“How do you even get into that?” Sam complains loudly, gesturing at T’Challa’s Black Panther suit.
It comes out a tad too dramatic, maybe, but it’s already bad enough that Pepper paired him up with Mr. Tall, Dark and Deadly for the photo OPs, Sam shouldn’t also have to suffer through 2 hours of that ridiculous and stupidly tight cat costume.
Not that normal, non-superhero clothes would’ve been much better – T’Challa could probably make a pair of old sweatpants and a floral print shirt look regal as fuck. His clothes seem to always hug his muscles in all the right places, no matter what he’s wearing, so a suit or a jeans & black Henley combo weren’t going to make Sam’s evening any easier.
The problem, really, is that Sam wishes he could be the one hugging T’Challa’s muscles.
The problem is the goddamn suit looks like it’s been painted on, and Sam’s already starting to feel all hot and bothered in his own uniform, and they haven’t even stepped out of the waiting room yet.
T’Challa shoots him a smirk, and that, too, is deadly.
“You ask me nicely,” the man replies.
It’s a joke.
It’s very clearly a joke, and Sam’s too fond of teasing people himself not to appreciate it, but fuck if it isn’t putting images in his head, and god, that’s the last thing Sam needs right now.
He tries to cover the fact that he almost just choked to death on his own spit with a derisive snort, but he’s pretty sure it comes out too high-pitched to be convincing, and his sweaty palms aren’t helping.
“What? Cat got your tongue?” T’Challa asks when Sam fails to come up with a witty response. And god, Sam wishes. It’s getting really fucking hot in here.
T’Challa’s obviously enjoying poking fun at him immensely, if the way the corners of his eyes are crinkling is anything to go by. If he wasn’t so drop-dead gorgeous, Sam would punch him.
“Are you always such a smartass or is it just ‘cause it’s my birthday?” he grunts.
T’Challa blinks, and then raises an interested eyebrow. “It’s your birthday?” he asks. Sam just shrugs. “And you’re here doing this?”
“Pepper offered to change the date, but whatever man, it’s just a few hours,” Sam says. “It’s cool.”
T’Challa doesn’t reply right away, just stares at him like the cat that ate the goddamn canary, killer smile still on his lips and doing all kinds of things to Sam’s stomach. “I didn’t know it was your birthday,” he tells him a moment later. “I would’ve gotten you something.”
“You don’t have to—”
“In Wakanda,” T’Challa cuts him off, taking a few steps in his direction, “we have this way of wishing people a happy birthday.”
“What way?” Sam asks. But before he can stop to think about how close T’Challa is all of a sudden, or about how it’s getting a bit harder to breathe, there’s an arm wrapping around his waist and a big, strong hand at his throat, tipping his chip up.
T’Challa kisses him unhurriedly, but firm and hot and claiming, swallowing Sam’s gasp right up and then licking into his mouth just right while his hands keep him securely in place. Which is good, because god, without them Sam would probably just slide down to the floor.
When T’Challa pulls back Sam can’t help but try to chase his lips, and even whimpers a little at the loss of him. Later, he might worry about how pathetically desperate he probably seems, but right now he can only think of how pleasantly dizzy he feels, and maybe lament the fact that he didn’t use this chance to let his hands roam over T’Challa’s magnificent chest.
“Wow, I… Dude, I think I want to move to Wakanda,” Sam manages to let out.
T’Challa laughs softly. “Happy birthday, Samuel,” he says, thumb still stroking Sam’s jaw.
“So, um…” Sam tells him, because hey, it is his birthday after all. He might as well. “If I were to ask you nicely… would you be okay with that?”
“Well,” T’Challa says, smiling. “This was just a happy birthday wish. Wait until you get your present.”
“Can’t wait to unwrap it,” Sam jokes, and then forgets how to breathe, because T’Challa is kissing him again.