bakerstreet | [ hey, i brought you this soulmate ]

Entry tags:

[meme] shipping

[ hey, i brought you this soulmate ]

soulmate meme ;
▸ post your character ◂
▸ you're now in a universe where destined soul mates exist! ◂
▸ rng for the type of au and for the ~situation~ ◂
▸ tag around ♥ ◂

type of au;

1. tats, your character has a tattoo of the first words the love of their life will say to them
2. familiars, your character has an animal tattoo representing their soul mate on them
3. glow, the first time your character sees their soul mate, their chests glow!
4. world in color, life is literally black and white, until you see your soul mate for the first time
5. choose your own, i'm definitely missing a milly because i'm lazy, pick your own

situation;

1. first meeting, you've never met this person before.
2. childhood mates, you've always known this person -- but on one particular birthday, everything changes.
3. together, you've been in a relationship for awhile now! happily wed or not, you decide.
4. not together, you've known you're soul mates for a long time, and yet have avoided a relationship.
5. choose your own, self explanatory c:

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only | Expand All

It hadn't occurred to him to ask, not yet - thought only of the mark on his chest and it's significance to Tony, with not even a fleeting thought about his own mark and what that might be on another person. He doesn't feel significant, and he can't think of anything on his body or in his life worth marring another person with. Of all the things he's done over the last 70 years, he can't imagine the tattoo of a bullet wound or a knife would be the most appealing thing to have permanently etched upon yourself.

He never considered that.

Tony peels his shirtsleeve up, and Bucky's expression sifts for the first time without him being able to catch it and guard it. A hollow, sad sort of realization. The parting of lips, the knitted, lifted raise to his eyebrows, an apology in the lines and angles of his face.

Oh, Jesus.

Just... in case Tony needs to see it himself, Barnes wraps his fingers around the collar of his henley and tugs it down four or six inches to show the inside of his shoulder, his pec, the start of the curve of his ribs. The scar with seams like a zipper that ring around it and, worse than just that, the jagged fingernail lines that rip away from it in a few places as well.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, low and sincere. Sorry you're stuck with that, instead of the beautiful symmetrical lines he's got, or some of the sweeping daintiness that other people get. Peggy got a shield. Steve got the imprint of her lips, a perfect fingerprint match of them above his heart.

Tony gets god damn scar tissue.

It takes a level of concentration for Tony’s eyes to leave the scar that his tattoo was imprinted from. His mouth is dry as he does so, he breath as jagged as the wound the other man has been left with. HYDRA had been cruel about it. They could have made the joining of metal and flesh beautiful, but they hadn’t bothered to do it. Skin had puckered and pinched and tried to set itself around the foreign invader, likely attached to bone and nerves just beyond the outward sign of the wound. Tony wonders if it hurts, still. If the weight of that armor is painful.

It might even need service, given the grinding he’d heard as they had first slipped into the car.

Tony focuses on what he can see of his soul tattoo, and runs his thumb across the worst of it. “I used to think it was a topographic map,” he says, his voice actually fond. “It looks like this old globe my dad has in his office when I was a kid. This could be a rivers, or the edge of a country or continent...”

He presses his lips together.

“Don’t be sorry. I’ve always liked it,” Tony says, letting the sleeve go to fall back down to his bicep. When he looks back up again, the centers of his amber eyes is wider, pupils dilating as he meets Bucky’s gaze.

As tempted as he is to flicker his eyes down to his scar again as Tony describes rivers, mountains, the jagged and beautiful topography of land and how it might apply to his scars, he can't bring himself to drag himself away from Tony's eyes. The fondness in them, the microexpressions that are soft but telling in his features.

As the asset, as the machine he'd been, one of the things he'd been trained to do was read body language and involuntary physical gestures. They often indicate things that are necessary for his line of work; the intention for his target to move, subtle lies, the flickering that gives away the fact that there's another witness in proximity. He knows what pupil dilation means in relation to this context.

He knows the way it makes him feel hearing it put this way, hearing something he's found so ugly about himself made beautiful. The way it feels like lotion on cracked skin, aloe on a sunburn, cracking a joint back into place. A small spark of pain smoothed over with profound relief.

Time feels like a tangible thing, a physical presence that weaves itself around his chest and slows the world down as it hooks its claws in. Slow motion in that way that adrenaline and his serum play together to make it easier to react the right way in time. What it actually does is speed up his thoughts just a little, just by a few fractions of a second, so that he can instinctively be strategic about his next move.

He thinks, I should kiss him.
He thinks, I absolutely should not until Tony's comfort is unquestionable.
He thinks that a kiss is like a sentence, a declaration of intention, a question with too many facets to properly structure out loud.

All of these things are true, and so he compromises by being exceptionally slow and just as telegraphed about what he plans to do. It means metal fingers reaching up to coast along Tony's jaw, to curl with unbelievable gentleness given what they're made of, and the corresponding leaning in to clear the distance between them with plenty of time to be turned away.

Nearly fifty years of life, just over three decades of which being sexually active, and Tony still doesn’t see the move until Bucky’s face is close enough that he can feel his breath. His mind had momentarily blanked when he’s felt that gentle, warm hand on his jaw. It’s not his fault that so much of his thoughts had shifted so quickly to trying to figure out the questions bouncing off of his skull about its function. The act had short circuited his mind, and the jump start feels more like a time jump.

Despite his momentary surprise, Tony doesn’t pull back. There’s a twitch at the corner of his right eye which is mirrored at the same corner of his mouth. At least we’re on the same page, he thinks, no matter how much longer it had taken him to get to that page.

If Bucky had been anyone else to him, a fling perhaps, a one night stand, Tony might have pushed forward, settled a knee between Bucky’s on the other seat, and climbed into his lap. Bucky isn’t just anyone. He’s not here to pay a little attention to his hedonism.

To match the gentle touch (he’s going to need some time with that arm, Buck), Tony forges through the scant distance that remains between them to kiss the single most important person alive with a tenderness he doesn’t often show. It’s not really in him. Blunt sarcasm, tenacity, a devil may care attitude? Sure. But this requires kid gloves.

He can feel it in his teeth, and taste it through his finger tips. The jolt of the potential bond is proof that he’s been dismissing the ‘whole soulmate thing’ long enough.

They are very, very on the same page. There was a time a century ago when he was good with women - beyond good, he had that mix of charm and manners that made him seem safe to his partners. That dark look that came with his flirting, but the clear safety net that he was a gentleman who wouldn't take advantage. It was a perfect balance, and it netted him more than enough practice that he could tug it out now and coax this into something more.

He doesn't.

This is a quiet, chaste moment. This is gentle dry lips on dry lips, not parting so much as just making room for Tony's so that they slot together into place like matching piece parts. Puzzle pieces making a whole. It's lingering, restrained, and it comes with only the tentative movement of fractions of an inch as he nudges in softly with his nose.

All the same, having the entire world narrowed into such a small focus makes subtleties enormous. Frozen in this space with his eyes closed, his lips are sparking with awareness and the fingers in his left hand twitch involuntarily at the back of Tony's head- the arm's too responsive, and it takes to twitches before his mind can abort the order.

His heart beats not faster but slower, it feels - stretching out painfully long between beats that are too hard.

He doesn't remember the last time he could breathe.

Something lurches inside him, the cracking and falling away of a layer of his defenses, the flickering allowance of pieces of himself to bleed through the bond and pieces of Tony to fill in his gaps in turn.

It'll be up to Tony to break this, because for the moment, Barnes is lost.

There’s no need to break anything. Tony has spent his whole life being broken, as if his mother had dropped him from her womb and kept going on with her life, leaving him to the care of nannies and boarding school deans. He’s got so many cracks in his foundation that it’s been a wonder that he can still be standing after all of this time. He’s shored it up where he could of course, welded metal over the worse parts to keep from crumbling, but those measures have been stop gaps and not real fixes. Half a decade of constant repair work, however, is outdone with a single kiss. Bucky slips into the cracks. He fills the empty spaces, forces the water out, and pries up all of the heavy duty work Tony’s done for keep together. He levels the foundation out, finding his home there.

Bucky isn’t lost, not when Tony know exactly where he is. He’s calling out, singing beautiful refrains that Tony can follow easily. It’s so tempting to do that, too, to answer the tugging in his chest. They teach this in health classes now as far of puberty and sex ed lectures, so that teenagers know what to expect should they come across their soulmates before they’re really ready for soul bonding. They speak about it on the news when the court had to order an underage soulmate to stay clear of their much older partner until deemed legal. It’s all sensational— Tony had been banking on it being sensational, hyped up and an unrealistic representation of the things a person feels if they are marked.

And it is, actually, sensational, too. His senses, all of them, are alive and thumping towards that tug. Bucky needs him, and Tony needs Bucky too.

The older man draws the former soldier into his arms, pulling him towards the edge of his seat, wanting to cradle and care for him.

I hear you, Tony thinks as he allows the pull on Bucky’s end of the bond to lead him towards his soulmate. I’m on my way. Just hold on.

If Bucky can keep him together, then Tony will return the favor. He can fill all of the gaps within the other man too. Just watch and see.

He rips them apart before the bond solidifies. Retreating from Tony quick and ungracefully, like he's thrown, or like it's a reaction to a blow. It's not intentional, it's not a conscious decision, it's just--

What's in there is black, and it's deep, and it's terrible. It's a screaming, howling pain that isn't just shameful, it's vulnerable. It's instinctively afraid, because the last time something got their fingers in that deep it shredded more than his heart. It ripped out his ego and his identity. He's dually afraid of consuming Tony with the endless, cavernous maw of space inside himself, and afraid of letting anyone touch it again.

He doesn't even know what it is exactly, if it's his mind or his heart or his soul, he doesn't know what part of them that bond really latches onto and integrates with. Everything is instinctive and psychological and intangible.

He's breathless, wide eyed, overwhelmed and apologetic all at once - and it takes him a second to realize that his fingertips have punched into the leather of Tony's rental car and passed clean through to the padding.

"I'm-" he starts, throat closing up before he can finish, and a little shake to his head. "It's not- I'm not good in there."

It's not you.
I can't.

Ironic, then, that it was him pulling the whole time anyway.

Edited 2020-04-02 03:19 (UTC)

Tony feels the clamp on their tenuous, threadlike bond as a heart attack. He struggles, clawing at the tattered ends as the snap away from him, but he can't reach it. The loss is so totally encompassing that his body can't process the trauma. There is no reactor in his chest to restart his heart, he's probably on the verge of a secondary stroke complication, and his demise will be reported across the world as due to weakened health or something else painfully trite and common.

Of course, Tony is not suffering from a heart attack. He's not experiencing a stroke, either. The shortness of breath and ramped up pulse rate are simply physiological occurrences due to emotional trauma. And Tony's been there before. He knows the drill of rejection and loss. The little spasm has found him on the floor between the seat he had been occupying and the bar. He's got a low grade migraine and a head full of Swiss cheese where Bucky had so briefly been. There are tears in his big brown eyes, tears running in rivers down his cheeks, and he looks almost maddened as he pressed a hand to his chest where his reactor had once been.

He should have been better capable of self control at this point in his life, but Tony can already feel the hold he has on his emotion falling away the same as the bond had. He can literally feel himself losing his shit as the emotional whirlwind has takes over.

He found a soulmate he hadn't wanted, came to a conclusion that what he actually didn't want was to lose him, lost him anyway for awhile only to find out that the loss wasn't measured in terms of forever after all. And now, after all of that, he's been rejected by the one person in his life that he should have been able to count on.

So yeah, fuck biology and happily ever after.

Rage (because even in this day and age, it's easier for a man to hold that emotion rather than feel comfortable fully breaking down in front of another) cuts through the tears on his face, the skin flushing. He can't even find the words right now.

Things start to spiral quickly, from good to great to terrifying to bad. He doesn't need the bond to feel what Tony's feeling, because he's carrying it there on his face and in his body language so powerful it's like that pulse he sends from his hand. It thuds through Bucky's chest, it overwhelms him in its intensity.

He doesn't reel back from it.

His hand shoots out, gripping the wrist Tony'd been pressing his chest with, and drags it instead to his own. Above tattoo, but mostly above his heart which is hammering a god damn mile a minute.

"I want it-" He implores, shifting forward -- but there's only so much space on the floor of a car, and Tony's occupying most of it. Another six feet of muscle can't fit, so it leaves his back sloping in as deeply as he can manage while still pushing that palm against his chest. "Jesus, do I want it."

It, the bond. You.

"That wasn't-"

Intentional, a choice. He didn't peel back of his own accord so much as a knee-jerk reaction like a starving dog who's been kicked too often to take food without tucking tail and bolting.

You're breaking his heart, looking at him like that. That probably makes them even, so lowly he impresses, "We can try it again."

And again, and again, until he gets it right, sweetheart, he's just a little bit broken is all.

The very last thing that Tony thought he wanted was for Bucky to touch him, but that turns out to be entirely untrue. He doesn't struggle away from the other man, though his hackles aren't completely settled either down either. It feels consciously and subconsciously good to know that his heart rate mirrors Bucky's though. He's not as alone as he thought he was. The words that follow put the rest of him at ease, though his hand is still shaking and his eyes refuse to stop watering.

Relief, however, is not a sensation that will come to either of them tonight. Bucky's confession sparks an understanding in Tony's still addled mind as to everything that had stopped them from what they'd both wanted to do.

It helps Tony to know that Bucky is still partially with him. He can still feel him, or parts of him, though whatever tattered bond they'd initially shared. It's a ghost, but it's something.

Tony tries to wipe his face, tries to exhale, tries to stabilize something going on physically with him so that he can find the words to do more than shake his head when Bucky offers another round of what will end with him once again in a TKO.

"I don't think you can," he says, sounding like he's had a three pack a day habit for the last ten years. "Whatever HYDRA did...I think they locked me out."

The theory makes his mouth snap closed, teeth set, jaw clenching. There's a small tremor in his hand, flexing fingers gripping too tightly with just a hair too much strength before he reigns in control of it.

He tugs his eyes away to set them firmly on the glass, a subtle burning bitterness taking over his features.

"Yeah, of course they did," He manages, dark and toneless. Because why wouldn't they? Out of everything else they've taken from him, what's a little more, right? If you're gonna take a man's history, his identity, his free will you might as well take his capacity to bond while you're at it. Property doesn't need to bond.

There's a beat of silence, then thickly, "They tried to burn it off. They tried to cut it off. Just kept growing back."

But how do you grow back something that deep and intangible? How do you grow back an open door, your subconscious's willingness to let something else in?

Though he certainly doesn't need to ask for an explanation, Tony can't help but be curious at how perfectly Barnes recovered from that sort of physical trauma. His tattoo have been burned and cut off, but his chest, and the exterior indication that he had a soulmate somewhere or sometime had come back? That's pretty remarkable, though likely because of the other changes that had happened to Bucky during his time in Italy and with HYDRA.

"The Nazis used to experiment on soulbound people," Tony says as he gets to his knees and crawls back to Bucky with some difficulty. He feels unwell, out of sorts, like he's still recovering from being sucker punched. Thankfully, he doesn't have that far to go in order to reach the other man, lift a hand to his face, and pull those dark blue eyes back towards him. "Look at me, Barnes. They were never successful in anything they tried to do in the long run and they're not going to win here. You just have to tell your friends in Wakanda to find me a window to crawl into."

Tony knows he must look foolish, but that doesn't mean he doesn't sincerely believe he can make this happen.

"And if they can't, I'll find one myself."

Generally, that tenacity doesn't always go so well, of course. He's been known to blow himself up during attempts at making progress.

It is almost wholly and entirely due to the serum that he's managed to get by without clearly evident scarring on his chest. No brands, nothing like his arm, which had been sawed off and replaced before the end of the procedure. Everything they did to his chest they did after he was already at peak, and it took less than two weeks each time for the skin to slowly scab, flake, heal back to perfect. Took a week after that for the tattoo to blossom with color again, filling out the parts that had been damaged, reforming itself perfectly as though it were never gone.

It takes a second and some great willpower to obey that look at me command, but ultimately he does - only by Tony's guiding hand.

He isn't one to allow himself to cry. Never been good at letting vulnerable emotions through before the war thanks to his father, but after being systematically disassembled and punished for outward displays of emotion the lock he's got on himself is practically made of vibranium.

All the same, his eyes shine like he's on the cusp of it. He just won't give himself the relief of falling. Opposite of Tony's bright and vibrant, clear emotional response. Opposite in a million tiny ways.

He thinks it would've been easier if they'd just carved out his heart instead.

He swallows tacky spit, works to release the muscles of his jaw and the clenching of his throat to grind out a muted, "I'll talk to them." The effort it takes to keep his face stoic means his cheek muscles are tense, and the words come out small. Quiet. Rigid.

His fingers go lax around that hand he'd been pressing to his chest, releasing it from captivity.

Of all the people in all the world, he's sorry you got stuck with him. Damaged goods that don't even have that romantic notion of letting someone fix him through the magical power of gay love and a first kiss.

It's a good thing that Tony's not really into fixing people...or things for that matter. He's a start over from scratch kind of guy, and while repairs are sometimes needed, he's been known to let whole projects burn just to have an excuse to begin again. In that way, perhaps, Bucky is exactly the sort of soulmates he deserves. Biology deeper than any human understanding has linked them together and Tony Stark is going to fight to keep it now that he knows Bucky hasn't been pushing him away.

He's less romantic than Bucky is, less capable of seeing outside of himself to the needs of others, and that will play an important part in this next step their lives are taking. Tony is never going to stop until he gets what he wants...

Or possibly becomes distracted. It's happened before and he wouldn't rule it out now either save for the simple fact that he can feel Bucky pushing on his subconscious so heavily that there's no way to ignore it.

Tony takes a deep breath, staring into Bucky's eyes in an attempt to get the other man to just breathe with him. "We have...some time left. I have to put somethings on hold. I'm coming back with you." This is not open for discussion.

He manages, reigning in control through only the soft outward breath that escapes through his nose - long and quiet, until all the air from his lungs disappears. He peels a hand back to pass it across his mouth, the inner joints of his index and middle finger scrubbing away the tension like he can't manage it without them.

He nods.

A few hours to put some things on hold, whatever that means. As far as taking him back goes, well, Bucky's not the one in charge of the aircraft or who boards it, so all he can offer is a faintly wry, "Guess you can take that up with the scary bald lady who steers the thing."

Because sometimes she just looks at him and he knows she could probably snap his neck with her thighs if she was pissed enough. They should've just sent her to handle the Winter Soldier.

He shifts back in his seat, blows out a breath, then clasps his hands together between his knees. "You need me to-- wait outside, while you..."

Make calls, or do whatever putting things on hold constitutes?

A quizzical look is all Tony spares before he heads up to the divide between himself and his driver. Could he push the button to lower the screen? Absolutely. Does he? No. It’s more fun to slam his fist on the window. He needs to let off steam anyway.

Happy drops his phone, startled, at the thumping. He’d heard a little bit of something going on back there during a commercial break from his shows but he doesn’t ask questions. If Mister Stark wants to pick up strange men from a beach in India, that’s what he does and Happy can occupy himself with anything really.

He’s trying not to look on the backseat while giving Tony his full attention, face turned only partially. “What can I get for you, Mr. Stark?”

“Cancel everything for the next week. I’m going to need you to drive back to the hotel. You’ll have to bring everything I left there to the car. Don’t check out. Extend my stay until the end of next week. And then bring us back here. What the time—“

Happy tells him but Tony can see it illuminated on the dash.

“Six hours. You can take the scenic route. Don’t open the back doors, Happy.” He has to keep Bucky concealed. And that’s easy to do in a limo as long as no one puts down a window.

This leaves Barnes settled in the back to watch the whole exchange, left arm propped up on the door frame, leaning into it a little to support him like all of a sudden his head is too heavy. Watching Tony go immediately business mode like it's as natural as breathing is an interesting break from the turmoil, and it allows in the first fleeting feelings of cathartic relief.

His body being what it is, he rarely gets physically tired.

His mind being what it is, he almost always feels mentally and emotionally fatigued. It doesn't help that he just had his metaphysical rubber band broken midway through a soul bond or whatever.

(And maybe he's wondering what this means for them, if physicality is off the table until they figure this out, because he's not sure he can do much more than kiss Tony without that thing in his chest desperately reaching out.)

There are other things they can accomplish in six hours.

Seemingly from nowhere, he fires off, "Favorite color?"

Because they don't actually know each other at all, and maybe... somehow, with some stupid logic, it'll help if they do.

Happy has just started driving when Bucky speaks up and Tony insistently jams his thumb against the button the draw the glass between them and his bodyguard back up. He’s seated across from Bucky now, the full length of the stretch limo making the space feel more like a chasm. Tony’s eyes are puffy and red, but he’s gotten over the upset and the anger. He rests his elbow against the back of the seat, the one belonging to his recent fracture, and makes a circular gesture with his finger tip that moves the joint of his wrist too.

His mannerisms are so fluid and graceful and expressive. Moreso than even his eyes when he’s not blocking them out with tinted shades.

“I’m sorry, did you smuggle in a Teen People magazine?” he asks, eyebrow arching. He doesn’t think Bucky is actually asking him questions from a compatibility quiz, but the question is so out of the blue.

Is this what dating in the thirties and forties had been like?

He’s amused.

“Red, but I feel like that was a trick question.” Because you should have already known Barnes. “What’s yours? Black? Not a color by the way. Just so you know.”

He pulls an amused expression, softened by the strain of what lead them here, but an attempt at one nonetheless. Yeah, sure, maybe this is something teenagers do, but remembering what it was like back then? When things were simple and love felt bright, optimistic, all-consuming? Why not act a little bit like teenagers.

He was sure as hell better at this when he was 17 than he is now, anyway.

He scoffs a soft laugh at red, and wonders why he even asked. That one probably should have been obvious, considering.

"Blue," he flatly corrects. It's calming. It's soothing, the color of the sky and the ocean, something he associates with peace. God knows he could use a little more of that in his day to day. But they're on a rapid-fire session here, so he shoots out another quick, "Favorite food?"

It’s good that there’s a follow up question because Tony had been about to quip about every boy’s favorite color being blue. He wouldn’t buy any other reason, just like he would never admit that he hadn’t found his groove for this sort of thing until he was in his early twenties. At seventeen, he was the kid stealing grants and tenure from his professors at MIT and no one in his classes got along with him. He hadn’t yet learned to use that to his advantage.

“Cheeseburgers,” he answers smoothly and crouch walks back towards Bucky. “In and Out Burger is the best but I’ll take McDonald’s if that’s all that’s around. Are you going to say pizza?”

He doesn’t know why he keeps trying to guess here, and it doesn’t occur to him that he’s still desperately reaching out to make the connection that had been lost to him.

They should be able to already know these things, to pull them through their bond, but it had all been aborted. Tony’s mind hasn’t processed all that yet.

"Chocolate," He corrects, lips twitching up a little farther into a lazy sort of smile. It's made to look all the lazier by the fact that he still hasn't peeled his head out of his metal hand to sit up properly. He looks about a step away from fully sprawling out across the limo's seat.

A beat, and then he concedes, "Pizza's a close second, but I got a sweet tooth like you wouldn't believe."

When he started to run low on both in the war, it was almost always a toss up between trading chocolate for cigarettes or cigarettes for chocolate. Sugar's a whole food group for this man, don't leave it unattended in the room with him.

He nods his head at Tony. "Your turn."

He’d never have guessed that about Bucky, not in a million years. The guy is an eyeliner pencil away from Green Day in appearance, and chocolate isn’t something you expect those guys to be snacking on in between bong hits or some heroin. Tony scratches a finger down the side of his neck in thought for a moment, not for a question, but trying to rack his brain to see if they have chocolate in the limo.

They don’t. He tends to drink his sugar, as fermented as possible.

Bucky is looking at him so earnestly now though and so Tony doesn’t make him wait any longer for new question. Favorites. Favorite color, favorite food. He’s going to skip animal. “Favorite song.”

And there's where the first breathy laugh escapes him, a sort of self-deprecating thing that he stalls on by passing a hand over his mouth. He cards his hair back and, settling into something akin to resignation, asks, "Before or after?"

Before he became the soldier, or after he woke up? He's two different people, it feels like. Two different personalities. He had his preferences when all he knew was the forties, and before he got his mind completely back he had several months to develop a new taste for it. Modern music, the stuff they play on radios and in stores, on public transportation, on television.

Two whole different worlds feels like he ought to get two whole different songs.

“Now. But if you say it’s Basketcase, we can’t continue.” Tony doesn’t really have a lot against Green Day but he has to keep up the running jokes in his head. He’s still fishing around for that connection after all, especially now that he’s seen a flash of teeth behind a smile. Bucky’s is really lovely, once he flips his hair out of the way.

He’s always liked longer hair on both men and women. It’s something more to touch. He’s a glorified mechanic, and his hands are his business. The rest is just gravy.

“You’re the only version of you I know,” he points out. That makes him so very different from Steve. Neither of them are fighting against childhood memories here.

You keep on crackin' those Green Day jokes, pal, he's heard of them but he couldn't tell you a single thing they play. Just something mentioned in passing one time, the name of that band, but the thing is...

He's already goddamn sad all the time. The last thing he wants to listen to is music that makes him more sad, or angry, or anything like that. He's from a time when people used to love swing, and they only loved it because it was the best thing you could dance to at the time.

These days, if you're looking for cardio the options are a hell of a lot better.

So there's another long pause, and he clears his throat in that way only people ashamed of themselves can be, and then finally admits to the ceiling of the car, "Anaconda."

Queen Nicki. Doesn't know half of what in the hell she's talking about, but she sounds strong as hell while she does it.

Don't you go putting him in a box, Stark.

[ hey, i brought you this soulmate ]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)