I just wanted to write an Avengers fic for these two ;)
I don't own anything, unfortunately.
From across the room, even through the dark and the crowd filling the space, Tony can see Natasha. He has a particular eye for women—that he won't deny—but this is to her credit, not his.
The entire Avengers team went out to a bar to celebrate their victory. Steve, just learning how to use a cell-phone, had texted 'assemble' to them. One word and they had all crowded into a small bar that hadn't been destroyed in the fight for Earth.
Tony's not drunk, yet, and the five emptied scotch glasses near his hand are evidence that he can hold his liquor. He ignores the others attempts to rope him into a conversation and ignores at least three women's lipsticked smiles but what can he say, he's not desperate for company. Never is. Not him.
That's when Natasha makes her way over to him. Five glasses, and a smirk on his lips.
She walks over to him in a dress cut tight to her body. She looks like something he has been waiting for all night. Her dress is red. Blood red and slit up the side to show just a small amount of thigh. She belongs in a film, black and white and when the camera pans across her face she breaks every heart in the cinema, she looks like—
Now, now. Wouldn't want to give her too much ground. As long as he doesn't say these things out loud. He straightens up, watching her.
She slides onto the stool next to him with a cold smile. "Hello, Mr. Stark."
"Agent Romanoff," He tips his glass to her. "You've kept us waiting all."
Her legs uncross, "Yes, well, some of us actually put time into our appearance when going out for a night on the town."
"Well, I'm thankful that you do put the time," He smirks, eyes just barely flicker down to give her a once over. "You make up for the rest of us."
"Why aren't you with the rest of them?" She jerks her head over to where the others are playing pool and laughing. "Tired of the attention?"
"Are you kidding?"
He signals the bartender to bring him another drink and when he does, Tony takes slides it across the wooden surface and Natasha catches it one hand. So what if he buys a drink for her? He's bought drinks for many women, but this time there's no stakes involved, course not, no sir, he's a man of honor these days. What he doesn't expect is Natasha to smile and to pull those big eyes on him.
"Stark," She says in that voice of hers, "I wasn't actually planning on staying for too long."
"Me either," He shrugs and for a moment, his eyes fall where her breasts rise and fall in black lace.
She eases her shoulders back from tension, presses herself against the back of the seat and takes a sip from the glass, printing lipstick around the rim. "So, what will you do now that the fighting's over?"
"Repair Stark tower for starters," He tells her. "Then...I don't know, do a press conference or something." It's never been a tangible reality to him, all of this hero business. It's always seemed surreal, just out of reach somehow. It doesn't feel real when he's right smack in the middle of it, it's like some video game he can hit restart on if he screws up, it's only when he wakes up covered in bruises the next morning that it all dawns on him. His genius has always been the tangible. Lists and numbers and catalogs and facts. And that's never made the images of dead bodies follow him home. "What about you?"
"I don't know yet," She replies, knocking back the rest of the scotch and setting down the glass, pushing it out of fingers' reach. "Whatever S.H.I.E.L.D gives him I suppose."
"And here I thought you would actually be relaxing."
"When are our lives ever relaxing?"
His mouth twitches: true.
He trails a finger over one of his empty glasses. "Think I might take a vacation soon."
"Since when do heroes take breaks?"
There's a response he can give to this. Something sharp and suitably witty but it won't come.
"Look, since we're both not spending all night here," Tony slides in closer, smelling like alcohol and mint and something spicy. "We should just leave together," His hand slips up against her knee, he's taking a risk here which could result in bruises and a black-eye. His hand rests there against her warm skin. Less warm than he expected. "Spend the night elsewhere."
She laughs, sharp, Steve and Clint turn to look, and drops a hand to his lapel. It's not quite a laugh though that she gives him. It's something out of reach, infuriating. Her nails are digging in and for a moment he thinks she might grab him by it and slam his head onto the bar table. She shakes her head, slipping her top lip part-way into her mouth, smudging her lipstick. "Well, seeing as I have no other plans for this evening, I might just have to take you up on that offer."
Six glasses left behind, condensation on his skin, the shape her hand left behind on his lapel(and maybe this is a bad idea, someone will notice. Someone always notices).
They find a cab that's driving by, "Stark Tower" is all he says and he does not look behind him to see if any of the others had noticed once they are in the cab and driving off. Closing his eyes, he rests his head against the window for a cool, silent moment. Then she shifts in her seat and his eyes snap open, his hand is on her leg again and she looks at him, her eyes are becoming clearer, almost sly.
He knows he will not ask her why this, why now, why him. He has been aching for this for a while now. They hop out of the cab and he gestures for her to walk ahead of him, ladie's first and all that.
"After you, Miss Romanoff."
"Mr. Stark," She says and his name turns into a gasp as he clutches at her, as he hitches her hips against his. The red fabric of her dress stretches against her thighs and nails dig into his jaw and they stumble inside of the tower.
She moves, quick as smoke, into the room, into the air he breathes, slides in between him and the now closed metal door. When he kisses her, her nails clench swift and sharp against his skin, something wicked in the pricking of her thumbs, crushing their lips together. His fingers search for skin, the skirt of her dress bunching under his hand.
He tastes the same as she does, scotch-soaked and coal-hot, and she pulls him in closer, his lips smear past hers, against her ear, her neck, and she gasps. He runs a languid hand down her back and she arches into him. She is pushing the jacket from his shoulders, peeling down the sheer stockings she's wearing under her dress and Tony backs her against the wall, and his hands at her hips, one long leg hitches at his waist.
He pulls up her dress, settling it around her upper thighs, her hips straining the silken fabric. Tony tugs off his own shirt and Natasha curls her fingers beneath the waistband of his pants and he makes a sound, low and deep in his throat. Her hand is trapped between them, moving down between Tony's legs.
Natasha slips her hand in.
His head falls to her shoulder for a moment and he tangles his fingers in her hair, tugs hard; his own hand slips lower and lower, grazing flesh, her thighs and the bone of her hip. His hands find the zipper at her side, he unzips and her dress falls away like liquid.
She pulls away slightly to step out of her dress and his breath is thick in his throat. She shimmies out of her underwear, unclasping her bra before pulling down his pants and pushing herself up against him again, sliding her hand back to it's former spot.
He shifts, stirring under her hand, hard and anxious, hips pushing up closer to her. Her hand is moving in a practiced rhythm and he hisses, teeth biting his lip.
His mouth is brutal in its want as he takes her in his hands, slides his palm down her belly, lowers his mouth to her collarbone, scraping his teeth. Natasha's fist tightens on his hair with a half-choked gasp as he follows the lines and whorls of her body with his tongue.
Natasha slides her legs up over his hips, pulls his face up to hers, spreading her legs. She's already wet when his hand finds her. He drives one finger into her, then two, moving them slow, meticulous; Natasha is moaning, gasping incoherently. He's biting a hard line into his lip, curling his fingers, her legs spread luxurious and wide around his hand. She curls her own fingers around his base and he sighs deep in her ear, burrows into her neck. There is a playfulness in her strokes to match that impossible aura of hers. He licks his lips absently (she bites her tongue inside her mouth).
He slides his cock into her, and he digs his fingers into the bony hollows of her spine, watching her eyes close. She bucks her hips against him, kisses him and sinks in her teeth. There's nothing to separate them when they press skin to skin. Not even air.
His hands rake through her hair, catching and pulling until she whimpers in spite of herself. She tightens her thighs around his hips. There is no breath and yet somehow she catches it and catches it again. His hands slide over her skin greedy as a lion's mouth, rough and desperate.
This is easy, this makes sense. This is the thing that makes sense: Natasha Romanoff, slick and tight against him, her gasp in his mouth, his chin in her hands, the veins of his neck beating against her palms.
His hands dig into her skin, hard enough to bruise and her hips roll, pressing her heels in, the breath choking and sighing from his throat. He thrusts into her faster, and she buries her hands in his hair, unconcerned with the pitch of her moans, she arches up against him and positively writhes.
It's like they have all the time in the world as she arches slick against his cock and Tony slams her against the wall.
"Fuck," he says, reaching, arching between her legs. Natasha arches with him, wordless before she's soundless, panting and writhing with red cheeks and scraping nails and wild eyes. He fucks her until she stills, back tense as a violin string, with her legs wrapped around him and her elbow digging painfully into the wall, until he's spent and can't tell where she ends or where the whole wide wet world begins.
When she opens her eyes, she can see blood fading under his skin, the red rake of her nails and the bruise of her mouth. Breath ragged, she rests her open mouth against the line of his throat. Tony doesn't move from his spot between her legs until they both have their breath back. The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the arc reactor in his chest.
"I," She wets her lips, voice cracking. "I think I'll head back to my hotel now, I'm tired."
He smirks, letting a chuckle pass his lips. "After all that, if you weren't tired, I'd be surprised."
Natasha looks at him. "You're a smug bastard."
"I've been called worse."
He feels her slip out of his grasp. She has her back turned to him as she slips on her bra and panties. She smiles.
He's in his lab, tweaking his suit a bit when Natasha moves in behind him. Tony jumps up slightly, he didn't notice her walk in. Maybe she got lost in the sound of the wielding torch, the smoke, maybe, maybe. Too many maybes. She's a walking uncertainty, an unstable variable. He doesn't like it. Hard as that is to remember with her breasts pressed to his back.
He coughs. "What are you doing here?"
She's grinning like the cat that caught the canary. "Looking for you," she says, and her other hand slips lazily down his spine, over his jacket, then under. Her fingers trail against his belt, gripping the buckle.
"How did you even get in here?"
"You let me in."
"Didn't." He says. "Didn't do any such thing."
"If you didn't let me in," she asks, "then why am I here?"
"Because you're a spy and sneaking in is what you do best." He turns around and he's in her arms, wrapped in her without thinking. "So, I ask again, why are you here? Cause if Loki's back you can definitely count me in." All she does is smile, smile, and wait, fingers toying with his belt. "Are you just going to sit there and be ominous all day?" he asks her.
"We're going after a man named Thanos."
"What's he done?"
"It's not for what he's done, it's for what he's about to do."
"Oh, spare me," he bites off, "Another lunatic just dying at the chance to take over Earth."
She acts as if he's never said anything and sits down onto the desk he's working on, sliding into the open space of his hand, the leather of her shield costume and flesh filling his fingers. He spins her around, pinning her hips to the desk, brushing her hair away from her neck.
Tony's mouth traces the back of her neck, the whorls of bone beneath her skin. "Course there are terms that come with me joining up with the Avengers again," he says with his mouth on her skin.
Her back arches most parenthetically in a way he has learned that she loves to do, and when she gasps that is a thing that is learned as well. "And they are?"
His lips press to her neck, linger. She reaches around, grabbing a handful of his hair, holding him there until he takes her hand in his, his mouth along the underside of her wrist. "I want my own room. I want complimentary drinks, I want—"
"Do you want anything that's actually necessary?"
"Hmm, not really." He replies, slipping the zipper down her chest.
Her fingers wrap around his wrist, pulling his hand into the space between fabric and skin. She sighs, her cheeks have grown nearly pink and her smile is a slice of fruit worth biting.
"Anyway," She tells him, "Just came by to check on you."
"Aww, that's so sweet. You care."
She grins. "Love is for children, you know." Somehow, he doesn't believe her. Not one bit.
"So I've heard."