundreds of frightened people who had all blurred together after the first few minutes of the fight. He remembered his helmet being pulled off. “Thank you,” she added.
“Uh . . . You’re welcome?” Steve rubbed a hand through his hair, unsure of what the right response was. Back in the war, he was almost always fighting the enemy in enemy territory, not saving civilians, and certainly not saving civilians he’d ever see again.
“I’ll just go get your coffee, St-- Captain.”
He might have left it at that; he might have stopped coming to the cafe, to avoid an uncomfortable situation. Or, it might have gone like this:
When she came back and set the coffee on the table, Steve reached out then and caught her arm. “I’m still the same guy who’s been drinking your coffee for weeks. I’m still Steve.” He flipped back a few pages in his sketchbook and pulled up one he had done of her, apron slightly askew, wisps of blonde hair framing her face. “See? This one is from a couple weeks ago.”
Beth reached out and touched the page, eyes wide with surprise. “You drew me?”
“The light was really interesting, and you had this harried expression, and I just--” Steve swallowed, suddenly awkward in a way he hadn’t been in years. Actually, he had drawn her many times -- at least once for each visit he’d made to the cafe. Beth turned her gaze to him, and Steve jumped into the modern world with both feet. “Would you like to have dinner with me sometime?”
She smiled then, eyes shining. “I’d love to.”
***
Thanks to Sinope for beta reading, brainstorming sex partners for Steve, and suggestion Coulson, and quigonejinn for beta reading and chatspam about Steve having sex with the blonde girl in his dressing room.
This entry was originally posted at http://marmolita.dreamwidth.org/2195.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Also at AO3.
What people don’t know about the Super Soldier Serum is that it didn’t just give Steve Rogers super strength and make him taller and more muscular. It enhanced everything about him: vision, hearing, sense of smell, coordination, balance. Sense of touch, taste, appetite. His metabolism was four times normal, so he had to eat four times as much as everyone else. His cells regenerated four times faster than normal people, so his hair and nails grew four times as quickly. His courage, determination, and loyalty were enhanced; so was his insecurity. Unfortunately for Steve, while his modesty was enhanced, so was his sex drive.
Steve was on tour with the USO for a year, socking Hitler in the jaw and selling war bonds in tights. He was a big enough hit to not have to share his hotel room in each city they visited, and after hours backstage surrounded by half-dressed showgirls, it was a relief to be able to retreat to his room alone and take care of business. It was practically a daily ritual: rehearsal, sign autographs, rehearsal, dinner, show, more autographs and photos, then back to the hotel room to jerk off. When that was out of the way he was able to relax enough to read the evening paper, write letters to Bucky, or do some sketching.
Steve might have done that every night of his tour. He might have gone home alone and touched himself, thinking of the half-dressed chorus girls. He might have thought about the fans who blushed when they asked for his autograph. He might have thought about Peggy. He might have been alone every evening, but on the other hand one night it might have gone like this:
Steve paused when an attractive blonde with generous curves asked for his autograph, and thought about taking her home with him. She was last in line for a photo, and she might have let her hands wander a little more than was appropriate when he put an arm around her for the camera. He let his hand linger on her waist, thinking that would be all, and he’d have some more to think about when he got home alone.
Instead, she asked him if he had plans for the evening, said what a big fan she was, asked if she could come backstage. Everyone else was gone for the night, so Steve led her down to the stage, up the stairs, and behind the curtain. She admired the rack of red, white, and blue dresses, the helmets, the boots; she ran her fingers along Captain America’s shield and asked to see his dressing room.
Steve might have hesitated. He might have wondered if she was a “nice” girl. She took a few steps closer to him, close enough that her breasts were brushing against his chest, and put her hand on his arm, thumb rubbing circles on his bicep. She said something like, “I’ve seen all your films,” or “You’re so handsome,” or “I’d love to get to know the man under the costume.” She might have said nonsense, but the way she said it let Steve know that she really wasn’t a “nice” girl after all, and maybe that was okay.
He brought her back to his dressing room, let her kiss him, let her slide her tongue between his lips. His hands slid up and down her sides, feeling her hips, waist, the side of her breasts. He might have wanted to feel the front of her breasts, or the curve of her ass, but he might have thought that she wouldn’t let him. He might have thought all she wanted was a kiss. He might have been wrong.
She pulled his hand up to her breast and reached down, running her other hand over his chest and stomach to brush over the sudden aching hardness that wasn’t concealed at all by Steve’s tights. He closed his hand over her breast, rubbing a thumb over a hardened nipple, and moved his other hand down over her ass.
She walked forward then, backing Steve into the room, towards his dressing room mirror. He fell back into the chair when the back of his knees hit it, and she climbed on top of him, straddling him. She pulled his shirt off, struggling a little with how tight it was, and her mouth curved into a sly smile when his body was bared before her. She struggled with his tights, and he had to lift his hips up off the chair to push them down. He put his hands on her thighs, sliding them up over the end of her stockings under her skirt, tracing the garter straps upward. She kissed him again, one hand on his cock and the other one tracing the muscles of his chest and arms.
Steve’s hand found its way between her legs, and he was surprised at first that she wasn’t wearing panties. Then he might have laughed, and realized this was exactly what she had been planning the whole time. His fingers slid inside her, and she made a noise low in her throat and moved forward, grasping the base of his cock and positioning herself over it. He groaned when she lowered herself onto him, and pushed his hands under her blouse, lifting it up above her breasts and mouthing her nipples through her bra. She struggled a bit with the position, and he moved his hands to her hips, holding her up easily with his enhanced strength, lifting and lowering her in a steady rhythm.
She braced one hand on his shoulder and reached between her legs with her other hand, rubbing her clit until she was gasping, panting for air. Steve kissed her neck, her ear, her breasts above the lace of her bra. He tightened his grip on her and moved her faster, bringing her down harder, until she tensed around him, her head falling back, eyes closed and mouth open. He might have had that same expression on his face moments later, fingers clutching spasmodically at her hips.
Afterwards, she laughed and straightened her outfit. She kissed him sweetly, took her autographed photo, and left him there in his dressing room, naked and disheveled. When he got back to his hotel room that night, he might have gone straight to the newspaper and the letters and the sketching.
***
Steve and his team had routines they’d developed: a routine for planning the mission, a routine for setting up camp, a routine for breakfast, a routine for stress relief the night before an operation. Some things always happened the same, no matter how deep into enemy territory they were. Steve always laid out a map, opened his compass, and pinpointed their location before he started talking. He always organized the primary strategy, and let everyone else decide exactly how they were going to secure an escape route, or disable a sentry, or bomb a truck.
When they set up camp, they always laid out their sleeping bags in the same arrangement, and took watches in the same order. Bucky always complained about rocks digging into his back, Morita always complained about the cold, and Dum Dum always complained about Bucky and Morita complaining. If they were behind Allied lines, and near a friendly town, the day before a mission would always involve a trip to a brothel to relieve some of the tension. If they were in enemy territory, the night before a mission there would always be a quiet circle jerk, each man who wasn’t on watch tucked into his sleeping bag and pretending that nothing was going on.
On a cold night in February, they were far behind enemy lines and preparing for a raid on a Hydra armory. Steve and Bucky always laid their sleeping bags next to each other, and this night, too far in enemy territory to chance a fire, they had laid them closer than usual to share body heat. That night might have been like every other, or it might have been like this:
Falsworth might have started first, or Morita. Either way, with everyone arranged more closely than usual, there was no denying the rhythmic rustle of hands moving under blankets, or heavy breathing. Steve was slow to start, mind still racing with thoughts of the next day’s work, but the sound of Bucky’s breathing quickening next to him was not easy to ignore. Steve slid his pants down around his hips, licked his palm, and reached down to stroke himself. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his thumb over the head, moved his hand down to roll his balls.
Steve was halfway there, listening to Bucky breathing harder and harder, when Bucky hissed, “Steve--” in a strangled voice, and Steve said, “Yeah,” and unsnapped the side of his sleeping bag. Steve released himself and reached out, not so very far, sliding his hand into Bucky’s sleeping bag. He fumbled a bit with their height difference, searching, and Bucky shifted, canting his hips to put his erection in Steve’s hand.
Bucky reached out too, fingers tripping down over Steve’s stomach, bumping into the head of Steve’s cock. He closed his hand around Steve, squeezing, and Steve drew in a breath a little more sharply than before. Bucky might have smiled, or he might have gasped when Steve began to stroke him in earnest. They both closed their eyes, and they might have been thinking about other people, or about each other. Even if Steve thought of Peggy, there was no way he would mistake the wide, calloused hand on him for a woman’s. On the other hand, Steve might not have thought about anything at all.
Steve and Bucky might have stroked each other in the same rhythm, or they might have been slightly off. Bucky finished first, forehead pressing into the ground, breath coming out in a soft huff. He sped up his hand after that, grasping Steve just a little bit tighter, and it wasn’t long before Steve was coming too, biting his lip and trying not to make any noise.
They pulled apart then, wiping their hands and snapping back up their sleeping bags. They might have only done this the one time, when it was cold and they were so close together in the dark.
***
In the course of the eight hours Steve had been on the helicarrier, he had “run into” Agent Coulson fifteen times. Coulson had shown up to take Steve on a tour, to walk him to a briefing with Fury, to make sure he knew where to find his uniform, to make sure he knew where to find food, and had just happened to be in the same hallway over and over and over. Steve was used to dealing with fans, but he’d never had to work with one before. He spent a decent amount of time during those past eight hours trying and failing to come up with ways to settle Coulson down a little.
When there was a knock on the door to his room, Steve set aside the files he’d been reviewing and wasn’t surprised at all to find Coulson there. Coulson had a bag in his hand, and said, “I thought you might be hungry so I picked up a sandwich for you. Turkey okay?”
Steve might have said, “Sure, thanks,” and taken the bag and gone back to reading his files. He might have invited Coulson to eat lunch with him, hoping that they could have a normal meal together and move on with their lives. On the other hand, he might have remembered all of the material they’d give him on the new millenium, and said, “Look, Agent Coulson--”
“Phil,” Coulson corrected, “call me Phil, please.”
“Phil,” Steve continued, “I’m going to just come out and say this because I’m told that is the thing to do nowadays. If you want to be friends, you don’t have to try so hard.” Coulson -- Phil -- looked like he was about to say something, but Steve continued anyway. “If you want to have sex with me just say so. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve slept with a fan, and I haven’t gotten laid in 70 years, so . . . “
Phil’s eyes widened, and he froze in place. Steve might have thought he’d read the situation entirely wrong, or that the briefing files that said now it was okay for two men to have sex hadn’t been entirely true; he blushed, opened his mouth to retract his entire statement, saying, “Maybe I misread--”
He was cut off by Phil’s mouth pressing down on his own, hesitant, as if he still wasn’t sure that this was okay. Steve tilted his head back and leaned into the kiss, and Phil’s hands came up, one on Steve’s shoulder and the other on the back of his neck.
Phil pulled back then, the bag with the sandwich forgotten on the floor by the doorway, and said, “You did mean right now, didn’t you? Because I would really, really like to suck your dick, if that’s alright with you.”
“Yeah,” Steve replied in a slightly strangled voice, “that would be great.” He reached out and pulled Phil back down, shoving the suit jacket off and tugging at Phil’s tie while he rubbed his tongue against Phil’s. Phil climbed onto the narrow bunk Steve was sitting on, knees on either side of Steve’s hips, and started unbuttoning Steve’s shirt, kissing along his jawline. Steve gave up on the tie and reached down to unbuckle Phil’s belt, undoing the fly on his pants and reaching a hand inside. By the time Steve closed his hand on the hard length of Phil’s cock inside his underwear, Phil had gotten his buttons undone.
Phil drew his breath in sharply then, almost laughed, and said, “As much as I want to revel in ‘Oh my God Captain America is giving me a hand job,’ can you stop for a sec so we can get your shirt off?” Steve let go of Phil, shrugged out of the button-down, and pulled his undershirt over his head. He might have laughed when Phil licked his lips, and reached back into Phil’s pants, or he might have grabbed Phil’s ass and pulled him closer to grind his hips against Phil’s, or he might have done both.
Steve tugged at Phil’s tie and said, “Your turn,” letting Phil remove his clothes while Steve stroked him, twisting his wrist and rubbing his fingers over the tip. Phil was breathing heavily by then, having all his fantasies come to life, and ran his fingers over Steve’s chest, tickling over his nipples and sliding along his abs. He struggled a little with Steve’s belt buckle when Steve’s mouth closed on his neck, when Steve’s left hand traced over his back, his touch firm and solid. Steve took a moment to reach up and and touch his fingers to Phil’s lips, letting Phil suck them into his mouth eagerly, then put his hand back into Phil’s pants, moving more easily with the added moisture. Steve increased his pace, distracting Phil so much that he couldn’t manage to coordinate his fingers enough to undo the buckle.
He grabbed Phil’s ass and pulled him closer, rubbing himself against Phil’s thigh while Phil choked out, “Jesus, I’m gonna--”
“Yeah, come on,” Steve said, cutting him off; Phil made a low noise in the back of his throat and came all over Steve’s chest and stomach. Phil dropped kisses all over Steve’s face, gathering up his wits enough to put his pants back together and climb off of the bunk. He kissed his way down the dry parts of Steve’s chest, finally unbuckling the belt and sliding Steve’s pants and underwear down over his hips. Steve’s breath hitched when Phil closed his fingers around the base of Steve’s cock, holding him steady, then he groaned, head falling back against the wall, when Phil licked up the length from base to tip. Phil ran his lips down the underside, open-mouthed, then back up again; he held his lips at the tip for a moment, then let Steve’s cock slide between them, taking him as far down as he was able.
Steve might have touched the side of Phil’s, head, ruffling through his hair, or he might have gripped the edge of the bunk, fingers digging in. Phil stayed down for a minute, tongue curling up and down without moving his lips, then started moving, hand filling in the space where his mouth couldn’t reach. Steve clutched at the bunk, breath coming faster; he might have closed his eyes, or he might have watched Phil’s mouth. Phil swirled his tongue around the head each time he lifted up, humming against the weight of Steve’s cock in his mouth. Phil gripped Steve’s thigh with one hand, kneading the muscles up near his hip, and sped up his rhythm.
Steve couldn’t last long after 70 years asleep; when Steve came, Phil swallowed him down, holding on until Steve’s hips stopped twitching and his breathing began to slow. Phil pulled off slowly afterward, and sat next to Steve on the bunk. They were silent for a few minutes, Steve recovering and Phil with a dazed expression on his face, and then Steve might have turned to Phil and said, “I could really go for that sandwich now.”
***
When Steve woke up in the 21st century, after the initial confusion, he was angry. The first thing he had asked for was a full report of the remainder of the war, and when he read about the atom bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, he felt sick to his stomach. All the time he’d fought for his country, believing in the integrity of the American people -- it felt like a personal betrayal to know that those same people had sanctioned the horrific murder of so many civilians. He’d moved on to reading about the Red Scare, Cold War, Korean War, church bombing in Birmingham, Vietnam, Agent Orange, My Lai, the first Iraq War, the second Iraq War, Abu Ghraib, Afghanistan--
It had been seventy years. People were supposed to evolve, improve, become morally stronger and better. Instead, they continued to massacre each other. It was like nobody had learned anything and it made Steve very, very angry.
So he would spend all his time in the gym at the New York SHIELD office, beating up heavy bags until they fell apart. When his anger at the modern world started to burn out, after about two hours of punching, it would be replaced with a different, sadder anger. Bucky, Peggy, his team -- he had lost them all, failed them all. If he had been able to land that plane safely, and gone on to keep fighting, would they have dropped those bombs?
Steve would punch the bag again and again, until his knuckles bled and he wasn’t sure if it was sweat or tears stinging his eyes. For the first few weeks, that was all that he did: punch, eat, sleep, punch some more. After a while, the anger burned itself down to a simmering rage that he could ignore most of the day, but which would boil up late at night, waking him up and sending him back down to the gym. After a while, he started venturing out into the city. He didn’t go to Brooklyn, or to Coney Island, or to anywhere that would remind him of the past. Instead, Steve frequented a small cafe near the SHIELD office, drinking good coffee and bringing along a notepad to sketch modern people going about their business.
In fact, he’d almost settled into a routine when Fury recruited him during one of his late-night punching sessions. He was tempted to refuse, but without SHIELD Steve wouldn’t have a roof over his head or a dime to spend, so he figured he owed Fury at least one job.
Steve had known from his time in the SSR that friends are forged in the heat of battle, but somehow he hadn’t expected to find that to still be true. Before Loki’s attack, Steve was angry and alone, disillusioned with the world. But after? Somehow in the middle of all the fighting, Steve realized that there was still something worth fighting for. Something in the fear and determination in the eyes of the ordinary people who helped others reach safety. Something in the way that a crisis brought out the best in all of his teammates -- something that made them a team. After Loki, Steve had a purpose again.
After Loki, the anger began to drain away.
Steve’s favorite cafe reopened quickly, trying to bring in business with tables set up in the street. The glass doors and walls of the building had been shattered, but the kitchen was unharmed, and with a backup generator they were able to keep almost everything running. He came by the third day they were open, with his sketchpad, and started drawing the battered landscape of New York.
A distracted waitress finished up at the next table over and hurried up to him, fumbling with her apron to pull out a pencil and pad to take his order. “What can I get y--” she began, then finally looked straight at Steve and dropped her pencil.
Steve bent to pick up the pencil and hand it back to her, confused. Beth was his waitress more often than not when he came here, and they were on a first-name basis, so he wasn’t sure why she would be surprised to see him. “I’m glad to see you, I hope you were home safe somewhere out of the way during that attack,” he said. “Still got the same coffee I hope?” She blinked at him for a moment, not speaking. “Beth?”
She finally said in a small voice, “You saved my life.” Abruptly Steve remembered seeing her, one of the hundreds of frightened people who had all blurred together after the first few minutes of the fight. He remembered his helmet being pulled off. “Thank you,” she added.
“Uh . . . You’re welcome?” Steve rubbed a hand through his hair, unsure of what the right response was. Back in the war, he was almost always fighting the enemy in enemy territory, not saving civilians, and certainly not saving civilians he’d ever see again.
“I’ll just go get your coffee, St-- Captain.”
He might have left it at that; he might have stopped coming to the cafe, to avoid an uncomfortable situation. Or, it might have gone like this:
When she came back and set the coffee on the table, Steve reached out then and caught her arm. “I’m still the same guy who’s been drinking your coffee for weeks. I’m still Steve.” He flipped back a few pages in his sketchbook and pulled up one he had done of her, apron slightly askew, wisps of blonde hair framing her face. “See? This one is from a couple weeks ago.”
Beth reached out and touched the page, eyes wide with surprise. “You drew me?”
“The light was really interesting, and you had this harried expression, and I just--” Steve swallowed, suddenly awkward in a way he hadn’t been in years. Actually, he had drawn her many times -- at least once for each visit he’d made to the cafe. Beth turned her gaze to him, and Steve jumped into the modern world with both feet. “Would you like to have dinner with me sometime?”
She smiled then, eyes shining. “I’d love to.”
***
Thanks to Sinope for beta reading, brainstorming sex partners for Steve, and suggestion Coulson, and quigonejinn for beta reading and chatspam about Steve having sex with the blonde girl in his dressing room.
This entry was originally posted at http://marmolita.dreamwidth.org/2195.html. Please comment there using OpenID.