Fic: Just A Really Very Inappropriate Situation (1/1)
Title: Just A Really Very Inappropriate Situation
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/Characters: Tony/Rhodey, Virginia "Pepper" Potts
Word Count: 989
Summary: It's just a really very inappropriate situation. For gottalovev, who requested “Tony/Rhodey” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Movieverse. Spoilers for Iron Man (2008).
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For gottalovev: I love 'Iron Man' to bits, and believe it or not, I'd always wanted to try writing Tony/Rhodey (totally got sucked into writing Tony/Pepper instead); but yeah, I've had this little ficlet in the back of my mind for a very long time - hopefully it's a little bit sexy, a little bit humorous, and a little bit of that trademark snark we all know and love from our favorite Mr. Stark.
Just A Really Very Inappropriate Situation
The first thing that’s different, that’s off, is that his music isn’t on. Not too soft, not too faint; not there at all. Tony never works without his music.
Her heels click against the floor, echo eerily in the relative silence - only the constant hum of his workshop; she knows he’s here, knows -
“Jesus,” and she turns, sees the glow of lighting from the open cargo bay - rolls her eyes as she remembers the last time she’d gone looking for him in there, the way he’d moaned like a bitch in heat as the armor had been peeled away from his body; but this time, that voice - that’s not Tony; Tony, predictably, is the one laughing in the background. And there’s only one other person he’d put in a suit.
“S’tight, goddamn,” and yep, that’s Jim, his throaty, breathy voice strained, and Pepper can only imagine what his first go around with the armor must have been like.
“Mmm, nothing like your first time,” and she rolls her eyes at her boss’s cheek, his suggestive lilt; boys would be boys, and Tony would always be the worst of them all.
“We’ll finally be laying that goddamn spring break story to rest, then?”
And at that, Tony chuckles again, and she hears a hard, fleshy slap echo around the cavernous walls; “What can I say? I stand corrected.” Another angry, almost hurried smack, like skin against skin, and Pepper flinches - until Tony gets a better system set up for getting out of that hunk of metal, she’s not touching it with a ten-foot pole. “Gratefully so.”
“Fuck, Tony,” Rhodey’s voice bends, stretches thin against some threat, some hurdle, and all Pepper can see in her mind are those dozen, hulking columns of screwdrivers and claws disassembling each puzzle piece of titanium alloy clinging to his frame; “how in the hell...”
“Relax, Rhodey,” Tony whispers, murmurs, like his speaks to his cars, to his women - tender, delicate - longing. “Breathe.” There’s a grunt, more sounds of skin, and Pepper doesn’t think anything of it; just wonders what the hell’s keeping Tony from revising the removal process to make things a little smoother - masochistic bastard, and now a sadist, too; “Almost there.”
Tony’s breath comes heavy, reverberates, the way he pants, keens, and then nothing - one deep sigh; it’s soft and subtle, and even from a distance down the stairway, she can feel the atmosphere of it thrumming, eagle’s wings in the night, reduced to a butterfly’s, and then to a breeze.
“Careful, old man,” Tony’s breathless voice teases, full of mirth as she hears shuffling, the scrape of metal on metal. “Don’t break anything.”
Rhodey sighs, a shuttering sound; “You’re an asshole.”
And if nothing else - that much is true.
“Oh, the comebacks, Rhodey. The comebacks.”
“You gonna help me finish this off, you cocky bastard?” And Tony laughs again at that, soft and introspective, almost, if a laugh can be that. From Tony Stark.
“Now, that was deliberate.” He’s met with a growl, a crash of something harsh and heavy - expensive; inconsequential.
“Coming, coming,” Tony insists, his voice sounding closer now, and then farther away; “Well, in a matter of speaking.”
“Shut the fuck up Stark, and finish this.” And that’s the voice that commands troops, that lays down the law - knowing Jim for as long as she has, sometimes it’s easy to forget that the gentle soul she counts as a friend can be so hard, so fierce, so powerful.
“Is that a direct order, colonel?” And apparently it is, because whatever needed to be done - it’s done with a harsh cry from Jim, one that rings along the walls, followed by the whisper of groans - aftershocks, little tremors.
“Feel better, now?” Tony smacks his lips hard enough to hear, and that seems to mean they’re done, so she takes it as her cue to enter. She keys in her passcode and pushes the glass in with her shoulder, crossing in to the room.
And the first thing that registers is that the suits - both suits - are fully hung, untouched in storage. The second thing that registers is not the stench of industry, of gas and hot iron, but instead the scent of something she’s not preoccupied, disconnected enough to fail to recognize, heady and musky and filled with salt and arousal. The third thing - the infinitely incriminating evidence - is the nudity. The nudity; the full-frontal view of a mostly-flaccid Tony Stark (and goddamn if he’s not still impressive like that, every single time), the bare thighs of a much less brazen James Rhodes covering his manhood as best he can, but unable to obscure the slick, sticky sheen painted across his well-defined abs, smeared by hands against his lower back as he turns away, modest to a fault, in the subtle shape of fingers at his hips. Rhodey’s jeans pooled around his ankles, Tony’s gone entirely, draped across his desk; so - no armor involved, then.
“Jim,” she says, eyes glazed a little as she stares out the windows into the warm Malibu night; she barely hears him mutter her name in acknowledgement as her eyes finally trail to Tony’s flushed face, his sweat-drenched hair.
“Face it, Pep,” Tony finally says, voice steady and open, still a little breathless - unashamed, as ever, even as Jim still won’t meet her eyes. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen, and we both know you’ve caught me doing worse.”
This, she concedes, is entirely true. So she turns on the heel of her Louboutins, walks back up the stairs, and gives herself a holiday bonus on the books as “hazard pay.”
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/Characters: Tony/Rhodey, Virginia "Pepper" Potts
Word Count: 989
Summary: It's just a really very inappropriate situation. For gottalovev, who requested “Tony/Rhodey” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Movieverse. Spoilers for Iron Man (2008).
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For gottalovev: I love 'Iron Man' to bits, and believe it or not, I'd always wanted to try writing Tony/Rhodey (totally got sucked into writing Tony/Pepper instead); but yeah, I've had this little ficlet in the back of my mind for a very long time - hopefully it's a little bit sexy, a little bit humorous, and a little bit of that trademark snark we all know and love from our favorite Mr. Stark.
Just A Really Very Inappropriate Situation
The first thing that’s different, that’s off, is that his music isn’t on. Not too soft, not too faint; not there at all. Tony never works without his music.
Her heels click against the floor, echo eerily in the relative silence - only the constant hum of his workshop; she knows he’s here, knows -
“Jesus,” and she turns, sees the glow of lighting from the open cargo bay - rolls her eyes as she remembers the last time she’d gone looking for him in there, the way he’d moaned like a bitch in heat as the armor had been peeled away from his body; but this time, that voice - that’s not Tony; Tony, predictably, is the one laughing in the background. And there’s only one other person he’d put in a suit.
“S’tight, goddamn,” and yep, that’s Jim, his throaty, breathy voice strained, and Pepper can only imagine what his first go around with the armor must have been like.
“Mmm, nothing like your first time,” and she rolls her eyes at her boss’s cheek, his suggestive lilt; boys would be boys, and Tony would always be the worst of them all.
“We’ll finally be laying that goddamn spring break story to rest, then?”
And at that, Tony chuckles again, and she hears a hard, fleshy slap echo around the cavernous walls; “What can I say? I stand corrected.” Another angry, almost hurried smack, like skin against skin, and Pepper flinches - until Tony gets a better system set up for getting out of that hunk of metal, she’s not touching it with a ten-foot pole. “Gratefully so.”
“Fuck, Tony,” Rhodey’s voice bends, stretches thin against some threat, some hurdle, and all Pepper can see in her mind are those dozen, hulking columns of screwdrivers and claws disassembling each puzzle piece of titanium alloy clinging to his frame; “how in the hell...”
“Relax, Rhodey,” Tony whispers, murmurs, like his speaks to his cars, to his women - tender, delicate - longing. “Breathe.” There’s a grunt, more sounds of skin, and Pepper doesn’t think anything of it; just wonders what the hell’s keeping Tony from revising the removal process to make things a little smoother - masochistic bastard, and now a sadist, too; “Almost there.”
Tony’s breath comes heavy, reverberates, the way he pants, keens, and then nothing - one deep sigh; it’s soft and subtle, and even from a distance down the stairway, she can feel the atmosphere of it thrumming, eagle’s wings in the night, reduced to a butterfly’s, and then to a breeze.
“Careful, old man,” Tony’s breathless voice teases, full of mirth as she hears shuffling, the scrape of metal on metal. “Don’t break anything.”
Rhodey sighs, a shuttering sound; “You’re an asshole.”
And if nothing else - that much is true.
“Oh, the comebacks, Rhodey. The comebacks.”
“You gonna help me finish this off, you cocky bastard?” And Tony laughs again at that, soft and introspective, almost, if a laugh can be that. From Tony Stark.
“Now, that was deliberate.” He’s met with a growl, a crash of something harsh and heavy - expensive; inconsequential.
“Coming, coming,” Tony insists, his voice sounding closer now, and then farther away; “Well, in a matter of speaking.”
“Shut the fuck up Stark, and finish this.” And that’s the voice that commands troops, that lays down the law - knowing Jim for as long as she has, sometimes it’s easy to forget that the gentle soul she counts as a friend can be so hard, so fierce, so powerful.
“Is that a direct order, colonel?” And apparently it is, because whatever needed to be done - it’s done with a harsh cry from Jim, one that rings along the walls, followed by the whisper of groans - aftershocks, little tremors.
“Feel better, now?” Tony smacks his lips hard enough to hear, and that seems to mean they’re done, so she takes it as her cue to enter. She keys in her passcode and pushes the glass in with her shoulder, crossing in to the room.
And the first thing that registers is that the suits - both suits - are fully hung, untouched in storage. The second thing that registers is not the stench of industry, of gas and hot iron, but instead the scent of something she’s not preoccupied, disconnected enough to fail to recognize, heady and musky and filled with salt and arousal. The third thing - the infinitely incriminating evidence - is the nudity. The nudity; the full-frontal view of a mostly-flaccid Tony Stark (and goddamn if he’s not still impressive like that, every single time), the bare thighs of a much less brazen James Rhodes covering his manhood as best he can, but unable to obscure the slick, sticky sheen painted across his well-defined abs, smeared by hands against his lower back as he turns away, modest to a fault, in the subtle shape of fingers at his hips. Rhodey’s jeans pooled around his ankles, Tony’s gone entirely, draped across his desk; so - no armor involved, then.
“Jim,” she says, eyes glazed a little as she stares out the windows into the warm Malibu night; she barely hears him mutter her name in acknowledgement as her eyes finally trail to Tony’s flushed face, his sweat-drenched hair.
“Face it, Pep,” Tony finally says, voice steady and open, still a little breathless - unashamed, as ever, even as Jim still won’t meet her eyes. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen, and we both know you’ve caught me doing worse.”
This, she concedes, is entirely true. So she turns on the heel of her Louboutins, walks back up the stairs, and gives herself a holiday bonus on the books as “hazard pay.”