I had a quick scenario in my head that I wanted to just put out there so here ya go:
“Eddie it’s way too fucking hot out here to be wearing that” Steve said as he pointed to Eddie wearing his vest, leather jacket, and his hellfire club shirt on. (Yes he is wearing pants yk the usual baggy jeans)
“Ok??” Eddie said back, sounding aggravated. “Do you want a heat stroke?” Steve said back with the same attitude. Eddie didn’t say anything. He just sat there with his brown doe eyes staring at Steve. “I guess I’ll take them off for you.” Steve said while getting up and walking behind Eddie.
“Steve. No.” At this point, Eddie sounded kinda pissed. “I’ll tackle you if I have to.” Steve said with a smirk on his face. “Steve you better not-“
“Cmon Munson..” Steve said begging. “No..” Eddie said his back still turned away from Steve
Steve slowly started to take off Eddie’s vest, until Eddie turned around really fast, grabbed Steve’s arm, and…fell?
Yes he fell. “Ow..fuck.” Eddie said while putting his hand on the back of his head. And while he fell, he pulled Steve with him, so he ended falling on top of Eddie and pinning him to the ground. “Steve get up”
Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit
“Um- yea..ok.” Steve said while getting up and offering Eddie a hand. “No I can do it myself, Harrington” Steve felt the hottest feeling on his ears ever and decided to never do that again
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...i don't suppose you have more naked Buckies lying around here? 👀👀👀
Oh, honey, I can always find some for you...
(We do love a naked Bucky - he’s the best Bucky after all)
parts one and two
Steve is finding it hard to concentrate on fighting off hydra agents when his best friend is literally strutting naked down the hallway of an enemy facility right in front of him.
How has Steve never noticed the way Bucky’s hips swing like that? Is this how Bucky has always walked? So suggestively? Every graceful sway of his body leading the eye down the wide, muscular strength of his shoulders to the lithe waist, to the round, bite-able ass, to those thighs that Steve wants wrapped around his face…
Wait…
Does he want that? Bucky's thick, heavy thighs around his face? Breathing in the scent of him, biting into his flesh there?
Oh god. Does he ever.
None of these thoughts are doing any good to calm the intensely tenting erection taking up residence in his fucking paper-thin uniform.
‘Shit,’ Steve mutters under his breath, knocking an oncoming hydra agent back with his shield and then backhanding him into unconsciousness.
‘Steve!’ Bucky hisses, turning to look back at Steve over his bare shoulder, ‘Focus!’
‘I am focused!’ he hisses back through clenched teeth. He refrains from mentioning that it's Bucky’s thighs he’s focused on and not the bad guys that keep popping up out of nowhere.
Bucky rolls his eyes like he can read Steve’s mind (oh fuck, he hopes not), and then shakes his head as he turns back to the door ahead of them.
‘Cap!’ Steve hears Sam through his comm, ‘We’re incoming. You’re all clear outside, do you need us in there?’ Sam is yelling over the sound of the helicopters.
‘No!’ Steve yells back, and Bucky throws the dirtiest look over his shoulder at the level of noise Steve is making, ‘No!’ he whisper yells, ‘Negative, we do not require assistance - wait for us outside!’
God, oh god. He needs to find Bucky some clothes. He cannot explain the immediate and visceral hatred he feels at the idea of the team running in here to find Bucky like this.
‘Mine’ and ‘all mine’ are bouncing through his head like giant fluorescent balls of possession. It’s not conscious, its coming from some lizard brain place that Steve has no control over, but his fists are balled and his muscles are taught and the poor Hydra agent who happens to make that the moment he moves towards Steve with weapon drawn, gets smashed into the wall so hard his body leaves a dent.
Oops.
‘Steve, we could use the back up,’ Bucky directs back to him quietly, though why he’s still bothering with the stealth is beyond Steve, everybody in the building knows where they are now.
‘We’re almost out, and we need to find you some clothes first,’ Steve argues.
But its too late.
‘Steve, we’re on our way in,’ Nat says over comms, her voice irritatingly smug.
Oh, he said that over comms.
Well fuck.
‘Bucky!’ he whisper shouts.
Bucky pulls back from the agent who has dropped at the light touch of Bucky’s metal fist.
‘Please get behind me?’
And by some miracle Bucky can see the stress on Steve’s face, or hear it in his voice, and chooses, however reluctantly, to drop back from his position and come around to stand behind Steve, just as Nat and Sam burst through the heavy metal doors at the entrance to the wide hallway.
Steve has his shield over the incriminating evidence of his arousal, made infinitely worse by the mirroring arousal he can feel pressing into him from behind.
Jesus.
He has to close his eyes to the sudden blood rush into his dick.
And Bucky is leaning over to whisper in his ear, ‘Just breathe, Stevie.’
‘So?’ Nat says eyebrow raised, gun level and firing at the last Hydra agent coming towards them, ‘Looks like you boys have been having some fun.’
Ok - I'm on the home stretch for my Captain America/Russian language professor Bucky fic... But I have a smol 7 month old distraction that makes it very hard to find time to finish. So send me some good vibes so I can get words down and start to post in the next week or two!!
Here's a snip just to be held accountable:
“Well what do you suggest then? Something with syrup that masks the actual flavour of coffee like yours?”
Bucky looked over his shoulder and stopped, clearly offended. “Alright big guy, try this.”
Thrusting out his cup, Steve raised an eyebrow and gingerly took it, shifting the bag of vegetables on his shoulder to hold both drinks. He couldn’t smell anything other than coffee, and shrugging he took a tentative sip. It was good - although milkier than he liked.
“See, just coffee.” The smile Bucky bestowed on him was worth it. “But, uh…”
“What?” Steve asked as Bucky’s eyes fell to his lips and his heart beat faster at the movement.
“Just…” And before Steve knew what was happening, Bucky had reached up, his thumb dragging along the corner of his upper lip and it took every single morsel of willpower in his body not to react. “Froth.”
Watching as Bucky’s face flamed red, Steve wanted to say something, anything to keep the moment charged, but he didn’t have to. Bucky licked the froth from his thumb unconsciously, and Steve went rock hard in his jeans; right there in the middle of the market.
As requested by a few lovely mutuals today, art-nerd!Steve losing his mind over the perfection of one James Buchanan Barnes and his beautiful face.
Steve is set. He has his Staedtler’s (three. It must be three), he's got his blick pad. He has his triple shot black coffee. He has secured the back table with the best view of the door, even though squeezing his giant frame into the bench seat takes him longer than might be considered polite. He loves this table. It's his favourite.
He's ready to lose a few hours getting sharp noses, hunched shoulders, a fascinating profile or two, sketched into the paper. Because this assignment is due tomorrow. And Steve has spent the week with his face buried in 'The History of Beauty', avoiding his responsibilities. And if he wants to keep his scholarship he probably needs to not be doing that.
So yeah. Here he is. And it's going great, it's going just fine, he's got the shadow of that last customer's exhaustion at this near perfect angle and he only needs her to hold that pose, to not move for one minute more, for the barista to take their time, and he'll have it down. But the door opens and startles her. Steve utters a little profanity under his breath and tries to will them back into that right position again but the new customer has pulled her attention away from where Steve can see what he needs.
The new customer who Steve turns to to scowl at.
The new customer in a black leather jacket over a t-shirt with a neckline so deep it's obscene. And Steve would be tempted to flip the page and start sketching those collar bones yesterday except his eyes have travelled up to the new customers face and...
His face is...
Well it's perfection.
Steve is a little stuck. Like physically stuck. His eyes won't move, he's frozen in place and this guy, this creature of perfection, is apologising to the exhausted woman in front of him, for startling her, is laughing at whatever the exhausted woman has said, and it tilts his head back, this laugh, it sharpens his cheekbones and it lengthens the line of his exposed throat and it creases his nose so beautifully that Steve has actually forgotten to breathe...
He probably needs to breathe...
And oh. It's there, right there, as the woman turns away and the guy looks at his phone, his face turning serious, that Steve sees it. Sees the likeness. This guy is the personification of Michelangelo's 'ideal face'.
His face is literal perfection.
Of course, of course it's as Steve's recognising this, as Steve really does flip his page to start a new sketch, as Steve is still resolutely stuck staring at the beauty that's been presented to him on this glorious morning, that the guy looks up from his phone. To Steve. To a Steve who hasn't moved his eyes away since the guy came barrelling through the door. To a Steve who is still staring, even as he realises he is caught.
Oh god. Oh god, why can't he look away.
Steve can feel the blush flooding his cheeks. He can feel the heat of it burning him. He feels his palms start to sweat and he swallows so loudly they could hear it from space. He's mortified.
But the guy... The guy... is not frowning. He's not looking away. He's not even stepping up to order his coffee, he's staring back at Steve and he's smiling. And when he does look away, breaking Steve's gaze, its only so far as to reach Steve's hands, and the pencil he's holding, the blick pad it's pressed to. His smile grows impossibly wider. And when he looks back up at Steve and catches his eye again it's to wink. To wink at Steve.
And he never bothers to step up to the counter because instead he's turned his feet and pointed them at Steve. He's walking right over to him. Like they know each other. This art come to life, is making his way as casually as anything right up to Steve's table.
'Hey,' he says, the guy, this perfect guy, Who's just sitting himself down in the seat opposite Steve. 'I'm Bucky.'
Bucky, he's Bucky. Steve should respond, Steve should say something. Anything... 'Hi,' Steve says, too low, too husky, the only words he's spoken all morning were to order his coffee and his throat is too raw, 'Hi.'
Oh god, his brain is broken.
'Do you have a name, or...?' the guy, Bucky, asks, and his smile is so soft, Steve's fingers are itching to capture it.
'Yeah, I do, yeah. Steve. Is my name,' Steve says, tripping over every word and desperate for the ground to swallow him whole. 'I'm Steve.'
'You an artist, Steve?'
'Um, yeah,' Steve says, nodding, 'I mean I'm studying to be... One.' - Oh Steve, no - 'An artist, I mean' Oh god, he's a train wreck.
'Oh yeah?' The guy, Bucky, seems unbothered by the way Steve is clearly malfunctioning in this moment. 'You're drawing right now?'
'I'm supposed to be sketching candid portraits,' Steve says, unable to stop his mouth from running, 'You know like just details, focusing on shading and composition with limited time frames.'
'Uh-huh, That sounds complicated.'
'I mean it can be tricky....' Steve says, trailing off as he gets distracted by the way Bucky is licking his lips, leaning forward in his seat.
'Hey can I ask you something?' he says, putting his elbows on the table, reaching his head closer to Steve's.
'Anything,' Steve says, before he can catch the word and shove it back in his mouth. He pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose nervously.
'Were you about to draw me, Steve?'
Oh. Oh god. 'Uhh...'
'It's okay if you were, I just thought... I'm kind of into drawing, you know?'
'I don't... you are?' Steve is leaning his own body in now, closer to Bucky, like he's being pulled on a string,
'Yeah, I'm no good at it myself, but it's sort of fascinating,' Bucky has dropped his voice, like he's telling Steve a secret, 'Do you have to draw these portraits with a time limit, Steve? Or could you take your time, if you wanted to?'
'Oh well, I mean... I don't... there's no real rule, technically.'
'Would you be interested in something like that?'
'Like what?' Steve asks, lost in the possibility of what Bucky is offering.
'Like having a model, for longer than a minute. Like me. Like I could model for you, if you wanted.'
'Yeah, yes,' Steve says, nodding so enthusiastically it's shaking his brain, 'Yes, I want that, I mean I would be interested in that.'
'Yeah?' Bucky asks, smiling wider still, raising his eyebrows, like it's a surprise. Like he wasn't already aware Steve is prepared to sell his own kidneys for this man he's just met.
'Definitely,' Steve says, not sure how to play this cool. Steve hasn't been cool one single day in his life.
'You got somewhere we can go for this, Steve?'
And Steve's heart skips a beat, 'What right now?'
'Sure, I got time,' Bucky says, 'Do you?'
'I do, I do. I have time.' He doesn't really. Except he's pretty sure he'll be furiously sketching out the lines of Bucky's sharp bone structure, the delicate lips, the dimple in his chin, for the rest of the day (his life) and it doesn't breach the assignment to have the sketches all be of the same person. He can still get his work done. 'And I have a space, in my apartment, if that's okay?'
