Tony/Robert Downey Jr. NC-17. Crossover.
“Bruce Wayne would’ve at least sent a fucking helicopter to pick me up.”
“Bruce Wayne would’ve at least sent a fucking helicopter to pick me up–yes. Fuck. I know. I know he’s a piece of fucking fiction, Lauren, what I’m saying is, if you’d pay attention for one second of your really stellar and very appreciated service, if I were Christian fucking Bale, or Jesus Christ help me, Clooney in the nipple suit, gearing up to play Bruce fictional fucking Wayne, he’d send me a fucking fictional helicopter.”
Rounding a sharp bend in the road, Robert gets his first look at the place this guy calls home–rumoured to be crammed chock full of enough space-age techie shit to make even the most jaded Trekkie cream his Spock underoos–and the man himself is standing on the balcony watching his arrival. Lauren says something unsympathetic about his upbringing, and he says, “What? No, I take that back. Shut up. Listen. I gotta go. Fucking Shangri-La just rose up out of the mountains.”
She says something else, but he isn’t listening. He’s pretty sure it wasn’t important anyway.
Tony smiles like a Vegas cardshark and takes a sip from the whiskey glass glued to his hand. After a few seconds spent sizing up the wicked slant of his mouth, Robert gives it a shot, adjusting on the fly and mentally filling in a goatee. It’s so fucking close it kinda creeps him out a little. He focuses on the differences between them–Tony’s taller than he is, with broader shoulders and a stronger, squarer jaw. His hair’s not as long or as dark as Tony’s either, but a few months with nothing more than a trim and a box of dye will take care of that.
“I like it,” Tony says, drinking again. “So, what do you look like without the clothes?”
Pure electricity zips along Robert’s nerves, turning what should’ve been a smooth roll to a shaky tumble. His elbow catches Tony’s arm with not nearly enough force to bring Tony down but Tony flops on him just the same, pinning him to the bed on his side. Twisting around, he tries to get a good sarcastic glare aimed at Tony before he asks what the fuck that was, but Tony’s face is hidden against his shoulder. Tony’s neat goatee grazes the curve of his underarm and he jerks, can’t hold back his laugh when Tony does it again, and Jesus fucking Christ, Tony’s already cracking up back there.
“Don’t forget this very important part of your character study,” Tony says, laughter tapering off as he nuzzles at the side of Robert’s mouth, playing at something that could be a kiss. “I’m incredibly vain. You look so good right where you are, I’m not even sure I want you to leave this bed long enough to make the movie.”
Robert pulls in two very deep breaths, or as deep as he can with Tony squishing his arm against the side of his ribs. They don’t help anyway. “That might be a good thing, since I don’t think I can I right now.”
“Why’s that?” Tony asks, totally in the same way he does when he doesn’t really care but figures why the fuck not, and licks at his mouth. He has to say one thing for the guy, helicopter-ride-denying playboy prick or not: he definitely knows what the hell he’s doing between the sheets.
“One, you’re crushing me,” Robert says after Tony sidles on down to leave a mark under his chin that’s going to get his ass whipped by Letterman’s makeup crew. “Two, Jesus Christ.”
Tony’s hand drifts away from Robert’s cock, up over his belly. “Jesus Christ,” he repeats, not really making it a question. One side of his mouth follows the upward quirk of an eyebrow, and Robert has got to remember that one for when the cameras start rolling.
Robert shrugs as best he can with two hundred odd pounds of billionaire smushing him into thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets. “So not exactly what I meant but as good a reason as any.”
“We’ll come back to that,” Tony says, and eases off enough for Robert to flop the rest of the way onto his back. He plants a hand on either side of Robert’s head and smiles. “Right now, I want you to show me how good you’re going to make my sex scenes look.”