Jan. 6th, 2017

ladyshadowdrake: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2hWia7S:
Next part - and welcome Tony to stage. About 6k words, so watch for the cut.

Part One

Music poured onto the street, a thumping base and a higher sputter of melody that made Steve’s heart rate pick up. Steve hesitated on the sidewalk, eyeing the long line to get into the club. His throat tightened and he swallowed hard, trying to loosen it. The tightness spread down to his collarbone, and into his sternum, making his chest ache. He felt the ache in his shoulders, his elbows, his hips, his ankles. It was a fever-ache, and no position was comfortable – even standing still sent throbbing pulses up his legs and wedged a deep pain in his lower spine.

The people in line added to the thrum of the music. They were a constant tug on his attention, a radiating warmth that made him shiver. His teeth ached, and his mouth flooded with saliva.

He moved a hand over his stomach, even though he wasn’t that kind of hungry. He was frustrated and unhappy, restless in his own skin.

“Hey, buddy!”

Steve looked up. The bouncer had one end of the velvet cord in hand, his eyebrow twitched up his forehead, chin tilted slightly down, but chest thrust out. It was the curious mix of subservience and dominance that a man in his position had to take on.

“You coming in, or what?”

Steve transferred his gaze to the long line of patrons waiting to get in and then cocked his head questioningly at the bouncer. He pried a hand out of his jacket pocket to gesture to the waiting crowd. “There’s a line.”

“Not for you, hotcakes. Come on.” He gestured into the darkened interior and gave Steve an obligatory smile, turned down slightly at the edges. He didn’t meet Steve’s eyes.

Normally, Steve would have gotten in line with the rest of the patrons. He glanced over at them again, expecting anger and annoyance. There was some of that, but more of them were eyeing him in either trepidation or lust. He ducked his head, kept his eyes away from theirs, and slid sideways into the depths of the club.

Steve hated the noise, the crush of bodies, the mingled scents of sweat, colognes and perfumes, the dry ozone of the fog machines, the sharp tang of dust burning on the lights. He’d always hated clubs, but the ache started fading as soon as he’d stepped down to the floor. He’d gone with Bucky the first few times, watching his friend work his magic among the patron that flocked to Steve’s side. It had been miserable with their hands on him stacked against the knowledge that he could Seduce any of them and they wouldn’t be able to say no if he didn’t want them to. So he started going alone, huddled against the bar for as long as he could get away with being alone, and just soaked up the energy of the room. When the ache got bad enough, he would move into the crowd and stand among the strangers to feel their skin brushing against his.

He let out a slow breath, felt his shoulders start to unknot. His entrance did not go unnoticed, and fingertips ghosted over his shoulder and down his spine as he passed through the crowd. His skin jumped, and his throat tingled at the contact, but he shied away from the hand and pushed his way to the bar.

“Stupid,” he hissed to himself. Contact was what he’d dragged himself into the club for in the first place.

A long-limbed nymph slid down the bar. She was just over seven feet tall, with pale green skin and luminous yellow eyes, her hair caught up in a tall violet swirl atop her head that added another foot to her height. Her neck seemed too slender and too long to hold her head up, but she leaned down to the bar top with a graceful swoop.

“What can I get for you, lover?” she asked.

It was hard not to stare into her eyes. He had to flicker his gaze away from hers half a dozen times before he could unstick his tongue to say, “Water, please. Cold.”

Her eyebrow hiked up her forehead and her lips curled into a smile. “Anything you say, doll.” She reached down and came up with an icy mug that Steve would have expected to be filled with beer. She slid the glass under a tap and hooked a long finger around a lever.

Steve watched avidly as the water gushed into the glass. He was aware of the bartender’s eyes on the side of his face and felt a hot flush of shame in his gut, but he took the mug with both hands and nodded to her in mute thanks. He’d only meant to order tap water, but the clean scent of the chilled glacier water hit him and he couldn’t correct the order. She set the mug on a cardboard coaster and slid it over to him. His mother would have had a fit if she’d caught him paying for ‘fancy water.’ At a club, he was probably looking at twelve or fifteen dollars for the chilled mug, but his throat was practically on fire. He would have paid twice whatever they were asking.

“On the house,” she said when he shifted to get to his wallet. She winked one yellow orb at him when he sucked in a breath to protest. “Guys like you are good for business, sugar. Name’s Veridilynn when you’ve got someone on hand who might like something stronger.”

Steve winced and looked away from her. She lingered for a moment, and then unfurled back to her full height and moved away. Steve turned away from the bar and leaned back against it. A dozen high fae had claimed the center of the floor, and the surrounding dancers kept a discreet distance while they twirled and generally ignored the beat of the music. Around them, every manner of being, human and creature alike, swayed like they were caught in an invisible tide. The energy wafting off of the crowd was thick enough to feel against his cheeks, and he took a long swallow of water to stop the immediate desire to push into the mass of flesh and feel that tide himself. The water was so cold that it made his soft pallet ache, but the relief on his throat was amazing. He meant to put it down, but just kept going.

“New to the club scene?”

Steve reluctantly pulled the glass away from his lips, startled to see that he’d finished off nearly half of it, and looked to his left. A sharply dressed man leaned one elbow against the bar, the top two buttons of his red shirt open to expose an inviting stretch of skin. It took Steve half a dozen heartbeats to pull his eyes away from it and take in the rest of him. The glass felt suddenly colder in his hands, and he set it hastily aside.

“That noticeable?” he asked, shouting over the pounding of the music.

The man leaned in close enough for Steve to feel his breath on the side of his neck. He cradled a tumbler in one hand and his breath smelled like scotch. “Doesn’t seem like someone of your… persuasion would be a novice in a club.”

Steve’s hands clenched into his fists and his lips thinned down. A familiar surge of anger flooded his limbs. He sucked in a breath through his nose and let it out. “Doesn’t seem that way,” he agreed. The man’s scent and his body heat were doing strange things to Steve’s insides. It made his bones feel like they were vibrating under his skin. He turned automatically toward the spicyearthyvanilla scent of him, finding his eyes and holding them.

The music faded to a watery pulse, and the temperature in the room plummeted downward. Steve felt the tightness in his throat loosen, and his entire attention was consumed by cinnamon dark eyes.

A sudden stab of pain in his chest made him stumble backwards. Music exploded around him, and he doubled over, hands flying to his ears, but he couldn’t block out the sudden shriek of sound, the pulse of the base in his bones, or the gnawing hunger in his chest. It passed after a long moment of agony, leaving him feeling shaky and dehydrated, his head pounding.

Swallowing hard, Steve pressed his palms to his knees and tried to convince his spine to straighten. His mug appeared in front of his face and he blinked at it, startled, before reaching out to wrap his hands around it. By the time he’d drained the rest of it, he was able to stand upright again.

“Did you… were you trying to Seduce me? Capital-S Seduce?” Steve’s would-be prey asked, smiling widely.

Steve flinched. He was surprised that the man hadn’t run the second Steve’s concentration had broken. He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers into his temples. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to.” Even in a place like this, enthralling a human without consent was illegal and dangerous. The hunger pressed in closer until he felt like he was suffocating on it.

A hand wrapped around his wrist and gave him a sharp tug. Steve stumbled off the step and down to the floor, following the man he’d unintentionally tried to enthrall. His first instinct was to pull away, but the human’s skin on his was too much to turn down. The simple contact was enough to soothe the ache in his left arm, and the relief was almost enough to make him moan. He shivered as he was tugged through the crowd. More contact, bodies brushing against him, their warmth and scent and energy buffeting him side-to-side.

He didn’t even notice that they’d left the club until a gust of cold wind slid under his jacket. His eyes popped open when he didn’t realize he’d closed them. They were back on the street, Steve and his strange companion. He tugged his wrist out of the man’s grip and stepped back. The loss of contact felt somehow worse than before this human had grabbed him. He pulled his arm in automatically to cradle it against his chest.

“You really are bad at this,” the man observed with a big grin. He’d pushed the edges of his jacket out of the way to shove his hands into his pockets, and was even more alluring under the yellow glow of the streetlight, looking wicked and faintly dangerous.

“You drag strangers out of clubs all the time?” Steve asked, already turning back to the door.

“Only starving incubi who don’t know how to feed,” the man said casually.

Steve froze and turned back around. He glared at the man. “Why do you think I’m here in the first place?” he spat out.

“You wanna learn?”

Eyes narrowed, Steve looked the man over carefully. He scented the air, and got a laugh for his efforts. He couldn’t pick out the man’s natural scent under his cologne anyway, not with the additional confusing scents of engine oil, gasoline, garbage, and cigarette smoke hanging in the air as well. His face flushed hotly and he felt another twist of embarrassment in his gut and crossed his arms over his chest, looking the man over for any clues that he might be a creature of some kind.

“I’m human,” the man confirmed, eyes glittering. He held a hand out and gave Steve a devilish smirk. “And willing.”

Steve looked back at the club. He’d always hated them, even before he’d manifested. Now, it was a swirling black hole that he still hated, but couldn’t avoid. Just being there was enough to stay alive. He turned his attention back to the stranger. The man hadn’t put his hand down, his smile still inviting. Steve stepped forward cautiously and slid his hand into the human’s grip.

“Steve Rogers.”

“Tony Stark,” the man returned, squeezing Steve’s hand warmly. “The pleasure is all mine,” he added, and then gave Steve a saucy wink. “Well, hopefully not all mine.”

~*~

Steve didn’t realize that ‘Tony Stark’ meant Tony Stark until he followed the man’s candy apple red Porsche to a garage under Stark Tower. By the time they turned onto Park Avenue, Steve continued following mostly out of curiosity. When the Porsche turned into the garage entrance labeled private, he’d pulled over to the curb to wait for Tony to get out and laugh at him for falling for whatever sick trick he’d been playing. After a brief wait, the doors had rolled up and Steve had bemusedly followed the Porsche down the ramp.

“Park wherever. What even is that, by the way?” Tony asked as he unfolded from behind the driver’s seat. “It looks like an antique.”

Steve patted the bike affectionately “1973 Triumph Trident 750.”

“Front disk, 5-speed gearbox… Good year for the Trident. Looks like you’re holding it together with chicken wire and paperclips, but I’m impressed that it’s even running.” He sauntered across the garage and gently tapped the tank with two fingers. He followed the gentle curve of the tank to nestle the back of his hand against Steve’s groin. “I’m not easy to impress,” Tony assured him with a leer.

“Insulting my bike is not the way to get into my pants,” Steve told him, leaning forward to whisper against his ear. He was acutely aware of Tony’s body heat, the shape of his knuckles pressing against Steve’s jeans. It was a struggle not to meet his eyes, especially with Tony staring intently

Tony shuddered deliciously and swayed toward Steve. It was tempting to just grab him, bend him over the curve of the gas tank, feel his skin. From the way Tony ran his tongue over his bottom lip, he probably wouldn’t object. Steve let out a slow breath and leaned away from him.

Making a disappointed moue with his – very pink – lips, Tony dragged his fingers back up the tank and tapped again, ratt-tat-tat, and then pushed his hand into his pocket. He flashed a playboy smile at Steve and then jerked his head toward the door at the other end of the garage. Steve watched him go, a confident saunter between all the luxury cars. Steve let his eyes drift over them – he counted twelve, each one arranged precisely to its best advantage, lit from above and below, and all of them worth two or three times what he made in a year. With all that sparkling Money around him, his primer-spotted bike looked especially dingy.

Tony paused between an Aston Martin and a Lamborghini to look back over his shoulder. He made sure Steve was paying attention to him before drawling, “Coming?”

Steve thought about just turning the bike around and driving back up the ramp, into traffic, away from the craziness of being in Tony Stark’s garage. Back to the apartment he shared with his very attractive, very human roommate, aching and hungry, to watch Bucky walk around the kitchen half naked with his most recent conquest snoring in the other room.

Letting out his breath, Steve reached down to turn the bike off, shoved the kickstand down, and turned the handlebars to tilt his front tire to the right. He must have been imagining the flash of relief and self-consciousness he saw on Tony’s face when he looked. Whatever it was, it cleared immediately and the cocky smirk was back. He turned back around and weaved his way lazily between the cars on the way to the door. Steve stifled a laugh, recognizing that Tony was giving him permission to wander among the cars and look. It was tempting. More tempting to put Tony over one of the hoods, and Steve’d had no idea that he had such a thing for automobiles before.

He chose to take the most direct path, meeting Tony just in front of the elevator. Tony reached up for him, and Steve leaned down. He kept his eyes tightly closed as Tony’s lips met his, warm and soft and slightly moist. He still tasted like whiskey, and his mustache tickled Steve’s upper lip. Steve hunched down, his arms slipping around Tony’s waist to tug him upward. There was only a few inches difference in their height, Steve’s ‘late growth spurt’ finally seeming to stop at just over six feet, but Tony’s knees went to liquid and Steve ended up supporting most of his weight. It felt strangely exhilarating to hold the body –

Steve set him down and pulled away sharply. Tony, not ‘the body’ but Tony. He repeated the name a dozen times while Tony was getting his feet underneath him.

“Man… I know I said ‘starving,’ but you are… starving,” Tony said breathlessly. “I’m going to have to have to clear my schedule for a few days.”

A blush spilled hot and frantic across Steve’s cheeks. He stepped back, holding his hands out in case Tony fell. Tony just grinned at him, leaning one shoulder against the wall.

“You are a treat,” he said, which only made Steve blush harder.

Steve shuffled back another step, the ramp back up to the street starting to win out against even a full meal. He winced. Tony wasn’t a meal, he was a person.

“Stop crisis-ing over this,” Tony suggested, reaching back to key the elevator door open. “Like I said – willing. Believe me, very willing.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Steve said softly. He shivered, closing his eyes. “A hungry…” Steve swallowed a gag and made himself continue. “A hungry incubus is dangerous.”

Tony didn’t respond immediately. The elevator door opened with a ding and Steve finally opened his eyes again to see Tony giving him a softly amused look. The man gestured him forward. “I’m well protected. Even against someone like you, big guy.” He stepped backward into the elevator, reaching up to pull his collar aside.

Steve’s eyes fastened onto a brief flash of gold. He inched forward, and Tony stepped backward. Steve understood that Tony was leading him, luring him like a wild animal, but he went anyway. The door closed behind him and Steve reached forward to touch the barely-visible arc of pale golden ink. Tony slid another button open and pulled his collar open further. A faint mark was just barely visible snuggled up under his collarbone, only a few shades lighter than his skin.

“It’s a ward,” Steve realized, his fingers drifting over it. He could feel the faint tingle of magic on him, and he could taste it, a bitter, coppery flavor on the back of his tongue. He drew his fingers away and the sensation and taste both faded. “That’s why I couldn’t Seduce you.”

“That’s why you couldn’t Seduce me into a thrall. No hard feelings,” Tony assured him when Steve winced, and there was no recrimination in his voice, only a sort of amusement that Steve thought was terrifyingly cavalier considering what he’d narrowly escaped.

“So… You can practice on me all you want and you’ll never be able to enthrall me,” Tony continued with a smirk.

Something primal and dark in Steve insisted that he could if he tried hard enough, that he was stronger than any ward, but the thinking part of him sagged in relief. He still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around what he’d tried to do, what he might have done if Tony hadn’t been warded, if it had been anyone other than Tony. He could have done serious damage to an unwarded human’s mind. What was he doing following the human he’d almost enthralled home? Tony might be holding more of a grudge than he let on – might be one of those snares Steve had read about in the paper, people who lured creatures into illegal behavior, took them home and tortured them to death.

He took a step back, feeling suddenly overwhelmed and uncertain. His head was foggy, and he was having a hard time thinking. He was just so hungry, so full of want and need, and was living his own ‘tortured to death’ at home every day. He didn’t think there was much even a highly motivated snare could do to him that would be much worse. Besides, he was Tony Stark. He couldn’t buy a new pair of socks without making a headline.

Tony held his arms out and Steve sank into them, one hand automatically pulling his shirt back over the ward, the other wrapping around Tony’s waist and drawing him back up. Tony’s head fell back in blatant invitation and Steve sealed his mouth to the exposed skin, warm and thick with his scent, a touch bitter with cologne, and singing with life. Steve could feel Tony’s pulse against his tongue, and it soothed some of the wildness in his chest.

Tony shivered and pressed up against him, hips pushing so far forward that Steve finally reached down and hauled his legs up. Tony eagerly wrapped his legs around Steve’s waist, hands coming up to brace on his shoulders. Steve was vaguely aware of the elevator moving, and wondered in the back of his head when Tony had been able to press any buttons, but as long as they were moving toward a bed, he didn’t really care.

The elevator opened and Tony shoved hard against him, making Steve stumble backwards. He scrambled to catch Tony before they overbalanced and shuffled into the room. He tore his mouth away Tony’s stubble enough to say, “You could have asked.”

“I prefer efficiency,” Tony told him. He rolled his hips down and braced his elbows on Steve’s shoulders, wrapping his hands around the back of Steve’s head and holding him still to seal their mouths together again.

Steve stopped in the middle of whatever room he’d blundered into, entranced by the feel of Tony’s mouth on his. He could feel the now-familiar ache in his chest, and the tightness in his throat, but just having Tony’s skin on his was making the persistent pain fade. He became aware of Tony’s wiggling, but just held him tighter until Tony finally pulled away.

“You are just not going to be led are you?” Tony panted.

Steve stared up at him, blinking slowly. “I’m not a horse,” he said once his mouth had caught up to his brain.

Tony snorted a laugh. “A centaur is one thing I haven’t tried yet,” he said in a teasing undertone.

“Centaurs are not ‘things’ and they’re not horses either,” Steve said, taking a stab at firm, but ending up somewhere along the lines of distracted. He pressed his nose back to Tony’s neck and nuzzled under his jaw, enjoying the scrape stubble against his nose. Tony murmured something under his breath, but Steve’s burning throat was not interested in paying attention. He felt out with a blind hand until he ran into something upholstered. He rolled his fingers over it just long enough to confirm that he’d found the back of a couch, and tipped Tony over it.

The man hit with a soft fwump and a laugh. “This works,” he said, holding his arms out again.

Steve had just enough presence of mind to toe his shoes off and then climbed over, dropping down to kneel between Tony’s readily spread legs. He set his hands on Tony’s knees and ran his thumbs in circles over the fine fabric of his slacks. He could feel Tony’s eyes on his face and bit at his lower lip. Since he’d manifested, he’d become obsessive about keeping his eyes away from other people’s, and it was a physical effort to look up.

Tony’s eyes were intelligent, clear, warm cinnamonliquidcarameldark. Steve’s breath calmed, and the tightness in his throat loosened. He felt his perceptions narrowing down again, the partial darkness of the room around them fading until he could have been floating in cool water.

“Easy,” Tony said softly, “I’m not going anywhere, don’t push.”

Steve didn’t realize he’d been pushing. He tried to pull back, but that growling, gnawing hunger just held on tighter. He shuddered hard, jerking against the swell of cool life hiding under Tony’s skin. A hand drifted around his neck and Steve watched, helplessly detached, as Tony levered himself upright and into Steve’s lap.

“You’re trying to drink an ocean all at once,” Tony said, holding onto Steve’s face, “Just take a sip from the surface.”

Steve didn’t want to sip at anything. He wanted to wallow in it, dive down and never come up. His entire body shook with the growl rumbling out of his chest. Tony hushed him with a hissing sound that sent shudders down his spine. He clutched at Tony’s back, keeping him close, keeping their eyes locked together. The sweet life that Steve needed was just beyond reach, as if there were some kind of physical barrier between them. It was the same wall he’d run into each time he’d tried to feed after the near-catastrophe with Bucky. If he could just… touch something…

Nausea welled up in his stomach and Steve tore his eyes away from Tony’s, turning his head quickly to the side and gulping in deep breaths through his nose until it passed. He shuddered hard, head pounding and mouth filled with saliva that he had to struggle to swallow. Tony was quiet in his lap, his hands running up and down Steve’s neck. His fingers felt cold against Steve’s skin, almost painful in comparison to the fever heat creeping up his spine.

“I know I said you were really starving,” Tony said softly, his eyebrows furrowed up in concern. “But you are actually starving. Have you ever fed before?”

Steve shook his head mutely. Tony’s weight on his lap was making his hips ache, but he couldn’t make himself give up the contact. He was so far beyond tired, beyond frustrated. He wanted to set his head against Tony’s chest and sleep.

“How is that possible? You… you have to be in your twenties at least.” Tony leaned back and gently turned Steve’s face to look up at him. “Please tell me that you’re not fifteen.”

Steve managed to crack a smile and a sharp laugh. “Late bloomer. Twenty-two,” he promised. “You can check my license if you want.”

“Wow. I thought you were just a really inefficient feeder, or one of those Bornagainers.” Tony’s fingers tap-tap-tapped against Steve’s neck.

Steve tried to soak up the skin contact for as long as he could get it, sure that he would be on his way home in a matter of minutes. He felt hollow and somehow tight inside. He was so far beyond tired, beyond frustrated. He wanted to set his head to Tony’s chest and sleep. He flattened his hands against Tony’s spine. It wasn’t the same as skin contact, but he could feel the warmth of Tony’s skin through the material, and it was close enough.

“Okay. Bed. We’ll get you some contact and see if we can figure you out,” Tony decided, squirming out of Steve’s lap and crawling backwards off the couch. He held a hand out and waited patiently for Steve to catch up to him.

Steve blinked at him hazily. He looked between Tony’s offered hand and his face. He’d seemed so distant at the club, larger than life, untouchable. In the softness of the city’s ambient light, he looked vulnerable and human, and maybe lonely. Maybe Steve was projecting. He reached out to run his fingers around Tony’s palm, examining the curious sensation of his fingerprints catching on subtle ridges of Tony’s skin. He was surprised by the callouses layered thick on Tony’s palm in contrast to his neatly manicured nails. Tony curled his fingers and tugged gently on Steve’s hand. Steve followed the motion, climbing up to his feet and following Tony through the sitting area.

Tony led him up a short flight of stairs to a bedroom. All Steve noticed about it was the bed, outrageously large and dressed in golden silk. Tony turned him and nudged him onto it. Steve sat down numbly, unable to take his eyes off Tony’s hands as he slid his buttons open one-by-one. It wasn’t a strip-tease, but it was more alluring for how easy and simple he made the performance. The shirt slid down his arms, and he let it drop to the floor, the fine material ending up in a heap. His belt clanked heavily as it opened, his pants and boxers following the shirt to the floor. He struggled to get out of his pants and shoes at the same time, laughing softly at himself in the process.

Sliding off the bed, Steve knelt at Tony’s feet and helped him untangle the mess. He dropped a gentle kiss to Tony’s knee, and then another to a long scar on his thigh. Tony set a hand on his head and carded his fingers through his hair. Tiny sparks flicked out from his fingers and sent shivers down Steve spine as he crouched at Tony’s feet. His hands came up almost without permission to run up and down the back of Tony’s thighs.

“Not that this isn’t a pretty sight,” Tony said, looking down at him speculatively, “But let’s get you out of all that clothing.” He urged Steve back up to his feet and gently batted his hands away when Steve reached for the buttons on his shirt.

Steve all but purred at Tony’s hands opening his shirt and smoothing over the skin underneath. He felt muggy-headed, but pleasantly warm, and the ache in his chest faded under the press of Tony’s fingers. He swayed in place, chin tipped down to his chest and skin pebbling in the air.

“Not really what I thought a night with a hungry incubus was going to look like,” Tony said with a soft chuckle.

“Sorry,” Steve mumbled. He tried to straighten his spine and reached for Tony’s waist. “Pretty pathetic sex demon.”

“Once you’re not starving to death, I’m sure you’ll be up to the challenge,” Tony said, once again knocking Steve’s hands away. “Into bed.”

Steve couldn’t make himself parse out what was going on, so he followed orders and slid between the sheets. They were deliciously cool and he moaned as he twisted against them, rubbing his feet over the slick surface. His eyes were already drifting closed when he felt another weight settle next to him, and Tony’s spicywarmvanilla scent closed in around him along with a comforting wave of body heat.
ladyshadowdrake: (Default)
via http://ift.tt/2ihQMNC:
So there was a SG Atlantis story that I vaguely remembered writing, and have been looking for randomly for the last year or two, like “what did I name it? Did I write it in an email? On a flash drive? In a train, or in a house? In a dream? Did I not write at all and someone else wrote it, but I’m remembering it like it’s mine?”

Yes. I wrote it *on paper* (in freakishly neat handwriting, also - apparently I was taking my time) several pages into a notebook, which I then I put in a box (thinking it was blank because for Reasons I decided not to start on page 1) and left it in my closet.

Upon finding it, it is only 4 pages and not at all like I remember it.

This is why I can’t have nice things.
ladyshadowdrake: (Default)
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iamnotsebastianstan:

ktfcreator:

iamnotsebastianstan:

before i make any decision i ask myself ‘would Steve Rogers give me the eyebrows of disappointment for this?’ and if the answer is yes, i absolutely don’t do it

What are the eyebrows of disappointment? What do they look like?

would you want Steve Rogers looking at you like this? 
ladyshadowdrake: (Default)
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lightshadowverisimilitude:

Next part - and welcome Tony to stage. About 6k words, so watch for the cut.

Part One

Music poured onto the street, a thumping base and a higher sputter of melody that made Steve’s heart rate pick up. Steve hesitated on the sidewalk, eyeing the long line to get into the club. His throat tightened and he swallowed hard, trying to loosen it. The tightness spread down to his collarbone, and into his sternum, making his chest ache. He felt the ache in his shoulders, his elbows, his hips, his ankles. It was a fever-ache, and no position was comfortable – even standing still sent throbbing pulses up his legs and wedged a deep pain in his lower spine.

The people in line added to the thrum of the music. They were a constant tug on his attention, a radiating warmth that made him shiver. His teeth ached, and his mouth flooded with saliva.

He moved a hand over his stomach, even though he wasn’t that kind of hungry. He was frustrated and unhappy, restless in his own skin.

“Hey, buddy!”

Steve looked up. The bouncer had one end of the velvet cord in hand, his eyebrow twitched up his forehead, chin tilted slightly down, but chest thrust out. It was the curious mix of subservience and dominance that a man in his position had to take on.

“You coming in, or what?”

Steve transferred his gaze to the long line of patrons waiting to get in and then cocked his head questioningly at the bouncer. He pried a hand out of his jacket pocket to gesture to the waiting crowd. “There’s a line.”

“Not for you, hotcakes. Come on.” He gestured into the darkened interior and gave Steve an obligatory smile, turned down slightly at the edges. He didn’t meet Steve’s eyes.

Normally, Steve would have gotten in line with the rest of the patrons. He glanced over at them again, expecting anger and annoyance. There was some of that, but more of them were eyeing him in either trepidation or lust. He ducked his head, kept his eyes away from theirs, and slid sideways into the depths of the club.

Steve hated the noise, the crush of bodies, the mingled scents of sweat, colognes and perfumes, the dry ozone of the fog machines, the sharp tang of dust burning on the lights. He’d always hated clubs, but the ache started fading as soon as he’d stepped down to the floor. He’d gone with Bucky the first few times, watching his friend work his magic among the patron that flocked to Steve’s side. It had been miserable with their hands on him stacked against the knowledge that he could Seduce any of them and they wouldn’t be able to say no if he didn’t want them to. So he started going alone, huddled against the bar for as long as he could get away with being alone, and just soaked up the energy of the room. When the ache got bad enough, he would move into the crowd and stand among the strangers to feel their skin brushing against his.

He let out a slow breath, felt his shoulders start to unknot. His entrance did not go unnoticed, and fingertips ghosted over his shoulder and down his spine as he passed through the crowd. His skin jumped, and his throat tingled at the contact, but he shied away from the hand and pushed his way to the bar.

“Stupid,” he hissed to himself. Contact was what he’d dragged himself into the club for in the first place.

A long-limbed nymph slid down the bar. She was just over seven feet tall, with pale green skin and luminous yellow eyes, her hair caught up in a tall violet swirl atop her head that added another foot to her height. Her neck seemed too slender and too long to hold her head up, but she leaned down to the bar top with a graceful swoop.

“What can I get for you, lover?” she asked.

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