#i did not get these foisted on me just so i could be assigned straight by tumblr | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jockpoetry · 3 years

Note

supernatural sees women as a tool for development and strengthening of narratives/motivation and dean sees his body as a tool. is that anything?

When I saw this ask I really made the 🥴in real life. So, yeah anon, I do think there’s something to this.

Quick Disclaimer before I actually launch into my thoughts™: A lot of my read of Dean stems from my experience as both an oldest daughter and a transman. Being the oldest daughter was an experience I lived for many years, but I am also a man. I wasn’t raised as a man, I wasn’t socialized as a man, and even though once I came out upon reflection my masculinity was obviously there. Like I was a man™ before I knew I was a man. Even when I actively tied my identity to femininity for a long time! A lot of my prideful moments were based around statements like: “I was the only girl who (fill in the blank).”

So I am just putting that out there before I launch into my spiel about Dean/Gender/Tool because they all interlock for me.

I am also going to apologize in advance because I know this has fully gone off the rails and I’m not even done writing it yet. If this is incomprehensible ! Well, happens to the best of us.

First off, most importantly I guess before we discuss womanhood and Dean and the way both are utilized on the show I need to say that I personally don’t subscribe the whole Dean is female coded thing.

It’s a read I can absolutely understand. But for me..he’s not.

He’s a hypermasculine man to the point that when (and because he is written as a punchline, as the stupid™ brother, as the whore™, as the mother/father™, as daddy’s blunt instrument™, etc) Dean deviates from the pre-accepted definition of hypermasculine it’s Wrong.

It’s Instantly Feminine.

I think the internet has made the world very black and white, or blue and pink maybe. This point, I think, colors a lot of these discussions. Dean cooks, he cleans and so therefor he’s female coded. When that really just feeds back into the whole toxic masculinity loop. You can’t be masculine and cook and clean and cry. That’s for feminine people only.

I get the argument! I do, I just think that Dean’s actions are not inherently feminine, it’s just in the vacuum of Female and in the Absence of Traditional Masculinity it makes sense to assign him female coded and move on.

IN FACT the way that Dean is the action hero of the show, the Masculine™ one on the show - but he cries, and he rages, and he cooks (Again and Again) and cleans (Again and Again). The fact he’s macho and confident but he has so little self esteem. Is frankly insane to me. You have this blaze of glory character who is so depressed that they have him kill himself. Twice. In explicitly “I hate myself, I hate hearing all the things I hate about myself, I want to destroy myself” ways.

On just a regular ol’ network show that is just ungodly bad at times. They let their Male Hero cry - all the time (if I linked every example of this the essay would be...longer than it already is, but just take my word for it). Dean tears up and grieves and shows more than just Angry Horny Violent™ (he shows plenty of that, don’t get me wrong) but he’s Emotional (Again and Again and Again). In many different ways!

I mean, beyond even just tearing up, they make their Male Hero™ face sexual violence in pretty, uniquely horrifying - and queer! - ways.

Let’s make it clear, they did a lot of this unintentionally.

Or they do it as a joke.

Off of dean for a moment to say women are plot devices in this show. I could probably count on one hand female characters who have sincere depth to them that have roles outside of progressing plot, filling a filler episode, and who are still alive. Like even characters such as Charlie who are wholly developed, and interesting, are only remembered/mentioned/utilized to progress plots or fill an episode out - and then she dies. For pain™ for plot™ for no other reason than to traumatize a character.

Which let’s also make it clear Dean’s trauma is also only used as a plot device (as is Sam’s but in a different way, and Cas’ trauma is a whole other barrel of fish we’re not gonna dive into right now). Like wholesale full stop they don’t actually care about what happened to him. Unless it’s relevant in an episode.

Oh that boys home he was left at when he was 16 for months? Sure we’ll sprinkle that in in the back half of the series. Oh he was covered in bruises and said it was from a hunt (when it’s clear contextually they were from his father but saying the fantastical but true is easier than saying the uncomfortable but true). As Dean says though the story became the story, he was sixteen. He just went along with what John said.

We only see Dean ever truly rage at John, by the way, when either Dean is dead (when he’s between life and death and he rages at John, right before John “apologizes” for traumatizing him, for putting too much on Dean’s shoulders, and fucking dying) or John is dead (the Djinn episode where Dean is straight™ and John is dead™ and he goes to his grave and just yells and rages like he should have to his father in the real world).

Dean’s trauma from being both tortured and torturer in hell? Yeah, we don’t talk about that after it’s Relevant™. Even though it’s clear - especially in the demon!dean, mark of cain era, all those years later - Alastair still has his hooks inside of Dean. I stopped watching originally after s8 ended. I was fed up with the show, and with this whole renaissance I’ve been doing a rewatch and I’m into season twelve now and it really has never come up again.

Even when he had the mark of cain and he was tasked with questioning and accused of torturing it was “the mark has changed you” and not “you were victim and victimizer in hell for forty years, which is longer than you’ve been alive on earth” (and, was about as long as he wound up living. Which is desperately sad.

Because we talk about Sam’s desire for a “normal” life but, Dean wanted out too. He was tired in the first few seasons of this show, he never had a chance to taste freedom (we don’t count the boys home, because that was a different kind of regimented life, and it was a false freedom) the way that Sam did in Flagstaff with Bones or at Stanford with Jessica. Love for Dean is sacrificing, it’s putting himself/his happiness/his well-being last.

Because Dean only knows love in the context of violence (like all of these fun examples, for starters) is a phrase that I’ve said a lot both in private chats and on here, and I absolutely think it goes to him being a tool (a blunt instrument, a plot device, so both textually and metatextually) instead of a person. Which Cas sees Dean’s shame/guilt and sees that side of Dean because he touched his soul, and saw more than just the Righteous™ man, more than just the tool, he saw A good man, not a machine.

On the other side though you have how “bad guys” view Dean: Desperate, Sloppy, Needy, Dean’s hole (Again), which is again so wildly counterintuitive to the story of a Macho Man Hero™. You’re using vocabulary that is both queering him and feminizing (and I know this a meme format, but sincerely it is done in a derogatory way it is feminizing. It’s breaking him down to bare parts, to a sloppy hole).

My whole rewatch I have been absolutely fascinated by how identity and free will is utilized/conceptualized on this show. Castiel has been my main focus, but Dean and how he is framed by himself and others is...fascinating - and frustrating. The writers inconsistency lends itself not only to this unintentionally queer character, but also one that again is incredibly easily read as a non-traditionally masculine character.

As a feminine character.

This show has so few female characters that of course it had to foist the roles/behaviors/plots that a female character might have onto a male character. Which I think is part of why reading Dean as trans (either transmasc, or transfemme) is so easily done like.

Half of these are shit posts, but you can find trans allegories/textual evidence in this show again, again, again, again, and again. And this is unintentional, they don’t want you to look at Dean and see woman, former future or present. Like a lot of these I’m sure are punchlines for them, because women/queer folk are punchlines to them.

Sometimes the only women in an episode are random witnesses who get two sentences of dialogue, and then the main guest character is a man. Who flirts with Dean, and Dean is receptive to it.

They paint themselves into a corner, there are female Rabbi. So easily could Aaron have been a woman instead of a man, but they made the choice to play up the HaHa Dean & Men card.

Because, again, Dean has filled the slot of Woman™ of Female Lead™ and the flirting would’ve been straight if Dean was a woman. It’s a plot device, they needed to have the guest character be disarming, be cute, make the main character flustered.

It’s just the main character is a man, because they’re allergic to women. But they still need those female plots, tools of femininity, to move their show forward. I mean I am a big subscriber to transmasc Jo (no idea if anyone else is with me on this one, but let me explain). Jo is in love with Dean (concept) not Dean (actuality). Which, we’ve all had our eggs cracked by someone like that. We were in love with them until we realized we just wanted to be them.

He loved her like a little sister, she loved him like a lost idol. He’s a golden calf and she dies for him, because she believed in him, she was the original character dashed at the altar of the Winchesters.

I fully believe if she had lived and if this show had a crumb of actual good writing Jo could have been a deeply compelling transmasc character. But I also think she’s a fascinating inversion of Dean. Dean is a Masculine Character who subverts Toxic Masculinity, Jo is a Tomboy™ she’s not your (if you take it straight, literally and metaphorically) average female love interest. She’s angry, she’s not soft at all, all edges and corners and thorns. She isn’t helpless, she’s stubborn but not in a “you’re going to get punished for this” way. She’s right when she’s stubborn. She’s helpful, she’s a martyr.

I could do a whole other essay just on Jo (and Ellen, and Ash, what a fucking trio!) but needless to say Jo was one of the first...plot device feminine tools sacrificed to this show. She was a regular, she was unique, she was an engaging character, and she still died (to progress the plot? no. for man pain? yeah, for like three episodes maybe, and then it’s forgotten just like the rest of Dean’s trauma, as we mentioned above).

Dean and Women and Love is a very interesting tool used too because. Boy they sure try to make Dean love women and it fails in small ways, and in big, meaningless, failed het domesticity (again) ways. Not to mention whatever Lust (in the form of a woman) having no effect upon him, when they could have used that moment to assert his Masculinity and Heterosexuality. He behaved normally? And...also...whatever the fuck the Adios thing was!

Like they have these opportunities to make him Traditionally (toxically) Masculine, but make the choice to...not? To soften him. Because it’s a tool. He’s their female lead, textually he had to take on the role of mother(/father) to Sam, but...I mean this is a million miles long already. I know, but we absolutely can’t not talk about his Paternal/Maternal behaviors. (Which appear again and again again and again, outside of his relationship with Sam even/especially). He’s the mother hen, sage, safety net, beacon, home to so many side characters they meet.

I mean in many ways Jody is also a Dean comparison. Lost her family. Found a new family. She is non-traditionally feminine, but easily flustered and Silly™ (let’s just drop the entire sex talk over family dinner scene with Alex and the boys and looking to them for help, even though she was already a mother, and she’s a cop, and a hunter and this confident no nonsense individual.... She’s not). We are meant to see her as this hard ass, but she makes extra food for the boys to take back to the bunker. She’s deadly in a fight, but also still easily overwhelmed and put into damsel mode, and she cares so much even in the face of adversity.

It’s also fun to see how Jo | Jody are reflections of Dean at different points of his life. Younger, cocky | Older, settled.

Even when the text tries to tell us that he’s not.

When it reminds us that he’s violent. That he is his father, even if he says that Sam is more like John (which was reflexive, which was angry because of Adam and how Sam was behaving like Dean in that episode, and yes there are parallels to be drawn between Sam and John, the show barely dives into them). Instead we’re told that Dean is John (Again and Again and Again and Again).

So intensely that a fanfictionalized version of the Winchester Gospels makes it an entire fucking musical number.

And yet, despite the texts insistence to make Dean Macho Man Father Reborn™ We get this Dean who is silly (and directly compared/contrasted to the female character in this scene), soft, in heels, nagging, and... Sully (you know Sam’s imaginary friend who has the same Haircut Dean has, who is a softer, shorter, friendlier, campier, version of Dean who was a replacement For Dean until the real one let Sam back in? That? Sully?) it’s hard to take them seriously.

Hell, even when he was A DEMON? What did they do? They had him sing off-key drunken karaoke, they had him doing this ! Like that’s your hero, unhinged, free to be as bad as he could be, and you put him in a cowboy hat in a romance with the king of hell.

The Female Lead, everyone. Who’s biggest betrayal(s) comes at the hands of his love interest (again, a man even though it was an angel who could’ve taken any vessel! who could’ve been recast, who canonically dies admitting his love to Dean - that one), who he tries so hard to be loyal to.

The contradictions of his character are laughable. He is so emotional, but if he is engaged about his emotions? He shuts down, or he’s exasperated about being asked about them. It really is Female Lead/Only Here For The Plot disease, because everything is more important than him. How’s he doing? Doesn’t matter outside of the context of how x character is doing or that y character is dead. Or his emotions only matter if they’re done in penance.

They also really do frame him as Pretty Boy™ in a violent way, or in a derogatory manner. They’ll give us homoerotic shots like this or these and never really acknowledge how these are gay shots. Sorry the gun scene is a a straight up sex scene, the beer sip spilling out over his mouth is oral, the scene where Cas fills up Dean’s glass with whisky is also a sex scene, they do this shit on purpose but accidentally queer it up. If Dean was a woman these scenes wouldn’t even matter. They’d be passing moments, but because he is not just a man but A Man™ they’re insane to see.

Not to mention all of these scenes and all the ones I haven’t linked where Dean dresses up. He performs masculinity, but he performs femininity too. He’s a plot device that is slotted in to whatever role they need. He’s Super Straight Butch Man™ but coaches the lesbian on how to successfully flirt with a man. He’s Action Hero™ who sits through a montage with the same lesbian and yays and nays her outfits, and enjoys himself.

Fuck he loves dressing up, he feels better in these costumes because performing a character is easier than being himself. Because who is Dean? He’s a tool, both textually and metatextually. It is exactly how the women and because of the women on the show that Dean is the way that he is. If there was a more steady female presence Dean would not be half as much of a plot device or half as camp/gay/feminine/non-traditionally masculine/queer coded as he is.

In conclusion....

#dean winchester #supernatural #spn meta #spn #gender #anon #replies #messages #my writing #ANYWAYS PHEW okay anon i don't know if i even fully got to your point but i woke up at like 3:30 to this ask and i've been fixated on it #HOPE THIS IS EVEN JUST a little bit coherent #the way i meant for this to talk so much more about transness and eldest daughter syndrome and just FORGOT #oops #oh well

376 notes · View notes

legobiwan · 4 years

Text

Whumptober #2

“pick who dies”

Notes: This got out of control. I was going to add an Obi-wan + Anakin section but I had to cut myself off as I do have other things I need to get to today. This is less whump than...a set of pretentious character studies with THE LINEAGE (including Rael) and an excuse to explore the trolley problem within a Star Wars setting. I blame my recent Hannibal obsession for what you see below. First part here, rest under the cut. Note, I am a musician, not a philosophy student, so allow for some creative interpretation here.

General Whumptober tag

Whumptober 2020 #1

~~~~~~~

(excerpt from “The Padawan’s Guide to Philosophy.” Eds. Masters Thrife-Foran & Ugaaalich. 616th e. Coruscant, 940 ARR. Holobook.)

Premise:

You are out for an afternoon walk in the outer regions of Thymilla, a moderately-populated city on the planet Ungar. On your walk, you pass by a set of hovertrain tracks, which branch into two separate arms - one an extension of the main track, the other a smaller offshoot which leads to a cargo loading zone, about fifty clicks south of where you are. (Diagram 3)

As a hovertrain approaches from the north, you hear screaming, the words of the driver becoming clearer as the hovertrain barrels towards the switch. The brakes of the train have failed and there is no chance of repair. If the train continues on its current path, it will kill five workers making repairs on the track. If you pull a switch, the hovertrain will divert to the offshoot, where it will kill one worker at the cargo loading zone.

Because of an anomaly in Ungar’s atmosphere, you cannot access the Force.

Do you pull the switch or do nothing and allow the train to speed forward?

~~~~~~~

“Your thoughts, Padawan.”

Dooku shifted on his meditation pod, the firm material groaning as he uncrossed his legs from the lotus position, gingerly setting both his bare feet to the cool, tiled floor of his Master’s chambers. The young man allowed himself a small wince with the action. Yoda might have been able to keep that damnable position for hours, probably days on end, but Dooku was just a few months shy of his eighteenth life day, and another recent growth spurt seemingly focused all on his legs made sitting for any long amount of time…uncomfortable, to say the least.

Which was likely why Yoda had had him trapped him here for the past three hours, running through one ethical thought experiment after the other, poking his literal and metaphorical gimmer stick precisely at each gnarled and swollen joint in both his body and thoughts.

To act - to pull the switch - would mean to commit premeditated murder, even if it were for the greater good. Hardly a Jedi-like action. But then again, they had been taught - indoctrinated, really - with the idea that is was acceptable to sacrifice one life for the lives of many. A supposedly fair trade-off, although Dooku had seen enough of the Jedi’s relationship to the Senate, had seen enough of the Council’s internal politics, to know that two lives did not necessarily hold equal weight.

But to not act - to let the train barrel through, to leave it up to the will of the Force...Dooku clenched his teeth. That seemed more in line with the Order he was coming to know, was consistent with the Council’s lack of action on Protobranch, when Sifo-Diyas had seen the calamity that was to befall the planet and yet the Council, his Master, had done too little, too late, preferring to allow events to transpire as they would, the Jedi only impassive bystanders.

What was the point of their abilities, their training, their place in the universe, if they weren’t able to change the course of events for the better?

“I suppose,” Dooku began slowly, coming to stand, suddenly not caring if he was maintaining his proper meditation position. The young man padded towards the slightly shuttered windows on the other side of the room.

“I suppose it depends on the relative worth of each life,” he said, turning away from Yoda as to not see the subtle moue of distaste Dooku was certain would cross the old Master’s face.

“Is not all life sacred, Padawan?”

Dooku barely bit back the dark chuckle threatening to escape from his chest. Only in the holos and classrooms and the empty rhetoric of the Council was all life sacred. The Jedi could do so much more, he could do so much more to change the galaxy and yet the Order allowed itself to be chained to politicians, leashed like akk-dogs until receiving command.

No, Dooku thought. There was no balance - not here and not in the Force.

“From the information you’ve provided,” Dooku said, ignoring Yoda’s question. He peered through the slits of the rotor blinds into the watery illumination of Coruscant’s night sky. The dome of the Senate building rose through the rain like an oddly-shaped umbrella, shielding those in power with its wide beadth. “We can assume both parties of victims are of equal social standing, being manual laborers. Because of this, we must find other ways of determining their worth, their ability to enact change in the galaxy.”

Dooku clasped his hands behind his back, daring to turn to face his Master’s displeasure.

“The question becomes whether you want to hold sway over the transit network of a forgettable city, or the imports and exports that may go off-world. Exports which might include valuable resources or even smuggled goods. Items which could affect the governance of our imagined city and therefore, by extension, an even larger part of the populace.”

“Which is why, in this case,” Dooku concluded, his posture straightening, “I would choose to allow the hovertrain to continue its course and save the cargo worker.”

Yoda folded both claws over his gimmer stick, frowning. After a moment, he let out a small grunt, his features now inscrutable.

“And see yourself as the final arbiter of worth, do you, my young apprentice? Stand you above all others holding a golden scale, you do?”

Don’t we, as Jedi, hold these scales every day and yet choose to ignore them? Dooku thought.

“Someone,” the young man replied, “will make the judgment regardless. Is it not better for the Jedi to use our powers to make such decisions?”

This time Yoda did let out a wet sigh, shaking his head.

“Dangerous, these thoughts are, my Padawan,” Yoda grumbled, gesturing at the meditation pod. “Sit, young Dooku. Much we have to discuss.”

~~~~~~~

“Your thoughts, Rael.”

Rael Averross slung an arm over the back of Dooku’s couch, sleeves of his Master’s borrowed robe hanging long near the tips of his fingers. It had been the third time that month Rael had “misplaced” his own robe, his Master’s foisted upon him in the wee hours of the morning, Dooku grunting something about “Jedi propriety” before shoving Rael out the door. (The things were a damned inconvenience, and made him look like something straight out of a space station ghost story, to boot. Was it so surprising he showed up to Dooku’s quarters in a state which his Master referred to as “half-naked?”)

Rael bit his lip, trying to not think of all the times he had actually been half-naked in the Temple. Those were fun times. Unfortunately, Dooku could probably mind read them out of him right now if he weren’t so concentrated on this thought experiment.

“Why not save them both?” Rael drawled amiably, scratching at the beginnings of a beard with his other hand as he hoped to distract his Master from any hint of his past indiscretions. It was about time, too, he thought. Never going to look my age going around all smooth-faced like a transparisteel window surface.

Dooku gave a small smile. “You cannot, Rael. Those are the rules of the scenario.”

“Rules,” Rael scoffed, picking at the hem of Dooku’s overly-fancy robe before suddenly launching to his feet, unable to contain his restlessness. The younger Jedi paced up and down the length of Dooku’s couch, grateful his usually strict Master was allowing him this indulgence. Not that Dooku had any problem sitting still for what felt like forever - stiff as a board, that one - but Rael was too jittery, too full potential energy to keep his thoughts in neat line with his body. “Rules are meant to be broken, Master,” Rael gave a swift chop with his hand in illustration. “You’re the first one to tell me that.”

Rael heard his Master let out a soft snort in response. Only Dooku could make such a noise sound dignified. “I suppose I did,” the older man answered evenly.

“So there you go! Blow up the train and everyone’s fine.”

“And kill the driver?”

Rael spun to face Dooku, the other man’s eyebrows raised not in condemnation, but genuine interest. It was days like this Rael truly appreciated having Dooku as a Master. Sure, he was as pretentious as any big-city Senator, a hard taskmaster in his lessons, and an even tougher dueling trainer - but at the end of the day, Dooku only expected Rael to follow Dooku’s rules, and not the Order’s.

And as much as Rael chaffed under any collar, he’d take Dooku’s version of the Code over the Council’s any day.

“I mean, the driver is the one in control of the train,” Rael shrugged. “Sure, it’s an accident, but the they were going to be dead either way once they hit those other bodies. Probably would go flying through the window and bash their skull in. This way, you save six lives,” Rael gave his best used speeder salesman grin. “Buy five, get one free.”

That little addition did cause his Master to roll his eyes.

“You are…” Dooku pressed his lips together, sitting back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. It was as close as Dooku ever got to a casual posture. “Colorful rhetoric aside, you are essentially advocating for pre-emptive action. Very interesting, Rael.”

“Interesting as in,” Rael pulled a sour face, imitating Dooku’s proper Serennian accent, “‘And now I will assign you five Jedi moral precepts to memorize and write a five-page essay about’ or interesting as in ‘I will now have you learn the complete codified law of the Umbargans, whose entire military strategy revolved around non-preemptive attacks.”

Dooku chuckled - actually chuckled - at Rael’s minor impertinent outburst. “Neither, Rael. Although, I must say you have provided me the perfect means by which I may punish you later on.” Damn, dug my own grave with that one, thought Rael.

“No,” Dooku continued, “I merely find your stance on this matter to be refreshingly…original.”

“You mean the Council wouldn’t approve?”

It took his Master a full minute to answer, his gaze shifting beyond Rael, beyond the confines of their shared quarters, Dooku seeming lost in some memory.

“Hardly,” he finally said. “And that is for the best.”

~~~~~~~

“Your thoughts, Padawan?”

Qui-gon Jinn sat motionless on the small patch of grass, listening to the susurrations of the light breeze in the Room of a Thousand Fountains finger through a nearby thicket of Borto reeds. Across from him, Master Dooku sat in a mirrored pose, long legs crossed over the other in the lotus position, expression unreadable, his presence in the Force - or, his effect on the Force presence on the vegetation around him - one of controlled expectancy, a single blade of grass erect and ready despite the buffeting winds.

“We shouldn’t have to choose, Master,” Qui-gon replied, trying to steady his own uneven thoughts and emotions. Although he had been Dooku’s Padawan for almost five years now, Qui-gon still found himself worrying his responses to thought experiments like these would not pass his Master’s high and stringent intellectual standards.

“In an ideal world, Qui-gon, we wouldn’t. But as you have learned - as I have shown you - the status quo rarely measures up to our ideals.”

The status quo, Qui-gon thought. Code for the Senate, for the Council, for the Republic at large. That much he had figured out, had learned from Rael, whose ability to translate Dooku’s sometimes opaque rhetoric to something more digestible never ceased to amaze Qui-gon.

The status quo. The more years he spent with Dooku - with Rael, when the younger man was around - the more Qui-gon understood. Perhaps he always had a predilection to question, to challenge what was “known,” the dictums etched in stone handed down from the Council to the Council’s Masters to its Padawans. But with Dooku’s guidance, and with his own exploration of the Jedi prophecies, Qui-gon had developed his own sense of right and wrong, of how the galaxy ought to work in consonance with the ideals of the Jedi Code and his own moral compass.

“In that case, I would ask the Force for guidance,” Qui-gon replied, thoughts slipping back to the many hours he had spent in the Archives, poring over ancient holocrons. The Force had provided for the seers of old, why shouldn’t it provide now?

“Perhaps the Force cannot provide all the answers,” Dooku countered, as if reading his mind.

Qui-gon frowned, tilting his head. “Is that not what the Jedi teach, Master? What you teach? To follow the Force?”

“To a degree,” Dooku assented, rare amusement curling the side of his lips. “But the Jedi work in symbiosis with the Force, and even that is within a certain self-imposed definition of what the Force may or may not be capable of.”

Self-imposed definition? Qui-gon ran his hands through the soft grass at his sides, no longer able to keep that perfect stillness now that Dooku had so upset his equilibrium. Had his study of the prophecies not proven that exact point? That the Jedi of now no longer regarded the Force with as open a mind those of millennia ago?

“The Force is more infinite, has more potentialities than the confines of what we could possibly hope to study in a thousand lifetimes,” Qui-gon hedged.

“And so you hope to use prophecy to save these doomed beings?” Dooku retorted with a small wave of his hand. Ah yes, the hovertrain problem, Qui-gon grimaced. He had almost quite forgotten about the whole reason for this conversation.

“I would hope to…” Qui-gon cocked his head, watching a pair of butterflies flutter over a Byrsonima crassifolia, fragile leaves fluttering in their wake. An action - or a lack of action. If he saved one life or saved five. What would the repercussions be? How could he know he was making the right choice? How could the Order know, if not for guidance from the Force, in all its possible iterations?

And yet, the study prophecy of was considered at best, an esoteric hobby - at worst, a dangerous arm of mysticism by much of the Council.

Which is why your Master encourages you to think beyond the dictates of the Council, Qui-gon concluded.

“Yes, then,” Qui-gon stated, suddenly more confident in his answers. “I would hope to ameliorate the situation by using a similar mindset of the prophets. One of openness, wonder, and possibility - to find my way in this situation.”

“And just how far would you be willing to take supposed,” Dooku trained him with an enigmatic expression, “openness?” The word weighed heavy with implication.

Qui-gon started. What exactly is Dooku trying to get at here? Hadn’t it been his Master who had introduced him to the prophecies, to the Force beyond the dictates of the Code? So far, Dooku had not steered him wrong, and yet just as the nearby Byrsonima crassifolia cast a long shadow over the open grass, so did Dooku’s unspoken entreaty.

But before Qui-gon could cobble together an answer, Dooku seemed to break out of his trance, chuckling slightly as he got to his feet. He extended a long arm to Qui-gon, who took it without hesitation, coming to stand at his Master’s side.

“Meditate on the answer, Qui-gon. For now, I believe it is past time for dinner.”

~~~~~~~

“Your thoughts, Padawan.”

Obi-wan Kenobi shifted in the overly-large, overly-plush velvet chair which threatened to swallow him whole. He and Qui-gon had been dispatched to Barstovia, a little-known desert mining planet in the Mid-Rim. A simple mission, really, overseeing a trade deal between Barstovia and Ord Mantell, opening up some shipping lines of the rare fermenium mineral to the Republic. A wholly forgettable mission, if Obi-wan were being honest, except for the fact the diminutive race of Barstovia seemed to prize, of all the unlikely things, oversized, over-upholstered furniture.

While Obi-wan struggled with a crimson throw pillow the size of his torso, his master, Qui-gon Jinn, sat across from him, perfectly serene in his eight-foot tall, royal blue armchair.

“Well, Master,” Obi-wan said, words strained as he punched the pillow to his side with un-Jedi-like ferocity. Of all times for Qui-gon to pull out a thought experiment.

“The prevailing wisdom would say to sacrifice one life to save five - a utilitarian outlook and the most practical, at least on the surface.” Obi-wan pushed down on the seat of his chair, trying in vain to straighten his posture, to lend his answer some form of credence beyond his words. Inevitably, Qui-gon would hold the exact opposite opinion from Obi-wan’s, and while Obi-wan had often kept his feelings to himself under the guise of “picking his battles,” he preferred to express his thoughts while at least looking the part of an almost eighteen-year-old Padawan, and not some child stuck in a chair too large for him. He struck at the recalcitrant cushion one last time. “But as Jedi, we often prioritize a single being or beings if they hold an important role.”

“In the short-term,” Obi-wan grimaced suddenly, pulling an impossible second pillow from under his right thigh, “we would lose four lives over one, granted. But in the long-term, that single life lost might mean the eventual deaths of hundreds, perhaps thousands.”

“But you do not have this information, Padawan,” Qui-gon replied, a crease of annoyance in his brow. Obi-wan noted there was no accompanying crease in the cushion of his Master’s chair. “All you know is the number of beings.”

Obi-wan bit down on a caustic reply. Yes, I know that, Master. I hadn’t gotten to my point yet. But when did Qui-gon actually ever listen to him?

“Yes, Master, this is true,” the younger Jedi answered, Obi-wan impressed with the evenness of his own response despite his increasing irritation. “Which is why I would endeavor to save them all.”

A beat. a raised eyebrow coupled with a subtle sigh. “Quite the feat, Obi-wan,” Qui-gon finally said, his words laced with skepticism. “How would you accomplish such a thing?”

How in the world is he not drowning in that chair? Obi-wan thought, distracted by his Master’s impenetrability, despite the audacious situation. There was Qui-gon, halfway across the room, composed and neat - well, as neat as Qui-gon ever got - against the regal backdrop of the humorously-sized chair while Obi-wan floundered in a sea of crimson, just out of his Master’s reach.

And wasn’t that the perfect metaphor for their troubled partnership?

Obi-wan wiped at his brow. “It’s quite simple, Master. The hovertrain could be diverted, or at least impeded by a third party inserting themselves into the equation.”

Something in Qui-gon’s expression shifted at the statement, earlier annoyance now melting into something closer to concern. The older man leaned forward in his chair, for the first time exhibiting a pang of discomfort as he battled the voluminous material.

“And who might that be?” Qui-gon asked, batting at the tsunami of beige woven blanket at his side.

“Myself, of course.”

Dead silence met Obi-wan’s words.

Wrong answer, Kenobi. Absolutely the wrong answer. Disappointment was written all over Qui-gon’s body language, even emanating from his usually controlled Force signature. Obi-wan fell back into the chair, not bothering to fight the dunes and valleys of velvet threatening to overtake him, averting his gaze to some preposterously-sized side-table and vase. Hopefully, his failure to provide the correct response would be the end of this increasingly uncomfortable conversation. Qui-gon would assign him some reading and meditation, and let the matter rest until they returned to Coruscant.

But Qui-gon only peered at Obi-wan with a piercing stare, apparently not ready to give up on the exchange.

“You would sacrifice yourself to save the others?”

Obi-wan found himself mirroring his master’s movements.

“Isn’t that what it means to be a Jedi?” he asked, genuinely perplexed. “We are servants of the Republic, of the Force - if our actions can save lives so that Republic may continue in peace - “ Obi-wan’s mouth opened and closed, trying to form the words that would express his devotion to the Order, the Code, his own sense of honor - but found himself gaping like an Ithorian cuttlefish.

Once again, Qui-gon fell into contemplation, back arching against tall, bulbous pillows, brushing his mustache with a single finger. A minute, then two went by, the only sound the clicks of a nearby chrono. Over eighteen feet tall, the clicks sounded more like the steps of a lurking gundark than a timepiece, doing nothing for Obi-wan’s nerves.

Finally, Qui-gon broke the uncomfortable semi-silence. “Don’t be so hasty to throw away your own life, Padawan. As you rightly said, the death of a monarch may cause the deaths of many others down the road. But you cannot know how many lives would remain unsaved if you were to treat your own so lightly.”

Obi-wan’s eyebrows rose. That had not been the reaction he was expecting.

“But how am I to know when that sacrifice is necessary?” he asked automatically. Obi-wan would make that sacrifice gladly, although...to be perfectly honest, he would prefer not to die as a seventeen-year-old Padawan.

“The better question is how you can work to reach a more productive option rather than coming to such a dire conclusion.” Qui-gon’s voice softened. “I am serious, Obi-wan. You have much to offer the galaxy. Don’t let your strict adherence to Jedi ideals extinguish your star too early. Not only would the Republic be at a loss, but…” Qui-gon looked away, staring down at some invisible pattern in the corner of the room. “I would, as well.”

Obi-wan’s mouth dropped open. “Master, I - “

“Ah, Master Jedi!” A new voice squeaked from the gargantuan entranceway. “Thank you so much for waiting,” proclaimed the three-foot Minister of Commerce, Parhary Hatch, bedecked in a long, flowery robe whose velvet train stretched back several feet. “Please, if you would,” he gestured towards the tall archway.

“Yes, of course, Minister Hatch,” Qui-gon replied in his diplomatic voice, jumping neatly off the chair, his landing as elegant as a Coruscanti ice skater.

Obi-wan frowned, joining his Master in a slightly less dignified, but no less effective maneuver. They had been on the verge of…something, some kind of understanding, or at least a truce. Whatever words had remained unsaid between would likely stay so, the moment gone, the trip back to Coruscant, and then to a Hutt outpost taking priority over these types of conversations.

Another time, then, Obi-wan sighed to himself, following the slinking violet trail of the Bartovian minister and his Master into the long corridors of the palace.

#whumptober #whumptober 2 #obi wan kenobi #count dooku #yan dooku #rael averross #qui gon jinn #pretentious bullshit #the trolley problem #writing #the eternal struggle #well this happened #i did have fun making up the alien culture for the last bit though #points to anyone who catches the references in the planet name and minister name

48 notes · View notes

inkedcinders · 5 years

Text

Coming Out

It was a fairly normal day, slightly overcast but hot, not that it mattered when you spent all of your time indoors as answer was want to do. How else was he supposed to keep his pasty complexion? Plus, he’d finally gotten air conditioning, courtesy of a friendly donation of the woman sitting next to him.

Not that he had a choice in the matter, so it was more of a hostile donation.

Sitting next to him on the couch was his assuredly not-a-girlfriend, sigma, known to the rest of the world as Natalie Abela, daughter to the CEO of AbelaTech. She was insanely wealthy by extension of her father, and so incredibly smart she finished high school two years early and went straight into university. Despite this, she was still so under stimulated intellectually that she’d taken on part-time hacking gigs.

She hadn’t been terribly well-known at the time, keeping herself to small jobs that she could do from home or a library, trying to keep a low, anonymous profile. It wasn’t like she needed the money, after all, or the fame. It was just a way to pass the time. It most likely would have continued that way if he hadn’t tried to access AbelaTech’s servers through a backdoor route that turned out to be her personal files, and she’d counter-hacked him in response.

His roommate Buster still bore the mental scars of what she’d uploaded to answers’ ‘ware.

Answer wasn’t entirely certain how they’d gone from antagonists to occasionally working together, but it was how she started doing the bigger jobs, going on-site and sometimes even shooting things.

And she was still getting perfect A’s in school.

From there they’d become friends, with her foisting a cat on him that he’d named Tubby-tubb-tubbs to her annoyance, but conceded was better than “Cat”. The orange fuzzball was a useless mouser but loved to cuddle, and she paid for her upkeep, and he was still a little afraid of sigma through proxy of her father, so he’d just let it slide.

He was even less certain how they’d become lovers. It just sort of... happened. And then they’d said it was a bad idea, and should never do it again. And then it happened again not long after. A few more rounds of this and they’d given up and just accepted it was happening.

She was quite insistent that they were not going out, which hurt a little bit for reasons he didn’t want to think about.

21 now, she’d completed her bachelors and moved on to a masters degree, still being annoyingly vague about what she was majoring in, despite a noncommittal hand wave and “just computer stuff”. She kept him weirdly distant from her life.

It kind of made him feel like a secret mistress or something.

She was working on schoolwork, he was doing the boring part of shadow running: sorting through his messages and paperwork. Sometimes sigma did it for him for fun because she was insane, but today it was his burden to bear.

Sorting through a few messages on a job call, he made a derisive noise at the contents of one, emphatic enough to get the tiny hacker to look up at him.

“What is it?” She asked.

“Ah, just some dumb fuck who’s pitching a fit because there’s a known technomancer in a job call,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.

Her head tilted slightly, assessing. “You’re okay with technomancers?”

He gave her a look. “Why wouldn’t I be? They’re just people, right? You have to be stupid to get your panties in a twist over a dude who can hack with his brain. Or people with magic. Or the metahuman variants. Lotta stupid people.”

“There are a few,” she remarked dryly. “I thought a lot of hackers didn’t like them because they were gonna put them out of a job, or whatever.”

He gave a short laugh. “There aren’t that many technomancers, and not all of them want to be hackers, either,” he said. “And just because they’re technomancers doesn’t mean they’re gonna be good at it. Not many technomancers are better than me.”

“I’m better than you,” she said mildly, turning back to her work.

“Well, yeah, you’re better than me, but...” he trailed off as his brain caught up with what she said. He shot her a look, but she was studiously working on her school assignment, not looking at him, and it was difficult to determine what she was thinking. Did she just..?

That wasn’t necessarily an admission to being a technomancer. It was a pretty ambiguous statement. She might just have been throwing shade by saying the girl six years his junior was better at him than hacking and so didn’t believe his claim that most technomancers weren’t at his level.

Then again, sigma was a master at being coy. She was naturally rather shy, despite all appearances, and she lived under such scrutiny that she had gotten very good at ambiguous statements that could be taken multiple ways and spun in the way that caused the least amount of fuss. She could be testing the waters, see how he recreated to the idea.

Because despite everything, technomancers were still under threat, even if things were better than at emergence.

Answer decided it was best not to say anything. It was a touchy subject for a lot of people, especially technomancers, and if she wasn’t feeling safe enough to just out and say it, he didn’t want to press the issue. If the situation blew up, he’d deal with it then.

Maybe not the best policy, but these weren’t the decisions he was really made for.

Sigma did some hand gestures to deal with whatever she was doing in AR, then said, “To the question you’re dying to ask, the answer is yes, I am.”

Well, that was refreshingly direct. Looking closer, he noticed that her tan skin had gone pale, body tense, hands slightly trembling. Not as unaffected as she was pretending to be.

“You should really keep quiet about that,” he said finally. “Technomancers just... disappear sometimes, and I don’t think even your father’s money and influence will help with that.”

She shot him an annoyed look. “Answer, I have been a technomancer for the last five years, I know a thing or two about “keeping quiet”!”

“Five years?” He repeated, incredulous, and then suddenly so many strange things that had happened over the years clicked into place.

Then he couldn’t help grinning. “Wait, if you’re saying this now, it means you trust me, don’t you?” He couldn’t help but feel a little bit excited by it; she was actually allowing him a little closer.

She didn’t quite look at him, mumbling, “Maybe a little... I have been letting you have sex with me for the last three years...”

He made a derisive noise. “Sex has nothing to do with trust.”

“That explains so much about you.”

#shadowrun #sigma #natalie abela #answer.me.this #answer #scott winters #technomancer #hacker #i love these nerds #they are just the biggest nerds #and are totally forever in love with each other #but both are too much of a NERD #to admit it

1 note · View note

amarantine-amirite · 5 years

Text

November Syndrome

Imagine that you're a freshman. You're away from home for the first time, out from under the thumbs of veganism and expectations for high achievement that were previously foisted upon you. You have no sense of obligation other than avoiding being yelled at by parents and school. No discipline. No idea how to schedule anything. No sense of organization or time management. The only reason you ever got anything done before was because you had been emotionally beaten into submission by your higher-ups.

What happens? You go crazy. End of story. For the first two months, you go to every party and social event on campus, then, come November, you go bonkers over how much work you have to do, but you don't actually do any work. Instead of working, you escape into things like writing fanfiction, playing Fortnite, or something else unrelated to your studies. It's almost like you evolve into a master procrastinator.

Worse, you don’t even notice your lack of discipline until there’s no one saying “no” to every one of your ideas. As a premed, one of the courses I had to take was called "Computer Science for Scientific Applications". It sounded better than it was. It involved having to hand-write code. On top of that, we had to write in pen! It sucked. My handwritten braces looked like sideways boobs. It was just awful. What really sucked was that I write in cursive, so I did my code in cursive. The professor was not pleased when I handed my assignments in. Our assignments were graded based on whether or not they worked. We don't know until we hand anything in if it works. We don't test the code ourselves, he runs it for us. He put our assignments were put through a scanner, and the scans would be put through a piece of software that would convert the text on the image of the page into actual text. The text that it scraped would then be entered into the IDE for the language in question. Usually for freshman computer science, the language was Java, but our steam (recall I was in premed at the time) did Javascript. The only sort of editing that had to be done to the code once it was scanned and in the IDE was typically spacing related/missing character (the software was good but not perfect).

How was your assignment scored? If the code ran, you passed, and if not; you failed. And I failed my assignment (I only did one) because my handwriting always created a ton of problems for the transcription software. It was kind of a weird program. The software had an auto-detect-language-and-translate feature. Sounds cool, but because of my writing, it thought that I was writing in Hindi and it would "auto-translate" my code. Since the translation module for the software was not that good, stuff got mistranslated…a lot. I remember on one of my assignments, I wrote something in the comments and it got garbled into "radish boots". Ever since then, my nickname amongst my friends in CS was Radish Boots. I didn't hand in any more assignments for that class after that.

See, that's how it starts. Something very small, very unexpected like that. That's how you get the idea that your assignments are optional. And that was all it took to turn me into a master procrastinator.

Once I got the idea that assignments were optional, I just really let myself go. Within three weeks, I went from "good student" to "crappy student" to "how the hell did they get into university?" With no actual work weighing me down, I went ahead and participated in every campus social event ever. Paint-your-own flower pot day at the library? I was there! Fitness event? I was there! Halloween party? Take a guess? I kid you not, I was acting like one of those guys in a college movie. Rather than studying, I went to social events. It was great, except for one little thing. Turns out (and I learned this at board game night), people find people who act like they're in college movies really annoying.

Anyway, the incident that happened at board game night was related to something that happened in chemistry. We had one of those semester long group projects where they put you in groups of seven or eight people. One of the people in our group (Anne, I believe it was) was at the event, and she gave me an earful. Not going to lie, she was really mad that I wasn't doing any work. That's bad enough on its own, but she was angrier than I had expected her to be because we lost five people in the group (four of whom died in rapid succession in some bizarro chain reaction):

last Monday, Laura died of obesity related complications

last Tuesday, Alejandro took up jogging to avoid dying like Laura. He got hit by a bus

last Wednesday, Kevin became afraid of the outdoors (thanks to what happened to Alejandro) and sought refuge in playing video games. Come the weekend, he died of a blood clot from playing Starcraft for 62 hours straight

on Sunday, Melissa shunned all technology (because of what happened to Kevin) and went off to rough it in the woods. She died eating poisonous mushrooms

and yesterday, Michiru dropped out because she couldn't handle the pressure of doing the work of the people that died

Now, our group only had two people, and we had to do the work of seven people. Actually, scratch that. Since I wasn't pulling my weight, poor Anne was stuck doing the work of seven people. Understandably, she was fuming with me, and more than a few swear words were uttered. Anne made a point of saying that if I didn't step up in times of crisis, I had no business being a doctor. I would have agreed, but I had my first taste of freedom in my life. There was no one telling me how I had to respond, so I did what people in movies did: I told her to fuck off.

I don't blame Anne for being so ticked with me. After all, she was doing the work of seven people and I was being a coward, hiding behind a mask made out of lies and excuses. No one likes that.

And then, it happened. November rolled around. The amount of stuff that was past due was insane. Seriously! I missed literally every single assignment that wasn't a test (actually, I think I might have missed a couple of tests, too). I made the mistake of buying into the delusion that assignments were optional, and I ended up paying for it.

I needed to get my shit together and do work, but I couldn't. It went beyond lack of discipline. I never built a workflow, and now I couldn't, for it was too late to dig myself out of the hole. And so, instead of doing the work I needed to do, I did a bunch of irrelevant crap. I had run out of time as a procrastinator, but I acted like things were OK. The reality was, they weren't. My situation with school was beyond dire. Worse, I lied to myself about how it wasn't a big deal. Rather than own up to anything, I escaped into a world of playing video games, writing crappy fan fiction, and other bullshit that would in no way help me get on top of school. November called, and I didn't answer. I couldn't. I was stuck where I was.

I know that I sound like I am repeating myself a lot, but I really want to emphasize how I still didn't get my ass in gear even though things had gotten to the point that I really, really had to buckle down and actually do a ton of work to just pass. More specifically, I wanted to emphasize how much stupid fan fiction and creepypasta I read and wrote during that period. I don't know why I gravitated to creepypasta. I think I was trying to hide the fact that I was a coward, afraid to face the consequences of my procrastination. Liking works of fiction involving surreal horror and demented episodes of beloved childhood cartoons somehow must have translated in my mind to not being afraid of anything. Regardless of how the logistics of that excuse supposedly worked, I ended up being a creepypasta addict.

And that bled into my fanfic writing. I know because I tried to write this ridiculous JumpStart fanfic. It was supposed to be a creepypasta/fanfic (like the infamous Cupcakes), but it just came out incredibly stupid. The concept that powered the story was the little animals from the early elementary JumpStart titles (Frankie the dog, Eleanor the elephant, Pierre the polar bear, CJ the frog, etc…) acting like the folks on South Park. For instance, Frankie the Dog was "Kyle", CJ the Frog was "Stan", Eleanor the Elephant was "Cartman" (albeit with a hidden softer side), and I don't remember who was "Kenny" (I think it was Pierre the Polar Bear). Anyway, the actual story was this thing with vampires. The story was that, at some point, Eleanor got bitten by a vampire (and consequently, turned into a vampire). At the same time, Pierre (I think) was in the hospital with some pretty heavy duty muscular dystrophy, and CJ was trying to persuade people to fund stem-cell research in the hopes that they could save Pierre. However; Frankie thought CJ's thing was dumb and said that they could get Eleanor to bite Pierre so he'd turn into a vampire, thereby curing him of his muscular dystrophy. The only problem with that was, well, Pierre would be a vampire. Eleanor ends up being conflicted by the whole thing, and that's the conflict that drives the story.

I remember some time after I posted the first two chapters online wanting to have a twist ending (I'd written about 75% of the story by this time). I didn't know whether I wanted to do "you think it's the future but it's really the past" or "you think it's the past but it's really the future". I guess it didn't matter, because I noticed that I had only two hours left before the submission deadline for my biology term paper. After trying to convince myself that no, I wasn't dreaming this, I wrote the bare minimum of what I needed to write to fit the guidelines for the term paper disclosed on the webpage; then uploaded the results to turnitin.com, fingers crossed that I would at least pass.

Except I didn't. Not only did I not pass the term paper, I didn’t even hand it in. I found out the next day that I had actually uploaded the fourth chapter of my dumb-ass JumpStart fanfiction (and it was a scary chapter too...it was the flashback to when Eleanor gets bitten by the vampire). The prof was not impressed. Let's just leave it at that.

You have no idea how badly I screwed everything up. I managed to get a flat zero in every single course this term. The only exception was CS, where I wound up getting only 2%. Bottom line is that I failed everything. Yes, everything. My only shot at academic redemption is the final exam.

Even still, it might not be enough. As of this writing, I have less than twelve hours before I go in to write the exam. This is bad. I can't sleep even though I'm exhausted. I have to stay up and work. I need to sleep, but I can't. I'm stuck. I've made this bed, and now I'm going to die in it.

No, really. I feel like I'm going to die.

When I first started cramming, I was fine for the first hour and a half. After that, though, I started seeing static in my field of view. The static thing lasted for a couple of hours until it progressed to seeing shadow people. Or, at least I thought they were shadow people. They weren't even remotely humanoid. I was seeing weird, shadowy spider things. They looked like giant tarantulas, all four of them, and they were coming for me. Just before they got me, they vanished.

They were gone. They were 100% all gone. It was like it never happened. No static, no ghost spiders, nothing. Crisis averted. Back to work.

Nope. It's not that simple. The minute I went back to reading the textbook, I could feel my heart race. I tried to highlight stuff and write down key points, but I couldn't, since my right arm is numb. I switch to writing with my other hand, but that doesn't work. I can't write with my other hand too well. Worse, the minute I get the hang of writing with my other hand, I start throwing up like a volcano. After that, it's over. I can't study if I'm throwing up every three minutes. Even if I weren't throwing up the way I am, I wouldn't be able to focus on studying right now. I can barely form coherent sentences, much for your time like to undarastamnd the impotence of teh book biology and chemistry. Chemical biologrehcal flerbut connection ffrhhAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

AAAAAAAAAA!

@the-writer-s-hideout

#writing #writers #writers on tumblr #creepy #short fiction #drama #short story #original fiction

14 notes · View notes

dracusfyre · 7 years

Text

Love and War

Another Winteriron Tumblr prompt fill! From and for @imaginetonyandbucky

Original Prompt: age-reversal au; tony is 21 when obie finally lets him run lead on his first weapons demo, while at the army base, he makes friends with seal team sniper Bucky. Explicit Sexual Content Ahoy. (9k words)

Also on AO3

“Who’s the bigwig that gets his own helicopter ride all the way out here?” Bucky asked as he scanned the sky for the lights of the incoming Apache. “Even the colonel had to wait for the Wednesday circular.”

“It’s Tony Stark with a box of goodies for us to test out,” Dugan answered, his contraband cigar an orange glow in the darkness.

“And Tony Stark is…?”

“Tony Stark is like the Bill Gates of guns and bombs.” Bucky heard Dugan’s feet crunch on the gravel as he moved closer and blew out a cloud of smoke. “Word is he’s got a fancy new sniper rifle he’s trying to sell the Army.”

“Well that explains why I’ve been assigned to be his babysitter,” Bucky said in resignation. He lowered the binoculars; the chopper would be coming in dark until it was almost on top of the base anyway, so it would be better to stop talking and listen for the sound of the blades. “How long is he going to be here?”

“His outgoing itinerary hasn’t been scheduled yet, so I guess however long it takes.” His voice had a ‘better you than me’ tone in it that made Bucky want to rip that cigar out of his mouth and stomp on it. It was bad enough when the higher ups foist a well-meaning journalist on them; usually the problem there was to keep them from climbing over the walls in search of a story. But what in the hell was a rich old man doing way the hell out here? FOB Obelisk was a tiny special ops base in the mountains of Afghanistan that had maybe thirty people on base at any given time. The food sucked, the entertainment was worse, and now Bucky was going to have to try to keep him entertained and try to figure out how to tell him that his fancy new sniper rifle wasn’t worth the metal it was made of without getting drummed out of the army.

“Did I fuck somebody’s sister or something? Why did the shit have to roll down this particular hill?” Bucky kicked at the gravel in frustration. “It’s not like my opinion is going to make a difference. Someone’s going to give a briefcase of money to someone with a star on their collar and the Army’s going to have 15,000 new rifles it doesn’t need.”

Behind them a corporal stuck his head out the door of the transpo HQ. “Incoming,” he said, and then Bucky could hear the chopper blades. Lights came on just long enough to bring the helicopter down and ruin Bucky’s night vision while the blades kicked up dust and gravel as they whined to a stop. Bucky turned on the red bulb of his flashlight as he heard the door slide open.

“Mr. Stark?” Bucky shouted as loud as he dared as he approached. Thankfully the pilot killed the engine and he could hear again.

“Working on it,” a voice said from the dimly lit interior of the helicopter. The only passenger was struggling with the six-point harness, his helmet sitting on the seat beside him. He glanced up at Bucky, hair falling across his forehead. Bucky stared at the long lashes, the straight nose, and the stubble along a sharp jaw and his brain froze.

“Be right back,” he said, stupidly, and he turned around to where Dugan was watching him with interest. “That’s Tony Stark?”

“Should be.” Dugan stepped onto the helicopter skids to peer inside. “Yeah, that’s him. Why?”

“Can he even drive?” Bucky hissed, feeling a little hysterical. Almost six months with only his right hand for company, and now his job was to chaperone this walking wet dream? “I was expecting a rich old white guy, like, I dunno, Bill Gates.”

“Dude his parents died like, just a few months ago. He got control of the company when he turned twenty-one.”

“And when was that? Yesterday?” Bucky ran a hand over his face and tried to get his shit together. He looked back into the helicopter and almost got a face full of Tony Stark’s duffel bag.

“It was quite a few months ago, actually,” he said as he jumped down onto the gravel. The red light of Bucky’s flashlight gave a weird tone to his skin and the bulky flak jacket was not flattering on anyone, but it didn’t disguise the quirk of his lips as he smiled and held out a hand. Jesus Christ, that mouth, Bucky thought helplessly as he took it. “Tony Stark, genius billionaire playboy. And arms dealer, I guess.”

“Sergeant James Barnes, but everyone calls me Bucky,” Bucky said. “This is Sergeant Timothy Dugan, better known as Dum Dum. Is this all you’ve got?” Bucky said, nudging the duffel bag with his foot.

“Careful, I’ve got grenades in there,” Tony said, and Bucky and Dugan both blanched and took a step back. “Not really. All the toys are in those.” He pointed to the gorilla boxes the copilot and the flight line corporal were carrying into the transpo HQ. Stooping, he grabbed the bag and threw it over his shoulder. “If possible, I’d like a shower and a hamburger, in that order.”

Bucky checked the time. “If you’ll follow me, I can get you a shower but midnight chow doesn’t start for another hour.”

Tony shrugged philosophically. “Lead on.”

In the short walk from the flight line to housing Bucky managed to convince himself that he could play it cool for a few days. Just because he’s been stuck out here on this tiny fucking base for five months with only a couple of days R&R at a slightly bigger base a hundred miles away wasn’t a reason to lose his self-control over a mouth that looked like it was made for sin. Didn’t he tell off a specialist for coming on to a female contractor just last week? He was way too old to be led around by his dick.

Bucky was feeling good about that pep talk as he went up the stairs to the housing office to get the keys to Tony’s CHU. He missed a step going back down the stairs when he realized that Tony was going to be right next door to him, but he shook that off too because he was a professional goddammit.

“Alright, here’s your home away from home,” Bucky said as he turned on the obnoxious fluorescent lighting and dropped the sheets, blanket, and towel on the bare mattress. Since it was a guest room it was pretty bare bones; someone had left a rug and a lamp behind when they shipped out, but other than that it was a long, metal rectangular room with all the charm and style of a high school locker. The bed was a metal frame with a mattress the thickness of your average dictionary; when they got here his unit had fought over the good mattresses until all the busted ones had ended up in the unoccupied CHUs. Like this one. For a brief moment Bucky felt self-conscious about it until Tony stepped around him to throw his duffle bag on the floor and start unfastening the flak vest with the loud rip of Velcro.

Bucky stared as Tony pulled his sweatshirt over his head, leaving him in a sweat soaked black tank that clung to the long lean lines of Tony’s back and revealed his slim but muscled shoulders and the cargo pants that were about to fall off his skinny hips.

Bucky started to sweat.

Tony grabbed a towel and threw it over his shoulder, looking at Bucky expectantly. “Shower?”

“Sure,” he said automatically, and felt his face get hot. “I mean, it’s…” He went out the door so he didn’t have to see that amused, knowing look in Tony’s eyes. “It’s right there,” he said, pointing to another of the ubiquitous rectangular buildings that made up the whole base. The stairs were barely lit up enough to keep you from tripping over it, but you could see the universal symbols for shower and toilet on the door.

“You’re not going to stay?” Tony asked and Bucky’s brain went blank for a moment. “To take me to midnight chow?”

“Right, uh, well my CHU is that one so I’ll just come back in a hour and take you over there.” Bucky made a hasty escape and banged his head against his door in frustration when he closed it behind him. “Get a grip, asshole,” he said and threw himself on the bed, reaching for his zipper. He had an hour to jerk off enough that he could look Tony in the eyes without acting like an oversexed sailor on shore leave.

Tony blew out a long breath as he turned on the shower, debating whether he wanted to take a cold one after laying eyes on James Barnes in the bright light of his room. Pale grey eyes, thick silky hair he wanted bury his hands in, and a body Tony wanted to climb like a jungle gym wrapped in an army uniform? For a moment, Tony’d had a crazy thought that he’d wandered into a porn movie and was just waiting for the 80s techno music to start.

And the look in his eyes when Tony had turned around in just his undershirt? Tony smirked as he stepped under the slightly above room temperature spray. He’d bet half of Stark Industries Bucky was rubbing one out right now. Digging out his soap, Tony wondered what Bucky was thinking about. Maybe surprising him here in the shower and crowding him against the wall of this rinky dink stall, letting the water soak through that tight brown shirt as he lifted Tony up to wrap his legs around his waist, holding him up with those thickly muscled thighs that the army fatigues did not disguise at all. Bucky could pin him against the wall while he fingered him open and bit marks across his shoulders.

Tony braced himself against the wall of the shower and wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking himself quickly. When they were ready, Bucky could just pick him up and lower him right onto his dick, and Tony would tangle his fingers in Bucky’s dog tags as he held on for the ride. Was Bucky a talker during sex, winding him up with praise and filthy suggestions about what he would do to him when they were in a real bed? Tony bit his bicep to stifle a moan, not sure how far sound would carry around here, and stroked himself faster. Maybe Bucky was the take charge type and would pin his hands against the shower stall, watching him with those cool grey eyes and daring him to come untouched.

His climax punched out of him at the thought and he grunted with the unexpected force of it. He shivered as he stroked himself just past the point of oversensitivity and made sure his hand was clean before he wiped the water from his face.

Oh yeah. Bucky Barnes just went to the top of Tony’s to-do list before he left Afghanistan.

Bucky blessed the darkness when he went to pick up Tony for midnight chow because he knew he was blushing from having come twice imagining that wide, mobile mouth wrapped around his dick. Thankfully it faded by the time they got to the DFAC and Bucky got to introduce Tony to the wide variety of food available on a tiny base in the middle of the night.

“Burgers and bagels,” Tony repeated. “Well I did ask for a burger.”

“Welcome to FOB Ob,” Bucky said cheerfully, and started filling up his tray.

“So what is there to do here?” Tony asked when he sat down across from Bucky in the surprisingly busy DFAC. Everyone was eyeing Tony curiously since he was the only one not in uniform but so far no one had come up to them, which Bucky knew would change as soon as someone from his unit showed up. Honestly, he was surprised that Dugan hadn’t rounded them all up just to give Bucky a hard time.

“Well, we have a gym, the MWR has most of a game of chess and a stack of VHS tapes, and…” Bucky trailed off, thinking hard. “Sometimes we get nice sunsets. Oh, and we shoot people.”

“Charming,” Tony said dryly as he bit into his hamburger. Bucky had to look down at his plate quickly when Tony started licking a trail of grease off his hand and just like that, an hour’s worth of hard-on work, wasted.

“Yeah, we gotta make our own fun around here. Tomorrow – well, later on today,” Bucky amended, looking at his watch, “is an unsanctioned poker night with the guys in my unit. If that’s not your thing, I think they’re doing karaoke night at the MWR.”

“What time am I getting up to meet the brass?”

“They didn’t tell you?” Bucky patted down his pockets until he found the printout. He took a toothpick from the center of the table and put it between his teeth while he skimmed it. “You have a meeting with Lieutenant Rogers at 1000, break for lunch, then looks like you’re going to sit down with me and the other Howlies to show us all these pretty toys we’re going to try out for you.” Bucky slid the paper across the table and caught Tony staring at his mouth. Smirking, he tossed his toothpick on his tray. “Sorry, we’re discouraged from smoking out here and it has left me with a bit of an oral fixation.”

“You don’t say,” Tony said mildly, lips quirking when he met Bucky’s eyes. Then he surprised himself with a jaw-cracking yawn that brought tears to his eyes.

“Come on, I’ll take you back to your room.” Bucky stood and cleaned off their trays. “Chow starts at 0800, so if you want breakfast you’ll probably want to set an alarm. Don’t know if you noticed, but the CHUs don’t have windows so it stays dark as shit in there. And there’s no insulation, so it’s going to be chilly if you don’t remember to turn on the heat before you go to bed.”

Tony fumbled with the unfamiliar keys before he got his door open . “Thanks for all your help, Bucky. Sure you don’t want to come inside and, um, help me figure out the heater?”

It was too dark to really see the look on Tony’s face, but he could imagine the dare in his eyes because it was certainly there in his voice. Sparks lit up Bucky’s inside like fireworks but then Tony yawned again, swaying slightly. “You’re the genius billionaire, I think you can figure it out,” Bucky said with a wide grin. “Get some sleep, and we’ll see if you still need help with it tomorrow.”

Eight hours later, Bucky was rudely interrupted from taking care of his morning wood by someone banging on his door. “Just a minute!” he shouted, grabbing his BDU pants and pulling them on over his boxers, wincing a bit as he had to tuck his erection behind his zipper.

“What?” He said irritably, opening his door and angling his body so hopefully his visitor wouldn’t notice – oh, it was Tony. With a slightly evil grin, Bucky leaned against the doorframe, successfully rendering Tony speechless for at least a moment as his eyes traveled over Bucky’s bare chest, down to his groin and then flew back up to his face.

“Really?” Tony said. “Do you always answer the door like this?”

“What?” Bucky put on his best innocent look and glanced down, as if not even noticing the hard line of his cock against the zipper of his fatigues. “I put on pants. On this base, anyone who’d be knocking on my door this time of morning has probably already seen me naked at some point or another. Except you, of course.”

“Yeah, except me,” Tony echoed and his eyes drifted south of Bucky’s belly button and went far away for a second.

Bucky would have bet money that whatever was crossing his mind at that moment was probably the plot to a cheesy porno and shit, now he was thinking about it too, and that was not helping the fit of his pants. He cleared his throat. “What do you need?”

Tony raised an eyebrow and raked his gaze back down Bucky’s body, all the way down to his bare feet, and then back up. He leaned slightly around Bucky to look at his bed suggestively. “Ready to teach me how to use the heater yet?”

God, yes. Bucky’s hand tightened on the doorframe as he fought the urge to drag Tony inside his room and kiss that suggestive smirk off his face. “Well the thing is,” Bucky drawled, “you only have about thirty minutes before you have to meet with the LT. And when I start a project, like showing you the AC, I like to be really…thorough and make sure the job is done right.”

Tony swallowed. “And thirty minutes isn’t enough time?”

“Nope. So what did you really come over here for?”

“Oh yeah.” Tony looked down as if just now remembering he had a suit jacket draped over his arm. “For my meeting with Rogers, would you say he would respond better to a suit or something more casual?”

For a split second Tony looked incredibly young and unsure and Bucky’s heart squeezed. He waved a hand at what Tony was already wearing, a long sleeved henley and khaki pants. “Rogers is a no bullshit kind of guy. I’d skip the suit.”

“Thanks,” Tony said with a small smile. His eyes dropped to Bucky’s mouth and he ran his tongue over his lower lip, and Bucky ached to pull him up the stairs to follow its path with his own tongue.

But. “Believe me, I want whatever you’re thinking about and more,” he said in a low voice, shaking his head slightly. Glancing around, he saw that they were alone – most people would be sleeping until at least noon, having run operations all night – but the sun was a glaring presence in the sky, illuminating all the different shades of brown and grey that made up FOB Ob, and Bucky hadn’t made it in the Army this long by being reckless. “But if we get caught, Rogers wouldn’t have any choice but to drum me out of the country and out of the Army.”

Tony nodded and took a step back. “I get it. I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah, later.” Bucky did, however, let himself watch Tony walk away before he closed the door to his CHU.

***

When it came time to meet Bucky and the rest of the Howlies down at the range, Bucky was impressed to find that Tony was all business, sleeves already rolled up and hands stained with gun oil as he unpacked the gorilla boxes. All the fancy new toys were lined up on a table at the back of the range and the guys started making cooing noises as they saw them.

Tony worked his way down the line of weapons and explained where the Stark model differed from what the Army currently used, hands deftly taking the weapons apart to make a point before reassembling them like it was second nature. Bucky found himself staring at Tony’s calloused hands, long-fingered and dexterous, with narrow palms and slim wrists and scarred knuckles. Not, he imagined, the hands of your average billionaire.

For his part, Tony didn’t seem to notice Bucky’s distraction because he was explaining something to Dernier, switching to flawless French when he noticed that the liaison was struggling with the more technical English terminology. Bucky must have made an interesting face at that because Dugan caught his eye and made a swooning gesture behind Tony’s back. Scowling, Bucky gave him the finger and turned away to start loading magazines.

***

Later on that night, after dinner, Tony heard a knock on his door. It took so long to untangle himself from his electronics that the knock came again, more hesitantly. He finally got to the door after tripping over a charger cable, smiling when he saw Bucky on the other side.

“Hey,” Tony said with his most charming smile, leaning against the door to hide the chaos of his room. “What’s up?”

“Poker night got canceled for a mission,” Bucky said, glancing around the darkened area to make sure he was alone. “I thought I’d stop by for some luck. Can I come inside?”

“Sure,” Tony backed up to let him inside. Bucky looked around and just quirked his lips and raised an eyebrow to see the mess; one side looked like a closet exploded and the other was full of electronics. “So, luck, huh?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, curling one hand around the back of Tony’s neck, stroking the thin skin under his ear with his thumb. Tony shivered at the touch, and the quirk of his lips widened into a smile. “Maybe a kiss or something?”

“I think I can do that.” Tony hooked his fingers into the belt loops of Bucky’s fatigues and pulled him closer. Bucky dipped his head and brushed his lips over Tony’s, breath ghosting out with the smell of his after-dinner mint and coffee. Then came Bucky’s tongue, lightly touching Tony’s bottom lip with little kitten licks. Tony didn’t realize he was holding his breath, wound up by Bucky’s teasing, until Bucky finally covered his mouth with his own and he let out a long exhale. He felt Bucky smile and bit his lip in retaliation, feeling victorious when Bucky’s breath hitched. Bucky’s other hand came up and then he was framing Tony’s face with those big, capable hands, calloused and smelling faintly of gun oil, holding him in place while he took him apart with his mouth. He was being so careful, so controlled, like he was afraid he was going to scare Tony away and all Tony wanted to do was to see what happened when he got pushed beyond that control. He wanted Bucky to shove him up against the wall, a knee between his thighs, rutting against him fast and hard.

But he knew without saying that now wasn’t that time, because Bucky was already pulling back with a few last lingering kisses, the final one pressed against the corner of his mouth. Tony opened his eyes and saw Bucky smiling at him, still cradling his face in his hands. “Hey, handsome,” Bucky murmured. “I gotta go, but I’ll see you tomorrow, ok?”

“Yeah. It’s going to take all night?”

“I don’t know. But we’re going to take some of your gear out, so I’ll let you know how it does.”

Bucky still had his hands on his face, so Tony covered them with one of his own. “Will it be dangerous, your mission tonight?”

“Nah,” Bucky shrugged. “Besides, I’m like, a level five Paladin so I’m practically invincible.” Bucky knew he’d fucked up when Tony’s eyes got wide.

“You,” Tony accused after a breathless moment, “are a nerd.” The joyful revelation in his voice made Bucky roll his eyes.

“You,” Bucky countered, “knew what I was talking about. And I’m a geek, not a nerd.” He dropped his hands and started heading towards the door, Tony right on his heels.

“Who’s your DM? Who’s your supplier, Bucky? Are you in a game right now? Are you really a Paladin?” Tony was poking him in the ribs until Bucky turned around and shut him up with another hungry kiss.

“I didn’t make it through SERE school to give up my secrets to a pretty face,” Bucky said with a smile, opening up the door behind him with one hand. “Not that easily.”

“I have ways of making you talk!” Tony shouted after him as Bucky disappeared into the darkness.

***

Hours later, Bucky paced a bit in front of Tony’s trailer, debating the wisdom of knocking on the door again because on the one hand, it’s like four in the morning and most people would be asleep by now, but on the other hand, Tony’s light was on. But on the other other hand, he doesn’t want to seem needy and weird, but –

At that point Tony yanks the door open and the light from inside made Bucky squint. “I can hear you walking on the gravel,” Tony pointed out. “Why didn’t you just knock?”

Trying to explain his headspace right now would take too long and would definitely sound stupid, so instead Bucky just said, “we just got back and I’m too wired to be in my room right now. Want to go for a walk?”

“Sure.” Tony stepped into his shoes right by the door, not even bothering to lace them up. “Where are we going?”

“Just around,” Bucky said vaguely. “I hadn’t thought that far, but it’s not like there’s a lot of options.”

“Ok.” They walked in silence for a bit, their shoes crunching loudly on the gravel. It was a nice night, an almost full moon and stars unusually clear without all the light pollution Tony was used to. He’d gotten used to the smell out here, like hot asphalt and gasoline and an odd smell that he could only describe as desert, but at this time of night the smells had actually died down and the air was something close to clean. “So how did the mission go?” Tony asked finally.

Bucky shrugged. “Fine. We had a bit of a close call, but we got him in the end. I’ll have a report to you about the gear sometime tomorrow. Why are you still awake?”

Now it was Tony’s turn to shrug, hands in his pockets. “Insomnia. Taking care of business back home. After…you know…my parents died, I all of a sudden have to make a bunch of decisions, so…”

“You don’t have any help?”

“Yeah, I mean, there’s this guy Obediah, he was my dad’s right hand man, he’s been really helpful. But in the end, it’s still Stark Industries. And I’m the last Stark.”

Bucky made an understanding noise, and then it was quiet for a while. Until Tony heard a shrill, piercing whistle, and then there was a deep roooooooaaaaaaarrrrrrr noise that split the night.

“Ah, shit.” Bucky grabbed Tony’s arm, dragging him towards a structure that was a darker shadow against the rest of the base that proved to be a bomb shelter.

“What’s happening?” Tony tried to peer out the little sliver of sky that was allowed by the concrete and sandbags of the bomb shelter. There was another high pitched shriek and Tony saw a streak of red against the night sky, but he listened hard and didn’t hear any impact.

“Indirect fire,” Bucky said shortly, rolling his eyes. “Just gotta wait it out.” After a while there were no more shrieks or streaks, so Tony leaned against the wall of the bomb shelter, close enough that Bucky was a line of warmth against his left side.

“How long do we wait?”

“Until they give the all clear.” It was too dark to see Bucky’s face, but after a moment Tony felt Bucky’s arm around his shoulder, pulling him in close. Smiling, Tony snaked his arm around Bucky’s back and felt lips press against his temple in return. Tony turned and lifted his head so the lips met his own, just a little off center. Bucky made an amused chuck and settled against the wall of the bunker, tugging until Tony was between his legs. They kissed there, lazily, tongues curling together, hips grinding like they were teenagers on their parents’ couch. Bucky slid his hands into the back of Tony’s pants and cupped his ass, a low groan rumbling through his chest. Tony heard his head hit the back of the concrete wall. “You know what they say about snipers?”

“I don’t, actually. What do they say?”

“Dammit, I was hoping you knew. I haven’t been a sniper for long and nobody’s told me yet.” Tony dropped his head against Bucky’s collarbone and shook his head, feeling Bucky shake under him with laughter. “Seriously, though, my job is to cover my team’s asses, right? Which means I’m a great shot, and,” Bucky squeezed his ass and made a deep throated unf sound, “a connoisseur of fine asses.”

“And?” Tony really wished he could see Bucky’s face. His hands searched for skin under Bucky’s shirt, but it was tucked too tightly into his pants, so he settled for tucking his head into Bucky’s neck.

“Well, I haven’t had a good look yet, have I? But I can say that feels perfect. Like it’s made to fit my hands.” He squeezed again and rocked their hips together. “Hey, guess what,” he whispered into Tony’s ear.

“What?” Tony whispered back.

“I like you.”

“Yeah?” Tony grinned stupidly and rubbed his nose against the slightly stubbled underside of Bucky’s jaw, feeling warm inside. Bucky’s hands were just resting on his ass, squeezing sometimes but mostly seeming content to just cup them instead of wandering anywhere interesting and it was oddly…soothing.

“Yeah. You were great on the range today, handling all those weapons like a pro. How many languages do you speak, anyway?”

“Three. You?”

Bucky snorted a laugh and tipped his head down for a kiss. “Well, I can speak enough Pashto and Dari to get by, but I’m not going to be explaining how changing the composite metal of a rifle bore affects rifling and accuracy.”

Tony shrugged self-consciously. “It was part of one of my masters’ theses.”

“One of, the man says.” Bucky slid his hands out of Tony’s pants and ran them up his sides, dragging his shirt up as his fingers trailed over the bumps of his ribs. Then his thumbs were rubbing circles over Tony’s nipples and Tony was gasping against Bucky’s mouth.

“Jesus, Bucky.” His hands tightened on Bucky’s waist and his hips surged forward, seeking friction against the hard length of Bucky’s erection. “For the record, I like you too.”

“Good.” Bucky was still tracing circles around his nipples, giving them only the briefest of touches. His hands were so warm, making the rest of Tony feel both chilled and feverish at the same time. Tony shivered and made a sound deep in his throat. “Want to go on a date with me?”

“This doesn’t count?” Tony asked, incredulous. He was like four or five serious strokes away from orgasm and this didn’t even count as a date?

“This is an IDF bunker, I can do better than this,” Bucky said, sounding affronted. “We may be in the middle of Afghanistan but I do have some standards.” He had abandoned Tony’s nipples and now had a grip on Tony’s hip, encouraging him to ride the thick line of his thigh.

“Sure, yeah, sounds great,” Tony said breathlessly as he let Bucky set the rhythm, giving up all sense of propriety and chasing his release. He fisted his hand in Bucky’s hair, the other on Bucky’s shoulder for balance. When he tugged on Bucky’s hair he earned himself a surprised “fuck” and then Bucky’s mouth was crashing down on his.

“Come on, come for me,” Bucky whispered against his mouth. “I want to hear the sounds you make.” Right now the only noises Tony could manage were panting breaths, so close that his hips were stuttering. Then Bucky brought one hand around to the front of his pants, rubbing hard and that was it, sparks flew behind Tony’s eyelids and he came with a long hitching moan. Bucky was murmuring “yeah, that’s it, get it,” in his ear, pressing kisses along his jaw as he came down.

Finally Tony slumped against him, boneless, skin still humming. Bucky’s erection was still a hard line against his hip, but he seemed content to just hold Tony instead of finishing, forehead resting against Tony’s temple. “So I heard there was a lunar eclipse tomorrow night, want to get dinner and watch it with me?”

“Is this the Afghanistan version of Netflix and chill?” Tony asked lazily, still leaning heavily against Bucky. He brought one hand up to run his thumb against the underside of Bucky’s dick, smiling when he heard Bucky’s grunt of pleasure. “Want some help with this?”

Tony could feel Bucky wavering and his mouth started watering at the idea of getting his mouth on that cock, ready to feel the hot weight of it on his tongue, and then Bucky was pulling his hand away and kissing his palm. “Next time.”

***

Tony spent much of the next day hunched over his computer while periodically wandering circles around the small, very boring base – he found the MWR Bucky had mentioned and it was just as dismal as he’d described, only with a lot more second-hand and second-rate political thrillers and mysteries stacked on every available surface. He also wandered by the motor pool and got the bored PFC on duty to show him the vehicles that the soldiers used when they went outside the wire; the armor on them was a rush job if he’d ever seen one, the unreinforced axles of the HMVs groaning under the extra weight. In his head he started immediately composing an email to Obediah to put together a proposal to the DoD because he could do a better job than this just using the spare metal he had around the lab. He found the gym along with most of the inhabitants of the FOB and managed to kill some time on the treadmill, trying to lift weights until he got bored with it. After lunch and showering, Tony thought optimistically that it would at least be three or four o’clock, but when he saw that it was barely after noon he groaned and collapsed on his bed, staring up at the cheap metal ceiling of the CHU.

Goddammit it was going to take forever for this evening to get here.

After the sun set Bucky wiped his palms on his pants and raised his hand to knock when he heard music. He leaned closer and listened for a minute, smiling when he recognized a Black Sabbath song. Smiling, he knocked on the door and said “Housekeeping!”

“Just a minute!” Tony shouted. “JARVIS, music off.” After a moment the door swung open and Tony was stepping back to let Bucky inside. “Hey, sorry about that. Watch your feet,” he added unnecessarily; scattered across the floor in neat piles were gears and rods and other random parts to what looked like a small engine. Bucky stepped carefully to avoid knocking over one of the stacks and found himself a small clear patch of floor to stand while Tony put his shoes on.

“Who is Jarvis?”

“This computer program I’m developing to respond to voice commands.” Tony patted his pockets as if checking for his wallet then smiled when he realized all that he needed was his security badge.

“That’s amazing. That’s going to change a lot of things for people if you can get it to work.” Bucky leaned carefully over to kiss Tony.

“I hadn’t thought about that,” Tony said, looking thoughtful. “I was primarily working on developing it as an artificial intelligence.” He grabbed the closest piece of paper, already covered with equations and scribbled notes and scrawled another note in the corner.

“I definitely want to hear more about that, but first –“ Bucky dug into one of the big pockets of his fatigues and pulled out two small bottles full of dark liquid. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Tony took one of the airplane bottles of whiskey and started laughing. “You sure know how to show a guy a good time, Sergeant Barnes.”

When they got back from dinner, illicitly spiking their drinks with the contraband whiskey, Bucky led Tony behind his CHU, full of weeds and the loud humming of the AC/heating unit built into the wall. Bucky tossed a blanket up onto the roof and then boosted Tony up, hearing him walk around with loud pongs, before backing up a few steps to get a running start. When he managed to climb up he saw Tony making a face at the level of grit and grime on top of the CHU, from years and years of sandstorms and rain that never quite washed all the sand away, but Bucky just shrugged and spread out the blanket. “It’ll wash.”

He lay down and held out his arms for Tony to join him. They finally got comfortable with Tony resting his head on Bucky’s shoulder with Bucky’s arm wrapped around him, hand resting on the center of his chest. The moon was low on the horizon but full, gilding the base with silver light. Glancing up, Tony could see the dark shadows of Bucky’s eyelashes and his contented smile. “I didn’t peg you for a cuddler,” Tony murmured with a smile hidden by the darkness.

“Apparently I turn into an octopus when I sleep. I just naturally grab on to the warmest thing in bed and just,” he squeezed Tony to his chest, “hold on tight.”

“Sounds sweaty.”

“Slippery, even.”

“Greasy and slick…”

“Two wet bodies, sliding against each other…”

“Getting all…moist,” Tony said, and under his head Bucky shook with quiet laughter.

“Gross,” he said, still laughing, and then he tilted Tony’s head up for a kiss. Tony could feel the curve of his lips and taste the whiskey he’d had at dinner. Bucky’s hand slid along his jaw and then cupped the back of his neck, pulling him closer until Tony was laying half on top of him. Tony made a sound deep in his throat as Bucky tilted his head to deepen the kiss and slid his free hand into the waistband of Tony’s pants to cup his ass.

He moaned into Tony’s mouth and squeezed his ass before releasing him and pulling back from the kiss. “Jesus,” he said, breathing hard, one hand still tight on the back of Tony’s neck. Tony put a hand on Bucky’s chest and slid it down to his erection, pressing his palm against it and practically whimpering when he measured its size. Looking up, he saw that Bucky had one hand in his hair and his eyes were closed as he rolled his hips against the pressure of Tony’s hand. “Jesus Christ,” Bucky said again, and then he was pulling Tony’s hand away. That was when Tony realized he’d been practically riding Bucky’s thigh, chasing pressure for his own achingly hard erection.

Tony forced himself to roll back over onto his back, shaky with arousal. He took a deep breath and released it slowly. “You are a menace,” Bucky said under his breath. “We’re on top of a CHU for Christ’s sake.”

“That seems easily remedied. I bet I could find a video of a lunar eclipse to watch later. Much later.”

“But then you wouldn’t be here to explain how they work.”

Tony propped himself up on his elbow to peer down at Bucky in surprise and then huffed out a laugh when he saw the quirk of a grin on Bucky’s lips. “You know how eclipses work,” he muttered as he lay his head back down on Bucky’s shoulder.

“Sure, but I like hearing you explain things.”

“Take me to a bed and I’ll explain a lot of things, I promise.”

Tony heard the thunk of Bucky hitting his head against the top of the CHU. “I swear to God, you are making it difficult to be romantic.”

That had Tony sitting up again. “Is that what this is about?” He said in surprise, then lowered his voice when Bucky put a hand over his mouth. “Romance?”

“Well, yeah,” Bucky said, shrugging self-consciously. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re like the sexiest thing on two legs I’ve ever seen, but you’re also insanely smart and funny and…what?” He trailed off at the look on Tony’s face.

“On two legs?”

“Oh. Yeah, well, I’ve got a black Ducati Monster at home and she will always be my first love.”

Tony’s brain went temporarily offline at the thought of Bucky on a motorcycle, wearing a leather jacket and jeans and big black combat boots, raking a hand through his hair after taking off his helmet. “You’ve got a…”

Bucky’s slow grin was perfectly filthy. “Oh, yeah. I love having all that power between my thighs, the heat and vibrations traveling up my-“

Tony effectively shut him up by throwing his leg over Bucky’s hips and grinding that perfect ass right down on Bucky’s still hard dick. Bucky’s hands flew up to his thighs to hold him still, torn between wanting to fill his hands with the tight roundness of Tony’s ass and the acute awareness that they were still on the roof of his CHU. “You’re not the only one who likes a lot of power between their thighs,” Tony murmured against his lips, rocking against him, and that was the last straw.

“Ok, ok, I give up.” Bucky lifted him off and got to his feet, adjusting his erection gingerly as he helped Tony to his feet and grabbed the blanket. “Let’s go. We’re going to fuck until we break the bed.”

“A man after my own heart,” Tony teased as they dropped down from the roof. Bucky shook his head and fumbled for his keys, checking over his shoulder for witnesses before he was shoving Tony into his room.

Tony had enough time to glance around quickly before Bucky grabbed his waist and pulled him in for a kiss that was surprisingly gentle and slow. Tony let his eyes close, losing himself in the soft, wet glide of Bucky’s mouth, shivering when his tongue licked inside. At his waist Bucky’s hands slid underneath his shirt, calloused fingertips raising goosebumps as they traveled up and down his back before they were pulling his shirt off over his head.

“Jesus, look at you,” Bucky murmured, running his hands over the lean muscles in Tony’s arms and shoulders. Tony tugged at his uniform, pulling the lapels away from each other with the loud sound of Velcro and shoving it off his shoulders. Bucky’s eyes didn’t leave Tony as he started undressing, hungry gaze running over every inch of his skin, lips parted. When he unbuckled his belt and pulled it through the belt loops the noise of it sent chills down Tony’s spine.

“Look at you,” Tony breathed, pausing as he was toeing off his shoes, staring at the sculpted muscles of Bucky’s chest and abs as he pushed his pants to the floor. He abandoned his project to get naked as fast as possible to put his hands on Bucky’s body, to see if the muscles were as firm as they looked, the skin as smooth.

It was. They were. Tony growled a bit and set his teeth into the thick muscle of Bucky’s shoulder, drawing a hiss out of him and then hands were shoving his pants down and off, sliding back up his inner thighs to cup his balls and wrap slightly cool fingers around his cock.

“Just to let you know, these walls are like, paper thin. So if you’re a screamer, try to keep it down,” Bucky said with a smirk, eyes heavy lidded and dark as he slid his fingers up Tony’s cock and rubbed a thumb over the head.

“I grew up in boarding schools, I know how to be quiet.” Tony started pushing Bucky backwards until he was sitting on the bed and then climbed into his lap. “But generally speaking, I do prefer to make noise.”

“Oh, I bet. One day,” Bucky said, wrapping his arms around Tony and turning to lay him out flat on the bed, “I hope we do this somewhere we can be as loud as we want.” He bent his head to press a kiss to Tony’s lips as he fumbled for something in a bag under the bed, pulling out a half-empty bottle of lube and a couple of condoms. For now he just set them on the table beside the bed and dedicated himself to learning Tony’s body, running his tongue over his nipples, biting the crest of his hips, licking a hot stripe along the bottom of his shaft, all while Tony writhed under his hands with bitten off whimpers.

“Come on, enough teasing,” Tony finally moaned, breathing heavily. “I feel like foreplay started as soon as I got out of the helicopter, let’s do this already.”

Bucky huffed in amusement but finally crawled back up his body to hand him the lube. “Show me how you like it,” he said, his eyes hot and dark as he settled at the foot of the bed to watch, fisting his cock as Tony raised his knees.

“And he says I’m the menace,” Tony muttered, gripping his cock tightly at the base to try to slow down. He generously lubed his fingers and tried to concentrate on giving Bucky a good show. He teased himself for a moment, tracing around his hole before sinking inside, curling his finger as he slid it in and out as he stroked his cock lightly. He was so fucking turned on that he quickly added another finger, probably too quickly, making a low sound at the slight burn of the stretch.

His eyes flew open as he felt Bucky stroke a soothing hand down his thigh, having moved up the bed a little. “You’re not ready yet, but you want my cock so bad, don’t you?” Bucky murmured, his eyes on where Tony was prepping himself. He reached out to trace the fluttering rim of his hole and Tony hissed out a breath. “One day I’m going to put my mouth right here until you are begging for something inside you.”

“F-fuck,” Tony gasped, running out of patience. “I’m ready, I swear-“ He propped himself up on his elbow to get another good look at Bucky’s cock, and then fell back on the pillow with a groan of frustration. “Ok, one more finger, then you.”

Bucky gave him a small smile, eyes still riveted on the slick thrusts of Tony’s fingers in and out of his body. Bucky’s hands were roaming over every inch of Tony’s skin that was within reach as if he were just as impatient. Finally Tony gave him a nod and said, “How do you want me?”

“I want to see your face,” Bucky said, cupping Tony’s cheek. Tony nodded and Bucky was reaching for the condom and lube. He braced one arm on the bed by Tony’s head and the other hand was under his hips, tilting them up as he pressed slowly inside. His grey eyes were watching Tony’s face as he slowly thrust in and out, going a little deeper each time until he was finally all the way in, hips flush with Tony’s ass. He let out a sigh and rested his forehead against Tony’s and for a moment they just breathed together while Tony adjusted to the feeling of fullness.

“God, you are so tight,” Bucky whispered hoarsely, drawing back a little just to thrust back in. His dog tags brushed Tony’s chest and the feeling of the cool metal made him shiver and tighten around Bucky’s dick, dragging a low moan out of him. For a few minutes Bucky kept his thrusts slow and easy, hooking an arm under Tony’s knee to adjust the angle until one thrust hit a spot that had Tony arching off the bed in surprise.

“Holy Christ,” Tony panted, bringing his hands up from the mattress to bury one in Bucky’s hair and wrap the other one around the back of his thigh. He realized that Bucky was trembling with the effort of being so slow. “Do that again. Not every time, but…”

Bucky grunted in agreement and spread his knees a little bit for leverage. Then he made the mistake of looking down at where they were connected, where Tony was still hard and leaking precome, and he gritted his teeth around another low moan. “Look at you, split open by my cock.” He paused for a moment, thrusting shallowly. Tony whimpered and tried to lift his hips to get him deeper, but Bucky held him still. “I’m going to try to go slow,” Bucky managed, pulling out until he was almost out and then sliding all the way in again, “but I just want to let you know that I’m going to want to go again before I let you out of this bed. I want you to fuck my face and come down my throat, then I want to come on your chest.” He dragged his eyes down Tony’s chest and back up as finally settled into a steady, mind blowing rhythm. “If that’s ok with you.”

The mental image of that made Tony shiver again. “Holy fuck, Sergeant,” he said, then his breath hitched as Bucky’s eyes grew hot and the thrusts grew harder when he said sergeant. “You’ve got a filthy mouth, and now I know one of your kinks.”

“Oh, you have no idea.” Bucky leaned down to capture his mouth, practically bending Tony in half as he rode him hard. Tony waited as long as he could to put a hand on his cock, loving the feel of Bucky’s body over his, moving inside him, but eventually the need to come was impossible to ignore. He kept one hand in Bucky’s hair because every time he pulled on it Bucky made a noise in his chest that went right to Tony’s groin, but his other hand went to his cock, stroking it fast and almost rough.

“God, Tony, I want to see you, do it, come on my cock,” Bucky said, voice ragged and thrusts growing irregular as he felt Tony tightening around him. He hitched Tony’s hips up higher and then every thrust was hitting his prostate. Tony’s eyes flew open on a low moan, pupils completely blown, as he hovered on the edge of orgasm. Bucky squeezed his eyes tight and buried his face in Tony’s arched neck as his thrusts got deeper and rougher like he couldn’t get far enough inside. “I don’t know if I can wait, you feel so fucking good, God, Tony, you’re so good,” he said, breath hot against Tony’s skin, and then the tight coil of tension snapped, a rolling warmth spreading through Tony in waves as cock pulsed hot come on his hand and stomach, his body tightening around Bucky’s. He threw his head back against the pillow with a groan, arching his body and pulling Bucky closer, riding hard on his cock as the waves of pleasure kept coming.

In his ear Bucky was chanting increasingly desperate iterations of “fuck, Tony, fuck” and then he was shaking as he came, hand fisted in the sheet by Tony’s head as his body went rigid. Tony wrapped his arms around Bucky’s shoulders as his hips rolled shallowly as he came down off his orgasmic high, pulling sparks of sensation out of Tony’s oversensitive body that was right on the edge of too much.

Finally as his breathing slowed Bucky withdrew carefully and took the condom off to throw away. He snatched a towel off the back of a wooden chair and handed it to Tony to try to clean off come and lube.

When he was done Tony stretched gratefully, scooting over a bit to get out of the wet spot. “Holy shit,” he said, watching Bucky towel himself off as well. “So does Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell include ‘don’t come knocking if the trailer’s rocking?’”

Bucky huffed out a laugh as he stretched out beside Tony. “Yeah, sure. This is the military, everything that might be fun is against the UCMJ. Sex, gambling, drinking. Laughing, probably. But no one here is going to turn me in as long as I’m not stupid about it.”

Tony turned so that he was laying half on top of Bucky, ignoring the light sheen of sweat covering them both, brushing his lips idly over Bucky’s collarbone while his fingers traced patterns on his chest. “Why do people call you Bucky?”

“My middle name is Buchanan. When I came to the 105, there were like five other Jameses so they got creative.”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” Tony said thoughtfully. He sat up and straddled Bucky’s waist so he could get both hands all over that skin while he had the chance. “Can I call you the Notorious JBB?”

“Hey, don’t put that evil on me,” Bucky said, putting his hands behind his head and letting Tony explore to his heart’s content. “They never found Biggie’s killer. What’s your middle name?”

“Edward. I also like long walks on the beach while watching the sun set, in case that was your next question.”

Bucky smiled and smacked him on the ass. “Rude. Do you really like walks on the beach? Sounds dull. Besides, after a few times out here I’m done with sand for a while.”

“Picnics in the park?” Bucky made a face. “Dinner and dancing?”

“Sure, I like to dance,” Bucky said with a shrug. “Not all my moves are horizontal.”

“I’m sure.” Tony’s fingers wandered up to Bucky’s face and he pressed his thumb into the dimple in his chin. “So are you ready for round two, or do you need more time, old man?”

***

Tony only had one more day on FOB Ob before he got called back to the States for an emergency board meeting. Bucky managed to convince Lt Rogers to let him escort Tony back to Kabul for his flight out of country, but eventually the time came that he had to let Tony walk away without being able to follow him.

Tony threw his duffel bag on top of the stack of luggage for the loadmaster to put on the C-130 that was his ride back to civilization. Bucky gathered his hands behind his back in an ‘at-ease’ posture, both to look professional and to keep himself from grabbing Tony and giving him a goodbye kiss that would do Hollywood proud. Tony shoved his hands in his pockets for the same reason. “So do you guys have email out here? Phones?”

“Sure. Why?”

“If you, you know, wanted to call or write sometime, I’d like to see you again.”

“Of course,” Bucky said with surprise. The nervousness in Tony eased at the warm affection in his eyes, the smile curving his full lips. Tony felt an answering grin light up his face. “Barring any unforeseen events, I should be going home in under a month, and then I’ll be due some time off. I’d love to spend it with you.”

Tony pulled a business card out of his pocket and scribbled his personal phone number and email on the back. Bucky’s hands trailed across his palm as he took the card and put it in his chest pocket. “I look forward to hearing from you, Sergeant Barnes.”

"Sounds good, Mr. Stark. You know, I hate to see you go," Bucky said in a low voice, hiding his heavy heart behind a cheeky grin, "but I am looking forward to watching you walk away."

And he did stay there, watching as Tony boarded the plane and gave him a last wave, then watching until the plane disappeared into the sky. He gave himself five minutes to kick the sand and feel sorry for himself before he went on with the rest of his tour.

#winteriron #tony x bucky #tony stark #bucky barnes #prompt fill

406 notes · View notes