Indecency (Can't Get My Hands Off Of You): A Steve/Tony fic

A short fluff/smut fic while I’m still working out how to finish the other one. Enjoy \o/


They’re hiding between the history and autobiography shelves in the small bookstore, kissing, grabbing, stifling each other’s noises with their mouths.

“Steve,” Tony whispers into Steve’s neck, into his mouth, his flushed cheeks.

“We really”—Steve lets out a soft gasp—“have to stop.”

Tony presses his body closer to Steve, pushing him against the shelf. He leaves a trail of kisses down Steve’s neck. “Are you sure?” He whispers against his collarbone.

“No,” Steve laughs without a sound, and Tony looks up just to watch that smile like a sunrise.

“Just a few more minutes then we’ll go back to being decent human beings.”

They were getting lost in each other’s mouths when they heard a high pitched voice say, “You’re in the wrong section.”

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anonymous asked:

Steve proposing to Tony!

Omg this is going to be so cliche but akslhklgh

If you asked me what year it was, I’d still get it wrong the first try. I’ve been in this time for a while now, but it’s all still so new to me, and everything’s still like bokeh lights, as if I just woke up. Everything’s out of focus, and everything’s just shapeless color in my eyes, and I constantly lose track of what is and what isn’t, and nothing ever stays in place in this fast-track world anymore. 

So when I found something steady, something constant, like new ground under my worn-out shoes, I didn’t take the risk of losing it again. I found something- someone- that put the colors where they belong. Someone who shook me every morning like an electric current. I don’t care if the shocks might kill me. It doesn’t matter because I’m alive again and I wouldn’t give that up for anything. 

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Forget the way letters hold hands when you read a book, the way the colors contrast or compliment blue, the way the notes seem to be strummed on broken heart strings;

Instead, hold out to the tail of the e, dive into the burning, hypnotizing, dizzying lagoon of various hues plucked from irises and tree trunks and the breath of the sea, and let your fingers stretch to the horizon, let your lips fall open like gates to Olympus to give way to confessions and speeches and unsung memories;

Instead, wrap your body in the pages stained with ink and covered with doors, taste the pink of her tongue and the gold of his skin, the bloody war in the dusk atmosphere, catch the whole notes and half notes and quarter rests like falling stars to keep in your rib cage;

Instead, immerse yourself in the song of poetry, in the frozen dance of portraits and landscapes, in the literature of the music coming from behind your sternum;

Remember—you are a soul painted in words, written in notes, and sung in a spectrum of colors.

Remember—you carry the universe in the constellations in your eyes and the galaxies formed at the sound of your voice.

Remember—you can fight like a warrior, dress like a queen, dance like a child, and love with the northern lights in your eyes.

Remember—an open palm isn’t a sign of empty pockets, and open windows aren’t always invitations for thieves.

Remember—those palms make monuments, those windows welcome the sunshine and the wind carrying our songs home, there are always hymns to sing and sunbeams to fall through.

Remember—keep your fingers wrapped around lightning and pen, and dance to the loud hum of thunder.

Remember this.

Remember the sound of this. The curve of the s as your tongue hits the back of your teeth. The anatomy of the i like the lamppost in a city of arrows.

Remember—this is where you will realize that mirrors are nothing but light baskets that fail to see the light emanating from you.

Remember, at the very heart of this—art alone catches the reflection of the soul.

—  lian m.s., Friendly Reminders