#lamatrcna

(meme.)

Send ✿ for a HAPPINESS headcanon.

happiness is sitting with abe erskine at a bar and giggling like lunatics, because this may be crazy but goddamnit they just might save the world. happiness is flying the coast of california at 5 in the morning with maria while she sings a sweet old italian song and snorts with laughter when he tries joining in. happiness is the arc reactor firing up for the first time and watching the factory lights go on one by one. happiness is a cup of coffee strong enough to hide the flavor of whiskey in it, or a fast convertible on a hot day, or tony’s eyes lighting up when he realizes he isn’t in trouble this time. happiness is distraction.

Send ✄ for a PET PEEVE headcanon.

DO! NOT! TOUCH! HIS! WORKBENCH! UNTIL! THE! PROJECT! IS! OVER! JUST DON’T. DO NOT DO THE THE THING. THOSE PENCIL SHAVINGS ARE THERE FOR A REASON, JARVIS.

Send ღ for a LOVE/SEXUALITY headcanon.

slow morning sex. (thats it thats the whole headcanon)

Send ☂ for a FOOD headcanon.

                                                                                         hello? (six.)

 a week. a whole goddamn week. the nurses and doctors treat him like a half-cocked invalid, and on top of that all  the agents peggy assigned to him are too intimidated (green) to carry a half-decent conversation. if it weren’t for all the morphine pumping through him, he would’ve jumped out the window ages ago. 

 two bullets. collapsed lung. pneumonia. it’s not enough to keep him from wheeling to a payphone once the  opportunity presents itself. as luck would have it, that  opportunity rolled up at 3 in the morning when agent so-and-so finally nodded off. ( ok — maybe he was knocked out. either way, the kid was unconscious. ) 

 howard doesn’t expect anyone to answer so late, (early?), but she’s on the line and it’s the first time in a week he’s  not scared to be out of breath. 

             “ you don’t call, you don’t write, haven’t                even BOTHERED to visit. are you tryn’a                freeze me out, sweetheart? ”

numbers, formulas, blueprints, dates, names, responsibilities; he feels like a circuit board sparking, close to catching aflame, faulty wiring obvious but obscured by a cloud of smoke. by the time he reaches the sun-room his head throbs enough to make self-lobotomy seem like a fun idea; but she's lounging in the light with her saintly face carved in stone, eyes s l o w l y meandering the page as if she needs to stop and make love to each new word before leaving it in the dust, and for a moment the pressure in his mind lightens. 

a lobotomy could wait. not like there are any spare ice-picks laying around anyway. 

no, instead he walks over and buries himself in silk and ambergris scented skin. maria read slow, slower than molasses, and unfailingly flipped a page whenever his pollack painting of a mind was finally making sense. it was random, unintentional, probably revenge for something (or someone). that goddamn crinkling paper was an off-switch. so when she offers (warns), all he does is give a small, tired smile and kiss her fingertips, a small hum passing his lips. 

    (  ---  he's tempted to listen for once, just get up and                LEAVE , but the tenor of her voice more than              hinted it was what she expected. (&& if there's                  anything he hates more than maria in a bad          mood, it's being predictable.) so he props himself             on an elbow and kisses her shoulder, calloused                        fingers tracing the length of her arm with                                                          forced gentleness. )

   “ no. no, i'm tired. ”

     (  && his voice is gravel under the weight of honesty,              noticeable enough that he considers retreating.                  their marriage is an arms race; he isn't about                                       to drop any ammunition for her. )

                                                    && lamatrcna​ // meme

   It was more shock that grief, loneliness    crashing into him at 70 miles per hour and    nobody coming to clean up the wreckage.   He sat at the edge of the bed, shuttering   with each deep breath and stifled sob.

   ( Men don’t cry. Men never cry. )

   Every inch of his body was itching for a drink,   work, distraction, but her eyes weighed him   down like rocks in water and he’ll hold his   breath but won’t try to put up a fight.

  “ My, um… my mother died, ”

   and his voice comes steadily, thick   but unwavering. His stage voice.