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Where: Anywhere and anytime he can get his hands on you, including public places. Most adventurous place yet has been in the training room in Stark Tower when you made a rare visit to Stark Tower after a mission (pretending that you need more information for your article on the Maximoffs). Both of you sort of get off on the fact that anyone could catch you anytime, but no one has seen you yet - well, at least not with both of you completely naked.
When: Like I said before, anywhere, anytime. However, this boy seems to always be hanging around outside your apartment when you get home from a long day of work, ready with a bottle of Russian vodka (none of that weak red wine, you both prefer the stronger stuff) and a massage.
Why: Pietro never really needs a reason, but he really feels like everyone expects more from him. He is constantly feeling guilty for his actions that led to the destruction of Sokovia. He puts himself in an unnecessary amount of danger during missions but always shows up on your doorstep, desperate for comfort and the distraction of you - a role you are more than happy to fill.
How: In the shower. On the kitchen table. Against a wall. In a janitor's closet. Really, anywhere but your bed. So long as he has you, he doesn't really need a specific location or position. It's nearly always quick, but he still notices every. last. damn. thing. He notices the way your cheeks flush when he begins thrusting faster and faster. He notices how you furrow your eyebrows and bite your lip in concentration when you get closer. He likes to bring a hand down between your bodies and watch as your eyes fly open and you gasp and come hard around him. While you're unabashedly loud, he's usually pretty quiet unless you go down on him, but you do that quite a lot.

First Time: Everything happens quickly with Pietro, including the progression of your relationship. You slept with him on the first date, which was only a day after you met him when you were interviewing the Maximoffs for an article in the Times. It was the best damned decision you've ever made in your entire life. He had taken you to Central Park and the two of you had a picnic because you're both cheesy like that. It was when he slapped your hand away when you both reached for the last crumbles of cheesecake that you decided that you were going to go for it. The two of you decided to forego the taxi and it was the first (and last) time that you let him run you somewhere. You and Pietro barely made it back to your apartment before your clothes were off and you were struggling to keep your eyes open with his tongue working magic between your legs.


Most Recent Time: It was your first time together in five weeks. He was shot during a mission in La Paz in the shoulder, but the news outlets were reporting it as a shot to his heart. Nobody knows about the two of you, so you had no clue if he was living or dead until you got a text a few days after the incident: I'm okay. I'm sorry, I'll see you as soon as possible. It turns out, the soonest he could visit was four and a half weeks after he was shot. You opened the door to a knock and saw him leaning heavily against your doorframe. It was one of the few times the two of you go slow, one of the few times you were on top, and one of the few times you were actually on a bed. In just the light coming from the streetlight right out your fire escape, you undressed him carefully, kissing around each cut, each bruise that was exposed. You were careful to brace your hands on the bed above his shoulders and to lower yourself slowly onto him. He gripped your hips with his hands before running them up your stomach to cup your breasts and then pulling you down for a kiss. It was soft, sensual, and decidedly unhurried.

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Where: While he's willing to do anything to you anywhere, he prefers to keep the main event to his bed. Call him old-fashioned, but he likes to hear you scream his name as loud as you want without you worrying about anyone walking in.
When: Though it may be surprising to some people, Bucky is definitely a morning sex person. After the hurried (though definitely still passionate) activities of the night before, he likes to watch the rising sun shed some of its rays onto your face. He'll push the white sheets aside to expose your bare legs to him and, careful to make sure that you're still sleeping, will gently pull your legs apart. You usually wake to the feeling of his scruff against the soft skin of your thighs, but if you don't, you'll definitely wake up when his tongue gently probes its way between your nether lips, his lips creating a gently suckle around your clit. The way your back arches off the bed makes him smirk and pull back because he's such a fucking tease, and that smirk only deepens when you huff in frustration and thread your fingers through his hair to push him closer.
Why: Sometimes it'll be when he wakes you up with his screaming from nightmares. Most of the time, though, it's because he's just a tad bit protective. He trusts you, of course, but that doesn't stop him from wrapping his arm around you when Tony is getting a tad too flirtatious or from leaving a massive hickey that's impossible to completely cover under your jawbone later on that night.
How: While he's usually up for anything, he loves it when you're on your back with your legs wrapped around his hips, ankles locked as you decidedly meet each of his thrusts. He'll usually take that time to put his lips to the little space behind your ear, whispering filthy, filthy things as you moan in response.

First Time: You had been together for a while - Bucky may have been a ladies' man back in the forties, but it had been seventy years of hell since then, and you were perfectly happy to wait. It was after a movie night, a practice that you and Sam made Steve and Bucky sit through weekly to catch them up on popular culture. That week the movie was some shitty romcom that you couldn't remember the name of if there was a gun to your head. Bucky had gotten a bit bold because of the thick blanket covering the two of you, and his metal hand had snuck its way down your panties and began circling around your clit. The two of you had engaged some over the clothes action before, but this was a new and slightly exhibitionist side to Bucky that you had never seen before (not that you were complaining when he sank his metal finger in to the second knuckle). You had to keep a straight face as he slowly teased you to the edge with Sam and Steve, oblivious, on the other side of the couch. Just before you were about to climax, Bucky withdrew his fingers and sniffed them subtly before running his hand over his face as if he was tired. You almost jumped his bones right there, but you managed to make it to the end of the movie and bid Sam and Steve goodbye before you did so.

Most Recent Time: The two of you were sparring in the training room. He had, of course, taken you down easily because he was a fucking super soldier and all you had was SHIELD training, but you like to believe that you put up a real fight before he took you down. You were sweaty and breathing hard when he pressed your hands down on either side of your head, with him basically sitting on your hips, keeping your legs locked down with his own. You both sensed a shift in the air and he leaned down slowly, his long hair brushing against the sides of your face before he slowly licked a bead of sweat off the side of your temple. You grounded your hips upwards into the rather noticeable bulge in his pants and he hissed. He let go of one of your wrists for a brief moment to tear those tiny gym shorts you wore just to tease him, pulling down your panties and his own shorts and boxers at the same time. He teased your already dampening entrance with his head. He made you beg, and you loved every second it. His kiss was rough and claiming, which contrasted sharply with the sensual, slow snapping of his hips that slowly brought you to your climax.

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Where: It'll usually be in the pilot's chair on the bridge or in the gunner's pit. Peter likes to stay in the cockpit even when the ship's on cruise control. You like to climb into his lap and distract him with little nibbles on the edge of his ear, kissing all around his face and neck but never quite over his lips. (Aw, what a strong, brave Star-Prince you are, keeping watch for us, you like to tease him. He doesn't worry too much about it, he'll have you screaming the right name later.)
When: It can be hard to tell the time of day in space, especially after traveling in space for weeks and stopping at many different sorts of worlds. Or that's what you tell yourself when you're pushing him onto the breakfast table at what's normally eight in the morning.
Why: It takes the littlest of his mannerisms to set you off. Scratching his scruff. His rumbling laughter. His wandering hands. Oftentimes after missions, when you're cleaning up his cuts (though let's be real here, he's more often playing nurse for you because you'll bitch about the smallest paper cut. However, Peter is more than happy to cater to you.), he'll give you that look and a sarcastic quip, eyes heavy and that goddamned smirk playing over his lips, and you'll tell him that his mouth could be put to much better use elsewhere.
How: Peter likes you on top, when you take charge - he likes when you push him back onto the bed and rip off his shirt and run your fingers over his pecs. He likes watching your sweat-matted hair frame your face as you bite your lip in concentration. He likes hearing your moans - he's not much of a talker in bed, but he has a hard time not coming right then and there when he hears the steady stream of swears leaving your lips. He likes to watch your breasts bounce in that mesmerizing pattern, he likes to reach up and and tease the hardened buds with his fingers and to take the peaks in his mouth. He likes all of this, but the best is when you grind your clit into his pelvis, warning him that you're about to come - and is he going to come with you or not?

First Time: You started out being each other's booty call when he was still with the Ravagers, and so your "real" first time was something quick and not really memorable and you were both probably drunk - in fact, you were both definitely drunk. Because of your job as a trader and his having a ship-for-hire, your paths crossed enough for you to permanently save his number with a little eggplant next to his name. After the whole "saving the galaxy" thing and splitting off from the Ravagers, the two of you lost touch for a little bit before the Guardians caught you in the middle of a bad deal with some Sovereigns. You had to lie low on the Milano for a few months, and in that time you'd resumed your relationship with Peter, this time with feelings involved. Your first time when you actually had a relationship was slow and unhurried, characteristics that hadn't previously described your sex life with him. He ran his lips down your neck, in the valley between your breasts, to your navel, his lips laden with whispered prayers to your body, your mind, your heart.

Most Recent Time: You haven't been able to be together as much as you would have liked over the past few months, what with the recent uptick in general "bad guys" since Ego was destroyed and murmurs of Thanos' rise. Peter came to bed last night for the first time in over two days. You gently settled him on his back, tugged off his shirt, and kissed the side of his temple. His breaths were even and his eyes closed, already sleeping - or so you thought. Just as you turned around to take out your ponytail, you felt a hand snake around your waist and pull you close to his warm chest. It was a rare occasion where you were underneath, but you loved it. You loved how his arms created a gentle cage around your head, a safe haven in this increasingly dangerous universe. How you could rake your nails down his back as he pressed into you, feeling his muscles ripple underneath your hands. How he gently bit your shoulder as he shuddered through his orgasm. How he leveled his lips with your core and had you pulling at his hair while he finished you off. How he wore that shit eating grin, his face smeared with your come, before you kissed him hard and tasted yourself on his lips. How he settled his head on your collarbone, fell asleep and unconsciously leaned into your fingers as you stroked his hair.

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Where: While you have to have had quickies in quite possibly every place on Earth, Tony's favorite place to have you on his workshop table. There's always a possibility that someone could come down and see the two of you through the glass doors (maybe they already have but that's a story for another time). Tony thinks there's something just so sexy about seeing you sprawled out only in his dress shirt or, even better, naked all over his half-finished scribbles and important looking documents. You're always a little embarrassed when you come on his work table, but Tony just gives a self-satisfied smirk and pushes you to the edge again (and you have no time to pay attention to your reddened cheeks as you lay there exhausted, Tony lying on top of you).
When: With Tony, it's really at any odd hour of the day. The both of you are fairly busy and Tony tends be up at all hours of the night, tinkering. As a result of this, sex often tends to be hard and fast. However, every now and then, the two of you are able to spend an entire day together - Tony certainly takes advantage of it (and you).
Why: Simple: Tony finds you sexy as hell and has always gotten his way; who would you be to say no when he's pulling you into broom closet at one of those fancy charity galas?
How: It's always exciting with Tony - the two of you are kinky little fuckers and if there's a will there's a way, and if there's a way, the two of you have tried it. Tony has an affinity for doggy-style. He likes to go hard and fast, pistoning in and out as you push back into him. He likes to watch your back arch as he gathers your hair in one hand and pulls it towards him while slithering his other hand to your clit, teasing an orgasm out of you (and Tony doesn't consider the fuck complete until he's made you come at least twice). He likes the way you grab the headboard and hold on for dear life when you can’t trust your elbows to hold you up when you start nearing your climax. However, Tony also lives for eye contact. He watches you with those glittering dark eyes, taking in every furrow in your brow and sweat droplet over your temple as he lazily pushes three fingers into your dripping sex and drags them back out slowly, curling them just ever so slightly. Call him old and sentimental - and you do because he is significantly older than you (though that certainly isn't an issue for you) - but Tony likes to hear his name fall from your lips in a gasp when you come.

First Time: You first met Mr. Stark when you were added to the team of mechanical engineers in charge of the rebuilding of the Stark Mansion in California. However, the first time you actually met him was at the official reopening of the home (until that point, all of your order were coming from Pepper Potts). Stark was immediately taken with you, but while you were flattered, you most certainly were not going to sleep with the guy signing your paycheck. So your relationship remained excruciating platonic (well, as platonic a relationship one can have with Mr. Stark, he still would proposition you every now and then, but it's not like you minded - flirting with a genius billionaire playboy philanthropist was a tad exhilarating) until Stark officially stepped down as CEO of Stark Enterprises. First thing he did after he stepped down was to call you and ask you out to dinner. Of course you accepted - you weren't blind, and you had taken quite a liking to Mr. Sta-no, Tony, as he insisted you call him, after two years of wanting more. You didn't really know what to expect, but a proposal on your first date certainly wasn't it. He took you to a nice dinner for which you spent at least four hours getting ready and $300 on new clothes because everything you owned seemed to have some sort of stain on it. He then for a romantic walk in the park where you promptly snapped one of those very expensive heels, and so he carried you back to the car. He drove you back to his place for "a drink", there being an unspoken agreement as to what would really happen when you got there. His hand slid up your thigh and softly stroked the delicate skin right under the junction between your legs. You had barely gotten through the front door before he whirled you around and claimed your mouth with his in a demanding kiss. You broke away to lead him to the bedroom (I basically designed this place, I'm not a stalker Tony) where the two of you didn't even make it to the bed for round one. Round two you actually made it to the bed, after which the two of you collapsed into the bed, chests heaving and sticky. He fell asleep, spread eagle with you curled up to his side and your head on his bicep. The faint light from a desk lamp and the arc reactor in Tony's chest cast a shadow over his face. You didn't sleep, but watched Tony's eyebrows furrow, reacting to his dream (you had the sense that he didn't sleep a lot). You must have dozed off when Tony woke with a start, new sweat streaming down his chest. You pushed him back into the bed slowly, humming a song that your dad used to sing. Tony complied, but his eyes remained wide open, searching your face as if in confusion.
"Are you . . . humming 'Staircase to Heaven'?"
"So what if I am?"
"I just have to marry you now."
"At least buy me dinner first."
"I already did."
"Hmmm, then I suppose I will then."

Most Recent Time: You're naturally submissive in bed, and Tony likes to take charge sometimes, so you're a sexual match made in heaven. He knows what you're comfortable with on instinct, how far to push you and when to reel back. That doesn't stop him from making you choose a safe word before every one of these little 'sessions'. He still sniggered, like he does every time, when you said 'safeword is my safe word now c'mon', then he reached up to tighten the silk ties restraining your four limbs. He then tied another tie around your eyes. You felt every last feathery touch upon your body - his fingertips drawing circles on your hipbones, his lips dragging slowly through the valley between your breasts, the delicate head of his hard cock against your clit. Using his lips, his hands, and maybe an ice cube(?) he dragged you to the edge three times, each time biting your thigh sharply or smacking the bottom of your feet just before you were about to tip. You would whimper, writhe against your restraints at his not-quite-passionate enough touch, and plead for him to let you come, just oh god, please. After denying you for the fourth time, he finally pushed himself into you, filling you more than you ever thought possible. He groaned, parallel to your gasp of surprise. Your hips bucked into his, but he kept thrusting at an agonizingly slow pace. Each slow snap of his hips made a muted slap of skin-on-skin. The complete feeling of fullness coupled with his hand going to your already overstimulated clit meant that you were brought to the edge very soon. You gasped his name, warning him of how close you were. (Not yet sweetheart, not yet) Your muscles strained, desperately trying to hold your release, your whispered pleas falling upon Tony's deaf ears. Just when you thought Fuck it, I can't do it, Tony's hips stuttered, and his pace sped up and became highly irregular. Come for me, princess. And come you did.

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Where: Her bed, of course. Seeing you all wrapped up in her sheets, hair matted and dark splotches all the way down your neck, she just gets that possessive streak that she used to be ashamed of before she realized you didn't care at all.
When: Nat is always busy, always being forced to slip away for a job for an entire month or save the world or some kind of bullshit. It's really whenever she has time to slip away. She does, though, have a proclivity for afternoon sex - the two of you will eat lunch, then right before dinner she'll eat out you so when you're out with Steve or Tony she when she barely touches her food she can grin like a cat and exclaim that she is just stuffed, she ate just before they left (then she'll pull out what looks like a handkerchief that is really your panties from earlier to wipe her mouth, making you cross your legs to quench the throbbing of your bare pussy).
Why: She claims she thinks its hilarious when guys think you're straight, and when they'll come and feel you up when you're in the bar with "your friend". Even though you know she gets jealous because she'll always growl in the back of the throat when it happens, you also know that she loves nothing more than when you turn and kiss her passionately before telling the guy that you are very much taken by the beautiful lady you just kissed and that his dick is very much not invited to that equation. Nat will usually spend the night gripping, kissing, licking, biting all the places his hands were just to make sure you forget all about him. But all kinkiness aside, she also thinks she doesn't deserve you (you always tell her that she deserves more than you, but she'll just smile sadly and shake her head before attaching her lips to your neck). She's thinks you're too pure, too good for this world and especially for her, but she's going to make the most of her time with you until you wise up and leave her.
How:She likes to hear you scream. She's always dead silent during sex (you always feel successful when you make her let out a quiet string of curse words in Russian right before she comes), but loves when you scream her name. She likes it when you're all tied up like one of her prisoners, with those big, trusting eyes and not a scrap of clothing on you. She'll take you to the edge slowly with her tongue, her hand splayed out on your stomach to hold down your bucking hips and to feel the muscles spasming in time with the strokes of her tongue against your clit. She also likes when you're under her, her thighs straddling your face, her pussy lowered over your mouth while those same big eyes narrow with lust when she buries a hand in your hair. When you add in that finger when you know she's coming close, she'll let out a choking noise and slam her hand into the headboard behind you to hold herself up, the noise spurring you to curl your fingers slightly and drag them out of her hot, wet cunt.

First Time: She actually met you when she was on a job. You were interning at the Triskelion before you started your senior year at college. You believed everything SHIELD told you hook line and sinker (that is, until they tried to convince you that Rumlow was the good guy and Natasha was the bad guy and that was one lie you just couldn't swallow - but that's getting ahead). Even though you had only spoken with her briefly in the past, the short exchanges in the break room over coffee always left you starstruck. Your desk was at the end of one of the long center tables, near the elevators to Fury's office. The sights of Steve Rogers and even occasionally Tony Stark got a little less novel over time, but your attention was always entirely taken up by Natasha. Her straight red hair and flashing green eyes pulled you in with a glance - and that's all you ever got from her. Her gaze would slide over you when she scanned the crowd, but that brief, split second moment of eye contact would muddle your mind for the rest of the day and you could only pray that she wouldn't visit in the morning, because then you would have to visit the bathroom to take care of yourself instead of just waiting until you got back to your apartment. You lived off the small nods she would send your way. While she didn't seem to care for you at all, you pined after her, lonely and horny. It was one of those days Nat just decided that she needed to come early to meet with Fury with you running off to the bathroom to take care of the throbbing between your legs. SHIELD bathrooms were nice, especially those closest to the publicists - SHIELD obviously needed to keep the publicists happy, they're what stopped the world from finding out what an absolutely shitshow the agency was. Thank god most people were at lunch and thus not coming into the bathroom. There were only two stalls, and you took the larger one with the little bench in the corner - while it was never dignified to stick your hand down your pants in the bathroom at work, at least you weren't sitting on the toilet seat when it happened. You made sure no one else was there before snicking the lock to your stall, pulling down your pants, and sitting down on the little bench. Your right hand came up to your mouth, taking into two fingers and thoroughly coating them in your saliva while your left hand unbuttoned your blouse and pulled out your breasts. After you were satisfied your fingers were wet enough, you trailed them slowly down your body, shivering as your nails lightly scraped your skin as you pretended they were Natasha's. Your eyes fluttered shut when your fingers reached your nether lips, which were already incredibly damp. You could almost feel the throb of your pussy as you pushed your fingers in, your left hand coming down to rub your clit as you gently began to drag your right hand out slowly, letting your fingers drag slightly along your walls. You let out a deep, shuddering breath before pushing them back in. As you teased yourself closer and closer to climax, you began to pull away from this world. You began to think your fingers were hers, and you moaned quietly. Natasha. Your left hand sped up its tight little circles and your walls clenched around your fingers when you heard the stall door squeal. You stopped your ministrations (but your hands were still very much attached to your nether region) to see if the lock gave, and not only did you see that the lock did in fact give, but there was someone standing there. No. No no no no no no no,you thought. Not even you could be this unlucky. Because Natasha was right there in the wide open stall, having been watching you for who knows how long with those impassive green eyes. You, mortified, begin to struggle to get up with your pants tangled around your ankles, and when you start withdrawing your right hand from yourself, Natasha's by your side in a flash with her hand wrapped around your right wrist, freezing you in place. Your brow furrowed, and you looked at her. With you all bent over like you were, you had to look up towards her face to make eye contact. Again, her facial betrayed no emotion - but this time, you could see her pupils blown black with unbridled lust. You whimpered slightly as she guided you back into a sitting position, your hand still in place, and she then settled on her knees between your eagle-spread legs with her hands on each of your upper thighs. Your mind kept coming back to the notion that this was entirely inappropriate, she literally caught you with your pants around your ankles and her name on your lips, and literally less than thirty seconds later she was eye level with your pussy that was still stuffed with two of your own fingers. However, you could see she, for some godforsaken reason, found the sight of you sexy, and so who were you to try to change that? You went to remove your hand again, but Natasha just shook her head, raised an eyebrow, and made a hand motion for you to continue. Oh. Oh. You dipped your left hand between your thighs to catch some of the moisture collected there and then brought it back up to your clit, where you began to slowly draw those tight circles again. However you didn't start drawing your fingers out and Natasha gave you a light slap on your inner thigh as a reminder. You gasped slightly but got the message, and you began a slow, steady rhythm. You worked yourself back up into a frenzy, egged on by Natasha's presence and her breath, coming in short, panted breaths, on your wetness. You began rocking your hips against your own hands when Natasha abruptly snatched away your left hand and licked the moisture away slowly and then, never breaking eye contact with you, lowered her mouth to tease you with her tongue. It was then you realized that the stall door was still open and literally anyone could walk in on the two of you. However, instead of coming to your long-lost senses and stopping this whole thing, you just buried your left hand in her hair to push her closer to your core and thunked the back of your head against the cool tile wall. She held your right wrist in her hand, regulating the pace at which your own fingers thrust into you. All of a sudden, you felt a third finger slip itself into your throbbing pussy, joining your other two fingers - and you were like 90% sure this one wasn't yours. You managed to push your head off the wall to see one of Natasha's long, slim fingers coated in your juices as it pushed in and out of your core. And she was still. making. eye contact. You came right then and there.

Most Recent Time: Natasha called you into her new office this morning. Natasha loved the sound of that: her office. Though she would never admit it (except for maybe to you, her whispered confessions tickling your ear as she spoons you in your bed), Natasha liked having something of her own. Something permanent. You had come in, panting slightly from having to book it up twelve flights of stairs because this new goddamned SHIELD building had tiny elevators and huge lines for them and Natasha had sent you a text saying Come now, it's an emergency. Natasha took you in with a small smirk, and you felt even more rumpled and out of breath than you probably were in your too-short pencil skirt and wrinkled button down because she looked like perfection itself with her perfectly coiffed undo and her dark blazer and matching pants.
-You look beautiful, she said. You huffed, annoyed at her for making you run and at yourself for forgetting to pick up your dry cleaning this morning because now you were stuck with that strange, ill-fitting mishmash of clothes (though you'd still blame this on Natasha. You were going out to the dry cleaners - honest -, but then Natasha came out of the bathroom without a towel and what could you have done?). You tried to fix a glare on your face, but it kept slipping as Natasha's smile got bigger.
"What do you want? I had to run twelve flights because you sent me that emergency text," you said, trying to regulate your breaths. Nat's smirk just got bigger "It is an emergency. I still need to take care of you," Natasha replied smoothly. You struggled to find meaning to her words and then - oh. When she came out of the bathroom this morning, you immediately brought her to the bed and put your mouth to good use. However, because you still were trying to get to the cleaners so you could pick up a change of clothes on your way to work (spoiler alert: the line was too long when you got there and so you got stuck wearing what were supposed to be the temporary clothes all day), you left before she could return the favor. You felt the blood in your body war between going to your face and going to your pussy lips as you followed Natasha's beckoning finger over to her lap. As soon as you stood in front of her, she reached under your skirt and pulled down your panties in one swoop. They weren't anything special, just a basic black thong (because that goddamned skirt was too tight and it would show the lines of the granny panties you normally wore under pencil skirts), but the way Nat sniffed them . . . Jesus. Before you could do anything, she pulled you into her lap and situated each of your legs on either side of her thigh so that your slowly dampening and very bare core was pressed tightly against the defined muscles of her legs. Not allowing you to voice your surprise, Nat gently pushed your own thong into your mouth. It was, of course, just a thong, and so the material wasn't nearly enough to fill your mouth like a gag, but her message was there.
"Can't have you catching the attention of our neighbors. Now let's christen this office, shall we?" Natasha grinned and, keeping your hips in place with her hands, slowly ground her thigh up into your clit. You groaned through the gag, not even minding your own taste anymore. You just wanted her to fuck you already. However, when you noticed she wasn't repositioning you to get better access to your core with her fingers or tongue, you began to move. However, her hands came to your hips again and slammed you back down on her knee. You made a noise of surprise, but Nat just chuckled softly.
"I'm sorry, was I not clear? I won't lie, I'm rather tired from this morning, so I'm going to need you to take care of yourself. Preferably on my thigh," Natasha grinned that little shit-eating grin of hers. Bullshit. Nat wasn't tired and the both of you knew it. However, you both also knew how much Nat likes watching you get yourself off. So, with your arms locked around her neck, you began scooping your hips against the slightly scratchy fabric of her leg. Her hips held you down as your scoops became heavier, the darkening wet patch on her pants slowly expanding. The feeling of the cloth against your clit made your pussy throb and you ground your pussy down hard onto her leg. You felt yourself keening as you worked yourself into a frenzy, your hair coming out of its loose bun and Nat's hands pulled your breasts from their cups inside your shirt, her fingers and then later her mouth teasing the flesh into stiff peaks. Instead of the usual slow building in your lower stomach that you normally felt as you approached your climax, stars burst behind your eyelids all of a sudden, and for the first time you were glad you had those panties in your mouth to muffle at least some of the obscenities streaming from your mouth. Nat held your slumped form against her as you grasped her shoulders and tried to catch your breath. After your heart rate had returned to normal (or, as normal as it could be around Natasha), you slowly pulled yourself out of her grasp and stood up on wobbly legs. She didn't try to stop you, but she made no effort to help your get up on your feet when you grasped the edge of her glass desk to keep from falling over in the modest heels you wore. After regaining some sense of bodily control, you pulled your panties from your mouth (thankfully not too wet from your own saliva) and, slightly unnerved by the thought but forced to anyways because what else could you do, went to put them back on, but before you could even step through one of the holes (but not before you bent down - she loved to admire your ass as you were bent over something), Natasha grabbed the material from you.
"I think I'm going to keep these," Natasha smirked before pulling them up to her nose and making a big show of inhaling. You opened your mouth to protest, but Nat just continued.
"Who knows? Maybe the smell of you lingers in her all day will put me in a good enough mood to care of you myself tonight," Natasha hummed in thought, swiveling her chair away from you and towards the entire wall of glass that was her window. The irrational part of your brain worried that someone could see into the window, but then you realized of course, that this floor was at least ten stories taller than all of the surrounding buildings. Realizing that you should probably leave now before either of you jumps the other's bones, you turned on your heel and made to walk out. And you did, but not before a Natasha's sized handprint was slapped on your bottom before you made it out of the door.

Chapter Text

Where: Normally in one of your dorm rooms, though preferably his because he lives in an apartment with his own bedroom so his roommates are a little less likely to walk in on you - your roommate had stumbled in on the two of you a couple times, and it was always awkward to say the least. However, his favorite place (and your least favorite, so you claim, but you always make sure he knows when you're on shift) is at the bookstore where you work. He'll come in looking for a book and twenty minutes later you're in the employee's bathroom, pushed up against a wall.
When: Whenever the two of you can find the time - between you guys, there are five majors, three minors, and (as you recently found out) a secret superhero career and so the times that you both have free seem to be few and far between. However, you and Peter always seem to be available after TA hours . . .
Why: Oh, so many reasons. It's college, everyone's horny all the time, stress relief, he's gorgeous and you can, you name it.
How: It started out a little awkward, as most relationships (well, friends with benefits is a bit closer to it) do at their start. However, once the slight self-consciousness slipped away, you realized that Peter preferred it slow, unhurried, and dare you say it, passionate. Like everything else about him, Peter's thrusts are purposeful. His thrusts are intended to be pleasure for both instead of just him, even when you're pushed up against the aforementioned wall. At the beginning, part of you was a little shocked and uncomfortable with the eye contact he likes to make and how focused he is on your pleasure. Most of your previous hookups had left you feeling totally unsatisfied and the guy spent and obviously unwilling to help you out. With Peter, it's completely different. In the rare case he finishes before you, you better believe that his fingers or mouth is going down there within the minute. The eye contact still makes you a little uncomfortable - it feels too pure, too couple-y for this friends-with-benefits situation - but you're really not complaining because it's nice to pretend, even if Peter doesn't feel the same way.

First Time: You were at a party at your dorm on the Saturday of your first week back at MIT. It wasn't really a party, the floor below you had bought a bunch of cheap beer and vodka and offered to everyone in your wing, and as the first week of classes had figuratively fucked you in the ass, you decided a drink was very much so in order. It's not that you didn't like your classes, it was just that they were just so hard. You had declared a double major in Electrical Science in Engineering/Computer Science and a Molecular Biology focus in the pre-med at the end of last year, and so you had to take five classes a semester for the next year and a half. They were all so goddamn difficult, and it of course didn't help that Peter Parker himself was TAing your Signals and Systems class. On the first day of class, you were running to your class fifteen minutes minutes late (The line for coffee was killer), and you looked like a tragic mess with your bag sliding off your shoulder, hair unkempt, and you may or may not have still been wearing your pajama sweatpants. You looked through the small window on the door to the classroom, hoping that the professor hadn't started lecturing just yet - but there was only other person there. He was sitting at the front by the professor's podium, but he was quite obviously young, only a year or two older than you at most. His chin was tilted down towards his phone, so you could only see the top half of his face, which was shadowed by his hair that was obviously supposed to be slicked back but the gel was either too cheap or he kept running his hands through his hair to mess it up. He was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt, leaving his arms bare for you to stare at.
(Your friends always liked to tease you about your arm fetish, but you know what? Sue me, they’re fucking hot would always be your response).
All of a sudden, he looked up towards the door, and you were on the ground (hopefully) before he saw you ogling at him. You scrambled with your bag, hoping that no one came down the hallway to the strange sight of you on your stomach, blushing a horrendous shade of scarlet whilst desperately searching for your timetable. It's definitely the right classroom, I don't kno- oh shit. Your groaned and began thunking your head against the outdated linoleum. Your class started at 9AM, so instead of being fifteen minutes late, you were forty-five minutes early. And to top it all off, your extra-large cup of coffee that had caused you to be "late" in the first place had spilled when you had hit the ground. You were trying to motivate yourself to get up (with no success, let's be real here) when Hot Student opened the door. Well fuck me in the ass sideways with a thirty foot pole. It took you a couple seconds and Hot Student's laughter for you to realize that you actually said that out loud. Before you could open your mouth to embarrass yourself further, he dropped down next to you and collected your stuff in one arm before offering you his other hand. And holy fuck, those arms were even stronger and better-looking up close.
"Thought it was an 8AM too?" He asked. Oh, he was so fucking beautiful. Thankfully, you found your tongue fairly quickly (though you still hadn't quite found your pride yet).
"No, I just came here this early because I'm so on top of my shit. Can't you tell?" you drawled. Great job, you've gone from hazardous mess to sarcastic bitch in less than a second, that's the way to impress Hot Student, you mentally berated yourself. Realizing that you couldn't call him "Hot Student" to his face and as you were quickly associating his face with that nickname, you decided to salvage what was left of your dignity, made to take your books from him, stuck out your hand, and introduced yourself. His warm smile and refusal to let go of your bag caused your brain short-circuit and lose control over the butterflies in your stomach.
"Nah, I'll help you to your seat, it would be a little embarrassing for you if you wiped out again."
"Wooooowwww, Hot Student has a mouth!" Aaaaaannddd there went those last shreds of your dignity. Luckily, he didn't seem to mind and just laughed. Hot Student's name turned out to be Peter and he was going to be your TA for the semester, so there went any chance at possibly trying to get in his pants (And a fat load of good that resolution did you, you would later say). Also, it took you an embarrassingly long time to realize that he was the Peter Parker, the pride and joy of MIT undergrad who is on the fast track to get his PhD before taking on that high-level engineering job at Stark Tech full time. So yeah, you needed to drown your sorrows and schoolgirl crushing (and your very adult horniness) in cheap vodka, preferably alone in the corner. In fact, you had already found a (now, after you had been with it for a few minutes, almost empty) bottle and a nice, quiet corner where you could sit down and lean against the wall when you groaned. Peter locked eyes with you across the room and was quickly making his way over to your wall. You still had the bottle between your lips when he slid down to sit next to you. His body was so fucking close, but, ever the gentlemen, Peter Parker made sure to keep all of his body parts at least two inches from years.
"I swear to God Peter, I'm not always this much of a disaster. You just catch me at my worst," you promised him. Peter smirked and lifted his own full bottle.
"Hmm, I don't know about that. From what other people have said, you're kind of always a mess," he said before he took a swig. You groaned and let your head thunk back.
"Great. First week isn't even over and everyone thinks I'm falling apart. I mean, it’s true, but I still resent that."
"Yes, but you’re a very cute mess," Peter said, blushing slightly (though it might have just been the dim lighting), following up with, "They didn't just out and say it, I might have asked about you." Oh.
"Well Mr. TA, if I didn't know any better I'd say you're flirting with me."
"I just might be."
You just laughed and buried your head in your hands, desperately trying to hide your blush. The two of you talked about classes (though both of you definitely avoided the class he TAed), your summers, whether or not the Sox or the Yankees were better (Oh who cares if the Yankees have more World Series wins, the Sox have character), who the Spiderman was (The young superhero seemed to move his work to Boston a few years ago, and the MIT, Harvard, and BU students had a running bet going as to which university the young Avenger went to). As the crowd began thinning out, Peter stood and offered you his hand and, ignoring your popping and screaming joints, you took it and forced yourself to your feet as well.
"C'mon, I know a place we can finish my bottle," he said before pulling you out the back staircase. You shivered slightly in the wind of the cold and silent night (well, as silent as a college campus in Cambridge can be - there was definitely a loud singing coming from the campus bar a block away), but your hand was warm and tingly in his and followed him to the central quad. You were a little confused when he led you to a back door to the Dome that he unlocked with a key that he mysteriously produced from his pocket. Peter slipped a finger over his lips and led your up another staircase seemingly from memory, because it was dark as shit. You reached a ladder that led to a definitely padlocked hatch. Yet again, he reached into his pocket and produced a key that unlocked the lock (you really had to ask him about that). He climbed up and swung the silent hatch open before jumping up and helping you through. You gasped when your head poked through. You had a view of the Charles River in front of you and the entire MIT campus to your back.
"Jesus, Peter . . ." Before you could think better of it and that courageous buzz wore off, you closed the distance between the two of you, your lips brushing over his hesitantly. His self-control broke suddenly, and his hands were at the back of your neck and on your lower back and he was kissing you back ferociously. Just as quickly as his self-control snapped, he pulled back just enough to look at you in the eyes. You nodded slightly and drew him to the side of the Dome partially obscured by a wall. You sat down on the cold tin of the roof and Peter settled himself over you. He rucked up the front of your skirt (Oh, you wereso glad that you went against your natural desire for comfort and put a little effort into your appearance tonight) and stroked you firmly through your panties. Aided by the alcohol and the fact that anyone could look up and see the to of you on top of the Dome with only a little effort in the dark night had you ready for him when you heard the crinkle of foil. Moments later, he sank himself into you, stretching you not uncomfortably. Fuck, that feels good. He gave you a minute to adjust, gently pressing his lips into the side of your neck, before he began gently thrusting into you. One of his hand snuck between your bodies and stroked that button between your legs. You arched your back into him and held his head to your neck. A short string of curses made its way through your lips and you had to admit you were surprised that you came - it was cold and a little uncomfortable, but Jesus, that boy knew how to fuck. Peter gasped slightly when you ducked your head to press an open-mouthed kiss to that little pressure point under his jaw. He rolled off a few moments later, his chest heaving slightly. You turned your head to stare at his beautiful profile - that strong nose and cheekbones, that hard jaw. His eyes slid to yours and you impulsively leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek before sitting up and pulling your panties back on.
"Thanks, man. That was fucking awesome." Oh lord, kill me now, you thought. You were never good at the whole post-coitus thing. You took a deep breath and ran a hand through you hair, knowing you'd regret your following words.
"It can't happen again." Peter's eyebrows furrowed and he struggled to rebutton his pants, but he found his words quickly.
"Yeah, 'course. I'm your TA, it would be inappropriate."
"Yeah, totally inappropriate."
And then there was silence.
"We can still be friends, right?" Peter asked quickly.
"Oh yeah, of course! Just no sex or anything."
"Yeah, no sex."
You both knew that was a load a bullshit and that neither of you were going actually follow through with those words as soon as they were said.


Most Recent Time: The day before your Signals and Systems final and three days before you were going to leave for winter break, you let yourself into his apartment with the key he gave you a couple months ago. You saw his friend (who was now your friend too) Ned sitting at the stool. He didn't even look up from his textbook when the door opened, so you looked over his shoulder at his work as you unwrapped the scarf around your neck. You laughed when you saw the stuff he was working on. If looks could kill, Ned would have murdered you violently and dug you up to kill you again. You just raised your hands in surrender after you pulled off the coat, still chuckling.
"Orgo was a bitch, have fun with that."
"Fun? Did you not think I was having fun right now?" Ned's snarky reply came. You just laughed again before walking towards Peter's room. Ned didn't think twice about it before going back to work. You had all become close in the last semester, and he knew of you and Peter's little "arrangement" - sex, no feelings excepts genuine friendship. Though tonight, you promised yourself, there was only going to be studying because by God, you were going to pass this last final if it killed you (and it looked like it was going to at that point, to be honest).
"Good luck, Ned. I'm going to Peter's room."
"He's not back from the Stark job yet, but go right ahead. Have fun studying," Ned grinned. You just scoffed and threw your glove at the back of his head before clicking Peter's door shut behind you. You pulled your notebooks out of your bag and set yourself up on Peter's messy, unmade bed. That's where Peter found you hours later when he entered the room. What you could honestly say is that you were not expecting him to be sliding through the window in a fucking Spiderman suit and the mask in his hand, his back to you the whole time. You were struck dumb as he began peeling off the suit, and he only noticed you when you dropped your pen at the sight of a massive, deep-looking cut on his shoulder. His shoulders tensed up and he slowly turned around to face you. His face, thrown in shadows, probably looked more bruised that it was, and there was a thin trickle of blood coming from one nostril. Finally, you decided to break the silence.
"Hey, so like no offense, but what the actual fuck?" Those words broke the tension between you, and Peter stumbled over to the bed.
"Oh fuck," you muttered, and you jumped up to help him lie down.
"I need to call 911, you're looking really-"
"No! No ambulance. I'm fine really, and they can't know, they'll ask questions," Peter croaked, "Just need . . . just some ice. And a needle and thread."
"Um, okay, where?"
"Freezer and right bathroom cabinet." You dashed to collect the supplies (thankfully, Ned wasn't there when you also grabbed a couple towels soaked on vodka), and when you brought the stuff, Peter had gotten off the whole suit and was lying in only his briefs on the bed, groaning painfully into the pillow.
"Shit Peter, I could have helped you with that."
"So eager to get me out of my pants," Peter smirked.
"Big talk from a guy wearing full-body Spanx". Peter chuckled, but he grimaced soon after, holding his ribs.
"Peter, you have to see a doctor . . ."
"Nah, I heal pretty quickly, the cut just can't get infected. I would do it myself except I can't reach my shoulder with both hands. And are you studying be a doctor or something?"
"Peter, I'm still pre-med for Christ's sake!" But Peter just shook his head, and put your hand on the materials. You shuddered. This is batshit crazy. It took you four tries to thread the needle, your hands were shaking so badly. Peter's hands closed over yours, and you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. Your hands were surprisingly steady when he let go of them, and you slowly swiped at the cut with one of the towels and stuffed the second one into his mouth.
"Don't want to break those pretty teeth." You tried for a smirk, but it probably came out as more of a grimace. Peter just chuckled and bit down on the towel. Your stitches were surprisingly good, not as even as they could have been but overall, you'd say it was a pretty bang up job for the shitty materials a college student can afford. You gently pressed the now-more-blood-soaked-than-vodka-soaked towel once more into his shoulder before wrapping it up in a makeshift bandage made from the torn up strips of your t-shirt. (You probably would have used one of the ones scattered over his floor, but there was no guarantee that any of those were remotely clean.)
"Thanks. So you have had surprisingly little to say," Peter said with a little wry smile on his face. You hummed noncommittally, checking the tightness of the bandage before sliding onto the bed next to him, careful to make sure you didn't touch his body at all. Peter huffed and hauled you closer to his side, ignoring your protests while sliding his hand into yours.
"What can I say, I had a lot of money riding on the Spiderman being an MIT prick and I'm pretty upset that can't tell anyone about it," you said finally. Peter laughed before quickly turning serious.
"So you won't tell anyone?" Peter had the gall to actually look surprised.
"Wow, what kind of person do you think I am?" you asked, a little hurt but reluctant to pull away from his grasp because you didn't want to disturb his stitches (or so you told yourself). Peter shifted uncomfortably and played with your hand, rubbing his thumb over one of your nails.
"I don't know, there was that time I accidentally caused that explosion that forced everyone to evacuate Sloane and you told everyone," he replied, but this time he was obviously joking.
"Well that was funny, and you kind deserved it for telling Ned how we met."
"Um, excuse me, I told one person, and that didn't even surprise him because he knows how you are as a human."
"Yeah but if you tell Ned, you might as well tell the whole of MIT and Harvard." Peter nodded, conceding that point.
"Ned knows though." You sat up suddenly, forcing Peter up with you, much to the protest of his injuries. You swore and guided Peter down gently.
"Ned knows? And the whole campus hasn't found out?"
"As far as I know, the only ones who know are Ned, Aunt May, and Mr. Stark. And I guess you, now." You slapped a hand against your forehead and settled yourself back into his side.
"So that's the Stark job . . ."
"Yeah. Well, sort of. Sometimes I actually do work in his labs, but most of the time, well." You just shook your head and allowed the two of you to fall into an only slightly uncomfortable silence. You listened to his heartbeat slow, and it occurred to you that this isn't really something that friends with benefits would do. Then again, you guys seemed to do a lot of things that friends with benefits shouldn't do. Peter's hand (the one that wasn't in yours) began stroking pattern on your bare side, going lower and lower on your hipbone before his fingers reached the button of your jeans. You pulled away and shook your head. Peter withdrew his hands immediately, his eyebrows furrowed.
"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"
"No, it's all right, I just don't think it's the best decision, y'know, with your stitches and stuff . . .," you trailed off at the sight of his growing grin.
"Look, if you don't want to we obviously don't have to, but don't worry about me - look," he said, gesturing to his nose, "It's already stopped bleeding." He was right. His nose was no longer trickling blood and it wasn't crooked anymore. Your eyes flickered back up to his and you nodded, but when Peter moved to go on top, you stopped him with a hand to his chest. Peter looked at you questioningly, but he complied, lying on his back as you quickly shed your jeans and bra, leaving yourself in only your panties as you straddled him. You leaned down and kissed him softly, and his hands slide down your sides to grab your ass. You groaned and sat back up, pulling down his briefs and your panties quickly before leaning back down to meet his lips with yours. Peter's hands left your body and reached over to his nightstand. He fumbled with the wrapper for only a moment before he pressed himself up into you bit by bit. The two of you groaned softly before you started slowly lifting and lowering your hips. His hands slid up from your hips to your breasts, playing gently with the hardened peaks. You felt yourself getting more and more desperate, but you forced yourself to maintain control so as not to break any bones that weren't already broken. His eyes closed and you could feel his pace stuttering. You knew he was close and so you let yourself go a bit, grinding your clit into his pelvis. His right hand came up from your breast to your neck and pulled you down for a deep, openmouthed kiss. A deep, keening nose started in the back of your throat, and you a wave pulling over mind. Peter groaned too, thrusting one more time before pulling out slowly. You rolled over to his side, careful to avoid his bad shoulder. Peter regained his breath a lot faster than you did (as always), and he watched your face as your chest heaved, sweat dripping down slowly. Your tried to collect your thoughts, but they kept scattering all around and not just because of the high you were still coming off of. His eyes unnerved you more than usual, and this . . . this was not normal. Because that wasn't fucking for you, that was making love and that was something you never intended to do with him. He's Peter fucking Parker, about three thousand leagues above you, and was still your TA for another 16 hours. His confused eyes followed you as you left the bed quickly and silently. You needed to get out of there. You hurried around the room, desperately not making eye contact, grabbed your jeans and panties, and decided to forgo trying to find the bra that you had thrown somewhere across the room. You had gotten on the panties and one of his shirts before you felt a hand close around your upper arm. You drew in a stilted breath but refused to turn around.
"Where are you going?" Peter's voice came through your ear as you let yourself be drawn back into his arms.
"To my dorm. Gotta study," you said, trying to stay lighthearted but your voice wobbled. Peter just shook his head and brought you backwards. He picked you up and set you down on the bed. He then pulled your legs towards him so they rested on either side of his thighs. His hands rested on the cotton over your ribcage, his thumbs lightly brushing back and forth.
"You came here to study, so that's what we're gonna do," he said, pulling your notebooks back from the side of the bed. You smiled and collected yourself, and eventually the grin became genuine as Peter explained the absolute confusion that was the course of Signals and Systems.

Chapter Text

Where: You and Stephen like to keep each other on your toes. Yeah, sure, sometimes you'll lead him to the bed, but you also push his shoulders against a bookcase in that little nook in the back of the Sanctum's library just as often. Yeah, sure, Stephen will occasional slip into the shower behind you, but he'll also have your hands pinned above your head in the tiny closet off the hospital break room.
When: Usually it's extremely late at night - you usually work the 6-2 and 2-10 shifts at the hospital, and so you don't get back to the Sanctum until extremely late. Stephen is always busy, working on various spells and making sure that the various extraterrestrial beings of the galaxy don't decide to bother Earth (he'll still claim the superior work, even though in the ER you were only saving lives, I guess). The two of you are always tired but you have strived to keep things interesting - and its really not too hard, because there are so many things you would want to do with him and you haven't even scratched the surface yet.
Why: Stephen is so fucking infuriating, with his condescending lectures and his arrogant intellectualism, you always just want to fuck that egoism right out of him. However, it's really those moments that you see him so passionate about what we does, when he listens so intently and wears that proud smile just for you when you're talking about how you basically stepped in for Nick during a surgery and saved a patient's ass on the table, that you just want to bury your hands in his semi-long hair and kiss him senseless.
How: The two of you oscillate between soft, vanilla sex full of feelings and shit, and a fight for domination full of feelings and shit. Both of you like taking control, but aren't opposed to the other one having it so long as it was well fought and earned. Oh, and Stephen is huge on kisses. Sweet and chaste on the lips, hot and open-mouthed on the neck, long and with long in between your legs, you name it.

First Time: Stephen Strange was quite possibly the biggest, cockiest, most monumentally self-absorbed piece of shit to disgrace the Earth. Not only had he continually and completely ignored your role as the fucking DON at Metro-General Hospital (no mean feat, you might add), he was just an all-around, world-class, bonafide, Certified Asshole. A surgical nurse of your standing basically ran the surgeries, knowing the processes inside and out and practically talking the dumbass surgeons through their own fucking job! And despite the prestige you'd known you earned and the respect of essentially everyone in the hospital, Dr. Stephen Strange thought his time was too important to waste a look on you, let alone actually acknowledge the work you did. You worked in the same hospital (Christ, the same department) for three years and your only interaction with him had been the time he attempted to order you to get his coffee. When he crashed his overpriced car and ruined those "magic" hands, sure, you felt bad for all the people who he couldn't save anymore. However, you quickly remembered all the patients who desperately needed help that he wouldn't operate on to maintain his perfect record, so you hardened your heart and were quite happy that you would never see that smug bastard ever again in your life. Oh how wrong you were. It was maybe a couple years since he had disappeared of the face of the Earth, and you had barely thought of him since (okay, maybe that's a lie, he was pretty cute, no matter how much of an asshole he was, and maybe he every so often had just slipped into your mind when you were lonely and . . . well, never mind). You had gotten off a late shift at Metro-General, and because cab fare was far too expensive and you were an idiot, you decided to walk the ten blocks home at 3 in the morning. It was an all right neighborhood, but that didn't stop your hand from closing around your keys and your phone on emergency dial. Your earbuds were in, but you decided that you shouldn't play music just in case. And thank God you went without it because that's how you heard a slight, feminine scream from an alleyway behind a deli. Thankful that you were wearing running shoes instead of those awful flats you had to wear for work, you slid quietly into the back alley, brandishing your keys and not quite realizing what a stupid decision that was until you saw a man in a hoodie standing over a crouched, pleading, middle aged woman. You tried to punch in 911, but the cell service was failing in that area. You could have left and called from a safer distance, neither the man nor woman had noticed you - the woman looked up with panicked eyes, but instead of screaming for your help, you heard her voice slither into your mind, telling you to run. What the . . . But you couldn't do that. Instead, you sucked in a deep breath, cursed your stupid, self-destructive need to help other people, took a flying jump at the man's back, and stabbed him right in his Adam's apple with your keys. The cloak's hood fell back as he roared, the metal having cut in. He fell to the ground and you knelt own next to the woman, but she was severely injured and unconscious. Paralyzed, if you diagnosed it right, and you always diagnose right. You reached down to sling her arm around your neck, to bring her out to the street - you were yanked back by the man. He twisted your arm behind your back and stuck what felt like a white hot rod straight between your ribs. Oh, fuck. The dark colors of the night blurred together as you slumped in your captors arms. You heard a shout but you couldn’t look up. The could only stare at the ground, and you began to worry that you had lost it when the ground began fracturing into a crystallized mirror shape. You were suddenly dropped, and you groaned and stayed on your front so gravity would keep the blood inside your body. However, you did manage to turn to the side and see another man with a goatee wearing a red cape using . . . sparks as a weapon? Yup, I’m definitely losing it. You faded in and out of consciousness for who knows how long, eventually settling into the dark as the new man showed up. And you definitely thought you were hallucinating because that was the face of Stephen Strange, which made no sense and it was hardly the last face you wanted to see before you died.
When you came to, you weren't sure what was worse: the throbbing pain in your head, the aching pain in your ribs, or the fact that Stephen Strange's hands held your head gently and his face was only two inches away.
"I hope you weren't planning on kissing me," you said, far bolder than you should have been after going through what you had. Stephen just snorted through a face mask and continued to probe for blood. You winced as he touched a more sensitive spot, but as soon as you did, warmth seeped in and cleared out the pain. You glanced down at the bandage at your ribs, surprised to not feel any blood seeping through at all. However, you got distracted by the fact that you were not in a hospital bed. In fact, you were lying on a stone slab in a windowless room and while you couldn't be completely sure, Strange still seemed to be wearing that weird-ass cape under his scrubs.
"Hey Doc," you tried to sound as nonchalant as possible, "I think now is the time you tell me what the fuck is going on." Stephen pulled down his mask to reveal a smirk and he walked to a nearby table that had several bottles and jars of various very non-medicine-y looking salves.
"Well, if I had any doubt you were you, that mouth confirmed it." You struggled onto your elbows, up as far as your semi-healed body would allow you to be.
"You remember-"
"Don't insult my intelligence, of course I remember you. if that pretty face wasn't enough, your habit for foul language in the surgical suite would suffice." Your mind most definitely did not turn into a puddle when he called you pretty, but whether it did or not, you still zeroed in on the latter part of his sentence.
"Surgical suite?" you all but shrieked. You took a deep breath, struggling to maintain your composure (with little success, according to Stephen's deepening smirk as he methodically cleaned his small arsenal of surgical tools). "You're telling me that after being stabbed in the fucking back, you didn't take me directly to a hospital but instead decided to use some goddamn medieval potions and questionable looking tools?" Ok, that last part was a lie - those tools looked in prisinte shape but that didn't mean that you wouldn't object on principle. "And besides, your hands don't even work, Christine told me . . ."
"All right, that's enough. My hands do work, obviously, because otherwise your internal organs wouldn't be working." You had to admit, you were quickly learning to enjoy getting underneath his skin. You liked that irritated glint in his eye, the sharpness in his movements -
"-And I didn't take you to a hospital because Christine transferred to Boston and a severance of the sensory nerve pathway between T2 and T3 in the spinal cord is a bit outside of Nick's depth, so I thought I'd spare you the fate of death and organ donation and fix you myself. Though your immediate complaints are making me rethink that decision." You swallowed hard. Okay, Nick still wasn't half the surgeon Stephen was before the accident, but you had to keep arguing on principle and so you rolled your eyes.
"That still doesn't explain why you couldn't have done all of this in a surgical suite in an actual hospital using real medicine, not voodoo magic." Stephen's mouth twisted into a scowl (an unattractive look on an otherwise extremely attractive face).
"That voodoo magic saved your life, so you're welcome. The New York Sanctum is going low-profile, so I can't really have people asking me why there was a sparking Mirror Dimension blade stuck into your spine. You know, you could try for a 'thank you'." You sort of did owe him a thank you, but you were too far gone for your pride to allow you to give him that. So instead, you settled for the usual sarcastic, snarky comment.
"Why low-profile? Your cape isn't exactly inconspicuous, by the way."
"Have you seen what's going on with the Avengers?" Strange rolled his eyes, "We don't exactly want to open ourselves up to that public shit show. And my cape's a relic." You stared at him dumbly.
"It's imbued with magic."
"With magic. Right," you said. How gullible does he think I am? Strange huffed, obviously annoyed at your lack of pickup.
"You'll see. How do you think my hands were able to heal?" He held up his heavily scarred hands, which, by all accounts, should have extreme nerve damage. Strange continued, "You're not going to be able to leave for a few weeks, your body needs time to heal from that significant trauma."
"Um, excuse me, I have a job, I can't just up and leave-" Stephen just waved his hand, dismissing your worries.
"You'll be fine. I took the liberty to call in all those vacation days you've been storing up." You sputtered, ready to open your mouth and yell something along the lines of How dare you?, but the stresses of the day overwhelmed you and you succumbed back to your sleep state.
When you woke up again, you were still on the stone slab, but this time it was levitating in some sort of ancient library right next to the also-levitating Stephen sitting cross-legged in the air, reading a book . . . and another (glowing?) Stephen on the other side drawing ancient runes into a notebook.
"Care to explain yourself, or am I correct in thinking that this is all just the side effect of a nasty fungal infection I must have caught at the hospital?" Neither form of Stephen looked up from what it was doing, but the voice seemed to be emanating from the non-glowing version.
"Don't sit up, you'll add on another three days of staying here. And, unfortunately for the both of us, you are really here. Believe me, this isn't ideal for me either. And to answer your first question, you are seeing both my temporal form and my astral form."
"Ah, yes," you responded dryly, "That just about clears everything up." Temporal Stephen huffed and put down the book, but you could tell that he was secretly pleased at being able to explain his genius - he always enjoyed doing that. And you had to say, for the first time in your life, you valued his insight. For the next two weeks, you followed him around on your slab while he explained everything out loud to you. You eventually were well enough to leave your slab and sit down next to him, or read the ancient texts yourself. You hated to admit it, but Stephen's presence had become rather . . . soothing for you. And maybe it was just your ego talking, but Stephen seemed to begin to genuinely enjoy your presence as well. he seemed to light up when talking about his craft, and your questions didn't seem to bother him nearly as much as he griped on about. In fact, the two of you began to spend your evenings together, just sitting and talking for hours at the dinner table, you leaning forward across the table and forcing him to explain every last intricacy of that spell he was practicing (and failing to execute) earlier that day because his explanation simply had too many consistencies, and how was he supposed to be able to do it if he couldn't even properly explain it and-all of a sudden Stephen surged out of his chair, seized your jaw in both of his hands, and kissed you squarely on the mouth. A rush of conflicting emotions tore their way through your mind. This was Stephen fucking Strange, the biggest narcissistic asshole to ever roam the planet, he was in some deep shit that even after two and half weeks you didn't understand, you were supposed to be clearing out in two days - but all that was over in less than a millisecond and your hands threaded their way into his hair, kissing him back passionately. You relished in the feeling of the soft hairs of his goatee lightly scratching against your face. You pulled back slightly, resting your forehead against his. You intended to say something, anything at all, but all you could do was whisper his name.
"Stephen . . ." his name dropped from your lips like a prayer, and you normally would have been embarrassed at how utterly wanton you were acting (honestly, you felt like a a goddamn teenager again), but Stephen was in the same position. He shuddered and closed his eyes as your fingers gripped his hair tighter, his breath was hot against your throat. His fingers trailed down from your jaw to his shoulders, and he pushed slightly. You pulled back, confused, but he just smiled a little.
"What do you want?" he asked you.
"Excuse me?" you asked, a little embarrassed.
"What. Do. You. Want? Do you need me to say it slower?" Stephen smirked. You rolled your eyes and let your hands fall to the clips holding his cape in place. Stephen got the message and removed the garment and waited for your next command.
"Armbands." Stephen complied and began unwrapping the cloth from his forearms as you quickly undid his belt.
"Robes." Again, Stephen complied, letting the Eye clank against his bare chest and leaving himself in only his trousers with nothing to cover the growing bulge in his pants except for the table between the two of you (and Stephen made quick work to pull you onto his lap). The light from the nearby candelabra flickered across Stephen's face and bare chest, and you reveled (still not one hundred percent believing that you were finally able to do this) in the feeling of the hot, hard planes of muscles beneath your fingertips. You relished in the expression on Stephen's face as you dragged your fingernails across his skin, toying with the light wisps of hair on his pecs before sweeping down to the thin trail of dark hair between the V of his hipbones. Stephen groaned, a vein on the side of his forehead standing out. On impulse, you leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to his temple, letting your hand drop down to his cock and squeeze lightly. Stephen began pressed sloppy kisses to your neck before pulling off the thin, hospital gown-like robes so that you were left only in a decidedly unsexy set of underwear. However, Stephen made quick work of the bra, moving his kisses down to the valley between your breasts before stopping all together. What the hell? You glared down at him, only to be met by his cocky grin.
"What do you want?" He repeated, his breaths ghosting against your hardening peaks. You tugged on his hair, trying to bring his head closer to your chest, but he maintained that smile and refused to do anything.
"Use your words." You rolled your eyes in response, glad that the dim light could hide your flush.
"Use your mouth . . . and fingers . . ." you breathed, trying to guide his head closer. When it became obvious that he would not be doing anything, you decided to get more specific.
"On my nipples."
"Your wish-" Stephen smirked again before capping his mouth around one of your hardened peaks, "-is my command." You whimpered softly, feeling his fingers brush against the other, tweaking the sensitive bud and rolling it so that is was painfully sensitive. He pulled back again, letting his hands play with your breasts while he tilted his head up. His nose nuzzled against your chin and you dipped down so that your lips met his in a soft, slow kiss. Your hips ground down against his erection, and your hands moved up to press the back of his head closer. All of a sudden, Stephen pinched both your nipples and bit your bottom lip - hard. You drew back in disbelief, eyebrows furrowed and a hand up to your lip to check for blood.
"What the actual fuck, Stephen?" He just smirked again (a disgusting habit of his) and seized your lips with his again, this time with a new dominating sense. You fought back, trying to assert your dominance through the rough, claiming kiss. Stephen lifted you for a moment before pinning you down onto the table with his own body, using his fingers to rip off the poor quality underwear off your body. You scratched your nails down from his shoulder to his trousers, and Stephen complied, pulling them down quickly and releasing his erection. The two of you groaned at the shared feeling of his cock sliding against your glistening lower lips. Stephen seized your wrists in his hands and pressed them down onto either side of your head. However, you didn't feel trapped at all - his hips against yours and his hands in your hair were tethering ropes, not cuffs.
"Fuck, Stephen," you groaned, "Protection?" Stephen murmured a few words in an old language unknown to you, and a small, glowing, blue light slowly floated down from his lips to your abdomen before fading into your skin, leaving a warm feeling in your torso.
"That'll stop anything." He looked into your eyes, the question hanging between the two of you. You nodded, and with that, as if you had cut the tension with a knife, Stephen surged forward and with a sharp snap of his hips, he had buried himself inside of you. He gave you little time to adjust before he set a brutal pace, but you desperately tried to keep up, hooking your ankles around his back and fucking him back as hard as you could.
"Fuck, you don't even know the way your sexy little pussy feels around my cock. The way it drips for me. Those little whimpers coming from your lips in time with your clenching around my cock-" You gasped and you could feel your walls fluttering around him. You pulled his neck so that his lips met yours then used the momentum to swing your bodies over so that you were on top. You sat up and braced your either of your hands on his shoulders and slowed down the pace, pulling your hips up slowly before dropping them back down hard, grinding your clit into his pelvic bone.
"What was that?" You intended to sound imperious, but it came out more breathy than anything. Stephen smirked.
"How does it feel to have my cock so far inside you? Come on, come for me sweetheart." You felt that knot building in your abdomen, tightening until it became almost unbearable.
"Stephen-" you gasped, dropping to your elbows on either side of his head. Stephen seized your lips in a claiming kiss and grabbed each of your ass cheeks in his hands. At an extra-hard snap of his hips, the dam inside of you broke and you fell off your elbows so that you laid on top of him, sweaty and sated. Stephen pushed into you once, twice more before you felt him pulsing inside you. Stephen pressed one more kiss to the side of your head before wrapping his arms around your body to pull you impossibly closer.


Most Recent Time: You were in the Sanctum library reading a massive tome around noon last Sunday, your first day off in like three weeks. Stephen had been gone for a week, trying set up various the other three Sanctums and tracking down Mordo (not before spending almost a month setting up impenetrable shields around New York's domain). You had completely moved in with Stephen a little less than a year ago, basically right after you had healed (you had hung around longer than you needed to to heal healed, and then had come and slowly but steadily taken over half the dresser drawers/kitchen cabinets with your own stuff within the first month after). Even though Stephen had offered to teach you the ways of using magic, you contented yourself with staying a normal civilian with a relatively normal job and learning only from the books without ever actually put anything into practical practice. It was quiet in the Sanctum - Stephen had told you about the fall of the Sanctum that had occurred several months before you had arrived. Everyone had died, and all of the practice rooms and bedrooms became dusty with disuse. You had no idea how Stephen did it for all those months without you - he had a perpetual need to show off, even in the most benign sense of the word - and even spending a few hours alone in the building made you feel extremely lonely. Maybe that's why you were always jumping his bones when he got back from his missions - you needed that physical reassurance that he was there. But, until then, you were content to curl up with book and a blanket.
You had been in that armchair for who knows how long (though the stiffness in your joints would suggest several hours) before Stephen came storming in through the heavy double doors. He was angry - at himself or at someone else, you couldn't tell yet. Stephen dumped his bag on a nearby table and plopped down into the armchair next to yours. You put down the book and raised an eyebrow.
"Rough week?" Stephen snorted and rolled his eyes.
"Aside from their normal dickbag-gishness, the Hong Kong Sanctum wasn't terrible."
"Any luck with Mordo?"
"Don't you think that would have been the first thing I talked about if there was?" Stephen snipped.
"Don't take that tone with me - if you're still pissed at me for not folding my scrubs the way you did, I'm telling you-" Stephen waved his hand to dismiss what he could see would be an argument he didn't want to have at the moment.
"No," he spoke in that drawl, "I've had actually come home about an hour ago, but guess who decided to grace Earth with his presence as soon as I stepped through the door? Loki and Thor. And guess who they summoned? A sister-goddess-of-death-person who I don't even have a record of but she destroyed a whole field in Norway before jetting off, and so I had to deal with the consequences." Stephen finished his rant with a dramatic tearing off of his cape and throwing it across the room.
"You realize that you literally described what you were supposed to do, because, you know, this is your fucking job. So no use being hostile to me about it." Sure, you were sympathetic, but Stephen was also a drama queen.
"Thanks for your support sweetheart, you're real helpful." You raised your hands in defense.
"Hey, I would help you except you're just griping about your job and you never let me grouse about mine, so I'm just going to go ahead and leave these tables turned and tell you about my shitty day at work yesterday. So there was this-"
Stephen cut you off by yanking the blanket off and kneeling between your legs that he spread apart. His hands smoothed up the sides of your sweatpants and under your shirt, his thumbs swiping up and down the sides of your ribs.
"I think we could do something to . . . simultaneously relieve our stress," Stephen said, looking up at you while playing the the elastic band of your sweatpants. Your were still upset with him for acting like a dick but . . . you were also extremely horny. And, as usual, the horny side won out. You pulled off the large t-shirt you were wearing (Stephen's, of course - you definitely didn't graduate from Harvard Medical School) and of course you weren't wearing a bra. The cold, drafty air of the library caused your nipples to harden into stiff peaks. Stephen's hands gently played with the twin buds, and you moaned and reached down to start pulling off his assorted robes that always took forever to get off. Stephen just shook his head and pushed you gently back into the chair before pulling down your sweatpants and panties in one fell swoop. Stephen ghosted his hands over your sides once more before standing up and stepping away. You let out a whimper of indignation and tried to get up, but your muscles were glued to the chair - you couldn't move anything above your waist. Stephen just laughed as you wrapped your legs around his thighs and pulled him back to you.
"This," you huffed in anger and exertion, "Is a wild abuse of power." Stephen just chuckled and hooked your legs over the arms of the chair, leaving you completely exposed to him. Stephen stepped away again, unclasping the cape from around his shoulder and palming himself through his pants.
"Stephennnnn," you whined, dragging out his name. He just laughed and sunk to his knees again in front of you.
"What do you want?" he asked, harkening back to your first time. You rolled your eyes and jut narrowly surpassed the bucking of you hips - Stephen seemed to leave you the bodily autonomy to do that, but you most certainly were not going to give him the satisfaction.
"What do you want?" you mimicked back at him petulantly.
"Oh, sweetheart." Stephen's smirk deepened as he drew tiny circles with his fingertips on your inner thighs. "I want so many things. I want to see you on your knees with your pretty lips wrapped around my cock, taking me in like the good girl you are. I want to bury my face in this gorgeous, wet pussy until you come on my face. I want you to ride me until we both see stars. I want you to beg me to do this all to you, because I know you want me to." Oh my god. But by all that is holy, you definitely weren't going to beg, so you just pressed your lips together and bit your tongue, because you knew that you were close to not being able to help yourself.
"Hmm, suit yourself." Stephen lowered himself to be eye-level with your core, taking his time and making you mildly uncomfortable. His fingers softly trailed around the sides of your thighs, slowly making their way closer to where you wanted him. His tongue followed the path of his fingertips, drawing slow, soft patterns onto your skin. The cold air of the library ghosted along the trails, causing you to shiver. In fact, your whole body was freezing - except for where his hands held your hips into the chair. His tongue made his way to your folds, slowly drawing its way over the outer lips. His goatee whiskered against your thighs, and you struggled to stop your hips from grinding down into his face. Stephen pulled back, and even though he wasn't doing what you needed, you moaned at the lack of contact.
"Beg for me," Stephen said again. You shook your head, but something in your abdomen fluttered against his hands.
"Hmm, I think you will." Stephen's tongue nestled his way between your nether lips, creating a soft suction around your clit. "Oh, fuck." Your head thudded against the back of the chair. Stephen pulled back from your clit and this time just traced your outer lips again.
"Steeeephennnn," you keened, much to your chagrin.
"Oh, you're almost there," Stephen smiled against your folds. You tried to ignore the feeling of his tongue moving slowly against you, tried to ignore the feeling of his hands moving around your hips. But then he moved one of his hands down and sank a finger in to the first knuckle.
"Stephen, please!" The plea left your lips with a horrible urgency, and Stephen had the audacity to pull away. If looks could kill, Stephen would have been impressively dead. However, he just laughed and disrobed slowly.
"Your wish," Stephen said, picking you up and switching you so that he sat on the chair and you sat on his lap, his arousal neatly tucked in between the two of you's stomachs, "Is my command." And he sheathed himself fully inside of you. You felt the motion return to you limbs, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, holding him close.
"Oh fuck," Stephen groaned, grabbing your ass and squeezing. His hands then trailed up your back and put his head into the crook of your neck. His lips kept tracing those tiny rhythms that he like to make before burying his face in your hair.
"I love you," Stephen groaned, the snap of his hips accentuating his sentence. You buried your hands in his hair, twisting the ends in your fingers.
"I love you too, you piece of shit."

Chapter Text

Where: Bruce is rational and controlled, so he prefers the traditional setting of a bedroom. In the two months since you had first visited his sparse, uncomfortable apartment, you had made it your mission to make it homely and welcoming - you painted the walls and bought rugs for International Science Day, bought and put up home decor for his birthday, swapped out his hard, cheap mattress for Christmas, and decided to permanently fill the extra space in that bed for a New Year's Eve present. Bruce always grumbles about how much time and money you spend on "unnecessary stuff", but you can tell by the way his shoulders no longer scrunch up when he falls into the apartment after a long day of work, how he whispers his thanks into your hair when your sweaty back is pressed to his chest and you can't tell whose tangled legs belong to whom.
When: You both work long days, and so most of the the time it’s a very late night occurrence. You’ll unlock the apartment door quietly and be greeted with the sight of Bruce sitting in an armchair, a single lamp on next to him and a book resting against his chest that rises in time with his light snores. Bruce always tries to stay up until you get back, but he gets tired so easily, you’ve found him in the strangest places dead asleep. You’ll just mark his place and set the book on the table beside him before gently shaking him awake to lead him back to the actual bed. However, instead of falling back asleep, he’ll roll over on top of your body and start pressing gentle kisses into your neck.
Why: It's the little acts of affection that will turn the two of you on - sure, he likes the traditional things that guys do, like lingerie (especially that little black lacy number you have), but he denied himself any sort of physical affection for so long, you can't help but be immensely pleased and want to return the favor tenfold when he slides an arm around your waist absentmindedly when he’s working at the lab. That arm shows just how much he loves and trusts you.
How: Gentle, always gentle. Everything has always been so stressful for Bruce, everything hurried, nothing ever made to last. At the beginning, you could actually feel his desperation behind every touch, every kiss, every thrust. You were a little hurt every time Bruce would walk into his kitchen the morning after, a shocked look blatantly arresting his handsome, if prematurely graying, features at the sight of you making coffee. However, you eventually managed to smooth those lines of worries in his neck, relax those muscles in his shoulders, loosen that hinge in his jaw, slow that snap of his hips. Take your time, I’m here, I’m here.

First Time: Your work in Médicins-Sans-Frontières took you all across the globe. Really, you just happened to be in the right place at the right time to cross paths with Bruce Banner. You had been working in a women's and children's clinic in Kolkata for almost sixteen months, but the night you met him was your last at that location before you left on your requested transfer. The work there . . . you knew what you were doing was important, but every time you a woman came in with a face smashed to pulp, or a child with massive eyes and prominent ribs dying of the easily preventable malaria, you felt your heart cracking further and further apart. You lasted there much longer than anyone else you knew, but you you decided that you just couldn't take anymore - at least for awhile.
You had just stuffed the last old T-shirt into your suitcase when you heard that knock on your door. You checked the peephole, and, seeing that it was Mounisha, you undid the locks and opened the door. Mounisha was an unofficial healer in her neighborhood, able to patch up small cuts and give the right amount of meds for a cold, before the clinic arrived. She worked closely with the clinic and thus with you in the time you had been there.
"Mounisha? What is wrong?" You asked in your admittedly stilted Bengali.
"A young woman, she needs help . . ." Mounisha nervously twisted her hands into her salwar kameez, and you noticed that the already red garment seemed to have a few fresh stains.
"Mounisha, I am not supposed to do off-property work . . ." You began to say, but you had already pulled your coat out of your bag. That was technically the rule, but you broke that often as the clinic was often too far away for many, and you knew Mounisha would not come to you unless it was a true emergency. You grabbed one your satchel, which contained many medical essentials, before following Mounisha out the door. She led you not too far away from your apartment block, into a tall, tan apartment building, up a dim concrete staircase, and into one of the probably illegally subdivided apartments coming from one of the hallways. You were struck by a few things when you rushed to the injured woman's side. The first thing was the metallic but still horrifyingly sweet stench of blood that was clearly emanating from the young woman laid out on the kitchen table. She was . . . well, in the seven years you had been in the MSF, you still weren't quite prepared for something so gruesome in such a homely setting. Just from where you stood in the doorway, you could see that her nose was completely broken, she probably had severe fractures in her skull, and the laceration around the back of her head was bleeding profusely, bleeding through the expertly tied bandages. Her elbow was pointing in completely the wrong direction, and there seemed to be a cut on her stomach. The second thing you were struck by was the fact that this woman seemed to be in many pictures around the house, bearing strong resemblance to Mounisha. The third was the sight of a young boy - Mounisha's son - dragging a white, bespectacled man carrying a satchel as well behind him.
"I did all I could for her, but she needs stitches, and I don't trust my . . ." Your eyes followed Mounisha's down to her shaking hands. You nodded and began unpacking your bag quickly.
"Who is this?" You jerked your head in the direction of the man, who was washing his hands in the little sink.
"Ah," Mounisha said as she took out more bandages from a nearby cabinet, "That is Bruce. He has helped around the area for a long time for this sort of thing." If the situation wasn't so pressing, you would probably would have pressed more - you had heard about a doctor who helped those for free, but in your entire tenure in Kolkata, you had never actually set your eyes on him. However, he seemed to be perfectly at ease, taking over the threading of the needles and sterilizing them with the various antiseptics in your bag when you went to wash your hands and snap on some gloves. The two of you worked almost like dancers, pirouetting out of each other's ways and passing the necessary tools as you stitched up the head and he did everything below the neck. Mounisha's daughter faded in and out of consciousness, but eventually you were satisfied with your job and giving instructions for care to Mounisha. A neighbor with a car could take the family across district to the clinic in a few hours, but he had a night shift and could not do so before then. Mounisha pressed a kiss to your forehead, still trembling and thanking you profusely. With one last reiteration of the instructions, you showed yourself out. The man - Bruce - followed you out of the apartment after pressing a little stuffed toy into the young boy's hands. You heard his breaths behind you, his steps reassuring thumps behind you. When you opened up the door to the outside, surprised to see light dawning on the east side of the city. You were about to hail a taxi when you felt a hand on your shoulder.
"S'not safe for a woman alone in the city at this time. Come with me." Bruce gestured to his dirty motorbike chained to the side of the building. If you weren't so exhausted, you might have been surprised at such a nerdy looking guy having a motorbike, but instead you just slid onto the seat behind him, whispering your address and not remarking on how he was basically a stranger. Because he wasn't. Because he sat with you in your apartment, rubbing your back as you took deep, heaving breaths with your head in between your knees. Because he pressed a bottle of water to your lips as your lungs began to hiccup. Because he accepted the napkin with your name, number, and the address of the new women's clinic you were opening in the Bronx. Because he drove you to the airport, strapping your bags to the back of his motorbike and hugged you before he left. However, you weren't under any illusion that he would ever actually call you.
That's why you were shocked that, the week after the Battle of New York a year later, you saw Bruce walking into the front door of your clinic. You dropped the broom you were sweeping up all the smashed glass with, a little startled.
"Um, Bruce! Wh-what are you doing here?" Bruce, looking far more gray than you remember him, twisted his blazer in his hands.
"I-I just wanted to check to make sure that . . . well, do you want to go to dinner?" A smile worked its way across your face.
"Yeah! I mean, yes, of course."
Bruce ended up taking you on perhaps the most stereotypical New York date to ever exist, beginning with a hot dog from a stand, then a walk through Central Park, and then buying a cheesecake to split at a bakery a few blocks south of the park. You loved every second of it, but he seemed a little reserved. That's why you were surprised when he invited you back to his place. However, that surprise couldn't even hold a candle to the absolute shock you felt when you were let out at Stark Tower. In response, to your raised eyebrow, Bruce made some excuse that he was just some lab tech, but you weren't convinced. You still followed him up, and you still made the first move to kiss him after he gave you a whiskey. Your hands made their way under his shirt, pulling at the buttons and then smoothing against his chest. You felt his heartbeat begin to rise underneath your hands, but Bruce suddenly pulled back.
"Wait, wait-"
"Oh my god," you jumped off him, mortified, "Did I totally assume something completely wrong? I am-" You went for your purse and made to take your leave, but Bruce's hand on your wrist stopped you in your place.
"No, no, I just . . . I can't have my heart rate go above a certain level, for, um, health reasons. But, please, I can do something for you . . ." He looked so trusting, so vulnerable, so sexy in the dim lighting of his apartment. You slid slowly back into his lap and your hands back over his chest, the thud of your purse barely registering as your lips brushed his lightly.
"That's fine . . ." you whispered, tentatively trailing on of your hands down to the growing erection in his pants. "But I still want you . . . but if it's too much, or you're not comfortable, you only have to say the word . . ." The feeling of Bruce melting into you for the first time felt better than getting an almost perfect score on your MCATs.

Most Recent Time: Though he got better with time, Bruce still believes that he's holding you back, that he's ruining you. He repeated time and time again that I want you to take every opportunity. If I'm ever holding you back, please, I couldn't live with myself . . . So when he notices that letter from the MSF in the trash, he leaves. For weeks. He doesn't respond to your texts and calls, his only indication that he hadn't been off and killed was a post-it attached to the crumpled MSF letter than he left on the bed, his chicken scratch telling you that he'll be back in a few days, he just needs some time. After the fifth day of the third week of his absence, you took it upon yourself to barge straight into Tony's quarters at midnight, which were only a floor above yours. You and Tony were normally fine, he never quite warmed up to you, but he had definitely been avoiding you for the past few days. Luckily, Tony was tinkering with the remnants of what might have been a nuclear bomb at his dining room table, not halfway across the world giving some speech.
"Whoaaa, you may be Banner's squeeze and, unfortunately, a permanent fixture around here, but you should still knock." You rolled your eyes at Tony's behavior.
"You know why I'm here. Where the fuck is he?" Tony, still absorbed in his work in front of him, wouldn't even look up.
"Can't tell you, sorry. Doctor's orders." Your arm sweeping the machinery off the table certainly got his attention.
"What the- for the love of fuck, you could have blown up this whole building!" You just met his glare with a stronger one.
"Where. Is. He?" you hissed through clenched teeth. Tony leaned back in his chair.
"Look, I don't know what you did this time to make him so upset, but I need to tell you that this is not okay. Stop playing with his head. If Bruce is skipping off this often because of how angry you make him, this is not a healthy relationship! I know I'm not in the position to be a poster boy, but I will not let you hurt Bruce." You gaped at the billionaire.
"Me? You think the most stressful thing in his life is me, not the fact that this whole building, the whole Avengers thing is basically a time bomb? Sure, Tony," you snorted, trying to refrain from kicking the machinery on the floor in front of you. But Tony hit a chord. That is what you were worried about. What if you were the worst thing to happen to Bruce? Before Tony could snap back, you spun on your heel and made your way to the elevator. But before you left, you had to say something.
"If you're talking to Bruce right now," you called over your shoulder, trying to stifle the emotion that was threatening to cloud your throat, "Tell him - tell him I'm sorry. That I've screwed things up for him. I-I'll give him some space." You could barely hear Tony call your name before the elevator doors slid shut behind you.
When you got back to the apartment, you went straight for the two beat-up suitcases and satchel that you hadn't touched in a long time. It took longer than usual for you to pack your things. You normally kept everything tidy and ready to be put away, but - well, you suppose that you had expected this to last. Some of the things that were technically yours, you couldn't bear to take with you. They belonged to the "permanent" dream you fooled yourself into - that blanket that Bruce always used when watching TV, that apron you had bought recently that he would steal to make Saturday breakfast, that mug with a picture of the two of you in Christmas sweaters on it. You were only about halfway done packing in the bedroom when Bruce burst through the door to the apartment. You steeled your nerves and wiped away your tears and continued packing, not even flinching when the door to the bedroom banged open.
"Oh, hello Bruce." Your monotone voice surprised even you. You couldn't turn around to face him, you couldn't look at him because if you did you knew you would stay and make things worse for him.
"What do you think you're doing?" Bruce's harsh voice echoed in the bedroom, and suddenly it felt like all the warmth that you had spent so much time adding to your home had been sucked out. Your wet sorrow was replaced with dry anger.
"Leaving. You seem to be perfectly fine with doing it all the time, thought I'd take a shot at it. Besides, it seems like you wanted me to leave anyways. "
"You and I both know you mean the word 'leave' differently. I couldn't live with myself if I took away an opportunity. You wouldn't be actually leaving me then. But this, this is different. You said you wouldn't leave me. You said you loved me." Bruce's voice stabbed you straight in the heart. You threw one last shirt in your bag before closing it with an angry shriek.
"Of course I love you! I've made that quite clear for years! You want to know one of the reasons I didn't take that promotion with the MSF? It was because it was office work, I would be taken out of the field! My clinic is doing just great, thank you, and I can see that I'm making an actual difference - That reason has nothing to do with you! But you know what, fine, one of the main reasons I rejected the offer, the reason I decided to stay here was because I saw a future with us, one that did not include extended periods of absence from each other. But you seem to be plenty happy to leave me for weeks, wondering if you're sick, dead, or gone and killed yourself!" You shrieked, still trying to pull yourself back from the border of hysterical.
"I know you never took these trips away when I wasn't around! I know that I'm literal poison to your life, that you get so volatile around me! You just don't care about how it feels when you leave." You tried to get by him, but Bruce just pulled the suitcase out of your hand and grabbed your shoulders with his hands. He laughed, but it was cold, without the normal mirth you knew was normally there.
"I leave because I don't want you to get hurt! I couldn't live with myself if the Other Guy came out and did something to you, and I'd be inside, trapped and helpless as I would be forced to watch myself tear you limb from limb. I never want you to see me angry because you don't know what I could do! I leave, knowing you'll hate me for it, and I care, I care so much, but I care more that you're alive."
"Bruce, you can't just run away from every problem we have! You can't just leave whenever you get angry! I trust you, I know that you are in control more than you think! This would never work if you refused to show an important side of yourself - anger, Bruce, not the Other Guy (though if this had continued, I consider him a part of you as well). But you don't care." You made to leave again, but Bruce pushed you against the wall (still gentle, despite the fact that you could tell he was angry) and kissed you. You struggled to keep up with the pace he set, your hands automatically coming up to the back of his head and neck. His mouth traveled down to your jaw, occasionally whispering "Please don't leave. Please. Please. Please." Bruce eventually pulled back slightly, both of your chests heaving for air. His eyes widened as he appeared to take in the situation fully for the first time, and he stumbled back.
"Oh my god, I am so sorry. I shouldn't have come, I'm too volatile. I could have-" You quickly were by his side and had his hands in yours.
"But you didn't. You didn't Bruce, and that's what matters. I trust you, I know you never would. And from what I've heard from the team, you have incredible control over the Other Guy. I know we would never have to test it, but even if we did, I know you could." Before he could voice some shitty excuse for why he should be deprived of human touch, you closed the distance between your mouths and swung a leg around his waist so that you straddled his lap. his hands brushed against your sides as if on instinct, and you put your over them, encouraging him to remove your shirt and bra. You slowly undid the button on his dress shirt, letting you fingers explore his chest hair. His heartbeat was, as always, a steady thrum against your fingers. You smiled into the kiss and gently pushed him back onto the bed to show him just how much you trust him again.

Chapter Text

Where: Literally wherever you can get her. Valkyrie’s a tough one to pin down, and so when you’re finally able to, you make the most of the situation, whether it’s her bedroom or the Grandmaster’s empty throne room.
When: Like I said, she’s a hard one to track, so whenever you catch her. However, she can normally be found by the bar during happy hour, and so you’re always ready to swoop in. Besides, she always seems to know where she can find you.
Why: Valkyrie has this gravitas - you cant really explain it. Sure, she’s loud, she’s crass, and can - and does - drink circles around anyone she meets, but that’s her draw. She has this confidence that draws attention to herself, in a good way, and it’s never boring when she’s around. That’s why you keep coming back, keep seeking her out, no matter how hard you try to avoid it. (You don’t try to, not anymore.) Of course, it helps things along when she comes and brazenly sticks her hand down your pants.
How: Rushed, usually. Privacy and time is practically non existent among Sakaraans, rarer for Scrappers, and more so for Favourites. And that’s what you and Valkyrie are - the Grandmaster’s favourite pair Scrappers, 142 and 853. There was an inherent competition between the two of you for years, and, of course, you always work alone, but some things - like relieving that tension between your legs - you’ll concede is better left to her.
You were a little shocked to learn that Valkyrie is a natural bottom, but you’re not complaining. There’s nothing like that heady rush of power you feel when Valkyrie’s splayed out beneath you, her mouth open in that way and her whole body shaking from at last being allowed to orgasm.

First Time: Everyone knew who Scrapper 142 was, even when you first got to the planet however many years ago (time was an irrelevant construct without a place on Salazar. The days were as long as the Grandmaster’s wanted them to be, and the Grandmaster was about as predictable as the weather - which, but the way, he controls too). She lived as an infamous character, but it wasn’t until long after you struggled from the wreckage of your ship and worked your way into the Grandmaster’s good graces through scrappage that you finally met her. As a general rule, you avoided the alcohol on Sakaar- it’s overpriced garbage. Also, the bars were teeming with those who practiced how to steal wallets their entire lives. However, the Grandmaster ensured to mention 142 whenever you were around, and often compared the spoils you brought in. The turd. Anyways, when you first met Valkyrie, she wasn’t 142. She was that beautiful woman that you noticed walking toward the bar and, not creepily at all, followed her into the rowdy establishment. She was absolutely captivating, the way she could chug down Asgardian ale without breaking a sweat, her infectious, private laugh, her quick knife skills whenever someone’s hands would get a little too close. You sat at the other end of the bar, surreptitiously watching her from the corner of your eye as you nursed one drink for what was probably hours. She was laughing loudly, entertaining everyone with her scrapping stories and party tricks. Just as you decided that it was enough, you need to get back to your room, her eyes snapped to yours for the first time in the night. She slowly made her way over to you and then leaned against the bar. She was so close - the leather of her top brushed lightly against your elbow, and your startled breath played with the little wisps on her forehead.
"Are you planning on just staring all night, 853? Take a holo, it will last longer." One of her brows cocked. Immediately you you went on the defense. You didn't like that - you're used to having the upper hand.
"Hard not to stare when you're making a scene like that, 142." You stared back, a challenging brow of your own raised as you downed the last dregs of your drink. For what felt like an eternity, you stared each other down. She was even more beautiful up close. Her dark lashes framed her large eyes, a little shiny with alcohol. Her cheeks were flushed, accentuated by the bright white paint carved down the middle of them. You struggled to maintain your glare without blatantly checking her out. It probably didn't work, because she eventually smiled slightly and broke the silence.
"Valkyrie."
"Hm?" You hummed, trying to remain nonchalant as one of her hands came to rest on the inside of your thigh.
"My name is Valkyrie. Not 142." She looked at you expectantly. "This is normally the part where you tell me your real name."
"I'm afraid I'm just 853," you replied nonchalantly, letting your elbow extend so that your hand lightly touched the edge of her top, biting your bottom lip as you smiled. Just then, the two of you were broken out of your reverie by the sound of smashing bottles and a fight erupting on the other side of the bar. Valkyrie just rolled her eyes and pulled you to standing so that your body was flush against hers.
"It's kinda loud in here, let's go back to mine where I can uncover more about your . . . mysterious life." Before you could even respond, she was pulling you by the hand out of the establishment
By the time you made it to her ship, you had had enough with the teasing. You had her pressed up against the wall, ass in hands, as soon as the door hissed shut. Surprisingly, she didn't seem to mind you taking control. She let go and let you determine the rhythm - and that rhythm, of course, was demanding, relentless. When your lips began blazing down her neck, she moaned and wrapped her legs around your waist. Her top easily came off after unbuckling the waist. Without hesitation, you took one of her dark brown nipples in your mouth, groping her ass with one hand and using the other to tease her her other bud. Her heavy breaths and slight whines urged you on, and you could feel almost her core, hot and damp, through her leather leggings. Reluctantly, you unwrapped her legs from around you and stepped back, sitting down on the armchair a few paces behind.
"Wh- what the hell?"
"Take it off. All of it." You were taking a risk. You never could be 100% certain, though you were fairly sure you read her correctly. "Don't make me beg, Valkyrie. That's supposed to be all you."
You guessed right. Valkyrie's eyes darkened even further, and she quickly began kicking off her shoes.
"Ah-ah-ah," you tutted, reveling in the way the dim lighting cast shadows on her as she stood up, "Slowly. We want to enjoy this, no?" The alcohol had definitely made you looser, forgetting your inhibitions, and that was definitely the case for her as well. Slowly, painfully slowly, Valkyrie trailed her hands up her sides, sweeping over her defined abs and up to her breasts, cupping them and teasing her nipples furthers. She turned around so her back was to you and bent down to remove her other shoe. While bent over, she pulled her pants just over - by god, her ass was just as amazing as you imagined. You took your time to admire each inch of her legs as she revealed them, the flesh smooth and muscled. When she finally kicked each pant over her heels, she let her hands go up to her hair. She quickly undid the bun before swooping back up and turning around in one move. Oh my fucking god. She's definitely done this before. Throughout her little show, you allowed your legs to go wide, hooked around the arms of the chair. You began to rub little circles over the fabric of your pants, and you fought to keep in your moans. However, you failed, though only very quietly, when Valkyrie began crawling up to the chair on all fours, her bottom swaying slightly. Her fingers dances playfully along the inseams of your pants and you struggled to keep your head.
"Take them off - not slowly, though." Obeying, Valkyrie pulled them down quickly before wrapping an arm around each leg and pulling you so that your legs hung over her shoulders and she was face to face with your embarrassingly wet pussy.
"Do you need instruction?" you asked, breathing heavily, though you were quite sure she was very well versed in this department.
"Not at all. May I begin?" She asked, smirking slightly. You couldn't help but think about what her lips would look like with your cum smeared all over them. Luckily, you wouldn't have to wait long before you would find out.
"Yes, no hands though." Valkyrie maintained eye contact as she lower her mouth to your core and -oh god.

Most Recent Time: "Where the hell are we going?" Valkyrie laughed as you pulled her through the corridors of the Grandmaster's palace. Soon, you reached the nondescript - as much as the decoration of the Grandmaster's palace can be called nondescript - door and pulled the two of you inside before locking it behind you. It was an ordinary looking guest room, with a bed, a large living area, and a massive open air bathroom. However, there were a couple out of place things, such as those hooks on the wall by the beds. And table with a height the was too high for a coffee table and too low to be a dining table pushed up to the large wall of windows that were fifty stories about the streets. And the large dildo collection in the china cabinet. Valkyrie stopped in her tracks, and turned to you, smiling.
"You did.t"
"I did."
"I cannot believe it. One of the Grandmaster's playrooms?" She pulled you close, her arms around your neck and your bodies melded. Habitually, your hands fell to her as and began lightly squeezing the firm globes.
"Yup. Stole a key. Out of favor for decades because it's too small for an orgy, and he's been liking his pleasure ship for a while now. Still gave everything a thorough cleaning, and swapped out the little collection for my own." You gestured to the china cabinet with your head.
"You are," Valkyrie took a deep breath, "Incredible." She leaned in and kissed you, and your hands abandoned their favorite spot to come to the back of her head. You let yourself savor the moment before placing your hands on her shoulders and pushing her away gently.
"Strip. Quickly." She acquiesced to your order, ridding herself of all her garments. She wore no undergarments except for her lacy panites - as usual, you noted with pleasure.
"Leave those, and go over to that table. Bend over onto your hands, facing the windows." Again, Valkyrie did as she was instructed and put her hands on the table, making sure to spread her legs as she bent over. You clipped the intended toy into place on the table - a wand vibrator - so that it rested directly against her clit.
"You ready to start?" You whispered in her ear. She nodded, shivering slightly in an excitement you couldn't help but match.
"Words?"
"Yellow for slow down, red for stop."
"That's a good girl." You turned the wand on high. Immediately, Valkyrie began to keen.
"Make sure you stay over those hands. And don't look back." Again, she submitted and faced the windows. They were polished to well you could see the reflection of her - and she you - easily. You watched her for several minutes, breathing heavily, struggling but still keeping her center over the vibrator as you ordered. Eventually, you grabbed your favorite little toy and strapped it into place over your hips. It wasn't overly large, but it was long and thick enough to require a little bit of lube over the tip. Valkyrie visibly shuddered at the sound of the cap clicking open and shut, much to your amusement. You clicked the on button to the vibrator that - supposedly - matched intensity to whatever a real cock would feel. Stroking the shaft a few time to ensure it is fully covered, you came up behind Valkyrie, her hips making scooping motions slightly and both her holes flexing. You bent down and traced your tongue around her rim a few times, reveling in her moans, but you pulled back. Not for now, at least. Instead, you pressed into her delicious pussy from behind slowly, allowing her to feel every ridge of the dildo enter her. She began to fall over onto her elbows, but a smart rap to her right ass cheek was all the reminder she needed. Buried to the hilt, you sighed at the increased vibrations on your own clit. With care, you held her hips against her own vibrator with on arm and snaked the other around to knead one of her breasts, pinching the nipple roughly. Valkyrie began her chant - your favorite and only hymn - "Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. You couldn't help yourself, you leaned over her, your breasts pressed tightly against her back, your mouth close to her ear as you continued thrusting.
"I bet you like that. Fucking in front of these windows, so clean that someone only needs to look up to see you, on all fours, enjoying it as I take you from behind. I bet they can see the way your taking me so well, and you wouldn't mind them seeing the way you sink over this fake cock like the good girl you are." Valkyrie moaned again, nodding. Not enough.
"I want to hear you say it, Val. Fucking say it, we both know it's true." She mumbled something, incoherent. With tremendous effort, you pulled all the way out, letting the tip just drag ever so slightly over her folds.
'Louder, Val. Tell me what you like." Incoherence again. You reached around and pinched her overstimulated clit lightly, a reminder more than anything.
"I like the thought of people seeing me come around your fake cock like the good girl I am." You grinned, her pleasure visible in the reflection.
"There we go." You sunk back in and you both came, orgasms crashing deliciously over the two of you. Slowly, you removed all the toys and gather Valkyrie in your arms, carrying her to the bed. She was awake, recuperating, trying to catch her breath. Her little smile at you. You were never a couple - neither of you had the time or the emotional strength to deal with that. Relationships had no place on Sakaar, it's kill, fuck, or be killed. However, you knew in that moment you would die for her if she asked. You would take your own dagger and plunge it into your own heart if that would make her smile at you again. That's you told her your name, and that's why you joined Korg's revolution - because maybe, just maybe, the two of you would survive this and you would get to see that smile.

Chapter Text

Where: The bed. Don't get me wrong, Clint is adventurous as all get out, but by the nature of secrecy surrounding your relationship, it mostly happens in your studio apartment, and thus, your bed. Besides, there's something about the normalcy of making love in a bed that makes you feel that much more safe in his arms.
When: It's usually deep into the night on a Friday or Saturday when he slides into your bed next to you, the sounds of the city wafting in through the open window he (somehow) scaled his way up into and through. The summer air is still and hot, the pans from the dinner for two (eaten by one) lay waiting in the sink for you to do tomorrow, and the man in the neighboring walk-up always seems to be playing something with a long, soulful horn. Clint pulls down the sheet in time with that taxi passing by. He kisses across your sweaty collarbone while pulling your thin camisole strap away from your shoulder (the air conditioning unit never seems to work, no matter how many hours he spends trying to fix it) to the deep bass beat thrumming from the club down the street. He apologizes for being late and he'll stay the whole day tomorrow, but he never promises that he'll do better next time.
Why: Attraction is there, for sure. He's funny as hell, and he makes you feel like you can walk on the clouds when you're with him.You have never been able to get quite the right read on him - you're more than convenience to him, more than someone to blow off steam with. But he only comes at night, leaving late the next day. You know who he is, what his job is, but he still always leaves you with a deep, passionate kiss instead of security. However, you tend to forget to ask him why he's in your home when his arm slides around your waist or when his tongue in between your legs.
How: Slow, always, and passionate; he always wants to take his time with you. He likes tease you, bring you to the edge slowly before pulling you back again. He'll toy with you in the dark, the outline of your sweaty bodies illuminated by the warm, flickering streetlights outside your window.

First Time: It was hot the day you met him, one of the first of those days of summer in New York where it seems like the heat radiates up from the sidewalk and almost melts the bottom of your shoes. Luckily, you had the summer off as a teacher; you could spent most of your time indoors working on lesson plans for the coming year - in the air conditioning. Or so you would hope; instead, the unit was broken and your asshole landlord wasn't responding to your calls so your windows were open to catch what little breeze there was and your rickety fan was on high the first week after school let out. You had a tea kettle on. It was . . . peaceful. That was, until sirens began blaring down your street and a man hurtled through one of the open windows. It took a second to orient yourself but the intruder only had half a second to roll to standing before he found your sharpest kitchen knife at his throat. Looking back on it, that was pretty stupid - for all you knew, he could have had a gun and laughed before he shot you. However, he just froze, staring up at you, before lifting his hands slowly in surrender. Despite the blade at his throat, the fear drained out of his eyes as soon as the sirens faded. And then he had the audacity to smirk.
"Why aren't you afraid?" You blurted out, rather annoyed that he wasn't taking you seriously as a threat.
"Oh, I'm sorry." The intruder made a show of faux-fear. "Better?"
"Seriously! I could . . . maim you or something!"
"Ah, I'm sorry babe, but I think that if you intended to hurt me, you would have done so already. Or called the police for that matter. So I think that the real question is why haven't you?" He seemed genuinely curious. So were you, to be honest. He was . . . familiar. Like you had seen him on TV, an actor maybe?
"Why do I recognize, and what are you doing in my house?" The tea kettle began whistling. The intruder swallowed nervously.
"Do you promise you won't call the police?"
"No, not if you're a serial killer or something." Honestly, that would have been a very dumb thing to say if he actually was a serial killer. He just snorted and, in a flash, took the knife from you and put it flat on the table.
"Clint Barton. Better known as Hawkeye and for my swashbuckling, roguishly good looks." Oh, shit. You don't know what you expected, but it certainly wasn't a disgraced Avenger who was a fugitive of the law. You didn't really follow the Avengers, but it was difficult to miss the fact that half of them are now technically criminals. You knew there were sightings of them here or there, but for the most part, you were too busy. You felt a little bad for them; they didn't seem like bad people are anything, or like they were as dangerous as that General seemed to think they were. But you still weren't thrilled that one of them was in your apartment. You stumbled over to the kettle to turn off the oven before a neighbor called the police. In the meantime, Clint took it upon himself to explore your studio apartment.
"Look man, what do you want from me?" You ask, finally breaking out of your stupor. Clint straightened up.
"Nothing. Thanks for letting me crash here." He picked up his large backpack off the ground.
"Literally," you muttered, but you were already taking in his appearance as he examined your window, looking for any threats before he made his exit the way he came. He looked as though he were truly living out of that backpack. His five o'clock shadow made it's way well past midnight, and he looked a little . . . too gaunt. His clothes looked a little worse for wear and hung over his frame a little awkwardly, like they were fished out of a Goodwill quickly. You cast a look at the banana bread you made that morning, and cursed yourself in advance.
"Do you want something to eat? I have banana bread. And tea." His shoulders stiffened.
"Look, I've already been enough of an asshole to you today . . ." But he as already starting to turn around. You rolled your eyes, though more for your own benefit than his.
"I'm not going to beg. Sit down." And he did.
Clint began dropping by for dinner at least three or four times a week, crashing on your couch those nights. You suspected that these dinners were the only good meals he got, and these nights the only time he had a blanket and semi comfortable pillow. You were no chef, but you began to actually find recipes and put effort into the meals you made. By the way Clint's cheeks began filling out, and his muscle began to look more defined and less stringy beneath his clothes, you were proud of your efforts. You didn't really know why you did it - you felt bad for him, sure, and hilarious to boot. It was rare to find someone who could out-quip you, but you met your match in Clint. And of course, it helped that he was hot.
By the third week into the summer and Clint's eleventh visit, your landlord still was dodging your calls about the AC unit. You had mostly accepted your fate and decided to deal with the heat by keeping windows open and your fan on high 24/7. But Clint had other plans.
"Nah," he said, waving off your protestations, "I was quite the mechanic in my day. The least I could do is help out a beautiful lady like yourself." And there it was. That little flutter in your heart. You knew it was probably just his personality, he wasn't trying to flirt . . . but still. When he wore that tank top that exposed his broad shoulders are arms and those low slung sweatpants (borrowed from you, an old boyfriend left them and you never got around to throwing them out), you couldn't help but flirt back a little.
"Kind sir, how can I ever repay you?"
You batted your lashes for good measure, as if that would distract from the ratty Dodgers tee and old gym shorts you wore. Clint had a habit of dropping in on you at your least presentable, but what the hell, it's your home. "Oh, I'm sure you'll think of something," he winked before turning back around.
"Maybe not charge you rent for how much you've been staying here," you mumbled, grinning though and appreciating the view as he cursed over the window unit.
"What was that sweetheart?" He's like this with everyone, cool down.
"Hm?" You raised a brow, a little distracted by his half-grin when he turned around, by that trickle of sweat making its way down his temple that you just wanted to li-Jesus Christ, cool down. As you were busy ogling at him (and almost dying of embarrassment simultaneously), Clint had taken matters into his own hands and closed the distance between the two of you so that he stood precious inches from you. Emboldened by God knows what but definitely spurred on by the way the setting sun glinted off his cheekbones - those fucking cheekbones - you immediately closed the rest of the distance, sealing your mouth the his. Your fingers made their way to the short hairs on the back of his neck as his (much bolder) hands pinned your body to his by grabbing your ass. Not that you minded in the slightest; you would definitely be teasing him about his eagerness later though. You barely suppressed a moan, and Clint took that as an invitation to swipe his tongue along your bottom lip. Finally he pulled back for a breath, but not before shoving one of his thighs between yours and grinding up.
"Fuck." The word mindlessly slipped from your mouth as you clung tighter to him. Clint's mouth began marking a path down your jawline and neck. Your brain melted to your feet after he rucked up his thigh particularly roughly and you moaned his name.
"Eager, aren't we babe?" You rolled your eyes at Clint and pushed him back from you slightly. His eyebrows creased in confusion, an apology on his lips before you yanked his tank top over his chest and pushed him a few feet back to the bed (you did live in a NYC studio after all). Shucking your own shirt and shorts, in only your panties you climbed on top of his lap and positioned your hips over the distinctive bulge in his sweatpants.
"Eager, aren't we babe?" You mimicked, grinding down on him slightly. Clint only grinned in that stupid, self-important way of his and all you could do was lean down and kiss him to shut him up. Immediately his hands made their way up your sides, thumbs brushing over your rib cage and over the peaks of your nipples. Not one to be upstaged, you snaked a hand down to lightly play with the sweatpants strings over his crotch, making sure to brush up against him continuously. After a particularly rough squeeze of your breasts, you reached over to the night table to grab a condom and the bottle of lube, just in case. Clint took both from you and shoved his sweatpants down just enough, quickly donned the rubber, and slicked a coat of lube by pumping over himself once, twice. in the meantime, you rid yourself of your panties before climbing back over him.
"Fucking Christ, babe," Clint groaned, his hands sweeping up your sides before anchoring you in place by your hips. You took in the sight below you, Clint's face and torso illuminated by the setting sun. Slowly, you lifted your hips and sank down over him, the breath knocked completely out of your lungs by a feeling of complete and utter contentedness. You were warm and safe and felt as though you could fly. Your only tether was the feeling of his hips snapping slowly and rhythmically into yours, and you were completely fine with that.


Most Recent Time: It was well into winter that day. You tossed your keys onto the little table by the door. You didn't bother to lock the door behind you. Things like theft seemed so trivial after the end of last summer. You didn't even know why you showed up to work anymore. Half of your students weren't there, and each day of looking at those empty seats, of one of your students having to excuse themselves with a sob, you felt as though your soul ripped a little further in two.
The streets seemed far more empty, and everyone was numb. After those initial few weeks of rioting, everyone fell back into their old routines, except this time, with a little less human in them. No one met each other's eyes, and if you were a little lonely before, this type of isolation settled deep in your bones, leaving you hollow and frail against the bitter winds created by the canyons of New York City skyscrapers.
And then, of course, you came home. He was everywhere. His jacket left slung over the small coatrack. His favorite hot sauce was left collecting dust on the kitchen counter. That little burner phone he thought you didn't know about stayed taped below your bed. You avoided calling anyone . . . but that didn't mean you didn't take a look through it. Roger. Nat. Max. Scotty. Obvious enough pseudonyms. You refused to let yourself call any of them. Instead, you grieved for a man who walked out the door one day seven months ago and, without warning, never returned again. You grieved a man no one ever knew you loved.
You tossed your bag onto the couched made your way over to your fridge to eat something, otherwise you would totally forget. But everything seemed so . . . energy-consuming. You settled for a basic sandwich, and stared at the bag of bread and week-old deli meat, knife held limply in your hand.
And then a hand closed around your wrist, and that knife was against his throat.
"This again sweetheart?"
Motherfucker.
Clint looked even rattier than when you first saw him. His scruff was now a full grown beard, and his eyes . . . his eyes were wild, full of pain, but there was this hopeful, desperate glint in them.
"Clint . . ." you whispered, not quite able to believe it. You leaned towards him, touching his face with your hand lightly. He leaned even closer.
You felt the sting of your hand before you registered what you were doing.
"Fuck! What the hell was that?" Clint stumbled back, clutching his cheek. You pressed back against the sink, struggling to keep yourself upright with all the air gone from your lungs.
"Seventh. Months. Seven months, Clint Barton!" You gasped, massaging your chest, "You let me believe that you were dead, for seven. fucking. months. Fuck you, you absolute piece of shit." He stepped closer to you again, and though you tried to not meet his eyes, you found yourself lost in their blue.
"Listen, sweetheart, please let me explain-"
Just when you felt as though the desperation might actually take over, the sounds of his voice stirred your rage again. "Explain what? Why you couldn't give me a single hint that you were alive? Why you let me cry over you, mourn you? Please, dazzle me with a waxing speech about how you were trying to be noble, about how you were just trying to save me. Go on, Barton. I've got all day." Clint glared back at you, one hand rubbing the back of his neck.
"Look-" he let out an exhale, "Fuck. I never should have come back. You obviously don't understand."
It felt like he poured a bag of ice down the back of your shirt. You looked down.
"You're right about one thing, Clint. You never should have come back." Suddenly he was up against your body, and you were pressed against the counter and all your senses were overwhelmed by pure Clint. His hands made their way up to your face, cupping your cheeks lightly. You reached up to his wrists, intending to push his hands away but you ended up just pulling him closer.
"Don't say that. I'm sorry," He rested his forehead against yours, "I am so, so sorry." And then his lips brushed yours and any reason you were angry at him disappeared into a wisp of smoke.
"I missed you so much, Clint," You gasped in between his kisses, "So much."
"I missed you too," He whispered, your jaw lightly grasped in his fingers, "You don't even know."
He took his time, first starting with kissing your ankle before letting his lips make their way up your calf and into the junction in your knee. His teeth trailed up your thigh, getting closer and closer to your center before pulling back and starting the process again on your left leg. Finally, finally he reached your center, and his tongue flicking lightly over your clit before creating a gentle suction. You reached down and threaded your fingers through his hair, not pushing but reassurance that he's there. And then he pressed two fingers into you and you shattered.
Clint slowly made his way up your body, panting lightly. His eyes glinted in the fading afternoon light, and you could see the lust, the sadness, and the desperation all clashing within them. He stretched his body out over you, resting his head in the junction between your shoulder and neck. You ran your fingers through his hair as you regained your breath, massaging his scalp lightly and thanking whatever God was out there that he was here and that he came back.
"Clint . . ." you whispered, smoothing a hand from the nape of his neck down his shoulder blades.
"Hmmm?" He murmured sleepily, looking up at your face.
"I'm sorry." You pressed lightly on the creases in the forehead, as if that could smooth away the hurt and worry of the past seven months.
"I'm sorry too sweetheart." You leaned up to capture his lips with yours, and to capture this moment, legs entangled with sheets and pressed together so tightly that not even the Dusting could tear you apart.
"Please, Clint . . ." Instead of smirking like the old Clint might have, this new Clint obliged you and shifted himself between your legs and filling you with one deep thrust. And for the first time in seven months, you felt . . . completion.

Chapter Text

Where: Oh, everywhere. Carol is always one to try a new place in a new way, even if there's a risk of getting caught. But one of your favorites is the top of the diner's bar, your legs splayed out on either side and barely avoiding spilling the maple syrup containers. She'll come in just as you're closing, and you know that as soon as she walks over to the old jukebox that only she can work, you have all of thirty seconds to flip the closed sign and lock the door before your panties are around your ankles.
When: There's nothing like the afternoon sun throwing gold over her face. It illuminates her golden hair, her dark eyelashes, the subtle curve of her cheekbones and the sharp edge of her jaw. You can see every shadow, every crevice, every scar. When the sun starts setting, you can't help but think about the closest location you can get her alone with each of her knees on either side of your head.
Why:Is that even a real question? She's literally the most gorgeous woman you've ever known, and her beauty is more than skin deep. It's her confidence, her aura of "no fucks given since 1961" that's consuming, inspiring, and hot. She makes you feel better, like a stronger version of yourself whenever you are with her.
How: Carol is a Top, with a capital "T," and the feeling of her body moulding over yours, of her hands running over your curves . . . well there is absolutely nothing like it. Carol exists within a plane herself, dancing into your life just as quickly as she leaves it, and so you cherish each time, however she is willing and able.

First Time: It was soon after the Snap. You had lost . . . everyone. Those who weren't dusted, gone without a trace, you lost to looting and rioting, to exposed gas pipes and to shorted out downed electrical wires. It was completely, utterly unfair. Why you? Why your parents, your family, your friends? And all you could do was go to work, wearing that stupid light yellow dress and kitschy apron and headband. You were the only one of the wait staff to show up, and there was only one cook, Mary Ellen, and she was only able to pick up a tiny fraction of the groceries she normally would get for the diner everyday. The electricity came in and out, but it was better than at your apartment so it was best to come here to charge your phone and use the bathroom where plumbing and electricity was at least semi-reliable. It didn't matter much anyways, there were barely any customers. People paid what they had when they could, and even though you spent most of your time looking at those missing signs on the bulletin board by the door, you got enough tips to buy a gun. Just in case, of course, but there were still looters running rampant around the city. It was past midnight, Mary Ellen long gone, and it was just you in the semi-darkened diner, cleaning tables and avoiding going home. You had locked the doors an hour ago, but you kept getting distracted by the TV and the sounds of sirens creeping through the boards covering the windows (a safety precaution, but a helpful one all the same).
"Can I have a burger, please?" The gun you kept in your apron pocket was up and pointed at the intruder before you even registered a face. It was a woman, young and quite pretty. Her messy hair came past her shoulders, and she wore a rather ridiculous looking suit. But, then again, it seems like every other person these days is either crazy or a superhero. You weren't going to take your chances that she was the latter.
"Whoa, girl," She put her hands up and tried for a smile. Fuck, she was so pretty. "Just a burger, nothing else. Well, maybe a place to sit too."
"Yeah, well, we're closed. So get the fuck out of here." She hardened a bit and, before you could even blink, she took the gun out your hands.
"If you're going to carry one of those around with you, you should know how to hold it. Otherwise you're more likely going to hurt yourself. Look, I just want to sit for a second, and if you have any food, that would be nice too. I can pay, just, please." You sighed. Damn your big and lonely heart.
"Fine. We still have enough stuff for a burger, but you're gonna have to deal with my cooking, Mary Ellen's already gone."
She laughed, and it was a full-bellied thing, head tossed back, eyes closed, and you had to tell your stomach to calm the fuck down right now. "That's totally fine. Thank you so much."
And she became a regular at the diner. Over the next couple weeks, she would drop in every evening after close, and your would make her a burger. She began leaving stuff that was more helpful than money these days, like batteries and candles. And she would talk to you. Like, actually talk. You forgot how it was to talk to someone after so long of only doing your waitress voice. You hadn't talked about your emotions with anyone, you just . . . let it all fester. And it didn't even have to be about the Snap. The two of you talked about everything, from favorite bands to whether or not paisley is indeed an abhorrent pattern.
Carol. She had this confidence - a deep rooted sadness as well, you could tell, but then again, who didn't these days? Her confidence and innate kindness guided you out of your wallowing. She didn't even get it, you didn't think. She didn't seem to realize how she had your beating heart in her lap.
Carol. Jack-of-all-trades, superstar, superhero. Not particularly in that order, she had said before shoving a handful of fries into her mouth. You began to live for these evenings, to see the dimmed lighting glitter in her hair, to feel her rough hands brush slightly against yours when she would take the plate, of that secret smile. After the sixteenth day, after her hands brushed yours for the thirty second time as you took her plate away, she held on. You had just spoken of your childhood, of that memory you had of being on the swing at the school playground, and how you never felt so free. Carol laughed at the right parts and seemed to understand when you were being serious, though she never shared stories of her own. You had asked, but she gave vague answers of only a few words. But the mystery of Carol didn't matter when her calloused fingers were wrapped around your wrists.
"Carol . . . " You slowly put the plate back onto the counter and leaned closer to her over the counter. She mirrored you, whispering your name in a ragged breath. Her hand left your wrist and both went up to hold your face. She was warm, so warm.
"Please tell me I didn't misread the situation," she whispered, her breath ghosting over your mouth. You didn't answer, only leaned forward to capture her lips with yours.
First went your apron, followed by that stupid headband. You pulled her into the back office, the one belonging to a manager who hasn't shown up in weeks. Your dress was on the floor as soon as the door shut. The cool air crept over your bared skin, but Carol's hands (oh so warm, always so warm) traced up your sides, leaving fire in their path. She set the pace - a good thing too, since your brains were too busy scrambling themselves to actually form a coherent thought. You ran your hands over her back, her sides, her front but you weren't able to find the zipper to that goddamn jumpsuit. Carol pulled back slightly, her slight pants caressing your lips and her eyes on yours. She took your hands in hers and just shook her head.
"Maybe later for me, but for now . . . please . . . please let me do this. For you." You were, to say the least a tad bit surprised. Partly because she didn't want anything for herself, but partly because she seemed so . . . vulnerable. Not weak, there is a difference. But it was unnerving all the same. You nodded, and within second she had guided you to the floor and had her hand down the front of your panties. She worked with almost clinical efficiency - almost, but not quite. She watched you intently, and when she moved her fingers in that tight circle around your clit, or when she sunk that finger in to the knuckle, she recognized the shift in your gasps, and she capitalized on that spot to work it over and over again. With her other hand she unhooked your bra (and this is how you know she's a superhero, because she could unhook your bra with one, non dominant hand) and slid the strap over your shoulders. Your nipples had hardened slightly in the cold, and she teased them further, languidly taking them one at a time into her mouth and slowly teasing them into hardened buds with her tongue and teeth. You had no idea how long it was. It might have been ten minutes, it might have been ten hours, but she slowly, carefully brought you to a long, leisurely completion, one that left your knees week and your brain empty of all but her.


Most Recent Time: "So you like it?" Carol smiled at you over her milkshake, running a hand over the short hairs at the nape of her neck. You laughed at her before popping one of her fries in your mouth.
"And here I was thinking for five years that you didn't care what anyone thought of you."
"Hmm, I don't care about most people," Carol said thoughtfully, chewing through a massive bite of burger, "But I have always cared about what you think." You blushed and touched your warming cheeks with your cool hands. The two of you were in the diner in which you met - more for nostalgia's sake than anything, because you had stopped working there three years ago to finish your degree. This was the first time you had seen Carol in eight months, and she had come back with a box of chocolates, a body full of bruises from the battle, and a new haircut. It had been another three months since the battle, where you had seen shots of her on TV, and those three months had been so busy; many of your friends and family had come back after five years, and with that came plenty of chaos. Many were still dead as a result of the violence following the Snap, and that couldn't be helped. But you weren't alone anymore. Carol came by when she can, probably more than she should, but it was still sometimes almost a year between visits. And it's not like there weren't other opportunities, other women, but it wasn't fair to them. Not everyone can be Carol. Really, that privilege rests with one person, and you simply have never been in a hurry to try to squish someone else into that empty puzzle space.
"You wanna get out of here?" You asked, and her face broke into a matching, broad grin.
"I thought you'd never ask."
Sixty three minutes and a disastrously long taxi ride later, the two of you were in your apartment. You couldn't stop running your hands through her hair - or lack of it, in probably better phrasing - so much so that she could not stop laughing as you kissed her. Pretending to be miffed, you pushed her back on the bed, throwing a leg over her hips so that you straddled her. Carol beneath you was a rare occurrence, but you liked to take advantage of it whenever you could. Your shirt and jeans were already off, as was her jumpsuit. You took your time edging off her sports bra and underwear, reveling in and cherishing every inch of skin the act revealed. Your tongue and hands slowly mapped her body by way of pulse points throughout her body. that spot right under her jaw, followed by the collarbone and palms, to the underside of her breasts and the junction of her hipbones. After one particularly rough thrust down while also biting softly at her neck, Carol's hands made their way to your ass and squeezed.
"Wait, wait, let me . . ." you said as you lowered your body down so that you were eye level with her core, "Let me do this for you." You slowly but confidently ran the flat of your tongue against her before gently taking her clit in your mouth and suckling. Carol wasn't loud in bed, that's just not who she is, but the sharp intake of breath and the hand nestled into your hair made you smile to yourself. You know Carol like you knew the back of your own hand (probably even better, since how much time did you spend looking at your hands anyways?), and you know what she likes. There was no need to be embarrassed or scared - like everything you did with Carol, your sank your finger into her with confidence. It was time to make Captain Marvel writhe, and so you crooked that finger and smiled when she gasped like you knew she would. You know her. She knows you. I love you.