[fic: the avengers]
cor a apparatus
the avengers (2012). tony stark x natasha romanoff. the heart of the machine. ~800 words | r
for the porn battle
they rip his heart, she puts it back in. It’s as simple as that.
it’s not of course (there’s always more to the iceberg than just the tip that spears out of the dark water, hell to ships and hell to men; there’s politics and a terrorist’s too white smile and the blue-hue glow of his heart and the sparks and the wheeze as he reaches into his chest and pulls it out, oil dripping down his gripping fingers like dark sticky blood)
Tony Stark thinks he’s dead, then, dominoed back to the beginning-he was never supposed to leave that cave alive, and maybe he never did.
Natasha Romanoff seems to have a differing opinion, and she jams his heart right back into his chest-merciless and strong, and her hair bleeds a thick red down her shoulders, and Tony thinks there some sort of irony here because she bleeds everyday but when they take out his heart, all he has in him is black.
He wakes up in a hospital. There’s Pepper and Happy, and worries and fears to alleviate (“come on, Pepper<,” he says with bravado he hates to admit rings false; it’s too much like when he had been dying and trying to keep it together, trying to leave it so the few people he cared about weren’t left swallowing ash, “it takes a bit then a high-powered rocket to my chest to decommission me.”)
All the while, Special Agent Romanoff stands just outside the door, one leather-clad leg and both arms crossed, red hair tangled down her back. The edges are singed, and she’ll have to cut it soon-and short.
But not yet.
“I’m bored,” Tony says. The plastic bracelet around his wrist scraps the hairs on his arm and he hates it-hates hospitals. Hospitals are where the sick go to die.
Natasha, perched gracefully on the edge of a chair she’s scooted by his bed, merely lifts an eyebrow.
“Natasha,” there’s a whine this time.
“You’re the one who sent Pepper away,” she points out.
Pepper who had never left his bedside, who had gripped his hand like a lifeline, looked at him like he hung the stars or something equally pathetically romantic that they would never really ever own up to feeling. Pepper who had- “She wouldn’t stop crying. I did it for my own sanity.”
“She loves you,” Natasha says simply and Tony almost snaps-what do you know about love-but some measure of self preservation stops him. Brush with death will do that.
“She’s crazy. Certifiable,” he says. Then, quickly, “You never cry, Agent Romanoff. Why?”
“In Russia, they beat it out of me.”
Tony frowns. “That’s terrible. You’re supposed to be keeping an invalid company, and you’re going to regale him with depressing tales of Soviet Russia? Go, on. Tell me something happy.”
“I could say,” a heavy Russian accent flavors her words, like it’s a switch she can turn on and off, “in my country, tears freeze on our cheeks and so we do no cry-we drink vodka.”
“My God,” Tony says. “Your sense of humor is appalling, Agent Romanoff.”
“I never claimed to be a comedian. That’s Clint’s job.”
The silence stretches out, and then quietly, Tony says, “You saved my life. You sort of put my heart back in. So. Thank you.”
She stands, and he hears the leather encasing her thighs brush together, and then she climbs into the bed with him, and Tony does what he does best. He stops thinking. His hands play at the slick leather on her hips, the zipper pulls down her middle-oh, Tony thinks, those are mine hands-and sex isn’t something new or especially unique to him, but he feels off his game with Agent Natalia Alianovna Romanova (she thinks he didn’t bother looking up her full history; or she pretends).
The heart, he thinks.
“Well. This is odd. Shouldn’t I be the one saying thank you?” He hisses out a breath as she lifts his hospital gown and there yes, her small warm hand around his rapidly hardening cock.
“If we’re going to do this,” she points out, “you’re going to have to be quiet.”
“Quiet. Yes.” He smiles. “Like a mouse.”
They shimmy her out of her leather, and Tony’s fingers trace a familiar path to warm, wet woman and she lays her forearm across the pillow above his head, and leans in and kisses him. Not a real kiss, mind. Because Natasha Romanoff kisses like an assault, like he’s a tree she’s going to cut down, a castle she’s going to siege.
“Just this once,” she says, pulling away sharply. They both watch as she eases herself down on top of him.
“Just this once,” he repeats, and rolls up into her. Just this once. It’s what he’s good at, after all.
the avengers (2012). tony stark x natasha romanoff. the heart of the machine. ~800 words | r
for the porn battle
they rip his heart, she puts it back in. It’s as simple as that.
it’s not of course (there’s always more to the iceberg than just the tip that spears out of the dark water, hell to ships and hell to men; there’s politics and a terrorist’s too white smile and the blue-hue glow of his heart and the sparks and the wheeze as he reaches into his chest and pulls it out, oil dripping down his gripping fingers like dark sticky blood)
Tony Stark thinks he’s dead, then, dominoed back to the beginning-he was never supposed to leave that cave alive, and maybe he never did.
Natasha Romanoff seems to have a differing opinion, and she jams his heart right back into his chest-merciless and strong, and her hair bleeds a thick red down her shoulders, and Tony thinks there some sort of irony here because she bleeds everyday but when they take out his heart, all he has in him is black.
He wakes up in a hospital. There’s Pepper and Happy, and worries and fears to alleviate (“come on, Pepper<,” he says with bravado he hates to admit rings false; it’s too much like when he had been dying and trying to keep it together, trying to leave it so the few people he cared about weren’t left swallowing ash, “it takes a bit then a high-powered rocket to my chest to decommission me.”)
All the while, Special Agent Romanoff stands just outside the door, one leather-clad leg and both arms crossed, red hair tangled down her back. The edges are singed, and she’ll have to cut it soon-and short.
But not yet.
“I’m bored,” Tony says. The plastic bracelet around his wrist scraps the hairs on his arm and he hates it-hates hospitals. Hospitals are where the sick go to die.
Natasha, perched gracefully on the edge of a chair she’s scooted by his bed, merely lifts an eyebrow.
“Natasha,” there’s a whine this time.
“You’re the one who sent Pepper away,” she points out.
Pepper who had never left his bedside, who had gripped his hand like a lifeline, looked at him like he hung the stars or something equally pathetically romantic that they would never really ever own up to feeling. Pepper who had- “She wouldn’t stop crying. I did it for my own sanity.”
“She loves you,” Natasha says simply and Tony almost snaps-what do you know about love-but some measure of self preservation stops him. Brush with death will do that.
“She’s crazy. Certifiable,” he says. Then, quickly, “You never cry, Agent Romanoff. Why?”
“In Russia, they beat it out of me.”
Tony frowns. “That’s terrible. You’re supposed to be keeping an invalid company, and you’re going to regale him with depressing tales of Soviet Russia? Go, on. Tell me something happy.”
“I could say,” a heavy Russian accent flavors her words, like it’s a switch she can turn on and off, “in my country, tears freeze on our cheeks and so we do no cry-we drink vodka.”
“My God,” Tony says. “Your sense of humor is appalling, Agent Romanoff.”
“I never claimed to be a comedian. That’s Clint’s job.”
The silence stretches out, and then quietly, Tony says, “You saved my life. You sort of put my heart back in. So. Thank you.”
She stands, and he hears the leather encasing her thighs brush together, and then she climbs into the bed with him, and Tony does what he does best. He stops thinking. His hands play at the slick leather on her hips, the zipper pulls down her middle-oh, Tony thinks, those are mine hands-and sex isn’t something new or especially unique to him, but he feels off his game with Agent Natalia Alianovna Romanova (she thinks he didn’t bother looking up her full history; or she pretends).
The heart, he thinks.
“Well. This is odd. Shouldn’t I be the one saying thank you?” He hisses out a breath as she lifts his hospital gown and there yes, her small warm hand around his rapidly hardening cock.
“If we’re going to do this,” she points out, “you’re going to have to be quiet.”
“Quiet. Yes.” He smiles. “Like a mouse.”
They shimmy her out of her leather, and Tony’s fingers trace a familiar path to warm, wet woman and she lays her forearm across the pillow above his head, and leans in and kisses him. Not a real kiss, mind. Because Natasha Romanoff kisses like an assault, like he’s a tree she’s going to cut down, a castle she’s going to siege.
“Just this once,” she says, pulling away sharply. They both watch as she eases herself down on top of him.
“Just this once,” he repeats, and rolls up into her. Just this once. It’s what he’s good at, after all.