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gaiuswrites · 4 years ago

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King of Cups || Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Page of Swords

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | three

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: You attempt a new skill. Mando attempts to teach you.

Word count: 4.7k~

Rating: Mature

Warnings/tags: gun usage/mentioning throughout, mature language, pining, more dirty thots-ish, angst because why not, does this count as fluff? sure, gun kink if you squint w/o your glasses

Notes: As the reader (you/us) begins to become more familiar with Mando, his perspective starts bleeding in to the narrative, without a blocked off POV. Also, the reader’s past will start weaving (incoherently?) into the story as well. The large italicized chunks denote past tense interactions (which is probably obvious but who knows any more). Cheers x (gif credit: @djarinsgf)

A shot rings out.

Birds explode from the canopy with offended squawks, squalling in a winged flurry to scatter every which way until they recede again into the green, disappearing back into their hiding places. You groan. You thought you’d be better at this.

It’s not that you thought you were some sort of savant, you just didn’t expect to be this bad. Honestly, it’s embarrassing—you’re embarrassingly terrible— like statistically, you should have hit something by now, but you just keep missing—a crowded tree line in front of you, and not a scratch in sight—nary a singed branch nor a bullet holed trunk. It’s almost impressive how poor of a shot you are—and you would be, if you weren’t so damn exasperated with the whole affair. With a frustrated grunt, you throw your hands up, brandishing the weapon haphazardly.

“Careful,” Mando warns slyly, “you could hurt someone with that thing.”

“Yeah, well at least I’d hit something,” you grumble.

The kid had been fussy - almost unbearably so - in the weeks that followed your short stint on Bajic, and your party was itching for some time off the Razor Crest. After his third tantrum in a day, Mando decided to land on some unknown planet you couldn’t even spell to stretch your legs and take a breather.

You had almost sobbed when you saw him drag his menagerie of weaponry over. You knew what this meant, you knew what came next—his weekly, routine buff.

You think he’s doing it on purpose.

Ever since the first time, when you damn near had a conniption ogling him, you swear it’s like he’s doing it just to mess with you. He isn’t—of course he isn’t, rationally you knew that, in fact there was plenty of evidence to the contrary. He’s a Mandalorian—weapons are apart of his religion for kriff’s sake—but Maker does it seem intentional. Premeditated. It’s like you can feel the blistering ray of his gaze on you as he takes his time, roving a leathered hand over the bulge of the shaft—greasing it, stripping it, part by metal part…

It’s all in your head, you told yourself. It’s all in your fucking head and you need to get a grip.

Immediately you sprang into action, busying yourself with anything you could get your stupid, little hands on—in this case, being one of his many blasters.

“I wanna give it a go,” you said.

He let you, surprisingly. He hesitated, at first, his helmet tipping at a disbelieving angle. But he gave in—it took less effort on your part than you’d figured—and Mando conceded. He obliged.

How hard could it be? You thought.

Famous last words.

He’s parked there, settled on a throne of crates pushed flush to the Crest, slouched against the outer hull of the ship as he cleans, from the looks of it, every item in his arsenal—a front row seat to your pathetic endeavor and you’re failing—epically, ridiculously—shot after errant shot.

You line yourself up, scrunching your face in concentration as you bare the blaster in your hands. Maybe this time…

You fire off a round and an animal scampers scared in the thicket. Nothing. Another sublime miss.

You hear a noise come from Mando’s direction, something subtle like a blip of static through his helmet - Maker, he’s laughing at you - and you pivot around to him.

“What,” you ask, although it's less of a question and more of a griping pout. He replies with silence, that fickle language he's mastered to perfection all on his own, his focus pitched down to the bristled rod he’s driving in and out of his rifle, scouring out the residue from the inner barrel. “Ugh, what Mando?” you say, just shy of a whine, one hand slotted on your hip, the other dangling by your side, the pistol foreign and cumbersome in your grasp.

“Didn’t say anything,” he replies with a half shrug, his pauldrons shifting so imperceptibly you almost miss it. You pause, hurling him a look that misses him completely before you heave a frustrated sound.

“Fine, you show me how it’s done then.”

The T of his visor finds you. Its cold and unknowable as he rolls his helmet, tilting it up to you, hands slowing their ministrations to a rest. He’s wears a glare, carved into the steel hollow of the plates—unamused and smoldering—and with it, you feel small; microscopic and withering under his pointed gaze— suddenly too exposed in the open patch of jungled wilderness they’ve landed in and your mouth tweaks, teeth grazing the plush there. You assume he won’t do it. There’s no way he’ll rise to such obvious of a challenge, but he’s sighing—you can see it in the slant of his armor—and marching towards you before you can take it back, drawing closer and closer until Mando’s slated in front of you, expectant and postured and you forget— like the skip of a record, you forget why he’s even there— not a foot before you— and your eyes dance across his helm, flickering back and forth.

“May I?” he nods down to the pistol in your hand and you start - oh, shit - and offer it to him clumsily.

Mando squares off against the untamed green. The air lays hot and sticky around them. There is no trace of wind, no glimmer of breeze, and his cape hangs mute down his back. You’d never seen him fire his weapon. He surrounded himself with them, sure, always had at least two strapped to him at all times— probably even slept with one, you reckon— but you’ve never seen him use one.

With one solid movement, he cranes his arm, taking aim.

Now, you aren’t one to condone violence, but he just looks right doing it; an extension of himself with how natural it is, how innate— an added appendage, born unto him. The pistol looks good in his fist, like it couldn’t possibly belong anywhere else, the orange tips of his glove curling around the hilt, looping over that sensitive release.

He has practiced hands. Methodical. Sturdy. It’s sensual, to watch him like this. Pornographic even— sacrilege in a way. A part of you wants to look away and turn your gaze, grant him privacy as he handles the blaster— delicately, confidently. It’s intimate.

The pistol croons in his palm. She bends, supple and lilting. He knows just where to touch, where to stroke— she does anything he tells her. She melts for him.

Warmth pools in your mouth. Mando pulls the trigger.

He lands an impressive shot onto an impossibly narrow tree trunk nestled further in, and your features contort with amazement. Maybe you want to see it again—like a nosy neighbor peeping in through drawn curtains. Maybe you’re being reckless and smarmy, and maybe you know it. A Mandalorian’s got a gun in his hand and you’re prodding him - brilliant strategy, top marks - but your adrenaline is pumping something fierce and you feel yourself grow bold with each seize of your heart.

“Lucky shot,” you huff.

He pans to you, lolling his head, visor locked onto your face. Without flinching, without gracing you with a remark, he raises his arm and fires— doesn’t even have to kriffing look. The scorch mark sizzles - haughtily, jeering - no more than a few inches away from the first. You nearly choke on the arrogance of it— the lazy, smug performance— like he can’t be bothered with any of it, as if your taunts are all so beneath him.

You have to bite down on your lip to stop it from snaking into a wicked grin.

Mando offers the pistol back to you, flipping it grip-side up in a fancy flourish before striding - strutting - back to his post. You shake your head, a determined set to your jaw and you retake your aim, squinting in the hazy afternoon light, pulling the trigger— and nothing happens.

Again, click. Nothing, click after fruitless click. You make a face, pinching—

“Safety’s on.”

You flush, thanking the Maker that your back is towards him, and switch it down with your thumb. “Right,” you mumble sheepishly, wetting your lip. You align your sights, bracing yourself for the impact—

“It’s your stance.”

Three words.

Three words, the only solace Mando provides before devoutly returning to his work.

You wait for him to elaborate, to edify you— for any manner of sage advice— but the explanation never comes; he leaves you like this, marooned with three fucking words and you have to screw your eyes shut. This man is baffling— maddeningly unhelpful— infuriatingly sparse. It makes you want to howl and rip your hair out— and you whip around violently.

“What about my st-”

Your question comes scampering to a halt, tail between your legs, throat gone dry. Mando has planted himself directly behind you— standing so close you can see your reflection in his beskar, see the blush blurring your cheek under the alien sun.

“What uh, what about my stance?” you ask, mousier now, swallowed up by the sheer size of him so near to you.

“It’s not wide enough.”

You glance down at your feet before looking back up to him. “What do you mean?”

“Turn around,” he says.

You quirk your brow at him before he repeats himself. “Turn around and spread your legs. Hips distance apart.”

Fuck, he has no business sounding like that— like bourbon and smoke and iron tang—but you do as he says. You’re shakier than you want to be— you wish you could be cool and collected but you’re not. You’re anything but, and you’re nervous. Maker, Mando makes you nervous— it’s not just the weapon in your hand, it’s him— setting you off and giving you butterflies like you’re some sort of forlorn schoolgirl. You’re a grown woman, and this is what he’s rendered you to— jittery, molten mush. It’s embarrassing. Fucking mortifying.

You guess it’s the day for it.

He doesn’t touch you, but it hardly matters; you can sense him there all the same, a shadow in your peripheral. He leaves a thick breath of space between your bodies and with your back towards him, you can feel the waves of heat radiate off the bounty hunter, pulsing out out out from him and it’s almost intolerable— as if you’ve flown too close to the sun, waxed wings melting in pearled streaks down your spine.

You scuttle your feet open, parting just outside your hips.

“Arms up,” he says, and you hoist them into position. You’re sure you look as awkward as you feel, if not more, all the angles of your body feeling perfectly wrong and misplaced. “Relax your elbows,” he adds, and you do— you try to, at least.

“Too much. Somewhere in between.”

You try again, strengthening through your triceps and down your forearms.

“Better,” Mando gives. You think you feel him nodding approvingly behind you. “The important-”

Kriff, you panic.

You spin towards him, dropping your form and cutting him off with a humbled, worried look, throwing up barricades and hurdles— landmines for him to dodge. Or step on.

“Wait hey Mando, you don’t- I don’t want to take up your time,” you begin.

“You aren’t.”

“I’m serious, I don’t want to bother you with this.”

“You’re not.”

You blink.

“If you’re going to do this, you’re going to do it right.”

He speaks so plainly, unvarnished and matte— unflinchingly earnest in a way that gives you pause. It leaves no wiggle room for interpretation and you sigh, defeated, shoulders slumping as you haul yourself back around.

“Arms up,” he reiterates, but there’s no malice there; he sounds kind— untroubled. It always surprises you how mild he can be— Mando should be anything but, he’d have every reason to, but he’s calm. Patient. You wonder if he even realizes it, if he even recognizes the tenor of his own voice— how gentle it can be— under the helmet. Despite it.

“Think of your posture as firm, without tensing,” Mando explains. “Soften your knees, don’t lock them— same goes for your arms— don’t stiffen against the recoil, let your body absorb it.”

You mirror what he coaches, shooting him a curious, hopeful look over your shoulder.

“There. Good,” he says. “Now, which is your dominant eye?”

Your arms fall down to your sides. “My what?”

“Dominant eye.”

You give him a baffled look like he’s speaking another language - in all fairness, he is - and Mando emits another puff of air through his modulator, chortling.

“Eye dominance. We’re all either right handed or left handed. Eyes work the same— right eyed or left eyed. We favor one or the other— you’ll focus that one to aim.”

Oh, huh.

You still appreciatively, basking in the novelty of the information. “Really? I didn’t know that. That’s- that’s actually pretty interesting,” you muse. “Brains and brawn, huh?” You flash a cheeky grin back at him.

Mando grunts, nondescript and unaffected and robotic but he swears he can feel pink creep over his clavicle, tainting the tan of his skin concealed there.

He fits his gloved hand over yours, if only for a second, and you do your best to ignore the rough patch of his leather grazing against the thin flesh there. You try to ignore the chill that sweeps across the curve of your waist, how the peach fuzz prickles up, electrified and magnetized, as he unfurls your fingers from the gun, letting it slip from your grasp. He tucks it under his arm, keeping it pinned there with his bicep.

“Hold your hands out like this.” Mando shows you, creating an oval with his fingers— like a view finder or a scope. You mimic him, feeling like every bit of an idiot, but you don’t contradict him— you do as he does. “Now, set your focus out on a fixed point through your hands,” he instructs and you do, setting your sights on a gnarled tree branch.

“Got it?” he asks.

“Got it,” you respond.

“Now alternate closing each eye. The image should stay in the frame with one, and then shift out of it with the other.”

You frown, concentrating, and close the right before blinking over to the left— kriff, he’s right.

“Oh shit,” you mumble. “My left. It’s my left eye.”

“You sure?”

You check again, squinting through either eye, the tree bouncing in and out of the frame of your fingers. “Mhm. Yeah, my left eye keeps it centered.”

He makes a thoughtful sound. “Left eyed but right handed. Interesting,” Mando murmurs.

You glance up to him, dropping your hands. “Why is that interesting?”

“Not common. The brain’s typically wired the same way all the way down— one side of the body will be dominant. It’s not usually split.”

“You telling me my brain doesn’t work properly, Mando?” you quip dryly.

“You said it, not me.”

He holds the blaster out to you and you swipe it from him with a huffed snort, returning towards the tree line and stars your face hurts. Your face hurts and it’s burning with this asinine smile that’s digging mercilessly into your cheeks. It makes you want to massage your jaw, get the damn thing to relax. Honestly, it makes you want to give yourself a slap.

“Make sure to cross your center with it. Line it up towards the left.”

“Maker, do you think about all this every time you shoot?” you ask, mystified, as you fix your aim.

“Muscle memory takes over eventually. You’ll get there with enough practice.” Mando replies gruffly and you guffaw, loud and wonderfully ugly. You seriously doubt it.

After a series of very near misses— you are getting closer, you’ll give yourself that— your arms grow tired; the joints and muscles protest as you extend them out from your body, taut and tense— the gun dead weight in your wobbly hands.

Your shoulder smarts where you injured the tendon in the explosion. You roll it out, earning snaps and pops as it notches over the bone there. They told you you were lucky. They congratulated you - it’s not a complete tear! - and it’s on the mend well enough, but it’s weak. It doesn’t matter the weight of the object.

The longer you hold anything, the heavier it feels.

You suppose you could throw in the towel at any point, but the fact of the matter— as terrible and true as it may be— is you want to impress him. That awful, nagging feeling— you want to impress the Mandalorian. You want him proud of you— you want to be nice and shiny for him to admire, like one of the guns he polishes until it’s sparkling, until he can mount it on display and show it off. It’s absolutely nauseating— but you couldn’t stop it even if you wanted to, and you don’t. You don’t want to.

He isn’t blind to it. He sees the exertion, the tax— how beads of sweat congress around your temples, dampening the base of your scalp, butterfly kissing your skin with a sheen. A trail of wet salt, one lone pilgrim, ventures down the back of your neck, wandering lower and lower, past the hem of your shirt, disappearing into the soft valley of your spine where Mando can’t follow. His throat bobs rough against his cowl.

Transferring the pistol into one hand, you shake out the other, flexing through it and relaxing your grip.

“Wait,” he says and you cock your head back at him. Mando’s retreating to his pile of guns, rifling through the metal anthill before selecting something sleek and chrome. “Here,” you exchange pistols, giving him back the bulkier of the two. Immediately you feel the relief of this new one— it’s lighter and smaller, slighter in your grasp, too— and you turn it over in your hands, noting the way the nozzlelike barrel glitters in the sun.

You’d almost consider it pretty if it weren’t a literal killing machine.

“That’s a CDEF model. Lightweight, reliable, Dedlanite casing, standard issue for CorSec officers.”

You nod along, as if you have any clue what he’s talking about— you don’t. You really, truly don’t.

“Should be easier.”

“Mm,” you hum out in ignorant agreement, slotting your arms back up into position.

“Don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to fire.” You rest it against the slide of the barrel, hovering nearby.

Mando shifts closer towards you, the grass grinding under his feet as he takes a half step in to your backside.

“Breathe. Don’t hold it in. Let me hear it.”

Fuck, this feels like a sin; this small gap of distance he’s erected between you as tense, as strained and feverish, as whispered confessions in the dark. Like sneaking back into your parent’s house late at night— the morning moon peering down at you with a heavy lidded gaze— knowing, knowing, keeping your secrets to herself, pressing them to her chest, winking sleepily.

It would be so much easier, so much simpler, if he just put his hands on you. Placed your body where he knows it should be, force you into the shapes and positions he’s so intimate with himself, but he doesn’t. He draws it out. He respects your space and autonomy and it makes it worse. Your imagination fills the void separating you two, and it’s running wild and rampant and depraved and—

“Focus,” he utters, his voice no louder than a purr. You’ve never heard something so mechanical make a sound so deliriously smooth, and you have to suppress a nervous scoff. Focus, he says, as if he isn’t suffocating you with how close he’s standing— as if you aren’t enjoying it— as if you aren’t vibrating down to your very bones at the proximity of the bounty hunter—so close, you bet he can hear them, rattling and slapping against each other deep beneath your skin.

“Remember what I said about your posture,” he suggests quiet-like and murmured, without a trace of condescension there—a harmless reminder. You make the adjustment, fixing your shoulders down your back, and release the stress in your arms.

“Firm without tensing,” you respond under your breath—more for your sake than his— striking it from your mental checklist.

“‘Atta girl.”

No.

No no no, Maker, you feel it. You can fucking feel it—how something low and resonant spasms beyond your belly, the clench of your empty cunt at the encouragement—the heady praise of it all.

Atta girl.

He said it softly - rudely husky - just above a whisper, something tailored specifically for you—almost like it slipped from his lips and he didn’t even notice its passing. It meandered out of him, so easy—too easy. It practically sauntered.

You’re trembling— stars, you hope Mando doesn’t see it. It’s humid and muggy and yet you’re shaking as if it’s freezing, as if you’ve got icicled snot dripping from your nose, and your nerves go haywire, fraying in every direction as you sip in a whistled breath.

You can do this. You can do this. Focus.

“Take the shot,” he orders.

Focus.

Pressing into the slope of the trigger, you fire.

You gasp excitedly— a surprised, whooping laugh tearing through you and you whip around, giddy and beaming - bright, beautiful - a lock of hair sticking to your lip. It’s the youngest, the freest, Mando’s ever seen you; maybe the happiest, too, and his stomach twists at the sight, a tourniquet cinching around him, winding and coiling until he’s convinced it’ll burst. His fingers twitch, every instinct begging him— demanding him— to reach out and return the stray strand behind your ear alongside the others but you beat him to it. Deftly, you flit it away yourself instead, and he’s relieved.

Devastated, too. Gutted.

“Did you see that?” you ask, gleeful as a child.

He pries himself off you, dragging his gaze over your shoulder to where you struck the trunk, a coaled mark charred there into the bark, before returning his attention back to you. You meet his eyes, despite the blackness of his helm— you hold them, for a breathless, ageless moment, you hold him there.

“Not bad.”

He can’t muffle the jolt of his heart as it rumbles through his chest, breaking his mouth wide open into an aching smirk. He doesn’t know if you hear it. He fears you might.

He prays you do.

///

“Cooling vents,”

Metal scrapes against the table as you place the delicate bits down, deconstructing the blaster. The Mandalorian nods, silent as a specter.

“Gas refill valve,”

Another clunk.

“Actuating blaster…” You turn over a particularly knobby bulb before peeking up at Mando through your lashes, a wry grin tugging rosy and coy at your lips. “… thing-”

“Module,” Din corrects.

“Module, right, that’s what I said.”

He sits across the galley from you, arms folded over his chest as he eases back against the hull of the ship, overseeing as you take apart the blaster, the slender little thing he gave to you - he rarely uses it anyways - as you name the pieces and parts just like he’s taught you.

“Keep it,” he told you.

You resisted. You fought it, laughed it off incredulously— stubborn to the end— argued you wouldn’t even have a need for it.

“What am I gonna do with a gun, Mando?” you balked, and Maker he’d hoped you’d never have to use it, would never have to see a firefight in your damn life let alone be in the middle of one, but he wants you to have it— have a part of him, strapped to your hip— the closest he’ll get.

He’s selfish. Din is a greedy, selfish man. He wants to see himself on you, wants you to carry him around like a souvenir from something unforgettable— something irreplaceable— a memory like warm bathwater you dip into long after it passes, and he’ll take whatever he can get— just like you, hungry for anything you’re gracious enough to feed him. And fuck, if he doesn’t hate it— doesn’t want to bury that feeling, cold and lifeless, six feet under the earth. No ceremony. No elegies. Dead and gone, returning to the dust from whence it came, crawling back into the ribcage it sprung from.

Din said your name. Firm— gentle, too.

“Keep it.”

They’ve been at this ever since you managed to hit the target that first time. Hours have passed, dawdling by on the fat little legs of a toddler, plodding and slow. The sun had set, and winged bugs the length of your palm had taken up residency in the dark rainforest, making themselves known with a haunting tune, screeching and singing into the lush wood. After the child had tried making a pass at one, no doubt in the mood for a quick snack - isn’t he always - you had agreed to retire back inside the Crest.

You were so excited, your whole face lit up— like fireworks he remembered once, through the eyes of a boy in the summered night— and you wanted more; like a sponge, sopping up all you could, sucking Din in and ringing him out for it and fuck, he couldn’t say no.

He can’t say no to you.

You start prattling out questions about everything and nothing - what blaster do you prefer, do you have a favorite rifle, what’s the difference between plasma and gas charges, you have a flamethrower on your wrist? - and before long you get him lecturing, going on about weapon safety and trigger discipline and slide bites and ammunition rounds and gun brands and serial numbers and Din knows this isn’t you. You’re a borderline pacifist for kriff’s sake— he’s almost certain that if push came to shove, you’d rather lay down your life than take one. You’re no gunslinger, and you don’t hold any aspirations to become one.

But here you are, fist tucked under your chin and leaning in to him, hanging off his every word.

You have no personal interest in weapons. Frankly you’d be pleased if you never held a gun again in your life. No, and whether Mando realizes it or not, you want to know because it’s him. You want to know him. And maybe it’s because its the most he’s given to you since you stepped foot aboard the Razor Crest— almost a month, and what you’ve gotten from him today alone has been more than he’s given in weeks— not a door so much as it is a window into his life, an allowance, a glimpse behind the beskar. Its more attention, more words and insights, more tiny gestures and maybe you’ve been a little starved for it— maybe you’ll eat up any scraps Mando tosses with a calloused glove, molded and rotting, from his plate.

Even if it’s this, even if its fucking firearms.

You want to know.

It’s who you are: it doesn’t matter what someone’s passionate about, you’re interested in their interests. You care what they care about. If they matter, then it matters. It’s who you are, webbed and weaved into the innermost fabric of your being, and you can’t pretend to be anything else; you don’t know how to unbecome.

You’re splayed before him— a bleating heart, kaleidoscoping and blooming and twisting in his hands. If only you could pry open your chest— turn yourself inside out at the seams, spill yourself to splatter, sanguined and slippery right there on the deck. You’d do it, if you could.

Am I loving enough Am I giving enough Have I paid my debts Am I worth this now, finally— Worth that which I offer, have I earned it back

So effortless, this vignette, seated here in his galley, dismembering a blaster and labeling the parts, terminology klutzy on your tongue— tripping over yourself just to get it out— looking to him for hints and clues, fluttering your doe eyes with cartoonish bats.

He answers. You laugh. He smiles.

The kid is in his pram, entranced by all the shiny baubles and bobbins just out of his reach - thank the Maker - and giggles at their little game— happy, for once, just to watch.

You and me both kid, Din thinks. You and me both.

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fantasticfemmefatale · 4 years ago

Text

Cold- Spencer Reid

not my gif

SUMMARY: reader is kinda bad at dealing with cold weather lmao, Spencer is rlly sweet, and everyone is happy for once in their trauma-filled lives. i live for this man. there’s some slight emily x reader if you use a microscope, i guess.

WARNINGS: fluff, canon atypical happiness, there’s this one homophobe in it, they should burn

Cold.

It was cold.

Had you left a window open?

No, the window on your side of the bed was still firmly shut.

Why was it so cold?

You rolled over, on the couch, eyes screwed shut, half desperate for his warmth although you’d promised you’d give him space, after you were nearly on top of him when you two woke up last time.

Oh.

That’s why it was cold.

Sliding out of bed and grabbing your fuzzy robe off the floor, you somehow managed to make it out of the room while only tripping once. You wanted to laugh at him, tell him depressed elephant who? I am graceful after all, loser! However, gloating in his face required having his face nearby.

Where was he?

You thought back to those crappy stories you’d heard from Emily of sleazy guys in bars who’d scramble for a hook up then leave a girl high and dry before sunrise. But he couldn’t do that if you hadn’t hooked up, right? If he was just a friend who’d come knocking at your door at 8:43 for your biweekly movie night, then got stuck at your apartment because of the storm? Although, you wished he was more than a friend.

A sharp hiss resounded from the kitchen, followed by the faucet running, as you padded in.

“Spence?”

His head shot up fast, like a puppy caught dragging trash through the house. He shut off the faucet with his right hand, and reached for a towel to dry his left as he spoke.

“(Y/N). Hi. Hotch called me saying we had a case, and I told him you were here with me so he didn’t need to call you, and I just thought I’d make you coffee before I woke you up,” he explained with a small, tired smile and equally tired eyes.

“Did you burn yourself?” you questioned, remembering the commotion when you’d walked in.

“Uh, yeah.”

You laughed slightly, one of those sharp nose exhales accompanied by a half smile when you just can’t laugh at the moment. Frankly, you were far too exhausted. You took the mug he was holding outstretched towards you with a grateful smile, returning to your room to get dressed. The warm mug contrasted deliciously with the cold air of your apartment. You didn’t need to tell Spencer that he could change in the bathroom if he needed to; he already knew. After the first time you’d been called in to work while Spencer was staying over, you’d developed a system. He brought his go-bag over with him, leaving it next to the door along with his Converse that you always said made him look like he was still 12. He’d bring two extra pairs of clothes to leave at your apartment, one for when you left and another, comfier pair for your return. Then, he’d gather anything he’d left in your apartment and walk down to his own. It was funny, honestly, how his apartment was just three floors down from your own and yet he refused to leave his stuff there. He’d ramble on about how but leaving my stuff at your apartment saves 9 minutes and 27 seconds, and that’s time we could be spending saving lives, and-

You left your room, dressed in black skinny jeans, combat boots, and an army green long sleeve with the sleeves pushed up to your elbows at the same time Spencer exited the bathroom in Converse, brown pants, a vest, and a button-down shirt. No words were spoken as you two grabbed your duffels from where they were sitting near your door, and Spencer grabbed his messenger bag as well, slinging it over his shoulder in the most uncoordinated way possible while simultaneously trying to open your door, resulting in him on the floor with a loud grunt. You laughed, loud and clear, and you grabbed his wrist and helped him to his feet, opening the door and locking it securely behind you.

The bullpen was colder than your apartment had been, you thought with a shiver as you walked in, with Spencer falling into step behind you. Still slightly groggy and nursing the coffee from Spencer- which you’d transferred to an insulated water bottle prior to leaving- you stayed quiet through Penelope’s run-down of the case and Hotch’s typical wheels up in 30.

On the plane, you sat on the couch with Spencer, careful to leave an inch between you two. In the two years you’d known each other, he’d warmed up enough that you could touch him some, but you tried not to do anything more than the occasional hug or shoulder pat when the time called for it. Right now, nothing was calling except sleep. Just by looking outside the window, you swore you could practically feel the frigid night air of Wisconsin, the lovely location of today’s deranged criminal, a kidnapper. When you voiced your feelings about the cold to Spencer, he spewed facts from who-knows-where about different places the air could possibly get into the plane, meaning you weren’t just making up the feeling. You listened attentively, knowing how much it meant to him when he didn’t get cut off for once. After all, he just wanted to help.

The plane landed, and you were the first one out.

Cold.

It was cold.

And you forgot a jacket, idiot.

Morgan chuckled as he passed by you, clad in a t-shirt, no less, saying, “Cold, baby?”

“As if.”

You were in an interrogation room.

It was less cold than the rest of the precinct, but still chilly.

The woman in front of you, a blond, small thing, looked to be no less than 20. And yet, she was kidnapping the children she babysat for after their parents returned, then trying to pass them off as her own. She was kidnapping the children of same-sex couples, a religious fanatic who believed that being anything but straight was worse than murder. Wow.

Screw homophobes.

Honestly, the case had wrapped itself up fairly well, complete with a glittery red bow, once Penelope- thank god- had figured out that each family had used the same babysitter at least once. Rebecca Umbrige. To be fair, the team had spent a while focusing on the same-sex couples aspect of it, only to change paths after all that turned up from that was dead ends. Then Rebecca came into the picture and brought everything together nicely.

With that red bow, of course.

Still, one more thing was needed.

A confession.

Emily was in the interrogation room with you, watching as you took the lead. You were hoping to get something out of her through subtle hints at attraction between you two, and it worked, eventually.

All it took was holding Emily’s hand. Sad.

Emily laughed as Rebecca was dragged out of the room in handcuffs, earning her a stern look from Hotch when the two of you left as well.

Ugh, why did the rest of the precinct have to be so cold?

The plane ride home was uneventful, and so was leaving the bullpen after the last of the paperwork was finished, just before midnight three days after you’d left. Until, at least, Spencer jogged up to you, brown curls waving wildly in the D.C. wind, asking, “Wanna go out?”

“Like a date?” you asked, incredulous. If it was a date though, you wouldn’t be upset. You’d had a not-so-small and not-so-sneaky crush on him for almost the entire time you’d known him.

He stopped suddenly, speaking so fast it was a miracle he could get the words out at all.

“Slow down, Spence.”

“I just meant, maybe we could go get hot chocolate, or coffee, or whatever, and then just walk around D.C. or something? I don’t think I can sleep right now,” he blurted, brown doe eyes watching you expectantly in that way that made your heart flutter.

“I’m cold”, you said, almost pouting like a child.

He laughed for a second at that. “We can stop by your apartment first and change if you want.”

26 minutes later, according to Spencer, the two of you arrived at the doorstep of a slightly shady 24-hour coffee shop that Waze had been all too happy to lead you to. After getting some surprisingly good lattes, you two wandered aimlessly around D.C., occasionally bumping shoulders from how close you were. He’d tell you the history behind different buildings and monuments you passed, and you’d interrupt every few minutes because oH MY GOD SPENCE THAT HOUSE LOOKS LIKE A FACE!, or, LOOK THAT CLOUD LOOKS LIKE A BUTT!

Spencer laughed every time you got distracted, letting his eyes linger just a few seconds too long on your face when it lit up like a kid’s on Christmas, wanting to commit your face without stress, or fear, or anger to memory. Moments like these didn’t come often in your line of work.

When you realized it was starting to snow, Spencer swore he’d never seen you look this stunning, bundled up in one of his sweaters that you’d stolen months ago, with rosy cheeks and a red nose to match, eyes glimmering with excitement and lips spread wide in a smile and you spun around, eyes on the sparkling sky above.

Eventually, he said, “(Y/N)?” in a voice barely above a whisper.

Your head whipped around, and you stopped suddenly, all your attention focused on Spencer, something that never failed to make him feel cared for. “Yeah?”

He didn’t answer, instead slowly reaching out to hug you, the first physical contact between you he’d ever initiated. His arms around your waist were uncertain, and he haltingly rested his head on your shoulder, thankful you couldn’t see him grinning like an idiot. As soon as you hugged back, he pulled you in closer in a bone-crushing hug that you could’ve sworn made time stop.

“(Y/N)?” he mumbled against your skin.

“Yeah?”

“I know I said this wasn’t a date, but if you wanted it to be one, maybe it could be one?”

“I’d like that, Spencer.”

Cold.

It was cold.

But with Spencer holding onto you like there was no tomorrow, you were much, much warmer.

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fangirl-writes · 4 years ago

Text

The Brewed

Benny Weir x Reader

Warning(s): None

Notes: A little treat for my MBAV followers. You can thank @faithiebrock01 for the request and I hope I fulfilled your expectations! This episode was hard to write for because it jumped around so much.

Summary: Follows the plot of Season 1 Episode 11 “The Brewed”

If someone had told you that morning that you were going to be up against zombie versions of your high school teachers-

Well, you probably would have believed them.

You grew up across the street from Benny and Ethan and consequently were best friends with the nerd squad.

And you’d been through a lot. So, really, it wouldn’t have surprised you.

But any warning would have been nice.

Because barricading yourself in the girls bathroom wasn’t how you wanted your afternoon to go.

“Ethan!” You cried. “Benny! Someone! Help!”

With your back against the door, you fumble in your pocket for your cell phone. Hitting Benny’s number. “Come on, Come on, Ben, pick up your phone.”

“Y/N?”

“Benny!”

“Oh, hot stuff, thank God you’re safe! Where are you?”

“In the girls bathroom by the science lab. Where are you?”

“Too far away from there.” Benny said. “We’re in the bathroom on the other side of the school. Sarah’s not picking up, Erica’s MIA , and we’re not desperate enough to call Rory yet. But don’t worry. Teacher’s will never enter a student washroom.”

“I don’t think the unwritten rules of education apply when they’re mindless zombies, Ben,”

“You know who’s fault this really is? Sarah’s. ‘Why don’t you fight your own battles.’”

There was a banging noise and Benny screamed before the line went dead.

“Benny? Benny? Hello?” You started panicking. What happened? Did the zombie teachers get Benny?

You chewed on your lip in worry.

Yeah, you were worried about Ethan, too, he was your best friend, but Benny...

Well, with Benny there was always something else there. A aching feeling in your chest whenever he would flirt with other girls, butterflies in your stomach when he would compliment you or save you from the supernatural thing of the day. You loved all your friends, but Benny...you loved Benny more.

There was banging outside the door and you pressed yourself up against it, trying to keep whatever it was out.

“Y/N! It’s us! Ethan and Benny!”

“Benny?” You threw open the door and jumped into his arms.

“Hey, I’m here, too,” Ethan pouted.

You smiled and quickly hugged him.

“Come on, let’s go before they come back.”

As you all made your way to the science lab, they caught you up to speed on the zombie situation with the coffee, the ectoplasmic refractor, and the pig brain.

“Who would have thought that the bio-lab had such big pig brains,” Benny said, staring at the jar with a weird kind of joy.

“I guess, I did,” Ethan replied, grabbing the handle to the teacher’s lounge.

“Into the lion’s den, you muttered and you all stuck your heads in the room.

“Ok, over there, follow me,” Ethan whispered, crouching and crawling under the teacher’s foosball table.

Ethan went first, followed by you, and then Benny who was covering you as the zombies walked by, groaning.

“Ok, so,” Ethan hit Benny’s arm as he watched the teacher stalk by, his hands grabbing your arms, protectively. “we throw the pig brain, grab the coffee, and we’re home free.”

“I don’t think you understand the meaning of home-free.”

You glared at Benny as his phone rang.

“Turn that thing off!”

“Oh, so when I tried to call you again you didn’t answer but now-”

“Not the time, Y/N!”

“Hello? I can’t talk right- What? Really? That’s amazing.”

“Benny!” Ethan whisper-shouted.

“500 minutes, unlimited text. 30 bucks! That’s good, right?”

“Hang up!” You scolded.

He did so and stuffed his phone back in his pocket.

“Ok. Pig brain..” Ethan said, unscrewing the lid. “...is go.”

He threw the jar and watched as the zombies made their way over to it.

“All right. All right. I’m going for it.”

He quickly crawled over the the coffee dispenser and pulled a cup from the stack. “Ok. Ok. Right here. Ok. Ok.”

“Too many, oks, Ethan,” You whisper-shouted.

He turned around and screamed in surprise as one of the teacher zombies eyed him. “I dropped the sample.”

Benny pushed you behind him. “Take, Y/N. I’ll get the coffee. You guys go!”

“But Benny-”

“Go!”

Ethan dragged you out of the room and you both hid around a corner, breathing heavily.

You heard footsteps and looked at Ethan worriedly.

“Benny?” He whispered uncertainly. “Is that you? Benny?”

The footsteps drew closer and closer.

You threw yourself in front of Ethan and yelled, making Benny, who was the perpetrator of the footsteps, screamed and clutched the coffee maker to his chest.

“Benny!” You said, sighing with relief.

“Benny, are you okay?” Ethan asked.

“Never better. Check this out.” He leaned against the lockers with you and showed off the coffee maker and then-

“Cool!”

You all stumbled backwards in fear as the masked Rory appeared from seemingly nowhere.

“Is that hot chocolate?”

“Rory!” You whined.

“Gotcha!” he exclaimed, pulling the mask off his head. “Check out what I swiped from the teacher’s lounge! Hicks took this from me in September!”

“Wait, you were in the teacher’s lounge?” Ethan asked.

“Candy, games, TV, couches!”

“Zombies?”

“Really?” Rory asked, innocently. “I just thought they were all really grumpy.”

Ethan sighed, shaking his head. “Whatever. We have to get this coffee to the chemistry lab.”

“Chemistry?” Rory said, wrinkling his nose and shaking his head. “Boring. I’d rather smack me some zombies.”

He put the mask back on. “RV away!”

He disappeared with his super speed.

“We better rearm,” Ethan said and Benny sighed, leaning his head against the lockers.

You help Ethan dislodge the fire extinguisher and you all head to the lab.

“Let’s get this cure going, huh?” Benny says and you narrow your eyes at him.

“Are you okay?” You ask.

“Never better. Let’s go.”

***

Sarah hands Ethan the ectoplasmic refractor.

“Oh, thanks,” Ethan says. “Did you see my mom?”

“We exchanged a few words,” She replied.

“Benny, are you sure you’re okay?” You said, placing your hand on his forehead. “You’re really sweaty and burning up.”

“Yeah! I’m fine,” He pushed you off him. “I’m pumped! Let’s do this zombie cure!”

“There’s definitely something going on here,” Ethan said, looking into the microscope. “These cells are like neurons. Like brain cells, but they’re mutating.”

“Ok. Mutant neurons. Cool.”

“Benny-”

You were cut off by the banging at the door.

“Company!” Sarah shouted. “Speed up the geeking!:”

“You can’t rush science!”

“You can if you don’t want your brain eaten!” You replied, handing Sarah the fire extinguisher.

She blew them back from the door.

“What happened?” Ethan questioned. “The neurons are gone.”

“What?” You asked.

“Just looks like plain old coffee now. It’s like it’s cured itself just sitting there.”

“Maybe it has to be fresh?” Sarah suggested, hitting the fire extinguisher again.

“Hot! That’s why the zombies hate the fire extinguisher. It’s cold!”

“Great...” Benny said, swaying a bit. “So we just wait here until January?”

“Can we just blast the air-conditioning or something?” Sarah asked, frantically.

Ethan laughed nervously. “Sounds like a plan. Benny, pack up. We gotta fight our way to the mechanical room.”

“Who are you kidding?” Sarah said. “They’ll break you like a fingernail. I’ll do it.”

“Oh!” Ethan laughed again and Benny clutched his upper arm. “If you wanna go.”

“Totally. Next zombie rescue is on us.” Benny said, practically leaning his whole weight on you. “Brain...”

“Benny, what’s up?” Ethan asked.

“He’s been bitten!” You cried, pulling up his shirt sleeve.

“Benny! Why didn’t you tell me?” Ethan asked.

He hissed in pain as you inspected the bite. “I thought you might...get cure...Fix...Benny. Can I bite your head?”

“Y/N...” Ethan said, grabbing you by the upper arm and pulling you away from Benny as he backed away slowly.

“Where the hell is Sarah...” You mutter.

“Benny, just stay with me. Not right with me, but, you know. ‘Cause of the biting thing.”

Benny’s head was in the table now.

“Just hang on, Ben, ok?” You said. “Hang on!”

The zombies moaned as they burst the door open.

Benny fully transformed and turned on you.

You screamed and you and Ethan grabbed onto each other.

The window crashed behind you and more zombie arms grabbed at your shirt and arms, you struggled against them and Ethan pulled you away with him as you both were back into a corner.

“Come on, Sarah,”

Ethan grabbed the fire extinguisher and blew it at every teacher it would reach.

Benny, the abnormally strong zombie, pulled it from Ethan’s hands.

“Benny!” You screeched and he looked over at you with dead eyes, he started coming towards you, he was face to face against the wall with you when-

The air conditioning kicked on.

One by one, each zombie hit the floor, their cells going back to normal.

You gasp as Benny hits the floor in front of you. You fall to your knees next to him and Ethan followed suit.

You pull his head into your lap and stroke his head as he started going back to normal.

Sarah comes back in. “We good?”

Ethan sighs. “Yeah. The zombies are all cooled off and catching some Zs.”

He yawned. “I get tired just looking at them.”

“You know what we need? A coffee.”

You laughed wearily.

“No. I’ll pass, thanks.” Ethan replied.

Benny picks his head up off your lap slightly to mutter. “Half-calf, low-fat, latte mochaccino. No foam.”

His head falls back into your lap as you giggle.

He looks up at you, picking his arm up to run his hands through your hair. “I love your giggle...”

You only giggled again and press a kiss to his forehead. “I’m just glad you’re back to normal. I was a little scared for you there.”

He chuckles. “You missed, you know,”

“What?”

“This.”

He pulled you into a kiss, lips meeting lips instead of his forehead.

Sarah and Ethan shake their heads.

“And the zombie movie comes to an end. Happily ever after.”

**** “I can’t believe I like that guy,” Sarah said with a wrinkled nose as “Cute Boy” and “Lazy Barista” talk to the press.

“This stinks. We saved the day.” Benny said, an arm around your shoulders.

“We?” Ethan said with a laugh. “You almost bit Y/N’s face off.”

“You mean like this?” He replied before kissing you all over your face, making you squeal and laugh.

“Augh. No. Gross.”

You laughed, pushing him off you. “Sorry, Benny Boo, but we unsung heroes have to take the high rode. Right, Sarah?”

You all looked over to find Sarah had disappeared.

“I hate their vampire speed.”

Sarah knocked the coffee cups out of the posers hands and the three of you watched them look around confusedly.

“Great! The high road.” Sarah replied, coming back.

Fin.

#benny weir imagine #benny weir x reader #MBAV #my babysitter's a vampire #mbav imagine #mbav x reader #my babysitter's a vampire x reader #my babysitter's a vampire imagine

351 notes · View notes

riotwritesthings · 5 years ago

Text

Melt into Me (Your Words Are My Own)

WinterIron, E, 18k, Heavy casual praise kink, pining, non-graphic injury, self care is big sexy | AO3

Remember when I said this prompt for WinterIronMonth got way out of hand? I was young and naive. It’s a monster. Here it is I’m super proud of it.

This fic, like lots of other fic, is all Stella’s fault. Everyone say thank you. And an extra big thank you for the idea, and the title, and in general letting me whine about this fic at you all the way through. You are truly a treasure.

Bucky has a new strategy for getting Tony to take proper human care of himself. Tony has never been so well fed, hydrated, thoroughly rested, and confused in all his life.

That doesn’t mean he wants it to stop, and it’s amazing how many boring adult things Bucky can get him to do just by patting his head and calling him ‘good boy’. Right up until Tony possibly ruins everything.

“Did you actually go to medical before coming down here?” Bucky asks as he walks into the lab. He fixes Tony with an expectant stare, looking freshly showered and gorgeous and-

Tony viciously shoves down that line of thought, instead holds up his arm and shows off the neat line of stitches on his forearm “I did,” he says smugly, “and you can tell, because these are much neater than when I do it myself.”

“Your stitches are terrible, I’ve seen literal evil scientists with better needlework than you,” Bucky says agreeably, stepping close to inspect Tony’s arm before giving a satisfied nod.

“That’s hurtful,” Tony says, dropping his arm and turning back to his worktable before he does something stupid like lean in and try to get a big whif of the shampoo Bucky uses. “Now where’s my treat, that was the deal, I went and let the ‘professionals’ sew me up and you better not be backing out on your end of the deal, or-“ Tony cuts off when a ziplock bag of homemade cookies lands on the table in front of him, straight from Bucky’s secret stash that no one has been able to find. “Yay,” he says gleefully, ripping into the bag.

Bucky’s hand is suddenly resting on top of his head, gently ruffling it, and Tony is uncomfortably aware of the fact that his hair is a sweaty mess because he may have gotten distracted on the way to his post-battle shower. Then Bucky pats his head and coos “yeah, tha’s a good boy.” His voice is equal parts teasing and amused, maybe a hint of condescension and underneath it all a fond warmth, like he really is pleased Tony dragged his pitiful human ass to medical after a relatively routine fight.

Tony flushes hot, nearly chokes on his giant mouthful of cookie and the only saving grace is that Bucky has already wandered away to play some kind of elaborate game with the bots. Tony still does not understand the rules of said game, and he wishes he found it less endearing that Bucky refuses to explain it to him.

Okay, so. That... that happened. Tony turns his attention back to the gauntlet he’s trying to repair and tells himself it’s fine, it’s not like it’ll ever happen again. It’s fine.

And the thing is, it’s not like Tony meant for it to happen again. It’s not like he was aiming for it. At least... not intentionally.

It’s just that Bucky’s been pestering him about actually remembering to eat lunch at a decent time recently, so when one day Tony actually does remember he decides to rub it in a little. ‘Ate lunch,’ he texts even though it’s silly, it doesn’t even matter and Bucky is only a couple floors up helping Steve rearrange furniture to Natasha’s liking for the millionth time. ‘Don’t see the big deal, but now maybe you’ll leave me alone you big mother hen.’

About half an hour later, Tony is heading to check out the new common room arrangement when Bucky texts him back and he laughs when he sees that it’s just a cookie emoji. Then Bucky adds ‘good boy’ and Tony makes a strangled sound as he walks into the still-opening doors of the elevator.

Tony spins on his heel and punches the door-close button before anyone spots him. Because he really doesn’t need company while he presses his flaming red face against the cool metal wall of the elevator, his heart thumping hard in his chest. Tony firmly tells himself that had not been his intention, and it’s really a good thing he’s so experienced at lying to himself.

Tony tracks Bucky down to hand over the fancy new scope he’s just finished, and finds him in the library curled up in an oversized armchair. It’s unfairly adorable, and Bucky’s smile does dangerous things to his heart.

“Thanks doll,” Bucky says, staring up at him instead of inspecting his new toy. When Tony tries to literally wave him off, already turning for the door, Bucky catches him by the wrist and gives a gentle tug until Tony relents and meets his stupid earnest gaze. “I mean it,” Bucky says, “I know how hard you been workin’ on this, thank you.”

Tony sputters, and then makes a couple nonsense noises while something uncurls warm and amazing in his chest. “No worries,” he finally manages and it’s both a relief and a disappointment when Bucky releases his wrist. “Making scopes is my jam. That’s better than the one I just put on Clint’s bow. Don’t tell him.”

“I’m gonna tell ‘im,” Bucky says instantly, smug and grinning and still just staring up at Tony, like he could possibly be more interesting than a digital scope. “I get the best stuff an’ I wanna make sure he knows it.”

“Whatever makes you happy, snowflake,” Tony says, face warm because oh god he’s so obvious, isn’t he? When he turns to enact a manly flee, Bucky lets him go and the sound of his soft, fond laugh follows Tony the rest of the day.

It kind of spirals out of control from there. Tony tells himself he doesn’t love it, but even he doesn’t believe himself anymore.

Bucky snatches the coffee cup out of Tony’s hand and replaces it with a glass of water before Tony can even begin to formulate a protest. For a long second all Tony can do is blink in stunned silence because how dare?!

Tony narrows his eyes in a glare, and apparently the twitching of his free hand gives him away because Bucky shifts to hold the mug way up above his head with that wide, gorgeous grin. Tony is pretty sure, if he tried hard enough, he could get that mug back, but it would probably end in both of them covered in water and/or hot coffee. And it would involve a lot of pressing himself against Bucky and attempting to climb him like a tree, which is... probably not a great plan.

So Tony chugs the water, glaring the whole time, and then Bucky hands back his coffee with a quiet “good.” Tony struggles to fight back his blush, can’t at all help the smile that takes over his face, and Bucky just smiles back before continuing on his way.

“JARVIS, please wake Bucky up just to inform him that I am pointedly not getting more coffee at three in the morning, and please do it as obnoxiously as possible,” Tony says as he stares into the depths of the fridge, “I’m thinking air sirens. Neon lights.”

There’s a soft, low chuckle from right behind him, and Tony has just enough time to freeze up, his eyes going wide. Then Bucky’s hand is in his once again messy hair, and Bucky’s low, sleep-rough voice is rumbling out “good boy.”

By the time Tony finds his own voice again Bucky has leaned in close against his back to swipe one of Clint’s juice boxes, patted him on the shoulder, and started for the door. “If I’m a good boy then where’s my cookie?” He calls after Bucky’s retreating back, tongue thick and heart racing.

“Good boys go t’ sleep,” Bucky calls back, pointedly, and Tony grumbles all the way to bed.

He sleeps like a fucking baby, wakes up still feeling warm and happy and flushed.

"I don't need a brain scan," Tony insists. Again. “My brain is fine. It’s excellent. It is a stunning example of a human brain, ask anyone. Except Bruce, but he’s still just mad that I broke his favorite microscope.”

Bucky continues to stare him down, then lifts his shiny metal hand. "How many fingers am I holdin’ up?" He demands, and Tony would be insulted if he wasn’t having such a hard time focusing.

Tony stares at his hand, counting carefully. "Three," he finally declares, with full confidence.

"That took entirely too long!" Bucky says, dropping his hand again even though it looks like what he really wants to do is just throw both hands in the air and yeah, Tony gets that a lot. "You have a knot the size of a fuckin’ golf ball an’ no offense, but it’s ruinin’ your pretty face. Go get th’ damn scan!"

Tony taps his screwdriver against his chin, eyes on the ceiling, and decides he should probably wait to freak out about the ‘pretty face’ comment later, alone. So for now he turns a sunny smile on Bucky, pointing his screwdriver, and says "no.”

"Please, doll? Do it for me?" Bucky asks, completely shifting tactics, and he even has the gall to pout at Tony. With his blue eyes and red lips. The nerve of it.

Tony holds firm. For about five seconds. "Fine," he sighs, dropping the screwdriver to the table so he can throw both hands in the air himself.

Bucky smiles at him, warm and relieved and something that Tony almost wants to call thankful and Tony has to drop his chin because he can’t deal with that face.

Moving his head so suddenly kind of makes the room spin, and Bucky ends up having to carry him to the medical wing. Bucky also lectures him the whole time, but his hands are so gentle and he stays for the entire thing and Tony finds that he only minds the lectures a little.

Tony wakes up from a nap he definitely hadn’t intended to take, still sprawled out on the couch in the common room with Bucky’s fingers still running through his hair. He has no idea how much time has passed but the TV is off and the windows are dark. He appears to have stolen Sam’s blanket, at some point.

He twists his head, still resting on Bucky’s thigh, to fix Bucky with a baleful look and says “I thought I told you I didn’t need a nap.”

“‘S not like I made you fall asleep,” Bucky says, smiling innocently even though he basically did, with his stupid magic hands. Then Bucky’s grin turns into a smirk, voice low as he adds “but don’t you feel better now?”

Tony pouts harder, because he does, and Bucky laughs, continues petting his head until Tony falls right back to sleep.

“You do not want me helping you cook,” Tony says with a sputtering laugh, but he steps further into the kitchen anyways, because whatever Bucky is cooking smells amazing. And because it’s Bucky. “I can’t believe you’d ask me to come help you cook. Did JARVIS not tell you how much of a terrible idea that is?”

“Just be good an’ get over here,” Bucky says, and he doesn’t look up from stirring whatever’s in the giant pot but Tony can hear him rolling his eyes.

“I will be no help,” Tony assures him, but steps up to the stove anyways, trying to peek over the rim of the pot. “Is that tomato sauce? Please say yes, and then please don’t let me ruin it.”

Bucky lets out a huff of laughter and turns towards him, wooden spoon outheld, and says “c’mon doll I need a taste tester.” When Tony just blinks at him, Bucky wiggles the spoon a little and says “open up, sweet thing.”

Tony does his best to ignore what that particular choice of words does to him, instead making a big show of checking the spoon for signs of poison or sabotage, humming suspiciously until Bucky gives an impatient huff. Only then does Tony give in, leaning in just a little more to drag his tongue up the flat back of the wooden spoon and then groans happily, because holy shit that is some good sauce. He opens his eyes to tell Bucky so, not sure when they fell closed in the first place, only to find Bucky watching him with an intensity that has Tony’s breath catching in his throat.

“Good?” Bucky asks, like he doesn't already know the answer, and when Tony nods emphatically he grins. “See,” he says, voice suddenly gone low and deep, not looking away from Tony even as he returns to stirring the pot, “you can be good an’ helpful, knew you could babydoll.”

Bucky finally turns back to the stove, just in the nick of time because there’s not a damn thing Tony can do about the warmth spreading across his cheeks, unfurling in his chest. “Yes, very helpful,” Tony says with a dry laugh, “what would you do without me here to lick things?”

Bucky’s eyes flick over to him, lids lowered in a way that is giving Tony ideas, and his lips quirk up and as he says “have to lick things myself I guess, an’ where’s the fun in that?” Tony barks out a startled laugh, face heating, and Bucky grins down at the pot. “Gonna stay and eat with me, right?” He asks pointedly, like he’s just daring Tony to say no.

Tony pretends like he actually has to think about it, making considering noises and dragging his eyes away from the smug curve of Bucky’s lips. “Do I get a treat afterwards?” He asks obnoxiously, giving Bucky a little nudge with his elbow.

“Mmhmm,” Bucky hums, gaze shifting over to him again. Tony can feel his pulse in his fingertips in the best possible way and he has to bite his lip so he won’t start blurting out suggestions. Bucky’s eyes flick down, just for a second, and then he says “go get some plates.”

So they eat dinner, and Bucky demands to know all of Tony’s greatest cooking disasters and yeah he laughs his ass off but he also keeps giving Tony these wide, warm smiles, and Tony finds that he really doesn’t mind. He’d tell Bucky every embarrassing thing he’s ever done if he gets to hear that laugh. And he’s done a lot.

When Tony starts shoving his empty plate across the table, knocking it into Bucky’s obnoxiously, Bucky just laughs and goes to rummage around in the pantry. Which is a foolish move, because now Tony knows his secret sweets stash is in fact somewhere in the pantry. Which is more than anyone else knows.

Bucky returns with a chocolate and peanut butter cookie roughly half the size of Tony’s face, and then watches him eat it with an unfairly intense stare. Bucky barely glances down at his own plate as he devours a second, and then a third helping of food, just watches Tony eat the cookie that he’s starting to suspect Bucky has been saving just for him. Like there’s nothing he’d rather be doing in the world, nothing more interesting than watching Tony make a mess of himself with baked goods, licking smears of chocolate off his fingers.

The heat in Tony’s gut is battling for attention with the warmth in his chest, and he can’t do much more than stare back. He barely even remembers the walk to the elevator after Bucky firmly suggests he should get some sleep once in a while, the weight of Bucky’s eyes on his shoulders all the way down the hallway.

He falls asleep thinking the word ‘ravenous’ and wakes up panting, stuck to his sheets and aching.

Bucky walks into the room, and Tony switches from eating his breakfast like a normal, rational person, to eating it pointedly, fork scraping across his plate, loud chewing, the works.

Bucky just smiles, big and genuine, says “look at you, feedin’ yourself, I’m so proud,” like he really means it. Tony swallows thickly, heart thundering in his chest and an addictive warmth spreading through him. That still doesn’t mean he lets Bucky get away with trying to steal his bacon, though.

And okay yeah, Tony feels a little bad, if he stops to let himself think about it. Feels like a bit of a creep, but only a little. Because it’s not like Bucky knows that every tiny nice thing he says goes straight to Tony’s head. And his heart. And also a little bit to his dick. Just like Bucky doesn’t know that Tony has had a big useless crush on him for like a year now and really, what’s one more secret?

And besides, unless Tony is actually as out-of-touch as some people like to accuse him of being, it almost seems like Bucky is happier too. Like for some reason he actually likes keeping Tony alive and functional, and really, who would Tony be if he took that away? If Bucky gets some sense of accomplishment out of forcing Tony to get three square meals and eight-ish hours of sleep, then who is Tony to deny him?

It’s just one more tiny little secret.

Tony barely manages not to audibly sigh in relief as the reporter who’s been hounding him gets distracted by some kind of commotion over by the catering table and hurries away, lest he miss the story. Tony’s smile doesn’t slip, because he’s a pro, but it’s difficult. Tony loves his mother’s charity, he really does, it’s the only gala he doesn’t have to be convinced to go to, but he really wishes people wouldn’t ruin it by insisting on asking about Howard.

If Tony has to grit his teeth one more time and say that Howard was a ‘great man’ (debatable) or that he ‘always supported Maria in her causes’ (outright lie), then he’s going to snap and do something drastic. Like go raid the entire bar. Or cry.

“You don’t have t’ put up with that,” comes a voice from right beside him, and Tony jumps hard even though he’d know that voice anywhere. Apparently, Tony is even more tense than he’d realized, and the concerned look on Bucky’s face means he’s probably noticed too.

“I’m going to put a bell on you, almost gave me a heart attack,” Tony grumbles, clutching one hand to his chest and hoping like hell that they can just not talk about it.

Bucky hums thoughtfully, then grins and says “Sneakin’ with a bell, sounds like a fun challenge.”

“That is not the point of the bell,” Tony says seriously, pointing at him, and not letting his eyes drag down the line of Bucky’s body, no matter how much he wants to. No matter how good Bucky’s legs look in a well-fitted suit.

“I mean it,” Bucky says, smiling dimming a little, and so much for Tony’s attempts to deflect, “you know you don’t have to put up with that, right?”

“What?” Tony asks blankly, even though he doesn’t know why he bothers, he never gets away with playing dumb. Sure enough, Bucky fixes him with a flat look until Tony sighs and says “Yes, I kind of do.”

“No,” Bucky says, so firm and urgent that Tony is a little taken aback, catching Tony gently by the elbow when he tries to turn, tries to look for a distraction. “Maybe you have to be here, an’ maybe you have to play nice, but you don’t have t’ answer anythin’ you don’t wanna. And you especially don’ have to talk about him.”

Tony doesn’t know what he feels at this point, some mix of frozen and warm and fuzzy, flushed hot while ice runs through his veins, and he kind of can’t believe that Bucky has been watching him that closely-

“I don’t?” He asks and hates how weak his voice comes out, how unsure, but he’s been talking up Howard at these stupid things for as long as he can remember, it’s second nature, and no one has ever told him that he doesn’t have to in his his entire life-

“No, Tony,” Bucky says and his voice has gone soft too, rough and a little sad and he smiles crookedly as he adds “jus’ tell ‘em to fuck off if they keep tryin’.”

“Well I definitely can’t do that,” Tony huffs. Bucky’s fingers are still holding him so gently, thumb dragging over the inside of his elbow, making Tony shiver just as much as holding him standing.

“You’ll figure it out,” Bucky says, smiling a little wider again and tapping his thumb against Tony’s pulse through his sleeve, “you got that way with words, sweet talker, ‘m sure you’ll come up with somethin’.”

“You’re the sweet talker,” Tony grumbles, and Bucky laughs softly.

Not even half an hour later the same damn reporter corners him as he steps off the stage after his speech, asking the same damn questions, and Tony hesitates. Then he decides fuck it, throws out all his prepared responses, slaps on his sharpest smile and bites out “I’m not going to talk about that anymore.”

The reporter actually looks a little thrown for a second, then visibly steels his nerve and says “People just want to know what it was like growing up with-“

“No,” Tony says, smiling wider, sharper, “I’ve already answered that question what must be a million times by now, how about you go dig up one of those stories and republish that. I’m sure it’ll be better written that way, anyways.” The reporter is still sputtering as Tony turns and walks away, slips into a side hallway to pat himself on the back and maybe panic-breathe, just a little.

He’s barely slumped back against the wall before Bucky is right in front of him, breathing out “Oh, Tony.”

“Seriously, a bell, a big one,” Tony repeats, smile only a little wobbly as he drags his eyes up to meet Bucky’s, and then can’t help blurting out “Did I- was that... okay?”

“Perfect,” Bucky says instantly, jolting forward and then stopping, like he’d been about to pull Tony in for a hug before thinking better of it. Which is too bad, Tony could really go for a hug right now but it’s almost just as good when Bucky says “That was perfect, you did so good sweet thing, don’t you feel better now?”

“Yes,” Tony says with a heavy sigh, not even realizing how much he means it until all the tension bleeds out of him and before he can stop himself Tony is leaning forward to thump his forehead against Bucky’s chest, letting his eyes fall closed and breathing in the comforting, earthy smell of Bucky’s cologne. He just can’t take the warmth and open pride in Bucky’s gaze anymore, not without running the very serious risk of turning to a useless puddle of mush.

Of course, then Bucky’s right hand lands warm and gentle on the back of Tony’s head, wide palm cradling his skull easily and thumb stroking down the line of his neck, the other hand curled around Tony’s shoulder and pulling him a little closer. “So proud’a you, Tony, did so good, knew you could do it doll,” Bucky says softly, speaking directly against the top of Tony’s head while his fingers slide through Tony’s hair.

“I’ve told off reporters before,” Tony huffs, even though he doesn’t know why he bothers, Bucky apparently sees right through him, “I do it all the time. Did you miss when I snapped at one of them during that last press conference and Steve gave me disappointed face?”

Bucky just hums, taps his metal fingers against the curve of Tony’s shoulder blade. “Yeah,” he finally says, voice barely more than a breath, “For everyone else. Always makin’ sure the rest of th’ team never has to talk about anythin’ they don’t want to the press. Never cut yourself any slack like that, though, do ya?”

Tony’s breath catches in his throat, and how does Bucky do that?! He has no response, no idea what to say, absolutely never expected to be called out. Not on this. When Bucky makes a soft, expectant sound, like he’s actually waiting for an answer, all Tony can do is shake his head a little, careful not to accidentally dislodge Bucky’s hold on him.

“You’re worth it too, ya hear me?” Bucky asks, his hold on Tony tightening ever so slightly, one finger tap tap tapping at the back of Tony’s head until Tony finally huffs and nods. “Good boy,” Bucky says, still so softly, and if he notices the way Tony all but melts against him, at least he doesn’t say anything about it.

Tony shuffles down the hallway, frowning at his phone and glancing up every now and then just to make sure he’s not about to run into anyone. Considering he lives in a tower full of spies, soldiers, and other assorted superheroes, they all have surprisingly terrible situational awareness sometimes. And sure, it’s heartwarming that they can all let their guard down, at least a little, but he’s also a little tired of people tripping and breaking things because Thor likes to nap in hallways.

When he glances up and spots Bucky in his path, he steps to the side and barely has time for a “Hey frosty, Clint was looking for you. He was also holding a water gun, so I’d be careful.” After a quick grin Tony returns to squinting at his phone, and therefore does not see it coming at all when Bucky gently grabs his elbow and halts him in his tracks.

“Hey, you okay?” Bucky asks, an adorable little concerned wrinkle between his eyebrows. He also lets go of Tony’s arm, which is a shame.

Tony blinks, then glances down at himself. He’s not sure what gave Bucky the impression that something is wrong, if it was the stained and hole-littered jeans, the wrinkled shirt, or the fact that Tony apparently lost one of his socks somewhere. Huh.

“Yeah, fine,” Tony says and waves his phone a little, “just got a lot to do. You know how it is. Every day I receive emails, so on and so forth.”

“You got a headache?” Bucky asks, randomly, even though Tony does. It’s pounding right behind his eyes, and all along his temple, and throbbing in time with his heartbeat. All in all, it’s a high quality headache.

“No,” Tony says anyways, because he has things to do, and Bucky is making ‘go take a nap’ face at him. It’s a very specific face. “My head feels awesome, better than awesome, I gotta get down to the lab, so, you better be getting on with your water gun fight. Watch the furniture.”

Tony tries to step away again, before Bucky can guilt him into not working, but Bucky snaps a hand out and catches him by the belt loop on his hip. It’s everything Tony can do not to swallow his tongue.

“What you gotta do is take a break,” Bucky says firmly, and Tony is opening his mouth to ask if that means he’s invited to the water gun fight, but Bucky apparently sees it coming and cuts him off. “Go take a nap, Tony.”

“I don’t want a nap,” Tony whines petulantly and braces his bare foot against the ground, leans against Bucky’s hold and trusts him not to actually let go as Tony pouts at him.

“Then at least go lay down,” Bucky says, heartlessly. When Tony just pouts at him harder Bucky rolls his eyes with a soft huff and says “Do it an’ I’ll bring you somethin’ to drink.” When Tony opens his mouth Bucky immediately adds “not coffee.”

Tony gasps in horror, but Bucky remains unswayed. “Fine, hot chocolate,” he demands, leaning a little harder despite the way his worn jeans are gaping at the waist and more than likely to rip at any second.

Bucky considers, eyes dragging down Tony’s chest and probably counting the grease stains on his shirt, and finally says “Water an’ then hot chocolate.”

“Fine, I will go to my room and await my beverage delivery,” Tony says, already running mental calculations on exactly how long he has to run to the lab and grab his tablet then stash it somewhere before Bucky catches him.

“You goin’ straight to your room?” Bucky asks, one eyebrow raised, and damnit how does he do that?! Tony is seriously considering

Tony groans, then gives what Rhodey has assured him is the worst salute humanly possible as he says “Sir yes sir, Sargent Tastee-Freeze.”

Bucky grins with lots of teeth and tugs at Tony’s belt loop to pull him back upright again as he says “Good boy.”

Tony goes straight to his room, and Bucky’s smile when he finds Tony already curled up under a blanket with the lights in the room down low is totally worth it. The amazing hot chocolate is just a bonus.

“Tony,” Bucky says, voice frantic, “Tony, you gotta stay awake.”

“Hurts,” Tony complains, just in case Bucky hasn’t noticed that he’s bleeding out here. And he’s supposed to be the observant one.

“I know, I know it does,” Bucky says and his fingers are shaking as he brushes Tony’s hair off of his forehead. His other hand is incredibly steady as it presses a crumpled jacket to Tony’s bleeding stomach, making him groan pitifully. “You gotta stay awake for me, doll, jus’ stay awake.”

“Wanna sleep,” Tony says petulantly, because that sounds way better than being awake for all this agony. His eyelids are already fluttering shut and he’s not worried about the asshole that shot him, if Bucky is here then there’s nothing to worry about. Tony is pretty sure Natasha was around here too somewhere, but it’s surprisingly hard to remember.

“No no no, wake up,” Bucky says, voice cracking, and maybe there is something to worry about, if Bucky sounds that upset. Tony wonders what it is. “C’mon, wake up for me sweetheart, be a good boy and just- jus’ open your eyes.”

“Good?” Tony slurs out and cracks one eye open, just enough to see that Bucky’s face is wet and if Tony didn’t know better he’d think Bucky was crying.

“Yeah Tony,” Bucky says with a smile that’s entirely too shaky, sounding entirely too desperate, “jus’ be good and stay awake for me, give you all the fuckin’ cookies you want, give you anything.” His hand is on Tony’s cheek again, fingers so warm, and when Tony’s eyes start to fall closed again Bucky gives him the slightest of shakes and says “Hey, hey, c’mon doll, don’t you got some demands for me? Gotta stay awake to tell me what you want, baby.”

“Wanna be good,” Tony manages to croak out, struggling to get his stubborn eyes to open and actually focus. He almost wishes he hadn’t, because there’s something horribly stricken about Bucky’s expression, something startled and scared and it drags a pained noise out of Tony’s chest that has nothing to do with the blood pooling below him.

“Yeah?” Bucky asks after a pause and he’s shaking all over now, everywhere but his metal hand still pressed firm and agonizing over the bullet holes in Tony’s stomach. “Wanna be good for me, you gotta stay awake until the paramedics get here, can you do that sweet thing?”

“Gross, hate them,” Tony says, and Bucky’s laugh sounds more like a choked sob. Tony flails one hand up until he can grab weakly at Bucky’s shirt. “‘Kay, stayin’ awake,” he says and decides to not mention that he can taste blood with each word, instead tugging at Bucky’s shirt a little as he slurs out “just cuz y’re a worrier.”

“That’s real sweet of ya, darlin’,” Bucky says and at least his laugh sounds a little less ragged, a little less like it’s being dragged out of him.

Everything goes a little fuzzy after that, but Tony doesn’t let go of his grip on Bucky’s shirt until the EMTs start heartlessly cutting into his nice suit. Bucky doesn’t let go for even longer.

Tony did something wrong. He doesn't know what, but he knows he did something. Which is just, Classic Tony.

Except he does know, he knows exactly what he did and the knowledge sits in his stomach like a weight. He made it weird. He hasn't seen Bucky since he woke up in the hospital. Not really. Because Tony made it weird.

He’s not even sure what he did, exactly, except possibly everything. He’s got this huge sad crush on Bucky, sure, but he’s had that for ages now, and Tony is dealing with it. He’s dealing with it fine. And okay sure, maybe Tony has been acting like a bit of a creep about it, lately, getting all warm and fuzzy and tingly anytime Bucky does something nice for him. Which Bucky does all the time, because he’s a nice person.

And now Tony has scared him off, somehow, between bleeding out mid-press conference and being discharged from the hospital. Painkiller-Tony probably said something to give himself away, that loopy bastard has no filter.

But Tony tells himself it’s fine. It’s fine. Maybe he’ll finally get over this stupid, useless crush now. It’s not like he feels cold and lonely without Bucky’s constant hovering, or anything. It’s not like the fact that Bucky will barely look at him hurts more than the multiple lines of stitches in his stomach, or anything.

It’s fine.

He shuffles slow and careful into the kitchen at stupid-o-clock in the morning, after his second (third?) night without sleep, and there’s no super soldier laying in wait to snatch away his coffee. And force feed him an obscene stack of pancakes. And bitch at him for not sleeping enough when he’s technically still recovering from his unintended run-in with multiple bullets.

The best he gets is Natasha telling him he looks like a zombie and throwing an apple at his head, which really just doesn’t have the same charm. Even if she does do it gently, while giving him concerned eyes.

So Tony gets his coffee, takes his apple, goes back to the lab and wakes up later that day with everything aching because he passed out sprawled across a worktable again. His back is sore and he’s hungry and his stitches burn from being hunched over for hours.

But it’s fine. Tony is fine, he’s an adult, he’s been barely-taking-care-of himself for years. It’s fine.

Bucky is still around, is the thing, he still cracks dry jokes at Steve’s expense and hoards all the blankets on movie nights.

He still wanders down to the lab to play with the bots, but it’s not as often. Not that Tony has made charts, or anything, just to prove to himself that it’s not all in his head. He brings down plates of food, also less often, and doesn’t stick around to make sure Tony eats them. Tony never plans to, plans to shove the food away for a proper pout, but after the third time he finds himself finishing off the plate and halfway through texting Bucky about it before realizing better, Tony gives up. He switches to just eating as soon as Bucky leaves the lab, and he doesn’t even have to lie to himself that it’s just a different form of pouting.

When Tony tracks him down to hand over some new body armor, Bucky still thanks him with entirely too much sincerity, like he still doesn’t realize that this is just what Tony does. It still makes Tony’s heart lurch and his stomach swoop and his face heat, but when Tony goes to run away because he still doesn’t know how to deal with that, Bucky doesn’t stop him.

Bucky still watches his back in every fight and suggests weird sci-fi books, still leaves leftovers with Tony’s name on them in the fridge just like he always has. Tony still has his friend, is the thing, and when he tells himself that’s all he’d ever expected it’s not even a lie.

JARVIS is the one to gently remind him when it’s time to have his stitches removed, Tony is nearly overwhelmed by the sudden urge to cry. Because he can’t remember the last time Bucky wasn’t the one dragging him down to medical for boring things like follow up appointments, bribing him with baked goods and smiling all the while.

Tony is tempted to just remove them himself, he’s so tempted. Because it’s not like he can’t, it’s what he used to do before Bucky started his whole ‘aggressive mother hen’ routine. He even has the tiny scissors in hand, sterilized and everything, but he can’t stop picturing that sad little twist to Bucky’s lips, the way his eyes go wet and pained when he catches Tony doing his own first aid. And Tony can’t even lie to himself that Bucky doesn’t care anymore, because they’re still friends, it’s not like Tony can exactly blame him for needing space now that he almost definitely knows Tony has feelings.

Eventually Tony throws down the scissors so aggressively that DUM-E makes concerned beeping noises at him, and he definitely gets some weird looks when he stomps into medical grumpy and painfully alone. No one asks any questions about it though, about the sudden Bucky-shaped hole in his side, and Tony wonders just how miserable he must look.

He nearly runs straight into Bucky in the hallway at something-past-midnight, and it’s all Tony can do to not spill his extra large mug of coffee all over both of them.

“You give me one more heart attack and I’m actually putting that bell on you,” Tony threatens, clutching his mug close to his chest even though odds are pretty good Bucky isn’t going to try and take it from him anymore.

Sure enough, Bucky only makes sad-eyes at his coffee for about two seconds, then drags his eyes up to Tony’s face and says “Just make sure they sound extra Christmas-y, to fit with my whole ‘winter’ vibe.”

Tony laughs and tells himself that this is fine. He still has a friend, still gets to enjoy Bucky’s weird sense of humor, still gets to see him around in the common rooms and that’s plenty, it’s fine. He almost manages to believe it. “Christmas anti-stealth bells, your wish is my command,” Tony says, nodding seriously. And then he raises his coffee to his lips and takes an obnoxiously loud sip, doesn’t know why he does it except that he absolutely does, stupidly trying to bait Bucky into snatching it away from him, insisting Tony take it easy, get some sleep some time this week, something.

All Bucky does is make sadder-eyes at him, which is not what Tony had been going for now he feels terrible. Bucky opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then shuts it again, and honestly that’s worse than the way Tony’s stomach still throbs dully anytime he laughs, it’s an aching hurt that settles deep in his chest and makes it hard to breathe.

“Well, I better get on it,” Tony says and takes a shuffling step back because he doesn't know what else to do, he doesn’t know how to fix this. He’s tried to stop having this big stupid crush, fuck has he tried, but he can’t. It just gets worse and Tony is starting to think he’s never getting over it, just one more chronic ache he’ll never shake.

Tony needs to go, he needs to get out of here and go put himself back together so he can stop doing this to himself. But when he turns too quickly it sends a sharp pain lancing through his gut and Tony can’t quite stop the hiss that slips out of him. He doesn’t stop moving though, just pushes through and keeps his steps as carefully measured as he can, even when Bucky makes a soft, wounded noise that sounds like he’s trying to swallow it down.

Bucky doesn’t actually say anything though, and soon enough Tony is alone in his room holding a mug of coffee he’s just now realizing he doesn’t even want. He dumps it out in the sink, crawls into bed for another good pout and ends up falling asleep for eight hours.

So Tony keeps feeding himself and getting a good night’s sleep every so often. He even waits until he’s officially cleared by the doctors to start demanding to be let back into the field and he drinks the occasional glass of water. He keeps doing all those things even after he stops hoping Bucky will ruffle his hair and call him a ‘good boy’ in that tone that’s somehow the perfect mix of fond and amused and bossy and maybe just a little condescending.

Because they’re still friends, and Tony doesn’t want to ruin that too. He doesn't want to keep making Bucky make sad-eyes at him across the lab when he catches Tony chewing on coffee beans to keep himself awake, holding a half-melted ice pack to his face and squinting at his screens.

So maybe Tony has a big sad crush, and maybe Bucky figured that out somehow. Probably the fact that Tony got inappropriately tingly when Bucky treated him like a particularly stupid house pet, because Bucky has completely stopped. Tony is not letting himself think about how much he misses it, because that’s not the point.

The point is that they’re friends, and if it makes Bucky sad when his friends can’t take basic human care of themselves, well the least Tony can do is try to do better. It was just a lot easier when he could look forward to Bucky patting his head and calling him ‘good’ in that way that sent heat spiraling through Tony’s entire body.

But whatever. Tony manages.

“We should order pizza,” Tony announces, marching into the common room and nearly shouting to be heard over what appears to be half the team heckling a baking show.

“Are you trying to start another screaming match?” Steve demands, giving him a horrified look, “this tower cannot agree on pizza toppings, we’ve learned this.”

“I’ll just order everyone their own, no screaming, no problem,” Tony says dismissively, “I just finished with an all-day meeting that could have lasted an hour tops and I’m starving and the only thing that can make it better is pizza.” He ends his declaration with a whine and a little stomp of his foot, and tells himself that the sound of Bucky’s quiet laugh doesn’t make his chest warm. He needs to get better at lying to himself.

“But then I still have to see the abomination Clint calls a pizza, and how am I supposed to eat like that?” Sam demands, shooting a look at Clint who’s already half on-top of his arm chair and drawing in a huge breath to no doubt shout his rebuttal.

“I’m still going to do it,” Tony says gleefully, drowned out by the onslaught of yelling and already pulling out his phone.

“Are you happy now?” Steve demands as Sam and Clint start whipping throw pillows across the room at each other while Bucky laughs, egging them on and tossing Clint more ammo.

And yeah, Tony kind of is.

Someone walks into the workshop and Tony’s head snaps up, but it’s just Clint. Tony is not disappointed.

“Stop giving me that look,” Clint says, pointing one finger at Tony’s face. “Bucky wanted me to come down here and remind you to go to medical. He also told me not to tell you he told me to, but I’ve conveniently forgotten that part.”

“Convenient for who?” Tony asks with a huff of laughter, and ignores the way it makes his stupid heart feel all warm that Bucky still worries, at least, even if he doesn’t actually want to come down and face Tony’s crush himself. It’s still something.

Clint ignores him in favor of poking at the things scattered across the worktables, never mind that most of it is weaponry of some kind, and when Tony throws a screwdriver at him Clint spins around with an unimpressed look. “What’s up with you two, anyways? You’re being weirder than normal,” he demands, throwing the screwdriver back.

“Go tell him I’ve already been,” Tony says, barely managing to catch the tool before it hits him in the face, “my stomach is fine, they just taped up my ribs and gave me a tetanus shot. Tetanus!” And no, for the record, Tony had not spent the entire time thinking about how Bucky probably would have let Tony hold his hand, if he’d been there.

“Go tell him yourself, you incredible idiot,” Clint says, and then starts poking at dangerous things until Tony kicks him out of the lab.

“Why are you up before noon and looking like you actually slept?” Video-call-Rhodey demands, narrowing his eyes suspiciously, “who are you and what have you done with Tony?”

“Fuck you, platypus,” Tony says pleasantly, “that’s hurtful, I know how to adult.” The look Rhodey fixes him with in return is so unimpressed Tony’s can feel it in his soul, even through the screen.

“I have known you for years,” Rhodey says slowly, “and I can emphatically say that no, you do not, and- Are you drinking water?”

“What? No,” Tony says, lowering his glass of water back out of frame. Rhodey continues to stare him down, and Tony just stares back, because there is no way they’re getting into this. Tony wouldn’t even know where to start, at this point.

He passes Bucky as he turns the corner towards the elevator, and Tony really wishes he had the time to ask what Bucky is grinning so wide about. As it is he has a meeting with Pepper to get to and best-friend-questions to avoid.

“You know what Steve,” Tony snaps, because he can’t take it anymore. He’s exhausted, he’s sore, he has a ton of work to do and he’s tired of being yelled at for shit that’s not his fault. He’s also tired of the sad look Bucky is giving him, like he thinks Tony can’t see him, like he thinks Tony doesn’t know that he doesn’t deserve this.

Steve actually falters, words trailing off as he blinks at Tony because yeah, Tony usually calls him ‘Rogers’ when he’s pissed, or at least ‘Cap’. And yeah it’s one of Tony’s favorite ways of distancing himself, what of it? He can feel Bucky’s stare like a physical weight on his chest, he’s frustrated enough with himself as it is, and Tony doesn’t want distance.

“I’m not a magician, okay,” Tony grits out, doesn’t snap it, keeps his voice even and clenches his fists to keep them from shaking, “hacking an encrypted system takes time, and it takes processing power. Processing power that is limited when I’m also using it to pilot the armor, so yeah, I hacked it as quick as I could, and if that’s not good enough then I don’t know what to tell you.”

Steve gapes at him for a second, eyes wide and mouth hanging open and Tony really wishes he could feel better about accomplishing that right now. “Oh,” Steve finally says, and Tony can’t help but notice that the debrief room has suddenly cleared out around them. “I- I didn’t-“

This is usually the part where Tony would jump on that moment of hesitation, tack on a couple barbs to easily push Steve from thrown-off to angry. It’s surprisingly easy, Tony has practically made an art form out of it. Because Tony is so much better at knowing what to do with people when they’re mad at him. But right now, Tony is tired, and he really needs a shower, and he really needs to get down to the lab and figure out how to up the power in the suit, make sure he doesn’t get caught unprepared again.

And yeah, Tony can still feel Bucky staring at him, and Tony doesn’t know how much longer he can stand it without breaking down and doing something ridiculous. Like demanding a hug. Or to have his head patted, or for reassurance that he did okay. And Tony doesn’t get that anymore, never should have had it in the first place, so he just turns and leaves.

Tony has nearly made his escape, and he’s managing to keep it together, right up until he catches sight of Buck’s face. Tony has spent a lot of time cataloging away all of Bucky’s expressions, telling himself the entire time that he’s not a creepy obsessed weirdo, and he’s never seen that face before. Some mix of happy and surprised and proud, and a hundred other things that Tony still hasn’t been able to figure out how to deal with. Seeing it less often apparently doesn’t stop Tony’s heart from lurching dangerously at the sight of that warm smile, doesn’t stop his stomach from working itself into a tight, heated knot.

No one follows after him, and after turning a couple corners blindly Tony finally lets himself slump back against a wall, just for a second. Just to try and catch his breath, try to fight down the warmth rising stubbornly in his chest.

Tony likes doing his test flights of the suits around dusk, when he can help it. He likes watching night fall over the city, likes watching the colors of the sunset give way to the bright lights that come to life in every window.

When he finally heads back for the tower he aims for the roof, figuring he’ll have the suit drop him off and then take itself down to the workshop to start running diagnostics on the new settings without him. It’ll take a while anyways, and Tony hasn’t had dinner yet. And for some reason, all of Tony’s friends seem weirdly invested in his eating habits and are weirdly thrilled when he remembers to do it. Tony is even doing a better job lately of convincing himself there’s not one friend in particular he’s trying to thrill.

Once the armor zips off towards the entrance on the workshop level the roof is dark, and Tony very nearly trips over Bucky on his way to the door. He makes an embarrassing squeaking noise but manages to keep his balance, only wincing a little as his toes throb because fuck what is Bucky’s shin made of?!

“Woah, shit, excellent lurking there, Frosty, truly A+ work,” Tony says, clutching at his chest, and he’s about to re-suggest his whole ‘put a bell on you’ plan when Bucky actually drags his eyes up from the ground to fix on Tony instead.

Bucky looks terrible. Which of course means he’s still one of the most gorgeous people Tony has ever seen, but the dark circles under his eyes hit Tony like a blow to the chest. Bucky’s hair is a mess, lines around his eyes deep and pronounced and he looks tired in a way that seeps straight down into your bones, eats you alive. Tony knows that feeling all too well, but he has no idea what to say in the face of it.

He doesn’t need to ask if Bucky is having a rough couple of days, it’s painfully obvious, and he knows Bucky isn’t going to talk about it if he doesn’t want to. And he very rarely wants to. It would certainly explain why Steve was looking for him yesterday, if Bucky has been hiding out avoiding everyone, which probably means that Bucky has been sitting out here on the roof for who knows how long and will continue sitting out here until he feels like a person again.

The fact that Bucky doesn’t say anything, doesn’t uncurl from his protective huddle against the wall, just stares up at Tony with shadowed eyes, means that he’s definitely not there yet. He barely even twitches when Tony’s stomach growls loudly, just raises one eyebrow slightly even though Tony is pretty sure that was loud enough for people down on the street to hear.

“I’m on my way right now!” Tony defends before Bucky can start making sad face at him, because that is probably the last thing Bucky needs right now, to be worrying that Tony is somehow going to starve to death without constant supervision. Bucky’s lip twitches in the barest hint of a smile, and Tony is absolutely going to count that as a win.

He’s about to leave, head inside and leave Bucky alone to his rooftop creeping, but then something occurs to him. If Bucky has been hiding out away from everyone, it stands to reason that he hasn’t been to the kitchen for food recently. There’s always someone in the kitchen. Tony hesitates for a second, and then decides fuck it. They’re friends, and fair is fair.

“Come on Snowflake,” he says firmly, no room for arguments, and holds out one hand for Bucky to take. “I’ll make you one of my specialties. Do you want a lumpy sandwich, or cold cereal?”

Bucky’s lips twitch ever so slightly further up as he takes Tony’s hand and pulls himself to his feet, and Tony is going to call that a resounding fucking victory.

Bucky loves sci-fi. Even worse, he loves cheesy, horrible sci-fi, and he gets a particular kick out of movies that are so inaccurate they send Bruce and sometimes even Tony into fits of rage.

It’s a serious problem, because Tony loves that Bucky loves shitty sci-fi. It’s hopelessly endearing, and Tony is pretty sure it’s only a matter of time before he full on breaks down crying at the entirely-too-adorable sight of Bucky on the couch amid a mountain of blankets, happily humming along to the Stargate Atlantis theme song. Tony is only human, okay? He’s just trying to head back to the lab with his lunch and there’s only so much he can reasonably be expected to withstand.

It’s also a problem in that Bucky tends to get caught up in binge watching something and forget about things like sleeping, or the ever important feeding his super appetite. Which Tony gets, he really does, he is no stranger to getting wrapped up in something and forgetting everything else, so instead of suggesting Bucky take a break from his marathon at least long enough to get food, Tony just shoves his own plate into Bucky’s lap and leaves his glass of water on the coffee table with a pointed look.

Then he heads back to the kitchen to make another sandwich for himself, waving off Bucky’s stuttered, surprised-sounding thanks and refusing to let himself look back.

It kind of spirals out of control from there.

Tony sticks his head into the gym where, sure enough, Bucky and Steve are still having their stupid push up competition.

“Let’s wrap it up boys, it’s dinner time,” he calls, and then rolls his eyes when they don’t react at all. “Seriously, you’re both impressive, you both win beefiest belle at the ball, you can punch it out later,” Tony adds as he wanders closer, “Let’s go before Thor eats everything and then comes down here to show you both up.”

“Five minutes,” Steve huffs out between push ups, “He’s about to give up.”

“Like hell,” Bucky grumbles and does his next rep one handed so he can swat at Steve. It’s unfairly distracting.

“I’m evicting both of you,” Tony says pleasantly, “Just like I threatened everyone else with eviction until they gave in and agreed to order from that Korean-Mexican fusion place you’re both so obsessed with.”

“What?!” Steve demands, pushing himself upright on his knees to fix Tony with an affronted look, “why didn’t you say that?”

“Ha! I win!” Bucky says, still doing push ups and grinning at Steve smugly.

Steve looks so horribly offended for a second that Tony can’t help snorting in laughter. Then Steve grins wickedly, shoves Bucky over, and makes a break for the door calling “I’m gonna eat all your food, then we’ll see who wins!”

“Still a sore loser,” Bucky says with a sad shake of his head, pushing himself to his feet. A couple strands of loose hair cling to his forehead and fall around his face, his thin shirt clinging to his chest just right, and Tony’s life would be so much easier if he could just not.

Bucky is staring at him, curious tilt to his head, and Tony belatedly remembers to blurt out “Don’t worry Frosted Flakes, I hid your kimchi tacos at the back of the fridge where no one can get to them. Not that I know why anyone would want to.” The wide grin that breaks out across Bucky’s face still makes Tony’s heart thump dangerously, no matter how many times Tony tries to convince himself that it doesn’t, that it won’t next time. It always does.

“Thanks Tony, you’re the best,” Bucky says, all warm and soft and genuine, bumping their shoulders together gently as he heads for the door. Tony trails after him, face flushed and chest warm, and that was totally worth all the trouble of convincing Bruce that Korean-Mexican fusion is not a crime against humanity.

“You need to go lay down,” Tony says for what must be the tenth time since Bucky walked into the lab.

“I’m fine,” Bucky says, again, despite the fact that he is clearly not fine.

Tony waves both hands at Bucky, trying to encompass all of him, the fact that Bucky hasn’t changed or showered since the fight when usually that’s the first thing he does, the way that he’s just kind of standing there letting the bots poke at him instead of chasing them around the lab. “I can hear your spine clicking when you move, and I have normal human ears!” Tony insists.

“No it’s not,” Bucky says, but he’s holding himself suspiciously still. When Tony just stares at him, unimpressed, he adds “it’ll heal.”

“Yeah, if you go lay the fuck down and avoid killing yourself before then,” Tony says, and only barely resists the urge to throw a bolt at him. He’s pretty sure Bucky would just let it hit him in the face right now, and that’s not what Tony is going for. No matter how well it would prove his point.

“No," Bucky says flatly. Tony throws the bolt, and Bucky winces when it bounces off his chest but otherwise refuses to move.

"Then you're going to medical," Tony says, throwing both hands in the air, "I’ll call Steve and he’ll carry you there, don’t think he won’t. He will be delighted to do it."

“I’ll throw ‘im out another window,” Bucky grumbles, and when Tony makes a show of grabbing for his phone Bucky sighs out “fine, fine, I’ll go lay down.”

"Damn straight you will," Tony grumbles under his breath and then blinks in surprise when, instead of heading for the door, maybe back to his room, Bucky slowly makes his way over to the lumpy couch in the corner.

And Tony's not complaining, it absolutely makes sense for Bucky to lay down on the nearest available flat surface, but Tony had really been expecting him to leave. Keep up that friendly distance, and all that. Instead Tony is left just staring dazedly as Bucky lowers him half down onto the couch with a level of care that completely gives away how injured he actually is.

Once Bucky is settled he turns his head where it's propped up on the armrest, only wincing a little, and stares back at Tony. There's something considering in his gaze, and he's probably trying to figure out how long it'll take before Tony gets distracted enough to not notice Bucky making his escape.

After several long seconds of mutual staring, broken only by them both glancing over when DUM-E gets tangled in the blanket he's trying to bring to Bucky and starts beeping in distress, Bucky finally breaks the silence. "Don't I get a cookie?" he asks slowly, innocently, like he has no idea that the reminder sets off an explosion in Tony's chest.

"I already gave you one of my favorite bolts, what more do you want from me?" Tony complains, turning back to his workbench so hopefully Bucky won't notice that his face has no doubt gone bright red.

"Somethin' edible, preferably," Bucky says with a soft laugh that has warmth spreading out from Tony's racing heart and mixing surprisingly well with the sudden influx of butterflies in his stomach.

Tony tells himself that it's fine. They're friends. He's glad that Bucky is comfortable enough to hang out in the lab with him again, making dumb jokes. All Tony has to do is not make it weird. Again. He can totally do that.

He doesn't have any cookies, but Tony does share his terrible energy bars, and when Bucky dares to complain about how terrible they are Tony throws a couple more bolts at him. Injured or not, he can't let that stand.

Eventually Bucky falls asleep, and Tony works as quietly as he can, and it's fine. It’s the closest to fine that Tony has felt in a long time.

Bucky’s nose scrunches up a little in disgust, but he doesn’t say anything. No one else seems to notice, arguing over their exact dinner order like it’s a life or death ordeal. They are all usually armed, in some way, so hell it might be life or death.

Tony slumps a little lower in his armchair, just enough that he can stretch out and kick Bucky lightly in the foot. When Bucky looks over at him Tony gives him an expectant look. When Bucky continues to stare blankly at him Tony does a little ‘go on’ motion with his head, and then kicks Bucky again. Just for good measure.

Bucky’s eyes widen, just a little, and then he blurts out “I hate sushi.” Everyone stops to stare at him, and Tony grins widely.

“What? Since when?” Sam demands, looking personally offended.

“Since always, it’s raw fish,” Bucky replies, throwing a pillow that bounces harmlessly off Thor’s head when Sam ducks. “Just get me some rice or somethin’, ‘s long as it’s cooked,” he adds and easily swats Sam’s return pillow away from him.

Steve immediately starts reading off other options from the menu, and Tony continues grinning all through the rest of the ordering process. He’s a little surprised when he looks over to find Bucky smiling back at him, something small and strangely delicate, and Tony just hopes his face isn’t as warm as it feels, hopes it doesn’t show that he’s melting inside.

Bucky has been giving him this look, lately, and Tony has no idea what it’s supposed to mean. It’s somewhere between surprised and considering, like he’s putting together the pieces of a puzzle he didn’t even know he was looking at. It’s mildly terrifying.

If he didn’t know better, Tony would think Bucky has figured out about his super secret crush, but that can’t be right. Bucky had already figured that out... right? And if that was the case he definitely wouldn’t suddenly be hanging out with Tony more, he’d be running even further away.

Tony is kind of tempted to avoid him, avoid that look entirely, because as long as he doesn’t know what it means it can’t mean anything bad. The problem with that plan, is that Bucky is suddenly everywhere he turns.

He stumbles out of his lab and it’s like Bucky is just laying in wait so he can drag Tony to the kitchen for an impressive lunch spread. And then he hangs out, watches while Tony gorges himself on soup and sandwiches and leftover donuts, and when Tony shoves the last donut towards him Bucky’s thoughtful little smile gets wider.

Tony doesn’t know what to do with that, or what to do with the warmth that lingers in his chest all day, growing something that feels dangerously like hope. Maybe he should give that avoidance plan another shot.

He makes it a full day. Mostly by hiding out in his lab the whole time. When he shuffles out, rubbing at his tired eyes and aching everywhere, Bucky is there before he makes it ten steps out of the elevator onto the common floor.

“What have I told you about sleeping?’ Bucky asks with an exasperated sigh that does not at all take away from the smile tugging at the corners of his lips, both hands coming down on Tony’s shoulders to stop him in his tracks. “And don’t say ‘it’s for the weak’, or I swear...”

Tony hums thoughtfully, then grins up at Bucky, who is standing so very close. If Tony were less sleep deprived he’d probably be more worried about that, more worries about what he’s giving away as he leans into Bucky’s chest ever so slightly. “Must have escaped my mind,” he finally says, grinning wider when Bucky rolls his eyes.

“I believe it was that you need to sleep, Tony,” Bucky says and uses the hands still on his shoulders to spin Tony in place and point him back towards the elevator. He leaves his hands on Tony’s shoulders, which is probably a good thing because Tony is dimly aware of the fact that he’s swaying in place. “Go on, before your zombie face scares Bruce again,” Bucky adds with a soft laugh.

“That was one time,” Tony protests, digging in his heels as Bucky starts pushing him towards the doors, “and I’m hungry.” The last part comes out nearly as a whine, and Tony doesn’t even try to stop it because this is all Bucky’s fault in the first place. Him and his regular meal schedules, and his insisting that Tony follow them.

“Nuh uh, I know how you are,” Bucky says, giving him another little shove towards the elevator, “you’ll go to the kitchen and then you’ll get distracted and I’ll find you five hours later half asleep and having a staring contest with your reflection.”

“Again, that was one time, and I had been up for days,” Tony says with a huff, then squeaks when the heels of his worn sneakers slip against the floor and Bucky’s grip on his shoulders is the only thing that keeps him from falling on his ass.

“Go get ready for bed, doll,” Bucky says and he’s definitely laughing now, “an’ I’ll bring you somethin’ to eat.”

“I want waffles,” Tony demands petulantly and finally stops leaning back against Bucky’s shoving, starts moving towards the elevator instead.

“Waffles, you got it,” Bucky says, all warm and amused, and his hands finally fall away from Tony’s shoulders. There’s a second where Tony starts to shuffle forward, elevator doors already dinging open, and he hears Bucky start to turn back down the hallway, and then Bucky’s hand lands on his head and Tony freezes in his tracks. He’s not even breathing, just holds himself perfectly still as Bucky ruffles his hair.

When Bucky steps away and his footsteps disappear down the hallway Tony is finally able to drag in a ragged breath and start his forward shuffle again. He spends the entire elevator ride thinking it’s a good thing he’s already half asleep, or he’d be really freaking out right now about what this all means.

Tony is slumped down low on his couch and poking at his phone when Bucky turns up with the promised waffles, but it’s totally worth the wait because the waffles are hot and fluffy and covered with the perfect amount of syrup. After Tony eats them all Bucky smiles at him warmly and says ‘good’, and what’s left of Tony’s poor batted soul feels like its been dipped in warm honey.

Tony doesn’t actually remember falling asleep, and he definitely doesn’t remember Bucky carrying him to bed, but he wakes up later curled under the blankets with his socks still on and oh look at that, he’s awake enough to start freaking out again.

Because Tony had been pretty sure he’d ruined everything, given himself away, and now everything is back to normal. Maybe even better. And Tony has no idea what to do. He doesn’t know what’s changed, and he doesn’t know how to not ruin it again.

Tony is heading for the gym, figuring he might as well accomplish something if he’s too angry to sleep at three in the morning. Sure, he’s exhausted, but maybe if he gets some of this energy out he’ll be able to sleep. And it won’t even be the first time someone has found him blissfully passed out on the gym floor in the morning.

He passes Bucky in the hallway, and it’s somehow both a surprise and not surprising at all when Bucky catches him by the forearm and pulls him to a stop. His eyes move over Tony’s face, and at least this is an expression Tony recognizes, it’s Bucky’s ‘figuring out why Tony can’t sleep’ face, and it’s a game Bucky is disturbingly good at. Even if it’s been awhile since he last played, not that Tony is letting himself think about that. Much.

“Hey freezy-pop, just heading to the gym,” Tony says and aims for an easy smile, but Bucky frowns at him and doesn’t let go. Not that Tony is actually trying to get free, that would mean losing the warmth of Bucky’s skin against his.

“People problem or math problem?” Bucky asks with a crooked little grin and Tony really hopes it doesn’t show how much it makes it heart leap that Bucky knows that.

“People problem,” Tony says before he’s even aware he’s going to say it, and then sighs as it feels like something tense inside him starts to unravel. “Huge people problem. The board is trying to slip some shady shit past me again, and I have to wait until morning to yell at them. Because I’m, and I quote, ‘not allowed to wake the old bastards up to yell at them’ any more. But I want to, I’m all riled up now and I want to bite some heads off.”

Bucky’s smile gets a little toothier and his gaze flickers down for just a second before he says “As much as I enjoy watchin’ you bite heads, prob’ly not a good idea. Might give ‘em a heart attack.”

“Which would be a bad thing, because...” Tony says and waves his hand in a ‘go on’ type motion.

“‘Cause then Pepper will kill you with her shoes,” Bucky says, very seriously, and damnit he’s right. Down to the exact threat Pepper had used, and Tony’s heart gives another little lurch.

“And that is a thing I do not want,” Tony recites with a sad little nod, and then grins when Bucky laughs. “So that’s why I’m going down to the gym. I’m going to imagine their wrinkled old faces on the punch bags. I figure hey, punching bag therapy works for Steve.”

“No it doesn’t,” Bucky says with a snort, then gives Tony’s arm a gentle little tug and says “c’mon, come watch Star Trek with me.”

“You think you can just distract me with Star Trek?” Tony demands, “because you can. What episode are you on now? Should I grab popcorn? What am I saying, of course I should grab popcorn, come on I need your hands.”

“How much popcorn you plannin’ on eating?” Bucky asks, but lets Tony start dragging him towards the kitchen with a smug little smile, like he’s getting exactly what he wanted.

Tony’s heart gives another little leap, and apparently this is his life now. If he dies tonight, it won’t be from an anger induced aneurism, it’ll be from choking on his own stupid heart just because Bucky is taking care of him again. Because Bucky is smiling at him all warm and fond and a little awed, like Tony is the one doing something amazing.

“Also, I love it when math problems keep me up, that’s the dream. The metaphorical dream, obviously,” Tony rattles as he drags Bucky along by way of Bucky’s hand still on his arm, just firm enough to not lose his grip, thumb stroking over the inner bend of Tony’s elbow as he lets out an amused hum.

Bucky doesn’t let go even as they settle onto the couch with their own bowls of popcorn, just shifts his grip down to Tony’s wrist instead, tap his finger against the wild flutter of Tony’s pulse in time with the opening theme. Tony shovels more popcorn into his mouth, mocks the questionable science until Bucky starts good-naturedly shoulder checking him, and doesn’t let himself think about the fact that Bucky’s hand on his wrist is leaching all the tension out of his body better than anything else ever has.

And Tony especially doesn’t let himself think about the fact that Bucky is giving him that look again. Like he’s solving some kind of riddle. Or maybe like he’s already solved it, and he’s just waiting for Tony to ask about the answer. But Tony is terrified to ask, because fuck he doesn’t want to be wrong. Even more terrifying, he’s starting to think he might not be.

Tony isn’t sure how Pepper convinced literally all of the Avengers to dress up to the nines and show up for the fanciest and most painful charity gala of the year. She even got Clint into a tux. Tony does know how she convinced him, at least, which was with threats to both his person and his cars. It was very effective.

Tony is still pondering the mystery as he heads for the common room to round up the rest of the unwilling ceremonial social sacrifices, and instead finds only Bucky struggling with his bow tie. “Either I’m late, or everyone else is extremely late,” Tony says and doesn’t even try to hide his wide grin as he watches Bucky nearly strangle himself.

“It’s both,” Bucky grumbles, yanking at the ends of the bow tie so aggressively Tony is a little surprised the poor thing doesn’t tear, “Some of ‘em were here, but then Bruce spilled his tea all over him an’ Clint, an’ Steve laughed so hard he ripped his shirt. So they all went to change. I think Nat left without us.” Bucky drops his hands to his side and scowls at this reflection in the mirror above the bar, at the lopsided bow hanging loose around his neck.

“That’s why she’s Pepper’s favorite,” Tony says, laughing as much at the story as the defeated slump of Bucky’s shoulders as he starts unknotting the bow tie again. Before Tony can think better of it he’s stepping closer and tugging at Bucky’s arm, all wrapped up in soft black fabric that somehow makes his arms look thicker. “Stop, stop, you’re killing the poor thing,” he says as he grabs for the tie with his free hand.

“Good,” Bucky says with a pout that has no right being so adorable on someone so lethal, “I dunno why it’s bein’ so difficult. I can do a tie no problem, but this?” He whips the bow tie off his neck and eagerly shoves it into Tony’s hand as he declares “bow ties are bullshit. Do you have a clip on around here?”

“Bite your tongue, you heathen,” Tony tells him seriously and forces himself to let go of Bucky’s arm, only dragging his fingers along Bucky’s firm bicep a little in the process. Then he takes a deep breath and steps forward a little closer, until they’re pressed practically chest to chest, and says “Here, let me help you with this before you somehow injure yourself with neckwear.”

“Please,” Bucky says with a heavy sigh, his hand brushing over Tony’s hip just for a second before falling to his side. “I swear I’ve tried fifty times now, you’re my only hope. You always clean up so nice an’ I’m just tryin’ not to make a fool of myself.”

Tony tries to ignore what that particular choice of words does to him. Later, he can work himself up into knots over the fact that Bucky thinks he cleans up nice, thinks he always cleans up nice, like Bucky has been thinking it for a while. But that’s for later, for now he just has to focus on getting this bow tie in place so they can all get over to the stupid gala and live through the stupid night. And then he can go back to his stupid panicked pining.

Focusing on the bow tie turns out to be a little difficult though, because all Tony wants to focus on is Bucky standing so incredibly close to him, the way Bucky is looking at him, eyes half lidded and chin tipped up to give Tony better access to his throat. His first attempt looks even worse, too tight and the bow lopsided, and Bucky barks out a laugh.

“Do you actually know what you’re doing?” Bucky demands, play-swatting at Tony’s stomach, “Are you wearing a clip on?”

“You take that back!” Tony squawks, swatting back at him before he starts aggressively undoing the bow tie again. He needs to get it together, because the longer this takes him the longer he’s standing all up in Bucky’s space, and the more of a blushing mess he’s going to become. And if Bucky hasn’t figured him out already, which is something Tony still can’t get a definite, undeniable read on, then Bucky definitely will now.

Especially because Bucky keeps his head tipped back and smiles lazily in a way that has Tony’s stomach clinging up tight as he asks “Are you trying to kill me, is that what’s happening here?”

“Yes dear,” Tony says, sickeningly sweet, and gives an extra hard tug at one end of the tie, “I’m trying to kill you with a bow tie. Slowly.” Bucky doesn’t say anything, but his smirk gets wider and wider and finally Tony huffs out “Turn around, I can’t work like this.”

“Sure, much easier to strangle me from behind,” Bucky says agreeably as he spins in place to face the mirror again, and his reflection fixes Tony with an expectant look.

Before he can talk himself out of it Tony steps forward and up onto his toes, hooks his chin over Bucky’s shoulder to properly see what he’s doing in the mirror, and brings both arms up over Bucky’s shoulders. From this angle it only takes a couple seconds to get the bow tie perfectly centered and secured around Bucky’s neck, just like it only takes a couple seconds for Tony’s pulse to jump up to truly unsafe levels.

“There, told you I know what I’m doing,” he says with a smug grin and then can’t quite seem to pull himself away, can’t seem to break eye contact with Bucky’s reflection.

“Looks perfect, thanks doll,” Bucky says, low and warm, and raises one hand to gently grab Tony’s forearm where it’s still draped over his chest. Like he doesn’t want Tony to pull away.

“So how did Pepper talk you into this?” Tony blurts, which, all things considered, is probably the least damaging thing he could blurt out right about now.

“She pointed out that if the Avengers look good, it helps your company look good,” he says, like that’s any kind of explanation, still staring Tony right in the eye like that’s supposed to mean something.

“That- that’s not- what-,” Tony says, startled, taking an instinctive step back. Bucky doesn’t let go of his arm, just turns back to face him with his mouth already open to protest. “Seriously,” Tony says, cutting him off and feeling a little frantic for reasons he can’t name, doesn’t want to name, “That’s not something you need to worry about, what- why would that-“

“Hey,” Bucky says, soft like Tony is some kind of spooked animal, which, okay, that feels pretty fair right now. When Bucky gives his arm a little tug Tony steps closer, completely helpless against it. Then Bucky’s other hand is on his face, fingertips just barely brushing Tony’s cheek, the line of his throat, and cool metal thumb pressed oh-so-gently beneath Tony’s chin nudging his head up to meet Bucky’s gaze. “Hey,” he says again, “I want t’ make you look good, okay? ‘S the least we can do after all you do to make us look good. ‘Cause I know that can’t be easy.”

Tony just gapes uselessly for a second, breath caught in his chest, and he’s not sure when he grabbed two handfuls of Bucky’s tux jacket, but he doesn’t think he could let go if he tried. Finally he manages to drag in a shaking break and stutter out “w-we?”

Bucky smirks a little wider, taps his thumb against Tony’s chin, and confesses “I may have helped Pepper ‘talk’ some of ‘em into it.”

And Tony is right back to useless gaping, because what the fuck is he supposed to do with that?! Tony has never expected the rest of the team to worry about the effect their Avenging has on SI, that’s his responsibility, his problem to deal with, and he has the growing feeling that Bucky is trying to tell him something here but Tony is too busy trying not to hyperventilate to figure out what the fuck it is-

“I’m about to enter the common room!” Comes a sudden shout from the hallway, and Tony startles so hard that Bucky’s hand still on his arm is the only thing that keeps him from toppling over. “Please no one throw tea at me this time!” The voice continues and oh, that’s Clint. Of course, because they’re waiting for the rest of the team. Who will be here any minute, and Tony should probably get it together already.

“That was your own fault, an’ I think you know it,” Bucky calls back, smiling just a little ruefully as he drops his hands back to his sides. Tony untangles his hands from Bucky’s jacket and has to resist the urge to smooth out the slight wrinkles he’s left in the lapels.

“Now hold on just a minute,” Clint says as he bursts into the room to defend himself, wrinkled suit jacket only half on and waving a finger at Bucky and Tony sees his chance.

Tony runs. Sure, he says he’s going to get Bruce, but it is absolutely just a cowardly flee. He just needs a minute, he just needs to breathe, needs to figure out what the hell he’s supposed to do with all the hope growing wild and unchecked in his lungs.

Tony gets home from a business trip and he honestly has no idea what time it is. He doesn’t even know what day it is, the only things he knows are that he’s jet lagged as all hell, and that he just wants to sleep.

When he gets to the penthouse there’s takeout from his favorite Italian place waiting on the table, still warm. There’s also a note that says ‘be a good boy and eat before you pass out for 12 hours’. It’s not signed, but at this point it really doesn't need to be.

He honestly doesn’t know what he’s expecting at this point, when he send a photo of the empty containers to Bucky with the caption ‘I want a cookie when I wake up.’

What Tony gets is an almost immediate response in the form of a picture of one of those chocolate-and-peanut-butter monstrosities that he loves, followed by a text that says ‘see you in 13 hours sweet thing’.

Tony wakes up almost exactly thirteen hours later, and he’s so far past wondering how Bucky does that. He’s also so far past his ‘avoid Bucky’ plan, all he wants to do is go find Bucky, get his cookie, and maybe even get the feeling of Bucky’s fingers ruffling his hair again.

So he does.

He’s heading for the elevator to leave for a press conference when Bucky and Natasha suddenly appear in his way, arms crossed and matching terrifying assassin glowers on their faces.

“Seriously, bells,” Tony says, clutching at his chest with the hand not clutching his to-go cup, “bells for everybody, I can’t live like this. I have a heart condition.”

They don’t laugh, but it’s not the usual ‘Tony please don’t joke about your heart condition’ not-laughing, and Tony is instantly on high alert, because something is going on here and he has a feeling he’s not going to like it.

The feeling only gets stronger when Bucky actually hesitates before slowly saying “I know you already talked t’ Pepper about this-“

“No,” Tony says instantly and he can’t believe he ever thought it was kind of sweet that Bucky talks to Pepper, that was clearly going to come back to bite him in the ass some day. Sure enough Natasha pulls out the very same body armor shirt Pepper had been waving at him this morning and Tony groans out “no.”

“You’re wearing the armor,” Natasha says flatly, and it’s completely unsurprising that she’s the one playing bad cop here.

“I am not wearing the armor,” Tony returns, just as flat, “because why would I? It’s a press conference, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“You could get shot again,” Bucky bursts out and his face is doing something truly fascinating, like he’s cycling through emotions too quickly for any of them to properly settle.

Tony can’t help rolling his eyes a little, because are they still on that? “What’re the odds that’ll happen again?” he says dismissively, “Smart assassins never try the same move twice, you know that frosty.”

Bucky’s face twitches harder and okay, apparently they are not yet to the point of joking about Tony’s recent gunshot wounds. Noted. “If you don’t wear the armor? Odds’re pretty damn high,” he growls out and yep, he’s even got his angry-eyebrows on. That’s usually reserved for Steve-levels of stupidity.

“You made this, it's the same material you use for all our gear,” Natasha points out, and okay, maybe she’s not ‘bad cop’ so much as ‘rational cop’. She holds the armor out to him, one eyebrow raised, and demands “are you saying it’s not good enough?”

“That is not what I’m saying, and I think you know it,” Tony says, narrowing his eyes because oh, that’s a low blow, how dare she imply he’d put his team in anything but the best. Her challenging smirk only gets wider, so Tony sniffs and drags his free hand over his chest as he says “I just don’t want to ruin the lines of my suit.”

“It’s the size of an undershirt, your figure will be fine,” Natasha says, but her lips twitch ever so slightly upwards.

Bucky remains staunchly unamused. “Yeah, I’m just gonna put the armor on you myself,” he says with a decisive nod, and Natasha gleefully hands it over.

“I’ll throw my coffee on you,” Tony warns, holding it up like a shield and taking a step back, “it won’t accomplish much, but then you’ll have to listen to me bitch about how I don’t have my coffee anymore. I might even cry.” Bucky keeps advancing on him, armor in hand and a determined look in his eye, so Tony pretends to fumble with the lid of his cup and warns “I’m talking ugly crying here, Bucky-bear, you’ve seen me without my coffee, it’ll be embarrassing for everyone, and-“

"Tony," Bucky snaps, standing right in front of him now, voice low and rough and cracking ever so slightly, "be a good boy and wear the damn armor!”

Tony's stupid heart trips all over itself. Natasha is somehow suddenly all the way down the hall, pointedly ignoring them while sipping Tony’s coffee, and when did she even steal that, and she is very clearly blocking Tony’s escape route. Not that Tony could actually flee right now if he wanted to, he’s much too busy just trying to stay standing under the force of the hot flush that rushes over him, stomach clenching hard and blood roaring in his ears. Tony can’t find the air to reply, can only stare, and Bucky’s face crumples a little further.

“Please, doll? I gotta know you’re safe, I can’t-'' Bucky cuts himself off, clenching his jaw, and Tony feels some confusing mix of horrified and elated. Because of course he feels terrible that he’s the reason for the terrified, pleading look in Bucky’s eyes, the reason Bucky’s right hand trembles slightly as he gives the body armor held between them a little shake. But on the other hand, Tony is the one who made Bucky look like that, cracked open and vulnerable, Tony did that. And oh, he knows that Bucky is letting it show, for him, it’s a gift that he hears the way Bucky’s breath hitches as he pleads “Just- jus’ do this for me? Be good and wear th’ damn armor so I can feel like you’re safe, will you do that?”

Fuck, Tony is pretty sure he’s going to die, he’s pretty sure the entire tower can hear the way his heart is racing in his chest, He has no idea how he’s supposed to respond to that, because all he really wants to do is take that single step it would require to bury his face in Bucky’s chest. But Tony knows he has to say something, anything, Bucky is still staring at him like he’s waiting for an answer, and it nearly knocks him off his feet all over again when he realizes Bucky has been waiting for an answer from him for a while now.

"O-okay," Tony finally manages, voice weak around the way his heart is lodged somewhere in this throat and already shrugging off his jacket so he can just take the stupid god damn armor.

"Yeah?" Bucky asks, voice pitched low, gaze heavy, so much in that simple question. It’s so new and so familiar and Tony is already nodding because oh fuck yes, anything Bucky is offering, anything he wants, yes.

Tony has to swallow thickly a couple times before he can actually say “Yeah, I- I can do that. Wearing the armor, being safe.” Being good, he doesn’t say, but Bucky’s eyes darken like he heard it anyways. Once Tony has finished tugging off his jacket and tie Bucky takes them from his shaking hands, and Tony can only manage a vague huff of protest as Bucky carelessly drapes them over his own shoulder and makes an impatient gesture with his free hand.

And here’s the thing, Tony is not generally what people would call ‘shy’. He left his shame far behind him about a decade or two ago and never looked back. But it’s Bucky, and he just keeps staring as Tony starts fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, and Tony has a terrible feeling the flush on his face is spreading down his neck. He’s more or less gotten used to the scars that litter his torso, his teammates have all seen them and on a good day Tony even forgets they exist. He’s still getting used to the three new freshly-healed bullet holes scattered across his stomach, so of course that’s right where Bucky’s eyes settle and it’s all Tony can do not to fidget, not to snatch his shirt back out of Bucky’s hand.

Bucky’s fingers are warm as they trace over the shiny new skin, ticklishly light and unbearably gentle. “Jus’ wanna feel like I’m protectin’ you,” he says, voice barely more than a sigh, and Tony wants to protest that it’s not his fault but he can’t find the air. Instead all he can do is nod, scared to breathe too hard in case it dislodges Bucky’s fingers from tracing the edges of each slightly raised scar. Tony can’t help the soft noise he makes when Bucky’s hand falls back to his side, already mourning the loss of contact, and Bucky smirks just a little as he says “Arms up, babydoll.”

Tony definitely hears Natasha snort, somewhere down the hallway, but it’s pretty low on the scale of her ‘insulting snorts’ and Tony really doesn’t care right now. He’s too busy throwing his arms up so quickly that it’s a miracle he doesn’t smack Bucky in the face or dislocate his shoulder or something equally ridiculous. Bucky smirks a little wider but doesn’t say anything, just carefully slips the deceptively thin body armor onto Tony’s arms and then gently lowers it down over his head.

Bucky makes sure the armor is pulled all the way down, big hands running over Tony’s hips and the small of his back, and then hands back Tony’s shirt. “There y’ go, nice and safe for me,” Bucky says almost absently as he fixes Tony’s hair and Tony is mostly still just marveling at the open relief in Bucky’s eyes.

“You’re only paranoid because I’m an average squishy human,” Tony tries to accuse, mostly to distract from the way his hands are shaking as he does up his buttons, but it comes out wobbly because even he doesn't believe that anymore.

Bucky’s lips quirk up like he knows Tony doesn’t really think that, but he still says “Nah, I worry cuz its you,” voice soft, like he needs to be sure that Tony knows. His eyes are dark as he watches Tony settle the knot of his tie against the hollow of his throat, and Tony’s hands are shaking so badly that Bucky has to help him get his jacket back in place. “Didn’t even ruin th’ lines of your suit,” he adds with a smug little grin, running both wide palms down Tony’s chest, fingers spread wide, and there’s no way he can’t feel the way Tony’s heart is trying to beat straight out of his chest.

“Lucky for you,” Tony says, voice equally soft, and when Bucky’s hands fall away he drags in a ragged breath.

“Lucky me,” Bucky repeats absently, like he’s talking about something else entirely, and then leans forward. His grip is firm but gentle as he cups the back of Tony’s head with one hand, his lips are dry and soft against Tony’s temple, and Tony freezes up all over again. “Thank you, Tony,” he whispers, lips moving against Tony’s skin and sending shivers down his spine, “always so good for me.”

Tony makes a sound that he refuses to categorize as a whimper, and Bucky pulls away smiling amused and warm and amazed. When Tony steps onto the elevator he’s still trying to catch his breath, but his hands are steady.

“You should date me,” Tony blurts out that night, because he can’t not, anymore. Because he’d smiled like a loon all the way through the press conference, face still warm, and at the end Pepper had asked him if he had a concussion, half serious and half knowingly smug. Because the warm flutter in his chest still hasn’t faded. Because Bucky has been giving him that look, and Tony thinks he’s finally figured it out.

Bucky just blinks at him for a second, and okay yeah, maybe Tony could have picked a slightly better place than the middle of the kitchen. At one in the morning. When they’re both in worn pajamas, odds are unfortunately pretty good that Tony has the remains of his PB&J sandwich smeared around his mouth.

He probably could have picked some better words too, so Tony scrambles desperately for some and all he comes up with is “Or, I should date you. We should date each other. No, I mean- yes, but- fuck-“

“Yeah,” Bucky says, cutting him off and still blinking at him like he’s vaguely dazed. “Yeah, we- us. Dating. Yes. Okay.”

Tony blinks back at him, because that sounded a lot like Bucky agreeing to date him, but it also sounds a lot like he just broke Bucky’s brain. “Are you sure?” Tony has to ask, shuffling on his feet a little, “Because-“

“What- yes,” Bucky says, surprisingly vehement, lurching up from the stool he’s been sitting on. Tony dares to let a wide smile start spreading across his face. Still-

“I’ll be a good boyfriend,” he offers helpfully, and really wishes he could sound more sure of that. He’s damn sure going to do his best.

Bucky is up and across the kitchen in an instant, taking Tony’s face in his big, deadly, gentle hands and breathing out “Tony.” He’s moved from looking dazed to looking something almost like awed and he says “Tony, doll, you are already so good to me, I just want you.”

Tony shudders all over and he’s not sure when his hands landed on Bucky’s waist but he’s holding on for dear life. “Bucky,” he sighs, and then, because he’s weak, he begs “Say it again.”

And oh, Tony just knew that Bucky knew what he was doing, and he gets his proof because instantly Bucky tightens his grip, drags his fingers along the hollows behind Tony’s ears. “Gonna be my good boy, yeah?” he asks, breath hot against Tony’s lips, eyes dark and intent, smirk to die for.

“Oh,” Tony gasps and when he shivers Bucky just holds him tighter, pulls him closer, until Tony’s eyes fall closed and he’s clinging helplessly to the broad muscle of Bucky’s back. “I- oh,” he gasps again when Bucky’s thumbs trace along his cheekbones, barely catching his eyelashes, and Bucky’s answering laugh is everything. It’s happy and amazed in a way that makes Tony's chest warm and fluttery, dark and just a little condescending in a way that makes his guy tighten up in heated want.

“I see you, Tony,” Bucky says, low and rough and insistent, “I see everything you do for us, for everyone.” His lips trace the line of Tony’s brow in soft, feather-light kisses, and his voice is barely more than a breath when he adds “For me. Gonna be good an’ let me take care of you back?”

Tony is caught between the urge to nod frantically and the need to stay exactly where he is, Bucky’s hands cupping his face like the most precious thing he’s ever held, so instead he croaks out “Yeah, I- I can- fuck I want that.” Tony cracks his eyes open again, because it’s overwhelming, and he doesn’t want to miss it.

Bucky smiles, happy and proud and heated and a million other things that have warmth spreading through Tony’s chest, curling up tight in his gut, lighting up his entire body. “Can I kiss you, baby?” he asks, lips nearly close enough to touch already, and when Tony throws himself forward Bucky catches him easily, left hand sliding to the small of Tony’s back and pulling him in closer.

The first press of lips is electric, has Tony sighing out a soft noise and then Bucky’s hand still cupping his jaw tilts his head a little further back and Bucky licks his way into his mouth with a slow, consuming determination. Tony clings harder to Bucky’s shirt where it stretches tight across his shoulders and hangs on for all he’s worth, tries to catch Bucky’s tongue between his teeth and shudders when Bucky growls low in his throat.

Bucky’s thigh slots between Tony’s like it belongs there and Tony breaks away from the kiss with a shaking groan as he abruptly realizes that he’s achingly hard, soft cotton of his sweats damp and clinging and amazing. “O-oh, shit-“ Tony gasps out, helpless against the way his hips jerk forwards just once to grind himself against that thick thigh. “God, Bucky-“ he whines, ducking his head to pant against the curve of Bucky’s shoulder and then bites back a desperate noise when Bucky’s thigh nudges up against him a little harder.

“Tha’s real sweet baby, sound so good,” Bucky sighs out as his lips move over Tony’s hairline, down his temple, his breath as heated as his words. He shifts his hand a little lower, spreads his fingers wide over the curve of Tony’s ass and pulls him in encouragingly as he growls “C’mon doll, don’t stop, lemme hear you makin' all those pretty noises for me.”

Tony doesn’t need to be told twice, rolls his hips forward again with another muffled groan. “Bucky, oh my god-“ he whines and presses closer, until he can feel Bucky’s cock nudged up thick and hot against his hip. His legs shake and he just clenches them tighter around Bucky’s thigh, tucks his face into Bucky’s throat and grinds himself forward. The sweet friction against his cock has Tony gasping again, shuddering all over as fire races up his spine and his head spins.

“Good, so good sweet thing, fit so perfect against me, gonna take such good care of you, treat you just right,” Bucky says against the shell of his ear and presses his thigh up a little further, digs his metal fingers a little harder into the swell of Tony’s ass and pulls in time with the roll of Tony’s hips against him. When Tony moans and clutches at him tighter Bucky chuckles again, low and dark, and drags his calloused thumb along the line of Tony’s jaw as he asks ”Damn you’re easy for me, ain’t ya? Gonna come like this, grindin’ against me all desperate and shakin’ for it?”

It sends another wave of heated, slightly-embarrassed arousal crashing over Tony and all he can do is whine again because unless Bucky is planning on stopping him, then he absolutely is. At this point Tony couldn't stop himself if he wanted to, cock throbbing and leaking as he grinds himself against Bucky’s thigh, panting hot against the curve of Bucky’s throat.

He can already feel his orgasm building fast, feels like it’s been building forever now, and his voice is shaking as hard as the rest of him as he moans out “Bucky- please, I- I’m, I can’t, please-�� Bucky silences him with a scrape of his teeth over the shell of Tony’s ear that has him practically collapsing against Bucky’s chest, limp except for the way he can’t stop rutting himself against Bucky’s thigh, chasing the sparks that light up his body.

Bucky laughs again, just a low, warm rumble in his chest, and presses another kiss to Tony’s eyebrow before saying “You’re this worked up you better come for me now, babydoll. ‘Cuz I’m gonna take you upstairs an’ take my time with you, make you feel as good as you deserve an’ put you to bed real sweet, how does that sound baby?”

He somehow makes it sound like both a promise and a threat, and Tony chokes out a noise caught somewhere between a sob and a moan. “Y-yeah, fuck yeah that- oh- fuck please-“ Bucky’s fingers press a little more firmly against the base of his skull, sliding through his hair, and Tony feels like he’s burning.

“Good,” Bucky says, an uneven hitch to his breath and Tony can feel the way Bucky’s cock throbs against him, “Fuck, you’re so good sweet thing, so perfect, feel so good, sounds so sweet for me, c’mon Tony, wanna feel you fall apart for me.”

Every word settles hot in Tony’s gut, has his head spinning faster until all he knows is Bucky’s voice in his ear, Bucky’s hands firm and demanding against him, the rush of his own blood in his ear as the pressure builds inside him. His sweats are going to be ruined and Tony doesn’t give a fuck because he’s so close, thin cotton already soaked and clinging to his cock, thrusts of his hips gone short and uncoordinated as his fingers scramble at Bucky’s back.

“Bucky,” he moans out, completely shameless, and drags his teeth over the line of Bucky’s throat, just because he can. Because Tony still kind of can’t believe the way Bucky shakes and groans against him, pulls him in harder and meets every roll of Tony’s hips with one of his own. “God, you’re so- I, I can’t believe- oh- Wanted you so long-“

“I know,” Bucky says, surprisingly soft and something almost like sheepish. He presses his thumb a little harder to the underside of Tony’s chin and tips his head up again, making Tony gasp at the rush of cool air over his flushed face even as he keeps his eyes squeezed shut because it’s so much. He’s so close to breaking apart at every seam. Bucky’s lips brush against his and Tony whimpers even as Bucky says “I see you now baby, been taking care of me for so long, haven’t you? Been so good, takin’ care of yourself so perfect for me, shit- you’re so good for me doll.”

“Bucky,” he gasps again, so close to the edge, every inch of him tingling, burning, so close-

“Look at me, Tony,” Bucky says, barest edge of a demand to his voice and it still has Tony prying his eyes open instantly. Then he groans weakly because Bucky is right there, blue eyes gone nearly dark, wild and hungry and fixed on him like there’s nothing else in the world as he breathes out “now be a good boy and come for me.”

Tony’s orgasm hits him overwhelming and inevitable, leaves him moaning breathlessly and clinging to Bucky impossibly tighter. Bucky’s hand on his ass keeps pulling him in, dragging it out until Tony is shaking and nearly sobbing into the feather light brush of Bucky’s lips against his own as Bucky calls him ‘good’ and ‘perfect’ and ‘gorgeous’.

As soon as he gets back the bare minimum brain cells Tony tips his chin up to kiss Bucky again, blissed out and lazy and it makes him shiver all over again when Bucky clutches at him tighter with a deep groan. Tony has to break away from the kiss sooner than he’d like because he still hasn’t quite caught his breath, hasn’t been able to get his hips to stop twitching forward as aftershocks race through him.

“Damn,” Bucky sighs, one hand petting at Tony’s hair and the other gentling against his waist as Tony slumps against him fully, “Good boy, so good baby, so perfect for me. Let’s get you up into bed, huh? Spread you out real nice and get my mouth on every inch of you.”

And that sounds good, it really does, but Tony can still feel Bucky’s cock thick and hard and throbbing against his hip, and he wants it now. So instead Tony drops to his knees, moving quick enough that he slides easily out of Bucky’s lax grip, presses his face to Bucky’s hip and nuzzles his cheek against the clear outline of Bucky cock through his thin pajamas.

“Fuck-“ Bucky gasps and his fingers tighten in Tony’s hair, holding him in place as his hips jerk forwards. “Damn what a sight you make, you want it that bad, doll?”

Tony turns his head just enough to look up at Bucky, lips moving against the hard line of Bucky’s cock, and he’s never meant anything more as he breathes out “Please, honey.”

Bucky’s eyes get impossibly darker and his cock throbs, the scent of him thick and heady and Tony’s mouth is watering. “We’re still in the kitchen, baby,” Bucky points out, but he’s already hooking his thumb into the front of his pants.

“I can be quick,” Tony promises, smirking a little because Bucky’s hips keep twitching forward against him, parajams visibly wet where they pull tight over the head of his cock, and this isn’t going to take long at all. And Tony really, really doesn’t care right now that he’s in the kitchen in a tower full of insomniacs, all he cares about his getting his mouth on Bucky, making Bucky feel as amazing as he does.

Bucky groans out something that was probably meant to be Tony’s name, but Tony has more important things to focus on because Bucky shoves his pants down far enough for his cock to spring free and Tony wastes no time trying to choke himself on it. He’s so loose-limbed and orgasm-dazed that when Bucky’s cock nudges at the back of his throat Tony just keeps going, only gags a little even as his eyes water and a whine builds in his chest.

“Oh- fuck Tony, so good, you’re so good baby, so- fuck-“ Bucky’s every word comes out rough and gasping and his fingers dig harder into the back of Tony’s neck, hips jerking forward like he just can’t help himself.

Tony moans encouragingly and clings to his hips, presses his nose to Bucky’s stomach and swallows around his cock. Bucky pulls back and then thrusts himself deep into Tony’s throat with another shuddering groan. Then he does it again, and again, until Tony has spit and precome sliding down his chin and arousal building again, almost painful, in his gut.

“Good, fuck you feel so good, you’re so- Tony-“ The way Bucky groans out the compliments, practically snarls his name, sends a hot shiver down Tony’s spine and has shaking all over again.

There’s a desperate moan caught in Tony’s chest that comes bursting out of him when Bucky abruptly tightens his fingers in Tony’s hair and yanks him back, leaves Tony panting for breath. His protest dies away when he opens his eyes and meets Bucky’s gaze, dark and ravenous.

“Open up, sweet thing,” Bucky growls, metal hand flying over his cock and his other hand still holding Tony in place, so close to the flushed, leaking head of Bucky’s cock and yet so far.

Tony doesn’t even need to think before he lets his aching jaw fall all the way open and he doesn’t care that his face is wet, constant pleading noises slipping out of his raw throat. He doesn’t care that he’s kneeling on the hard tile of the kitchen with his own come cooling in his sweats, all he cares about is getting more.

“Good boy,” Bucky gasps, and then finally comes. It streaks warm across Tony’s chin, the bridge of his nose, into his open mouth, and Tony lets his eyes fall closed again with a pleased moan as he runs his tongue over his lip, chasing the musky taste of him. “Fuck- shit, oh, Tony-“ the way Bucky groans out his name is going to stick with Tony for a long, long time, ringing in his ears, lighting him up, and Tony wants to hear it forever.

He’s still catching his breath when Bucky pulls him to his feet, into his arms, and Tony is all too happy to wrap his arms around Bucky’s shoulders, his shaking legs around Bucky’s waist, and let Bucky take his weight. “Okay, now we can go upstairs,” Tony slurs out as he drops his forehead to Bucky’s shoulder, voice rough, still feeling like he’s floating on air.

Bucky laughs, quiet and rumbling, and his hand is so gentle on the back of Tony’s head again as he tucks Tony’s face down into the curve of his neck. It’s definitely smearing Bucky’s shirt in come but if Bucky doesn’t mind then Tony certainly doesn’t care, just snuggles in closer and wonders if it’s actually possible for his heart to swell straight out of his chest.

“Whatever you want, babydoll,” Bucky says, warm and fond, presses a quick kiss to the side of Tony’s head and then starts carrying him towards the elevators. “Gonna take such good care of you, my good boy.”

Tony is pretty sure it’s not physically possible to get any closer, but he wraps himself tighter around Bucky and gives it his best shot and he mumbles “Gonna take care of you back.”

“I know you are, sweet thing, ‘s what makes you amazing,” Bucky says with another warm laugh, and Tony could probably argue that, because he’s really not, but he decides to let Bucky have this one.

For now. Apparently, they’ll have plenty of time to debate it later, over dates, and Tony is so looking forward to it.

Tony wakes up sore in places he didn’t even know he had, teeth marks on his shoulders and stubble burn on his thighs and just- deliriously happy. He can’t even try to convince himself it was some kind of crazy dream, because the physical evidence is kind of overwhelming. The other half of his bed is still warm, and there’s a telling clattering sound coming from his kitchen, and Tony decides he can afford to let himself lay here grinning at the ceiling like a loon for a while.

Soon enough Bucky is back with a giant plate of waffles and a wide smile, pausing in the doorway to drag his eyes down Tony’s bare chest. His hair is a mess and he’s unbearably gorgeous, and Tony smiles back as he realizes he can say it now.

“A beautiful man and breakfast? Help, my heart can’t take it,” Tony says, clutching at his chest with one hand even as he makes grabby motions at Bucky with the other.

“Not funny,” Bucky says, but he’s laughing as he sets the plate down on the nightstand and crawls back into bed, into Tony’s arms, and he’s still smiling softly when Tony pulls him into a kiss.

#The one where bucky gives tony a cookie and then watches him eat it #as i call it in my head #winteriron #buckytony #starkbucks #my fic

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ellewritesathing · 4 years ago

Text

(Un)Requited - I.L. III

Summary: Isaac Lahey had gone through many twists and turns in his life, but none of them compared to the whiplash he got when you asked him to tutor you. With a few weeks until the end of the semester and the big dance coming up, he’s hoping to figure out a way to ask you to go with him before it’s too late.

Masterlist Prev. | Part 3

Word-count: 3.1k+

A/N: i really need to work on updating this fic but i’ve finally figured out more or less what to do with this story line so hopefully my updates will be a bit more regular!!

Whenever Isaac thought he was getting better at functioning around you, you always found a way to prove him wrong.

It had been a week since you developed the Get The Girl game plan, and he’d been spending a lot of time with you ever since. Isaac had left notes and corrections on your algebra homework that made you smile, figured out the kind of jokes that made you laugh, and had gone to your house a few times to study together (and only once had any actual studying been done). Magnus still hated him, but he was slowly but surely winning over Max and the rest of your family.

You even sat in the stands whenever he had lacrosse practice and committed his schedule to memory - when Isaac knew full-well that you knew nothing about lacrosse.

Things were looking up. At this rate, Isaac might actually have the courage to ask you out and have the tiniest, most microscopic chance of you saying yes.

And then the weekend came and you took him to the mall to buy some new clothes and get a haircut.

It was nothing too serious - Isaac had even said something that made you laugh over lunch - but now he was sitting in the salon chair and you were running your hands through his hair while the two of you waited for the hairdresser.

Isaac knew it was an absent-minded gesture while you thought of what to do with him, but he couldn’t help the way it made him feel. He was surprised you couldn’t hear how his heart beat out of his chest every time you started combing through a new section, almost as surprised that you hadn’t noticed that he wasn’t paying attention to a word you said.

“So what do you think?” you asked, dropping your hands on the top of Isaac’s shoulders (sadly). The touch still made him malfunction, but it was easier now that your hands were still and your eyes were focused on his in the mirror.

“I, uh- I think that sounds like a good idea,” Isaac said, trying to look like he’d been listening. He’d meant to, honestly, but it was literally impossible for him to focus around you.

Two social steps forward and about a billion back.

“Really? I thought you’d hate bleaching it,” you said.

Isaac’s heart nearly exploded. “Bleach?”

“And a mohawk.”

“Oh, you’re messing with me for zoning out,” Isaac said. Though he would have been perfectly content to have a bleach blonde mohawk if it made you happy, he pretended to be cooler than he actually was by nodding at your reflection in the mirror. ��I see how it is.”

“It was too good an opportunity to pass up,” you laughed, lifting your hands back to his hair. “What I was thinking is a little shorter on the sides but keeping the top as it is. It would break my heart if we cut off your curls.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” Isaac said, too softly to be a part of his cool guy routine. Your teasing smile faded into something a bit more genuine. “Sounds good. For real this time.”

Before you had the chance to answer, the hairstylist came over and started occupying your time. As happy as it made Isaac to hear you laughing and talking with them, an ugly pang of jealousy shot through him.

Derek had explained to Isaac when he turned that sometimes he’d feel emotions that weren’t necessarily his own. Those emotions were why anchors were so important, because otherwise Isaac would drift in a sea of emotions and they’d eventually consume him. At the time, Derek was talking about anger, but Isaac knew this had to be a part of it, too.

Isaac just wanted you to be happy, he didn’t care who it was with or if it had anything to do with him.

He spent the better part of the appointment trying to convince himself that he wasn’t a jealous bastard that didn’t deserve the time of day, and by the time his blowdry was done, he was back to his normal semi-functional self.

You beamed at his hair as he stood up and ruffled it slightly, only to be laughed at by the hairstylist. Isaac couldn’t hear very well over his heart beating so loudly and with his ears recovering from the force of the hairdryer, but he could have sworn the hairstylist said something about you two being a cute couple on your way out.

Isaac didn’t have time to dwell on the comment, though, because soon enough you were dragging him into stores he’d never been to and picking out things for him to try on.

It was awkward at first. Isaac had lost the ability to talk to you as well as the ability to make a decision. The result was a clumsy collection of clothing and a very awkward moment before Isaac closed the changing room door with you on the other side.

After a brief pep talk, Isaac started trying on the clothes. They weren’t bad, they just weren’t what he would normally wear. He hadn’t exactly made it easy to shop for him what with his inability to speak but he still couldn’t help feeling out of place in the stuff you’d picked out.

When he came out, you were sitting on a bench, leaning your head against the wall and scrolling through something on your phone. You brightened up when you saw him and his heart melted, but he shook his head and placed the clothes on the return counter.

“You didn’t like any of it?” you asked as you got to your feet.

Isaac shook his head and sighed. “Nah, it’s not that it’s just … I haven’t really worn anything that wasn’t Camden’s first.” He blinked a few times. Where did that come from? There was no way you wouldn’t realize he was a loser now.

“Oh,” you said quietly, dropping your gaze to your shoes. “I should have-” You looked back up at Isaac and gave him a smile. “You wanna get out of here?”

“Yeah, I’d go anywhere with you,” Isaac said before he could stop himself. He made a mental note to ask Erica to slap some sense into him when he got home.

Instead of groaning and calling him cheesy, you laughed and looped your arm around his. “Come on. I’ll buy you some ice cream on our way out.”

The ice cream had sent shivers up your spine so, somewhere between the store and parking lot, Isaac had given you his jacket. You wore it as you drove him home, and Isaac couldn’t help but think how much better it looked on you than it did on him.

Isaac tried to think of an excuse to not get out of the car once it was parked outside the loft, but he came up empty. He was about to thank you for the ride and the attempted shopping trip when you started talking.

“It’s Erica, isn’t it?” you asked, staring through the windshield at where Erica was harassing Derek at the entrance to the building. She was having the time of her life and Derek looked ready to drink.

Isaac let out a laugh. He wondered if she wanted money or if she was just having fun giving Derek a migraine. “Yeah, that’s her.”

You bit your lip as you stared out the windshield. After a moment, you turned to look at Isaac with a somewhat indecipherable look on your face. “I think she’ll say yes.”

“Wait, what?” Isaac asked. He had no idea what you thought Erica would say yes to, or how you got there from asking for her name.

“Yeah, I don’t think you needed to cut your hair or change anything to get her attention,” you said, still not making any sense. “When you ask her to the dance, I think she’ll say yes.” Isaac tried very hard not to frown at you, but it probably wasn’t working because you kept talking before he could say anything. “You’re a really great guy, Isaac. If she doesn’t see that then she’s crazy.”

“Right,” Isaac said slowly. It was the only thing he could think of to say. He had no idea how to untangle the mess he’d gotten himself into or how to explain to you that he and Erica were the farthest thing from romantic prospects. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, of course,” you said with a smile. “I’ll see you after practice on Monday?”

“Yeah, sure. See you.”

Isaac got out of the car, feeling dazed and confused, and waved at you as you disappeared down the street. How had he gone from feeling like he had a shot with you this morning to asking Erica to the dance?

---

“No way,” Erica said, not looking up from the nail she was painting.

She’d refused to stop painting them, even though the smell of the open bottle made everyone in the loft feel nauseous. Today, she’d picked out a metallic shade called Black and Blue - no doubt because anyone who got close enough to see the color would be left black and blue.

Isaac attempted to come closer but stopped when Erica slid the bottle closer to him. “Come on, I never ask you to do anything!”

“Oh, please. You ask me to do crap for you all the time.”

“Name one other time.”

“Two hours ago you asked to copy my English homework because, and I quote ‘it’s a Crime and Punishment that I have to read this,’” Erica said. She looked up at him with a sly smile. “And you say you’re not witty.”

It didn’t take a genius to see that Erica had won that angle of the argument, so Isaac changed tactics. “What if I cover for you next Thursday so you can go to that concert Derek said you’d only go to once he was dead?”

Erica hummed and looked back down at her nails. She touched up her left ring finger before looking back up at Isaac, knowing that he’d use that time to think up several other options to offer her when she said no. “Is it really that important to you that this girl knows I’d never in a million years date you?”

“Not how I’d phrase it, but yeah,” Isaac said. He slid into the seat across from Erica and carefully placed the lid over the bottle.

Erica looked at him for a hard moment and then sighed. “Fine. Then I’ll find a reason to talk to her and tell her you’re not my type.”

Isaac leaned over the table and kissed her cheek before racing out of the room to ensure he didn’t end up black and blue. “You’re the best, Erica. Have fun at the concert!”

“Concert?” Derek asked, catching Isaac’s arm as he ran past him.

“Definitely not,” Isaac said with a grin. He leaned in and kissed Derek’s cheek for good measure. The poor man was so off-guard that Isaac shook out of his grip without using any supernatural influences.

---

Isaac had come up with a plan. It wasn’t a very good one, but it was the only one he had. He’d go to practice and try to be the best player on the field to impress you, and then when you guys were sitting on the bleachers and he went through his homework, he’d explain this whole scheme to you. Hopefully, the speech he’d prepared would be eloquent and he wouldn’t just throw up words all over you, but that was a risk he had to take.

The ‘being the best player’ part kind of failed because, aside from all his issues, Isaac was very distracted by a chemo-signal in the air: nervousness. It was everywhere, but particularly near the bench and bleachers.

He tried to put the first failure aside as he showered and changed into a shirt he thought you’d like. Instead, he went over his speech once more in his head to make sure it sounded halfway decent.

Hey, so I know this is really weird but I need to come clean: I’ve had a crush on you ever since our brothers first dumped us on each other when we were kids. I’ve never wanted to ask Erica to the dance; I’ve only ever wanted to go with you but I never thought I had a chance with you so I lied. It was stupid, but I can’t change that now and I guess what I’m trying to say is … will you go to the dance with me?

Isaac groaned and hit his head against his locker. The speech was awful, but if he didn’t tell you the truth then he was pretty sure he was going to combust.

He was still trying to psych himself up to talk to you when he walked back over to the bleachers and heard you laughing. Then he picked the chemo-signal up again. You were nervous.

And you were talking to Stiles Stilinski.

That ugly feeling of jealousy shot through him again, and Isaac worked to convince himself he was overreacting as he made his way over.

“Hey, guys,” Isaac said evenly. He smiled at you and shot Stiles a very deliberate look. “What’s up?”

“Stiles was just telling me this story about one of your away games. Did you really fall off the bleachers right before the match and sprain your ankle?” you asked, mouth pulled up in an amused smile. It wasn’t malicious but it felt different than the one you usually gave him.

“Uh, yeah. I guess I did,” Isaac said stiffly. “Back in freshman year. Did Stiles tell you about the time he drove his Jeep through the other team’s equipment and forced us to forfeit?”

You whipped your head around to laugh at Stiles. Again, not maliciously. Just different. This time it was more like you and Stiles had a secret that Isaac didn’t know about. “No way, seriously?”

“Seriously. But in my defense, Scott was distracting me,” Stiles said, not sounding very defensive. He had a surprisingly easy smile on his face that made Isaac want to punch him. “But, uh, speaking of Scott, I should probably get going before he starts asking strangers for rides and becomes a seven o’clock special.”

You laughed again and gave him a matching easy smile. “Can’t have that, can we?”

“Definitely not,” Stiles said. His eyes flicked over to Isaac for a second before turning his attention back to you. “So I’ll see you on Friday?”

“Yeah, looking forward to it,” you said. Stiles started heading down the bleachers and you let out a small sigh before gathering up your stuff. He looked at you over his shoulder and you waved at him.

It was amazing how such small movements made Isaac feel sick to his stomach; a smile here, a laugh there, and now a wave.

Isaac adjusted his backpack and tried not to look as jealous as he felt. “So what’s on Friday?”

“Oh, uh-” You pushed a piece of hair behind your ear and shrugged. There was a strange kind of nervousness rolling off you. “Stiles asked if I wanted to go to the dance with him so I suggested we do a trial run before then.”

“Like a date?”

“Yeah, like a date,” you said. Your expression was funny; it looked like you were trying to figure something out how Isaac felt about it, but Isaac didn’t know why his feelings would matter. “What do you think of that?”

Isaac thought that everything made sense now. You’d never been interested in sports, and yet you came to every one of his lacrosse games and had the entire practice schedule memorized. Like an idiot, Isaac had thought all your questions meant you had taken an interest in him.

Clearly, he wasn’t that far off. You still weren’t interested in lacrosse, you were just interested in Stiles.

The same Stiles who hated him, made fun of him, and kept him from joining Scott’s pack for the longest time. Everything Isaac did, Stiles found a way to do better - despite being mind-numbingly human.

Stiles had a particular charm that Isaac couldn’t stand but everyone else seemed to love. He was witty, and kind, and some might say he was even good looking. And Isaac thought, most of all, that after going out with a guy like Stiles, there was no way you would ever want to go out with him.

“I think that’s great,” Isaac said with a tight smile. His heart was beating out of his chest and if you were like him, you would have known he was lying.

But you were human - you didn’t know.

Still, you frowned. Either Isaac said something wrong or you felt conflicted about something. The frown was only there for a second before you replaced it with a smile only slightly different to the one you usually wore, closer to the nervous one you’d given him when you asked him to tutor you. “You do?”

“Yeah,” Isaac lied again. If there was one thing his time with you had made Isaac realize, it was that having a place in your life - even a place as a friend with unrequited feelings - was better than no place at all, and he wasn’t going to screw that all up by telling you how he felt. He took a deep breath. “But, uh, do you mind if we talk about this some other time? Derek texted when I was in the locker room and he needs my help with something at the loft.”

You blinked a few times, trying to piece together the quick change in pace. “Oh, uh, do you want me to drive you?”

Your pained expression almost made Isaac spill his guts right there. He couldn’t risk spending any more time with you. “No, he’s coming to pick me up.”

“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow?” you asked, eyebrows knitting together as you looked at him, despite the smile on your face.

“Yeah, sure. Not like those problems are going to solve themselves, right?” Isaac asked. He did his best to give you a reassuring smile.

Your smile faltered for a second, but then it was back on your face and covering up any other thoughts. “Right.”

Isaac left pretty quickly after that, with one thought clear in his mind: Out of everyone in the entire school to go out with, why did you have to pick Stiles Fucking Stilinski?

Tagged: @lettherebelovex @britty443 @ietts @magnus-the-fabulous-entp-bane

#(un)requited #teen wolf #isaac lahey #isaac lahey imagine #isaac lahey fanfiction #isaac lahey x reader

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nothingbutfangirlsmut · 4 years ago

Text

The Girl out of Time

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Background: Willow Roffe was born and raised in Brooklyn. She lived her life as happily as she could with her two childhood best friends Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers. When they both left her to join the military she tried to continue with life but that didn't get to happen for her for the simple fact that she meant something to James Buchanan Barnes.

Rating: Story will be overall MATURE but not every chapter. There will be strong language, talk of both mental and physical abuse, some good ole angst, and smut. There will be a warning at the beginning of the chapter when it includes smut.

Chapter 39

*Two Years Later*

It's been a total of five years since the snap and half the universe turned to dust. Five long years that Steve, Nat, and the remaining avengers have been trying everything to fix what happened. The only one not invested in fixing things was Tony. I couldn't blame him though. He had everything he ever wanted. He had a nice quiet simple life with Pepper and their daughter. He hasn't lost what he loved most like some of us.

As much as Steve wanted me to keep faith in him it had slowly slipped away. I trust Steve with my life and my daughters life but I don't believe he can fix what happened. The people we lost in the snap are gone forever. Everyone just needs to accept that so the universe can try to move on.

"Uncle Stevie!" Sarah shouted as she ran through the complex.

I noticed it wasn't an entirely playful shout or run. She seemed to have an actual purpose. I got up and followed swiftly behind her into the office where Nat and Steve were clearly in the midst of something.

"Uncle Stevie!" Sarah shouted to get his attention.

"Yes little soldier" he sounded exhausted.

"Someone's here" she said matter of factly.

"What?" We all questioned her at the same time.

"Someone's here. I saw the van driving up the road." She said sweetly.

Just then the speaker crackled. The monitor lit up showing us a view of the front door. A man appeared on screen. He looked familiar but I couldn't place him.

"Oh! Hi! Hi! Is anyone home? This is Scott Lang! We met a few years ago! At the airport! Germany. Antman!" The man shouted towards the camera.

Nat, Steve, and I all shared a confused look. Steve took off towards the door while Nat and I stayed back with Sarah. Sarah tugged at my shirt until I looked down at her.

"Who's the funny man?" She asked.

"He's another friend of ours from work." I told her simply.

"Another superhero?" She asked perking up instantly.

"Yea, apparently he's Antman." I shrugged glancing at Nat.

We met up with Steve and Scott in the lab of the complex. The guy looked completely lost and kind of out of it. He mumbled to himself as he paced back and forth. Steve and I shared a confused look.

"Scott, are you okay?" Steve finally asked.

Scott rubbed his hands together as he turned to look at us. He looked completely freaked out.

"Yea" he rubbed his face.

"Have any of you guys ever studied quantum physics?" He asked suddenly serious.

"Only to make conversation." Nat answered.

"Okay, so, five years ago, right before, Thanos. I was in a place called the quantum realm. The quantum realm is like its own microscopic universe. To get in there you have to be incredibly small. Hope, she's my, uh, she was my, uh, she was suppose to pull me out. And then Thanos happened and I got stuck in there." Scott explained

"I'm sorry that must have been a very long five years." Nat said softly.

"Yea, but that's just it. It wasn't. For me it was five hours. See the rules of the quantum realm aren't like they are out here. Everything is unpredictable. Is that anybody's sandwich?" Scott suddenly stepped over to the desk and grabbed the half of sandwich laying there.

"I'm starving" he added.

"Scott, what are you talking about?" Steve asked him.

"What I'm saying is, time works differently in the quantum realm. The only problem is, right now, we don't have a way to navigate it. But what is we did? I can't stop thinking about it. What if we could somehow control the chaos? What if we could navigate it? What if there was a way that we could enter the quantum realm at a certain point in time then exit the quantum realm at another point in time? Like before Thanos." Scott explained quickly.

"Wait, are you talking about a time machine?" Steve asked.

"No, no, of course not. No not a time machine. It's more like, um, yea, like a time machine. I know it's crazy. It's crazy. But I can't stop thinking about it. There's gotta be some- it's crazy." He stopped shaking his head like he was defeated.

"Scott, I get emails from a raccoon. So, nothing sounds crazy anymore." Nat said simply.

"So who do we talk to about this?" Scott asked.

“Tony?” I asked turning to Steve and Nat.

“Definitely” Steve nodded.

I gathered up Sarah to put her in the car. By the time I had her buckled in the others were coming out. Steve drove us to Tony’s cabin which he now called home with Pepper and their daughter Morgan. It would be nice for Sarah to get at least a few minutes with another kid.

When we pulled up Tony was stepping up onto the porch with Morgan in his arms. He turned around knowing who was here immediately. I unbuckled Sarah then stepped back letting her run over to Morgan.

“Sarah!” Morgan cheered happily.

The two girls collided in a hug and giggles.

“Why don’t you take Sarah inside and show her all your toys.” Tony told Morgan.

The two girls nodded then ran hand in hand into the cabin. We stepped up on the porch to talk to Tony. There was a moment of tense silence that was broken by Pepper bringing out a tray of glasses and a pitcher of what looked like tea. Once Pepper was inside Scott instantly started explaining the time travel scenario to Tony.

“We know what it sounds like.” Scott finished when he saw Tony’s face.

“Tony, after everything you’ve seen, is anything really impossible?” Steve asked.

“Quantum fluctuation messes with the Planck scale which then triggers the Deutschland Proposition. Can we agree on that?” Thank asked as he poured a cup of tea.

He handed the cup to Steve.

“Thank you” Steve said softly.

“In layman’s terms, it means you’re not coming home.” Tony said flatly.

“I did” Scott pointed out.

“No. You accidentally survived. It’s a billion-to-one cosmic fluke. And now you wanna pull a.. What do you call it?” Tony asked Scott.

“A time heist?” Scott said as a question.

“Yea, a time heist. Of course. Why didn’t we think of this before? Oh, because it’s laughable. Because it’s a pipe dream.” Tony said in disbelief as he sat in one of the wicker chairs.

“The stones are in the past. We could go back, we could get them.” Steve told him.

“We can snap our own fingers. We can bring everybody back.” Nat told them.

“Or screw it up worse than he already has, right?” Tony corrected.

“I don’t believe we would.” Steve said crossing his arms over his chest.

“Gotta say it. I sometimes miss that giddy optimism. However, high hopes won’t help if there’s no logical, tangible way for me to safely execute said time heist. I believe the most likely outcome will be our collective demise.” Tony explained.

“This is ridiculous there has to be a way to do this.” I told Tony.

Scott turned to speak directly to Tony.

“Not if we strictly follow the rules of time travel. All right? It means no talking to our past selves, no betting on sporting events.” Scott started to explain.

Tony put his hand up.

“I’m going to stop you right there, Scott. Are you seriously telling me that your plan to save the universe is based on Back to the Future?” Tony asked him in disbelief.

“No” Scott said slowly.

I rolled my eyes. This is ridiculous.

“Good, you had me worried there. Cause that would be horseshit. That’s not how quantum physics works.” Tony told him like that was a fact everyone knew.

“Tony, we have to take a stand.” Nat told him.

“We did stand. And yet, here we are.” Tony told her.

“I know you got a lot on the line. You got a wife, a daughter. But I lost someone very important to me. A lotta people did.” Scott told him softly.

“Like a husband and father. You have no idea how hard it is to tell your child that her father was turned to dust trying to be a hero.” I said interrupting Scott.

“Now we have a chance to bring her and him back. To bring everyone back, and you’re telling me that you won’t even-“ Scott’s voice started to rise.

Tony sat up instantly cutting Scott off.

“That’s right, Scott. I won’t even. I can’t.” Tony told him sternly.

I heard the door open and close followed by two sets of tiny feet. Morgan ran to Tony jumping into his lap. Sarah came to sand next to me.

“Mommy told me to come and save you.” Morgan told her dad.

“Good job. I’m saved.” Tony said then hugged her.

He stood from his seat holding Morgan in his arms.

“I wish you were coming here to ask me something else. Anything else. I’m honestly happy to see you guys, I just, oh, look, the table’s set for eight.” Tony said softly.

“Tony, I get it. And I’m happy for you. I really am. But this is a second chance.” Steve glanced at me.

“I got my second chance right here, Cap. Can’t roll the dice on it. If you don’t talk shop, you can stay for lunch.” Tony said then walked into the cabin.

We all sighed collectively then slowly went back to the car.

“He’s scared” Nat said.

“He’s not wrong.” Steve admitted.

“Yeah, but, I mean, what are we gonna do? We need him. What, are we gonna stop?” Scott asked in disbelief.

“No, I wanna do it right. We’re gonna need a really big brain.” Steve said with a small smile.

“Bigger than his?” Scott asked clearly confused.

I patted his shoulder.

“We know a guy.” I told him.

—

#nothingbutfangirlsmut #fanfiction #steve rogers #bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky x reader #the girl out of time #bucky imagine #james buchanan barnes #bucky x you

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leviathanlazarus · 4 years ago

Text

Attention

Pairing: Joe Elliott x Steve Clark

Word Count: ~5900 (it’s a LONG one, fuck!)

Warnings: bondage--dom!Joe x sub!Steve; restraints; blindfolding; flogging; nipple clamps; edging; fingering; first-time unprotected penetrative sex; after-care. 18+

Forgive me, Lord, for all my sins.

Written as a gift for brokenrose, as part of 2020's A Very Kinky Rockfic Ficmas Fest. The prompt was 'Steve Clark,Joe Elliott (Def Leppard,Def Leppard): Bondage.'

---

“I wouldn’t have expected you to be into this,” Joe said. He was tying Steve’s left wrist to the bedpost and dragging his eyes down the blue and green veins snaking underneath his fair skin; Steve’s other wrist was already tethered, and he’d asked Joe if he was going to tie his ankles too, but Joe said that it “wouldn’t be possible” for what he wanted to do with him. Joe leaned down and looked into Steve’s eyes: “You’re somehow always full of surprises. Maybe because you’re so quiet,” he added absentmindedly, lifting himself up again to tighten the knot.

“I’ve hinted before,” Steve said softly. “That I want to try, anyway.” He’d hinted because Joe had been so goddamn vocal about being into it himself--tying people up, spanking them, gagging them, bringing that macho-man role to the table and amping it up until someone could come just from the sound of his voice. Steve felt so exposed--fully naked, baring it all for Joe to see, while the frontman was still fully clothed. Steve had seen that hard body before but, with being tied up and teased, he was practically salivating to see it again.

Who would have thought?

Joe’s voice rose: “Have you?” He chuckled and straddled Steve’s hips, folding himself over him and bringing their mouths together.

Oh, Joe’s kisses--something Steve had learned to love and crave so much. Sometimes it was hard to not literally beg for Joe to kiss him when they got a spare moment or a quick shadow to pass through. Steve strained against the ties, oh-so-ready to wrap his arms around Joe, and let out a little noise of disapproval when he realized he couldn’t.

“I thought you wanted this?” Joe questioned as he pulled back, almost frowning.

“I do,” Steve said. The weight of Joe on top of him was making him hard and needy. He wondered if Joe could feel his erection growing and growing with each microscopic movement and each half-degree rise in temperature between them.

Joe ran his hands along the rope binding Steve’s wrists. “It’s a shame we have to do this on a bed. I’d rather have you standing,” he said, then smirked. “Then get you on your knees.”

Eager to please, Steve thought. Yeah, that’s what he was.

“We couldn’t use your playroom?” Steve asked, only partially joking.

“Ha!” Joe bellowed and bent down to kiss him again. “I wish I had a playroom. But this’ll have to do.” He hopped off the bed and grabbed a bandanna from the dresser--everything was already there, a small collection of “toys and tools” that he had spread out on the wood, the bandanna first in line.

When Joe made it taut and started to move the fabric above Steve’s head, Steve bucked at his ties. “No, wait,” he pleaded, and Joe stopped, his knees sinking into the side of the mattress. He took in the sight of Joe’s tanned arms and the sturdy torso underneath his shirt, the little strip of bare skin exposed above his waistband. “I wanna see you.”

Joe smiled--not cocky, truly sincere. “You’ll see me again soon,” he said and started to gently place the blindfold over Steve’s eyes and tie it behind his head. When he spoke again, Joe’s voice sounded further away yet even closer all at once, and Steve felt himself get completely hard at the next statement. “If you’re good.” He felt Joe move off the bed again and then heard, “What do you want first? Any preference?”

Was that part of the dom-sub relationship? Steve thought the “dom” just did whatever he wanted. He was so flustered he couldn’t even remember what the options were. “Um--” he started to say, trying to visualize Joe standing at the dresser in front of all his stuff. “Whatever you want, Joe--”

Joe reached down and cupped the side of his face, running his thumb over his bottom lip. “No, it’s about what YOU want,” he said, stroking the first signs of stubble with his fingertips as Steve’s lips parted. “So what do you want, honey?”

Steve might as well have been putty in Joe’s hands. He swiveled one leg to the side, trying to get any contact with him, and felt his foot nudge against his thigh. Before he could answer, Joe’s hands were pushing his leg back into place, straight as an arrow down the bed. “None of that,” he said with a laugh, patting Steve’s knee. “You’re not allowed.”

Steve frowned and stopped himself from fidgeting. “Okay.”

“Let’s just start nice and slow,” Joe said, letting the words fall from his tongue leisurely. He straddled Steve again and ran his fingers down his torso. “We haven’t had much time together, Steve. Not ‘til now.”

Steve shivered in the cool air and with Joe’s light touches down his chest, down his ribs, and along his stomach. “No, I s’pose not.” His breath hitched when Joe's fingers just barely brushed through his pubic hair but ignored his hard-on. Was asking for more something he could do? Or would Joe punish him? Did he want to be punished?

He could admit to himself that he’d thought about Joe roughing him up before. Not in a violent way per se, but Steve had had fleeting--or, admittedly, pervasive--thoughts of Joe grabbing him by the throat, or the hair, or his wrist, and throwing him against a wall, shoving his hand down his pants, making him turn around and--

Joe’s fingers skittered up to his armpits--one of Steve’s knees tried to jerk itself up but was stopped by Joe sitting on top of him.

“Are you ticklish?” Joe asked, fingers edging dangerously toward the vulnerable skin and wiry hairs. “Should we find out?”

Steve’s legs thrashed as much as they could underneath Joe when the butterfly touches finally fluttered over his armpits. “No, Joe!” he cried out, laughing. What a fucking bastard. Steve had never heard of tickling being a sexual thing, but it seemed fitting for Joe to toy with him like that, especially when he couldn’t do much to fight back. “Stop!”

Joe’s disembodied laugh boomed right through the room. “Alright, alright.” His hands explored Steve’s flushed chest. “Do you remember your safe word? Instead of saying ‘stop?’”

“I thought,” Steve started, trying to catch his breath. “That was for when I feel unsafe.”

“It’s for whenever you want to stop. Doesn’t matter what the situation is,” Joe corrected. “‘Stop’ can be kind of...ambiguous. Your safe word means you’re demanding me to literally stop, and stop everything. No confusion.”

“Right, no confusion at all,” Steve quipped, squirming with Joe’s weight on top of him and his still-neglected hard-on.

“I’m serious,” Joe said, an authoritative sternness in his voice that nearly made Steve quiver. “Do you understand? We can only go on if you understand.”

Steve nodded. Damn it, he really wished he could see Joe. Each second was driving him more wild. “I understand,” he said, and tried to shimmy his hips to rub his erection against him.

Joe pressed one palm against Steve’s chest to still him and used the other hand to cup his jaw. “You understand WHAT?”

Steve’s heart started to race in anticipation. “I understand that I need to say the safeword.”

“Good. But how are you supposed to address me once we begin?”

OH. Steve swallowed. “I understand...sir.” He could feel Joe’s satisfaction simmer through the room like a wave and Steve could imagine the grin spread across his face as the word left his lips. It made Steve hot too, honestly, and he wasn’t going to try and pretend like it didn’t. He needed some attention--more attention than a bout of tickling.

When one of Joe’s hands started to explore him again and the other clasped his jaw more tightly, Steve felt a whine rise in his throat. He tried to spread his legs but failed, though he succeeded in getting some much-needed friction against his groin.

“So needy,” Joe remarked. “You’re going to have to wait for that.” Suddenly his weight was gone from the bed and he said, “But don’t worry--I’ll make you feel so good in other ways. New ways.” Steve heard something lightly slap against skin, but not his own, and his body tightened; he felt something sleek and cool trail down the center of his torso, something that tickled him again but not enough to laugh.

“Is that the--” Steve started to ask, but his words were cut off when the vaguely familiar tendrils ran over his groin.

“The whip,” Joe finished. He saw Steve swallow and brace himself for it, all his limbs rigid and his neck taut, mouth pressed into a line. He dragged the whip down Steve’s leg, back up, then down the other. “Relax--just breathe. I won’t start until you’re ready. But if we do start, you have to remember to breathe, okay?”

Steve nodded and let out the breath he’d been holding. They’d talked about all the possibilities before, but so many had disappeared in a flurry from his mind when he was actually tied up--the whip was something he’d been a little excited for, albeit a little scared, too. He’d never known pain could be pleasurable, not really, until Joe kept blabbing about all of his “experiences” and, each time he and Joe had fooled around, Steve had secretly--and then not so secretly--wished that Joe would really take charge and show him how pain could turn into something even more remarkable.

The whip was dragged over about as much as Joe could manage--Steve’s arms, shoulders, chest, stomach, hips, legs, all of him all over again and again as Steve gradually relaxed and his breathing calmed and slowed. “How’s it feel?” he asked as he paused to part his legs enough to expose his inner thighs, so soft and tender under his hands--great canvases.

“It feels like…” Steve started, trying to think of the best way to describe it, slightly distracted by Joe’s fingers kneading his thighs. That alone felt more intense than it ever had before, like electric sparks were being sent from his fingertips. “Ticklish, almost like...butterfly kisses. But everywhere.”

Joe smiled. “Think you’re ready for more?”

Steve nodded again. “Yes.”

Joe squeezed his thigh. “Yes..?”

Fuck. “Yes sir.” Steve felt the tails of the whip brush more intently over his thighs, swirling over his already-quivering skin, and took a deep breath.

“That’s it,” Joe cooed from beyond the blindfold; Steve took another breath and waited, then let it go when he felt the whip snap against his thigh. He didn’t make a sound beyond that, just waited for the next snap of it and it came quick on the other thigh.

“You’re keeping still,” Joe said, snapping the whip again. Steve kept quiet but his back arched, and Joe brought the whip up to his lower stomach and snapped it there, too. “Good. If you move, that’s okay, but I’ll follow you.”

Steve managed to say, “Okay” and then the whip was all over him, from his chest down to his calves, and Joe had told the truth--whenever Steve moved, which wasn’t much beyond twisting around a couple inches and his legs twitching of their own accord, Joe’s whip followed him right along. He kept breathing, counting his breaths instead of the number of lashes he was getting, and the black in front of his eyes gradually became a deep shade of red.

At the crack of the whip against his left hip, the pain suddenly shot through Steve’s body all at once. He wanted to howl, wanted to curse, but he bit his lip and whimpered instead; his breathing became ragged and he could feel tears soaking into the bandanna around his eyes as his entire body shook. It hurt, it hurt fucking bad, but he could feel he was at least still half-hard and the thought of “I want more” was stronger than the thought of “I want to stop.”

Joe raked the tails of the whip slowly down his leg. “Breathe, Steve,” he instructed, watching the rapid rise and fall of his flushed chest. “And be vocal if you need to. It’s okay.”

Steve could only imagine how pink, maybe even red, his whole body must have been. It felt like all of his skin was on fire--each and every nerve was screaming and burning, and he wished he were sinking into an ice bath instead of the slightly scratchy bed sheets. When Joe’s hands soothingly gripped and ran up his legs, though, he forgot all about the bed beneath him--his focus was on the sensations, all of them.

The gentle whispers over his burning skin continued and Steve followed the lines in his mind; once his breathing was steady again, Joe cracked the whip against his flank and Steve actually yelped.

“Let it out,” Joe said. “Remember--it’s just us.”

That was true. For once, they had some privacy and, also for once, Joe wasn’t running his mouth over anyone else, not even Steve. Steve let it all go as Joe went on, managing to verbalize more than he moved in response to the lashes, until his heart was pounding in his ears and his throat and his nerves were shrieking inside him.

Joe smacked his thigh, hard enough for the slap to sound past Steve’s heartbeat. “You like that?” he asked, nearly in a growl. “You like being whipped?”

Steve guessed he did. He must have. As much as it hurt, he was reeling delightfully in the burning sensation and the stinging, the heat soaring through his muscles and even more so with Joe’s hands on him. “Yes,” he answered, quickly adding, “sir.”

“That’s good to hear,” Joe replied, gazing over Steve’s body. He was all flushed, all bright pink, but Joe hadn’t broken any skin--good. There would be marks eventually, maybe some bruises, but no blood, not ever. “You look so good like this, tied up and at my mercy.” Funny choice of words, Steve thought, because then Joe asked, “What do you want me to do to you?”

Steve almost frowned. “No more of that?”

Joe chuckled. “You want more? Normally, I wouldn’t object, but I’m getting dangerously close to breaking skin, and I won’t do that.”

“Oh,” Steve said. He tried to think of what he wanted, but his mind was a blur. It was hard to focus with his body so on fire, but then he remembered what Joe was packing, what he’d have tastes of but never the whole thing. When he felt Joe’s hands on his hips, pressing so hard Steve figured he’d have handprints there, he squirmed a bit and said, “Will you...fuck me?”

Joe almost laughed. He’d kept Steve’s legs free with this very thing in mind, though he hadn’t expressed it beyond slight implication. They’d never gone all the way before and he’d hoped they’d be able to tonight, though he wasn’t sure how Steve would take everything--he had expected him to do well but, even still, he’d exceeded Joe’s expectations. He was hard in his pants, straining at the fly, and he’d forgotten about his erection until Steve broached the subject. Steve wasn’t really hard anymore, but Joe saw his dick twitch when he palmed his thighs again, right over the red marks.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Joe asked, kneeling between Steve’s legs and bending down, sinking his teeth into his inner thigh. Steve hissed and cursed under his breath; Joe waited another second for an answer but, upon not getting one, he smacked his thigh again. “Do you?”

Steve whimpered and spread his legs wider. “Yes, sir, I want you to fuck me.”

Joe smiled, then tapped Steve’s leg. “Time out.”

Steve lifted his head up, as if he was trying to look at Joe through the blindfold. “What?”

“You want this to be our, er, ‘first time?’” Joe asked. He needed to be sure--some bruises might be more easily forgiven (or forgotten) than actual sex. “While you’re tied up?”

“Yeah.” Steve boldly and blindly hooked his calf around Joe’s waist. “I’ve wanted to...for a while. Thought about it a lot. Not exactly like this but…” He trailed off, nervously waiting for Joe’s response. What if he didn’t want to have sex at all? Did he ruin the whole experience as it had just gotten started?

Apparently not--Joe growled from low in his throat and Steve felt warm lips on his thigh, kissing one and then the other, oh-so conveniently missing his junk. He opened his mouth to politely ask for more but Joe beat him to it--a big, sturdy hand wrapped around his cock and started to stroke it back to life.

“I’ll have to give you some more attention then,” Joe purred, satisfied in seeing Steve squirm and arch into his touch. He ran his thumb down the seam of Steve’s balls as he stroked his cock, feeling the weight get denser and firmer in his hand. “Is that what you needed all along, Steve? Some attention?”

Steve bucked once into Joe’s hand--he was so close to coming already, just from those few strokes, the build-up of anticipation, need and being stimulated over his whole body too much to hold back. “Yeah,” he breathed, making his hands into fists as he pulled against the restraints.

“Who do you need attention from?” Joe asked, using one hand to undo the fly of his own pants.

Just a couple more twists of Joe’s hand and Steve knew he would blow; he bucked again, heart frantic, sweat breaking out along his hairline: “You.”

Joe opened the flays of his pants and rubbed his cock through his underwear, fully hard and leaking with that single word from Steve. “Is that right?” he asked, leaning forward and dribbling saliva onto the head of Steve’s cock, stroking it down over his shaft; he was going faster, getting more turned on by Steve’s whining and fast breaths, and the brush of pubic hair against his fist as he kept bucking his hips.

“Joe--sir--” Steve sputtered, barely able to catch his breath enough to speak. “I’m gonna--please--”

“Yeah?” Joe worked Steve faster, one hand up and down, twisting, the other caressing his balls. He could feel the heat and the weight, the fluid inside so close to breaking up and through but, when Steve moaned his name again and panted, whining from high in his throat, Joe abruptly took his hands away.

“Fuck!” Steve screeched as Joe’s hands disappeared from his cock and came down to smack both his thighs, so hard he could nearly see stars behind the blindfold.

Joe dug his fingers into his thighs and pushed them forward, sinking himself right between them and leaning forward: “You don’t come until I fuck you--got it?”

Then fuck me! Steve wanted to shout, mind seething with frustration, body overpowered by heat, but he tried to breathe and ignore the aching pain in his groin--he would get what he asked for, no doubt, and now he was a little nervous about what that entailed. “Okay.”

Joe shoved two fingers into Steve’s mouth: “Yes or no--do you understand?”

Through the obstruction, Steve answered, “Yes, sir.”

Joe kept his fingers there, stroking over Steve’s tongue and sliding them as far into his throat as his gag reflex would allow; before Steve could blink, Joe’s hand was between his legs and he was being touched in a way no other had touched him before. It felt weird more so than painful, and he forced himself not to close his legs, keeping quiet as he felt Joe’s knuckles against his cheeks and the prodding feeling inside himself.

Joe was being surprisingly quiet as he prepped him, and Steve felt self-conscious at the thought of Joe doing nothing but silently examining--judging?--his body, not only the appearance but the feeling of it. But he must have liked it, right? He didn’t stop working one finger, then two, inside of him and lazily petting Steve’s hip as he did so, nothing but both of their gentle yet deep breaths to fill the silence.

It still didn’t hurt all that badly but Steve knew that feeling was temporary. He swallowed when he heard Joe’s pants drop, the sound of metal clinking raising a minor alarm in his head but, nevertheless, he wanted it. Tied up or not, Steve wanted it, and he couldn’t put it off for himself any longer, but he needed one thing first.

“Joe?” he asked meekly. “Er--sir…”

Joe smiled to himself, still slowly working his fingers inside of Steve, feeling him get gradually more and more ready. “Yes?”

“When we do it, can you take the blindfold off?”

The smile on Joe’s face grew--the knowledge of being desired made the heat palpable between the two of them, and he would happily oblige to Steve’s request. He hadn’t been someone’s first time in a long time and he was endlessly impressed with how well Steve took to letting go and embracing something completely new and, honestly, kind of scary.

“If you’d like,” Joe answered. He slid his fingers in deeper and nudged against the spot he’d held back from, his own cock twitching in his underwear as Steve writhed and gasped. “Oh, there it is. How’s that feel?”

“Fu--fucking amazing,” Steve uttered. His wrists jolted out and then back, banging against the headboard. “Joe, I can’t--I’ll--”

Joe brushed over his prostate again, more delicately, then slowly withdrew his fingers. “It’s okay. Just remember,” he said, crawling up over Steve’s body, kissing the flushed skin and red marks along the way. “You may be tied up, but this is about what you want. You want the blindfold off now?”

Steve nodded and tried to wrap one leg around Joe.

“What about that other thing we talked about?” Joe asked, glancing at the dresser.

Still, Steve couldn’t think all that clearly about the other things they’d discussed. “I don’t remember.”

Joe placed his palms on Steve’s chest and ran his thumbs over his nipples. “The clamps.”

Another alarm went off in Steve’s mind but Joe’s soothing and stimulating touches across his chest also made him intrigued. It would probably hurt like the whip did, but it might feel really good, too. Only one way to find out.

“I want to try,” Steve said, his breath hitching while Joe played with his nipples again, then started kissing his collarbone.

Joe kissed his way up Steve’s neck, to his mouth: “I’ll take the blindfold off after I put them on. I want you to really feel it.” He maneuvered off the bed and grabbed the clamps, the chain rattling quietly in his hands, then returned between Steve’s legs. “I think you’ll love these. You’re so responsive to everything,” he said, lying the chain across Steve’s abdomen to tease his nipples with his fingers again.

Steve held his breath as one clamp was tightened around his nipple, then the other; he exhaled slowly through the pain, slighter and duller than he’d expected, only twitching when Joe tugged on the chain gently. “You alright?” Joe asked.

Arrows of white-hot pleasure were shot from Steve’s chest down to his groin, exacerbated by the leftover stings all over his body from the whip. He felt overwhelmed but in a deliriously delicious way. He wanted more. He wanted all of it.

“Give it to me hard,” Steve said, bringing more gusto to his voice with the newfound strength of, who would have guessed, nipple clamps. “That’s what I want. I’ve thought about it so much, Joe--”

Joe clamped a hand over Steve’s mouth; he reached over with the other for the lube. “I’ll ride you until you’re screaming,” he declared, and the statement urged Steve to spread his legs wider and try to reach for Joe despite not being able to. “If that’s what you want.”

With Joe tearing off his shirt and pulling down his pants, Steve letting out quiet, hasty whines and fidgeting nonstop, Joe’s cock shiny and slick, and one of his hands keeping Steve’s leg pushed back, it began. Joe slowly started to push in, biting back his own moan as Steve’s plush heat raptured him, hooking both his legs in his elbows once enough of him was inside to free his hands. Steve was whimpering louder, head turned to the side, hands in fists again; Joe was nearing the hilt, starting to loosen a groan, when Steve whimpered his name.

“What is it?” Joe asked, a little grateful for the minor distraction. He couldn’t come so soon.

“The blindfold,” Steve reminded him, turning his head to blindly face Joe. “Please?”

“Oh.” Joe pushed in the last half inch and groaned softly, his hair hanging in front of his face as his shoulders dropped and his body relaxed against and into Steve. He bent over, hooking Steve’s legs around his hips, and untied the bandanna.

Steve blinked--it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light again, the bare-all golden white in the room like the rising sun itself, but Joe was even more glorious. His eyes were a new shade of emerald, so clear and bright that they really did sparkle, and his blonde hair looked like a halo, at least then. But Joe was far from being an angel--the look on his face was all sin, and Steve wanted so badly to pull him down and kiss it off him.

Joe was definitely not an angel--he leaned back and grabbed the chain across Steve’s chest, pulling on it as he started to rut his hips forward, as if he could push in any further; Steve squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. It was dull but deep, like two talons digging into his chest, and he couldn’t stifle his gasp.

“Focus on me,” Joe commanded, leaning back down but keeping the chain taut. “If you focus on the pain, you’ll lose it. Focus on me inside you, giving you exactly what you want, and let everything else flow through you.”

Tears broke past his lashes as Steve turned his head to the side, eyes still shut but managing a nod. He tried, he really tried to bring his attention to nothing but Joe gently thrusting in, fully aware that he was being given the time he needed to adjust. But it was too much sensation and too little freedom, even if he was the one calling the shots.

He turned to look at Joe, feeling a tear stream down his temple: “Untie me?”

Joe loosened his hold on the chain and stopped moving entirely: “Say the safeword if you--”

Now Steve was getting frantic. “No!” he yelped, arching his back impatiently and yanking his wrists as far forward as he could. “I want to--I can’t--”

“Alright, don’t you worry,” Joe said softly. He followed Steve’s request and once those skinny arms were free, he was swaddled by them. Steve wrapped his arms around his shoulders and pulled him down, one hand fisting through his hair, the other grabbing the back of his neck, and then Steve’s lips were on Joe’s in a hungry fury.

The synchronicity was in full swing--their mouths ravaged one another’s with the same desire, and Steve had no doubt that Joe had wanted it all along too; Joe’s thrusts became harder and Steve absorbed each of them, with Joe’s lower abdomen continuously rubbing all along his cock; his nails raked down Joe’s spine as the nipple clamps were tugged again but, as they moved, the sensations all melted into one, and Steve didn’t think he’d ever feel anything better. He bit down on Joe’s earlobe and expelled ragged breaths into his ear; Joe growled in response, tilting his head back, letting Steve’s mouth descend from his ear to the side of his neck, scraping his teeth down the length to his shoulder to bite.

Joe was surprised. Sometimes Steve seemed so delicate, and that was one of the things he liked about him so much, including when they’d fooled around before; but animalistic and raw Steve was hot too, even impressive. It gave Joe an ego boost, like his dick was that good and he was that good that Steve clearly couldn’t enough of him. He wanted to hold off for as long as he could but Steve’s body heat--inside and out--was bringing all the blood to his cock and the need to come like a torrent of fire.

The pain flowed through everywhere, but more pleasure than pain, or maybe more pleasure because of the pain. Yes, Joe’s cock burned and Steve’s nipples stung as they were tugged on and the chain rattled, muffled, between the two of them; his skin burned with Joe’s body pressed against his and he could feel bruises and stinging marks forming on his hips and chest already, and Steve thought what was happening in that bed was far more exhilarating than any fantasy he’d ever had. All of Joe’s regaling of his sexual escapades, his teasing, their hasty hook-ups were only vague tastes of the real thing, which was fucking like two men who thought the world was going to end.

Joe’s left hand pulled tighter on the chain; his right fumbled between their torsos to grab Steve’s cock, it seemed to be perpetually weeping onto his abdomen. Steve needed attention, all of his attention, and Joe was more than willing to give it to him--the feel of that hard, hot cock in his hand was like no other, the blood pumping through the veins just for him, the beads of precum running over his fingers just for him, and Steve desperately grinding into him as he moaned Joe’s name was all for him.

“Come on, Steve,” Joe huffed. Sweat dripped from his nose onto Steve’s chin; he tossed his head back to get damp hair out of his face, but Steve reached up to tug on what he could grab and bring Joe’s mouth to his. While Steve would have memories imprinted all over his body, Joe would have the sting of teeth breaking the thin skin of his lips and scraping over his tongue for days to come. He could taste iron and both of their sweat, and he inhaled Steve’s increasingly whiny moans and interrupted pleas, thrusting harder and faster, pulling on the nipple clamps as Steve pulled Joe’s hair in response.

Steve was biting more than he was kissing as he finally came, spilling over Joe’s knuckles and shooting between them, the would-be splatter diminished over both of their abdomens. Joe wanted to look down and see it, see everything that Steve had given him BECAUSE of him, but his body was screaming at him to keep going and finish, to fill Steve up and to empty himself of everything he wished he’d given him sooner.

Steve’s breathy whines as he came down and the loosening of his arms around Joe’s neck spurred him on. “How is this your first time?” Joe gruffed out, burying his face against Steve’s neck as he said the words. “You take it so well--like--fuck--” His own groan cut him off. He sank his teeth into Steve’s skin and held them there, sucking, prodding with his tongue; Steve’s fingers tangled in the sweaty hair at the base of his neck. He held Joe tighter, splayed one leg out further and clamped the other around Joe’s thighs, closing his eyes against the ongoing thrusts that kept residual pleasure radiating through his cock, through his insides, up his spine.

When Joe came, it was an eruption. He growled and grumbled beneath Steve’s ear, bit his neck to bruises before he lifted himself up enough to ravage Steve’s mouth again; the heat that filled Steve’s body was like nothing he’d ever felt, all-consuming and feeling almost endless, with Joe’s stuttering hips still pushing against his thighs, and the sweat combined between the two of them making their last lingering movements easy and slick despite both their panting and whining.

It took Steve a moment to even notice that Joe had released his hold on the nipple clamps. Every nerve was singing so loud it was hard to tell which was which and what was going on; it wasn’t until Joe’s fingers gently danced over his chest that he looked down and saw the chain had gone limp, then Joe’s fingers carefully worked to unclamp and put the chain aside, then brush his fingertips over his nipples.

“You took everything so well,” he cooed, and the soft, low tone made Steve smile shyly. “You really did. Better than I expected, Steve. You didn’t even say your safeword.” He pressed a kiss to Steve’s lips, then gently rolled over and off, keeping one arm thrown over his waist, eyes glowing at Steve as though he really was impressed--it made Steve blush. “How do you feel?”

Cheeks flushed maybe more than the rest of him, Steve couldn’t help but turn away. “Sore. Strange,” he admitted softly. “But I’m glad.”

Joe reached up and turned Steve to look into his eyes. “It’s so flattering to know that you wanted my attention so badly,” he said, stroking his cheek with his fingers and his bottom lip with his thumb.

It was true. As much as it pained Steve to admit it, sometimes all he wanted was for Joe to look at him a certain way, or touch him or, on those special occasions, kiss him and whisper dirty things in his ear. He wiggled his way over to Joe, cuddling right up against him, and asked against his chest, “Do you ever want my attention?”

Joe laughed and pet his hair. “Yes, of course. Don’t you ever see how much I try to impress you?”

Steve blushed even more. “You’re only joking, aren’t you?”

“I’m serious. It can be tough, you know, trying to win your attention,” Joe said. He charmed Steve even more when he added, “And your affection.”

“Oh, please,” Steve murmured. It was impossible not to notice Joe. Nonetheless, the affirmation was just what he needed. Cuts and bruises, sweat and cum; it was just him and Joe. He felt cared for in his arms, so comfortably swaddled in warmth and muscle and that familiar scent.

Joe’s low, rumbling voice interrupted Steve almost dozing off: “Think I can carry you to the bath?”

Steve chuckled. “I dunno. Can you?”

“We should clean up,” Joe said, starting to inch away; Steve reached out and grabbed one of his hands. “I’ll carry you. Or, try. I’m not gonna make you walk even a foot after all that.”

Steve couldn’t even try to dispute that, because Joe was dragging him across the bed and into his arms, wobbling a little as he scooped him up. Maybe it was a weird rush of leftover sexually-charged adrenaline, or maybe Joe really was that strong, or maybe Steve was really that light, but whatever the case, he felt like a literal god was carrying him.

They both managed to squeeze into the tub, with the water full of oil and soap and gentle but lush fragrances; the air was cool but the water was warm, soothing over Steve’s tormented skin, and he leaned back against Joe and let those big hands gently fondle and massage him. Yes, without a doubt, some attention was nice.

#merry ficmas y'all #may god forgive us all #def leppard #joe elliott #steve clark #joe elliott x steve clark #rick allen #phil collen #rick savage #vivian campbell #def leppard slash #def leppard fic

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css1992 · 5 years ago

Text

Work for it

Warnings: explicit, nff, 18+, age gap (duh), power imbalance. No power AU. 9k words. Peter is an intern, Tony is his boss. This is really cliche, sorry not sorry.

Tony was used to people tripping over themselves for just a second of his time. He was used to long lines of potential lovers forming just outside of his proverbial door; he was used to having his pick of pretty young things. He’d snap his fingers, set a time and place, and he could have anyone. He couldn’t remember the last time he had to work for it; probably never, if he was honest. He was blessed with striking features, a fit body – even if he didn’t work out much -, and a suaveness that would put Bond to shame. Besides that, he was a Stark. He was filthy rich and probably the most powerful man in the world – he was at least on the top five list, for sure. To top it all off, he was a genius, playboy philanthropist, so, really, what was not to like?

According to Peter Parker, plenty. And wasn’t that incredibly and surprisingly refreshing and thrilling?

Peter was Bruce’s intern, so technically, he worked for Tony, since Bruce was head of his nuclear physics department, but that didn’t seem to matter much when the kid rolled his eyes at Tony and told him to get lost. The first time it happened, the older man was left gaping and spluttering, not really sure if he was pissed the fuck off and ready to fire the son of a bitch, or turned the fuck on and ready to accept the challenge. He settled on the latter and after gathering his wits again, he smirked at the feisty little intern and licked his lips, nodding. “As you wish, Mr. Parker.”

Of course he didn’t leave him alone, though, he always found a reason to be in Bruce’s lab, and although the physicist was exasperated and annoyed by his presence, he also seemed amused and pleased by his interactions with Peter. The young man wasn’t impressed by Tony, he wasn’t intimidated by his presence and not even a little bit charmed by his antics. Whenever Tony tried to flirt with him or ask him out, he would roll his eyes and reject him flatly, he even threatened to go to HR once, but he never did, so maybe that was a good sign? Probably not, but a man could dream.

Tony had no idea what he was doing wrong, if he was doing anything wrong – again, he wasn’t used to this shit. Usually, he only needed a cheap trick and a cheesy one-liner to get whoever he wanted, but Peter Parker seemed to be the only person in the whole world immune to it, so, of course, he was the only person in the whole world that Tony wanted at the moment. He wanted to fuck that arrogant expression off his pretty face, he wanted to use him, to wreck him, to ruin him. He wanted to leave him whimpering, lying on the floor, begging for more, once he was done with him. The longer it took to bed him, the more he wanted to mess him up.

He watched the young man leaning over his workbench, his round, firm, bubble butt sticking out, ready to be grabbed and kneaded and kissed and spread open; his thin waist begging to be marked up by strong, calloused fingers. They could do it right there, in Bruce’s lab, over his workbench. One day they would, he could feel it in his bones. One day, Peter would beg for his touch, and Tony would make him work for it, as payback. He’d make him squirm and cry and beg to come, and maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t let him, no matter how much he wanted to see him fall apart.

“You’re staring again,” Bruce told him from his right, eyes focused on the microscope, as if he didn’t even need to look up to know where Tony’s gaze had landed. “This is getting boring. And kinda creepy, to be honest.”

“Maybe to you, Brucie Bear, but Mr. Parker over there? He’s this close to cracking, did you see his little smile when I told him he smelt nice this morning?” Tony didn’t bother tearing his gaze from Peter’s fine ass, specially now that he was practically wiggling it while trying to open a bottle of whatever.

“I believe your exact words were ‘you smell good enough to eat’. And I wouldn’t call it a smile so much as a sneer, actually.” Tony glared at Bruce from across the workbench and the shy scientist sighed, finally looking back at the billionaire. “Tones, he’s a good kid, ok? He’s genuinely good. You’re coming on to him too strong, I just don’t think that’s his style.”

“So enlighten me, Brucie, what would you say is his style?” Tony half joked, half pleaded, because really, at this point, almost four months trying to get this kid to like him, he was becoming desperate with the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t find him attractive at all. Maybe he thought Tony was a creepy, pervert, old man. He was nearing his fifties, after all, and the kid was surely in his early twenties. Tony never thought the day would come that he would have to worry about not being somebody’s type, but Peter was messing with his head. Badly.

“Well, there’s this Beck guy from engineering, he usually brings Peter coffee and always talks to him about his work here, and the kid actually giggles at him. Looks like he enjoys his attention, at least a lot more than he does yours.” Bruce shrugged and Tony gaped at him, as a strange, unfamiliar feeling took over his chest. A feeling of rage, mixed with sadness, mixed with possessiveness. There was someone else trying to bed Peter, and he couldn’t have it. He must have said it out loud, because Bruce rolled his eyes again. “That’s the thing, Tony, I don’t think he just wants to fuck Peter. He treats him well, like a human being, not a piece of meat. I guess that’s why Peter doesn’t tell him to fuck off whenever he comes around, you know?”

“Oh. Oh!” Of course. Peter was really young, he was bound to be naive and dreamy. He was probably a romantic at heart, maybe he needed to believe he was being courted by a knight in shining armor, maybe he needed the whole flowers and chocolates kinda deal, before they got down to business. Smart guy, that Beck. He grinned with a knowing glint in his eyes.

“Why do I feel like I’ve made a huge mistake?” Bruce sighed, rubbing a hand tiredly across his forehead, but Tony ignored him, making his way towards the young intern.

Peter felt him coming from a mile away, if the way his shoulders tensed up was anything to go by. He turned his head towards Tony and rolled his eyes when he saw the older man’s smile, sighing exasperatedly. Tony raised both of his hands, showing that he came in peace, and Peter just glared at him, unimpressed.

Fuck, he was beautiful. He looked like a tiny Disney prince, with chestnut brown curls that always fell on his forehead no matter how many times a day he tried to tuck them behind his ears; his eyes were also brown and bright, kind-looking, and when he smiled – never at Tony, though, always at someone else – they crinkled around the edges in the most endearing way. His skin looked smooth like a baby’s, but Tony never got to touch it, could only imagine how incredibly soft it would feel; his lips were thin and pink and tiny, just like all of him.

Tony really, really wanted him. Just for one night. That didn’t seem like a lot to ask.

“Hey, kid, I think maybe we got off on the wrong foot,” Tony started when he was at the boy’s workbench, leaning against it, but not really close to the young man. He made it a point to look at Peter in a sweet and kind way, not at all like he usually did, with dark, hungry eyes.

“Yeah, maybe because you’ve been sexually harassing me for four months now, sir,” he answered shortly, crossing his arms over his chest. Tony would point out that if he felt harassed he should report him and maybe sue him and make millions out of it, but he didn’t, so maybe he liked it, but he bit his tongue. That sounded exactly like the kind of thing that would get him further from the boy’s bed.

“I apologize for making you feel this way, Mr. Parker.” For the first time ever, he noticed Peter’s features softening slightly, at least he didn’t look like he was about to bolt or slap him at any second. So Tony continued, feeling a little more confident with this course of action now. “I’m really sorry, it was brought to my attention that I’ve been really disrespectful and inconvenient, it’s just – I’m not used to being rejected, and I know this makes me sound like a douche, but maybe I am one, so.” This actually made the boy smile just a tiny bit, but he covered his mouth with a hand. “Anyway, I just wanna say that as of now, I’m not gonna bother you anymore, and I hope we can have a healthy, professional relationship, because you seem like a really bright young man.”

“I appreciate it, Mr. Stark.” Tony perked up at the gentler tone of his voice, that was probably the nicest thing Peter had ever said to him, so that was progress.

“Well, have a nice day, then, Mr. Parker. I’ll see you soon.” Tony smiled sweetly at him and actually got a little smile back and his heart did a flip inside his chest. He couldn’t quite grasp what was going on with him, but it felt nice. Being on Peter’s good side felt nice.

Tony didn’t show up at Bruce’s lab for the next few weeks, he figured he should give Peter a little time to miss him. What he did do, though, was a complete background check on Quentin Beck, from his engineering department. What he found both delighted and horrified him. He was delighted because he had a perfect excuse to get rid of him, but he was horrified that a person like him had been working for Stark Industries for such a long time and nobody noticed. And fuck, he was close to Peter, what if he had asked him out? What if they had been alone together?

Beck was facing charges of rape and domestic violence against his ex-husband and, aside from that, Tony had a very strong suspicion that he was involved in corporate espionage against S.I., so he sent all his findings to his legal team and less then two weeks later, the guy was fired. After that, Tony ordered a complete background check on all of his employees, and made sure that it happened at least once a year from that moment forward. He was proud of himself as he marched to Bruce’s lab with a smile on his face a few days later. When he got there, though, he was met with an exasperated scowl from the scientist.

“Really, Tony? Really?” He looked frustrated and angry, but the billionaire held his palms up, signaling that he came in peace. People just knew that Beck was fired, they didn’t know the reason yet. It would probably come out eventually.

“I promise it’s not what you think, ok, the guy was a rapist and he was selling S.I’s secret projects to Oscorps, so chill. I just did a little digging, the rest is on him,” Tony promised, seeing a shocked expression forming on Bruce’s face. “I know, I know, it’s crazy. Legal is dealing with him.”

“Fuck, are you sure?”

“Well, we’re pressing charges, so yeah, I’m sure. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He smirked at the brunette and made his way towards Peter, missing the way the other scientist rolled his eyes and shook his head. This time, the intern didn’t tense up when Tony approached him, but he did eye him carefully, defensively, as if he didn’t fully believe that Tony had changed. “Good morning, Mr. Parker.”

“Good morning, Mr. Stark,” he answered cautiously, turning his full attention to the older man.

“Bruce told me about your breakthrough regarding your research on Nucleosynthesis. I would like to congratulate you personally.” As soon as he said that, the boy blushed a light pink, his attitude going from defensive to shy in record time, it was endearing.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Stark, but it was mostly Dr. Banner, really. I just helped a little.” His tiny, elegant hands were fumbling with the hem of his lab coat nervously and Tony smiled to himself, heart beating oddly faster.

“That’s not what he told me, Peter.” The use of his first name drew the boy’s attention back to his face, cheeks still bright red. “In fact, he told me a lot of good things about your work here at Stark Industries.” That wasn’t a lie, actually, Bruce always sang Peter’s praises whenever they talked about the young man’s progress in his internship. Bruce really wanted to have him on his team once he graduated, and Tony wasn’t against it. “Keep up the good work, Parker.”

“I will, sir, thank you.” He smiled sweetly, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. Tony smiled again, satisfied, and nodded.

“Have a good day.” He turned on his heels before the younger man could answer and strode out of the lab confidently, absolutely certain that the boy was following him with his gaze. Apparently, Bruce was right, after all. He did seem to respond a lot better to praises about his work instead of his looks. Who’d have guessed.

He showed up at the lab a few times a week with the excuse of meeting with Bruce. At first, he just greeted the younger man from afar, which seemed to spark his curiosity. It was clear that he was confused by Tony’s sudden change of attitude, but he never mentioned anything, and neither did Tony. A couple of weeks after Beck was fired, all sorts of rumors were spread. Some were far-fetched – people said he was mentally unstable, that he tried to stab someone in his department, that he stole from the office – but some hit closer to home. Tony saw an opportunity when he walked into the lab one day and overheard Peter talking to another intern about it.

“Mr. Parker, may I have a word?” He gestured towards Bruce’s personal office, so that they wouldn’t need to go upstairs to his own. The intern nodded weakly and followed Tony inside, sitting on a chair in front of Bruce’s desk. Instead of taking a seat behind it, Tony perched himself on the desk, looking at Peter with a serious, grave expression. “Peter, it was brought to my attention that you and Mr. Beck were close.” The boy’s eyes grew comically fast.

“Mr. Stark, I swear, I had no idea –“

“It’s okay, kid, I know you didn’t, you’re not in trouble, this is not what this is about,” he assured him and the younger man seemed to breathe easier after that. “I would like to apologize in the name of the company, kid. I’m sorry you were put in such a dangerous situation, working with someone who shouldn’t be anywhere near here.” At first, Tony had just rehearsed those words to make Peter soften towards him, but as he said them, he was surprised he actually meant it. He was actually sorry Peter was so close to danger under his watch.

“Oh. Mr Stark, you couldn’t have known –“

“I should have known, and for that I’m sorry. I hope you can feel safe again in your workplace. I promise there are no other secret criminals around here, I made sure myself.” He smiled softly and the younger man blushed slightly.

“Thank you, Mr. Stark,” he answered quietly, watching Tony with a mix of shyness and admiration.

“If you need to talk to someone about it, let me know, ok? We have therapists on our payroll and that was a stressful situation.” The billionaire stared at him intently, and the boy quickly nodded again.

“Yes, sir, thank you.”

After that, they became a little closer, Peter treated him differently, smiled at him more openly and more often, responded better to his jokes and stories. Every time Tony came down to the lab, they would talk a little about Peter’s projects and even about his classes at NYU. The young man really was brilliant, definitely above average, maybe even a genius, like Tony himself and Bruce. Tony was taken by surprise by that – he knew the boy was smart, he wouldn’t be there otherwise, he just didn’t expect him to be that smart.

He was surprised, too, as the weeks went by, to have Peter open up to him more, little by little, pieces of information escaping through his teeth as he told him about his week at college. Tony learned that he was an orphan, he lived with his aunt and his biggest dream as a kid had been to go to MIT, and even though he got a scholarship there, he didn’t want to leave his aunt alone, so he stayed.

Against all odds, they became – friends? Acquaintances? Tony wasn’t sure, but it worked in his favor. After only a couple of months, Peter didn’t see him as threat anymore, which allowed the older man to move to phase two of his plan: wooing the intern in a non-threatening way – whatever that means, Brucie.

It started out small and simple: coffee. Tony usually sent someone to buy him expensive coffee at a hipster coffee shop down the street, so one day he ordered one for Peter, too. When he went down to the lab and offered him the hot beverage, the young man’s eyes glinted, a warm smile forming on his thin lips as he thanked him. It was a beautiful sight to see.

“Wow, this is so good, Mr. Stark! Where’s it from?” He asked with big, round eyes, amazed by something as simple as coffee. Tony was flooded with a need to show him so much more than just that, but he suppressed it. It made no sense, what was he even thinking?

“It’s from a nice coffee shop just down the street, we could go together someday, if you’d like.” The boy blushed and didn’t answer right away, but two days later they were sitting together at said coffee shop, Peter’s red cheeks were bright enough to illuminate the whole room.

“God, this is delicious, I really needed that, it’s been such a stressful week.” Peter groaned around a mouthful of chocolate cake and Tony had to make an actual effort to look away from his lips when he licked them.

“Is Banner giving you a hard time? Let me know, I can fire him, if you want.” The older man took a sip of his espresso, watching as the intern giggled over the rim of his mug – honest to God giggled.

“Don’t be silly, you know Dr. Banner wouldn’t give anyone a hard time, he’s the best human being on earth.” He smiled sincerely. “No, it’s just school, you know. Finals are coming up and I’m a little overwhelmed, it’s all.”

“I’m sure you’re gonna ace them, kid, I’m pretty sure you’re a genius.” Tony wiggled his eyebrows and Peter blushed, but shook his head.

“I’m pretty sure you say that to all of your interns.” He batted his eyelashes, a feigned dreamy look on his face.

“Only to the really smart ones.” The young man blushed yet again and almost drowned in his coffee as he tried to make himself look busy. “No, but seriously, don’t worry about it and don’t overwork yourself, ok? If you need a few days off, just let me know.”

“No, it’s ok, I like coming to work.” He smiled and then dropped his gaze to Tony’s plate with interest. “How’s your pie?”

“Wanna find out?” He smirked, taking a piece of it with his fork and offering it to the boy. He expected Peter to take the fork from his hand, but he must have misunderstood his actions, because he just leaned in and opened his mouth, waiting for Tony to feed it to him. The genius gulped, but complied, watching with a transfixed gaze as Peter wrapped his lips around the fork, closing his eyes and moaning in pleasure when he pulled back.

“Wow, this is so good. Oh, man, I wish aunt May could cook like that. Or me. But I guess it’s for the best, I wouldn’t fit through the lab’s door if I got to eat this everyday.” He grinned.

“Not much of a cook, your aunt?” The older man shifted in his chair, trying to adjust himself in his pants, something he hadn’t had to do in public in a very long time.

“God, no, she’s terrible, you should try her meatloaf. No, wait – you shouldn’t, no one should.” Tony gave a startled laugh at that, almost spitting out his coffee. “But I’m one to talk, I can barely scramble eggs, so. It must run on the family or something. We just eat a lot of take out and frozen meals.”

“Well, I could teach you a thing or two one of these days.” Tony shrugged nonchalantly, watching the boy’s reaction as he frowned with a doubtful little smile.

“Really?” He raised an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side, and Tony rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, really, kid, don’t give me that look, I’ve been cooking five stars meals for longer then you’ve been alive.”

“Well, I’m sorry, I should know better than to question my elders.” He grinned cheekily and Tony threw a napkin in his face.

Away from their workplace, Peter showed a different side of him, a fun, carefree side. He was really sweet and kind, not at all like Tony’s first impression of him, and he was also witty and smart-mouthed, so much fun to be around. That led to another coffee date, then another, then another. They would meet at least once a week at that coffee shop when Peter didn’t have classes after work, and it was just so nice, Tony almost forgot what he was trying to achieve.

Key-word: almost.

He was quickly reminded, though, when the unresolved sexual tension became almost unbearable. Whenever they were together, when nobody was paying attention, Peter would touch his arm for longer than necessary, he would bite his lower lip as he stared at him through half lidded eyes, soft fingers would linger whenever their hands touched. It was all very subtle, Tony would never have noticed any of it if he wasn’t so fucking obsessed with the boy.

“Did you burn yourself with the blowtorch again?” Peter reached for his arms and his soft fingertips brushed the angry-red burn on the inside of his wrist, the innocent touch sent shivers down his spine.

“Actually, it was a frying pan.” Before Tony could even begin to explain what happened, Peter burst out laughing.

“No way! But I thought you were a 5 Michelin Stars Chef?” He raised a brow, his hand never leaving Tony’s skin.

“Okay, smart pants, first of all, that’s not the most Michelin stars one can get and, second of all, I am the world's most renowned engineer and I still get hurt in the shop from time to time, so I’m sure Gordon Ramsay also burns himself making omelets sometimes, so chill.” He grabbed the younger man’s hand but didn’t do more than that, so they were basically holding hands, but Peter seemed unfazed.

“Are you comparing yourself to Gordon Ramsay?” He laughed again, reaching with his other hand to touch Tony’s forehead. “You should get checked for an infection, ‘cause you’re delusional, let me see if you have a fever.”

The whole thing was just way too confusing for the older man. Peter wasn’t just a pretty face and a nice body, he was a smart kid, and he was good, genuinely good, just like Bruce had told him, and Tony – he wasn’t sure what to make of that. Peter didn’t deserve to be one of his flings, a notch on his bedpost, so he never took the last step. He never asked Peter out aside from their platonic coffee dates, although, at that point, he was positive that the answer would have been a resonant yes. He was gonna abort the whole thing, he really was, but when the opportunity finally, finally arose, so many weeks later, Tony just couldn’t say no.

He was a bad, bad man, a weak man, a piece of shit, yeah. He never denied any of those things.

So the day that Peter stayed late at the lab, way later than Bruce or anyone else, according to JARVIS, Tony quickly made his way down there, suit jacket discarded, no tie, his shirt’s sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Recently, he had noticed that the younger man liked staring at his arms, his chest – he popped the first two buttons of his shirt at the memory- and his back. He also seemed intrigued by his graying hair, the way he would always look up at somewhere above Tony’s eyebrows, biting his lips without even noticing.

Tony knew he was interested, fucking finally.

So he walked into the lab smoothly, confidently, hands in his pockets, puffing his chest out a little. Peter raised his head when the glass door hissed, announcing Tony’s entrance. He smiled softly for a few seconds, before taking in Tony’s appearance. His cheeks turned pink as he stared, mouth hanging open, and Tony smirked when he got close enough.

“Hey, Pete. JARVIS said you were the only one left. Isn’t it a little late for you to be here? Don’t you have classes in the morning?” He inquired, leaning against the workbench, and the younger man shook his head nervously, trying to avoid looking at Tony.

“I don’t have classes until later in the morning tomorrow, so I thought I’d finish this real quick, but I think I lost track of time.” He answered with an embarrassed smile when he looked at his phone, noticing it was already past 10pm. “I’ll go, though,” he started gathering his things, until Tony placed a hand on his wrist gently, a calloused thumb rubbing the thin skin on the inside, feeling his rapid pulse quickening even more. “Uhm, Mr. Stark?”

“Why don’t you come up with me to the penthouse, huh? We can have dinner together, you must be starving. We could have a few drinks, too.” He dared to get a little closer to him, close enough to feel his body heat, to feel his labored breath on his face. Peter’s eyes fluttered and he licked his lips, unable to look away from Tony, and the older man smirked, pulling him even closer by the wrist. “What do you say, huh?”

“Yes.”

Yes, of course, and that should have been his answer from the beginning, Tony thought, trying to contain his excitement. He wasn’t a virgin teenager on his first date, he was an experienced man ready to reap the rewards of his very hard work. He guided Peter towards the elevator, afraid the spell would be broken on the way up, but the boy followed him dutifully, so different from the feisty young man from all those months ago. Tony wished he could go back in time and rub it in that Peter‘s face, that he would succumb to him, eventually.

But then, seconds after having that thought, he felt terrible. Peter really didn’t deserve any of that, he was such a good kid, and he trusted Tony. The way he looked up at him on the way up to the penthouse was proof enough, he trusted Tony not to hurt him. If Tony was a better man, he would order them dinner, feed the boy, then send him on his way, Happy would get him home safe and sound and everything would be okay, nothing had to happen.

And maybe he would have been good, maybe he could have tried, at least, but how could he when, as soon as the elevator stopped, the intern stood on his tiptoes and kissed him? When his little, soft hands cupped his face, pulling him down, as the boy opened his mouth in invitation? Tony pulled Peter’s body against his own and kissed him back furiously, hungrily. Since he was going to hell anyway, might as well enjoy the ride.

There was no point in pretending that wasn’t what they wanted all along, what they both wanted for fucking months, so Peter wasn’t even surprised by his hunger, his eagerness. The boy’s trembling fingers slid from his jaw to his neck, then up into his hair, which sent electric shocks directly to the older man’s cock, and he bucked his hips almost unconsciously, immediately feeling Peter’s erection through his jeans.

He smirked into the kiss, feeling even more confident now. He caressed Peter’s back, feeling his muscles tensing as the genius’s hands slowly made their way down towards his lower back and finally – finally – his glorious ass. It was plump and soft, but firm at the same time, so Tony grabbed it and kneaded it as much as he had been longing to do for so many months. The action made their erections brush against each other and Peter gasped, pulling away from the kiss to throw his head back against the elevator wall and Tony wasted no time attacking his pale, exposed throat with wet kisses and nibbles, eliciting a desperate moan from the boy.

The older man lifted the intern by his ass, making him yelp in the process, but he quickly recovered and wrapped his legs around Tony’s waist. As the genius had thought, he was light as feather, and his small body fit perfectly enveloped in his. He pushed Peter against the wall, rolling his hips, and felt the boy’s already rock-hard cock poking him in the abs. Ah, to be in his twenties again.

“Fuck, I’ve been wanting to do this for so long, kid.” He whispered hotly against his lips, before kissing him again, slower this time, more sensually, as he pressed his erection against Peter’s jeans. Both of his hands still clutched his ass roughly, and the younger man couldn’t seem decide if he wanted to push his ass back against the touch or if he wanted to rub against Tony’s stomach, so he tried to do both at the same time to the genius’s amusement.

“Well, then don’t keep me waiting, sir.” He dragged his lips from Tony’s mouth across his bearded jaw and towards his ear, where he bit his earlobe weakly and wetly and the older man shuddered, shocked at how hard he already was from just a little make out session. He wasn’t a teenager anymore, and still Peter was making him feel like one.

He smirked against the younger man’s neck, sucking the soft skin there hard enough to leave a bruise, and just the thought that people would see it and know that Peter belonged to someone – to him – made him even harder in his slacks, if it was even possible.

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t,” Tony saw the fine hairs on Peter’s arms stand on end when he whispered those words in his ear. He put him back on the floor, taking advantage of the new position to deliberately slide his hands down the back of Peter’s jeans and underwear, shocking him with his boldness. He was delighted to finally feel the soft skin under his fingertips and he squeezed his flesh with so much want that he was sure Peter could feel it in his bones.

“Oh, God, Mr. Stark,” he whimpered when one of Tony’s fingers skillfully slid towards his entrance, teasing at the puckered hole without breaching it. This made both of them lose their breaths instantly, specially when the older man aligned their erections, rubbing them together and thrusting against him like a dog in heat.

“Gonna make you feel so good, kid,” he promised, pressing their lips back together, stealing yet another passionate kiss from him, and the boy didn’t shy away from it, he gave as good as he got, standing on his tiptoes, arms wrapped firmly around Tony’s neck. When the older man started pressing the very tip of his little finger inside him, the boy all but melted against the wall, dizzy.

“Mr. Stark, please, please...” Even in the dark – courtesy of JARVIS – Tony could tell that Peter’s cheeks were bright red and it made him smile, because even though they were doing such filthy things, he was still embarrassed by his own words.

“Shh, I got you, I got you...” He whispered against his lips, his pinkie pushing inside the quivering hole just a little bit more, since there was no lube, but that was enough to draw a ragged moan from the boy’s lips. He started fucking his finger in and out of him slowly, just up to his second knuckle, and Peter squeezed Tony’s shoulders and bit his lips, trying to contain his soft whimpers, and Tony was sure that if he was just a little younger, he would have come in his pants, right then and there.

“I’m not gonna let you fuck me in an elevator, Mr. Stark.” Even as he said that, his hips were pushed backwards, his ass cheeks spread open for him, trying to take more then Tony was willing to give him just yet. Still, Tony complied, slowly pulling his finger out of his hungry hole and a soft, pained cry left the boy’s lips as he did. The billionaire quickly guided him inside the penthouse and considered taking the young man to his room upstairs, but he seriously didn’t think they could make it there, so he just headed towards the couch.

Tony took a seat there, spread his legs and immediately pulled the younger man in between them. From that angle, his face was level with the boy’s stomach, so he untucked his dress shirt from his pants and started kissing his navel, only to be pushed away softly. He watched, astonished and amazed, as Peter unbuttoned his shirt slowly, before dropping it to the floor.

He only had a few seconds to admire his pink, little nipples and his surprisingly toned abs before the boy was straddling him, stealing all his ability to think straight. The genius was fast to hold him by his thin waist, meanwhile the younger man attacked his neck, rolling his hips slowly, their erections pressed firmly against one another.

Tony started kissing down his chest, dragging his mouth towards his perky nipples. They were tiny and pale pink, like two little rose buds ready to be ravished. He’d spend hours biting, pinching and licking them if he could, but Peter seemed like a very impatient young man, so he wouldn’t keep him waiting long. He did hold one of his nipples between his fingers, though, pinching it carefully and rolling it slowly, as he lavished the other with sloppy, wet kisses. The sounds that came out of the boy’s mouth were pure sin as he tugged Tony’s hair, unable to decide if he wanted to push him away or pull him closer.

When both of his nipples were swollen hard and impossibly red, Tony pulled away, holding him carefully to switch positions and lie him on the couch. Luckily, it was a damn comfortable couch, and big enough to fit both of them with room to spare. He took advantage of the new position and took off Peter’s pants, along with his underwear, leaving him completely naked and exposed, splayed for his pleasure.

He was gorgeous. Even though he was small and thin, his chest and stomach were muscular, covered with miles of pale, unblemished skin. His nipples were swollen red and glistening with spit after Tony’s sweet abuse and his cock was small and flushed pink and leaking pre-cum, it looked painfully hard. The sight of him paralyzed the older man for a few seconds, but he soon focused on exploring every inch of skin with his hands and tongue, feeling flustered, wishing he could touch everywhere at the same time.

Once upon a time, he had a plan. He planned to make Peter beg him, he planned to use him to his own pleasure, he planned to leave him wanting more, not even let him come for all the time he kept him waiting. But at that moment, he couldn’t think of anything besides making him feel good, pleasuring him, making him come as hard as he ever could.

Peter spread his legs gracefully so that Tony could fit in between them, which he gladly did. He soon dragged his tongue down Peter’s smooth, hairless stomach, purposefully avoiding his cock on his way down. He heard the younger man whimpering weakly and smirked against his skin.

“Mr. Stark, please...” He whined, spreading his legs even more, his knuckles were white from griping the pillows on the couch like his life depended on it. Tony’s mouth filled with saliva when he had a clear view of Peter’s hole, pink and quivering, begging for something, anything, to touch it, to fill it.

“Please? Please what, Peter?” Tony inquired with feigned innocence, one of his fingers rubbing and pressing against his entrance lazily, without breaching it. It took everything in him not to lean down and lick him from his tailbone up to the tip of his cock, but Peter was begging so nicely, he just needed to say the word.

“Please… Your mouth… Anything. Please, just – anything.” Normally, Tony wouldn’t accept that incomplete answer, but he was so hard he was seriously worried he would come untouched before this was over, so he took hold of his ass cheeks and spread them even further. “Fuck!” Even like this, his hole still looked insanely tight which made Tony’s need to taste it all the more unbearable.

He dived in between his cheeks, licking and trying to press his tongue inside, as Peter panted and moaned and whined, moving around restlessly, trying to push his body against Tony’s tongue, muttering something incomprehensible. Tony concentrated on giving him pleasure, as much as he could, completely satisfied with how desperate the boy sounded.

“Oh, God, so good… This feels so good… God!” Tony smiled against his hole, without interrupting what he was doing. He tried to fuck him open with his tongue and felt the tight ring of muscles give way just a little bit, which was enough for the older man. He licked inside him, his beard burning the boy’s inner thighs as he thrashed and moaned incoherently. Tony’s fingers left their firm grip on Peter’s ass cheeks to play with his balls and the young man actually screamed when he did, tugging his hair hard. “No, no, it’s too much! I’m not gonna – I’m gonna –“ He didn’t have to say anything else, Tony knew exactly what he meant, he felt the same way and he hadn't even touched his dick yet.

The older man climbed on top of him and quickly, with trembling fingers, unbuttoned his slacks, pulling his impossibly hard cock out. He saw the way Peter licked his lips, as if ready to taste it, and he smirked.

“Not today, kid,” he said, flipping Peter onto his stomach on the couch. He spread his legs further and quickly coated two of his fingers with his own saliva, before pressing one against the tight ring of muscles. The very tip of his finger breached the boy’s hole, he clenched against it at first, only for him to relax completely a minute later. He was so turned on he barely offered any resistance and soon Tony was able to fuck in and out of him, slowly and steadily, mesmerized by the way his hole tried to suck his finger in, growing red from the abuse.

He pushed another finger inside along with the first one and again the boy tensed, making it almost impossible. The older man rubbed his flank with his other hand, cooing at him as he tried to ease the other finger in. When the younger man finally relaxed, Tony started scissoring his fingers, moving and curling them inside, trying to find –

“Mr. Stark! Oh, God, What – I’m –“ He was babbling now, hips thrusting up and down as he tried to rub against the couch and fuck back against Tony’s fingers. The older man indulged him for a little longer, rubbing insistently against the bundle of nerves, driving the younger man completely mad with pleasure. “Please, I’m so close!” Tony quickly drew his fingers out, grabbed his waist and put him on all fours, kneeling right behind him on the couch. He spit on his hand and tried to lube his cock as well as possible, there was no way he would stop what they were doing to look for lube in his room.

Without warning, he started pushing into him, slowly but unrelentingly, inch by painful inch. Peter took it so well, back arched, legs spread wide, ass cheeks held apart by one hand as Tony split him open. When he bottomed out, the boy let out a long, painful moan, his knuckles white from clutching the pillows around him, but he never tried to pull away.

Tony leaned down, his chest touching Peter’s back. He held him gently and started kissing his shoulders and the back of his neck, as he whispered that he was amazing, so good for him, such a good boy. Peter started rocking back against him and the older man soon caught on. He straitened his back, hands squeezing the boy’s ass cheeks hard, keeping them open for easier access. His flesh was soft and firm under his palms and the contrast of his bare skin against Tony’s clothed body made him feel so powerful, the boy was fully naked and he was almost fully dressed, only his dick out, pounding into him mercilessly.

Peter could barely hold himself up, soon his elbows gave out and he pressed his face and chest to the couch, ass in the air, and Tony thought that had to be the best view in the room, the sounds Peter made were the best song ever played. He thrust inside him without any finesse, chasing his release, although he still had a little bit of clarity left to make sure Peter got there first.

The younger man shuddered and Tony knew he was on the right track, he wrapped a hand around the boy’s painfully hard cock and that was all it took, he came all over his hand, screaming his name, and before his body could go lax and pliant, Tony held his waist with both hands and let go, fucking into him like a wild animal, all the pent up sexual energy taking over his mind. Seconds later, he was spilling into him, an orgasm that felt endless, so powerful that when he opened his eyes again, Peter was already asleep under him.

He only had enough energy to roll over, so he wouldn’t crush the younger man, then he pulled him into his arms and passed out on the couch.

--*--

Tony wasn’t a coward, he was just really bad with morning afters, he was usually slapped, or yelled at, and that was why he had a protocol in place. So if the next morning he was in his office at 8AM, watching the live video stream from the security cameras in his penthouse, he couldn’t be judged for that.

He watched as Peter woke up with a start when JARVIS opened up the drapes in the living room, stating the time and the temperature. He hid his naked body with the blanket Tony had covered him with before leaving, and looked around, confused and seemingly a little scared, not recognizing where he was. Tony’s guts twisted guilty, it would probably be much easier if he was there, if he had kissed him awake slowly, allowing him time to adjust to his surroundings.

“Good morning, Mr. Parker.” He was even more spooked when he heard Pepper’s voice, turning around on the couch only to be confronted with her in all her impeccable glory, sharp clothes, killer heels, sophisticated bun and all. He looked so lost and confused. “I’ve got your clothes here, they’ve been dry cleaned and pressed. There’s a car waiting for you outside that will take you anywhere you’d like to go. Mr. Stark sends his apologies, but he had an early meeting this morning.”

Finally, he seemed to understand what was going on and he nodded dazedly. Tony couldn’t see it through the cameras, but he was sure the boy was blushing furiously as he got up quickly and stumbled towards Pepper, covered only in a dark red blanket.

“Yes, thank you, sorry.” He said, meekly, taking his clothes from her hands. “Wh – uhn – could I maybe, uhm. Could you point me to the bathroom, ma’am?” He asked, eyes glued to the floor, and Tony felt fucking terrible, fuck, he should be there, he absolutely should be there, but he couldn’t get out of his chair and go, he just stared at the images as Pepper nodded gently, a motherly smile on her face.

“Of course, bathroom is right through there.” She pointed towards the hallway and Peter scurried away.

All this time, Tony thought he would feel amazing after having Peter, but he just felt sick and empty.

--*--

So, yeah, maybe Tony was a coward after all, that would be the only way to explain why he was avoiding Bruce’s lab for four days now, but he couldn’t quite figure out what he was feeling. For so many months, all he wanted to do was get into Peter’s pants, and now that he had, he didn’t feel the satisfaction that he thought he would.

Instead, he couldn’t stop thinking about the boy. About his trusting eyes as they rode the elevator up to his penthouse, about the way his skin trembled and shivered under his fingers, about how he was able to take the boy apart piece by piece, but never put him back together. He couldn’t stop thinking about how confused, and hurt, and ashamed he looked the following morning, as he took his clothes from Pepper; couldn’t stop thinking about the look of painful regret on his face as he rode the elevator down to the reception area, ignoring the car Tony left waiting for him.

Peter called in sick that day and he didn’t show up to work on Monday either, Bruce told him he had the flu, but eyed him suspiciously when Tony asked about the boy. The young intern went back to work on Tuesday, though, and Tony had meant to talk to him, to say something, but he didn’t. He couldn’t figure out what he wanted to say. And days went by, and days turned into a week, and silence felt wrong, but safe.

So Tony still didn’t know what to say when he accessed Peter’s file on Saturday, against JARVIS’s better judgement, and looked up his address. He still didn’t know what to say as he drove all the way to Queens, hands sweaty, heart pounding against his chest. He didn’t really have a plan when he ringed Peter’s apartment and his sweet, sweet voice sounded through the intercom.

“Yes?”

“Peter, it’s me. Tony. Stark.” He felt so stupid saying that, he thought the younger man could probably recognize his voice. There was silence on the other end for almost two whole minutes and Tony considered ringing the doorbell again, but Peter spoke up.

“You should leave.”

“No, wait!” He waved at the intercom as if the young man could see him. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” He asked defiantly, and Tony shrugged.

“Can we please talk face to face?” He pleaded and that wasn’t his style, that wasn’t his style at all, if it was anyone else, he would have left already, but this was Peter, and he had hurt him –

“Is this work related?”

“If I say it is, will you let me up?” He insisted and he heard the younger man sigh.

“If you’re going to fire me, just do it right now, it will save us both time.”

“I’m not gonna fire you, Peter, just please let me talk to you.” He wasn’t above begging at that point, but that wasn’t necessary, because after a few seconds, Peter buzzed him in, but he didn’t say a word.

The older man rushed inside, as if the boy could change his mind and close the door. The elevator was broken, so he took the stairs, two steps at a time, and soon he was on Peter’s floor and the young man was leaning against his doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

“Peter –“

“You humiliated me,” he cut him off, staring at the floor. “You sent your PA to get rid of me, like I was trash that needed taking out,” his voice was really quiet and Tony couldn’t see his face because his head was hanging low, but he could hear the sadness in his voice.

“I know, I’m sorry, Peter, I’m so –“ He tried to step closer to the younger man, but he wasn’t sure if that would be welcomed.

“This is exactly why I didn’t wanna go out with you in the first place, you know. I was stupid to think – It was all an act, right?” He finally looked up at Tony, his eyes were red, but there were no tears. “The coffee dates, your interest in what I had to say, the praises...”

“No – I mean, yes – I don’t know.” Tony sighed, running his hands through his hair as he paced, way too confused for a man in his forties. He shouldn’t be this fucked up over some kid that he fucked a week ago, for fuck’s sake, what the fuck was wrong with him.

“You made me fall in love with you, then you tossed me away like I was nothing –”

“Made you what?” He turned to Peter quickly and he saw the boy drying his cheeks and a terrible feeling took over him and he rushed towards the younger man, reaching out to him, but didn’t dare to touch him. “Shh, please don’t cry, please. I’m so sorry, baby.” The endearment just fell out of his lips unprompted, and he really didn’t know what was wrong with him, but words just kept spilling out of his mouth, as he got closer and closer to Peter. “I’m sorry, let me make it up to you, ok?”

“I don’t want you to make it up to me, just forget about it.” He pushed Tony away, rubbing at his face. “Forget I said anything, just leave me –“

“I fell for you, too.” There, he said it. He fucking said it and it felt right, it calmed his restless thoughts, it answered all the questions he didn’t dare ask, not even inside his head. The unnamed feeling that made his heart beat like the world was ending whenever he thought of the boy’s trusting eyes staring up at him.

“You don’t mean that, you’re just saying it ‘cause you feel sorry. I don’t need your pity, I just…” He groaned, shaking his head, avoiding Tony’s gaze. “I just wish you had been honest with me.”

“I wanted to fuck you.” Tony blurted out, watching as the younger man’s eyes widened. “And because I’m an asshole, I was willing to do whatever it took to have you. Even lie to you, mislead you. So I did. That’s the truth, but not the whole truth.” He rushed to say when he the younger man started heading inside, ready to slam the door in his face. He turned to glare at Tony. “I’m not trying to pretend like I’m a good guy here, I’m not, I’m a jerk, ok? And I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I wasn’t too worried that you would get hurt in the process of me getting what I wanted.”

“Is there a point to any of this? Or you just like making me feel like shit?” The boy was furious, his eyes were red and his hair was a mess, but Tony still thought he looked gorgeous.

“The point is – you can trust me to fuck things up, always. That’s what I do. I’m selfish and self-centered and I’m not very good with feelings, so I’m sorry in advance for all the trouble it’s gonna cause you, but I like you. I really do. Somewhere along the way I fell in love with you, and I have no reason to lie anymore, so just give me a chance to make it right and I will. I don’t deserve it, but as you might have noticed, I’m an asshole who can’t take no for an answer, so you can either say yes now or you can say yes later, after I’ve done my fair share of begging and groveling, either way is fine with me. I’m a patient man, or so I’ve recently found out.” Tony crossed his arms as if it could protect him from how exposed those words made him feel. Peter stared at him like he had grown a second head, but there was hope and amusement in his eyes, so maybe it wasn’t a lost cause.

“You really are an asshole, Tony Stark,” He said, finally, what had to be mere seconds after Tony’s rant, but felt like an eternity. The older man sighed and shrugged, arms still crossed over his chest as Peter approached him slowly, like he would a small baby animal.

“I really, really am.” He nodded, seriously, because it really was true, but he wanted to be better, he would try to be better, Peter deserved as much. The young man stopped in front of him, his tiny, usually steady hands, were trembling softly when he reached out and touched the older man’s arms.

“And I’m so gonna regret this.” He forced Tony to uncross his arms, placing himself in between them, and the genius’s heart was beating so loudly against his ribcage he was sure Peter could hear it and would probably feel it, but he pulled him close, anyway, wrapping his arms tightly around him.

“Yes, yes, you are.” Again, he nodded seriously, because it was true, it was so very true, and if he were a better man he wouldn’t allow Peter to make such a huge mistake.

“Fine.” But since he was a terrible man on his way to hell, he opened his mouth and swallowed that word as it came out of Peter’s mouth and kissed him hard, held him close, and promised himself that he would work his ass off to deserve Peter, even if he knew it was never gonna be enough.

#starker #ironspider #peter parker x tony stark #nff

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voltrontranscript · 4 years ago

Text

VLD S1E1: The Rise of Voltron

Season 1 Episode 1: The Rise of Voltron

Transcript by @dragonofyang

Summary: Out on the edge of the solar system on Kerberos, Shiro, Sam, and Matt are extracting ice cores from Kerberos’ surface when they’re abducted by a mysterious alien race. One year later, cadets Lance, Pidge, and Hunk pick up alien radio chatter that leads them to find the missing pilot Shiro when he crash lands back on Earth, and they meet Keith, who was attempting to rescue him at the same time. Together, Shiro, Lance, Pidge, Hunk, and Keith find the Blue Lion, one of five alien spaceships shaped like lions that forms the mysterious Voltron, and they fly to Arus, their next mission is to find and pilot the other four missing Lions of Voltron with the help of Princess Allura and her advisor Coran of the planet Altea to defeat Emperor Zarkon.

[Google Doc]

Sam: Easy, son. This ice is delicate.

Matt: Amazing. Isn’t this exciting, Shiro?

Shiro: You guys get a little more excited about ice samples than I do.

Sam: This is history in the making. Not only have we traveled farther than any human ever has, but this ice could hold microscopic clues about the existence of life outside Earth.

Matt: Think of it, Dad. We could use those clues to become the first people to meet aliens.

Sam: My life’s work would be complete. What is that? Seismic activity?

Shiro: We should get back to the ship.

Sam: What? What is that? It can’t be.

Shiro: Run. Come on, run!

Unnamed Galra Commander: Emperor Zarkon, we were scouting System X-9-Y as ordered when we found these primitive scientists. I don’t think they know anything useful.

Zarkon: Take them back to the main fleet for interrogation. The Druids will find out what they know.

Shiro: Please, we come from a peaceful planet! We mean you no harm! We’re unarmed!

[Scene change to an unmarked hallway lined with holding cells in the Galra ship.]

Male: Look, they brought in another one.

Female: Who is it?

Second Male: Over there. It’s another one.

Shiro: Huh?

[Scene change back to Kerberos, labeled “One Year Later”.]

Lance: Galaxy Garrison flight log 5-11-14. Begin descent to Kerberos for rescue mission.

Hunk: Lance, can you keep this thing straight?

Lance: Relax, Hunk. I’m just getting a feel for the stick. I mean, it’s not like I did this! Or this!

Hunk: Okay, unless you wanna wipe beef stroganoff out of all the little nooks and crannies in this thing, you’d better knock it off, man!

Pidge: We’ve picked up a distress beacon!

Lance: Alright, look alive, team. Pidge, track coordinates.

Pidge: Copy.

Hunk: Knock it off, Lance! Please!

Lance: Well, this one’s on you, buddy, we’ve got a hydraulic stabilizer out.

Hunk: Oh, no.

Lance: Oh, no. Fix now, puke later.

Pidge: I lost contact. The shaking is interfering with our sensors.

Lance: Come on, Hunk!

Hunk: It’s not responding.

Lance: Oh, never mind, fellas. Thar she blows. Preparing for approach on visual.

Pidge: I don’t think that’s advisable with our current mechanical and gastrointestinal issues.

Hunk: Agreed.

Lance: Stop worrying. This baby can take it, can’t you, champ? See? She was--she was nodding. She was nodding. Pidge, hail down to them and let them know their ride is here.

Pidge: Attention, lunar vessel--[screams]

Lance: What are you doing? Buckle your belt. And Hunk, stop that shaking!

Hunk: I’m try--oh, no.

Pidge: Attention, lunar vessel, this is Galaxy Garrison Rescue Craft One Victor Six Three Tango. Coming in for landing and extraction, against crew recommendations.

Lance: No time for your mutinous comments now, Pidge. They’re going under and we’re going in.

Pidge: Look out for that overhang!

Lance: No worries, my first year in flight school, you know what they called me? They called me “The Tailor” because of how I thread the needle. Come around, come around! Come on, come on!

Hunk: We lost a wing!

Lance: Oh, man.

Computer: Simulation failed.

Pidge: Nice work, Tailor.

Iverson: Roll out, donkeys! Well, let’s see if we can’t use this complete failure as a lesson for the rest of you students. Can anyone point out the mistakes these three so-called cadets made in the simulator?

Student 1: The engineer puked in the main gearbox.

Iverson: Yes. As everyone knows, vomit is not an approved lubricant for engine systems. What else?

Student 2: The comms spec removed his safety harness.

Student 3: The pilot crashed!

Iverson: Correct. And worst of all, the whole jump, they’re arguing with each other. Heck, if you’re gonna be this bad individually, you’d better at least be able to work as a team! Galaxy Garrison exists to turn young cadets like you into the next generation of elite astroexplorers, but these kinds of mental mistakes are exactly what cost the lives of the men on the Kerberos mission.

Pidge: That’s not true, sir!

Iverson: What did you say?

Lance: Sorry, sir. I think he may have hit his head when he fell out of his chair. But point taken.

Iverson: I hope I don’t need to remind you that the only reason you’re here is that the best pilot in your class had a discipline issue and flunked out. Don’t follow in his footsteps. Next!

[Scene change to outside the Galaxy Garrison compound.]

Iverson: Lights out in five! Everyone back to their dorms, now.

Hunk: We shouldn’t be doing this.

Lance: You heard Commander Iverson. We need to bond as a team. We’re gonna grab Pidge, hit the town, loosen up, meet some nice girls and--

Hunk: I-I’m just saying this here, right now, on the record. This is a bad idea.

Lance: You know, for someone in a space exploration program, you don’t have much of a sense of adventure.

Hunk: All of your little “adventures” end up with me in the principal’s office. Oh, man.

Guard: L-5 north all clear.

Hunk: I’m fine.

Lance: Where is he going?

[Scene change to the roof of the Galaxy Garrison.]

Lance: You come up here to rock out?

Pidge: Oh, Lance, Hunk. No, um, just looking at the stars.

Lance: Where’d you get this stuff? It doesn’t look like Garrison tech.

Pidge: I built it.

Hunk: You built all of this?

Pidge: Stop it! With this thing, I can scan all the way to the edge of the solar system.

Lance: That right? All the way to Kerberos? You go ballistic every time the instructors bring it up. What’s your deal?

Pidge: Second warning, Hunk.

Lance: Look, Pidge, if we’re going to bond as a team, we can’t have any secrets.

Pidge: Fine. The world as you know it is about to change. The Kerberos mission wasn’t lost because of some malfunction or crew mistake. Stop touching my equipment! So, I’ve been scanning the system and picking up alien radio chatter.

Hunk: Whoa, what? Aliens?

Lance: Okay. So, you’re insane. Got it.

Pidge: I’m serious. They keep repeating one word: “Voltron.” And tonight, it’s going crazier than I have ever heard it.

Lance: How crazy?

Iverson, over PA: Attention, students. This is not a drill. We are on lockdown! Security situation Zulu Niner. Repeat: all students are to remain in barracks until further notice.

Hunk: What’s going on? Is that a meteor? A very, very big meteor?

Pidge: It’s a ship.

Lance: Holy crow! I can’t believe what I’m seeing! That’s not one of ours.

Pidge: No. It’s one of theirs.

Hunk: So, wait, there really are aliens out there?

Pidge: We’ve gotta see that ship!

Lance: Hunk, come on!

Hunk: Oh, this is the worst team-building exercise ever.

[Scene change to the cliffs where the mystery space ship landed.]

Lance: Whoa! What the heck is that thing? And who the heck is she?

Pidge: Lance!

Lance: Ow! Right, alien ship. Man, we’ll never get past all those guards to get a look.

Hunk: Aw, man. Yeah, yeah, I guess there’s nothing to do but head back to the barracks, right?

Pidge: Wait, they set up a camera in there and I grabbed its feed. Look!

Shiro: Hey! What are you doing?

Iverson: Calm down, Shiro. We just need to keep you quarantined until we run some tests.

Shiro: You have to listen to me! They destroy worlds! Aliens are coming!

Lance: That’s Shiro, the pilot of the Kerberos mission! That guy’s my hero!

Hunk: Guess he’s not dead in space, after all.

Pidge: But where’s the rest of the crew?

Iverson: Do you know how long you’ve been gone?

Shiro: I don’t know. Months? Years? Look, there’s no time. Aliens are coming here for a weapon. They’re probably on their way. They’ll destroy us. We have to find Voltron.

Pidge: Voltron!

Man: Sir, take a look at this. It appears his arm has been replaced with a cyborg prosthetic.

Iverson: Put him under until we know what that thing can do.

Shiro: No, no, no! Don’t put me under! No! There’s no time!

Pidge: They didn’t ask about the rest of the crew.

Lance: What are they doing? The guy’s a legend. They’re not even gonna listen to him?

Pidge: We have to get him out.

Hunk: Uh, I hate to be the voice of reason here, always, but weren’t we just watching on TV because there was no way to get past the guards?

Lance: That was before we were properly motivated. We’ve just gotta think. Could we tunnel in?

Pidge: Maybe we could get some hazmat suits and sneak in like med techs.

Hunk: Or we dress up like cooks, head back to the dorms, sneak into the commissary, little late-night snack.

Lance: No. What we need is a distraction.

Hunk: Is that the aliens? Is that the aliens? Are they here? They got here so quick!

Pidge: No. Those explosions were a distraction for him. The Garrison’s headed toward the blast, and he’s sneaking in from the other side.

Lance: No way! Oh, he is not going to beat us in there! That guy’s always trying to one-up me!

Hunk: Who is it?

Lance: Keith!

Pidge: Who?

Hunk: Are you sure?

Lance: Oh, I’d recognize that mullet anywhere!

Pidge: Who’s Keith?

Man: These readings are off the chart. Hey!

Keith: Shiro?

Lance: Nope. No, you--no, no, no. No, you don’t. I’m saving Shiro.

Keith: Who are you?

Lance: Who am I? Uh, the name’s Lance. We were in the same class at the Garrison.

Keith: Really, are you an engineer?

Lance: No, I’m a pilot! We were, like, rivals. You know, Lance and Keith, neck and neck.

Keith: Oh, wait, I remember you. You’re a cargo pilot.

Lance: Well, not anymore. I’m fighter class now, thanks to you washing out.

Keith: Well, congratulations.

Hunk: Oh, man. They’re coming back and they do not look happy. We gotta go. Uh, do you mind if we catch a ride with you?

Pidge: Is this thing going to be big enough for all of us?

Keith: No.

Pidge: Why am I holding this guy?

Hunk: Hey, we did all fit.

Lance: Can’t this thing go any faster?

Keith: We could toss out some non-essential weight.

Lance: Oh, right! Okay, so that was an insult. I get it.

Keith: Big man, lean left!

All: Whoa!

Hunk: Aw, man! Mr. Harris just wiped out Professor Montgomery! No, no, he’s fine.

Keith: Big man, lean right!

Hunk: Guys? Is that a cliff up ahead?

Lance: Oh, no, no, no!

Keith: Yup.

Pidge: No, no, no!

Lance: What are you doing? You’re going to kill us all!

Keith: Shut up and trust me!

[Scene change to outside Keith’s home.]

Keith: It’s good to have you back.

Shiro: It’s good to be back.

Keith: So what happened out there? Where were you?

Shiro: I wish I could tell you. My head’s still pretty scrambled. I was on an alien ship, somehow I escaped. It’s all a blur. How did you know to come save me when I crashed?

Keith: You should come see this.

[Scene change to inside Keith’s home.]

Shiro: What have you been working on?

Keith: I can’t explain it, really. After getting booted from the Garrison, I was kinda lost and found myself drawn out to this place. It’s like something… some energy was telling me to search.

Shiro: For what?

Keith: Well, I didn’t know at the time… until I stumbled across this area. It’s an outcropping of giant boulders with caves covered in these ancient markings. Each tells a slightly different story about a blue lion, but they all share clues leading to some event, some arrival happening last night. Then, you showed up.

Shiro: I should thank you all for getting me out. Lance, right?

Pidge: The nervous guy’s Hunk. I’m Pidge. So, did anyone else from your crew make it out?

Shiro: I’m not sure. I remember the mission and being captured. After that, it’s just bits and pieces.

Hunk: Yeah, sorry to interrupt, but back to the aliens. Where are they now? Are they coming? Are they coming for all of us? Like, where are they at this very moment?

Shiro: I can’t really put it together. I remember the word “Voltron.” It’s some kind of weapon they’re looking for, but I don’t know why. Whatever it is, I think we need to find it before they do.

Hunk: Well, last night, I was rummaging through Pidge’s stuff, and I found this picture. Look, it’s his girlfriend.

Pidge: Hey, give me that! What were you doing in my stuff?

Hunk: I was looking for a candy bar. But, then, I started reading his diary--

Pidge: What?!

Hunk: --and I noticed that the repeating series of numbers the aliens are searching for looks a lot like a Fraunhofer line.

Keith: Frown who?

Hunk: It’s a number describing the emission spectrum of an element, only, this element doesn’t exist on EArth. I thought it might be this Voltron, and I think I can build a machine to look for it, kinda like a Voltron Geiger counter.

Lance: Hunk, you big gassy genius!

Hunk: It’s pretty fascinating, really. The wavelength looks like this.

Keith: Give me that.

[Scene change to the canyons leading to Blue Lion’s hiding place.]

Lance: Okay, I admit it. This is super freaky.

Hunk: I’m getting a reading. Whoa. Whoa.

Shiro: What are these?

Keith: These are the lion carvings I was telling you about. They’re everywhere around here.

Lance: Hmm. Whoa. Whoa!

All: What?

Keith: They’ve never done that before.

Lance: They are everywhere.

Pidge: Is this it? Is this the Voltron?

Shiro: It must be.

Keith: This is what’s been causing all of this crazy energy out here. Looks like there’s a forcefield around it.

Lance: Does anyone else get the feeling this is staring at them?

Shiro: No.

Lance: Yeah. The eyes are totally following me.

Keith: I wonder how we get through this.

Lance: Maybe you just have to knock. Whoa. Uh, did everyone just see that?

Hunk: Voltron is a robot. Voltron is a huge, huge awesome robot!

Pidge: And this thing is only one part of it! I wonder where the rest of them are.

Shiro: This is what they’re looking for.

Keith: Incredible.

Lance: Hmm. Mmm… hmm… Here we go. Uh? Huh.

Pidge: Whoa.

Hunk: Whoa.

Lance: Alright! Very nice!

Hunk: Okay, guys, I feel the need to point out, just so that we’re all, you know, aware. We are in some kind of futuristic alien cat head right now.

Lance: Whoa. Did you guys just hear that?

Keith: Hear what?

Lance: I think it’s talking to me. Hmm… Um… Okay, got it. Now, let’s try this.

Keith: You are the worst pilot ever!

Iverson: What in the Sam Hill is that?

Garrison Officer: It appears to be a flying blue lion, sir.

Lance: Isn’t this awesome?

Hunk: Make it stop. Make it stop.

Lance: I’m not making it do anything. It’s like it’s on autopilot.

Keith: Where are you going?!

Lance: I just said it’s on autopilot! It says there’s an alien ship approaching Earth. I think we’re supposed to stop it.

Pidge: What did it say, exactly?

Lance: Well, it’s not like it’s saying words. More like feeding ideas into my brain, kind of.

Hunk: Well, if this thing is the weapon they’re coming for, why don’t we just, I don’t know, give it to them? Maybe they’ll leave us alone. Sorry, lion, nothing personal.

Shiro: You don’t understand. These monsters spread like a plague throughout the galaxy, destroying everything in their path. There’s no bargaining with them. They won’t stop until everything’s dead.

Hunk: Oh. Never mind, then.

[Cut to space.]

Hunk: Uh… Holy crow! Is that really an alien ship?

Shiro: They found me.

Pidge: We’ve got to get it out of here!

Lance: Hang on! Alright, okay! I think I know what to do!

Pidge: Be careful, man. This isn’t a simulator.

Lance: Well, that’s good. I always wreck a simulator. Let’s try this.

Shiro: Nice job, Lance!

Lance: Okay, I think it’s time to get these guys away from our planet.

Unnamed Galra Commander: Lord Zarkon, the escaped prisoner and his people found the lion. It attacked us and is heading out of the system.

Zarkon: Follow that lion and alert all ships in the area to intercept. Capturing that lion is your first and only priority.

Unnamed Galra Commander: Yes, Your Majesty. Full power after the lion!

Hunk: Oh, no!

Pidge: They’re gaining on us!

Lance: It’s weird. They’re not trying to shoot us. They’re just chasing.

Hunk: Okay, seriously, now we think having aliens follow us is good? I am not on board with this new direction, guys.

Keith: Where are we?

Shiro: Edge of the solar system. There’s Kerberos.

Pidge: It takes months for our ships to get out this far. We got out here in five seconds.

Hunk: What is that?

Lance: Uh, this may seem crazy, but I think the lion wants us to go through there.

Pidge: Where does it go?

Lance: I-I don’t know. Shiro, you’re the senior officer here. What should we do?

Shiro: Whatever’s happening, the lion knows more than we do. I say we trust it, but we’re a team now. We should decide together.

Lance: Alright. Guess we’re all ditching class tomorrow.

Lance: Whoa. That was…

Hunk: So sorry.

Pidge: I’m just surprised it took this long.

Shiro: I don’t recognize any of these constellations. We must be a long, long way from Earth.

Lance: The lion seems to want to go to this planet. I think… I think it’s going home.

Lance: Guys, personal space. Hunk, your breath is killing me.

Hunk: Um, is it just me or is anyone else having second thoughts about flying through a mysterious wormhole? Why are we listening to a robotic lion anyway?

Lance: Got us away from that alien warship, didn’t it?

Keith: I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re in an alien warship.

Lance: Oh, are you scared?

Keith: With you at the helm? Terrified.

Shiro: Alright, knock it off. No one’s happy to be in this situation, but we’re here now. If we want to get through this, we’ve got to do it together.

Pidge: So, what do we do?

Shiro: First, we find out where we’re headed. Lance?

Lance: I don’t know. I’m sorry. The lion’s not talking to me anymore. Wait! Wait, wait wait! Shh! Listen. I think I hear something.

Keith: I’m hearing it, too.

Hunk: It’s uh--it’s kind of a--a high-pitched squeal?

All: [exclaim in disgust] Come on, Lance!

Lance: But seriously, there’s a castle up ahead.

All: Wow.

Shiro: Keep your guard up.

Pidge: Something wrong?

Shiro: My crew was captured by aliens once. I’m not gonna let it happen again.

Hunk: Oh, no! No! I knew it was going to eat us! No! Oh, the door is open. Guess I was wrong about you.

Hunk: Hello?

Pidge: From the size of the lion, I expected these steps to be bigger.

Computer: Hold for identity scan.

Pidge: What?

Shiro: Why are we here? What do you want with us?

Lance: Whoa!

Pidge: Whoa. I guess we’re going that way.

Hunk: Hello? Hello? Hello?

Lance: Where are we?

Pidge: It’s some kind of control room.

Hunk: Are these guys… dead?

Allura: Father!

Lance: Woah! Hello.

Allura: Who are you? Where am I?

Lance: My name’s Lance, and you’re right here in my arms.

Allura: Your ears…

Lance: Yeah?

Allura: They’re hideous. What’s wrong with them?

Lance: Nothing’s wrong with them! They heard exactly what you said about them!

Allura: Who are you? Where is King Alfor? What are you doing in my castle?

Lance: A giant blue lion brought us here. That’s all we know!

Allura: How do you have the Blue Lion? What happened to its paladin? What are you all doing here? Unless… How long has it been?

Shiro: We don’t know what you’re talking about. Why don’t you tell us who you are? Maybe we can help.

Allura: I am Princess Allura of Planet Altea. I’ve got to find out where we are and how long we’ve been asleep.

Pidge: Okay, that’s how that works.

Coran: Enemy combatants! Quiznak! You’re lucky I have a case of the ol’ “sleep chamber knees”. Otherwise I’d grab your head like this, wrap you up like so, one, two, three! Sleepytime!

Lance: Well, before you did that I’d--[grunts repeatedly] like that.

Coran: Oh, really? Well how could you do that when I’ve already come at you with this? Ha, ha, ha, hey!

Hunk: Man, these guys are good.

Allura: It can’t be.

Coran: What is it?

Allura: We’ve been asleep for ten thousand years.

[Transition to a flashback, ten thousand years ago.]

Alfor: Zarkon.

Zarkon: Your fleet has been destroyed, Alfor. I will be there shortly to claim Voltron.

Allura: Father, we must form Voltron and fight before it’s too late!

Alfor: It’s already too late. We must send the lions away. We can’t risk them falling into Zarkon’s hands.

Allura: We can’t give up hope!

Alfor: I’m sorry, daughter. If all goes well, I will see you again soon.

Allura: Father…

Alfor: I love you.

[Transition back to the present.]

Allura: Planet Altea and all of the planets in our solar system have been destroyed. Coran, Father is gone. Our entire civilization… Zarkon.

Shiro: Zarkon?

Allura: He was the king of the Galra. A vile creature and enemy to all free people.

Shiro: I remember now… I was his prisoner.

Allura: He’s still alive? Impossible!

Shiro: I can’t explain it, but it’s true. He’s searching for a super-weapon called Voltron.

Allura: He’s searching for it because he knows it’s the only thing that can defeat him, and that’s exactly why we must find it before he does.

[Cut to an unspecified location full of floating purple crystals.]

Haggar: Ah…

[Cut to an unspecified location on Zarkon’s command ship.]

Haggar: The Blue Lion has returned, and now I feel a resurgence of Altean energy.

Zarkon: Alfor’s daughter lives? How?

Haggar: I know not, but it is time to reclaim what is rightfully ours.

Zarkon: Yes. I shall wipe that foul race from the universe forever and take back Voltron. Contact my commanders.

[Cut to a Galra cruiser in deep space.]

Male voice: Emperor Zarkon requests an audience.

Zarkon: Commander Sendak, the Princess of Altea is alive and hiding in your sector. We believe she alone holds the whereabouts of the remaining lions. Your battle fleet is the closest to her location. Retrieve her and the lions. With them all, the Galra Empire will be unstoppable.

Sendak: I fight for the empire. I conquer in the name of Galra. No foe has ever stood in my way and none ever will. Vrepit Sa! Set a course for Arus.

[Cut to the Castle of Lions.]

Coran: Princess, you must eat. It’s been ten thousand years.

Allura: I’m not hungry.

Lance: Man, ten thousand years? That's like one thousand plus ten.

Keith: That’s times ten.

Lance: Whatever, dropout.

Hunk: I haven’t eaten since breakfast and I’m starving.

Pidge: Yeah, but you’ve thrown up, like, five times.

Shiro: I can’t believe your civilization created such advanced technology ten thousand years ago. It must have been an incredible place.

Coran: Yes, it was… but now it is gone and we’re the last Alteans alive.

Allura: Looks like we’re not the last, after all.

Coran: A Galra battleship has set its tracker to us!

Allura: How did they find us?

Lance: I’m not sure, but I bet it’s Keith’s fault.

Keith: Say whatever you’ve gotta say to make yourself feel better. After getting us stuck on the other side of a wormhole!

Lance: I’ll stick you in a wormhole!

Shiro: Stow it, cadets! This is no time to place blame, it’s time to work as a team. How long before they arrive?

Coran: At their speed? Oh, well, uh, carry the two… I’d say probably a couple of days.

Allura: Good. Let them come. By the time they get here, you five will have reformed Voltron, and together, we will destroy Zarkon’s empire.

Hunk: Sorry. Food goo.

Shiro: Princess, there are five of these lions. How are we going to find the rest?

[Transition to the bridge of the Castle of Lions.]

Coran: King Alfor connected the lions to Allura’s life force. She alone is the key to the lions’ whereabouts.

All: Whoa.

Pidge: These are coordinates. The Black Lion looks like it’s in the same location as the Blue Lion.

Coran: Look at your primitive synapses firing away in their little brain cage!

Allura: Very observant. That’s because the Black Lion is in the castle.

Coran: To keep the Black Lion out of Zarkon’s hands, King Alfor locked it in the castle. It can only be freed if the other four lions are present.

Allura: As you have found, the lions choose their pilots. It is a mystical bond and cannot be forced. The quintessence of the pilot is mirrored in his lion. Together, they form something greater than science can explain. The Black Lion is the decisive head of Voltron. It will take a pilot who is a born leader and in control at all times, someone whose men will follow without hesitation. That is why, Shiro, you will pilot the Black Lion. The Green Lion has an inquisitive personality and needs a pilot of intellect and daring. Pidge, you will pilot the Green Lion. The Blue Lion--

Lance: Whoa, hold up, let me guess. Takes the most handsome slash best pilot of the bunch?

Allura: The Yellow Lion is caring and kind. Its pilot is one who puts the needs of others above his own. His heart must be mighty. As the leg of Voltron, you will lift the team up and hold them together. The Red Lion is temperamental and the most difficult to master. It’s faster and more agile than the others, but also more unstable. Its pilot needs to be someone who relies more on instincts than skill alone. Keith, you will fly the Red Lion.

Lance: What? This guy?

Allura: Unfortunately, I cannot locate the Red Lion’s coordinates yet. There must be something wrong with the castle. After ten thousand years, it might need some work.

Coran: Don’t worry, we’ll find it soon. They don’t call me “The Coranic” for nothing. It’s because it sounds like “mechanic.” So… Coranic, mechanic. It’s not--it doesn’t sound… exactly like it. It’s similar.

Allura: Once all the lions are united, you will form Voltron, the most powerful warrior ever known, the Defender of the Universe.

Lance: Awesome.

Pidge: Oh…

Hunk: Wait. Okay, we’re going to be in there and flying lions. Got that part. How do lions turn into legs? Also, is this going to be a long trip? Because I have to pee. Do you people pee?

Shiro: We don’t have much time. Pidge and I will go after the Green Lion. Lance, you take Hunk and get the yellow one. Keith, you stay here. If you locate that Red Lion, go get it.

Allura: In the meantime, I’ll get this castle’s defenses ready. They’ll be sorely needed.

Coran: I’ll ready a pod and load the coordinates so that you can reach the Green Lion.

[Transition to the launch of the lion and the pod.]

Coran: We can only keep the wormholes that lead to the other lions open for two of your Earth hours, so you’ll have to be quick about your work. The good news is that according to my readings, both planets are relatively peaceful. So, if you do get stuck, they could be relaxing places to live out the rest of your lives. Enjoy the trip!

Lance: Wait! What? No!

Hunk: I did not receive the memo on this.

[Scene change to a lush green planet where Shiro and Pidge land.]

Pidge: Look! It’s just a… whatever that thing is. I… uh, I think he wants us to get in his canoe.

Shiro: Then, I guess we should go.

Pidge: Huh.

Shiro: I’ve been locked up by aliens for a year. This is nothing.

Pidge: I wonder if Hunk and Lance are having as good a time as us.

[Cut to a sandy planet, where Hunk and Lance are not having as good a time.]

Hunk: Oh, no! No, no, no! Oh! Oh, no! I thought Coran said these planets were peaceful!

Lance: Maybe “peaceful” means something else in Altean!

Hunk: According to the coordinates, we’re right on top of the Yellow Lion. It’s below there, where they’re mining for the ore. They don’t even know the lion is there. Or maybe they just got here and they’re digging for the lion? What do you think, Lance?

Lance: Who cares? Just go get it! I’m dropping you down there.

Hunk: Me? Down there? No. No, no, no.

Lance: Yes, I’ll cover you.

Hunk, You know, what if the Yellow Lion doesn’t work? W-What if--what if I can’t get in the mine? What if I start crying? It’s too late. I’m already crying!

Lance: Sorry, no time for questions.

Hunk: Oh, yeah, sure, just drop me off in an alien planet. That’s cool, man. It’s only occupied by mean purple aliens that want to kill me, but whatever. Just ignore them and go connect with a big, yellow, mechanical cat. Easy-peasy. Yeah. That all makes a ton of sense to me. Cool.

Hunk: Okay, I’m in a giant hole. Now what, Hunk? Huh? Whoa. Pretty. How am I gonna get through that? Hmm? Hmm...

[Cut to Blue Lion on the surface, then Hunk drilling through the rock, and back to Blue as Lance fights the Galra fighters.]

Lance: Oh, no! Hunk!

[Scene change to Shiro and Pidge on the river with the alien.]

Pidge: I know the princess said this is supposed to be my lion, but what if she’s wrong? I mean, she’s probably not wrong. She’s a princess, but I’m not a pilot, even though I’ve always wanted to be a pilot. I mean, I read all the fighter manuals, but never got to fly the simulator, but, hey, I can’t be all that worse than Lance. He crashed all the time, but what if I get in there and it doesn’t respond? What if I get in there and it’s too big and my feet don’t touch the pedals? What if there aren’t even pedals?

Shiro: You’re rambling. Listen, our commander on the Kerberos mission is the smartest man I ever met and he always said, “If you get too worried about what could go wrong, you might miss a chance to do something great.”

Shiro: Go. Be great.

Pidge: Woo-hoo-hoo!

[Cut to Blue Lion on the sandy planet.]

Lance: Hunk, come on! Please, buddy! Oh, no, no, no, no, no! Going down! We’re going down! Oh, no.

Hunk: You okay, Lance?

Lance: Hunk! I thought you were dead! You jumped in front of all those shots to save my life!

Hunk: Well, actually, I was trying to get out of the way. Thankfully, what this thing lacks in speed, it more than makes up for in armor. Man, can it take a beating! Ooh. We’ve got incoming!

Allura: Paladins, please hurry back. I can’t hold the wormhole much longer.

Lance: Let’s get out of here!

Hunk: Ugh, not this again.

Lance: Quit screwing around, Hunk! The wormhole is closing!

[Cut to the bridge of the Castle of Lions.]

Allura: You made it.

Lance: Yeah, just barely. That was a nightmare. I almost puked out there. I felt like Hunk!

Hunk: Think how I felt. I am Hunk.

Pidge: Yeah, we had a tough time, too.

Shiro: Did we find the Red Lion yet?

Coran: Allura just located it. There’s a bit of good news and bad news. The good news is the Red Lion is nearby. The bad news is it’s on-board the Galra ship now orbiting Arus. But wait, good news again. We’re Arus!

Shiro: They’re here already?

Coran: Yes. Guess my calculations were a bit off. Finger counting is--it’s more of an art than a science. Hmm?

Sendak: Princess Allura, this is Commander Sendak of the Galra Empire. I come on behalf of Emperor Zarkon, Lord of the Known Universe. I am here to confiscate the lions. Turn them over to me, or I will destroy your planet.

Shiro: Alright, let’s not panic.

Hunk: Not panic? The scary purple alien thing is driving his battleship toward us. We only have four lions.

Pidge: Technically, only three working lions.

Hunk: That’s right, thank you, Pidge. Three working lions a-and a castle that’s, like, ten thousand years old.

Coran: Actually, it’s ten thousand and six hundred years old. You see, it was built by my grandfather--

Hunk: Thanks, Coran. Thank you for that. See? Now is the perfect time to panic!

Allura: Wait! This castle has a particle barrier we can activate.

Lance: Girl, you’ve already activated my par--

Shiro: Lance!

Coran: The particle barrier won’t hold Sendak’s ion cannon forever. The Galra technology must have advanced since we fought them last.

Hunk: Panic now?

Shiro: No, we’ve just got to figure out our plan of action, and figure it out quickly.

Lance: I say we pop through a wormhole and live to fight another day.

Hunk: I second that, yes. I mean, we tried to find all the lions, right? We gave it the ol’ college try. Couldn’t do it. We only have three. We can’t form Voltron. I mean, I guess we could form a snake. Or a worm! To go through that hole, Lance, that you were talking about.

Lance: Then, it’s settled. Allura, you ride with me. One of you take the old guy.

Pidge: We can’t just abandon Arus. The Galra will keep destroying planets and capturing prisoners until we stop them.

Hunk: Okay. If we run, then maybe Sendak will follow us and leave this planet alone, like when we left Earth. We form the snake-worm thingamagjig and we--[hisses] out of here.

Keith: Sendak could destroy the planet, then come after us anyway. Staying is our only option.

Lance: Here's an option: shut your quiznak.

Keith: I don’t think you’re using that word correctly.

Lance: What do you know, Mullet?

Keith: We’re staying.

Lance: Leaving!

Pidge: Staying!

Hunk: Snake!

Shiro: Guys, stop! Princess Allura, these are your lions. You’ve dealt with the Galra Empire before. You know what we’re facing better than any of us. What do you think is the best course of action?

Allura: I… I don’t know.

Coran: Perhaps your father can help.

Allura: My father?

[Transition to the computer room that hosts Alfor’s AI.]

Allura: Coran, what is this?

Coran: King Alfor knew that there was a chance he might never see you again. So his memories, his very being, were stored in this computer for you.

Allura: Father! Father, it is so good to see you.

Alfor: Allura, my only child, how I’ve missed your face.

Allura: I’m so frightened. A Galra ship is set to attack, and I don’t know what to do. Please, Father, I need your help.

Alfor: I would do anything to take this burden from you.

Allura: I don’t know if we should run to preserve what we have or stay and risk everything. I want to fight, but the paladins of old are gone. I know what you would do.

Alfor: I scattered the Lions of Voltron to keep them out of Zarkon’s hands. You urged me to keep them and fight, but, for the greater good of protecting the universe, I chose to hide them.

Allura: I think I understand.

Alfor: No, daughter, you were right. I made a terrible mistake, one that cost the universe countless lives. Forming Voltron is the only way to stop Zarkon. You must be willing to sacrifice everything to assemble the lions and correct my error.

[Scene change to Allura entering the bridge once more, looking determined in her flight suit.]

Allura: You five paladins were brought here for a reason. The Voltron Lions are meant to be piloted by you and you alone. We must fight, and keep fighting until we defeat Zarkon. It is our destiny. Voltron is the universe’s only hope. We are the universe’s only hope.

Shiro: We’re with you, Princess.

[Cut to the armory of the castle.]

Allura: Your suits of armor.

Lance: Cool!

Shiro: Outstanding.

Keith: Nice.

Pidge: Oh, neat!

Hunk: Hmm…

Coran: Princess, are you sure about this? They aren’t exactly the best and brightest the universe has to offer.

Allura: No, but they’re all we’ve got.

Shiro: Boys, it’s time to suit up!

Allura: The bayard is the traditional weapon of the Paladins of Voltron. It takes a distinct shape for each paladin.

Lance: Whoo! Aw, you got a cute little bayard.

Pidge: Yeah, it is pretty cute.

Allura: Shiro, I’m afraid your bayard was lost with its paladin.

Shiro: I guess I’ll just have to make do.

[Cut to the bridge.]

Allura: You’ll need to retrieve the Red Lion from Sendak’s ship.

Keith: That’s a pretty big ship. How are we gonna know where the Red Lion is?

Pidge: Well, it’s not a matter of “we.” It’s a matter of “you.”

Hunk: Pidge is right. Once we get you in, you’ll be able to feel its presence and, like, track it down.

Lance: Yeah. You know how you felt that crazy energy while we were in the desert?

Keith: Yeah. You made fun of me for that.

Lance: And I’m proud of that, but turns out it’s exactly like that mumbo-jumbo.

Allura: Keith, the Red Lion is extremely temperamental. You’ll have to earn its respect.

Shiro: Alright. Here’s our plan of attack. The Galra Empire knows about the Blue and Yellow Lion, but they don’t know we have the Green Lion, too.

[Cut to outer space.]

Shiro: Hunk, Lance, you’ll act as a decoy by pretending to give yourselves up.

Lance: Attention, Galra ship. Do not fire. We’re surrendering our lions. Hope this works.

Shiro: While Sendak is distracted, Keith, Pidge, and I will sneak onto the ship in the Green Lion. Keith and I will find the Red Lion while Pidge guards our exit. Hunk, Lance, find some way to take down that ion cannon.

Lance: Pidge, what’s your ETA?

Pidge: We’re in.

Sendak: Activate tractor beam.

Hunk: What’s that thing?

Lance: I think that’s our signal to get out of here!

Sendak: They lied to us. Launch fighters!

Lance: Hunk, you dismantle the ion cannon while I take these jerks on a space ride.

Hunk: Ten-four!

[Cut to inside the Galra ship.]

Shiro: I’ve been here before. After I was taken by the Galra cruiser off Kerberos, they brought us here.

Pidge: So, that means your other crewmembers, they might be held captive here. We… We’ve gotta rescue them.

Shiro: Pidge, we don’t have time. We have to get the Red Lion and get back to Arus.

Pidge: But we can’t just leave prisoners here!

Shiro: Look, no one understands that more than me, but in war, we have to make hard choices. Now, let’s get moving.

Pidge: No! Commander Holt is my father. He and my brother were the ones on the Kerberos mission with you.

Shiro: Commander Holt is your father?

Pidge: Yes. I’ve been searching everywhere for him and my brother and I’m not going to give up looking when I’m this close. I won’t!

Shiro: I’m coming with you.

Keith: What?

Shiro: I remember where the prisoners are held. Keith, you go find the Red Lion.

Keith: By myself?

Shiro: Minor change of plans. You’ll be fine. Just remember, patience yields focus, so--run!

Keith: Great. Now which way?

[Cut to Yellow Lion flying outside the Galra ship.]

Hunk: What the quiznak? What is that? A forcefield?

[Cut to the castle on Arus.]

Allura: Particle barrier up!

Coran: Is that what’s supposed to happen? Oh, the barrier crystals are out of alignment.

Allura: We have to fix it immediately. Without the particle barrier, we’ll be defenseless.

Coran: We’re both too big. What can we do?

Allura: The mice!

Coran: How do they know how to do this?

Allura: I can hear them talking to me. I think our minds are connected. It must be from sharing the sleep pod for ten thousand years. Thank you, friends. Coran, what are you doing?

Coran: I’m trying to get them to make me a sandwich.

[Cut to Keith on the Galra ship.]

Keith: You’ve gotta be kidding me! Patience yields focus. Gotcha.

[Cut to Pidge and Shiro on the Galra ship.]

Shiro: That thing saw us. We should get out of here.

Pidge: Wait, I think this might come in handy. Now I’ll just reset the controls… and it’s working for us! I’m gonna call you Rover. Follow me! Open up.

Shiro: Excellent, Pidge.

Pidge: Dad?

Shiro: Don’t be afraid. We’re here to help you escape.

Prisoner: It’s you… It’s you, the Champion. If anyone can get us out of here, he can.

Shiro: Wh… what did you call me?

Pidge: We don’t have much time. Let’s get to the escape pods.

Shiro: Let’s go. Come on!

[Cut to Lance in Blue Lion.]

Lance: Whoa-ho-ho! Yeah, buddy! This is way more fun without Hunk’s barfing!

[Cut to Keith in a hangar where Red is floating inside a shield.]

Keith: Bingo. Let’s get out of here. Open up. It’s me. Keith. Your buddy. It’s me! Keith, your--I am your paladin! I’m bonding with you! Hey! Come on! We’re connected! You’re not getting this lion! Good kitty. Let’s roll.

[Cut to Shiro and Pidge by an escape pod with the prisoners.]

Pidge: Hurry!

Drone: Halt!

Pidge, distorted: Shiro, what’s wrong?

Prisoner: Thank you, Shiro.

Shiro: Wait! How do you…?

Pidge: Shiro, that was amazing! Where did you learn to fight with that?

Shiro: No idea.

[Cut to Yellow Lion.]

Hunk: Come on, just break, you stupid thing! Score one for Hunk! You guys made it!

Pidge: Kitty Rose has left the stage!

Lance: Let’s get the heck out of here!

Hunk: I hope I stopped that cannon. I could barely make a dent in it.

Haxus: They stole the Red Lion!

Sendak: After them! Either we get those lions or we blow this whole planet to cosmic dust! Fire the ion cannon.

Haxus: Sir, the ion cannon has been damaged.

Sendak: Then send the drones to fix it!

[Cut to the Black Lion’s hangar in the Castle of Lions, then to the bridge.]

Allura: Oh…

Coran: Oh, quiznak!

Allura: Sendak is entering the Arusian atmosphere. We need Voltron now!

[Cut to the bridge of Sendak’s ship.]

Haxus: The ion cannon is back online!

Sendak: Fire!

[Cut to Hunk inside Yellow Lion.]

Hunk: Man, those Galra guys repair things fast.

Coran: The barrier gets weaker with every blast. Once that shield goes down, the castle will be defenseless.

Allura: I can give you cover with the castle defenses for a while, but you have to form Voltron now or we’ll all be destroyed!

Hunk: Jeez, no pressure.

Shiro: Listen up, Team Voltron! The only way to succeed is to give it all you’ve got! This looks bad, but we can do this! Are you with me?

Hunk: I’m nodding. Is everyone else nodding?

Keith, Lance, Pidge: Yes.

Shiro: Let’s do this!

Lance: Uh, how?

Keith: Good question. Does anyone have any ideas of how to form Voltron?

Hunk: I don’t see a “combine into giant robot” button anywhere on my dashboard.

Pidge: This is insane! Can’t they just ceasefire for one minute so we can figure this out? Is that too much to ask?

Keith: We’ve gotta do something!

Hunk: Combine!

Keith: Hey!

Hunk: Okay, that didn’t work.

Allura: Quickly, Paladins! Our energy levels are getting low!

Shiro: Maybe if we fly in formation, we’ll just combine. Take off on my cue. One, two, three, Voltron!

Keith: Here we go!

Lance: Come on, come on!

Shiro: Nothing’s happening.

Lance: Hey, wait, wait, wait. I feel something!

Hunk: I do, too. I feel it. It’s like we’re all being pulled in the same direction!

Shiro: Uh, guys, I think I know why. Look up.

Lance: What the cheese?

Pidge: Sendak’s ship is sucking us in like a black hole!

[Cut to Sendak on the bridge of his ship.]

Sendak: Send a report to Emperor Zarkon: “The day is ours.”

[Cut to the castle, then to Shiro in Black.]

Shiro: Oh, no!

Hunk: I don’t care what you say, Shiro. I’m panicking now!

Pidge: It can’t end here!

Lance: This is it!

Keith: It’s been an honor flying with you boys.

Hunk: Oh, no!

Shiro: No! We can do this. We have to believe in ourselves. We can’t give up. We are the universe’s only hope. Everyone is relying on us. We can’t fail! We won’t fail! If we work together, we’ll win together!

All: Yeah!

[Cut to Sendak on his bridge.]

Sendak: Voltron!

[Cut to Voltron outside the Galra ship.]

Keith: I can’t believe it!

Pidge: We formed Voltron!

Hunk: I’m a leg!

Lance: How are we doing this?

Shiro: I don’t know, but let’s get that cannon!

[Scene change to outside the Castle of Lions at sunset, after their victory.]

Allura: Good work, Paladins!

Lance: Thanks, pretty lady.

Shiro: We did it.

Keith: Heck yeah, we did.

Shiro: How did we do it?

Hunk: I was just, like, screaming the whole time. Maybe that did it.

Shiro: We’re not gonna stop searching until we find your brother and father. Wherever they are, I know they’d be proud of you.

Allura: We won the battle, but the war has only just begun. I’m afraid Zarkon will not stop until he gets these lions.

Coran: Good thing you paladins know what you’re doing, because you’re going to have to form Voltron again and again.

Hunk: Totally. Wait, what?

Lance: We barely survived forming Voltron this one time.

Coran: And you only had to fight one ship. Wait until you have to fight a whole fleet of them! It’s not going to be easy being the Defenders of the Universe.

Shiro: Defenders of the Universe, huh? That’s got a nice ring to it.

End.

#vld #voltron #voltron legendary defender #transcript #shiro #allura #hunk #pidge #lance #keith #coran #sendak #haxus #sam holt #matt holt #alfor #zarkon #commander iverson

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secretsantasides · 5 years ago

Text

Gift #14: Colorblind

Gift for @forestwulf

Prompt: Intrulogical Soulmate AU.

Logan massaged his temples as the nightclub music pounded in his ears, “I don’t know why you insist on coming here.”

“It’s twinks drink free night,” Patton said, sipping his appletini.

“You stopped being a twink ten years ago,” Logan muttered.

Patton sighed, “I’m going to ignore that because you’re my brother and I love you. Speaking of love-”

“Don’t,” Logan said. “Not this again.”

“Listen to me,” Patton said. “I’m worried about you, Logan. I know you’re a little robot and you don’t need romance in your life or any friends but-”

“I have friends,” Logan said.

“But,” Patton said. “You’re thirty years old and it’s starting to make mom sad on the holidays. When I met Ethan, it wasn’t sitting around at home and moping. I mean how long has it been since you were touched by another human being?”

“Soulmates,” Logan sighed. “Don’t start, Pat. I’ll gouge my eye out with this tiny umbrella.”

Patton rolled his eyes, “Logan it’s not just nonsense; it’s science! Just because you think you’re some kind of lone wolf doesn’t mean you don’t have a soulmate. Your eyes wouldn’t be grey if you weren’t still waiting for your person. So you can deny it all you want. It won’t change the fact that they’re waiting.”

“I don’t have time for a soulmate, Pat. You and Ethan just work better; you have time to be in love and he’s patient enough to deal with… you.”

Patton faked an offended gasp, “Just for that I’m not getting you a free drink next round! But you’re right, Ethan is perfect. However-”

“There is no however.”

”However,” Patton continued. “It doesn’t mean that there isn’t someone out there who’s just as patient with your bullshit as Ethan is with mine. Now look you made me swear. I hope you’re happy.”

“I think the three appletinis made you swear,” Logan said. “Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

“Actually I’m going out of town in two days with the girls so they gave me time off.”

“Out of town? That’s this week?” Logan asked.

Patton finished his drink, “I love how much you listen when I talk. The pandas are being moved to the zoo in Atlanta so their enclosure can be remodeled and we’re hoping to get some breeding done while we’re out there. That’s why I told you that you have to take mom to the optometrist on Monday. If you forget that, Logan-”

“Right right,” Logan said. “No I’ll remember it’s… it’s in my phone.” He looked at his empty glass of whiskey but pushed it aside, deciding he’d better stay sober, “So what’s Ethan thinking about this longterm separation?”

Patton snorted, “One of his retics laid a ton of eggs and she bit his face when he was pulling the clutch. Now he’s walking around like Crocodile Dundee. Plus the whole clutch is viable so we’re looking at a lot of new snakes to add to the national program. He’s in talks with a zoo in Taiwan too about some bloodline trades. It’s really annoying sometimes. He gets dozens of babies a season and I’m lucky if I’ll see more than two or three in my career.”

“Well you chose the pandas,” Logan said.

“I’ll have you know the pandas chose me,” Patton said. “You want another drink?”

“Nah, I’ll drive you home,” Logan said. “Go flirt with the bartender and see if he’ll pretend to think you’re young some more.”

Patton laughed as he slid out of his seat, walking over to the bar. On the dancefloor Logan saw a small group of students, a few of which he recognized—one in particular a large pain in his ass. Remus Prince, Quarterback of the university football team and well-known idiot. Logan wished Remus was the typical jock idiot, uncaring and arrogant, one he could easily fail without a second thought, but Remus was bound and determined to make up for his own shortcomings with hard work and extra credit. It meant that half of Logan’s office hours were spent patiently explaining things to Remus again and again, and accepting an outlandish amount of extra credit work.

And—even more annoyingly—through it all Remus was cheerful, friendly and actually interested in what Logan had to say. Worse still, Remus was a senior, only four years younger than Logan who was the baby of the science department and didn’t he just hate that little nickname? Remus was like a peer, but worse, a jock, the kind of person that would have made Logan’s life miserable if they’d ever walked the same halls together as students. The revelation that Remus was gay was… interesting? No, not interesting. He’s a student and you don’t care. Logan rubbed his eyes and sighed, jumping when Patton returned with two appletinis. He sat down and stared at his brother matter-of-factly, “Guess how much these cost me?”

Logan raised an eyebrow and couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at his lips, “How are we related?”

Patton was a lot heavier than he looked when he needed to be carried, and Logan struggled up the stairs to the door of the apartment, knocking on the door. It was a cute place, all brick and right on the street, divided in half horizontally to make a duplex, but it was roomy and it was nice for two people on zookeeper salary; it was inexpensive—for Florida. Ethan opened the door and Logan gasped, “Ethan, your face!”

Ethan did smile, and there was more than a little pride in it, “Don’t worry. She hit above and below my eye but the doc said to keep a full dressing on it at night so I don’t rub anything off. He cool?”

“Vodka drunk,” Logan said, hauling Patton inside and laying him on the couch. “Not too bad but I told him I’d stay sober and I think he needed to drink off some stress.”

“The move, yeah,” Ethan said, following Logan back to the door. “And my face. He’s not really loving how many times I take the bandage off to show people but it’s my first big tag! You wanna see the pictures from the ER?”

“Gosh I’d love to but I have class in the morning so-”

“Ethan!” Patton called from the livingroom, “Come sex me up, Mr. Snake Whisperer!”

“Good luck with that,” Logan said. “Tell him to call me when he’s less obnoxious.”

“Will do,” Ethan said. “Bye Logan.”

Logan snorted when Patton called again and started down the stairs, “Good luck!”

Logan looked at himself in the mirror after taking out his contacts and smiled at his grey eyes; grey was distinguished, and he didn’t mind having a constant reminder—for himself and others—that he was beyond all of this soulmate nonsense. He was a lone wolf, just like Patton said, and his true love was forensic anthropology—or biology, as he was currently teaching. His application was top in line for the anthropology department, however, and he had consulted a time or two on actual cases. So, despite Patton’s—and his mother’s—insistence that his life was somehow incomplete, Logan couldn’t be happier. He turned off the bathroom light and crawled into bed, thinking back over his tasks for the day, all of which he’d completed before he ever set foot inside the gay bar with his brother. It was the same way he lulled himself to sleep every night, assured of all of his accomplishments, large and small, and how every day was a blank slate.

Sleep came quick for him, thanks to the single glass of whiskey and the exhaustion of dealing with his drunk brother—and his sober brother-in-law. His dreams were blurry and immemorable until suddenly his vision was filled with green. There were calloused hands on his skin, warm lips on his cheek and breath in his ear, and he was held against a solid body with a grip that was surprisingly strong. He closed his eyes and still all he could see was green.

Logan gasped and sat up, checking the clock and scowling; it was still the middle of the night and he was baffled by the strange dream and irredeemably hard. He sighed heavily and climbed out of bed, heading back into the bathroom and turning the shower to cold, stripping off his pajamas. Who the hell did he know that was associated with green, anyway? He didn’t even like the color green, his favorite color was indigo, far from the blinding lime he’d been accosted with in his dream. Any thoughts of the dream went screaming from his mind when he stepped into the water; his chest tightened and he exhaled involuntarily, “F-fuck!”

He tightened his hands into fists and endured the water, somehow preferring cold-induced heart palpitations to ward off an unwanted erection than perhaps the more obvious—and less miserable—solution. It was easier to be stubborn and miserable than to admit—and revel in—the fact that something had gotten him going, and that it had to be the dream. Whiskey wasn’t exactly known for facilitating physical arousal, and he’d barely had enough to taste in the first place.

“Morning!” Remus announced as he knocked on the open office door.

“Good morning,” Logan said, “Come in, Mr. Prince.” He cleared away the end of his desk where Remus usually worked and stacked up the papers elsewhere. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Remus laughed, his cheeks a bit pink; Logan wondered if he was getting a cold—and how much that would panic the other professors about the state of the football team. He took a sip of his coffee as he sat down. Remus scratched the back of his neck, “Well I have the three essays to turn in, and I did the makeup dissection test with Professor Picane’s Zoological Anatomy class… the uh… feral pig?”

“Fetal pig,” Logan said, putting his coffee cup aside. “He sent your scores up to me. Good work. You got everything right except for the microscope work. We’re still struggling with cellular identification. I spoke with Emile and he said you actually seemed to have issues where things were similarly colored, so I took the liberty of emailing you some color-blind tests. I’m also inviting you to come in during my freshman course tomorrow. I use different dyes in my slides and I think you’ll benefit from it.”

“Great!” Remus said. “You really go above and beyond to help me, Professor Heart. I um… well, thank you so much.”

Logan crossed his legs, leaning back in his chair, “You know, Remus, I think you’ve got a lot of potential, and I think you’ve been pushed through classes due to your athletic prowess—to your detriment. I really want to help you understand that you’re not lacking in intelligence, you understand. You’ve got the answers, we’ve just had to learn how to get to them, right?”

“Right,” Remus said, ducking his head shyly. “You’re always right.”

“Now, with these three essays and with you making up the microscope work tomorrow, there’s no need for anymore extra credit work. You’ve got this, Mr. Prince. All you have to do is attend all of the lectures and you’ll be on track for a strong grade in this class. Do you feel like you need any more help?”

Remus hesitated, “I mean… you’ve done so much. I know you’ve basically changed my life, and how I feel about science—school in general! I um… I guess if I need anything I’ll just schedule a day before finals. If you think I can do it, I think I can do it.”

Logan smiled, “Very good, Remus. You’ve got this.”

Remus set the three essays down on the empty part of the desk and looked over them, “I can’t believe this is it, you know? I’m going to graduate in less than a month.”

“Another year on the books,” Logan said. “Wait until you’re my age.”

“You’re not old,” Remus said. “You’re still in your twenties too. Oh!” He picked up his backpack and dug through it, pulling out a small cardboard box. He set it on the desk. “I know your real interest is anthropology, like the cop kind, and I um… well, my dad works in the big museum uptown. They got a few of these and they gave my dad two of them.”

Logan took the box and opened it, raising an eyebrow as he took out a human skull, obviously prepared and preserved professionally. “This is a nicely intact specimen. You’re certain this is alright?”

“Yeah my dad said he’d rather it go to somebody who wants it than just gather dust in our basement or the museum’s basement. Oh they said it had uh… crouton disease?”

“Crouzon Disease,” Logan said, standing up. “Hyperostosis Frontalis Interna, very interesting. Thank you Remus this is incredibly thoughtful.”

Remus watched Logan put the skull in a central place on his shelf of books and specimens; it looked good, but Remus wasn’t really paying attention to the skull, especially when Logan turned and gave him a smile, extending his hand. Remus jumped up and shook it eagerly, “Thank you again, professor. You’re my hero. You’re especially my parents’ hero.”

Logan chuckled, and the touch was mildly electric, probably static, but it made Logan shiver, “You’re the hero, Mr. Prince. Remember that, hard work got you this far, and it’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

Remus nodded, slowly releasing Logan’s hand and stepping back to grab his backpack. “Well, see you in class tomorrow! Eight, right?”

“Right,” Logan said. “And don’t forget the possibility of a pop quiz tomorrow in your actual class.”

“Possibility,” Remus chuckled. “Good one, Professor Heart. See you then.”

Logan watched him go and sighed, turning to admire the skull, a warmth blooming in his chest he’d never really felt before. It really was a nice skull, he supposed.

Logan drove home with that feeling intact, almost floating into the elevator and riding it up to his floor. After making it down the hallway, and the obligatory avoidance of his neighbor’s eyes, he stepped into his apartment and locked the door behind him. He felt bone-deep exhausted—probably from the dream-cursed night before—and he went straight to the bathroom to take out his contacts. Once his contacts were safely back in their saline baths, he brushed his teeth, grabbing his glasses off of the vanity and putting them on. He admired his eyes—his green eyes. Logan gasped and squeezed his eyes closed, opening them again, still green. He took off his glasses, and his reflection was blurry, but clearly green eyes stared back at him. The warmth in his chest suddenly became a sharp icicle, and he realized. Green, Remus Prince. “Fuck!” Logan shouted, turning off the light and rushing out to his bedroom. He sat on the bed and pulled his cellphone out of his pocket, dialing his brother.

The phone rang several times, and went to voicemail; Logan swore again and dialed the home phone, “Come on Pat come on.”

“Hey Logan! What’s up?”

“Ethan? Oh, is Pat… oh shit.”

“Alabama,” Ethan said. “Yeah. You ok?”

“No, not at all… oh god. Can we talk? Like do you have time?” Logan stood up, pacing around the bed. “I have… an awkward situation.”

“You? I don’t believe it.”

Logan sighed and Ethan laughed, “I’d like to be serious with you for a moment.”

“Of course,” Ethan said. “Go ahead.”

“When you realized you were Patton’s soulmate, was there a feeling?”

“Hm,” Ethan said. “Actually, yes. I thought I had heartburn, actually. Just like this warmth in my chest? It sounds a bit stereotypical but yeah. I felt warm. That night when I was washing my face I realized my eyes had changed. You doing a study?”

“Um… no,” Logan admitted. “My eyes are green.”

“Oh! Oh my god! Did you tell your mom?”

“Please, Ethan. I have only told you.”

“Do you know who it is?” Ethan asked. “Any clue?”

“One of my students,” Logan said. “The… football player.”

“Oh yeah I remember Patton mentioning him, the stupid one right?”

Logan bristled, “He isn’t stupid. He’s…” He sighed, rubbing his temple, “Well, thank you Ethan. You’ve answered my question.”

“Text Pat,” Ethan said. “He’ll lose his shit.”

“Goodnight, Ethan,” Logan said.

Logan hung up and set his phone on the nightstand before undressing, pulling on a pair of pajama pants and climbing into bed. He turned off the lamp and pulled the blanket over his head, willing himself to sink into the earth.

The following morning’s class was a blur of barely-controlled panic and dread, but luckily Remus barely even spared him a glance, intent on taking and passing his cellular identification exam. Logan pretended to grade papers when Remus came up to his desk, and his heart surged like it had, warming to Remus like a rock in the sun, “See you in class.”

Logan gave a noncommittal sound, and Remus left the classroom, allowing Logan to finally breathe. Ignoring this wasn’t going to be easy, and Logan was already getting frantic texts from his brother demanding an explanation. Logan briefly wondered how hard it would be to vanish without changing universities. The worst part, without question, was how badly he wanted Remus to touch him, even just a brush of his hand. His body was like a magnet and his hands were shaking even though their closeness had been brief. At least his upcoming class was taking a pop quiz, and they were to clear out as soon as answers were submitted.

Logan remained more or less glued to the desk during the hour between classes, grading the microscope work—Remus hadn’t missed a single slide, so Picane’s catch on the colorblindness had been spot on. Logan had felt a stab of jealousy, absurd as it was, that he hadn’t realized it sooner, first, because Remus was his soulmate—his.

“Mine,” Logan muttered to himself, then his face heated up when he realized what he’d said, and he looked down to realize he’d written it on Remus’ exam answers. Quickly scratching it out he pushed the test aside and lowered his face to the desk. “What a nightmare.”

“What’s a nightmare, Mr. Heart?”

Logan looked up to see his first student sliding into her desk, and he forced a chuckle, “The state of the economy in nineteenth century Luxembourg.” He stood up and began writing on the board.

“Will that be on the final?” another student asked. The classroom had started filling up.

“Not unless I’ve ever written it on this board,” Logan said. “We start final prep next week, don’t forget.”

He finished filling out the board as the rest of his students filed in, and once his watch beeped cheerily that class had started, he heard a voice pick up behind him, the same girl from before, “Is that your favorite tie, Mr. Heart? You wear it a lot.”

“It’s my favorite color,” Logan said without turning around. “As charming as the distraction is, I haven’t forgotten the pop quiz.” He turned around and Remus was staring at him, mouth open in shock. On either side of him, his linebacker buddies were looking at one another, and Logan realized his mistake in revealing his favorite color—because he knew better than anyone what color Remus’ eyes must be now. Wincing, he adjusted his glasses, “Alright, please take out a clean sheet of paper and answer the questions I’ve written on the board. When you’re finished please leave them up here and you may go.”

Logan sat at his desk and pretended to be working, jumping when the first student turned in their quiz, but calmed and kept his eyes down as the steady stream of quizzes landed on his desk. He was starting to feel safe when most of his students had gone, and he made the mistake of looking up when a loud pair of sneakers stopped at his desk. The room was empty, and Remus Prince was standing at his desk, quiz in his hand. He set it down with the others and shoved his hands in his pockets, “Your eyes are green. I never noticed.”

Logan paled and stared up at Remus, “I um… it’s recent.”

Remus nodded, “Me too, indigo, right? It’s a weird blue for eyes. My brother said they look like Liz Taylor whoever that is.”

Logan let out a nervous little laugh, looking down at the paper he’d been doodling on only to realize he’d been writing the word mine over and over, “Yeah. She had um… dark eyes. So I suppose you’ve met your soulmate then, congratulations, Mr. Prince.”

Remus looked around and then back at Logan, “You’re going to pretend it isn’t you?”

Logan was feeling very much like a deer in the headlights, but at the same time heat was playing in his chest. He pushed his chair back and stood up, tensing when Remus reached to grab his wrist, “I’m not-” Logan tried to pull away but Remus shook his head, “I’m not pretending anything I… damn it. Damn it I’m afraid, ok? You’re a student!”

“Not for long! Like two weeks from now I’m taking the final, and unless I stop showing up entirely, there’s no way I’m failing. I did the math which I know will impress you because I’m such an idiot.”

“Mr. Prince,” Logan said, then sighed. “Remus… is this even something you want? A relationship dictated by some… some system we don’t even understand? By colors and chance and… what, fate? You want to let the universe stick you with someone… someone like me?”

Remus laughed and released Logan, covering his face with his hands, “You don’t fucking get it, do you? You really don’t.”

Logan wrapped his arms around himself, blushing and adjusting his glasses, “Don’t get what?”

“I have wanted you since before I started in this class!” Remus said. “My brother, the attention whore? He had me come here last semester to pick up a paper for him, remember? If it was just fate shoving us together it would have happened then… but it didn’t. I thought you were hot, so I signed up for your class because I figured I’d cheat my way through and have a hot prof to stare at right?”

“Hot?”

“Just let me finish,” Remus said. “When I came in here and sat down at that desk and I listened to you read the syllabus… and all of your weird bone jokes and that thing about the swamp mummy?”

“Bog bodies, the Tollund Man, yes,” Logan said. “You remember that?”

“Yeah because you cared, like you actually cared about it. You’re not just here because you couldn’t get a career and you’re not just here to waste time. You really care about what you’re teaching us, and I know you’re trying to switch departments but whatever, you know what I mean… there’s a lot of passion there and it made me give a shit. It took me forty-five minutes to fall in love with your stupid class, and maybe two or three classes to fall in love with you… but still it didn’t happen. Because it didn’t happen until you fell in love with me.”

Logan was silent as he stared at Remus, his mouth hanging open; he took a sharp breath, shoving his hands in his pockets, “Jesus.”

“Well? Am I right?” Remus said, tears welling up in his eyes. “It’s the mustache right? My friends told me that’s the reason you didn’t tell me. Because you hate it. I don’t even care. I’ll shave it off, ok? I don’t care if it’s good luck I-”

Logan crossed the short distance between them and kissed Remus, cutting him off. Remus grabbed Logan’s collar and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss. Logan’s mind spun, and his knees went weak. Remus had no trouble holding him up, and when they finally broke the kiss, Logan smiled sheepishly. “I don’t hate the mustache, as much as I wish I did. I really don’t.”

Remus buried his face against Logan’s shoulder and laughed, “Great because I really need to keep it if I’m going to get drafted. Three of the NFL scouts commented on it.”

“Yes I’m sure you’ll bring back the seventies mustache. Your parents will be ecstatic.”

“Yeah… so um… are we dating?”

“No,” Logan said, then off Remus’ look he hurried to elaborate. “Not until you pass this class of your own merit. Like you said, it’s no big deal and then, the second your final grade is logged in the university database… we can date.”

Remus smiled, smoothing down Logan’s shirt as he stepped back, “Right, cool um… hey I should probably go then, right? Got studying to do. Bye teach.”

“Mr. Prince,” Logan said, sinking back down into his seat once Remus was gone.

It was going to be a long couple of weeks.

#fanfic #soulmate au #secretsantasides #intrulogical #logan sanders #ts logan #remus sanders #ts remus

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