Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The chandeliers in the Midtown Marriott ballroom threw arcs of light across acres of sequins, overly expensive champagne, and polite laughter.

Bianca Chambers tugged irritatedly at the skinny strap of her dress, a vintage deep green thing she’d had tailored somewhere in West Village — and reminded herself for the 17th time this evening that this was *not* the kind of event she would usually attend.

She wasn’t a debutante, or a socialite, or even someone who liked free champagne like this. But her advisor had insisted, and her lab partner had bribed her with the weak promise of not fucking up the electron microscopy scheduling again. 

So here she was: hem brushing her shins, her dirty blonde curls wrangled into semi-order, gripping the stem of a glass filled with something fizzy, doing all of this while pretending to look fascinated by a presentation on lithium-ion batteries.

She adjusted the fake name tag pinned to her chest — Rebecca Cole, Columbia University, and wondered how much longer she needed to stay in this overly shiny place before Irish goodbye-ing.

The pseudonym wasn’t her idea. Columbia started it after some old stuffy donor had cornered her at a fundraiser 2 years ago, eager to meet the “prodigy with the impossible IQ”. Bianca positively despised being paraded around, so now the department had shoved a generic grad-student badge in her palm and sent her on her way. Most people would forget her face 5 minutes later, which was her favourite thing.

She wasn’t here to network, or to be recruited, or to be basked in flattery. Least of all Stark Industries.

But Stark Industries was hosting this godforsaken symposium.

The collective ripple through the entire crowd made it obvious. Tony Stark had arrived. Laughter rose half an octave, conversations sharpened an inch, and people turned their bodies like flowers towards the sun. Bianca didn’t even bother to glance up. She’d seen his picture a million times in Forbes and Tech Weekly. Billionaire playboy. Weapons contractor. Genius, allegedly.

Her lab partner, Mark, nearly vibrated out of his suit. “Do you understand what it would mean if Stark Industries picked up your project?”

“It would mean,” Bianca hummed, sipping her champagne, “selling my soul to a man who can’t even read his own press release without his secretary putting the words in his mouth.” 

Her partner stared, scandalised. She slipped away before Mark could start scolding her, making a bee-line towards the bar.

The mojito was strong, crisp, and sweetened with just enough lime, and far better company that most of the people in this room. She had been rehearsing excuses to leave when someone settled on the barstool on her left.

“Good choice,” a smooth voice said. “The champagne tastes like it used to be champagne.”

Bianca shifted her head, and there he was.

Tony fucking Stark.

Up close, he was much more dangerous than the photographs — sharp eyes, an easy grin, his tuxedo tailored within an inch of its life. He gave her the king of look that may have been suggesting she was about to become part of his evening plans.

“Mm,” she replied, unimpressed. “Glad we agree on something.”

His grin deepened a fraction. “You’re new.”

Bianca tilted her head a fraction, a pesky curl sliding over her temple and resting in front of her left eye. She tucked it away with a manicured nail. “That obvious?”

“I’d remember you.” His hand was now held out to her. “Tony.”

She let him wait a few beats before shaking it. His palm was warm. Steady, even. “Rebecca.” She said, tapping her name tag once.
“Rebecca,” he repeated, tasting the syllables. “Tell me, Rebecca— what’s a woman with semi-decent taste in drinks doing hiding out here instead of pitching me some..” He paused to sip on his scotch. “..half-baked prototype?” 

“Maybe I don’t need you to fund me.”

Tony’s eyes lit up like she’d poured gasoline onto a fire. “Then maybe I need you.”

Bianca took another sip of her mojito, straw bumping the lime wedge and smirked. “Confident, aren’t you?”

“Factory settings.”

—

The conversation should’ve ended there. Bianca should’ve excused herself, should’ve disappeared back into the crowd after her mojito.
Instead, Tony flagged the bartender with a snap of his fingers. Bianca made a face at the gesture, but recovered quickly. “Two more” he said, nodding at her empty glass, the lime wedge crushed under her straw. “Unless you’re one of those sensible types who stops at one drink. Tell me you’re not sensible.”

She cocked a brow. “You’re assuming I want to drink with you.”

“You’re still sitting here.” He shot back, his easy grin cutting through the noise of the ballroom. “Which, according to my data, puts the odds at… let’s call it 65% you do.”

She huffed, trying not to smile. “That’s some bad math.”

“Oh, it’s terrible math. But it works for me.”

The bartender slid fresh glasses their way. Tony lifted his, tilting it towards her like a dare. “So. Rebecca. What’s your deal? You look like you hate everyone here, which means you’re already the most interesting person in this ballroom.”
Bianca took a slow, measured sip. “Maybe I just hate you.”

He put a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “Ouch. At least wait until the second drink to break my heart.”

She rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t fight the smile, a real one that he hadn’t expected. He leaned closer, his voice lowering to a murmur. “Tell me I’m wrong. You didn’t dress up, show up, and nurse a mojito in the corner just to…avoid everyone. You’ve got secrets. And I love secrets.”

Her smirk curved against the cool rim of her glass. “You don’t even know me.”

“That’s the best part,” he said instantly. “Clean slate. No baggage. I don’t have to impress you with the whole genius-billionaire thing. Which is good, because it’s exhausting.”

“You seem very exhausted.” She deadpanned.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he whispered, leaning in conspiratorially. “Ruins the brand.”

Bianca laughed, a sharp sound she tried desperately to hold behind her teeth, and Tony caught it, triumphant. His gaze lingered just a little too long on her mouth before sliding to his scotch.

One drink blurred into two. Then three. The banter crackled like static electricity between them, each of his lines met with one of hers until she realised she wasn’t dodging him anymore. She’d been leaning in.

“You know,” Tony hummed, resting his elbow on the bar, head slightly tilted back to watch her. “You’re dangerously good at this.”

“At what?”

“Making me forget I’m here on business.”

“And what exactly do you think this is?”

His grin shifted, hungry and amused. “This? This is foreplay.”

Bianca’s glass was set down onto the counter a little too hard, the pulse in her throat stuttering slightly. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you. I practice.” He straightened, much closer now, his voice dropping as the scent of scotch lingered on his breath. “So. Want to get out of here?”

She should’ve said no. instead, her brain heard her mouth say “yes.”

—

The elevator doors slid shut, sealing them into a room with their reflections staring back.

Tony hit the button for the top floor and immediately caged her against the wall, his mouth pressing against hers before she could think twice about the penthouse.

She broke the kiss just long enough to laugh, a drunk little noise. “Impatient much?”

“Seven minutes to my floor,” he murmured against her lips, his nose bumping hers. “You expect me to waste that?”

His hands slid down her sides, practiced but not careless, his fingers firmly settling on the warm curve between her hip and waist. And then, because he was Tony Stark, because he couldn’t shut up even while kissing her senseless—

“You feel that?” He grabbed her wrist and in that second, Bianca was mentally preparing to have to feel his crotch, but instead it’s pressed flat to his chest.

She blinked. Instead of the expected heartbeat, it was a faint whirring under her fingers. Mechanical. Alive.

“What—“

“Arc reactor.” He cut in, his mouth kissing down her jaw. “Miniaturized clean-energy power source. Keeps me alive, powers half my toys, very efficient.”
She laughs, a breathless noise. “You’re giving me a TED Talk in an elevator?”

“TED Talk, foreplay, same difference.” His grin was wicked, his tongue tracing the soft flesh of her collarbone. “You should be honoured. Most women don’t get the Stark demo package.”

Bianca arched a brow, tugging him back towards her mouth. “Maybe i’m not most women.” She hissed. She despised even being considered lumped with the women that have opened their legs for Stark.

He groaned, pleased, licking into her mouth like she’d just proven his thesis. Between kisses, he kept going, because of fucking course he did.

“Palladium core—god, you taste good—shouldn’t even work at this size,—but it does, because I’m a genius—“

She cut him off with another kiss, fingers fisting into his hair. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Not when I’m turned on.” He said honestly, hands already bunching the deep fabric of her dress.

The elevator chimed. They stumbled out into the penthouse corridor, his mouth still on hers, him half-walking, half-dragging her toward his door.
He fumbled the keycard, murmuring against her lips. “You know, usually I like to wine and dine first. But you—“ the lock clicked, and he shoved the door open with his hip, and they practically fell inside— “you’re a fucking exception.”

The city glowed out below them through floor-to-ceiling glass, but neither of them noticed.

Bianca laughed into his mouth. “This is absurd.”

“So are you.” He said, and kissed her harder.

The door thudded shut behind them, the hotel hallway disappearing. His mouth was on hers like he’d been starving all night, impatient, relentless, scotch-flavoured.
Her back hit the wall, the umbrella stand toppling over, her laugh muffled against his mouth when his hands immediately started grasping like he couldn’t decide where to touch first.

“Christ,” Tony muttered against her jaw, teeth scraping lightly before he dragged his mouth down her throat. “You’re real, right? I didn’t drink that much.”

Bianca smirked, tugging at the lapel of his tux, pushing him back enough to get a better look at him. His pupils were blown out, his tie already crooked and half-untied, his stubble brushing rough against her chin. She could feel the heat rolling off him in waves.

“Depends,” she said, deliberately breathless. “Do hallucinations usually insult you at the bar?”

He groaned, euphoric. “God, marry me. Except don’t. I’m a terrible husband. Ask—“ he cut himself off, mouth returning to her collarbone. “Forget it. Just— fuck, you smell incredible.”

His hands slid to the straps of her dress, pushing them down with surprising gentleness for someone clearly vibrating with impatience. The fabric slipped lower, baring the swell of her chest. He stared for a beat too long.

“Jesus Christ.” He muttered, then immediately bent his head, kissing along the soft edge of her bra. His fingers fumbled at her back, cursing softly when the clasp wouldn’t budge.

Bianca laughed, sharp and hot, her hand threading into his hair. “Iron Man can build a mini reactor in a cave but can’t figure out a couple of hooks?”

He huffed, biting at the junction of her neck and shoulder. “Not Iron Man yet, sweetheart. Tonight I’m just a guy trying to get your bra off without— ah. There.”

The clasp finally gave, and the straps loosened. He pulled back only far enough to look at her properly, her breasts spilling free, soft, heavy things framed by the green silk half-on her flesh. He swore under his breath like he’d been punched.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he said, his voice coming out rough. “And I’ll die fucking pleased.”

Before she could fire back, his mouth was on her again, sucking a nipple into his mouth, his tongue hot and insistent. Her head tipped back against the wall, a gasp escaping despite herself. His free hand gripped her hip tight, thumb stroking the curve just above her thigh like he was memorising it.

He pulled his mouth off, his lips swollen as he thumbed the sensitive bud, sticky with his saliva. “Fuck, you taste like trouble.”

“Better turn around then.”

“Not a chance.” He dragged her dress up, bunching silk as her hips, one hand palming her thigh, shoving it higher. His body pressed into hers, his erection hard and insistent through too many layers, and he swore into her mouth. “Fuck. You feel that? You’re gonna kill me.”

She nipped his jaw, teeth sharp against stubble. “Not my problem.”

“Sweetheart, it’s absolutely your problem.” His hand slid under her dress, fingers skating the edge of her panties, already warm and damp. His grin broke against her throat. “Oh, that’s— god, that’s definitely for me.”

She caught his wrist before he could slide further, eyes flashing. “Bed. Now. Unless you want your wall to have stains.”

He froze just long enough to smirk. “You threatening me with a good time?” But he grabbed her wrist, spinning her toward the bedroom, half-dragging, half-carrying her, his other hand glued to her ass.

They stumbled over his shoes, her heels landing on the floor with a shake of her ankle. She shoved his tux jacket down his arms mid-kiss, he peeled it off and let it fall wherever it wanted. Buttons went next, scattering across the floor like casualties in a battle.

His chest was bare in seconds, warm and solid under her palms, the tinny whir of machinery underneath, but he didn’t give her a moment to think about it — his mouth was back on hers, then her throat, then lower.

She gasped when he yanked the straps of her dress down completely, silk slipping fast.his teeth closed around the soft curve of her shoulder, heat blooming under her skin. “Fuck. You’re gorgeous. Unreal. I should send Columbia a fruit basket.”

Bianca barked a laugh, her hand coming up to dip into his hair. “You’re disgusting.”

“You love it, freak.” He grinned wolfishly, his mouth closing over her breast, tongue circling as his other hand tugs impatiently at her underwear. He groaned low in his throat, muttering half to himself. “Twenty-three, twenty-fucking-three—god, I’m going to hell.”

She yanked his hair, making him look up at her, pupils shot, lips flushed. “Hate to break it, but you’re already there.”

“Yeah?” His grin was wicked.

“Burn with me.”

He picked her up, despite his back protesting weakly, and tossed her onto the bed. She bounced once against thousand-thread-count sheets, and then he was on her again, hands braced on either side, mouth hot and relentless, his hips grinding into hers with a frantic hunger.

“Condom.” She gasped against his mouth, dizzy on his touch.

He swore, ripping his wallet out of the crumpled tux pants on the floor, teeth ripping the neat foil square in one swift motion. “Christ, you’re making me rush. You know I like a build.”

Bianca narrowed her eyes at him. “You’ve been building since the bar.” Her eyes were glued to the sheer size of him, her hand would hardly wrap around it. His flushed tip was damp, leaking against his stomach, and she could smell him.

“Touché.” He rolled the latex over himself with one hand, the other pinning her hip down. His eyes flicked over her, messy curls, damp thighs, all spread out against his sheets. His voice cracked rough. “You’re insane. You know that, right? Driving me— fucking driving me crazy.”

“Shut the fuck up” she hissed, dragging him down into another kiss.

He laughed raggedly against her mouth. “Bossy. I like it.”

And then he pushed into her in one long, greedy stroke, swallowing her gasp with his kiss.

He bottomed out and his eyes rolled back like he’d just seen God. “Jesus fuck, sweetheart— how the hell are you this tight? You’re gonna—break me. Gonna snap me clean in half.”

Bianca pressed her nails into his shoulders, biting down on a curse. The stretch burned, sharp and dizzying, filling her like a dream, but the smug look on his face almost made her forget it.

“Still talking?” She gasped, trying for a smirk but her entire soul twitching when he shifted inside her.

“Oh, I’m never shutting up.” He pulled back, thrust in again, harder this time, the wet sound of her obscene in the empty hotel room. “Not when you feel like this. Not when you’re—fuck, look at you. Taking like you were made for my cock. Christ, I can see you clench around me.”

Her head fell back against the pillows with a broken moan. He laughed breathlessly, the sound tangled with another groan. “Yeah, that’s it. Moan for me. Music to my ears.”

His hand slid down her thigh, gripping, spreading her wider for him. His thumb traced the soft dip of her hip, pressing into the warm flesh. “You’ve got the kind of body that ruins a man. All these curves— Jesus, I could spend hours just—“ he bent to bite the swell of her breast, “—every inch of you, sweetheart. I’m obsessed already.”

She tried to retort, but another thrust stole her voice, leaving her clinging, gasping.
“That’s it,” he panted against her throat, teeth scraping. “That’s what I want. No smart mouth now, huh? Just me fucking you dumb. God, you’re squeezing the life out of me.”

Her fingers clawed at his back, leaving red tracks. He hissed, grinning into the crook of her neck. “Scratch me up. I want the souvenirs.”

His rhythm picked up, sharp and relentless, the headboard knocking faintly against the wall. Every thrust punched another helpless sound out of her, her body arching under his.

“You feel that?” he rasped, forehead pressed to hers, sweat slicking his temples. “All the way in, sweetheart. All of me. Jesus—you’re perfect. Fucking perfect.”
She tried, desperately, to say something—anything—but all that came out was a choked moan.

He groaned, smug and ruined at once. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s all I want. Just you moaning for me, nothing else. Don’t need words, babe, I’ll do the talking.”

His hand slid between them, thumb pressing her throbbing clit, rubbing in tight circles. The added friction tore another raw sound from her throat.

“Christ, you’re soaked. You’re gonna come all over me, aren’t you? C’mon, sweetheart, let go. Wanna feel you milk me dry.”

Her body shuddered, heels digging into his back, and then she broke—pleasure tearing through her in waves, pulling a strangled cry from deep in her chest. She clutched at him, nails biting skin, the world whiting out around her.

Tony cursed loud and filthy, thrusting harder, chasing his own release. “Fuck—fuck—you’re—shit, I’m—” He slammed into her once more, spilling into the condom with a guttural groan, collapsing half on top of her, shaking with aftershocks.

For a moment, the only sound was their ragged breaths and the faint hum of the city beyond the glass.

Then Tony barked out a laugh, muffled against her collarbone. “Well. That was… wow. Nobel-worthy performance on your part. Ten out of ten, would absolutely risk a hangover again.”

Bianca, still breathless, managed to smack his shoulder weakly. “You never shut up.”
“Not planning to,” he said, grinning against her skin. His hand was already stroking lazy circles on her hip, possessive even now. “Especially not if it gets me round two.”

She groaned, throwing an arm over her eyes. “My knees are filing a complaint.”

“Lucky for you, sweetheart,” Tony murmured, pressing another kiss to her throat, “I’ve got plenty of other angles.”

—

Steam curled up from the shower, fogging the glass in lazy swirls. Bianca braced her palms against the tile, head tipped back under the spray, letting the water pound away sweat and the dizzy ache still coiled in her thighs. Her curls stuck damp to her shoulders, drops tracing down curves Tony had already mapped with his hands.

When she cracked an eye open, he was still there — naked, leaning one shoulder against the glass like he owned the place (which, technically, he did), arms folded, the arc reactor glowing faint through mist. He hadn’t even bothered with a towel. Just smug, shameless nudity, watching her like she was better than whatever skyline sparkled behind him.

“You’re staring,” she said, voice rough from moaning herself hoarse.

He grinned, unrepentant. “Can you blame me? Hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my shower. And I once had Megan Fox wash my Ferrari in a bikini.”

Bianca snorted, shoving wet hair back. “Sure she did.”

“Cross my heart,” he said, sketching the motion over his bare chest, then tapping the arc reactor. “Scout’s honor.”

She rolled her eyes and turned back into the spray, but his gaze didn’t waver.

“So,” he drawled, casual as if they weren’t both naked and dripping, “Rebecca Cole. Columbia rep. That’s all I’ve got on you. Which is saying something, because I usually run background checks on women before I flirt with them.”

Her stomach tensed, though her face stayed smooth. “Do you do that with everyone? Or just the ones who call you an asshole to your face?”

“Those especially,” he shot back, smirking. “Keeps me humble. But you—nothing. No social footprint. No gossip. You’re like… smoke. Sexy smoke. And I don’t like not knowing things.”

She scrubbed at her arm, keeping her tone light. “Maybe I’m just boring.”

Tony barked a laugh, sharp. “Sweetheart, you’re a lot of things. Boring isn’t on the list.”

Bianca bit her lip, letting the water mask the half-smile tugging there. Dangerous ground. He was too sharp for his own good, even tipsy.

Tony pushed off the glass, still gloriously unselfconscious about his nudity, pacing a slow circle like he was building a case. “Rebecca Cole, twenty-three, Columbia rep. Dresses like a Bond girl, drinks like a Stark, fucks like…” His grin went wicked. “Well. Let’s just say you’re giving me religion.”

“Blasphemy suits you,” she muttered.

“Everything suits me,” he quipped instantly, then leaned back against the glass again, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “But you? You don’t fit. You’ve got professor hands.”

Her head jerked toward him, startled. “Excuse me?”

He wiggled his fingers in demonstration, grinning. “Noticed when they were in my hair. Calluses. Ink stains, maybe? Definitely not diplomat hands. Columbia reps don’t look at arc reactors like they already understand the schematics.”

Bianca forced herself to laugh, sliding a hand down her throat like it was nothing.
“Maybe I’m just observant.”

“Uh-huh.” He tilted his head, still grinning but eyes sharper now. “I’m gonna crack you, Rebecca Cole. You just wait. I’ll wine, dine, sixty-nine you until you spill.”

She snorted, turning her back on him again, but her pulse tripped anyway. “Good luck with that, Stark.”

“Luck?” His reflection smirked at her in the glass. “Sweetheart, I don’t need luck. I’ve got charm, stamina, and a genius IQ. You’ll fold.”

Her only answer was the hiss of water.

Tony let the silence stretch for a beat, then tapped the glass with one knuckle, smirking when she peeked over her shoulder. “By the way—round two’s non-negotiable. Don’t think a shower’s getting you out of it.”

Bianca groaned, throwing a handful of water at the glass. “Go get me a towel, old man.”

He laughed, peeling himself away, unabashedly strutting naked toward the linen closet. “You wound me. And you love it.”

She let herself smile, just a little, where he couldn’t see.

—

Bianca tugged her dress back into place, the silk clinging damp to her skin, curls still sticking in half-dry spirals down her back. The penthouse smelled like sex and scotch, dizzying if she thought about it too long. She wasn’t going to think about it.

Her smartwatch buzzed against the marble counter, insistent, each vibration crawling up her wrist like an accusation. She turned it over—three missed emails, a calendar reminder about the microscopy schedule, one text from Mark reminding her to send the draft. Her life, tapping her on the shoulder, impatient. She strapped it back on without replying.

The room was a wreck. Her underwear draped over a chair, his tux jacket hanging half-off a lamp, the sheets twisted like something feral had torn through them. Which, she supposed, wasn’t far from the truth.

On the nightstand, a torn foil wrapper glinted in the low lamplight. The condom next to it looked…not quite right. Latex clouded, a faint trail of something damp slipping toward the wood grain. Bianca’s gaze snagged on it for half a second—then slid away. Too tipsy to think twice.

She crouched to find her heels, wobbling as she shoved her feet back into them. Her ankle ached faintly from when they’d tripped over his discarded shoes earlier, but she ignored it. She smoothed her dress, touched her curls, trying to erase any sign of what had just happened.

From the bathroom came the steady hiss of the shower—and then, impossibly, Stark’s voice. He was singing. Singing. Off-key, loud, and shameless, like he owned the acoustics the same way he owned everything else in the building. Bianca froze, halfway through adjusting her strap. She didn’t know whether to laugh or roll her eyes.

“Hey—Rebecca!” His voice echoed through the door, muffled but still bright with energy. “Don’t think you’re sneaking out on me. Round two’s on deck once I’m scrubbed.”
Bianca’s mouth twisted, equal parts exasperation and something warmer she refused to name. She could walk back, drop a line, let herself get tangled again. But no. That wasn’t her. She had work. A career. A body she couldn’t afford to throw away on a man who could order room service in three languages while she barely remembered to eat lunch.

She grabbed her clutch from the corner chair, checked that her fake name tag was gone, and slipped toward the elevator. Her heels clicked against the polished floor, sharp little reminders that she was still here, still real, not just some invention of Stark’s champagne-soaked night.

The doors whispered open, gleaming brass catching her reflection. Lipstick smudged, curls frizzing, eyes darker than she liked. She didn’t look like a scientist. She didn’t look like herself.

She pressed the button, her pulse skipping as the doors slid shut. The suite above her faded into silence, the hum of the elevator swallowing his voice, his laugh, his stupid, relentless charm.

By the time she hit the lobby, she was already rehearsing excuses. Mark would ask why she hadn’t sent the draft. Her advisor would wonder why she looked like hell. She’d find something plausible. She always did.

She’d leave Stark exactly where he belonged: a mistake wrapped in silk sheets and steam.

Chapter Text

Bianca’s eyes were starting to cross.

The spreadsheet that Mark had dumped in her inbox at midnight with the header “edits ASAP!!!!!!!” was a migraine disguised as columns of numbers. A migraine with formulas buried three layers deep, half of which didn’t balance, and if she would let herself admit to it, she liked these kinds of puzzles. She thrived in cleaning up messes. It was much easier than thinking about the radiator in her apartment that hasn’t worked properly since January, or how her fridge had 3 packs of yogurt, half a jar of peanut butter, and a single lime that had shrivelled in on itself like it’s actively mocking her.

Her phone buzzed against the edge of her laptop. She ignored it, zooming in on a highlighted column. It buzzed again. Then once more, insistent. She sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose, and swiped to answer. “It’s Bianca Chambers, what do you want?”

 on the other end, Cora screeched loud enough that Bianca yanked the phone away from her ear. "Don't you dare use that tone with me. You’ve been MIA since last week and I swear to God if you’re buried under another data set I’m calling Columbia’s emergency services.”

Bianca smirked despite herself. “I’m alive. Knee-deep in Mark’s atrocious excel sheet, but alive.”

Cora’s huff echoed against her ear. “Typical. Have you even done anything…remotely human lately? Like, I don’t know, gone outside? Touched some grass? Talked to a man that isn’t a student or…Mark?”

Bianca let herself laugh. “Actually, yes. I went to the Stark symposium thing I told you about.” Silence on the line. Then a sharp inhale. “You? The one who refuses to show face at any and all social gatherings just because you’re a fuckin’ genius? You went?”

“Yeah,” Bianca hummed, stretching her legs out under the desk. Her IKEA chair squeaked like it was threatening mutiny if she moved again. “I even drank the free champagne they had there. And uh…I hooked up with someone insanely rich.”

Cora screamed so loudly that Bianca flinched, her chair creaking once more in warning. “WHAT.”

“Calm down—”

“Hooked up with who?”

Bianca shrugged a shoulder, even though Cora couldn’t see her. “Who do you think hosted the symposium?”

The pause was Oscar-worthy. Then came the shrillest, most blood-curdling yell Bianca had ever heard from her best friend. “You fucked Tony Stark?!” Bianca winced, fiddling with her earring on her left ear, and spun half a turn in her desk chair. “You don’t need to scream it.”

“I do! I absolutely do! Bianca—oh my god, that’s—he’s—” Cora cut herself off with noises that Bianca could only assume are of her internally combusting. “It was like a month ago,” she cut in briskly. “I barely remember it. The goatee actually looks good on him, he tasted like scotch, and he was great. End of story.” The last part wasn’t entirely true; flashes of memory kept sneaking in when she least wished. Hands gripping her hips. His grin against her throat. The scotch on his tongue. The heat of him, how reckless she’d felt for letting that happen. She shoved it down, hard. She had work to do. Cora clearly wasn’t buying it. “you’re trying to act like this is so normal. It’s not normal. He’s—he’s Tony fucking Stark!”

Bianca rolled her eyes and glanced back at the spreadsheet. “He’s just a guy with money.”

 “Liar. you’re blushing. I can hear it.”

Bianca made a face at the words, ready to change the subject, when Cora beat her to it. “Ugh, my cramps are killing me today. I swear, my uterus fuckin’ hates me.”

That stopped her cold.

“What?”

“My period? It's insane. feels like there’s knives in my uterus. You’re not dying too?”

Bianca's stomach dropped. no. no, no, no. She fumbled for her planner on her phone, the color-coded squares– and flipped to the calendar. Her cycles were neat little red dots, always within a day with cora’s. like clockwork. they’d had synced periods since freshman year. And Cora was dying of cramps right now. Bianca's page was empty.

Her throat tightened.

“Oh,” she managed after a few beats. “Uh, must’ve..slipped my mind.”

“Slipped your– Bianca, are you okay?”

“Fine.” she said too quickly. “Actually, Mark's breathing down my neck about this data. I should—” Cora sighed. “you’re deflecting. again.” But Bianca had already set the phone on the table, and muttered, “talk later” and ended the call. Her hand was shaking. She shoved it into her hair, tugging at a curl until her temple stung, and tried to breathe. But the apartment seemed smaller now. claustrophobic. not ‘everything within an arm’s length’ small. choking small. 

her smartwatch buzzed angrily at her wrist. heart rate elevated. “shut up.” she muttered, already reaching a hand for her bag.

—

Columbia's student clinic was mercifully quiet. She checked in with a receptionist who looked about thirteen and got politely ushered into a sterile exam room with a nurse who smelled faintly of blue raspberry ice Elfbar. blood drawn, usual questions asked, polite reassurances given. Bianca nodded mechanically through all of it, her thoughts circling in endless loops that seemed to latch themselves onto her. Stress can delay periods. It's fine. you’ve been overworking. stress. not pregnancy. stress. 

the nurse smiled at her in that overly-bright way medical staff did when they knew their patient was fraying at the edges. “Results are gonna be ready in a few hours. You'll get a secure text notification.” she had explained softly as she placed the smiley-face bandaid over the inside of Bianca's elbow. 

She had nodded, her mind already halfway out the door. She had a class to TA in maybe 20 minutes. She could wait until that’s done to start unraveling. 

The lecture hall was, in simple terms, packed. Word had spread that the usual professor was sick, which meant that Bianca Chambers–”Columbia’s baby genius,” as some ostentatious freshman had called her once– was taking over. students sat in the aisles. Kids from departments that had nothing to do with research had shown up just to listen. 

Bianca smoothed her hair back, a careful hand dusting the lint off her sweater, and stepped to the front. She clicked on the projector and launched straight into the material, voice steady, her hands sure. It had become muscle memory by now: pacing the stage, chalk squeaking against the board, her smartwatch blaring orange whenever she stumbled, the ebb and flow of questions. Her laptop chimed with another notification. Stark Industries, for the fourth time this month. Inquiring again about your availability for an afternoon meeting. 

A kid in the back row cracked a joke; she volleyed one back without missing a beat. For the first time all day, she felt like herself. like bianca chambers, PhD, and not Bianca, sick Bianca who might be pregnant with Tony fucking Stark’s kid. 

Then her phone buzzed.

her smartwatch vibrated in warning. She ignored it. Another buzz from her phone. her eyes flicked down at the screen. the columbia clinic logo glared at her in the profile picture of the message. Notification: results ready.

No.

Bianca turned her phone face-down onto the desk. stress, she reminded herself. stress messes with cycles. you’re fine. 

she turned back to the board, mid-sentence, her chalk scratching numbers against the black. her pulse roared in her ears. her watch glowered red. Against every ounce of self-control, she glanced again. just a glance. just enough to see the single word on the notification preview. 

positive.

the chalk slipped from her fingers. It clattered against the floor, rolling under the first row of seats. The students laughed awkwardly, thinking it was a joke. 

Bianca smiled tightly. finished the proof. wrapped up with a flourish. She fielded three more questions, cracked two more jokes, and dismissed the class to thunderous applause.

her insides were ice. 

she barely remembered leaving the hall. One moment she was at the board, the next she was sitting stiffly on a bench in the empty hall, backpack at her feet, phone balanced in her lap precariously. Her smartwatch was vibrating furiously. she tapped it once. heart rate 178. Sit down immediately.

She was already sitting. She leaned forward until her forehead rested against her knees, breathing through her nose. Her phone lit up again. Wikipedia. Anthony Edward Stark, age 39.

thirty-nine. She'd googled it like an idiot, and now the number was branded into her brain. He'd been a whole teenager when she was born. He'd had cars, girls, money before she’d even learned to speak. and now–her throat constricted in on itself–now she was pregnant.

“stress,” she whispered to herself. “stress can do this. stress–”

her smartwatch blared once more. warning: abnormal blood pressure detected. medical assistance heavily encouraged. 

she swallowed hard. closed her eyes. breathed until the sharpness in her chest ebbed away. If she just held still, just for a moment, maybe her body would stop betraying her, just for a little bit.

It didn’t.

When she finally stood up, her legs felt like they’d been pulled off and reattached with hot glue. She shoved her phone into the depths of her bag and walked. out of the building. off campus. into the pouring rain. 

she hadn’t brought an umbrella, and she was glad. The rain plastered her curls to her face, soaked through her sweater, and hid the hot tears carving down her cheeks. smart people didn’t do this. smart people didn’t fuck billionaires at symposiums and forget to use plan B. smart people didn’t get pregnant in the last stretch of their PhD.

She walked faster.

Bianca’s apartment had been described by Cora as sweet and claustrophobic, but she liked to think of it as “everything within an arm’s length.”

But today, the studio apartment felt thin and cold, walls closer than usual, the scent of cold clothes in the air as soon as she entered. She sat down on the floor by her unmade bed, her drenched clothes making a puddle of rainwater on the shitty linoleum. She opened the message again. 

positive

the word twisted and turned and blurred into the edges of her vision. She curled forward, her nose bumping her knees, hands covering her face, and sobbed until her throat started protesting. until her entire body felt like it’d been drenched in cold water (which it did), until she thought maybe if she cried hard enough the stress would kill the thing inside her and spare her the choice. 

But when the tears ran dry, the Stark Industries email still glowed from her laptop screen. Patient. Polite. Waiting.

Her hand shook as she typed. No explanation, no pleasantries. She pressed the React icon, and reacted with a single yellow thumbs-up.

She forced herself up off the floor, grimacing weakly at the cold clothes clinging to her body as she dropped a kitchen towel on the puddle she left, padding to the bathroom to wash it all away.

— — — 

Tony Stark was not a patient man.

He’d made it this far in life by moving fast, breaking things, and then having others to clean up the rubble. patience is for monks. for people who don’t have fifty billion dollars of ideas rattling around their skulls at all hours of the day.

which was why the thumbs up reaction was making his eye twitch. 

eight months. eight months of carefully worded emails, shamelessly worded emails, straight-up pleading for her to at least acknowledge Stark Industries, and all Bianca chambers had ever given him was radio silence. And now, suddenly, at 11:42 on a Tuesday, she’d hit the “react” button and dropped a single emoji in his inbox.

A fucking thumbs up.

That was it. No message. No “Dear Mr. Stark." No “kindly, fuck off.” not even a “maybe.” just a little yellow cartoon thumb sticking skyward. 

Tony stared at the screen. “Now what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?” 

“Language,” Pepper muttered automatically, sweeping into the lounge with a folder tucked under her arm. She didn’t even glance at him, too busy sorting papers for his 1PM board meeting.

“Potts. Emergency.” He jabbed a finger at the screen. “Do you see this?”

She glanced, blinked, and then–God help him–smiled. “Oh. She answered you.”

“That’s not an answer, that’s a straight-up war crime. A thumbs up? What does that even mean? Is she agreeing? Is she mocking me? Is she telling me good job?” 

Pepper tilted her head, raising an eyebrow at him. “Maybe it means she’s finally ready to join the team.”

Tony’s chest gave a weird little hiccup. “You think?” 

“Yes.” Pepper closed the folder with a snap. "Now. Board meeting in an hour and 18 minutes. You can panic about emojis later.”

“No, no, no. Meeting’s off.” He grabbed the folder, tossing it onto the couch, and settled back against his seat. “cancel everything. Board, investors, golf with the Sec of Energy, all of it.”

Pepper put her hands on her hips. “Tony.”

“She answered, Pep! I’ve been shouting into the void for 8 months, and the void finally fuckin’... moved. I need to be here when she comes.” 

“You don’t know she’s showing up.”

Tony rolled his eyes so hard his head moved with the action. “she wouldn’t thumbs up at me if she wasn’t.” 

“or,” pepper said carefully, “she just didn’t want to type out a rejection.”

Tony waved a hand, his mouth scrunching up. “You’re killing the vibe, Potts.”

Then the phone rang. Pepper answered, listened for all of two seconds before mouthing Fury. 

Tony plucked the phone from her palm. “Nick, buddy. Gonna have to call you back—No it can’t wait–I’m busy. Yes–busier than the fate of the free world, thanks for asking.” And then he hung up before Fury could explode in his ear. 

Pepper pinched the bridge of her nose. “You are going to regret that.” he grinned at her, settling back in his seat. “Worth it.”

As if on cue, JARVIS’ voice chimed down from the ceiling. Sir. Miss Bianca Chambers has entered Stark Tower. She is currently en route to the one-hundred-tenth floor.

Tony’s breath caught. “Oh my god. She’s here. She’s actually here.”

Pepper arched an eyebrow. “Try not to scare her off this time.”

Bianca thought she was going to die in the Stark Industries executive elevator.

Not because of mechanical failure—though she was ninety percent sure this thing could double as a spaceship—but because her body had decided to fully betray her. Her heart rate was pinging at “about to run a marathon.” Her stomach churned. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Breathe, she told herself. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Don’t faint before you even get to the shark tank.

The elevator was all sleek steel and glass, a silent capsule launching her toward her doom. Her smartwatch kept buzzing warnings at her: abnormal stress levels detected. Yeah, no shit.

She braced herself in the corner, trying to look casual in case there were cameras. (There were definitely cameras. Stark probably had a live feed of her hyperventilating right now.)

She closed her eyes, did the breathing exercises she used before conferences. By the time the doors slid open with a cheerful ding, she had managed to plaster on a facsimile of composure.

Pepper Potts was waiting with a glass of ice water and a smile so polished it could cut steel. “Dr. Chambers. Welcome. Mr. Stark is eager to meet you.”

Bianca’s throat clicked. “Right. Yes. Of course.”

Pepper handed her the water, and Bianca nearly chugged the entire glass in one go.

“Conference room’s this way,” Pepper said smoothly, leading her down a corridor lined with windows that looked out over the sprawl of Manhattan.

Bianca’s heels clicked against marble. She could feel sweat prickling her spine under her blazer. Every nerve screamed turn around, run, fake your death, but her feet kept moving forward.

Pepper opened the door. “Mr. Stark, this is Dr. Bianca Chambers.”

Bianca stepped inside.

Tony Stark was sitting at the head of the conference table, tapping a pen against his arc reactor like it was a metronome. The second his eyes landed on her, the pen froze mid-air. His mouth opened.

“What the fuck.”

Pepper shot him a look sharp enough to decapitate. “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Bianca lowered herself into the nearest chair as gracefully as one could while fighting nausea, vertigo, and the creeping suspicion that her entire life had just detonated. She set her bag down, folded her hands in her lap, and looked at him like she wasn’t moments away from full collapse.

Tony blinked at her, then leaned forward, elbows on the table. “So. You’re Bianca Chambers.”

“That’s what it says on my diploma.”

“You’ve been ignoring me for eight months.”

“You send a lot of emails.”

He grinned. “Persistence pays off. Look—you’re here. So. Let’s talk.”

And just like that, he was off. Tony Stark, verbal machine gun. He launched into a pitch like he’d been rehearsing in front of a mirror: perks, salary, unlimited research budget, a lab the size of a football field, insurance packages that included mental health, dental, and apparently free yoga.

Bianca sat there, nodding faintly, trying not to let the words wash over her like static. Her heart was still jackhammering. Her vision tunneled slightly at the edges.

“—and obviously stock options, because I’m not a monster,” Tony was saying. “So what do you think? You in?”

Bianca swallowed, her throat desert-dry. “What about housing?”

That made him pause. “Housing?”

“If I take this job,” she said carefully, “I lose my Columbia apartment. Where would I live?”

Tony tapped his pen against his arc reactor again, thinking. “Penthouse in Midtown. Townhouse in Brooklyn Heights. Or—oh, you’ll love this—there’s a Stark Industries residency program, luxury lofts five blocks from Columbia. Fully furnished, floor-to-ceiling windows. Take your pick.”

Bianca’s pulse spiked so hard her smartwatch buzzed another warning.

Tony squinted at her. “You okay?”

“Fine,” she lied.

He leaned back, twirled the pen. “So tell me. Why didn’t you tell me who you really were? At the gala.”

Bianca’s mouth went dry. “Because the last time I told a donor my real name, he followed me home.”

That made him freeze. Just for a second. “Noted.”

He shook it off, as if filing it away for later. “So. How’ve you been since our night?”

Bianca’s lips parted, ready to say “fine.” But what came out instead was: “It’s positive.”

Tony blinked. “Okay…not the question I asked, but cool. Which one?”

“…What?”

“Which STD? Don’t worry, I’ve had most of them, all manageable. We’ll get you the best—”

“No,” Bianca said flatly.

Tony frowned. “Then what—”

Before she could clarify, the room tilted violently. Her heart gave one last desperate flutter. The edges of her vision went black.

Her body slumped sideways in the chair.