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cap_ironman2008-06-19 07:40 pm
smilingskull.livejournal.com) wrote in cap_ironman2008-06-19 07:40 pm
Entry tags:
Fic + art!
Soooo, first time poster, long time lurker, and I bring a gift of fic! And small-ish art.
Title: Fly/Ignite
Pairings/Characters: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Rating: PG-ish.
Fandom: Uh... a very, very weird melding of Movie and Comics. Set in California in Tony's crazy house of glass and modern art, but with the additions of Steve and Extremis.
Warnings: Sorta kinda the movie not really? (Mention of the mini!reactor)
Word Count: 1,675
Disclaimer: The usual, no own, no profit, blah blah. Also, this is un-beta'd, so sorry in advance for typos if I missed any.
Steve doesn’t get it. When he thinks of flying, he thinks of planes. He thinks of transports that took good young men to their deaths. Hulking things with bellies of death that swallowed up platoons on bases and spat them out onto beaches strewn with discarded artillery and corpses. He thinks of more of them parachuting out, behind enemy lines. Snagged in trees, shot down. Bullet, meet skull. Steve dislikes, distrusts flying. It makes his stomach churn and his lips twitch down at the corners, his brows knit together in worry.
He thinks of the twisting screech of metal, like an animal caught in a trap, in pain. He thinks of smoke that chokes the air, makes it feel claustrophobic. Of fire that dances sadistically along tail ends and portside wings. Fire that licks the sky and snaps, cackles with happiness. (This always leads to thought of cold, and ice. Frozen.)
He thinks the armor looks like that sometimes. Its deliriously happy roar, a streak of fire and sparks that eats clouds and shatters wisps in the atmosphere. A line, a bolt of red, with tinges of golds and oranges. It took some getting used to.
He knows a bit of what Tony thinks of flying. Rhodey once told Steve that Tony was physically attracted to anything with 8 or more cylinders, had a gorgeously sleek design, and could do at least 120 on PCH. (Steve wasn’t sure where supermodels and Russian spies fit into this) Tony was a speed freak. He was the only person who could quote that infamous line from Top Gun with a straight face, and mean it. He adored fast, faster, fastest.
He knows that Tony gets into the suit and smiles. He knows that as soon as Tony is up in the air, he’s gone. He’s lost to the sky and a wicked need for mach 5 speeds. He didn’t know him before Iron Man came to be, but Steve can only assume that Tony had one hell of a radar detector in which ever one of his many cars he managed to get over 200. (or so the story goes. Steve doesn’t think the car was street legal. Clint swears up and down it was. Steve has yet to look up the McLaren F1 on Wikipedia.)
He knows that flying is something Tony has always craved. It’s just one step ahead of driving really, really fast. A natural progression. It’s gotten to the point where Tony doesn’t want to get past the sound barrier on a daily basis, he needs to. He needs to loop and dive and tear up the skies via rocket-propelled boots and sleek dual tone metal. He needs to churn up clouds, cast off wisps and breaks of heaven. Tony says it’s better than anything he’s ever known or felt before in his life.
Steve watches him out of the floor to ceiling windows that encase the living room. Tony’s just come back from Burma, Darfur, Thailand. Steve’s lost track. He can see the boots, the gauntlets igniting the sky. It’s gorgeous in a disturbing, devilish way. A bolt of fire heading straight towards him, reflecting a path against the ocean water. Steve’s pretty sure that though all the crazy tech Tony has stocked into that thing, he can see that Steve’s standing there, a mug of green tea in his hand, dressed in jeans a blue shirt with his trademark star screen printed on the front. Actually, he knows Tony can see him here, all blond hair and patriotism. Which is probably why he’s on a crash course straight to the window. At the last second, the armor dances, swerves, curves up. Sucked up by the wind, aerodynamic against heavy metal. Steve flinches a bit, and he could swear that he got a little wave as Tony went roaring by. For some reason, the mental image of the suit giving a goofy little “hi, I’m home” wave makes Steve crack a smile. He raises his mug, takes a sip of lukewarm tea, and knows Tony will come crashing up the steps from the garage in a few moments time.
Sure enough, there’s a click as the garage door slides open with a soft whoosh of metal and air, which is followed by the slap of bare feet on cement. Tony ambles out from around the fireplace and into the living room wearing a pair of ratty jeans and a black beater, both stained in various kinds of motor oil, the hem of the beater frayed from a run-in with a welder, his hands wedged in his pockets. The last traces of the gold under-armor are disappearing, snaking, shimmying into the little black holes that dot Tony’s skin when he wants them too. It’s eerie, watching Tony either suit up or down, watching the gold eat or retreat from his skin. The last of it slips away; the dots vanish as Tony steps and kneels onto the couch, resting his chin on folded arms on the back of the couch. Steve leans against the windows, the glass cool against his back. He looks down at Tony, who’s all goofy, high as a kite grins and disheveled hair. He looks like he’s just rolled out of bed after a night with an especially gorgeous and flexible woman, who may have even managed to keep up with him.
“You look drunk.” Steve states bluntly.
“I know.” Tony gives a contented sigh, reaches up and runs a hand through his hair happily, then leans back onto his heels, gives Steve a clear view of his torso. After spending so much time getting used to the reactor that was always glowing cheerily in the center of Tony’s chest, getting used to it not being there was a chore. Tony still has the odd habit of tapping his sternum where it used to be when he’s lost in thought or worried. He’s even joked about missing it. Steve thinks it may be less of a joke and more of a reality.
They stay silent for a while, Tony just breathing, his breath even, his eyes closed, sitting there on his heels in the plush of his overpriced couch, and Steve just pleasantly drinking up the dregs of his tea. He swirls the last little bit of it in the bottom of the mug, watching it run around the rim, seeing the red of the lacquer peek and pour through the last tiny bit of liquid. Steve up ends the cup over his lips, finishes it off.
Tony’s up suddenly, a languid motion that has more speed than it should. His eyes dance and sparkle, his arms hold him up on the back of the couch. Steve lets his eyes trail down arms that hold more power, way more, than they did a few months ago. He can see snakes and rivers of veins, the rough patches where Tony’s gotten himself scraped, injured, burned. He knuckles the edge of the back of the cream fabric, kneading it with restless fingers. He cracks his neck, snaps back to the other side.
“How was Sudan?” Steve inquires, sort of jerking the mug in Tony’s direction, who’s looking directly at him. He can tell from the brightness of Tony’s eyes that he’s still giddy off of a long flight tearing up speed records.
“Somalia.” Tony corrects with a crack of his spine. “Depressing. They need so much aid still, and there’s only so much I can do. Get rid of the weapons, sure. But every guy and his mother have their own personal stockpile, and the conditions suck. It’s shit, Steve. There’s so much more I wish I could do.” He rubs at his forehead, sighs.
“You’re trying.” Steve offers. He bites his lower lip, wonders if he can change the topic somehow.
“Yeah, I know. I know.” Tony’s head dips a bit, his shoulders are bony in an odd way, too bony for the muscle that Steve knows is cording there, waiting to strike. Tony seems to be either in one of two states: too tired to concentrate on anything but tech, or coiled and tense, able to jump into the fray at any moment. There’s no in between, no down. Tony Stark is wrapped too tight (or too tired to care).
Steve reaches out, the dying sun reflects off his skin, makes it glow like Tony’s armor, in a duller, organic way. He puts a hand on Tony’s shoulder, massages it, digs fingers into skin and tendon and bone. Tony leans into it, lets a long breath out from between his lips.
Tony’s arm sneaks out, quickly, and takes the mug from Steve, reaches back behind him and sets it on the coffee table in one disturbingly smooth motion. Coming back, Tony straightens up on his knees, and offers, palms up and out. Steve cracks a grin, knows the motion, and what Tony wants. He takes the one half step to the back of the couch, his knees hitting the back of it with a soft thump. Tony, shorter than usual because of being on his knees, gently touches Steve’s neck, letting fingers rough and calloused ghost along skin, up to Steve’s mouth, run along his bottom lip, before Steve dips down and finds Tony’s lips.
It feels good, familiar, safe. Tony melts into Steve, into his body, into the kiss. Lets arms wrap around Steve, hang on, fingers dig into his back and scrabble at material, pulling the blue shirt up enough to find skin to rest his fingers on, just above Steve’s belt.
Steve pushes hands through Tony’s hair, messing and mussing even further. He can feel his stomach jump when Tony finds skin, can feel his heart soar up to somewhere near his brain. He can feel Tony’s lips under his, moving, liquid and wet and heat. He can feel pulses twine together, and he just has to wonder if maybe flying isn’t that bad after all.
Also, have some pure G-rated happy!Cap fanart. :]
Title: Fly/Ignite
Pairings/Characters: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Rating: PG-ish.
Fandom: Uh... a very, very weird melding of Movie and Comics. Set in California in Tony's crazy house of glass and modern art, but with the additions of Steve and Extremis.
Warnings: Sorta kinda the movie not really? (Mention of the mini!reactor)
Word Count: 1,675
Disclaimer: The usual, no own, no profit, blah blah. Also, this is un-beta'd, so sorry in advance for typos if I missed any.
Steve doesn’t get it. When he thinks of flying, he thinks of planes. He thinks of transports that took good young men to their deaths. Hulking things with bellies of death that swallowed up platoons on bases and spat them out onto beaches strewn with discarded artillery and corpses. He thinks of more of them parachuting out, behind enemy lines. Snagged in trees, shot down. Bullet, meet skull. Steve dislikes, distrusts flying. It makes his stomach churn and his lips twitch down at the corners, his brows knit together in worry.
He thinks of the twisting screech of metal, like an animal caught in a trap, in pain. He thinks of smoke that chokes the air, makes it feel claustrophobic. Of fire that dances sadistically along tail ends and portside wings. Fire that licks the sky and snaps, cackles with happiness. (This always leads to thought of cold, and ice. Frozen.)
He thinks the armor looks like that sometimes. Its deliriously happy roar, a streak of fire and sparks that eats clouds and shatters wisps in the atmosphere. A line, a bolt of red, with tinges of golds and oranges. It took some getting used to.
He knows a bit of what Tony thinks of flying. Rhodey once told Steve that Tony was physically attracted to anything with 8 or more cylinders, had a gorgeously sleek design, and could do at least 120 on PCH. (Steve wasn’t sure where supermodels and Russian spies fit into this) Tony was a speed freak. He was the only person who could quote that infamous line from Top Gun with a straight face, and mean it. He adored fast, faster, fastest.
He knows that Tony gets into the suit and smiles. He knows that as soon as Tony is up in the air, he’s gone. He’s lost to the sky and a wicked need for mach 5 speeds. He didn’t know him before Iron Man came to be, but Steve can only assume that Tony had one hell of a radar detector in which ever one of his many cars he managed to get over 200. (or so the story goes. Steve doesn’t think the car was street legal. Clint swears up and down it was. Steve has yet to look up the McLaren F1 on Wikipedia.)
He knows that flying is something Tony has always craved. It’s just one step ahead of driving really, really fast. A natural progression. It’s gotten to the point where Tony doesn’t want to get past the sound barrier on a daily basis, he needs to. He needs to loop and dive and tear up the skies via rocket-propelled boots and sleek dual tone metal. He needs to churn up clouds, cast off wisps and breaks of heaven. Tony says it’s better than anything he’s ever known or felt before in his life.
Steve watches him out of the floor to ceiling windows that encase the living room. Tony’s just come back from Burma, Darfur, Thailand. Steve’s lost track. He can see the boots, the gauntlets igniting the sky. It’s gorgeous in a disturbing, devilish way. A bolt of fire heading straight towards him, reflecting a path against the ocean water. Steve’s pretty sure that though all the crazy tech Tony has stocked into that thing, he can see that Steve’s standing there, a mug of green tea in his hand, dressed in jeans a blue shirt with his trademark star screen printed on the front. Actually, he knows Tony can see him here, all blond hair and patriotism. Which is probably why he’s on a crash course straight to the window. At the last second, the armor dances, swerves, curves up. Sucked up by the wind, aerodynamic against heavy metal. Steve flinches a bit, and he could swear that he got a little wave as Tony went roaring by. For some reason, the mental image of the suit giving a goofy little “hi, I’m home” wave makes Steve crack a smile. He raises his mug, takes a sip of lukewarm tea, and knows Tony will come crashing up the steps from the garage in a few moments time.
Sure enough, there’s a click as the garage door slides open with a soft whoosh of metal and air, which is followed by the slap of bare feet on cement. Tony ambles out from around the fireplace and into the living room wearing a pair of ratty jeans and a black beater, both stained in various kinds of motor oil, the hem of the beater frayed from a run-in with a welder, his hands wedged in his pockets. The last traces of the gold under-armor are disappearing, snaking, shimmying into the little black holes that dot Tony’s skin when he wants them too. It’s eerie, watching Tony either suit up or down, watching the gold eat or retreat from his skin. The last of it slips away; the dots vanish as Tony steps and kneels onto the couch, resting his chin on folded arms on the back of the couch. Steve leans against the windows, the glass cool against his back. He looks down at Tony, who’s all goofy, high as a kite grins and disheveled hair. He looks like he’s just rolled out of bed after a night with an especially gorgeous and flexible woman, who may have even managed to keep up with him.
“You look drunk.” Steve states bluntly.
“I know.” Tony gives a contented sigh, reaches up and runs a hand through his hair happily, then leans back onto his heels, gives Steve a clear view of his torso. After spending so much time getting used to the reactor that was always glowing cheerily in the center of Tony’s chest, getting used to it not being there was a chore. Tony still has the odd habit of tapping his sternum where it used to be when he’s lost in thought or worried. He’s even joked about missing it. Steve thinks it may be less of a joke and more of a reality.
They stay silent for a while, Tony just breathing, his breath even, his eyes closed, sitting there on his heels in the plush of his overpriced couch, and Steve just pleasantly drinking up the dregs of his tea. He swirls the last little bit of it in the bottom of the mug, watching it run around the rim, seeing the red of the lacquer peek and pour through the last tiny bit of liquid. Steve up ends the cup over his lips, finishes it off.
Tony’s up suddenly, a languid motion that has more speed than it should. His eyes dance and sparkle, his arms hold him up on the back of the couch. Steve lets his eyes trail down arms that hold more power, way more, than they did a few months ago. He can see snakes and rivers of veins, the rough patches where Tony’s gotten himself scraped, injured, burned. He knuckles the edge of the back of the cream fabric, kneading it with restless fingers. He cracks his neck, snaps back to the other side.
“How was Sudan?” Steve inquires, sort of jerking the mug in Tony’s direction, who’s looking directly at him. He can tell from the brightness of Tony’s eyes that he’s still giddy off of a long flight tearing up speed records.
“Somalia.” Tony corrects with a crack of his spine. “Depressing. They need so much aid still, and there’s only so much I can do. Get rid of the weapons, sure. But every guy and his mother have their own personal stockpile, and the conditions suck. It’s shit, Steve. There’s so much more I wish I could do.” He rubs at his forehead, sighs.
“You’re trying.” Steve offers. He bites his lower lip, wonders if he can change the topic somehow.
“Yeah, I know. I know.” Tony’s head dips a bit, his shoulders are bony in an odd way, too bony for the muscle that Steve knows is cording there, waiting to strike. Tony seems to be either in one of two states: too tired to concentrate on anything but tech, or coiled and tense, able to jump into the fray at any moment. There’s no in between, no down. Tony Stark is wrapped too tight (or too tired to care).
Steve reaches out, the dying sun reflects off his skin, makes it glow like Tony’s armor, in a duller, organic way. He puts a hand on Tony’s shoulder, massages it, digs fingers into skin and tendon and bone. Tony leans into it, lets a long breath out from between his lips.
Tony’s arm sneaks out, quickly, and takes the mug from Steve, reaches back behind him and sets it on the coffee table in one disturbingly smooth motion. Coming back, Tony straightens up on his knees, and offers, palms up and out. Steve cracks a grin, knows the motion, and what Tony wants. He takes the one half step to the back of the couch, his knees hitting the back of it with a soft thump. Tony, shorter than usual because of being on his knees, gently touches Steve’s neck, letting fingers rough and calloused ghost along skin, up to Steve’s mouth, run along his bottom lip, before Steve dips down and finds Tony’s lips.
It feels good, familiar, safe. Tony melts into Steve, into his body, into the kiss. Lets arms wrap around Steve, hang on, fingers dig into his back and scrabble at material, pulling the blue shirt up enough to find skin to rest his fingers on, just above Steve’s belt.
Steve pushes hands through Tony’s hair, messing and mussing even further. He can feel his stomach jump when Tony finds skin, can feel his heart soar up to somewhere near his brain. He can feel Tony’s lips under his, moving, liquid and wet and heat. He can feel pulses twine together, and he just has to wonder if maybe flying isn’t that bad after all.
Also, have some pure G-rated happy!Cap fanart. :]