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Dizzy Up The Girl

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“Captain Rogers?” she was standing in the doorway. Steve looked up and gave his perfect media Captain America smile. He wiped his hands on the rag next to him, trying to remove the charcoal smudges before reaching to shake her hand.

To her credit, she was wearing a pencil skirt and white blouse tucked in. Her cheap pantyhose were the wrong color, not quite blending in with her skin tone or complimenting the gray of her skirt, and she wobbled in her high heeled shoes. But her palm wasn't damp when he clasped it in his own larger hand.

Sometimes he forgot how large his hands were. Sometimes seeing someone else's was almost shocking, made something catch in his chest and squeeze. The delicate bones, the way she had red polish on that matched her lipstick. He wanted to bring her knuckles up to his lips and feel the silk of them. Steve could smell the cream she used, lavender scented.

“Call me Steve, Miss...?”

“Lewis. Izzy Lewis, from Citizen's Voice magazine. I sent you the email last week?” she sounded confident, her knees weren't even shaking. There was something impressive about that, Steve thought to himself. So often he'd had starry eyed young women come in for interviews. They were always biting their lips and going pink in the cheeks.
“You can just call me Izzy.”

“All right, ma'am.” he gestured to the two stools he kept in his studio. One eyebrow raised and she smiled. A smile that was neither coy nor sarcastic, but legitimately amused.

“You really don't have to call me ma'am. I promise I'm not nearly that old.” she perched on the stool, fussing with the hem of her skirt as she pushed her knees together. Steve let himself fall into the other one.

Women. Even this far in the future, they were still hard to figure out. Sometimes, he watched the little old men interacting with younger women. He watched them be charming and old fashioned, she watched the women beam and giggle in appreciation of good old fashioned manners. He heard the dames talking later about how much they loved it, and wished there were more people like that left in the world.

And yet, when he stood before them and called them 'ma'am' and offered to hold doors open, they gave him weird looks. They were quick to tell him they didn't need anyone to do things for them. They were strong and capable. Steve never doubted that, he had spent his whole life around strong women. Sarah Rogers, Peggy Carter... And now he had Natasha Romanov, and Pepper Potts. Steve nearly worshiped at the altar of strong women.

“Of course you're not,” Steve blushed faintly, rubbing his palms against the thighs of his jeans. “So uh, the Citizen's Voice, right?”

“Yup,” she reached into her bag, shining pleather and cheap metal links. She withdrew a hard leather journal emblazoned with a white faced cat, sporting a red bow and no mouth. There were things that Steve would never understand.
“You've seen it in the grocery store, I'm sure? Right above the candy racks? Really bright colors and misleading headlines?”

He frowned as she pulled the cap off a ballpoint. She smoothed the pages against her knees. He took in the way her hair was twisted into a French braid, the elastics keeping the ends together. She seemed so blasé about the publication. It was one of the most gossipy magazines that ever existed. He was fully expecting to be asked about his love life, or if he had a grudge against anyone on the team. (Tony. Always Tony.) But here she was, no pout or eye roll or even the scent of bubble gum on her breath. Just that red lipstick that brought him back to 1940 and victory gardens.

“Why don't you work somewhere else then?”

“Because jobs are hard to come by and it turns out I really like being fed.” Izzy smiled again, her teeth bright against her lipstick. What a dumb thing to say, Steve thought to himself, looking at his own hands.

“Okay. Sorry. So um, let's start this interview that I agreed to.” he swallowed a few times and saw her let her pen press to the paper, a deep black mark and the way she swallowed hard.

“I'd really rather not have to ask you questions like this.”

“Well, Miss Lewis, I'd really rather not have to answer them like this.”

**

“Are you sure this is all right with you?” Steve reached for the buttons on her blouse, let himself rest against the smooth plastic.

“I wouldn't be here if I didn't want this.” she laughed low in her throat. The sound, thick and warm that trailed down his spine like molasses. He barely surpressed his shudder before letting himself undo the buttons. Steve was careful enough to almost be prissy.

Izzy smiled indulgently, her hands reaching to rub against his shoulder. The thin cotton was warmed from his skin, worn thin from constant wearings. Steve wasn't used to having the money to just go to the store and buy a package of new white t shirts if he wanted. He wasn't used to flipping through racks and racks of clothes, touching the fabric and trying it on and deciding if he wanted it, if it suited him. Sometimes going to the store was overwhelming. The people holding up items and putting them down, the vast array of different materials in all kinds of colors and cuts and textures, and the fact that none of it was rationed.

And so he wore shirts until they fell apart. And even when he got rid of the clothes, he felt guilty for not putting them in someone's scrap bag to mend something else. Of course, he didn't often see women mend anything anymore. No one sat out darning socks or letting down cuffs.

There were too many options in the store anyway. He didn't like taking stacks and stacks of things into the change rooms to see how they fit. He stuck with the cuts and fabrics closest to military issue he could find. There was something like home in dressing that way, made him feel a little bit more stable in all these bright lights and loud voices.

Izzy's shirt was untucked from her skirt and slipped down with a whisper of fabric from her arms. She let it puddle carelessly behind her, reaching up to undo the elastics from her hair and shake her braid free. Hair just this side of too bright to be really red spilled down her back. Steve reached for those waves and reverently let his fingers run through them, feeling the silky weight and the scent of orange blossoms washing over him.

Her bra, a scrap of lace cupping perky mounds of flesh, was almost perplexing in it's seductive simplicity. Steve was used to the more utilitarian cups, more coverage, less frill. He had almost been expecting a girdle, though he knew those had gone out of fashion ages ago. Long before he came out of the ice.

“Go ahead,” Izzy said softly, lifting her hair off the back of her neck and leaning into his chest. Steve reached behind her and after a moment or two of fumbling, managed to get the tiny hooks free. He slipped her free of the underwear, dropped them to the floor to stare at her breasts.

Steve thought himself a man who enjoyed big tits. He liked to hold them in his palms, roll the nipples with his thumbs. He liked to cover them in kisses, nip at the valley between them. He liked watching them bounce when a woman was on top of him. He loved suckling them, and then resting his head on them while enjoying his afterglow.

Izzy's tits weren't the large ones he was used to. She had a small handful, and he reached out to cup them, testing the weight and warmth. She exhaled sharply, her head falling back. He kneaded her for a second before his hands skimmed down the curve of her rib cage and to her hips. The waistband of her skirt easily gave and slid down to her ankles.

Steve caught his fingers in her pantyhose and just looked at her for a minute. She was grinning at him, a pinkish tinge on her cheeks. He leaned forward then and kissed her, tasting the wax of her lipstick. Her fingers came up to catch the sides of his head, tangling in his hair. With one motion, the pantyhose were ripped, shreds coming down to rest with the skirt.

It was something he'd always wanted to try. But they didn't wear pantyhose then, everything was rationed. They painted on stockings, which left a terrible mess during sweaty sessions in the sheets. Steve lifted her up and dropped her onto his bed, watching her giggle as she bounced. Her legs were instantly spread wide.

“Please,” she whispered, her lips smeared and her hair tumbled on his pillows. “Please?”

Who was he to deny a lady. Steve stripped out of his own pants and boxers. His shirt joined hers on the floor. Her panties, just a few strings and a tiny piece of lace were easily pushed out of the way. He didn't even want to slide them off of her.

“Wait!” she gripped his shoulders. “Wait, don't we need a condom?”

He looked at her, impressed for a moment. In his day, they were spoken of and bought in whispers. A girl would have been afraid to bring it up, would have been afraid to ruin the moment. This led to girls getting into more predicaments than not. Maybe feminism did have some perks, he thought as he reached into his drawer and pulled out the foil packet.

Izzy's hands were on him then. She tore open the packet and smoothed it over him, making sure to leave room in the tip. She never even broke eye contact with him. Such a talented girl. Izzy let her legs wrap around his hips then.

“Please?” he whispered to her. She nodded and wrapped one arm around his shoulders. The other hand cupped his face gently and leaned up to kiss him against. He smelled the orange blossoms as he pressed inside of her.

She felt like hot wet velvet. He had to pause to let himself adjust to her tight walls around him. Steve groaned before reaching down to adjust her hips. He lifted her slightly, angling even deeper inside of her. Izzy whimpered, tossing her head back on the pillow. Her breasts thrust upwards and Steve kissed his way down to them, taking first one rosy nipple into his mouth then the other.

“Fuck me,” she managed to choke out.

And that was all Steve needed to hear. Her heels dug into his back, just above his ass. His fingers gripped her hipbones, and their lips crashed together. Steve was pumping in
and out of her, feeling her little gasps with every motion he made. His hips moved in a small circle, and she rose to meet him. Her hands caught around his shoulder blades, nails digging in ever so slightly.

“Yes, sweetheart!” he pushed in as fast and deep as he could. She cried out then, nails digging in enough to draw blood. There wouldn't be a mark in the morning, nothing to sting in the shower and remind him of this moment. The way her eyes, hazel and glittering, tracked him before closing in bliss, the way she brought her mouth up to beg for a kiss.

“Steve!” she whispered. “Steve, I'm going to---.”

“I'm right here with you.” he soothed, his hands coming to cradle her face. “Izzy, come for me. I want to feel it.”

Her spine formed the most beautiful arch Steve had ever seen. He suddenly wished he was sitting and watching her from a distance. He wanted to sketch her, to capture this look of delicious torment on her face, and the twist of her hips. He wished he could remember the desperate way her hands dug into him and clutched her closer to him forever.

Through the contracting of her around him, he found himself pushed over the edge. He came, spilling into the condom, stilling deep into her with a soft groan. Izzy was breathing hard as he slipped out of her and tied up and the condom to toss into the trash. He laid beside her for a moment, letting his head rest on her breasts, hearing her heartbeat start to still. His eyes drifted shut, and he let himself have just one moment of stillness.