Fic: chase the higher ground (Iron Man)
Pairing: Tony/Dr. Yinsen
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine.
Notes: Beta'ed by the amazing
airspaniel. Thanks; you rock a lot.
Summary: “Your life is here,” explains Yinsen, fingers tracing the blue glow. “Anyone can see it.”
- - -
There are a thousand weapons Tony Stark could create, from this junk heap. A thousand different ways to kill, a thousand different ways to die. He could burn the entire encampment to the ground, slaughter all of the terrorists, the bastards that threw him down here, and he wouldn’t look back. He wouldn’t.
When Tony looks to his companion, Yinsen’s eyes are cast away, towards the rock wall. Prison walls, carved from a mountain, and impossible to get out, with the fragility of human flesh.
No, the goal isn’t to kill them all. It’s to kill them all - and get out of here alive.
Tony spreads a piece of paper, stroking the edges flat. Makes one line, two lines, three lines, because the idea’s already in his head, and drawing is just shapes, just lines and curves, triangles and squares -
There’s only one way to wield the kind of firepower he needs, and to stay intact.
A soft intake of breath, from Yinsen, and Tony glances up.
Yinsen watches him now, with an edge of wonder.
“What?” asks Tony.
“I would think we were already dead,” says Yinsen, “but for what I see in you, at this moment.”
Tony hesitates. “We’re gonna get out of here.”
Yinsen makes a single, deep nod. “I know.”
~*~
Yinsen’s hands are gentle, on the raw skin around the generator. Tony turns away, tries to breathe.
“Did you have to make it glow?” asks Yinsen. The tone is as soft as his touch, not accusing but inquiring.
Tony shrugs, winces in pain. “Guess not,” he says. “I mean, it glows anyway - byproduct of the arc technology and all ouch,” with a flinch away. “Steady on there, fella.”
“I am sorry,” murmurs Yinsen. “You are sensitive there?”
“I’m sensitive everywhere,” returns Tony.
The resulting eye contact with Yinsen lasts a moment too long-
Tony remembers a time when he would have been the one to draw it out, but he’s exhausted, now. His core aches emptily, and none of the painkillers in this rat’s nest are enough to drive it away.
-and Tony looks away first.
“I didn’t have to plate it in glass, though,” says Tony, softly.
“I like it,” says Yinsen.
“You like it?”
“Your life is here,” explains Yinsen, fingers tracing the blue glow. “Anyone can see it.”
~*~
He shudders at the thought of darkness. It already sniffs at the corners of the room, slithers behind equipment, festers wherever the light doesn’t reach. The idea that it could grow, thrive, subsume the entire room until everything is swallowed up -
Swallows his panic, and hopes Yinsen doesn’t notice.
~*~
Tony’s concentration scatters, like dice tumbled to the corners of a gambling table -
“You need to sleep,” says Yinsen, firmly, hand against the small of Tony’s back.
“Sleep is a fallacy,” mutters Tony, examining a thin tube of metal. He isn’t sure where this kind came from, if it will hold up under the kind of pressure he needs. No, wait - of course. It’s useless.
“Stark,” says Yinsen, firmly. “You can’t work forever.”
“I won’t work forever,” says Tony, “I’ll just work until I’m finished working, that’s all.”
“Stark,” and Yinsen’s hand closes around Tony’s bicep.
“I can’t sleep like this,” protests Tony, “it’s not going to work. Look, all the lights are on and I can’t sleep with the lights on.”
“Would you rather have them off?”
“No,” says Tony, and he pushes Yinsen away, holds him at arms length. “No,” he says, softer.
“Lie down,” says Yinsen.
“No, this is ridiculous.”
“Lie down.”
“I don’t have to -”
“Tony.”
The sound of his first name seems to dull something inside of him; Tony sits on the edge of the cot and reluctantly, slowly, eases back.
“Close your eyes.”
He can see the dim glow of the lights through his eyelids. He can’t - he can’t fall asleep like this.
There’s a touch, on his forehead - he jerks, but Yinsen makes a kind of reassuring noise, subvocal but audible, and Tony settles again. The hand, Yinsen’s hand, slides over his closed eyelids.
“It’s dark now,” says Yinsen.
Tony reaches up, to touch the back of Yinsen’s hand.
~*~
“You know it will have to be dark,” says Yinsen, “when they come in, the first time.”
Crap. He’s right. “Yeah, sure,” says Tony.
“Will you be all right?”
Tony shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Slides the mask over his face and starts pounding, pounding at the metal until it curves, bends under his will, because if the metal can bend then anything can.
~*~
Almost done.
Almost done.
Tony is concentrating, mind honed to perfection. There is no outside world, there are no terrorists, there isn’t a Stark Industries to go back to, there’s just the next problem, the next -
“Stark.”
Tony jerks, knocks a wrench with his elbow. It clatters to the ground, and Yinsen barely dodges out of the way.
“Sorry,” apologizes Tony, but he’s already forgetting what he’s apologizing about.
“Stark!” Yinsen steps between him and the suit, a hand - purposefully? Does Yinsen know what this feels like to him? - on Tony’s chest.
“What?” snaps Tony, impatient, now.
“It’s time,” says Yinsen.
“Time for what?”
“For you to stop this aversion to the dark.”
Tony shivers.
~*~
He bites his lip as the lights go out, one by one, until the only glow is from his own chest, muted, dimmed by his t-shirt. His heart is beating, beating, beating -
“Calm down,” comes Yinsen’s voice, and Tony jumps. How did the man get that close?
“I’m totally calm,” says Tony.
“You’re breathing too fast.”
“Am not.”
Then there’s the touch of Yinsen’s hand on his neck, moving up to his jaw and oh -
He wasn’t expecting the kiss, but it’s long, all the same, and Tony feels a rush, a thrill of warmth inside him, dashing around the generator, nesting inside his chest.
“Yinsen,” Tony says, on a breath.
When Yinsen’s hand settles on Tony’s waist, Tony can feel it trembling.
“You can say no,” says Yinsen, “any time.”
Yinsen is more of an outline than a picture, by the light of the generator. Tony reaches for him, though, and seals another kiss.
~*~
When Yinsen peels his shirt away, the light is all the brighter. Yinsen pauses, and Tony catches something like awe in his voice:
“The way you look,” murmurs Yinsen, “with this-”
Tony tries to breathe, and he reaches out, towards Yinsen’s skin (scarred? Not smooth, but Tony can’t see, he can’t see), clothes sliding to the floor, the cot already screeching, metal against metal, in protest from the weight.
Sex, for Tony Stark, is usually fun. It’s usually quick and thorough and awesome. He likes being a little sore afterwards. He likes leaving before the other person can get up.
This? This is nothing like that.
The kisses are sloppy now, slippery, but Tony physically can’t get enough of it, like he’s drinking Yinsen in, like he’ll never be full, be complete, without this give-and-take. Yinsen whispers incomprehensible words, patterns Tony doesn’t know, doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t have to, doesn’t have to -
Yinsen retreats, briefly, and (with the glint of Yinsen’s eyes) Tony can see the echo of his own want, his own fear.
“If you could see what I see,” Yinsen muses.
Tony inhales against the sudden rush of - vulnerability?
Yinsen is back, then, warm against Tony’s body, his tongue twisting against Tony’s. His hands move down, sure and fast, and Tony breaks the kiss, swallowing a whine. It’s never been true, before, that just being touched is too much for him.
A dip away, and Yinsen comes back, doing something invisible with his hands. He strokes the inside of Tony’s thigh, pushing his legs apart, and Tony closes his eyes, tight, because now, even the dim illumination is blinding.
“You can still say no,” warns Yinsen, and he slips a finger, slick with something (medical supplies, must be, right under the cot) straight into Tony, follows it with a second. Works the muscle evenly and methodically, with trained hands, and Tony tries to relax, tries to ease back onto the cot. But he’s never been so hard in his life, on the verge of begging for it, with a strange, complete trust in Yinsen that he’s not really sure how to describe to himself.
“Oh, fuck,” curses Tony, throwing his head back. “Yinsen-”
“I know.” Yinsen is already moving, and Tony shifts, wincing as the fingers pull away. Oh, god, oh god…
“You gotta,” Tony gasps, “come on, please,” with his breath coming harsh and fast and wow, if Yinsen’s original goal was to calm him down, not working, not working at all.
“Easy,” says Yinsen, urging Tony on his side, fingers guiding, until Tony is stretched open, and hey, that hurts a little.
“Hang on,” manages Tony, a little hoarsely. Yinsen’s hand entangles with his, a light touch skimming over Tony’s palm. And Yinsen eases in, a little at a time, so slow that Tony barely feels it. But they’re connected, a circuit in the dark, electricity streaming from one to the other; Tony can see that as vivid as day. Communication, on a level so far below speech that he’s not sure if speech could even manage what they’re saying.
And then Yinsen starts moving, and Tony comes, immediately.
It’s as shocking as it is intense, and Tony makes a strangled noise, twisting reflexively, riding the ripples of pleasure that don’t seem to want to stop. Yinsen’s hand digs into his hip, and he hears a muffled curse, or a prayer, in his ear - Arabic?
The aftershocks dim, then, and Tony is aware, now, of the close air in the cave, of the reality he’s tried so hard to avoid.
Yinsen pulls away.
“It’s okay,” Tony half-slurs, though muscles not quite under his control yet.
“I won’t hurt you,” returns Yinsen.
So Tony does the only logical thing available, in his admittedly limited brainpower. He takes Yinsen in hand, and starts to bring him off.
Yinsen clutches at Tony, but he doesn’t stop him, just brings them back together, sandwiched as close as they can get. Kisses him again, one arm wrapping around the back of Tony’s neck.
Tony needs to feel it. He came apart, all around Yinsen, and he needs it, he needs Yinsen to come apart the same way.
And he does-
~*~
Tony breathes easy, in the dark.
~*~
“This was always the plan, Stark,” whispers Yinsen.
A pain, so deep Tony will never be able to scrub it out, not with a thousand fantastic one-night stands.
I won’t waste it, he thinks.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine.
Notes: Beta'ed by the amazing
airspaniel. Thanks; you rock a lot.
Summary: “Your life is here,” explains Yinsen, fingers tracing the blue glow. “Anyone can see it.”
- - -
There are a thousand weapons Tony Stark could create, from this junk heap. A thousand different ways to kill, a thousand different ways to die. He could burn the entire encampment to the ground, slaughter all of the terrorists, the bastards that threw him down here, and he wouldn’t look back. He wouldn’t.
When Tony looks to his companion, Yinsen’s eyes are cast away, towards the rock wall. Prison walls, carved from a mountain, and impossible to get out, with the fragility of human flesh.
No, the goal isn’t to kill them all. It’s to kill them all - and get out of here alive.
Tony spreads a piece of paper, stroking the edges flat. Makes one line, two lines, three lines, because the idea’s already in his head, and drawing is just shapes, just lines and curves, triangles and squares -
There’s only one way to wield the kind of firepower he needs, and to stay intact.
A soft intake of breath, from Yinsen, and Tony glances up.
Yinsen watches him now, with an edge of wonder.
“What?” asks Tony.
“I would think we were already dead,” says Yinsen, “but for what I see in you, at this moment.”
Tony hesitates. “We’re gonna get out of here.”
Yinsen makes a single, deep nod. “I know.”
~*~
Yinsen’s hands are gentle, on the raw skin around the generator. Tony turns away, tries to breathe.
“Did you have to make it glow?” asks Yinsen. The tone is as soft as his touch, not accusing but inquiring.
Tony shrugs, winces in pain. “Guess not,” he says. “I mean, it glows anyway - byproduct of the arc technology and all ouch,” with a flinch away. “Steady on there, fella.”
“I am sorry,” murmurs Yinsen. “You are sensitive there?”
“I’m sensitive everywhere,” returns Tony.
The resulting eye contact with Yinsen lasts a moment too long-
Tony remembers a time when he would have been the one to draw it out, but he’s exhausted, now. His core aches emptily, and none of the painkillers in this rat’s nest are enough to drive it away.
-and Tony looks away first.
“I didn’t have to plate it in glass, though,” says Tony, softly.
“I like it,” says Yinsen.
“You like it?”
“Your life is here,” explains Yinsen, fingers tracing the blue glow. “Anyone can see it.”
~*~
He shudders at the thought of darkness. It already sniffs at the corners of the room, slithers behind equipment, festers wherever the light doesn’t reach. The idea that it could grow, thrive, subsume the entire room until everything is swallowed up -
Swallows his panic, and hopes Yinsen doesn’t notice.
~*~
Tony’s concentration scatters, like dice tumbled to the corners of a gambling table -
“You need to sleep,” says Yinsen, firmly, hand against the small of Tony’s back.
“Sleep is a fallacy,” mutters Tony, examining a thin tube of metal. He isn’t sure where this kind came from, if it will hold up under the kind of pressure he needs. No, wait - of course. It’s useless.
“Stark,” says Yinsen, firmly. “You can’t work forever.”
“I won’t work forever,” says Tony, “I’ll just work until I’m finished working, that’s all.”
“Stark,” and Yinsen’s hand closes around Tony’s bicep.
“I can’t sleep like this,” protests Tony, “it’s not going to work. Look, all the lights are on and I can’t sleep with the lights on.”
“Would you rather have them off?”
“No,” says Tony, and he pushes Yinsen away, holds him at arms length. “No,” he says, softer.
“Lie down,” says Yinsen.
“No, this is ridiculous.”
“Lie down.”
“I don’t have to -”
“Tony.”
The sound of his first name seems to dull something inside of him; Tony sits on the edge of the cot and reluctantly, slowly, eases back.
“Close your eyes.”
He can see the dim glow of the lights through his eyelids. He can’t - he can’t fall asleep like this.
There’s a touch, on his forehead - he jerks, but Yinsen makes a kind of reassuring noise, subvocal but audible, and Tony settles again. The hand, Yinsen’s hand, slides over his closed eyelids.
“It’s dark now,” says Yinsen.
Tony reaches up, to touch the back of Yinsen’s hand.
~*~
“You know it will have to be dark,” says Yinsen, “when they come in, the first time.”
Crap. He’s right. “Yeah, sure,” says Tony.
“Will you be all right?”
Tony shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Slides the mask over his face and starts pounding, pounding at the metal until it curves, bends under his will, because if the metal can bend then anything can.
~*~
Almost done.
Almost done.
Tony is concentrating, mind honed to perfection. There is no outside world, there are no terrorists, there isn’t a Stark Industries to go back to, there’s just the next problem, the next -
“Stark.”
Tony jerks, knocks a wrench with his elbow. It clatters to the ground, and Yinsen barely dodges out of the way.
“Sorry,” apologizes Tony, but he’s already forgetting what he’s apologizing about.
“Stark!” Yinsen steps between him and the suit, a hand - purposefully? Does Yinsen know what this feels like to him? - on Tony’s chest.
“What?” snaps Tony, impatient, now.
“It’s time,” says Yinsen.
“Time for what?”
“For you to stop this aversion to the dark.”
Tony shivers.
~*~
He bites his lip as the lights go out, one by one, until the only glow is from his own chest, muted, dimmed by his t-shirt. His heart is beating, beating, beating -
“Calm down,” comes Yinsen’s voice, and Tony jumps. How did the man get that close?
“I’m totally calm,” says Tony.
“You’re breathing too fast.”
“Am not.”
Then there’s the touch of Yinsen’s hand on his neck, moving up to his jaw and oh -
He wasn’t expecting the kiss, but it’s long, all the same, and Tony feels a rush, a thrill of warmth inside him, dashing around the generator, nesting inside his chest.
“Yinsen,” Tony says, on a breath.
When Yinsen’s hand settles on Tony’s waist, Tony can feel it trembling.
“You can say no,” says Yinsen, “any time.”
Yinsen is more of an outline than a picture, by the light of the generator. Tony reaches for him, though, and seals another kiss.
~*~
When Yinsen peels his shirt away, the light is all the brighter. Yinsen pauses, and Tony catches something like awe in his voice:
“The way you look,” murmurs Yinsen, “with this-”
Tony tries to breathe, and he reaches out, towards Yinsen’s skin (scarred? Not smooth, but Tony can’t see, he can’t see), clothes sliding to the floor, the cot already screeching, metal against metal, in protest from the weight.
Sex, for Tony Stark, is usually fun. It’s usually quick and thorough and awesome. He likes being a little sore afterwards. He likes leaving before the other person can get up.
This? This is nothing like that.
The kisses are sloppy now, slippery, but Tony physically can’t get enough of it, like he’s drinking Yinsen in, like he’ll never be full, be complete, without this give-and-take. Yinsen whispers incomprehensible words, patterns Tony doesn’t know, doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t have to, doesn’t have to -
Yinsen retreats, briefly, and (with the glint of Yinsen’s eyes) Tony can see the echo of his own want, his own fear.
“If you could see what I see,” Yinsen muses.
Tony inhales against the sudden rush of - vulnerability?
Yinsen is back, then, warm against Tony’s body, his tongue twisting against Tony’s. His hands move down, sure and fast, and Tony breaks the kiss, swallowing a whine. It’s never been true, before, that just being touched is too much for him.
A dip away, and Yinsen comes back, doing something invisible with his hands. He strokes the inside of Tony’s thigh, pushing his legs apart, and Tony closes his eyes, tight, because now, even the dim illumination is blinding.
“You can still say no,” warns Yinsen, and he slips a finger, slick with something (medical supplies, must be, right under the cot) straight into Tony, follows it with a second. Works the muscle evenly and methodically, with trained hands, and Tony tries to relax, tries to ease back onto the cot. But he’s never been so hard in his life, on the verge of begging for it, with a strange, complete trust in Yinsen that he’s not really sure how to describe to himself.
“Oh, fuck,” curses Tony, throwing his head back. “Yinsen-”
“I know.” Yinsen is already moving, and Tony shifts, wincing as the fingers pull away. Oh, god, oh god…
“You gotta,” Tony gasps, “come on, please,” with his breath coming harsh and fast and wow, if Yinsen’s original goal was to calm him down, not working, not working at all.
“Easy,” says Yinsen, urging Tony on his side, fingers guiding, until Tony is stretched open, and hey, that hurts a little.
“Hang on,” manages Tony, a little hoarsely. Yinsen’s hand entangles with his, a light touch skimming over Tony’s palm. And Yinsen eases in, a little at a time, so slow that Tony barely feels it. But they’re connected, a circuit in the dark, electricity streaming from one to the other; Tony can see that as vivid as day. Communication, on a level so far below speech that he’s not sure if speech could even manage what they’re saying.
And then Yinsen starts moving, and Tony comes, immediately.
It’s as shocking as it is intense, and Tony makes a strangled noise, twisting reflexively, riding the ripples of pleasure that don’t seem to want to stop. Yinsen’s hand digs into his hip, and he hears a muffled curse, or a prayer, in his ear - Arabic?
The aftershocks dim, then, and Tony is aware, now, of the close air in the cave, of the reality he’s tried so hard to avoid.
Yinsen pulls away.
“It’s okay,” Tony half-slurs, though muscles not quite under his control yet.
“I won’t hurt you,” returns Yinsen.
So Tony does the only logical thing available, in his admittedly limited brainpower. He takes Yinsen in hand, and starts to bring him off.
Yinsen clutches at Tony, but he doesn’t stop him, just brings them back together, sandwiched as close as they can get. Kisses him again, one arm wrapping around the back of Tony’s neck.
Tony needs to feel it. He came apart, all around Yinsen, and he needs it, he needs Yinsen to come apart the same way.
And he does-
~*~
Tony breathes easy, in the dark.
~*~
“This was always the plan, Stark,” whispers Yinsen.
A pain, so deep Tony will never be able to scrub it out, not with a thousand fantastic one-night stands.
I won’t waste it, he thinks.