#the rest of this sketchbook spread is also based on my fics

[cherrypicked-pearls]

Some Hanakou smooches and a weird comic/storyboard thing from my Summer Stupor fic!!!

[jasons-exposedspine]

I adore you

Relationships: Jim Root x Rose (my OC)

Warnings: fluff that's it that's the fic

Description: Jim and Rose spend a lovely cool day outside together.

A/N: hey guys I'll be posting some more stuff on here. I have a whole folder of fics I've finished or almost finished so be ready for those to come out soon. I based this fic off of this photo:

Jim and Rose were sitting on one of the outdoor couches by the pool at the house they both shared. It was a lovely day to sit outside, it was warm but not to warm and the sun was shining with not one cloud in the sky.

Jim had his acoustic guitar in his lap and sat with one leg over the other whilst Rose was sketching. She was an amazing artist among being able to play piano and drums. Jim looked over at her with a smile "any requests flower?" Looking up from her sketchbook she looked up in thought.

"I love you by Billie Eilish" he smiled at her knowing it was one of her favorite songs, sure she liked Korn and Cannibal corpse but she also liked Billie Eilish and Lady GaGa. Rose looked up from her sketchbook to look at her gorgeous man so she could sketch the rest of him. She took her phone out and took a picture of him playing.

His hair was down, fluffy and golden and his beard long and soft with a smoke in his mouth. He was wearing a black T shirt and a pair of denim shirts thay ended just above his knees. Jim strummed the strings of his guitar and Rose sang the lyrics to the song as she sketched with her feet resting on his thigh.

Adding the final touches Rose put her signature on the drawing and looked up from her sketchbook and watched in awe as Jim played the guitar. He was so perfect and she couldn't ask for a more perfect person in her life. Rose scooted closer to him and put her head on his shoulder as he kept playing her favorite song.

When he finished the song Rose kissed him on the cheek and cuddled into his side "you're so perfect" she said looking up at him in awe. His green eyes met her hazel ones causing him to smile "so are you flower" Rose moved his hair out of his face and behind his ear. Jim flicked his smoke and blew out the last of his smoke.

Cupping his cheek she leaned up and gave him a sweet kiss. "What were you sketching?" He asked with a raised brow, Rose picked up her sketchbook and handed it to him "I was sketching you." A smile spread on his face when he saw how accurate the sketch was "you're fucking amazing" he said with amazement.

A blush rose on her face "I'm not that good have you seen Jays art?" Jim looked up from her sketchbook "the both of you are amazing fucking artists." She giggled and kissed him "I draw you alot and I draw the others too but mostly you" Jim looked through it and took pictures for his Insta.

He loved how talented she was and always liked to show people how talented she was on his Insta. Jim held his phone up and Rose got in the picture, putting some of his hair over the top of his lip for a mustache and with the next one her kissing his cheek.

"Tag me in that" she said as he posted it "I tag you in everything I post baby" he put his phone down and before he could pick his guitar up Rose climbed into his lap. "I love you" she said before kissing him softly "I love you too" he said between kisses.

Jim lifted her and layed her on her back never breaking the kiss. He pulled back and looked into her sparkling eyes "I adore you y'know that?" Rose blushed and giggled. She pushed his hair behind his ear and looked into his eyes "now I do" he smiled down at her and leaned down to kiss her softly.

[3pirouette]

Title: An Experimental Design

By: TriplePirouette/3Pirouette

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

Distribution: AO3  Anyone else please ask first :) 

Story Summary: Sequel to “What Number?”, also prompted from Steggy Bingo Bash Prompts.  Takes place about a week after that fic. 

Chapter A/N: This chapter is for everyone who has been posting their theories about what will happen. It's always been planned this way since I first started writing, so I hope you enjoy. 

Chapter 8: Fallout

~*~

She held his hand out the door, and in the backseat as they drove back to the base. He didn’t acknowledge the tremor in her hand out loud, or that fact that while they both knew that Howard wouldn’t purposely hurt them, everything about the situation was dangerous and unknown.

She only let go when they arrived at the base, slipping the mask of propriety and duty back on, her worried eyes hiding behind a false confidence he could see right through.

~*~

The very first thing she did when they got back to apartment was run for the bathroom, retching sounds filtering all the way back to Steve at the front door. He moved slowly, taking his time to get to her and allow her some privacy. The procedure itself had been quick and nearly painless: two shots each, right in the upper arm, though Steve’s needles were decidedly larger than the ones they used on Peggy. It had taken them longer to get there and back in the car.

Steve grabbed a washcloth and ran it under cool water as he slipped next to her in the bathroom, handing it to Peggy as he crouched down. “Guess he wasn’t lying about the side effects, huh?”

She nodded, wiping at her mouth and then pillowing her head on her arm, still kneeling at the toilet. “The headache’s started, too.”

He gently ran a hand over her back. “What can I do?”

“I think I’ll stay here for the moment… stomach’s not all that settled yet.”

He rubbed her back gently. “Tea?”

“That would be lovely,” she murmured, her face pinching as she started to feel the waves of nausea again.

Steve let her be, knowing there was little he could do, and set about making her tea. Howard had listed a dozen likely side effects and a few rare ones they were supposed to be aware of that could last hours or days. Howard wasn’t sure how long the doses would last, but he’d given Steve four times more than Peggy and said to keep their fingers crossed and try to avoid excessive touching.

Steve wasn’t going to avoid comforting Peggy while she was crouched over the toilet, but a tiny peck and some gentle touches were hardly the same level of skin to skin contact they’d indulged in recently. He poured the hot water over the tealeaves and waited, watching the water darken. The list of side effects we daunting, but so far, Steve felt fine.

Fine, he thought, was putting it lightly. He felt the clearest he had in days, maybe even months. He opened the kitchen window, taking in the late morning sun and took a deep breath, the light air mixing with the soft scent of Peggy’s tea. He felt awake. Free.

This was working.

The desire he felt for her was just that: desire. It wasn’t the overwhelming lust or the desperate need for her any longer, just the low simmering love he’d felt before all of this started, ready to ignite with a touch or a kiss.

He turned, meeting her eyes as she joined him, staying by the doorway. Her color looked better already, though she had a glassy look still in her eyes. “Better?” he asked.

“Seems, for the mo’ at least.” She took a slow, deep breath in and out. “Headache isn’t too bad,” she grabbed the mug from the counter and took a slow sip, “It’s bearable. You?”

He didn’t want to flaunt his newfound revelations, not when she seemed to be still struggling. “Feeling ok so far.” He shrugged, wanting to reach out. Their directive to not touch made things awkward and stilted.

“I think I’ll take a lie in, just for a bit.” Peggy clutched her mug.

“Yeah,” he waved his hand, nodding over and over again, feeling silly and stupid and suddenly like he was 98 pounds all over again. “Yeah, just… just call if you need me.”

Her lips stayed pressed together when she smiled. Her nod was just as awkward as his, eyes retreating to her tea as she turned.

~*~

He sat on the couch, sketching her through the door to the bedroom. She’d left it open a crack, and he’d quietly widened it when he went to check on her. From his spot curled into the side of the sofa he had a perfect view of her face, overtaken by sleep, her curls falling and lips parted just slightly.

He hoped the vomiting and the headache and the fatigue meant it was working. It was hard not to feel trapped and used, he thought, as he added shading to her cheek. Despite the positive, the time and the touches, and the very clear understanding that they were in love, it felt wrong and broken to be forced together like this.

He wanted them to be living happily in a little apartment or small house in the suburbs because the war was over and they wanted to be there, not because they had to be together even if they did love one another.

The difference was small, but it mattered.

He wished he had a set of pastels to flush out the pink in her cheeks and the red of her nails, some blues and yellows to try to capture the way the sunlight tried to peek through the drawn curtains.

Steve had gotten used to the magnetic pull of her, the need to be around her, to touch her. Yesterday, he wouldn’t have thought twice about shedding his clothes and slipping into bed with her, pressing up against her and holding her close. Now, though the idea appealed to him, he was content to rest on the couch, eyes keeping watch. He hadn’t realized how strong the pull to touch her was from his end until it left him today.

He started to feel his eyelids droop as he smudged the pencil line of the blanket around her shoulder. He wasn’t normally one to nap, but it would help pass the time. Going for the entire day without touching her seemed like a monumental task. He slipped his pencil into his notebook and let it fall on his chest as he stretched out.

A quick catnap would help the day pass faster.

~*~

Peggy rolled, the blankets tangling around her. She took a deep breath, wiggling her fingers and toes and taking stock on how she felt. The nausea was gone, and though she’d slept for what she thought must have been a few hours she didn’t feel refreshed.

She turned, blinking her eyes open. Through the crack in the door she could see Steve, sprawled on the couch that was far too small, head thrown back and mouth wide open, his sketchbook perilously close to falling from his slack fingers on his chest.

She couldn’t help but smile. He seemed so soft, so innocent, so much like that small man she’d first met, even if the sheer size of him made the couch seem more like a piece of child’s furniture. Peggy slipped from the bed, wrapping her robe around herself as she made her way out into the living room. She snuck quietly across the floor, feeling the need to run her fingers through his hair, to be near him.

She wanted to believe it was working, but so far she’d only felt the ill effects that Howard had talked about. They’d have to stay away from one another for hours to see if it truly worked, and based on the pull she felt she wondered if they were even capable of that if they were this close to one another.

She did some quick math, glancing at the clock across the room and decided that it must be doing something. She should have felt something by now. The only thing she felt was the need to be around him, no tingling or discomfort at all.

Peggy stopped at the edge of the couch, one hand holding her robe together, the other gently playing over his hair, touching only enough to feel the softness against her fingertips, not enough to graze his scalp and tempt fate.

She felt a need to wrap herself in him. Not the all-consuming need that had been based in need and pain and sex, but a different kind of feeling that felt like it was spreading from deep in her, to wrap him up and be wrapped in him and stay in this small little apartment until they couldn’t avoid the outside world any longer.

He shifted under her, taking a deep breath and reaching out. She scooted her hips away, avoiding his reach but kept her hand on his head. He groaned unhappily, and she made soothing, shushing noise ass he raked her finger nails through his hair. “We’re already doing a horrible job of not touching, my darling. Let’s not tempt fate.”

He didn’t open his eyes, but he turned, pressing his head into her touch. She reached out, saving the notebook from crashing to the floor. She set it on the coffee table in front of him and smiled, the pencil rolling out and flipping the book open to the picture of her. She kissed his hair, eyes closed softly, warmth radiating through her.

The little apartment felt warm, home, and enough for now. She wasn’t in pain, wasn’t hurting, and she had Steve. It was enough, could be enough, for now at least. She slipped into the kitchen, trying to keep things as quiet as she could while she made herself another cup of tea. Would he still sketch when there were chores to be done? Would they still be so gentle with one another when the stresses of daily life were different? Would he stay with the SSR? Would they let her keep being a spy or cast her off, saying women weren’t necessary when there wasn’t a war on? There were so many unknowns, but she still somehow felt warm, solid, and happy.

Whatever Howard’s hormones were doing to her, she didn’t much mind; it was the calmest she’d felt in weeks.  

~*~

She was still sitting in the kitchen, the dregs of her tea cold in her hands, when Steve lumbered in, eyes glazed over. She watched as he pulled a glass from the cabinet and filled it from the tap, chugging the contents down before refilling it over and over again. He drank with a singlemindedness that put her on edge. It was only after he’d drank what she thought was nearly a gallon that he stopped, hands on the edge of the counter, panting to catch his breath.

“Thirsty?” Peggy asked quietly, unsure if he’d even registered she was in the room.

He took a slow, deep breath and hung his head. “Yeah I—” He took another and turned, wiping the drips of water from his lips. “I woke up and I just felt like I hadn’t had anything to drink in days.” His eyes caught the afternoon sun out the window. “How long was I asleep?”

She smiled, standing and walking her mug to the sink. “We both lost a few hours there, I think. It’s almost 4.” She turned, brushing his hair from his eyes, looking him over. “Are you alright otherwise?”

He nodded quickly, almost too quickly for her liking. “Yeah, I’m… I’m just… didn’t think I’d sleep that long. I’m a little out of it.”

She let her lips kiss his shoulder, careful to keep her skin away from his. “We can continue to blame stress and Hydra. I’ll have it no other way.”

He set his hands on her hips, as careful as she was. “How about you? Still feeling alright?”

She nodded, a smile on her lips. “Stomach’s still a touch unhappy, but I think that’s more from not eating since early this morning. Otherwise, I’m…” she shrugged her shoulders, still cautious about expressing her happiness, “zero.” She couldn’t help the way the smile bloomed on her face. “We haven’t touched enough for me to not feel something by now. I don’t want to go too far, but I’m…optimistic.”

“Good, good.” He smiled tightly, his eyes struggling with something he didn’t want to share. His hands were awkward at her hips, like he had to remind himself to be gentle with her, and his shoulders were stiff. She narrowed her eyes at him, waiting. They knew each other well enough that she didn’t have to say anything for him to know he’d been caught. He shook his head, resigned and stepping away. “I think whatever side effects I’m going to get are hitting me now. I just feel… weird. A little… I don’t know. I can’t explain it.”

“What can I do?” She asked, stepping back and giving him some more space as he leaned back against the counter.

He looked out the window, crossing his arms and shaking his head. After a long, quiet moment he licked his lips and turned back to her. “Let me make dinner… well, early dinner. Maybe it’ll help me focus.”

Peggy didn’t like the way he looked: a little sallow, eyes a little hollow, the way he looked after he’d been hurt in a firefight and he was trying to be brave for everyone else. She backed away, giving him the room. “I’ll be reading, just call if you need help.”

His smile was genuine, even if it didn’t reach his eyes. “I think I can handle some chicken and dehydrated mashed potatoes.”

Peggy licked her lips, eyes still dead set on him. She thought about joking, about trying to break the tension, but she couldn’t shake the feeling something hadn’t gone quite right with his dose. “I can call Howard, he could be here in fifteen minutes he said if anything went wrong.”

This time, the smile did make it to his eyes. “I’m fine, Peg. I promise.” He crossed to her, taking her head in his hand and dropping a kiss on her forehead. “And I’ll tell you if I’m not, ok?”

It was the sincerity in his eyes that finally gave her some sense of footing. “Alright.” She stepped back, removing the temptation to give in to more touching. “Don’t burn my potatoes.”

~*~

Peggy’s stomach was growling loud enough for Steve to hear by the time he announced dinner was ready. She tried to make a joke of it, but it fell flat as he set a full plate in front of her.

They ate silently, Steve quietly watching Peggy as she filled her mouth, struggling to keep her lips closed and be ladylike as she chewed. “I’m starved,” she tried to justify with a little laugh between bites, feeling his eyes on her. He ate sparingly, his eyes darting to her each time she took a bite. “Must be the…” she stopped, putting another spoonful in her mouth, watching as Steve only nodded, agreeing to say it was ‘just another side effect.’ She scraped the end of the mashed potatoes from her plate, wrapping her tongue around the spoon, eyes widening in confusion when Steve switched out his mostly full plate for her empty one. “Darling?”

He kept his face carefully blank. “Aren’t you hungry?”

She tipped her head, looking at him cautiously. She was very aware of how much Steve’s increased metabolism needed food, and knew very well how much he could eat. “Aren’t you? You’ve barely eaten.”

“You need it more.”

She smiled, trying to break the tense look in his eyes. “I was just hungry. I’m fine now. And there’s plenty more if—”

He dropped his fork on the empty plate in front of him, standing and pacing away. The air in the room was suddenly thick and it reminded her off too many debriefs where they’d lost and he felt responsible. The deja-vu nearly choked her it hit her so hard, but it helped her re-center and take charge of the situation.

She squared her shoulders, staring at his back. “Tell me.”

“I have to take care of you,” he bit out, grabbing the top of the kitchen doorframe and leaning into it.

With his arms up his shirt tightened around him and she could see just how tense he was, his muscles corded and ready for a fight. She stood slowly, cautiously closing this distance between them. “You are, Steve.” Her voice was soft but sure, and she left no room for arguments. “I’ve never been safer than I am at this very moment.”

He turned so fast she barely registered he’d moved before she was in his arms, his forehead pressed against her tight. It wasn’t concern, but pain on his face: his eyes shut tight, jaw working to try to find the words. “You’re not,” he finally whispered. “Everything in me is screaming that I’m not keeping you safe and…” he dropped his head, gathering her closer and burying his face in her neck. He took a deep breath in like he was breathing her into himself, trying to take her in and surround her. “I need to do better,” he muttered, “I have to do better.”

Peggy was stunned, and could do nothing but wrap her arms around him and hold him tight as he held her.

This was not a side effect Howard had prepared them for.

She cradled his face in her hands, gently pushing him back so she could see his eyes. “I am safe, Steve. I am here, with you, and I am perfectly safe.” She let her hand wipe at the sweat that started to show at his brow, over his jaw and down to his neck where she could feel his racing pulse finally starting to slow. She kissed him gently, pulling away before he could react to her lips. “I am fine. What do I need to do to help you see that?”

His eye squinted shut again as he shook his head. “Don’t know,” he mumbled, making her want to hold him close until whatever this was passed. She’d never seen him like this and it scared her.

She kissed him again, and this time, she could feel his pulse start to slow more the longer they touched.

Even if this was working for her, it seemed to be only hurting him.

Peggy pulled her lips away, pressing her cheek to his and running her hand up and down his back until his pulse quieted under her fingers. When he was significantly calmer, she finally broke the silence. “We need to call Howard.”

It was like he’d never been calm, the way his pulse jumped under her fingers and how his hands grasped tightly at her waist, holding her possessively to him. “No.”

She leaned back, eyes stern. “Steve…”

He shook his head, turning away from her to try to hide whatever it was he was feeling. “We have to go back tomorrow, anyway. Just…” He sighed, turning back to her, his eyes sad and begging. “Not yet, ok?”

If he’d said anything else, she would have fought him, but the words echoed her own past pleading to avoid doctors so closely that she found she couldn’t deny him. He’d always followed her lead, and she found she could do no less. She swallowed hard, and nodded. “But you have to eat something,” she heard herself say, unsure of where it came from or why it was suddenly so important to her.

At his nod she pulled him to the table, sitting him back down in his chair and then scooting his full plate back in front of him. He looked at it, then looked back up at her, and she could only shake her head at him.

She should have been angry, but instead she felt like she was soothing some large, wounded animal laying at her feet, unsure of how to take care of himself now that his fight was over. She perched herself on his lap, reaching over and taking the fork to feed him.

Steve’s hand stopped her own, eyes bewildered at his own actions. “Are you… are you sure you ate enough? You’re not hungry?”

She let her free hand fall over his cheek, resting at his shoulder. “That’s how you’re taking care of me?” He opened his mouth to answer, but he huffed air from his nose as he shrugged and shook his head. He didn’t know, and she didn’t, either. “Alright, then.”

Peggy, nowhere near hungry but understanding baser instincts when she saw them, took a small bite off the end of the piece of chicken on the fork. She held the rest out to him as she chewed, their eyes locked as he pulled the piece from the fork with his teeth and ate it.

It almost made her feel better that Steve seemed as baffled by his behavior as she was, that his eyes were lost and frustrated as he seemed to need to wait until she ate before he could, though as they neared the end of the plate, he took the fork from her and fed himself, his grasp somewhat looser as he held her in his lap.

“First thing tomorrow, no delaying,” she demanded softly as he pushed the plate away. He nodded and she moved from his lap, busying herself and her mind with the dishes. She tried to avoid the racing questions, the wild what-ifs that started to run through her mind as she cleaned the pans and plates, Steve still sitting quietly behind her.

She couldn’t help but smile when she felt him behind her as she stood at the sink, rinsing the last plate. It felt more like the way things had been for him to step up behind her with her hands filled with soap suds. He pressed tight against her, chest to back, and let his hands wrap around her, holding her low on her belly. His nose nuzzled against her nape as she set the last plate to dry, leaning back into him. She heard him take a deep breath in, the air tickled over her skin and made her shiver.

Peggy reached one arm up behind her, letting her fingers tangle in his hair, holding his lips against her flesh as he began to kiss and nip. It was different from how he’d held her at the sink the other day: it was more insistent, more possessive. She tried to avoid the dark thoughts that wanted to seep into her mind as he touched her. He needed her touch right now, and that’s all she cared about.

She couldn’t help but wonder if this was how he felt every time she’d come to him, worked up and needing something only he could give.

Steve growled, low in his throat. It was deep and dark and domineering and something about it excited her. They were supposed to be avoiding touching, but she had barely touched him all day and she felt starved for him.

He felt wound up behind her, the power in his body held back and ready to burst. She wondered if it was the hormones or just the feeling of finally deciding to allow herself to touch him after all the hours of trying to stay apart. Either way, it had been hours since they’d touched before dinner and she felt no pain, no tingling, no discomfort but she yearned for him like she couldn’t explain.

He spun her in his arms, lifting her on to the counter and taking her lips. She kissed him back, happy to let him take the lead, his eyes dark with lust.

~*~

He held her possessively as he slept, in a way Peggy couldn’t ever remember Steve holding her before. On one hand, she felt safe and protected, but on the other, this new, darker side to him was concerning. It was the only reason she’d relented, the only reason she’d allowed him to touch her.

She’d only seen it when she couldn’t process it: when she’d been in so much pain and his skin was the only thing that would bring her relief. She could almost remember the look on his face in the hospital, and again when he crashed through the wall, but tonight she could see his eyes, feel the energy burning through him and she knew, she knew deep down, something about what Howard had done had caused this switch in him.

Touching him helped, just like it had helped her, but he said he didn’t feel pain. He couldn’t describe it to her beyond the idea of keeping her safe. She didn’t know what that meant to him, didn’t know why it tapped into his need to see her eat, then to see her safely to the bedroom, to hold her until he needed to touch and kiss her again, then to hold her until he fell asleep.

She wasn’t sure if the touching was helping all that much, but at least he was asleep.

The knot of anxiety in her stomach started to rise, acid burning and that sickly wave feeling ran through her as she broke out in a sweat. She tried to push away from him but his arms twined around her tighter.

“Mine,” he mumbled in his sleep.

“Steve, let go,” she pushed against him while attempting to slow the rising nausea within her, but trying to move his arms was like trying to dislodge metal clamps. “Please, I have to—”

She knew he wasn’t fully awake, she’d encountered this sleepy, half cognizant Steve before. Usually, he was soft and gentle and smiled at her. This one grumbled and repeated his possession of her, holding tight.

Finally, Peggy could take it no more. She kicked him between the legs, hard, and scrambled to the edge of the bed when he loosened his grip. She didn’t make it to the bathroom, but managed to vomit on the floor, avoiding ruining the bed.

By the time she turned back he was wide awake, pressed up on his elbow, eyes clearer than she’d seen them in hours. She wiped at her lips with the back of her hand, kicking her way out of the blankets and climbing out of the bed from the bottom, avoiding looking at him.

“Peggy…” He sat, still confused, “what…”

She nearly ran from the room, making it to the bathroom just in the nick of time. When there was nothing left to come back up, she flushed the toilet and rinsed her mouth before heading back to the bedroom.

The lights were on and Steve was drying the floor where he’d cleaned up her mess. He stopped and stood when she leaned on the doorjamb, spent. “Peggy, I’m so sorry.” He looked down at the towel in his hand and then tossed it over by the laundry bag before looking up to her, his blue eyes full of confusion and sadness. “I’ll call Howard right now.”

She nodded, hands still shaking a bit from vomiting. “I’m going to make a cup—”

“I’ve got it,” he said quickly, moving to her and pressing a kiss to her hair before lifting her from her feet and setting her on the bed. “Lay down, I’ll bring it in after I’ve called Howard.”

She watched him go, tears pricking at the back of her eyes. She wanted to argue, but he seemed clearer, more like himself, and she was afraid to open up whatever Pandora’s Box was behind his need to take care of her, at least until Howard got there.

Peggy slipped back into bed, building the pillows up behind her. She might be better, but that meant nothing if Steve was worse.

[belladonnaandulriched]

the artist | prologue

something that began life with my encounters with joey belladonna on instagram last fall and this past spring (before they turned into qvc 2.0 in late october, that is). i thought of him, as well as the time i wrote a letter to lars and the three years chris was in my periphery. thus, this is actually somewhat autobiographical as well as my watching the world unfurl right before my eyes in the year 2020. joey, lars, and i are alive in this terror-filled nightmare that chris never saw, and i cherish every second the two of them are continuing to walk the earth with me. consider it a testament of our survival that we have reached the final 30 days of this year unscathed.

i’m also looking ahead to after the pandemic, how the world might manifest in the virus’ wake after looking at history with the world-changing diseases like spanish flu, smallpox, and the black plague, as well as civil unrest and the existential threat that is climate change. i will admit that i have no idea where we all will be in 5 years time, but i can guarantee that no nation was the same following those events, especially since the united states was seemingly on the brink of destruction for a few years preceding the pandemic. it’s kind of like what sci-fi writers of the early 20th century did with the advent of the nuclear bomb as well as space travel.

at this point, with 20 chapters left to write, i hold the artist right up with now it’s dark, amped and wired, and black diamonds. it’s me living in a world that has collapsed and we’re all living in the unknown; it’s me wondering which step to take next with the three men i adore near me. it’s not on the same level of agony with my dead trilogy fics, the mirror never lies, or my original work black rain (which i wrote as a goodbye to chris), but it’s... it’s definitely there.

anyways, enjoy! xoxo

He was a tall lithe gentleman with those lush dark curls strewn over his shoulders as though they were the sides of a mane. The way he moved about on a stage with either that shiny mint green guitar cradled in his hands as though it were a naked woman, or the microphone as though it were about to get away from him was enough for me to pick up a pencil. I wanted to touch and caress his black curls, to put them down on paper. He was what I referred to as “draw-able” in that I always returned to him for inspiration.

I swore that it wasn't a phase—I tried to convince my dad that it wasn't a phase, even when I showed him my first drawing of Chris. I was proud of the drawing, too: it was rough and sketchy, and yet you could tell it was him with those long shoulder length curls behind his back and down over his collar bones. I had used a single pencil to draw him as well.

“Holly, you've gotta do something else with your art,” he said to me that first time. “You've got to do some more still life.”

I often heard that a few times thereafter, even as I did more studies of Chris singing and in different stances to understand his anatomy a little better. It always struck me as odd that my art wasn't more embraced at home growing up, even though my parents were more than happy to support me in my path to art school. My dad showed me the one school down in Portland. I wanted to stay there in Tacoma, even with Chris and his band based up in Seattle.

At some point, and by that, I mean a few months before I graduated, to work my way around that complaint, I began incorporating more plants into my drawings of him. More roses and more leaves jutting out from his shoulders and from the crown of his head. I kept those drawings to myself, granted I knew if I shared them with the household they wouldn't be seen as serious art.

One time when I strolled into an art shop for some colored pencils and I had my sketchbook tucked underneath my arm, I went in under the power of a secret. I had climbed off the bus before the one outside of my house. I protected my sketchbook from the soft spring misty rain of the Northwest. I had a few dollars in my pocket, money left over from the stimulus money I had scrounged up. Just enough for some new colored pencils for some more botanical type work for my drawings.

I'm the multiracial kid with the kinky coarse black hair inherited by a Native American mama and the pale skin from my half white daddy. It had been a long road to hoe the past few years in the wake of the pandemic, especially for my mom and me. She and I had been dealing with it with a bit more difficulty from my dad, since he was the one with the job, at least at first. Even though I was a few years younger by the time we got our check, I got one for myself and I made sure the money stretched enough to whenever we got another one.

Even with my drawing pad under my arm, and the introduction of my digital drawing tablet, I had days where it felt like I needed to do something a bit more useful.

It was from all of the times I heard my dad's criticisms about my art in the past. Add to this, the uncertainty from living through a global pandemic and social reset made me wonder where we all would go from the second the dust settled. I needed to rest my head so much following even the smallest projects. I had witnessed the older generation pushed to its brink and stragglers such as myself found themselves at square one for so long that it was difficult to know which way to go. I was always told that I needed something feasible, something to keep me safe. But the pandemic showed that nothing was safe.

Even in my spare time, or in the times I took a day off from drawing, I found myself seeking solace in reading about things like science and of course, listening to music. For years, I found myself leaning more towards the harder side of the rock n' roll world: Soundgarden was the first band I had found, but then there came along Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and Alice in Chains. It helped that they hailed from the north of us, so it made sense to me to find them.

But then there was Metallica and Anthrax.

I would sit on the floor of the living room before my stereo with the radio tuned to the modern rock station nearby, and with my earphones in my ears; I would sit there with my drawing pad cradled in my lap and let the music be my master. I came for the scene to the north, but I found my way to the heavy stuff.

I had used a little bit of the stimulus money to buy myself a couple of albums, on part of the recommendation of the chick in the record store of course.

Those swirling powerful but simple drums riddled throughout the Black Album. So simple and yet so strong and with such prowess, perfect for the spine of the music. That strong and exotically beautiful voice from Spreading the Disease. I wanted to touch that voice, to put it and cement it down into something like paper. I was enthralled by the power and prowess of heavy metal.

I scoured the channels of Tumblr to see and study their faces, to see Lars and his long lush brown hair and fuzz about his face, to see Joey and his long beautiful black curls and handsome face, to see them all. And yet I still found my way back to Chris. I still found my way back to him and that unique voice. So deep and full in places and yet unafraid to howl.

And yet I felt so far behind them, a teenage girl from a lower end family and with mixed roots. A girl with parents working so hard that they almost ignore the very craft she was proud of.

I wanted to draw him with roses, complete with the lush red and orange petals. Thus I headed to the little store for some new colored pencils—those good ones that come in all manner of shades of color in a silvery tin. I brought my sketchbook along with me to try them out before I bought them for myself. I already had sketched a portrait of Chris himself but I left him as is so as to fill him out later on.

I stepped into the front of the shop and stripped off my hood. I ran my fingers through my coarse black hair and then unbuttoned my jacket: I looked down at the linoleum floor underneath me. My jeans were falling apart: the waist fitted me a little too well at that point and the hems were tattered. My mom vowed to fix them for me, but when the fabric stores were all closed during the pandemic, it was difficult to find anything that could help us.

I shuffled across the shiny linoleum to the aisle with the colored pencils and the nice paints. I stood before the display case and scanned the tins and boxes before me to find anything that would catch my eye.

I was still adjusting to the world following the pandemic: there was a part of me that wanted to stroke my chin in pensive thought but after hearing all of the talk on not touching your face, a part of me continued to resist that very tidbit. I spotted a box of Prismacolor pencils, seventeen of them to be exact.

Seventeen, and as smooth as butter and right within the budget of twenty dollars in my pocket.

I set my sketchbook down on the shelf so I could open the box and reveal those pencils, and I hoped to see them as sharp and new as I would ever see them. I'm usually easy going on all of my tools just out of the nature of the price range, but I wanted to make the roses on Chris as bold and fiery of red as possible. I took out the scarlet red one and opened the sketchbook for the inside cover and I paid no attention to the fact I held the box, open end sideways. Three pencils slid out from under me.

“For crying out loud,” I muttered to myself as I closed the cover and stooped down to fetch them.

“I hope those are nice ones,” a voice caught my ear behind me. I turned around to find him looming right there with me. The most stray tendrils of his inky black hair were tousled a bit even as he sprawled over his collar bones and the front of his black raincoat. I stood upright to meet up with his gaze: he towered over me, such that I could make out the sight of the first sprigs of hair sprouting upon the underside of his chin.

“Easy there,” he cautioned me, which he accompanied with a raising of his hands.

“It's alright,” I assured him, “social distancing hasn't been a thing in quite a while.”

“Nah, I don't mean that—I don't want you to drop any more pencils.”

“Oh!” I fetched up the pencils I had dropped on the floor and then closed up the box before I drop any more. He grinned at me, and I followed his gaze to the sketchbook perched atop the shelf.

“Is that yours, too?” he asked me.

“Why—yes.” I wasn't even flustered and yet I felt it even by his gestures and that gaze from those eyes. He stood so close to me, even with the pandemic behind us. I felt my face growing warm as I took the sketchbook off of the shelf. I forgot I still had it open to that sketched drawing of him; when I took it off of the shelf, I held the drawing of his face right before my chest.

He gasped right as I held it before me.

“Is—Is that me?” he inquiringly asked me in a soft voice.

“Huh?” I clutched at the sketchbook and held the drawing away from him.

“I don't wanna—be rude or intrusive or anything,” he swore to me. My face bloomed with warmth. It had been so long since I showed anyone one of my drawings from my sketchbook, much less anyone outside of my family. I whirled around to see the tender expression upon his face: his eyebrows raised a bit and his head bowed enough for me to wonder if he was flirting with me or not. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and sighed through his nose.

I swallowed and then, gingerly, I turned the sketchbook towards him.

He lowered his eyebrows and brought a hand to his mouth as if he was shocked.

“Oh,” he breathed, “oh, wow, that's wonderful. I love the roses.”

I shrugged.

“I just felt you could use roses,” I confessed to him.

“I love it,” he admitted as he lowered his hand from his mouth. “I'd love to see it when it's colored in.”

“I gotta get some pencils first, though.”

“Have at it, girlie.” He gestured his open palm towards me as if giving me his blessing. I decided on the Prismacolor pencils—I also didn't see anything else that caught my attention. Within time, I made my way up front to break those twenty dollars even. I kept my sketchbook out in the open and I assured the young peppy clerk that I had already opened it and long paid for it. He lingered near the cash register and eyed the ceramic supplies at the front there. I never thought I would've met him there in that art shop and at such a strange time. I wondered if I could make my rapport with him as I paid for the pencils and awaited the change from the clerk there before me.

He met up with me on the other side with a pensive look on his squarish face. I slipped the pencils and the sketchbook into the plastic bag in hand so as to protect both from the incoming rain. I felt myself blushing again at the sight of him: it didn't help matters that he continued to tower over me.

“What's your name?” he asked me, that pensive look still riddled upon his face.

“Holly. As in Hollywood.”

“Hollywood…” He grinned at me. He took out the little burner phone from his jacket pocket: such a sight to see, what with technology the way it had progressed to that point.

“Holly Sherman is my whole name...” My voice trailed off as I watched him open the address book up to a fresh page for a fresh number.

“You want my number, don't you,” I teased him.

“Well, yeah. When the drawing's colored in, I wanna see it.”

I could not resist that offer, and it was that very moment I knew I would have something on my hands. I would have something on my hands even in the wake of the pandemic.

[sweetboybucky]

Time

Pairing: Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 5000 (Holy hell)

Warnings: Non-graphic smut (very, very tame)

Summary: Times have certainly changed. Bucky knows that better than most. 

A/N: Hi, everyone! So, my first Stucky fic is here and it is the longest thing I’ve ever written. It took me a month to finish it, but I just had to write about these boys being in love (because I know they are, I just know it). For those of you who like my reader inserts, don’t worry! I won’t stop writing those. But, you will see more of the just Stucky pairing on my blog in the future. Also, I have an AO3 account now! I have already posted this story there, (here’s the link) and I will slowly transfer all of my other stories to that site, as well. Anyway, enjoy!

My Masterlist

***

Bucky had trouble remembering a time before he knew Steve.

After so many years of being friends with the guy, he assumed that was normal. But in the rare moments he did recall a day before he knew his best friend, he always felt like it was a different life. A different Bucky on some other planet. And he always felt a little cheated, too. Because there was something about Steve that lit up his world like nothing else had. He wondered why he wasn’t allowed to find that light sooner.

He looked at Steve from where he laid next to him in the apartment. Watched him turn over and face him, hair falling into his eyes. He kept his gaze on him as he fought the urge to brush the short strands from his face. Let his fingers linger on Steve’s skin and push himself closer.

It had been so long since they’d spent a night that way. When they had been kids. Before they’d grown into adults and faced the cold world around them. And Bucky had felt the same way then. He’d always felt the same way about Steve.

“Something wrong?” Steve asked. Bucky shook his head. Pulled away enough to keep himself from seeing the tiny bit of green in the blue irises in front of him.

“No,” Bucky answered, turning so he laid on his back. “I’m fine.”

Steve didn’t question him, much to Bucky’s relief. He only settled back down into the lumpy couch cushions and pulled his blanket tighter around himself. And Bucky tried to keep Steve from noticing he was watching all of it out of the corner of his eye.

Bucky knew something was off the moment he met Steve. He knew a boy wasn’t supposed to cloud his thoughts so much. Take up so much room in his heart. 

So why couldn’t he stop imagining having Steve’s soft skin under his fingers?

“Steve?” The name left his mouth before he could stop himself.

“Yeah, Buck?”

His heart thumped in his chest at the sound of his name in Steve’s mouth. He wanted so badly to hear it again. To steal it from his friend’s lips and make sure it was the only word he could remember before he was done with him.

But he couldn’t do that. Not ever.

So he rolled over instead. Turned his back to Steve and squeezed his eyes closed. Tried to push away the image of Steve’s beautiful face stuck in his mind.

“Nevermind,” he said, brushing Steve off.

He didn’t know what he would have said, anyway.

***

Bucky wakes to lips on him.

On his arm and shoulder. That spot just in the middle of his back. His neck and hair and the skin just below his ear. A nose nuzzles there, breathes a sigh against him, the sound pulling him from his dreamless sleep.

He groans when bright moonlight meets his vision as he cracks an eye open. A groan leaves his lips and he pushes his face further into the pillow. Grabs the arm over his waist and pulls it tighter around his body. The chest against his back shakes with laughter.

Bucky can feel the cool air of dawn on his skin. He knows that it has to be the middle of the night, based on the still dark sky hanging above their heads. And he has no idea why Steve is awake so late.

But he opens his eyes anyway. Supposes there are worse lives to wake up to.

Metal and flesh reach over his head as he stretches his stiff muscles. Toes flex and his back pops and a chuckle brushes against his ear. Eyelashes flutter along the skin of his temple.

“Hey,” Bucky rasps, turning onto his back to look at Steve. He’s met with a warm smile. Wide and beautiful blue eyes. It makes the worry that had settled in his chest fade. But he still asks, “You okay?”

Steve hums. Pushes his nose into Bucky’s cheek and runs a hand through dark hair. “Yeah,” he whispers. “You’re just really pretty.”

Bucky chuckles. His chest feels light as he leans in and presses a sleepy kiss to Steve’s jaw.

“I’ll still be pretty in the morning,” he murmurs, turning back over and settling into the mattress. Sighing when Steve presses himself to his back again, kisses his shoulder. “Get some sleep. Quit waking me up.”

Steve laughs. Presses another kiss to Bucky’s neck and lets his lips flutter against his skin. “You’ve got it, Sergeant.”

***

He could feel eyes on him.

Blue eyes. Gorgeous, cerulean irises he would have been happy to drown in. He squirmed under their gaze. Secretly hoped they wouldn’t leave his face. But also knew they should. Knew he wasn’t supposed to like the idea of them searching his form so much.

“What are you doing?” he asked, not looking up from his book. When he didn’t get an answer, he spared a glance at the man across from him. Saw his head turned down and a blush dusting his cheeks. Fingers brushing blond hair out of his face.

“Nothing,” Steve said. He turned back to his sketchbook. Moved the pencil across the paper again. Bucky looked at him for a moment. Reveled in the warmth spreading through his chest.

As soon as he went back to reading, he could feel the eyes on him again.

He didn’t say anything, though.

***

“Bucky.”

“Steve.”

“Are you gonna keep staring or do some training of your own?”

Bucky chuckles. Runs a hand through his hair and keeps his eyes on Steve. Watches the way the muscles in his arms move as he does push-ups on the ground.

“I’ve got a pretty nice view here,” Bucky tells him, setting his weights down and planting himself next to Steve. “So I think I’m good.”

Steve chuckles. Turns his head and smiles at Bucky.

“Fine,” Steve sighs. He sticks a hand out. Shoves Bucky halfheartedly and holds his body up with the other. “Do what you want.”

Bucky leans forward and kisses the side of Steve’s head. Wonders what he did to deserve his soldier.

***

He’d seen it plenty of times before.

Bruising along his cheekbone. Bloodied knuckles and a split lip. A broken nose - maybe a few ribs.

He couldn’t count how many times he’d had to drag a battered Steve out of some back alley. How many times he’d caught his friend picking a fight with someone twice his size. Someone who could probably kill him, if they wanted to.

But he’d always gotten there earlier.

He let Steve slump against him until they got to the apartment. Until he could sit him on a dining room chair and dig around for any medical supplies they had. Which would have been a lot easier if his hands weren’t shaking and his mind wasn’t buzzing and his mouth wasn’t running.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he spat, turning back to glance at Steve. His chest felt tight when he saw his friend holding his jaw, ocean eyes closed. Cut off from his view. What he wouldn’t have given to see those eyes - they always helped him calm down.

“I’m fine, Buck,” Steve argued, voice quiet and a hiss of pain coming through his clenched teeth. Bucky was there in an instant, helping Steve sit up straight so he could clean the cuts on his face.

Bucky sighed once Steve’s eyes opened. Once they searched his face.

He pressed a rag to the particularly large cut on Steve’s forehead, whispered, “You’re not fine.” He huffed out an annoyed breath. “You’re bleeding all over the floor and you can barely breathe. I bet your ribs are bruised. You know I can’t fix that -”

And then a hand was on his cheek.

Small and shaking. Cold. The fingers splayed out across his face and the heel settled right over his jaw. His eyes snapped up from where his hand rested on Steve’s arm to his face. To the blue eyes locked on his face.

He couldn’t breathe. Bucky couldn’t breathe.

“I’m fine,” Steve repeated, his fingers moving against the skin under Bucky’s eye. “Really,” he stressed. “I’m okay. I always am.”

Bucky drew in a shaky inhale, somehow, his heart hammering in his chest for a few reasons.

“I should’ve gotten there earlier -”

“Stop,” Steve cut him off. “You were there. A little late, sure.” Bucky chuckled, let his eyes slip shut and his head fall a little. “But you were there. You always are.”

He was suddenly acutely aware of how close he was to Steve. How much he didn’t want to pull away.

But he did. He stepped back and turned. Tried to hide the blush on his cheeks and calm his racing mind. Because Steve couldn’t have meant that touch in the way Bucky wanted him to. He knew that.

“Punk,” Bucky said, turning back to Steve. Catching that little look of - of something Bucky couldn’t quite decipher on his face.

“Jerk,” Steve replied, a small smile turning up his lips.

Bucky turned away again. Bit his lip and touched a few fingers to his cheek.

He could still feel Steve’s hand on him.

***

“You just like getting beaten up, huh?”

Steve laughs. Looks at Bucky from where he rests against the bathroom counter and kisses the fingers cleaning his split lip.

“Always have,” Steve says. Bucky rolls his eyes. “Least I can take it now. Don’t need you to save me all the time.”

Bucky leans in, kisses his way up Steve’s neck to his cheek. Takes his gorgeous face in his hands and brushes their noses together.

“Well,” Bucky whispers, “if you ever do need saving, I’ll be there.”

Steve smiles at him. Wraps his arms around Bucky and pulls him into his chest. Kisses the top of his head.

“I know. You always are.”

***

Things were changing.

A brush of fingers here. A hand on a shoulder there. Staying up much too late and sitting much too close.

Bucky was thrilled that things were taking a turn. That maybe he hadn’t been the only one who’d felt the way he did for all those years. That maybe Steve had been glancing at him from the corner of his eye and imaging the way Bucky would feel, too.

But he couldn’t be sure. He could never be sure that the meaning behind Steve’s touches was what he hoped for.

He let himself hope, anyway.

Bucky knew what it would mean for them if Steve felt the same way. He knew that nothing could ever be the same - that was terrifying.

He knew what would happen if someone caught them. If someone found out that their hugs weren’t so platonic anymore. If someone heard the shift in their tones around each other, the soft words they said when no one else was around. He understood that they would be done for.

But Steve’s hand felt too good in his own to stop.

***

Steve is much softer than expected.

Tight, coiled muscled under pale skin wouldn’t be described as soft, in most cases. And Bucky had thought the same thing when he’d first seen the new Steve. The Steve that’s solid instead of bony.

Bucky had been surprised the first time he held Steve after the serum. And it had been even more foreign once they’d both woken up in a different time. When they were both lined with strength and could hold each other with no fear.

He rests against Steve now, the yellow light of a lamp painting their skin. A kiss is placed on Steve’s bare chest. Then his collarbone. Then his neck. Bucky tilts his head against his shoulder so he can look up at his soldier’s beautiful smile.

“What are you doing?” he asks him. And Bucky just smiles.

“Nothing. Just loving you.”

Steve kisses him, runs his fingers through dark hair.

Bucky wishes the moment could last forever.

***

Steve being sick wasn’t new.

Bucky sitting next to him - where he laid on the couch - as he shivered under the pile of blankets was nothing he hadn’t done before. He’d known to keep a garbage can near Steve, in case his stomach decided to bother him. To press a cool, damp rag to his forehead when his temperature wouldn’t drop.

He’d never liked seeing his friend like that, but something about it felt different than all of the other times. And watching as Steve coughed, the sound ugly and strained, made his heart hurt for the guy.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked him, voice quiet and careful. He was sure Steve had a headache along with all of the other symptoms and he didn’t want to make it worse.

Steve shook his head just a little. Enough for Bucky to recognize the gesture. But he didn’t say anything, and Bucky could only assume it was because his throat hurt, too.

He wanted Steve to be better. He wished that he wasn’t so frail. That his body didn’t fail him so much. He wished Steve could focus on things that he enjoyed instead of being so preoccupied with the illnesses that frequently plagued him.

“Hey, Bucky?”

He looked upon hearing his name. Noticed then that his gaze had been fixed on his wringing hands. He leaned a little closer to Steve. Watched as the blond took a deep breath and turned his head to look at him.

“Can I -” Steve cut himself off. Shut his eyes tight and sucked in a deep breath.

“Can you what?” Bucky pressed. His voice was desperate and thin. He wanted to help Steve in any way he could.

“Will you let me -” another pause, another deep breath as wide azure eyes blinked open and looked at Bucky. “Can I rest my head in your lap?”

Bucky’s eyes went wide.

He tried to remind himself how to draw air into his lungs. Willed his heart to slow its beating in fear that it would crack one of his ribs with its rhythm. Because he had his answer then. The meaning behind all of their little gestures.

Steve felt the same way. He had to.

Bucky nodded at him, face flushing and hands shaking as he stood, so eager to accept the offer he didn’t have time to overthink it. He helped Steve to sit up. Moved the pillow his head had been on and sat there instead. And Steve leaned back. Turned and laid his cheek on Bucky’s thigh.

He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. He only knew that he had been dreaming to touch Steve, to be close to him, for much too long. He only knew that he wanted to settle his hand in Steve’s hair. Curl his fingers around the strands.

So he did.

He had expected his touch to be rejected. For Steve to ask him what he was doing. Tell him to get his hands off of him and leave altogether.

But Steve didn’t do any of that. He just hummed at the feeling of Bucky’s hand in his hair. Pushed his head into Bucky’s palm and closed his eyes. Nuzzled his cheek against the thigh under him.

It only took a few minutes for Steve to fall asleep that way. And Bucky just stared at him. Watched as the evening light filtered through the window and danced over his pale skin. Settled another hand at his shoulder and rubbed circles there with his thumb.

He knew that it wasn’t normal. He knew that on the off-chance someone caught them that it would only put a larger target on Steve’s back. But he didn’t move him. And he wasn’t planning on getting up anytime soon.

He couldn’t really bring himself to care about anything that didn’t have Steve’s eyes.

***

He’s awake.

Bucky listens from his place on the living room couch as the bed creaks a little. He can picture Steve’s hand sweeping across the mattress as he looks for him. The small sigh he hears makes his breath hitch and guilt crawl into his heart.

He closes his eyes and curls in on himself. Tries to become as small as he can on the soft cushions of the couch. Hides his face in the pillow under his head and readies the apology he’ll give Steve when he walks in and finds him.

Because he’s sorry. So sorry that he keeps doing this.

Feet pad into the room. Careful and quiet. Bucky can hear Steve’s relieved exhale and he shivers a little at the sound. Keeps himself still when all he wants to do is run his hands over Steve’s bare chest and press his lips to his face.

He doesn’t deserve that right now. Not when he left bed for a reason he can’t quite determine and made Steve worry about him enough to get up. So he keeps his eyes closed, his mouth shut.

A body settles on the floor beside the couch. Warm fingers trace over his brow and down the curve of his nose before a palm rests against his cheek.

He wants to lean into the touch. To kiss Steve’s palm and pull him onto the couch and bury his face in the crook of Steve’s neck. But he holds himself back. Reminds himself that he’s the reason Steve loses the sleep he should be getting.

“Buck,” Steve says, voice whisper soft, the words breathed against Bucky’s forehead. “Talk to me.”

The quiet request surprises him. Makes him wonder how he got so lucky. And he wants to indulge Steve, tell him about everything that’s plaguing him. But he doesn't know how. So instead, he whispers, “I’m sorry.”

Warm fingers tap his shoulder, motion for him to sit up. He does, feeling like he doesn’t deserve to argue with anything Steve tells him to do right now. But he’s not expecting Steve to take a seat where Bucky’s head had been on the couch. To guide Bucky down until his head rests on Steve’s lap.

Fingers thread through long, dark hair. A hum leaves the soldier’s lips as Steve combs the knots out of the strands. Bucky turns onto his other side to face him. Nuzzles his nose against Steve’s abdomen and smiles when he feels lips touch his temple.

“I love you,” he murmurs.

“I love you, too, Buck,” Steve answers.

He feels like he can finally get some sleep.

***

The sketchbook was nearly falling apart.

Bucky had found it one day when he was out. Had thought of Steve upon glancing at the clean pages and pencil that came with it. Spent a good chunk of money getting it. And when Steve had argued, said it was too much, he’d pushed it back into his hands.

He had watched Steve draw in it more times than he could count. Liked to see when he got really concentrated on the picture in front of him - his tongue would always poke out of his mouth just a little. It took everything in Bucky to keep from finally kissing him when he did that.

Steve sat on the couch, knees tucked up underneath him and the sketchbook resting on them. Bucky lounged near the window. Felt the warm, midday air hit his skin and looked on as the pencil moved along the page. Listened to the subtle scratching of it.

Why he was sitting so far away from Steve was a mystery to him. He’d watched as his friend had walked into the room. Planted himself a good five feet away from where Bucky was.

He had to admit to being a little hurt. Bucky didn’t know why Steve hadn’t joined him on the floor like he’d been doing for weeks. He only knew that he missed the feeling of their knees and shoulders pressing together.

But he didn’t say anything about it. Only stared at Steve as he drew something Bucky couldn’t see. Formed the words, “What are you drawing?”

It took Steve a moment to register the question. He tore his eyes from the book on his lap and cut them to Bucky. A pretty blush covered his cheeks - one that took Bucky’s breath away because it was unfair that anyone was allowed to be so beautiful.

And in a quiet voice, he answered, “You.”

That was it.

Bucky was standing and crossing the room in seconds. Moving the sketchbook to the coffee table and sitting down next to Steve. Pulling him into his arms and running his hands through soft blond hair and finally - finally - pressing his lips to Steve’s.

He had somewhat prepared himself for rejection, as he always did with Steve. For hands to press to his chest and push him away. For beautiful, beautiful lips to leave his and spit words that would cut his heart in half.

But he got none of that. Instead, there was only Steve, wrapping his arms around Bucky and pushing himself impossibly closer. It made him wonder why he had ever doubted the amazing man in front of him.

It was everything he had imagined. And it also wasn’t, because he hadn’t thought that kissing Steve would feel so right. Natural. Like he was born to taste Steve’s mouth and like Steve was born to taste his.

That fact had to be true, Bucky thought, as he pulled Steve into his lap. He was certain nothing would ever feel as right as that.

***

Steve’s breath is gasoline and his touch is an open flame.

They both cover Bucky’s body. Lay waste to his skin. Set alight the small embers within him, turn it into a roaring fire that he hopes Steve can feel as he hovers over him.

Bucky lies back, allows Steve’s lips to tear him apart and sew him back together as they leave a trail of open mouthed kisses down his body. Settle on the spot Bucky wants them to be on most. And all he can do is whimper. Buck his hips up and meet Steve halfway. Dig his fingers into blond hair and hold him there.

Each time they’re together, Bucky can still feel that heat. He can still melt just as easily under Steve’s touch as the first time. Every swipe of Steve’s tongue against his skin, every snap of his hips, every breath they share. It all makes Bucky feel that fire in his veins.

Bucky doesn’t mind. He’ll take heat over the cold any day.

***

“You use those moves on the ladies?”

Steve’s voice was quiet. Muffled against Bucky’s chest. The question made laughter leave his lips. He could feel Steve’s smile against his skin.

“No,” Bucky answered, pulling back enough to look into pretty blue eyes. “There were never any ladies. Not really. There was only you.”

Long eyelashes met the skin under Steve’s eyes as he looked down, a bashful grin painting his lips. It only made Bucky smile more. Curl his arm around Steve’s back and pull him closer. Bury his nose in pretty blond hair and place a kiss on his head.

For a long moment, they were quiet. They let their bodies fully recover. Bucky watched Steve carefully, worried he’d hurt him. And when Steve caught him staring, he just shook his head a little. Leaned up and kissed Bucky’s chin.

Soon enough, the moment was over. It didn’t take long for the fear to set in.

“What are we gonna do?” Steve asked, leaning back and looking up. Bucky had never felt so exposed - Steve’s eyes on him made him feel naked even when he had clothes on, and now he didn’t.

Bucky brushed some hair out of Steve’s eyes. Smirked. Tried to channel his vulnerability into something else. Closed his eyes and whispered against Steve’s skin, “I have some ideas. We don’t need clothes for any of them.”  

Steve poked his chest. Bucky opened his eyes. Glanced down and found Steve looking at him, his eyebrows raised. A look on his face that said please be serious. And Bucky gave him a look back that said please let us have one happy moment.

But he knew they couldn’t have a moment. Not ever again.

“We’ll do whatever we want,” Bucky sighed. “Whatever you want.”

A painfully long minute passed them. Steve said nothing in that time, only looked at Bucky and traced his finger up his arm. Bucky’s heart felt tight in his chest. He didn’t want to think about leaving the moment they had created. He didn’t want to think about Steve changing his mind - even after they’d been together. Really together.

“Can we just stay here?” Steve asked. “Worry about the details tomorrow?”

Bucky smiled, soft and gentle. He kissed Steve’s forehead, then his brow and the bridge of his nose. Affection bloomed within him at the happy sound that left Steve’s lips.

“Of course,” he said, tucking Steve’s head under his chin, settling one hand in his hair and the other on his back. “Let’s just sleep.”

Neither of them slept at all that night.

There was too much to be afraid of.

***

Bucky is sure there isn’t anything better than this.

Steve stands at the stove, his favorite pajama pants resting low on his hips and his torso bare. Bucky can hear something sizzling - bacon, he thinks - but he’s too caught up with looking at his beautiful, beautiful soldier.

The muscles in his body are prominent. Large and strong. And all Bucky wants to do is feel them. Run his hands over them and watch the way Steve shivers under his touch.

So he does.

He sneaks up behind him. Lets his arms fall around Steve’s waist and laughs when the man jumps. Nuzzles his face in the back of Steve’s neck and lets his fingers trail over the smooth skin of his abdomen.

“Morning, Buck,” Steve whispers, taking one of Bucky’s hands - the metal one - in his own and bringing it to his lips. He kisses the knuckles. Warmth blooms in Bucky’s chest.

“Morning, Steve,” Bucky says.

“You hungry?”

“Very. But not for food.”

“How sinful of you, Barnes,” Steve chides, reaching a hand behind him to poke Bucky’s side. He squirms away from Steve’s fingers. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to take me on a proper date before making such statements?”

“I was gonna make you breakfast,” Bucky tells him, moving to sit at the table so he can look at Steve. “Don’t know why I ever thought I would wake up before you.”

Steve turns his head to look at him. Smiles, small and soft. “It’s alright. You can owe me.”

***

He was angry.

Even as Steve slept on his chest. Let out little sighs every now and then against his skin. He was angry. So, so angry.

He tried to keep his eyes on Steve’s face. Tried to keep his brows from furrowing and his fist from balling up where it rested on the sheets. He put his hand on Steve’s back instead. Tried to ground himself by touching more of his skin.

It didn’t work. Not really.

Bucky hated this - well, sort of.

He hated the hiding. The sneaking around. Stealing kisses in alleys and praying no one would notice their hands wandering a little too much under the table at a restaurant. Speaking in quiet voices and his hand itching to hold Steve’s as they walked down the street.

It was unfair that he couldn’t give Steve everything he deserved. He couldn’t take him to Coney Island, win him a giant teddy bear and carry it home for him. He couldn’t give Steve the promise of a ring. Of a house and a family. Hell, he couldn’t even look at Steve for too long in public.

He wasn’t even sure if Steve wanted any of that - they’d never really talked about the future. But he deserved the world. Bucky was sure of that.

Steve had told him before, let him know that he wasn’t expecting anything. That he was okay with what they were able to have - a lovely relationship that only existed behind closed doors.

Well, that wasn’t true. Bucky always loved Steve.

Every minute of every day.

***

Bucky has trouble remembering a time without Steve.

His mind knows many versions of the soldier by now. His memories can span back to the small, feisty guy he fell in love with. The one who got beat up in back alleys. He can conjure up the Steve he knew right after the serum, too. The one who saved him from that POW camp. The one that was ready to give his life to save so many others.

But the one in front of him - that’s the Steve he knows better than the rest.

The softer one. The Steve that’s been shaped by years of holding so many lives in the palm of his hand. The Steve that had to wake up one day and start over and - God, thinking about that makes Bucky’s heart hurt so bad.

He watches him now. Smiles when thick eyebrows draw��down, when blue eyes narrow at the book in his hands. Bucky just lets his hand fall onto Steve’s leg as the appendage rests over his lap, his palm feeling the soft fabric of his flannel pajama pants.

Bucky would be lying if he said he doesn’t wish he could go back in time. Change their lives. Have the Steve he’d known back then. The one that didn’t have the weight of the world on his shoulders. The one he’d been able to protect.

But he wouldn’t have been able to have Steve back then. Not the way he wants him.

“Something wrong, Buck?”

He snaps out of his thoughts, eyes settling on his Captain’s handsome face. And he smiles a little, grabbing one of his hands and kissing the palm. Reveling in the fact that he can do things like that so freely, now.

“No,” Bucky answers, lips finding Steve’s neck. “Absolutely nothing is wrong.”

For once, he means it.

Sure, he and Steve woke up in a different century. They’ve seen things they would rather forget. Collected more scars than they can count and work so hard to heal the wounds that are still open.

But as time moves forward, so do they.

Bucky knows that now.

***

“Someday it won’t matter, right? We’ll be able to go out and just - just be. We won’t have to be scared. Maybe someday no one will care.”

“Yeah, Steve. Maybe someday.”

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