𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃.

— but strong, defined. Nimble fingers fiddle with wires above his head. His side profile is angelic.

— how he sees him. Even black and white, light haloes greying curls and smooths out ageing skin. A few days of stubble—where his sharp goatee hasn’t been shaped—stretches down his throat, tapering at his Adam’s apple. The muscles in his shoulders and biceps are pronounced; slender and lean, —

The chair squeaks, straining under two-hundred and forty pounds, wheels kinked outward, unable to hold all that weight 𝙖𝙣𝙙 turn smoothly. Steve goes with it, no protest, uncovering his sketch as he’s spun around.

“Well, 𝘶𝘩, it ain’t finished yet, 𝙗𝙪𝙩—”

His picture of Tony is a reflection of —

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#SEDUCTIVESUNDAY

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— He sets his pencil down in the crease of his sketchbook’s spine and holds both against his thigh.

“You’re a beautiful creature, Tony. I want to do you justice. Which requires me to 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦.”

And Steve’s appreciated every second of it, truly. But he’s no fool. He knows Tony’s body inside and out; he knows when he’s flexing his muscles unnecessarily. 𝐍𝐨𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 pops their tricep quite so theatrically when they’re wrenching a pipe. It’s no secret that it’s all been for his viewing pleasure.

—

— is a whole different story.

Ears still ringing from all that 𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜, Steve doesn’t bother denying the charge, “Like I said, 𝙡𝙤𝙪𝙙. Couldn’t hear myself think. Five more minutes, an’ I’d’ve been bleedin’ outta my eyeballs.”

Though many write him off as old-fashioned, Steve’s not actually opposed to modern music. Classic rock, especially, is quite enjoyable. The 𝘵𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘨 of an electric guitar gives him goosebumps.

Tony’s usual playlist is palatable; he has no problem with it.

… Whatever was playing today, however, —

— Thankfully, his precious drawing remains untouched.

“How can you work in this mess? It’s so…” He scans the rooms with a grimace, “𝙇𝙤𝙪𝙙.”

Thick and molasses-like, oil splatters diagonally across Steve’s face, over the bridge of his nose, painting freckles there. He flinches, dirty blond eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, head reeling in, a tortoise retreating into its shell; startled, but in a demure way.

—

The 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩-𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩-𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 of a graphite pencil on textured paper gets drowned out by the 𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 and 𝙗𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙜 of a busy workshop. Steve, a calm presence in the eye of the storm, draws wispy lines that capture @alloysavvy.bsky.social’s likeness, candid, oil stained, 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥—his polar opposite.

——

— *Flustered, he laughs something strained, and allows the back of his head to thump gently against one of the taller shelves, face upturned toward a high ceiling.*

*A shop assistant wheels a squeaky cart full of discounted goods past, turning only briefly to look down the aisle at them.*

*Tony has 𝘶𝘯𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 control over Steve’s body. Close proximity, even without contact, has the hairs on his nape and arms standing to attention, and an icy chill trickling down his spine like a rivulet of seawater. He sucks air sharply through clenched teeth, jaw wired shut.*

—

— 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘚𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘴, grinning ear-to-ear, bashful.*

*They bump and sway, joined hands swinging between them, juvenile.*

… You might just be the sweetest treat there ever was.

*At the mouth of the aisle, feeling adventurous, contrary to what his blush may suggest, a little less concerned about how they’re perceived now that he’s confident they aren’t being observed, Steve gives in to his urge to crowd Tony’s space. He backs him past a row of 𝘰𝘢𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘴 and —

You think I believe a word of it?

… What’re you doing here, Loki?

Well, 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺 keep your hands where I can see ‘em.

*That worries him. It’s no secret that Tony has an absurdly 𝘯𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘺 side. He dreads to think what he’d suggest, if Steve weren’t such a stickler for the rules, social and legal.*

We don’t need to find out. I’m not comin’ to your rescue if you get arrested for public indecency.

Didn’t know you were capable.

*A comment that earns him a wide-eyed glare.*

𝐓𝐨𝐧𝐲! 𝘑𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘴. Keep it down.

*Cheeks burn red.*

Can’t take you anywhere. 𝙂𝙤𝙙. Behave yourself.

*Walks backward, on the lookout for eavesdroppers, hyper-aware despite the store being completely empty.*

*Automatic doors slide apart, into an air-conditioned interior. Muggy weather and open refrigerators create an atmospheric threshold that Steve and Tony cross hand in hand.*

*Head on a swivel, he looks left and right.*

Donut holes, donut holes, donut holes—

𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢-𝘸𝘢𝘺.

*Makes sense. Grocery shopping, if not done online, is Steve’s chore anyway. Nothing’s really changed, with the exception of a thrill-seeking tag-along.*

*Scooting off the bike,* Yeah, yeah. I know the score. Don’t think you’d find the eggs if they were starin’ you in the face.

📲: You’re trouble.

I’ve had wilder rides, *he teases, the suggestive drag of his palm back ‘round Tony’s body a purposeful addition.*

*He pops his helmet off, tucking it under his arm. Blond hair, longer than it’s been in some time, falls over his eyes, unkempt.*

Not sure I’ve ever seen you in a shop before.

📲: You’re 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 Felicia.

📲: I’ve heard a lot about you.

*A near miss, adrenaline is quick to flood his body. And from it, like watering a bulb, blooms 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙡𝙡. Steve’s fingers curl into the leather at Tony’s stomach, knuckles white. He tips his head forward, bumping helmets, 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.*

*Over barrelling wind,* You’re gonna be the death of me, you know!

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐍
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TONY STARK
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