Darsy's Archive

Library sideblog for Darsynia (who is definitely over 18!)

[darsywrites]

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Updated: 1/19/23

Asks and questions are OPEN. Please send a request if you'd like to be on a taglist! I write primarily for Tony Stark, Stephen Strange, and Remus Lupin, and I'm open to suggestions, but can't promise anything!

The truth is, I've redone my masterlist! Here's the new link:

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Thank you for your time!

This account is a failed attempt at being organized, and in another failed attempt, I want to save this piece of art from a 2009 collaboration so it doesn't go gently into that terrible night. The fandom is Stargate Atlantis, the story is Harbinger, and the collaborator is Elli.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

[darsywrites]

The good news is that I have a new hyperfocus. The bad news is, it's not writing. The second good news is that it's CLEANING, WHAT.

I am hyperfocused on cleaning?? Instead of writing???

2026 is such a freaking miserable time, lol

[darsynia]

Could you do a Bucky/OC one based off of the phrase "How the hell are you here right now?"

This got smutty AND all up in the feels. I hope you enjoy!

Summary: When he's deep in cryo, he always dreams of her.

Length/Warnings: 931 words / Oral sex, male receiving MINORS DNI

Fill: @allcapsbingo square 'the 1970's'

Oath of the Betrayed One

When he’s deep in cryo, he dreams of her.

He was awake a lot in the seventies, enough that his handlers worried he’d figure out what he was missing, so they’d found/hired/recruited Lyza cel Tradat to soothe him. A prize. Bucky knew it wasn’t her real name-- hell, ‘cel Tradat’ means ‘betrayed one,’ and she’d once told him that Lyza meant ‘oath.’

Bucky very much enjoyed fucking the oath of the betrayed one.

How he was able to remember her, he doesn’t know, but he figures it has to do with the way human memory works. His dreams of Lyza reinforced her reality, and now he’s standing in a field in Wakanda, and she’s walking toward him.

Except, she can’t be, because she’s every bit as wiry and beautiful as she had been in ‘73, when he’d committed an assassination every few months and came back to weeks on a beach with her before the ice again.

“How the hell are you here right now?” he asks when she’s close enough to catch the words. His arm isn’t even here right now, but Lyza is. She’s got on a swimsuit coverup over tiny white shorts and a tube top no one’s worn for decades. No bra, no shoes, too much eyeshadow, too much hair, that’s Lyza.

“I’m not. You’re dreaming again,” she says with an artful shrug. The fringed silk slips off of her shoulder, and Bucky reaches out to touch her, half expecting his hand to pass right through. 

It doesn’t. She’s warm, vital, and he shivers. If she’s right, why is she right? He doesn’t remember why he’d let that happen again, not now that he’s free of HYDRA, not now that he’s got Steve back. He trusts the people of Wakanda, and their trust means the world to him.

“Shhhh,” Lyza says, resting both forearms on his shoulders like she always does. She smells like sunshine.

“I won’t go back,” he says. His chest feels as hard as the vibranium that has built this place of refuge. Lyza is no foe, but she’s usually paid by one. For the first time, Bucky wonders if she’s some kind of construct, if those lazy pleasures they’d shared in the sand were a dream, too.

Was her name a hint, all along?

“You don’t have to, I promise,” Lyza says, trailing a languid hand down his chest toward his waistband. “This is another reward.”

He catches her hand as she starts on his buckle, squeezes hard. She doesn’t flinch, because she isn’t, can’t be real.

“Who sent you?” Bucky grits out. He’s a weapon who wields himself, now, but for all his bravado, he fears the answer to his question.

Lyza sinks down to her knees, head tipped back, unafraid as always. “You did. As a goodbye. A goodbye and a reward.” She leans forward, nuzzles at his crotch with a hum of approval. “I love that you’re sweaty and worn out, even in your dreams.”

Real or not, she knows just how to please him. His grip on her loosens, and Lyza takes advantage, finishes what she’d started. It’s a sultry commentary on truth, because if this weren’t a dream, he’d never insult his hosts by letting her strip him in broad daylight.

Fuck, but her mouth is perfect, even if nothing else around them is. It’s too hot, they’re too exposed, the wind is blowing the wrong way so her long, long hair is tickling his bare thigh, he’s about to lose his balance and--

Bucky tips his head back and stares at the sun above. His breath is coming in short gasps as Lyza’s hands and mouth trigger ten, fifteen, fifty memories that may or may not be real. All of them are more perfect than this one, but this is the one he’s rewarded himself with, because he remembers, now.

He’d chosen the ice, this time. To give his hosts time to figure out how to save him. To take part in saving himself.

“That’s right, let go,” Lyza coaxes, reaching for his hand. She wraps her silken hair around his fist, and Bucky lets himself look down at her. Her mascara’s running, lips stretched around him, imperfectly perfect, just right. “Use me,” she says, and he is, but more like a salve than a slave.

With a very great effort, Bucky stops her. He needs to know before the dream ends, and in his experience, most dreams end before the climax. 

“Was any of it real?”

“I’m sorry, Buck. It was all real. All of it.”

She doesn't just mean sex on the beach.

It’s the worst possible response, but it’s the one he deserves, Bucky thinks. “How do I wake up?” he rasps. He feels naked, but not because of what she’s been doing, and not because he’s given up the arm for now.

“Trust,” dream-Lyza says, her smile warm and reassuring.

“Well, shit,” Bucky smiles, with multiple decades’ worth of regretful humor.

“Trust you can finish what you started,” she continues, pressing a meaningful kiss to his thigh.

Bucky thinks about Steve, how grateful he is to have found him again. He thinks about the nobility of T’Challa’s grief, about how much faith in second chances it took to allow Bucky to convalesce in Wakanda. As he pushes his thoughts toward how to make amends, Lyza takes him in her mouth again, and the pleasure mitigates the pain of those thoughts so perfectly that he finally believes her.

The real Lyza is gone. So is the man HYDRA forced him to become.

[darsynia]

can i get Toby Z (WW) and Bruce Banner (MCU) in a humor scene? i think those two would just have so much to bitch about surrounded by giant...egos lol

Bahahhaha thank you for participating in BLURB WEEK, I had a blast!

Summary: Toby Zeigler's been asked by one superhero to write a speech for a different superhero. Maybe it's gratitude that he's not in the White House and contractually required to make any of this make sense, but once he meets Bruce Banner, Toby appreciates his shy genius.

Length/Warnings: 1,282 | No warnings. Can be read as gen or pre-slash!

A Banner Speech

“Just… wait here, okay?”

Toby shrugs and watches as the man he’s been contracted to write a speech for leaves the room to confer with the building’s owner. Bruce Banner seems a lot more shy in person than in the two magazine profiles he’s read about the guy. It makes sense; people want to picture the Hulk’s scientist persona as more Sagan than Einstein. It’s a quirk of history that one of the latter’s most famous photographs is of a stuck-out tongue. Einstein was sincerely introverted, often struggling in social situations.

Toby can relate.

When Tony Stark contacted him for this, he had mentioned feeling touched that then-governor of NH Josiah Bartlet had issued a statement lamenting the loss of Howard and Maria Stark, back in 1991. He wasn’t working for Bartlet at the time, but this is what people do; they make connections. You worked for this guy, and he’s a decent man. That makes you a decent man.

Ironically, Toby’s fall from political grace has lifted him up practically everywhere else, which is how he finds himself in a skyscraper in New York six months after an alien attack threatened to destroy his old neighborhood.

“You just had to say out loud how glad you were not to be working at the White House this year, didn’t you!” he mutters under his breath as he stares out of one of the floor to ceiling windows. No way in hell would he have wanted to construct a speech thanking superheroes for saving New York City from aliens.

“Do you miss it?” It’s Banner, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched as though that makes the knowledge of who he can sometimes be more palatable.

“Only in my nightmares.”

This prompts a bright smile, strangely enough. “I suppose working at the White House is one of the clearest examples of ‘you can never go back home’ that there is, given how often the whole staff changes over,” Banner muses. “I had one of those, sort of. Only mine was, you know, destroying the whole lab.”

“My downfall was less structural and more personal,” Toby shrugs. He’s made peace with that, even if he hasn’t fully made peace with some of the people involved.

“Saved lives, though.”

“We would have saved them anyway. Just more quietly.”

Banner scratches the side of his face and looks sheepish. “My days of quietly saving people are behind me, I guess.”

Toby turns his head, notes that Stark is actively hovering on the other side of the glass doors which lead to their conference room. He nods over his shoulder and says, “With him around, why bother reaching for the microphone?”

“Funny you should say that,” Banner coughs. “Tony’s banned from attending this thing. Lifetime prohibition after too many cocktails and no procedure for dragging a billionaire off the stage.”

“I’d have liked to witness that.” The surprised look Banner shoots over at him is encouraging. Toby’s… not all that good with people, but he does have practice juggling big egos, and like recognizes like. “So you’re the next best thing? The Kent to Stark’s Luthor?”

Bruce Banner’s eyes bug out of his head and he turns his back on the window to give Toby a look. Then, his shocked expression turns shrewd. “You said that to see if he’s eavesdropping, didn’t you?”

Toby just smiles.

“They want a scientist superhero. I doubt much thought went into whether I have anything interesting to say.”

“Well, at least they’ll be afraid to play you off stage,” Toby says mildly. Before his implication hits too hard, he adds, “You should use that. Got anything you’ve been wanting to share with the world?”

“I--” Banner blinks at him for a little while, then nods, slowly. “Actually, yes.”

“I told you you’re a genius, right?” Banner asks, fiddling with his bow tie again.

“No…?”

“I mean, yes, for the speech, which is brilliant, even if everyone’s going to know I didn’t write it, but also for getting the Chief of Staff to show up. He’s taking the heat off.” Bruce leans his head over to look out from backstage at the gathered crowd.

Toby moves to stand behind him so he can see, too. As expected, Joshua Lyman is standing beside his table in a crowd of people. The huge grin on his face is tempered only by the way he keeps looking toward the stage like he expects something important to happen at any minute, probably involving him.

It usually does.

“It’s a good thing your guy isn’t allowed to come to this thing,” Toby says in a low, amused voice. “The attention-gravity distortion between the two of them would probably mess with the laws of physics.”

“Fun to watch, though,” Bruce observes. “Did you, uh…”

“Promise him access? No, but I did promise--”

“Toby? There you are! They told me to come back here, but--” Donna Moss breaks off as she comes over to give him a half hug.

“--her access. Bruce Banner, this is Donna Moss. She is also a Chief of Staff, to the First Lady of the United States.”

“Aww!” Donna frowns at him.

“What did I do?”

“I told Josh I was going to try to get the Hulk to say ‘FLotUS!”

“Unless that’s an arcane synonym for ‘smash,’ I don’t think you had a chance of that, I’m afraid,” Bruce says with a slight smile.

“I was mostly teasing, I promise,” Donna grins. “It’s just that Josh goes heart-eyed at superheroes. I think it’s because he sees himself as a political version of Tony Stark, but with social capital instead of money.”

“He spends it just as quickly,” Toby says, picking up Donna’s wrist to look at her watch. As intended, the action is a gentle reminder that they’re out of chatting time, but to smooth the way, he adds, “I’ll send someone to fetch you and Josh later?”

“Perfect, thanks,” Donna says, her wide smile growing wider as she leans over to catch Bruce’s anxious gaze. He’s back to warily regarding the filling room. “If you get nervous during the speech, just look at Josh. He’ll probably be so enraptured you’ll feel like JFK in Berlin.”

“Ich bin die wurst at public speaking, so I doubt it,” Bruce tells her, before she heads off with a chuckle.

“You know what you just said, right?”

“I told a beautiful woman that I’m a sausage. I feel like a sausage,” Bruce says, tugging at his neckline. “In five minutes, I’ll be roasted on a spit.”

“In five minutes, you’re going to tell the White House Chief of Staff and a room full of people with money to burn that there’s a child hunger problem just begging for their help. They’re your captive audience, and not one of them will risk your wrath to interrupt, especially not when you tell them the problem’s not just in some far-flung nation halfway across the globe,” Toby reminds him.

“It’s also here. In our own country.” Bruce clenches his jaw. “There isn’t enough science in this speech. They’re going to be angry.”

“Well, you’re the expert on that,” Toby shrugs. He’s not looking at Bruce, but he can feel the other man’s amused glare. “Look, you sounded jealous about Stark being banned. I just took the hint and wrote a speech that’s the nerd equivalent of too much tequila. If they didn’t want a hero to try to save something, they shouldn’t have invited you.”

“You’re a good man, Toby Ziegler,” Bruce says. His voice is thick, like he’s forcing the words out past a few layers of emotion.

“It takes one to know one, Bruce Banner.”

[darsynia]

Hand(s) Off | Ch 2: Ecstasy

(Steve Rogers/f!Reader sex pollen-esque multichapter)

STORY MASTERLIST | STEVE MASTERLIST | PREV | NEXT

Summary: Steve's loved hearing about you from Bucky. He doesn't want anything to derail the progress his best friend has made toward being a whole person again, which is why he's going to use every ounce of his slowly-deteriorating willpower to resist touching you, tasting you, taking you. After all, he's just met you, and his own integrity, not to mention Bucky's trust, is important to him.

Neither of you are prepared for the catch.

Length | Warnings: 2,841 | Explicit sexual situations (they don't succeed in resisting, folks), MINORS DNI

Note: I want to make clear that I’m treating the issues of consent with sensitivity, as you'll hopefully see in this chapter!

Fill: Adoptable 'Pheremones’ from @allcapsbingo

Tags (please request!): @starryeyes2000 @munstysmind @ronearoundblindly @chickensarentcheap @themaradaniels @tiny-anne @deepbatched @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @wolfstar-marvelsfan @icequeen1371 @chibijusstuff @nekoannie-chan

Excerpt:

“I’m-- wow, this is intense,” you say next. 

There’s a little cry to the last word. You are clearly affected by Mistress too, and Steve feels both grateful and guilty about how relieved he is about that. This is a moral catastrophe, but you’re in this mess together, sort of. Anything less and Bucky would demand the right to kick his ass.

Hell, he probably still will.

“Take--” He stops himself. “Why don’t you take it off?” 

“Nice catch,” you praise, leading him to buck his hips up. “Only if you take your shorts off, too. Fair’s fair.”

“Nothing about this is fair,” he growls out, getting up. Steve takes everything off because, fuck yes, access is what he needs right now. It’s a testament to how ruled he is by the drug in his system that it doesn’t even feel wrong to be wearing just a shirt in the room with you.

Ecstasy

Steve had known about you for a while now. He had been picturing you as a gorgeous pin-up, a dream woman, someone who could bridge the gap between 1940’s Bucky and the shadowed self his best friend had become. With everything Bucky’s told him about you, that impression had been reinforced.

Now he’s looking at you, your eyes wide, body a shapeless mass under the blanket, and he can’t help but wonder what you’ve heard from Bucky’s stories, from the footage of the attack on New York, from interviews since. Do you think he stands for integrity, kindness, justice? Can any of that possibly survive the unbearable need he’s feeling right now?

“I’m going to cover my face with this blanket, okay? Two layers of it.” You do that, waving a hand in front of your own face to check that it’s fully opaque. “You came here to change out of those wet clothes, don’t let me stop you!” You’re right, but Steve simply cannot picture that. Not with you in the room. “I tell you what: I’ll-- I’ll hum one of the songs I’ve been practicing for this weekend’s set, okay? That way I won’t be able to hear you.”

You’d said ‘hum,’ but the sultry notes resonating from under your blanket shouldn’t be described that way. Steve wrestles himself out of the soaked button-down and undershirt and chooses a white tank top for comfort. His temperature has to be in actual fever territory, and without any… relief, that’s hardly going to change.

When he unzips his pants, the humming gets louder, and Steve can’t help it, he rubs himself with the heel of his hand. He wonders if you’re sitting under that blanket with your eyes shut, picturing him undressing. Recognizing his own lowered inhibitions, he hurries up, stripping down completely in favor of getting every ounce of the drug away from body contact.

He’s pulling on a pair of shorts when you stop.

“Oh, I wanted to say, Cap--”

“Use ‘Steve,’” he says quickly. “I don’t want memories of--”

“Oh, God, you’re right. Sorry,” you groan in interruption.

It takes all his self-discipline not to respond to the need in that groan, squeezing his wet clothes so tightly they drip onto the carpet. You can’t see him, so you’re already continuing. 

“I was going to say, you should bury those clothes in the hamper or a drawer or something, because I’m, uh, getting the equivalent of secondhand smoke, here.”

Steve distracts himself from that worrisome development by burying the clothes in his basket as if it were a mission. When he turns around, you’re standing, the blanket draped around you like a shield.

“Is this stuff dangerous at your dose? Should we break you out of here?” you ask, eyes wide.

“Breaking out would kill you.” He’d thought of that already. “The next level of security is enough nerve gas to incapacitate a super soldier. Today’s testing was to find out what’s safe.”

“At least they’ll get some data,” you muse. “Fuck, this blanket is getting hot-- I have an idea of how to survive this, but in case that fails, I’m sure Bucky already told you about my fifteen-minute adoring rave about your ass?” 

He cannot fathom why you would say that. “Uh…”

“Never mind,” you say, wiping sweat off of your chin with the back of a hand. It looks like you’re right about being affected by the drug; Banner had said it was capable of being aerosolized. “So, we’re trapped here, yes?”

“Yes, but I have no intentions of touching you,” Steve says, using his Command voice, as much as he hates the cross-contamination. To his surprise, your eyes grow fierce.

“Well, I have no intentions of being the bitch so unappealing that Captain America would rather die than touch her with Mistress in his system, so why don’t you hear me out?”

Stunned and slightly impressed, Steve puts his hands up. “I didn’t think of that. Go on.”

You pull the blanket closer around yourself. You’d said you were too hot, so this is vulnerability, and it makes him feel protective. That’s some cross-contamination too, but it can’t be helped.

“Okay, if we’re not touching each other then we’ll have to touch ourselves, and we’re in this tiny room.” You walk over to the bed and point to the floor on either side of it, saying, “I suggest we each pick a side, flip the light off, and talk each other through it. It’ll be less intimate without the visuals, and maybe we can each pretend it’s a phone conversation on speaker?”

“With the bed as a natural barrier?” 

“Yeah.”

Steve can already picture you seated on that blanket on the floor, head thrown back against the mattress, hands moving out of sight. It’s a compelling image. He clenches his jaw, pulling in too much air to give himself a different discomfort to distract himself with.

“Good thought. You stay on the door side. I’ll head over to the other side and stay there.”

“I don’t think you want to ‘soldier’ this, Steve,” you say, your voice softening to a whisper on his name like you have to force yourself to say it.

“Not sure I can stop,” Steve admits, propelling himself over to the wall on ‘his side.’ “Better get the light. This is…” he stops, needing to slow his breathing. All he can see when he closes his eyes is you slowly pulling the fabric of your dress up--

The light clicks off, plunging the room in darkness.

“Wow. I was expecting the darkness to feel comforting, but…” you say.

“Just sit down, shut your eyes,” Steve says-- and it’s all wrong. His voice is harsh, almost annoyed. He is annoyed. He should be better than this, but… “I’m sorry,” he says aloud. He’s apologizing to himself as much as to you.

“Me too,” you whisper, adding a little grateful noise that has Steve setting his forehead on the back wall. “Besides being very glad I can drop that blanket, I have no idea what I’m doing. Do we talk about ourselves? Each other?”

The taboo of the situation combined with the desire running through Steve’s body like wildfire weakens him to a kneel. This is the best outcome of a terrible situation, he tries to tell himself, but it doesn’t feel like that. Not with the prospect of that sultry tone of yours talking him through it.

“Steve?” You sound worried, alone.

“I’m here,” Steve hurries to say. “Got… distracted. Tell me what you’re doing, what you’re feeling? I still have to work on the command tone thing.” He moves to slump back against the side of the bed.

“You realize you’re still taking charge by not taking charge, yeah?” you say, more confident now, thank God.

“Would it help if you pretend we’ll die if one of us stops talking?”

“Spoken like a true Avenger,” you laugh. It’s throaty, affected, and Steve rests his hand on his lap, presses down. Yes. “Okay, I’m burning up. Inside and out. Even with short sleeves and a skirt.”

Steve makes a ‘Mmm’ noise without even meaning to, his palm rocking against his crotch.

“I’m-- wow, this is intense,” you say next. 

There’s a little cry to the last word. You are clearly affected by Mistress too, and Steve feels both grateful and guilty about how relieved he is about that. This is a moral catastrophe, but you’re in this mess together, sort of. Anything less and Bucky would demand the right to kick his ass.

Hell, he probably still will.

“Take--” He stops himself. “Why don’t you take it off?” 

“Nice catch,” you praise, leading him to buck his hips up. “Only if you take your shorts off, too. Fair’s fair.”

“Nothing about this is fair,” he growls out, getting up. Steve takes his underwear off too because, fuck yes, access is what he needs right now. It’s a testament to how ruled he is by the drug in his system that it doesn’t even feel wrong to be wearing just a shirt in the room with you. With some of the last logical coherence he has left, he grabs a tube of lube out of his bedside drawer.

There are condoms there too, but he won’t be needing them.

“No touching yet!” you call out, right as Steve slides a slick fist along his own length. It feels like the first time he’s ever done it right.

“Who’s giving the orders?”

“You don’t want to leave me behind, do you?”

“I don’t, I promise,” Steve groans. 

He collapses onto his knees at the bed, practically praying for release. The mattress shakes, and he can see the whole scene in his mind; you’re scrambling to pull the dress off over your head. He almost doesn’t recognize himself in his own thoughts, but that doesn’t stop them. Do your bra or panties have any lace? What color are they? 

“What color?” he rasps aloud, before he can stop himself. Despite what you said, his hand falls back to his cock, gripping but not moving. Even that is intensely pleasurable, but it’s the best he can do.

“Are you asking about what I took off or what I’m still wearing?” you ask.

Playful. Steve’s lost. He’s lost, because you sound joyful despite the situation. This is working, your plan, but he can’t help but feel like he’s trespassing. He should know so much more about you before getting to talk about your underclothes. That thought spirals, predictably, to the kinds of things women used to wear in his own time: hidden garter ribbons, the proliferation of skirts, the--

“Steve, if you’re going to ask questions like that, you ought to listen to the answers. It’s only polite.”

“You answered?”

“I described them. What were you doing?”

His hips jerk forward into his waiting fist, and it’s so sweet and hot and not enough that Steve gasps. “I think you know.”

“God, your voice is rough right now, do you know that?” you ask in a voice that’s rough too. “I’m sliding down the straps of my black lace bra so they pull on my arms.”

“Where are your hands?” One of his is moving slowly, deliberately.

“I’m--” The bedframe shakes slightly, and when you speak again, your voice is muffled like you’d thrown yourself face-first onto the bed. “I’m in flames, but it just hit me where I am and who you are!”

It strikes him that no woman will ever forget who he is ever again, not even in the throes of a mind-altering chemical.

“I’m just a guy, Dee,” he says, turning to sit on the floor again. “I always was. Just a guy who wants to help, to do good.” He’s not doing good right now, saying these kinds of things to someone he cannot drive away from Bucky, but those qualms are fuzzy and indistinct.

“I think I need you to talk now.”

Most of what leaps to mind is filthy, for all that his thoughts move as slow as molasses. “If you slide your hand inside your panties and cup yourself, will both sides of your hand be wet?”

“Fuck, what a question!” Your low groan makes him really want to taste its resonance on the outside of your throat. The mattress moves slightly, just enough to signal to Steve that you’re reaching down. “Y-yes.”

His own hand is moving faster, twisting, the heat of the drug in his system setting fire to every inhibition and replacing the ash with pleasure. “How do you like to be touched?” he manages to ask.

The words hang between the two of you for awhile. Finally, you tell him, using a breathy moan that makes clear that you’re acting out the actions as you speak. His orgasm strikes not long after, and Steve doubles over with the force of it, vocalizing in ways he usually never allows himself to do.

“I loved listening to that.” Your voice has a whine to it, a desperation he totally recognizes.

“It’s your turn,” he says, reaching over and grabbing his pillow to remove the case and wipe himself off with it.

“It smells like-- fuck, that’s so intimate, I--”

“I wish I could smell you,” Steve blurts out, feeling himself harden again. He’d expected that, maybe not quite so quickly, but he's a super soldier overdosing on Mistress.

You let out a gasp, and he leans back against the mattress to feel that it’s shaking, shaking with the rhythmic movements of your arm. You’re right, this is almost unbearably intimate, but right now that’s the best thing ever, with all the possible objections lost behind a haze of hot desire and the smell of sex.

Steve shifts so he’s kneeling at the bed again, his chest and one arm anchored to the mattress so he can enjoy the sensations as you stimulate yourself. “I can feel you move,” he says lowly-- and that’s it, he can hear the change in your breathing.

“Ahhhhhhhhhh,” you wail, the sound changing as you close your lips on the sound to change it to a ‘Mmmm.’ 

It’s almost enough to send Steve over again, but he’s greedy for every hitched gasp, every translated shove against the bed as you rock through it. Something tells him that reminding you he’s here will make you self conscious, so though each noise burns from his ears all the way across his body, he suppresses the need to vocalize his own resulting pleasure-pain.

Your next words take the edge off.

“You have to be kidding me!” you snap, sounding frustrated. “That felt great, don’t get me wrong, but there’s no relief! I am still using every single brain cell not to climb you like a tree.”

Steve unabashedly humps against the mattress a bit, at that.

“Yeah, see? You know what I’m going through,” you grumble.

“I never expected camaraderie,” Steve coughs out on a laugh. The levity lifts the musky pall of desperate need, but only for a moment. “I have no idea how long this will--”

“I figured,” you whisper. “That AI, does it have --ahh, I am just so warm and so, god, hang on-- night vision?”

It takes an annoyingly long time for Steve to figure out what you’re asking. “I don’t think so. It monitors everyone, so if one of us gets so hot we need medical attention--”

“Excuse me, but you’ve been that hot since the 40’s!” you interrupt, adding, “You mean you don’t have an override that comes with your rank, or…”

It’s absurd, the way he’s jacking himself off and holding a conversation. “I, ah, turned it off. In case I asked for something inappropriate while my thinking was impaired.”

You sound affectionately amused as you say, “Oh no! Steve, your thinking was already impaired!”

“Yeah, I’m seeing that now.”

“Oh.”

This new tone of yours goes straight to his cock, and Steve just leans over and thrusts into his hand a few times, the ecstasy from each squeeze washing over him in waves. It seems even better than before, but somehow not painfully so.

He recovers enough coherence to say, “What is it?”

“This is-- oh. We might have some data for your other Avengers, here.”

“It’s better now, isn’t it?” Steve pants out.

“Yes!”  

Your voice throbs with approval, and he throws out his free hand, grabbing at the sheet to hold on as another orgasm rocks through him. 

“Wow, did that send you over?” you ask, sounding impressed.

“It’s dark, but I still see fireworks,” he jokes, immediately wishing he his need-fuzzed brain hadn’t chosen that word. The number of ‘Captain America’ fireworks jokes he’s heard over the past year…

“You know the way to a woman’s ego, telling her you’re seeing stars and she hasn’t even touched you!” you say in an affected, sultry tone. “That’s, god, I’m such a mess. That’s my ‘lounge singer’ voice after I’ve had a few drinks. Don’t get to use it much.”

“So both of us have a not-so-secret identity?”

The bed shakes, presumably with your laughter, and that both sharpens and magnifies Steve’s arousal in the oddest way, more similar to the beginning, when he’d wanted to protect you as much as he’d wanted to touch.

“I hope you don’t mind, but my back is killing me,” you say. Steve doesn’t understand what you mean until your bare leg sweeps across his outstretched arm.

Immediately, instinctively, he clasps it, and both of you suck in a breath. The all-consuming pleasure he’d felt touching himself was nothing compared to this. Before he can realize what he’s doing, what it means, Steve’s climbing up onto the bed, following the contour of your naked leg up as he goes.

“ Steve,” you groan out, and the hint of hesitation in your voice fists his hand against your hip.

“Do you want me to stop?” he forces out through clenched teeth.

“Absolutely not,” you moan, your hand finding his and tugging.

Next chapter...

[darsynia]

Nat and Steve romance pls!

I enjoyed this, thanks for the request! Requests are still open!

Summary: Steve Rogers' mom had loved stories about romance, especially between two people who saw each other as equals. Pre-serum, fulfilling his mother's wish had seemed a hopeless ideal, and post-serum, equally so. Until he met Natasha.

Length/Warnings: 820 words, no warnings

Equals

Steve’s mom had loved romance novels. Her favorites had always been the ones where a secretary falls for her boss, or a nurse for her patient, but he could remember her complaining: ‘Where are the stories where they’re equals, Stevie? I want to read about them being equals!’

He’d never forgotten, had held that hope in the back of his head like a talisman, but Steve had never expected his romantic life to bring her wish to fruition. He was weak, puny, overlooked. Women wanted someone who could provide for them, who could stand up for them-- and then suddenly, he’d overshot the mark. ‘This Hero Has No Equal!’ one article had crowed.

No equal.

Steve came out of the ice, but it took him awhile to thaw. Once he did, he handled the task of adjusting to modern life, of warming up fairly well, in every way but one. He was… distracted by Natasha Romanoff.

Yes, by her beauty at first, but once he got used to how luminous she always seemed to be, Steve never ‘got used to’ her competency. It always floored him, how Nat was strong in ways he’d never be able to master, lithe when it counted, clever always. Her quick wit and sharp strategic mind left him alternatively in stitches and in awe, and falling for her was so easy he was almost embarrassed it took him so long to realize that’s what he’d done.

He didn’t intend to tell her, of course. That would be an overstep, and if Steve couldn’t be her partner, at least he could be her protector, someone she could count on to see her as-- oh.

An equal.

A couple weeks after that realization, Steve found himself being shoved up against the wall during a sparring session with Natasha. She’d taken him off guard, which was fair. He was still coming to grips with… everything.

“Out with it,” she said, her smaller frame no less threatening or deadly as she held a static weapon bristling with energy at his throat.

“Lunch didn’t agree with me?”

Natasha pushed the weapon closer. If he so much as swallowed hard, it would sting him. “What else?”

He felt completely out of his depth. “Your, ah, uniform shirt is unzipped more than normal,” he admitted. It was the truth, and he’d caught himself staring more than once so far.

Natasha’s smile was feral. “True. And?”

He moved swiftly and without warning, darting sideways and catching her waist with one hand to spin her off-balance. As usual, Nat rolled with the movement and turned it to her advantage, shooting out a kick that stole away his breath for a few seconds. He was fast enough to trap her kicking leg in both hands, yanking her forward into his body.

She should have tried to escape.

She should have pressed her advantage.

Natasha did neither. Instead, she leaped at him, and instinct led Steve to catch her weight at her ass and her back, one leg falling behind to brace the two of them so he didn’t tip over.

“And?” she repeated, one leg on either side of him, a steady hand brushing back his sweaty hair from his forehead.

There was no way his feelings weren’t written all over his face, Steve realized as he looked at her unblinking, green-eyed expression. She’d tricked him into showing her, meaning that she’d figured him out.

The best he could do was hope she felt honored, instead of offended. He’d wanted to be different than other men, for her. He’d wanted to be her equal.

“How long have you known?” Steve asked, entranced, impressed, imprisoned.

“Kiss me and find out,” she suggested archly-- and oh. Oh.

Natasha Romanoff kissed like time was running out, like no one was watching, like she couldn’t get enough. Steve sank to his knees in self-defense, needing to touch her, to ground the two of them with his hands cradling her face, tangled in her hair. His heart hadn’t pounded like this when he’d jumped from an airplane, and when their lips parted enough to catch a breath, he told her exactly that.

“Mine either,” she said, taking his hand from her cheek and pressing it against her too-low zipper, so he could feel for himself.

“So, you’re saying--” he started to say, needing reassurance, but Natasha stopped him with a quick kiss, then drew back.

“I’ve wanted to jump from the airplane before,” she said, a shadow crossing her face for a split second before she refocused on his face, and smiled. “With you, I’m not worried about how we land.”

He pulled her close, unable not to, and as he kissed her hair, her forehead, and her tear-wet cheek on his way to her lips, Steve realized that she could either mean they’d never land, or that she wasn’t worried about the fall.

He was equally happy with either.

[darsynia]

Hand(s) Off | Ch1: Agony

(Steve Rogers/f!Reader sex pollen-esque multichapter)

MCU MASTERLIST | STEVE MASTERLIST | NEXT

Summary: Bucky Barnes is the most important person in your life. When he confesses to you that he lives at the Avengers tower, and the 'Steve' you've been hearing about for months is actually Steve Rogers, you think that nothing can top that revelation-- and then you find yourself trapped in Captain America's bedroom getting a second-hand dose of NYC's favorite new aphrodisiac, Mistress.

Length | Warnings: 3,271 | None this chapter; story will contain explicit sex descriptions and situations, MINORS DNI

Note: I want to make clear that I'm treating the issues of consent with sensitivity. This is not even a dubious consent story in my eyes; the choices these characters make are kind, as clear-eyed as possible under the circumstances, and respectful-- in fact, that's what causes problems for Steve and Dee in the long run. I do want to be clear though: there will be sexual stuff in this story. I'm not teasing you. It won't be clinical or tortured :)

Fill: Adoptable 'Pheremones' from @allcapsbingo

Tags (please request!): @starryeyes2000 @munstysmind @ronearoundblindly @chickensarentcheap @themaradaniels @tiny-anne @deepbatched

Excerpt:

“You grew up with Captain America?” you ask, impressed. Bucky Barnes can really keep a secret.

“Not at all. I grew up with Steve. Skinny, brave Steve. Never backed down from a fight, and now he doesn’t have to. C’mon,” he says, nodding toward the Avengers tower that’s visible in the distance.

There’s something in the back of your mind that’s important, something-- “Oh my God, Bucky!” you gasp, almost stumbling in your shock. “I dragged you to that trivia night, and you did so badly on the Avengers questions! You let me answer the all Captain America ones myself! I totally went on and on about how wonderful and handsome Steve Rogers is. I talked about his ass-- and he’s your best friend?”

“You squeak any higher you’re going to start catching the attention of every purse dog in the city,” Bucky teases gruffly. You shoot a look over, noticing that he’s trying not to grin.

“You jerk!” you say, nudging his right arm with your left elbow. “Were you feeling me out?”

Bucky starts cough-laughing. “You’re going to have to define that one for me.”

Chapter One: Agony

He’s falling and you can’t do anything about it.

Bucky’s shirt catches on a stub of a branch on the way down. You, the child whose balloon he was retrieving, and the kid’s mother all rush over when he lands in a heap.

“Oh my god, are you--” the mom starts to say.

“Here you go, kid. Hold tight, I’m not going after it again,” Bucky interrupts, hauling himself to his feet. 

“Wow! That looks like it didn’t hurt at all!” the kid says.

“It hurts. Everything hurts. I’m just trying to impress her.” He nods in your direction.

Even though it makes you crack up (because he’s absolutely not), this seems to do the trick. The mom takes a minute to tie a more secure knot in the balloon string before smiling nervously at the two of you and leading her son away.

“I’m sorry,” you wince, taking a picture of the hand-sized rip at Bucky’s armpit that reveals the metal of his arm underneath. You’ve never seen the whole thing, but you’ve felt the arm through his sleeve a couple of times.

“Why are you sorry? You told me not to do it.”

“I’m sorry to have been right?”

“Yeah, okay,” he says grimly, scowling at the phone you handed him and reaching around to feel the edges of the tear. “It shows the join, doesn’t it?”

You’ve been trying not to look, because, yeah, it does. The skin edging the metal graft looks burned and painful, definitely not appropriate for your museum plans. Bucky takes in your uncomfortable nod and his jaw clenches.

“We don’t have to go,” you offer.

“We’re going. I just have to…” He trails off, twisting the shirt around to get a better look. The two of you had decided to take the long way through the park. There’s about an hour before the interactive exhibit opens, but it’s the last day. He wouldn’t even tell you how he got the tickets.

“Okay, what if we swing by a corner store so I can grab a sewing kit--”

Bucky interrupts in a firm voice. “No need to waste the money. I’ll head back home to change; we can get a taxi from there. It’s a bit of a walk.” He shrugs the shirt back into position and starts back the way you’d come.

You have to jog to catch up. “That works.” There are a million things you want to say, but it’s Bucky who speaks first, after fifteen minutes of silence. The two of you reach a crosswalk, and he stops you with his left arm, which in your opinion is a choice.

“Spit it out.”

“You were keeping things separate. You shouldn’t change your mind unless you want to,” you say quietly. He’d said he wanted to keep this friendship to himself for a while, with no connection to the past, and no expectation for the future. You’d found that unexpectedly refreshing at the time, and you still do.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Bucky says. “It’s time. I probably would have sat on it for another month anyway.”

It’s been a six month journey from friendly to friends to close friends for the two of you, and it’s only been two months since he’d opened up about his agonizing past. You don’t know everything yet, and that’s okay. You might never know. As long as Bucky knows he can trust you, that’s what matters.

The light changes, and he guides you across, his body language more relaxed now. Still, you want to make things as easy for him as possible.

“I can wait in the lobby--”

“Shit. That won’t help,” Bucky says, coming to a complete stop in the middle of the sidewalk. “Did you ever look me up?”

“No! You asked me not to.”

He looks at you like you’re some sort of rare creature for a minute, and a slow, appreciative smile grows on his face. You get it-- when he’d told you his actual birthdate, that he’d gone missing in the 40’s, you’d been tempted. But… when someone with a medically engineered metal arm asks you not to poke around in his past, you don’t. Not if you care about him.

“There was a good reason for that, I’m assuming?”

Bucky’s chuckle is deep and amused. “Yeah. I ah, live with the Avengers. Steve’s last name is Rogers. Steve Rogers.”

You’ve heard all about his best friend Steve, enough to feel affection for the man without ever having met him-- but this is not what you were expecting. At all.

“You grew up with Captain America?” you ask, impressed. Bucky Barnes can really keep a secret.

“Not at all. I grew up with Steve. Skinny, brave Steve. Never backed down from a fight, and now he doesn’t have to. C’mon,” he says, nodding toward the Avengers tower that’s visible in the distance.

There’s something in the back of your mind that’s important, something-- “Oh my God, Bucky!” you gasp, almost stumbling in your shock. “I dragged you to that trivia night, and you did so badly on the Avengers questions! You let me answer the all Captain America ones myself! I totally went on and on about how wonderful and handsome Steve Rogers is. I talked about his ass-- and he’s your best friend?”

“You squeak any higher you’re going to start catching the attention of every purse dog in the city,” Bucky teases gruffly. You shoot a look over, noticing that he’s trying not to grin.

“You jerk!” you say, nudging his right arm with your left elbow. “Were you feeling me out?”

Bucky starts cough-laughing. “You’re going to have to define that one for me.”

“--stop by, that’s all I ask. Redwing would love it,” Sam grins as he opens the door to Tony’s lab.

“I’ll try, but did you have to say it like that?” Steve groans before heading into Dr. Banner’s workspace right next door. A new street drug named Mistress has been causing concern, and with SHIELD still in transition, the government has called on the scientific wing of the Avengers to help figure out how to combat the substance. 

Mistress is an aphrodisiac, a potent one. Banner’s preliminary tests show that it’s likely not of Earth origin, which has slowed down their testing considerably due to safety concerns. That’s where Steve comes in; Bruce thinks his fast metabolism could be the key to figuring the stuff out without putting too many others at risk. That and his lack of a romantic partner. 

Apparently the drug enhances a person’s desire to have sex to a strong need, strong enough that there’s no data on what happens if they don’t. The stuff reportedly burns through people, causing dangerous fevers that have officials fearful that someone’s going to get dosed and killed, not to mention the consent issues.

“Hey, Steve,” Banner says. “I don’t know if you’ve met Doctor Lyonne?”

“I haven’t. First or last name?” Steve asks the attractive female doctor.

“Oh, nice one. ‘Lyonne’ is my married name, though. Sorry to possibly disappoint,” she says easily.

Banner smiles at Steve’s wave-off gesture and says, “I’ll leave you two experts to the interpersonal stuff.” He ignores them in favor of a large glass jar with a bunch of warning labels stuck to it. The liquid inside is clear, and all signs point to it being the drug in question. “All right,” Bruce finally says, stepping away and scratching out about four things on his clipboard. “The plan is to expose you in measured doses and observe the results. It’s pretty volatile-- works if ingested, soaks into the skin, and we think it’s capable of being aerosolized under certain conditions. Drinking it will be the most controlled method, so Dr. Lyonne is setting up dosing cups for me. She’s got a class to teach in about forty minutes, so--”

“That’s his delicate way of saying I’ll be out of your hair and unable to observe anything you’ll be going through over the course of the tests,” Lyonne interrupts.

The door that joins the two labs swings open before Steve can respond, and Tony leans his head in. He’s wearing one of his Iron Man suits. “Before you ramp up Icy Hot here, can I show you my new toy?”

“This is a segue to a sex toy joke, Steve. Retreat, retreat!” Sam calls out from behind Tony.

“I’m wounded!” Tony says, muttering, “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that first.” He walks in and grins, holding up his left arm. “Check it out. Nav is still a little spotty, but--”

Steve watches as a shape lifts up from Tony’s bicep area on the suit, similar to Redwing but oval and smaller. 

“Tony, I’d be happy to look at it pretty much any other time, but--”

“You have the whole rest of the day blocked out, Bruce, just give me this!”

The friendship between Stark and Banner always makes Steve nervous. They are the closest aligned in terms of work ethic and smarts, but farthest apart in temperament-- and that’s before the Hulk is brought into play. Steve inches closer to the large glass jug of Mistress as Tony gesticulates wildly, sending the drone careening around the room.

It starts beeping.

“Shit!” Tony shouts. “Uh… apparently something I did set the self-destruct?”

“Why does your drone have a self destruct, Tony?” 

Bruce sounds incredulous and angry, and Steve doesn’t have his shield. As though Tony had set up the whole situation for maximum drama, the thing is headed straight for the jug. Steve lunges to protect it as Bruce maneuvers himself to take the explosion for the team. Someone screams for JARVIS to lock down the building.

Steve lifts the drug container high, meaning to leap out of the way with it, but there’s nowhere to go. The drone’s explosive impact brings forth the Hulk-- which sends Steve and the jug flying backwards into the lab equipment.

Things turn a bit surreal when you enter the tower. Bucky takes you to a secret side entrance (to avoid the press, he says) but when he gets into the elevator, he seems confused when he can’t talk to it. You’re just about to make a Star Trek joke when he explains there’s usually an artificial intelligence that runs the building, but it’s not responding.

You’re used to pretty much anything apartment-related being out of order, so you’re not fazed. Once inside his apartment, you point out that there’s a sticky note on the opposite side of the door, and Bucky grabs it, his brows furrowing as he reads.

“Shit,” he grins, holding up the note. “Stay here? You’re not authorized for this area.”

“Better hurry!” The tickets for the exhibit are for 1:30, and it’s already 12:50. With a nod, he jogs back into the hallway toward the elevator, and just like that you’re alone in Bucky’s apartment.

It is immediately apparent that he doesn’t live here alone. Underneath a coat rack with multiple jackets is a shoe tray with at least five pairs of shoes in two different sizes. The living room is cozy and lived-in; you see the familiar sight of a bottle of Bucky’s favorite beer sitting on an end-table-- right beside a coaster.

You’re about to reach for it when an alarm sounds, accompanied by an urgent voice.

=Tier One protection activated. Retreat to an interior room and wait for further instructions. Attention: Tier One protection activated. Retreat to an interior room and wait for further instructions.=

You freeze in fear for a few seconds, but when the instruction repeats a few seconds later, you hear a grinding noise in the wall. It’s frightening enough that you dart into the hallway and inside the first open door. The reason for the sound becomes terrifyingly clear a few seconds later as a metal panel encased in the doorframe slides down, too quickly for you to slip out underneath it.

The room turns pitch black in the space between one frightened breath and the next.

After taking a minute to listen for danger, you make your way by feel to the far wall, looking for the light switch. On the way, you trip over something that turns out to be a pair of men’s slippers. You’re glad to let your eyes adjust to the light as you put them back, but when you straighten up, you immediately feel like you’re trespassing somewhere you do not belong.

The room is neat as hell, the kind of tidiness that must come from enjoying a clean space rather than a sense of obligation. However, you soon reassess: this is lived in, less frighteningly neat than well-designed. Everything has its place. It’s different from the easy chaos that Bucky has shown on the few times he’s slept over after movie marathons, so you’re pretty sure this isn’t his room. That, and the white cat plushie you gave him that he swears lives on his dresser? Isn’t there.

Instead, the tray with grooming materials in front of a small mirror are the only objects on the dresser top. There’s a low bookshelf next to an easy chair whose footrest has a worn-in divot. The nightstand is equally neat and functional, with a slightly askew sketchbook hinting that the room’s occupant is an artist.

Unfortunately, these observations are making you more nervous, not less. An intrusive thought that the alarm could be about a fire and there’s literally no way out sends you into a frenzy of banging on the inexorable metal slab. 

“Hello?? HELLO!? Please let me out, please, please let me out!” you scream, slamming your fists against the damned barrier until your hands hurt. You’re crying and frantic and yelling, and suddenly there’s someone else on the other side of the door also yelling, and in the next few minutes everything happens at once. 

You can’t see anything through your tears and fear; all you know is the feel and sound of strong hands and a soothing voice that isn’t Bucky but it should be. That thought sends you into more frightened tears, because he’ll be worried, he’ll be upset, and it might send him into a spiral like the one from a few months ago when he finally explained about his past.

Then, awfully, the grinding sound is back and the warm hands are gone.

You hear several shouted, imperative commands before the man falls silent. He’d set you down in a huddle on the bed wrapped in a blanket, and you kind of… drift back into awareness surrounded by the strong scent of coconut, with a not-unpleasant buzz of awareness deep in your gut.

You pull the blanket closer before you recognize it. You’d been working on it during the first few movie nights you and Bucky had shared, and he’d bought it as a gift for his best friend. That’s what brings you fully back to yourself: you’d handmade the thing that’s warming you up. You’ll be able to tell Bucky that. It’ll help, when the time comes.

Taking in a long, deep breath, you look around, expecting, since you’re no longer alone, to see anything but a metal panel completely covering the door. You’re wrong. There’s damage to the frame, as though someone had pried the previous slab out of the way-- but there’s once again a solid-looking metal barrier between you and freedom.

“Are you okay?” It’s Captain Am-- Rogers. Steve. Bucky’s Steve.

The unreality of your situation is fully hitting you now.

“That’s what you’re going with? Not ‘who are you?’ or ‘funny story about the door…’”

Rogers says, “I did. You were too upset to answer.” He’s tense, clearly uncomfortable, and his clothes are soaked. You wonder if that’s the source of the strange fruity smell. 

“Dee. I’m Dee.” It’s short for Chickadee, your stage-name-turned-favorite-nickname. You think you see recognition in his eyes. “Bucky needed to change his shirt. I didn’t mean-- you have to believe me, I never would have come in here, but he said he would just be a minute, and then a voice told me to hide and…” You’re babbling, but you feel like you’re out of your mind. Of all the people in the world, you’d probably pick Captain America as the one person you’d want to know that you’re eating your vegetables and being polite to your elders, that you wouldn’t invade someone’s private space. “Did something happen to the building?” you ask in a small voice.

“No, this--” Rogers winces. “Bucky asked for extra security or he wouldn’t move in. To slow him down.”

“The Soldier,” you whisper, closing your eyes tightly.

He makes a noise of understanding, then a louder, angry sound. “Everything has gone the exact worst-- I’m sorry,” he grits out. “I’m sorry.”

The depth to his voice prompts a heated curl of attraction that warms you from the inside out. It’s unexpected and strange, given the fear and confusion that’s ruled your reactions in the past minutes.

“I think I should be asking if you are okay.”

Rogers is looking at the floor now, his hands fisted in his pockets. “I was exposed to a… chemical. Tried to do everything right: activated security protocols, set the apartment Dark so I didn’t say or do anything I’d regret before the brain fog set in.”

“What happens when the brain fog sets in?” you whisper, sensing that the answer is what has this man’s body stiff as a board, in contrast with his broken and worried tone.

“How close are you with Buck?” Rogers lifts his head and the intensity in his eyes shoots you with an arrow of concern.

You lift your chin. “Truthfully? I consider him my best friend, why?”

“There’s nothing… more?”

There have been times, multiple times, when you’ve thought about it. But Bucky Barnes is a multifaceted man, and you don’t want to sully his progress towards becoming whole again by making things complicated.

“No,” you say, feeling heat in your chest from the look of understanding in his eyes. Your pause was unintentionally illustrative. “Why?”

“It’s important that I be honest with you: the building is on lockdown, its governing AI is too busy monitoring the Hulk to get us out of this room, and the chemical I was exposed to is Mistress.” He sounds like a soldier reciting battle parameters.

The name sounds familiar, but you can’t place it. Suddenly, you feel too vulnerable on the bed, his bed, so you slide over to the edge in preparation for getting up. The action bares your legs to mid-thigh, and Rogers immediately turns his back on you and hits the wall with the flat of his hand. 

That’s when you remember where you’d heard that name. Mistress. The aphrodisiac is the reason many women have flocked to your cousin’s restaurant to hang out, instead of at bars. Many establishments are offering complimentary test kits so their customers can ensure there’s no residue in their food and drinks. It’s become fashionable to carry around your own cups, just in case. Some bars are actually trying to skip requiring women to pay a cover charge, desperate to return to the status quo. Drinks containing coconut aren’t even served anymore, thanks to the scent association.

“Shit, I’m sorry!” you blurt out, rushing over to the easy chair and covering yourself with the blanket. Jesus, the whole room reeks of coconut. He’s practically steeped in the stuff. “What can I do?”

Steve Rogers’ voice is husky, but pained. “Don’t let today be your first impression of me.”

Next chapter...

[darsynia]

I Know No Other Way Than This | Ch 1

(Bruce Banner/OFC, Tony Stark & Bruce Banner Friendship, post-Avengers 1 Soulmate AU multichapter)

MCU Masterlist | Tony Stark Masterlist | Next

Summary: Bruce tried to forget he had soulmate words entirely, but on the day of the Chitauri attack, he returned from his stint as the Hulk to find that his black words had turned silver. His soulmate must have watched him shift from the Other Guy into himself and said them while he was unconscious.

Tony made it his mission not only to find her, but to present Bruce with compilations of surveillance footage. They showed her working as a nurse, searching his name at public libraries, and generally being a lovely person who didn't deserve to have her life ruined by his affliction. The more Bruce watched, though, the more he was captivated. Was there a chance he could have a future with her? Did he have the right to find out?

Length: 1,536

Tags: @starryeyes2000 @arrthurpendragon @ronearoundblindly @themaradaniels

Chapter One: First Impression

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.

I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;

so, I love you because I know no other way

than this: where 'I' does not exist, nor 'you,'

so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,

so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. 

Sonnet XVII, Pablo Neruda

just after the Battle of New York

Bruce regained consciousness in the middle of a city street. He vaguely remembered making it back to the tower with Tony and Steve as the Other Guy, but that brief flash of memory faded as soon as he was forced to take the stairs down from the penthouse. He guessed it was a good thing so much was wrecked around him anyway, because there was zero chance that his alter ego didn’t take out his frustration on the smashed cars.

He hoped Hulk hadn’t broken anything in the stairwell of the tower.

He stood up, dusted himself off, watching the concrete powder and glass particles hit the pavement in a distinguishable arc around him. Bruce reached for his waistband, squeezing the communicator Tony had sewn into his special expandable shorts.

“Awake, on my way in.”

“Glad to hear it, Brucey Bear,” Tony said. Bruce rolled his eyes, leaning over to dust more crap from his hair. “We’ll get you patched up and then it’s off to the Shawarma place.”

“You sure you didn’t hit your head on the way down?” he asked, his fingers squeezing the transmission button.

“If I did, it’s on you, Banner. You’re the one who caught me.”

Bruce stopped at the corner across from the tower on hearing that. He remembered seeing Tony falling, but only in a flash, as usual for his time as the Other Guy. The next flash was Tony on the ground, along with a sense of relief. Did neither of them remember the moments that took Stark from unconscious freefall to safe landing?

Once inside the tower, Bruce headed straight for the medical floor in the basement. He was grateful it was there, though he hadn’t expected to be showing up so soon after learning of its existence. The doctor on duty documented the places on his body which signaled a healed injury, since a little smeared blood was often the only indication anything had even happened.

“Hey, Bruce,” Tony said, poking his head in the door to the exam room.

Somewhere in their consent forms there had to be one that allowed Tony permission to nose around like that. Bruce wondered if he ought to check, for HIPAA compliance sake, at the very least.

“Are you that hungry?” Bruce asked mildly. “You could always go without me.”

“Star of the hour? No way. Just checking in,” Tony said. “Need me to grab your clothes?”

“Would you?”

When the door shut, Bruce smiled to himself. A stressed-out Stark seemed to soothe sooner with a task. He made a mental note to watch the video of Tony’s fall. It would either come up in conversation some random time while they were working together, or it wouldn’t, and Bruce would need to bring it up. Their friendship was new, but he valued it.

The door opened again as the doctor whose name Bruce had already forgotten was examining his lower back and torso.

“I may have added some flair,” Tony told him. Bruce doubted it, but he’d check, to be sure.

“Dr. Banner, are you aware that your Soulmark has changed?”

“What?”

Both Bruce and Tony spoke.

“Saving my life and getting the girl? You’re a regular hero, Banner,” Stark said.

Bruce looked down, smoothing his hand out along the words on his left flank. Sure enough, the words were silver instead of black. “There was no ‘getting.’ There will be no ‘getting.’ He shook his head at Tony.

“There’s a mirror--” the attending physician suggested, gesturing to the full-length mirror along the wall in the corner of the room.

He almost didn’t want to check. Actually finding his soulmate was the last thing Bruce wanted to happen. He’d had the words for thirteen years at that point, a number that he ordinarily wouldn’t care much about, but which felt symbolic.

“Hulk doesn’t have any, does he?” Tony asked.

“No,” Bruce murmured.

They were silver, all right. The words, ‘ Something tells me you almost certainly have a vitamin deficiency!’ were a little less obvious than they had been that morning, the color lightened as if touched by a real-life photographic filter.

“Can you confirm that you have no memory of them being spoken?” the doctor asked him.

“Yes.” He only ever spent a few minutes unconscious after transforming back anymore. The woman must have been there to see the actual shift. His soulmate-- a person he’d never really pictured meeting as much as running away from, at least for the last few years --had probably watched him shrink, his body adjusting to the size differential, and commented on one of the many logical medical consequences.

“I’ll find her for you, don’t worry,” Tony said, standing beside Bruce, his hand coming down in a solid, collegial clap on Bruce’s opposite shoulder.

“Please don’t,” Bruce said immediately. He crossed the room and started pulling on his change of clothes. Ordinarily he would have taken off the shorts and changed to new ones, but today? After what he’d just learned, it would be safer if he just left them on. Tony’s reaction to his rejection showed that Bruce might have a fight on his hands.

“Oh no no no no,” Tony said. “Soulmates are good. Don’t do the manfully alone thing about this. Whoever this woman is, her existence is meant to make life better for you. You could use some of that. A lot of that.”

“Even if that’s true, there’s nothing about my situation that would improve that woman’s life. Nothing,” Bruce reiterated.

“You can’t possibly know that,” Tony argued.

“Tony. Find another post-alien-attack hobby, okay?” Bruce finished buttoning up his shirt and, just in case Tony decided to expose his new condition against his will, tucked it in.

“Even if I promised you not to, you wouldn’t believe me, so I’ll spare us both the lie,” Tony said. “Besides, it’s Shawarma time.”

Tony surprised him by saying nothing else about it for the rest of the day. Bruce made the mistake of assuming this meant his friend had decided to meddle without involving him. There was no chance Tony had decided not to meddle at all.

That night in his Tower apartment, there was a StarkPad waiting for him with a sticky note telling him the temporary password. Bruce sat down and tapped in the code, and immediately, a video began to play.

It showed a scene from the streets of New York. On the sidewalk a group of people were crouched next to an older man whose head was cradled in an older woman’s lap. Kneeling beside the man was a young woman with her hand on his wrist, clearly taking his pulse. She stood, speaking to the older woman for a few seconds before an ambulance pulled up. A group of around four bystanders helped the older man onto the gurney while the young woman comforted the older woman.

The young woman walked up to the ambulance, spoke to the EMT for a second, and then the camera followed her walking about a block, the view changing in quality and angle. It was obviously a stitched-together series of surveillance videos.

The woman herself seemed to be wearing scrubs, which didn’t surprise Bruce, given what he’d observed so far. Her hair was black, held back in a ponytail. He couldn’t clearly see her face in any of the videos so far shown. She turned a corner, and the video quality improved a great deal, probably because she was walking past a parking lot. Suddenly, she stopped, backed up a little, and then stopped again.

Despite himself, Bruce was curious. He wouldn’t put it past Tony to have the camera pan over to a fully-integrated scene of Rick Astley’s Never Gonna Give You Up at some point-- but what he saw instead was himself, or rather the Other Guy, stumbling to the ground and rolling on one side, only feet away from the black-haired healthcare worker.

Bruce hit pause, meaning to put the device down, but it didn’t pause. The woman walked closer, covering her mouth with a hand as the Hulk started shrinking down into Bruce. Again, he tried to pause the video, turn it off, something, but it continued playing.

There was no sound, but her head bobbed as if speaking. As she crouched down and reached for his wrist, he saw her draw back in shock. The woman leaned over, looking closely at his left side. Then, to Bruce’s complete shock, she reached out and touched his hair almost tenderly before standing up and running back the way she came.

“Yeah, I bet,” he said, when the video finished. The black-haired woman was his soulmate, and the second she’d realized that fact, she had run in the other direction.

Next chapter, Tony finds surveillance footage of Bruce's soulmate as she visits a public library and googles who Bruce is.

[darsynia]

Repeat After Me | Oneshot

(Tony Stark/Reader, Soulmate AU Canon Divergence 'Mob AU')

Summary: You're thriving in Loki's Empire as the most respected smuggler out there. You earned that reputation by remaining neutral, traveling between the city-states run by powerful Magnates like Loki's thrall Tony Stark in NYC or the relocated Wilson Fisk in Miami. It's lucrative business, but the real reason you have to stay moving is written on your arm.

Length | Rating: 3,635 | T (for language)

Notes: Set ten years after Loki successfully mind controlled Tony Stark and took over the world in 2012. My tongue-in-cheek take on a mobster-style AU, series potential if folks are interested.

THIS IS MY VOTE FOR 'SOULMATES' IN ROUND 1 OF TROPE MADNESS 2023 which is run by @thestanceyg! (note: also posted on AO3, same title tho!)

Also written for @caplanbuckybarnes's Three Words Challenge, using 'Don't look back.'

Tags: @ronearoundblindly @chickensarentcheap @themaradaniels @starksbf @tiny-anne @starryeyes2000 @my-soulmate-is-mycroft

Repeat After Me

You might be the only person who has both soulmate Words written on your body.

Repeat after me: don’t look back.

At first, you’d found them comforting. After all, they’re predictable in a way almost no one else’s Words are: if you’re right about them, it means you can choose whether to speak those fateful Words aloud. Then Loki came with his Chitauri army, and everything changed.

It’s been ten years since Lord Loki became the ruler of the world; ten years of societal restructure and bleak acquiescence. It turns out that humans are well adapted to be ruled, just as he’d said-- but perhaps not quite in the way he’d intended. Everyone has figured out their own way to survive, whether it’s in one of the densely populated city-states, the agricultural backwaters, or the uneasy suburban sprawl that straddles both extremes.

You’re one of the few who can travel easily through all three, and you pride yourself on that. Pre-Empire, you’d been a top exec at a shipping company, and your talent for managing large egos, ability to memorize maps, and knowledge of machinery was easily translated to a life as a smuggler. Your top rule? You do not take sides. Ever. It’s what made you successful, what kept you alive.

And no one knows the real reason.

“Zephyr, how long before you head out?”

You’re half-in, half-out of your truck, the open door heavy on your ass thanks to all the armor plating. “Weather looks like it’s gonna hold for another hour and a half, I was thinking forty-five minutes?” you guess, squinting up through the tint on the upper part of the windshield.

“Got time to meet with a potential?” Karl laughs at your obvious groan, adding, “Fancy suit says D.C., maybe New York. Probably shouldn’t risk skipping.” You trust your second in command, even if you don’t want to take his advice. Karl Mordo is pragmatic, honest, and a baronic pain in your ass sometimes.

“Fuck. Okay. But I’m going right now, before I de-grease for the trip.” You hop down and hold up your dirty hands, wiggling your fingers.

“What if they’re from Stark?”

You clench your jaw. “His people should know better, even after two years. We just did Fisk a favor, maybe he’ll remind Loki’s strongman that there’s a reason he relocated to Miami.” 

Karl nods and heads back to the house, and as soon as he’s gone, you hold still and count to ten to calm your breathing. Tony Stark rules the northeast with a literal iron fist, and no one’s sure whether the mind control has turned him cruel or he’d been released years ago and just likes it. Only people Stark trusts have been close enough to know for sure. 

Despite your reputation for neutrality, a few years back he’d sent his clever and ruthless ex-turned-CFO Pepper Potts to ask you to spy on some of the biggest players on the Eastern Seaboard.

It had been the first time you’d gotten close enough to see the electric blue of Loki’s mind control first-hand. Her threats had been articulate and terrifying, but your response ended up having a lasting effect on the way Lord Loki does his business. Word is that the emperor includes additional spells and enchantments to prevent a simple blow to the head from releasing a thrall and undoing years of work. 

You still get messages from Potts, filtered heavily by word of mouth, through the Resistance.

When you get up onto the porch, you note with approval that someone’s already gotten the burly, suited visitor some sweet tea. He turns around, and your heart sinks as you recognize him from news articles. Tony Stark’s sweet-faced associate, Happy Hogan. 

“Zephyr, is it?” he says warmly, reaching out a hand to shake. You offer him your left hand, and he immediately grins. You wear a binding on your right forearm, and it’s basically an open secret that your Words are there. Words you’ve made very clear you intend to remain a secret, on pain of death. “We have a job for you.”

“That’s truly unfortunate,” you say with a smile. “Your boss burned that bridge years ago. All I have is my integrity, I’m sure you understand.” Leaning up against one of the porch pillars, you send all of your anxiety to your legs, to hold you up and maintain the illusion that you’re not distressed. “Since you’ve come all this way, I can offer to connect you to one of the reputable smaller orgs.”

“Interesting you mention integrity. Did you know your right hand man is a known member of the Resistance?” Hogan’s tone is light, almost teasing.

You do your very best not to react, but on its face, you doubt the accusation. Karl had come to you deeply disillusioned by the Resistance, after working with them openly for a year, spending double that in prison, and being released with an interdict that prevented any employment but fieldwork. By the time you brought him in, he was full of quiet fury and determination to survive. The money you spent to clear his interdict was some of the easiest you’ve ever spent.

“I assume you have newer information than 2013?”

Hogan pulls an envelope from his lapel pocket and hands it over. Inside is a set of pictures showing Mordo speaking with and shaking the hand of Steve Rogers, the most wanted man on the continent. Karl’s hair has only been in that particular style for a few months.

You hand them back, keeping your hand steady. “If you can point and shoot pictures, why not point and shoot that particular problem?” The question is important to your public front, but you also want to know what kind of answer you get, whether it’ll be something you want to pass along.

“One step at a time,” Hogan says, walking over to you. He stops only inches away, a physical power play that masks the psychological threat.

“Which step are you on?”

“The one where you come with me to speak to Stark in person, or we reveal how thin your claims of neutrality really are.”

You nod as though you’re considering it, then say, “What if I dismantled everything and moved to Arizona? Started over.” It’ll sound like a joke, but you’ve considered it. You want nothing to do with Stark.

“You’re welcome to make that decision after the meeting.” The guy’s so confident he slides his hands into his pockets, fully relaxed except for the way his pulse is jumping in his neck. There’s zero chance that Hogan’s anxious because of you, so that means it’s important to his future that you leave with him today. If you have to, you’ll use that.

“You act like meeting with Stark won’t destroy my reputation just as much as your false accusations would,” you point out. 

Happy Hogan shrugs. “Stark is prepared to offer you one alternative. Meet with him or give us a credible way to contact Pepper Potts.”

You want to swear under your breath, but instead, you channel all your frustration into a single act of defiance. Lifting your grease-stained right hand, you press it right in the center of his chest, fingers spread so you get his white button-down and both lapels.

Then you shove, letting your hand slip against the resistance he immediately puts up to avoid moving backwards and show weakness. You would have expected anger, maybe even to be thrown to the ground, but Hogan just chuckles. It’s dismissive, diminishing, and does nothing to lower your level of fury. Especially not since he’s got you over a barrel.

You push past him toward the house. “I’m sending Mordo with my load. Your guys fuck with him and I’ll tear down every fucking thing you’ve built or die trying.” Given the clout you’ve accumulated in the last decade, which one depends on whether the emperor is in town to shield his pet Avenger or not.

You hadn’t told Hogan you’re coming with. You both know you have to.

The flight to New York City is stressful, but most of that is because you know how much effort and care it takes to maintain a fleet of airplanes. Now that flights are nearly all restricted to just the Magnates, you doubt the due diligence of their maintenance teams. This is reinforced when you land and walk down a presidential-style rolling staircase instead of into the abandoned airport. It’s hard not to think of what air travel could do for your business. One flight would take so much food from one place to another-- but the safety margins are horrifying.

“What’s with the face?” Happy Hogan asks, after the two of you get into the waiting limo.

“Just imagining how much work it would be to get an orange to Maine nowadays.”

“You don’t have to live in Georgia, you know. The offer’s always open.”

“Fuck your offer, and fuck you,” you say coolly, crossing your arms and looking out the window. There’s a non-zero chance he’ll kill you, but you’ve got a trick up your sleeve that might just carry the kind of irony that would make even a man as powerful as Tony Stark cry. It’s the reason why Hogan wants Potts back, the reason she won’t go, not while he’s in Loki’s thrall.

Midgard hadn’t been interesting enough for the trickster god. No, he’d grown bored by the way most of his new subjects had responded to his rule. Too many of you had accepted that you weren’t strong enough to resist him, and so, with the power granted to him by the staff he always carried, Lord Loki had bestowed each soulmate pair on the planet a random power set.

Pepper Potts and Happy Hogan’s version had been the ability to detect lies.

Tony Stark’s inability to find his soulmate had been newsworthy before the attack on New York, but now that he’s the de facto ruler of the place, his search has become an obsession.

It’s the reason you live in Georgia, the reason you wear the distinctive binding around your right forearm, the reason you’d balanced yourself on the knife-edge of neutrality instead of choosing a side that’s not Stark’s and then leaving yourself vulnerable to being discovered.

Stark’s Words are well known: ‘Don’t look back.’

Ironically, you don’t think he has connected your well-known quirk about protecting your forearm with his soulmate search. He wants you because Lord Loki wants Pepper Potts’ lie detecting powers, and Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff’s soulmate bond is keeping her hidden. Karl Mordo has forsworn his connection to the Mystic Arts, but a man will do many things to prevent his own death, including oathbreaking, so instead of putting pressure on him, they’ll put pressure on you.

And somehow, you’re going to have to resist without speaking a word.

The car is underground when it stops. You nod at Hogan in thanks for his hand as you exit the vehicle, and he cocks his head to the side and looks at you.

“Passive resistance, eh? Good luck.” He leads you through a warren of hallways, stairwells, and locked doors. This display of strength is clearly designed to intimidate and/or give you time to think and fear what comes next, but you wonder whether it’s annoying to Hogan. Undoubtedly he’d be taking the short way if it weren’t for this task, and that kind of time-wasting adds up.

Sure enough, the last leg of the trip is an elevator ride. The doors open out into the wide expanse of the penthouse, a rich space with wall-to-wall windows looking out over the city. A man in a well-fitting white suit walks out from behind a bar area, and you recognize him to be Tony Stark himself. Instead of a tie, the signature blue of his arc reactor glows against the buttons of his shirt, and as he approaches you, you see that it’s matched by the blue tint of mind control in his eyes.

That knowledge is dangerous; already, this man’s leverage over you has doubled. You wonder what you’ll have to promise to get out of here alive. 

Tony Stark stops a foot away and looks you over. His brown-blue eyes linger on your right arm, and as you’d planned during your pseudo perp-walk, you shift into a challenging pose, popping your hip out and lifting your chin. Stark’s lips curve into an appreciative smile. It’s attractive, he’s attractive, and you’re annoyed that you’ve even noticed. Everything about him exudes the confidence of a man who is never challenged, and that’s always been your catnip, your kryptonite. You love to bust egos, it could even be said that you live for popping that bubble. This man might be the first one you’ve ever met whose arrogance is well-deserved, though, and that could be a problem.

He gestures, and behind you, Hogan answers.“No weapons that we found, multiple scans.”

Ah, so the many doorways and long hallways had more than one purpose, you think to yourself. Well played. You stay still and expressionless as Stark looks you up and down, eyes lingering on your chest and your arm. He lifts his glass in an appreciative salute before finishing off his drink. Something about the way his throat works makes you feel the burn of the alcohol in your own chest.

“What’s under the armguard?”

“A nasty burn. Sunlight makes it worse.” It’s the truth-- you’d tried to burn off the words as soon as you’d heard about Tony Stark’s search for his soulmate. The magic of the mark protects it, so all you’d managed to do was destroy the skin around it, causing a wound that never fully healed. The vambrace you wear is for concealment, yes, but it’s also there to keep the damaged skin protected and dry. You turn your head and direct a grumpy look at Hogan. “To be honest, this whole meeting could have been an email. What is it that you two want?”

Before you can stop him, Stark steps forward and slides his hand into the hair at the nape of your neck, forcing you to meet his eyes.  With a fierce, determined expression, he says, “Repeat after me: don’t look back.”

You can feel the strength in every single aspect of the man, voice, personality, grip, but that just fuels your need to fight back. With all your might, you manage to shake your head just enough to convey your refusal.

Tony Stark’s expression lights up. You realize your mistake immediately: if it didn’t mean something, if the words weren't important, you would have had no trouble repeating them. A million impossible escape routes spill out like marbles in your mind, scattering every other thought.

“Go on, Hap. Keep this to yourself for now,” Stark says. The triumph in his voice is as frightening as it is sexy. 

“You got it, boss.”

You fight back a strong feeling of desperate inevitability. Really, your only hope now is to wrench free and follow your contingency plan: to say the words and play them off, avoiding the physical contact that reinforces the bond. If you can convince this man that you planned to trick him into thinking you’re his soulmate, you might still get out of here with your free will intact.

That’ll be easier to do without Hogan there, so you force yourself to remain still. Stark sweeps a broad, warm caress along your neck with his thumb, and god, it’s been so, so long since anyone’s touched you like that. There’s something insidious about it, like some part of you is already lost to him if you enjoy it even a little bit. All you can do is close your eyes, clench your fists, and wait.

The elevator doors close, and Stark starts pulling his hand away, stroking your neck possessively on the way. You do your very best not to like it. In truth, Tony Stark the billionaire, Tony Stark the Avenger was absolutely your type. You imagine that after ten years of mind control and cruelty, there’s probably little of that man left. 

“You might as well say it,” he tells you with a smug little quirk in his voice. You open your eyes to see that Stark’s headed back to the bar. “Got a favorite drink?” You shake your head. “You strike me as a Tequila Sunrise type. Fun to look at, goes down easy.”

You cross your arms and glare at him, but it was a cute line for such a tense situation. Wrong, but cute.

Stark gestures to you with the Tequila bottle. “So, what, did you think you’d just stay quiet and run back home to Georgia? Happy says it didn’t take much persuading.”

You smile at him, but not warmly. One thing you hadn’t considered was that Stark might be pleased, might be looking forward to the other… perks of having a soulmate. That might make him more inclined to be kind to you, at least until you try to bluff him. You can use that.

“Don’t think I can’t see how furious you are, little one,” Stark purrs. “I’m still figuring you out, but I’ve had a file on you for years. You want to know what people say about you?” 

He rests a large hand on a folder you hadn’t noticed before, pushes it across the bar in invitation. You shrug and turn your head to look out the window, the picture of indifference. You hope it pisses him the fuck off.

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s all trash now anyway, now that you’ve met with me.” Stark holds it up. “They’ll never trust you again.” He tosses it behind him. When it strikes the wall, the many single pages that made up the bulk of the file fly out around him like some kind of monstrous confetti, to the accompaniment of breaking glass. You wonder how many bottles he just wasted, whether they’re even replaceable in this brave new world you’re all trapped in.

You nod, feeling the weight of the coming moment. Mentally you gird yourself, but physically you try to adopt an attitude of casual discourtesy. You want Stark to hate his soulmark, to hate you, enough to send you away or destroy you.

Anything, anything but touch you again.

Letting out a sigh, you spread your hands in a ‘what can you do?’ gesture and say, “Don’t look back.”

The words strike him, so much so that he chuckles ruefully on an indrawn breath. A bitter disappointment sweeps across his face before it hardens into anger. You're grateful; you'd expected something-- a thunderclap, a rush of adrenaline, a gust of magical wind, but there’s nothing to indicate that you’ve both said the Words. Maybe, maybe, you can get out of this, if you’re careful. If you’re just the right level of heinous bitch.

“Did you practice that?” Stark finally says. He walks out from around the bar, and you take the opportunity to make your way over to the window, the picture of unconcerned, unattached, unbothered.

“What do you want, Mr. Stark?” Shit, your voice is shaking.

“I want a challenge,” he snaps, his voice closer than you expected. He’s just a foot away, and you can’t hide your shock fast enough. “You think that file was just for show? I read the whole thing.”

“Then you know I don’t want to be here. I have a business to run, a business you’ve fucked over with--” you back away in the guise of making a dismissive, furious gesture; “--whatever this is. What do you want, so I can get the fuck out of here?”

“What’s wrong, pet? Foot caught in a trap?” he asks, tone suddenly gentle, soothing. You scoff, turning on your heel to stalk away from him--but Stark reaches out swiftly and catches your hand in his.

A jolt of pleasure-fueled electricity floods you with an almost overwhelming need for closeness, companionship-- to be known. It's as if until this exact moment, you’d been empty, and you gasp, screaming against the sudden, insidious desires that have cropped up in your mind.

Oh god, no, this is too much, this is--

What you don’t expect is for Stark to answer.

Oh FUCK yes, telepathy. My second favorite superpower, right after flight.

You snatch your hand away and fall back onto the window, eyes wide. Stark shakes his head almost imperceptibly, then throws both hands in the air as if in disgust.

“You really had me, but there’s just… nothing. I should toss you off of the roof, you know that, right? Faking soulmark words? Ballsy.” He twitches his lips as though he can’t decide whether to be angry or not, and steps closer. “Hold out your hand?”

There’s vulnerability in his expression, something you hadn’t at all expected to see, but you are still reeling from what had passed between the two of you. Tony Stark is one of the smartest men on the planet, and certainly one of the most ruthless. He’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants-- and it’s well known that every inch of his penthouse is under surveillance, not to mention whatever Lord Loki has monitoring his most powerful thrall.

Just like the words written on both of you, neither of you can look back.

Sullenly, you lift your hand, and immediately, Stark engulfs it in an angry grip.

Okay here’s how this is going to go: Do as I say, and we can keep this our little secret. Resist me and I’ll tell Loki I’ve finally found my soulmate. Believe me, you do not want anything to do with what he has in store for us.

Possibly TBC if there's interest...

[darsynia]

Trust Fall | Ch 23

ARC by Eury Escodero | gif by @cindysmoon

Story Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: Tony/OC, ‘terrorists made us fall in love;’ IM1 timeline. In this chapter, Emory feels the effects of the serum withdrawal and gets some details about the mission she's been drafted into.

Length: 4,795

Taglist: @starryeyes2000 @raith-way @arrthurpendragon @themaradaniels @starksbf @chickensarentcheap @tiny-anne

Excerpt:

Emote: You still have my shirt

Metal Man: I’m sleeping with it in lieu of you being here

Emote: Aww, that’s kind of sweet

Metal Man: Yeah, well, the next step is to dress Dum-E in it and roleplay little arguments about how much of my arm real estate is on display

She is entirely too shy to admit she’s been sleeping with his clothes, but her heart is full to bursting at the comparison. Unfortunately those thoughts could generate power, which is a bad idea in the car, so she goes for a joke to defuse the romance potential of their conversation.

Emote: That is so ridiculous!

Emote: I’m way shorter than that thing!

Metal Man: I was expecting you to object to the lack of boobs, but actually that was me. I object to the lack of boobs. I miss boobs. Yours in particular.

Chapter Twenty-Three: Heat Haze

“Apparently, I have a lawyer,” Emory tells Clint as she reads an article written about sightings of her over the past few days. ‘Emory Autumn’s lawyer’ asks for privacy as she builds her life back from scratch. Whoever wrote it isn’t wrong-- but she doesn’t remember being consulted about it. If it’s the same gentleman she spoke with by phone to discuss the forged POA papers, though, she trusts the man’s judgment. He’d done a lot to reassure her about that situation, and had promised to contact the police on her behalf.

“Good,” Clint says. “You’ll be able to defend against my civil suit for emotional distress after you ate the last of my seasonal chocolate.”

She lets half of the paper fall forward so she can glare at him. “You said I could have anything in the cupboards!”

“I forgot they were in there!” He flips a coin that lands in exactly the right way to knock a piece of wood into the window latch, releasing it so the hinged pane swings open. He tosses another at the opposite window, with the same result. The immediate crossbreeze is a blessing in the hot July temperatures. “They had Christmas wrappers, Emory. That should have been a sign.”

“I thought I was doing you a favor!” Emory argues, scooting forward on the couch in preparation to get up. “Do you know how demoralizing old chocolate can be? You are so ungrateful.” She goes to stand up, but her knees fail. It’s as if they’ve liquified and cannot hold her legs straight anymore. Emory falls back onto the couch, her insides flash-frozen from the splash of adrenaline and fear.

“Em?” Clint says, rushing over.

The now-familiar weight in the pit of her stomach sinks lower, and for the first time she recognizes its similarity to the aches and pains she’s been feeling in her joints over the past week.

“Oh my God,” she whispers.

“Serum withdrawal?” he asks, concerned. All Emory can do is nod, but when she sees him go for his cell phone, she pushes herself to elaborate.

“I’ve been feeling ‘off’ for at least two weeks, but I figured I was just tired. I thought that bone-deep weight pain was anxiety!” she croaks, her vocal cords feeling thin and brittle. She pulls his lone couch pillow onto her lap and buries her face in it.

“You had one job,” Clint teases, sitting down beside her to rub her back with a wide, warm hand. 

He’s right. She was taught a few maneuvers they wanted her to know, but the crux of the mission is based on the debilitating effects of serum withdrawal. Everyone is waiting for her to get sick, but the pain had crept up on her so subtly that she’d completely missed the signs.

“Hey, Nat. It’s time. She says they might have been happening for a while,” Clint’s saying into the phone. “Yeah, I agree. No more than ten days.”

Ten days sound like a lifetime to endure in terms of deterioration and far too soon when looking at her own preparedness. If the alternative is to progress through pain like this until she dies, though, Emory would rather face her fears, both real and imagined.

“I took your suggestion and offered to back up all the records, so there’ll be more than just SHIELD ops on these,” Rhodey says, setting down what sounds like a very heavy box onto the floor beside Tony’s desk. To check for sure, Tony reaches out a foot and pushes against it with his toes. It’s as solid as Gibraltar. He gets up and offers his seat to his friend. 

“They just let you hobble out with decades of this stuff?” Tony asks, crossing his arms and looking down into the box. It’s a collection of hard drives of varying ages, all jumbled together like tetris pieces.

“They wanted me to find something to do while on desk duty with this leg, so I did,” Rhodey shrugs. “It’s not like there isn't a warehouse somewhere with all the paper copies.”

Colonel Rhodes had been one of the airmen injured when an improperly secured load gave way. Tony still hasn’t found out whether he sprained his ankle running away or being struck by something, which really only matters for the teasing.

“In reality, I’m doing you all a favor, is what you’re saying,” he says, lifting out the first ancient-as-hell hard drive. 

Tony heads over to rummage in a drawer of cables, looking for the right connector to start copying over the data. There’s something symbolic about the fact that his father had kept exactly the right kind of cables for the copy, but had never rigged up this basement lab space with the kind of airflow that made it bearable in the summer. Howard Stark always did prioritize machines over people, except maybe when Steve Rogers was involved.

“Either that or you’ll piss them off by helping me do it too quickly.”

“There’s no reason why you can’t just wait to tell them you’re done, Mr. Eagle Scout!” Tony points out. “I’ll text Happy to go grab some of the terabyte drives we have in storage. We’ll expense them to your boss, and you can take two boxes in when you go back to work.” Rhodes is notoriously reticent with pain medication, so Tony pushes that button, just because. “On second thought, maybe just one at a time. You’re probably on some pretty hefty drugs, and those hand cart dolly things count as heavy machinery.”

“Speaking of heavy machinery, are you ready to let me take a look at the device you keep hinting at? The one that you said let you know what it’s like to fly?” Rhodey asks, completely ignoring his jab.

Tony doesn’t want to show Rhodes the suit. It wasn’t built for war, but he’s not naive, not after all the years he’d spent consulting for the military. There are five, maybe ten places in the carapace that could be modified for weaponry, and that’s just off the top of his head. They’ve been best friends for years, but James Rhodes is a model soldier. He’ll see the practical applications right away, but once his colleagues get ahold of the armor, they’ll want to add weapons to it, guaranteed.

He brushes off those thoughts and tosses a flippant comment at Rhodey.

“I thought you liked airplanes, Orville.”

“The Wright brothers were as fascinated with the design process as they were with flight, you know that, don’t you? From what you’ve implied, the thing you came up with involves both.”

Tony leans over to make sure the copy’s going, but when he straightens up, he lets a big grin cross his face. “Almost better than sex. Almost.”

“Even with that woman you were--”

“Are,” Tony corrects. “And that’s why you’re doing this for me. Shield’s got their claws in her, and I’m going to get my claws in them.” Since Rhodey had been teasing him about settling down or catastrophically falling in love for years, he changes the subject. “You guys good to find another weapons supplier? Anyone but Hammer, okay?”

“Maybe we should. Watching the troops struggle with that guy’s shitty designs might be enough to change your mind,” Rhodes tells him. He reaches down as if to scratch his leg and frowns at the bulky boot that encases the lower half of it. “Damn. It’s really tempting to sleep for a week, if only to stop my damned leg from driving me crazy inside this thing.”

“Yeah, the itching is the worst. I’ve got this, okay? Most of it doesn’t need much more than mild supervision,” Tony tells him. “Skedaddle, Daddio.”

“I’ll go on one condition: you never say that again. Ever.” 

“Fair enough. I’ll call you when I get those drives, this’ll take a few days, tops. I’ve got multiple computers that can work on this. Go rest.”

Rhodes agrees, and Tony walks with him to the car. He’s happy his friend chose to have a driver for this visit, and even happier that circumstances had worked out to give him access to those records. Just like with the SHIELD agent before, Rhodes’ hired car had parked out front, and Tony watches it drive off from the front door, almost thumping his forehead against the frame in a form of violent stress relief. There are probably still cameras watching the front of his house, though, so he ostentatiously scratches his face with a middle finger and goes back inside. 

He heads back in after waving goodbye at the retreating vehicle, anxious to get started on the protective armor he’d started designing for Emory. As cool as it is that she can fly under her own power, the emotion-based nature of that power leaves her dangerously exposed, as does the idea of using air as any kind of protective barrier. The trick had been finding a material that’s light enough not to need significantly more power consumption to stay aloft, but Tony’s pretty sure he’d found the right combination. As a bonus, he’d been able to devise a fastening system that she can easily get in and out of, something that wouldn’t work with his heavier, thicker metal plates. That part isn’t fabricated yet, though. He doesn’t have a Bridgeport at the New York house, but despite JARVIS’s jokes about his rapport with the lab guys, they haven’t minded him stopping by to make a few things. They’d liked the attention.

Emory’s mission can’t be more than three weeks off, not that he expects that they’ll let him know very far in advance. There are a few more tests to run on the efficacy of her armor, tests that would be easier if he could ask Emory to spin air around the prototype while he tested how much mitigation that adds-- but Tony would rather surprise her. The plan is to fly back to LA tomorrow for a day and a half so he can use Stark Industries’ wind tunnel. It’s just a shame the palladium shipment won’t be there yet. Tony’s own improved arc reactor design allows for palladium inserts rather than a depletable ring, so he can at least build the power core for her suit without having to wait for Obie to show up with it next week.

When he gets back to his workroom, Tony heads for the boot he’d been doing wirework on. On the table beside it is a floor-incorporated design for the Disrobe-Bot, but he pushes that aside for now. The wiring for Emory’s suit has taken a little longer than his own, mostly due to him having left the best tools in Malibu. He tells JARVIS to make a note that he should pack some of them up to bring back to New York. 

“Certainly sir. In addition, you should know that the preliminary results from our SHIELD analysis are proving concerning,” JARVIS says.

“I am Jack’s complete lack of surprise,” Tony mutters under his breath. Director Fury has yet to call, not that he’s surprised. He’s observed that, quite often it’s the ‘little guys’ who are more trustworthy than upper management. Barton and Romanoff feel like they’re legit, if mysterious. Coulson and Fury? Conniving at best, duplicitous at worst. “Lay it on me,” he says, louder.

“Drawing solely from public data, there is a twenty-two percent overlap of SHIELD ops at locations where adverse events occur within a week’s time. I believe the deviation from random chance is enough to warrant more investigation. However, this may change when the confidential missions are factored in.”

Tony squints one eye, then another, as he tries to figure out what his AI is suggesting. He tosses out a guess. “Are you saying that SHIELD has managed to schedule actions that coincide with crisis events so often it might be on purpose? That’s far more likely to be bad luck, wouldn’t it?”

“The number of occurrences are statistically significant.”

“Not to question your diligence, J, but have you factored in the idea that at least some of those missions were designed to prevent the catastrophes in question? That the public facing part is a smokescreen?”

“I have.”

Tony stands in silence digesting that idea as the soldering iron he’s just turned on heats up. “That’s… bad, right?”

“Quite possibly. More data is required.”

Tony shuts off power to the soldering iron and shoots a text to Hogan saying he’ll pick up the hard drives himself. He’ll see what computers are laying around unused and bring some of those home to expedite the copying process. It seems like the most important thing he can do to protect Emory right now is find out what her new buddies are really up to. 

He’d love to find out the location of her mission, too, but that will be more tricky. If SHIELD finds out he’s even thinking about that, they’ll probably trump up enough charges to keep him tied up in legal knots for years.

The benefit to being covert in D.C. is the proliferation of governmental offices. Emory knows that she’s being watched mostly tangentially by the press; thankfully Tony’s reappearance on the social scene and her extreme ordinariness has done a lot to neutralize Rory’s accusations. The general consensus is that she’s working with ‘the government’ in relation to the kidnapping, something that Tony can’t do because of how busy and difficult he is. Any residual talk about the whole thing has been more about the nasty letter Tony’s lawyers reportedly sent to Rory.

Emory’s lawyer has strictly instructed her to avoid any contact with her former boss (not that there’s been an attempt, which she supposes would hurt more if she hadn’t been forcibly removed from Rory by the kidnapping in the first place), and to stick to ‘no comment’ if/when she’s asked about it. That’s only happened a few times, though. The car that SHIELD sends for her blends in with all of the other cars like it, and sometimes they even duck into a nondescript parking garage and wait a while, just to muddy the waters.

As she often does to pass the time during the ride, Emory sends Tony a text through his private messaging app. He’d explained the high level of encryption to her in a note he’d sent with the phone, which she’d thought was adorable. The entire thing read like complete gibberish to her. At first she’d felt stupid and insecure about it, but eventually Emory realized that he’d taken the time to explain, rather than assuming she’d never understand.Someday she’ll ask how much is made-up tech speak, which, knowing Tony, has a 20% chance of being true. 

Tony is inordinately proud of the fact that his pre-existing music-related username is even more apropos nowadays.

Emote: You still have my shirt

Metal Man: I’m sleeping with it in lieu of you being here

Emote: Aww, that’s kind of sweet

Metal Man: Yeah, well, the next step is to dress Dum-E in it and roleplay little arguments about how much of my arm real estate is on display

She is entirely too shy to admit she’s been sleeping with his clothes, but her heart is full to bursting at the comparison. Unfortunately those thoughts could generate power, which is a bad idea in the car, so she goes for a joke to defuse the romance potential of their conversation.

Emote: That is so ridiculous!

Emote: I’m way shorter than that thing!

Metal Man: I was expecting you to object to the lack of boobs, but actually that was me. I object to the lack of boobs. I miss boobs. Yours in particular.

Everything she can think of to say is based on his reputation as a womanizer, so Emory just sits there like a rock, biting her lip and staring at the phone waiting for him to say something else.

Two minutes go by.

She can’t take it anymore.

Emote: Tony?

Metal Man: I’m sorry, I got distracted.

Emote: Please tell me you weren’t thinking about physically modifying your robot so it can wear my shirt!

Metal Man: I was not

Metal Man: I was thinking that I’d rather talk about your boobs on a voice call. In detail. You free tonight?

Her hair blows into her face from the jolt of energy that prompts. Emory does what she’d practiced: she sets the gathered ball of power in motion around her head like an invisible crown. The energy packet will ruffle her hair and eventually blow out or knock itself free, but it won’t disrupt anything too badly. It’s a precursor to the actual shielding she’d tried before, but with a bit more density per ‘ball.’

That’s her power dealt with, but her body’s physical reaction is still raging. Because, yes, she does want to hear his voice, low and teasing, telling her to do things, explaining what he’s doing in response.

Metal Man: Please tell me you’re busy thinking about that.

Swearing under her breath, Emory scoots her body away from the back of the seat and adds another packet spinning around her shoulders.

Emote: Guilty as charged.

Emote: I can barely hold my phone now, I can’t even imagine what a mess I’ll be if you’re serious about this!

Metal Man: Oh, sweetheart, our hands will be too busy. That’s what speakerphone is for.

Fuck, she can picture that in full technicolor surround sound. The car comes to a complete stop and she looks up, surprised and certain something’s wrong, but they’re already at the Triskelion.

Emote: Speechless. Car ride over. Yes to the call. 

Emote: !

It’s all she can do to send her stored up energy spinning up into the sky above her before she steps into the huge lobby. Her phone vibrates, but Emory doesn’t let herself check it till she’s more calm. It’s been a while since she’d gotten so flustered, power-wise, but really, SHIELD would deserve it if she flattened a few fancy sculptures after the bullshit they’ve pulled on her so far.

Tony’s message is worth it, when she gets to peek at it in the elevator.

Metal Man: Good, looking forward to it. I’ll even promise not to make ‘Stark naked’ jokes.

She taps out a response, lips curving into an indulgent smile.

Emote: Don’t make promises you can’t keep!

She ducks into a bathroom and splashes water on her red face, trying to settle her imagination down. Both of their sexual encounters had included dim or nonexistent lighting, and she hadn’t even seen his mansion bedroom… but the images in her mind’s eye capture Tony with so much realism that she’s breathless.

The intense feelings of longing she’d felt in the cave had retreated while she was trapped at SHIELD, but they’re back now that she’s back in the modern world. Just as Yinsen had implied about his time confined with his future wife, Emory had expected that the rush of affection and desire she felt for Tony was about seeing him so often, learning his quirks, watching him hammer on metal, arms slick with sweat. But even though they’re separated by more than two hundred miles, she still wakes up expecting to catch a glimpse of Tony changing shirts, or see him angrily brushing back his shaggy hair as he glares at a schematic. She hasn’t gotten to trace her hands along the angles of his bare back like she’d promised herself she’d be brave enough to do someday.

“Shit, I swear I stepped in here for something more than cooling off, but what--” Emory mutters to herself. At least her frequent ‘thirsty’ thoughts lately have helped with keeping her power generation at bay. In addition, the flood of endorphins from her favorite coping mechanism eases the chronic ache from serum withdrawal. It’s a hell of a silver lining, but she’ll take it.

A text from Natasha pops up reminding her to take her pain medicine. Emory smacks her head in remembrance, shoots off a thank you text to Nat, and takes the pills, rushing back out to be on her way. There are two checkpoints to get into the conference room, and once she’s inside, Emory hears the hum of an odd-sounding machine.

“Sound scrambler,” the woman at the head of the table says. It’s Agent Sharon Harris, who seems to be leading the mission briefing. Harris offers a thin smile. “It’s probably overkill, but this will be the culmination of over two years of work, most of it undercover, all of it vital. We’re just waiting for Agent Barton to finish up with one of our suppliers, and we’ll get started.”

Emory hadn’t seen Clint, but Harris nods over to an alcove in the room where he is speaking on a landline in another language.

“I didn’t take his seat, did I?” Emory asks Natasha in dismay. 

Before Nat can answer, Clint does it for her. “Nah, you’re good.” He says to Harris, “Transport’s on, sightseeing tour is a go. The Army reserve ‘World War II in Two Weeks’ group will stop to see the Nazi massacre site of Baron Kovačevi’s private army early in the AM. One scenic drive later, we’ll be in position around noon.”

Nat watches him sit down across the conference table and remarks, “We’re going to another location directly before heading into Sokovia for that, right? I have some candidates.”

“Not that one,” Clint says, pointing with narrowed eyes. “We do not need to be hung over for this.”

“It’s not my fault you can’t hold your liquor,” Natasha purrs.

“If that’s settled, we can start with the overview,” Agent Harris says with the barest hint of a smile.

While folders of information are passed out, Emory whispers to Nat, “Is she your superior or is the leader different for each mission?”

She holds up two fingers, probably meaning option #2.

Despite her enduring dislike for her, Emory gains a new respect for Agent Sharon ‘Nurse Kate’ Harris as the hour-long briefing unfolds. Far from an opportunistic mission unlocked by her own unexpected capture, the lead-up to the assault on the serum scientist has been going for eighteen months or more. Harris has been undercover for much of it, posing as a negotiator for a dying crime boss from a place called Madripoor. After his death, she’d been offered a job working as a liaison between their target, the scientist, and his victims. Emory’s appearance had been fortuitous, shifting the focus of the assault to one where Emory, guided by Sharon, would suggest offering the serum to Tony Stark in an attempt to appeal to their target’s ego.

“Ms. Autumn is meant to be seen as a sad, beaten person who is out of luck, money, and options. All she has left is influence,” Sharon tells the room.

“Valid, but ouch,” Emory says, as all eyes turn to her.

Not long after that, the assault support team is asked to break off into a separate room to discuss logistics and travel. Natasha gets up and speaks with one of the agents, who nods and leads the group of twenty of them out.

“Starting to feel like a rabbit in a trap,” Emory says. She has managed to keep her fear-based energy generation at a minimum today, but it’s not nonexistent. Natasha’s focus on her ability to control herself is making a lot more sense now that she has a better idea of what they’re up against. It seems pretty clear that this villainous scientist will view her as an adversary until Emory proves otherwise, and he’ll be prepared for her to have ‘magical’ abilities as a matter of course. A beaten-down supplicant is going to generate outrage at a different pace than a deceptive adversary.

“Do you need to go toss some tornadoes, for courage?” Clint teases.

“No, but I’d take a time machine, if you’ve got one,” she jokes weakly. “I think Stark would be the better choice for a double agent.”

“Don’t worry,” Sharon says briskly. “Your demeanor only makes you more credible.” Without further pause, she starts in on a few of the things that she’d wanted to keep quiet from the rest of the team. 

Most of it sails over Emory’s head, all but one (encouraging but astonishing) thing: through her liaison work, Sharon has managed to make allies of two of the people currently working as ‘minions’ because of their inability to pay for the life-sustaining serum injections. It’s encouraging in a way, but Emory’s incredibly grateful that this isn’t what they asked her to do. Talk about a rabbit in a trap!

In the car on the way back to Clint’s, Emory can’t help but wish Agent Harris felt more trustworthy. Her demeanor is hard to deal with, but the woman’s actions have been nothing but helpful. Sharon Harris reminds Emory of a kind of ‘reverse’ Rory Fall, at least up to the last couple of years. Rory had always been careless or neglectful, but her attitude had remained friendly, albeit needy. She’d played the part of a lost, desperate best friend who couldn’t do without Emory’s help, paying lip service to their relationship while always choosing what was best for herself. Eventually, the people they worked with got tired of dealing with her shortcomings, and the veneer slipped. 

It should feel better to interact with someone trustworthy, whose actions speak louder than their brusque, dismissive words, but Emory almost feels conditioned to mistrust, at this point. She pulls out her phone and almost sends a message to Natasha about it, but the last thing Emory wants to do is look like less than a capable partner on the upcoming mission.

Clint will be gone for many hours yet, so when she gets inside the apartment, she locks it and heads into her bedroom, locking that door too. As they were leaving the conference room, Nat had asked her how her power generation control has gone lately. Emory was able to tell her truthfully that she sets aside some time every day to practice control during moments of strong emotion. That’s true, but it’s not always on purpose. Throwing herself onto the bed, she tries not to picture herself as a storm-tossed boat, but that’s hard.

She’s frightened by the pain of withdrawal.

She’s scared by the mission.

She’s angry at Rory.

She misses Tony.

These same emotions flash through her every day like lightning. Emory employs various strategies to dissipate any power that accumulates as a result, and she does try to learn how to diffuse the more powerful emotions before they get out of hand. All of that is reasonable, and it makes sense. The problem is that the most effective way to mitigate those strong emotions, the ones she’s wracked with when she curls up in bed, is… unorthodox, at best. She’d never be able to do it on a mission, in public, anywhere else, really. For the most part, Emory had avoided sex while working for Rory, and romance? Forget it. In a way, it makes sense that she’d be consumed by these feelings now. But something about her upbringing (or maybe the way she was almost never afforded privacy in her life as a PA) makes her feel like she’s doing something wrong.

Telling Tony she’s been touching herself for stress relief is impossible to imagine, even though he’s the person she thinks about the whole time. When he’d joked about phone sex, she’d nearly collapsed in on herself.

Emory rolls over on her side, pulling her phone from her pocket so it’s not uncomfortable. Suddenly, the familiar pain in her joints hits her. That’s new. Usually she has a mostly coherent, pain free existence until nighttime when the withdrawal pain catches up to her. But it’s three in the afternoon!

“Noooo. It’s too early, come on!” she groans. 

A sudden buzzing sensation under her has her jolting upright. Everything on the dresser across from the bed flies off into a heap. Emory hobbles over, pain seizing up her joints, but nothing is broken. Her blast of energy dissipated almost as soon as it had appeared.

On the bed, her phone is ringing. She must have been lying on top of it and missed the quieted ringtone. It’s faster to throw herself onto the bed and roll over to reach the darned thing than take the pained steps to walk closer.

“Hello?” In her haste to answer it, she hadn’t checked who was calling, but only two or three people have the number anyway.

“Hey, gorgeous. Why do you sound like you’re dying? You’re not dying, are you? I have a strict ‘no dying’ policy.”

Next chapter... Tony calls Emory up and the two of them greatly enjoy the ensuing... conversation.

[darsynia]

Trust Fall | Ch 22

ARC by Eury Escodero on Unsplash | gif by @elwintersoldado

Story Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: Tony/OC, ‘terrorists made us fall in love;’ IM1 timeline. In this chapter, Emory and Tony both learn how to trust new people in their lives even as they discover awful things about the people they used to trust.

Length: 4,862

Note: An ‘albedo’ is basically the measurement of the sun’s light as reflected from another object. I’m using it here as an allusion to finding out the true nature of people Emory and Tony used to trust. They see evidence of Rory and Obie’s duplicity as reflected by their harmful actions. FINALLY, am I right?

Taglist: @starryeyes2000 @raith-way @arrthurpendragon @themaradaniels @starksbf @chickensarentcheap @tiny-anne

Excerpt:

Emory says, “Honestly, after three solid months of bean soup for every meal, coffee is coffee,” and follows Clint into the kitchen. There’s a towel with one of those crochet button clasps hanging from the stove handle.

“Well, in that case, you’re just going from one bean soup to another.”

She takes his proffered cup and watches him walk over to clean the machine he’d made it with, real barista-level equipment. He shoots a look over his shoulder to catch her first sip. It’s delicious.

“Agent Barton, this is some high class bean soup. Thank you.”

Chapter Twenty-Two: Albedo

It’s one thing to dress in the same clothes as a SHIELD agent pretending to be Tony Stark’s Morning Assignation. It’s something else to picture herself leaving the helicopter on SHIELD grounds and walking into the building dressed like that! Emory chooses anxiety (asking the pilot if she can change clothes in the back of the helicopter) over mortification (having to do a walk of shame across the Triskelion helipad). She ends up having to use the fishnets as a belt to keep Tony’s pants on, but she feels less exposed when she sits back down. Now, she thinks to herself, if only the hollow ache in the pit of my stomach would go away! Emory’s sure it’ll go away once they land and she’s settled, but it almost feels like it feeds off of her anxiety.

“Clint has an extra room,” Nat says, giving her phone back. “We’ll have to finagle some sightings of you, and we’ll have to do the rest of your training there, but Fury said yes.”

“It’s all settled, just like that?” Emory asks, incredulous.

Natasha sees her expression and shrugs. “Sometimes it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission.”

Voicemail Box, Stark, Anthony E.

2.20 PM

Mr. Stark, the FBI agents are here and I can’t find you or Harry. You aren’t in the bunker, are you? JARVIS won’t answer me, and I’ll feel very foolish if I have to explain that as your PA I don’t actually know whether you’re in your father’s bomb shelter or not! Please answer your phone.

3:10 PM

Tony, if they threaten me with obstruction I’m going to be very upset. The agents are saying they might come back with a warrant, and I know it’s a federal crime to lie to the FBI so I had to tell them I’d met Ms. Autumn. Please, PLEASE come out? I know you can get phone calls from inside there!

10:55 PM

Tony, where are you, it’s after ten! You only have enough fresh food in there for a few days! I’m… Wait, is that you on Channel-- [dial tone]

11:03 PM

You’re at a NIGHTCLUB! It made the NEWS, Tony! What if the FBI doesn't believe me? What if they think I was covering for you!? Do you know how many messages I left on Harry’s phone asking where the two of you were? I thought he was in the bunker with you trying to stop you from drinking yourself half to death! BOTH OF YOU COME HOME RIGHT NOW!!

When Tony returns from partying, he buries himself not in blankets and dreams, but files and memories. Stark Industries needs a new niche that isn’t weaponry, but draws on that expertise. Emory is at SHIELD’s mercy, and he doesn’t have any influence there. Is there something he could do that would solve both problems at once?

Some intrepid assistant in the late 80’s had digitized Howard Stark’s paper files, but they’re all mixed together, probably on purpose. He decides to track down the schematics he’d been so dazzled by when he was six and about to be sent away to boarding school; Tony had spent three glorious days digging through a couple of metal briefcases that had been accidentally left in his bedroom instead of the storage study one room over. At the time, Tony had been convinced they were for a secret government thing his dad was doing, and that was why they were sending him away to school. For his protection.

School had stripped away that sense of wonder, and eventually his father’s cold demeanor taught Tony to keep his questions to himself. Uncovering those memories is an uncomfortable process best done with the veneer of inebriation, but the physical effects mean he’s not very efficient. By dawn, the files are still elusive, and the issues that made him want to go drinking in the first place won’t go away. 

He decides to sleep on it.

Tony’s phone rings as he’s carrying the bunker pillows and Emory’s left-behind shirt up to his bedroom. His first instinct when he sees the name on the display is to be glad it’s not the FBI. His second instinct is to wonder if Coulson has learned how to manipulate people from the same place Agent Romanoff did. The man has to know that Tony was out till 3 AM. The agent probably expects to leave a message with a set of instructions he’ll expect to be followed without push-back, or Coulson’s hoping to manipulate him while he’s sleep-deprived and hung over.

As a result, Tony’s barely civil when he answers.

“You better be about to improve my mood, Doctor No.”

“Good morning. I have been asked to take over from Director Fury as your primary contact.”

“Wow,” Tony says. “Tell Boris he was almost the father figure I already had, will you?” Tony needs to yawn, but he holds it back.

“I’m pretty sure that’s exactly the sort of message I was assigned to prevent,” Coulson says. The man’s deadpan delivery doesn’t change a whit. “Something’s come past my desk that I think you can help me clear up: is it true that you snuck out from under your PA’s nose yesterday afternoon to avoid a scheduled FBI interview?”

The rush of relief Tony feels is probably premature, but Coulson is handing him a resolution on a silver platter right now. “Pepper told on me? Look, I deal with a lot of acronyms. I’m pretty sure I’d have remembered if I was supposed to be at a meeting with the CIA.” He pauses for dramatic effect, then adds, “Not that I wouldn’t have still snuck out. Everybody hates those guys.”

“Are you asking me to smooth this over for you, Mr. Stark?”

“Is it illegal for me to say yes?” Tony shoots back. “Because if we’re in the plot of Entrapment, I want my money back unless there will be red lasers and hot women in skin-tight black leotards.”

He can’t help but picture Emory in the iconic outfit, and Tony tightens his hand around the spy shirt she’d left behind. The message he’d gotten from Natasha Romanoff at midnight had been promising, but sharing an apartment with another agent could be worse in the long run. The freedom Emory will gain will be tempered by the possibility of off-hours propaganda and persuasion.

“Sir?”

Oops. Coulson had been talking. Tony gives in to the yawn, making it as loud and obnoxious as possible.

“I was busy picturing that. Go on?”

“I was just saying, if we wanted to trap you, sir? We’d be more subtle. Speaking of which, any word on how long you’ll be staying in New York? I’d love to know if I’ll need to rent something long-term,” Coulson says, still as studiously polite as always, but now with a tiny edge to his tone, sharp as a razorblade. 

“I’ll be sticking around for as long as your archer plays house with my girlfriend, Phil.”

Tony doesn’t want to like this guy, mostly because it feels like there are two kinds of people in Phil Coulson’s world: the people he’s manipulating into liking him, and the people he’s screwing over very courteously. Tony’s been trying to manipulate the man right back, but it’s a delicate balance. Right before he’d left for New York, Tony had found a rare part for the guy’s beloved classic car and had it delivered by courier. That had been the carrot, and now, he supposes, comes the stick.

Coulson’s extolling the virtues of a particular apartment building he’s got an eye on when Tony interrupts. “Say, since you’re so good at passing notes, can you ask your boss if he can give me a call? I’ve got a business opportunity for him.”

There’s a moment of silence before Coulson wryly asks, “Should I address this message to ‘Boris?’ Or Director Fury?”

It's a shrewd question, and Tony's too fucking tired to play his usual hard to get. "Go with his official name this time, will you, Junior? Blame the lapse on sleep deprivation. And don't ever call me this early again, or I'll clone your voice with my AI and start releasing shit about Area 51 framing you as the source."

“Point taken, sir. Sleep well.”

Tony turns the phone off completely. “Yeah, I wish,” he says to no one. Thankfully, his head barely hits the pillow that smells faintly of Emory’s hair before he feels oblivion reaching out for him.

Emory wakes up in an actual bedroom.

Not a secure office dressed as one. Not a fancy hotel that reeks of opulent impermanence. Not a barely habitable cave with a truly embarrassing method of relieving oneself. A bedroom. The room Clint had given her even has a lock.

She’d spent so little time at her apartment while working as Rory’s PA that her last ‘home bedroom’ was pre-Rory, the room in her dad’s house. That memory is tainted by the conflict between herself and her parents about Rory’s influence, though. The time she got to spend at Tony’s mansion hadn’t felt like home either. It had passed almost like a daydream, a stolen few hours that, true to form, had ended with her being sent back to reality. When she was with him, Emory had felt like maybe she could belong there, but now, back in the real world, it’s hard not to feel foolish.

Rolling over, she buries her face in Tony’s shirt as she had so often the night before, picturing him across the room about to climb back into bed with her. It’s hard not to wonder how many women have done the same. Most of them were probably tall, glamorous, and rich, better suited to his world than she ever could be. Her rational mind is trying to tell her that Tony Stark is new to the hero business, and she was just a convenient damsel in distress. Her heart’s response is to remember the desperate catch in his voice as he screamed in the desert, angry at her for maybe dying and forcing the words ‘I love you’ from his throat.

Her instinct is to do what she’s always done: endure. This time, though, Emory wants to fight for what she wants, as terrifying as it is, as new as that is. She wants to live. She wants to love. How did everything suddenly become so hard?

Groaning, Emory gets up and makes the bed, tucking Tony's clothes under the pillow like she's burying a secret. As she has for the last few weeks, she also buries her instinct to go with the flow, to not make waves, to hide, safe and invisible. It's too late for that. Tony- or Natasha Romanoff -would find her. And if they didn't, well, thanks to the serum, she basically has an expiration date. The effects of her dependency are going to start manifesting themselves soon. 

She dresses and slips on the fuzzy slippers Clint had lent her, unlocks her door, and starts up the hallway toward the kitchen. On the way, she sees that his bedroom door is open, revealing a loft bed with a desk underneath, just like a college dorm. Most of the room is taken up by what looks like a built-in climbing wall that curves up onto the ceiling, anchored with some seriously thick cables.

“I’d offer to let you try it out, but I don’t actually have a rig, just pads for underneath. Not great for newbies,” Clint says from the other side of the hallway. He’s sipping from a mug, which he holds up. “I remember you usually avoided the SHIELD coffee. I approve. Want some of the good stuff, or did your cave detox put you in a good place?”

“Give?” Emory says, walking toward him like a mummy. She’d warmed to Barton during her training sessions, and he’s even more likeable here in his own home, relaxed and welcoming. The contrast between the way he’s treating her after knowing her for a month and the way Rory's treated her for the past nine years is stark, no pun intended.

“Right, what am I talking about? This is probably crap compared to your-- To Stark’s,” Clint says, stumbling over the right way to refer to Tony. Emory can’t blame him. Technically, she’s not supposed to be Stark’s anything.

A stubborn kernel of hope blazes in her chest, as she says, “Honestly, after three solid months of bean soup for every meal, coffee is coffee,” and follows him into the kitchen. There’s a towel with one of those crochet button clasps hanging from the stove handle.

“Well, in that case, you’re just going from one bean soup to another.”

Emory takes his proffered cup and watches him walk over to clean the machine he’d made it with, real barista-level equipment. He shoots a look over his shoulder to catch her first sip. It’s delicious.

“Agent Barton, this is some high class bean soup. Thank you.”

“I made a promise that I would indulge myself every day. This is what I picked,” Clint says.

“You mean your overhanging death wall wasn’t it?” she asks, walking over to rest her hip on the kitchen island and watch him.

He chuckles. “No.”

“Thank you, truly,” she tells him after a few more (indulgent is definitely the word) sips. “I didn’t know how on Earth I was going to balance my association with Tony and my obligations to the mission. Staying here is the perfect compromise.”

“Glad to help,” Clint says gruffly, focused on wiping off the counter. “That can be a delicate thing. Worth it, though, if he is.”

Emory blows out a long sigh, staring at her feet. “Looking at it from the other way around, I sure hope it is.” Across the room, she hears him let out a similar noise and looks over, curious. Clint looks sheepish.

“I wasn’t supposed to mention him in case it got you charged up. Sorry about that.”

“Hah, so my self-doubt saved your apartment? Does that cancel out the whole dive-bomb rescue thing on the day we met?”

"Let's not get too hasty," he teases, jumping his eyebrows at her. A second later, he shifts into 'agent' mode. "We need to make a 'game plan.' The goal is for you to take a walk and get sighted. The building itself is secure; unofficially mostly government workers and domestic violence survivors live here, but there's an unspoken agreement with the local media about that." His smile is full of promise; whether it's for her protection or for a journalist's destruction if they choose to overstep is unclear.

“Guardians and survivors, convenient,” Emory murmurs.

“Exactly.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and starts tapping at it as he speaks. “Nat wants you to get groceries today, a courier will drop off a bank card. Says here yours was--” Clint frowns, squinting at the phone in his hand. As he reads, his jaw firms up into a hard frown. “Your account was closed ten days after the initial attack in Afghanistan. By Rory Fall. She showed them Power of Attorney papers.”

Shock and dismay lock up her muscles and she sways a little. Clint reaches out and grabs her upper arm to steady her. His grip isn’t meant to hurt, she can tell, but right now, everything is heightened, so the skin under his hands burns.

“Look at me,” he says. She does, still reeling, both surprised and (horribly) not surprised. “You okay?”

“I’ve watched her turn on people for years, I just never thought--” Emory shakes her head. Her tear ducts grind to a halt with the dry pain of understanding just how much she’s lost, how different her life is. Tears are premium content now, and she’s just a regular person.

“Did you make her your POA?”

She shakes her head again. “My parents sent me the paperwork for one. It was their last-ditch effort to-- To, crap, to prevent this, to stop Rory from trying to screw me over if we had a falling out. I didn’t sign them, but I didn’t get rid of them either.” Rory must have gone through her things and falsified the documents with her own name instead of Emory’s parents’. After all, everything in Rory Fall’s life was about Rory Fall. In Rory’s mind, Emory’s salary was ‘her money in the first place,’ after she’d been deserted during the most traumatic moment of her life. 

Fuck, Emory thinks to herself. Her own ‘most traumatic’ train is heading downhill, adding events as it goes, but she’s still rationalizing, still working to understand Rory’s actions. If only her former friend’s loyalty had run that deep!

Clint guides her toward his small couch, snagging her coffee cup on the way. “So they’re forged?” He sits her down and hands over the mug.

“I would never have given her Power of Attorney over me. In Rory’s twisted mind, she probably thinks it’s her money if I’m not there to spend it, but--”

He walks away from her abruptly. “No excuses.”

She’d been trying to explain Rory’s thought process, but the marksman’s curt comment hits home. 

Emory changes tack. “At least this works out perfectly for SHIELD! It proves I have no money,” she says, taking gulping sips of her cooled coffee. He doesn't answer, his head stuck in the fridge, shuffling things around. “What are you doing? Do you have some kind of crazy ‘dormant when refrigerated’ weapon in there?”

“I’m making a grocery list. One thing at a time.”

“That works,” she says, sitting back on the couch. As she lifts the mug to drain the last sip, Emory notices the design. It says, ‘Fix It Yourself.’ The O in ‘yourself’ is a bullseye, and the sideways word ‘it’ is made up of several arrows.

The only way to do that involves crossing half the globe and lying to the person who holds her life in the palm of their hand. Emory turns the cup so the words face away, but she knows she’ll have to follow its advice anyway.

The first thing Tony does when he finally wakes up is check on the status of the palladium shipment he appropriated from SI’s factory. The weapons ordered prior to Tony’s cut-off date of mid-July have been constructed and much of the raw material deliveries have been paused. During their discussions in the limo on the way to New York, Emory had suggested that the company offer a two or three week paid vacation for the factory employees whose jobs are in question. He’d set the thought aside in favor of spending time with her, but now Tony dials up Stane’s number to put that in motion.

“Hey, Tony. I see you were finally back to your old self last night!” Obie says, in greeting.

“Yeah, well, keeping up appearances,” Tony says. A knot forms in his gut, similar to what Emory had described when dealing with Rory. He’s not a fan. “Hey, you still planning to come out this direction next week?”

“Yeah, I have some loose ends to tie up. Why? Did you need something? If you’ve got some new projects I’d be happy to tell the boar--”

“Still percolating in there,” Tony interrupts. “I was looking to get ahold of the palladium we won't be needing. Instead of cancelling it I figured I'd just take the regular shipment. It’s just less hassle if you bring it.” 

There’s a sigh on the line. “Tony, I don’t think we have any extra right now. Did you order more on top of the standard delivery for the factory?”

“We’re not using it at the factory.”

“Tony, production doesn’t just halt overnight, we--”

“I was very clear about the deadlines,” Tony says, standing up to pace. The knot has turned into a lead weight. “We’ve satisfied our obligations up to the middle of July, which is why I was about to ask you to give the whole factory staff a two week paid vacation while we shift the production lines over to something more benign.” He can hear frantic typing on Stane’s end. “You didn’t halt the lines, did you?”

“Tony--”

“Did you?”

“I thought you were going to change your mind! It’s not sound business practice to interrupt production at this kind of scale on a whim!”

He’s having trouble swallowing, but it’s not because of the anxiety, it’s because of anger. “Shut it down. All of it. By the end of this week, or I’ll fly out there and give the maintenance guys something to do after I fire a couple of repulsors at every piece of equipment!” Tony slams his hand down on a worktable, knowing Obie will hear the sound through the phone line. “Come on! You knew I wasn’t going to budge on this!”

“I needed to know you were serious, and now I know you’re serious,” Stane says, a hint of the ‘make it right’ businessman tone returning to his voice. “Tell you what: let me boost the palladium order for this next week so there's enough for both. We’ll extend production ‘till the end of July, make it a nice round number, give these workers some warning, okay? August is a better vacation month anyway. First of August they’ll get two weeks paid vacation, everyone but security.”

Tony’s jaw is so tightly clenched he can’t respond right away.

“Tony? Hey, I know you’re passionate about this stuff but we’re still a business. A month is a much better time frame to develop a new plan. You know I’m right.”

“Do it, then,” Tony grits out.

“Good man,” Obie says in the fatherly tone Tony’s come to despise. “I’ll bring the palladium in a week. When I get there, you’ll give me some kind of an idea of what we’re transitioning to, and the two of us will get the company back on solid ground. See you then.”

Stane hangs up without a response.

“JARVIS, was there ever a slow-down in production?” Tony asks, the second he sets his phone down.

“All I can find is an internal memo informing workers that there may be a temporary halt sometime in July.”

“Right.”

Tony throws himself in his chair, the momentum carrying it away from his desk, which is just as well. He needs to calm down before he makes any of this worse. He briefly considers going upstairs and getting Emory’s shirt, since it smells like her, but that reminds him too much of what he’d done at seventeen. He’d had the housekeeping staff pack up his dad’s clothes and general belongings to put them in storage right away, but kept his mothers things where they were for months. He’d yo-yo between extremes, partying it up and pretending he didn’t care, then curling up on his mother’s side of the bed hugging one of her dresses, sobbing.

With a sigh, Tony recognizes that this comparison is toxic; Emory is alive and his, a partner who needs Tony’s actions, not his sentimentality. He resolves to work on his secret project for her this evening, as soon as he gets a few things out of the way.

“All right,” he says aloud, walking the chair back to his desk without getting up, Flintstones-style. “Do we have the capability to store palladium at our New York office? There are still research labs there, right JARVIS?”

“Indeed there are.”

“Order some under the name of the most senior employee with a note that they’re to contact me and only me upon receipt, but be diplomatic. I don’t want to signal a rift.”

“Are you certain they’ll believe it was from you, sir?”

“Funny,” Tony says. “Next item: I’d like to use Stane’s Opposition Strategy on SHIELD, with some modifications. Copy over all related files and analyze them for anything that might get Nick Fury’s panties in a bunch if I implement it.”

“Estimate ten minutes for full copy, twenty more for analysis. Do you wish me to erase evidence of the copy?”

“Good catch, make it so.”

He gets up to make a smoothie, patting Dum-E on the way over. It had been JARVIS who’d suggested bringing his ‘pets,’ another point in the AI’s column of knowing Tony better than he knew himself, sometimes. As the blender spun, Tony thought over what he knew about Stane’s Oppo strategy. JARVIS will be more thorough, but there’s only so much intuition one can program in. Tony knows he probably relies too much on intuition, but something about SHIELD feels off, and before he throws in his lot with the agency, he wants to know why. It’s no different than when they run the program on a company they hope to buy out.

The key part of the Strategy is analysis. That’s what Tony wants to use on SHIELD, despite the fact that the data set will be incomplete, given how secret most of their operations are. What he’s hoping for is a glimpse into the vulnerabilities of the agency, as evidenced by what the deep dive comparisons that the Opposition Strategy might reveal. That thought prompts another one.

“Hey, J? Do a quick scan through the Not Nows and Not Yets, in projects. I want to know whether anyone’s done some poking around in the past two weeks.” The blender stops, and Tony adds, “Hell, add the current ones too, note any unusual access.”

After a minute, JARVIS says, “Two files show anomalous access, both by Mr. Stane after hours, approximately eight days ago.”

The knot is back. “Hit me.”

“Multiple copies of the Repulsor technology details and schematics in various places, some encrypted. Single copy of the Sonic Taser, encrypted. Access was from his private residence.”

“Obie, Obie, what are you doing?” Tony says, brows furrowed. “Didn’t the government threaten us with new legislation if we didn’t completely scrap and bury that Taser?”

“Colonel Rhodes likened pursuing the project further to ‘peeing on the third rail in public, within a mile of an elementary school,’ yes, sir.”

“He’s just jealous he didn’t get a working ‘Get Out of Indecent Exposure Charges Free’ card from MIT security,” Tony laughs. “God bless gender quota hiring.” A second later, he freezes in the act of taking a sip of his smoothie. “Son of a bitch. Obie didn’t destroy the prototype, did he?”

“Ascertaining that will be difficult, and likely will require physical interviews, which may create more trouble than you may wish to-- wait, what am I saying?”

“You’re saying trouble is my middle name, JARVIS. Usually you’d be right, but this time I’d like to avoid the consequences if at all--” Tony gulps down the rest of the smoothie over the word ‘possible’ and sets the cup down for his robot to clean. He points at Dum-E. “If that breaks, I’ll let a group of toddlers glue the pieces all over you, wherever they want.” He gestures broadly as he back-walks to the desk.

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but parents generally avoid letting their small children anywhere near broken glass,” JARVIS points out.

“Well, that’s boring,” Tony observes. “What was I saying?”

“Ironically, you were discussing your desire to avoid consequences.”

“Personally, yes. I’ll reserve judgement on Stane, though. I want to know what he’s up to, first.” 

He sits down at the desk and thinks about the Sonic Taser. Its function is really limited outside of law enforcement and military use, though he had joked about using it to make the board sit still and listen to him. The thing is inherently antagonistic; the only way to avoid total, temporary incapacitation is to already be wearing earplugs before the device is activated. 

“Do they make undetectable earplugs?” he muses aloud. He takes threats to his autonomy very seriously, unless they’re hot, wearing spandex, and digging a knee into his lower back.

“You have asked that question a total of three times since my creation, and the answer has been ‘no’ for two of those times,” JARVIS states dryly.

“That’s a yes now, then? Order me a pair.” Murphy’s Law states that if he’s prepared for a threat, it’ll never materialize, but something about Obie’s demeanor lately feels vaguely threatening. He wouldn’t put it past the guy to use the Taser to force Tony to listen to him. After Afghanistan, Tony’s through being forced to do anything. At that thought, a collage of images cross his mind’s eye, all of Emory, and he has to amend his previous assertion to ‘almost’ anything.

“Analysis complete,” JARVIS says, filling Tony’s screen with various windows of information. “Advise not exercising official channels to request mission data from the military, but speaking to Colonel Rhodes, instead. Strongly suggest not revealing any knowledge of statistical data when speaking to Agent Coulson or Director Fury. Further conclusions will require an examination of the program results.” JARVIS pauses, then adds, “In summary, I predict a high chance of panty bunching. Proceed with caution.”

Tony cracks a smile despite himself. “Will do. Run the program, I’ll call Rhodes.”

Next chapter, the effects of serum withdrawal start to hit Emory, meaning that the mission must come soon; Tony seeks to reassure her and himself with a spicy phone call.

[darsynia]

Trust Fall | Ch 21b

Story Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: Tony/OC, ‘terrorists made us fall in love;’ IM1 timeline. In this chapter, Tony isn't going to let Emory head back into SHIELD's clutches without a fight--or some concessions.

Length: 2,743

Taglist: @starryeyes2000 @raith-way @arrthurpendragon @themaradaniels @starksbf @chickensarentcheap @tiny-anne

Excerpt:

“Not good enough. Get behind me, Em.” Tony steps toward Natasha, his gaze clearly on the doors and walls of the elevator, looking for the controls.

In a blur of speed, Natasha darts a hand forward to take Tony’s wrist and the next thing Emory sees is Tony pressed up against the wall. Natasha’s standing with one knee digging into his back, holding his twisted arm behind him, with her other leg positioned so that if Tony shoves back, they’ll both fall over. Emory’s rooted to the spot, just hoping they don’t hurt each other.

“If this is the kind of force your team uses to protect Emory, we’re good,” Tony says, his voice sounding slightly strained. “But now that you’re there, I’ve had a tight spot in my lower back for weeks, and if you just lift your knee one inch--”

Nat lets out a swear word in another language and steps back just as quickly as she’d stepped forward. Tony topples but corrects for it, turning the move into a swaggering motion that carries him back against the wall of the elevator, facing them this time. Tony winks at Emory, but Natasha’s looking at a device on her wrist with frustration.

Chapter Twenty-One: Mirage

Once she’s fully dressed except for the blonde wig, Emory gets a look at herself in the mirror over the sideboard and sees… Rory.

This is the kind of outfit that her friend performed in for years. Beyond that, Rory has worn something similar to hundreds of premieres, parties, and press events. Over the years, Emory had sometimes wondered what might have happened had the competition show chosen her as the winner instead of Rory.

Now, Emory has a glimpse of what that alternate life would look like on her, and s he doesn’t like it.

“You okay?” Agent Harris asks from across the room.

“Yeah. Kind of look like my boss, it’s freaking me out a little.” Emory admits, walking back toward her.

“Wow, you actually do. That could come in handy,” Harris says, her voice gentling a little. She pats the back of the chair and holds up the blonde wig. “Rory Fall has broadcast to our target that you two haven’t been in touch. If there’s a question about your proximity to Stark, you could explain it away, say she was posing as you.” 

Agent Harris’s ninety minutes come all too soon, and she starts asking where Tony is. Emory had been expecting him back, if not to ogle her, then to say goodbye, but she can’t find him. She can’t find anyone, meaning that she has to leave without saying goodbye. Emory keeps her head down when she walks out the front door, both because she’s trying to hide her face and because Tony Stark’s Slippery Stairs + DeathHeels = undoubtedly a recipe for tabloid coverage.

For two horrible minutes, Emory stands outside the back passenger door waiting for the driver to open it for her. Finally she flings it open and throws herself inside, channeling an inconvenienced Rory Fall for authenticity.

“Real fancy car service, thanks,” she grumbles to the closed panel that separates the passenger compartment from the driver’s cab. The driver says nothing as he expertly navigates the expensive car back out of the grounds, past a sea of paparazzi. All at once, her fury and frustration about being forced to leave without even saying goodbye to Tony floods out. “Where are we going? Hello? I swear, if that’s Clint, I will find a way to mess with your arrows, I’m literally shaking back here!” Then, her face flushing so hot she’s sure it’s beet red, Emory whispers to herself, “Oh, shit, of course that’s not Clint, you’re berating some random agent, good job!”

The panel between the two spaces starts lowering, but she can’t see anything but the black suit and pilot-style black hat the man is wearing.

“Just pretend I didn’t say anything, please?” she asks, hating the vulnerability she can hear in her voice.

“No can do, Miss,” the man says.

It’s TONY.

“Tony, oh my GOD.” Emory falls back against the seat and focuses on slowly dissipating the surge of power that her anger and adrenaline has generated.

“Not my favorite way of rendering you speechless, but it’ll do. To answer your very rudely phrased questions, the car has a built-in GPS that was pre-programmed for each location. We’re five minutes away,” Tony tells her. “Did you think I’d let you leave without saying goodbye?”

She opens her eyes and meets his in the rear view mirror. “Maybe.”

“Well, I wouldn’t. Especially not dressed like that.” The depths his voice reaches sends an entirely different awareness through her, especially when she can see him taking in what little of the outfit he can see from his vantage point.

“Eyes on the road.”

Tony chuckles. After a few minutes pass but before her heartbeat is back to normal, he says, “So, why do you hate that blonde agent they sent as a decoy?”

Emory sighs. She’d hoped he had managed to forget that. “She was the first SHIELD agent I saw, after Afghanistan. She’s--”

“Say no more,” Tony says knowingly.

Emory bites her lip. It’s more complicated than that, but she also doesn’t want to waste whatever last moments of alone time they have on Sharon Harris, so she lets it go.

“You shouldn’t have done this, but thank you,” she tells him, leaning forward to rest a hand on his shoulder through the gap.

Tony shrugs her hand up against his cheek before she pulls it back so they aren’t seen through the windshield. “Just wait,” he says. “I’m not done yet.”

If she could have swirled air around him in a power-driven hug, Emory would, but it’s not their car, and they’re not supposed to be seen together, so she hugs herself instead, grinning, grinning, grinning.

Their destination turns out to be a fancy apartment complex with an underground garage. Tony barely has to tap the brake before the scanner picks up whatever permission they’re displaying and opens up the gates.

“Here’s where it gets tricky-- or does it?” Tony says, pointing.

A figure is walking towards them, dressed in black. As they creep forward in the half-light, Emory recognizes who it is. Natasha Romanoff.

“They sent in the big guns to pick you up,” Tony observes.

“Yeah, I’m ninety percent sure she’s here for you.”

Following Nat’s hand signals, Tony parks in an even darker section of the mostly full lot, rolling down the window and shutting off the engine.

“Exactly how quickly will you kill me if I make a Rocky and Bullwinkle joke, Natasha?” he asks the SHIELD agent, emphasizing the villain’s name.

Natasha doesn’t even dignify this with a response. “I seem to recall listening in on one half of a conversation where my half told yours to stay put. Is it pathological, this need to be the center of attention? Wait, look who I’m asking!”

“Who gave SHIELD the monopoly on swapping outfits? Ooh, was it Boris?” Tony asks with mock enthusiasm.

“Get out of the car, both of you. We’re in a surveillance dead zone.”

Emory takes her shoes off before she steps out, tucking them into the black bag and holding the hem of her skirt as far down as she can. Natasha directs Tony to stand in front of the grey tiled wall as she punches a code into a hidden keypad. The tiles slide away revealing an elevator whose doors open immediately. 

Once they’re all inside and the doors close, Nat turns around to face them. She looks like she’s waiting for an explanation from Tony. Undaunted, he smiles and reaches up to poke his stolen driver’s cap into a jaunty angle. Emory appreciates his bravado, but she’s at her limit. Anything further and she’ll be looking to curl up in a corner somewhere in the fetal position.

“What’s your plan, Stark?” Natasha finally asks, angling her head as if intensely curious, her long curls falling sideways in their ponytail. She hasn’t commanded the elevator to move yet.

“Alone with two redheads in a tiny elevator? There’s no question,” Tony says, starting to unbutton his dress shirt. Emory knows this has to be a bluff, but Natasha doesn’t react. It’s only after the fifth button that Emory sees that he’s wearing something more than his typical black tank top underneath. Whatever it’s made of, the electric blue shirt doesn’t show the arc reactor through it. Tony takes off his suit jacket before he finishes with the shirt, deliberately pulling its sleeves inside out to reveal a silver metallic fabric she hadn’t even noticed.

“You already had a reversible jacket that looked like the driver’s?” Emory asks, incredulous.

“No one really looks at black suit jackets. Ask Sydney Bristow here, she knows,” Tony says, nodding at Natasha, who shakes her head. “As for your agents, Ms. Romanoff, they’ll be fine. My financial records are sealed for privacy, and as long as they leave together, they’ll be assumed to be employees. Besides, in about an hour, the paparazzi will be more interested in finding me. Problem solved, you’re welcome.” As he says this, Tony’s still undressing. Under the slightly baggy black trousers, he’s wearing a tight, shiny silver pair of pants that match the fabric of the jacket, which he puts back on. Emory has to admit, the outfit works somehow. He looks eccentric and handsome, definitely too rich to care.

“This is the opposite of what Fury asked you to do,” Natasha says testily, crossing her arms.

“Yeah, well. I have more experience in distracting the paparazzi. He’ll forgive me.” He digs a finger into the tight pocket of his pants and pulls out a small jar of something, opens it, and swipes some of it onto his middle finger. Tony closes the jar, balances it on Natasha’s crossed arm, and starts applying whatever it is to his hair with his fingertips.

Emory doesn’t know whether to laugh or die on the spot.

“Breathe, Emory,” Natasha says, without looking at her.

“Shouldn’t have stuck her in a corset then,” Tony says, taking back the jar. He holds it up with a little wiggle and nods his thanks before tucking it back away. Crossing his own arms, he leans (lounges, really) against the wall across from Natasha and fixes her with a steady look. “That corset should be the most confining thing she has to deal with from you people from this point on, and I will be making sure of that.” He pulls out his phone, taps it a few times, and then looks up, ready to type. “Where will she be staying?”

“Mr. Stark--”

“Before you answer, I should make clear: I have no stake in your mission. What I do have is footage of Miss Autumn arriving at my residence and spending several hours there. With me.”

Emory still can’t breathe, but now it’s his fault. “Tony?” she chokes out, utterly shocked.

“If I can use a pale copy of my current suit to escape from fifty terrorists attacking me with my own weapons, I can probably get my hands on that serum without leaving you in high tech government custody,” he snaps.

“Which part is the dealbreaker, Stark? Not seeing Emory? Or her confinement?” Natasha asks.

The very fact that Natasha is asking gives Emory some lung power, but she’s spending almost all of her effort on not power generating them all into an elevator accident at best and a high rise collapse at worst.

“¿Por qué no los dos?” Tony spreads out his arms in an extravagant shrug. “Truthfully? The latter. I need assurances.” He reaches down and picks up his discarded dress shirt and pants, keeping his eyes on Natasha as he tries to fold them with a serious expression on his face. His efforts fail repeatedly, and finally Emory reaches out and snatches both of them from him, balls them up, and crams them into the black leather bag she’s carrying. “Well?” he prompts the SHIELD agent.

“I was just waiting to see how that little business was going to end,” she admits, one corner of her mouth lifting in a smile. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Not good enough. Get behind me, Em.” Tony steps toward Natasha, his gaze clearly on the doors and walls of the elevator, looking for the controls.

In a blur of speed, Natasha darts a hand forward to take Tony’s wrist and the next thing Emory sees is Tony pressed up against the wall. Natasha’s standing with one knee digging into his back, holding his twisted arm behind him, with her other leg positioned so that if Tony shoves back, they’ll both fall over. Emory’s rooted to the spot, just hoping they don’t hurt each other.

“If this is the kind of force your team uses to protect Emory, we’re good,” Tony says, his voice sounding slightly strained. “But now that you’re there, I’ve had a tight spot in my lower back for weeks, and if you just lift your knee one inch--”

Nat lets out a swear word in another language and steps back just as quickly as she’d stepped forward. Tony topples but corrects for it, turning the move into a swaggering motion that carries him back against the wall of the elevator, facing them this time. Tony winks at Emory, but Natasha’s looking at a device on her wrist with frustration.

“We need to leave. Stark, can you give me five hours before you start blowing up two years of work?”

“Five hours,” Tony confirms. “And it won’t just be the mission, it’ll be the agency.”

Frowning, Nat commands the doors to open again. To Emory’s surprise, there’s a car idling in the single space beside the one that had brought her here, and Happy Hogan is clearly visible through the windshield.

“That’s my ride,” Tony says, grinning. “What’s wrong, Agent Romanoff? I thought you wanted me out of your hair?”

“Ten hours,” Natasha says harshly.

“Okay. But I get to send Em a phone to replace that ancient monstrosity you’ve given her.”

“Agreed.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I get it,” Emory says softly, feeling like she’s being pulled five ways at once. “We have to go.”

“Okay.” Tony takes one step off of the elevator, then swivels to meet her eyes, concern creasing his eyebrows. “Don’t believe anything you see written about me from here on out. Promise me.”

“I promise,” she whispers, pressing a hand to her chest-- not over her heart, but over where an arc reactor would be, if she had one. Tony does the same and steps out. The doors close before he can turn around again.

Natasha groans, pinching the bridge of her nose in extreme irritation. “Next time, get kidnapped with Justin Hammer, will you? The guy’s an idiot, it would be a lot easier on me.” 

“I’ll get right on that,” Emory says, slumping back against the wall of the elevator. The other woman silently taps her fingers against her thigh as the car lifts them to the roof, the doors opening on a helipad with a waiting helicopter, its blades already spinning. “Oh god, how many nightmares do I have to relive at once?” Emory blurts out. It’s not really her nightmare as much as Rory’s, but hearing the details of multiple ‘death by rotor blades’ dreams over the years has planted the fear pretty firmly.

“Did you forget how short you are? You’ll be fine, but if you’re still worried, lean over so far your boobs start to fall out,” Nat says, taking her hand and starting to drag her. Emory barely remembers to grab the leather bag with Tony’s clothes and her shoes in them. She does stumble on the way, cutting the top of her foot on the helipad asphalt, which she doesn't discover till their pilot gets them airborne.

“Great. You’re bleeding within ten minutes of Tony Stark threatening to unleash armageddon unless you’re kept safe,” Natasha sighs. “I’m great at my job.”

“If only we could get him to unleash armageddon on the bad guys SHIELD fights, with that flying armor of his,” Emory says, trying to change the subject away from watching Natasha Romanoff worry about doing something less than perfectly. “Though, I guess Stark Industries doesn’t do that now. No more weapons.”

“His dad helped start SHIELD, from what I was told,” Natasha says, holding up the first aid kit she’d been rummaging around to find. “All ties were cut off in the early 90’s, with his death. His buddy Stane wanted to keep the inventions lucrative and public. That’s when a lot of the in-house SHIELD tech development started up.” As she speaks, Nat expertly and gently cleans Emory’s wound, binding it up and offering her a loose white pill, which she declines. “Yeah, I wouldn’t take drugs from me either. You can get one when we get back to--”

Natasha cuts herself off and doesn’t continue speaking, seemingly lost in thought.

“Nat?” Emory says, when it’s been a couple of minutes.

“I know where to put you,” the agent says, turning and meeting Emory’s eyes with actual happiness for the first time that day. She pulls out her phone, taps at it, and swears under her breath in a different language than the other two times Emory had heard her swear today. “Dead, great. Can I borrow yours?”

“Uh, yes?” she says, handing it over. To her surprise, Natasha hits three buttons and puts the phone to her ear. There’s only one person she could be calling. Clint Barton.

Next chapter, Emory finds out some shitty things about Rory Fall, and Tony finds out some shitty things about SHIELD.

[darsynia]

Trust Fall | Ch 21a

Story Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: Tony/OC, ‘terrorists made us fall in love;’ IM1 timeline. In this chapter, Tony and Emory deal with the fallout from her former boss's meddling-- but Tony's not taking it lying down.

Length: 3,068

Taglist: @starryeyes2000 @raith-way @arrthurpendragon @themaradaniels @starksbf @chickensarentcheap @tiny-anne

Excerpt:

“No! You’ve spent enough of your time in confined spaces, you’re not allowed to do something to Rory and end up with the armor confiscated and yourself thrown in jail!”

Tony’s completely unrepentant. He looks over at Happy and says, “See that? She knows my priorities!”

“Damnit, Tony! You are more important than that suit!” Emory flares.

In a hushed voice, Happy leans towards Tony and says, “You were right, I do like her.” 

“Emory, you’ve seen what happens when bad guys get ahold of my tech!”

“I have! And I don’t want to see you become the ‘bad guy!’” Emory pleads.

Chapter Twenty-One: Mirage

Tony’s comment about Rory and the luggage makes Emory feel warm and cold in equal measures. Warm because of Tony’s outrage on her behalf, cold because while she’d expected as much from Rory, the sheer breadth of her boss’s outraged abandonment stings.

Emory hadn’t let herself think much about Rory since the kidnapping, first out of guilt, then out of confused loyalty and bitterness. Rory would want an apology and she’d probably demand to know exactly where Emory was. Failure to do either would result in… exactly what was happening now: a temper tantrum resulting in conjecture in the media.

“Em? Gonna need to start breathing again at some point,” Tony says.

“Argh! The only way to avoid this is to have never met her at all!” Emory groans in frustration. Tony makes the ‘c'mere’ gesture, but she’s stiff with regret, so he comes around behind her and pulls her close, his front to her back.

“I don’t follow,” Happy says, brows furrowed.

“I’m sure something could be arranged using the suit. For Science,” Tony mutters.

Emory spins around and pokes her forefinger right against his shirt-covered arc reactor. “No! You’ve spent enough of your time in confined spaces, you’re not allowed to do something to her and end up with the armor confiscated and yourself thrown in jail!”

Tony’s completely unrepentant. He looks over at Happy and says, “See that? She knows my priorities!”

“Damnit, Tony! You are more important than that suit!” Emory flares.

In a hushed voice, Happy leans towards Tony and says, “You were right, I do like her.” 

“Emory, you’ve seen what happens when bad guys get ahold of my tech!”

“I have! And I don’t want to see you become the ‘bad guy!’” Emory pleads. She turns away from the stubborn look on his face and addresses Hogan. “I’m sorry, I’m sure you had more to tell us.”

“Two different government agencies called me today--”

“Was one of them the Strategic Homeland Inappropriate Expectations blah blah agency? You’d think they would have my number-- they do have my number, right, Em?” Tony asks in a playful voice.

“Hush now,” Emory tells him. “Info now, irreverent later.”

“Promise?”

“Tony, be serious! Rory accused you of murder!”

He’s unrepentant. “And you’re alive, standing here grouching at me! This is easily disproved. If the FBI shows up wanting to talk to me--”

“Which they will, today, at 2 PM,” Hogan interjects. Tony raises his voice and starts stridently arguing with him, but Emory’s mentally transported back to a time when everything that goes wrong is up to her to fix. If Rory spoke to both government agencies and the media, and SHIELD hasn’t gotten in touch yet, they’ve either dropped the ball, or they’re not paying diligent attention.

It seems that she’s once again misplaced her (however grudgingly given) trust.

Her throat closes up. Her chest feels like five bags of rice from that cave are stacked on top of it. When her knees begin to buckle and her ears start ringing, she staggers over to a piece of furniture and sinks into it. Emory wants to bury her face in her hands but the signals she’s sending to her muscles don’t work, so she slumps like a ragdoll, miserable.

Time passes, marked only by the sound of arguing male voices until they’re halted by a sharply worded rebuke from a female one-- Tony’s PA, Pepper Potts.

“Are you two kidding me? Look how pale she is! Harry, water and a warm washcloth, please?. Tony, there’s a call, I sent it to the bedroom phone.” The loveseat Emory’s sitting on sinks with the weight of another person, and a cool, reassuring hand reaches out to pat hers. The pat turns into a squeeze when Emory struggles to sit up. “No, please, take a minute, if you need to.”

“I’m just out of practice, I guess. Haven’t had to manage anything other than my own fear and Tony’s teasing for a while,” Emory says apologetically as she finally succeeds in sitting up. She smoothes the wrinkles out of the borrowed dress shirt with her sweat-damp hands. It’s hard not to be aware of the difference between herself and the immaculately dressed woman beside her. Pepper Potts probably never got stress pimples.

“From what I have heard, keeping Rory Fall in line was good practice for your ordeal,” Potts says wryly. “What did Happy get to tell you before they started butting heads?”

“Hardly anything, and it was more than enough, apparently.”

“From what I could piece together, your boss was looking forward to a fame bump from a reunion. When that didn’t happen, she started putting out feelers. The military won’t tell us anything, so I doubt they answered her, either. It looks like her initial statement of ‘Stark is safe, but where is my assistant?’ turned into ‘what did Tony Stark do to my assistant?”

Emory recognizes the behavior pattern, and she feels responsible. “Argh! I should have been able to see how selfish Rory was getting and headed it off. She wasn’t always like this! It was just… I don’t know. Easier? To always smoothe the way, I mean.”

“My uncle Morgan once told me, ‘Treat regrets like your next-door neighbors. You can peek through the curtains at them-- but you shouldn’t pay their mortgage.’” Her smile brightens, and she shakes her head. “That perspective really helped me stop letting my regrets live rent-free.”

“I can’t imagine you having many!”

“Thank you, but you’d be surprised. ‘We are, all of us, a work in progress.’

“Uncle Morgan again?” Emory guesses.

“Yes. I get to talk to him once every six months or so. The last one was yesterday, and I guess he just stuck with me this time. Back to business, though--” Potts says, reaching into the slim shoulder bag she’d walked in with. She pulls out an object but holds it against the black skirt fabric of her thigh as she offers Emory an apologetic expression. “Mr. Stark wanted to make sure you didn’t have to worry about anything breaking in the car, so instead of cleaning out one of our New York limos, he rented one, which means…” She hands Emory her flip phone. “Leaving it behind was a good tactic for privacy, I’m sorry it didn’t work out the way you’d hoped.”

“I imagine you’re going to have to clean out one after all, when it’s time for me to go back,” Emory sighs, opening the phone to see that she’s gotten at least twenty missed calls from an unlisted number.

“He left strict instructions to leave you both alone, and you’d set ‘Do Not Disturb’ on the phone itself,” Potts says, sounding apologetic, but Emory waves her off.

“I appreciate that, but--”

The phone starts ringing.

“Go on,” Potts says, holding up her own phone, one of the ‘smartphone’ ones that Rory always had. There’s a text from Tony displayed on it. 

Is the tête-à-tête over? I’ve got some bad news.

Emory closes her eyes, feeling for the button on her phone that will answer the call as she lifts it to her ear. Her energy generation right now is different from usual; rather than being sheathed from head to toe with layers that thicken as they power up, the energy is snowballing around her, gathering speed and potential in a tight, widening mass. The difference between this and her usual ‘layering’ is fascinating, but without any time to examine the phenomenon, Emory drapes herself in a dampening cloak of mental static and answers the phone.

“Hello?” She knows better than to use her name on a SHIELD-issued phone. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Potts let herself out of the room.

“Sorry Em. Vacation’s over,” Clint Barton says.

If it had been Natasha, Emory would have begged for more time. If it had been Fury, she’d have bitterly hung up and had a panic attack about what she’d just done. But Clint? She’ll listen to Clint. SHIELD knows exactly how to handle her when it counts, damn them.

“I figured,” she says glumly.

“I knew you would.”  

His tone is grim, but there’s an edge of pride to it that washes away most of her circling, fear-based power surge. Cynically, she wonders if he knew that would happen, but he continues before she has a chance to ponder further.

“So, the plan is: in a half hour, a car will drive up to Stark’s mansion. Inside is an agent dressed up in flashy clothes and sunglasses, which you’ll put on once she goes inside. After an hour or whatever, you’ll walk out and get into the car, the agent driving will take you to a pre-arranged meeting place and you’ll take a helicopter back to D.C.”

“And the agent--”

“She’ll have to talk Stark down.”

“I meant how she’ll avoid the photographers, but that’s also true,” Emory says, scrunching up her nose in amused dismay. The agent would undoubtedly get an earful, unable to walk away from his ire without risking the decoy deception. She feels an ache at the back of her throat that feels metallic and wrong, similar to the tang she’d tasted when she’d first been injected with the serum.

“She’s a professional, she’ll think of something.” Barton clears his throat. “Better go say your goodbyes. I’ll see you later.” With that, he hangs up.

“Bye,” she says to the empty line, thick disappointment clogging her sinuses.

“Marching orders?” It’s Tony. Emory turns and sees that he’s standing against the wall by the door, shoulders hunched, hands buried in his pockets. “I think you left your jackboots in the bunker, but I can go get,” he adds bitterly, before pulling in a deep breath and closing his eyes. With them still closed, he grates out, “That was unfair.”

“Yeah, it totally was,” she says. Tony’s eyes pop open in surprise, and she explains, “I’m too junior for jackboots.”

The triumphant half-smile on his face grows slowly, but she can see it coming, and its warmth and affirmation is as inevitable as the sunrise. They look at each other, the time they have left ticking away in her head until his expression suddenly blinks into stubbornness.

“I have to go, Tony,” Emory says, hoping to head him off. Each word is a knife-stab to her own heart.

“No, no, I know that. We’ve got--” he looks at the expensive watch on his wrist. “‘Not Enough’ minutes left, now. I was trying for that last guitar solo, wanted to build some kind of armor for you, since I’ve got two of these,” he taps the reactor in his chest. “But back when I took out the one I’d made with Yinsen, I asked Pepper to put it somewhere I didn’t have to look at it.”

The bleak look on his face matches the ache in her heart. She nods in complete understanding.

“That was in Malibu. It’s in Malibu.” Tony spreads out his hands. “We’re down to ‘persuasion,’ here.”

“Or patience,” Emory says, standing up. “Natasha and Clint were trying to get my physical prep work done before the symptoms start up. Serum withdrawal, I mean. They’re expected to start in the fourth month since injection, and we’re there. The sooner that happens, the sooner we can get the mission over with.” She rubs her upper arms, knowing the room hasn’t suddenly become cold, it’s just her body shrinking from the task ahead of her. Her fear is already threatening to spool up her power generation, so to prevent that, Emory says, “I really think I can see the light at the end of this tunnel,” and hopes she sounds convincing.

Tony scrubs his hand through the hair at the back of his neck. “What if it’s a freight train?” She winces, surprised at the defeatist attitude, and he says, “Metallica. Never mind.”

“Well, either way, it’s too late to run, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Gonna need a plan B.”

Their last minutes tick past with zero fanfare.

Realistically, there’s not much Tony can do, not now, not when he knows that the woman he loves has so much riding (both morally and physically) on the mission that’s in so much jeopardy. Even the little things, like hoping to send Emory back in clothes he bought for her --after making crystal clear to SHIELD what ‘back’ can’t mean in terms of her treatment-- has gone all to shit.

He’s starting to take it personally. What good was buttering up the agent in California if everything is decided on the East coast? Tony resolves to make toast out of the guy in revenge if things don’t go well enough today, just to make himself feel better.

When the knock comes, it’s right on time. Tony watches from the receiving room doorway as Happy lets in the agent, who is dressed in a tight-fitting black miniskirt, fishnet stockings, and chunky heels. She’s blonde, and her oversized black sunglasses cover much of her face, leaving the impression of deep red lipstick over a plunging neckline barely covered by a stunning red leather jacket that hangs lower than the skirt. They’ve done their homework, at least.

Tony has to admit he’s looking forward to seeing Emory wearing all of it, but he can’t help but feel a twinge over the way SHIELD is framing their agent as ‘Tony Stark’s Kind of Girl.’ There’s no way that isn’t going to shake Emory’s confidence.

Is that their secondary objective?

“Fuck,” he swears under his breath as Happy leads the agent his way. Tony lets the door fall shut and turns to see Emory anxiously hovering by the window, trying to peer at the car parked in front through the gap in the curtains without twitching them sideways and risking being seen.

“What is it?” Emory asks when she glances over and sees the look on his face.

“They went a little overboard on the outfit,” Tony lies. There’s a rap on the door. “Stark’s Gibbet, ‘You Bring ‘Em, We Swing ‘Em!’” he calls out.

Happy opens the door anyway.

“Not overboard,” Emory murmurs when she sees the woman. That stings, but she’s right.

“Here you go,” Happy says to the woman, handing her a black leather bag that seems to be made out of the same amount of fabric as her miniskirt. Tony waves Hogan off, dipping his hand into his pocket to show him the edge of his cell phone so he knows that Tony will send him further instructions. Frowning, Happy nods, turns, and leaves, pulling the door firmly shut behind him.

“Okay, these are a pain,” the agent says, pulling off her sunglasses and stepping out of her shoes all at the same time. “I know why they designed them like this, I mean, our heights are pretty different, but man.” She sets the sunglasses down on a nearby table and digs in the black leather bag until she pulls out a fabric-wrapped bundle.

“Tony Stark, I’d like you to meet-- Oh, I’m sorry, all I can remember is the name from your fake name tag, from the day we met,” Emory says with obviously forced politeness. Tony notices that she has positioned herself between Tony and the agent, just like she’d done in the field. He wonders if it’s SHIELD tactics, then wonders if it’s standard SHIELD tactics or if they’ve trained Emory to be a barrier between SHIELD’s assets and their target. Sour, impotent resentment rises in his throat, different from Afghanistan, but similar enough.

“Agent Sharon Harris,” the agent says without acknowledging Emory’s slight in any way. She holds out a hand to shake Tony’s. 

He sees Emory’s face fall as she realizes that the two of them might not have touched at all had she not pushed the introduction. Just in case, he goes for as macho a handshake as he’s ever attempted, holding back just enough not to injure.

Agent Harris doesn’t give any indication that his vise-like grip is anything more than a regular shake. If it hurts her, he can’t tell when he lets go. Hell, it hurt him a little.

“Director Fury told me to send her back out after anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour and a half,” she says, a slight challenge in her eyes. She reaches up and digs her fingers impossibly into her scalp, coming away with a very convincing blonde wig. Underneath, her own blonde hair is neatly pinned down. “I was thinking seventy-five minutes would be just fine, though it might depend on how difficult it’ll be to walk in those things.” Setting down the wig, she unwraps the fabric bundle, revealing solid-looking shoe inserts. “May I?” Harris asks, indicating that Emory should sit in a nearby chair.

Emory walks over with an air of wounded dignity that Tony finds adorable. He knows better than to ever tell her that, of course. 

The SHIELD agent tucks the inserts into the platform heels she’d worn into the building, snapping them into place and holding them up. “Try them on?”

Tony can’t help but admit that her agency has done their due diligence at very short notice, here. After enlisting his help to move some furniture around so the two women can sit close to each other, Agent Harris starts doing Emory’s makeup. As she tells the two of them a bit more about how SHIELD plans to get Emory out past the paparazzi, Harris constructs the same look that she walked in with, even using a thick gel to conceal the red in Em’s eyebrows. 

When it comes time for Emory to change, Harris asks him to step out. They’re taking Emory away from him and the two of them won’t be allowed to be in the same physical space until after the mission, and he’s supposed to just accept that? The idea that’s been angrily forming in his mind will fail if he gives any indication of it, so Tony just walks over and kisses Emory, tongue and ass grab, the whole nine yards. Minutes later, when he pulls back, he can see sadness in her eyes. She thinks it’s a goodbye kiss.

It can’t be helped.As soon as the dining room door shuts behind him, Tony races up to his bedroom. He doesn’t have much time to change.

Next chapter, Tony makes his investment in Emory very clear by showing up where SHIELD doesn't expect.

((Note: hopefully it's clear that, because SHIELD needs it to appear that Emory and Tony aren't associating with each other, Sharon showing up is meant to look like a socialite there for an assignation))

[darsynia]

Trust Fall | Ch 20 (mature)

MINORS DNI THIS CHAPTER PLEASE. Oral sex (f receiving) and sexual touching.

Story Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: Tony/OC, ‘terrorists made us fall in love;’ IM1 timeline. In this chapter, Tony and Emory arrive at the mansion and spend some quality time with each other.

Length: 4,853 (there's just nowhere to cut this. It's smutty tho)

Taglist: @starryeyes2000 @raith-way @arrthurpendragon @themaradaniels @starksbf @chickensarentcheap @tiny-anne

Excerpt:

Tony stops at another door, metal this time, with submarine-style fittings. He reaches toward the circular spoked door mechanism but stops with his hands mid-air. “Shit, I’m just taking you into another confined space you’ll be locked into. Em--” Tony turns to look at her, concern etched across his features.

“Drag me into your bunker, Mr. Stark,” Emory tells him in a breathy voice.

His relief is immediate and attractive. “Oh, I will.”

He spins the safe-like wheel one way, then the other. Tony swears under his breath, repeating the action, then blows out a frustrated sigh and turns on his heel to glare at her good-naturedly.

“You!” He starts towards her, herding her against the wall opposite the vault room. “If I had your power set the building would probably be in serious danger right now.” He rests both palms flat on the wall and looks down, desire painted clearly on his face. “What am I going to do with you?”

Everything, Emory wants to say.

Chapter Twenty: Star(k) Power

They’re both very hungry by the time Happy Hogan finally drives them into the mansion’s subterranean garage. Tony had spent the last hour listing food places they could order from until she’d picked one to placate him. After years of having to make do with things she doesn’t like, it’s hard to even recall her own favorites. Rory would always choose her own second favorite things so she could eat from Emory’s plate.

As they’re getting out of the limo, Hogan gets the notification that their delivery driver is almost there, and he sets off to collect and pay. She’s not surprised that Tony had set up the other man’s phone as the contact, but it’s close enough to her previous life that she feels odd staying behind.

Tony leads her out of the garage toward the main part of the house, saying, “Why do I have a feeling your former boss made you pay for the food and expense it, instead of just setting up a card?”

He’s right. “How did you know I was thinking about Rory?” Emory asks, staring up at his back as he climbs the stairs in front of her.

“You have a face. It’s your ‘Rory’ face.”

“I ‘have a face,’” Emory repeats, amused.

“You do. I missed it. Your face in general, I mean.” He walks her through a hallway with crimson wallpaper that terminates at an ornate wooden door, and indicates that she should go first.

“You go first. I’ll follow you and silently judge your slightly creepy murder hallway,” Emory says.

Tony laughs, leaning against the closed door and glancing up at the ceiling in recollection. “That reminds me-- My father was angry about something, so he’d driven home ‘aggressively;’” Tony’s air quotes imply this is an understatement. “I was five at most, and my mom had just taught me the word ‘pedestrian,’ because of those signs, ‘Ped Xing?’ Well.” He winces. “Dad was in front of me in this hallway, and I just said, ‘Did you paint the walls with the blood of pedestrians?’”

“Oh no!”

He pulls a face and opens the door. ”Dad updated many other things over the years, but never this hallway. Can’t look like I ever influenced him, I guess.” 

Tony doesn’t look upset as he walks past her through the doorway, but from behind, Emory can see that he’s tense from the memory. She doesn’t blame him; her own parents’ divorce had been rough, sure, but when she was a kid, she’d never doubted that they loved her. Their distaste about her choice of occupation was a whole different beast, but she’d been a young adult by then.

Tony stops at another door, metal this time, with submarine-style fittings. He reaches toward the circular spoked door mechanism but stops with his hands mid-air. “Shit, I’m just taking you into another confined space you’ll be locked into. Em--” Tony turns to look at her, concern etched across his features.

“Drag me into your bunker, Mr. Stark,” Emory tells him in a breathy voice.

His relief is immediate and attractive. “Oh, I will.”

He spins the safe-like wheel one way, then the other. Tony swears under his breath, repeating the action, then blows out a frustrated sigh and turns on his heel to glare at her good-naturedly.

“You!” He starts towards her, herding her against the wall opposite the vault room. “If I had your power set the building would probably be in serious danger right now.” He rests both palms flat on the wall and looks down, desire painted clearly on his face. “What am I going to do with you?”

Everything, Emory wants to say. Instead, she impishly remarks, “Most of your choices probably involve the room in there,” and nods over his shoulder at the still-locked bunker door.

“Is that meant to be a motivator?” he asks, tilting his head to the side.

The mental snowfield that aids her in keeping control slips after having been extensively employed earlier today, and Emory thinks, fuck it. She grabs a handful of his shirt and lifts herself up for a kiss. “No, but this is.”

Tony’s on board immediately, closing in to nip at her, teasing and tasting. He pins her in place with his hips, and she slips a hand around to press at the small of his back, anchoring herself in his sturdy warmth. There’s a whoosh of air around them, loud but not dangerous, given the limited space to draw from. Emory can feel the fabric of his shirt ripple when it passes. Tony’s reaction is a low rumble in his chest as he presses even closer, his kiss more demanding, spurred on by his role in her power generation.

After a long few minutes, he lifts his head and schools his expression into a stern one. “Consider yourself properly chastised.”

“Is that supposed to be a de-motivator?” she asks as he stalks away from her over to the door. Tony once again pauses in the process of setting his hands on the mechanism, his shoulders shaking with laughter. Emory has to work hard to hold back her own.

Thankfully he gets the door right this time, opens it, and goes straight in. She pushes off from the wall and follows only to skid to a halt after just a few steps. Nothing about what she sees reads as an ‘emergency bunker’ to her, mostly because it’s huge.  

In the center of multiple separate areas is a lab space complete with worktables and equipment. Fanning out on either side of the central area are two ‘wings,’ one of which is a kitchen/living space straight out of a 1980’s celebrity home magazine. The other is a large bed adorned by a circular curtain hanging from a hook directly above. Each wing has independent lights from the center lab, with the bedroom lights set the most dim. 

Just looking at the bed makes her yawn, but at that same moment, Tony gets a message from Hogan, who is at the door to the bunker with the food. The three of them eat at the kitchen island before Hogan excuses himself, bidding them goodnight. This prompts another yawn, which Emory tries to hide in embarrassment.

“No worries,” Hogan says. “The two of you probably haven’t slept soundly in three months.” He nods at Tony behind her. “This one’s been working nonstop to get you here, it’s about time he gets some shut-eye, don’t you think?” Even though Emory hasn’t reacted with more than a simple nod, Hogan starts getting defensive. “What? Don’t look at me like that! I’m saying get your priorities straight, that’s all!” 

She turns to see that Tony’s making a ‘time out’ gesture. When she swivels back to look at Hogan, he’s pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’ll be picking up Pepper from the airport in an hour, but we’ll see you in the morning. You know, when you’re both rested,” he says. There’s a little bit of impish humor in the set of his jaw that Emory can’t help but be delighted by.

Tony sounds less enamored. “Lovingly? Get out. Now.”

“You got it.”

Tony guides the other man to the door, one hand firmly on his back. When the door clangs shut, he deflates a little, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb.

“Don’t tell Mother Hen back there, but I had every intention of sleeping at our earliest convenience. He tends to get gloat-y, but I think the most accurate term for how I feel right now is ‘knackered.’”

“I’ve been looking forward to sleeping beside you for more weeks than I’m willing to admit,” Emory says simply.

With a pleased look on his face, Tony crosses half of the space between them, turns toward the bedroom area, and holds out a hand.

It’s completely dark when she wakes. There’s no way to know the time, but it can’t have been more than a few hours. Emory’s the little spoon to Tony’s big one, his arm curled around her waist, head nestled behind hers on the pillow. As someone who is often cold at night, she’s glad for the way their legs are tangled together, as the t-shirt he’d lent her to sleep in doesn’t fall any further than mid-thigh.

The only problem with the way they’re intertwined is, the heat of Tony’s hand on her stomach and the way his knee has snuck up almost between her legs is kind of making it hard to drift back off to sleep. She shifts a few times, hoping to either shed the growing arousal she’s feeling or position that knee of his somewhere it would do some good.

“Are you trying to kill me in my sleep?” Tony gasps in her ear, nuzzling his body closer and spreading out the hand on her stomach.

Emory sucks in a breath; that felt really good. She opens her mouth to respond, but stops. The thing she wants to say is more brazen than she’s ever, ever been, not that it would even faze Tony.

“What is it?”

Of course he’s perceptive about this, it’s sex-related! she groans to herself. Emory decides to go for it. “I’m not trying to kill you, but I will if you stop touching me,” she manages, voice wavering between steel wool and cotton fluff.

“We are at the same paragraph on the same page of the same dirty magazine,” he groans into her shoulder, sliding his hand down to cup her through the fabric of the shirt she’d borrowed. “I’ve wanted to know whether you took off those panties you didn’t let me peek at since we got in bed.”

Emory pictures Tony’s hand as the snowfield that’s meant to be keeping her powers in check, but all that does is make it easier for her to picture his hand where she can already feel him moving. The variable pressure in each muted, cloth-covered swirl of his fingers is unpredictable and glorious. Emory rests her own hand on his forearm and almost moans aloud. She hadn’t realized that feeling his muscles flex would be so intimate.

Then, Tony drags the shirt out of the way and runs his hand along her bared hip like he’s searching for the lace of her panties. Finding nothing, he says, “You did! Perfect.”

“I hate sleeping in panties,” she confesses.

“I wholeheartedly approve.”

Tony moves the flat of his hand from her hip to her knee, simultaneously angling his own leg underneath, slowly drawing hers apart. His confident caresses ramp up her anticipation, with wide sweeps of his whole hand spreading tingles closer and closer to her core. Emory whimpers, her stomach muscles protesting at the way she’s used them to hold still. Tony makes a sympathetic noise of his own and circles closer, finally delving his fingers into her waiting curls. Emory’s waning grasp on her power generation flutters along with her heartbeat.

She didn’t know she’d closed her eyes until something large brushes against her legs, startling her. Visible in the dim LED-glow from the devices across the room, the support chain above them is shaking, and the canopy itself is spinning.

“Em?” Tony pauses his movements. He doesn’t sound upset, but she’s mortified.

“Shit, sorry!” Emory says. She pulls in all of her scattered concentration to leash the radiated energy. A few tossed packets of power in the opposite direction helps her slow and then stop the twirling fabric. When she lays her head back against Tony’s shoulder behind her in embarrassed relief, he chuckles.

“Yes, how dare you lose your grip on your actual superpowers when I touch you? I am outraged,” he teases, sucking a kiss onto her neck.

“Don’t get too cocky. I just woke up, I’ve got diminished capacity!” Emory teases back. She can hear the smile in his voice, and something about the prickly feel of his beard hair on her collarbone makes her feel his, somehow. Turning her head to catch his attention before he takes away her powers of thought and speech with the hand he’s starting to move back into position, she says, “It’s pretty early. We could skip ahead to other… I mean, if you want--” Even in near darkness, she’s too shy to finish the suggestion.

“Oh, I want, but hear me out,” Tony says, shifting so he can look down at her. Most of his face is in shadow, but she can see a glittering intensity in his eyes. “Night after night in that cave I wanted to sneak over to your cot. Because of their camera, I never did. In Malibu, JARVIS is everywhere, but I didn’t install him in the bunker, which means no video or audio monitoring. There’s no one watching but me.” He dips his head down to kiss her, pulling back after just a few seconds. “Let me do this for you. Tomorrow I can look; tonight, I want to feel.” Tony leans down and nuzzles against the clothed hollow between her breasts. “Say yes.”

“Yes,” Emory says softly, trailing a hand across his back and up into his hair.

“Mmm, and since it’s already dark, and I won’t be able to see well either way…” Tony moves down her body so swiftly she doesn’t fully understand the context until his warm hands push her t-shirt farther up.

“Tony!” she hisses, frozen in agonized indecision. She definitely wants this, but they’d been in the car for hours.

He seems not to have heard her protest, too busy settling down at the foot of the bed and gently positioning her onto her back. “I’ll stop, if that’s what you want,” Tony says after a long moment, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh.

“Is there a shower somewhere nearby?” she whispers.

“First of all: I would have done this in that cave if it weren’t for the aforementioned surveillance cameras,” he says, dragging his shirt off over his head. The gentle blue of his arc reactor helps her see the sincerity in his expression. “Second of all: wouldn’t that wake you all the way up? I was going for ‘comfort pleasure,’ here.”

His casual tone coupled with that phrase almost undoes her, but she’s still nervous. Tony’s been with so many beautiful women!

“But--” Her words cut off for a second when he draws a too-light caress from one hip to another. Instead of staying propped up to look at him, Emory falls back onto the bed, angling an arm over her face in chagrin. “You’re a billionaire, Tony!” she argues weakly.

“Hey, most of that wasn’t on purpose!” He rests a warm hand on her stomach. “Being rich means I don’t do things unless I want to, unless there are terrorists involved. This bunker is terrorist free.” Tony freezes in place, and Emory lifts her head to see what’s wrong. “Forget I said that,” he says. “Only good memories right now.”

“Meeting you was a good memory,” Emory says quietly.

His eyebrows shoot up. “Time to make another one?”

“Absolutely,” she says, still shy but completely won over. His hand on her stomach stays put, but Tony grins up at her before drawing his other thumb right across her very center. She drops her head back yet again, saying, “No recordings, but is the bunker soundproof?”

“Yes. Please tell me that means you’ll make noises,” he says, sounding delighted. Then, in the next second, “Wait! Don’t tell me. I’d rather find out.”

The smug bastard starts slow.

Somehow after watching him spend hours a day working with delicate wires, employing his creative mind to come up with clever solutions to intricate problems, Emory had never thought about how that might translate to sex. Tony’s knowledge-base is no less vast when it comes to exactly how to take her apart. Thanks to his comment about noises, she’s self-conscious to the point of muteness, but of course, he doesn’t play fair. 

“It just so happens that I do better wirework when I’m horny. That means you are responsible for half of that first suit’s success,” he says after a minute of teasing her with devastating twists of his fingers and kisses that land almost but not quite close enough. “Pictured myself in exactly this position, too.”

Even though she braces herself, Emory’s still unprepared for the jolt of pleasure that strikes her when his lips close on her clit, tongue swirling, fingers thrusting home for the first time. It’s a ‘car battery to arc reactor’ leap in intensity, and she can’t prevent herself from crying out. Tony ‘mms’ his approval, the vibrations turning her blood to lava.

From there he simply lays waste to her ability to do anything more than feel, building on each action and counter-action until she’s writhing and gasping and begging. When release comes she’s long-since incoherent, her throat tender and her soul sore from his unique mix of sweetness and conceit. Tony adds to that by reaching out to catch her hand in one of his as she shakes.

When she opens her eyes again, the ceiling looks wrong. Emory stares, uncomprehending, until Tony crawls up and stretches out beside her, also on his back.

“The stitching tore loose,” he explains. “It landed somewhere over there,” he says, gesturing vaguely.

“Oh my god!” She sits up, eyes wide, horrified.

“It’s fine, Helen Hunt. Blew harmlessly past us into another part of the bunker. Nothing’s messed up.”

Emory laughs, despite the situation. “Helen Hunt? Where did that come from?”

“That tornado movie, Twister?”

“Wouldn’t the nickname be her character name? It was ‘Jo,’ right?” she asks, laying back down.

Tony’s struck by a huge yawn right as he tries to answer. “I fully admit I have zero cognitive ability right now. What is it, 3 AM?” He snuggles closer, reaching down to drag over the light blanket from where it’s crumpled up at one side of the bed.

His yawn is contagious, and her orgasm has filled her with a kind of lassitude that could translate into sleep very easily. Still, there’s no way he hadn’t ramped himself up, and she’s not a tease.

“I don’t want to leave you… oh, crap, there’s no word that my sleepy brain can bring up that doesn’t sound filthy in this context. Don’t you want to come?” she asks, scrunching her face up in embarrassment.

“I’m good,” he says, surprising her. “I end up with some really intense dreams like this.”

Tony’s words already sound sleep-slurred, and Emory reminds herself what he said about having the agency to make his own decisions. She nestles herself against him, wondering if the intense dreams he’s expecting might include her this time.

Emory wakes up when Tony eases his arm out from under her.

“What time is it?” she asks, stifling a yawn with the back of one hand.

“It’s just past nine. It’s easy to sleep in with no windows,” he tells her, reacting to her surprise. “Wait till you see my bedroom in Malibu. Windows for days.”

“Wow, besides Afghanistan and jet lag, I don’t know if I’ve slept that late in almost a decade!”

“The more you talk about your life before, the more I want to send that bitch a nastygram,” Tony grumps, heading off to the bathroom. Rory’s a sore subject for him, he can admit that to himself. He’d enjoyed the sex, but thought her hangups were too numerous and unusual for anything long-term. That's not the problem, though.

Tony literally can not remember Emory from his brief weeks with her boss. It makes him feel like shit.

He sees the full-size towel hanging beside the stand-up shower and decides to duck in for a quick one. When he steps out fifteen minutes later, he sees that Emory has helped herself to a glass of milk and one of the muffins he’d stocked the kitchen with. Beside her plate on the center island are the clothes she wore yesterday, neatly folded. This makes him check for a full-light glimpse of her bare legs, but she’s wearing the pants.

“Damn.”

“Metal stool equals way too cold for the disheveled girlfriend look, sorry,” she says, her expression turning guarded right away. “Not that I want to presume--”

Tony knows just how to reassure her. He holds up a finger and jogs over to the tablet computer he’d left in the lab space, waking it up and navigating to the checklist of tasks for rescuing her he’d synced with Pepper and Happy. He holds it up for her to read.

GIRLFRIEND: ULTIMATE RESCUE LIST

“I’ll take it personally if you make a liar out of me.”

Her face lights up. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Emory says, looking down at her plate. A lock of her beautiful red hair slips free from where she’d anchored it behind her ear. Tony can’t understand how he could ever have overlooked her, but at the same time, awfully, he can. He’s been surrounded by staff and service people his whole life, and from a young age he’d been taught that it was rude and sometimes even dangerous to let the veil of social strata fall too far. To distract himself, he looks for a muffin of his own, and misses something Emory says.

“One more time?”

“Oh, I was wondering if you’d tried to make it ‘GO GURL’ but didn’t have the time to make it work.”

Tony rewards her with an exasperated look, and her little smile of victory makes him feel a little lightheaded. She knows him, the way that Happy and Rhodey do, but he’s already done the work to make sure that those men are safe and successful. Emory’s not safe yet. Being forced to leave some of his heart uncertain and unguarded is an uncomfortable feeling. He doesn’t like it. 

At least Rhodey’s innate sense of tact and careful diplomacy netted Tony some sparse info on SHIELD, but it’s nowhere near enough. Rhodes had cautioned patience, but Tony’s fresh out. He doesn’t intend to send her back to Fury unless they’re certain of her safety, and that’ll mean asking her some uncomfortable questions. Emory’s skilled in deflection, her skills honed by a hundred hundred thirsty men angling for Rory Fall’s affections. Will she figure out his ultimate game plan of threatening SHIELD’s mission in exchange for a promise of full autonomy? 

A short rumbling sound breaks the silence between bites of muffin.

“Is that your phone?” Em asks.

Tony sighs. “It’s got to be Happy, I’ve got everyone else on do not fucking disturb. Literally.” He winks at her lasciviously and appreciates the look of interest this prompts in her. Tony gets up and heads over to the overturned storage bin he’d stuck his phone under in a vain attempt to muffle the notifications. Sure enough, he’s got five missed calls and multiple text exhortations to answer the phone, all from Happy Hogan. It’s annoying at first, but then he looks at the timestamps.

The first is from six AM, then one every half hour until nine, scattered through with the texts. Ironically, Happy tends to bunch them up when something’s trivial, so this? This looks like an actual emergency.

Even as he thinks this, another text comes through.

HHogan: Don’t leave me on ‘read,’ Tony. Something’s up.

Tony picks one of the missed call messages and calls back. Hogan answers within the first ring.

“We’ve got media trouble, maybe legal too.”

“Your face just got really serious,” Emory says, getting down from her stool and coming over.

“Happy’s on his way. Something about media trouble.” He doesn’t add the legal part because she hasn’t had enough exposure to Happy Hogan to know when he’s exaggerating for effect. To Tony, this doesn’t feel like one of those times. “Ok, come on down. Pepper get home okay?” he says into the phone.

“Yep, she’s right-- Yes. She’s… she got home okay,” Happy stammers. Tony takes this to mean she’s in the room with him.

“Good. Should I activate JARVIS in here, or--”

Hogan is forceful. “No, no. That’ll just get you upset. Lemme come and--”

Happy’s voice cuts off. Tony can hear him and Pepper arguing (‘You’re gonna freak him out! Just go down there!’ ‘He won’t even stick around to hear anything we say if he sees these headlines!’) in a muffled way, as if Pepper’s holding the phone against her shoulder. By the time she speaks into the pilfered phone, Tony’s genuinely concerned.

“Tony? He’s on his way. It’s… it doesn’t have to be really bad, okay? We’ll fix it.”

“None of this is reassuring,” he tells Pepper in a tense whisper.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” Tony hangs up and sees that Emory is hovering anxiously nearby. He opens his arms for her and she obliges, kissing the space beside his arc reactor.

“You’ve had bad media attention in the past, haven’t you?”

“Sure, which is why those two having kittens on the phone has me concerned,” he replies. She makes a little noise of unhappiness and tightens her arms around him for a few seconds.

With a qualm of conscience, Tony realizes he probably should have obscured his worries and sent Emory in for a shower. In the past, he’s seen that fear dissipates her self-described ‘sheaths’ of power, but Emory has implied that positive emotions aren’t the only generator. It’s possible, even likely, that it can happen with any strong emotion, which is then derailed by feeling an equally strong opposing response. Affection is negated by fear, but is fear negated by affection?

“Shouldn’t he be here by now? How big is the house?”

He pulls the phone back out of his pocket to see if he’d missed Hap’s text. The door is designed to be too thick to translate something like a knock. “Not this big, but it’s been a while since we--” The phone starts ringing, interrupting him. Tony answers it with, “Did you get lost?”

“Left my phone with Pepper, and you didn’t hear me knocking,” Happy’s saying, sounding out of breath. “Your turn. Meet me in the den.” He hangs up.

“Want to see the rest of the house?” Tony asks Emory.

Her response is to have a minor freak out about whether she’s presentable, given the fact that Pepper Potts and Happy Hogan have ‘already seen her in these clothes.’ Tony finds her an old white dress shirt from a drawer in the bedroom. While she’s dressing in the bathroom, he rushes to collect the ripped bed canopy that’s lying across their path to the door before she sees it on their way out and feels bad about it. The truth is, he’d been reassured by the whole canopy thing. Her control has improved a good deal between that and the tornado of cave debris.

“Worst deja vu ever?” he asks when she comes out of the bathroom with the sleeves of the over-large shirt rolled up. It really does look like the one she’d borrowed from Yinsen all those weeks ago.

Emory nods, but her expression hardens as she puts her shoes back on. “I can’t let anyone else get trapped by that scientist. I keep picturing Yinsen collecting all of his money, blinded by the possible outcomes. There can’t have been much information on the guy, or he would have figured out it was a bad deal.”

“We can ask JARVIS--”

“No!” she says sharply. “Sorry, but no. Natasha says it’s possible the guy keeps records of pings, showing the physical locations of people who visit his page. She cautioned me not to search while at SHIELD so we didn’t tip our hand. I’m sure a ping from the Stark mansion would be just as bad, after all, I’m supposed to be friendless and destitute.”

Tony turns to open the door, frowning where she can’t see his face. That sounds like manipulative bullshit to him. “I hope you’re good at faking that, then.”

He leads her up the warren of steps and corridors to the second floor den. It’s classic and intimidating, with wood-panel walls, thousands of books, and velvet furniture, on which is seated an anxious-looking Happy Hogan.

“Well?” Tony says, noticing the way Emory’s tracing her hands along the odd devices that line the edges of the mahogany desk.

Hogan stands up. “Look, there’s no good way to say this-- the singer, your old boss?” he says, looking at Emory. “She’s been making some calls. Claims that since she hasn’t heard from you, Tony must be covering up that you died during the escape.”

“This from the woman who spent a week melodramatically wailing from a kushy hotel in Kabul that her luggage was missing, with hardly a word about the whole person who was also missing?” Tony snaps, instantly furious. “Has she even tried to get in touch with you? Your parents?”

“Not that I know of,” Emory whispers, white-faced. “I put it off, since it seemed like she wasn’t interested in-- Mr. Hogan, what exactly is she saying?”

“She’s basically accusing Tony of murder.”

Next chapter, Emory and Tony have to decide whether to prioritize their current needs over their future ones.

[darsynia]

Trust Fall | Ch 19b (mature)

MINORS DNI THIS CHAPTER PLEASE. Oral sex (m receiving) and sexual touching.

Story Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: Tony/OC, ‘terrorists made us fall in love;’ IM1 timeline. In this chapter, Tony and Emory enjoy some alone time in the limo.

Length: 2,735

Taglist: @starryeyes2000 @raith-way @arrthurpendragon @themaradaniels @starksbf @chickensarentcheap @tiny-anne

Excerpt:

The next few moments pass in a blur of gloriously building tension as struggles to hold back the filthy litany of praise he wants to lavish on Emory. It’s only by some miracle that he’s kept himself to moans and mild swearing so far. Tony wraps one hand in the belt strap to prevent himself from touching her head, reluctant to take charge like he’s done in the past. He doesn’t want to use her like a plaything instead of a partner. It’s difficult enough not to thrust up.

There’s no looking away, not that he’d want to. From her hollowed cheeks and spit-slick lips to the way she angles pleased little glances up at him and invariably loses her rhythm, Emory is a Siren in the process of stealing away his soul. Fuck, Tony thinks. He’s never telling her she’s pushed him past profane into poetic.

Chapter Nineteen: Photosynthesis

She falls asleep almost as soon as she settles into him, legs curled up on the seat, a handful of his shirt in her left hand at his stomach. Tony wills away the sting of aroused regret; Emory needs this the same way he’d needed the time alone in his own home that first night. Pepper had sent along some of the surveillance photos she’d taken of Em. In all of them she’d looked drawn and wilted, so much so that he’d really worried that SHIELD was breaking down all of the independence he’d seen her grasping for.

It had been such a relief to watch her blossom back to the woman he loves at the sight of him. Good for his ego, too. Fuck, he’s stretching the plant metaphor into something ridiculous, which probably means he should sleep too, but Tony can’t stop picturing her as a wilted flower responding to much-needed sunlight and water.

He settles carefully into a position that won’t make his neck ache too much when he wakes up. Before he drifts off, Tony’s sleep-deprived brain offers one more extension of the metaphor: he sure hopes she didn’t sink too many roots into SHIELD.

Tony wakes up right as the limo takes a sharper than normal turn. With the arm still curled around her, he leans Emory into the turn to keep her from stirring. Her grip on his shirt has been sleep-loosened, so her hand slides from his waist to his crotch.

Shit, he thinks to himself. She’d complained on their call about getting poor sleep, so Tony knows he shouldn’t wake her up. He’s not a monk, though, despite acting like one for far too long. All of his attention and energy had been devoted to building the suit, to the exclusion of most other thoughts. Now they’re on the rebound with a vengeance.

He should distract himself so he isn’t tempted to wake her up, but he doesn’t want to. Tony wants to think about what her hair would look like spread out on his pillow-- hell, spread out on his thighs. He’s more satyr than savior right now.

Tony shifts his hips in the hopes that Emory’s hand will drift to less inflammatory real estate. Instead, she lets out a tiny sleep murmur, almost a moan. The minor disturbance plays across her body; her shoulders shift, then her feet, her hips, and finally, devastatingly, that hand, the heel of her palm sliding against his clothed member as Emory flexes her wrist in her sleep.

It feels amazing. 

“You’re killing me,” he mutters under his breath, a tiny concession to the fact that he shouldn’t enjoy this.

Emory reacts to the sound of his voice, launching into a campaign to completely wreck him, or so it seems. She arches her back, dragging her arm across his now entirely erect and straining cock as she goes through the ‘just woke up’ motions. Emory slides her feet down from the seat and keeps sliding, somehow unbuckling as she goes. Tony reaches for her but is caught by his own seatbelt before he can stop her from ending up on the floor.

“Em?”

“That was on purpose,” she says, sounding dazed. “Mostly.”

Her flannel ‘pillow’ has fallen onto his lap. Tony could grab for it and make some much-needed adjustments in his stupidly tight pants, but just at that moment, Emory gathers herself up onto her knees and leans her forearms on the seat, derailing all rational thought.

“Can I make a confession?” She’s avoiding eye contact.

“Only if I get to assign penance.” He could come up with some very interesting variations on a hail mary.

Emory buries her head in her arms. “I woke up a while ago. I wanted to ramp you up and offer to… you know,” she says, her voice getting almost too quiet to hear. “But I chickened out.”

Tony tosses the flannel and pops the button of his pants shamelessly. “I am here for any and all confidence-building. How can I help?” 

“I have no idea!” 

She laughs, scrubbing her face with her hands and dragging her hair back so she can look up at him. Her minimal eye makeup is smudged, her lips have no stain or gloss on them, and he can see that a line of two pimples have formed near her ear. She looks nothing like the kind of woman his ‘reputation’ would say should be in this limo with him, but Tony’s never looked forward to a woman’s mouth on him more than he does right now. Given his habit of deliberately alienating one night stands so they stay that way, he’s double-checking every instinct at this point. He does not want to derail this.

While Tony’s tongue-tied, he watches Emory braid her hair in a hurried, tight line, letting go without securing the end. It starts to unwind immediately, and he can’t help but picture it giving way mid-motion. He wants that.  

She closes her eyes, looking nervous. “Oh, God. Tony, I think I’m just too--”

He launches forward and grabs her hands. “Wait. Don’t freak out. It’s just us, right? I want you. You want me? Go for it.” Tony briefly kisses her and pulls back so he’s not sending mixed messages with his next words. “No pressure.”

Her tension dissipates in the form of shocked laughter. “Tony, that’s like, 90% pressure! Does that actually work on anyone?”

“That was the first time, you tell me.”

She tips her head to the side and looks at him for a long moment before squaring her shoulders. Reaching out a shaking hand, Emory places it on Tony’s left knee, pulling it wide to make space for her to settle between his legs.

He’d been ready to encourage her out of her shy hesitation if necessary, but this resolute bravery is shaking him. Emory starts to lower his zipper, her eyes caught by the arc reactor in his chest. She pauses, clearly puzzled.

“Something’s different, right?”

Tony looks down and taps at it. “I built a better version as soon as I got back, just like the suit.” He twists the reactor to show her the improved design. “The armor chestpiece makes contact with the housing and transmits power without having to-- aahhhhhh Em, Fuck!”

The little minx had used her question as a way to distract him. Without his eyes on her, Emory had mustered the courage to finish unfastening his pants,  pull him out, and lick his cock from base to tip. Tony watches, riveted, as she takes a few inches in her mouth with steady suction, stroking the rest with one hand. Her other hand drifts to her chest and starts unzipping the fitted workout top she’s wearing.

Tony closes his eyes and focuses all his attention on that last turn to lock his reactor back where it belongs.

“Mmm, good idea,” Emory pulls off to say, her lips brushing flashes of pleasure across his cock between each word.

“Yep, I’m a genius,” Tony manages. He opens his eyes and lets out a heartfelt groan at the sight of her. Emory’s hair has wisped up around her face, the red tendrils framing her blush-pink cheeks. She’d opened her shirt until just past the swell of her breasts, and as he watches, she fits her lips around him, sucking in as she dips her head all the way down. Tony lets out a sound of strangled pleasure that has her humming in impish sympathy.

The next few moments pass in a blur of gloriously building tension as struggles to hold back the filthy litany of praise he wants to lavish on Emory. It’s only by some miracle that he’s kept himself to moans and mild swearing so far. Tony wraps one hand in the belt strap to prevent himself from touching her head, reluctant to take charge like he’s done in the past. He doesn’t want to use her like a plaything instead of a partner. It’s difficult enough not to thrust up.

There’s no looking away, not that he’d want to. From her hollowed cheeks and spit-slick lips to the way she angles pleased little glances up at him and invariably loses her rhythm, Emory is a Siren in the process of stealing away his soul. Fuck, Tony thinks. He’s never telling her she’s pushed him past profane into poetic.

As he’d hoped it would, her hair finally spins free, falling like a scarlet curtain that hides what she’s doing from view. Without thinking, Tony reaches out to brush it back. He’s unable to resist sinking his fingers into the bulk of it at the base of her neck.

“Ohh, mmm,” Emory moans, her free hand flying up to hold him there. She squirms her hips and backs off, stroking him as she catches her breath. “Yes. Use your hands on me.”

“I’m clumsy and barely sensate,” Tony objects.

“Good,” is Emory’s shocking reply. “If I even got to do this, the guys would always hold back-- but not because of me. Because of Rory. It might get back to her, you see, and they didn’t want to risk the meal ticket!” Emory throws herself back and strips her shirt the rest of the way off, discarding it inside-out on the floor. Her bra is red. “I don’t belong to anyone,” she adds, but there’s a bitter little twist in her voice that Tony hopes he’ll remember to figure out later.

“You belong to yourself,” he quickly agrees. Her thing with Rory will need to be dealt with, but right now she needs validation and he needs to come. “Maybe what you need is an extensive series of roleplay sessions to work through this. I’d be happy to offer my services. I’m sure I could rustle up a few wigs, maybe a handlebar mustache?” 

Emory had pulled herself up to sit beside him, her hand in the process of reaching out exactly where he-- but she snatches it back at his last statement.

Tony winces. “Too far?”

“No, I just didn’t want to associate those two things. Ever.” She arches up, clearly going for a kiss.

“Message heard,” he says, and obliges her. Thankfully, gloriously, the kiss heats up right away. Tony gives in to the urge he’s felt as long as he’s known Emory’s bra color, and drags the lacy straps down her arms so he can bury his face in their softness.

“Okay wow, make a note of that,” she breathes appreciatively. “Beard hair on sensitive skin is a massive turn-on!”

“Even…” he dangles as he draws his chin across the nipple he’d just been tonguing.

Emory falls back against the arm he’d braced behind her. “Especially,” she whimpers. “But you--” To Tony’s surprise, she bats him away in an adorably cross manner. “I was doing something.”

“So was I!” he blurts out, laughing. “If only there were a way to combine our efforts,” he teases, taking the opportunity to remove his pants and briefs.

Emory shakes her head. Her grey eyes are amused, but her expression is serious. “I want this for you, if you still want to, but for me? I’m opting for something other than a confined space of limited comfort.”

“You want me for my bed? Harsh, woman. Harsh,” Tony says, but he reaches out and tugs on her arm, prompting her to lean toward him for a lush, filthy kiss. “No one is surprised, but I want this in the confined space and the mansion bedroom. Maybe the stairs on the way up, too, if you’re game.”

The ghost of something crosses her face for just a second before it’s gone, but then Emory smiles. She scoots into a good leaning position, reaching over to stroke him before tipping her head to the side to look at him.

“If you want my hair out of the way, you do it,” she challenges.

This time when Emory takes him into her mouth, the angle is much more intimate-- her body is all within reach, and he reaches, slipping his fingers between her clothed legs to press against her core. He times it so she’s not surprised, and her reaction is sexy as hell; Emory groans and speeds up from the slow, agonizing enjoyment she’d started with to a wanton desperation, complete with little panting pleasure noises.

“Em,” Tony warns, and she clenches her thighs around his hand, adding something to her neck movement that makes him instinctively tighten his grip on her hair. This destroys the last of his resolve to hold on just a bit longer, thanks to the knowledge that she’d asked him to get a little rough, that she likes that. 

Tony comes so hard he closes his eyes against the intensity of it. He feels her withdraw, but lethargy and joyful satiation persuades him to stay put and enjoy the high for a while longer. After a few moments, he has a strong sense that he’s forgetting something. Tony can’t figure out what it is, so he listens to the sounds of her moving around until she sits down next to him and starts to clean him off with some fabric. It turns out to be her shirt, not his.

Tony looks over to see that she’s put on his flannel. “Good choice, I approve,” he says, nodding at her breasts. One button is strained almost to the breaking point.

“You don’t miss anything, do you?” she teases, reaching down to pick up his discarded clothes.

“I missed you,” he says, yanking them on.

Emory watches him until he sits back down, then scrunches up her face and says something so quickly Tony almost can’t parse it.

“Did you really? Or did you want to close that chapter by doing what the terrorists wanted you to be doing?” Emory flees to the farthest seat, her face pale and shocked. “No, wait, don’t answer that! God, what a thing to--” she breaks off and shakes her head, lifting a shaking hand to her mouth.

Tony’s reeling. “What did you do, spend a day googling ‘Billionaire playboy Tony Stark?’ If so…” He lets out a breath. “Fair. I did have a harrowing life event recently. That kind of thing changes people.” Emory’s body language is tense and rigid, but she’d spoken up for herself. “That was brave,” he tells her. “Would you have said that five months ago?”

She shakes her head. “Five months ago I’d never have been here in the first place,” she says, a wry smile sweeping away her regretful expression. “Ugh, there I go again,” Emory sighs. “I’ve been psyching myself out, I guess. I told myself I had to be okay with it if you did the playboy thing.”

“I don’t intend to,” Tony tells her. “I meant what I said in the desert.” The uncontrollable urge to get up and walk away from this oblique love declaration is strong, but Tony forces himself to stay put. Her expression shifts from apologetic to pleased, and pleased to relieved; she melts into his side in a movement that reads to Tony as emotionally shy.

The thing he’d thought was missing before suddenly presents itself, and it’s profound. He doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want her to leave. For once, Tony’s not looking for an opportunity to duck out to his workshop and build something so he can avoid the inevitable, ‘we’ve had our fun, but now it’s over.’

He doesn’t want it to be over. 

It seems that Emory’s equally introspective, because she says, “I’m just… not the person who gets to have this.” 

Tony folds his arms around her and breathes in the clean smell of her hair. “Neither am I,” he whispers.

Emory laughs, a groaning, rueful sound that has him lifting his head to look at her. “What now?”

“‘Gets to’ is doing a lot of work in that sentence, no matter how determined I am to keep you!” She snuggles up against him again, and Tony lets her fierce tone of voice settle into his chest like a mini power surge.

“Can’t be harder than building a flying suit of armor out of old missile parts in a cave in Afghanistan, can it?” he asks, infusing his tone with a hefty serving of arrogance.

“It might, if the part of the terrorist is played by Nick Fury,” she says.

Next chapter, Emory and Tony get to the house, where they have the opportunity to simply enjoy each other's company for a while.

[darsynia]

Trust Fall | Ch 19a

ARC image by Eury Escodero | gif by @readingisloving ty so much!!

Story Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: Tony/OC, ‘terrorists made us fall in love;’ IM1 timeline. In this chapter, Tony negotiates a weekend together, and introduces Emory to Happy and Pepper!!

Length: 3,486

Taglist: @starryeyes2000 @raith-way @arrthurpendragon @themaradaniels @starksbf @chickensarentcheap @tiny-anne

Excerpt:

Tony’s interrupting kiss steals the next words from her mouth and her mind. Emory grounds herself in reality by grabbing a handful of his shirt. It’s softer than anything he’d worn in the cave, as is the seat beneath them, but Tony himself is warm, rough, and real. She slips up onto her knees for a better angle, but the car starts moving just as she does this, and a bunch of her hair falls down on both of their faces.

“Fuck, that smells amazing,” Tony groans, muttering more profanity-laden endearments that trend toward complaints when she pulls away to look for a seatbelt. 

Emory finds one by the window, and when she tames her wild hair into a quick twist tucked into her collar so she can peek at him, all she can do is laugh helplessly. Tony looks dejected, legs slack, arms slanted toward her, head resting sadly on the back of the seat, the rest of him slumped so far down he’s an inch away from collapsing to the floor.

“I built a single-person flight suit to come see you, and you want to buckle up instead of kiss me? I’m hurt.”

“It’s the law, Stark.”

“Not in Pennsylvania!” he argues resolutely.

Chapter Nineteen: Photosynthesis

Flying is exhilarating.

If it weren’t for the fact that he wants to touch Emory without terrorists, SHIELD agents, or metal armor in the way, Tony would have flown the whole way from the city for the sheer bliss of the experience. He wonders if this is the closest he can get to understanding Emory’s own power generation. Does the air she bends around herself feel as much like tangible joy as the air he rockets through?

He’d sent Pepper to learn Emory’s schedule, but he doesn’t know if Fury ignored that to catch Tony off guard, or if he really didn’t know. When Tony sees there are two agents with Emory today, that former becomes more likely. He’d left Happy, Pepper, and the two vehicles key to his plan about thirty miles away. They should be far enough to avoid SHIELD entanglement, but close enough to get him the hell out of the suit ASAP.

Emory’s comment about him is so charming that Tony burns off any worry about his reception in the process of landing behind her. Her companions’ lack of surprise or concern about his appearance is disconcerting though, and so is Emory’s attitude toward them. He’d expected the agents to be more adversarial on both points.

After their kiss, he decides to push the issue. “So. Tell me about your goons,” His flipped up faceplate drops at the last word like he’d planned it that way.

“Tell me about that suit, and you might earn a vacation,” the redheaded agent calls out. Thanks to his Heads Up Display, Tony notes that she’s dipped her thumb into a hidden pocket that his AI suggests holds miniature concussion grenades. The other agent has his bow held in a tight grip at his side, which is either a concession to Emory’s value or Tony’s prominence.

“It is quite an upgrade,” Emory whispers, lifting a hand to trace her fingertips along the metal protecting his cheek before turning to face the agents, hands fisted at her sides. She’s shielding him, which is sweet but misguided, given that he’s encased in metal. Then again, his first suit did fall apart, so maybe it’s pragmatism. Emory’s stance lasts all of thirty seconds before she twists her hands together and says, in a tone that tells Tony she actually likes the two people in front of her, “I had no idea that he’d-- I mean, in retrospect, it was probably--”

“--predictable? Yeah,” the man says, offering an insincere smile. He shrugs. “Less to destroy out here.”

“Am I the only one who didn’t know this would happen?” Emory asks, a little wild-eyed. The archer coughs to hide his amused reaction when Emory glares at him. Tony almost likes the guy.

“Emory, don’t take this the wrong way, but you might be the most sincere person I’ve ever met,” the redhead says.

“Well that was the whole point for the mission, right? Our target would never suspect the wide-eyed innocent--”

“Hold up, I don’t want to get dinged for mission knowledge,” Tony interrupts, his movements punctuated by some servo noises. He wants to be airborne with Emory before Tweedle-She or Tweedle-Bow decide to object and call in the one-eyed Cheshire Cat for backup. 

“The mission needs me to seem destitute, without anyone who can help me financially-- but the press knows the two of us were kidnapped together, don’t they, Agent Romanoff?” Emory says, a little too earnestly. “If Tony disappears and I’m still missing, that’ll get picked up.” She turns and smiles triumphantly at him. “So they won’t do anything too drastic, or your disappearance will screw up their plans!”

If Emory’s right, Tony’s on board, but her mixture of manipulation and naivete makes him nervous. 

“Sir, Agent Natasha Romanoff is a highly skilled spy assassin last known to be working with the Russians. A quick scan of various databases reveals multiple reacquisition attempts by various Russian agencies were unsuccessful,” Jarvis says quietly into his earpiece. “I’m listening for anything about the other agent.”

That other agent leans over to say something into Romanoff’s ear. She seems to think for a few seconds, then nods. It’s enough to spur Tony’s impulsive side.

“In that case,” he says, stepping around Emory to hold his arms out beside him. “Long version: Metal armor, custom-built using proprietary Stark tech including power, propulsion, communications, and targeting software. I designed and hand-wired this myself, so you can tell your BFF Morpheus it’s one of a kind. Short version: you can’t have the software or the hardware, but no one else can either. Did I earn the cookie? And by cookie,” he holds up an armored finger; “I mean that vacation. Two days, two nights minimum.”

“Where?” Romanoff shoots back right away.

Behind him, Emory whispers, “It’s that easy?”

“Thought about a campsite at first,” Tony says, sauntering over to stand beside her. “But it turns out my father built a swanky bomb shelter into the NYC house. Should be enough to counter any… forces of nature that might spin up.” He hardens his tone. “I assume you know the address.” At that, Tony turns to Emory. “Put your arms around my neck?”

She’s wide-eyed but he can tell she’s excited, given the way her localized wind is whipping up the grass at their feet. After a nod, he lifts her up. Tony snugs his arm across her back with his hand against her ass, just because he can.

“Hey now,” the male agent objects.

“Shut it, Clint!” she grits out.

“Hey, Stark!” Romanoff calls out when he fires up his repulsors at a low setting to let JARVIS gauge the differential weight. Tony turns the two of them so he can look at the agent, noticing she’s no longer a half-inch away from pulling a weapon on him.

“Yeah?”

“It’s important you two aren’t seen together. You got a plan for a less visible mode of transport?”

Tony appreciates that the woman hasn’t just called in backup and subdued him for his audacity. If he had to guess, he’d say it has more to do with her rapport with Emory than any desire to avoid putting him in his place. It won’t do to let her know he’s anything less than an adversary, though.

“You’ll just have to find out when you activate her tracker. Where is it? In her arm? Her ass? Sewn into her bra?”

“Tony!” Emory hisses under her breath.

“Do not make a ‘thorough inspection’ joke, so help me,” Clint says.

“Trust but verify, right? See ya,” Tony says, and takes off.

“I can’t believe that worked!” Emory says, her words sucked away by the wind. Tony’s pretty sure only some of it is whipped up by his velocity.

As they lift off, Emory keeps expecting a group of SHIELD agents to converge on them. It seems almost too easy, despite Nat’s hints that they’d been ready, even hoping, for Tony to show up. Her big worry is that she’s just earned Tony a ton of negative attention from SHIELD in exchange for a few days of freedom. The agency will want any and all information about his suit, but can the government seize it? Will Stark Industries have to gear up for war again, against US citizens this time?

The thing is, Tony’s the smartest man she’s ever met, maybe the smartest in the country. He’ll think of something. Her best revenge is to enjoy every second she has with him, and figure the rest out when they’re safe and alone.

Alone. Something they’d only had once, lost under the burning sunlight of Afghanistan.

The thought is distracting enough to let her put thoughts of SHIELD aside for now. Tony is clearly navigating somewhere specific, and he shifts in preparation for landing, angling towards a couple of vehicles parked in a lonely gravel lot. She stumbles when they land, but any unsteadiness is wiped away by the look on Tony’s face when he rips his helmet off to grin at her.

“Pretty sweet, right?”

“A definite improvement on last time,” she agrees. Her answer seems to deflate some of his enthusiasm, so she adds, “It was amazing.”

“You met me at a low point. Nowhere to go but up, literally,” Tony tells her.

The sounds of a car door opening draws their attention, and Emory sways closer to Tony. He’s covered in hard angles and smooth lines that make her feel physically disconnected from him, but the suit in motion is fantastic. He looks like a real life hero. Given how much time the first one had taken to build, Emory knows Tony has worked miracles to come here. She’s pretty overwhelmed by the implications of that.

Tony reaches down to take her hand like he can sense how she feels, but with the armor covering his hand, it’s awkward and uncomfortable.

“I’d take off the gauntlet but I was basically bolted into this thing. It’s like my own version of Marilyn Monroe’s dress,” he apologizes.

“Hopefully it doesn’t cost as much!” she laughs up at him.

“It might,” a woman says, walking into view around the box truck with a teasing smile on her face. She’s gorgeous, her immaculate makeup and sleek clothing a direct contrast to the ratty black work gloves she’s pulling off of her hands. “I never really understood the concept of driving gloves until today!” the woman says, holding them up in her left hand as she holds her right out to shake Emory’s in greeting. “I’m Pepper Potts, Tony’s personal assistant.”

“Oh, wow,” Emory says, completing the handshake. “Emory Autumn, former PA but currently unemployed.” Tony had mentioned Potts, always with regret at what she might be dealing with in his absence, but Emory had pictured an older woman, a stuffy paragon of authority. This woman is delicate and competent-looking, the kind of person whole rooms of celebrities notice when she walks by. The politics of his choice are brilliant, really. Anyone wanting to get close to Tony would likely not be disappointed that they’d need to talk to Pepper Potts first.

“Thanks for keeping him sane in there,” Potts says.

“That was more luck than anything else,” Emory tries to assure her, but Tony replies at the same time.

“She drove me crazy in an entirely different way instead.”

“I thought that was my job?”

The voice belongs to a stocky man in a black suit who seems to have come from the driver’s side of the limo. He nods respectfully to her, and Emory looks at Tony to find that he’s grinning.

“Happy Hogan, Emory Autumn.”

Hogan’s shake is firm but gentle, considering the size of his hand. Emory ignores the brief thought that she’s just one among many women he’s been introduced to over the years. “He missed you,” she says as she lets go, suddenly feeling shy at the thought that she might be sharing Tony’s private reactions without his permission. “Both of you.”

“Yes, well,” Tony says, clearing his throat. “Very heartwarming, but if you don’t want to be crushed during the group hug, I think I should get out of this thing.” As he speaks, Emory finally figures out what she’d been struggling to articulate to herself: Tony looks happy, but also healthy, so different and yet still the same man she fell for in Afghanistan.

“In that case, follow me,” Pepper Potts says in the kind of tone Emory recognizes as ‘let’s get focused back on the business at hand.’ The PA fishes a set of keys out of her suit jacket pocket and heads for the truck. 

After carefully putting the work gloves back on, Potts fiddles with some things at the back of the truck until the bolts on the sliding door audibly release. Hogan comes over to pull out the steps and lift the door. Tony beckons Emory closer, and she sees that the inside space is flooded with lights, illuminating multiple robot arms arrayed around a central square with boot-shaped clamps. It’s the kind of complicated machinery she’s only seen in horror movies and disaster documentaries.

A heartfelt “Wow!” is about all she can manage. “I’m starting to think what you made in the cave with me was more like a junior high science fair project.”

“Don’t be silly,” Tony says, using his repulsors to fly the short distance up onto the bed of the truck instead of using the stairs. “I built something way more complicated than that for my junior high science fair project.”

“Oh, here we go,” Potts says.

“Never mind,” Emory tries, but it’s too late.

“I wonder what happened to that patent,” Tony muses, holding out a hand to lift her up onto the truck bed.

“You got a patent for your first science fair project?” She just stares up at him.

“Wasn’t his first,” Hogan says, behind her.

Tony shakes his gauntleted hand impatiently. “Third school fair. If it’s any consolation, the other two didn’t get patented.”

She uses her accumulated power to lift herself up just high enough to walk from thin air into the inside of the truck. “Stop! I already felt inadequate.”

“I’m sure you also did interesting things when you were nine.” He says this like it should reassure her, before stepping onto the boot clips and hooking a wire from the assembly into his arc reactor. “You might want to stand back.”

Emory watches Tony’s armor come off piece by piece, revealing that he’s wearing a t-shirt and cargo pants, both relatively tight-fitting. When the boots are unscrewed and he’s able to step away from the whole contraption, she’s impressed to see that he’d even designed the suit to fit around his shoes. Hogan hands him a flannel shirt that Tony starts putting on before he turns around for her to see that the t-shirt has a round hole for his ARC reactor to fit through.

“I’m working on a way to connect the power without having to mutilate my wardrobe,” he says as he does up his cuff buttons. “I could run something up beside my neck, but wireless would be ideal, grab and go.”

“Wireless? That would be amazing!” Emory says, impressed. Tony’s unhappy expression confuses her until he responds.

“Yinsen suggested it. For after we got out.”

All her accumulated power spirals down into nothingness as Emory’s heart contracts with renewed grief. She rushes into Tony’s arms. He presses a kiss into her hair and holds his lips there, his arms tightening for a full minute before letting out a ragged sigh of regret.

“C’mon.”

Tony helps her down from the truck and holds her hand until they get to the limo. Despite her sadness, Emory lets out a little laugh, drawing both Tony and Hogan’s attention.

“You kidnapped me from a shadowy government agency using something that had to cost more than most people’s houses! It just hit me how bizarre it is-- after all that’s happened, we’ve ended up in an abandoned gravel lot in front of a box truck and a limousine.”

“Kidnapping? It was a rescue!” Tony objects.

“I’ll drive this back to the charter and see you tomorrow, then?” Potts says in a placating voice.

“Perfect,” Tony tells his PA. 

He leads Emory over to the car and opens the door for her. Once she’s seated, he settles in beside her and holds his arm out for her to snug up against him. She does, blushing at how much her heart leaps from his nearness. With a long exhale, Tony drops his head back against the cushion behind him and stretches his legs out, like this is the moment he’d been waiting for all day.

Emory can feel her usual build up of energy, but it’s lethargic, as if contentment is a natural de-energizer. The limo is sparse inside, almost surprisingly so. There’s a good chance that’s on purpose. She buries a grin into the fabric of his shirt.

“What is it?”

“You cleared this space out, didn’t you? In case being with you made my powers go haywire.” She lifts her head up to look at him. Tony looks smug. “That’s very thoughtful.

“Very selfish,” he corrects. “Fewer distractions.” Right as he leans down to kiss her, his large fingers tangling in her hair, they hear the car door slam up front.

“Before I put on very loud music that will obscure any sounds from the back, where to?” Hogan asks through an intercom. Tony chases her lips as she moves back, but all Emory can do is think about how little she’s practiced staying in control of herself around him. She doesn’t want to jeopardize one of his expensive properties!

“Were you serious about the bomb bunker?”

“Mmhmm,” Tony rumbles as he kisses her neck.

“Did you mention Yinsen so you’d feel safe driving me to your house?” Emory holds her breath. It’s quite an accusation, but also a smart strategy on his part if she’s right. Sadness and fear both seem to completely cut off her powers.

Instead of answering her, Tony turns his head and calls out to Hogan. “The house in the city, Happy, as planned.”

“You got it.” Before the intercom cuts out, there’s a blast of music as if to reassure them he was serious about his discretion.

“Tony, D.C. is full of national landmarks, and even though I am really happy to see you--”

Tony’s interrupting kiss steals the next words from her mouth and her mind. Emory grounds herself in reality by grabbing a handful of his shirt. It’s softer than anything he’d worn in the cave, as is the seat beneath them, but Tony himself is warm, rough, and real. She slips up onto her knees for a better angle, but the car starts moving just as she does this, and a bunch of her hair falls down on both of their faces.

“Fuck, that smells amazing,” Tony groans, muttering more profanity-laden endearments that trend toward complaints when she pulls away to look for a seatbelt. 

Emory finds one by the window, and when she tames her wild hair into a quick twist tucked into her collar so she can peek at him, all she can do is laugh helplessly. Tony looks dejected, legs slack, arms slanted toward her, head resting sadly on the back of the seat, the rest of him slumped so far down he’s an inch away from collapsing to the floor.

“I built a single-person flight suit to come see you, and you want to buckle up instead of kiss me? I’m hurt.”

“It’s the law, Stark.”

“Not in Pennsylvania!” he argues resolutely.

“We’re not in Pennsylvania.” 

Emory unzips the leg pocket holding her mostly useless flip phone and taps the button Clint told her not to touch because it triggers some ridiculous surcharge for 24 hours of internet access. Using the arrow keys, she navigates to the awful web browser.

Tony tsks at her. “I didn’t realize SHIELD tech didn’t extend past the Stone Age.”

“Buckle up,” she tells him, continuing the frustrating process of choosing letters via repeated presses of the number keys. Just as she hits enter on the search, Tony slips something between her hip and her own fastened buckle, and she hears a click. “What--”

He stops her with a quick, impudent kiss. “Seatbelt extender, so I can sit closer to you. Lemme guess: it’s another hour and a half before we reach a state where it is legal to be unbuckled in limousines?”

Her screen confirms this to be the case. “You already knew and let me numb my fingertips looking it up anyway? You jerk!”

“Let me make it up to you.”

Emory looks at Tony, then around at the rest of the empty limo. They are, for all intents and purposes, alone. Safe. There are no terrorists, no SHIELD agents, no army medics, and no paparazzi, even if anyone could see into the tinted windows at their speed.

A powerful yawn cuts through her. Emory claps her hands over her mouth, embarrassed. “I’m not bored, I promise,” she gasps.

“No no,” Tony says. He stretches his arms out along the back of the seats like they’re on a couch instead of a bench seat. “I did that too. You’re wiped all of a sudden, right?”

“But I want to talk to you, it’s been--”

“There’s time,” he interrupts. “That’s the point. You feel safe. That’s not rude, it’s a compliment.” He takes off the flannel shirt and wads it up on his chest about where she’d rested her head before, and pats it. “Go ahead, sleep. This may or may not be on my post-Afghanistan bucket list.”

Emory blinks at him. “Really?” she asks, even as the urge to take him up on the offer becomes nearly unbearable.

“There’s time,” Tony repeats.

“Okay,” she whispers, suddenly shy.

Next chapter, Tony and Emory realize they're finally actually alone and could, you know, touch each other.