as we know tony is on blood thinners, so consider this: he has a penchant for getting bruises on his hands while he's fabricating or repairing things in the workshop. it's not even that he's doing anything too dangerous, the bruises are just part and parcel of the meds and they heal quickly enough so tony doesn't mind.
steve, however, who already has a fascination for sketching the gestures tony makes while he's explaining a breakthrough or the smear of grease across the backs of his hands or the elegant curve of his fingers around the handle of a wrench, does notice and he does mind. every new shadow gets documented in his mind's eye, every faint spill of purple and blue and green and yellow is stored away in his tactician's brain, mapped out on the landscape of tony's hands and recorded later at night in the pages upon pages of meticulous studies in his sketchbook.
he can't risk drawing tony's hands while he's down in the lab anymore: he doesn't know how he'd explain this fixation to tony if he's ever caught. doesn't know where to begin, if he's honest, unpacking the fantasies of pressing his own fingers in the space between tony's knuckles, in the flesh of his palms, at the thin skin of his wrists. doesn't know how to admit to himself or anyone else how badly he wants to leave his own mark.
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okay see this snippet you c!dnfers and c!drunz uh stage duo enjoyers. i hope you all like it <3
this is a part of a bigger c!dnf king knight au i have. im motivated again so take this and srsly ask me about it it keeps me going :')
Dream hugged Sapnap who had run off to the front. George clenched his fists to keep himself from doing the same. So, he looked at the sun-kissed man, how his pearly white teeth glistened when he laughed when Sapnap said something, to how well built he looked. Handsome even, godly. George wondered what else had changed, was he even his Dream he knew from five years ago.
He was still too far, a few paces too far, George thought. If George was still a prince, he would have shoved the guards aside and ran to Dream but he couldn't do that now. He resented Sapnap just for a moment as the crown on his head felt heavier.
“He isn't my valet or helper or whatever, he is my friend.” George was snapped out of his thoughts by Dream’s voice, low and rough as it stopped the soldier from stepping closer to him and his companion.
He looked at the blond man Dream was standing in front of. The ice blue eyes were calm but his hand was on the hilt of the sword. George knew that man didn't need protecting and yet Dream was standing in front of him shielding him away from the knights. George bit the inside of his cheek as he frowned. He knew Dream, he cared for that man. His eyes followed the hand of Dream’s ‘friend’ as it came to rest on Dream’s shoulder and noticed Dream relax. George wanted to burn that hand.
“We still need to search for him, Dream,” Sapnap said, his eyes taking in the blue-eyed rider. “He is a stranger and he cannot meet the king before he is searched.”
“You’ll do the same to me then,” Dream said.
“You’re….. You're different, Dream.” George nodded hearing Sapnap’s words even though no one was even looking at him. Dream was different.
“Oh come on Sapnap,” Dream chuckled, “you haven't seen me in five years. I know the rules brother, it's fine.”
Sapnap looked at George for his opinion but he just stood there frozen. He nodded.
“Alright.” George heard Dream speak, he knew Dream had glanced at him while waiting for his answer. “Go ahead then.”
[ @cdnfhappyending i thought i'd tag you. you are my fav too <333 also hi nat @cdnfcanon ^_^]
Because once the thought comes to him unbidden in the middle of yet another argument with Stark since their ill-fated first meeting on the Helicarrier, it haunts him with the want and the desire and the pure lust of it all.
It's not good and it's not right, fantasizing about shoving his most infuriating teammate against the nearest wall, silencing his contrarian logic with more than cutting words, reveling in victory as he commands his mouth with brutal, burning kisses that aren't as much passion as they are fury.
Another kind of fight, only on a different sort of battlefield.
It's not good and it's not right, but Steve is still aching with the emptiness left behind from all he's lost by being a good and righteous man. And Stark . . . for all that he is ostentatious and reckless and bullheaded and annoyingly antagonistic, at least makes Steve feel something, anything.
Everything.
Steve himself fails to notice as their disputes slowly become less spontaneous and more deliberate. Even so, the plausible deniability does nothing to hinder his compulsion to seek Stark out—during training, at the penthouse, in his workshop—only to rile them both up again.
There is, however, no possible way to ignore the fact that every one of their arguments now ends the exact same way: with Steve storming off his to quarters and slamming the door shut only to put one tense and trembling fist to his cock, bringing himself off with sharp, short thrusts of his hand, his lips caught between his teeth and thoughts of Tony's mouth bitten raw and red all-encompassing in his mind.
on his shoulder
Because Steve is pressed up against Tony's bare back in the Quinjet they landed not five minutes ago. The rest of the team is still making their way out of the hangar, most of them headed to medical after a battle barely won, still well within earshot if Steve were to let a desperate moan fall free from his lips.
The sight of Iron Man going heavy and dark as he plummeted in a dead suit towards the ground after MODOK's attack replays on a sickening loop in his head. Steve still has to shake himself of the last vestiges of fear while he latches onto the hot, heady feeling of Tony around him and the sound of Tony panting—harsh, but quiet as if his breath is being stifled somehow—and the taste of Tony’s sweaty skin under his tongue as he bites down hard to stop himself from crying out in pleasure or grief, he isn't quite sure which.
But there's nothing to grieve, he reminds himself. There's no reason to mourn because Tony is here, right here where Steve can hold him closest, safe and unharmed and alive and alive and alive and alive—
That's the thought that undoes him, has him gripping Tony's hips desperately and painfully screwing his eyes shut and sinking his teeth into Tony's shoulder even more forcefully as they shudder apart against each other until he hears a muffled, wounded whimper. Steve is suddenly, horribly reminded of the magnitude of his own strength.
He lets go, releases Tony from his grasp, but he can't, he just can't move to put any more distance between them yet. Close to each other like this, he can still feel Tony's heartbeat as strongly as if it was pounding through his own skin. And if all he will ever get are these few frenzied moments of rushed intimacy in the aftermath of that brutal battle, then he at least wants to savor it.
Finally, they pull away from each other. Steve winces when he sees the deep impression his teeth have left on Tony's skin as he pulls the undersuit back on, the angry marks he left biting down on Tony’s shoulder and biting back his feelings for him. Regret weighs heavy on his heart at the bitter realization that—after months of wanting Tony, months of wanting to share in dinner dates and lazy mornings and passion-filled nights—the only way Tony wants him back is for a quick fuck in the back of the Quinjet as they come down from the adrenaline high of combat.
Steve sighs as he turns away and bends down to pick up one of the larger pieces of the suit that Tony had haphazardly discarded from his body, determined not to let him carry the bulky armor down to his workshop by himself.
Just as he rises with the back plate cradled in his arms, Tony snatches it away from him, eyes averted and lips pressed together tightly.
Silly, really. He should know by now not to count on Tony to accept help only for the simple reason that Steve wants to give it.
It’s there that Steve sees it: bite marks, deeper even than the ones he left, printed into the knuckles of Tony's left hand. A small drop of blood wells up in one of the indents, bright red contrasted against bone white fingers where Tony grips tightly to the edges of his armor.
Regret weighs heavy from Steve’s heart.
on his thighs
Because finally, Tony is spread out glowing and golden and glorious against his stark white sheets and Steve thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful. He presses reverent kisses to every inch of skin he can reach, is handsomely rewarded by Tony's sweet sighs and hitching gasps, and Steve thinks he has never heard a lovelier melody than the sounds of Tony's pleasure.
He kisses his way down Tony's body, lips lingering on scars and faded burns, mouthing along the desensitized skin at the edge of the arc reactor, awed by the way Tony wears the evidence of his genius on his skin like a biography that Steve could reread over and over again without tiring, his favorite story.
When he reaches the jut of Tony's hips and his breath rustles over the dark hair leading to the base of his cock, he gently coaxes Tony's legs open, revealing the tender, pale skin of his inner thighs to Steve. It's exhilarating to have Tony like this, open and vulnerable, the thrill of being trusted with his desire.
Steve strokes the backs of his fingers over the unmarred skin, before lowering his head to nip lightly over the same path, warm and velvety smooth against his hands and his lips.
Above him, Tony moans his approval, a litany of oh god and fuck, Steve as Steve inches ever closer to getting his mouth on Tony’s cock.
Closer, but not quite there yet.
Steve has something else in mind first.
Because Steve is only human. He’s not a perfect man, has never claimed to be. So when he sees Tony’s thighs laid open before him, completely devoid of any other marks like the ones that distinguish the rest of his beautiful body, he can’t help but take full advantage of the opportunity to leave a few of his own.
As Steve presses his teeth into the soft, supple skin and immediately feels the resistance from Tony’s strong, lean muscles, he thinks that he's never tasted anything quite so brilliant as Tony's bruises blooming under his lips. The scent of him—all leather and vanilla from his cologne and here, so close to the core of him, Tony’s own sweet, musky smell underneath it all—is everywhere around Steve as he shuts his eyes and loses himself in the sensation.
It’s heaven, kissing bruises into the blank canvas of Tony's thighs. It is his most stunning act of creation, all the shades of red and purple he paints with his tongue into Tony’s skin. Steve can't help himself from smiling as he imagines how they might ache tomorrow, an echo from tonight that reverberates anew every time Tony moves.
Steve finishes his masterpiece with one last kiss right where Tony's thigh meets his hip, his cheek just brushing against the delicate skin of Tony’s balls. He shifts back and takes in the sight: hums his delight at the picture they’ve made together, spilled ink on the page that will darken over time before fading away.
A secret only they share; handwritten notes in the margins of their story.
on his jaw
Because Tony loves it, is all, and that’s reason enough for Steve.
He still remembers the way Tony had moaned when Steve grazed his teeth over the corner of his jaw, just under his ear. His hands had flown to Steve’s head, tangling in his hair as he pulled him impossibly closer for a split second before letting out a resigned sigh and tugging Steve just far enough away until they could look at each other, faces a mere hairsbreadth apart and panting breaths hitting the other’s lips in the heavy air between them.
“Was that okay?” Steve starts to ask at the same time that Tony says,“you can’t, can’t—” before breaking off to gasp a breath.
Steve shifts some of his weight off of Tony, giving him a bit of space to clear the lingering glaze of pleasure over his eyes and catch his breath so he can continue.
A few moments later, Tony swallows and drags Steve closer again. “I have a board meeting tomorrow morning, and I can’t show up with any bruises where my clothes won’t cover them. It’s a . . . professional liability,” he says while waving a hand around as he searches for the words to explain. Once he’s finished, he sighs, gaze rueful, and drops his hand to hold on to Steve’s arm, absently stroking scarred fingers over the smooth curves of his bicep before offering a remorseful, “I’m sorry.”
At that, Steve’s brow furrows. “You don’t have to apologize. I’ll be careful.”
Tony bites his lip, glances away and back again. “I know, I just . . . I wish you didn’t have to worry. I wish we could just enjoy each other.” He huffs out a laugh, shakes his head almost imperceptibly so as he slides his hand up Steve’s arm, over his shoulder to cup the curve of his jaw in his warm palm, guiding them together until their lips meet in a chaste kiss.
It’s sweet, the meditative rhythm of Tony’s thumb as it rubs gently back and forth across his cheek. Steve can feel himself melting further into the contact. He hums his happiness into the embrace, joy swelling within him when he feels Tony react to the vibration and smile against his lips.
They stay close after the kiss breaks to narrow the millimeters that feel as gaping and distant as miles between them. Steve relishes the feeling of himself sheathed inside Tony’s soft heat, the way they mold to fit each other perfectly so that they share every breath, every movement, every ripple of pleasure, two bodies moving together as one.
“I do appreciate it, though,” Tony says as his gaze alternates between tracking Steve’s lips and meeting his eyes. “Thank you for understanding,” he murmurs in the scant space separating them.
Steve brings a hand up to brush his fingertips over Tony’s temple, down his cheek, thrilling at how Tony presses ever-so-slightly into the touch in a subconscious effort to get closer. “Of course. Whatever you want, Tony,” he says, voice low as it skates over his skin, followed by a kiss to his forehead, another on his brow, light presses of his lips all across his lover’s face.
Steve feels Tony start talking before he hears it, the reverberation of his voice across his lips where he’s currently kissing feather-light down his throat. An exasperated groan escapes him before he can stop himself, but unsurprisingly it goes completely unnoticed by Tony as he prattles on.
“Well, it’s not so much that that’s not what I want, if we’re being particular about it—”
“Tony,” Steve interrupts, unwilling to risk letting him talk long enough to distract himself from the fact that Steve’s dick is currently inside him. Again. “Tell me what you want. I want to know.”
“I want—” he says, and stops, letting his mouth hang open for a second of hesitation before visibly acquiescing to an internal argument he’s fighting against himself. “Actually you know what? Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter. Just, um . . . just don’t leave any marks where I can’t hide them. Think you can handle that, big guy?” He winks at him, but his attempt at a smirk falls flat.
Steve frowns back. “Are you sure?”
Tony rolls his eyes in response. “Of course I’m sure. Don’t I sound sure? And if you don’t get a move on, I’ll be wearing you to the meeting tomorrow, which I’m pretty sure will go over even less favorably than the bruises.” He punctuates his speech by clenching down on Steve’s cock, promptly putting an end to any more coherent conversation for the rest of the night.
But Steve hadn’t forgotten the subtle, lingering regret in Tony’s eyes. It burns in his memory months later as he lays Tony on the plush, massive bed in the private villa on the secluded island they’d secreted away to to celebrate their first anniversary together. This time, he doesn’t pull back when the trail of kisses he’s leaving along the length of Tony’s neck reaches the hinge of his jaw. Steve presses a smile against Tony’s skin instead.
“You know,” Steve purrs, “no work for the next two weeks.”
“No meetings either,” Tony says brightly.
“No clothes to hide bruises under.”
At that, Tony quirks an eyebrow, but he’s smiling when he confirms, “for two whole weeks?”
Steve licks the sensitive spot under Tony’s ear, kisses just hard enough to make his intentions clear. Gets drunk on the sound of Tony’s moans as he gently bites at the edge of his jaw, tongue running over the not yet visible pinpricks of stubble.
“For as long as you want it, honey.”
on his nose
Because the morning is drizzling down drab and gray against their windows when Steve wakes up and immediately decides against his usual daily run.
Normally he wouldn’t, he’d just persevere through the rain, but Tony’s always telling him how he deserves to take it easy, how he should allow himself rest.
Every once in a while, Steve’s inclined to agree.
Like today, for instance. He rolls over to face Tony, still soft and peaceful with sleep, and raises one hand to brush away the hair that has fallen into his eyes. From his dreams, Tony has sensed the disturbance, and his nose wrinkles just as Steve finishes smoothing his hair back into place.
Adoration floods him, an emotion bright and overwhelming as the sun, and before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s tilted forward and to the side a bit, carefully covers his lips with his teeth, and oh-so-gently lays a little bite on the tip of Tony’s nose.
Immediately, Tony’s eyes fly open at the exact same time as he says, “What the fuck?” in a hoarse voice.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” but the apology is undercut by the way Steve chuckles through it.
“Oh, like hell you didn’t,” Tony grumbles back.
Steve hums his agreement as he gathers Tony into his arms.
“Maybe so.”
Tony puts up a little resistance, shoving back against Steve for just a second, but they both know it’s only for show. They melt into each other, intimacy like a hearth they gather around to stay warm from the burgeoning storm outside.
“Looks like kite-flying is out of the question today.”
Steve raises one eyebrow and leans back a bit to look at Tony head-on. “Have you ever even flown a kite?”
“Have you?” Tony deflects.
“‘Course I have,” Steve says as he rubs the heel of one hand against his eyes before replacing it on the slight divot between Tony’s shoulder blades. “Bucky and I used to fly ‘em from the roof of our building when we were kids.”
They share the silence for a few minutes, ruminating and reminiscing under cover of thunder. But Tony rarely finds calm in stillness, so after a few minutes he breaks the quiet with—
“So what was up with that wake-up call then?”
Steve laughs softly, shaking his head slightly, unable to stop from nudging the very end of his nose against Tony’s as he does, pressed chest to chest against each other like they are. “You just looked cute, that’s all. Sue me.”
“I could! Emotional damages and whatnot!”
“Yeah, yeah, keep talking. Besides, you can’t touch me, I have spousal privilege.”
“That is absolutely not how spousal privilege works.”
“Oh really?” Steve smirks as he exaggeratedly rolls his naked hips against Tony’s boxers before leaning in so his lips brush against the outer shell of Tony’s ear when he whispers, “Enlighten me.”
Tony throws his head back in laughter. The joke is quickly abandoned as Steve’s smile warms into something more genuine at the sound. “You’re insatiable! We’ve been awake for all of five minutes and you’re already ready to go?”
He knows it’s not a serious question, but it barely matters when the answer is all the same. He trails his fingertips over the corner of Tony’s lips, heart fluttering when Tony casually captures Steve’s hand in his own and lays a soft, sweet kiss to the simple gold band on his finger.
“With you in my bed? Always.”
“Oh please,” Tony mocks fondly, lips curved in a crooked smile as he gazes up at Steve, before breaking into a yawn. “In any case,” he says as his eyes slip shut, “I’m going back to sleep, gonna get all my 40 winks in, like someone here is usually so adamant that I do.”
“Mmmm,” Steve acknowledges noncommittally. “Nice to know you’ve finally started listening to me after all these years.”
Tony’s eyes briefly crack open, one eyebrow lifting up in objection, but he otherwise pointedly ignores the challenge. “Please don’t tell me you’re leaving for your run right now,” he says instead, driving his point home by slinging an arm over Steve’s waist to hold on tight as he starts trying to find a comfortable position to rest his head.
Steve shifts down the bed, settles Tony’s restlessness by sliding an arm underneath his pillow. Immediately, the crease between his brows smoothes out, body relaxing on a gentle sigh.
The gray morning light, darkened by the storm, sends shadows over Tony’s sleep-softening features. Steve leans forward, just enough to press a barely-there kiss on the end of Tony’s nose. Between one moment and the next, Tony’s nose wrinkles, his eyelashes flutter, and then his face smoothes out again. His breath stays even.
Steve smiles down at him, lays his own head down next to Tony’s, and whispers in the space between:
“Not today. I’ve got everything I need right here.”
fill for the @stevetonygames bingo square "Plans" and the Mirror Mirror challenge based on the prompts "canon, horses, and best-laid plans" for Team Future :)
(read on ao3)
He’d had it all planned out.
Desert the war. Forsake his weapons. Forget the past. Drink his future.
But then, he’d met a man with eyes like clear prairie skies, hair gold as wheatgrass, hands warm and weathered as sun-baked clay. Lips soft like petal blooms, and love sweeter than any cactus honey.
A heart too big to be protected by the damned star that put a target on his chest.
So he got back on his horse with nothing else but a fireblazer and a list of soon-to-be dead men’s names.
And plans—like Sheriffs—were laid to rest.
Read the other two fics written for this challenge here and here!
I'm sorry i haven't been posting any fic lately, I'm a very slow writer and a huge perfectionist, the combination of which is basically just the author's death knell. but the last thing i was working on was an ask response for horse divorce au so i'll share some of that <3
~~~~~~~
I know why they divorce :(
it's because Tony kisses him. In the stables, one day when they're playing the same game they always do, the same cheeky back-and-forth. Some silly argument with no heat behind it, save for the lustful gazes they turn on each other.
Tony doesn't even really know what was different about today, except that Steve couldn't stop singing Friday's praises about how well she kept her cool through the thunderstorm that took her and Tony by surprise when they were out riding earlier. Tony wants to remind him that he’s sure he & Friday would still be stranded out there somewhere, soaking wet and scared and lost and caught out in the storm when Steve had run through the trails on foot to come find them and lead them back home. He wants to say that the only reason Friday was so calm was because Steve was there, soothing her with a low voice and a gentle hand and Tony knows he’s right about that, at least, because Steve is the only reason he regained his calm, too.
But he doesn’t say any of that, just lets himself take in the adoring way Steve looks at Friday, the way he stops stroking a hand down her neck every so often just to close his eyes and rest his forehead against her steady, solid body as if he’s reminding himself that she’s okay. That they’re okay. And Tony’s always had a soft spot for people who love to love Friday, who appreciate her even though she’s past her showjumping prime. Even earlier in the summer, before Howard had sent the rest of the horses off to the Stark’s trainer to prep for competition season, Tony could see the affection Steve held for her in particular above all her other stablemates.
Tony doesn’t really know what was different about today, or maybe he just doesn’t want to admit that the only thing that’s changed is his own perspective, because this time when Steve shoots a jab at him about how “with all those fancy gadgets you’ve got you think at least one of them would be able to show you the weather forecast” all Tony hears is I was so worried about you and I’m sorry I didn’t get to you sooner and please don’t ever disappear on me like that again.
So he kisses him, and suddenly it feels like a whole summer of pretending he hasn’t been slowly falling head over heels for this infuriating, intoxicating stablehand has been leading to this single moment in the stables, with the scent of hay and rain heavy in the air and Steve’s clothes drenched and cold under Tony’s fists and Steve’s chapped lips on his, warming him up from the inside out.
Kissing Steve in the stables leaves Tony feeling weightless, the same thrill as hitting the peak of a jump before landing back in the saddle again. But if kissing Steve feels like momentarily flying off the ground, then being called into Howard’s office the next morning brings him crashing back down to the Earth.
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stevetony, non-powered summer before college au, 1k
fill for the @stevetonygames bingo square "Seasons" and challenge "Resolutions" for Team Past :)
(read on ao3)
Summer days make for sun-soaked purgatory, hellish in all but name. The weather oppresses, enough that even Tony’s constantly racing mind relents to the sluggishness of the heat. The wait weighs heavy on his shoulders, heavier still with each second that acquiesces to the inevitability of fall. The empty house rings silence save for the incessant drip, drip, drip of his bathroom faucet from dawn to dusk, then from dusk to dawn, again, again, again.
Sometimes, in an indulgent act of self-pity or perhaps just typical teenage boredom, Tony calls his mom’s name out just to hear the unanswered echo respond back to him, to break the monotony of a leaky pipe.
They had invited him—his father, and his mother by default—they had invited him to Europe this summer to attend the unending battery of business conferences that would be taking the Starks from Paris to Zurich, Zurich to Milan, Milan to Berlin, Berlin to Madrid, Madrid to London, and from London back to Paris. The networking opportunities alone would give him a leg up for school in the fall, for internships next summer, for job opportunities after graduation, for corporate mergers scheduled twenty years from now, or so his father had said. But hell has a name, and that name is printed on the seal at the top of a college admission letter, signed by both the university president and the dean of the school of business. Idleness burns him from the inside out, but still Tony would rather spend his final summer alone in an empty house with a leaky faucet than begin the lifelong descent through the circles even a second too soon.
Daytime holds his sweaty body and his exhausted mind prisoner to the heat, so Tony bides his time until night to work on his inventions. In the cool respite, he weaves together a mimicry of human learning from lines of computer code. A real companion made from artificial intelligence, yes, but more importantly a reminder that before he becomes anything else—business school graduate, Stark Industries’ future CEO, unhappy—he was an engineer, and the insistent itch of creation buzzed with potential underneath the palms of his hands, once.
The temperature climbs higher, the seconds tick by, and the house slowly fills with the robotic fruits of his nighttime labor.
The faucet drips on.
One morning, Tony finds himself blinking away the haze of a machining binge to see the first signs of dawn glowing outside his window. The illumination of heaven without the burn of hell, a delicate and transient occurrence at this time of year, during which Tony is usually asleep. He stands and follows a wordless summons to go to the window, to open the boundary between himself and the world.
A bird chirps. A breeze lifts. The smell of sweet summer blooms scents the fresh air.
And down the street, a paperboy follows his route.
Tony watches him ride closer with eyes trained to inspect, dismantle, and reform component parts. The boy has blond hair. The boy seems to be about his age. The boy has a thin frame; the weight of the newspapers in his satchel upsets his balance on the bike, and he wobbles dangerously every time he throws a paper towards someone's front door before setting himself to rights again through what seems to be sheer force of will.
He rides closer. Tony sees:
Worn canvas on the strap of his satchel. There are patches painstakingly sewn on in multiple places.
A missing tooth on the chain of his bike. Someone should fix that. Tony could fix that.
A crooked smile. A happy life.
Blue eyes.
Oh.
The boy looks back at him from where he’s stopped in the street, one foot on the ground, still smiling.
Tony can’t help it; he smiles back.
His mind begins racing, racing, racing. He wonders what it would be like to run downstairs, open the door, offer to fix this boy’s bike.
Wonders what it would be like to ride home with him, wherever home is. Wonders at a day spent together, a night spent together, a morning brought to wakefulness by the presence of disheveled blond hair, a crooked smile, blue eyes.
He thinks of laughter, of pet names, of take-out dinner dates.
He imagines a modest one-bedroom too cozy to ever feel empty, with impeccable plumbing and a workshop in the garage. It’s no Ivy League, but there would be ivy creeping up the brick on the side of the house where they keep the garbage cans, triumphant in the face of all their half-hearted attempts at weeding, and wouldn’t that be so lovely in its own simple way?
He sees years worth of yet unlived memories and trembles with the bone-deep knowing: it would all be so terribly beautiful, this lifelong descent into love.
The boy lifts his arm and waves.
Tony can’t help it; he waves back. He smiles harder.
But the moment breaks when the boy drops his hand and pushes his foot off the ground. Tony’s heart sinks as he bikes out of view. Suddenly, the heat is unbearable, the house insufferably empty amongst the clutter, every drip of water from the bathroom faucet intolerable. Daylight is here, and Tony is faintly dizzy with the need to seek solace away from his inescapable life for a few hours in the impermanent oblivion of sleep.
He sinks miserably onto the bed, drags a pillow over his head in a futile attempt to block out the sound of his life dripping down the drain one drop at a time, already halfway to unconsciousness.
Only for his eyes to fly open a mere moment after closing, a smile already curling on his lips. Downstairs, another knock sounds resolutely against the door.
tagged by @oluka @robertdowneyjjr @imperialstark! Thanks friends <3 <3 <3
A lil snippet from a CACW not-fix-it 😈
Later, after the autopsy, after the ballistics report, Steve would learn that Tony died instantly.
Three bullets. One shot that shattered Tony’s left scapula. One buried in his C3 vertebra. One that grazed Steve’s shoulder, tore through the cheap wooden headboard, and landed itself 2 inches into the drywall behind them.
It was instant. One of the medical examiners had even claimed that Tony likely hadn’t even had enough time to perceive the pain from the first bullet before the second shot killed him. The words had bored into Steve from the dossier he had only recently received clearance to read, guilt and grief woven throughout the perfunctory report, the implied accusations taunting him on every page.
fill for the @stevetonygames bingo square "Flaw" and the Drabble challenge for Team Past :)
(read on ao3)
“Sorry, that’s— normal,” Tony sighs, wincing at the shame that rises when he looks down at his soft cock.
Steve holds his gaze for a second before dropping it to consider the evidence of Tony’s age, his health, his quasi-drinking problem. Take your pick, he laments.
Tony startles from his thoughts when Steve’s hand moves to cover him, stroking the pad of his thumb gently, fondly up and down the shaft. Tony shudders.
When he meets Tony’s eyes again, his expression isn’t filled with pity or disgust, just unwavering affection.
