FIC: "Drive" (2/?) - Iron Man (movieverse), Tony/Pepper, R
"Drive"
Written for the Valentine's challenge at its_always_been. See master page for prompts, author's notes, and previous/subsequent chapters.
2. Ask Nicely
Tony calls Pepper at home on a Sunday evening, just over a week after the initial conversation by the pool. His palms are sweating; he hasn’t felt this nervous about phoning a member of the opposite sex since he was twelve, and hung up on Julie Berkowski’s father. Twice. At least there isn’t much chance of Pepper’s dad answering the phone, given that he’s in Maryland. And dead.
She picks up on the third ring. “Hello, Tony.”
Of course she has him on her call display, he thinks. He probably has his own special ring. Hopefully it’s something cool-he vaguely remembers dating a girl who chose to represent him in her phone with ‘Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies.’ Shockingly, the relationship didn’t even last an entire weekend.
“Hi, Pepper. How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you. How can I help you?”
Her tone is pleasant, even warm, but the question makes him distinctly uncomfortable-like he’s still her boss, making unreasonable demands on her time. “I’m calling to see if you’d like to have pizza with me tonight.”
A pause.
“Sure.”
“Yeah?”
“What time will you be here?”
He’s caught off-guard; he hadn’t expected such ready acceptance. “Um… give me an hour?”
“Okay. I’ll see you then.”
Simple as that.
He showers and shaves in record time, experiences only minor indecision regarding what to wear, and makes the drive to Pacific Palisades in under thirty minutes, pedal to the metal the entire way.
He rings the doorbell repeatedly, his free hand drumming against his thigh. He’s coursing with pent-up energy.
She answers the door in stretchy cotton pants and a ribbed white tank top. Her hair is in a simple ponytail. No makeup. The pants are cornflower blue, with a ribbon of sunny yellow scrolling up the side of one leg.
He’s momentarily taken aback-he’d imagined her standing at the door in lingerie, or better still, wearing nothing at all. Her understated attire drives home the fact that this is not mere fantasy anymore. That this is real. Beneath the RT, his heart is suddenly racing.
“You’re early,” she says, with a peculiar smile that he’s never seen before. She’s smiling like she knows something he doesn’t, and he isn’t sure he likes it.
She stands aside to let him walk in, then closes the door behind them and follows him into the living room. She’s slightly shorter than he’s used to, because she’s barefoot.
He’s never been in Pepper’s condo before. It doesn’t seem possible, given the length of time they’ve known each other and his flagrant disregard for personal boundaries, but there it is: the one line he’s never crossed. Until now.
Tony makes a quick assessment: open plan main floor, with glass double-doors leading out to a terrace. The living room is lined with bookshelves, which isn’t surprising; he knows she never goes anywhere without a thick paperback novel in her purse. A rolled-up yoga mat is propped against the wall by the front door-evidence of Pepper’s other favourite pastime. There’s a loft over the kitchen; he’s willing to make an educated guess that the bedroom-and hence the bed-is up there. There’s art on the walls, fresh flowers on the dining room table, and music-a few faint bluesy notes coming from a stereo somewhere in the room. The tune is vaguely familiar, but he can’t immediately identify it, and he doesn’t ask because he isn’t really invested in hearing the answer.
Pepper seems completely at ease-which makes sense, as she has the home court advantage. “Can I get you anything?” she asks. “Coffee? A cold drink? I just made some-”
Without warning, he grabs her by the shoulders and kisses her. He drinks deep, bending her backwards, his whole body pressing into her. He’s done thinking about this. He needs to reassure himself that sexual tension is the only reason he feels so on edge.
She responds with more eagerness than he’d anticipated, returning the kiss with a bruising intensity. Her little hands tighten around fistfuls of his hair and pull, hard-the sharp sting of it serving as a small release, if not precisely the kind he’s craving.
He backs her into a bookshelf; there’s an abrupt impact, and they break apart, both breathing heavily.
“…iced tea,” she concludes, in a dreamy sort of voice. She’s flushed, glassy-eyed. She doesn’t seem all that aware of what she’s actually saying.
He leans in and nuzzles at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, and she inhales sharply, her fingernails scratching his scalp. “Sounds good,” he replies lazily, mouthing the words against her skin. He kisses a trail along her throat, tastes her collarbone.
“What?”
“Iced tea. Maybe later?”
“Okay,” she says, and the throaty volubility of it sets every nerve ending ablaze.
He returns to the ridge of her shoulder, and she tenses again, gasping and gripping as he scrapes the tender skin with his teeth. That’s the spot, he thinks.
In Tony’s considerable and varied experience, women’s bodies are like cars: there are a variety of makes and models, but they all have the same basic components, and they’re all capable of the same internal combustion reaction-provided you know how to turn them on. Tony is very, very good at locating ignition switches.
His hands skim around Pepper’s waist, locate the waistband of her pants, and yank them down. She’s wearing striped cotton underpants-yellow and cornflower blue, a perfect match. It’s very Pepper. He smiles.
“Bedroom?” Even as she makes the suggestion, she’s flicking open the button of his fly, delving inside. Her eyes widen in mild surprise-she obviously expected underwear, but there’s only him, hot and slick, filling her hand. He moves involuntarily at her touch, grinding into her palm.
She smiles, and eases his jeans down over his hips, giving his ass a quick squeeze as she does so. He slides his hand over the swell of her backside and along the back of her thigh, guiding it up to rest against his hip. He catches the heavy scent of her arousal, salty and fragrant, and he can’t wait anymore.
Her hands fly to the waistband of her panties. “I’m still-let me-”
“I got it.” He hooks a thumb around the crotch of her underwear, yanks it aside, and slides all the way up into her in a single smooth stroke.
“Ohh-!” She’s much louder than he would have expected; he’s not used to hearing Pepper raise her voice, except when she’s angry at him.
He holds her there a moment: pinned between him and the bookshelf, impaled. She tries to move, but there’s nowhere to go; she tries to get him to move, but he’s strong, and solid as a wall of granite. She bites her lip, squeezes her eyes shut, writhes against him-it’s the most exquisite kind of torture.
“Fuck, Tony,” she breathes. “Come on.”
When he finally shifts, his first thrust is so forceful that a couple of paperbacks tumble from the highest shelf, glancing off his shoulder. She cries out again, fingernails digging into his shoulder blades.
He finds a rhythm, rocking into her; slowly at first, drawing out each movement. She’s wonderfully vocal in her approval, and her vocabulary is both expansive and exact.
He starts to pick up speed, can feel his body beginning to tense-he knows he should stop, slow down, change positions, something, anything. But she’s so hot, and so wet, and he’s wanted this for so long, and it feels too good-
“Come on,” she whispers.
“Too soon-”
Her fingers are tangled in his hair, her breath hot against his neck. “Please.” She’s squeezing in time to his thrusts now. There’s a dim sense of reversal, an awareness that he’s usually the one leading this dance, the one coaxing his partner over the edge. “I want it,” she urges. “Come for me, Tony.”
He does.
*
It takes a moment before he returns to a full awareness of himself and his surroundings. He relaxes his grip, and she slumps against him, clutching at his shoulders.
“You okay?” he asks, wondering if he’s hurt her.
She smiles up at him. “Jelly legs.” Her hair is loose and damp, plastered to her face; there are bright spots of colour on both of her cheeks.
“Did you…?”
She shakes her head. “Close.” She says it as though she’s disappointed with her own lack of efficiency.
He almost repeats his dad’s favourite aphorism about horseshoes and hand grenades, but manages to hold back. He reaches down and lifts her up easily, tucking her against his chest. “Bedroom’s upstairs?”
“Yes.” She’s peering over his shoulder at the books scattered on the floor.
He bounds up the stairs with her cradled in his arms. In the bedroom, watery light filters in through the shoji screen that divides the loft from the rest of the apartment. He’s able to distinguish only the most prominent features in the room-the bed being the one he’s most interested in.
He sets her down, then peels off his t-shirt before dropping down next to her; the RT casts a blue glow across her pale skin, making her appear lit from within. It reminds him-in a typical Tony Stark moment of synaptic exuberance-of a project proposal that came across his desk recently, about bioluminescent trees. He’s been wanting to get Pepper’s thoughts on it all week, but hasn’t had the time.
He’s already formed the words “Can I ask you a question?” before he remembers Rule Number Two.
She nods.
“Do your panties always match your outfit?” he asks instead, his square, blunt fingertips trailing over the cotton and elastic at her hip. He’s delighted by the thought of all that underwear, so organized and meticulously colour-coordinated; he likes the idea of always knowing what she’s wearing under her clothes.
She smiles that smile again, like she’s swallowed a secret. “No, but it’s good to be prepared.”
He considers making a comment about the Boy Scouts, but that’s still a sore point between them, and he’d rather not have an argument at this precise moment. “Is that right?” He dips his fingers into the waistband of her underpants and lets them wander, stroking lightly, teasing.
She gasps, her hips rising up off the mattress. Her whole body is taut and straining.
“What do you want?” he asks, softly, mockingly. This is more familiar ground now; for the first time since she opened the front door, he feels fully in control of the encounter. He slides his hand up, over her belly, rucking up her little tank top. Now that the feeling of urgency has passed, he wants to explore, to chart this intriguing new territory and stake his claim.
She grabs his hand and shoves it back down between her legs; it’s a command, not a request. Her thighs are hot and slick.
“Is this what you need, Pepper?”
She gives an inarticulate groan, and presses his knuckles insistently with both hands, until he slides a single finger into her slippery core. Then another.
She grips tightly, bearing down, wringing what she needs from him. He’s fascinated by how ruthless she is when it comes to taking her own pleasure, and how precise; she’s just as focused and determined in the bedroom as she is in the boardroom.
Tony feels strangely depersonalized, and tangential to the entire process. As she gets closer to climax, it occurs to him that maybe he isn’t really needed there, and he isn’t sure what to think, how to feel. He thought that their being together like this would be different, somehow. He feels used. He feels useless.
Then she says, “Talk.”
“You want me to talk?”
“Yes,” she hisses, teeth clenched. “Just-I need-please.”
Tony is pleased to have the opportunity to demonstrate one of his strengths: he excels at talking dirty. He’s received many compliments over the years.
He moves closer to her ear, pitches his voice low. “Pepper,” he murmurs. “I’m going to make you come so hard-”
It’s all he has time to say before she achieves release-flushed and breathless, bucking against his hand, saying his name over and over again until it becomes indistinguishable, a string of gibberish.
He can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. His mental image of the always decorous, always correct, always articulate Virginia Potts is irrevocably shattered, but he’s not about to mourn the loss when the alternative has so much more… potential.
And all it took was the sound of his voice.
She exhales, a long, satisfied sigh, stretching and flexing her arms up over her head. Then, most astonishingly of all, she opens her eyes, says, “That was perfect, Tony, thank you,” and cranes her neck to give him a quick, sloppy kiss.
So, he reflects, smiling to himself. Not entirely useless, after all.
Written for the Valentine's challenge at its_always_been. See master page for prompts, author's notes, and previous/subsequent chapters.
2. Ask Nicely
Tony calls Pepper at home on a Sunday evening, just over a week after the initial conversation by the pool. His palms are sweating; he hasn’t felt this nervous about phoning a member of the opposite sex since he was twelve, and hung up on Julie Berkowski’s father. Twice. At least there isn’t much chance of Pepper’s dad answering the phone, given that he’s in Maryland. And dead.
She picks up on the third ring. “Hello, Tony.”
Of course she has him on her call display, he thinks. He probably has his own special ring. Hopefully it’s something cool-he vaguely remembers dating a girl who chose to represent him in her phone with ‘Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies.’ Shockingly, the relationship didn’t even last an entire weekend.
“Hi, Pepper. How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you. How can I help you?”
Her tone is pleasant, even warm, but the question makes him distinctly uncomfortable-like he’s still her boss, making unreasonable demands on her time. “I’m calling to see if you’d like to have pizza with me tonight.”
A pause.
“Sure.”
“Yeah?”
“What time will you be here?”
He’s caught off-guard; he hadn’t expected such ready acceptance. “Um… give me an hour?”
“Okay. I’ll see you then.”
Simple as that.
He showers and shaves in record time, experiences only minor indecision regarding what to wear, and makes the drive to Pacific Palisades in under thirty minutes, pedal to the metal the entire way.
He rings the doorbell repeatedly, his free hand drumming against his thigh. He’s coursing with pent-up energy.
She answers the door in stretchy cotton pants and a ribbed white tank top. Her hair is in a simple ponytail. No makeup. The pants are cornflower blue, with a ribbon of sunny yellow scrolling up the side of one leg.
He’s momentarily taken aback-he’d imagined her standing at the door in lingerie, or better still, wearing nothing at all. Her understated attire drives home the fact that this is not mere fantasy anymore. That this is real. Beneath the RT, his heart is suddenly racing.
“You’re early,” she says, with a peculiar smile that he’s never seen before. She’s smiling like she knows something he doesn’t, and he isn’t sure he likes it.
She stands aside to let him walk in, then closes the door behind them and follows him into the living room. She’s slightly shorter than he’s used to, because she’s barefoot.
He’s never been in Pepper’s condo before. It doesn’t seem possible, given the length of time they’ve known each other and his flagrant disregard for personal boundaries, but there it is: the one line he’s never crossed. Until now.
Tony makes a quick assessment: open plan main floor, with glass double-doors leading out to a terrace. The living room is lined with bookshelves, which isn’t surprising; he knows she never goes anywhere without a thick paperback novel in her purse. A rolled-up yoga mat is propped against the wall by the front door-evidence of Pepper’s other favourite pastime. There’s a loft over the kitchen; he’s willing to make an educated guess that the bedroom-and hence the bed-is up there. There’s art on the walls, fresh flowers on the dining room table, and music-a few faint bluesy notes coming from a stereo somewhere in the room. The tune is vaguely familiar, but he can’t immediately identify it, and he doesn’t ask because he isn’t really invested in hearing the answer.
Pepper seems completely at ease-which makes sense, as she has the home court advantage. “Can I get you anything?” she asks. “Coffee? A cold drink? I just made some-”
Without warning, he grabs her by the shoulders and kisses her. He drinks deep, bending her backwards, his whole body pressing into her. He’s done thinking about this. He needs to reassure himself that sexual tension is the only reason he feels so on edge.
She responds with more eagerness than he’d anticipated, returning the kiss with a bruising intensity. Her little hands tighten around fistfuls of his hair and pull, hard-the sharp sting of it serving as a small release, if not precisely the kind he’s craving.
He backs her into a bookshelf; there’s an abrupt impact, and they break apart, both breathing heavily.
“…iced tea,” she concludes, in a dreamy sort of voice. She’s flushed, glassy-eyed. She doesn’t seem all that aware of what she’s actually saying.
He leans in and nuzzles at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, and she inhales sharply, her fingernails scratching his scalp. “Sounds good,” he replies lazily, mouthing the words against her skin. He kisses a trail along her throat, tastes her collarbone.
“What?”
“Iced tea. Maybe later?”
“Okay,” she says, and the throaty volubility of it sets every nerve ending ablaze.
He returns to the ridge of her shoulder, and she tenses again, gasping and gripping as he scrapes the tender skin with his teeth. That’s the spot, he thinks.
In Tony’s considerable and varied experience, women’s bodies are like cars: there are a variety of makes and models, but they all have the same basic components, and they’re all capable of the same internal combustion reaction-provided you know how to turn them on. Tony is very, very good at locating ignition switches.
His hands skim around Pepper’s waist, locate the waistband of her pants, and yank them down. She’s wearing striped cotton underpants-yellow and cornflower blue, a perfect match. It’s very Pepper. He smiles.
“Bedroom?” Even as she makes the suggestion, she’s flicking open the button of his fly, delving inside. Her eyes widen in mild surprise-she obviously expected underwear, but there’s only him, hot and slick, filling her hand. He moves involuntarily at her touch, grinding into her palm.
She smiles, and eases his jeans down over his hips, giving his ass a quick squeeze as she does so. He slides his hand over the swell of her backside and along the back of her thigh, guiding it up to rest against his hip. He catches the heavy scent of her arousal, salty and fragrant, and he can’t wait anymore.
Her hands fly to the waistband of her panties. “I’m still-let me-”
“I got it.” He hooks a thumb around the crotch of her underwear, yanks it aside, and slides all the way up into her in a single smooth stroke.
“Ohh-!” She’s much louder than he would have expected; he’s not used to hearing Pepper raise her voice, except when she’s angry at him.
He holds her there a moment: pinned between him and the bookshelf, impaled. She tries to move, but there’s nowhere to go; she tries to get him to move, but he’s strong, and solid as a wall of granite. She bites her lip, squeezes her eyes shut, writhes against him-it’s the most exquisite kind of torture.
“Fuck, Tony,” she breathes. “Come on.”
When he finally shifts, his first thrust is so forceful that a couple of paperbacks tumble from the highest shelf, glancing off his shoulder. She cries out again, fingernails digging into his shoulder blades.
He finds a rhythm, rocking into her; slowly at first, drawing out each movement. She’s wonderfully vocal in her approval, and her vocabulary is both expansive and exact.
He starts to pick up speed, can feel his body beginning to tense-he knows he should stop, slow down, change positions, something, anything. But she’s so hot, and so wet, and he’s wanted this for so long, and it feels too good-
“Come on,” she whispers.
“Too soon-”
Her fingers are tangled in his hair, her breath hot against his neck. “Please.” She’s squeezing in time to his thrusts now. There’s a dim sense of reversal, an awareness that he’s usually the one leading this dance, the one coaxing his partner over the edge. “I want it,” she urges. “Come for me, Tony.”
He does.
*
It takes a moment before he returns to a full awareness of himself and his surroundings. He relaxes his grip, and she slumps against him, clutching at his shoulders.
“You okay?” he asks, wondering if he’s hurt her.
She smiles up at him. “Jelly legs.” Her hair is loose and damp, plastered to her face; there are bright spots of colour on both of her cheeks.
“Did you…?”
She shakes her head. “Close.” She says it as though she’s disappointed with her own lack of efficiency.
He almost repeats his dad’s favourite aphorism about horseshoes and hand grenades, but manages to hold back. He reaches down and lifts her up easily, tucking her against his chest. “Bedroom’s upstairs?”
“Yes.” She’s peering over his shoulder at the books scattered on the floor.
He bounds up the stairs with her cradled in his arms. In the bedroom, watery light filters in through the shoji screen that divides the loft from the rest of the apartment. He’s able to distinguish only the most prominent features in the room-the bed being the one he’s most interested in.
He sets her down, then peels off his t-shirt before dropping down next to her; the RT casts a blue glow across her pale skin, making her appear lit from within. It reminds him-in a typical Tony Stark moment of synaptic exuberance-of a project proposal that came across his desk recently, about bioluminescent trees. He’s been wanting to get Pepper’s thoughts on it all week, but hasn’t had the time.
He’s already formed the words “Can I ask you a question?” before he remembers Rule Number Two.
She nods.
“Do your panties always match your outfit?” he asks instead, his square, blunt fingertips trailing over the cotton and elastic at her hip. He’s delighted by the thought of all that underwear, so organized and meticulously colour-coordinated; he likes the idea of always knowing what she’s wearing under her clothes.
She smiles that smile again, like she’s swallowed a secret. “No, but it’s good to be prepared.”
He considers making a comment about the Boy Scouts, but that’s still a sore point between them, and he’d rather not have an argument at this precise moment. “Is that right?” He dips his fingers into the waistband of her underpants and lets them wander, stroking lightly, teasing.
She gasps, her hips rising up off the mattress. Her whole body is taut and straining.
“What do you want?” he asks, softly, mockingly. This is more familiar ground now; for the first time since she opened the front door, he feels fully in control of the encounter. He slides his hand up, over her belly, rucking up her little tank top. Now that the feeling of urgency has passed, he wants to explore, to chart this intriguing new territory and stake his claim.
She grabs his hand and shoves it back down between her legs; it’s a command, not a request. Her thighs are hot and slick.
“Is this what you need, Pepper?”
She gives an inarticulate groan, and presses his knuckles insistently with both hands, until he slides a single finger into her slippery core. Then another.
She grips tightly, bearing down, wringing what she needs from him. He’s fascinated by how ruthless she is when it comes to taking her own pleasure, and how precise; she’s just as focused and determined in the bedroom as she is in the boardroom.
Tony feels strangely depersonalized, and tangential to the entire process. As she gets closer to climax, it occurs to him that maybe he isn’t really needed there, and he isn’t sure what to think, how to feel. He thought that their being together like this would be different, somehow. He feels used. He feels useless.
Then she says, “Talk.”
“You want me to talk?”
“Yes,” she hisses, teeth clenched. “Just-I need-please.”
Tony is pleased to have the opportunity to demonstrate one of his strengths: he excels at talking dirty. He’s received many compliments over the years.
He moves closer to her ear, pitches his voice low. “Pepper,” he murmurs. “I’m going to make you come so hard-”
It’s all he has time to say before she achieves release-flushed and breathless, bucking against his hand, saying his name over and over again until it becomes indistinguishable, a string of gibberish.
He can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. His mental image of the always decorous, always correct, always articulate Virginia Potts is irrevocably shattered, but he’s not about to mourn the loss when the alternative has so much more… potential.
And all it took was the sound of his voice.
She exhales, a long, satisfied sigh, stretching and flexing her arms up over her head. Then, most astonishingly of all, she opens her eyes, says, “That was perfect, Tony, thank you,” and cranes her neck to give him a quick, sloppy kiss.
So, he reflects, smiling to himself. Not entirely useless, after all.