Hey, how about soulmate AU when you cannot lie to your soulmate? Preferably with The Winter Soldier being Tony's soulmate, not Bucky Barnes
A/N: Hey hey hey Steve didn’t know and when he found out Told Tony (Almost) Immediately. Ultron...? I guess didn’t happen. Everyone is a happy family. (And the Soldier isn't murder-happy anymore). ALSO I left this as an open ending, mostly because I ran into a writer’s block, although I love this fic. You’re welcome.
“Are you afraid of me too, мой пламя?” The Winter Soldier had been triggered. Fuck. This was the first time he had directly approached Tony, preferring to antagonize Steve or argue (converse?) rapidly in Russian with Nat.
So, needless to say, he was scared spitless. He knew what that metal arm could do. What that flesh arm could do. They had killed his parents.
When Steve had first brought the broken and terrified Bucky Barnes to the tower, he had told Tony the truth. That Bucky had told him he remembered the Starks, remembered them all. That Bucky was sorry. Bucky had apologized, too, after Tony had some time to cope, which mostly meant some alcohol and repulsor-blasting of non-essential components. He forgave him. But he still knew what those hands could do.
So yeah he was afraid. Not that he was going to admit to being scared, he was Tony Stark. “Of-” course I’m not was what he tried to say, but nothing came out. No he tried next. Still nothing.
Was there something wrong with his voice? Clearing his throat, he asked his own question. “Got bored of Spangles, snowflake?” So it wasn't his voice. His thoughts whirled. He saw the Soldier open his mouth, then close it.
“да,” the Soldier said a moment later. “He is easy to anger, but you are so fascinating, like a flame.”
Tony wasn't sure he liked where this was heading. Not a whole lot of people met their soulmates. It was statistically unlikely, given the seven billion people in the world. Still, a fair number of people met their soulmates, nearly 10%.
And apparently his was the Winter Soldier. Not James Buchanan Barnes, but The Winter Soldier. A ghost story to scare naughty spies. The (ex) Fist of Hydra. The person who had murdered his parents.
It shouldn't have even been possible. Had Bucky lived and died as normal, he would have been dead, or extremely elderly, by the time Tony had reached puberty.
But here they were.
(Watch out for the break!)
“Rogers,” he called, not taking his eyes off the former assassin. “Come get your frosty friend.”
“But we have only begun to talk, мой пламя,” the Soldier protested, pouting. Pouting, for fucks sake. He looked ridiculous. “And I cannot lie to you.”
Oh shit, he knew what that meant? Tony was so fucked.
Steve had come close enough to hear the Soldier say that. “Tony?” he asked cautiously.
“Looks like Winter here is my soulmate,” he said, trying for a cheerful tone but falling flat.
“Well, fuck,” Steve said.
Yeah. Well fuck.
--
It had taken a while, and several promises on Tony’s behalf before the Soldier would acquiesce to letting Bucky take control again.
Bucky looked disorientated, like he always did. Shaking his head like a dog, he looked at the worried faces of Steve and Tony. “What did he do?”
Steve hesitated, which only made Bucky look more concerned and upset.
“Looks like your murderous other half is my soulmate,” Tony said flatly. There was no way to ease Bucky into this.
Bucky paled. “What?”
Steve stepped closer, as if to catch Bucky if he fell over. “They- he- They were talking,” Steve finally managed to stumble out. “Apparently they can’t lie to each other.”
“It’s all very exciting, yes,” Tony said, still trying for calm. He was definitely not calm. He tapped at his arc reactor, an unconscious soothing motion. Still there. Still alive.
Bucky opened his mouth and closed it several times, like a guppy. “What?”
Tony held back the snarky (and frankly quite rude) comment by the skin of his teeth. It wasn’t fair to take it out on Bucky, it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t any of their faults, not even the Soldier’s. “Your other half got bored of aggravating Cap, came to talk to me. Said something in Russian - moy pluma?” He shrugged. He really needed to learn Russian. “Said I was fascinating. Not sure why, we haven’t talked before. I couldn’t lie to him, he said he couldn’t lie to me.”
“He called you his flame?” Bucky said, incredulously.
Tony frowned. “I guess?” He stretched out the syllables. “It was... kind of sweet?” Bucky looked so pale he could give a ghost a run for its money, he decided to not divulge that the Soldier had started their conversation by asking if Tony was scared. That wouldn't go over well.
“Look, obviously you need some time to... drink or put your head between your knees or something so I’ll let you stay with Captain Crunch here and I’m going to go call Pepper. And Rhodey. And probably get smashed. Not every day you find your soulmate and it ends up being half of someone.”
Bucky looked torn between grateful and pained, so Tony nodded at them both, and left.
--
After getting spectacularly drunk with his platypus, and blackout engineering with him, he woke up to Steve’s disappointed face hanging over him. He groaned. “What the hell, Rogers?”
“I thought you weren't going on anymore benders, Tony,” he said disapprovingly.
Tony squinted through aching eyeballs. “I think finding out my soulmate is The Winter Soldier means I’m allowed to get drunk.”
Steve sighed. There really wasn't much anyone could say to that. “Here,” he said, setting two aspirin and a bottle of water on the table next to Tony’s head.
Tony took the aspirin, and drank the whole bottle of water. “I love you,” he said gratefully after draining the bottle.
Steve looked amused. “You'll love me less when I tell you you need to get up and get breakfast.”
Tony pouted. “Why? Why can I enjoy my misery alone and in bed? It's the crack of dawn, you heathen.”
“Because you and Bucky need to talk and it's noon.”
Flinging an arm over his eyes dramatically and regretting it instantly, he groaned. “Fine. Fine! Slave-driver. I need to shower, get out.” He made shooing motions at Steve. Steve went, warning again him to be downstairs in half an hour.
--
After a shower and food, Tony felt considerably more human. Almost like he was ready to talk to Bucky. “J? Where's Buckaroo?”
“Mr. Barnes is in the common room, Sir.”
“Okay, great. Good. I got this.” Refilling his coffee mug, he headed out to the common room.
Bucky was sitting on the couch, staring out the window. He looked more fragile than he had in weeks. When Tony cleared his throat, Bucky startled, reaching for, no doubt, some sort of weapon, but stopped halfway. He turned towards Tony and immediately started apologizing. “God, Tony, I’m so sorry. I can stay in my room, or move out, or something. I'm so sorry, I had no idea.” Bucky looked like he was going to cry.
Tony frowned. He had never even considered any of those options. “Absolutely not, and not just because Steve would give me sad eyes for months. Have you seen those? I nearly cried myself.” He shook his head. “No, we can figure this out.” Tony sat on the chair next to the couch, giving Bucky some space.
“I-” Bucky opened his mouth.
“If the next words out of your mouth are some version of I'm sorry or I didn't know, I’ll give you sad eyes,” Tony threatened.
Bucky sighed. “I don't know what to say, then.”
Tony nodded, and took a sip of coffee. “Neither do I. But we can figure something out.”
Clutching a pillow to his lap, Bucky turned to face Tony. “I never thought I- or part of me- would have a soulmate again.”
“What happened to them?” He asked gently.
“Died.” Bucky said briefly. “Married after I was declared dead. Had three kids.”
Tony reached out to offer comfort, but stopped halfway, not knowing if Bucky would want any. Bucky took his hand, and squeezed then let go.
“I'm sorry,” Tony offered.
Bucky shrugged, clearly not willing to accept much comfort about this subject.
Clearing his throat, Tony changed the subject. “Do you and the Soldier.... talk? Or interact?”
“Not really. I get hazy memories when we switch sometimes, but mostly it's just a hole in my memory.”
Tony nodded, his mind racing about it all but it was too early to talk more about that still. Bucky was still wary of the Soldier, and it wouldn't do to prod at him about the subject - yet.
“So.” Tony paused, unsure. “How do you want to proceed?”
Bucky looked startled again. “What do you mean proceed?”
“I mean, do you want me to avoid you when you're in Soldier-mode? Do you want to go on dates as Bucky-and-Tony? Do you want to find someone else while I... feel out this thing with the Soldier? Do you want to ignore me entirely?” Tony shrugged. “I'm forty-three, Bucky-bear. I never expected to find a soulmate at this point, and it is your body. Just because half of you is my soulmate doesn't mean that I have any right to is.”
Bucky was staring at him, his mouth open.
“What? Do I have something on my face?” Tony asked defensively.
Bucky shut his mouth with a click, and shook his head vigorously. “No, no, I just- what would you want with a half-brainwashed assassin, or a traumatized ex-sniper?”
“Because that murder strut of his is hot? Because he called me his flame?” Tony shrugged. “Because I like the idea soulmates, or at least attempting at it.” And he looked very serious now. “And you, Buck-a-roni, you're worth a chance too. You're sweet and attractive and, let's be honest, everyone here is messed up. And that's a good enough place to start from for me.”
Bucky looked at him for a long minute, long enough for Tony to start wondering if he had come on too strong, but then Bucky nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay, let's all try this.”
“Are you sure? An... open relationship between me and you and me and the Soldier?” Tony asked again, making sure.
Bucky nodded. “I'm sure.”
Tony nodded slowly. “I should probably... talk to him,” he said, not wanting to force Bucky to be someone he hated but needing to make sure everyone was on the same page.
Bucky nodded again. “Figured,” he huffed, sounding resigned. “Guess I'll be him more.”
“Wait!” Tony cried. “Not more,” he told Bucky, trying to make Bucky understand. “Never more him than you. I don't want you to lose yourself.”
Bucky gave him a genuine smile. It was small, but real and warm. “I just meant more than I am now, but thank you.”
Bucky closed his eyes, and then the Soldier was there.
“Приве́т, мой ма́ленький,” the Soldier said. “I see you have talked to him.” He sounded pleased.
Tony’s theory was confirmed, but he didn’t want to talk about accepting your other half in order to remember things right now. “What did you see?”
The Soldier was much more tactile than Bucky, and patted the couch. “Come, sit with me, and I will tell you.”
Tony rolled his eyes but was secretly pleased. He was very much a tactile person, and wanted to cuddle as much as possible. He got up and sat on the couch next to the Soldier. “Now tell me, Soldier.”
“That he and I are to share you, мой ма́ленький, and you are very noble, offering to avoid me for his comfort.”
Tony nodded. “That’s the gist of it. So... thoughts?”
“My little one, you have come up with a very good compromise. I am fine with this, although I would prefer to see you more often,” the Soldier said, looking a little troubled.
“Hey, I’m not little!” Tony exclaimed. Ignoring the chuckling assassin, he continued. “I just want both of you to be comfortable, and he’s.. not when you’re out. It takes him back, mentally. But maybe we can go on dates, once a week or something like that.”
The Soldier thought it over, before agreeing. “I will agree to this, but when he his better, I would like more equal time with you.”
Tony took his hand. “We can re-negotiate whenever we need to, Soldier.” He paused. “What should I call you?”
The Soldier cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
“Your name. I can’t keep calling you The Soldier,” he said, emphasizing the capital letters.
“Яков,” he decided. “Or Yasha.”
“Yakov?” Tony asked. “Yasha, I think. I dated a Jacob, and that sounds too similar.”
“Very well, мой ма́ленький,” Yasha said. “Yasha.”
--
(bad?) Russian translation/history
мой пламя - moy playma - my flameДа - da - yesПриве́т - privét - hi (informal)мой ма́ленький - moy malen'kiy - my little one (I stitched this one together)Яков - YakovJames/Jacob is from Hebrew YAAKOV (James was derived from Jacob) and the common diminutive/nickname from Яков is Yasha, which is why you see a lot of Yasha in fics. (I wanted to be different ok)
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Chris Argent/Peter Hale
Characters: Chris Argent, Peter Hale
Additional Tags: Petopher Secret Santa 2014, Age Regression/De-Aging, Second Chances, POV Second Person, Angst, Pop Culture, Background Relationships, Peter is not emo, Chris Argent Is Not A Good Man, but he tries, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Rough Sex, Alley Sex, almost, Loss of Virginity, Anal Sex, Rimming, Multiple Orgasms, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Kissing, Age Difference, Bad guys making nasty threats, Internalized Homophobia, References to Illness
Summary:
You hole up in the guest room. Kurt Cobain is dead, and so is your family.
***
In which Peter Hale is de-aged and wakes up in the future, and Chris Argent gets a second chance.
******
Here is the final part of the fic! Sorry for the wait, hope you enjoy it keepfacepalm!!!!
[I didn't realize this was a threesome I wanted in my life until this moment bless your perfect kinky heart you little angel]
Why is this my life has not been a question which Stiles has asked himself in quite some time. Lately, his days fall more into the category of how. But as a recently turned eighteen year old boy still wrapping up his high school career, who currently enjoys lazy Saturday mornings curled up in soft sheets around two ridiculously attractive and attentive boyfriends, Stiles is not one to question how he came to be there when he could snuggle into Chris Argent, or lazily kiss Peter Hale awake while the three of them debate what to make for breakfast.
Stiles likes to delay getting out of bed for as long as possible. Usually, the fight is contained to the kitchen, and can be ended rather pleasantly if the boy plays his cards right, and Stiles is actually very good at cards.
But he doubts kissing one and teasing the other into distraction will work in the bread and coffee aisle of the only grocery store in Beacon Hills. He doesn't know when exactly Chris became an addition to their relationship. but since then the trio are actually able to be in public together. No one is mental enough to guess the truth that Stiles is in fact in a loving polyamorous relationship with two older men.
It's not that they fight in public often, they don't. But until now, Stiles has avoided the issue by simply insuring that they forget this one simple and stupid item every item, and picking it up on the way over from school.
Why did Chris have to wear his tightest jeans today, god fucking why. Stiles was so busy staring at his perfectly toned ass that he never saw the train wreck coming until it was already upon him.
The shouting has attracted the attention of over half the store, and for the first time since they started this relationship, Stiles actually feels like he doesn't exist at all.
"I will not," Peter snarls, "drink that filth every morning. I did not crawl out of the ground to suffer my first waking hours with disgusting coffee."
"It is not disgusting," Chris huffs, and Stiles swears his hair's growing grayer by the minute. (Most people think the salt and pepper is his age, Stiles knows for a fact that it's the result of stress and hardship.) "it's more effective."
Chris holds on to the red Folger's bucket of Breakfast Blend like it's his favorite crossbow, and Peter's arms are crossed over his broad chest to pull down the v-neck and show off the smattering of chest hair and muscle's that gets the both of them going as if all cards will suddenly be pulled off the table. He's blocking the path to the cart, where currently sits a similar bucket of Black Silk.
This has been going on for a hair pulling and teeth grinding fifteen minutes. That no one who Stiles actually knows by name has yet to walk by is a fucking miracle, and one he knows is not going to last.
Stiles takes a deep breath, and trades the bucket of coffee in the cart for a small bag of fair trade espresso beans, plucks the Breakfast Blend from the hunter's warm and worn hands, and places both items in the cart. Both eyes are on him, Chris's softer ones pinched with worry but secretly pleased, Peter's intense blues looking positively murderous.
"You're both impossible idiots. Chris, you have a stove stop espresso maker. I will use that to make espresso for our favorite coffee snob, you can add that to a cup of regular coffee. It will taste exactly the same, and we won't need to make a second pot to make everyone happy. Hell, you'll probably like it better."
Chris looks at Peter with a smile and a shrug, and Peter huffs out a breath that says it all. Stiles is shaking his head in utter dismay.
"Seriously, when the hell did I become the voice of reason?" he sighs, shoving a hand through the hair that never really dried right since the post-shower fun has now given him permanent I Just Had Sex hair till he washes it again.
Peter grins, admiring the finely roasted and hand selected coffee Stiles has selected for him. He looks both ways down the aisle with furtive glances, before tangling his fingers in the hair on the back of his neck, and pulling the boy in to place a swift kiss on his forehead.
"You're the perfect balance between us Stiles. This relationship wouldn't work if you weren't."
Stiles takes up the pushing of the cart again so Peter and Chris can slip their hands in each others back pockets. He's smiling from ear to ear, even as he checks the grocery list one last time.
It's never exactly easy, but it's exactly what they need.
"You planning on doing something with that, big guy?"
Stiles is staring at him from across the loft, eyes flickering between the blade in Chris’ hands and the Hunter’s face. He just grins; it’s so sharp that Stiles could swear Chris is just another wolf in the Pack. Chris has been grinning at him like that a lot since he returned from University— four years older and somehow now on the offering table.
"Might be," Chris replies, testing the edge of the blade on his finger. "You interested?"
"Might be," Stiles retorts.
Derek’s jaw flexes and he glares between the two of them. ”Can we focus? There’s a wendigo on the loose—”
"What’s your deal?" Stiles asks, brow lifting slowly.
"My deal?” Derek snaps, still leaning over the table, map laid out before him. ”My deal is that you’re not focusing on the issue at hand, Stiles. Instead, you’re too busy trying to get laid.”
Allison’s nose wrinkles. ”Gross, Derek, really?”
Stiles shrugs. ”He’s not wrong.”
“Stiles,” Allison looks over, betrayed.
Chris grins to himself as he polishes his knife. ”Coulda just said so.”
Stiles practically beams. ”Yeah?”
"Yeah."
“Dad!”
"Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll wait until you’re out of the house."
