Hello Again my Honeys,
I just couldn't leave this one alone, sorry. I've always been known for my self-cest pieces and I decided that I wanted to play with RDJ X RDJ. The imagery alone is more than enough than I could bear, hehe. There is seriously NOT enough fics out there of them to satisfy my craving.
So I decided to play with Hank Palmer from The Judge and Tony Stark from the MCU, both played by RDJ, and both equally dangerous.
I do hope that you enjoy. Please do not read if self-cest freaks you out or explicit M/M lemons aren't your thing.
You have been warned, my Honeys.
Please enjoy
Blüthner S: Model 4
Hank Palmer was a simple man —. Screw that, he only liked to think so because it made his life easier. He oftentimes came across as a multifaceted risktaker, an immoral lawyer and a wholly unpleasant person to be around. The fates blessed him with far too intricate a personality, especially since it concealed the seesawing ethical values of his past and the hidden bitterness of growing up in a corn-belt, bible-banging, backwater.
Very few people dared to look past the man's natural arrogance and abrasive tongue, regardless of being innately drawn to his manic grace and mercurial energy in and out of the courtroom. At forty-six, recently divorced and a single father; he was finally re-establishing the drive he had to prove himself a better man.
For his daughter, Lauren, of course. And the family he was slowly reconciling with back in Indiana. It came as a surprise then, when his typical Monday morning was interrupted by the unexpected. He was taking his usual breakfast at Pierrot Café on Washington St, intense copper-cinnamon irises tracing the human cadence flowing in and around Chicago's complex street-grid as the load of paperwork waiting for him back at the office remained firmly in the back of his mind.
It was a rare Monday off, after all.
A cup of unsweetened black coffee was balanced precariously in the palm of his hand, the ornate café terrace suspiciously empty around him as he hummed delightedly at the smoky darkness sliding across his tongue. It had been a long time since he just had a day to himself, he mused. The tailored contours of a fashionable thigh-length black cashmere coat, V-neck long-sleeved shirt and dark jeans chasing away the sharp chill of a coming storm.
Thick clouds were rolling in from the east, long fingers tapping a rhythmic tattoo against crisp white tablecloth as he waited patiently for the arrival of his bagel. He was mentally running through his schedule for the coming days, limbs relaxed and unburdened by stress until he heard the rapid stride of confident footsteps. A frown was marring dark brows in response, the inherent familiarity of the sound dragging tired eyes away from the depths of his coffee cup to the street opposite instead.
There were a few times in Hank's life where he experienced moments of 'other', where reality transformed itself into hyperrealism and small details fell into the wayside. It happened when he tried to kiss his crush in second grade, got high off cocaine the first time. And then the last. The panic he experienced seconds before the car crash, standing before the 'Judge' at seventeen instead of the father he so desperately needed and finally realizing just how unloved he truly was.
But this…this minute, this infinitely swaying second, was momentarily surreal. It was like peering into Fate's looking glass, steady footsteps having come to a halt on the other side of the iron railing as an identical pair of brown eyes bore into his own. They may have been partially shielded by the tint of stylish blue sunglasses, but there was no mistaking the curve of the man's jaw, shape of his nose, crinkling eyes, slowly rising brows, perfectly groomed goatee and devilish smirk.
"Huh." Was all either of them could manage, twin doppelgangers gazing at each other with unbridled shock as an energetic gait led the mirrored reflection onto the café terrace beside him. Hank Palmer was not a senseless man, no. He was well aware countless colleagues and clients likened his uncanny appearance to the infamous Tony Stark, even his daughter made the offhand comment she had her very own Iron Man.
But this…this was—. Hank remembered a few times where strangers attempted to chase him down for pictures, calling that name instead of his own. Even being allowed entry into political circles normally unreachable at state galas. But coming face to face with the billionaire now — for who else could it be? — in the middle of a Chicago autumn, was enough to stall his very breath.
"Fuck that's uncanny," The genius claimed. "Like looking into a goddamn mirror." Hank couldn't agree more, spilling coffee across the back of his hand in sheer surprise as he set the cup down a little too hard. The only notable difference he could detect was the infamous Stark goatee and windswept mahogany locks. The forty-six-year-old's own hair was slightly longer, tinctured with silver-copper filaments and stylishly coiffed to the side in fluffy-forties business casual.
"So. What am I looking at? Orphan Black? Long lost twin? Clone?" Snorting at Mr Stark's livewire curiosity, Hank used the sole of a lace-up boot to push the chair out next to him as he searched for something to dry the mess on his hand. "None. I'm sure." He snarked back, confused that a fucking gourmet café had no visible paper napkins.
The attorney was eventually forced to capture wavering droplets on the tip of his tongue, the flash of slick warmth darkening heady brown orbs still locked intently with his. Neither wanted to break the gaze first. It was curious to see Anthony Stark's intense eyes lid sensually behind effeminate black lashes, a devilish smirk coiling into something altogether more salacious as Hank raised a single brow in challenge.
It was an unusual exchange, he mused. They were teasing at the edges of flirting. And didn't that just open a whole new can of existential worms? An answering smirk was already tipping his doppelganger's head to the side, the engineer shoving his hands into custom-made Tom Ford slacks as the careless movement didn't even ruin the line of a matching double-vent, peak-lapel, blazer.
Tony Stark sure as hell could have stepped out of the pages of a GQ magazine, wearing black on black with vivid silver accents and matching sneakers. Not that Hank himself was much of a slouch in that regard, they shared the same seductive bearing, mile-a-minute mouth and vibration of the soul. The forty-six-year-old couldn't help throwing an outrageous kiss in the air, knowing instinctively the two of them would get along very well.
"Huh, that's really weird." Came the man's eventual conclusion, one Hank could agree with whole heartedly. "Tony Stark, by the way. But then you already knew that. And you are—."
"Hank—"
"Palmer, yes." Stark interrupted impatiently, holding out his palm for a handshake. "Or so FRIDAY tells me. Big city lawyer. Very Successful. Only recently gained a sense of morality and absolutely vicious in the courtroom." The clasp of their hands, palm to palm, lasted a fraction too long to be considered professional. And yet, neither of them dared to breathe a word to shatter the coiling tension flaring electric-hot between them.
"How did you—?"
"Know? Never mind that," Tony waved the question aside with a smile that was all teeth, a predatory sway shifting him from the balls of his feet to the back of his heels. "Look, sweetheart, I have a thing with attorneys—. Or do I have a thing for attorneys? Can't really remember. Do you mind if I sit?" At Tony's gestured query, Hank pushed the chair out a little further in invitation. The man certainly moved at his own pace, he mused. There was no way he was getting out of this meeting anytime soon — as strange as it was exhilarating.
"Friday?" He had to ask, Stark was a barely contained hurricane. A bolt of human lightning, both hauntingly beautiful but saturated with manic and chaotic intensity. It was strange to be at the centre of that mercurial attention, especially whilst basically looking at a reflection of himself and giving back as good as he got.
Did this qualify him a narcissist, then? The pure thrill of—.
"My AI." Casting a mournful glance over the dregs that was left of his coffee, Hank was surprised when he was offered a small smile of apology and an expert hand flagged down the waitress from inside the café. "That was kind of my fault. Can I get you another? Or would you like something a little stronger? I know I need something—."
"It's a bit early, Mr Stark." He declined. "But I wouldn't say no to another coffee."
"Tony, please. There's no boardroom here and I'm not my father." It only took a few seconds for the server to arrive at their table, the tell-tale widening of the young woman's eyes an indicator of who she just recognized as the engineer turned to her with a patented Stark smile.
"Black coffee for my friend, here. And Gaelic for me, no whisky but scotch instead. Extra shot on the side too." She scurried off in a hurry after the dismissal, leaving Hank with a distinct impression she had just seen double. He was turning his attention back to man sitting across from him, those dark eyes still trained solely on him as they swept from his lips, to his shoulders, to his waist, to his crossed legs and back again.
It was almost like being taken apart from inside, a playful wink letting the engineer know he had been caught staring.
"So, artificial intelligence. Want to expand on that?"
"Hn." Tony's noncommittal reply told the lawyer all he needed to know. Not that he was surprised, he could just imagine how tired the billionaire was of strangers inquiring after his tech, his superhero exploits or personal life. It was a wonder he still had the will to walk the street by himself, never mind the middle of a bustling city with no visible bodyguard.
But then again, the man was Iron Man.
"What brings you to Chicago then?" Hank tried instead, keeping his voice politely disinterested to reassure the engineer he wasn't fishing for information. "Aren't you usually in New York or LA?"
"Usually. I needed a little break from the press and since no one is expecting me on this side of the country, I decided to drop by. My parents used to own a private estate just outside the city, I've been looking into buying it back recently."
"You practice any real estate law, Mr Palmer?"
"Hank, please. And unfortunately not, Tony. Criminal law only. Though…I could be persuaded to make an exception—" Jerking slightly at the deafening trill of his phone, the single father offered a brief 'excuse me' before reaching into his pocket to answer the call. It could be important, there were several high paying clients on his retainer after all.
Turns out being a father is never easy, especially when your daughter calls you in tears and refuses to spend a custody appointed night with her mother and new boyfriend. That in itself came as a surprise to him, since Lauren usually loved the days she got to spend with Lisa. But the year and a half since the divorce seemed to have changed things—.
"Alright, baby. Alright. Daddy will come get you at eight, just please stop crying. Everything will be fine, I promise." Rubbing the bridge of his nose with a forefinger and thumb, Hank turned his head to the side so he could smile at her restless babbling. They really had come a long way since his father's death, dark eyes softening as he eventually ended the call with an 'I love you, see you soon'.
He turned back to find the table laden with steaming coffee, breakfast and his doppelganger's elegantly raised brow.
"Sorry, my daughter. She's a bit of a handful. Wants to be a race car driver."
"How old?" It was the first time Hank saw a genuine smile crossing the billionaire's features, the previously drawn expression shimmering with childish delight as he finally lowered the last barrier between them. Sliding designer sunglasses down the bridge of a straight nose, they were folded into the man's pocket with such efficient seductiveness Hank had to wonder how much the move was practiced.
"Ten." He answered with pride, copper brown irises practically melting with affection. "Though heaven knows why she wants to be a race car driver. She could have chosen to be a pilot on the basis of 'I just love going really fast, Daddy.'"
"I bet I have a car or two…and jet that can cater to that." Stark snickered. "It's certainly faster than your average—."
"God, no. Please, Stark. She's already a little terror when I pick her up in the convertible." It was strange how easy it was to talk to the genius; his attention never seemed to waver or shift into the usual billionaire snobbishness Hank was used to dealing with. And sure, there may have been an undercurrent of seduction woven through their every exchange, but it was never pushed or exerted beyond the realm of comfortable.
The two of them merely fell into conversation as if they had known each other their entire lives. Whether it encompassed a debate on old-model Ferraris, family, business, law or lazy afternoon Sundays; Hank was surprised he was enjoying himself as much as he was. And the same could be said for Mr Stark, the engineer even gleefully shunting several calls through his AI before turning his attention back to their conversation.
It was only when the rumble of thunder and a sudden flash of lightning threatened to split apart the sky, that they snapped back to reality. Two and a half hours had already passed, Hank's watch reading a telling twenty-five-to-eleven as he cast a dubious look at the roiling heavens above. He was reaching for his wallet, the table littered with coffee cups, breakfast plates and two shots of scotch the billionaire had eventually persuaded into his companion's caffeine.
"Ah-uh," Hank stopped short, a searing palm curling restrictively around his wrist as Tony Stark's lopsided grin answered his displeasured frown. And as he fumbled with the bills to place on the table, the futurist beat him to it before leaning in far too close. A warm breath was skittering humid-hot against the shell of his ear, a steady thumb measuring the frantic pulsebeat against his wrist as a heady shudder chased all the way down the attorney's spine.
"Tony—."
"My treat. You just tell me if you ever thought what it'd be like to fuck or be fucked by yourself." A quiet moan answered the unexpected proposition, both of them equally startled by Hank's fluttering lashes and the answering smirk crossing mirrored lips. "I've always thought it'd be spectacular." Stark interjected his own reply.
"We'll have to find out then, won't we Mr Stark?" The big city lawyer replied, a thrill of sheer recklessness heating his veins as another rolling clap of thunder shattered the firmament in a mighty deluge. It was only fitting, he thought, that they were playing with fire.
. . .
The ragging storm in Chicago was bitterly cold, the pouring rain having caught both mirrored reflections too far away from their cars. Rushing footsteps were ducking into a partially shielded alleyway instead, amused laughter alluding to the first brush of soft lips against his as Hank was forced up against the darkened glass of an official building. The sole of his boots placed him an inch and a half above Tony Stark's surprising hundred-and-seventy-four-centimetre frame.
Türk Kahvesi brown eyes collided heatedly with copper-cinnamon, the deafening clap of thunder suddenly threatening to overcome a smoothly-slicked silence as moist rivulets traced distracting patterns across flawlessly tanned skin. The big city lawyer had yet to be swayed by the genius' evocative dominance however, even when replying with the carnal force of his own.
The eventual nip of teeth and sliding tongues tasted sticky-sweet, tinctured with the remnants of Gaelic coffee, scotch and cream. Their needy entanglement seemed to last for an eternity, the rapturous sounds echoing impatiently in the air around them as reality slowly suspending itself on a cosmic string.
Soaked black cashmere was clinging to pleasure-bowed shoulders, the genius engineer doing no better in the drenched contours of an elegant Tom Ford suit as twin brown eyes lidded sensually behind identical long lashes. Let it not be mistaken that Hank Palmer was placated so easily. No, he didn't just 'put out' for anyone.
Wet fingers were dragging his mirrored companion closer by the silk his tie, sharp teeth sinking into the caress of a bottom lip as the echo of a pleasured moan flooded his mind with an equally unyielding stubbornness.
"Fuck!" He grinned a second later, head lolling languidly against the cold glass behind him as a retaliating thigh slipped forcefully between his. It had been a while since he had been roused into passion so quickly, he mused. Never mind in the hands of another man. That had last happened when he was exploring in college—.
"You're quite the exhibitionist, aren't you?" Jerking in surprise at the playful bite skimming the shape of his jaw, long fingers curled helplessly in soaked mahogany locks as Hank dragged a sensual thumb across the erratic pulse thrumming in the engineer's neck. Stark was far too good at this, something the forty-six-year-old desperately wanted to repay in equal measure.
"You've seen nothing, yet. Orphan Black. And you're not so innocent yourself from where I'm standing." Unable to hold back the amused laughter bubbling in the depths of his throat, Hank returned a breathy: "N-not that I mind a quick fuck in an alleyway." His forehead had come to rest, whisper-sweet, against Stark's as he struggled to contain what little there remained of his pride.
The latest flash of lighting caught a thick string of saliva threaded erotically between parted lips, its integrity finally snapping the moment a large hand settled low on the single father's hip and sly fingertips sketched the carnal dip in his spine all the way to the top of a perfectly shaped ass.
Hank had always been sensitive there, desperately attempting to bank the blinding lust flooding his veins as he pulled Tony's head back in stark warning. He couldn't play this game too long before losing his patience, not when captive to icy rain or running an uphill battle with fiery lust.
"Not here, Mr Stark. Weather's not cooperating." He managed to moan betwixt one breath and the next, squirming at the uncomfortable tightening in his jeans and the rousing promise quivering, ever-so-softly, upon sensitized skin. "Plus, you did promise me a twelve-year-old Lagavulin Solaris."
"That I did." The King of Stark Empire hummed in return, his pleasure even less reigned in than his lost 'twin's'. "But just so you know, Palmer, I'm not a patient man." That dangerously scandalous grin was back, a deliberate bite against the straining tendons of the attorney's neck shaking another delighted cry from parted lips as heavy-lidded copper irises glared down at stylish sneakers dripping dirty water onto his designer jeans.
"Neither am I," He eventually agreed, blunt fingernails digging into the engineer's shoulders before forcing them to move away from saturated awnings and water stained glass. The most delightful of chuckles was spilling passed Stark's lips, perfectly coordinated footsteps languidly transversing the last six blocks towards SI's Chicago tower as they both struggled to maintain an acceptable but wholly inappropriate distance.
Tony didn't seem to care about the suggestive arm slung low on Hank's hip, sidling ever closer to forty-six-year-old's side as several people did a double take at their passing before miraculously deciding to get on with their daily business. So far, no cameras had been taken out or pictures snapped. Strangely, neither doppelganger seemed too eager to escape the icy storm either.
It provided just enough reprieve to bank their blinding arousal.
By the time they reached the private elevator in Stark Industries' lobby, twenty minutes of barely concealed anticipation had elapsed. Hank was trailing an absent tongue across the distinctive flavour Stark left behind on his lips, dark eyes barely given a moment to observe their granite and steel surroundings before a hand settled low on his spine and another reached up to undo slate-grey coat buttons.
"Penthouse FRIDAY," The engineer ordered gruffly. "I'll be unavailable for the rest of the day, make sure no one bothers us."
"Yes, Boss. And may I say what a pleasure it is to finally see you relaxing?" Hank would forever deny jumping at the amused Irish lilt, quickly dismissing the exchange as another of the man's technological marvels before attacking suit fastenings, the susurrus of a silk tie and tiny dress shirt buttons with barely concealed fervour.
If Tony thought he was the only one permitted to take off his companion's clothes, he had another thing coming. Hank didn't like to be caught on uneven footing in the bedroom.
The rest of the elevator ride was smooth and over far too quickly, cashmere fabric sliding in a pool around booted feet as it openly displayed the sinfully tight long-sleeved shirt the lawyer wore beneath. Warm fingers were dipping lazy patterns across a sculpted abdomen, Tony slipping warm hands over smooth black cotton as his own drenched blazer hit the floor with a wet thump. The steel doors pinged open a second later, a teasing tug coaxing the forty-six-year-old across soft cream carpet and into the luxury penthouse instead.
"Do you always look so good when wet, Palmer? I almost want to see you wetter."
"I can say the same thing, Stark. Or have you forgotten you're looking into some strange twilight mirror?" His incredulous expression was drawing a rumble of laughter from deep within the engineer's chest, a lingering kiss pulling the attorney closer by his hips as they wove a slow but steady path towards the living room. It was with great regret that Hank allowed his erotic doppelganger to pull away, even when he reached forward to slide a possessive thumb over saliva-slick lips.
"Keep yourself busy, would you, sweetheart?" A humid breath whispered against his cheek, the man deliberately brushing his goatee against smooth-shaven skin before leaving a lingering bite on kiss-swollen lips. "I'm going to find some towels and a drink."
"Don't even think of starting without me." And just like that, Tony Stark's mercurial presence vanished into a hidden hallway. Leaving the recent divorcee bereft of the man's warmth, dark eyes finally deigned it safe enough to take in the vast surroundings he had been led into.
Decorated in contemporary black, brown and silver contours; the steel, glass, chrome and industrial concrete crafted an extravagant playroom for an absentee billionaire that seemed to adore airy modernity and technological luxury. It almost felt isolated from human life, if not for the massive half-moon leather couch, natural oak coffee table, scattered coffee cups, endless reams of paperwork and thick, rumpled, fur throw.
The stunning black lacquered Blüthner piano in the centre of the room, immediately drew Hank's sole attention. It had been a long time since he had allowed himself a moment to observe such beautiful craftmanship. The grand piano's open silhouette was a stunning representation of old-world artistry, one of the many reasons the big city lawyer couldn't keep himself from stepping forward to admire its unique structure.
A gentle palm was gliding reverently over glossy wood, his mind eagerly imagining the harmonic sound threaded between each and every of its ivory keys. And since Tony had said to keep himself busy for the next few moments, Hank wasn't going to refuse an indulgent moment spent playing. It was one of the few happy memories harkening back to his childhood, especially since he taught himself to play.
It was a wonder he hesitated for the minute and half it took to make up his mind, sliding expertly onto the accompanying leather bench as he thanked the gods he had worn his coat that day. If not, the forty-six-year-old wouldn't even have contemplated defiling the instrument's beauty with his dripping frame.
Opalescent keys soon ebbed and flowed like a tide beneath elegant fingertips, the unique melody of a contemporary composer threading seductive ambiance through winter-grey skies, thundering rain and the rich scent of steel, glass, fire and the owner's expensive but hypnotic cologne. There was seemingly nothing that could interrupt the stillness of the moment, not even the arrival of the man's mirrored companion.
Tony Stark slowed considerably upon hearing the first strains of a familiar melody, his dress shirt, shoes and socks lost somewhere in the depths of his home as he balanced two crystal tumblers in the grasp of long fingertips. There was a fluffy white towel draped haphazardly around the back of his neck, towel-dried mahogany locks curling sensually atop his head as liquid amber vibrated minutely against smooth glass.
"I haven't heard the sound of that piano in a long time." The engineer claimed softly, something unbearably brittle in the man's voice as dark eyes lidded heavily behind sorrowful regret. Long fingers were sliding one of the drinks across the lid in silent offering, a self-depreciating smile curling across petal pink lips as Tony leaned back against the instrument on his elbows. He had deliberately chosen a place that was closer to his companion's side.
The billionaire's head tipped back in restive memorization, Hank unwilling to dishonour the man's clear internal struggle by inquiring about the vulnerability of his comment. If Tony Stark wanted to enlighten him about his words, he would do so in his own time. But now was not the time to push the genius further than he wanted to be, not when he was so clearly consumed in a haze of wistful memories.
It wasn't until the closing of the lullaby that dark eyes found his again, a heady promise sparking to life behind chocolate brown depths as predatory movements placed the genius directly behind him. A chin had come to rest on a fabric-covered shoulder, playful fingers slipping beneath damp cotton as a dirty shudder traced all the way down to the attorney's toes. Calloused pads were searching out the noticeable scars Hank hid behind dark clothing and sometimes carefully placed undershirts, not wanting to display the effects his greatest mistake had on preying eyes.
One thing his father always seemed to forget was that his brother was not the only one who suffered injuries from his own stupidity, it was—.
"You're a mysterious man of many talents, Hank Palmer. It makes me curious about what else you are hiding." Winding a careful caress through fluffy brown hair, Hank turned his head to side to momentarily nuzzle at the engineer's lips before allowing surprisingly gentle fingertips to slip his long-sleeved shirt from his torso. Where it ended up, neither of them really cared.
"I do hope the interrogation will involve torture, Iron Man. I've always wondered what it'd be like to break beneath a genius." The stifled laughter caressing his neck, prompted the forty-six-year-old to give in to the slick caress of a sly tongue before promptly being pulled to his feet by his belt loops. Giddy footsteps were practically dragging him towards the opposite end of the living room, the first sensation of skin-on-skin nearly stalling the endless erotic strategies consuming his mind.
Wet hickory and copper threaded locks had come to rest against his host's bare shoulder, the ruffle of fluffy towel sweeping aside the worst of the water as stumbling steps led him up the curve of a floating staircase. The concrete slabs were devoid of warmth beneath his feet, his boots and socks lost somewhere on the brief first floor landing before they headed up to the third and final floor.
"You know I can't ignore a comment like that without wanting to see how far I can push you, right?" Tony noted quite seriously, raking blunt nails up the vertebrae of Hank's spine. And Hank…well, Hank couldn't help his sincere but flirtatious reply.
"I wouldn't want it any other way."
. . .
Human contact was sometimes a mandatory reprieve from all-consuming madness, a release in sexual intimacy Hank Palmer hadn't experienced in months of spiralling consciousness. His companion's flawlessly tanned skin was warm and supple beneath wandering fingertips, panting breaths humid-hot against kiss-swollen lips as technologically dimmed windows instantly brightened the master bedroom with stormy grey light.
There was a lot of sensuality to be found in the non-judgemental gaze following the latticework of scars carved into the single father's lower back and left side, making the leftover wounds he sustained in a serious car crash a little easier to bare to unfamiliar eyes. Or did it have to do with the fact that Tony Stark possessed his own mutilation in the centre of a perfectly sculpted chest?
It was a little disconcerting imagining the number of life-threatening events the billionaire had to have survived to sustain an injury of that depth and magnitude. And yet, the man remained a shameless narcissist. It made some kind of neurotic sense that he would choose to take a mirrored reflection to bed with him after four years of a sober and very public, on-off, relationship with the CEO of his company.
But there was more to it than that. Hank could tell Tony was being oddly considerate for his usual abrasive tongue and lightning quick wit, the forty-six-year-old father deliberately evading the personal no-cross barriers he could see erected beneath the billionaire's everyday veneer. It had been a very long time since he had felt such an instantaneous connection to another human being, an instinctive understanding obviously shared by the unrestrained exploration and desire in his identical companion's every attentive seduction.
Sure, this could be just another milestone one-night stand for either man. A fuck, forget and move on in the morning with nothing but hazed memories and sated bodies. But the instinctual sentiment woven through their every erotic interaction so far, spoke volumes of countless unspoken carnal promises and the breathless ease carved beneath every anticipated thrum.
Just this once, Hank wanted cocoon himself in hedonistic indulgence. He was sure he could forget his spiralling emotions and recent difficulties. Or temporarily silence the consistent drumbeat of questions encroaching on the depths of his mind. If there was one thing he was perfectly capable of, it was supplying heady distraction and soothing escape—.
"So, what'll it be then, playboy? Fuck or be fucked?" He could already sense a heady shudder tracing the billionaire's spine at his words, gentle fingers twining through messy mahogany curls to welcome the frantic consummation of bruised lips moulding seamlessly with his. The assertive attorney was attempting to stoke the swirl of arousal he could see swimming to life in depthless Türk Kahvesi irises.
"What'll it be, indeed." Tony's breath hitched, a genuine smile crinkling to corner of expressive brown eyes as an instinctual grip tightened on his mirrored companion's hips. Assured footsteps were guiding the single father towards the edge of a vast California King mattress, the mammoth structure raised on a circular, carpeted, platform as an expert shove bounced his back on a silver and brown eiderdown duvet.
The entire east wall was ensconced in stunning crystal, floor-to-ceiling, windows; the natural afternoon glaze reflecting copper-gold across naked skin as Hank leaned back on his elbow to gaze at his lover-for-the-day from beneath sensually lowered lashes. There was a deadly smirk crossing clean-shaven features, a tilting brow evaporating what little control either of them possessed.
"There's so many answers to that statement, sweetheart." Stark drawled. "Why limit ourselves to only one way of playing?" A predatory crawl had prompted the engineer's knees to come to rest on either side of the attorney's knees, sly fingertips tracing the nervous swallow of a bobbing Adam's apple as the forty-six-year-old struggled to contain the flash of heat settling low in the pit of his stomach.
There was a rumble of quiet approval rising low in his doppelganger's throat, dark eyes simply refusing to break the sharp intimacy tethered so erotically between them.
Hank Palmer had always known he was an attractive man, no one ever told him otherwise. But the heavy-lidded gaze drinking in the low ride of his jeans, tanned skin, perfectly sculpted abdomen and pre-sex dishevelled hickory locks; expressed a single-minded desire to devour his very soul. It had been a long time since he had lain with someone daring enough to look at him like that.
Fuck! Tony Stark was also determined to capture the full scope of his wavering attention, the lazy curl of the man's lips, arch of his spine as he bent down to dig sharp teeth into a prominent collarbone and blunt fingernails squeezing the inside of a jean-contoured thigh. It was all a bid to bring forth the attorney's reciprocating touch, restless palms pawing at the waistband of black slacks as a startled moan skittered damply against supple skin.
Equally sculpted muscles, if not stronger than his own, shifted in anticipation beneath Hank's palms. Large hands were instinctively parting the single father's thighs for a languid roll, bringing their hips together in a deliberate, slow, slide. It was pure, sensual, torture; the confines of his jeans becoming entirely too tight as an answering hardness shifted playfully against his own.
Pleasure was boiling searing hot in the depths of his veins, his spinning mind finally silenced of higher thought as nimble movements shifted back and forth in a rhythmic grind. The engineer pulled back a few minutes later, toying with the button and zipper on his mirrored reflection's jeans as the anticipated release of an imprisoned cock hooded lust-heavy cinnamon irises.
A calloused palm was teasing the ridge of Hank's hardness, a bitten off groan nearly driving the man insane with need as he used what little lapse there was in Stark's judgement to flip their position. Dark jeans were hanging low off trim hips, a delighted chuckle bubbling forth from pale lips as dark eyes finally realized he decided to forgo underwear that day.
Alas, as the attorney noted so graciously before, he did not like being upstaged or controlled in the bedroom without equal opportunity. Besides, having a gorgeous billionaire spread out beneath him and arching with a cry the minute he dug merciless nails into sensitive nipples, became a rush like no other. There was a self-satisfied grin teasing at the edge of the a meticulously groomed goatee, hurried movements ridding the engineer of Tom Ford slacks as the forty-six-year-old delighted in the man's increasingly eager response.
A harsh yank was pulling at dishevelled hickory locks, chasing another quiver across Hank's skin as he decided to replace his nails with the caress of a scorching tongue and nipping teeth. Oh yes, Tony Stark knew exactly what he liked. And he wasn't afraid to fight back just as fiercely for gratification. Irate movements were shifting the billionaire out from under his quarry, a slow roll of his shoulders moving him across the bed towards the nightstand.
Falling on his side to lean back on his elbow, a smooth cheek had come to rest against a warm palm as Hank couldn't help but admire the sensual grace of his mirrored reflection's finely-honed limbs, perfectly sculpted ass and the veritable feast of a deliciously prominent erection. And before he could censor his instinctive response, he closed the small distance that separated them and mercilessly pinned Stark against a spread of rumpled silver silk and soft feather pillows.
"You're a fucking tease, you know that?" He hissed, intent on carving a path of scorching lips and moist saliva towards the man's dick. He couldn't contain the little hum of pleasure when he finally reached his destination, expertly dipping his tongue into a weeping slit. It figured the former playboy would have a customised Prince Albert, the taste of ruby and gold bitter-sharp on his tongue as he openly revelling in the startled hiss it teased from between clenched teeth.
"Jesus fucking Christ!" The hand that had been fumbling inside the drawer, instantly flew to the back of Hank's head. Pulling soft strands with scrabbling nails, sparks of sheer ecstasy bowed the genius' spine as a notable tremor affected the string of curses escaping his lips. The forty-six-year-old father continued to toy happily with the piercing he had discovered, smirking in devilish satisfaction when a straining erection slipped needily in the depths of his mouth.
"F-fuck! You're not shy are y-you?" Stark had dropped his head back against a spread of feather pillows, Hank restlessly shifting his hips to get rid of the last of his cumbersome clothes. He could barely contain the frustrated moan vibrating against Tony's shaft, the underside of his cock sliding smoothly against cool silk as he lost himself in the familiar, long time ago, exploration of another's need.
Where his tangled jeans ended up, he didn't give a single fuck.
It wasn't long until the harsh grip on Hank's head practically yanked him away from his playful exploration, a slick tongue plundering his mouth for the lingering vintage as the sound of a crinkled foil wrapper and shutting cap-click entwined their minds even closer together. Tony's frantically roaming fingertips were sparking like electricity upon smooth skin, a catalyst for newly crafted intimacy as they curled around a straining erection.
The billionaire's initial touch was wet and slick, the sound of closing drawer having been lost somewhere in the back of Hank's mind as he dropped his head back in numb rapture. Jesus! The man was a clear expert, carefully shifting the attorney on his back and sprawling his limbs in a needy pattern across rumpled sheets. Stark refused to slow the relentless twist and glide of his palm, providing just enough friction to speed up the hitch in Hank's breath but not the lust sparking relentlessly beneath every inch of tanned skin.
"Tony—!" He warned, not surprised when a palm encircled his clawing hands and secured them to the mattress above his head. "Nah-uh, baby. My turn now." And indeed it was, a startled cry echoing from Hank's throat as he felt the slide of a slick finger teasing his entrance. He hadn't experienced that in a while, he mused. Taking a slow breath in preparation for the breech as he licked his lips in anticipation.
It seemed his first question had just been answered. Tony Stark wanted to fuck, not be fucked. And didn't that just create the perfect opportunity to lose himself? Hank didn't want to fight what was coming, merely making a promise to pay the billionaire back for his generosity later. He wouldn't lose this race just yet, endurance was the key.
Unknotting the simmering tension that tightened his shoulders, the forty-six-year-old propped his heel on the mattress to bring them closer. He was making the work on his doppelganger a little easier, the initial stretch something he had to get used to for a few minutes before movement and a flicking tongue against the corner of his mouth dragged a heady moan from the back of his throat.
Tony was deliberately taking his time, carefully observing the discomfort crossing Hank's features before increasing one finger to two. Sly digits were teasing out the most erotic part of his mirrored reflection, a hoarse cry and sensual bowed spine the first indication the genius hit pay-dirt as the perfectly put together civil worker lost a large chunk of his previous unwavering control.
The ardent groan was echoing violently against concrete walls, blunt fingernails wiggling free from Tony's restrictive grip to claw at straining shoulders instead. It was so good, the sensation enough to blank the lawyer's mind for several long seconds as he lost himself to the rhythmic thrust of sly fingertips and the addition of another.
Even thinking beyond immediate gratification was starting to become increasingly difficult, dark brows furrowing with unspoken yearning as he shifted his hips in growing interest.
"For someone with little patience, Stark, you sure are taking your time." He pressed between grinding teeth. It was unfair that his voice was dripping with hoarse need, a careless curve of his thigh curling around the billionaire's hips as he guided Tony close enough to tangle their tongues in frustrated bout. It wasn't until he felt impatient thrusts sliding against his skin that he bit back a rising groan, a free palm finally searching the bed for a tell-tale foil packet until he could rip it open with his teeth.
Sheathing the genius' generous erection was quick work, a filthy hiss in the shell of the man's ears enough to throw caution to wind as a violent thrust and flare of impatience buried a heated cock deep inside him. Hank reeled internally at the abrupt break in concentration, not having expected Stark to react so viscerally to the words 'fuck me, already'.
The man certainly had a generous girth and length, several deep breaths guiding the divorcee through the initial stretch, flare of pain and spine-bowing pleasure before he grinned up in satisfaction and pulled the billionaire closer to dig his teeth into a luscious bottom lip.
"Come on, then. Don't hold back. You did promise to break me." And seeing the previously put together billionaire's veneer crack was a whole other treasure, Hank twining a restless hand in the back of sweat-slicked mahogany locks that was just beginning to curl as he rocked impatiently with the start of the slow but steadily increasing rhythm.
That was good, too fast and they would both lose it too quickly. And considering the forty-six-year-old was already balancing on the embarrassing knife-edge of blistering pleasure, it wouldn't take much to break what little control he maintained. The genius' clever little addition of a piercing also, did not help current matters when he zeroed in on Hank's prostate.
It drew an embarrassing shout from heaving lungs, Tony's self-satisfied grin prompting a sensual chuckle from the attorney's lips as a lithe sway eventually moved and shifted them over. He was taking advantage of the genius' pinpoint concentration, expertly flipping them over when he got too impatient with the slow pace and decided to pay back the engineer for his generous pleasure.
Give and take, give and take as the saying goes. Dark eyes were locked intently with his, a continuous play of rapture liquifying the bow of the single father's spine as he felt the beginnings of a climax building in the pit of his stomach. The abrupt change in angle, he knew, was working up the pleasure one notch over the other.
"Keep going." He encouraged through panting breaths, increasing the grind of his hips and shivering at the sparks of pure pleasure skittering across highly sensitized skin. Tony Stark didn't seem to be doing so well on the account of control either, the addictive sway and squeeze of a searing palm curling around his free erection before it spilled a heady moan from parted lips.
Shit! The instantons thrust and merciless bite on the side of his neck, broke him in a violent shudder. Tony was pushing Hank to lean back against the genius' now propped up thighs, a brief explosion of white discolouring a multi-prismatic array encroaching on the edge of his vision as time stretched itself into infinity around him.
The sex was absolutely mind-bendingly good, carving a path into his body and soul as it shuddered deep in his bones and up the tremble of his spine. Hank couldn't remember the last time he came so hard, a driving need boiling every drop of his blood as his eyes fluttered shut of their own violation.
He could no longer hold himself back, even the answering ardent cry from his doppelganger was missed by his hazed awareness. A particularly delightful thrust was slamming Tony's hips right against his, skilfully prolonging the haze of pearly white decorating the curve of his abdomen as Hank's breath rasped a painful rhythm in his lungs.
Swaying through a series of encouraging aftershocks, copper-cinnamon irises turned a lazy and satisfied grin on his equally sated partner. The light of the mute afternoon sun was reflecting off of droplets of sweat gathered on their skin, Hank leaning forward to rest his forehead against Stark's for a moment as he nuzzled an identical nose.
It didn't take long for an encouraging entanglement of tongues.
If this was what the first round was like, he sure as hell couldn't wait to show Tony Stark the second round. After all, fair trade was at the top of his list. Especially after being gifted a climax so pleasurable he was still caught between two different realities. It certainly changed his perspective on finding the perfect bed partner.
"I hope you saved some energy, playboy. You're not getting out of this one without payback." The engineer's delighted response came in abundant laughter, a sharp bite digging into the shell of the attorney's ear as a smoky voice, deep and laced with promise, twisted pleasantly through the already reawakening arousal coiling through his stomach.
"Trust me, Hank. There's more where that came from. I did say we won't limit ourselves to one form of play. I'm not planning on letting out of this bed until all our five or more hours are up."
. . .
Five hours or more, the single father mused. Indeed. He was struggling to get himself out of bed without disturbing his companion, limbs heavy and sated with pleasure as he languished for a few more minutes in the exotic scent of mixed cologne and Stark's sex engraved sheets. The billionaire was fast asleep barely three inches away from him, sprawled in sleepy contentment against Hank's side as a possessive arm kept him pinned against a warm body.
It took a while for the attorney to shuffle out from under the restrictive grip and search for his discarded jeans. The display of an elaborate digital clock, shimmering to life on a reflective windowpane, let him know he had overestimated his time asleep. Even the Tourbillon Rosetta watch on his left wrist echoed the same 7:58 P.M.
Fuck! At this rate he would be an hour late in picking up his daughter. Hastily finding the elegant bathroom and figuring out the streamlined shower with no temperature-control faucet, was an unexpected challenge he did not have the time to deal with either. But Tony Stark's penthouse suite was full of unexpected surprises, an amused Irish lilt echoing from above to assist him through the voice-activated shower and lusciously scented steam.
Mint vapour soon engulfed the extensive bathroom's chrome and glass accents, his watch safely tucked away on a black marble sink as his tired frame leaned heavily against the shower wall for several long moments. He was standing blissfully beneath the heavenly rainfall spray, pondering if he shouldn't indulge himself in the heated pressure for little longer. It would be purely cathartic but—.
"Mr Palmer," Startling slightly at the unexpected interruption, copper-cinnamon irises instantly snapped in the direction of the door in fear that a woman had slipped inside the bathroom without his notice. He could only curse Mr Stark's perfect representation of the human voice, blinking in surprise as he was subtly reminded of the time and where he was supposed to be.
"Boss let me know that you are free to borrow some clothes from his closet until we can get yours dry-cleaned." Raising a brow at that, Hank spent a brief moment observing his features in the mirror before allowing the AI to guide him where she wanted. A fluffy towel was drying the excess droplets from his hair, making the unstyled strands curl in an artfully mussed mess.
The attorney himself was slightly hesitant to accept the offer, knowing he would be able to go home in his own clothes regardless of being ruined or wet. He didn't like being in debt or taking advantage of another's generosity. But he also didn't want to argue with the AI of a certified superhero, the intelligent system seemed sentient enough to outwit him in court—.
Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration.
Hesitantly selecting a simple long-sleeved shirt and pair of jeans from the massive walk-in closet, steady movements shimmied into clothes that fit a little too well. It was a little disconcerting just how much they looked alike, even the correlation of their height and body shape. But Hank wasn't complaining, deciding the casual ensemble was good enough for now.
He would return it all later.
At Friday's insistence that he take a coat to stay warm as well, he twined a loose grey scarf around his neck and slipped into the only worn jacket he could see. The black leather was smooth and supple against his skin, bare feet padding out of the ridiculously large closet before he could be bullied into dressing up any more or mentally calculate the millions of dollars of custom suits and designer clothes stretched out before him.
The familiar comfort of a handmade bracelet on his right wrist, braided with silver and turquoise threaded tassels, was a welcome weight to bring him back to reality. The affection and reminder of his daughter, as always, was a catalyst that shifted his priorities. Running a restless palm across his features, Hank was casting a lingering look over his sleeping host.
Tony Stark still tethered to blatant unconsciousness, having turned around after Hank left the bed and burrowed into a pillow instead. The forty-six-year-old couldn't help resituating the tangled duvet and silk sheets over the genius' shoulders, dark eyes glancing over a now empty tumbler of scotch and open bottle of sleeping pills close by.
Hank could distinctly recall the bottle being closed before he went to the shower and the tumbler of scotch being a quarter full. But he wasn't one to judge, the tip of his tongue tracing the sensual curve of his mouth as he ducked his head to whisper a brief goodbye on his mirrored companion's sleep-furrowed brow.
There was something brittle and bright settling in the pit of his stomach, something that the forty-six-year-old didn't want him to leave the man to his solitary loneliness by himself. He desperately wanted to keep the eccentric genius in his sight, even when he had other pressing matters to attend to. With no choice but to leave, Hank pulled on his socks and black lace-up boots as he found them on the landing of the floating staircase.
He stood for a few minutes admiring the beautiful grand piano in the vast sitting room, sweeping up a cardstock and pen on the hall way stand as he passed by. Elegant fingers were scribbling out a brief note, laying his business card next to the handwritten note and placing a cheeky kiss to the paper. There was no way he wasn't being watched through a vast array of cameras, he mused. Throwing a wink for good measure as he shifted his own barely finished glass of scotch onto white parchment.
His somewhat ruined coat had been laid out on the piano bench, a restless palm extracting his car keys and phone from his pockets as he immediately dialled a familiar number. If he was going to be bullied in taking on of the industrialist's coats, he'd leave his own here in return. A genuine smile was cross his lips at the heady scent settling around his senses, the stark contrast of cracked black pepper, burnt cocoa, sweet bergamot and scotch mixing with burning metal and shop oil.
They could trade when they met again.
As he stepped into the open elevator, the artificial light dimmed in the luxury penthouse. The vast space was reflected in a hauntingly cadence of black, the strains of a ghostly tune rising from the once loved piano as the beautiful open space glittered with pinpricks of light.
A single card was left on the piano's glossy surface, a brief message scrawled in elegant script as it greeted the night's unwavering song:
I didn't want to wake you, Tony. Your AI bullied me into taking your coat.
We'll swap when we meet again.
Give me a call if you're interested – I'd like to pick up where we left off.
Hank
Thank you so much for reading, I really appreciate it. :) I do hope my Honeys enjoyed reading this fic as much as I LOVED writing it. It is certainly a pairing I'll be playing with from now on, I promise. Since I can't seem to leave it alone.
Please be so kind as to leave me a little review with your thoughts. I would really appreciate that.
Yours Always
Chocolate Carnival