#Artist Steve

[fizz-pop-thwip]

Part of me wonders if Steve enjoyed the first era of 'Captain America', the entertaining. Obviously not being paraded around like a dancing monkey, being a symbol of propaganda, having no choice in how he is portrayed to the world.

But Entertaining. Acting. Did he ever improvise on stage and get scolded for going off script? Did he ever make suggestions and get shot down? Was he ever anxious/excited for a certain gig?

Steve had a lot more important things on his mind when it came to the war and BUCKY being at war, being useless while people are out there dying, not being able to help. Hell, acting would have never been his career choice in any world, but do you think he had FUN? Do you think he felt pride in bringing people that joy? Especially in such times.

I don' knoughh, he's just so small and round (figurative) and hopeful in that first movie he deserves everything.

[steevbuckk]

FAVORITE STUCKY FICS | 50/100

Learn Me Hard Oh, Learn Me Right by @love-ha-fge

[College AU, 60 000 words, Explicit]

Summary:

“Have you always struggled with math, Steve?” Dr. Potts asked.

The blush crept higher as the same shame that he had felt since the second grade crawled up his spine.

“You’re not the only one.” She assured, handing the papers back to him. “Luckily, you can get one-on-one tutoring at the student center, your tuition covers two sessions per week.”

“Thank you ma’am.” Steve accepted the paper and stood, sliding his backpack over his shoulders. Making his way out of her office he paused when she called his name. “Ma’am?”

“Ask for Bucky Barnes.” Her lips turned up at the name. “He’s one of the math majors that I oversee, haven’t had a student work with him who hasn’t passed.”

No pressure, Steve thought. “I’ll make sure to do that. Thank you Dr. Potts.” “Good luck Steve.”

He didn’t need luck, he needed a miracle.

more fics

[fandomfluffandfuck]

Thinking about Sam asking Steve, "What makes you happy?" And when he doesn't have an answer, Sam starts paying attention to try and parse out little pieces of happiness from him. Once, he sees Steve doodling with a pen on the back of some extra receipt paper when they go out to lunch, Sam leading the charge to get him used to non-boiled future food 😉 They're waiting for Steve's card to be returned to him and, okay, damn, the history books left out that Steve's a pretty decent drawer. Sam can work with that... watching the quirk of Steve's mouth as he doodles.

So, Sam gets him some nice art supplies. No dollar-store pens or regular #2 pencils. Some expensive, apparently high-quality (according to the Internet, it really is helpful sometimes, ha) graphite pencils, a set of micron pens, and the appropriate watercolor paper, brushes, and pigment. The final cost is eye-popping to Sam in spite of his understanding of modern pricing. It's worth it, though. Because Steve uses them. He starts carrying a sketchbook along with his list book. And, eventually, he shyly shows Sam some of what he's worked on.

The sprawl of Central Park...

A broken section of sidewalk, grass creeping through the space made by the roots of an elder tree...

The skyline view from Steve's apartment...

A dog...

A potted plant sitting on Steve's balcony with a label that reads "my sadness buddy" (a gift from Natasha)...

An empty folding chair from the VA...

A steaming cardboard coffee cup.

Sam is blown away by the beauty of what Steve can create. He wonders, but he doesn't ask if Steve's ever had nice, vivid art supplies before. There's something impressive about the colors and way he experiments, pulling beauty out of nothing, with his new art supplies. But, also, there's something especially impressive about what he can do with any old pen or pencil lying about. Sam finds himself smiling, thinking about that old saying he's heard, a poor craftsman blames his tools. Steve is bluntly a master craftsman--in everything he does, he puts his entire heart into it. It's strange he hasn't drawn any faces or people, though. (There's definitely something there. Sam's gonna have to see what that's about, too.)

[aliea82]

Steve had a secret.

There was a box hidden under his bed that was filled with books, books that held page after page of sketches, drawings, and paintings.

Steve had never shown a single person what he could do, what he had taught himself. He spent years of nights spent filling these pages, then hiding them away never to see the light of day.

He had started when he was four, his then nanny buying him his very first book of blank pages. He had drawn on every single page. Little drawings, drawn by little hands using crayons and pencils. His nanny had loved each one, heaping praise and encouragement. When he had shown his mum, she had only nodded, not looking. But when he showed his father, he had scoffed, told him how ridiculous he was, how he had wasted his time, that his four year old pictures were pathetic and stupid. Steve had spent that night ripping each page to tiny pieces, falling asleep in tears, waking to find them gone, cleaned away by his nanny who simply bought another book, leaving it on his desk.

Steve didn’t touch it, left it blank for years, until the first time his parents had left him alone, no nanny, no babysitter, just himself, he was nine.

That first night, he didn’t sleep, to afraid, to scared of the dark. He had sat on his bed, covers piled up around him, staring at nothing, listening to the silence.

The second night, he did the same until he got up, walked to the desk, pulled out the book of blank pages, and started to draw.

It became his coping mechanisms, drawing night after night, sketching, shading, colouring, and perfecting.

With every book he filled, he would spend time looking through it before storing it away in his box under his bed, never to see the light of day.

As he grew up he became good at what he did, sketching his friends, Tommy, Carol, then the many girls he had taken to his bed, private art, their breast, their hands, their mouth, never the whole of them, just parts, parts he had enjoyed.

When he met Nancy, she filled so many of his pages, her hair, her eyes, her nose, her quirky mouth. He loved her hands, so small and delicate, he had drawn them time and time again, brushing back her hair, holding her books, touching his hand, delved into his hair.

For months she was his obsession.

Then it became the Demogorgon.

The pages became dark, dangerous, gruesome. Blood, and nail bats, fire and bear traps.

He filled so many books with the monsters he had encountered, of Billy, dying, blood covered, and sorry.

He drew the kids, and they all had their own books, Dustin’s was the one that needed two until he met Robin. Robin the light of his light life, the ying to just yang, the soul mate he didn’t know he was looking for. She filled a single book in under week, her smile, her eyes, her hair, and ears. She was the first full portrait he had ever done, a whole page full of her face. He drew her constantly, but he never showed her, not once.

The first time he drew Eddie was after picking Dustin up from a DnD night. He has watched as Dustin had spoken to him, his eyes drawn instantly the curls of his hair, of the way the light had landed on them. That was the first thing he drew, in a new book, in a book that now belonged to Eddie even though Steve hadn’t even spoken to him.

Over the months as Steve picked up Dustin, catching glimpse of the man Dustin now gushed over as he got in the car, he would study different parts, all from a distance and slowly his book of Eddie held parts of him, his eyes, never coloured because Steve wasn’t sure what colour they were. His mouth, so full and always smiling. His hands, covered in rings that shone in the light but held no detail because Steve never got close enough to see.

He filled a whole book of parts of a man he didn’t know, but he couldn’t stop, and why would it matter? No one would know.

The night after the boat house Steve spent the whole night filling page after page with details, of brown chocolate eyes, of fear shown on a full mouth of rings so chunky and metal, a cross a pigs head a skull and a black stone. He placed each one on the right finger, then he drew his second ever full portrait, Eddie lost, sat on a create, looking defeated and scared.

He stared at that picture a lot once finished, his fingers tracing over it as if he wanted to sooth the tension away to make it better.

After that night, he didn’t draw again for a week.

When he finally drew again, it was Vecna, and bats and vines and blood and death.

It was Dustin holding Eddie, it was Max in a hospital bed, it was cracks in the earth, it was Robin smiling, it was Lucas crying, it was Nancy with a shot gun, it was El with her buzzed hair, Mike hugging his mom, Will with his hand to his neck, Erica with a flash light.

It was Eddie, eyes wide, blood on his face, mouth full of it, hands covered in gore. It was another hospital bed, white bandages, and heartbeat lines. It was forming scars and bats still eating.

He counted the following months in sketches of everything that happened, drawings of fighting, hands around guns and Molotov cocktails and when it was all over he sat on his bed watching Eddie flick through page after page after page of books full of everything Steve loved.

After that, Steve drew of Eddie, of his bare back, his hips and scars, his mouth open in pleasure, his hands in Steve’s hair, around his throat, around his dick. He drew Eddie, and he showed him, allowing the sketches to see the light of day for the very first time.

[broodybuck]

Title: Draw Me Like One of Your Brooklyn Boys

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Rating: E

Tags: 18+ explicit smut, daddy kink, overstimulation, handjob, dom Steve, sub Bucky, dirty talk, artist Steve, insecure Bucky

He's lying on the couch completely nude and he'll admit it's a little chilly in here. Part of him is sure Steve put the air down before they started this. Then again, Bucky likes it cold in the apartment so he can bundle up in comfy clothes.

His cock being hard isn't helping things. That part he knows is Steve's fault. When he asked Bucky if he could draw him, he said he'd reward him afterward. And well, how could Bucky not get hard just thinking about what his reward might be. Bucky's sure he's getting fucked. How could Steve not want to fuck him after studying his body for this long? But that's just the problem, this is taking way too long.

He swears it feels like an hour has gone by and Bucky can't help but fidget in and out of position. Steve's pencil stops and glances over his sketchbook.

"Bucky, what did I say?"

Bucky sighs, resting his limbs flat again. He wonders why it's taking so long. Is Steve erasing and redoing parts... the parts of Bucky he doesn't like? Bucky wiggles again. He's restless and his cock feels heavy sitting hard in between his legs.

"Buck, you have to stay still," Steve warns.

Bucky tries to relax, he really does, but now he can't get it out of his head. What if Steve doesn't even want to draw his cock when it's all needy and enlarged like this? Maybe he'll skip over it.

"How much longer?" Bucky asks.

"Almost done."

"Please, can I have a break?"

"Of course," Steve says, putting his pencil down.

He stands from his chair. He steps over to the couch and gazes down at Bucky's naked form. Bucky squirms under his heated stare. He glances at his cock, he knows Steve can see how hard he is. No one could miss it but suddenly, he's not sure if he wants Steve to see.

"Are you okay?" Steve asks.

"I don't look good, are you sure you wanna draw me?"

Steve's expression drops.

"Why would you say that?"

Bucky shrugs. He hasn't been insecure about his looks in a long time but occasionally it creeps up on him at the most random times.

"Bucky," Steve says softly, his hand cups Bucky's face giving him a sense of comfort just from the gentle touch. "You look perfect."

Steve sits down on the edge of the couch, his thumb strokes across Bucky's jaw. Bucky leans into the touch.

"Can we be done, please?" Bucky asks.

"Yes, baby," Steve allows and nudges Bucky forward with the hand. Bucky sits up and crawls into Steve's lap, hugging him tightly. Steve rubs a palm up and down his back comfortingly.

"Buck, do you need a reminder of how much you're wanted?"

Bucky hums non-committedly. He's just happy to be in Steve's arms not posing motionless on the couch anymore.

"Come here, let me see," Steve coos.

He gently pushes Bucky back and then stares down between his legs.

"Beautiful," Steve marvels.

He grazes the shaft with the softest touch of a fingertip. It makes Bucky shudder and he remembers how good Steve makes him feel. Okay, maybe he is happy Steve is looking at his cock again.

Steve leans in to kiss the side of his neck, then the edge of his jaw, and finally his lips. Bucky melts into the kiss, his whole body sagging forward from it. Steve holds him up with his hand above his ribs. When his other thumb smears a dribble of precum from the head, Bucky moans brokenly. Steve spreads it down the shaft and then wraps his hand around it. Okay, yeah. Bucky wants it now, really fucking wants it.

Steve starts with a slow up stroke, then rubs under the sensitive head. He repeats the motion, pulling his fist down to the base then back up and rubs. Bucky's eyes squeeze shut, his breath shudders.

"You're perfect, baby. I'm gonna give you everything you need."

Bucky nods, hiding his face in Steve's shoulder. Steve's fist sets off in a fluid motion, pumping him faster. A perfect mix of heat and speed firing up and down his dick until Bucky can't keep still. He needs to whine and thrust up into Steve's hand.

"Please, please, please," Bucky begs, panting.

Steve doesn't stop, he pumps him hard and tight until the pleasure is coiling at Bucky's spine. His toes curl, his nails digs into Steve's shoulder blades and he comes.

The pleasure rushes through him and he can distantly recognize the warmth of Steve's hand continuing to stroke him up and down. The pleasure begins veering on the side of too sensitive and Bucky starts to squirm helplessly.

"Daddy—" he gasps.

"Have to get it all out, every last drop," Steve commands.

He covers the wet head and twists his wrists in quick circles that make Bucky's body jerk from the overstimulation. He cries and writhes from it.

"I can't—"

Steve keeps going and massages his balls with his other hand until soon the near pain turns to pleasure, blinding pleasure. Bucky's body shakes with it and he feels his cock come again, dribbling more release into Steve's heated palm.

Steve finally frees Bucky's spent cock and kisses him. Bucky's heart swells under the kiss, his body feels high. Steve pulls him against his chest, holding onto him tight. Bucky snuggles into him, then feels another kiss press onto his forehead.

"I'm always gonna take care of you, baby."

[ronearoundblindly]

'Item 107' Masterlist

skinny!demigod!Steve Rogers x bewitched!soulmate!Reader a Beauty and the Beast AU (sorta)

Summary: Steve has lived a long, long life, gaining energy and power through his art, but he's lonely. Ages ago, he painted one piece to draw his one true partner to his waiting arms, and he waited. He waited and waited. Nothing happened, and Steve gave in to his fury. When reader shows up interested in that faded and ugly canvas, Steve is too bitter to fathom why. Will he notice who you are to him? Will he make space in his life for you?

Romance 🔥 || Smut 🦆 || Angst ⛈ || Fluff 🌼 || Dark Fic 🌘

Gesso-Prepped Canvas

Tonal Background

Adjust Brush and Color

Set To Dry

[Main Masterlist]

[bucksaiga]

The Body Is A Work Of Art

Bartender Billy strikes up a conversation with a cute patron—an eccentric artist named Steve. He tells Billy his beauty inspires him and that he’d like to paint him, so Steve invites Billy over to his apartment. Billy has no idea that Steve’s "passion project" is a messy, fetish fantasy.

M is for Mess Fetish (Enjoying the mess created by sexual fluids. They may use the fluids as lubes, to drink, to “paint” on their partner’s body.)

This is the 13th fic in my Harringrove Kinktober ABCs

A series of 26 unrelated ficlets about Billy and Steve, each one written for a kink that starts with every letter of the alphabet.

@harringrovekinktober

A young man, likely in his mid 20’s walked in with a smile and energy that could light up the room—even a dimly lit bar like Billy’s.

“Hey there!” He greeted Billy as he sat on a bar stool, swiveling from side to side. “Nice bar you’ve got here.”

“Thanks. What can I get you?” 

“Hm…maybe a whiskey? I just sold a piece that took me a year to finish, so I’m kinda celebrating.”

“Congratulations.” Billy smiled. “You an artist or something?”

“Or something.” The artist laughed. “I’m more of a hobbyist who got into art by accident and learned that this shit kinda works for me. Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do, I just didn’t think anyone else would.”

“Got any samples?” Billy curiously asked as he poured his drink.

“Sure.” He took out his phone and showed Billy a photo of his gallery.

“You did all that?” Billy raised his brows, impressed. “You’re damn good.”

“Thank you. I-I really appreciate that.” He sipped his drink. 

“So why’re you celebrating all alone?”

“Ah, my best friend’s away on her honeymoon. Usually we’d go to dinner or something nice after I make a big sale but…I’m all by myself.”

“Not completely. You’ve got me.” Billy winked.

“That certainly counts for something. So what’s your story, Mr. Bartender?”

“It’s Billy. I’m a bartender by night and lifeguard by day.”

“A lifeguard, huh? Makes sense.”

“Does it? Why’s that?”

“Your physique. I was about to ask if you were a model.”

Billy laughed, bashfully turning his head away. “No, I’m not a model. Never considered it, honestly.”

“No? You’re gorgeous, though. I’d love to paint you.”

“Paint me?” Billy echoed in surprise.

“You could be my muse. I’d love for you to be the subject of a passion project of mine.”

Billy had been flattered before, but never admired in such a way that he’d be seen as art. The thought thrilled him. 

Billy shrugged. “Fuck it. Let’s do it.”

“Great!” He handed Billy a card. “Text me when you’re free and you can come by my studio—which is...also my apartment.” He nervously chuckled. “Hope that’s okay.”

Billy grinned. “In this economy? It’s fine…” He read the name on the card. “Steve.”

Keep Reading On Ao3

[william-snekspeare]

alternate take on my other steve comic.

help me afford new socks

[brokenfence]

[sketchy-doge1]

Jedediah and Octavius wish yall a happy pride!!

[twobraincells-art]

The 8th of August, 2024

Two mistakes of the universe go for a walk. Despite this, the universe doesn’t chew them up and spit them out. It lets them be. They deserve it, after all.

It’s a lovely day.

[fandomfluffandfuck]

Steve takes Bucky’s ashes after Infinity War and mixes it with soil from Wakanda and soil from Brooklyn. He puts it in the prettiest urn he can find, one he’s sure his baby would adore, and puts it on Bucky’s side of the bed. He looks at it when he’s having trouble going to bed, thinking about how Bucky would hold him tight and kiss his cheek, whispering little “I love you, Stevie.”s in his ear. He places a fresh boquet next to it every week, along with Bucky’s and wedding ring.

When the panic attacks come, he usually crashes next to it, and Steve can practically feel how Bucky would wrap his arms around him, guiding him through deep breaths, and some days he swears up and down that he can feel. Bucky’s forehead kisses and the way he gently calms him down.

But at the end of the day, Steve aches at the empty space on the couch, the lack of smells in the kitchen, and the absence of his best guy’s laugh. He sits in Central Park and tries so hard to cry as quiet as possible.

Me, upon reading this with my own two eyes:

Jesus Christ

I will fucking sob.

Okay, okay, my first thought when I was no longer so vitally fucking shattered by this misery, lmao, was that what if... Steve certainly has an urn for Bucky as soon as possible, right? Steve can't bear to have him in anything that isn't beautiful and meaningful for the love of his life--his lives, plural, with how much life they've lived and how much of them they've lived together. However, I could see some of the therapy that Steve does over those five years after the blip being art therapy.

Much like when he was first thawed from the ice, he finds it hard to create--his muse is gone--but there's a loophole to his art block. And the loophole is having a goal, a thing to create in particular. Something for his love.

An urn.

I just have this image inherently in my head of Steve working his ass off, just to have something to do--keeping himself busy to keep him tied to Earth. So, he tirelessly slaves away at developing his skills with pottery. All in all, for the purpose of making Bucky's final resting place with his own two hands so he can, in a way, hold him forever.

Is there anything more permanent than fired clay, after all? In thousands, thousands of years, when whoever is left digs up their apartment, they'll find the fragments of Bucky's urn mixed with the soil, mixed with Bucky, and still held tenderly by Steve's creation for him.

For him.

To have and to hold him.

I, just, yeah. Steve making Bucky's urn himself. Oof.

"When the panic attacks come, he usually crashes next to it, and Steve can practically feel how Bucky would wrap his arms around him, guiding him through deep breaths, and some days he swears up and down that he can feel. Bucky’s forehead kisses and the way he gently calms him down."

Fucking CHRIST.

That is brutal.

"He sits in Central Park and tries so hard to cry as quiet as possible."

Can you imagine being a bystander to that? Because that's all I'm picturing. Just as a regular civilian, trying to move through your own grief, wandering in Central Park, and coming across Captain America as he sobs so hard his big, broad shoulders shake and he chokes, half-hidden by one of the older trees. You don't know if it's more painful to go up and say something, admitting you've witnessed him in this way, or to walk away and leave him to grieve alone.

Do you think there's a sweet little carving in that tree? Somewhere high in the branches where it's hard to find? Bucky + Steve, or more simply, faster and harder to catch, B + S, surrounded by a love heart? There, carved into the tree when it was young--when they were young.

Oh my fucking god.

Thank you for this! It's so terrible for my emotions. I love it.

[huariqueje]

Cold snap - Steve Smulka

American, b. 1949 -

Oil on linen , 36 x 48 cm.

[mohish-ko]

★ "But I knew him" ★

[keydoods]

Uh oh Eddie's got a crushhhh on a certain king of Hawkins

[rottensouldier]

something a little different today and my first piece cementing my years of steddie worship.