Guys I Have An Idea For A Fic With The Theme Being The Game Never Have I Ever But Idk Who To Write It

Guys I have an idea for a fic with the theme being the game ‘never have I ever’ but idk who to write it for so lmk!!!

STOP I LOVE THIS SO MUCH

All the Words I Can't Say

College!SteveRogers x Female!Reader AU

summary: Steve can't help it. He is just so enchanted that all he ever draws is you. Too bad he will never actually talk to you, though - that's too scary. But Bucky always says he has to face his fears some day...

a/n: I have a playlist for College!SteveRogers. It was originally for another fic I’ve written, but apparently I can’t not imagine him awkward and love struck in any college universe. So this serves as a general College Stevie AU vibe :) 

word count: 2.6k

warnings: awkward, love-dazed Stevie, fluff?, swearing, and so sorry (but it's giving slight stalker vibes... it really wasn't my intention he's just so obsessed)

･ﾟ✫* 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 | 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒈𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒗𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ｡✭･ﾟ･

He dreams in color. They are the words he can’t say, painted on a canvas.

Blue fades in clear water. Like a feeling warming you for a second, a spark. It’s beautiful, Steve thinks. He loves it when his brush does it. He feels like a wizard when the pigment dissolves into the clear again - as if it had never been there before. Hidden in the masses of molecules, disguised only as long as it stays in its entity. Not too much - too much is never good. 

Another drop lands in the water, but now it starts to taint in washed color. Steve still loves it - it’s still magical. But there is something he loves even more. And it’s right there in front of him - not really. But almost. Depicted in oranges and browns, purples and blues, yellows, greens and reds - your eyes stare back at him with adoration. And Steve’s heart skips. Then it clenches and stops. It always does that... when the admonition flashes in his mind. 

It’s not real.

He has to remind himself too often. But he can’t help it. It’s too comforting to live in his fantasies - warm and safe - all he ever needed. Now it hurts with every stroke he dares. It’s not like he hasn’t done it dozens of times before. A notebook filled with sketches hidden beneath the mattress in his bedroom serves as proof of this. It never does anything other than remind him of what will never be a reality, though. You in his arms, you with love painted on your face for him. 

His thumb strokes over the dried paint on the canvas but a part of his finger still smudges it. Damn it, he hasn’t checked his fingers. Now there’s purple on your face, out of place and destroying - but daring all the same. It looks quite beautiful beneath your eyes, makes them shine brighter, makes your smile softer somehow. 

Steve sighs. The purple streak is going to stay for now. He washes his brushes out in the sink, recapping the bottles of paint scattering the studio he’s in. And before long, he flicks the lights off and locks the door. Professor Potts gave him the key for ‘when he needed to let it all out again’. He needs to show her some work soon.

It’s dark out when he reaches the path to his dorm. Stars shine as bright as they can against the unrelenting city lights. It’s hopeless. Just like Steve’s track of time when he paints you, the stars don’t stand a chance. It’s well over midnight when Steve unlocks his room. Bucky would be up. He has been out, drinking with Sam. But even if he would have stayed home, he probably couldn’t sleep... like always. So, Steve doesn’t bother being quiet. 

“Another late-night date with the canvas?” The brunette peers over his phone, though his eyes hold concern for Steve. He has told him hundreds of times before. Go out. Meet people. Don’t dig yourself deeper into this hopeless crush. But Steve never listened. He likes his hopelessness. And, besides, even if he tried to get over you, he knows it wouldn’t be possible. 

His smile finds the ground before he disappears into the bathroom where his sunken eyes stare back at him. He would be dreaming about you tonight - he always does when he paints you. And he looks forward to it, too. 

❁ ❁ ❁

You pass by him once again. It’s weird, because Steve swears he’s smiling, but his mouth won’t listen. He looks like an idiot. If only he could talk to you - Yeah, no. that isn’t an option. Because just thinking about it makes his heart go crazy fast. It’s scary because you’re so beautiful. And he knows he shouldn’t size himself down to leagues and scales, but how can he not when literally all of college is all about it? Bucky says he should grow some balls and ask you out or leave it be. But here’s the thing: he can’t leave it be - and he can most definitely not talk to you. It’s too scary - too foreign.

His brush dips back into lilac. He embraces the smudge now. Hated it for a while - but then it grew on him. Now it needs more shades. His tongue darts out as he tries to precisely draw along the curve of your cheekbone. He gets a little excited and his hand wants to shake, but he can hold it steady, he has practiced it enough.

Now another stroke. And another. Steve finds amusement in the color pouring onto his canvas. The smudge might have been the best mistake he’s ever made. Then again, there are no mistakes in painting. Accidents are meant to happen. They show the painter what their mind wants to see. 

“Is that... me?” Steve’s hands go flying and the brush throws purple all around him.

Oh no. Code red code red code red - that’s a fucking code red!

You just stand there as Steve flinches with the wooden brush hitting the floor, paint sprinkles covering your face - stunned, silent. This is a nightmare. He’s holding his breath. Really, there’s nothing he can do but hope he won’t pass out from the way your eyes bore into his wide and shocked. Though there is a softness in them still. You’re not angry - at least he doesn’t think so. Maybe, if he’s still a little longer, he’ll just disappear. 

That doesn’t happen. Obviously. Because god hates him.

His mouth opens, but there is not a sound formed by his tongue. He should apologize - he needs to apologize. God, but your eyes look too pretty with the purple accentuating your skin. He’s not even mad about it. He could look at it forever, look at you forever. Not that he doesn’t already do exactly that for the majority of his day. But still. 

“Are you okay?” You blink out of your trance and now Steve is panicking even more. “No need to apologize, by the way, I’m fine. Just got caught in a paint grenade.” Your eyes wander down your body and now Steve can see the fine blotches of lilac seeping into your shirt. It's white - shit. 

“I-” He’s trying, he really is. But something isn’t working up there. He just short circuits - wires smoking and all. It’s a complete mess. No wonder he can’t talk. And then your pretty gaze - he just needs to feel it and he’s melting away and, oh shit did you just see the painting? There are several stages of disaster but on a measure from failing a test to your mom dying, this is a six on the Richter scale. Why can’t he just say something?

He opens his mouth again and a weird noise escapes his tongue. What the fuck was that? By the look on your face, he can tell you’re just as surprised. But then your shoulders sag and you sigh.

“I shouldn’t have startled you like that, that was my fault. But this,” your gesture towards your shirt, “this is yours.” He swallows thickly, you seem to be really mad about that shirt. “You really speared nothing but that canvas.”

Now his body turns to the project propped up behind him. The canvas, right. You stare back at him, and now that you actually stand so close before him, he’s impressed at how lifelike he made your portrait. He’s surrounded by you, staring him down, but somehow your presence calms him. One last look at the purple smidge beneath your painted eyes and the breath returns to his lounges. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says when he spins back to you.

A small smile is placed on your lips and it reminds him of the series of sketches he made while you were laughing with your friends the other day. “Oh, so you can talk.”

“Sometimes,” he mutters to himself but he’s sure you’ve heard it. He turns to look at the painting again as he curses his carelessness. He can’t even stop you when you step forward to have a closer look at the artwork yourself. It’s too late now, anyway.

You reach forward but halt just in time. Unlike Steve, you didn’t smear the paint on your fingers all over the piece. “It’s very good.” 

Of course, it is. He puts everything in his paintings. All the things he can’t say. And, as he just noticed, that’s a whole lot.

“Thank you.” It’s small but it slips past his lips with ease. He never likes to accept compliments, but it’s different when you give them. He seeks your approval, especially now that you have caught him shamelessly reaping a piece of your privacy with his obsession.

Your eyes sway to him and then back to your portrait, and Steve is enchanted by the way your skin looks when the light hits it just right. He makes a mental note to draw you like this when he gets home - that is if you haven’t forbidden him to do so anymore. But who is he kidding? He’ll do it anyway, it’s an addiction.

His feet take him closer to you, and soon he’s gazing over your shoulder from a foot away, watching you watch the painting that’s looking right back at him. He’s trapped in the gaze he created and it’s taunting him: This is a mess. Then why doesn’t it feel messy?

Steve is so close to you, he can smell your shampoo, the faint remnant of the perfume you put on this morning, probably. It’s intoxicating, it draws him in and he can’t take his eyes off of you. His fingers are itching to touch you. He can imagine his hand moving your collar away to trail kisses from your shoulder to your collarbone - stop it, Steve. His face is heating up and his hands clench beside his body. 

“How long have you been working on this?” You spin around now suddenly, those lively eyes stare back at him, more intense - more real than he’s used to. And Steve can’t handle it, but his body isn’t looking away either. 

“Not that long,” he whispers as his focus lands on a moderate splatter of lilac beneath your eye. It’s not a lie, he’s memorized your features. Steve doesn’t even register your answer, he’s fixated on that little purple drop of color on your skin. It has a hold on him, he can’t do anything. 

“Why are you staring like that? Do I have something on my face?” It’s a silly joke, but Steve can’t tell you that you do. It would risk you swiping it away. And he can’t have that. Not when he wants to do it himself. He can’t do that, though, the purple spot is mocking him. And then, suddenly, like a bystander, he watches his hand move towards your face. He can’t stop it, it’s like an accident - he just needs to look, but he can’t do anything about it either. 

When his thumb finally makes contact with your skin, the world around him freezes again. There you are, so close before him, he’s touching your face, and it’s nothing like he thought it would be. He’s calm - so calm. Why is that? What is wrong with him?

Steve can hear your breath hitch when his fingers settle beneath your ear, his thumb resting next to the droplet of paint. He can finally feel his heart beating again, it’s getting faster now. He moves to wipe the lilac from your face, but he’s betrayed once again. The paint leaves a smudge beneath your eye and Steve is having flashbacks from the night before. 

Now you look just like his painting - his vision mixed with the perfect reality presented before him and he’s not sure, he can handle it. The world seems to spin when you take his hand from your face and look at the color on his finger. Then your eyes flick back up and his gaze locks with yours. Is this really happening? It feels so surreal.

The moment takes over Steve’s brain. It’s like he’s in one of those movies Sam likes to watch. There should be some piano queued in a second and then the main characters lean in to finally kiss in the rain. This won’t happen here, this is reality. But somehow, Steve isn’t so sure about it as soon as he thinks it.

Your eyes are still staring into his, wide, and it’s as if you’re not quite sure what’s happening either. If you feel anything like him at the moment, you must be captivated by the atmosphere that has been built around you. Steve is sure it can’t just be his big fat crush on you. It’s something new, something that just happened - the moment you took his hand in yours. 

Oh wow, you are leaning in. Panic surges up his spine. He can’t do it, not like this. This isn’t supposed to happen. You’re the princess and he’s the rat living in the peasant’s walls. But suddenly you're lips connect with his and it’s so simple, so effortless. He’s questioning everything at this point. Maybe you’re a witch and he’s a black cat. You are a little wicked, after all. And the way this feels - you and him - it’s like you belong together.

The hand that is still holding his guides him to your waist where it’s placed with promise. Steve can feel the paint transferring to the white cotton beneath his fingers but he’s too busy trying not to faint. He has done this before. He knows how to kiss, but he feels like a toddler with training wheels now that he gets to actually taste you. When your hand snakes around the back of his head, however, he regains consciousness. Your fingers press into his skin and he finally moves his lips in unison with yours. He can taste the minty aftertaste of gum on your tongue when he dares to explore it and he’s sinking into you like melted chocolate. Your breath tickles his cheek and when he pulls you a little closer to him, a surprised huff escapes your kiss. 

Then your hand slips from his neck and pushes gently against his chest. He pulls back, dazed eyes staring back at you. He’s yearning for more, whatever this was, and he’s chasing to stay in the universe you catapulted him into for a second longer. 

Your gaze travels over to the portrait again, then back to him and your thumb grazes over his sweater. “You owe me a new shirt.”

“Anything you want.” It’s a husky whisper in which his eyes stay fixated on the movement of your lips. He would say yes to about anything right now. His brain is mush. 

“It’s a date, then.” It looks like you want to nod, but you’re still staring at him with those tranced eyes - Steve can’t get enough of it.

He swallows thickly. “Okay.”

And then you just smile and leave him standing there, longing for a second more of your presence. But you have turned the corner faster than he can register and that’s when reality is setting back into his brain. It’s like he is snapped out of a vivid daydream, but he can still taste the mint on his tongue and he still has the purple smear on his finger. This was real, this actually happened. 

His eyes get caught on the painting once more. Intensely staring back at him with mockery: You’re an idiot. He knows that.

“Shut up,” he whispers to the drying paint on the canvas as he moves to pick up his brush again. But now that he has had the real thing, his drawings don’t do you justice anymore. 

I know it's a little weird, but I like it. I hope you do, too. You are welcome to share your thoughts - reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. 💙

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