Fic: "The Awkward Morning After," The Avengers, Bruce/Tony, The Hulk/Tony, NC-17
Another for 
vinniebatman. If anyone else wants some Avengers fic, while I seem to be in The Zone . . . say so in comments :)
The Awkward Morning After
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: Marvel-verse (The Avengers)
Pairing: Bruce/Tony, The Hulk/Tony
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: Approx. 2600
Disclaimer: Here's something I haven't said in awhile--All Joss's.
Notes: Spoilers for the movie, of course. A standalone sequel to Schwarma and Denouement.
Summary: The title says it all. But there's pr0n, too.
“Do you always watch your lovers while they sleep?”
Startled, I sit up on my elbow and look away quickly, obviously, as Tony opens his eyes and smiles up at me. Yellow, late-morning sunlight is shining in through the huge picture window of the guest bedroom, turning everything golden . . . even his dark, amused eyes. “Not always. And anyway, you apparently weren’t sleeping.”
Tony stretches and chuckles. “Not for the past few minutes, anyway.” He sits up, too, the slither of silk sheets sliding down his body causing me to shiver. No less so, when he wraps his arms around my waist and kisses my shoulder. He seems to like doing that, and I . . . can’t say I mind.
I can feel connections forging-at least on my end. Those dangerous human connections that lead to Incidents that I can’t afford to have. Even now, I can’t say I have total control of when the Other Guy puts in an appearance . . . though for the past twelve hours, he’s been strangely quiescent.
Considering that I let him out to play yesterday-and he played hard-maybe that quiescence isn’t so strange.
“You’re thinking too hard, sexy,” Tony murmurs on my shoulder, his lips traveling around to my nape as one hand finds its way to my cock and the other to my right nipple. He tweaks it pretty hard and I yelp, surprised into glaring at him reproachfully. He leans close and looks into my eyes, searching them intently.
“Nothing, huh?” He asks playfully, tweaking my nipple again, this time more gently, while his thumb plays on the tip of my cock. I take a breath as my eyes flutter shut then lean back in his arms and store the memory of how it feels to do so. Something to keep me warm when I’m back in Calcutta or wherever, alone.
“I wouldn’t say nothing.” It comes out as a gasp, and I open my eyes to Tony’s smile . . . the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes them twinkle.
Suddenly the smile turns wicked, and his finger slides lightly down my cock, to my balls, and-when I shift my leg to give him access-further back. He’s not shy about fingering me and I’m not shy about arching up off the bed to give him better leverage. Or about telling him how good it feels to have him inside me.
“Wow . . . I could play with you all day-you’re so responsive,” he says, sounding very pleased with himself. I laugh breathlessly, clenching and releasing around his scissoring, searching fingers. He knows what he’s looking for, and before too long finds it. Fireworks explode behind my eyes and my nerve endings light up like Christmas.
“Unh . . . God, Tony . . . yeah, it’s been awhile since I've had anyone to . . . respond to,” I admit ruefully.
“Hmm. That means you have a lot of catching up to do.” Tony bites my ear lobe and the hand that’d been playing with my nipple drops down to my cock, his thumb swiping the tip again. A moment later, that thumb is brushing my lips and I open my mouth, sucking his finger in and tasting myself. “And I’d be glad to help you with that.”
“Mm.”
Before too much time passes, we’re prone again, my leg over Tony’s shoulder, the other splayed over the edge of the bed as he sinks into me, slow and sweet. His eyes are wide and he’s biting his lip in concentration.
I smile. “You’re not gonna break me, Tony,” I say, and he smiles back absently.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
That absent smile turns into the perennial Tony Stark smirk. “Good. ’Cause I want to fuck you hard and fast.”
I flush all over, a faint green patina, that makes Tony’s wide eyes widen further, and he groans, pulling out slightly then driving himself home with one hard thrust that makes me shout and clutch at him, my hand on his shoulder and every muscle in my body around his cock.
That doesn’t stop him from pulling out and pushing immediately back in. It hurts so good, I screw my eyes shut and watch the fireworks, breathing in time to each thrust, letting him bend me practically in half, his weight pressing me into the firm mattress and expensive sheets. I have to grit my teeth and think out the Fibonacci Sequence just to keep from coming like a sex-starved virgin.
Then the hand on my leg is gone, brushing my face gently a second later, a disorienting counterpoint to the way he thrusts in again and again and again, hitting my prostate like it’s a castle under siege and he’s got the only battering ram.
But that caress . . . that caress stays gentle and almost reverent. Like I'm something special and indeed breakable. Or something wild and easily-spooked that he's trying to tame to his hand, and I realize he is. He's . . . taming me. The part of me that's used to being alone and frightened and secretive. The part of me that's still shrilling at me how wrong it is to make another connection that I can hurt or disappoint, or have used against me like a goddamn pawn.
And suddenly I feel a familiar tingle running along my skin and settling into my bones.
No. Oh, God, no.
“Look at me, Bruce,” Tony pants softly, and I open my eyes-not an easy feat, considering-looking into his. That searching look has returned, more intense than ever.
From the corners of my eyes I can see the green flush is also back, and hell if I’m not slightly . . . bulkier.
“Oh, God, Tony, I think-“ I start to say, and my voice is definitely deeper. I groan, turning my face away, trying to will it all-the voice, the bulk, the Hulk-away.
Tony’s hand is still on my face, gentle and tender.
“It’s okay,” he says lowly, comfortingly, even as his body uses mine and mine uses his. “Let the Other Guy come out to play, if he wants.”
Startled again, to hear my own thoughts echoed back at me, I look at Tony and shake my head. “Can’t. . . .” and oh, God, my voice is still way too deep. “Stop.”
“Bruce-“
“I said stop, damnit!”
And he does. Immediately. He pulls out and I instantly miss the sensation of being filled. Connected to someone.
To him.
But it's better this way, right?
He’s kneeling above me, watching me worriedly, still hard and lube-shiny. He looks lost, like he doesn’t know what to do. I don’t blame him, since I’m . . . Hulking-out right in front of his eyes. The fact that he hasn't run for his suit is impressive.
I roll onto my side, into fetal position, closing my eyes as tears of rage and frustration leak out. I've never had two Incidents happen this close together before, but there's a first time for everything.
“Don’t think I can stop it,” I rumble and the first of the discomfort starts, like a fire running alone my skin and bones. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he tells me, and a second later, I feel his body pressed against my back. He spoons me, wrapping his arms around me like I’m a crying child. Well, he’s half right, anyway.
Then the real discomfort begins. The kind that might be more properly termed agony. It rips through my muscles and skull, and as always I expect to hear both start tearing apart like old cloth.
“Don’t fight it, Bruce,” Tony’s whispering, kissing my shoulder again. “Don’t fight so hard.”
“Hurts,” I grumble out from between clenched teeth.
“Because you fight it. If you just . . . let go, it won’t hurt so much.”
“You promise?” I demand, looking back at him angrily. How could he promise when he doesn’t know what it’s like . . . what I go through every time this happens?
Instead of shrinking away or running away . . . he merely smiles and kisses me, softly and lingeringly. A lover's kiss.
Some of that fiery feeling dissipates and for a few moments, I don't know what I'm feeling, only that it's not rage. The Other Guy still wants to put in an appearance, of course, but he's not angry, per say.
“Yes, I promise,” Tony says, and his certainty makes me so . . . hopeful. And hope makes me angry . . . so . . . very . . . angry.
The fire and agony ramps up a notch as I fight and fight for control. I moan and curl back up on my side. Tony holds me tighter.
“Let go, Bruce. I’m not scared.”
“You should be.”
“Yeah, well, I rarely do what I should, you know that." Tony grunts and shifts around, making himself comfortable around me. Not an easy thing to do with me shaking and tense and holding myself in as a tight a ball as I can manage. Not an easy thing with my body striving to twist and grow and become him.
And Tony's right, you know? It's the fighting it that hurts the most. Don't get me wrong, the change itself isn't happy sunshine wrapped in a candy coating, but trying to fight it is like trying to hold off a migraine: impossible.
Really, I'm just prolonging the inevitable, and both the Other Guy and I know that.
"You know, my theory on this-you suddenly starting to go all Green Jeans on me while I'm giving you the fucking of your life-is you're angry at yourself for wanting it. For wanting me," Tony says almost wistfully.
"Egotist."
Tony snorts. "Well, duh. But I don't just mean me, I mean a . . . human connection, for lack of a better term."
Startled, yet again, my control slips, and the agony recedes . . . but I get noticeably . . . larger. Tony swears, but holds me even tighter.
"Did I hit a nerve."
I don't answer. All my attention is now focused on containment. Of my rage-of myself. But he’s right, damnit. I wonder if he ever gets sick of it.
“. . . okay to want things, Bruce. It’s even more okay to have those things,” Tony murmurs, almost croons in my ear. “You don’t always have to be angry at yourself for being what you are.”
“Monster,” I croak out, more tears squeezing out from behind my closed eyes. They scald my cheeks like lava.
“No . . . human,” Tony replies, chuckling. “Everything you feel is a natural human emotion. Desire, friendship, love, hate, anger-whatever. It’s human, and you can’t castigate yourself for being only human.
“Now, sure, your stronger emotions, rage, especially, set you off in a way most humans never experience, but you can control it. You already have, in fact.”
“Can’t.”
“Yes, you can. But you’re too busy fighting it to control it. You can’t do both. That’s fighting a losing battle,” he tells me kindly, stroking my hair and laying his face on my shoulder. It feels cool in comparison to my fevered skin, and his stubble tickles.
“Let go,” he says again. “You won’t hurt me or anyone else. You have no reason to, so you won’t.”
“Reason,” the Other Guy spits out like it’s a dead mouse, and laughs, the grating, rolling sound of stones being gargled in the throat of the ocean.
“Yes, reason. That thing you built your life around, Dr. Hulk.” Tony exhales, cool and somehow relaxing to me-and to the Other Guy. There’s no panic in that exhalation, no truncated shudder, as if he’s trying to hold in genuine fright. “Wouldn’t it feel good, for the first time, to let go without a fight? Have you ever thought that part of what makes you so angry when you’re the Other Guy is that you’re always keeping him chained up and locked in the cellar like a red-headed stepchild?”
The Other Guy laughs again . . . or maybe I do. It’s hard to tell, because it’s not my normal laugh, nor is it his gargling stones-laugh. It’s like an amalgam of the two.
“Hey: Big Guy?” Tony whispers in my ear. “You don’t perchance wanna swat me like a fly, do you? Not after saving my life, right?”
I don’t know which of us reaches out and covers the little, human hand on our ridiculously grown patina-biceps, but the Other Guy is the one who answers Tony in a voice that’s almost human in its smallness: “No. Never.”
“Then let go. Let go. I’ll be here to catch you.”
“Puny human.”
“That’s Mister Puny Human, to you.” Tony kisses his way down from nape to shoulder, and we shiver, me and the Other Guy, wanting more than anything to believe the things he says. . . .
“I’ll catch you, and hold you, and keep you, whether you’re Bruce, or the Other Guy. To me, it’s all you, and I really, really like you.”
I shake Tony’s arms off me. When I stand up, the bed creaks its relief. Despite the pain of holding everything in-what little of the Other Guy there is that hasn’t already come to the fore-I stagger to the window and look out. The view is impressive: all of Manhattan spread out beneath me like some kid’s Lego city.
The Other Guy could smash it-all of it-without any real effort.
Is that something I want to risk just on the word of Tony Stark? Is it really?
I lean against the wall, close my eyes, and shake my head.
I’m a fool.
I guess that’s why I finally do let go.
Completely.
And I guess that’s why instead of hindering the change, for once I just let it come and come and come-and it is, strangely, like coming. The relief of not fighting what I want and what the Other Guy wants is orgasmic, the release of titanic pressure so sudden I almost feel faint.
But on the heels of that disorientation I understand something. For once, the Other Guy and I want the same thing, and it has nothing to do with fighting or hurting or destroying. We simply want to feel another person’s arms around us, neither restraining nor comforting, simply . . . holding us, and being glad of our presence.
Behind the Other Guy, the bed gives the slightest suggestion of creaking. Soft footfalls pad closer, but stop after a few steps. The Other Guy can hear Tony’s heartbeat, steady and only slightly elevated-more excited, than scared-and smell his clean skin and expensive shampoo.
“Feel better?” Tony asks, and the Other Guy nods reluctantly, almost sullenly. Then he turns around, facing Tony, who looks the Other Guy over for a long, long time, starting from his eyes, going down to his feet, and back up, ending with the eyes once more, and smiling with his own. “God, I love being right all the time.”
“Figures,” the Other Guy grunts.
Tony tilts his head curiously. “Did it hurt, still?”
The Other Guy shrugs. Compared to how it usually is, the pain had been negligible. And he isn’t . . . angry. Not exactly. Isn’t itching to fight and rend and break. Oh, he’s still on edge, and probably always will be. The nature of the beast, after all. But most of that edginess is waiting for Tony’s real reaction-the horrified, disgusted one-to catch up with him.
And it will catch up with him, right? Any second now.
But Tony’s still staring at the Other Guy, smiling and doing that thing where his eyes crinkle and twinkle. He’s a man-just a man, of average height, with a nicely defined physique, an undiminished erection, and the worst case of bed-head ever seen this side of a hedgehog.
The Other Guy feels a melancholy wave of something that he’s never really experienced before . . . a sudden, sledgehammer-subtle yearning.
He doesn’t just want someone’s arms around him. He wants Tony Stark’s arms around him. He wants it more than anything and has no idea how to go about getting it. Instead of making him angry, it's making him feel . . . sad. Scared. Lonely.
The Other Guy buries his face in his hands.
“You’re still beautiful,” Tony quietly informs him, approaching neither slowly and cautiously, nor quickly and startlingly. And when he gets to within a few inches of the Other Guy, Tony pulls the huge hands away from the Other Guy's face-a surprisingly easy trick-and looks up into his eyes. "Still incredible." Tony grins crookedly, kisses the Other Guy's rough, green palms, and pulls those big, brute-strong arms around his shoulders. His own arms slide around the Other Guy’s waist. They don’t even fit all the way around, anymore.
Funny, ‘cause the Other Guy’s arms fit around Tony just fine. . . .
. . . any second, now. Right?
End
vinniebatman. If anyone else wants some Avengers fic, while I seem to be in The Zone . . . say so in comments :)
The Awkward Morning After
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: Marvel-verse (The Avengers)
Pairing: Bruce/Tony, The Hulk/Tony
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: Approx. 2600
Disclaimer: Here's something I haven't said in awhile--All Joss's.
Notes: Spoilers for the movie, of course. A standalone sequel to Schwarma and Denouement.
Summary: The title says it all. But there's pr0n, too.
“Do you always watch your lovers while they sleep?”
Startled, I sit up on my elbow and look away quickly, obviously, as Tony opens his eyes and smiles up at me. Yellow, late-morning sunlight is shining in through the huge picture window of the guest bedroom, turning everything golden . . . even his dark, amused eyes. “Not always. And anyway, you apparently weren’t sleeping.”
Tony stretches and chuckles. “Not for the past few minutes, anyway.” He sits up, too, the slither of silk sheets sliding down his body causing me to shiver. No less so, when he wraps his arms around my waist and kisses my shoulder. He seems to like doing that, and I . . . can’t say I mind.
I can feel connections forging-at least on my end. Those dangerous human connections that lead to Incidents that I can’t afford to have. Even now, I can’t say I have total control of when the Other Guy puts in an appearance . . . though for the past twelve hours, he’s been strangely quiescent.
Considering that I let him out to play yesterday-and he played hard-maybe that quiescence isn’t so strange.
“You’re thinking too hard, sexy,” Tony murmurs on my shoulder, his lips traveling around to my nape as one hand finds its way to my cock and the other to my right nipple. He tweaks it pretty hard and I yelp, surprised into glaring at him reproachfully. He leans close and looks into my eyes, searching them intently.
“Nothing, huh?” He asks playfully, tweaking my nipple again, this time more gently, while his thumb plays on the tip of my cock. I take a breath as my eyes flutter shut then lean back in his arms and store the memory of how it feels to do so. Something to keep me warm when I’m back in Calcutta or wherever, alone.
“I wouldn’t say nothing.” It comes out as a gasp, and I open my eyes to Tony’s smile . . . the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes them twinkle.
Suddenly the smile turns wicked, and his finger slides lightly down my cock, to my balls, and-when I shift my leg to give him access-further back. He’s not shy about fingering me and I’m not shy about arching up off the bed to give him better leverage. Or about telling him how good it feels to have him inside me.
“Wow . . . I could play with you all day-you’re so responsive,” he says, sounding very pleased with himself. I laugh breathlessly, clenching and releasing around his scissoring, searching fingers. He knows what he’s looking for, and before too long finds it. Fireworks explode behind my eyes and my nerve endings light up like Christmas.
“Unh . . . God, Tony . . . yeah, it’s been awhile since I've had anyone to . . . respond to,” I admit ruefully.
“Hmm. That means you have a lot of catching up to do.” Tony bites my ear lobe and the hand that’d been playing with my nipple drops down to my cock, his thumb swiping the tip again. A moment later, that thumb is brushing my lips and I open my mouth, sucking his finger in and tasting myself. “And I’d be glad to help you with that.”
“Mm.”
Before too much time passes, we’re prone again, my leg over Tony’s shoulder, the other splayed over the edge of the bed as he sinks into me, slow and sweet. His eyes are wide and he’s biting his lip in concentration.
I smile. “You’re not gonna break me, Tony,” I say, and he smiles back absently.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
That absent smile turns into the perennial Tony Stark smirk. “Good. ’Cause I want to fuck you hard and fast.”
I flush all over, a faint green patina, that makes Tony’s wide eyes widen further, and he groans, pulling out slightly then driving himself home with one hard thrust that makes me shout and clutch at him, my hand on his shoulder and every muscle in my body around his cock.
That doesn’t stop him from pulling out and pushing immediately back in. It hurts so good, I screw my eyes shut and watch the fireworks, breathing in time to each thrust, letting him bend me practically in half, his weight pressing me into the firm mattress and expensive sheets. I have to grit my teeth and think out the Fibonacci Sequence just to keep from coming like a sex-starved virgin.
Then the hand on my leg is gone, brushing my face gently a second later, a disorienting counterpoint to the way he thrusts in again and again and again, hitting my prostate like it’s a castle under siege and he’s got the only battering ram.
But that caress . . . that caress stays gentle and almost reverent. Like I'm something special and indeed breakable. Or something wild and easily-spooked that he's trying to tame to his hand, and I realize he is. He's . . . taming me. The part of me that's used to being alone and frightened and secretive. The part of me that's still shrilling at me how wrong it is to make another connection that I can hurt or disappoint, or have used against me like a goddamn pawn.
And suddenly I feel a familiar tingle running along my skin and settling into my bones.
No. Oh, God, no.
“Look at me, Bruce,” Tony pants softly, and I open my eyes-not an easy feat, considering-looking into his. That searching look has returned, more intense than ever.
From the corners of my eyes I can see the green flush is also back, and hell if I’m not slightly . . . bulkier.
“Oh, God, Tony, I think-“ I start to say, and my voice is definitely deeper. I groan, turning my face away, trying to will it all-the voice, the bulk, the Hulk-away.
Tony’s hand is still on my face, gentle and tender.
“It’s okay,” he says lowly, comfortingly, even as his body uses mine and mine uses his. “Let the Other Guy come out to play, if he wants.”
Startled again, to hear my own thoughts echoed back at me, I look at Tony and shake my head. “Can’t. . . .” and oh, God, my voice is still way too deep. “Stop.”
“Bruce-“
“I said stop, damnit!”
And he does. Immediately. He pulls out and I instantly miss the sensation of being filled. Connected to someone.
To him.
But it's better this way, right?
He’s kneeling above me, watching me worriedly, still hard and lube-shiny. He looks lost, like he doesn’t know what to do. I don’t blame him, since I’m . . . Hulking-out right in front of his eyes. The fact that he hasn't run for his suit is impressive.
I roll onto my side, into fetal position, closing my eyes as tears of rage and frustration leak out. I've never had two Incidents happen this close together before, but there's a first time for everything.
“Don’t think I can stop it,” I rumble and the first of the discomfort starts, like a fire running alone my skin and bones. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he tells me, and a second later, I feel his body pressed against my back. He spoons me, wrapping his arms around me like I’m a crying child. Well, he’s half right, anyway.
Then the real discomfort begins. The kind that might be more properly termed agony. It rips through my muscles and skull, and as always I expect to hear both start tearing apart like old cloth.
“Don’t fight it, Bruce,” Tony’s whispering, kissing my shoulder again. “Don’t fight so hard.”
“Hurts,” I grumble out from between clenched teeth.
“Because you fight it. If you just . . . let go, it won’t hurt so much.”
“You promise?” I demand, looking back at him angrily. How could he promise when he doesn’t know what it’s like . . . what I go through every time this happens?
Instead of shrinking away or running away . . . he merely smiles and kisses me, softly and lingeringly. A lover's kiss.
Some of that fiery feeling dissipates and for a few moments, I don't know what I'm feeling, only that it's not rage. The Other Guy still wants to put in an appearance, of course, but he's not angry, per say.
“Yes, I promise,” Tony says, and his certainty makes me so . . . hopeful. And hope makes me angry . . . so . . . very . . . angry.
The fire and agony ramps up a notch as I fight and fight for control. I moan and curl back up on my side. Tony holds me tighter.
“Let go, Bruce. I’m not scared.”
“You should be.”
“Yeah, well, I rarely do what I should, you know that." Tony grunts and shifts around, making himself comfortable around me. Not an easy thing to do with me shaking and tense and holding myself in as a tight a ball as I can manage. Not an easy thing with my body striving to twist and grow and become him.
And Tony's right, you know? It's the fighting it that hurts the most. Don't get me wrong, the change itself isn't happy sunshine wrapped in a candy coating, but trying to fight it is like trying to hold off a migraine: impossible.
Really, I'm just prolonging the inevitable, and both the Other Guy and I know that.
"You know, my theory on this-you suddenly starting to go all Green Jeans on me while I'm giving you the fucking of your life-is you're angry at yourself for wanting it. For wanting me," Tony says almost wistfully.
"Egotist."
Tony snorts. "Well, duh. But I don't just mean me, I mean a . . . human connection, for lack of a better term."
Startled, yet again, my control slips, and the agony recedes . . . but I get noticeably . . . larger. Tony swears, but holds me even tighter.
"Did I hit a nerve."
I don't answer. All my attention is now focused on containment. Of my rage-of myself. But he’s right, damnit. I wonder if he ever gets sick of it.
“. . . okay to want things, Bruce. It’s even more okay to have those things,” Tony murmurs, almost croons in my ear. “You don’t always have to be angry at yourself for being what you are.”
“Monster,” I croak out, more tears squeezing out from behind my closed eyes. They scald my cheeks like lava.
“No . . . human,” Tony replies, chuckling. “Everything you feel is a natural human emotion. Desire, friendship, love, hate, anger-whatever. It’s human, and you can’t castigate yourself for being only human.
“Now, sure, your stronger emotions, rage, especially, set you off in a way most humans never experience, but you can control it. You already have, in fact.”
“Can’t.”
“Yes, you can. But you’re too busy fighting it to control it. You can’t do both. That’s fighting a losing battle,” he tells me kindly, stroking my hair and laying his face on my shoulder. It feels cool in comparison to my fevered skin, and his stubble tickles.
“Let go,” he says again. “You won’t hurt me or anyone else. You have no reason to, so you won’t.”
“Reason,” the Other Guy spits out like it’s a dead mouse, and laughs, the grating, rolling sound of stones being gargled in the throat of the ocean.
“Yes, reason. That thing you built your life around, Dr. Hulk.” Tony exhales, cool and somehow relaxing to me-and to the Other Guy. There’s no panic in that exhalation, no truncated shudder, as if he’s trying to hold in genuine fright. “Wouldn’t it feel good, for the first time, to let go without a fight? Have you ever thought that part of what makes you so angry when you’re the Other Guy is that you’re always keeping him chained up and locked in the cellar like a red-headed stepchild?”
The Other Guy laughs again . . . or maybe I do. It’s hard to tell, because it’s not my normal laugh, nor is it his gargling stones-laugh. It’s like an amalgam of the two.
“Hey: Big Guy?” Tony whispers in my ear. “You don’t perchance wanna swat me like a fly, do you? Not after saving my life, right?”
I don’t know which of us reaches out and covers the little, human hand on our ridiculously grown patina-biceps, but the Other Guy is the one who answers Tony in a voice that’s almost human in its smallness: “No. Never.”
“Then let go. Let go. I’ll be here to catch you.”
“Puny human.”
“That’s Mister Puny Human, to you.” Tony kisses his way down from nape to shoulder, and we shiver, me and the Other Guy, wanting more than anything to believe the things he says. . . .
“I’ll catch you, and hold you, and keep you, whether you’re Bruce, or the Other Guy. To me, it’s all you, and I really, really like you.”
I shake Tony’s arms off me. When I stand up, the bed creaks its relief. Despite the pain of holding everything in-what little of the Other Guy there is that hasn’t already come to the fore-I stagger to the window and look out. The view is impressive: all of Manhattan spread out beneath me like some kid’s Lego city.
The Other Guy could smash it-all of it-without any real effort.
Is that something I want to risk just on the word of Tony Stark? Is it really?
I lean against the wall, close my eyes, and shake my head.
I’m a fool.
I guess that’s why I finally do let go.
Completely.
And I guess that’s why instead of hindering the change, for once I just let it come and come and come-and it is, strangely, like coming. The relief of not fighting what I want and what the Other Guy wants is orgasmic, the release of titanic pressure so sudden I almost feel faint.
But on the heels of that disorientation I understand something. For once, the Other Guy and I want the same thing, and it has nothing to do with fighting or hurting or destroying. We simply want to feel another person’s arms around us, neither restraining nor comforting, simply . . . holding us, and being glad of our presence.
Behind the Other Guy, the bed gives the slightest suggestion of creaking. Soft footfalls pad closer, but stop after a few steps. The Other Guy can hear Tony’s heartbeat, steady and only slightly elevated-more excited, than scared-and smell his clean skin and expensive shampoo.
“Feel better?” Tony asks, and the Other Guy nods reluctantly, almost sullenly. Then he turns around, facing Tony, who looks the Other Guy over for a long, long time, starting from his eyes, going down to his feet, and back up, ending with the eyes once more, and smiling with his own. “God, I love being right all the time.”
“Figures,” the Other Guy grunts.
Tony tilts his head curiously. “Did it hurt, still?”
The Other Guy shrugs. Compared to how it usually is, the pain had been negligible. And he isn’t . . . angry. Not exactly. Isn’t itching to fight and rend and break. Oh, he’s still on edge, and probably always will be. The nature of the beast, after all. But most of that edginess is waiting for Tony’s real reaction-the horrified, disgusted one-to catch up with him.
And it will catch up with him, right? Any second now.
But Tony’s still staring at the Other Guy, smiling and doing that thing where his eyes crinkle and twinkle. He’s a man-just a man, of average height, with a nicely defined physique, an undiminished erection, and the worst case of bed-head ever seen this side of a hedgehog.
The Other Guy feels a melancholy wave of something that he’s never really experienced before . . . a sudden, sledgehammer-subtle yearning.
He doesn’t just want someone’s arms around him. He wants Tony Stark’s arms around him. He wants it more than anything and has no idea how to go about getting it. Instead of making him angry, it's making him feel . . . sad. Scared. Lonely.
The Other Guy buries his face in his hands.
“You’re still beautiful,” Tony quietly informs him, approaching neither slowly and cautiously, nor quickly and startlingly. And when he gets to within a few inches of the Other Guy, Tony pulls the huge hands away from the Other Guy's face-a surprisingly easy trick-and looks up into his eyes. "Still incredible." Tony grins crookedly, kisses the Other Guy's rough, green palms, and pulls those big, brute-strong arms around his shoulders. His own arms slide around the Other Guy’s waist. They don’t even fit all the way around, anymore.
Funny, ‘cause the Other Guy’s arms fit around Tony just fine. . . .
. . . any second, now. Right?
End