🧠 What’s an idea you have that you can’t quite call a WIP yet?
Helloo! Thank you for this message, I've sat on it for a few days so I could answer it properly!
I've got this idea for a reader insert/ oc insert DC fic. It's too cliché for me to ever write it tbh. It's kinda a slice of life idea where it's just daily regular life in Gotham really though it'll probably morph into a Jason Todd x yn fic because I'm a simp for him rn. I just really like the idea of a gothamite going about their daily business and having random casual encounters with DC's main characters and being unawares or whatever about it. I feel like there might have been some fanfics that have influenced the idea but honestly I've read that many they all kind of blend into one.
(coffee shop reader insert au anyone? Seriously if there's a fic like that out there hmu, PLEASE.)
So yea anyway, this idea is about an art teacher. This is our (Y/N).
She works part time in Gotham City High School and loves her job. This turns into a bit of a Damian Wayne fic for a while because she's his art teacher and every other teacher in the faculty is having a really hard time dealing with Damian, but she has no idea what they're talking about?? Because sure when it comes to interacting with his peers in class, there's been a few outbursts but he pays attention in class and his work is excellent. She doesn't get the snipping comments and the constant stream of criticism that the other teachers seem to be getting. She just shrugs it off as that she's doing her job and that he's comfortable in class.
So it's like the day before Parents evening and Damian asks if she will speak to his father when he visits his teachers, she was already planning on it, but she agrees anyways.
So when Bruce ends up in her classroom, he's already pretty fed up, he's had some less than stellar reports from his other teachers and he knows Damian is having a hard time adjusting since he came to live with him but he isn't sure what the right thing is to do. He's considering stopping Damian from being Robin but that seems to be one of the only outlets that works for him, so he is hesitant to take it away.
So Y/N meets with him and says - well actually, Mr Wayne, Damian is making excellent progress in my class. He shows a real aptitude and respect for the topics we study and his own projects, both assigned and extra credit show a real dedication to the subject. Honestly, he's a pleasure to have in class.
Bruce goes away thinking hard about it all and being Bruce, he does a background check on her and finds out she is also a qualified art therapist. Long story short, he ends up hiring her to do personal tutoring sessions at Wayne Manor. The ethics of this as a teacher is a liiiil sketchy but lets just suspend our disbelief for the sake of fiction.
Then comes a little montage of her working with Damian in the manor. There's a couple of emotional outbursts at first where Damian doesn't want to think about his feelings and would much rather be given assignments and tasks like in school, so she uses that to formulate her approach. She also sometimes paints along side him so there's less pressure. Damian is adament that no one else is allowed to see his paintings and she actually tells one of his brothers off for prying one time when they are having a break. She also sees and hears things around that manor that dont always add up but she stays professional and so long as damian is safe she minds her own business. Damian reaches some kind of personal breakthrough and Bruce can see him settling down in the house more and things seem good. He still keeps her on for lessons tho cause why ruin a good thing?
So here's where i'm thinking it could be a soulmate au. I'm a sucker for these and there isn't enough imo. I'm thinking that the identifying marks on her are something super generic and boring like "Oh, sorry." So when she overhears Jason referring to Damian as a Brat, she tells him off. He says "Oh, sorry" and walks away but he has what she said word for word on him. And he's a lil emotionally constipated resurrected dude so he does not engage.
Though he does start following her Uber home, just to make sure she gets home okay.
So after this point for me the ending gets a little fuzzy. I'm thinking highlights of it could include:
being invited to a Wayne charity gala (because I really wanna go to one of those just cause)
Bruce investing money into art therapy charities
Damian threatening Jason telling him to leave her alone. Lil jealous nugget.
Jason finally trying to flirt with her only for her to remind him that she has a professional working relationship with the family and it would be amiss of her to entertain him. ouch.
the obligatory red hood saving her from a mugging scene
her finding out that Damian is robin and Bruce is batman and Tim is, and jfc this family.
Finding out Jason's has her words
Some mushy ending where it's all gravy and you skip off into the sunset together.
-
Told you I hadn't thought it through.
But heh yeah, there you go. A WIP that isn't a WIP that I'll probably never write. If anyone wants to run with it, just be sure to tag me in it!
DISCLAIMER: this is a cross-post of one of my old original fics, the first chapter of which - ‘Skype’ - was one of the first posts I ever made on this blog. I never posted the rest of the chapters though, for whatever reason, and because I’ve been drawing and thinking about these OCs again lately, I thought: what the hell. there can never be too much hayfever pr0n on this blog. on the snzblr it goes!
the OCs in question are Isandro (writer, director, Extra af) and Yvonne (director’s assistant, no shame whatsoever)
on to the fic! ( in which I pretend to know fuck all about movie industry stuff )
“You sound absolutely wretched, if you don't mind me saying?”
He does mind. She knows this perfectly well, and takes great pleasure in pointing it out anyway. She also knows he would have preferred to conduct this conversation over email. That's why she insisted on a Skype call. She would have insisted on using webcams, too, but even she has to recognize there is such a thing as 'too keen'. No matter. She'll simply have to imagine what he looks like in this moment. String together a picture, using the clues in his voice.
“It would seem something in the LA air doesn't quite agree with me.”
Sardonic understatement, check.
“You don't say?” She stretches out on the hotel bed, laptop resting on her breasts. “Well, you'll just have to battle through it, won't you? How did the pitch meeting go?”
He heaves a sigh, and for a second his voice sounds slightly muffled, as though he's speaking from behind his hands.
“Milchan seemed quite enthusiastic, and by the end of the day he's the only one we really need to persuade. If we can get him to bite, the rest of them will follow. I'm lunching with the New Regency lot tomorrow. We'll see how that goes.”
“Oh, just crank up that thousand watt charm of yours and it'll be fine. It's a strong premise. And let's face it, your profile has virtually skyrocketed these past six months. We're going to make this movie happen.”
“Of course we are. No need to tell me that.” And there he goes, somehow managing to sound both infinitely arrogant and endearingly nervous in the same breath.
Speaking of breaths, his seem to be growing slightly erratic. As he continues to give her a summary of his weekend adventures in Tinseltown, the strain on his voice becomes increasingly more noticeable, until the part of her brain responsible for interpreting human speech begins to zone out, turning his words into a blurred stream of background noise. Her focus inevitably shifts from what he says to the way he says it. And the way he says it is... distracting. To say the least.
She can almost hear him dripping. Every consonant is dulled beyond recognition, vowels thick and scratchy, threatening to break. His voice, already deep to begin with, seems to have descended from baritone to bass. He is sniffling almost incessantly. Normally she'd tell him to blow his nose. She knows he finds that rather humiliating and she's never had any qualms about bringing him down a couple of notches - quite the contrary - but this time she is curious. How long can he bear it?
Less than five seconds pass and he sniffles again, the thin, watery sound cut in half as he pinches his nostrils together in that combined wipe-and-rub gesture of his that she must have witnessed at least a hundred times by now, the image safely burned into her retina. Thinking about the gesture unsurprisingly makes her think about his nose, and as always it would seem she is quite incapable of thinking about that nose without the muscles in her loins contracting. The strong, masculine shape of it; the generously arched curve of his nostrils; the softly tapered tip; the long, straight bridge with its tendency to crinkle with emotion, be it laughter or irritation. It's a remarkably expressive nose. He has probably rubbed it raw by now, she imagines. He can't help it. He gets so infernally itchy...
“...financing might still prove tricky, given the subject matter, but with big names like that attached I don't... hh... I don't think it's-hhuh... h-hang on a sec-”
...reddened and inflamed, leaking and quivering. That glazed, distracted look in his eyes as he presses a knuckle to his septum to buy himself time, trying to pass it off as a casual gesture and maybe fooling some people, but never her. She can always tell. Having known him for nearly seven years, she has learned to read the signs.
“Ugh. What was I saying? Oh, right, I don't think we need to... t-to-ohh... huhh...! Hah'T- “
Abrupt silence. He's turned off his microphone. Of course he has. She stares up at the ceiling, her mouth hanging open with surprised disappointment. She can feel every cell in her body buzzing, her senses almost painfully heightened and her heartbeat suddenly deafeningly loud in her ears. And then she has to laugh, out loud, at her own frustration.
Serves me right, I guess.
Gnawing on her bottom lip, she counts the seconds ticking by on the laptop screen as Skype keeps track of the call duration. Ten seconds... fifteen... twenty... a minute goes by while she imagines him there, in some moderately fancy hotel room on the other side of the Atlantic, doubled over in his chair, broad shoulders shaking as sneeze after sneeze detonates into his loosely cupped hands.
Eventually she has to ask: “You still alive over there, man?”
A rustling sound and a low groan as the microphone is unmuted.
“Barely.” He sounds both all out of breath, and all out of patience. “Sorry about that. God, this is driving me crazy.” More rustling, the sound of skin scrubbing against skin, and three deep, utterly liquid sniffles. “And before you ask: yes, I did take something for it, but so far it's done fuck all to relieve my symptoms. Maybe it's the wrong brand. Or maybe god just hates me.”
“As long as you don't accidentally sneeze in any heavyweight producer's face, I think you're good.”
“Always ready with a word of s-sympathy, aren't y-you... hhH!-EESCHh!”
She can hear him scrabble to mute the mic again, but either he's too blinded with allergic swelling and tears to locate the right button, or he simply doesn't have time before the next sneeze – the next flurry of sneezes – knocks him off course.
“ESCHhuh! - A'TSHh! - AESHh! - hh...hh'ASCHhah!”
The angry creaking of a chair. The sound of tissues being pulled from a box before - “Hm'PHFFsh! Heh... h'HMph!-mTSHh!-'TSCh! Ughh, I can't believe this...”
Neither can she.
Toes curling and heartbeat picking up speed, she adjusts her headphones and turns the volume up to the veritable storm of sneezes that has flared up in her hayfever-stricken employer's hotel room.
“H'mpsh! AeSCHuh! Goddammit...!”
...
No. God -bless- you.
--------------------------------------------
Two weeks later the studio gives them their green light, and the pre-production carousel spins into motion in a whirl of casting calls, crew hiring, location scouting, set construction, financial arrangements and schedule juggling. She relishes this controlled chaos, always has. It keeps her on her toes, and the stress is easily outweighed by the excitement of finally seeing their long-in-the-making brain baby take its first wobbly steps.
He's terrified, of course. He always is, at the early stages of things. Terrified and inspired and (it has to be said) constantly on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Regrettably he isn't too great at disguising the latter, but his drive and energy, while of the nervous kind, is contagious. He gets shit done, his people get shit done, and while it might not be the most harmonious, laid-back work environment, she couldn't bear being anywhere else. Except, maybe, for when he calls her at nope-o'clock in the morning to rant about his script with the same caffeinated fervor she remembers from when they were both still at SADA. And just like back then, these calls tend to become more and more frequent as the deadline crawls closer. He's an excellent writer, fast too, but he's downright rubbish when it comes to making cuts and trim the finished story down to something filmable. By all his moaning and cursing, you'd think he was being forced to part with one of his vital organs rather than cut a scene from a screenplay.
When he calls her this particular grey, drizzly afternoon, however, it isn't to lament his artistic woes. As it turns out, her employer has a proposal.
"What do you say about being my plus one at the Nightjar premiere on Friday?"
"Okay, Iso, first of all", she says, nearly dropping her phone as she struggles to open the door to her office with her elbow whilst balancing a brimming mug of tea in her other hand, "I can't help but notice you're calling me and it's not, in fact, four o'clock in the morning. Just how jetlagged are you?"
"Very amusing. I'll ask again: will you accompany me to the premiere?"
"What about Ida?"
"She's working this weekend. Not that she'd have wanted to come along anyway. You know how she is with red carpets."
His precious little white mouse. Yes, she knows how Ida is with red carpets. The girl is a sweetheart, but timid and introverted to a fault. You couldn't find a starker contrast to Isandro's loud, colourful personality if you tried. It's the old cliché about opposites attracting, and on a bad day she can sometimes feel a tiny pinprick of jealousy towards the director's wife. For as long as she has known him, her feelings for Iso have been nothing but platonic – a flirty kind of platonic, admittedly – but she'd never pretend she doesn't have a type, nor deny that her employer happens to fit that type to a T. Minus his being her buddy and boss, naturally. That doesn't mean she can't, and won't, appreciate the sight of his streamlined figure in a nice three-piece, when the opportunity presents itself.
"Nightjar, huh? Would I have to actually watch it, too?"
"I'm afraid so." He sounds about as enthusiastic as she feels at the prospect. "I need to rub some industry shoulders at the after-party. Your job will be to keep me company and prevent me from going insane in the process."
"My job?"
"Alright, your privilege." The joke is punctuated by a thick sniffle. Oh. Well, in that case. He has no idea just how much of a privilege it's going to be.
"Better than free champagne, I'm sure," she grins.
"What's th -"
"It's a date, then!" she says, cheerfully cutting him off. "See you Friday!"
* * *
She'll always be impressed by the level of self-control he demonstrates at these type of events, especially given how little of that self-control seems to remain the moment the cameras stop rolling. No matter how miserable he is – and after a hot, dry, windy day like this, how can he not be? - he doesn't let it show for the entire length of the red carpet, with its forest of microphones and lightning storms of camera flashes. Other than the occasional, discreet sniffle or throat-clearing, you'd never guess anything was amiss. It was the same when he was still doing stage work in Stockholm (before he realized both he and everyone around him would be far better off with him behind the scenes rather than in them), and she remembers asking him about it at one point, how come he never had to cancel a show or interrupted a performance because of his allergies. After all, they weren't exactly your ordinary, lasting-for-two-weeks, manageable-with-Claritin type of affairs. They still aren't. Yet, as far as she's aware, he has never so much as had to stifle a sneeze while on stage or in front of a camera. So how does he manage? As she recalls, he called it "character placebo" or something similar. Apparently playing a character who doesn't want to rip their head off during allergy season is actually helpful? Frankly that sounds like some right method acting bullshit to her, but if it works for him... fine. Her personal theory is that his pride is stronger than his need to succumb. Up to a point, of course. He is still her Type with a capital T, after all.
With the red carpet and the screening over and behind them, they make their way to the warmly lit theatre lobby where the after-party is being held. Free champagne. Loosened bow ties. A live band on a small stage, smooth jazz wafting over the mingling crowd.
"Oh yes, this is my jam," she hums, swaying her shoulders from side to side and playfully bumping her hip against his leg.
"Good for you", he mutters darkly, stretching his considerable neck to scan the room, clearly on the lookout for someone. "Ah. There they are. Let's get this over with."
"You get networking, you social butterfly you. I'll get us some refreshments," she says, patting his arm before steering her steps towards the bar, silently cursing her four inch heels which, while making her legs look like a million dollars, also make her feel like a poser. A poser on stilts.
By the time she returns to his side – being a 6'5'' redhead, he's fairly easy to spot – he has already surrounded himself with a small court of prominent industry people. Animated, passionate, the centre of their attention. The success of 'Astrid' certainly put him on the radar, and now here he is, leading the latest push in the Scandinavian invasion of Hollywood. She feels a stir of pride at the sight. Then his hand goes to his nose – sniff, rub, wipe – and that stir spins into something else entirely.
Oh well. I'm going to hell anyway.
"Here you are," handing him his glass of Moët. He takes one, long sip of the gold-coloured liquid and then immediately scrunches up his nose against the tickle of champagne bubbles. Blinks. Draws a breath and holds it -
Whoops. You would think he'd have the sense to stay away from wines, especially the sparkling kind, given the circumstances. If he doesn't, well... that's not really her problem, is it? Nope. It's his. His problem. His rapidly mounting problem, by the looks of things.
I really am the worst friend imaginable, she thinks, not without glee.
"Shall I... take that for you, again?" she offers, gesturing toward the champagne glass in his raised hand. "Just to be safe?"
"Yeh-yeah, that's probably best," he manages, passing the glass back to her just in time to turn away from the group and muffle what must be a desperately unsatisfying sneeze into his steepled hands.
"-'hd'shh!"
Cue a chorus of "bless you!"s, but he doesn't straighten just yet. She watches the long plane of his back rise and fall as his breath hitches to a taut pitch, catching sharply at the back of his throat before being squelched into another pathetic "h'dsh!" between his fingers. A joke of a sneeze. Boo.
"Excuse me," he croaks, finally turning back to face the witnesses to his downfall. Because that's what that was. Cracks appearing in the floodgate. There's no way he's getting away with just two. Iso sneezing twice during the height of pollen season is the equivalent of someone trying to put out a forest fire using a pipette.
Yup, and there's the knuckle now, firmly in place beneath his nostrils. Dark blue eyes slightly narrowed, jaw set, voice growing progressively thicker as he valiantly tries to resume the conversation.
Abandon all shame, ye who enter here! She taps him on the shoulder and holds the glass of disastrous bubbly out to him once more.
Fluttering her eyelashes innocently: "More champagne?"
-------------------------------------
“I better not,” he declines, his tone perfectly polite, whilst shooting her a look like he's plotting her demise. “I can't seem to hold my liquor tonight. Quite literally.”
This earns him a bout of appreciative laughter from the group, and for the next minute or two it seems like he's managed to regain some control, both of his rebellious nose and the social situation. More introductions are made. She gets to shake a couple of hands of her own (and be mistaken for Iso's partner more than once before she can introduce herself as his director's assistant), but as much as she enjoys talking shop with the crème de la crème of her profession, she constantly finds her attention drifting back to the man at her side. To the inexperienced Isandro-observer it might appear as if he's recovered from his earlier mishap - he's all smiles, chatting away and emitting charisma like radiation - but for a... connoisseur such as herself, he's a picture of a losing battle.
“...the project is now way underway... yes, yes, it's terribly exciting...”
'Terribly exciting', in-fucking-deed.
He is losing his n's and m's. In the space of half a minute, his sniffles go from soft to damp to utterly ineffective, his full sinuses sealing themselves shut against the invasion of microscopic irritants. Too little, too late. Now unable to sniffle, he must resort to squeezing his leaky nose dry between forefinger and thumb, and every time he does it sends a small shiver like a low-grade electric pulse through her lower body. At this point she can't imagine either of them being particularly good conversational company anymore, occupied as they both are by what is essentially the same source of distraction. The nature of their respective responses to said distraction is of course vastly different from each other, but the result is the same: she has exactly zero clue what the woman in front of her is saying, and Isandro has likewise reverted to a nodding silence (as glaring an evidence as any that he is at the end of his tether).
Finally, while the group's attention is briefly focused on a new arrival, he leans toward her and hisses out of the corner of his mouth:
“Find me an excuse.”
“On it, captain.”
He gives her a pained, twisted parody of a smile, and then presses a balled-up fist to the underside of his nose, pushing up hard against it as if trying to physically crush the tickle into submission. She can see his pinkened nostrils flex spasmodically in protest and allows herself a silent, inward, figurative “fuck me” before getting to work on the task at hand: getting him out of there with his dignity intact.
Right at that moment, the live band very conveniently ups the tempo and starts playing Benny Goodman's 'Sing Sing Sing'. She sees the opportunity and she takes it.
“Listen, darling, they're playing our song!” she chirps, and tugs at his elbow while firing off an impish smile around the gathering. “Sorry to steal him away, but I'm having this dance. Come on, Iso.”
“There's no refusing the lady, I'm afraid. You'll have to excuse me. Pleasure meeting you all!” And he lets himself be dragged by the hand off into the crowd.
Once they're out of immediate eye-shot of the Industry Somebodies Club he pulls free of her grasp, veers away from the dance floor and heads for the men's restroom located in the hallway at the back of the lobby. She follows him, taking half-hearted Charleston dance steps as she goes, disappointment suddenly blooming in her belly.
Don't go and be miserable where I can't follow, she thinks, like the selfish little shit that she is.
She needn't worry, though. As they get closer they discover a queue outside the restroom door. It would seem the power of free champagne has favoured her once again. Dismayed, Iso stops in his tracks, mutters something that sounds like “men för i helvete...” - oh for fuck's sake... - and turns around, heavy-lidded, watering eyes gazing toward the main entrance on the opposite side of the room. A hesitant pause. Then, without warning, an expression of almost aggressive need distorts his features, his head rears back with a wild gasp and he folds in on himself with a shivering, lung-emptying quadruple, coming so fast on top of each other it's hard to tell where one sneeze ends and the next starts.
“Aeshh'eeshh'tshh'cktshh-!”
It's one of his held-off-for-too-long fits, which can sometimes be triggered by excessive stifling as well. Strangely quiet, the fit still succeeds in knocking most of the air out of him, leaving him panting and visibly unsteady on his feet. As she watches him recover (in the limited sense the word 'recover' applies to Iso at the beginning of a hayfever attack), she can feel her blossoming disappointment from earlier go up in a white-hot flame of anticipation.
“Oh, brilliant. Here we go,” he groans, long fingers back around his nose and working it back and forth, desperate for a respite from the ever-present, maddening itch clawing about his swollen passages. Squinting through a fresh upwelling of tears, he looks from the entrance to the occupied restroom and back again, but in the choice between bathroom acoustics in front of a small audience and the pollen-infused night air outside, he ends up choosing neither. Instead he opts for retreating behind a pillar beneath the staircase to the auditorium. As luck would have it the spot is empty of party guests at the moment, thus offering him a place to fall apart in semi-private.
And when he finally does, it's quite something to behold.
“hih - hhih – hhhih - “, breath scissoring in his throat, mouth slackening open, hands tented in front of his face in preparation to catch the first - “hah'EESCHh!”, torso dipping forward violently, then snapping right back up again, “AEESHHghh!”, and again, “EESCHHah!”, yet his face still remains a grimacing mask of allergic frenzy and he is so very far from done.
The last sneeze caused his glasses to slide down his nose, and now they are balanced dangerously at the very tip of it, ready to be catapulted to the marble floor by his next, fast approaching outburst.
Now that would be a shame. She has always thought his glasses make him look a bit like a hipster accountant, but in the end it's better than having him walking into doors, so...
“hhH -!”
Uh-oh.
“Hold on, Iso, let me just...” She dashes forward and (rather elegantly if she may say so herself) is able to pluck the spectacles off the end his nose just before his head lurches down into his waiting hands for the fourth time.
“ESCHxghuh!”
Four inch heels. Momentum. Right.
And so she gets to feel elegant for exactly 1.5 seconds, after which she trips over her own feet and, propelled forward by her reaching motion, proceeds to fall against her boss like a dolled-up sack of potatoes.
He catches her. No, scratch that: he tango dips her. Dancer's reflexes kicking in: bam. Just like that. Even in the throes of pollen hell he somehow manages to be the smoothest bastard in the room, and for a moment she just gapes up at him in disbelief while he blinks down at her like: “What?”
Then, his nostrils give a violent twitch.
“Oh no, don't you dare -”
And, miraculously, he doesn't actually drop her. In one frantic motion she gets lifted to her feet, but she doesn't quite have time to regain her balance before he sneezes again, not on her exactly (he turns his head to the side) but definitely against her, his towering frame convulsing with three viciously ticklish: “ngTSCHHh!-nGSHH!-TSHh!”
She has never felt more disgruntled over the fact that she's not allowed to have sex with him.
“Oh fugh, I'b... I'b sorry, Y.” He practically jumps a step back, palm clamped over his mouth and blood-shot, streaming eyes widened in chagrin. “Did you get caught id the crossfire there? Ugh, this is so gross...”
“Gross, yeah. Absolutely disgusting. You have scarred me for life. You can expect to hear from my solicitors.” She sticks out her tongue at him, leaning her hand against the nearby pillar lest her legs give way beneath her. She feels like her kneecaps have been replaced with jelly.
Wiping at his eyes with the heels of his hands, he gives another useless, wetly squeaking sniffle and slumps back against the wall, looking generally furious with the universe. And also, still, not done.
“Do you need anything?” she asks, trying for 'concerned' and hoping she doesn't sound too... breathless.
A joyless chuckle:
“My dignity back?”
“I'm all out, I'm afraid. Sorry. I have got these, though.” She reaches two fingers down the cleavage of her dress and fishes out a small travel packet of tissues from its resting place inside her bra. With all the mock-solemnity she can muster, she holds the packet out to him.
“Here. Bury yourself in the warmth of my bosom and feel better.”
He arches an eyebrow at her but accepts the tissues, his eyes already going misty and an irritated crease forming between his brows. By the time he gets the packet open, his breath has started hitching again. As if determined to nip the oncoming fit in the bud, he presses his nose into the the tissue and blows, blows, blows, long and deep and hard, producing a sound that would most likely be described as 'gross' by most people.
She isn't most people.
The delicate thing to do would be to leave him to tend to his nose in private.
She is about as prone to delicacy as she is to finding nose blowing gross.
“Better?” she asks him, as he finally looks up with his third spent tissue still folded over his nose, his fingers massaging the bridge with small, jerky movements. He grumbles something unintelligible.
“Still itchy?”
His grumbling turns into a groan.
“I'm pretty sure my brain is itching at this point.” With a frustrated wince: “When we get out of here, will you do me a favour and decapitate me?”
“Maybe once the script is done,” she deadpans. “After that, I think we can manage without you.”
He's not listening. He's busy blowing his nose again, but this time he is interrupted before he sounds even halfway...emptied.
Warnings: Remus being himself, swearing (it’s me. It’ll be colorful), drunken behavior, implied drug use
Characters/relationships: Patton, Virgil, Roman, Remus, Remy, Logan, Dr. Picani (familial Moxiety, Romantic Prinxiety, background Patton x Remy for which I can’t find the name for, Intrulogical)
Roman Patch dreamed of the day he’d meet his soulmate. The man had the most beautiful deep voice, and it was worthy of praises. Virgil Picani was not so sure. His older brother Patton and Dad insisted that he’d be grateful when found his soulmate. They had already found their own, so Vee was skeptical and believed they had a bias (Heh. Logan would be proud of him. Not that he had a say either, having found Remus a number of years earlier. Their relationship had grown with them and it was cute).
Not that the world cared throwing Roman in his path the moment he walked into school. It was his first day in high school. The entirety of freshman year he nursed a crush. On his first day sophomore year, he met Roman’s eyes. For the first time he could see color, and his crush only got worse. That day he was so glad and his father took him out to his favorite restaurant. Nothing came of it, and he watched from afar as Roman dated, acted, and gained more and more popularity. The few times they interacted, Virgil snapped at the handsome man. The two became enemies and avoided each other.
And so began their Junior year.
Roman strutted down the hall. He was basically a school celebrity and everyone knew it. Other than the kids his brother hung out with, including that Virgil who he hated, everyone greeted him enthusiastically. He smiled as he saw his football player brother, talking with his soulmate and Virgil.
“-Pat’s working hard on his vet degree. He’s already excelling in his classes. He finally found ones that teach in his style, and it’s great. Rem’s been real supportive too-” Virgil was leaning against the locker next to Logan, a small smile on his face.
“Hey Stinker and Co!” Roman called, interrupting the rest of the quiet conversation.
“C’mon Ro! I just saw you. Can’t I kiss my boyfriend in peace?” Remus whined, snapping his gum and looping an arm around the smaller kid. Said boyfriend adjusted his glasses, glancing towards the other kid, who had shrank into a more defensive pose at the noise.
“....I’m going to class. See ya later Lo, Re” Virgil mumbled after a few seconds of brotherly glaring, pushing off the locker. He flipped his hood up and ducked into the stream of kids heading that way. He vanished quickly, having learned his routes by heart over the summer.
“Why did you have to do that! He was just telling us about Patton! Y’know the guy you crushed on for 3 years?!” Remus nearly shouted, his eyes narrowed.
“Whatever. I should follow Jack Smellington’s example and go to class” Roman walked away, a storm cloud hanging over his head. He was just having some fun! Now he was in a bad mood and the day had just begun. He threw his bag down in his study hall. Before the period was halfway over, he had gotten a group listening to his summer adventures and what he was planning for the school year. He left with a bounce in his step again, his soulmate had also been humming! His excitement was quickly shut down when he walked into his history class.
“I’m stuck next to him?” His mouth fell open in surprise as he saw the seating arrangement. At a desk near the back his name was paired with his arch-nemesis's, well more like annoyance but that didn’t sound as cool, Virgil Picani. The boy was already there, scribbling on the warm-up, and his purple bangs were falling in his eyes in the most adorable way. Roman shook his head to clear it of the rebellious thoughts. Instead, he focused on the quiet humming in his head from his soulmate.
“Guess we’re stuck with each other emo nightmare-” the humming abruptly stopped, but it must have been from the bell ringing “-So I better not get your sass the whole time”
“Don’t you worry your royal ass, I won’t say much” Virgil hissed, turning his seat slightly away. That period stretched on and on as the pair did their best to act like the other wasn’t there. Roman was grateful to escape to 3rd block, and lunch afterwards. He was disappointed when the humming didn’t return, but it couldn’t get him down. The school was serving the good mac and cheese, and he raced to get in line. As he was looking for a place to sit down, he heard part of a conversation.
“-How am I supposed to get through this? He acts like I’m the worst...the world” Roman moved closer, choosing to sit with some of the other theater kids at a table near the voice. It was Virgil of course, but he wouldn’t admit that he was actually interested.
“Are you sure it’s him?” Logan was asking, his voice curious.
“Yea Lo, The world exploded in color the moment I met his eyes” Roman’s heart sank at that. He didn’t even like the guy! “-a year ago. I just wish I hadn’t panicked and drove him away”
“If he’s truly the one, things will work out. It’s statistically improbable that it won’t”
“Yea! Logie is right” Remus chimed in, and his mouth must have been full of food the idiot.
“Thanks you guys. I need to get going. My art class is kinda far, and I don’t want to get stuck in the crowd” There was a chorus of goodbyes.
If he hated Virgil, why did it feel like Roman’s heart left with him every time they weren’t in the same room?
The next few months went by in a blur. Virgil and Roman avoided each other as much as possible. They shared half of their classes though, but they barely spoke. Roman sat within earshot whenever he could, and he had better ears than most so it was further than you’d think. He caught Vee, Virgil stupid brain talking with the music teacher after the play practice yet another place they were together for. Virgil was in charge of the lights, while Roman was the lead actor.
“You sure you want to do this VP?” Mr. Sanders asked.
“Yea. I think I can do it. Besides, it’s just those of us in the production. I can handle it, and my father has been bothering me for weeks to do it. Pat’s coming home too, so it’d be nice” Virgil shrugged, the small smile Roman kept seeking on his lips.
“Alright. So, you’ll be ready tomorrow?”
“Yup! See you tomorrow” Virgil called as he raced out the door. Mr. Sanders smiled before he clapped his hands together to gather all the kids to him.
“Alright you guys! We have been invited to a pre-production party. I’ll text you all the address, and I hope you guys can come. It’ll start at 4 o’clock, and wear something fun but appropriate. You can all head home now”
“Sure you can do this VeeVee?” Remus was sprawled across the couch, while Roman stood awkwardly in the entrance to the living room.
“Dad’s the one throwing the party. And the moment I say I’ve had too much, Remy and Pat will take over hosting” Virgil shrugged, lounging next to him upside down.
“They’re here Verge of Greatness” Remy called as the doorbell rang.
“Let’s get this party started” Roman smiled, bowing to the host. Virgil rolled his eyes, hissing an insult as he began his duties. The group arrived fairly quickly, reaching close to 100 within half an hour. At first, everything was good. Roman, of course, took over Virgil’s social duties unintentionally. That left the purple haired kid to hang out with his friends and chat with his brother.
“Songbird” A voice called over the crowd, slightly slurred from the snuck in alcohol. Virgil immediately stopped humming along to the music. The voice continued, getting louder and louder.
“Sing ferrrr us Vergil” Roman appeared from the crowd finally, zeroing on the host.
“Fuckin, Remus, you didn’t tell me your brother was a lightweight” Virgil hissed to the twin that wasn’t drunk.
“How was I suppose to know? Need me to get you out?” Remus whispered back, glancing between his small friend and his brother.
“Fuck yea. Lo find my brother. Re, just,,, fucking help” The pair nodded, Remus stepping in front of his brother and Logan disappearing into the crowd. Virgil darted into the crowd and ran into his room. He closed the door and sank to the floor. He remained there until the sounds faded downstairs. A hesitant knock came from his door.
“Dad?” He raised his head, rubbing his face.
“No. It’s...it’s Roman. I wanted to apologize. I’m not drunk anymore. It...Rob gave it to me and I don’t know what it was, but Patton had to treat me. It was not pretty”
“Why. Why did you go to me?” Virgil asked after a second.
“....I’ve had a crush on you for...I don’t know how long. He said whatever it was would boost my confidence. I guess it did, but it was harmful to you” Roman chuckled nervously.
“Look. I don’t know if I can trust you, but I guess I can’t keep this from you forever. You’re my soulmate” Virgil rested his head against the door again, closing his eyes again. He held back tears at the hopeful voice from the other side of the door.
“Really? Then I’m doubly sorry. I...I’m going now. See you at school on Monday. Don’t forget, our lab is due then” The house went silent.
It took a few months until Roman could look Virgil in the eyes. He’d moved to sit with his brother at their table at the opposite end. He wanted to give Virgil space but his heart couldn’t be denied anymore. The change happened in science class.
“Want to be my date to prom?” Virgil nudged Roman, offering a hand. With a smile, he took it and nodded.
“Nothing would give me more pleasure my knight in shining armor”
“ughhhh that’s so cheesy shut up”
“Ma-” Before Roman could finish his taunt, Virgil kissed him. That solved that problem.
Maybe the rest of the year may turn out better than either of them thought.
Square: G3 - Poly
Title: Strawberry Level Screw Ups
Warning: None
Rating: Explicit
Relationship: Bucky/Tony/Nat
Characters: Bucky Barnes, Natasha Romanoff, Tony Stark, Pepper Potts
Tags: BSDM, Bucky’s been a bad boy, orgasm denial, threesome, oral, anal, vaginal, pegging
Summary: Bucky had one job. ONE. He screwed it up.
Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20220649
Word Count: 7950
Posted for @winterironbingo
“Ms. Potts needs to speak with you, boss,” Friday said. “And I quote, like now, Tony.”
Tony grunted, reaching for his jeweler’s screwdriver, and threaded it through the tiny gap in Bucky’s arm to nudge the new gasket into place. “I’m kind of up to my elbows right now. Well, I’m up to Bucky’s elbow. Tell her I’ll be done here in like... two hours.”
“Tony--” Pepper’s voice came over the speaker, “this is a Strawberry level of screw up if I don’t see you in the boardroom in exactly twenty minutes, in a suit. I have been sending you reminders every two hours for the last three days, you have no excuse.”
Tony paused, glanced toward the clock on the wall. “Today’s Wednesday?”
“Same as it was last week, funny how that happens,” Pepper said. “Get. Up. Here. Now.”
Bucky blinked. “What’s a Strawberry level screw up?”
“It means I’d better get changed and get to the boardroom in the next three minutes or you’re not going to have a boyfriend anymore.” He sighed and closed the access panel. “I’m not done with this, so don’t let your arm get anywhere near any liquids until I can get back and finish replacing the gaskets and seals, got it?”
“Sure,” Bucky said. “I’ll go catch some television or something.” He stood up and tugged his sleeve down carefully until all that was left showing of his arm was the shiny fingers and about two inches of wrist and forearm.
Tony tugged Bucky down for a quick kiss, and then a second one-- “That one’s for Nat,” he instructed-- and then ran for the bathroom at the back of the workshop where he kept an emergency change of clothes.
To give Pepper credit, the meeting was both important and highly dependent on Tony showing up. The two minute brief was enough to get him on the right page and closing the deal with the Wakanda Science Academy was a huge feather in Stark Industries’ cap.
It also meant that it was several hours before Pepper had to nudge him to stop talking theory with Princess Shuri and let everyone go to sleep.
And even with Pepper’s gentle but insistent nudging, Tony and the princess kept throwing things back and forth as they set up a meeting for later in the week. Shuri was brilliant, snarky, and arrogant, so naturally Tony liked her enormously.
He was still on something of a science high as he made his way back to the penthouse, sparking off ideas in a continuing stream -- Wakandan tech powered by Stark reactors, the uses of vibranium as the fuel source for a reactor, relays twenty times faster than any other electronics on the market, with a third the interference, Wakandan processor cores in everything from Stark phones on up to server arrays... Friday’s servers would be exponentially faster and more powerful, and the things he could do for the team! He could halve the weight of Bucky’s arm, for one thing, while making it even stronger. He could integrate Wakandan shielding in everyone’s armor. And oh, the spy gadgets he could build for Nat!
He was humming happily as the elevator opened on the common room.
(more below the cut)
“Hey there--” Bucky said, looking up sheepishly. He had a soda in his right hand, took a long gulp of it before putting it down. “--glad you’re back. I mighta…” He stood up, displaying the left arm, which was tucked against his chest in a sling, the fingers completely limp. As Tony looked, a few sparks dripped out of the elbow.
“Oh, Christ, baby, what happened?” Tony rushed forward, cupping the base of the arm and leaning to look. “Are you okay?”
“A little technical difficulties,” Bucky said. “I… uh. Look, it’s way better now that I got the power deactivated, but I can’t move it. Do you think… maybe? We could fix it first an’ you can yell at me about it later?”
Tony froze for a second, then looked up at Bucky. “Am I going to need to yell at you about it?” Just as he said that, his hand brushed along Bucky’s elbow, and-- “Why is your arm sticky?”
“I thought it might make things worse to wash it out?” Bucky suggested, making a face. He shrugged, lopsided. “Ain’t--” More sparks glittered out of the elbow. “Heh, Stevie might like that, I look like a damn sparkler.”
Tony ignored that, bending further to look at the arm up close. “What did you get in-- is this ice cream? How did you get ice cream in your elbow?”
It was, perhaps, just bad luck that the elevator doors opened from the downstairs level, and Natasha came fuming up through the common room, holding-- an ice cream lid. “Someone ate all my ice cream,” she seethed, brandishing the lid. “My special, expensive. Imported. Ice cream.”
Bucky edged slowly behind Tony, like that was going to help.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Tony said. He reached back and snared Bucky’s sleeve, pulling him back out. “I told you that arm wasn’t sealed and you managed to get Nat’s ice cream in them? You are in so much trouble. I’m not even going to have to do anything, just stand back and let Nat at you.”
“I didn’t eat yer damn ice cream,” Bucky protested. “The grip’s off. I was gonna have like two bites, it’s the creme brulee, you know I like that stuff, an’... the container just sorta… exploded.” Bucky made a gripping gesture with his right hand. “Splurt, everywhere. I cleaned it up. Mostly.”
“Of course the grip is off! You’re missing like half the seals in there, including the ones that register pressure!” Tony sighed. “And now we have to do something about Nat’s mood before she starts destroying things.”
Nat sighed, running her finger through the melted bit of ice cream left on the lid, rather suggestively licking the creamy goo off. “I can think of a few things--” she said, and when she finished walking into the room, her hips had taken on that… sway. “You fix the arm, and then-- you will be punished.” She pointed a finger at Bucky.
Bucky swallowed, glanced at Tony. “Uh-- that kind of punishment?”
“Yes,” she purred. “Tony will be rewarded for all his hard work on your behalf, and I will be pacified.”
Tony’s dick seemed to think this was an excellent suggestion. From the way Bucky’s pupils were growing, Bucky’s dick seemed to be on board, as well. Tony reached out to tuck his arm through Nat’s. “Maybe our snowflake needs to learn the value of patience,” he suggested.
“I’m a goddamn sniper, there ain’t nobody on this team with more patience than I got,” Bucky protested. “What I need is somethin’ to eat an’ for my damn arm to not be on the fritz.”
“You eat,” Nat said. “You will need it. And you-- fix him, so he is not whining unnecessarily. Necessary whining is still open for debate. I will-- get set up. And no fooling around. I know you get a boner for tech, but keep it in your pants. I want him nice and… impatient.”
Nat bent over, offering a rounded posterior to Tony while she kissed Bucky, wet and slick and noisy, until he was panting hard into her mouth.
Tony let himself enjoy the view. How he’d managed to hook up with two of the hottest people on the damn planet, he wasn’t sure, but he was absolutely going to enjoy every single moment of it. He watched unabashedly until she’d pulled away from Bucky with a sensuous pout and sashayed out of the room.
Tony blew his breath out as the door closed behind her. “Whew. Okay, Klondike, let’s get you a snack and get you cleaned up.”
Bucky hadn’t looked away from the Nat as she walked away. “You know, she… uh, can be pretty cruel when she’s in the mood to play.” He slanted a look at Tony. “Better eat somethin’ yourself. And a whole pot of coffee. She’s gonna want you lively.”
“Yep,” Tony agreed. He started the coffee pot and rummaged in the fridge for fruit and cheese. “You can feed me while I work on your arm,” he said, and gestured at the kitchen table.
Bucky pulled the arm out of the sling, tugged off his shirt, and sat down, resting the poor, dysfunctional thing on the table with a thud. “Yeah, reckon I can do that,” he said. Bucky might sometimes be impulsive, and prone to reckless behavior, but he was also the most sexual person Tony had ever met. When the man put his mind to it, he could be downright weaponized.
Feeding Tony bits of cheese and fruit was a suddenly sensual activity. He poured one cup of coffee and shared it between them, making sure his mouth went exactly where Tony’s lips had been moments before, with rather a lot of suggestive looks.
If Tony wasn’t at least twice as good at tech as most people thought he was -- maybe even five times as good -- Bucky might have ended up with his arm glued on backward.
As it was, it took Tony longer than he’d planned to clean out all the half-dried ice cream and restore the arm’s functionality. Because Tony was, actually, still capable of at least a little rational thought even while aroused, he pointed sternly at Bucky. “I still haven’t finished with this,” he said. “We’re just back to where you were when I left this afternoon. So no more ice cream.”
“Pretty sure Nat’s gonna bolt me to th’ wall. Gettin’ ice cream in my fingers ain’t an issue,” Bucky said, and he gave Tony a wink. “Not sure what she’s gonna do t’ you. But it outta be fun.”
Tony washed his own hands and threw a smirk at Bucky. “Yes, it should.” He gestured grandly in the general direction of the bedroom. “After you.”
*
Nat knew the value of a good costume. More than the name and the fake background, putting together an outfit was the key to really becoming someone else. She knew what Bucky liked -- lots of personal attention. Hydra had treated him like a thing, never caring one way or the other if he liked a thing, or hated it.
They hadn’t taken any pleasure in his pain, it was merely necessary.
Tony, on the other hand, was completely playful in bed, sensual and attentive. It was, really, the best thing for Bucky, and she’d been thrilled, watching him blossom under Tony’s nearly awed adoration.
And what Natasha prefered, if she had to be honest, and standing in the middle of the bedroom, trying to plan a scene, she really did need to be honest, was having control.
Hmmm. That was an idea. She dug through her extensive wardrobe and put together an outfit. Of the things Tony actually liked, versus the things he thought people expected him to like -- Tony preferred competence and intelligence. Sexy librarian look it was, with a full kit of inappropriate lingerie underneath. She’d noticed that Tony liked thigh high stockings and garter belts. She left the blouse unbuttoned enough for the men to be able to see the edges of her bra, and the material was gauzy. It’d be see-through if it got wet.
The glasses made a nice touch.
She pinned her hair back in a tight bun; looking messy would come later.
Practical, just a little bit slutty. Well, one more button undone. A lot slutty.
That was her look taken care of. She dragged out the toy box and started assembling the heavy-duty bondage gear. Bucky’s super strength made normal ties and cuffs difficult. She wondered briefly if Tony would appreciate some of the uses to which she’d put his super villain restraints.
On the plus side, super soldier resistant -- and Hulk resistant, for that matter -- furniture was standard issue.
She hooked the stocks to the bed frame, and then sat primly in the straight backed chair next to the bed and waited for the boys -- her boys -- to arrive.
Bucky came through the door first, Tony right at his heels, close enough that when Bucky stopped moving to take in the scene -- eyes flicking over Nat, pupils widening, and then skirting sideways toward the bed -- Tony ploughed right into him.
“What the hell,” Tony complained. “Get out of the way, you big oa-- Oh.” He stared at Nat, wide-eyed and practically drooling already.
Nat very deliberately shifted, crossing her legs and letting the skirt ride up her knee to show off her thigh. “Did we have a productive repair?”
“We, uh.” Tony stared for a moment longer, then shook himself. “Yes? Yes. He’s got movement again. We should avoid any liquids on that arm, though.”
“Thanks again for all your-- effort,” Natasha said. She stood up and ran a hand over the stocks. “These, too. I borrowed them, sort of permanently.”
Tony followed the movement of her hand and blinked at the sight of the stocks. “So that’s where they went,” he said. “Huh. Okay.” He eyed them again, then turned to raise his eyebrows at Bucky. “Ready to take your licks, soldier?”
Bucky shivered, then nodded “Okay, yeah… yeah, I think so.”
Natasha let her lips spread in an interested, eager, creampot smile. “Oh, this is going to be fun. You-- strip. You-- come here, darling and give me a kiss, would you?”
Tony obeyed eagerly, pushing past Bucky to claim her mouth. He took his time about it, unhurried, slow and sensual, one hand cupped around her neck, the other tracing lightly up and down her arm. He didn’t pull away until the soft sounds of Bucky undressing ended.
Nat let herself soften; she didn’t have to. They’d taught her well how to let her emotions stay completely under her control, but Tony liked her soft, so she would be soft for him. “You are a very lovely man,” she told Tony, running a finger over his lip to make it tingle. “And you--” she turned her attention to Bucky, “--are a very bad boy.”
Bucky’s grin was rather unrepentant.
“What do you think,” she asked Tony, “facing out so he can see us, or facing the wall, so you can punish his ass as you see fit?”
Bucky twitched, his thighs clenching and his dick, already at half mast, swelled a little more. He was a beautiful man, Natasha thought. Different from Tony, but just as beautiful. She was, she decided, a very lucky woman.
Tony appeared to give it some consideration, eyeing Bucky hungrily, which only made Bucky even more eager. “I think he should see what he’s missing,” Tony decided. He leaned in to nuzzle along her jaw. “It’s a view worth watching.”
Natasha nodded. “All right--” She picked up one of her favorite toys from the box, a leather crop. “Two licks, to give you something to think about.” She walked around Bucky as if he was an item in the store she was considering buying and smacked that perfect ass twice, once on each cheek before ordering him onto the bed.
Tony took the crop when she was done, running his hand up and down it, watching, as if he was considering getting in a few licks of his own. But he didn’t say anything, just watched, smile teasing at the corners of his mouth.
Bucky climbed onto their wide bed, pushing pillows out of his way.
Natasha considered him, and then arranged him in a seated position, back up against the wall. He made a face at the temperature of the metal against his back. She placed his wrists in the cuffs, arms bent. Bucky gave her a smoldering look as she was crawling over him, getting him in place, and while she locked down the metal wrist, he leaned forward, licking her breast through the material of her shirt, causing one nipple to peak.
“Naughty,” she scolded, and apparently he was all in, because he raised his legs to wrap around the small of her back, tugging her down and making her sprawl inelegantly over him. “Very naughty. Tony, see if you can find-- there should be some leather sheathed chain and a good sized padlock in the chest, please. Apparently our bad boy isn’t vulnerable enough.”
“You got it,” Tony agreed. He rummaged in the chest for a bit. Being Tony, he got distracted once or twice -- “Oh, hey, now this looks fun, we definitely need to play with this sometime.” and “Okay, I don’t even know what this is. How do you-- Oh. Oh. Nice.” But after a moment, he brought her the chain and the heavy padlock.
He smirked at Bucky as he handed them over to Nat. “You’ve decided to earn every bit of your punishment, haven’t you?” he asked, amused.
Bucky nudged Tony with his knee, spreading his thighs appealingly wide. “Wouldn’t you?”
It took a few minutes of shifting things around to get the leather wraps placed so that Bucky’s skin wouldn’t get pinched between links. Uncomfortable was all good and well, unintended injuries were another thing entirely. She arranged the chain just above each knee, and then slid the whole thing over the stocks, pulling Bucky’s legs up in a sling, thighs spread wide, and all of him on display.
She locked the chain just to one side of his throat, and let the ends dangle down, rattling against the metal arm. “What do you think, a pleasing picture, yes?”
“Very pretty,” Tony agreed. He came over to the side of the bed to look Bucky over. He reached out with the tip of the crop and gently poked at Bucky’s balls, dragged the tip up Bucky’s cock. “Yes, very nice, indeed.”
Bucky twitched, let his head lean back against the wall, a soft moan coming from his throat. "Yeah that's very nice," he repeated.
Tony’s smirk stretched a little, and he popped the inside of Bucky’s thigh with the crop. Not hard, just enough to turn the skin red for a few seconds before Bucky’s supercharged healing made it fade away. “Be good,” he chided. He dropped the crop on the bed, where Bucky would be able to see it, the threat (or promise) that it held, and leaned over the bed to kiss Nat again, cupping her breast through the fabric of her shirt, teasing the nipple with his fingertips. “Where do you want me?”
Natasha considered it, shrugging one shoulder which let her shirt slide down.
“Oh, well, if you don’t have any grand plans, I say we start right here.” Tony sat at the foot of the bed, his legs spread in a V that almost mirrored Bucky’s, and beckoned to Nat. “Come here, sit where he can see how beautiful you are.” He drew her up against him, leaning back against his chest, and nibbled at her neck while he slowly unbuttoned her shirt, pausing to tease and toy with her, making her arch and squirm and sigh.
Of course she was beautiful. Like her strength, her cunning, her training. Everything, picture perfect. Sometimes, sometimes with her boys, she could almost feel that her wants meant something to someone. That they meant something to her.
Tony liked her, and he liked her to feel. Wanted her to let it go, the control, the plan. He liked it best when she didn’t have plans, when she just went with whatever felt the best.
She turned her head to the side, letting him make love to her neck. His hands slid across her skin. She loved his hands, the fingers callused, knuckles heavy. He moisturized like crazy -- she knew his skin care routine as well as she knew her own, but there were some things even Oil of Olay couldn’t hide. He worked with his hands.
Honest work.
She let him work on her. From the corner of her eye, she watched Bucky watching them. He chewed his lip, staring intently.
“Enjoying the show?” Tony taunted, sliding Nat’s shirt down and sprinkling kisses over her shoulders. “Too bad you’re all the way over there. You know how much Nat likes it when we’re both touching her.”
Bucky wriggled a little, made a little toss up gesture with his hands. “I’m not th’ one keepin’ you over there.” He shifted again and Natasha could watch as the muscles in his thighs flexed, clenched.
Natasha shifted her legs until she had her high heels tucked up against her thighs, spread her knees to let Bucky look straight up her skirt. Bucky moaned, stuck his tongue out at her childishly when he could tell she was looking at him.
She wasn’t actually touching herself yet. Yet.
Let him think she was.
“Do you like the glasses, Tony?” She twisted her neck to look at him over her shoulder. “Picked them out especially for you.” She kissed him, let her lips drag over his cheek, and the whole time, she moved one hand between her thighs.
“Of course I like the glasses,” Tony said. “Gives you that sexy librarian, hot-for-teacher vibe. Mm, that could be some fun roleplay sometime. What d’you think, Buck, hm?” He drew it out, twisting her nipples lightly, dragging his beard over the soft skin of her neck. “Sound like fun to you?”
“She does have kinda a shush you look on her face right about now,” Bucky confirmed. Natasha watched him watch her, the way his eyes moved slowly down her body to the hand between her thighs. She spread her fingers, knowing there would be too much shadow for him to see clearly. Moved her finger, down, and up. Mesmerized by the way he watched her, as if he couldn’t look at anything else.
“Well,” Natasha said, rolling the words around in her mouth, feeling them. She selected a few of them and gave them to Tony as a gift. “I notice Bucky’s checking me out, and I’m… feeling overdue for a little pleasure.” Bad puns and cheesy pickup lines. They were like catnip for Tony.
Tony laughed -- which was catnip for Bucky -- and said, “I’ll do my best to get you feeling Dewey.” His hand wandered down her stomach and teased at the edge of her skirt, toying with the tang of the zipper.
“You are impossible,” Natasha said, laughing. “That was terrible. I love it.” She arched her back, breasts thrusting up, letting Tony cup one. She liked this, the play, the sense that no one knew their lines, but they had a general idea of where they were going with it. The zipper went down a little, and then a little more.
“You know what I think,” Bucky said, like they were having a conversation. “I think Tony has waaay too many clothes on for this party. Like, I’m th’ only one bare-assed around here, that’s hardly fair.”
Hmmm. “Well, you know, he may be right.” She let the shirt fall away, and stood; the loose zipper showing off a few inches of her hip. “You are overdressed.”
Tony always looked at her like he wasn’t sure she was real; some fever dream that he was going to wake up from.
“Can I loosen your tie?”
Tony spread his hands in invitation, and tipped his chin up for her. As she leaned in to tug carefully on the silk, he said, “I’m stuck on how he thinks this is going to be in any way fair.”
Natasha chuckled wickedly. “Well, he’s still got his delusions.” She pushed Tony back onto the bed, hiking the skirt up to crawl over his thighs. “Besides, I can have so much fun with you, when you’re undressed.” She left the tie about halfway undone, and unbuttoned his shirt, showing a few inches of skin at a time. “I always like a man in a nice suit.”
Tony was elegant, image was just as much a weapon in his arsenal as hers. His skin smelled clean, his beard perfectly trimmed, his skin soft, supple. She nuzzled at his throat, hiked the skirt up again until the tops of her stockings were showing, the little strappy bits of her garter belt revealed. And she could spread her legs wide enough to straddle his hips, showing off her derriere to Bucky.
She gave a little wiggle as she settled over Tony.
Tony’s hands came up as if on autopilot, resting on her hips for a moment and then roving, exploring the curve of her ass, teasing down her thigh to toy with the garters. “I’ll dress up for you anytime you like,” he promised. “Or were you referring to my birthday suit, there?”
“I like the suits,” she told him, fingers working over his belt. “There’s something empowering about peeling a man right out of them.” She slid the belt out of the loops and bent to kiss his belly as she tugged the shirt tail out of his pants. “Do you like that, being half dressed, looking rumpled and knowing that I want to just eat you up?”
“Any man who wouldn’t enjoy that is a fool,” Tony opined. He reached up to brush his knuckles down her cheek, then went back to letting his hands wander. “Or a solid eight on the Kinsey scale.”
“Lift up,” and she scooted back to pull Tony’s pants down to his thighs, showing off silken boxers. She loved that view, eye level to a man’s navel and just looking up at him. It burned low in her stomach, keeping her warm. “He can’t see a thing right now, can he, he’s got no idea what I might possibly do to you--” She shifted, opening the little button on Tony’s boxers and drawing his length through the hole. “Hmmm?” She ran one finger down his skin, from crown to base.
Tony shuddered a little and dropped his head back. “You can do anything you want to me,” he said, breathless, “as long as you keep doing that.” He reached out to pet her hair.
“Yeah? Just like this?” She used just the tip of her finger, up and down his length, slow and easy, giving him her best cream pot smile, her mouth less than two inches away. He could probably feel her breath on his skin. Up, and down.
“Or maybe, this?” She met his gaze, smokey and hot, and kept eye contact as she lowered her chin, and took a long, slow taste.
His eyelids fluttered as he fought the urge to close his eyes. “Christ, Nat... Oh, god.” He lifted his head, peering past her at Bucky, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Doing okay over there, hot stuff?”
“Hell of a show,” Bucky said, and she could hear the click in his throat as he swallowed. “You two are the prettiest things, I swear t’ God.”
“You’re a damn fine sight, yourself,” Tony purred. “I am the luckiest son of a bitch in the whole-- ah!” he gasped. “God, Nat, that’s so fucking good.”
She twisted her neck, took in the head of his cock, flicking her tongue along the ridge. “You’re about to be,” she told him, and then rose up so she could swallow him down, stretching her lips around him, feeling the heavy weight of him against her tongue.
He groaned, legs quivering as he fought the urge to thrust up. “Nat, oh...” He rocked his head back and forth, each breath rasping through his throat. “God. I want to touch you, sweetheart, want... Want you to ride me, let me make you feel good.”
“We can do that,” Natasha said, her voice a little raspy as she pulled off him with a loud, lewd pop. She licked her lip, soothing the corners of her mouth. “I know you want me to leave the stockings on, you want the skirt gone, or just shove it up?” She sat back, reached behind her with one hand and unhooked the bra. Oh, thank god. The weight and easy swing of her breasts, free from that ridiculous contraption. God, she hated underwire. Stupid stuff. It did make her look good, though.
“Hmm, get rid of it. We can’t be depriving Bucky of his show, right?” Tony grinned at her and winked. Then he curled up, wrapping his arms around her and lowering his mouth to her breast, sucking and licking at her nipple.
Natasha arched back, practically bending in half to press herself closer to that clever mouth, that teasing tongue. Jolts of pleasure sped through her and she threaded her fingers through Tony’s hair, keeping his head right where it was.
For a long, blissful moment, she could almost forget that she’d been trained for this, selected for this, and just enjoy it for the pleasure it gave her, for the pleasure it gave her men. It was just for her, these perfect feelings. When she swore, fervently, it was in Russian, and Bucky answered her. In Russian.
“That’s it, kitten,” Bucky told her. “You know how he makes you feel, you love it, don’t you?”
She let go of Tony’s hair to tug impatiently at her skirt, get the zipper all the way down, and-- there was a sharp ripping sound at the seam gave way, but she didn’t even care, just off, off, off.
“Jesus,” Bucky murmured. “That’s hot.”
“That’s our girl,” Tony agreed. His hands slid down her sides, coaxing her to climb over him, to impale herself on his length. He brushed the hair back from her face, ran his thumb over her lips, almost incongruously tender. “Want to see you feeling good, gorgeous.”
She braced her hands on Tony’s chest, slowly lowering herself, wriggled to rub the head of his cock over her sensitive opening, then down, down, feeling him filling her up, stretching her out. When she was flush against him, his cock sheathed inside her, she leaned back a little, moving her hips in soft, easy circles. She waited until Tony made a sound, some sound, and then she turned her head to look at Bucky.
“Oh, come on,” Bucky complained. “Stop givin’ me the come hither look when you know I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
Tony turned to look at Bucky, too. “What’s wrong, snowflake? Don’t you like it when she gives you that look?”
How Bucky managed to give Tony a sardonic expression was rather impressive, really. “Wanna get my hands on you,” he said.
Tony drew in a breath to say something, Natasha wasn’t sure what he was going to say, didn’t care. She started to move over him, driving thoughts and words and reason right out of his head. Or, that was the plan; she knew Tony, the way he liked to overindulge in sensation, to make his brain shut up, and that’s exactly what she wanted to give him.
Tony groaned and gasped, letting Nat drive him to the brink. He reached between her legs, twisting his wrist to tease at her inner folds, short, firm strokes that matched her rhythm.
“Oh,” she cried, rocking her hips against him, feeling his thumb right where she wanted him, ached for it, needed it, and it was so, so good, so bright. She could-- she could--
Her toes curled, calves tightened, thighs clenched. Everything in her twisted up until she could barely move, barely breathe, and Tony kept right on rubbing, bounced her with expert thrusts of his hips.
She reached for it, like her orgasm was a physical thing she could force to submit to her will, and then it washed over her anyway, making her skin hot, cold, slick with sweat and simultaneously too warm, and wanting Tony’s arms around her, holding her tight as she shook herself to pieces. Keeping her together while she let everything go.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “You’re so beautiful, so perfect. I’m so lucky to have you.” When she curled down against him, he wrapped her in his arms, still whispering sweet nonsense against her hair. “I could watch that for hours.”
“Could you, now?” she wondered. “Roll me over, let’s try for twice.”
“Hey, you know, I could help,” Bucky suggested. “And you could watch.”
“You could,” Tony said, “if only you weren’t being punished.” He rolled them over so he was braced over Nat, smiling down at her. He kissed her, languorous and easy, his body rocking against hers. “Ready for round two, then?”
In answer, Natasha wrapped her legs around Tony’s hips, locking her ankles behind his back and yanking him down and into her. “Ready when you are.”
It was softer, that time, smoother. Tony rocked her, and rocked with her, like they had all the time in the world to just be together. She let her eyes slip closed, felt him, his steady weight on her, the way he touched her like he revered her. God, she loved him.
“Oh, look at you,” he purred, and the muscles in his arm and shoulder bunched as he leaned his weight to one side so he could brush his knuckles down her cheek, then trail downward to circle her breasts in a lazy spiral. “Isn’t she lovely, Bucky?”
“Always,” Bucky said, and she turned her head lazily to the side to watch him, the way he moved and twisted in the few precious inches of his bondage, his hips flexing helplessly.
“He’s quite beautiful, too,” she told Tony, as if Bucky wasn’t in the room. “We have ourselves a very pretty--” she groaned softly as Tony did something, moved exactly right, over her “--very pretty man. All ours.”
“Yes,” Tony agreed. He dipped down to kiss her. “You think he’s learning his lesson?”
She swiveled her hips again, spreading her thighs open, trying to get him deeper, until his pelvis rubbed directly over her, and -- “oh, right there--” Natasha shivered, feeling the pressure building up again, all her muscles went tighter. She drew a breath through clenched teeth, achingly aware of Bucky’s eyes on her, of Tony working inside her, the way both things made her powerful, and at the same time, vulnerable.
Giving herself to them was easy.
Letting herself take-- all that they offered and more. That was harder. Like lifting a building.
But she was getting there.
“Maybe,” she gasped. “We could check-- in just-- a minute.”
Tony hummed in response, his eyes intent on her as he focused on his movement, dragging himself over her and inside her, a constant motion, like watching waves surge against the beach. “Come on, darling,” he murmured, “let go, let me see you. I’ve got you, just let go...”
Natasha arched up until her shoulders and heels were the only parts of her touching the bed, practically throwing herself upward, her hands eager on Tony’s shoulders, and she was so-- so hot, soaked with it, aching with the heat of it, and then-- “Oh, oh,” and she was swearing in Russian, throwing the words out there, as everything rushed over her, wringing her out just like a rag.
When she fell back on the bed and Tony settled over her, she almost felt like she could go straight to sleep for a million years. So worn out and used up that she couldn’t have moved a single fingertip, even if the room was on fire.
“You are so beautiful,” she told Tony in Russian, knowing he spoke just enough of it to know she meant an endearment, even if he didn’t know what it was.
“I love you, too,” he said, smiling a little, and nuzzled at her jaw. He pulled out of her and stretched out beside her, propping his head on one hand as the other traced fanciful designs on her flushed skin.
He looked over at Bucky, eyes hot. “Mm. I... want to be fucked.”
“Great!” Bucky exclaimed. “You can come right over here and sit on my--”
“Give me a minute, tiger,” Natasha said, still trying to catch her breath. “I’ll get my strap-on.”
“I have a perfectly good dick right here,” Bucky pointed out.
“It’s a gorgeous dick,” Tony told him, eyes sparkling. “But I’m not sure you’ve earned the privilege of having us play with it.”
“Would it help if I said I was sorry?”
Natasha managed to sit up, flipping her neck to get most of her hair out of her face, the rest of it still plastered to her skin. “Are you sorry?” she wondered.
“Theoretically, I could be sorry,” Bucky said.
“Theoretically,” Natasha sounded out the word like she’d never heard it before.
“Theoretically,” Tony pointed out, “Nat and I could finish up and leave you hanging.”
Bucky took a deep breath. “I’m sorry about the ice cream,” he said. He was talking too fast for real sincerity, but Natasha knew that Bucky had a hard time with apologies. Too many of them had taken a toll on him, but he needed to learn, she thought. Smaller stuff. Not so earth shattering. “I swear, I was only gonna take like two bites. An’ I didn’t mean t’ screw up the arm, it just-- you know it feels real, I forget sometimes that it ain’t.”
“Flattering my tech isn’t the worst way to get back into my good graces,” Tony admitted. He looked at Nat, tipped his head questioningly. He knew as well as she did where Bucky’s limits were for this kind of thing. “What do you think, has he suffered enough?”
“I think he is,” she said, putting on her best fake-Soviet-spy accent that always made Tony laugh, “--how you say? Insufferable. But maybe we could play with his dick, just a little?” She held out her fingers about two inches apart.
“Yeah?” Tony kissed her again, then climbed over her to slide into the open space between Bucky’s thighs. “That could be nice. It is a very nice dick.” He made a show of examining it. “And very eager, it seems.” He ran a finger down its length.
Bucky shuddered all over, closing his eyes. “Oh, god, please, Tony--”
“Please is nice,” Tony said conversationally. “I like that.” He ducked his head and licked a broad, flat stripe up Bucky’s cock, root to tip.
“I like watching that--” Natasha said. She pushed Bucky’s knee, spreading his legs even wider. “Let me watch, right, up close.” Bucky practically stopped breathing, one of them on either side of him. Natasha met Tony’s gaze and they moved with perfect synchronicity, her tongue sliding over one side, and then meeting Tony’s mouth in a heated kiss at the top.
Bucky keened under them, his hips moving, trying to thrust up, fruitlessly.
“Mm, yes, that’s nice,” Tony agreed. He winked at her, and they did it again, slow and unhurried, heat and wet slide to make Bucky squirm, but not nearly enough to let him get any real satisfaction. “We could just do this for a while.”
“Yes, that might be nice,” Natasha agreed. “I mean, I am well satisfied… but how do you feel. You still want to be fucked, which I can do for you--”
“I am right here, guys,” Bucky said, his voice catching again, and then he wailed as Tony ran a teasing tongue over the head of his cock.
“Yes, you are,” Natasha agreed. “But I am asking what Tony wants right now. If he wants to be fucked -- by me -- while you watch, and perhaps he can continue to work you with his mouth. If he feels like it.”
“That does sound appealing,” Tony said. “You know how much I like to be in the middle.” He punctuated that with another flicker of his tongue, making Bucky writhe. Then he sat up a little. “Hand me the lube. I’ll prep while you’re getting strapped up.”
Natasha grabbed the lube, slick stuff, good for working with her toys. “And for him,” she said, handing him one of the flavored bottles. She looked through her collection; most of the various plugs and dildos and vibrators they used could hook into her belt -- one of the side benefits of having a genius who liked to design things as a lover. Tony was always adjusting their toy collection.
She selected one, red, that looked good against the black harness. Simple, smooth, a little tapered for the perfect angle, with a variety of vibration settings. She got out a few condoms, too, in case she decided to switch from Tony to Bucky. The boys liked that, sometimes. She eyed Bucky again. Well, probably not tonight, he was already looking a bit worn out. Tony had slicked him up with the flavored lube and then just… left him there.
Beautiful, desperate. And completely theirs.
Tony finished prepping himself -- he was faster and rougher, doing it himself, than either Natasha or Bucky were -- and tossed Nat a wink before getting up on his hands and knees, his arms braced against Bucky’s thighs. “Yeah, this will be good. Right, Buckaroo?”
Natasha lined herself up, getting on her knees behind Tony, testing the pliancy of the muscle with one gentle finger. “I have you,” she told Tony. Soft as it was, the silicone was still a little stiffer, less giving than an actual dick. She liked it, though, wearing it, feeling someone moving under her. Control. Dominance. For a few moments, she owned them, and both of her men were very responsive to it.
She pushed in, an inch, watching the red cock disappear into Tony’s ass. She kept a hand one one of his ass cheeks, gauging pressure by the way his muscles clenched. “There you go,” she said. “You should see this, Bucky, how eager he takes it.”
Bucky didn’t say anything, his head thrown back as Tony was slowly mimicking her motions, using his mouth to take Bucky in.
Tony’s mouth was too occupied to say anything, but he wiggled his ass at her, because Tony had to make his opinions known at all times. He bent a little farther, and Bucky’s thigh muscles tightened and jumped, desperate to move.
Natasha waited, pushed in a few inches, a bit more, and then thumbed the remote on her belt. The vibe started out slow, a gentle, teasing tingle that she could feel against the harness.
Tony groaned, and the vibrations of it made Bucky jump and whimper, hands flexing restlessly in their restraints. Tony moaned again, more deliberately, and arched his back, trying to get Natasha even deeper.
She met Bucky’s gaze over Tony’s back, him a little desperate, her cool and collected.
“You like it,” Bucky said, softly. “Being in control.”
“You know I do,” she said, and she turned the remote up a little higher, a steady thrumming pulse and she rocked in time with it. She knew she had it right when Tony started making pleasant little whimpering noises.
She did like being in control. Not because it let her control them, even though they would probably try their best to give her the moon if she thought to ask them for it. But because she’d had so little that was in her control, for most of her life. She did what she was told, took what partners she was assigned.
All this-- this was her choice. Her voice that mattered. Her men, who loved her desperately.
“And you love this-- being able to trust us, so utterly.”
Natasha jolted her hips, once, twice, three times, and Bucky closed his eyes, yielding to the friction and pressure and truth of the moment.
“Tony--” Bucky said, voice shaking apart. “Oh, god, Tony, love you, doll, oh, that’s so good--”
Tony moaned around Bucky’s cock, not quite limp but letting Natasha move him, surrendering to her control. It was one of the ways they fit together -- where Natasha craved control, Tony, whose extremely public face was nothing but power and control, needed to occasionally let go, let someone else take over. He leaned into Bucky, letting Natasha’s movements drive both of them.
Natasha put her hand on the small of Tony’s back, steadying him, and then turned the remote up again, just to the point of too much, wringing pleasure out of Tony, feeling it in her own groin, practically in her teeth. “There you are,” she said, stroking his back, his flank, his ass. She bent a little, reaching around his side to grip his cock in her hand, giving him pressure and friction, a fist to thrust into.
Bucky stretched, and she could reach his fingers over Tony’s back; it was a tight squeeze, but once Bucky had hold of her hand, he could pull her in, until they were all working in tandem for some impossible, improbable, and decidedly necessary goal.
Tony bucked into her hand, jolted back onto the dildo, every breath harsh, half-sobbing with need. It wasn’t much longer before his whole body went taut and quivering, his cock pulsing in her hand as he came.
Bucky squeezed her fingers, abs straining as he wiggled in his chains, and she watched him intently as his face went tense, eyes squinting shut. He was close, she could tell, and Natasha pulled her hand free of Bucky’s twined her fingers through Tony’s thick hair and tugged, forcing his head up and back. Tony groaned, deep in his throat, and Bucky arched again, the stocks biting into the skin at his wrists, and then he was shouting, harsh, heavy words in Russian that her own mind was too weary to translate; swears and profanities and sacred words all garbled together.
Tony swallowed, licking Bucky clean until Bucky was whining and squirming from oversensitivity. When Tony finally pulled off, it was with an obscene, wet sound. He rested his forehead against Bucky’s stomach for a short while, catching his breath. “That’ll show you,” he rasped.
Natasha laughed and it jolted through all of them, and then remembered to turn the vibrator off. “Chastised? There was nothing chaste here.”
“And thank god for that,” Tony agreed. He didn’t lift his head, but he reached behind him until he’d found some part of Natasha -- her arm, as it happened -- and patted it. “You satisfied? Need more?” Tony was generally only good for one round. Bucky could go several, but probably not this time, with how intense things had been. But they were both careful to make sure she was fully sated, every time they fell into bed.
“I am quite excellent,” she decided. “And while Bucky still owes me ice cream, I believe he is quite repentant.”
“That’s what all the cool kids call it,” Bucky agreed.
She carefully withdrew from Tony’s body, and then unbuckled the belt, letting the kit fall to the floor. Cleanup later. She got the key and let Bucky down, found a spot in the bed relatively unoccupied by men or wet spots, and curled into it. Yes, she was… quite satisfied.
Tony helped remove Bucky’s restraints and dropped them over the side of the bed, then snuggled up against Bucky’s side, wrapping his arms and legs around Bucky’s like a particularly aggressive octopus. “Nap,” he decreed. “And then we’ll order more ice cream and I’ll finish fixing your arm.”
Natasha poked Tony in the hip. “Order ice cream now, it will be here when we are done napping.”
“Better do what she says,” Bucky murmured. “I’m too tired to be punished again, so it’ll be your turn.”
“That’d be a shame.” Tony didn’t sound very sincere about that. But he did follow it up with, “Friday? Ice cream delivery.”
“You got it, boss,” Friday agreed. “Have a nice nap.”
