[fic] Marvel kiss ficlets, assorted
I'm reposting my contributions to the Marvel kissing meme here for archival purposes.
Never before five p.m., never from the bottle, never alone. There are rules to this, composed of expectations, conventions, pretenses and defenses. Tony's hands might be tremoring too fast to hold the laser-scalpel or sign an M&A contract, but he obeys the rules. He might be yearning with a gritty thirst from the moment he wakes up, but he obeys the rules.
The rules, Captain America said once, are all the civilized have. Without them, men are beasts.
He was referring to the Geneva Convention, the Declaration of Human Rights and the U.S. Constitution, but he was still correct.
At five on the dot, from a gleamingly clean tumbler, with Pepper safely in the office, then, Tony takes the first sip. The first is always the best: thick, musky liquid aged for generations in a privately-owned peat bog. It slides over his lips like a cinematic first kiss, promising everything, delivering it all in a Technicolor, panoramic sweep.
He'll slurp the rest like a pig at the trough, but for now, he's no more beast than anyone. He's the hero.
*
It's not that Billy hasn't thought about this. Since he figured out the queer tip (even before), he's thought about kissing any number of heroes. Daredevil would bite a lot, probably, but use his hands even more; the Human Torch would taste like butane, sweetened, and laugh throughout; Spider-Man --. Well, Spider-Man would probably kiss a lot like Billy himself, quick and nervous until he gets carried away, and then just *deeply*.
Steve isn't just a hero. Billy's kissing a *legend*, but he sighs against Billy's mouth and clutches his shoulders, bowing them, like someone coming up for air. When Billy strokes the side of Steve's neck, slipping his fingertips into the short hair behind his ear, Steve's chest shivers and he pulls Billy off his feet, murmuring and questioning.
Billy has never found defying gravity quite so easy.
*
Kate's hand slides automatically from the curve of Jessica's neck down to her breast. She gets a bite that's *much* harder than usual for *that*.
"Sorry--" Her lips are burning, she's breathless, and sweat spangles her eyelashes, makes her vision blur. Her palm hovers, cupped in anticipation, as Jessica grabs her wrist and pulls it off.
"Fucking milk-cow," Jessica mutters. "No one's going near my girls ever again."
Keeping her hands at her sides, fingers cramping to touch the *swell* of her new breasts, Kate kisses Jessica's neck instead. "Sorry," she says, and pecks, and repeats.
"Whatever." Jessica scowls, but she's always scowling, and at least right now, her lips are reddened and her eyes look a little glazed. She tilts her head for access; at her hairline, Kate smells old smoke and new sweat.
Jessica's beautiful, but Kate knows better than to say so. Kisses are almost as good.
*
Stanley is the single human organism for whom Mark allows himself to care. Stanley's not like the others, craven and selfish, narrow-minded and tightly-blinkered; when he runs, the smile he wears reminds Mark *physically* of his own first attempts at flight. The exhilaration of rising bumpily through the summer evening, outpacing fireflies and barn swallows, getting high enough to see the razor-wire encircling his world, the crest of possibility before he had to fall.
Stanley runs, and smiles, and suddenly there's nothing in their way. Only Stanley, alone on Earth, can keep up with Mark. It knocks the wind out of his lungs to try, of course, turns his legs to "botulism jelly", but he tries, and grins, and it's only with him that Mark allows himself to fall, atop Stanley, roll with him, their smiles melded together, the kiss a tumbleweed and their bodies the wake.
*
And, bonus!
His mamma always told Stanley that courtesy goes further than you'd think.
He believes that down to his bones, but this whacked-out little white boy is about do some *serious* damage to that conviction.
Kid's little more than mop of dark red hair and big grin, looking over his shoulder as his arms windmill, yelling, "Race ya!"
And -- hell, *no*, no one's faster than Stanley.
That's not arrogance. Just *facts*. He sprints up to catch the kid, then puts on the burn, careening up the Eastern seaboard, the Smokies and then the Berkshires fuzzing out to green and brown.
"Who *are* you?" Stanley shouts. The wind's tightening his face just right, his legs are pumping, and this is *fun*.
"Bar--Impulse!" The kid turns a hard right in Halifax. The ocean steams under their feet. "Anyone ever tell you you look like Lenny Kravitz? Like almost perfectly the same? Wow!"
They're nearing the coast of Ireland and Stanley's flagging. Just a little. Impulse, though, looks like he could run all day.
"First one to Vienna buys the cake," Stanley tells him, elbowing him a little in his bony ribs.
"Cool!"
The wide grin on the kid's face mirrors his own.
Feedback is loved.
Never before five p.m., never from the bottle, never alone. There are rules to this, composed of expectations, conventions, pretenses and defenses. Tony's hands might be tremoring too fast to hold the laser-scalpel or sign an M&A contract, but he obeys the rules. He might be yearning with a gritty thirst from the moment he wakes up, but he obeys the rules.
The rules, Captain America said once, are all the civilized have. Without them, men are beasts.
He was referring to the Geneva Convention, the Declaration of Human Rights and the U.S. Constitution, but he was still correct.
At five on the dot, from a gleamingly clean tumbler, with Pepper safely in the office, then, Tony takes the first sip. The first is always the best: thick, musky liquid aged for generations in a privately-owned peat bog. It slides over his lips like a cinematic first kiss, promising everything, delivering it all in a Technicolor, panoramic sweep.
He'll slurp the rest like a pig at the trough, but for now, he's no more beast than anyone. He's the hero.
*
It's not that Billy hasn't thought about this. Since he figured out the queer tip (even before), he's thought about kissing any number of heroes. Daredevil would bite a lot, probably, but use his hands even more; the Human Torch would taste like butane, sweetened, and laugh throughout; Spider-Man --. Well, Spider-Man would probably kiss a lot like Billy himself, quick and nervous until he gets carried away, and then just *deeply*.
Steve isn't just a hero. Billy's kissing a *legend*, but he sighs against Billy's mouth and clutches his shoulders, bowing them, like someone coming up for air. When Billy strokes the side of Steve's neck, slipping his fingertips into the short hair behind his ear, Steve's chest shivers and he pulls Billy off his feet, murmuring and questioning.
Billy has never found defying gravity quite so easy.
*
Kate's hand slides automatically from the curve of Jessica's neck down to her breast. She gets a bite that's *much* harder than usual for *that*.
"Sorry--" Her lips are burning, she's breathless, and sweat spangles her eyelashes, makes her vision blur. Her palm hovers, cupped in anticipation, as Jessica grabs her wrist and pulls it off.
"Fucking milk-cow," Jessica mutters. "No one's going near my girls ever again."
Keeping her hands at her sides, fingers cramping to touch the *swell* of her new breasts, Kate kisses Jessica's neck instead. "Sorry," she says, and pecks, and repeats.
"Whatever." Jessica scowls, but she's always scowling, and at least right now, her lips are reddened and her eyes look a little glazed. She tilts her head for access; at her hairline, Kate smells old smoke and new sweat.
Jessica's beautiful, but Kate knows better than to say so. Kisses are almost as good.
*
Stanley is the single human organism for whom Mark allows himself to care. Stanley's not like the others, craven and selfish, narrow-minded and tightly-blinkered; when he runs, the smile he wears reminds Mark *physically* of his own first attempts at flight. The exhilaration of rising bumpily through the summer evening, outpacing fireflies and barn swallows, getting high enough to see the razor-wire encircling his world, the crest of possibility before he had to fall.
Stanley runs, and smiles, and suddenly there's nothing in their way. Only Stanley, alone on Earth, can keep up with Mark. It knocks the wind out of his lungs to try, of course, turns his legs to "botulism jelly", but he tries, and grins, and it's only with him that Mark allows himself to fall, atop Stanley, roll with him, their smiles melded together, the kiss a tumbleweed and their bodies the wake.
*
And, bonus!
His mamma always told Stanley that courtesy goes further than you'd think.
He believes that down to his bones, but this whacked-out little white boy is about do some *serious* damage to that conviction.
Kid's little more than mop of dark red hair and big grin, looking over his shoulder as his arms windmill, yelling, "Race ya!"
And -- hell, *no*, no one's faster than Stanley.
That's not arrogance. Just *facts*. He sprints up to catch the kid, then puts on the burn, careening up the Eastern seaboard, the Smokies and then the Berkshires fuzzing out to green and brown.
"Who *are* you?" Stanley shouts. The wind's tightening his face just right, his legs are pumping, and this is *fun*.
"Bar--Impulse!" The kid turns a hard right in Halifax. The ocean steams under their feet. "Anyone ever tell you you look like Lenny Kravitz? Like almost perfectly the same? Wow!"
They're nearing the coast of Ireland and Stanley's flagging. Just a little. Impulse, though, looks like he could run all day.
"First one to Vienna buys the cake," Stanley tells him, elbowing him a little in his bony ribs.
"Cool!"
The wide grin on the kid's face mirrors his own.
Feedback is loved.