WordCount: 8496 (I promise this is the only chapter that insanely long. I swear. The other ones average around 3500 words)
Tags: @outside-the-government, @yourtropegirl @to-pick-ourselves-up-7 (please let me know if you want to be tagged)
Author’s Note: I started writing this fic in July of 2015, shortly after my Mum was diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer. The idea came to me one day as I was driving to work, so clearly… I knew I had to write it. I love the soulmate trope. As usual - since this isn’t a Star Trek fic and this is a Star Trek blog, let me know if you want to continue to see it or not.
Description: Sally Manners has spent her life avoiding the man whose name is etched on the inside of her thigh. Until suddenly she can’t. Tony Stark x OFC, Soulmate AU.
Her mother’s soulmark was a beautiful scratchy line of her dad’s script along the side of her foot. It said “You look lost”. A beautiful opening line. Sally’s dad’s soulmark was slightly less romantic, “Not hard to be, in ButtFuck Nowhere”, etched in the large loopy letters of her mom’s hand, just above his collarbone. The romantic notion of the soulmark was not quite so romantic in its gritty reality. This became all the more evident when Sally’s soulmark rose on her skin. It had always been there, a dark, snake-like smudge starting on the outside of her thigh and twisting around her leg before ending just above the inside of her knee. As she got older, and the words finally became visible, Sally realized she would be better hiding out in ‘ButtFuck Nowhere’ with her grandparents, working at the Piggly-Wiggly than ever trying to pursue her passion for anything that might bring her in contact with him. The problem was, her summers spent with Nan and Pops sparked a passion for classic car restoration. And she was damn good at it. It was like it was written in the stars that she was going to eventually meet the man whose actual name was seared on her skin.
Sally had never heard or met anyone whose soulmark actually identified their soulmate. It reeked of arrogance and conceit. It would have been one thing if the damn name had been something common, like John Smith. But even in the days before Wikipedia and Google, Sally had heard of him.
“I’m Iron Man, but I don’t mind if you scream Tony motherfucking Stark when my face is buried between your thighs.” The letters were precise, perfect block letters that almost looked unreal. The first time she’d managed to read all the words, she couldn’t figure out what it meant, but after her first clumsy foray into sexual experimentation, she knew exactly what it meant. And every time she saw it, her cheeks flushed. She never wanted to meet him. She never wanted to hear those words. She never wanted to know what horrified response she would give.
Pops bought the Mustang when she was sixteen, and taught her how to do a complete teardown on it. She rebuilt it from the ground up. The ’65 Shelby Mustang had been rust, congealed oil and regret when Pops towed it into the backyard. Sally had thrown herself into it wholeheartedly, saving up every penny from every summer job she could manage to buy original parts to help restore the car.
“What colour will you paint it, Sal?” Pops asked as her nodded in approval.
“The only colour you can paint it, Pops. Red.” Sally could already see it in her mind’s eye. It took her a whole summer to save for the paint job. On her 18th birthday, Pops handed the pink slip to her, and a photo album documenting the entire job.
“Consider it your resume. You’ll never have a problem getting a job if you drive this car and show off that photo album,” Pops promised.
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