(no subject)
I may or may not be breaking the fourth wall.
>___>
“Stop fidgeting. You look fine.” Dick announced, stepping up and batting Jensen's hands away from his bow tie in a smooth motion. Unlike Jensen, Dick actually looked like he belonged here. In this room, in this life, in this horrible suit.
“It's too tight.”
“No, it's fitted. You should wear fitted clothing more often instead of those army rags.” Bruce adds, stepping up beside Jensen. Dick hides a smirk in his glass of champagne then rolls his eyes and turns to glance at Bruce who's stiffened up, hackles raising like possessive, angry dog.
“Stark at your six.” Dick mutters to Jensen who slumps even more. Bruce had warned him about Stark. Given him implicit instructions to not be in the same room alone as Stark, to not say more then three words to Stark, to avoid freaking eye contact with Stark.
Dick had gone so far as to tell him that Tony Stark had the unfortunate habit of sleeping with everything that held still long enough. Apparently there had been an incident with lots of alcohol and a badly placed knothole in a maple tree.
“Can I go?”
“You're my nephew Jacob. It would be rude for me to invite you to spend time with me and not show you off.” Bruce spoke snidely, enjoying the near violent eye roll his nephew gave. “Stark won't come near you as long as I'm around. He hates me too much. I think it's because I'm richer.”
Jensen balances his weight on the balls of his feet and prays for one of the caterers to bring him something he's allergic to so he can escape this party sooner then later. He can feel eyes on him and glances up, sure it's going to be another sorority debutante that's assured they can sleep their way into the Wayne family.
Instead it's Stark, watching him with an expression that makes him feel hunted. It takes his breath away for a moment and he can feel his fight or flight kicking in. But half a million dollars in army training keeps him looking bored, giving Stark a cocky sort of smirk. You can look but you can't touch.
As it turns out, Bruce's prophecy has turned out wrong, and Stark heads over to where they stand. He nods to Bruce, grins at Dick, and holds out his hand for Jensen.
“Tony Stark.” It's all but purred in a whiskey-bedroom sort of voice. “You must be Jacob Jensen-Wayne.”
“It's nice to know that fancy MIT education wasn't wasted on you.” Jensen says with a snarky sort of grin and tightens his grip, trying to get Stark to back off.
“Quite a grip you've got.” Tony says after he's extracted his hand from Jensen's. He flexes it into a fist a couple of times and makes a show of shaking it out until Jensen wants to punch him. He's seen whores with more subtlety.
“Tony.”
“Bruce.”
“Can I go now?” Jensen asks again, trying to keep the whine out of his voice.
>___>
“Stop fidgeting. You look fine.” Dick announced, stepping up and batting Jensen's hands away from his bow tie in a smooth motion. Unlike Jensen, Dick actually looked like he belonged here. In this room, in this life, in this horrible suit.
“It's too tight.”
“No, it's fitted. You should wear fitted clothing more often instead of those army rags.” Bruce adds, stepping up beside Jensen. Dick hides a smirk in his glass of champagne then rolls his eyes and turns to glance at Bruce who's stiffened up, hackles raising like possessive, angry dog.
“Stark at your six.” Dick mutters to Jensen who slumps even more. Bruce had warned him about Stark. Given him implicit instructions to not be in the same room alone as Stark, to not say more then three words to Stark, to avoid freaking eye contact with Stark.
Dick had gone so far as to tell him that Tony Stark had the unfortunate habit of sleeping with everything that held still long enough. Apparently there had been an incident with lots of alcohol and a badly placed knothole in a maple tree.
“Can I go?”
“You're my nephew Jacob. It would be rude for me to invite you to spend time with me and not show you off.” Bruce spoke snidely, enjoying the near violent eye roll his nephew gave. “Stark won't come near you as long as I'm around. He hates me too much. I think it's because I'm richer.”
Jensen balances his weight on the balls of his feet and prays for one of the caterers to bring him something he's allergic to so he can escape this party sooner then later. He can feel eyes on him and glances up, sure it's going to be another sorority debutante that's assured they can sleep their way into the Wayne family.
Instead it's Stark, watching him with an expression that makes him feel hunted. It takes his breath away for a moment and he can feel his fight or flight kicking in. But half a million dollars in army training keeps him looking bored, giving Stark a cocky sort of smirk. You can look but you can't touch.
As it turns out, Bruce's prophecy has turned out wrong, and Stark heads over to where they stand. He nods to Bruce, grins at Dick, and holds out his hand for Jensen.
“Tony Stark.” It's all but purred in a whiskey-bedroom sort of voice. “You must be Jacob Jensen-Wayne.”
“It's nice to know that fancy MIT education wasn't wasted on you.” Jensen says with a snarky sort of grin and tightens his grip, trying to get Stark to back off.
“Quite a grip you've got.” Tony says after he's extracted his hand from Jensen's. He flexes it into a fist a couple of times and makes a show of shaking it out until Jensen wants to punch him. He's seen whores with more subtlety.
“Tony.”
“Bruce.”
“Can I go now?” Jensen asks again, trying to keep the whine out of his voice.