#inkiniris writes

[anthonyed]

Day 6: Wearing Each Other’s Clothes 

-//-

They fight. Not like the usual heated arguments between them but a full blown fight with raised voices and Steve storming out of the workshop and not returning even after a day.

He’s mad. Judging by the lack of Tony’s effort to seek him out, Tony is too.

Steve wants to say it’s a clash of opinions. But their opinions have clashed numerous times before and deep inside he knows the truth which he’s only evading because it’s easier to pretend they’re all emotionally as mature as the public likes to think; steel wall, unaffected etcetera.

Truth is, their last mission went pear shaped and caused a string of collateral damages that broke the meter of casualty they could deal with as a team for the year and none of them are alright. The air in the tower was still heavy with grief when Steve had tried to lighten up Tony’s mood by bringing up a random topic to chat on. But everything else reined in and the balloon blew so spectacularly that they’re both still reeling from what they’d said to each other.

Steve had called Tony unprofessional and Tony had called him pretentious in return; because Steve said, “We can’t let this affect us so much. We have to move on. We’re the Avengers.”

“Well FYI Steve, we’re also human – oh wait. I’m sorry, some of us are human and some of us aren’t.”

Steve had bristled. “That’s not why – This is not only about being human but about being those who others look up to, we have responsibilities and mooning around when we should be restoring their hopes is a little… unprofessional.”

Tony rounded up on him, seething, “What? Be more like you? Is that it? A pretentious hero? Cause that’s what you are right now.”

And that had hurt. There’s no need for you to call me that, was on the very tip of Steve’s tongue but Tony didn’t look like he was going to listen to anything anyone has to say right then. He looked defensive, ready to fight and Steve was, tired. Exhaustion gripped and twisted his insides and Tony was pouring acid so he turned and left.

Then, there was a call for a recon mission for Natasha and him and Tony was still on blackout mode so Steve had left without a goodbye because he couldn’t spend another round busting his knuckles of Tony’s super-strength proofed glass door.

Steve didn’t even compute half of the things he did during the last three days he was incognito. Natasha was less chatty than usual, her hits less uncontrolled in strength with impeccable precision as if she had been holding back all those other times she’d been on the field. Steve relied primarily on muscle memories and direct orders and for the first time, Maria was yelling up their throats because they were reckless.

It was quiet, bloodier and quick.

Now, Steve’s hugging himself in the back of the Quinjet sulking because Tony is right, while Natasha quietly focused on piloting them back home.

But god, Steve missed him, missed him real sore like someone had bruised his ribs badly and he wants nothing more than to hold Tony right then. But Tony’s not here, he’s back home being mad and Steve doesn’t care if he’s the first one to apologize, he will, because this madness isn’t worth it.

He rather his pride hurt than be like this with Tony.

He wishes their ETA is shorter. He wishes the Quinjet is faster. He knows what he’s going to do the minute they land; ask JARVIS where Tony is and go straight there. No pit stops, all he wants to do is beg Tony to let him in and hug him until this odd heaviness in his stomach fades. Then he’s going to convince Tony to come to be and cuddle with him to sleep. Yes, that’s what he’s going to do when they reach home.

But home is three hours away still and right now the heaviness burns like an ulcer, a feeling that Steve remembers from when he was fifteen and spent every day trying to not drop dead. So he stands up, the insane yearning within him leading by instinct to where the team stores their extra clothes and other necessities for emergencies.

Pulling the storage container out and open, he searches for the sleek black bag that he knows is Tony’s and pulls it out. The moment he opens the bag, Tony’s distinct scent invades his airway and Steve tries not to sob, or sniff closer like a creep. It’s incredibly easy to fish out a warm oversized MIT sweater among the small pile of clothes Tony keeps inside and pull over his undershirt. It’s even easier to dip his chin down, pull up the collar and bury his nose in the fabric.

When Natasha gives him a look from the cockpit, Steve ignores her and curls up in his seat, feeling significantly better with each deep inhale.

Each passing minute feels inconspicuous after that, Tony’s scent enveloping him like a secure blanket and Steve lets himself drift asleep until JARVIS announces the ETA is thirty minutes, which then Steve spends fidgeting nervously, worrying what if Tony wants to break up with him – because that’s a thing Steve hasn’t even considered and he realised that it’s completely possible – and that ulcer-burning is back to haunt his insides again. Then he realises that besides dating, neither Tony nor him have explicitly discussed their relationship status and – well – huh. That is - that makes Steve feel ridiculously stressed out that not even slinking further into Tony’s sweater quells that.

Natasha gives a squeeze to his arm before she walks away. Steve attempts to evaluate the state of his mind for barely a minute at the tarmac before deciding ‘fuck it’ and heading to the workshop. Halfway in the elevator ride, he realises that he’d completely missed the first step which was to ask JARVIS where Tony was at. He pushes the surging panic and opens his mouth but the elevator door is already opening, revealing a quiet workshop; none of that cacophony of holo-screen with their bright blue lights dancing around and Steve feels his heart plummet.

“JARVIS, where is Tony?”

“Sir is in the workshop, Captain Rogers.”

Frowning and eyes frantically searching, Steve murmurs, “Where?”

“Sir is in his cot, Captain.”

“Oh,” Then, “Can I go in?” He almost pleads.

The glass door whooshes open in answer and Steve says his thanks to JARVIS, stepping inside.

Tony is indeed in his cot. With both hands tucked under a soft pillow on a sofa bed, he’s asleep on his side, and Steve just wants to pull the blanket and tuck himself neatly along the curves of Tony’s back.

He considers doing just that but loses himself at the sight of Tony; with a blanket strewn over his legs stopping just below his waist, looking warm and incredulously soft and Steve marvels, thanking high heavens for being able to just lean in and caress his sleep-soft cheek and run fingers through his sleep-soft hair. He’s leaning in to press a kiss over Tony’s forehead when he notices it.

The hoodie zipped up to Tony’s neck is not, Tony’s. He knows that because it’s, well, he left it on the front couch the last time he was in the workshop and Tony must have –

Steve gulps.

Tony’s wearing a t-shirt under that hoodie; black with a little hole at the collar. It’s washed out and it’s what Steve likes to wear religiously even if it earns him dirty eyes from Natasha because there’s something about the way its material clings to his skin screams comfort.

And Tony’s wearing that exact t-shirt under his hoodie. With his hoodie.

His next breath is a little harsh and loud and it jostles Tony from his sleep. “Steve?”

“Hey.” Steve says, breathless.

Tony blinks, “Hi.”

“Scoot over?” Tony complies, and Steve pulls the blanket over his own legs before pulling Tony over his chest.

Tony’s tense for a second, before he goes soft and pliant like all of him had just melted over and Steve holds him tighter, breathing him in with long deep inhales. “I missed you.” He confesses hoarsely, heart racing wildly while he clutches to Tony like a lifeline and Tony hugs him back just as tightly.

“Is that why you’re wearing my sweater?”

Steve snorts. “I notice you stole my hoodie and shirt.”

“Hmm.” Tony squirms, his nose wrinkling a little like it does when he’s nervous.

Steve kisses his head and asks, “What?”

“Think I stole your whole wardrobe.” Tony fesses huffily, a little defensive.

Steve sits up a little to see the beginning of his favourite sweatpants, loose on Tony’s hips and what deceptively looks like a sliver of his old boxer short. He doesn’t want to assume so hooks a thumb down the waistband of the sweatpants and he asks, “Is that -,”

“Your boxer? Yes.” Tony exhales hotly against his neck, squirming some more and oh.

Steve sees what he means by the entire wardrobe and well, he’s not mad, not at all. Especially when he feels the long hard line of Tony’s arousal pressing up his stomach, he throws a possessive leg over his fella, rolls the over and whispers heatedly into Tony’s mouth, “Good. I like that.”

(tagging: @meredithraw)

[avengersnewb]

@elcorhamletlive

The fic has a similar narrative style as your "Hating Steve Rogers", maybe more than what I thought it did when I was writing it. I hope you don't mind, it is no where as awesome as your fic and it's only because I really really love hating Steve Rogers.

@the-vorkosigan

The idea of Steve's first mission in Madripoor comes from your "Over sea, Under stars". Thank you for another awesome CACW fix it!

@inkiniris

The way the draft of the letter is worded in the sketchpad Tony finds is all yours, I loved the idea and it made my life easier. I used to hate the letter but now I love the letter. 💓

Is it too late for a CACW fix it?

I don't know, I had the persumed dead prompt and I always wanted to fix CACW and what fixes things better than a persumed dead super soldier? So please give it a go and let me know what you think. It's angsty but definitely happy ending with a bearded Steve Rogers 😍

@winterstar95 this is for you 💗, thank you for all the amazing fics and for being a wonderful person 💕💕

[anthonyed]

BuckyTony: Danger

-//-

It was in the middle of an argument as he was going for Stark’s jugular when that realisation hit. His eyes stayed locked on Stark’s neck and he lost his next word.

But Stark went on and on about what a danger Bucky was and how much he hated him and nothing filtered in the right way ever again after that. All Bucky could think was; huh, that’s a nice voice. Followed immediately by, fuck, shit, seriously Barnes!?

Well, it started like that. Then it went on like this;

It was a summer afternoon, Steve was missing and Bucky took it upon himself to hunt him down. He found the punk in the basement level 2 of the Compound in deep discussion with Stark.

They didn’t notice him, but he noticed them alright. Specifically, he noticed Stark, bent over one of his fancy work desks showing something or another to Steve but all of Bucky’s attention could zero in was on the endless display of tanned skin, hips upwards.

He couldn’t take another step inside, too drowned in the warm tone of Stark’s naked torso, the lines of his lithe body; dips and hikes of his muscles, although not as defined as the other Avengers, Bucky found his perfect for that exact reason.

He wondered how they would feel under his hands, and promptly, he upped and left.

It carried on.

From the hunch of Stark’s shoulder when he’s waiting for his coffee to the way his fingers curled around his cup for his first sip. The way his hips dipped and swayed oh so slightly when he strutted and the way he dragged his feet on the floor sometimes.

The line of his nape, the arch of his neck when he threw his head in laughter and the curl of his hair. The scruff of his beard, the swell of his lips and the bristle of his brows.

The way he smiled - all hundreds of different ways his lips could curl. The way his eyes spoke even without speaking.

Bucky saw them all and he heard them too.

And slowly, he began to fall.

In fact, it wasn’t so hard to fall. One day, he looked at Tony, cheek smushed on one of the many throw pillows, drooling while the TV played in the background, and suddenly all he wanted was to wake up to that and there it was. The final push.

Or perhaps, he already had fallen but was just realising then. Regardless, Stark was now Tony and Bucky made sure he stayed away from him.

Because Tony was right. Bucky was a disaster waiting to happen and nobody - especially Tony with his own 101 problems - deserved that.

So, Bucky steered clear; he heard those familiar fall of footsteps and he took another lane, he smelled that distinct scent and he turned away, he heard that snarky voice and throaty laugh and he skipped the dinner.

Until Tony decided to fuck privacy and barge into Bucky’s room just as he was exiting the bathroom.

“Shit. Fuck.” He recoiled, ducking his head under his arm as he turned away, neck turning bright red while Bucky stared, momentarily stumped.

It was his shock that tilted the world onto a different plane and Bucky, with his towel loosely wrapped around his hips, cocked his head, and started seeing things in a different light.

First question was; why was Tony blushing?

“Wear something would you?!”

Or to reprise; why was Tony blushing to see him… technically naked. With only a towel.

“I don’t think so.” Bucky hummed, crossing his arms over his still damp chest and regarding the intruder curiously.

“You don’t think so!?” Tony squawked, turning back, then turning away, before cursing under his breath and turning back to face Bucky huffily. “I don’t run bed and breakfast for nudist, terminator. Put something on.” He glowered.

Bucky smirked and took a step towards him, “Technically I’m not nude and even if I am, this is my bedroom and I can be whatever I want in here.” He could see the realisation dawn upon Tony, but at the same time, there was something else there…

“Well that’s rude,” he stumbled, one step tripping over another until his back hits the wall.

Bucky let out a satisfied huff, smirk widening when Tony’s eyes locked onto his, “Is that so…,” he trailed off, not really following the conversation. Too distracted by the nervous twitch of Tony’s lip and the way his bright eyes widened and darkened under Bucky’s gaze.

That voice in his head, telling him to stay away because he’s a mess, a danger was still there. But his wants were louder. There was something about the way Tony arched towards his proximity as much as he backed away, that was enticing.

Something about his own need to touch Tony, to fit his fingers around his side and under his jaw. To tilt his chin this way so his mouth fit perfectly with his own; like an itch he ached to scratch. A very, very bothersome itch.

He stopped when their chests threatened to touch. Tony’s breaths were bated, heavy as if he was waiting. Bucky wished he was waiting for him.

He swallowed, eyes trained on the mouth hidden behind neatly trimmed beard. His tongue felt heavy wanting to taste it, to drag across the course hair, nuzzle his cheek and know in his very skin, how that would feel.

Tony tipped his head back, Adam’s apple bobbing down and up the column of his throat, alluringly tempting as he asked, “You gonna do something here, Seargent?”

It’s his low voice, the deep-seated challenge in his tone, and the way his lips quirked up in the corner that did it for Bucky.

One second, he’s standing there, too close but still far from reach and another, he’s stepping up, flesh digits creasing and bunching up the cotton layering over warm side, metal fingers curling around sharp jaw, thumb tilting up the jut of bearded chin and he’s swallowing Tony’s muted gasp in his own mouth.

His chest burned, their proximity like a searing fire, sizzling at all the point of contact and the air is hot but all Bucky could care was for how Tony pressed closer, clutched at his naked hip and his still wet hair and licked inside his mouth.

It felt like eons later when he resurfaced; naked on the bed with the towel at the foot of it and Tony warm and heavy on top of him.

“Told you you were dangerous,” he murmured, giving a lick to the bruise he’d sucked over Bucky’s chest. His thumb flicked over a nipple and Bucky shivered.

“Threat to society?” Bucky asked, pulling him up for a kiss.

Tony complied, but made a face when they part. He took Bucky’s flesh hand and pressed it over his scarred chest, nose scrunching when Bucky caressed the jagged lines with a thumb, “Feel that?” He asked, gaze heavy and searching.

The uneven beat of his heart was palpable, even more so, it was audible to Bucky’s enhanced hearing. Bucky met his eyes and nodded, hand pressing to the beat, as if he could catch and contain it.

“That’s exactly why you’re dangerous,” Tony confessed, serious. “You fuck with this and I’m gonna repulsor your pretty face, capiche?”

Bucky couldn’t help it, he cupped Tony’s head in one hand and rolled them over so he’s on top. The overwhelming surge of affection he felt at the threat was fiery as he straddled him naked and kissed him breathless. “Liar,” he accused, smirking when Tony pulled away for breath. “You’re gonna let me fuck with this,” he tapped over Tony’s heart, “and you’re gonna to fuck with mine, aren’t you?”

“You’re going to let me?” Tony asked in between breaths.

Bucky stole a kiss and another and grinned, “Already am, aren’t I?”

-//-

@astralathena knocked some sense into me earlier, so here I am, writing again

[anthonyed]

so i got started, and here’s a sneak peak: kinda dirty talk, foreplay, we haven’t even undressed y’all

-//-

Tony’s horny. It’s not a… rare occurrence, in fact he’s what the general population define as horny for 90% of the time, but when he feels horny, it means horny. Like really horny; Tony’s level of horny that includes clingy, desperate, wanton, need, just pouring needs straight out of his core and he wants with an ache that throbs – that kind of horny – unable to focus on anything at all but to get his lover so he could, well, he doesn’t know, just rub on him? God, even frottage sounds delicious. Fuck.

So yeah, like he said; horny.

“You okay?” Steve asks, stirring whatever he’s cooking, when Tony winds his arms around his midriff and latches on petulantly, refusing to let go even when Steve steps a side to pick something. He’s uncaring, all he can register is Steve and the way Steve feels; strong and hot, broad and firm and the way he smells, god, he smells like Steve; earthiness, fresh grass and that economic citrus body wash of his. He smells delicious. He smells good and Tony wants to taste him. Feel his skin on his tongue; just lick him up, every single crevice and dip of his defined muscles, Tony wants to feel them all on his tongue, on his own skin and revise how they taste.

“I want you to fuck me.” He murmurs, tip-toeing so he can nip on Steve’s earlobe and he smiles when he feels Steve shudder in his embrace. Good, he thinks. Good, very good. But Steve doesn’t stop cooking and Tony really wants him to stop. Just stop everything and focus on Tony; toss Tony over his broad shoulder and take him to bed, lay him there, spread him open and make him take. Just take, take and take. “God, Steve. Please.” He whines. “Fuck me good, stud. Fuck me real good, please.”

Another shudder and this time Steve switches off the stove. Tony watches impatiently as large hands steadily transfer stir fried vegetables from the pan onto a bowl, cover it with saran wrap and then – and then – finally - Steve unwraps Tony’s hands from around his waist and turns to face him; baby blues almost invisible with his pupils blown out in arousal. Tony sneaks both hands down Steve’s waistband, humming as he grabs Steve’s smooth pert ass and squeezes, as he peers up at him from beneath his lashes; careful to give him the bedroom look because he meant it when he said he’s horny. He’s really fucking horny and he really wants to get fucked. Right. Now.

“You’re in a mood.” Steve says, voice deep and low, hip tilting forward, plush against Tony’s and it makes Tony shudder and nuzzle into his hand when he cups Tony’s cheek. He kisses large palm, the underside of his wrist and looks up again, pressing into Steve and he whispers. “I am, big guy.” He’s sure that now, Steve is too. Sure as hell, can feel the evident of it – large and hard – against his own, delicious friction. Fuck, so fucking good.

Steve swallows, thick and audible and Tony watches as his Adams’ apple bob down and up along his long neck. He sees the pulse jumping there; just in between the tendons, right over the hickie he placed last night – yes, fuck, last night – “You can just push in,” He kisses the base of Steve’s neck, making his way up, “I’m still pretty open, you know. Can fit your whole hand -,”

“Jesus, Tony.” Steve shivers, fingers fisting around dark curls and he tugs, unlatching Tony from his neck, watches as he leers and he sees how blown out those whiskey brown eyes of his are, he sees how desperate Tony is for him, how much he wants and lord, does Steve lacks the strength to say no to Tony, - doesn’t even think about saying no. Not when he’s like this; especially not when he’s like this. Burning hot with desire and pliant and he’s practically weeping for Steve; aching for him, would do anything to have him and Steve loves it. He’s weak, weak man when Tony offers himself like this. He wants too. He wants to please Tony; the more Tony begs for him, the more Steve wants to give, make him happy, put a crown on him, tuck him in satin, take care of him, give him the world; give him everything.

“You want that?” He asks, voice rough with want, cock throbbing hard in his pants. He brushes a thumb over Tony’s bottom lip, watches as it blooms crimson and he pinches it, drags it down, lets it go and watches it snap back over the perfect row of pearly whites, focus fixed on it as he hears Tony answers, “Yeah. Want you to fill me up.” He feels the wetness grow in his pants and he’s out of patience. He pulls Tony for a kiss; nothing grandeur, just to let him know Steve appreciates the shade of red they take when he abuses them; now with his teeth and mouth and later when Tony sucks his dick. Holy – Steve shudders, cupping his cock through his trousers. He can’t come now. Even if the memory of how Tony looks with Steve’s dick stretching his mouth is so – is so sinful, he can’t come now. Not when they haven’t even gotten started. “You sure you can take that, mister?” He nips, revelling in the feel Tony’s facial hair against his skin, he heals quick but he thinks he can still feel burn where Tony’s left over his cheek last night.

“Y-Yeah.” Tony shivers, grabbing hold of Steve’s hand cupped over his cheek and he licks a long stripe from his palm to his wrist. “I can take this.”

[anthonyed]

stevetony - to love and to be loved

-//-

“I love you.” Steve said and Tony reeled back. His feet stumbled, twining around each other like vines and he couldn’t stop his back slamming hard against the wet tiles.

Steve blinked, his bright smile wearing thin, bleeding out until his lips are only pressed tight, grimacing, hurt blue eyes searching.

“Huh,” Tony steadied himself, head spinning lesser and lesser until he could feel the ground under his feet again and he tipped forward, still stumbling, sounding faint as he muttered, “Okay,” low and confused and breathy before he cleared his throat, patted Steve’s damp cheek and exited the shower, bypassing towel in dire need for space.

-

 The thing was, if you followed closely what preceded that statement, nothing was staggeringly surprising. But it still threw Tony way off guard that he locked himself in his workshop - a typical unfairly dirty move of his – and tried to run; the effective word being, ‘tried’.

He couldn’t.

No matter how many cars he dismantled, how many new schematics he designed and, pathetically, however much paperwork he got done, his entire head echoed with Steve’s voice and those three decimating words, over and over and worst of it all, he could see that smile he adored so much slip away and that one second fear sparkling in Steve’s too blue eyes and he wished he could have said something better. Done something better than freezing the way he had.

Drawing in a shaky breath, he dropped the wrench heavily onto the work table and stood up. He can’t do this forever, not when he’s running nowhere, feet planted firmly right where he was yesterday, right in front of Steve like they had been for the past few months.

The glass door whooshed open and the first thing he saw was Steve’s large frame curled around his knees, head tipped forth, dozing off on his sketchbook while his blonde hair danced with the draft expelled from his exit.

Steve startled awake just as Tony took a step closer. Looking a little disoriented until his gaze landed on Tony and they locked. Tony took a deep breath before letting his knees buckle and he crouched, hands busy prying the book away from Steve’s lap and pushing his legs apart. He situated himself snuggly between Steve’s knees, back to Steve's front, tipping his head back onto hard planes of chiselled chest and bringing broad hands to lock around his own stomach. Then he closed his eyes and willed himself to breathe.

more

[anthonyed]

stevetony: post-it war (in honour of fluffy friday)

It started like this. One day, Tony was elbow deep in his Bugatti, when Captain America strode in, fully geared with his cowl pulled back and his pretty face pinched, but what attracted Tony’s attention despite the six foot two American Beefcake was the way he was waving his Starkphone at its inventor’s face.

“Do you not check your phone? I texted you so many times to come up for debriefing.”

Tony pulled his face back, squinting at the man. “Why me?” Because as far as Tony was concerned, debriefing was for those who went on the mission and Tony had been moping around in the workshop because Captain fucking America hadn’t needed Iron “You’re too flashy for stealth” Man for the latest one.

“I called you twenty times. Twenty times! You invented the phone, Stark!”

Tony opened his mouth to protest, but Steve bulldozed past him. “Is it too hard to check your phone?”

There were so many things Tony wanted to argue about. So many, oh so awful wrong things, but. Since Steve was so adamant about lecturing him on the importance of checking the phone, Tony rounded on him and sneered, “Ever heard of post-it, Cap? Bright, obnoxious little papers? Sometimes, they work better because not everyone likes to hang onto their phone 24/7.”

Steve bristled. Tony preened. Then Steve, with his Captain America strut, marched towards one of Tony’s many working desks, fiddled with something for ten seconds and returned with that same pinched expression on his face, but now, it’s accompanied by a smug smirk.

The more Steve closed in, the more Tony tensed because the man didn’t seem to be slowing down and Tony was above running for his life even in the freak possibility of getting slammed to death by a super soldier. Then, something happened. Steve stopped, right before their chests collided and he slapped Tony in the forehead.

“What the -,”

“There. I posted it.”

Again. So many wrong things – Just – “Oh my god,” Tony exclaimed, peeling off a neon green post-it stuck on his forehead. It read; Come to debriefing, asshole, and Tony stared until his eyes started watering before the shock wore out and he realised that Steve had left before Tony could yell at him a good comeback. Not that he could think of any at the moment…

The second post-it appeared in courtesy of Tony who stopped by the kitchen at fuck-o’clock on day and stared at the stove for too long his brain started pulling out memories from the times when he made it to breakfast; brightly lit kitchen with Natasha steeping a cup of tea, Bruce already sipping on his, Clint perched on the refrigerator stealing pancakes Steve’s cooking at the stove and –

The stove.

It was absolutely unnecessary. But Tony thrived from doing dumb shits from time to time, so he made a journey to and back from the workshop all because he wanted to stick a post it on the stove so in a few hours, when Steve set to cook his daily pancake pile, he’d find a blue post it with a clumsy sketch of him catching on fire.

The third one was on Tony’s nose when he startled awake in the workshop. It said one word; eat, and there was a plate of saran wrapped sandwich by his elbow. Tony stuck a delish in neon pink when his hand ‘accidentally’ brushed against Steve’s rear during his coffee break venture to the communal area.

They didn’t do it very often, but each one got its reply without a miss. Didn’t matter who start it, if it was a mockery or a genuine message, every single one received its reply; sometimes plain, sometimes cheeky, sometimes dry and still angry. It became a Steve and Tony thing. What started as a curious reaction, evolved into a teasing one from the team.

When a smiley face started showing up from Steve’s, Tony went mad with drawing emoticons on his. At one point, even when they were verbally communicating; Steve chiding Tony about something while curled up on his spot in the workshop with his sketchbook and Tony welding while bantering word for word with Steve, Tony paused to scribble something completely off topic on a post it and wheeled to where Steve was to stick it on the back of his sketchbook.

Steve barely paused in his verbal argument. The hour passed and as Steve closed his book and stood up, stretching the kinks out of his body, Tony looked away from the schematic and at him. Steve walked towards him, picked up one of the many obnoxious colour post-its scattered around on Tony’s work table – orange -, scribbled something large and stuck it on Tony’s cheek before pressing a kiss over it.

It read, YES to Tony’s; go out with me.

After that, they started to be more… cheesy, sometimes sappy, a little bit snarky and a whole lot of suggestive and wildly raunchy.

“Jesus Christ.” Clint exhaled on a rush once. When he had come across the note Tony had meant for Steve. In Clint’s defence, it was in the communal area! In Tony’s defence, I thought you were visiting Laura and your tiny agents! When Steve blushed red; partly from embarrassment and partly from exasperation, Tony added weakly, “It was supposed to be our thing.”

If that didn’t teach the rest of the Avengers to turn blind against every post it they come across, then their suffering was entirely by choice.

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[anthonyed]

Day 2: Cuddling Somewhere (pining Steve)

-//-

Steve counts to three before he inhales, then another three and he exhales and another three before he inhales, rinse and repeat.

His fingers are heavier than they were a few minutes ago and they itch to close the barest inch between shirt and naked skin. Tony’s olive toned nape is begging for Steve to trace the small freckle buried under his curls and his hair are even worse; short strands dancing to the lost draft, looking too soft and Steve is willing to bet the super serum running in his veins that they’ll feel silken smooth under his fingers.

Gosh, how he aches to sink his itching fingers into that pool of silk. But he can’t can he? He doesn’t possess that liberty of a partner, a lover, to touch Tony like that. Even if he wants to; he burns to, just write his name next to Tony’s, print them and distribute like a flyer, shout out, to announce to the entire world – geez, he’s willing to drop his own surname to take on Tony’s in a blink of an eye. So willing that it’s embarrassing.

Just like he’s so willing to be Tony’s make shift pillow at the moment; just let him sprawl atop him, even if it was entirely by accident to begin with, Steve is more than happy to let Tony sleep on him. Lord knows the fella lacks the rest he needs. Plus, he feels right, his weight is like a comfort for Steve, like he’s right where he belongs; with Steve, and Steve is more than ready to carry him for the rest of their life.

He’s in love with Tony. Yes, that’s right.

He is; unabashedly albeit secretively, very much in love with Tony.

And he’d really, really like to hug him to his chest, run his fingers through Tony’s hair and keep his head pressed in the crook of his neck where Tony belongs.

And there’re more. Steve also wants to kiss Tony, he wants Tony to kiss him back, to touch Tony like no one else has – Steve’s well aware of Tony’s history, but no, he’s very sure that no one else had touched Tony like he wants to and can and yes, Steve would very much like that – to do that, to touch Tony and kiss Tony and love him – show him how love feels and selfishly, he too wants to feel Tony love him back, because where is the joy in doing all those if they’re not welcomed in the first place, right?

Right.

Which is precisely why Steve hadn’t said a word, hadn’t touched a strand of Tony’s hair because he is extremely confident that Tony wouldn’t want him to. At least, not like that. Not like how Steve wants him – and that’s, that’s sad.

Steve takes a too deep inhale and loses the count. Panicking a little, he checks warily if that had interrupted Tony’s sleep, which would suck because Tony needs his sleep and Steve will hate himself for disrupting that. Tony shifts and Steve freezes, ready to pretend sleeping if Tony wakes up because only weirdos let someone nap on them while they’re awake. Weirdos and well, Steve.

But Tony simply snuggles closer, his head inching miraculously to where Steve’s fingers are and they touch and oh!

Steve’s very careful to time the next breath, forcing his racing heart to quit it as his eyes close on their own accord – gosh. It’s as exactly as how he’d imagined it’ll feel. Tony’s hair is silken soft, sinking like a pillow of softest of all soft things in the world – oh.

Steve shudders uncontrollably under the tendrils of wants twining around him. His control is one grain away from snapping clean and he struggles; fingers shaking as they try hard not to squeeze even as they press down on Tony’s scalp, his spine stiff as a board against the sofa and internally he’s yelling at himself for being so stiff and that Tony will notice but he genuinely cannot help it.

Until –

Until Tony shifts again, a soft breathy sound, too close to Steve’s ear, caressing his skin and his nose – the tip of it, brushes oh so softly down the column of his throat and Steve almost – almost – moans, sinking heavily down the sofa with his entire weight and Tony’s too. Like a puddle of goo, melted.

Sometime later, Steve’s barely got the hanging of his counts again when someone whispers, “Jesus Christ,” under their breath. He snaps his eyes shut abruptly, but it’s too abrupt that the person – Bucky, dammit – notices and with a light snort he scuffs the back of Steve’s head hard but not hard enough to jostle Tony awake. Steve glares at him but Bucky rolls his eyes, his gaze too knowing and he calls him a putty, to which Steve shrugs and agrees because as mentioned;

Steve Rogers is unabashedly, albeit secretively, very much in love with Tony.

[anthonyed]

buckytony: what a pair we make

-//-

The heat was stinging, his muzzle felt like it had glued itself to his face and if he’d to peel it off, his very skin would come with it.

“Snowflake?” Tony’s voice came through the com, the only thing that was grounding amidst the chaos.

Bucky pulled the trigger, the familiar repulsive force of the sniper punched into his shoulder and far ahead, he saw his target fall. “Bulls eye,” he murmured, promptly freezing in shock when he was suddenly lifted into the air, weight propelling vertically higher and higher as he watched the building he was just on collapse into a cloud of dusts and debris. The metal under his arms were a safe comfort he leaned into until Tony brought them to where the rest of the team were.

“Nice save, tin can.” Clint rapped his knuckle over Tony’s helmet slimly avoiding gauntleted hand flapping at him.

Bucky lingered, wedging his metal arm in between the titanium dip lining Tony’s shoulder blades, letting his heart to even out before tapping lightly over the back of Tony’s helmet, a silent gratitude for saving his life.

He made his way to where Steve was then, crouched in front of a group of kids covered in soot and smudges of dirt. Steve seemed to be trying to calm them down while a lady stood by, looking haggard even as she oversaw the kids. Bucky’s mind immediately went to that kindergarten he’d evacuated hastily before putting a bullet through their foe.

He remembered the scared girl who hid under the table and refused to move which forced him to physically carry her out. His eyes sought out for that same face, hoping to apologize and when he did, he stepped forth. What happened next proceeded in such a confusingly accelerated fashion that Bucky was stunned, frozen on his feet with eyes as wide as saucers.

“Okay, we’re leaving first.” He heard Tony in a distance, metal arm curling around his waist before ground became clouds and motion set back in.

“You think Pizza? Or Chinese? I’m craving for raw fish but that’s probably just –,”

He left, Tony’s voice circulating like a weird white noise as he marched hurriedly to the elevator. The last thing he registered was the faint calling of his name.

keep reading

[anthonyed]

buckytony: tequila  (I saw this post and I couldn’t help myself.)

-//-

Tony is, perusing.

It’s his first day of school as an exchange student and he’s joined the class in during their second semester. The class that has been together and getting familiar with for the last two years and a semester, and Tony is a newbie. An American among Europeans and he’s already conscious about his age – younger by half a decade at least and good lord are these people so fucking tall!

He already felt like a midget back at home but right here in Romania, Tony is feeling like a dwarf. But these people are kind, nice and very, um, familiar. In the sense that they’re not afraid to get familiar; his first day and first class and this huge guy from Norway, Thor, lifted him up and spun him around until Tony shrieked like a girl. Thor was bashful about it after but he very soon saw that that was just how Thor goes around, greeting friends. And, well, nobody had befriended Tony so quickly like that before so Tony is okay with it. Thor is swell; he’s huge and over enthusiastic but all around a nice guy.

Then, there is that scary red head who reminds him of Pepper but a more violent version of her: Natalia Romanov. Her sister, Yelena Belanova; both from Russia and Tony’s lost count how many rounds of shots they’ve gone through so far. But neither looks like they’re going to tip over anytime soon, which is incredibly impressive. There’s another guy, James, whom Tony initially thought, was Natalia’s boyfriend, because they seem pretty close. She kissed his cheek and he’d piggy backed her from their last pub to this one, but the way he’s gyrating on another dude on the dance floor tells a different story.

“Enjoying your first pub crawl?” The cool brunette who hangs out with Thor asks, tipping the remaining half of her beer down her throat and Tony tries not to gawk, sipping on his own second glass of beer. He doesn’t have an issue with alcohol but he doesn’t know this lot yet, and getting drunk on his first night out with them is something he’s cautiously avoiding, even if the rest of them party with such extreme abandonment. He’s not comfortable losing his control in strange crowd, at least not when he’s so out of his element; strange country with no Rhodey or Pepper here to call for back up.

Sif, is her name. Tony remembers now. She’s tall too. Dammit. Everyone is tall. “I could get used to it.” He grins at her and she grins back, just as easily. Wow, he thinks. It was never like this back at home. These people are so nice, it almost makes him wary. But he sees Natalia bending over, her ample bossom almost spilling out of her lacy blouse and Thor is there, helping her, not even a double look. He doesn’t even bat an eye, simply picks up the bill that she’d dropped, adjusts the blouse for her and she kisses him on the cheek, something soft in her eyes as he grins. He sees the way they protect each other, and he feels something inside him unwind a little.

The guy, James, stumbles over to where Tony sits, pats him on the shoulder with a silly grin on his face and he looks hammered but when he speaks, he’s still remarkably coherent. “Hey, you wanna do shots?” He asks, already signalling the bartender for a round. Yelena sidles up next to Tony and Sif hikes herself up on a free stool next to James, they seem like they’re joining in so Tony shrugs, “Sure.”

James beams. He’s hot. He’s also sweaty from dancing, is wearing a black see-through shirt and a pair of tight black leather pants, got a good five o’clock shadow going on and his eyes are so attractive. He is all around attractive. “Cool. Tony right?” He slides a bill to the bartender, sitting next to Tony.

“Yup.” Tony pops his P. Taking the shot glass that James offers.

“Know how to do a tequila shot?” The guy asks, bright eyes twinkling. On the other side of Tony, Yelena snorts, muttering something in what sounds like Russian.

Sif shakes her head. “Watchout for the playboy, Tony.” She warns in a sing-song.

Tony quirks an eyebrow at James. “I know my shots.” He tells him.

James tongue slips out, red and wet, licking over his bottom lip and he leans close to swat at Yelena but he doesn’t lean back. Tony can feel his hot breath over his neck when he laughs and asks. “How about body shots?”

Heat curls up in Tony’s lower abdomen. If James think he’s inexperienced just because he’s 21 and he’s what? 26 or over, then he’s very very wrong. Tony tips his head and says, “Care to teach?”

James’ eyes glint and sparkle under the pub light; reflecting bottles hanging over head them, light bulbs shoved into them in the name of rustic décor and Tony sees the way those dark pupils dilate, sees the lime and salt by their elbow reflected in them and he smirks.

James exhales, his face still relaxed with a lazy grin and he licks his lips again, looks Tony up and down, and licks again. Then he takes his glass and murmurs, “Open up.” Tony relaxes his jaw, already feeling blood whooshing South and he holds onto his own shot glass, tipping his head back, closing his lips around the bottom of James’ shot glass. He hears giggles and snickering and soon he sees James clear eyes intent on him, feels his hand holding onto his face and his mouth closing around the top of the shot glass and he tips Tony’s head down, the tequila spilling into his mouth and Tony lets go of the glass, leaning back and smacking his mouth shut as James swallows, takes the glass out of his mouth and he winks. His hand’s still cupping Tony’s cheek and Tony holds out a slice of lemon for him which he bites, and sucks, all the while looking straight into Tony’s eyes.

“O boze.” Yelena says, sounding far away but Tony knows she’s technically just right behind him. He sees Sif giving her a look, hears the bar stools scrap against the floor and knows that they just got left alone on purpose. But he doesn’t care. He’s feeling good tonight, the crowd’s nice and James is hot. He’s not drunk or tipsy, still isn’t planning to be, but there’s really no harm in flirting with a hot guy in the prime of his youth. It’s Europe, there are no papz stalking his ass to see what the Stark heir is up to. As far as they’re concerned, he’s sound asleep in his dorm in MIT.

Ah fuck it, he thinks, leaning in to whisper huskily into James’ ear. “My turn now,” He pinches some salt, rub them down James’ neck and along the curve of his exposed shoulder, licks a long stripe up to his ear, tips the shot glass back and he takes a bite of the lemon.

James’ hand slips from his cheek to his neck and he grips Tony, yanking him forward, his tongue plunging in, chasing the last of the sour lemon down Tony’s mouth.

Two hours later, lying in a bed, naked, Tony’s wondering if he’d just fucked it all up with his new classmate.

Ten hours later, James makes him breakfast and kisses him goodbye.

Two months later, they’re the Uni’s new hot couple.

Two years later, James visits him in America, stands by his side while they lower Howard and Maria into the ground.

Ten years later, they’re engaged to be married in two months. Tony thinks, as he licks another stripe up James’ neck on his bachelor night, thank god for tequila.

[anthonyed]

stevetony - worth it (of cookies and slow dancing)

tony hears the music as his foot touches the bottom half of the last staircase to their floor; la vie en rose, one of steve's latest obsession. a smile blooms across his face and he tries to not skip the final two steps to their door.

it's been a long, long day at work; he was almost squashed by a client's four wheel drive but he's not going to share that story with steve. maybe twenty years later, but definitely not now.

he exhales a puff of giddy laughter, fingers digging for the keys in his tied up satchel. twenty years, wow! it's so surreal to even think of a future of that long of a time with steve, but hey, they're there now, aren't they? a decade in the making; friends to best of friends to aching longing and pent up yearning - each equally terrified of even bringing up their deep seated love because what if? what if, the other didn't feel the same way and everything falls irreparably apart? what if...

but then. but then, oh dear lord, did someone up above had mercy on them for push came to shove and one day - until this day, neither is sure who started it nor do they care - secret love came to be no more a secret love and tony has never been as happy as he is these days. even with only 50bucks in his savings, a wardrobe full of grease stained clothes and occasionally empty stomachs and dark apartment, because all that matters is that steve's there with him, through and through it all.

pushing open the door, he shakes off his jacket and the satchel, smile splitting into a grin as la vie en rose ends and a long long time starts. he keeps his usual "honey, i'm home" for later, choosing to sneak upon his boyfriend - soon to be husband (oh, he'll make sure that happens in 3 months, alright) - careful to mind that one floorboard that never fails to creak like it's paid for as he makes his way into the kitchen.

steve, oblivious with his back to tony and a little sway to his hips, is a sight for sore eyes; broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up to his elbows with a half apron tied around his waist as he hums to the tune, surrounded by the aroma of freshly baked christmas cookies.

tony tip toes the last of his steps, grinning as he brings both arms around steve's midriff, burying his face in between steve's shoulder blades and inhaling him deeply; sugar, spices, steve, steve and a little hint of sweat.

steve stiffens, but only briefly before melting into tony's embrace, a rumble of laughter as he squeezes tony's locked hands over his stomach and squirms until tony lets him enough space to turn around and plant a kiss over his head after pushing the beanie he'd forgotten to take off, off of him.

"hey," he mouths over tony's hairline.

"hey," tony says, a sappy smile permanently etched on his face as he props his chin over steve's chest and tilts his head up to look at him better. eyes crinkling in delight.

"bad day?"

he shakes his head, " just long."

steve hums, turning back around, smoothly peeling tony's arms from around him, but he holds onto his hand as he bends over to check the oven. tony takes a moment to take in their small kitchen. used utensils fill in used mixing bowl inside the sink, while a few smaller bowls of bright green, yellow, white and red cookie dips sit on the kitchen counter, along with an empty baking tray.

"where are the cookies?" he asks, eyes already scanning for them. he knows from the smell and experience of sharing four christmases with steve that the batch in the oven right now isn't the first one. he squints when he cannot spot them. oooh, steve has gotten better at hiding them alright -

"safe from the resident cookie monster." steve says smugly, pulling tony back into his arms, guiding tony's hands around his neck as he rests his own over tony's lower back and sways them lazily to the melody drifting from his phone's speaker.

tony pouts. steve dutifully kisses it, humming to the tune as he presses his cheek to the side of tony's head as tony tries not to sigh in his earnest protest against the nickname, but fails nonetheless. "'M not a cookie monster" he mumbles into steve's neck, his own cheek blazing the colour of red sugar dip on the counter.

later, when the oven pings, steve takes out the last batch and as he busies himself retracting those hidden cookies, tony burns his fingertips and his tongue trying to eat the still hot cookie before steve turns around. he fails. steve tries to glare but fails just as horrendously.

they listen to sinatra and dean martin as they decorate the cookies. they get sprinkles all over them by some faulty trick tony tries to pull and tony eats a dozen more, even as steve swats at him. absolutely no regrets. they've been worth it four years ago and they are still; "worth it", tony lets steve know, licking three sprinkles - red, white and blue- off of the corner of steve's mouth. and as steve kisses him, they know it's not just about the cookies, it's everything, it's a decade in the making and it's about them and steve murmurs that into tony's mouth, "worth it"

[anthonyed]

Day 3: Gaming / Watching A Movie 

-//-

“I don’t understand. We have a perfectly functional and more hygienic home cinema in the tower. Why are we going out of our ways to purchase tickets and watch a movie in the public cinema?” Clint grumbles under his breath. Natasha elbows his side while Tony jumps in before Steve can issue an apology and turn them all back around to the tower.

“It’s about experience, Barton. Not like your birdbrain can compute such intricate things in life -,”

“Hey!”

“What?” Tony shrugs, “You run mostly on greasy pizza and fizzy soda. You sleep in the vent and every time you wake up is when you fall out of them. You trip on your own feet and on flat ass pavement, I mean, need I say more?”

Clint’s pout is considerably moving, but the way he looks at Natasha to defend his ass is embarrassing. Tony laughs. Steve chides, “Tony.”

They get six tubs of popcorns; one for each and two for Steve because first, Steve can easily put them down and second, because Clint insisted they buy one in honour of Thor even though the Norse God is off the world at the moment. Then he tries to trick Tony into paying for it and they start bickering again so Bruce pitched in.

When they walk in, the hall is already dimmed out and all of them ducked and hunched as they hurried to their assigned row. Tony lets Steve go in before he follows and only once he’s seated does he realise with a sinking feeling in his stomach that he’s going to be seated next to his crush for two whole hours in a dark hall where the only source of light is the screen in front of them. Well, shit.

“Can you hold this?” Steve asks, holding out one of the tubs and Tony feels the insane urge to fling it at Clint’s head even as he calmly takes it. The seat next to his is empty so he balances two tubs of popcorns on it and pretends to not notice how Steve’s struggling to squeeze himself into a normal-human-sized seat. Which lasts for about half a minute before Tony clears his throat and extends an offer, “Wanna switch?”

Steve looks over to see the tubs-seated on an otherwise empty seat to Tony’s right side and says, “Please.”

They switch. Now, Tony’s seated in between Bruce and Steve and he thinks he feels mildly better, or maybe that’s just psychological. Either way, the movie begins, Clint shushes loudly, Tony gives in and flings a kernel over Bruce’s head at him and sinks into his chair happily.

Not even five minutes in, Tony surreptitiously glances over to his right, the profile of Steve’s face more captivating that whatever the hell he’d decided to drag them to. Before he can get too lost in admiring the curves of Steve’s lips when the light from the screen flashes, Tony pulls himself back together and turns back to the movie.

A couple minutes after, he gives in and looks over again, under the pretence of just conveniently checking out where the crunches are coming from; Ah Steve, you’ve started on the popcorn. You know, just observing. When really, it’s just an excuse to look at Steve, because why not?

Tony would rather spend an entire day staring at Steve, memorising every curve and sharpness that makes up his feature and if he’s welcomed, he’ll gladly trace them; painfully slow. Just take all the time he has in this lifetime to feel Steve’s skin under his fingers, how deep they dip where they do and how they transcend from smoothness to coarse and hairy - he wants to know every single thing about it.

He wants to compare and see how different is the texture of Steve’s hair on his head to those on his chest, arms, legs and –

He wants to capture how the light reflects off of their blondness differently and he wants to watch – god, that is, if he’s allowed. If –

He wants to see how many ways can he make Steve’s lips part just the way they do right now because – Jesus.

Tony shudders. Steve’s focus shifts onto him; big blue eyes blinking curiously and Tony shakes his head to his unasked; You alright? In response, Steve holds out the tub of popcorn on his lap; Want some?

Tony vaguely remembers his own tub as he dips a hand into Steve’s, fishing out a handful and stuffing the exact amount into his mouth. He watches Steve shifts closer to Tony and he hums appreciatively, forcing his eyes back onto the screen when who knows the fuck who is doing the fuck what.

He peeks every time he goes for the popcorn. Sometimes their eyes meet and when Steve smiles that shy smile of his, Tony’s heart will melt and he’ll forget all about everything until he looks over again, waiting for Steve to look back, like some kind of illicit game just between them.

One time, Tony puts his hand into the quickly bottoming popcorn tub and collides with Steve’s warm one making its way out. Steve looks at him then, as wide eyed as Tony is and he blushes a delicious shade of rosy pink which makes Tony’s face warms up too and he ducks his head laughing, as does Steve. Something hits the back of his head but Tony’s too gone in that private moment he’s sharing with Steve that he cannot give a fuck to that.

Then it happens again.

And again.

At the fourth time, Tony takes a huge breath in, feeling warm and fuzy – all his insecurities about how Steve will never ever consider dating him gone with the light and right then, as he sits in the dark of the public cinema hall surrounded by friends and more strangers, watching a god awful movie, his head swimming with all those shy smiles Steve gave him and the way he blushes every time their hands get caught in the popcorn tub together, a wild surge of blunt courage courses through his veins and he grabs Steve’s popcorn-sticky hand in his own popcorn-sticky hand and doesn’t let go.

Ten seconds pass, where he valiantly ignores the itch to look at Steve, keeping his eyes burning a hole at the movie screen while Steve’s hand in his is uncomfortably crammed inside a fucking popcorn tub. Even when the sharp edge of the paper catches on the inside of his wrist, he stubbornly keeps on.

Until, well, until Steve takes them out, and puts them over his lap, yanking Tony closer in the process. The popcorn tub goes down, spilling the last three kernels onto the floor and Tony looks at  them guiltily before looking up to meet Steve’s too blue eyes. He smiles, tight like he’s unsure, and his entire face is red when the pale blue light spills from the movie screen.

But Tony’s hand is secure in his grip, on his lap, like he wants it there and is willing to fight if Tony pulls back and for Tony, right then, it’s all that matters.

When the movie ends and the hall-light comes one, they let go of each other’s hand but not before Clint notices. His heart is still racing and he’s trying hard to calm down while Steve ducks his head like a bashful girl.

“Final – fucking – ly!” Clint throws his hands up. Natasha snorts and Bruce jolts awake with a, “Whu -What did I miss?”

As they fill out, Steve takes his hand back, tucks them both into his jacket pocket and doesn’t let go all the way home.

-//-

[anthonyed]

Day 4 + 5: On A Date + Kissing

-//-

There was a time when Tony remembered things. Things like the time of the day, the date and the last time he’d eaten and showered. Right now though, his mind is a swamp of all things but miscellaneous.

The smell of burnt metal had sunk into his pore and become one with him. Which means, “Urgh.”

A light chuckle issues from somewhere within the four walls he’d trapped himself in and Tony straightens up, suddenly alert. His eyes scan around the wide area, for a while seeing nothing but wires and furniture and projects and projects and -.

“Steve!” He exclaims in delight, face helplessly splitting into a too wide grin. His skin tingles upon spotting the small bundle of perfection curled up in his favourite piece of furniture of all time; like a little cocoon of heaven carved especially for Tony because that is all he needs after his head finally stopped spinning with problems.

A soft purr satisfaction rumble in his chest as he rolls himself all the way across the work station to where his heaven’s situated, “Hey, Tony,” Steve greets when the chair comes to an end at the foot of the couch. He looks soft and warm, all wrapped up in Tony’s cosiest blanket which he keeps draped over the couch and he’s curled up with his sketchbook, pages open to a work in progress.

Tony stretches and pops his stiff joints with little happy sighs while Steve observes with a fond smile. “Finally came to Earth?” He asks once Tony’s done and Tony pokes his tongue at him impishly. His stomach rumbles then, betraying his mundanity and while Tony glares at it in disdain, Steve chuckles and holds up a plate of saran wrapped sandwich in his sight. “Eat,” he says while Dum-E rolls up, helpfully presenting a bottle of water.

Tony says his thank you to both of them and starts digging in. Halfway through his meal, he realizes that Steve’s staring and guiltily offers a bite to which Steve shakes his head, no, then keeps on staring until Tony’s nape prickles and he puts down the empty plate, starting on Steve with a full mouth, “Whu?”

Steve colours high on his cheeks and the tip of his ears, shaking his head as he ducks and laughs nervously. Tony takes him in and wishes he’s bestowed with the liberty to lean in and kiss Steve on the nose.

On the mouth, along his neck, down his chest, and – well, you get the gist.

Harrumphing, he gives a slight kick to Steve’s curled up legs and makes a face. “What?” He asks again after swallowing. When Steve looks up, he’s properly blushing, neck flushed red and he scratches the back of his head and says, “Nothing,” and then, “I should go.”

“Why?” Tony asks with a poorly suppressed whine. He’d just pulled out the zone and now Steve’s leaving? Already?

“Well…,” Steve trails off before pulling a breath and looking Tony straight in the eyes as if he’s trying hard not to burst a vein. “If I don’t go now, then I won’t make it for our date tonight,” He says softly. Too soft that Tony gulps the shock and replies with a dumb “Whu?”

Steve blinks, blue eyes searching and he looks like he’s panicking. Tony feels like he’s going to faint himself; two second away from smashing his face on the coffee table. His heart is racing, pulses jumping and he’s feeling uncomfortable hot. Throat dry and all.

“Our date.” Steve says faintly.

Tony swallows painfully, “Oh.” The fuck? “Right, of course.” What the actual fuck? “Our date. Which is at…,” He drags, hoping Steve will fill in but Steve doesn’t so he ends with, “Tonight. Clearly.” He huffs a nervous laughter. Play cool, play cool – Jesus.

“Chop, chop.” Tony chases him when Steve starts squinting suspiciously at him. “Hurry up and dress pretty. I like my date looking pretty.” He babbles, pushing Steve to the exit as his ears ring in panic. Steve blinks like a deer in the headlight; wide and adorable but wide – panic, wide. Tony winces. “Or just come like this, your wish. I like you anyway. That’s why we’re going on a date!” He finishes ceremoniously, hands thrown wide apart like ‘tada’ and he waves at Steve opening and closing his mouth like a gold fish on the other side of the glass door.

Dammit.

“Jarvis, pull up the shop’s footage from when Steve entered.” He orders between clenched teeth, grinning and waving as Steve boards the elevator and once their door closes, Tony’s grabbing for his hair and yanking. “Did I ask Steve out?”

“Yes, sir. At precisely five past four this evening.” JARVIS replies with a subtle peppiness to his tone which Tony squints at but ignores for the footage of himself sitting ram rod straight in the middle of the workshop surrounded by a sea of holo-screen and there’s Steve walking up to him with a plate of sandwich.

“Volume up, please,” Tony murmurs distractedly, zooming in to the two men on the screen. He watches unblinkingly and listens carefully to every word spoken; the usual reprimands for keeping long hours from Steve and Tony’s witty replies even in his zone-out stage – which is frankly, impressive, he knows, he’s been told before too.

Then the bickering leads to mild flirting until it isn’t mild anymore because Tony says something about; “Yeah sure, like you’d date me,” to Steve who not only looks offended but recovers quickly to retort a haughty, “Why wouldn’t I?”

To which then Tony says, “Seven o’clock today works for you, Cap?”

“Only if it’s Italian,” Steve smirks and Tony – Jesus Christ – leans so close into Steve’s space that on screen it looks very much like they’re kissing - which is no way, because Tony would remember such if something like that happened right? Like, come on! His life’s dream is to be with Steve and if he fucking forgets something so crucial like kissing Steve, he’s about to set himself on fire and send his arse straight to hell – and says something too soft to be registered by the system. And Steve appears to ask him something, again, too soft and Tony yanks hard at his hair in the present.

For a long time, he’s frozen. The footage plays until it stops and Tony’s looking at himself looking at the footage on the screen. It’s JARVIS who interrupts his state, clearing throat like a through gentle-AI, “Sir, may I take the liberty to remind you that you have date with Captain Rogers in exactly thirty minutes from now.”

“Oh fuck.” Tony expresses faintly, feeling extremely light headed as disbelief clouds every single section in his brain. But, in for a penny and all that right?

Right.

“I have a date.” He stands up. “With Steve.”

“Indeed, sir.”

Then louder and clearer, he repeats, shaking off the disbelief. “I have a date with Steve Rogers.”

“In 29 minutes -,”

“JARVIS!”

“Glad to be of service sir.”

-

A quick shower and a brief meltdown in the closet after, Tony’s about as ready as he can be to a date he doesn’t remember asking but has every bit dreamed of. To make things worse, Steve looks utterly delectable.

“Hey,” He says, as if he’s not melting Tony on his feet looking like he does in a form fitting navy dress shirt. He got a blazer on his arm and a nervous look in his baby blue eyes, “Not sure if I need a jacket or not.”

Tony wants to whip him back upstairs, straight to his bedroom and strip him naked. You don’t need anything, “You’re perfect.”

Steve blushes and Tony inhales sharply, making sure that he’s still grounded and not up in the air, floating.

Tony takes Steve to that one place he’d never taken anyone to before; the one place that exists in his memories only because it’s where Maria used to take him to when Tony does well in his exams.

It’s stuffy, there is way too many tables in a too small space but never is it ever crowded. The walls are decorated with tasteless vintage photos and art pieces. The entire place is run by a pair of too old Italian couple; the husband runs the kitchen whilst the wife takes care of the customers and neither of them speaks English. Tony absolutely adores it.

Steve’s taken aback the moment he enters the place, but Tony reminds himself that if anyone can see the beauty of this place and appreciate it as much as he does, it’s Steve.

It’s why he decided to bring him here. It was as clear as the day the minute he asked himself; fuck, where do I take him – and Tony had just known.

And he was right. Two minutes after, Steve is glowing with the light of discovery, gushing, “I love this place,” and Tony hasn’t even showed him the best part yet. He waits until he’d placed their orders, tongue rolling smoothly in fluent Italian as he kisses Elena and asks for permission while Steve observes with an unfamiliar intensity in his eyes.

Manuel usually takes some time to whip up the orders. Although Tony had asked Elena a favour and reserved the entire place for only them, it still isn’t going to make Manuel any quicker on his old bones and creaky joints. So he stands up and offers a hand, palm side up, to Steve who takes it with an interest and follows as Tony wordlessly leads him behind the counter and up an immediate staircase hidden in the corner.

It’s a spiral iron staircase that is too narrow for even a perfectly standard sized male body like Tony’s. But Elena is petite and Tony knows for a fact that she still uses it because she had just said so. Confidently, albeit a little anxious because he can’t help it – he’s on a date with Steve! – Tony pushes open the old wooden door and steps out into the rooftop of the three storey building.

The evening breeze is pleasantly cool for a summer evening and Steve’s hand in his is deliciously warm in contrast. Tony closes his eyes for a brief second and relishes it before he turns to regard Steve.

Steve’s looking at him and only him; singularly focused, uncaring of the bright orange night sun that’s too stubborn to slip past the horizon or the cooing birds in the distant. Uncaring that even by Tony’s standard, this is the most beautiful roof top scenery he’d ever seen in his entire life – with potted plants and their blossoming flowers surrounding them - and right then, Tony feels incredibly privileged to feel the heat of Steve’s gaze on his face.

He wonders what Steve sees though, as he squeezes his hand in his. His own eyes dart all over Steve’s handsome face, searching, and he decides he’ll just ask him. But the moment he parts his lips, words ready on the tip of his tongue, Steve decides to speak.

“You’re stunning.” He says, stepping closer. Tony holds his place and lets Steve curl a hand around his neck, thumb pressing gently over his pulse point, caressing. “I could paint you like this” he murmurs, letting go of Tony’s hand to trace a curve over Tony’s ear and back before he fits the heel of his palm under Tony’s jaw, gently nudging Tony’s chin up and when he steps in impossibly close; both of their breaths intermingling; hot and heady, their foreheads touch.

“Tell me I can kiss you?” Steve’s breath brushes over Tony’s lips, his mouth barely an inch away from slotting perfectly with Tony’s and it aches to wait, hurts to even breathe out a ‘yes’ but Tony manages. Daze as he fascinates himself with the curl of Steve’s fair lashes and the ridiculously gorgeous golden way they glow under the sun.

He can point the precise second – down to millisecond - when Steve’s lips meet his. He knows he’ll remember it by the way his heart stutters and jump circuits, and the exact pressure, in mmhg, with which Steve’s fingers press into his skin and pulls him closer. The exact temperature and the direction of the wind; Tony knows.

He knows, but all those details blur out in the back of his head like a swirl of paint dropped into a jar of water. They’re present, but insignificant to the greater details of how Steve feels against him, his body temperature, the hitch in his breath, the way he kisses – him, him and all him. Nothing else.

Tony drowns, willingly helpless, into Steve and Steve, he drinks him in.

The sun is red when they finally resurface and realise that there are things more interesting around them and only each other. But still, Tony thinks Steve’s the most of them; the most interesting, the most brilliant, and all.

It’s that giddy love-stupid brain of him, fuelled by all those happy hormones yada, yada - he knows. But he doesn’t care as he intertwines Steve fingers with his and giggles. He’s been in enough relationships to know that this high will fade in time, but right this second, he’s happy and is unapologetic about it, because it’s Steve and Steve likes him enough to go on a date with. To kiss him, and well, Tony’s over the moon.

He hasn’t even shown Steve Maria’s favourite blossom before Elena’s curious head pops out. Reluctantly, he leads Steve back downstairs for their dinner, marvelling how for the first time in forever, Manuel’s faster than him. He tells Steve that; about Manuel and Elena and about those potted plants and one of them which Maria loves the most. He tells him about Maria and Steve takes his hand, asks Tony if they can come back again.

“Next year, same place, same time.” Tony jokes, but not really. Eyes anxiously searching for Steve’s and relief floods in when Steve smiles in that mischievous way he does when he’s up for the challenge and is bloody sure he is going to win it.

Love-high fades, Tony knows. But the love itself, that he feels for Steve? That is staying because it’s stayed for years now and it hasn’t gone anywhere. He knows Steve like the back of his hand, knows him and loves him with all of his heart, so with utmost confidence, he says; “It’s a date.”

[anthonyed]

Buckytony: Addicted to you (inspired by Avicii's Addicted to you MV. Prompted by @meredithraw)

-//-

He was a washed out prissy prince, kicked out from home because of some tacky daddy issue. He was spoiled, had a penchant for silk, luxury and greasy diner food.

That was how James met him.

Served him a plate of burger and fries with unicorn milkshake and he called James, 'big daddy'. Technically, James was only five years older than him and he was legal, barely, but still -

James thought nothing of him at first, he didn't pay for his meal, his buddy did - later James learnt that was because his credit card got cancelled and he no longer had access to his daddy's (real daddy's) money. He was clad in riches but none of those belonged to him.

James had no respect for him.

Until one night, an asshole walked in and picked a fight with James and made him lose his job.

It started like this;

James couldn't find a job because he was a veteran with a lost arm. That diner thing was a one a million luck (Sam, his VA counsellor knew a guy who knew a guy who was looking for someone to take over his job. His lost arm gained him only a temporary position, they weren't even planning to keep him but they couldn't find anyone else either so -)

He went from one shop to another looking for new job, but every night he'd wind up at the diner's door trying to beg his case. The thing was, the manager wasn't the only guy who saw that.

"I have an offer." The prissy prince said one night. James regarded him a while. Then, because it's his seventh night back and Tom still said no and he had nothing else to go back to, he nodded for him to continue.

It was an awful plan. James thought about reporting the guy to some asylum; he was a lunatic. He wanted to rob a bank.

"Well, not the whole bank, just my dad's account." Because apparently his dad's money was his by default.

The thing was, James didn't technically agree. But as we've already had established, technicality and James simply didn't get along.

In his defence, he was drunk.

He was hammered. Prissy prince had a good face and a great ass and James hammered him in return. It was good. Great even. As far as his muddled memory supplied, it was the best sex James had had in his life.

But.

Now, this was where it got complicated. You see, James was drinking with prissy prince, and prissy prince was going on and on about his plan to destroy his father like he always did. James was watching the game, until he wasn't anymore and he was tumbling into bed with tangled silk and slurred, "Ooh yeah. Knew you'd be big, daddy."

Next thing he knew, his head was banging, the air was congested, he was nauseous, prissy prince was typing at his laptop with too obnoxios tap, tap, fucking tap - "Th' fuck?" - and he grinned and declared he'd successfully transferred 10k to James' account; "Let's fucking party, partner!!"

Partner? 10k? "The fuck?" James asked, louder.

Apparently, you no longer needed to wear a mask, carry guns and threaten people to rob a bank these days. "I did it. Hacked into the system and emptied his swiss account. He doesn't keep track of it, so he wouldn't notice until, well, he notices, i guess," prissy prince beamed like he'd just saved the planet.

James hurled a shoe at his head. "I did not fucking sign up for this! What the fuck!? I'm not in. I don't want the money."

"Hell, no."

And this was exactly where it got complicated -

"Keep it. I already did the transaction. You don't have to be my partner."

"Why?"

Precisely. Why?

Until the end, James never got the answer.

But, he had some suspicion although that suspicion, after each time they meet, changed.

Perhaps, James thought, perhaps Tony had always known since the beginning.

Tony.

That was his name. Tony, short for Anthony which James reserved for in bed.

It wasn't a smooth transition, their 'relationship' that was. In the beginning James tracked down the bastard because he couldn't transfer back the 10k. The account Tony had used for transaction was a dummy and he'd closed it as soon as he was done using it.

"I'm not taking it back."

"I don't want it!" James hissed.

But later, James would learn that Tony was a stubborn fucking bastard. And he'd lose to him still, drown in him, get hooked; Tony'd be the drug and James, his addict - unable to live without him .

That night though, they had sex again. It was like the only thing they could agree on - their most primal instincts synced where their logics failed.

They fucked hard, raw and rough. Tony liked it like that, James liked whatever his partner liked.

Somehow, that became a pattern; James would wake up, hunt for job, beg his ex manager to take him in again, his eyes would find Tony's at his usual corner booth and they'd go back to Tony's place together. Most nights, drunk, some, not.

On those nights when they're not, or when James wasn't drunk, it was easy to trace patterns over Tony's naked skin, it was easy to hold him because one of his arm was missing and when Tony fitted himself where it used to be, he almost felt like it was back there. It was easy to look at Tony, to call him by his name, to pay attention to what he said and more to what he didn't say. To understand him to some extend, to have feelings for him...

Problem was, those nights became more and more and James began to catch himself holding back on vodka because he wanted to remember the way Tony giggled when he touched him there, just like that.

So it wasn't surprising when one day, Tony asked him to break into Stark Unlimited with him, James said yes.

Tony didn't grin that day, like he did when he successfully robbed his father's swiss account. No, he smiled. But it was small, unsure and when James smiled back, he climbed onto his lap and kissed James until they were both breathless.

James had fucked a thousand times, had had sex, half a thousand, but made love? He was pretty sure that day was his first.

Technicality and James never matched. Apparently, neither did luck and love.

It was sad, except James liked to think it was something else.

They got busted. Real time. Police, FBI and military. Howard Stark didn't think twice about shooting his own son dead.

Blood was thick and viscous. James remembered feeling it once in Afghanistan and then, as Tony bled all over him.

He was choking. He was cold and he wasn't even looking properly. James didn't think he could right then. But he touched James and he said something.

He said something -

Something that James couldn't catch.

It's okay, he thought, zipping up the duffel bag. He laid Tony behind the counter, picked out the remote from his pocket and clutched it in one hand. The other carried the duffel and as he barelled towards the crowd of police, FBI, military and Howard Stark in front of them all, he pressed the detonator and felt himself explode into pieces.

It's okay, James thought, he'd ask Tony to say it again later.

[anthonyed]

Day 7: Cosplaying (crack-ish)

-//-

Tony likes to say it’s Clint’s fault even if technically it was Bucky who asked what ‘Cosplay’ was and proceeded to look with wide eyed interest at the images Tony pulled out from online.

Thus, it’s Clint’s fault.

It’s Clint’s fault that Steve asks Tony about cosplaying later that night and it’s Clint’s fault that Steve comes back from his run the next morning and suggests they have a Cosplay themed party for his approaching Birthday this weekend.

Tony spits his coffee out. Steve looks offended so Tony chews and minces his word before he decides that nothing he says in that moment is ever going to save him so he shuts his mouth and glares at Clint’s shaking shoulder behind the couch.

Later, he corners Steve in the bedroom and asks in privacy, “Are you sure about the – um – cosplaying? I’m not judging, just to be clear. I’ve done worse.” He holds up his hands, erect.

Steve wipes his wet hair and sighs, “I’ve never seen him so interested.”

And that’s when it clicks for Tony. Of course this is about Bucky and if this is about Bucky, then this is surely about that one single fucking -, “Bastard Barton.”

Because Bucky and Clint have been hanging out like some weird interconnected limbs lately and by the way Clint bursts out laughing every time he sees Steve is suspicious enough. So Tony does the one thing he’d be refraining himself from doing. He switches the coffee in the communal kitchen with decaffeinated beans; it’s only Clint who drinks it religiously from there so that’s fine. Although sometimes Steve does a cup or two and Tony feels bad about it, it was the only reason why he never switched before but things have come to head and Tony has snapped.

That still doesn’t stop the Cosplay themed Captain America’s Birthday Party from happening. Thank god it’s only family and friends because Tony couldn’t live with himself if public saw him in his Batman costume and a fucking cape at forty three. Steve looks delicious in a Superman outfit and they go hand in hand to where the party takes place; the communal floor.

Besides the team, Pepper, Rhodey, Fury and Maria’s invited. Fury looks bored in his usual black, floor sweeping coat and when Tony confronts him about the party rule, he rolls his eyes, pulled out a shoulder length wig from somewhere under the coat and declares himself, “ - the black Severus Snape.”

Fair enough.

Maria’s Wonder Woman and Natasha’s Harley Quinn. Pepper is stunning in her Cat Woman costume. Tony checks them all out surreptitiously. At least he thought he’s subtle until Steve clears his throat pointedly. Tony leers and leans in to kiss him, but Steve nudges his side and tilts his head to the right.

Black cloak sweeping the kitchen floor, carrying a long stick with a duck taped curved blade at its end, Bucky Barnes struts around hauntingly with a short white sheeted – poorly cosplayed – ghost in his arm.

“Jesus Christ.” Tony cusses under his breath. “Tell me that’s not Barton.”

But it is. It can only be Clint because Bruce is in an embarrassing neon green tights with Rhodey and Thor on the couch. And every time that black cloak flicks, there’s that metal glinting under the dimmed lights which means the Grim Reaper is Bucky and that ill-fitted ghost – that - that is Clint! – Tony swears to god –

“Cute.” Steve chuckles next to him.

Tony reels back in and stares at him. “You’re kidding me.” He hisses. But Steve rolls his eyes fondly and kisses Tony on the cheek. “They are cute.” He says again, muffling Tony’s snipe with a kiss to his mouth.

Tony glares at the white sheeted Clint, narrowed eyes following the couple as they strut their way out of the kitchen to the couch where the rest of the guests are; Bruce whipping out a HULK fist – ah, he’s hulk – and Rhodey’s in his full bodied armour and wig playing Aragorn – typical. Thor is, well, Thor. “I am a Norse God, my friends,” he cheers with his Thor-sized beer glass and Tony heaves a heavy sigh because this is looking more like a college Halloween party more and more.

But the look on Steve’s face is pure glee and it’s his birthday today. Tony cannot deny him anything to begin with and this stupid thing is clearly making him so happy. So he ignores the deep seated shame he feels for playing dress up at this age and leans closer to him, kissing his cheek. They are all old – Fury is ancient even – and they are all playing dress-up with him for Steve. Somehow, that makes the shame fell thousand times better.

His gaze flits back to where Bucky Barnes and Clint are seated close in an odd blur of black and white in one corner of the couch and he has to admit, they do look adorable.

Doesn’t mean he’s switching out the decaffeinated beans though.

[anthonyed]

buckytony - tłusty czwartek for fluffy friday

Bucky stress baked. It’s a thing.

He baked breads, cookies, cakes and even macaroons. The tower never knew the smell of sugar until Bucky Barnes entered its kitchen. At first, it was something he did secretly; at nights, when sleep usually evaded him and he’d bake something off of the recipe books he’d found in the library and bring it into his room. At first, it was contained to that kitchen he shared with Steve on his floor. At first, even Steve didn’t know.

It wasn’t like Bucky knew when and where he learnt how to bake. He didn’t even know half of the life he’d led. Okay, correction: more than half the life he’d led. And Steve’s a nosy punk by default so Bucky kept this little talent he found in himself – like how he knew exactly what to do so the cake didn’t sink after it came out of the oven or to make the cake cook evenly and other such nifty baking tricks he didn’t know where he learnt from – to himself, because if Steve asked, he wouldn’t know how to answer.

Then Steve found out, and Steve looked at him like he didn’t know this Bucky Barnes, but he never asked a single question. So Bucky started baking before the sun went down too. Eventually, the baking extended from their personal kitchen to the communal kitchen – because it was Stevie’s birthday and if he smelled powdered sugar in their floor he’d know what Bucky was up to. And later because Clint tasted the lemon cake Bucky baked for Steve’s birthday and started pouting. Also, Stark seemed to enjoy it too and Bucky well, - it was still a secret then - he liked Stark, like that.

Somewhere along the line, Stark became Tony and Tony became his boyfriend. After that, not only the communal kitchen smelled of sugar, but Tony’s penthouse and his bedroom too. Bucky fed Tony, but he also made sure they worked it all out so Tony wouldn't complain how his waistline was growing and even if it did, he’d still be as pretty and Bucky told him so.

One day, Bucky discovered – or rediscovered – pączki and suddenly, like a floodgate had opened, all memories of sweet sugar and syrup came rushing to him.

“I learnt it from babcia Maria. She and her husband ran a bakery in Wrocław and I was staying above their place during a long mission.” He shared with Tony.  “It was winter and she makes – made – the best raspberry jam.”

“Babcia Maria?” Tony hummed conversationally, plopping over Bucky’s lap.

Bucky welcomed him, wrapping both of his arms around his waist and kissed the back of his neck. “Grandma.” He explained. “Cukiernia U Babci Maliny. Grandma’s Raspberry confectionary.”

Turned out the shop still exist. Tony flew them to Wrocław the next Tuesday. They landed on Wednesday night and set out to the address the next day. There’s a long line outside the shop, going out of the door and into the street. A few people rushed by them with boxes in both hands and Tony and Bucky snuck a peak at the inside of the shop to see them serving batches after batches of fresh pączki. There’s a nagging in the back of Bucky’s head like he’d forgotten something, but Tony’s tugging at his hand and they go to stand in the line behind an old married couple.

Bucky’s polish is rusty but he completely understood the promo flyer stuck on the long glass window of the shop; Tłusty Czwartek.

Bucky barked a laugh. “Of course! It’s fat Thursday.” He beamed at Tony, squeezing his hand in Bucky’s jacket pocket. The wind was cold and crisp, Tony pressed close to him and Bucky pulled him into a one armed hug with his gloved metal limb and pressed a kiss on top of his head.

“What’s that?” Tony asked, voice muffled. European cold was something else, Bucky had forgotten but Tony was only discovering; at least from a commoner, 'lining up for food in the street not having them served in gold tray', point of view. His cheeks were read and the top of his head was hidden under the thick beanie and his mouth was tucked under woollen scarf. Only his nose and parts of his ears showed and Bucky kissed the pointy appendage, grinning when Tony sniffled, red like Rudolph.

“You can google it up but all I remember is they go crazy on pączki on this day, something about Lent and babcia Maria had a special recipe for it.”

“Oh?”

“Oh.” Bucky pecked his nose again.

The line moved quick, but they were dishing out their final batch during Bucky and Tony’s turn. There was an old man waiting behind them so they let him have the last of those pączki and they stayed after the crowd dispersed, grumbling in disappointment.

Turned out babcia Maria passed away two years ago and the shop was now being ran by her daughter in law; Malina. They said their condolences, received two free tłusty pączki in return and Tony asked Bucky if he was okay as they made their way back to the hotel.

Bucky thought about his answer, pulled a pączek out of the bag and took a bite and he said, “It tastes the same.”

Truth was, he didn’t remember her much, but he had wanted to meet her. She was the only person he remembered crossing during his – well, during then. And she had treated him as a human being, she saw him cooped in his room all the time so she knocked on his door and pushed food into his hands. She made sure he never got hungry and she invited Bucky into her kitchen, taught him how to bake, and he learnt how to talk again. She was kind, she never asked why he always carried a gun and she was the only one who dared to touch him. So yes, Bucky missed her even if he didn’t remember her voice or her face. He wanted to meet her again, make better, more memorable memories with her, but it was too late it seemed.

He tugged the scarf down Tony’s face and fed him the pączek. “Lemon curd!” Tony’s eyes lit up in delight and he went in for another bite, powdered sugar speckling his moustache and his beard, spilling all over his maroon scarf. Bucky chuckled and dusted it off. “You’re messy, you know.” He chastised fondly.

Tony stuck his tongue out, some of the lemon curd on the tip of it and Bucky kissed him stupid. Some things, he’s too late for, while other things, he’s just right in time. And Tony is a proof of that.

“Thank you for coming with me.” He told him that night, curled around each other; tucked under the thickest comforter they’ve ever had. Tony hummed and nuzzled under his chin. “Anywhere, anytime for my special snowflake,” He told Bucky.

[anthonyed]

i saw this gorgeous art and wrote something beneath it long time ago, looking back, i feel like a dick for adding there without knowing if op is okay or not okay with it, hence;

Stuckony: wingfic with bucky’s left wing is of metal while his right is pure white.

Wings were used by humanity to lead them to their soulmates which was how Bucky found Steve, but what was confusing was that while his right matched Steve’s pure white, his left had always been black.

Odd.

When Bucky fell down the train, Steve’s right wing turned black. Nobody knew why because soulmates of the deceased half always lose both of their wings colour to darkness. But in Steve’s case, only one. And they brushed it off saying maybe the serum helped. But the serum never helped Steve from plunging himself in a Hydra’s plane straight into the ice.

Tony on the other hand was born with wings of darkness.

Both of his left and his right were as black as the void. His father hated him. His mother feared him. The society dubbed him as the merchant of death.

Until Afghanistan.

When Tony was captured and tortured with all the possible method they could think of, both of his wings bore the biggest brunt. They withered, they hurt and they necrosed so bad, the paramedic who rescued him had to cut them off of his shoulder.

In an odd sense, Tony was relieved.

With the death off of his shoulder, he set to pave of his own. Made by him. Written by him. Not by fate or one of those powers people called God.

He welded metals into feathers. Made them light like the clouds in the sky but strong like the Vibranium in his chest. He powered them with it. In a way, he’s telling the world that he flies with his heart.

A heart that gives him his life

- A merchant of life instead of death, perhaps

In honour to the blood his old wings shed, he shaded the new ones hot red. And in honour to the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, he painted their roots gold so now they look like he’s shedding tears of blood.

When Tony met Steve, he’s intrigued by the undocumented odd black right wing. He wondered silently. He wondered even when he dreamt. And that’s the worst of it wasn’t it?; to wish for a soulmate he’s never born to have (he was born with dead wings for fuck’s sake)

But it’s Steve who cornered him. With his sky-blue eyes with hopes flickering in them and they look so alive for the first time since Tony had known Steve that he couldn’t say no to his question:

“You were born with black wings weren’t you?”

His silence told Steve enough. But it never convinced him to stay.

Why should he when Steve had already found his soulmate?

- Bucky Barnes is alive

When James saw Steve again, it was Steve who recognized him first -

“Bucky?”

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

Who the hell is Bucky? got answered fortnight after when he walked into the museum and learnt all about the man on the bridge and a little about his soulmate Bucky Barnes - the only howling commando to give his life

James personally felt like it was taken, not given - but that’s debatable for another time.

When Steve finds him, he’s looking into articles from 1990’s. Of a man called Tony Stark - and it rings a bell somewhere… somewhere deep... stark..

And his wings are black

Pitch black like the flashes of memories of his own lost ones.

James wonders -

Until he steps into the skyscraper Steve begged him to and he meets the man - Tony Stark - himself, with his metal wings. Just like James’s but they’re bleeding and he wonders about that too - why?

It took a year to tell Steve that yes he was born with death on his shoulder. But it takes only a month to share that with James in his workshop; metal on metal clinking as Tony works on his damaged arm

“My left one was black too” James tells him. His voice still rasp from lack of usage and the Russian is thick on his tongue. “Before…,” 

And Tony nods. No need to specify. He knows. He understands.

Then James turns his head and cocks it in a curious angle and he asks: “Stevie’s right one is black now. But it used to be both white. I wonder if they wrote us three as one?”

And it’s a dangerous question to ask because Steve’s puppy dog eyes go wide from where he’s sat sketching quietly on the sofa and within seconds he’s by the workbench before Tony can work out a scoff at the far-fetched idea

“I think he’s right..” his big hand is squeezing Tony’s shoulder, and it hurts to even dream right now. What more to hope -

“No -” Tony croaks - his weak resolve breaking - when James stretches his metal wing to cling onto Tony’s right one and Steve’s black right one touches his left one in debilitating sequence -

And James watches in awe as gold bursts into ribbons and stars in front of him one more time.

Flashes of old memories brings him back to when he first bonded with Steve but those flecks were bright white. While these are golden.

Bright and magical as they swirl around and around making three of them gasp as one. Bonding them for life.