I tell you, the damn cussing plot bunnies are turning my head into a freaking warren. This idea smacked me upside the head and wouldn't leave me alone. It's been a while since I've seen the movie, and this is probably completely out of context, but oh well, deal with it you whingeing bastards! Oh, and I do not give a crap if my science is off.
I own nothing! If Mickey Rourke were ever to read this, he would most likely beat me to death with his bare hands. Robert Downey Jr. would probably just laugh. Also, holy palladium, Batman, there's bottom!Ivan! I think this may be the first story with that. If not, for the love of god, somebody send me the link to whatever other fic has it!
Tony Stark rolls over. It's early still, probably not even dawn yet, and he feels that he definitely should not be alone in bed.
He doesn't want to have to open his eyes just yet. What he really really wants right now is to somehow coax the giant scary Russian back into bed (a strange desire for almost anyone to have) and go back to sleep. Or maybe have a little good-pre-morning shenanigans. And then go back to sleep. He groans and fumbles his hand across the intercom by the bed, presses the button for the speaker in the kitchen. "Ivan?"
"Mister Vanko is currently in the lab," Jarvis informs him coolly.
"What?" Now he has no choice but to open his eyes. "How the hell did he get in there? It's secure."
"He bypassed my systems. I would have woken you the moment he started doing anything dangerous, to you or to himself."
Tony blinks and sits up. "He bypassed your- damn. That's- damn. With what?"
"I believe he was using your toothbrush and a magnet from the refrigerator."
"Wha- which magnet?" Dammit, he's impressed in spite of himself.
Jarvis seems to sense this, in his creepy A.I. way, because there's a definite tinge of amusement when he replies, "The one which reads 'Guess Who's Drunk'. I believe he is drawing at the moment."
"Drawing." Stark rubs his eyes and glances at the clock. Of course, it's four in the morning; why wouldn't Ivan be drawing? Heaving a sigh, he hauls himself to his feet and begins a slow, dragging march toward the lab.
Ivan Vanko is indeed drawing. He's got about fifty feet of blueprint paper rolled out in piles around him like a bird's nest, and he's scribbling away at something or other, still wearing nothing but the boxers Tony made sure to buy before bailing the man who should be his arch-enemy from prison. He's got smudges of chalk and charcoal all over his fingers, and one across his cheek, and there's a half-empty bottle of vodka next to him. He's wearing his glasses, the cheap square frames that were bought with the boxers, and Stark is man enough to admit that he really, really likes seeing those glasses on the villain. It's like some librarian-fetish-meets-bad-boy-kink and it turns him on to no end. Vanko doesn't look up as the rich American approaches him, too intent on whatever it is he's working on.
Tony casts a critical glance over the drawings. There's a few rough sketches of some of his cars, probably warm-up sketches, and some random doodles of what looks like a cockatoo. The rest are obviously a design for something, something mechanical, but they're all scratched out.
"Что Вы хотите?" (What do you want?)
The harsh gear-shift sound of the Russian's voice startles the man who calls himself Iron Man; he'd almost begun to wonder if Ivan knew he was here. He shrugs, trying to surreptitiously peer over the bigger man's shoulder at the paper.
"Nothing. I just wondered where you disappeared to. It's pretty rude, y'know, wandering around someone's house while they're asleep. And it's especially rude to have enough energy to do that after so much sex."
Ivan snorts, almost smirking, but doesn't cease his drawing.
Tony sighs again, dramatically, hiding his annoyance. "Look, I would love- love- to just ignore you and go back to bed. I really would. But seeing as how I don't trust you not to set my house on fire or plant a bomb in my favorite car or something, I'm gonna stand here and keep an eye on you until you decide to come back with me." It's not much of a threat; more like something you'd expect from a teenage girl than an insanely wealthy playboy.
"I'm almost finish," the villain says, making a tiny adjustment with his thumb.
"It's not a naked picture of me, is it?" Tony asks, raising an eyebrow. "It better not be a naked picture of me. Especially not one of me sleeping. That's just too..." Too what? Too romantic? Too intimate? Too much of a gesture? "Creepy," he decides aloud. "That would be creepy."
"Nyet." Ivan sets his pencil aside and studies his work a moment before folding it and stuffing it carelessly into the back pocket of his boxers.
"Well?" Stark has never been a very patient man, and though he's good at hiding it, he's itching to see whatever masterpiece or doodle it is that's so very important. "What is it?"
"Yeah, I figured, what with all the blueprint paper. What's with the bird, incidentally?"
"My bird." With the accent, it sounds like "moy bord", and Tony glances at the sketches again, trying to picture this beast of a man holding something like a bird in his hand and not crushing it.
"Your bird. So where is it?" He sees Vanko shrug, hears him speak once more, and there's something very, very slightly off about his voice this time.
"Not here. Home. Я должен был оставить его." (I had to leave him)
"Huh." Aannd store that in Tony's big file of Stuff That's Strange About Vanko. "So... what's the blueprint?"
Ivan stands, wearing that mocking, scornful half-grin that sends involuntary little shivers down the American's spine. "Maybe I don't feel like to tell you."
"No?" Tony meets his gaze, catching on. He knows how to win this game. "Well, maybe you could just show me." He sends an equally cocky grin back at his nemesis, full of seductive charm and casual innuendo.
Vanko frowns, like he's thinking about his options, and starts to turn back to his papers, as if suddenly completely uninterested. "Я не чувствую себя подобно показывать-и-говорить." (I don't feel like show-and-tell.)
But Stark is not in the mood to be turned down at the moment; he did not get up this early just to be insulted, aroused and ignored. He steps forward, feeling the usual rush of adrenalin he gets right before he does something stupid and hazardous to his well-being, and runs his palm up Ivan's back, over his tattoos and his weathered, hard-muscled skin, finally grabbing a fistful of long dark hair, still matted and tangled from sleep and sex. The Russian shoots him an irritated glare, and for a second Tony contemplates pulling him back for a kiss. But no, it doesn't feel right just yet. They've done a lot with each other, to each other, but they haven't kissed. Kissing would be like admitting something. Instead he sinks his teeth into the tanned skin of Ivan's shoulder, knowing that it will be enough to at least get a reaction. He's right; a shudder runs through the bigger man and he sees, out of the corner of his eye, how Vanko is flexing one hand, keeping it from reaching back and engaging. He leers and nips at the reddened skin, curling his fingers and dragging his nails down Ivan's scalp. At the same time, he shifts forward, rolls his hips against the foreigner's ass and brings his free hand around to eagerly molest that ink-covered chest.
Ivan swallows a breath, then growls when he feels Tony smirk. He jerks his head free, but doesn't step away. "отвяжитесь." (Fuck off)
Stark laughs and trails his fingertips down, stopping at the hem of the other man's boxers. He's very observant, always has been, and he knows that when they are going at it full-tilt, clawing and biting and scratching, more like fighting than sex, Ivan is completely confident. He takes control, meets Tony thrust for thrust and punch for punch. It's only when the American tries to take it to a slightly more intimate level, softening his touches and turning rough grabs into slow strokes, that Vanko goes quiet and gets edgy. It's like he's never actually had sex, just fucked and been fucked. Actually, thinking about it, that's a distinct possibility. The first time they fooled around, Tony knew it was just Vanko's way of paying off an imagined debt, services in exchange for his freedom. Unfortunately, one mind-bending blow job would turn out to be not enough for either of them, and they ended up in bed the following night, snarling and biting and rutting like a pair of wild cats in heat. Since then, it's been a constant battle of egos and strength, as well as a struggle to keep their hands off each other long enough to eat, sleep, and breathe.
The off-duty superhero traces the words etched into his companion's abdomen, moves his other hand to carefully trap the Russian's hips. Ivan snarls and turns, swats the hands away and backs the smaller man up against the steel edge of a table. He stands there for a moment, glowering, and Tony can't help but wonder if this is the time he's pushed a little too far, if Vanko is going to just rip him in half and leave. But no, Ivan just growls again, low and dangerous, and tears open the grey undershirt Stark's wearing, exposing the glow of the arc reactor. He pauses, as he almost always does, and leans down to stare intently into the blue light of the little machine that has kept Iron Man running for a while now, that's slowly poisoning him. He purses his lips, brows furrowed, and runs a calloused finger along the reactor's edge. "Я тянул по памяти," he mutters. (I drew from memory)
"What?" The intensity of those stormy eyes has momentarily derailed Tony's brain. "Oh." Right. The drawing. The reason he came down here. "So are you gonna show me?"
The man called Whiplash tilts his head and flashes another one of those little smirks. "Don't think so." He grabs the torn shirt and pulls it from Stark's shoulders, throwing it across the room before biting down on a blue-lit collarbone, thumbs scraping over bruises and scratches from last night.
Tony grunts, recognizing this as an attempt to turn the tables, to make this into the usual rough-and-tumble the Russian is so comfortable with. He threads his fingers once more through Vanko's bicoloured mane, strokes a line down his back. Careful, almost-but-not-quite gentle. He ducks his head, brushing strands of dreadlocked hair aside, and sucks at the available skin of the villain's neck. Ivan makes a noise deep in his throat and his hips jerk forward, moving his own mouth to lick a stripe around the reactor. Tony moans involuntarily, damning the fact that, in a heated moment, he admitted how sensitive the skin there is and the way Ivan is so damn good at remembering said admission and exploiting it to his full advantage. Luckily, the American has a few tricks up his nonexistent sleeves, stuff he's stored away for just such an occasion. Step 1, lower his defenses. He catches the curve of an ear in his teeth, nips and sucks until he feels a tremor shoot through the hands on his waist, feels the harsh grip loosen. Step 2, keep them lowered. He smoothes his hands down the convict's sides, rubs the base of his spine, hears a grudgingly shuddery groan as he massages the tension there. Step 3, go for the kill. He takes a deep breath, hoping it won't be his last, and moves his hands downward, squeezes Vanko's ass through the fabric, his fingers digging in.
Ivan growls a third time and grinds against Stark, making him gasp at the contact, but Tony is persistent. He continues his little massage, varying pressure and using his thumbs to work out some of the knots in the muscle. Simultaneously he nuzzles at the spot behind the ear he's been paying so much attention to. He knows that it's one of the few spots on Whiplash's body that will make his eyes roll and his breath catch. The only other spot that's as sensitive is, weirdly enough, his hands. But Tony will get to those later. Sure enough, as he brushes his lips over the skin, Ivan leans into him, one hand leaving the billionaire's waist to prop himself against the table. Stark can't help but grin once again as he ever-so-carefully slips his fingers into the pocket of Vanko's boxers.
Still rubbing with his other hand and keeping the Russian distracted with his mouth, he pulls the folded paper free with all the delicacy of a neurosurgeon. As soon as the drawing is safely in his grasp, he releases his hold on his rival's backside, pulls his lips away, and darts through the space between them. Suddenly thrown off-balance, Ivan stumbles and has to grab the table with both hands to keep from falling. He turns, confused and on the verge of being pissed off, and Tony waves the paper victoriously, wearing his trademark shit-eating grin. At this point, Ivan's expression goes through a range of emotions, starting with realization, then moving quickly to "I-will-murder-you-you-cocky-little-bastard", followed by a very brief moment of what looks like anxiety, which is weird, and finally back to the murdering. He makes a lunge for the sketch, but Tony dances out of reach and jumps over the hood of a nearby Challenger to safety.
"жопа!" (Asshole!) Whiplash takes a few menacing steps forward, but the American just keeps moving away.
"Well, well, what have we here?" He unfolds the paper, keeping a wary eye on Vanko's location, and blinks.
It's his arc reactor. Only it's not his arc reactor, it's a design for another one. He blinks again, thrown for a loop. "This..." It's not his arc reactor, it's a better one. "How did... How does..."
"Runs on human energy. No palladium. Stable." Ivan crosses his arms across his chest, looking defensive. Like he expects Tony to tear the paper up or something.
"Why did... how-" It's not often that Tony Stark is speechless, but then again, Ivan Vanko just seems to make a lot of people speechless. "Why?"
The Russian frowns, thinks about it. "Prove my design is better," he announces, flashing gold-capped teeth.
Still staring at the page, his eyes flicking over every detail, Iron Man is too stunned to catch the barb at his intelligence. "This will work," he says, like he didn't really believe it until now. "This design would- this will work."
Ivan shrugs, scratches the back of his neck. "Da. That's the idea."
Tony is silent. He looks up at Vanko, then back at the drawing, then back at Vanko, who is starting to get edgy again. Slowly, Stark sets the life-saving sheet of paper down on a desk, placing a weight on top of it almost reverently. He steps around the Challenger and strides toward his arch-enemy, intense gaze focused on him.
Ivan's hands curl into fists and he plants his feet, wary from years of prisonyard battles. The approaching vigilante dodges a punch, grabs the ex-con's other wrist and pulls him off-balance once more. Vanko has just enough time to look furious before Tony's lips are on his.
It's brief, too brief in Stark's opinion, before Ivan's big hands shove his chest, knocking him back. The larger man stares at him, eyes wide behind his glasses. Knowing it's a bad idea, and deciding he really doesn't give a crap, Tony leans in again, and though Ivan's hands clench against his pectorals, the foreign physicist makes no move to stop him. Their mouths meet a second time, firm, opening and sliding, then harder, hungrier as they grow addicted to the taste of each other. Tony doesn't close his eyes quite yet, not until he feels Ivan's tongue twist along his and a calloused hand wrap around the back of his neck to draw him in. When that happens, he can't help but roll his eyes back and tilt his head, wanting to get closerclosercloser, needing more and needing it right now. He reaches up, runs his fingers over Vanko's torso, slips one hand down and down to cup the front of his boxers. The Russian bucks, moaning, and grabs the shorter man's buttocks, trapping his hand between them without breaking the kiss. Tony rubs him through the fabric, feels him harden, and uses his free hand to sweep the tools and scrap metal off of the table behind them. Ivan's hands are everywhere, possessive, greedy, and he does that tongue-twist thing one more time before their mouths part.
They examine each other, breathing heavily, and Tony notes with some satisfaction that Vanko's glasses are crooked, his pupils dilated. The criminal genius' gaze darts quickly back toward the table, and when he glances back at Stark, he is grinning, a devious look in his eyes. He grabs a handful of the American's hair, drags him along as he hoists himself up onto the work surface, throwing a leg around Tony's hips to draw him closer.
Planting hasty pecks on the taller man's chin, jaw, neck, and down, Tony pauses to press an apologetic kiss to the red, angry bite mark he left on Ivan's shoulder earlier. This earns him a sudden yank on his hair, not hard enough to be really painful; Vanko trying to keep things from getting too touchy-feely. Shaking his head, Iron Man tugs the other scientist's underwear down and drops into a crouch.
"Wait-" Ivan doesn't get to finish his protest; he throws his head back, hair flying, and jerks his hips up into the hot cavern of Stark's mouth. "трахнитесь!" (Fuck!)
Tony laughs (or tries to laugh) and feels the iron vice in his hair tighten. He pulls back, licking a line to the top of Whiplash's member and sucking at the head. The Russian groans and his eyelids twitch like camera shutters, his chest heaving. Stark pulls away and stands, looking pleased with himself as he appraises his effect on the villain.
"жопа," Vanko says again, but there's no real venom in it.
The playboy catches hold of Ivan's right wrist and tugs it toward himself, flashing that devilish smile that's won him countless reporters and secretaries. His nemesis raises a skeptical eyebrow, unimpressed and scornful until Tony raises the captured hand and ghosts a breath over the palm. For a second, the ex-con tries half-heartedly to yank his hand back, but when Stark wraps his mouth around one thick, work-roughened finger, rolling his tongue along it and dragging his teeth up and down, Vanko can't help the low moan that rolls off his lips. If one were, say, a self-obsessed billionaire egomaniac, one would almost think that the moan sounded like a name. Tony gives one more hard suck, making an obscene noise deep in his throat, before releasing the hand.
Ivan sits up and reaches for his companion, fondling him ruthlessly and grinning like a bear trap as Stark's knees go weak. He bends his head and bites a nipple, enjoying the surprised yelp and the way the American's hands tangle into his hair once more, curling and clutching. Tony is grinding into his hand, swearing under his breath and placing feverish kisses to his lips. One more hard stroke, drawing another gasp, and he lets go of the wealthy inventor to yank his briefs off. Leaning back on the desk, the Russian hooks his ankles on the Iron Man's hips.
"сделайте это," (Do it) he says, voice like silk over gravel and Tony can't possibly disobey that voice, not for the world, but he casts about feverishly for a few seconds, looking for something...
He fumbles with one hand behind them on the table, finds a jar of what he hopes is non-toxic grease, pries it open and drags his fingers through it. Ivan growls, impatient, but Tony is determined to make this good, really good, not just a quick, bruising fuck in the lab, and he distracts his rival with another deep kiss and a few slow, teasing strokes as he brings his slick digits down to slip between Vanko's legs.
There's a hitch in Ivan's breath as the fingers breach him, and he breaks away to fix Stark with a puzzled glare. The hedonistic hero shoots him a quick "bear-with-me-for-a-minute" look and licks the edge of his ear, spreading his fingers and pumping them in and out slowly. Whiplash frowns and digs his own fingers into Tony's shoulders, urging him to get on with it. The vigilante ignores this, sliding his digits deeper, searching for that special place inside Ivan that he's become very familiar with. He's never done this, never taken the time to search around and stretch the ex-con so carefully with his hand. Usually it's just a swift, burning thrust inside, Vanko grunting and goading him on. He's fascinated by the range of expressions that cross the bigger man's face as Tony manipulates him. A simple twist of his fingers, and Ivan arches his back, brows furrowing, muscles tensing. His glasses are barely balanced on his nose, and in a suicidal moment of excited arousal, Tony reaches up with his free hand and adjusts them with one fingertip. That earns him another glare, which quickly turns into grudgingly pleasure-induced panting.
Deciding that he's definitely going to have to do this again, Stark withdraws his hand and takes hold of the Russian's thighs, spreading them further. He leans in, and Vanko slings an arm around his neck, demanding. Tony sinks into him, groaning at the sensation, the deep heat of Ivan, and feels the grip on his shoulder twitch. Fully sheathed, he lets his head fall forward, burying his face in the criminal's hair. He waits until he hears a snarl, feels the legs around him clench, and he shifts, pulls back and rocks his hips upward, angling. Whiplash shudders, grinds down on him, cursing and gasping, calling him an asshole and a fucker and telling him to keep going or he'll kill him. More than happy to comply, Tony slams them together, deeper with each thrust.
"тяжелее," Ivan mutters, and the American is too caught in the heat and perfection to try to translate.
"What?" He asks distractedly, mouthing a careless line up the physicist's throat.
"Harder, you bastard," Vanko snaps, his eyes closing briefly as Stark noses along his jawline, hot breath against his chin for an instant before their mouths merge again.
"No- problem- you crazy- fucker-" Tony says breathlessly between thrusts, pounding into his villain. "Oh- shit- ah-"
"больше, не останавливайтесь, ублюдок!" (More, don't stop, bastard) Ivan bites Stark's lower lip, runs his hands over the reactor, sending shivers through the former weapons producer.
"I love it when you sweet-talk me," the superhero grins and takes hold of Vanko's erection, stroking and rubbing and using his other hand to bring the arm around his neck down to his mouth. He nips at the ex-con's wrist, licks a line up his palm and along his index finger, sucks the tip of it, mimicking his earlier ministrations as Ivan's eyes roll back and his toes curl.
"ублюдок," the Russian pants, grunting as Tony's thrusts speed up. "Fuck- Stark-" It's definitely a name this time, and if he weren't in the middle of mind-blowing sex, the wealthy sybarite would take a moment to bask in his ego. As it is, he has just enough brain capacity to think Ha ha before he lets out a desperate shout, feeling the muscles around him seize and tighten. Ivan lunges forward, muffles his own cry with a bite to the playboy's collarbone.
They hang suspended for a moment, every tendon and muscle taut. Tony rests his forehead against Vanko's chest, his own chest heaving with the ebb and flow of his breath. He pulls away, finally, and glances down at the mess on his stomach. Hiding an exhausted smirk, he reaches down and grabs what's left of his shirt, wipes himself and his companion, who watches him through fogged glasses, disheveled hair hanging in his eyes.
Stark lets the now-soiled rag fall to the floor once more, and is about to suggest breakfast when Ivan leans forward and kisses him again, sliding off the table to press them together. His lips are rough and chapped, his tongue insistent, and with a slightly surprised moan Tony reciprocates. He almost- almost- doesn't notice the brush of fingertips over his cheek, the faintest touch before Vanko stops himself. They part, and the evil genius that is Whiplash pushes his hair back and bends down to grab his boxers.
"жопа," he says one last time, and this time it sounds almost like an endearment.
Tony grins, looking around for his own underwear and finding it hanging from the side mirror of his Bugatti. When he turns around, Ivan is heading for the kitchen, apparently in the same mindset as the American. Tony glances at the desk, lifts the paperweight to take another glance at the drawing. It will work. He lifts the sketch carefully, sets it in his scanner, and asks Jarvis to begin construction.
That evening, while Ivan is passed out in bed, Tony Stark picks up his cellphone and calls an investigator in Russia, asks him if he'd mind tracking down a certain bird.
I don't know how this thing got this long, or ended up so schmoopy. Go figure.
(IT'S SO FLUFFAY!)