#beyondmysights

some meme i’ve forgotten but i know this is kisses where there’s a pulse

This isn’t the first time he’s broken the rules, and really, he could confidently argue that he could very much say the same for Clint. The fracture of patience, of holding back is instantaneous, and before he can even properly process it all — there’s the invasion of space. There’s Clint’s hands that grab desperately and lips that press on his with such a force, he wouldn’t be surprised if there was a bruising. 

He’s always loved Clint’s hands. 

They’re different, understanding, have little nicks that tell a story of a guy who’s had more than his fare share of experiences, hands that’ve known labour well and have had grit beneath them. 

It’s one of the many reasons why Tony likes him. 

(Love’s one of those weird things he doesn’t talk about. Goes for Clint too, he thinks.)

He kisses deeply, tugs and pulls and stumbles, and when he pulls away for breath he offers up a crooked smile and a look, as if to say finally. And for a moment, there’s moment of softness, of a hand that cups Tony’s face.

"You’re an idiot." 

"Genius."

"Shut up."

Tony presses a kiss on the skin of his wrist, briefly before turning to look back at Clint.

"Make me."

Send me ‘I want the K’ and I’ll generate a number

    — 6 (gentle)

The Singapore sunrise above Marina Bay is beautiful, but he feels as though he’s dying. They both do, he’s certain. Full of fractures and jagged things, too many edges for seventy-six hours; blood slow and thick, but dark and dry on the surface to hide the bruising. 

     Lots of cracks, plenty of leaks— things they’ve patched up as well as they can. And they lean there, on that high roof, quiet and still and victorious, but it tastes like iron and gravel and teeth that don’t belong to them. With six others they came; some friends, some not, but all known, respected as well as any.

All gone.

     Beside him, Clint shifts a knee, and gives not so much as a sigh at the echo of grinding bone. Extraction at 0700, their transmission said, and after Clint read it aloud, the only word Thran replied with was, sleep.

They don’t waste words talking about it. Or— he doesn’t. They’re blunt, heavy, well used to the deadpan nature of mutual comfort, something easier to slip into off the field. No true enmity here, of course; there’s no room for it anymore. Clint doesn’t sleep. Neither of them do. But they lean, and they keep leaning, until the mottling beneath their skin doesn’t quite seem so important anymore.

     Until it didn’t matter if Clint’s head was on his shoulder, because the grime and gore there was the same color as it was in Clint’s hair.

Turning his wrist hurts— turning his head is worse. He feels like he’s dying, but it feels like the right thing to do. Seeing comfort in color has never been a priority, it’s not something he understands, but his parted lips against the crown of Clint’s head is… solid. It’s easier. Hurts less.

send me a * and an url and my muse will talk about that muse whilst drunk

[ It’s funny, the way that sound and the general perception of everything just seems to warp, the alcohol in his system begins to take over what little control he had of himself and he becomes…this. He’s sluggish, careless and far more bold than usual — and sure, that’s questionable, But he is just so, horribly, horrendously worse.

And it’s funny, how things change, like a material reaching that maximum point before finally — they snap, they break, they fracture and split and this happens — clarity. The song is eerily crisp, louder than it should be, and the lyrics and memories entwine and reverberate in him.

He’s only quiet for a few moments before he begins to hum, he begins to sing and laugh and god, he drinks more. The memories aren’t bitter, but god do they burn like the liquor that travels down his throat. ]

"Y’know — I knew a guy. Know — knew, whatever —" 

[ Another swig. ]

               But I can see you                - Your brown skin shinin’ in the sun —

[ He’s singing, voice low and under breath. He can practically smell the ash that embeds itself in worn hoodies and taste lips tinged with the taste of shitty beer. ]

"Fuckin’ made hanging out at that place all the more worth it — he was a carnie, y’know. Kinda funny, given well —"

[ He gestures to himself, gestures around him, as if some form of explanation of the generic, somewhat predetermined and routine life of a billionaire playboy who lived a life of luxury. ]  

"God, t’was fun though, y’know — summer, we even got a car. I still keep it in my garage. You know, that trashbox Mightyboy. Right next to the roadster and my Saleen."

               Now I don’t understand what happened to our love               But babe, I’m gonna get you back               I’m gonna show you what I’m made of

[ There’s a final swig, and he drinks, deeper, eyes closed tight as the lyrics brand themselves into his ears.

But what happened? He hears. ]

"Life, happened. You know, the usual. I’m Tony Stark — you think this shit’s normal? We don’t get happy endings — no, nothing, will ever be okay with me." 

[ There’s only a moment when he’s serious, as he looks them in the eye, only for a moment, before he starts laughing. ]

               I can tell you my love for you will still be strong               After the boys of summer have gone

     "Barton, it is four in the morning.

"You said it would be simple," Clint says, and there are vehement tears threatening at the edges of his words, pulling heavily on his anger. "You said it would be easy. You lied.”

Tony’s trying to take Clint’s arms, trying to use touch to soothe, but Clint hits them away, struggles out of his grasp.

              “I didn’t lie, babe,” Tony says, and there’s anguish                there, guilt and a note of pleading. “I just —— I just                mis-judged.  This isn’t over yet, Clint, just give me                another chance.”

"Why, what are you gonna fuck up this time?" Clint demands.

    It still hurts. His eyes ache, like they’ve been straining to     see for hours. The darkness, though, that remains, a     little darker in one eye than in the other. 

        “I can fix it,” Tony says. “There’s a certain amount of          risk associated with any invasive medical procedure,          but I can fix if if you’ll just—”

"Fix it," Clint laughs. "You can’t be a mechanic for people, Tony! When the hell are you gonna learn that you break people? Go ahead, try and put me back together like you did with Dummy.

          But it won’t work. People aren’t cars. People           aren’t robots. You can’t fix people, Tony. You           can’t fix anything.”

-

And he just stood there, each word impacting like a fist, rocking him until he swayed slightly in punctuation, each derisive phrase a hammer on the pitted anvil of memory.

The words were different, but the intent behind them was similar enough to leave bile rising in the back of his throat, to compel a helpless feeling so immersive he felt as though he couldn't breathe for a few moments, his vision dimming, leading him back down a dark road he only visited unwillingly, and when exceedingly inebriated.

What else could he do? It wasn't like Clint was wrong, after all. He did break things. Machines, people. They really weren't so different, in the grand scheme of things. Creation required experimentation, and things rarely went perfectly on the first iteration. But his lover wasn't a machine, and he'd been knocked down too many times to appreciate any platitudes about uncertainty analysis or environmental effects.

He was way too sober for this conversation.

"I'm aware you're not a robot," Tony replied quietly, carefully, as though any variation in tone might spill what the words restrained. "As shocking as it might be, I don't actually conduct romantic relationships with inorganics as a habit. But this is a developmental technique, babe. You're the first, and I'm sorry, I'm not perfect. In case you were somehow still under that misconception after knowing me longer than five minutes."

The other man had pulled away, and stood just out of reach, tension screaming from every line of his body, and Tony allowed his hands to drop back by his sides, his expression a convoluted melding of reproach and regret.