Fic: Meditate My Direction (Feel Your Way) (1/1)
Title: Meditate My Direction (Feel Your Way)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Tony/Pepper
Word Count: 817
Summary: She doesn’t want to be another thing that he regrets. For ozmissage, who requested “Pepper/Tony. You're The One That I Want by Angus & Julia Stone” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Spoilers for Iron Man 2 (2010).
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Guh, I just adore these two. I hope this little glimpse is to your liking :) (Also: that song is wonderful!)
Meditate My Direction (Feel Your Way)
After the rooftop: after she can’t taste him on her lips anymore, and the cuts in his skin have stopped bleeding, have begun to seal and scab; after she’s in a t-shirt of his, even though she has a full wardrobe available in every property he owns, and he’s poured them both something old and strong and obscenely expensive that she doesn’t know the name of, except that it tastes like fire, burns on the back of her teeth until it takes the edge off -- after... everything, neither of them can really sleep.
His eyes look hooded, stretched wide as the scenes on the television flicker across his irises, sink past and dilate his pupils when he lifts his glass -- she tucks her ankles beneath herself and leans into the arm of the sofa; she decorated this place, remembers when be bought the Manhattan penthouse -- remembers a lot of things.
She yawns, and his gaze shifts to her; he watches her for a long moment, and her hair smells like soot and smoke -- she exhales slow, deep, before she breathes in carefully and gets the hard part over with.
“Tony,” and he just blinks, because his stare is still fixed on her; she knows him well enough to figure that it’s the best acknowledgement she’s going to get. “Look,” she starts, stares at her hands in her lap, rubs at the long red line sliced by a stray shard of glass, the burn on her wrist from the sparking of his suit. “I understand that earlier, it was,” she searches for the right words, the right tone to strike; “the adrenaline, the danger, we were,” she fishes, looks for a lie that’ll pass for the truth; “we weren’t ourselves.”
His brow furrows, but he doesn’t jump in to comment, or to counter. Her stomach plunges, and her pulse picks up.
“And I know you, I know what you want in... how you are with,” she fumbles, because yeah, she knows, but she doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want to, and there were strawberries, and his hands on her waist, and she’s never been kissed like that; not ever.
“Pepper,” he says, his voice low as he mutes the television and turns in his chair to face her straight on, steepling his hands and leaning in to consider her. “I’m not good at this sort of thing, I need you to spell this out for me. What is it, exactly, that you’re trying to say?”
She breathes in deep again, but it doesn’t steady her, doesn’t help. “I’m saying that maybe it was a mistake.”
Tony’s eyes narrow at her for a second before he nods, like he’s processing it, not quite like he agrees; though, admittedly, that might be wishful thinking. “Do you think it was a mistake?”
Pepper purses her lips, she finds the best answer she can manage, under the circumstances. “I think that maybe you weren’t thinking clearly, and I don’t want you to do something that you’re going to regret.”
He gets to his feet and walks toward her, comes close until his knees knock against the couch and he’s looking down at her, close enough that she can pick up on the stray waves, the heat of him; he’s looking down at her, dissecting the things she can’t say, and whoever pinned Tony Stark as oblivious only had half of the story, because now that his attention is set, zeroed in upon her, she’s sure there’s not a single thing he doesn’t see.
He doesn’t have to ask her to say it, it’s on her tongue, waiting: “I don’t want to be something you regret.”
Tony slides onto the cushion next to her, reaches out to put a hand on her shoulder, her cheek but then he hesitates; she wishes that he wouldn’t. “I know I’m not exactly a sure thing,” he says, soft, and there are only three things in the world she’s heard him use that tone about: only three things that close to his heart -- his parents, his missions, and... her.
Her.
She feels her jaw slacken a little, but he doesn’t seem to take it in as he pushes onward: “But I want you, Pepper. I want you.”
And maybe she’ll regret it in the morning; but he’s warm against her and they both nearly died, and his lips are slick with amber and she’s starving, drowning, and she’s leaning in and kissing him, soft and lush and full before she can even think twice.
And then he’s kissing her back, hard and thick and burning; and she might regret it in the morning, but she’s certainly not regretting it tonight.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Tony/Pepper
Word Count: 817
Summary: She doesn’t want to be another thing that he regrets. For ozmissage, who requested “Pepper/Tony. You're The One That I Want by Angus & Julia Stone” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Spoilers for Iron Man 2 (2010).
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Guh, I just adore these two. I hope this little glimpse is to your liking :) (Also: that song is wonderful!)
Meditate My Direction (Feel Your Way)
After the rooftop: after she can’t taste him on her lips anymore, and the cuts in his skin have stopped bleeding, have begun to seal and scab; after she’s in a t-shirt of his, even though she has a full wardrobe available in every property he owns, and he’s poured them both something old and strong and obscenely expensive that she doesn’t know the name of, except that it tastes like fire, burns on the back of her teeth until it takes the edge off -- after... everything, neither of them can really sleep.
His eyes look hooded, stretched wide as the scenes on the television flicker across his irises, sink past and dilate his pupils when he lifts his glass -- she tucks her ankles beneath herself and leans into the arm of the sofa; she decorated this place, remembers when be bought the Manhattan penthouse -- remembers a lot of things.
She yawns, and his gaze shifts to her; he watches her for a long moment, and her hair smells like soot and smoke -- she exhales slow, deep, before she breathes in carefully and gets the hard part over with.
“Tony,” and he just blinks, because his stare is still fixed on her; she knows him well enough to figure that it’s the best acknowledgement she’s going to get. “Look,” she starts, stares at her hands in her lap, rubs at the long red line sliced by a stray shard of glass, the burn on her wrist from the sparking of his suit. “I understand that earlier, it was,” she searches for the right words, the right tone to strike; “the adrenaline, the danger, we were,” she fishes, looks for a lie that’ll pass for the truth; “we weren’t ourselves.”
His brow furrows, but he doesn’t jump in to comment, or to counter. Her stomach plunges, and her pulse picks up.
“And I know you, I know what you want in... how you are with,” she fumbles, because yeah, she knows, but she doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want to, and there were strawberries, and his hands on her waist, and she’s never been kissed like that; not ever.
“Pepper,” he says, his voice low as he mutes the television and turns in his chair to face her straight on, steepling his hands and leaning in to consider her. “I’m not good at this sort of thing, I need you to spell this out for me. What is it, exactly, that you’re trying to say?”
She breathes in deep again, but it doesn’t steady her, doesn’t help. “I’m saying that maybe it was a mistake.”
Tony’s eyes narrow at her for a second before he nods, like he’s processing it, not quite like he agrees; though, admittedly, that might be wishful thinking. “Do you think it was a mistake?”
Pepper purses her lips, she finds the best answer she can manage, under the circumstances. “I think that maybe you weren’t thinking clearly, and I don’t want you to do something that you’re going to regret.”
He gets to his feet and walks toward her, comes close until his knees knock against the couch and he’s looking down at her, close enough that she can pick up on the stray waves, the heat of him; he’s looking down at her, dissecting the things she can’t say, and whoever pinned Tony Stark as oblivious only had half of the story, because now that his attention is set, zeroed in upon her, she’s sure there’s not a single thing he doesn’t see.
He doesn’t have to ask her to say it, it’s on her tongue, waiting: “I don’t want to be something you regret.”
Tony slides onto the cushion next to her, reaches out to put a hand on her shoulder, her cheek but then he hesitates; she wishes that he wouldn’t. “I know I’m not exactly a sure thing,” he says, soft, and there are only three things in the world she’s heard him use that tone about: only three things that close to his heart -- his parents, his missions, and... her.
Her.
She feels her jaw slacken a little, but he doesn’t seem to take it in as he pushes onward: “But I want you, Pepper. I want you.”
And maybe she’ll regret it in the morning; but he’s warm against her and they both nearly died, and his lips are slick with amber and she’s starving, drowning, and she’s leaning in and kissing him, soft and lush and full before she can even think twice.
And then he’s kissing her back, hard and thick and burning; and she might regret it in the morning, but she’s certainly not regretting it tonight.