Steve doesn't know how long he'd spent avoiding them with reason, how long he'd invested his attention in other means of transportation, but the irony of it isn't missed when he suddenly finds himself with a ticket in hand and standing on a platform waiting to board. That had been at least half an hour ago, and still, he doesn't know where they're going, though the destination honestly isn't as important as the journey and who comes along for the duration of it. He's spent half of that people-watching and the other half pretending his fingers hadn't wandered to touch and settle and slide over Bucky's like a warring dance, someone too shy for PDA but who also desperately wants to have it. (He gets away with it for a solid two minutes before one of the other passengers lets their boy climb around the seats and pop up beside him. Steve smiles and accepts the apology, lets his hand fall away to grip the armrest instead.)
And it becomes one of those things, a tick. Steve's fingers rest over his, slip away. They brush the top of his thigh, pull away. It's a restless cycle, the sweep of an artist's mind calculating what to draw next, and it's probably why they end up together in the small cramped bathroom on that train, Steve suddenly a lot more interested in keeping the connection between them than some scrambled attempt at holding hands. Even in public, a locked door is almost as good, and he's trying to maneuver around without smashing either of them into anything uncomfortable, gently gripping the brim of Bucky's cap to tug him forward a little. There's only a hit of smugness to his smile. ]
I think we've still got twenty minutes before our stop. [ Says the one who has no idea where they're going or why. All he cares about is pulling that hat down in a teasing tug before wetting his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue and sinking to his knees. ]
They, because Bucky knows the value of respect and the weight of consent, after so many years of going without either one. He had asked. Insisted that Steve make the choice for his own sake, and not out of some assumed obligation to agree because of the guilt he carries around in the absence of a shield on his back. Bucky's therapist called it enabling behavior. She doesn't know the details of Bucky's case - he had in fact assumed one of his old covers, because HYDRA may be the scum of the earth, but they elevated deep cover like no other agency had since the forties - but far as the purposes of therapy goes, she was good.
Bucky felt like he was making progress.
So he asked.
-
And he waited until he got a yes that rang truthfully along the notches of his ribs.
-
The destination doesn't matter. He picks a carriage because he likes how easily defensible it is (old habits, so on), then picks a location that's so densely packed it could either be dangerous or protective of who they are to the public. He doesn't notice when Steve makes it to the platform - it's a choice he makes, to surprise himself, to reacquaint with the most basic of human feelings again. Like amusement. Melancholy. Bitterness. Joy.
Lust.
Seventy years on and off the ice and Bucky's just in time to learn about the term created for how he feels lately: touch-starved. The first time he'd touched skin with his bare hand - his own skin - he lost two days. Relearned his body, from the wrinkles starting to take root around his eyes, and his forgotten laugh lines, and the hardened lines of his arms and legs. It wasn't even sexual, at least at first - the cold had been bone-deep for so long that the first rise of pleasure felt like that first, wondrous time when he was still fumbling with the pretty girls of Brooklyn behind their mothers' kitchen doors.
Cut to the date on today's newspaper, and Steve is reaching for his hand on a train heading for a possible disaster; Bucky wants to take that hand and press his mouth to the heart lines and bite. Which is why he doesn't. He moves his hand away, demurs and turns to the window, shifts his leg so their thighs don't catch on the matted upholstery of the train car seats.
(They hold hands for two minutes, because he's out of reasons and out of space to scoot to, and no one ever say Steven Grant Rogers isn't tenacious in anything in life, ever.)
(It was holding his hand or taking that hand and grinding it against his thigh.) ]
I know you're guessing, which is why— [ Steve pulls at the bill of the hat and gets on his knees and this is— ] —Jesus, it's ten.
[ Ten minutes, you jerk, he hisses through his teeth as his good elbow bangs against the paneling of the wall, pushed up against it by Steve's bulk. They'd done this, once, and the version of the story changes the instigator at every retelling, but he remembers the details of that first time in perfect technicolor clarity - the heat of Steve's hands on his knees, on the backs of them as the kitchen counter's edge digs against the seat of his ass; the wetness of his mouth, and the fine texture of his hair caught in his flesh hand and the metal one cracks the tile; his own wide-eyed awe at the sight of Steve Rogers, Captain goddamned America, on his knees against the scrubbed floor of what used to be Bucky's mother's quaint apartment.
He'd talked Steve through his first serious asthma attack in his same kitchen. The memory overlaps with the present, like two films set against each other in front of a bright light. He's got his fingers caught up at Steve's nape now, trying to relent in his frantic hold (and gloriously failing) as it takes too little for him to spill out into Steve's mouth.
(And he'd slipped out, then, past reddened lips and flushed cheeks and shot a streak of wet pearl right across the bridge of Steve's nose.)
-
It's that memory that comes rushing up when Bucky hears the clatter of his buckle being undone; it flicks a switch in his head. He's moving before he really catches up to himself, too used to moving on instinct to take a second and parse why instinct is kicking in. ]
Steve, [ he starts, then stops, and every hesitation is questioning look that gets darker with every second. ] Your hand.
[ He pulls one of Steve's hands as he bows forward, slips the tip of his thumb into his mouth to worry his teeth against the hard spur of the knuckle. Steve's skin tastes— faintly salty, coppery like coins, with a bitterness that might be the fine powder of a newspaper or a vinyl disc cover. Bucky swallows around it, feels his throat working around nothing.
Bucky lets the digit pop out, painting a faint wet line on his chin when he takes the next two fingers in. He's got his own thumb of Steve's wrist, resting on the pulse — counting the beat, the quickening of it. He still wants to kiss at Steve's palm. Bite on the meat of his hand, lick a wide stripe over the knuckles, let his fingers inside him—
He clamps his metal hand on the doorknob, forces the torques to lock in place.
They're punching it out on the mat, somewhere on the top floors of the Avengers Tower, and Bucky can feel the rawness on the stretched skin on his knuckles, minute abrasions healing, tearing open, rehealing again. It's supposed to just be sparring. A wind-down exercise, after Ibiza and the clusterfuck that followed it - a million glasses exploding into fine powder across a city block, maybe more, as Madame HYDRA blows them a kiss from the back of a sports car, her green lipstick shining like an emerald under the wrecked neon lights.
Bucky's little heart loses a piece of itself in the slow arch of her gloved hand.
Tony judges him, deservedly, wholly, on the way back to the United States, where they stop at Las Vegas for twenty-four hour doughnuts (Tony) and the quickest jerk-off he's ever managed for himself (Bucky).
-
It's just that, after sixty-nine years on and off the ice, the usual, normal, safe turn-ons just don't work anymore.
-
It becomes the thrill of a bike blasting right past the speed limit on the interstate highways. The angry rattle of an engine on a helicarrier, or the vibrations of repulsors powering up before a booming shot. The kiss of a sharp boot heel on the spur of a hipbone, daring the sharp edge to crush through and hit something soft.
-
So maybe Bucky's gotten a thing for people who can knock him out, or hurt him badly. He's not doing it on purpose.
-
The punch that hits Tony squarely on the jaw is on purpose, though. They're an escalation, both of them - but where Steve knows to pull back and disengage, and where Natasha knows to divert the flow of raw nervous energy to something more productive, Tony just barrels through and elevates Bucky's need to get the final word in. They are, in the natural order of wildlife, proud creatures dressed in the pretense of being polite with one another.
All it takes is a word, maybe two. A line drawn without meaning to, and a dare made to cross right over. It doesn't matter who throws the first punch - the important thing is that does.
-
Ending up pinned against the wall with the bulk of Tony's considerable weight is—
Not an accident. He weighs heavier than the other man, they both know it, and they both know just how skilled Bucky is in escaping a pin hold; he'd taught Natasha, after all, and she's surpassed him in his own technique. No, it's only a poorly hidden artifice: everything about the flushed color high on Bucky's cheeks to his narrowed breathing against Tony's arm is unintended theatre, but theatre all the same.
He's hard. He knows that Tony can feel it against his hip, where they're pushed up against the cold wall. There's a fleeting moment of realization between them about - well, this - and Bucky can't help it.
He chuckles, low in his throat, split lip bloodying a spot on his chin. ]
[In all honesty, Tony can’t really judge Bucky too harshly for his newly awoken attraction for Madame HYDRA, when he had been in love with Madame Masque once upon a time. Granted, he fell in love with her before she went all supervillain (which should give him more or less a free pass from too much judgment). But he doesn’t have much of a platform to stand on as far as any actual reprimanding goes. (He’ll have to leave it to Steve.) So, instead, he settles for a light scolding (mostly about the mini bombs) and harmless jests on their journey back to the Tower. His judgment is less out of condescension and more out of concern because— Well, you just shouldn’t be getting turned on by Madame HYDRA, okay?
The glazed doughnuts did effectively qualm whatever exasperation he may or may not have been feeling towards Barnes. (Once again, pool party with bikini-clad babes.) It admittedly always manages to raise his spirits, especially when he gets a hot cup of coffee along with it. (Black, of course.)
He doesn’t know how they’ve reached this particular point. One minute they were training together; next second, he has him up against the wall and he can feel the guy’s erection pressed against him. How did that happen? Does it even matter? Not particularly.
—Okay, maybe it does. A little. For one, he’s Bucky Barnes, The Winter Soldier. Not exactly the ideal person to fuck. Not because he isn’t attractive (because he is attractive), but, rather, he’s always just been somebody who he tolerates. He exasperates him three-fourth of the time and then the remaining quarter is, well, for lack of a better word, plain and simple disinterest. Don’t get him wrong, he’ll fight by his side and he might even die for him, but they’re not exactly best friends here. Actually, speaking of best friends, that brings him to his second point. Bucky Barnes is Steve Rogers’ legitimate best friend.
He’ll be crossing way too many lines here – lines he will inevitably regret the moment it happens.
Arguably, one could say he can sleep with someone who he doesn’t like. It’s true. It might even be a relief. Maybe somehow dissipate whatever tension they have with each other. One could also argue Barnes’ relationship with Captain America has nothing to do with him. Another fair point. It is none of his business and it’s not like Steve can manage either of their sex lives. Tony can probably debate with himself about this all day. Pros and cons. Weigh the cost. Maybe he’s overthinking it, but it’s kind of what he does (and even what he needs to do). His mind is constantly churning with multiple thoughts all at once anyway. It doesn’t make a difference to add one more to it, especially when it’s currently a battle between his sense of responsibility and his pride. (And, okay, maybe his libido too, but he doesn’t want to entertain that thought right now.)
Because his final argument is how he knows better than to take the plunge here. He does actually know better. This is a situation where he’s supposed to take a step back, physically and metaphorically. He should be the one to shut whatever this is down, to ignore his challenge because it’s just not a good idea for them to follow through with. He’s supposed to be the sensible one, but— that’s the thing, isn’t it? He might be a genius. He might let logic lead in most circumstances. But when it comes down to it, Tony Stark is still human. He’s not perfect and he would never claim to be. He has flaws too – endless amounts of them, even – and he should be able to indulge in his impulses every once in a while.
Well, his impulse is only telling him one thing at the moment–] I’m more concerned about you not being able to, Barnes. [The corner of his lips quirks up in mild amusement as his gaze drops down to the cut on his mouth. He reaches up to wipe away the bit of blood on his chin with his thumb. Tony is perfectly aware of the situation he’s in and his physical disadvantage against the other man. Without his suit, his strength, agility, and combative skills aren’t a match for Bucky. Any fighting between them sans suit is more practice for him than it is for Barnes and he can, in some small part, appreciate him for humoring him today.
But it’s equally clear to him Bucky is willing to let him lead for now – something he readily accepts. Blue eyes lower further down to the curvature of his neck. A fleeting thought enters his mind on how Barnes would taste before he simply decides to find out for himself. Dipping down, he presses his lips against the area between his neck and his collarbone, his lips parting to get a taste of him with the tip of his tongue. His thigh pushes up against the man's groin, rubbing it slowly through the fabric of his pants.]
[It’s an unbearably warm summer evening, but the heat doesn’t prevent the streets of New York from being crowded with people from all walks of life. Music and laughter mix in with the sounds of car horns blaring and the shouts of impatient drivers and enthusiastic street vendors.
But as lively and energetic as it may be out there, nothing is comparable to the atmosphere within the very building of Stark Industries itself. Anthony Edward Stark, owner of the multinational corporation and only son of the late Howard and Maria Stark, is the sole surviving heir of the prestigious Stark family. In the public’s eyes, he is seen as an upstanding member of society and an ingenious businessman who is at the very forefront of helping the world propel itself towards clean and renewable energy. But for the ones who know better, he is the boss of one of the most powerful organized crime syndicates in the country. He not only has ties to both the government and the military but the city’s police force as well.
All of his i’s have been dotted, all of his t’s have been crossed.
So why can’t he indulge in his wealth and power? Why can’t he throw the biggest party of the year on the spur of the moment? Why can’t he flaunt all that he has and all that he is in the faces of the ones who oppose him? The answer is that he simply can.
But Tony has never been someone who makes a seemingly spontaneous plan without several others set in motion. He doesn’t do anything without a reason or motive behind it. As carefree and distracted as he may appear, his mind is constantly alert and at work. Tonight, it’s no different. A flashy party filled to the brim with rich, influential, and drunken people with too much time and money on their hands and he’s only bothered to show his face for a little under an hour before he suddenly disappears with a beautiful brunette in his arm. Typical behavior. Nobody suspects a thing.
Yet now he’s alone in his office. Woman nowhere to be seen. He holds a glass of Scotch whiskey between his fingers as he leans back against the leather chair behind his desk. The rhythmic ticks of a clock and the faint sound of jazz music from two floors below are the only noises audible until the creak of a door being opened disrupts the tranquil atmosphere in the near empty room.
A pair of blue hues flickers up from the beverage in his hand to the man who has just entered the premises. He sets the cup down, pushing it slowly across the desk towards him.]
Sit. [A soft, subtle command parred with a faint curve of his lips.] Sanders’ downstairs drowning himself in champagne and neck deep in some pretty blonde’s arms. Did you get what I need? [Rival family. Crucial extraction. Imminent targets. Simple business.]
[He finds him in the river. Unconscious, wet, forgotten. Thinks he’s dead until he checks for a pulse. He brings him home. Most people wouldn’t bat their eyes at a body in this city. Maybe a few might call the cops, but they wouldn’t approach it themselves. Fear of what trouble might be attached to it. The world isn’t perfect. People are inherently selfish. Tony only did it because he could have been one of his own and he’d never leave one of his own behind. They deserve better.
But this man isn’t one of his. No I.D. on him. Not much at all except for the clothes on his back. He tells his men to put him in one of the guestrooms and he’ll take care of the rest.
It’s late. They should return home to their families.
He drapes his suit jacket over the back of a chair. Pours himself a glass of whiskey. Black Labels. He takes a casual sip of it before he rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt. Jarvis brought in a towel and a clean set of clothes before Tony thanks and then dismisses him along with the others.
He picks up the towel now. Need to strip and dry John Doe off. He takes a seat at the edge of the bed, setting the cloth aside for the moment. His men’s protests come flooding back into his mind. They don’t want to leave him alone with a stranger, unconscious or not. Tony isn’t particularly worried. He can protect himself well enough. One of his bodyguards is also posted right outside the door.
He’s reaching out to remove his shirt when John Doe begins to stir. His hand comes to a pause as his blue eyes dart up towards his face. Sleeping Beauty has awoken. So, what now?]
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Date: 2016-06-17 09:13 am (UTC)Steve doesn't know how long he'd spent avoiding them with reason, how long he'd invested his attention in other means of transportation, but the irony of it isn't missed when he suddenly finds himself with a ticket in hand and standing on a platform waiting to board. That had been at least half an hour ago, and still, he doesn't know where they're going, though the destination honestly isn't as important as the journey and who comes along for the duration of it. He's spent half of that people-watching and the other half pretending his fingers hadn't wandered to touch and settle and slide over Bucky's like a warring dance, someone too shy for PDA but who also desperately wants to have it. (He gets away with it for a solid two minutes before one of the other passengers lets their boy climb around the seats and pop up beside him. Steve smiles and accepts the apology, lets his hand fall away to grip the armrest instead.)
And it becomes one of those things, a tick. Steve's fingers rest over his, slip away. They brush the top of his thigh, pull away. It's a restless cycle, the sweep of an artist's mind calculating what to draw next, and it's probably why they end up together in the small cramped bathroom on that train, Steve suddenly a lot more interested in keeping the connection between them than some scrambled attempt at holding hands. Even in public, a locked door is almost as good, and he's trying to maneuver around without smashing either of them into anything uncomfortable, gently gripping the brim of Bucky's cap to tug him forward a little. There's only a hit of smugness to his smile. ]
I think we've still got twenty minutes before our stop. [ Says the one who has no idea where they're going or why. All he cares about is pulling that hat down in a teasing tug before wetting his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue and sinking to his knees. ]
IDK IDK IDK
Date: 2016-06-17 07:41 pm (UTC)They, because Bucky knows the value of respect and the weight of consent, after so many years of going without either one. He had asked. Insisted that Steve make the choice for his own sake, and not out of some assumed obligation to agree because of the guilt he carries around in the absence of a shield on his back. Bucky's therapist called it enabling behavior. She doesn't know the details of Bucky's case - he had in fact assumed one of his old covers, because HYDRA may be the scum of the earth, but they elevated deep cover like no other agency had since the forties - but far as the purposes of therapy goes, she was good.
Bucky felt like he was making progress.
So he asked.
-
And he waited until he got a yes that rang truthfully along the notches of his ribs.
-
The destination doesn't matter. He picks a carriage because he likes how easily defensible it is (old habits, so on), then picks a location that's so densely packed it could either be dangerous or protective of who they are to the public. He doesn't notice when Steve makes it to the platform - it's a choice he makes, to surprise himself, to reacquaint with the most basic of human feelings again. Like amusement. Melancholy. Bitterness. Joy.
Lust.
Seventy years on and off the ice and Bucky's just in time to learn about the term created for how he feels lately: touch-starved. The first time he'd touched skin with his bare hand - his own skin - he lost two days. Relearned his body, from the wrinkles starting to take root around his eyes, and his forgotten laugh lines, and the hardened lines of his arms and legs. It wasn't even sexual, at least at first - the cold had been bone-deep for so long that the first rise of pleasure felt like that first, wondrous time when he was still fumbling with the pretty girls of Brooklyn behind their mothers' kitchen doors.
Cut to the date on today's newspaper, and Steve is reaching for his hand on a train heading for a possible disaster; Bucky wants to take that hand and press his mouth to the heart lines and bite. Which is why he doesn't. He moves his hand away, demurs and turns to the window, shifts his leg so their thighs don't catch on the matted upholstery of the train car seats.
(They hold hands for two minutes, because he's out of reasons and out of space to scoot to, and no one ever say Steven Grant Rogers isn't tenacious in anything in life, ever.)
(It was holding his hand or taking that hand and grinding it against his thigh.) ]
I know you're guessing, which is why— [ Steve pulls at the bill of the hat and gets on his knees and this is— ] —Jesus, it's ten.
[ Ten minutes, you jerk, he hisses through his teeth as his good elbow bangs against the paneling of the wall, pushed up against it by Steve's bulk. They'd done this, once, and the version of the story changes the instigator at every retelling, but he remembers the details of that first time in perfect technicolor clarity - the heat of Steve's hands on his knees, on the backs of them as the kitchen counter's edge digs against the seat of his ass; the wetness of his mouth, and the fine texture of his hair caught in his flesh hand and the metal one cracks the tile; his own wide-eyed awe at the sight of Steve Rogers, Captain goddamned America, on his knees against the scrubbed floor of what used to be Bucky's mother's quaint apartment.
He'd talked Steve through his first serious asthma attack in his same kitchen. The memory overlaps with the present, like two films set against each other in front of a bright light. He's got his fingers caught up at Steve's nape now, trying to relent in his frantic hold (and gloriously failing) as it takes too little for him to spill out into Steve's mouth.
(And he'd slipped out, then, past reddened lips and flushed cheeks and shot a streak of wet pearl right across the bridge of Steve's nose.)
-
It's that memory that comes rushing up when Bucky hears the clatter of his buckle being undone; it flicks a switch in his head. He's moving before he really catches up to himself, too used to moving on instinct to take a second and parse why instinct is kicking in. ]
Steve, [ he starts, then stops, and every hesitation is questioning look that gets darker with every second. ] Your hand.
[ He pulls one of Steve's hands as he bows forward, slips the tip of his thumb into his mouth to worry his teeth against the hard spur of the knuckle. Steve's skin tastes— faintly salty, coppery like coins, with a bitterness that might be the fine powder of a newspaper or a vinyl disc cover. Bucky swallows around it, feels his throat working around nothing.
Bucky lets the digit pop out, painting a faint wet line on his chin when he takes the next two fingers in. He's got his own thumb of Steve's wrist, resting on the pulse — counting the beat, the quickening of it. He still wants to kiss at Steve's palm. Bite on the meat of his hand, lick a wide stripe over the knuckles, let his fingers inside him—
He clamps his metal hand on the doorknob, forces the torques to lock in place.
(No one's coming in now.) ]
i don't know what i'm doing bro
Date: 2016-06-28 12:23 pm (UTC)same tbh
Date: 2016-06-28 03:07 pm (UTC)They're punching it out on the mat, somewhere on the top floors of the Avengers Tower, and Bucky can feel the rawness on the stretched skin on his knuckles, minute abrasions healing, tearing open, rehealing again. It's supposed to just be sparring. A wind-down exercise, after Ibiza and the clusterfuck that followed it - a million glasses exploding into fine powder across a city block, maybe more, as Madame HYDRA blows them a kiss from the back of a sports car, her green lipstick shining like an emerald under the wrecked neon lights.
Bucky's little heart loses a piece of itself in the slow arch of her gloved hand.
Tony judges him, deservedly, wholly, on the way back to the United States, where they stop at Las Vegas for twenty-four hour doughnuts (Tony) and the quickest jerk-off he's ever managed for himself (Bucky).
-
It's just that, after sixty-nine years on and off the ice, the usual, normal, safe turn-ons just don't work anymore.
-
It becomes the thrill of a bike blasting right past the speed limit on the interstate highways. The angry rattle of an engine on a helicarrier, or the vibrations of repulsors powering up before a booming shot. The kiss of a sharp boot heel on the spur of a hipbone, daring the sharp edge to crush through and hit something soft.
-
So maybe Bucky's gotten a thing for people who can knock him out, or hurt him badly. He's not doing it on purpose.
-
The punch that hits Tony squarely on the jaw is on purpose, though. They're an escalation, both of them - but where Steve knows to pull back and disengage, and where Natasha knows to divert the flow of raw nervous energy to something more productive, Tony just barrels through and elevates Bucky's need to get the final word in. They are, in the natural order of wildlife, proud creatures dressed in the pretense of being polite with one another.
All it takes is a word, maybe two. A line drawn without meaning to, and a dare made to cross right over. It doesn't matter who throws the first punch - the important thing is that does.
-
Ending up pinned against the wall with the bulk of Tony's considerable weight is—
Not an accident. He weighs heavier than the other man, they both know it, and they both know just how skilled Bucky is in escaping a pin hold; he'd taught Natasha, after all, and she's surpassed him in his own technique. No, it's only a poorly hidden artifice: everything about the flushed color high on Bucky's cheeks to his narrowed breathing against Tony's arm is unintended theatre, but theatre all the same.
He's hard. He knows that Tony can feel it against his hip, where they're pushed up against the cold wall. There's a fleeting moment of realization between them about - well, this - and Bucky can't help it.
He chuckles, low in his throat, split lip bloodying a spot on his chin. ]
You gonna follow through, Stark?
it grew on me
Date: 2016-06-29 03:04 am (UTC)The glazed doughnuts did effectively qualm whatever exasperation he may or may not have been feeling towards Barnes. (Once again, pool party with bikini-clad babes.) It admittedly always manages to raise his spirits, especially when he gets a hot cup of coffee along with it. (Black, of course.)
He doesn’t know how they’ve reached this particular point. One minute they were training together; next second, he has him up against the wall and he can feel the guy’s erection pressed against him. How did that happen? Does it even matter? Not particularly.
—Okay, maybe it does. A little. For one, he’s Bucky Barnes, The Winter Soldier. Not exactly the ideal person to fuck. Not because he isn’t attractive (because he is attractive), but, rather, he’s always just been somebody who he tolerates. He exasperates him three-fourth of the time and then the remaining quarter is, well, for lack of a better word, plain and simple disinterest. Don’t get him wrong, he’ll fight by his side and he might even die for him, but they’re not exactly best friends here. Actually, speaking of best friends, that brings him to his second point. Bucky Barnes is Steve Rogers’ legitimate best friend.
He’ll be crossing way too many lines here – lines he will inevitably regret the moment it happens.
Arguably, one could say he can sleep with someone who he doesn’t like. It’s true. It might even be a relief. Maybe somehow dissipate whatever tension they have with each other. One could also argue Barnes’ relationship with Captain America has nothing to do with him. Another fair point. It is none of his business and it’s not like Steve can manage either of their sex lives. Tony can probably debate with himself about this all day. Pros and cons. Weigh the cost. Maybe he’s overthinking it, but it’s kind of what he does (and even what he needs to do). His mind is constantly churning with multiple thoughts all at once anyway. It doesn’t make a difference to add one more to it, especially when it’s currently a battle between his sense of responsibility and his pride. (And, okay, maybe his libido too, but he doesn’t want to entertain that thought right now.)
Because his final argument is how he knows better than to take the plunge here. He does actually know better. This is a situation where he’s supposed to take a step back, physically and metaphorically. He should be the one to shut whatever this is down, to ignore his challenge because it’s just not a good idea for them to follow through with. He’s supposed to be the sensible one, but— that’s the thing, isn’t it? He might be a genius. He might let logic lead in most circumstances. But when it comes down to it, Tony Stark is still human. He’s not perfect and he would never claim to be. He has flaws too – endless amounts of them, even – and he should be able to indulge in his impulses every once in a while.
Well, his impulse is only telling him one thing at the moment–] I’m more concerned about you not being able to, Barnes. [The corner of his lips quirks up in mild amusement as his gaze drops down to the cut on his mouth. He reaches up to wipe away the bit of blood on his chin with his thumb. Tony is perfectly aware of the situation he’s in and his physical disadvantage against the other man. Without his suit, his strength, agility, and combative skills aren’t a match for Bucky. Any fighting between them sans suit is more practice for him than it is for Barnes and he can, in some small part, appreciate him for humoring him today.
But it’s equally clear to him Bucky is willing to let him lead for now – something he readily accepts. Blue eyes lower further down to the curvature of his neck. A fleeting thought enters his mind on how Barnes would taste before he simply decides to find out for himself. Dipping down, he presses his lips against the area between his neck and his collarbone, his lips parting to get a taste of him with the tip of his tongue. His thigh pushes up against the man's groin, rubbing it slowly through the fabric of his pants.]
idk idk mafia
Date: 2016-07-02 12:32 pm (UTC)But as lively and energetic as it may be out there, nothing is comparable to the atmosphere within the very building of Stark Industries itself. Anthony Edward Stark, owner of the multinational corporation and only son of the late Howard and Maria Stark, is the sole surviving heir of the prestigious Stark family. In the public’s eyes, he is seen as an upstanding member of society and an ingenious businessman who is at the very forefront of helping the world propel itself towards clean and renewable energy. But for the ones who know better, he is the boss of one of the most powerful organized crime syndicates in the country. He not only has ties to both the government and the military but the city’s police force as well.
All of his i’s have been dotted, all of his t’s have been crossed.
So why can’t he indulge in his wealth and power? Why can’t he throw the biggest party of the year on the spur of the moment? Why can’t he flaunt all that he has and all that he is in the faces of the ones who oppose him? The answer is that he simply can.
But Tony has never been someone who makes a seemingly spontaneous plan without several others set in motion. He doesn’t do anything without a reason or motive behind it. As carefree and distracted as he may appear, his mind is constantly alert and at work. Tonight, it’s no different. A flashy party filled to the brim with rich, influential, and drunken people with too much time and money on their hands and he’s only bothered to show his face for a little under an hour before he suddenly disappears with a beautiful brunette in his arm. Typical behavior. Nobody suspects a thing.
Yet now he’s alone in his office. Woman nowhere to be seen. He holds a glass of Scotch whiskey between his fingers as he leans back against the leather chair behind his desk. The rhythmic ticks of a clock and the faint sound of jazz music from two floors below are the only noises audible until the creak of a door being opened disrupts the tranquil atmosphere in the near empty room.
A pair of blue hues flickers up from the beverage in his hand to the man who has just entered the premises. He sets the cup down, pushing it slowly across the desk towards him.]
Sit. [A soft, subtle command parred with a faint curve of his lips.] Sanders’ downstairs drowning himself in champagne and neck deep in some pretty blonde’s arms. Did you get what I need? [Rival family. Crucial extraction. Imminent targets. Simple business.]
no subject
Date: 2016-07-05 01:34 pm (UTC)But this man isn’t one of his. No I.D. on him. Not much at all except for the clothes on his back. He tells his men to put him in one of the guestrooms and he’ll take care of the rest.
It’s late. They should return home to their families.
He drapes his suit jacket over the back of a chair. Pours himself a glass of whiskey. Black Labels. He takes a casual sip of it before he rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt. Jarvis brought in a towel and a clean set of clothes before Tony thanks and then dismisses him along with the others.
He picks up the towel now. Need to strip and dry John Doe off. He takes a seat at the edge of the bed, setting the cloth aside for the moment. His men’s protests come flooding back into his mind. They don’t want to leave him alone with a stranger, unconscious or not. Tony isn’t particularly worried. He can protect himself well enough. One of his bodyguards is also posted right outside the door.
He’s reaching out to remove his shirt when John Doe begins to stir. His hand comes to a pause as his blue eyes dart up towards his face. Sleeping Beauty has awoken. So, what now?]