I have a past, but it's not gonna last.
I have a past, but it's not gonna last. [Ao3]
MCU/historical figure. Tony Stark/Mae West. PG13. 241 words.
“Too bad.” West is all dangerous hips and sultry eyes, her voice husky and sweet and slipping like liquid gold straight to Tony’s gut. He’s never met a woman like her. He finds it extremely depressing that he probably never will. “We coulda had a lotta fun together.”
“Don’t I fucking know it,” Tony sighs, and her eyes flash at the casual obscenity. He’s almost certain she likes it, since she starts folding her fingers up beneath the lapels of his suit. He wonders, abstractly, what she thinks of it; the strange, modern cut won’t be seen for another eighty years. Give or take.
“You sure you’re not just skippin' town?” She asks, head canted to the side, and holy mother of god, she’s good. “You don’t gotta make up a song and dance about coming from the future just to throw me off your scent, baby.”
“Believe me, West,” Tony says, aching to get his hands in the elaborate, exhaustively artful curl of her carefully-pinned hair, “if it were anything other than the truth, you couldn’t drive me out of here.”
“I’ll bet. I have a bit of a reputation, you know,” she says, tipping her head up. Her eyes sparkle, bluer than he would ever have guessed from the black and white films. “You look like you got a bit of one yourself.”
“Sweetheart,” Tony says, giving in and edging his thumb over her jaw. “You have no idea.”
MCU/historical figure. Tony Stark/Mae West. PG13. 241 words.
“Too bad.” West is all dangerous hips and sultry eyes, her voice husky and sweet and slipping like liquid gold straight to Tony’s gut. He’s never met a woman like her. He finds it extremely depressing that he probably never will. “We coulda had a lotta fun together.”
“Don’t I fucking know it,” Tony sighs, and her eyes flash at the casual obscenity. He’s almost certain she likes it, since she starts folding her fingers up beneath the lapels of his suit. He wonders, abstractly, what she thinks of it; the strange, modern cut won’t be seen for another eighty years. Give or take.
“You sure you’re not just skippin' town?” She asks, head canted to the side, and holy mother of god, she’s good. “You don’t gotta make up a song and dance about coming from the future just to throw me off your scent, baby.”
“Believe me, West,” Tony says, aching to get his hands in the elaborate, exhaustively artful curl of her carefully-pinned hair, “if it were anything other than the truth, you couldn’t drive me out of here.”
“I’ll bet. I have a bit of a reputation, you know,” she says, tipping her head up. Her eyes sparkle, bluer than he would ever have guessed from the black and white films. “You look like you got a bit of one yourself.”
“Sweetheart,” Tony says, giving in and edging his thumb over her jaw. “You have no idea.”