tehnakki: I love how suggestible you are when stoned! I should have spent today preparing weird fic ideas to take advantage of you in this state.
copperbadge: I’m spending like the next four days on high doses of opiates, so you’ve got time...
You can find all the original posts plus various side discussions under this tag on tumblr.
ONE: THE LONG CON
Summary: Pepper Potts has a secret past.
Prompt: rielrolling: Pepper is BFFs with one of Neal Caffrey’s aliases because ~art luv~ and they meet and hijinks with Extremis and theft.
Also available at AO3. The original draft of this story may be found here.
It was about ten minutes to "we should have left ten minutes ago" at the party, not one of Tony’s parties (nobody ever regretted staying late at Tony’s parties) when Tony spotted Pepper across the room, standing near the chocolate fountain, talking to a man who was far too attractive for Pepper to be talking to.
Tony was well aware of his flaws, including aggressive, potentially perilous possessiveness, but also the fact that he was older than Pepper, had been an ass to her for more or less a decade, and was still not the most stable of business or bed partners. He could rarely afford for her to speak to attractive men without interrupting, because while she was tied to him by the bonds of contractual ownership of his company, he could easily see losing her to someone with hair as perfect as this man’s and a smile as sharklike.
So it was with some relief that, as he crept up to them from behind the chocolate fountain, he heard her say, “You can’t be here and we can’t be talking.”
"Relax," the man said. "Nobody knows who I am. I’m not here to make trouble, Annie. Well, I mean, not for you. You've got a good thing going!"
Annie? Tony mouthed to himself.
"It’s not a good thing, Nick, it’s the real thing,” Pepper said. “Look, I remember how I got here and I’m still grateful to you, but you’re going to blow everything if Tony catches you.”
"Seriously. Tony Stark."
"You have no idea what he’s capable of."
This man, Nick, looked worried. “Is he hurting you, Annie?”
"Wha -- no, Jesus Christ, Nick, I meant -- "
"Hi there," Tony said, because now he was probably going to punch this guy for inferring that Tony Stark hit his girlfriend. Neurotic and possessive, yes; abusive, no.
He offered Nick his hand and used just enough force to bruise. Nick didn’t wince, but his blue eyes widened by just a fraction. "Tony Stark. R&D. Pepp, I’ve been looking all over for you, we should have left ten minutes ago."
"Tell me about it," Pepper said, but she looked unaccountably nervous.
"Who’s our new friend?"
Pepper coughed. “Tony, this is Nick Halden. Nick, Tony Stark. Nick and I are — “
"Friends from college," Nick said.
Tony, at the back of his mind (where he tended to keep Extremis) was busily indexing the name and face of his new frenemy.
"Nick was just telling me he works for the FBI now," Pepper said. "We haven’t seen each other in years."
"Hm," Tony said, because Nick Halden of the perfect blue eyes and cleft chin and crisp black hair was screaming Neal Caffrey, work-release felon, all over his database. Suddenly all he really wanted was to get Pepper away from a felon who clearly knew more than he was letting on. “Nice to meet you. We’re going now.”
He placed a hand on the small of Pepper’s back and gently guided her away, out onto the balcony and around the horrible and ugly hotel to the valet stand.
"Thank you. I know this is weird, and I promise I will come up with a convincing lie to tell you," Pepper said, as Tony skipped the valet and summoned his hybrid with Extremis.
"No lie necessary, beloved," Tony said absently. "Promise me I don’t have to kill him. Or, ask me to kill him, either way."
Pepper glanced at him. “You know something’s up.”
"You’re not curious?"
"I trust you."
"Wow, is that a mistake," she murmured, climbing into the back of the car. Tony followed her in, told JARVIS to take them home, and slung an arm around her shoulders.
"So why does a felon now working for the FBI call you Annie?" he asked. "Wait, scratch that. I don’t need to know. I just need to know why he thinks I hit you and whether he’s going to cause you trouble."
Pepper glanced at him. “He won’t. I don’t trust him, exactly, but he’s not...malicious. He never was.”
"Ex boyfriend?" Tony asked, slinging an arm around her shoulders.
"A romantic distinction?"
She sighed. “He...helped me get a job once.”
"Yeah. Personal assistant to Tony Stark."
"Ah," Tony said. "So i should be sending him some expensive thank-you gift."
Pepper sighed into his shoulder. “He called me Annie because it’s my birth name.”
"I’m pretty sure your birth name is Virginia. Nobody would choose Virginia if they could be something else, would they?"
"Virginia Potts is a very trustworthy name," she said, as he kissed the crown of her head. "The kind of name a man like Tony Stark would find believable. He’d maybe make up a silly nickname for her."
"Well, this sounds like it’s going somewhere interesting."
She toyed with the expensive ring on her hand, the one he’d given her not long before. “Once upon a time there was a grifter named Annie, who thought she could get ahead by scamming a lot of money off a young and vulnerable billionaire named Tony.”
"She got a guy named Nick, who had lots of connections, to help her pass his extensive background checks."
"And we all know Tony Stark is a sucker for a redhead in five-inch heels," Tony said.
"Well, we do now," she replied with a smile. "Annie became his personal assistant. All she needed was access to his accounts. You know rich men give their assistants much more power than they should. Within a year she had everything she needed to take him for millions he’d never even miss, load up his art collection into a plane, and fly to a sandy, sunny country with no extradition laws. She would have been set up for life."
He hummed to himself, relaxing. "What happened?"
Pepper sighed. “He bought her a birthday present. The one time, EVER, he remembered her birthday.”
"Oh, hey, I totally remember that," Tony said, sitting up straight. "I was really proud of myself, Pepp, like, do you know how -- yes, of course you know how rare it is," he said, deflating slightly as she gave him a look. "What, uh, did I, did he, get her?"
"Tony bought Pepper, who was born Annie Smith, a Klee painting," she said. "Just a small one. One of his most beautiful. It was a ridiculous gift for a PA, but it was so beautiful. And Pepper realized that she liked her painting, and her boss, and her job, and that if she had to spend the rest of her life on a sandy beach doing nothing, she’d be miserable."
"So she stayed?"
Pepper smiled. “She put back all the money, and all the paintings, and she stayed. And her very long con paid off, because not only did she end up running his company, but he fell in love with her. And he definitely forgave her for being a criminal with designs on his money,” she added, half-defiant, half-hopeful.
"Forgive? Jesus, Pepp, this is such a turn-on, like, even if this was just some weird roleplay you set up. But oh my God, you really were out to rob me, this is fantastic. Saved by Paul Klee. I made you CEO." Tony cracked up laughing, falling back in his seat. Pepper’s smile eased from tense to pleased. "I love you, you lying liar."
"Mutual, you gullible mark," she replied.
Anonymous: Tony, I don't think that bruising Neal's hand will convince him you're not abusive.
copperbadge: Logic has no place in Tony’s relationships. It’s better if people are made aware of this immediately on meeting him.
ninjatwins: Oh. My. God. Tony WOULD be turned on by this.
copperbadge: One of the many beautiful things about Pepper is that she’s that rare kind of person where jaded, experienced Tony Stark actually discovers NEW turn ons around her. How did he not know he had a kink for grifters? He does now!
rielrolling: I know Tony probably gave her a nice textile-y Klee painting but I like to think he gave her this
that eyebrow tho
copperbadge: HAHAHAHAH okay I’m going to admit I did minimal research and I know next to nothing about Klee, which I should really remedy. But that one came a close second to the one I fell in love with, which I hope is small because it’s the one I really want him to have given her.
TWO: TURKEY SOLDIER
Summary: Bucky has a firm policy: never say no to free food, especially on Thanksgiving.
Notes: Coauthored by Historymiss on Tumblr
Prompt: HistoryMiss: "Thanksgiving headcanon: Bucky totally attends every Thanksgiving dinner he’s invited to, from the group Avengers meal to the one at Becca’s home to the Capfamily one with Rikki and Steve and Sharon and Sam, and ends the day full of like 8 different turkeys and well on the way to drunk but it’s totally worth it."
Also available at AO3.
1. Maria Stark Foundation Charity Brunch
Bucky always gets an invite, he’s not sure why; maybe Stark just forgot he put him on the invite list one year and never took him off.
Anyway, it’s a great breakfast: succulent turkey gravy in crepes, “breakfast stuffing bites” made from hashed browns and sausage and egg, mini potato pancakes. Never let it be said Stark doesn’t put on a good spread. And it’s kind of fun to sit with Pepper Potts and listen to her mutter under her breath during Stark’s speech.
Plus he gets to watch Stark convince rich old bastards to put more money than they intended to into the hat for charity. His young Depression-raised self appreciates every cent Stark chisels from their shriveled old claws.
2. Soup Kitchen Lunch
He doesn’t eat much at the soup kitchen; after all, the food’s not for him. But he shows up around eleven, like he does every week, helps finish cooking whatever needs finishing, and then dishes out and makes small talk while kids shovel potatoes into their mouths and teenagers with punk hairdos and dark eyes get a couple of hours in the warm and men and women who are down on their luck get a couple of hours of hope.
He usually finds some kid who looks especially like they could use a hand, and sits down with them and shares a second helping of food while they talk. Once in a while he’s even useful.
But that’s not really Thanksgiving; that’s just Thursday, for the Bucky who remembers when Steve used to fake asthma attacks so Bucky could steal apples and walnuts off the fruit vendors’ carts.
3. Veteran’s Thanksgiving Buffet
He hooks up with Steve at the VFW, where they see things a little differently from the outside world, and where even the Winter Soldier was a soldier and someone to be proud of. He and Steve put on their uniforms — the old WWII uniforms, not the costumes — and spend a little time with men who get older every year, fewer every year. Steve doesn’t eat, too busy circulating and talking with all the old-timers, shaking hands with the new young vets back from new young wars.
As for Bucky, well, the turkey’s usually pretty industrial and the potatoes remind him of Basic, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
Not to mention he gets to listen to Steve gripe about Black Friday and how frying turkeys is for people who just can’t be happy with roasting and a million other things his cranky old-man soul can really only ever express around someone like Bucky, someone who understands.
4. Avengers Family Thanksgiving
Buck and Steve go straight from the VFW to the Tower, where the Avengers are having “orphan” Thanksgiving — anyone who hasn’t got family to go to, or can’t get there this year, comes around to the Tower. Nobody is officially put on cooking but someone always does, and Steve makes sure to be there to carve the turkey and keep order. Around three o’clock he sits down in front of the turkey, closes his eyes, and speaks from the heart the way Steve always does.
We give thanks for this day, for those around the table and those absent elsewhere, for the bounty we are about to receive and the bounty of years past, Steve says, as the atheists fidget a little and the gods look amused and the religious bow their heads or lift their eyes, depending. May our friendships remain strong, may we always know right, and may we find our way in darkness, Amen.
Turkey number four: down the hatch. Bucky’s barely even slowing down yet, and takes second helpings of green bean casserole but only eats the French’s fried onions, because green beans are gross and he doesn’t have to eat them anymore. They raid the tower's wine room for drinks, and Bucky enjoys watching Steve and Carol and Sam and half a dozen other Avengers sit around arguing semi-drunkenly about football.
5. Orphan Thanksgiving
Cliques form at every Avengers Thanksgiving: it’s not really deliberate, just that there’s so many of them that it’s natural to stick with the people you know and not stray too far outside your comfort zone. I mean, you might wander off and get stuck with Wonder Man bending your ear about the time he was an Avenger, and God knows Bucky’s not had nearly enough beer for that yet.
They’ve started to meet up over the last few years, anyway. Rikki, with her guarded, nervous smile, and Eli, who’s all defiance spread thinly over insecurity that’s actually painful for Bucky to look at, because the angles of the way the kid holds himself are so familiar.
They share things, after all. Things that even Steve doesn’t really get, about standing back and observing, about taking what you’re given and then taking a little more, cause God knows if you’re gonna get anything else. Bucky sits down with them and passes around the plate of pie he’s managed to filch off the buffet. Rikki takes a slice and Eli hesitates, then takes one as well, and they eat and catch up and don’t talk about anything of consequence. It’s just nice to have a family, and Rikki and Eli and Bucky, well, they’re as close to a family as any of them has got any more.
6. Future Foundation Dinner
Don’t ever fucking turn down an invitation to any meal at the Future Foundation, let alone Thanksgiving. Bucky leaves from the Tower in a cab headed straight for the Baxter Building.
Reed did something to the turkey, Bucky doesn’t even know what, but it’s amazing. All the kids prepare meals from wherever they come from, as a way of sharing culture, and there’s at least two food fights.
None of the kids give two craps where Bucky came from or what he did, they all just think he’s someone’s super cool uncle, and after dinner he and Johnny have hot mulled cider in the back of the Fantasticar on the way to Westchester.
The Fantasticar. How is this the life of Bucky Barnes.
7. Jean Grey Academy Dinner
Ben flies them up to Westchester because while Reed’s turkey is amazing, it’s not fried, and Logan doesn’t just fry a turkey, he fries all the turkeys. Organic, local turkeys grown on farms near Westchester, delivered still gobbling to the school, prepared fresh (possibly by Logan himself) and then fried. Fried. Fried turkey. Bucky’s not a strong man in the face of fried turkey.
The kids at Jean Grey Academy are a lot more uppity than the ones at Future Foundation, but they still think Bucky’s a badass, and he’s allowed to rough-house with them a little more. Mutant football, man, it’s hard to beat, and Bobby keeps the cold beers coming.
Inevitably he gets thrown off campus for picking a drunken fight with Logan, which is almost as much fun as mutant football. Anyway, that’s how he knows it’s time to stagger back into the Fantasticar, where Kitty is now at the wheel and wearing a suspiciously pretty dress.
Oh right. He has one more party to attend.
8. Jan van Dyne’s Cocktailgiving
Bucky is not dressed right for Jan van Dyne’s super-swanky Thanksgiving cocktail party, but everyone there is stupendously drunk by the time they crash it anyway, so it hardly matters. There are delicious little chocolate things and awesome cream puff things and gallons of fancy booze portioned out into tiny dainty glasses. Candied turkey? Yes fucking please, why not?
Bucky ends up getting poured into a cab by one of Jan’s boytoys or possibly bouncers or something, anyway, the point is, he ends up in the cab and gives an address and when he gets out he realizes oh, that’s where he is.
9. Sandwich Day
Bucky wakes up around noon, only slightly hungover and happily warm. He’s curled around Natasha, who somehow not only snuck out of bed but made a sandwich and snuck back into bed with it without waking him, as only Natasha can do.
He sits up, silently accepts her judgement (not as harsh as it could be) and with more enthusiasm accepts half of her sandwich. Thick rye bread from the Russian bakery down the street, turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and French’s fried onions.
Good lord how he loves this woman.
"Thanksgiving is not meant to be an orgy, you know," she says, as he uses leftovers to destroy his hangover.
"It is if you do it right," he replies.
10. Friday, Residential Care Home
The day itself is the family dinner, and Bucky can’t go to that without raising too many awkward questions. Super heroes, they deal with ‘brainwashed soviet assassin kept in stasis’ just fine, but it’s really hard to explain to a fortysomething accountant that you’re his mother’s older brother who was kept in stasis for most of the Seventies.
They leave Becca alone on Friday, though, so Bucky can turn up at the home where they assume he’s Becca’s grandson, and sit by her bed and tell her all about this year’s celebrations. She makes him eat her dinner, which is mostly leftover casserole from the day before. Not because she’s worried he’ll go hungry. She just doesn’t like green beans, and he’s always eaten her beans for her.
Today’s a good day. Probably because of the meal jogging her memory, or so he likes to think. Becca calls him Jimmy, not Pa, and asks after Natasha.
When he leaves, she wishes him Happy Christmas.
THREE: CONTROLLED BLAST
Summary: In which Tony Stark is training John Sheppard for another mouthy scientist, far in his future.
Prompt: anarialm: Look, all I want is the story about how John Sheppard and Tony Stark attended boarding school together. Is that so much to ask?
Also available at AO3. The original draft of the story may be found here.
IEL was not the most prestigious school in the country or the most exclusive, at least in terms of how the wealthy white ruling class of America in past years judged such things. It was not well-known at Yale or Harvard or Princeton, though CalPoly and MIT and certain other schools which shared their values regarded it quite highly. Independent Education Labs was meant for extraordinary children who intended to literally build the future: the next Gates, the next Curie, the next —
Well, the next Stark, as the sturdy ten-year-old kicking his legs on an adult-sized chair in the Dean’s office proved.
IEL took children as young as eight, though it did not offer third-grade classes for them. It merely offered a personally tailored course called pre-high, where exceptional children could move towards high school at an accelerated pace while not being forced into the awkward situations that pre-pubescents thrust into a normal high school would experience.
IEL also took “troubled” students with high aptitudes, which was why fourteen-year-old John Sheppard was there, sitting in the chair next to Tony. He didn’t seem to mind IEL as much as he had his previous boarding schools, two of which he'd been thrown out of. IEL didn't bother to try breaking him, but rather let him take whatever classes he wanted and fly light aircraft in his spare time, kicking around until he turned eighteen. They didn’t bug him too much about his hair or his clothes or his teetering-on-the-verge-of-selective-
Seated next to pugnacious, noisy little Tony Stark, John looked like a narrow shadow of a boy, twice Tony’s height and with half his presence. John would be leaving in four years for the Air Force Academy; Tony, if all went well, would be leaving at the same time for MIT.
The Dean had been pleased when Tony sought out John in his third week at the school. Howard Stark had all but thrown the boy over the wall with a tuition check pinned to his chest, making it clear Tony was their problem, and while the child had a knack for making friends he also had an unerring instinct for setting off homicidal urges in the older students. John, slouching and glowering and punching his way out of anything he couldn’t simply walk away from, seemed like an ideal bodyguard.
But as far as the Dean could tell, John hadn’t had to defend Tony at all. Tony was a sweet charmer who could run fast, which meant he rarely reaped the trouble he sowed. John had simply taken to following the boy around, helping when he couldn’t reach a book in the library, listening to his endless prattle at lunch, occasionally comparing notes with him in classes they shared. The Dean had expected trouble from Tony’s mouth and John’s fists. Instead, for an entire semester, the two had rolled through the school like academic bulldozers, to the point where visiting parents thought it was cute that little Tony had followed his big brother John to IEL.
The Dean watched from the doorway as Tony took a slightly squashed caramel from his pocket and offered it to John. John, in return, took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped soot off the end of Tony’s nose. The adoration in Tony’s face and the devotion in John’s almost made him forget why he was here.
"So," he said, entering his office, and Tony and John both looked up. "Gentlemen. I understand our squash court is no more."
"I can explain," Tony said. "See, traditionally, squash courts have been extremely important in the history of scientific experimen —- "
"I’m aware of Fermi, Tony, thank you," the Dean interrupted.
"But that’s my point, sir, as policy at Fermi’s research facility stated, academics being more important than sports, the courts he used for his experiments had already been decommissioned -- "
"Which they have not here," the Dean said firmly. "We were still using those squash courts, Tony."
"So were we, technically," Tony pointed out.
"For their intended purpose?"
"Well, where’s the imagination in that?" Tony asked. "Ask me to think outside the box, I think inside squash courts."
"Tony, do you remember our discussion about ready-fire-aim?" the Dean asked.
Tony looked sullen. “You mean the one where you told my uncle Obie about it and he keeps bringing it up every time we talk?”
"That’s the one. Out in the real world, when you have your own labs and funding, you will still answer to governing bodies that are not going to let you get away with this kind of thing. In the real world, Tony, you can go to prison for blowing up athletic facilities."
"But -- "
"Tony, we’ve been over this. No unauthorized experiments," the Dean insisted. "It’s as much to keep you from getting hurt as it is to keep IEL from being raided by the government for possession of nuclear weaponry."
"As if, nukes are so last season," Tony replied.
"I was there," John offered.
The Dean was always a little taken aback when John spoke; it wasn’t that it never happened, but it was rare, and unlike their other children with speech issues, John never seemed like he was struggling or shy. He just waited for the precise moment to speak, and then he spoke. And then he went back to being utterly, pervasively silent.
"He was safe," John added.
The Dean rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I’m sure he was, John, but we can’t allow you to set a precedent that other, less attentive friends may not be able to live up to. You are both extraordinary boys, but that is exactly why we can’t let you step too far out of line. Other boys and girls will want to follow you, and very few could. You have to at least show willing to follow regulations."
"It was a controlled blast," Tony said.
"Good, then you will recognize this as my own personal controlled blast. The two of you are on detention until the holiday break, confined to quarters outside of classes, and removed from all extracurriculars."
Tony sat up sharply. “You won’t tell the Sheppards, will you?”
John shot him a warning look.
"No. Nor your parents," the Dean replied. Both children looked relieved.
With different parents, perhaps he would have, but John’s parents wouldn’t care, and the weight of Howard Stark’s expectations already bent Tony’s small shoulders more than it should. The Dean was in favor of preparing children to face the world but protecting them from unnecessary harm, which occasionally included declawing their parents.
"You’re dismissed," he said, and Tony hopped off his chair. John followed him towards the door, but stopped in the doorway as Tony ran off down the hall.
"I wouldn’t let him get hurt," he said.
"I know, John," the Dean replied. "Not sure why, though. Of all the boys and girls here, why Tony Stark?"
John shrugged. “I like how much he talks. People with brains like Tony’s need people like me.”
The Dean smiled. “Just so. Run along, John. Don’t forget you’ve got a brain of your own, though.”
"Nosir," John said, and slouched off.
FOUR: BUS PARTY
Warnings: Dubious consent due to sex pollen; minor mentions of daddy kink
Summary: Sex gas, Latveria, and a SHIELD orgy.
Prompt: daroos: I was not anticipating how much I would just want an Agents of SHIELD orgy. Throw in whichever Avengers you think might be fun, but fer serious, can all of them just have a mad 70’s sex party on the bus? Sam? Can you make this happen?
Also available at AO3. The original draft of the story may be found here.
Coulson, to his credit, didn’t panic.
He got the team back on the Bus and locked it down and he would have managed to lock them into their separate bunks to ride out the gas, except FitzSimmons was tiny and Ward and May had metabolisms like hummingbirds and Skye had never needed to develop any kind of self control.
Motherfucking Latveria. He knew better. Latveria never ended well. He should have known better than to take the team to Latveria even with Von Doom’s permission to be there, and he definitely should not have led them into the catacombs under the castle looking for stashed Hydra weapons from WWII without gas masks.
He’d estimated the gas that the booby trap released would take about twenty minutes to do whatever it was going to do, and he’d driven the SUV back to the Bus like a bat out of hell while Simmons frantically tried to analyze what the hell it was so that they could apply an antidote.
Right around the time they’d hit the airstrip she’d said "This is strange — it should have killed us, but the gas has decayed over time. I think it might just -- "
Coulson had slammed the lock on the cargo bay then, and Fitz had said "I feel desperately unwell" and May had said "I just feel desperate -- " and after that things got a little blurry.
He was aware that he was sitting in the lounge area of the Bus, that Skye was on his lap and that the rest of the team were in various states of undress around him. He was only vaguely aware that something was off because Skye had giggled something about daddy into his neck while she was sucking on it, and it had been a momentary but effective dash of cold water through his overheated body. His hands hadn’t stopped sliding down her hips to her ass and he hadn’t really managed to dislodge her, but he was at least aware that this was inappropriate.
When he turned his head, eyes slitting open, May had FitzSimmons surrounding her, but Phil had one spent a night with May a long time ago and he was confident she could handle herself. She’d certainly handled him, which sent a thrill of renewed arousal up his spine.
Skye was still murmuring faintly kinky things in his ear, and it wasn’t so much the semi-incestuous nature as it was the implication that he was old enough to be her father (he was, but that was hardly the point) which kept him from truly enjoying the sensation. A glance in the other direction showed Ward, looking petrified and aroused, one hand pressed sharply to his groin. When he met Phil’s eyes, he made a panicked noise.
"Hey," he said in Skye’s ear. "Go help May with Fitz."
Skye wrinkled her nose. “Does he even understand what sex is?”
"Be a good girl and teach him," Phil murmured, and Skye squeaked as he lifted her off his lap and dumped her onto Fitz. May gave Phil a nod and turned all of her attention to Simmons, which distracted Phil for long enough that he nearly forgot about Ward.
A whimper reminded him, and he managed to get across to the couch where Ward sat, eyes wide and darting, watching the others warily.
"I think we’ve been compromised," Ward said, as Phil pulled his head around with a hand on his cheek.
"No kidding," Phil murmured. "Are you hallucinating?"
"Is Simmons topless in May’s lap?"
Phil glanced past him. “Yes.”
"Not hallucinating, sir."
"Okay. Focus on me," Phil said, though it was hardly necessary, since Grant was staring hungrily at his mouth. "You look frightened."
"Just -- " Grant panted softly. "I don’t find myself...in this sort of...very often..."
"Uh huh." Phil kissed his forehead, and Grant nuzzled into the open collar of his shirt needily. "FitzSimmons, Skye," he called. "You’re up."
"Yessir," Fitz agreed. Phil chuckled.
"Look after Grant," he said, catching Simmons’ outstretched hand to tug her over. Fitz and Skye went more willingly. May made a disappointed noise as she let go of Simmons.
Phil settled onto the other couch and tugged May over between his legs, her head resting back on his shoulder as her hips settled snug against his abdomen.
"Let the kids have their fun," he said in her ear, one hand sliding up under her shirt.
"I wanted to play with Simmons," she said, turning her face up to bite his earlobe.
"Team bonding is important," he managed, his other hand sliding under the waistband of her uniform pants. On the other couch, Grant and Simmons were laid out, her legs around his waist, and Skye had tugged his head over and under her skirt. Fitz was making excellent use of some medical lubricant to make Grant groan occasionally. Skye and Simmons were holding hands.
"Hope you gave them condoms," Phil said, breath hitching as Melinda rubbed back against him.
"Found some in the first aid kit," she sighed, between soft groans.
"Good," he growled. Skye swore and shuddered, and Simmons said something utterly filthy. Fitz, with a grunt, slid forward so fast Grant jerked inside of Simmons. Melinda’s hips bucked up against Phil’s hand and he smiled into her hair.
"This might be awkward tomorrow," she said dreamily.
"Rite of passage," he replied.
"Can you get off like this?" she asked. "Philosophically jerking me off?"
"We all have our turn-ons," he said.
"Which one is this?"
"Well," he remarked, as Fitz and Simmons, on either side of Grant, came in unison and Grant rolled over, pulling Skye on top of him, "I love seeing my team get along."
whatdoyoumeanitsnotawesome: I actually had to stop and giggle for a solid minute about 'Motherfucking Latveria.' I s2g. Still not over it, really.
copperbadge: Phil is a million percent done with Latveria, but he’s the only SHIELD agent they’ve found who can maintain a civil conversation with Victor von Doom so they always send him. He swears a lot beforehand and goes out for a big dinner at his favourite steakhouse afterward as a reward.
In this case he probably took the others out too, and it was the most gloriously awkward dinner ever because FitzSimmons wouldn’t meet anyone’s eye and Ward wasn’t sure if this wasn’t maybe like Phil trying to date all of them at once and Skye kept talking about how sick corn-feeding makes beef. (May and Phil killed a bottle of wine together and had a blast.)
vitruvian23: What, not in flight so that a) May can prove her absolute mastery of piloting, even while engaged in extracurricular activities and b) everybody gets to join the Mile High Club that’s not already in it.
Copperbadge: *aghast* Safety first! May would never fly the plane while intoxicated or during sex. She is a professional. Sex and piloting are a recipe for disaster!
I mean of course she could get them safely home while hopped up on sex gas and getting head from Phil Coulson, but that’s not the point. If SHIELD keeps crashing helicarriers it won’t be because of Melinda May. Do you know what the #1 cause of accidents in the SHIELD workplace is? Galaga.
Besides, she worked hard for her mile high club membership, she’s not just going to hand it to anyone. They need to earn it through effort and cunning.
coreomajoris: Are we arguing about the SAFETY aspects of a SEX POLLEN FIC on a PLANE? God, I love fandom.
copperbadge: Safe sex and safe driving are both very important! I have a responsibility to set an example for people considering orgies or air travel. If you’re going to have an orgy, use condoms and don’t be flying a plane while you do it! Or if you must fly during the orgy, make sure it’s a light aircraft over an uninhabited area and always make sure all your passengers are consenting.
FIVE: SHERLOCK AND WATSON
Summary: Watson chivvies Sherlock Holmes out of his rooms, again.
Prompt: Based on this photograph and RDJ's caption of it. romantic-chamber-of-the-heart: Now I can’t stop picturing this version of Holmes & Watson. Like the Mary Russell books but with John and Mary’s daughter who just gets called “Watson Jr.” all the time.
Also available at AO3. The original draft of this story may be found here.
Watson came into the suite of rooms at 221B Baker Street like a ray of sunlight: blinding, cruel, and illuminating things best left hidden. Sherlock Holmes, asleep on the divan, startled awake at the bang of the door and fell to the ground.
"You know," Watson said, collecting up stray piles of paper in a ruthless march to the windows, "I would ask if you revel in filth, but I genuinely believe you simply aren’t aware of it. I suppose the keenest mind in the empire will have his blind spots."
"I have no blind spots," Holmes muttered, then yelped as the curtains were thrown back. "I have deliberately cultivated a tolerance to that which cannot be altered."
"This cannot be altered?" Watson asked, indicating an armful of newspaper clippings.
"I must have my research," Holmes said with an attempt at dignity. "I cannot be placed at fault for the poor organisation of the newspapers."
"You’ll likely die in a fire," Watson predicted.
"Nonsense, the odds of a shooting are far greater."
Watson deposited the papers on a larger heap of papers which had once been a desk, waved a handy rag to circulate a bit of fresh air, and bent to kiss his forehead as he scrambled up onto the divan.
"You mustn’t be shot; I have a wager on fire."
"Marry me," Sherlock urged, despite the horrible fresh air and the new disarray of his carefully strewn papers and the fact that he had asked Susannah Watson twenty-seven times previous and been declined.
She put a hand on her hip, cocked her head, and tapped the toe of her heeled boot against the carpet.
"So that you have a pretty young woman to clean for you, feed you, and organise your funeral? Shan’t," she replied, throwing a shirt at him.
"Don’t be ridiculous, Junior. So that we might cohabitate in peace without scandal," he countered.
"Why would I wish to cohabitate with you?" she asked. "God knows what you’d do to me."
"I have no interest in carnal matters," Sherlock said, drawing himself upright as he pulled the shirt on. "I should be a perfect gentleman, buy you outrageous gifts when I remembered to, and leave you all my worldly possessions when I died."
"Yes, why on earth would I avoid marriage with a man who would refuse me our wedding bed," she drawled. "You’d probably put something in my eggs at breakfast."
"Only the love of my heart," he protested.
"Then they’d be somewhat dry, don’t you think?"
"The papers would adore our marriage. Society would loathe us."
"How my father lived with you for years on end without dying or murdering you is a mystery," she said.
"He believed it to be some form of mental illness," Sherlock informed her.
"No doubt the reason I give up my less than copious spare time to shepherd you about," Watson agreed.
"How is your father, my dear Junior?”
"Quite enjoying Sussex, thank you."
"And you?" he asked, with earnest interest. Only a few women had ever commanded his attention in any meaningful way: Irene Adler, Mrs. Hudson, and the daughter of John Watson. Perhaps Her Majesty the Queen, though she would come a distant fourth.
Susannah, with her smart mouth and bluestocking ways, was most frequently described by men of Sherlock’s age (fifty-mumble, it wasn’t vanity so much as a love of privacy) as vivacious. Men her own age, mainly those in classes with her at the medical college, called her either captivating or brutal. Sometimes both. But as he well knew, men her age were generally fools.
To Sherlock Holmes, Susannah Watson was a new creature, with the youth and energy of his Irregulars, the brilliant mind of his first Watson, and an independence and sagacity that were wholly her own. He adored her as he had adored her father: intellectually, sexlessly, and with every ounce of his being.
Watson smiled at him. “I am well, thank you. I’ve come to chisel you out of your animal warren and take you down to the morgue. There’s a body there that you will find interesting, and I’d very much like you to shame the police over it for me, as they’ve been treating me nastily.”
He clutched his chest. “You do love me, truly! I shall destroy them in your honour. Pray give me a handkerchief of yours to tie about my arm.”
"I should as soon tie it about your throat. Come along, Holmes," she said, grasping his arm and dragging him towards the door.
"I am yours to command, Watson. Have you your revolver?"
"Then we have nothing to fear," he said, stepping out into the busy London morning and raising his hand to flag a cab.
absurdical: i would watch emma watson and RDJ and jude law and kelly reilly team up to SASS LONDON INTO A STEAMPUNK GRAVE
copperbadge: Well, given it was 1891 when Watson and Mary were married (in Guy Ritchie canon anyhow) and Susannah is twentyish, this would be set somewhere round about 1911 or, as I like to call it, Titanicpunk.
That said, there’s no reason Susannah couldn’t have been the result of John Watson’s “experience of women which extends over many nations and three separate continents” and already have been born without his knowledge by the time of the films, which could mean she was an adult soon enough to catch the tail end of the era.
spiderine: "Only three women had ever commanded his attention in any meaningful way: Her Majesty the Queen, Ms. Irene Adler, and the daughter of John Watson."
AHEM. I believe you forgot someone.
PART TWO OF HYDROCODONE MIDNIGHT THEATRE