multi-fandom oneshots

spitfire girl (steve rogers)

summary: Steven finds himself infatuated by the girl across the way.

pairing: Steve Rogers x reader

word count: 5.3k

genre: smut, fluff, historical

warnings: period-typical expectations of women and marriage, people getting married probably too soon but that's how it be for a victorian lady ://///////, steve and reader being pining idiots but also being stupidly angry at each other, reader is part of the bourgeoisie im so sorry. also smut ofc skjdfksd

note: um okay so i'm a dumbass who accidentally watched the last episode of carnival row instead of starting on the first one, so this is largely based off a chunk of dialogue between two characters from that episode!

You were a spitfire of a girl.

You played the part of an angel flawlessly, faultlessly, of course, and Steven knows this all too well; hair pinned up and away from your face in that way that ladies wear it, dresses appropriate and suitable for a young girl of your standing. Doe eyes and long eyelashes and soft, saccharine smiles that had any man with two eyes melting in your presence.

(Even him. Especially him.)

Your family was old, old money – ships and stocks and trading, the lot of it, and after the death of your parents your elder brother inherited their business. You both lived in the tall, dark brick house across the way, iron gates and rose bushes and carriages. You lived in the lap of luxury – were born into it, actually, and that is the exact reason why Steve Rogers is (to put it lightly) in trouble.

Because Steve Rogers was not born into luxury. He'd been shoved into the streets from the time he was a baby, his mother a faceless brothel-worker who didn't need a child weighing her down. He'd never had soft, spotless skin; his cheeks were smeared with grime and his feet were bare and rough. A weak, sickly child, he had never been able to do the jobs the other kids did to earn money. He couldn't clean chimneys, couldn't run messages very far, either. It was pure and utter luck that he had been taken in by a benevolent family – the Barnes' – who had treated him as their own.

As he grew older, though, his luck only seemed to grow with him; sicknesses fading into nothingness and muscle building where none had been before, shooting up to stand above his peers. Shoulders broadened, arms thickened, legs strong and muscular. People saw potential in him, then. They gave him opportunities and he snatched them up eagerly; even the dangerous ones. Especially the dangerous ones.

But these jobs were not where his passions lay, and they never would, truly. He enjoyed the thrill, the adrenaline, the large amounts of money that came with them, yes. It allowed him to rise to a social class previously closed off to him; allowed him to afford his large house and his land, and would continue to allow him to live extremely comfortably for the rest of his life – but he had always had a knack for the arts, for painting. Now that he was retired, he planned to do much more of it.

He moved into a rich, upper-class neighbourhood and shocked the neighbours with his lack of an upper-class bloodline, created whispers and rumours about where his money came from and how he accumulated his wealth. But he stayed out of trouble – and was doing a damn good job of it, too, and would've continued to do a good job of it, if you had been who he had thought you were.

He's invited to a dinner party at your own house. Every neighbour was invited, of course, and he had the sneaking suspicion that he was to be the subject of all talk at the gathering... but what better way to insert himself into the life of a high-society man? So dressed in his finest morning coat, silk vest, Henderson trousers and top hat, he strolled across the road to your place of residence. Less than 30 seconds and he was engulfed in warm, golden lights, chatter and the crackling crooning of a phonograph. A young man at the door offers him a glass of amber – it tastes like luxury, he finds, but by the end of the night it has dimmed in comparison to what's between your legs.