The west coast is on fire, Houston is underwater, two hurricanes are on their way, parts of the world are also flooded, and I’m currently using defense mechanisms to stay calm about the fate of humanity so I just have one thing to ask:
According to all known laws of aviation, there is no way a bee should be able to fly. Its wings are too small to get its fat little body off the ground. The bee, of course, flies anyway because bees don’t care what humans think is impossible. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Ooh, black and yellow! Let’s shake it up a little. Barry! Breakfast is ready! Ooming! Hang on a second. Hello? - Barry? - Adam? - Oan you believe this is happening? - I can’t. I’ll pick you up. Looking sharp. Use the stairs. Your father paid good money for those. Sorry. I’m excited. Here’s the graduate. We’re very proud of you, son. A perfect report card, all B’s. Very proud. Ma! I got a thing going here. - You got lint on your fuzz. - Ow! That’s me! - Wave to us! We’ll be in row 118,000. - Bye! Barry, I told you, stop flying in the house! - Hey, Adam. - Hey, Barry. - Is that fuzz gel? - A little. Special day, graduation. Never thought I’d make it. Three days grade school, three days high school. Those were awkward. Three days college. I’m glad I took a day and hitchhiked around the hive. You did come back different. - Hi, Bar
“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
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
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.
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.
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
always such a smartass or is it just ‘cause it’s my birthday?” he grunts.
blinks, and then raises an interested eyebrow. “It’s your birthday?” he asks. Sam
just shrugs. “And you’re here doing this?”
offered to change the date, but whatever man, it’s just a few hours,” Sam says.
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.”
Wakanda,” T’Challa cuts him off, taking a few steps in his direction, “we have
this way of wishing people a happy birthday.”
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.
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.
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
Dude, I think I want to move to Wakanda,” Sam manages to let out.
laughs softly. “Happy birthday, Samuel,” he says, thumb still stroking Sam’s
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?”
says, smiling. “This was just a happy birthday wish. Wait until you get
to unwrap it,” Sam jokes, and then forgets how to breathe, because T’Challa is
kissing him again.