Fandom Oneshots

Popcorn *Steve Rogers x Reader*

(A/N: For the sake of the story, you are now shorter than 5'3. Oops)

The blinding lights radiating from the stage that towers magnificently at the end of the cobblestone path you stride along with your best friend, (Y/F/N), on your arm, dance in your vision as the distant specks of show girls kick and shuffle around the undoubtedly fantastic invention that Stark is presenting. His excited, booming voice just barely manages to travel through the ambiance of footsteps and laughter that surrounds you. You can't help but feel overwhelmed at the sheer size of the crowd that has already accumulated around the foot of the stage but cannot say you aren't surprised at the turn out. Howard Stark's Technology Expo was bound to be big talk.

You struggle to hold a conversation with (Y/F/N), your voices getting lost in the loud music and conversations that take hold around you. It probably doesn't help that you're a solid head shorter than her, too, making the chances of your words carrying even lower than if you were of average height. Ever since the both of you started to mature back in junior high, you've always found yourself a bit envious of her, and now is especially no exception.

She's a tall and slender blonde doll with bright blue eyes and ruby red lips. The spitting imagine of 1940′s beauty that you can never even begin to hope to emit with the short stature that you possess.

Flicking a loose strand of hair out of your face and tucking it behind your ear with your free hand, you let out a long breath of relief when you finally reach the edge of the crowd. After a few moments of swaying on your tip-toes to try and see what all the fuss is about, you realize that no matter where you shift, you can't see a thing. Annoyed, you make eye contact with (Y/F/N), her already one step ahead of you and tightening her arm around yours before assertively shoving her way through the crowd, paving space for you to traverse behind her without getting pushed around like a rag doll. A few death glares earned from the victims of (Y/F/N)'s inconsiderate pushes and shoves later and the both of you are stood in a fairly decent spot behind what looks like a double date.

The smile of satisfaction that graces your features quickly drops as you realize that despite only a single group standing between you and the stage, you still cannot see a damn thing. Letting out a huff, you turn to lament with your friend only to realize that she has already walked a couple feet away, caught up in a flirt fest with a couple of burly soldier boys that are projecting as much swagger and testosterone as they can possibly muster.

You can't help but pull a face.

Definitely not your type.

She catches your attention and tries to wave you over, her eyes glowing with mischief as you know she knows full well that the last thing you want to do is talk to a bunch of meat heads like the brutes currently flexing their biceps for her to touch. You fail to stifle the amused snort that escapes you as you shake your head no with a little too much vigor. She merely sticks her tongue out at you and rolls her eyes, mouthing a teasing "Fine," before turning her attention back to the soldier boys.

With a slighted half-smile on your lips, you cross your arms over your chest and tap your foot, deciding to preoccupy yourself by glaring at the back of the enormous head of hair the girl in front of you possesses, willing it to shrink with your mind so that you can see what in the world is going on only a few agonizing feet in front of you.

As Stark talks a bunch of tech talk that you can't even begin to hope to understand, you notice the awkward tension between the girl and her date at an alarmingly fast rate, some of the awkwardness seeping into your own being, making you feel a little uneasy.

Eyeing the man of the pair, you observe his features, noticing how, despite his slight frame, he possesses a studious attractiveness that is so rare among the 40′s ample selection of jock types. His soft, gentle baby blues hold a nervous shine that is only accentuated by the bright lights that radiate from the stage. His left hand grips a box of popcorn and his right fidgets with the hem of his jacket, a single frayed strand of fabric twirling between his nimble fingers. You observe how he shifts his gaze back and forth between the presentation and his date, a slew of thoughts and conflict dancing in his eyes like the show girls that fight for the spot light.