oh no I didn't think anyone would follow this account for art, but welcome. if you want just my art and nothing else I really recommend following my main blog @duplicitus, I just reblog stucky, yap in tags, and post unfinished/unpolished stuff here.
(Also a little bit because I saw this artwork by Paul Laurenzi and I couldn't control the visceral reaction I had to it, whoops, lmao)
Tantalizingly sheer and profane as steeple stained glass, shapely and mouth-wateringly smooth as carved marble, and tinted in such gorgeous, delicate shades as glazed watercolor, Steve has become art incarnate. Art itself. He is gorgeous. And it is making Bucky carnal with desire.
The heated, deep pool of lust low in his gut is too fucking much—it has taken over his entire body. Overflowing. Pure arousal keeps dripping, pouring, down his spine from his empty head to his growling chest to the pit of his stomach. He's hungry. His teeth ache, hungry to bite—to chew. Steve smells edible. Bucky's fucking hair, across his whole body, is standing on end, watching his mate.
He is electric.
Lost to the frantic craze of heat, somewhere between the opaque shades of pre-heat and full-blown heat, feverish and uninhibited, Steve is, he's—
Bucky's pretty omega is, really, indescribable. The sight of him is beyond words. More than. But Bucky's the only one who gets to see this and it has to be fucking documented. Somehow. Still, only he gets to fucking revel in the pornographic sight, the tempting smell, the unreal taste, the erotic, sensational feeling, the everything that is his omega lost to his baser instincts that demand to be mounted, held down, and made to take it, stretched wide on a fat knot and pumped full of cum. Bred until he's leaking cum with his belly bulging like he's already got some pups in there.
Bucky's own instincts match, the opposite side of the coin but just as primal and filthy: mate, bite, knot, breed, bite, knot, knot, breed, mate, breed, knot, bite, bite, mine, my omega—
Messy and thoughtless with those instincts, Steve is so gorgeous that Bucky has to simultaneously resist touching to watch him further disintegrate into agonized lust alone while also resisting doing nothing more than pouncing on him and ripping into him, no more fucking waiting.
Why wait, why just watch, when he can touch?
Why touch and do any of the work when he can sit back and watch him crumble into hysterics all on his own?
“Hh-AH!” Steve's voice, normally masculine, low, and sweet, has broken. It's high and wanton. Primal in the way his words have been replaced by all these fuck-me whines, begging for it without having to utter a single ‘please.’ He's far too gone for words.
On second thought, maybe Steve has the touching covered, though. At least for now—with those big, shaking paws feeling up his own fucking rack.
Feverish from the inside out, down to his skin, burning pink and misted with sweat, Steve has his hands over every exposed inch of his body and then some. The crazier his heat has driven him, the more he's run his fingers underneath the neckline of his t-shirt, getting it away from his flushed, soaked decolletage and incidentally stretching out the collar to the point that—fuck.
Jesus Christ.
Bucky has to fucking sit. on. his. hands. to prevent himself from reaching into his pants. He is ungodly desperate to squeeze his cock, already stiff but really beginning to fucking swell now. His knot is coming in hot and heavy. Nothing sounds goddamn better than sinking into vice-tight, soaking wet heat right now. On his own life, he swears it—he's gonna tie Steve next fucking thing, and he's not letting him go until his omega is knot-drunk. Steve will have to pry him off him, and that's a promise. Bucky will be the one acting as if he's heat-ravaged and desperate for anything he can get. Anything.
The soft, worn-thin fabric of Steve's little white shirt is plastered to his skin. From across the room, claiming his space on the couch, legs spread wide, it's sinfully easy for Bucky to see his full-body blush through the saturated cotton of his omega's shirt. Too, it's all too easy to see the tight, pink targets of his nipples. Bright spots of throaty, moaning sensitivity on his big, heaving tits.
Tits.
Bucky uncontrollably growls. He can't help it. ‘Cause they are—those are fucking tits. Especially when Steve's in season, the rush of hormones, flooding his big, curvaceous body, all muscle and strength and curve, makes him get all puffy. There's no other word for it. His nipples get so sensitive, harder and puffier and pinker than usual. His hole gets so leaky and even pinker than usual and puffy, too. It's the same way Steve's dick-sucking lips swell up, fat and salacious when Bucky kisses him drunk.
Steve doesn't need to kiss to get drunk now. Not kissing him might make him even more inebriated, teasing him by not letting him have what he's chasing, instinctually, inexhaustibly. Just. Needing to be held down and fucked stupid.
But, he isn't being overwhelmed like that, f-u-c-k-e-d, so he's doing it himself.
His pretty pink nipples and big tits are spilling over the neck of his stretched-out t-shirt that's turned into a pane of glass thanks to his fragrant sweat. He's melting, melting and breaking—back arching so hard it looks fucking painful, sticking his tits out, pushing hard into his hands, cupping the heavy handfuls and pinching and brushing and teasing his aching nipples. He's so hot it's frying Bucky's goddamn fucking brain.
How and why is he sitting over here?
What the hell?
He needs to be over there.
He needs to be licking the salt off his shivering skin, he needs to shove his nose under Steve's shaking arms, he needs to sink his teeth into Steve's scent glands all over again. They're so flushed and tender right now—the storm of hormones flooding him, consuming him, possessing him, and transforming him into a hurricane.
A whimpering, gasping, gutturally moaning tornado vibrating and whirling in place on their leather armchair. He shakes so hard, he shivers so much, it's got his muscles flexing and bulging. God. He's built like a tank but he just dissolves.
Bucky's omega.
Yes.
His mate.
And, fuck, his mate is dripping. Dripping sweat, dripping noises, and dripping so much, soaked so intensely with slick, that he's sllllliding on the leather.
Jesus.
He's riding that fucking chair.
His tits are so sensitive from heat but worse is his hole. It's got to be so pink and swollen, puffy, and wet between his fat cheeks. The little pair of boxer briefs he slid into this morning, skin tight, is barely holding on, dick twitching hugely in the front, making a break for it. The red, weeping head of his dick is sticking out lewdly above his waistband. He's squirming, dragging, and rubbing his hole over the leather. Drenched. Slip and slide. He can't seem to get enough of a grip to reach between his legs and touch himself there, though. Slipping a hand beneath his underwear is too complex a task. He's far too occupied by how good touching his tits makes him feel. He can't stop. Heat has destroyed, no, obliterated Steve's usual super self-control. There is no delayed gratification here. Only now. Now, now, now—
Pleasure.
Demand.
From his thrown back head, golden hair ruffled and tangled, haloing his tight, agonized expression of ecstasy, to his pushed-forward breasts, begging to be bitten and sucked on and tortured, just a little, to his tight little hips, to his needy, desperate, greedy hole begging to be fucked, to his sprawled, shaking thighs, to his cramping soles—head to toe, Bucky's omega is in demand mode.
Hedonistic.
Nothing matters but his heat.
Nothing else matters to Steve.
Nothing else matters to Bucky.
His omega.
“Ah-alphaaa!” He sobs, voice breaking jaggedly.
And Bucky is just a man—
Snarling, lunging, moving, he can't wait another goddamn second.
@cartier: Sebastian Stan embraces the pioneering spirit of the new Santos de Cartier Chronograph watch, tailored for the everyday performance. #SantosdeCartier
I don't usually delve into this stuff, but please, please forgive me just this once.
If I could, I would love to show everyone at marvel this:
Steve Rogers, moments after being shot at, point blank, in a room full of people, out of fucking nowhere, by the supposed ✨️LoVe oF HiS LiFe✨️.
Ah, but she must have been under mind control, right? Brainwashed, maybe. Tortured past the point of insanity. Coerced into this. Amnesiac, even, to the point where she didn't even recognize him, wasn't aware of what she was doing or whom she was doing it to. Otherwise, she never would have done something like that. Right???
WRONG. She did that all of her own volition. Spontaneously. On a fucking whim. Because she was feeling petty. Truly, such a beautiful, heartwarming moment for them <3
I should be doing more to appreciate the lack of marvel movies in today's popular culture. I once yearned for marvel movies to have this level of irrelevance. They used to feel almost ozymandian, like an empire that had no beginning and no end. and now tony stark iron man is naught but two vast and trunkless legs of stone.
