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cap_ironman2008-09-01 11:43 pm
smilingskull.livejournal.com) wrote in cap_ironman2008-09-01 11:43 pm
Entry tags:
Fic - Centigrade and Fahrenheit
It's supposed to be 92 (with 60% humidity) tomorrow here in lovely DC, so I decided that a cold weather story needed to happen pronto. (Well, that and copious amounts of AC.) Also, this contains what I like to think of as the vaguest sex scene ever.
Title: Centigrade and Fahrenheit
Pairings/Characters: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Rating: R
Fandom: The Avengers
Warnings: The aforementioned SuperVauge!Sex, but that's it.
Word Count: Exactly 1,200 (totally by accident)
Disclaimer: No own, no profit. 'Tis all good.
It’s comforting, in its own way – the constant honking, the ever-present stamp and shuffle of feet, the periodic sirens that pierce the rhythm of the city – it means home to him.
He winds his way through the tide of people on the sidewalk, chin dipped into the top edge of the scarf peaking out of his jacket collar. He forgot to grab gloves, so his hands are jammed in his pockets. He fiddles with a scrap of paper in his right pocket, his cell phone in his left, gives his hands something to do. He likes it when his hands are busy; when he can twine his fingers into things, twist them around bits and pieces of metal and circuitry.
It’s getting quite cold. Wind whistles down the corridor created by the old buildings, and the sky is gray. The morning news said that the first snow of the season might be right around the corner. He can feel the cold creeping under his skin already.
He nearly bumps into a confused tourist and her companion on the corner, who’s unsure weather or not to cross the street.
“The ‘don’t walk’ hand is still lit up!” He hears her say as he walks past, and grins to himself, dipping his chin a bit more into his scarf, rubbing against the fabric. Cashmere. Pepper got it for him last Christmas because he kept leaving the penthouse without one on and bitching about it later.
“So?” Her companion sounds agitated, voice raised. He’s halfway across the street. He hasn’t looked at traffic signals in ages – as long as there’s no half homicidal cabbie careening his way, he figures he’s good to dash to the opposite corner. In this city, jaywalking isn’t just common - it’s an essential, God-given right.
He hangs a right, hurries down the street, not so much because he wants to get out of the cold, but because he wants to get to his destination faster. He’s impatient, he could have had Happy drive him, he supposes. That would have meant traffic though, and traffic doesn’t sit well with him.
Halfway down the block he turns, takes the stairs up to the front door of the brownstone two at a time. He presses the buzzer marked ‘Rogers’ on the keypad to the left of the big, old oak door, then jabs at it again. He adds two quick more buzzes for good measure, then stands there rocking back and forth on his feet, from the balls of his feet to his heels, and back again. His shoes are new – they make little squeaking noises, the noises you’d expect to hear out of Italian leather that hasn’t quite been broken in yet.
“I’d ask who you are, but the incessant buzzing was a dead give away.” The voice issues from the speaker on the keypad, and he can hear the smile in the voice, even through the little speaker makes everything sound tinny.
The door clicks open, and he grabs the handle, pulling it open and stepping inside in one quick motion. The door shuts behind him, and he digs his chin out of his scarf to look up at the sound of a door on the first landing opening.
There’s a man standing there, all broad shoulders and blonde hair, wearing a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and a wide smile, leaning on the banister.
“Hi Tony.” The man tilts his head, and his smile changes a bit, shifts to something a little more private and intimate.
“You should really come live in the penthouse, Steve.” Tony says as he starts climbing the stairs, running a hand along the smooth, warn wood of the railing.
“I essentially already do. But I’m still paying the rent on this place, so I might as well use it.” Steve answers as Tony draws level with him, standing next to him on the landing. Steve straightens up, and laughs softly at Tony’s windblown hair and red cheeks.
“I’ll pay the rent for you.” Tony shrugs simply, unwraps the scarf from around his neck and lets it hang.
“No.” Steve says firmly, but he’s still smiling. “Did you walk here?”
“Subway.” Tony says, moves towards the partially open door to Steve’s apartment, a ‘come hither’ look plastered on his face that would have looked cheesy on anyone else.
“You took the subway?” Steve asks incredulously, following.
“It’s handy. I didn’t want to deal with the traffic.” They step inside, over the threshold and Steve shuts the door behind them. He pulls Tony forward by the tails of his overpriced scarf and starts working on the buttons on his coat. Conversation is forgotten as the coat and scarf get tossed on a nearby chair and Tony steps forward, trapping Steve against the door, a hand on either side of his head.
They meet in the middle. The kiss is interesting, Tony’s lips are still cold from being outside, and Steve ends up breaking into a smile.
“What?” Tony mumbles into the kiss.
“You lips are freezing.” Steve laughs, moves his hands to run a thumb over Tony’s bottom lip.
“I think we could warm them up.” Tony murmurs, and the look in his eyes is the intense look he gets when he’s solving a problem, fixing a circuit board.
They stay like that, against the heavy wood of the door, warming Tony up, hot, open-mouthed kisses, until Steve leans in to place a kiss to Tony’s temple, and whispers something in Tony’s ear that makes him break into a little grin and nod in agreement. A leg gets wedged between two others, and hands end up in hair, on shirt hems and zippers.
Clothes end up on the floor, skin ends up pressed against skin, mouths against collarbones. Trailing finger tips ghost along skin, soft moans and little gasps. Warmth swirls, motions become faster. Heart rates speed, body temperatures jump up, liquid and hurried motions. Lips and skin and muscles. Hips against hips, source to source. Pleading, gasping, jerking muscles. Moans, breaths, parted lips. Friction. Heat. Ignition.
Steve can hear Tony’s heart thudding in his chest when he presses a hot kiss to Tony’s sternum. He can feel Tony’s quick breathing, in-out, in-out, against his neck, from where Tony’s head is resting on his shoulder. It feels right.
“I think my legs may be about to give out.” Steve murmurs, kissing the top of Tony’s head.
“I have that effect on people.” Tony grins, still sounding breathy around the edges. Steve laughs, but Tony moves away from him, takes him by the hands and walks backward in practiced ease of knowing Steve’s apartment well enough. He stops in front of the fireplace on the far wall and pulls Steve in for a long, lingering kiss, runs his hands through Steve’s short hair, down his neck, shoulders, arms.
They end up curled together on the rug in front of the fireplace, buried under two separate blankets and enjoying lazy, familiar kisses.
Outside the windows, the promised snow is falling softly downwards, settling on busy streets and bustling sidewalks, on harried cabs and disgruntled commuters. On brick and stone. On glass and steel.
Title: Centigrade and Fahrenheit
Pairings/Characters: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Rating: R
Fandom: The Avengers
Warnings: The aforementioned SuperVauge!Sex, but that's it.
Word Count: Exactly 1,200 (totally by accident)
Disclaimer: No own, no profit. 'Tis all good.
It’s comforting, in its own way – the constant honking, the ever-present stamp and shuffle of feet, the periodic sirens that pierce the rhythm of the city – it means home to him.
He winds his way through the tide of people on the sidewalk, chin dipped into the top edge of the scarf peaking out of his jacket collar. He forgot to grab gloves, so his hands are jammed in his pockets. He fiddles with a scrap of paper in his right pocket, his cell phone in his left, gives his hands something to do. He likes it when his hands are busy; when he can twine his fingers into things, twist them around bits and pieces of metal and circuitry.
It’s getting quite cold. Wind whistles down the corridor created by the old buildings, and the sky is gray. The morning news said that the first snow of the season might be right around the corner. He can feel the cold creeping under his skin already.
He nearly bumps into a confused tourist and her companion on the corner, who’s unsure weather or not to cross the street.
“The ‘don’t walk’ hand is still lit up!” He hears her say as he walks past, and grins to himself, dipping his chin a bit more into his scarf, rubbing against the fabric. Cashmere. Pepper got it for him last Christmas because he kept leaving the penthouse without one on and bitching about it later.
“So?” Her companion sounds agitated, voice raised. He’s halfway across the street. He hasn’t looked at traffic signals in ages – as long as there’s no half homicidal cabbie careening his way, he figures he’s good to dash to the opposite corner. In this city, jaywalking isn’t just common - it’s an essential, God-given right.
He hangs a right, hurries down the street, not so much because he wants to get out of the cold, but because he wants to get to his destination faster. He’s impatient, he could have had Happy drive him, he supposes. That would have meant traffic though, and traffic doesn’t sit well with him.
Halfway down the block he turns, takes the stairs up to the front door of the brownstone two at a time. He presses the buzzer marked ‘Rogers’ on the keypad to the left of the big, old oak door, then jabs at it again. He adds two quick more buzzes for good measure, then stands there rocking back and forth on his feet, from the balls of his feet to his heels, and back again. His shoes are new – they make little squeaking noises, the noises you’d expect to hear out of Italian leather that hasn’t quite been broken in yet.
“I’d ask who you are, but the incessant buzzing was a dead give away.” The voice issues from the speaker on the keypad, and he can hear the smile in the voice, even through the little speaker makes everything sound tinny.
The door clicks open, and he grabs the handle, pulling it open and stepping inside in one quick motion. The door shuts behind him, and he digs his chin out of his scarf to look up at the sound of a door on the first landing opening.
There’s a man standing there, all broad shoulders and blonde hair, wearing a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and a wide smile, leaning on the banister.
“Hi Tony.” The man tilts his head, and his smile changes a bit, shifts to something a little more private and intimate.
“You should really come live in the penthouse, Steve.” Tony says as he starts climbing the stairs, running a hand along the smooth, warn wood of the railing.
“I essentially already do. But I’m still paying the rent on this place, so I might as well use it.” Steve answers as Tony draws level with him, standing next to him on the landing. Steve straightens up, and laughs softly at Tony’s windblown hair and red cheeks.
“I’ll pay the rent for you.” Tony shrugs simply, unwraps the scarf from around his neck and lets it hang.
“No.” Steve says firmly, but he’s still smiling. “Did you walk here?”
“Subway.” Tony says, moves towards the partially open door to Steve’s apartment, a ‘come hither’ look plastered on his face that would have looked cheesy on anyone else.
“You took the subway?” Steve asks incredulously, following.
“It’s handy. I didn’t want to deal with the traffic.” They step inside, over the threshold and Steve shuts the door behind them. He pulls Tony forward by the tails of his overpriced scarf and starts working on the buttons on his coat. Conversation is forgotten as the coat and scarf get tossed on a nearby chair and Tony steps forward, trapping Steve against the door, a hand on either side of his head.
They meet in the middle. The kiss is interesting, Tony’s lips are still cold from being outside, and Steve ends up breaking into a smile.
“What?” Tony mumbles into the kiss.
“You lips are freezing.” Steve laughs, moves his hands to run a thumb over Tony’s bottom lip.
“I think we could warm them up.” Tony murmurs, and the look in his eyes is the intense look he gets when he’s solving a problem, fixing a circuit board.
They stay like that, against the heavy wood of the door, warming Tony up, hot, open-mouthed kisses, until Steve leans in to place a kiss to Tony’s temple, and whispers something in Tony’s ear that makes him break into a little grin and nod in agreement. A leg gets wedged between two others, and hands end up in hair, on shirt hems and zippers.
Clothes end up on the floor, skin ends up pressed against skin, mouths against collarbones. Trailing finger tips ghost along skin, soft moans and little gasps. Warmth swirls, motions become faster. Heart rates speed, body temperatures jump up, liquid and hurried motions. Lips and skin and muscles. Hips against hips, source to source. Pleading, gasping, jerking muscles. Moans, breaths, parted lips. Friction. Heat. Ignition.
Steve can hear Tony’s heart thudding in his chest when he presses a hot kiss to Tony’s sternum. He can feel Tony’s quick breathing, in-out, in-out, against his neck, from where Tony’s head is resting on his shoulder. It feels right.
“I think my legs may be about to give out.” Steve murmurs, kissing the top of Tony’s head.
“I have that effect on people.” Tony grins, still sounding breathy around the edges. Steve laughs, but Tony moves away from him, takes him by the hands and walks backward in practiced ease of knowing Steve’s apartment well enough. He stops in front of the fireplace on the far wall and pulls Steve in for a long, lingering kiss, runs his hands through Steve’s short hair, down his neck, shoulders, arms.
They end up curled together on the rug in front of the fireplace, buried under two separate blankets and enjoying lazy, familiar kisses.
Outside the windows, the promised snow is falling softly downwards, settling on busy streets and bustling sidewalks, on harried cabs and disgruntled commuters. On brick and stone. On glass and steel.
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That was sweet, natural and comfortable, it honest feels like reading the characters straight from the comics.
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This was incredibly cute/sweet/perfect. I like the vague!sex. It's very visual, and graphic (while fun!) isn't always the best choice. Plus the end is just ridiculously sweet :)
It also makes me miss winter so much. Winter here is pointless.
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...
^__________^
that´s all to say^^
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“I think my legs may be about to give out.” Steve murmurs, kissing the top of Tony’s head.
“I have that effect on people.” That line is great and so very Tony! I also adore how you described Steve's surprise at Tony going anywhere by subway (?) and this bit:
Steve straightens up, and laughs softly at Tony’s windblown hair and red cheeks.
There is something wonderful in the image of Tony looking like that. ^^
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Several people have already commented on how well you got across the feel of winter, but you also really got across the fell of being in a city.
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He likes it when his hands are busy; when he can twine his fingers into things, twist them around bits and pieces of metal and circuitry
And just like that, I knew you were doing Tony pov (which is around-about way of saying: nice characterization detail. Also one that I, as a fidgety person, can really easily sympathize with).
You're in DC? I lived within a couple hour's driving distance of DC until this past July, when I moved to NYC.