#1k of tony being head over heels for rhodey and barely knowing that he is lmao

[ambivalentmarvel]

he he for celebratory Reasons (and also because i love The Boys) i decided @sreppub deserved some fluffy, mit-era ironhusbands, so here we are!! enjoy and interact with ali’s content for good health

not quite (puppy love)

The night Tony figures out he’s in love with Rhodey, he’s sixteen, Rhodey’s nineteen, and they’re at the movie theater.

They don’t have any special reason for going, but Tony doesn’t need one with Rhodey. It’s a Friday night, and for the moment, they’re both tired of picking a frat house to party at—their haunt of choice still hasn’t replaced the appliance they stole the last time the two of them got bored there, anyway—so they decide to go to a late-night showing, one of the not-as-recent movies the theater puts on just because, Tony guesses.

A New Hope isn’t that great, even if Tony is a little into the dude who plays Luke and can enjoy looking at him for a few hours, but Rhodey likes the story and the effects.

Tony’s thought about telling him that some of the backgrounds they use are realistic paintings—the director told him as much at some stupid event his dad made him go to—but he likes to let him speculate, sometimes, because Rhodey’s tangents about the things he’s interested in are rare but passionate when they get going.

Tony could listen to Rhodey talk, could watch his eyes glitter and hands gesture in circles like he always does when he gets carried away, for hours, and really, that should’ve clued him in long beforehand.

But it didn’t.

(As Rhodey would say, Tony’s both the smartest person he knows and dumb as a box of rocks. For his part, Tony appreciates the honesty.)

So they have a few beers each at their apartment—just enough to get tipsy, to make the room a little warm, to make their conversations about nothing and everything stretch long, like taffy, into the frosty night—and Tony says they should do something.

Rhodey shakes his head. “Kappa Sigma hasn’t gotten a new—”

“Toaster, I know, but it’s the weekend, and finals week is coming up, and then you’ll be stressed, and I’ll be stressed because you’re stressed, and neither of us will really feel like going out.” Tony takes a swig of his beer. He swindled the twelve-pack out of a douche from his microeconomics class trying to suck up to him, and it’s a Coors—not Tony’s favorite, but it gets the job done. “I don’t want to sit around all night and waste our time before then.”

Rhodey raises a brow consideringly. “Fair.” His eyes slide to Tony, on the other side of the couch from him so that Rhodey can use his lap as a footrest. “What were you thinking?”

And while Tony has ideas, like breaking into the zoo (hence the nickname platypus) or seeing how many packets of candy they can shoplift from the corner store with the sleazy owner (hence the nickname sour patch) again, Rhodey shoots those down, unfortunately.

“I can’t study as well when I’m worried about a court date,” he declines with a sigh of disappointment because, whether Rhodey will readily admit it or not, the shit Tony thinks of, while illegal, is fun.

In the end, Tony can’t come up with anything else, so Rhodey chooses. Ergo, the movies.

They’re both still a little buzzed, and the extra-buttery popcorn—Tony’s request, though Rhodey says the sogginess is gross—they share leaves kernels between their teeth that they pick out shamelessly, alone in the theater and not in the habit of being embarrassed besides.

It’s not the first movie they’ve gone to together, certainly isn’t the last, and it’s not even the best time they’ve had at the theater. However, as they sit, Tony drifting off here and there as he puts the armrest between them up to rest his head on Rhodey’s shoulder, it strikes Tony that there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

The realization alone is enough to make Tony melt into his sweater, more content than he ever imagined possible growing up in a house where he stayed perched on his tiptoes in case he needed to take flight.

Tony stares at Rhodey adoringly in its wake, admiring the bridge of his nose, the slope of his brows, the depth of the eyes beneath them, and then there’s a dumb-one liner in the movie that makes Rhodey laugh. Tony, taking in everything about Rhodey while he remains oblivious, watches his grease-shiny lips split in a grin, and the dim light of the movie makes the expression sparkle with something Tony can’t find a word for but feels down to his toes.

It’s the fizz of champagne, the crackling of a fireplace, and the texture of a favorite blanket all at once, as homey as it is electrifying, and an oozing warmth spreads across the plains of Tony’s cheeks as his lips part in surprise at the intensity of the experience.

Rhodey never looks away from the screen, but though Tony is young, knows that, even if the emotion flooding him means as much as he suspects it does, he has a ways to go before he can do anything about it, he understands he’s never ever felt that way about a friend before.

(About anyone before.)

Rhodey shakes his head in amusement and takes a sip of his coke. “I love this movie,” he mutters, and though he’s said as much a thousand times before, Tony doesn’t mind hearing it again.

“Mhmm,” Tony breathes, unable to summon a more coherent response as he cuddles back into Rhodey’s side—an action that seems much more intimate than it did a second ago—and sends a flushed, grateful prayer up to any entity listening that he got assigned his best friend for a roommate. And if he’s pink in the face until he dozes off twenty minutes later, unable to stop wondering what Rhodey’s lips might feel like against his own, no one except himself knows. Not until much, much later, anyway, when Tony isn’t so little and Rhodey has only gotten more gorgeous with time and both of them beat around the bush for far too long when it comes to a silent, infallible affection they’ve nursed for each other over the better part of a decade.

But until then, Tony is sixteen, Rhodey is nineteen, and when Rhodey laughs, Tony thinks the whole world could hinge on the sound and still stay balanced from the way it fills him up to the brim.

(It always will, even if he has to wait.)

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

The (not naked) pin-up calendar

Summary: When you ask for a favor, Bucky (very) grudgingly agrees. What can you do to thank him? Return the favor, of course.

Characters: Bucky x Reader; a plethora of Avengers Warnings: Hardcore fluff. Soldiers wrestling like immature children. Steve being weirded out by nut sacks. Harry Potter references. A hint of naughty times at the end.

A/N: This is silly and fun and what can I say, writing sassy Bucky makes me happy. This is for @beckzorz 1k Writing Challenge (go follow this incredibly talented, beautiful lady), and my prompt was ‘Pin-up calendar’. Thanks a million for hosting Becca, I love you 3000! ♥️

Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!

*****

Overnight, the list gets tacked on the corkboard in the kitchen.

Bucky’s rummaging through the pantry, searching for his breakfast Doritos and a jar of salsa to dunk them in, when he glimpses his name from a distance. Snatching up a butter knife, he wanders over to the wall. When he sees the list header, he whirls around in a flurry of tangled hair and irrational grumpiness.

“What the hell is this?”

Bucky complaining first thing in the morning is par for the course, so both Sam and Steve, strolling in to search for breakfast, ignore him. Sam veers toward the sugary cereal cabinet, Steve heads for the oversize Ironman container housing granola, and Bucky stomps his foot like a toddler.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Steve says seconds later, through an overflowing mouthful of flaxseed and yogurt. “You already agreed. You’re not backing out.”

Bucky spins around and reads the flyer again.

---

“Avengers Calendar Shoot”

See below for your name and photo call timing.

Monday: Carol (10am), Wanda (2pm), Scott (6pm)

Tuesday: Rhodey (10am), Sam (2pm), Steve (6pm)

Wednesday: Tony (10am), Bruce (2pm), Natasha (6pm)

Thursday: Thor (10am), Clint (2pm), Bucky (6pm)

---

Stomping his foot again, Bucky stabs the flyer with the aforementioned butter knife.

“Someone better be yankin’ my dick right now,” he warns. “I definitely didn’t agree to bare my wrinkly nut sack for the whole fucking world to see.”

Sam dry heaves over his Lucky Charms.

Steve’s now filling his Black Widow coffee mug and rolling his eyes.

“What is it with you always trying to be naked? It’s not a naked thing, it’s a charity thing. Innocent children who don’t know what an asshole you are will see this, so you better be wearing clothes,” Steve gives his mug an annoying slurp. “Besides - you already agreed. No takebacks.”

“Steve,” Bucky crisply pivots, launching metaphorical murder darts from his eyes. “We’ve talked about this. Don’t tell me how to live my life.”

“Well it was your girl who convinced everyone to do it, so good luck telling her you’re a liar.” Instead of responding, Bucky holds up a Dorito in front of Steve and peers around the silhouette. Draws a few angles in his head. “What?” Steve asks brusquely.

“Nothing,” Bucky mutters. The chip cracks between his teeth with a puff of toxic orange. “Just makin’ an observation.”

“Just wear your scary leather bondage uniform with your scary mask and stand there all scary. You don’t even need to smile,” Sam says. Spooning cereal in with one hand, his other is attempting to worm its way into Bucky’s bag of chips. Cradling the Doritos under his arm, Bucky twists away, blocking the attack.

“Good way to lose a finger. Don’t touch my things.”

Sam swallows his cereal, ignores the lethal look in Bucky’s eyes, and tries again.

Steve joins in.

And so, when you roll into the kitchen a few minutes later, here’s what you find: three Avengers, three veteran soldiers, wrestling over a bag of Doritos. Bucky has Sam in a headlock, Sam is kicking Bucky’s shins and hitting him with a milky spoon, and for some reason, Steve is dancing around trying to tickle them both.

Clearing your throat, the trio freezes.

You smile.

“Gentlemen.”

Flailing arms and legs instantly break apart. Sam and Steve have the good grace to look chastened, both stammering embarrassed apologies. Bucky simply shoves a fistful of Doritos in his mouth and smiles triumphantly. Striding over to you, he wraps an arm around your shoulders.

“Babe, take my side here. You don’t want the whole world to see my nut sack, right?”

“Stop saying nut sack,” Steve hisses. “Nuts are gross.”

“Maybe your nuts are gross Steve,” Sam pipes up, rubbing his shirt with a wet rag, trying to clear away Bucky’s orange powder fingerprints, “but my nuts are awesome.” After a few harsh scrubs, he sees the futility and throws the rag in Bucky’s face. Stalking from the kitchen, he shouts something about laundry wheels and Oxyclean.

When you pluck the bag of Doritos from Bucky’s grubby hands, he releases them easily and grins at your exasperation. Sidling close, he rubs up against you like a needy kitten, so you hug him tight, dipping your fingers down to squeeze his butt.

“Please do it Bucky, I already told them you would. Wear anything you want, you don’t even have to smile,” you murmur in his ear, knowing precisely which buttons to push. “And besides, I bet I’m not the only one who wants to see those pretty blue eyes. Right?”

Bucky purses his lips. Wrinkles his nose. Grumbles under his breath.

And because you’re looking at him all wide-eyed and soft, he gives in.

Like he always does.

“Fine,” he huffs. “Fine. I’ll do it for you.”

“So much drama,” Steve mumbles through his granola. Bucky lunges for him, but Steve drops his bowl in the sink and skirts past, rushing for the door. Looking back, he throws Bucky a challenging smirk, before smacking into the doorframe. There’s a brief ricochet and then he’s scurrying down the hall, laughing as he goes.

“Idiot,” Bucky mutters.

Folding your fingers behind his neck, you turn his face back to you and kiss his stubbly cheek. “Thank you. Reason number one billion and two why I love you.”

At the brush of your lips, Bucky promptly grabs the back of your thighs and hoists you in the air. Spinning around, he shuffles over to the counter and drops you on top. Settling between your legs, hands flat on the counter boxing you in, his mouth finds the open space above your shirt collar and he proceeds to kiss every square inch.

“The things I do for you,” he breathes, sucking his favorite spot along your neck. It makes you shiver, that thing he does with his tongue. “You realize now I gotta go on a diet.”

“What? No, you don’t. You look perfect.”

Disappointingly, he stops that whole talented tongue thing and leans back. Grinding your heels into his butt, you kick him, urging him to stay put. Instead, he sighs in that tragic, pay attention to me way that only Bucky Barnes can do.

“Obviously I’m perfect, so are you by the way, but the camera adds five pounds. I have to preemptively lose it.” Crinkling up his now empty bag of Doritos, he throws it at the trash can and misses by a mile. He gives you a hangdog, pathetic sort of look. “This sucks.”

Bucky Barnes, ladies and gentlemen. The most dramatic human being on the planet.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you don’t need to diet. You could weigh a thousand pounds and it wouldn’t matter, you don’t - “

“Maybe not, like, a thousand pounds,” Bucky interrupts. “That’d make sex super hard. And not good hard. Just awkward hard. You know? Like when Hagrid’s mom and dad had sex. Which I still don’t understand how that’s supposed to work and I’ve done a shitload of research on it, been on all kinds of forums and talked to some experts - there’s a guy at SHIELD who specializes in interplanetary species relationships, I don’t know if you knew that - but anyway it just makes no sense because she would have killed that little guy if he tried to bang her, and I’m sorry, that’s the tea and I’ll fucking fight anyone who disagrees.”

Pausing for breath, he looks so earnest you almost hate to stop him.

“Buck, maybe we try one day where you don’t reference Harry Potter? I know you’re a fan, but - “

“I drew some diagrams,” he continues. “Boning diagrams. But like, I still can’t get it to work.”

Staring into space, he lets his marvelous tactical brain run every scenario of sexual acrobatics required to establish the feasibility of human-giant sex.

This could go on forever. Once Bucky gets knee-deep in fan forum theories, hours will lapse before he swims up for air. Many a morning has found him still in his boxers, laptop on his knees while he smashes the keyboard, arguing with virtual enemies about the physical features of Hogwarts house founders or the complex nuances of international Wizarding trade law.

The truth is - Bucky Barnes is a god damn nerd.

Clapping your hands, you drag him back to real life.

“Focus please. You’re good to do this then? Without the diet?”

“I really really hate it,” he replies, matter of fact, “but I really really love you, so if you want me to, I guess I’m in. But I’m still losing five pounds.”

“You’re my favorite, you know that?” Slipping your hands up under his shirt, you massage the tight muscles alone his spine and he hums happily. Flashing a lazy grin, he boops your nose.

“You know what? I think you should do it too. Be so great to have a sexy poster of you for those long nights when I’m gone and can’t sleep,” he waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “If you know what I mean.”

“I’m going to pretend I don’t know what you mean.”

“Whatever. Like you don’t have a folder full of dick pics with my name on it,” he laughs.

“I wish you’d stop sending me those,” you say sternly. “You know this is my work phone.”

“So? You always need fresh material for your diddle box. Keeps the romance alive,” he says. Reaching up behind you, he tugs open the snack cabinet and rummages for a new bag of Doritos. The airtight blurp of a new jar of salsa follows.

“I’m sure I’ll regret this, but - what exactly is a diddle box?”

Massive Winter Soldier eye roll.

“All the pictures and videos and sexy shit you use to masturbate. Clearly.”

“Why do I ask you questions,” you sigh.

“I’m starting my diet tomorrow,” he answers instead, before dunking a fresh Dorito in the salsa.

*****

The next two weeks are spent with Bucky mostly eating raw vegetables and baked chicken breast and loudly commenting on the sorrows of dieting to everyone he encounters.

“You’re being ridiculous Bucky. No one told you to lose weight.”

“No,” he says glumly, crunching a celery stick with a martyred expression. “I need to be hot. Beauty is pain.”

“You are a pain.”

He sighs dramatically. Stares wistfully into the distance. Snaps a carrot in half.

“The things I do for you.”

“Jesus.”

*****

AVENGERS CALENDAR SHOOT THIS WEEK!

Remember to be on time, or we will choose the worst picture of you and print that.

We’re assholes that way.

Thanks,

Management

*****

MONDAY

(SEPTEMBER: Danvers, Carol; Captain Marvel)

Carol throws her bomber jacket over her red, blue, and gold uniform, and adds a sleek pair of vintage Ray Bans. Climbing into the cockpit of her fighter jet, she turns herself all glowy and golden, the color bouncing merrily off the control panel. Tipping her face down to the camera, she flashes the Shaka sign and gives the photographer a huge smile.

(FEBRUARY: Maximoff, Wanda; Scarlett Witch)

Wanda goes all out on all things red. Clad in a long red dress and long coat, surrounded by hundreds of red flowers - tulips and roses and carnations - she curls her fingers and everything around her begins to glow with a warm red light. When she smiles at the camera, her head tilts shyly.

(OCTOBER: Lang, Scott; Antman)

Is Scott actually in the picture or did someone spill coffee? The photographer sees a white sheet and a black spec, and scratches his head in confusion. Antman is kinda weird.

*****

TUESDAY

(NOVEMBER: Rhodes, James; War Machine)

Rhodey shows up dressed head to toe in gunmetal colored armor. When he snaps the faceplate down, the photographer timidly asks if maybe he wants to show his face. Rhodey flips the faceplate back up, reminds the photographer how badass this armor is, and says nope. He’s all good, thanks.

(APRIL: Wilson, Sam; Falcon)

Sam has spent the last few nights practicing his Zoolander pout in the bathroom mirror. He decides to wear a tight black t-shirt and comfortable jeans, with his wings spread wide, Redwing hovering beside him. At the last minute, his sultry pout melts into an animated belly laugh and they decide to use that one instead.

(JULY: Rogers, Steven; Captain America)

Steve goes back to his roots. Wearing a too small shirt and holey old jeans, he gazes pensively at the easel in front of him, glossy blond hair combed in a perfect wave. Fingers dusty with charcoal, he points to the picture he’s drawing and insists they capture it in the photo as well. They later realize he was drawing a picture of his own ass. That month gets labeled “Steve Rogers and America’s Ass”.

*****

WEDNESDAY

(MAY: Stark, Tony; Ironman)

Tony wears the bottom half of his suit and his favorite Black Sabbath t-shirt. Posing in his lab, he floats a few feet off the ground, crossing his arms and giving that trademark smirk. Scattered around him are random bits of technology and a few arc reactors, with Dum-E and a steaming platter of cheeseburgers in the background.

(JUNE: Banner, Bruce; Incredible Hulk)

Bruce looks a bit rumpled. The publicity shy scientist in him detests these things, but he’s a good sport for a good cause. Surrounded by microscopes and beakers of dazzling green liquids, he allows the teeniest quirk of his lips. Hands tucked in his pockets, messy curls fall over his forehead, and Bruce just feels happy to be included.

(JANUARY: Romanoff, Natasha; Black Widow)

Natasha asks for her photo in black and white. Dressed in shadows and tulle, she is nothing more than a dark figure against a white backdrop. On her feet, are a pair of ballet slippers, their satin ribbons looped and laced around her ankles. When she arches slowly up on pointe, her arms curve gracefully over her head and there’s an ethereal stillness about the image. Natasha is amazing.

*****

THURSDAY

(DECEMBER: Odinson, Thor; Thor)

Thor wears an enthusiastic smile when he arrives - and not much else. Dressed in a cherry red speedo, black boots, and his swirling red cape, he stands with one fist on his hip and Mjolnir held lovingly in the other. When the photographer asks about his outfit, Thor proudly describes something called “fan art” he saw online of himself wearing this outfit, mentioning how many “re-blogs” it had. He thinks he might wear this outfit more often, if that’s what the Midgardians want.

(AUGUST: Barton, Clint; Hawkeye)

Clint has a cup of coffee in one hand, a pot of coffee in the other. He wears purple sweatpants and a grey tank top and he yawns every five seconds. When asked what pose he’d like to use, he pretends his hearing-aids are broken. He lays down for a nap and the photographer goes with that.

(MARCH: Barnes, James “Bucky”; Winter Soldier)

Bucky leaves his leather bondage gear, his excessive collection of knives and guns, and his murder scowl at home. Instead, he arrives in black jeans and boots, a dark blue t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, his tousled hair brushing the collar of his jean jacket. Perched casually on the seat of his restored Harley, he looks carefree and sweet, offering that signature smile that always sets hearts aflutter.

*****

When the final photo is taken, Bucky ambles over to where you stand with the photographer, reviewing proofs. Snuggling up beside you, he moves in for a kiss and stops in surprise.

“What’s with the lipstick?” he asks, bemused. “That’s new.”

You seem momentarily flustered by the question, stuttering something about losing your chapstick and trying new things. Bucky shrugs and dives in anyway. It makes no difference to him. Painted red or completely bare, your lips are always his favorite flavor.

*****

“They’re here!”

The box of calendars lands with a thump on the kitchen counter.

“Excellent. Are we hot?” Steve asks, his mouth full of cheesy pizza.

“I’m always hot,” Sam answers, ripping into the box. “Yesterday I saw a Buzzfeed post about how hot I am, and it said 11/10 recommend.” Yanking out the pile of calendars, he throws one to Steve. “That means more than 100% would recommend. I’m beloved.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a national treasure,” Steve argues. Reaching for a calendar, he flicks impatiently until he finds himself.

Leaving the team to laugh and bicker and poke fun of each other, you grab your bag (and another small package), heading off to search for your favorite assassin slash model.

His door is cracked when you reach it, low music in the background. Knocking lightly, you push it open.

“Hey Buck. Are you busy?”

Surrounded a chaos of metal, Bucky sits cross-legged on his bedroom floor. A tin of gun oil lays open beside him, a shredded old t-shirt in hand, while he cleans and reassembles his guns. This particular task has taken him literally all day, because Bucky Barnes has yet to meet a gun he doesn’t need.

(Seriously. He needs them. All of them. Stop questioning him, Steve.)

At your voice, an adorable smile scrunches up his face. Bouncing to his feet, he leaps gracefully from the middle of the mess and scoops you up, twirling in a circle and stealing your breath with a warm kiss.

“Hey sweetheart, what’re you doin’ here?”

“Something arrived. Thought you might like to see.”

Handing over the calendar, Bucky wipes his hands on his jeans. A nervous energy makes his fingers fumble when he riffles through the pages.

He stops abruptly at March.

“Huh,” he says, observing his portrait from every angle. Turns it sideways, upside down, pinches his lip. Squints a little. Finally, he nods. “Yeah. Okay, yeah. I look pretty great. I think? Right? I don’t know, what do you think?”

It’s funny.

Sometimes, you hold your breath when you watch at him. There are these little things. The bright excitement in his eyes maybe, or the way he scratches his jaw when he gets nervous, or the absentminded way he tucks his hair behind his ear.

It does things to your heart.

“Yeah,” you say, mesmerized by those little things, “you really do.”

Bucky looks up. Sees your face and breaks into a wide grin. He loves when you look at him like this, like he’s the only thing that matters. Like he’s your whole world. Like you love him.

It does things to his heart.

Snapping the calendar shut, he flings it on his bed. Blue eyes rake you up and down and he pokes his lip out in an exaggerated pout.

“Still think you should’ve done it too,” he says. “Bet you would’a looked so hot.”

At his comment, you reach into your bag and pull something free. Silently, you hand over a second square, this one wrapped in black paper, a silver bow taped along the edge.

“What’s this?” he asks curiously.

Shrugging, your expression stays neutral.

“Open it and see.”

Like a kid on Christmas morning, he rips the paper away.

He freezes.

Blinking rapidly, he looks up. Silver fingers delicately trace the shiny picture and he swallows hard.

“Honey, is this - did you do this for me?” he asks softly. Flipping gently through each page of this special, one-of-a-kind calendar, he shakes his head in slow disbelief.

Because there you are.

Posing in March, holding his favorite confetti cupcakes adorned with birthday candles in front of your naked breasts.

Posing in July, dressed in a vintage red, white, and blue USO uniform, white boots on your feet and crackling sparklers in your hands.

Posing again in October, wearing a slutty pumpkin dress with cut-outs revealing slivers of your sweet, sexy assets.

Each picture is incredible. Full of vivid colors and your sunny smile. No air-brushing, no fake poses, just you. Indescribable and undeniably beautiful, bursting with love.

All for him.

Bucky rubs his chest absently, feeling his heart thumping with every turn of the page. And then he reaches the last month, and there’s a strangled squeak. He stares intently at the page. Looks up at you. Back to the page. Back up at you. Closes his eyes briefly.

This is it, this is his favorite, his absolute fucking favorite thing of all time, the image instantly wiping all other thoughts from his proverbial spank bank.

There.

You.

Are.

Damn.

Tacked above you is a sprig of mistletoe, a concession to the holiday theme. But it’s the outfit that does it. Black combat boots, lacy red lingerie, deep red lipstick, and an empty thigh holster. You’re pointing one of his favorite guns at the camera and giving a sly wink.

Mind-blowingly, devastatingly, breathtakingly gorgeous.

Bucky awkwardly adjusts the rising situation in his pants, raising lust-blown eyes to yours. Licking your lips, you give him a hesitant smile.

“Do you - um, do you like them?”

It makes you panic when he says nothing. He simply stares. But then he sets the calendar carefully, reverently, aside. Slipping a hand behind your neck, he hustles you backward until you bump the door, slamming it shut. His warm mouth slants over yours, that talented tongue returning to sweep over your lips. The kiss is hot and frantic, tinged with an edge of wild excitement. When he finally breaks away, his voice is low, dark gravel in your ear.

“Listen. I’m gonna need you to get all those outfits and put on every,” he kisses your throat, “single,” he trails his lips up to your jawline, “one,” and now he’s panting in your ear, “and then I wanna take pictures of me taking everything off, before I fuck you so damn good. How’s that sound?”

Sliding a hand between his legs, your answer makes him tremble.

“Sounds like a deal.”

*****

[dailyironfamily]

day 12 - rule 63

Day twelve of the November Fic Challenge is a rule 63 AU. This was just supposed to be a few snippets based around the prompt of ‘hair’ so I could take a break after writing such long fics the last few days but this still ended up over 1k words.

“I hate him,” Tony announces as she bursts into the room, slamming the door behind her. “I can’t believe someone as busy as him still finds time just to annoy the shit out of me.”

Rhodey looks up from where she’s lounging on her bed with a textbook. Tony’s pretty sure she’d been sleeping instead of studying, but now is not the time to tease her for it. She stomps over to her desk, pulling open a drawer and sifting through all the junk.

“Tones? What’s wrong?” Rhodey asks, setting her book down and getting off the bed. Tony ignores her, having found what she’s looking for.

“Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s great,” she says, taking the pair of scissors with her into the adjacent bathroom. Rhodey hurries after her.

“Everything doesn’t look great,” Rhodey says warily.

Tony stops in the middle of the room, looking at herself in the mirror. Her young, short, scrawny self, too much makeup on her face, totally out of place in a school like MIT. She silently thanks whoever may be listening for having found at least one friend in Jacqueline Rhodes, then takes all of her long hair into one hand, lifts the scissors, and cuts.

“Shit, Tones,” Rhodey whispers as fifteen years of growth falls to the floor. “Tell me you didn’t just chop off all your hair because you’re pissed at your dad.”

“I chopped off my hair because I’m pissed at my dad,” Tony answers, unrepentant. She stares at her reflection, the messy ends of her hair hanging unevenly around her ears. She looks like an idiot, but she feels good. Lighter than she has in ages.

Rhodey laughs, coming over and gently taking the scissors from Tony’s hand. “Here, let me clean you up. How short do you want it?”

They’re silent as Rhodey evens out her hair, turning it into something a little more respectable. When she’s done, she sets the scissors down on the edge of the sink and asks,

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Tony shakes her head. “Maybe later.”

Rhodey, bless her, just gives Tony a hug and then points at her hair on the floor. “You’re the one cleaning that up.”

Jacqueline Rhodes always wanted to be a pilot. She’d gotten this far and she wasn’t going to stop now. Even if Tony kept trying to get her to stick around.

“Look, if those idiots don’t know what they’ve got, you can always come work with me,” Tony says, throwing a grape up in the air and then catching it in her mouth. Her hair’s still short five years later. Jackie thinks it looks good on her. “I don’t care what Howard says.”

“I’m not going to quit the Air Force,” she replies, shifting slightly on the comically large pool inflatable she’s lying on. Tony’s floating not far away on a similar inflatable, a big bowl of grapes balanced on her stomach. “I’ve been hearing they might actually let women fly combat missions soon.”

Tony snorts, clearly unimpressed. Jackie agrees, but she’s not going to give Tony more fuel for her argument to get her to jump ship.

“I’m thinking of moving out here,” Tony says, popping another grape in her mouth. “That way dad won’t be able to nag me 24/7.”

“Won’t you miss your mom?” California is nice, but Jackie can’t imagine being an entire country away from her mother. Even though she knows if she’s ever deployed she’ll have to deal with being even farther away, that feels different.

“I’ll visit sometimes. There’s always the phone.” Tony falls silent, then tugs at the ends of her hair. “I need a haircut.”

“Again? It’s already pretty short.”

“Says the girl who always has a crew cut. You should grow it out.”

Jackie shakes her head. “It’d be ‘unprofessional’.”

“For the army? There’s women with longer hair.”

“White women,” Jackie retorts, and Tony frowns, silent again. Probably trying to find a counter-example and failing. “Anyway, I like keeping it short. Easy maintenance.”

“Fine then, I’ll cut my hair like yours. We can match.”

“Oh, no,” Jackie laughs, “you’ll look like some sad orphan out of a Dickens novel.”

Tony throws grapes at her until Jackie paddles close enough to flip over her pool floatie and dump her into the water, bowl of grapes and all.

Tony’s parents die the next year. Jackie finally get deployed as a pilot to the Middle East. Tony moves the company to Malibu. The world keeps turning.

“I’ve got pepper spray and I’m not afraid to use it!” the tall, lanky redhead at the door says, facing down a guy with twice his muscle mass, and Tony laughs and calls out,

“No need for that, come show me what’s so important you’re threatening my security for.”

And that’s how Tony meets Virgil Potts, thereupon renamed Pepper, and Pepper saves the company nearly two million dollars in accounting mistakes and is promoted to Tony’s personal assistant.

Tony likes Pepper. He’s smart, efficient, no-nonsense to a degree that helps Tony focus when she needs to. He’s cute too―she particularly likes his freckles and the really ugly way he blushes. He’s an amazing assistant, so Tony only hits on him a couple times as expected and then leaves him be. Assistants don’t last long with her and she’d like to keep this one as long as possible.

And Pepper, to her surprise, stays. Even when he has to fish her out of a tangle of limbs after a wild party the previous night, or she gets so drunk she can barely make it through a board meeting without embarrassing herself. Pepper stays. Pepper is solid and dependable and unchanging. Predictable.

And then.

She squints at him one morning, drinking a truly foul concoction to try and get rid of a hangover before a press conference. “Are you growing out your hair?”

Pepper stops sorting papers, frozen in place. He seems...scared, and Tony frowns, confused.

“I am,” he answers after a moment, clearing his throat and going back to work. Tony just shrugs and drinks more of her terrible smoothie.

She doesn’t think anything of it again until one day she realizes his hair’s long enough to pull into a ponytail, and she tugs at it playfully, sitting down on the couch beside him.

“Like the ‘tail. You look kind of like a pirate.”

Pepper gives her a look. “That’s all you need to be a pirate, a ponytail?”

“You could get a big gold earring too. And a parrot.”

“I’ll consider it, Ms. Stark.”

Tony’s tinkering in the workshop when Pepper walks in. That’s nothing unusual, but the sound is. She pulls off her goggles and turns around, looking for the source of the clacking, but she finds only Pepper standing there in a charcoal gray suit with a clipboard in hand, long hair not in its usual tight bun, and when she looks down―

“I need you to change some things in my files,” Pepper tells her. There’s a moment of silence that seems to last forever, and then Tony says,

“Are those my heels?”

“Yes,” Pepper replies, and holds out the clipboard. “They’re small changes, name and gender, but I figure the CEO who built half the systems we use can do it no problem.”

“Oh,” Tony says, looking down at the papers on the board, then back up at Pepper. Then she does a double take, looking back down. “Oh, you’re making Pepper your official middle name? That’s...”

If Pepper didn’t know any better, she’d say Tony was blushing. Tony never did know how to handle sentimentality very well.

“I like it,” Pepper admits. “I don’t mind if you keep using it. It’s a lot better than Virgil.” She wrinkles her nose slightly as she says it. The name ‘Virgil’ had always chafed, for multiple reasons.

“Virginia Potts,” Tony reads off the paper, sounding it out. “I like it. Very regal. Still kind of nerdy. It fits you.”

“You think?” Pepper says, smiling a little. Tony smiles back, holding out her hand, and Pepper takes it.

“Welcome aboard, Virginia.”