Hey chanty! Don’t know if you’re taking prompts anymore but romanogers 12+27+34 maybe post iw 5 years later and they haven’t seen eachother in a while?
+ “Hi Chanty!!! I’m in the same boat. The endgame angst is real! I’d love #27 for Romanogers… Honestly just all the Romanogers smut, I’ll take it. But love when they sneak off for something naughty.” requested by @mamaladykt
so this is immediately after the snap and not “five years later” like was asked but i tried
12. Watching yourself disappear inside of her. + 27. I can’t wait until later. Now. + 34. Look at me while we come.
She knows the others had been worried when Steve picked up and left without a hint of where he was going, without a goodbye, and they’d been pissed for a few days once he’d gone, wondering why she hadn’t shared in the sentiment. They were finally together again - those of them that were left, at least - but it wasn’t enough of a reason for him to stay. That’s what they all thought, and she doesn’t blame them for coming to that conclusion.
But she knows better. She knows him. He’s not used to losing like this, to not being able to force his way into a solution. He needs the space and the time to be stuck in his head, mourning, processing, acknowledging all of that fear and hurt and helplessness he’d pushed away when they were in the heat of it all. He needs to finally face things, and maybe she shouldn’t let him do so on his own, but she knows better than to push. He left her with a rough kiss against the side of the building when she’d gone to see him off in the middle of the night, and a promise that he would be back, and she believed him. She still does and she always will.
And three and a half weeks later, he makes his way back.
The anger from the others had long dissipated, and it’s a little bit hilarious, honestly, how the room goes quiet when Steve walks back in that evening, his face clean-shaven and his hair trimmed by a few inches, as if he hadn’t left at all. He seems better, in the same way that all of them are better, and that seems to be reason enough for what little tension had been in the air to leave as quickly as it came. Rhodes greets him with a quip, and Bruce rambles something awkward and sentimental and that’s that, really.
Except, his eyes grow just a little darker and just a little hazier when they settle on hers, and he walks over to where she’s stretched out on the couch, lifts her legs up and then pulls them across his lap as he sits down. His hand curves over her thigh as she continues flipping through missing persons reports on her tablet, but the way his fingers are kneading her flesh through her yoga pants is distracting, and she knows he’s doing it on purpose. He knows that it’ll take nothing at all for her body to grow warm and needy and pliant under his touch, especially when she hasn’t had his hands on her for so long, and that’s exactly what he wants.
She casts a glance around the room. No one seems to be paying them any attention, and even if they were, she doesn’t think they’d care. She doubts they’d even be surprised, but still. This isn’t exactly the time or place, and she arches an eyebrow at him as if to say this.
He leans in, nips at her earlobe and murmurs, “I can’t wait until later.” He squeezes her leg, sliding his hand up higher. “Now.”
“I don’t have to follow your orders anymore,” she breathes out, and his eyes are glinting as they hold her stare, his lips twitching at the corners. “They’ll notice when we both disappear.”
“I don’t care.”
She almost laughs. “You all talk, soldier?”
He chuckles lowly, pulling her legs off of his lap so he can stand, and she watches as he crosses the room and leaves without anyone so much as glancing in his direction. She smirks into her tablet screen as she flips through a few more profiles, not really seeing anything in front of her, anymore. She waits partly in an attempt to be inconspicuous, but mostly because he’s a stubborn and impatient man and she loves riling him up a little. Then she sets her tablet aside and stands, catching Thor’s gaze as she crosses the room, and his lip hitches in an amused sort of smile as he gently shakes his head.
She turns into the hallway, walks past a few doors before she feels a hand grasp at her elbow and tug her off to the side, and her breathless little laugh is muffled by his mouth slanting over hers as her hips hit the edge of the bathroom counter.
She cups his face in her hands, rubs her thumbs over the beginnings of stubble along his jaw and whimpers when his thigh slots between hers, rubbing against her wet folds as her stomach flutters and tightens. He pulls away just long enough to tug her shirt up and over her head, and then his, and then he’s working her pants down her legs and lifting her onto the edge of the counter. Everything between them feels frantic and desperate, feels throbbing with need and heat, and she bites on her lower lip, unable to keep from smiling as she smooths her hands up the muscles of his chest and his fingers rub at her wetness through the thin material of her panties.
He smirks, eyes twinkling in amusement as he arches an eyebrow at her, and she drags his mouth back to hers before he has the chance to tease her. He rubs at her in quick, tight circles, drawing a noise from the back of her throat as she takes his bottom lip between her teeth, almost biting hard enough to draw blood.
“Later, we’ll take our time,” he promises against her lips as she fumbles with his jeans, grasping his hard length and pulling him out. “Later, I’m going to savor you. But right now?” He grasps her legs, hooks them around his hips as she poises him at her entrance. “Right now, I’m going to fuck you.”
“Promises, promises,” she murmurs, drawing another smirk on his lips before they’re on hers again, tongue parting her open and rolling into her mouth, kissing her as if he simply couldn’t spend another second without it.
He doesn’t let up, not even when he slides into her with one, smooth stroke and she tries to pull away to gasp. He doesn’t let her lips ease from his for a second, just wraps an arm around her, braces a hand against the mirror on the wall behind them as he starts thrusting into her. It takes no time at all for him to find a brutal pace, practically fucking her into the counter, and she loves it. She loves the way he hits her deep, the way it hurts just a tiny bit when he stretches her with each stroke, because it feels real. He doesn’t hold back with her, especially not with this, and she’d never, ever want him to. She wants it to bruise, wants to feel him hours afterward. She wants every inch of him to be imprinted onto every inch of her because it’s the closest to perfect that she’s ever felt.
She grasps his face in her hands and pries their lips apart, tipping her forehead against his shoulder, watching him disappear inside of her. Everything between them feels slick and hot, and she’s a little bit mesmerized by the way her body opens up for him, the way her folds tighten around him with every stroke, as if every part of her is greedy for every part of him.
“Touch yourself, Nat,” he suddenly commands, voice rough and tight, and she makes this little noise, her eyes still fixed on where they’re connected as she slips a hand between them and finds her clit. She moans, body jolting in surprise even though she’d known she was going to touch herself, and her body clamps down on him even tighter, somehow, as she rubs circles over her tiny bundle of nerves.
Steve groans, angles his hips and forces her legs a little wider apart as he fucks her harder, deeper, and her fingers falter as she moans out. She’s practically laying against the counter now, the back of her head pressing into the mirror as he fucks her, and nothing about this moment, this position, should feel as perfect as it does right now but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care.
“Look at me,” he pleads, his muscles going taut above her as her spine arches and she feels that familiar sensation pulling her apart at the seams. “Nat, Nat, please, look at me while we come.”
She keens out a moan, eyelids fluttering open, and her vision goes blurry at the edges with pleasure as her stare fixes on his. He thrusts once, twice, three more times, and then she feels her orgasm bursting through her as her body writhes underneath him. He groans, exhaling a sharp, shallow breath, and then he’s coming what feels like seconds after her.
She whimpers, nails digging into the muscles of his back as his warmth spills into her, and his mouth comes over hers in a messy, hungry kiss, their bodies riding out the waves of their orgasms.
When they finally, finally, seem to be able to catch their breaths, Steve presses his face into her neck, peppering his way across the sweat-slicked column of her throat.
“Next time you decide to leave, Rogers,” she says, breathless and maybe just a little bit giddy, making him smile against her wild pulse, “you’re taking me with you.”
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3300
Characters: Steve/Natasha
Summary: He takes her aching body in his trembling hands and touches her until she starts feeling again, and she kisses him until he stops feeling, and for one blissful, fleeting, selfish, perfect moment, neither of them is falling apart.
For: @seaductress
A/N: Based on this post because Johana is an instigator. This was my attempt at Angst which kind of fell through but I liked what I ended up with, anyway!
Also, I made a writing playlist to go with it!
Read On: [ ao3 ]
It becomes a routine of sorts, the way it always does for them. Falling apart, coming back together. One running, one pulling back, one leaping forward, one following in the shadows. Somehow reckless and predictable and tragic and beautiful, all at once.
Just like everything else they touch.
She hasn’t seen him in hours, but most days, that’s typical. She knows where he goes, but she doesn’t follow him anymore. Half the time he just wanders, whenever he isn’t sitting in a circle of foldable chairs as strangers talk and he certainly doesn’t. Not that she’s seen, anyway. Maybe it’s because he knew she was watching him and listening for him, and now that she isn’t lingering in the back, maybe he’s become more talkative. She grasps onto that thought with both hands tightly, wanting it to be true. She wants that for him. But she’s not sure if he wants that for himself. For as long as he’d started disappearing, seeking something – or more likely, nothing at all – he comes back with those same shadows in his eyes as he leans against the far wall and watches her train, hour after hour, until she’s numb in her muscles and just about everywhere else, too.
Then he takes her aching body in his trembling hands and touches her until she starts feeling again, and she kisses him until he stops feeling, and for one blissful, fleeting, selfish, perfect moment, neither of them is falling apart.
Not while they’re falling together.
But as the day drags on, every time she expects to turn to find him hovering in the corner, he isn’t there and she fights the swirling, sinking feeling tightening in her stomach.
She goes through magazine after magazine, puts a few hundred bullet holes into targets on the wall, and she’s worried.
She runs for hours and hours, in circles for miles outside around the building, looking over her shoulder for his shadow, and she’s pissed.
She wraps her hands and pummels into a punching bag – swift and calculated, then aggressive and wild and sloppy, then calculating once more – and she’s hurt. She punches into that damn bag until her knuckles feel raw under the layers of gauze, until her muscles ache and then go numb and then ache all over again in protest, and she’s—
“Enough,” his voice orders, smooth and soft and sliding over her spine in a warm tingle as his large hands come around her hips, arms flexing, all of that careful strength focused on keeping her in place. He’s standing close enough behind her that she can feel his warmth, but not close enough where they’re touching anywhere else, and she throws another punch against the bag because she’s being stubborn and a little bit spiteful. His body wraps around her as his hands clasp around her wrists, tightening – warning – as he yanks her back against him, and all at once, every emotion she’d pushed aside all day comes crashing down on her so hard that her knees nearly give out.
But Steve holds her up. He always does.
“Enough,” he repeats, a plea this time, and it’s as if her body had been waiting for this. For him. Her weight melts against his as his arms come around her waist, locking her in a tight hold, and he presses his face into the curve of her neck. His breath comes out in heavy puffs against her pulse, smelling of dark and bitter alcohol.
He’d taken from Tony’s stash again, and the realization makes her chest tighten. It’s been a while since it’s gotten this bad.
He turns his head just barely, grazing a kiss against her skin. He squeezes onto her harder, so hard that it starts to hurt, and she knows it’s wrong of her to find comfort in it.
“Steve.” His name is a question and a sigh all at once, thick with both worry and relief, and his eyelashes are wet against her neck when he buries his face further into her. Her eyelashes flutter closed and, for the first time all day, she lets herself feel the dull throb in her scalp from how tightly she’d pulled her braid together. Usually Steve does it for her – maybe because touching her is the only times his hands don’t seem to shake anymore – and he always handles her with so much more care than she’ll ever give herself.
“You were gone this morning,” he mumbles into her skin. It’s not quite an accusation, not quite a question, not quite anything, and she doesn’t know what to do with it.
“I—” She shakes her head, trying not to remember the way she woke up with his arms around her, their bodies intertwined as the beginnings of dawn started to spill into the room through the part in the drapes. She tries not to remember the way his face was pressed into his pillow, the way her fingers itched to trace over his lips, parted as he took in steady, peaceful breaths. Because in that moment, with his warmth and his weight pressing over hers, he was at peace and she was so selfishly content by it that she’d done what she’s always done best: she ran. She untangled herself from him and slipped out of his room without her usual grace, her heart pounding against her ribcage as she fled.
Move on, they say in every one of those damn meetings Steve sits in on. It’s been years, they reason. Your loved ones would want you to be happy, they insist.
Happy.
The word feels bittersweet in her thoughts as she remembers that that’s exactly what she felt that morning, still hazy with sleep as she caught sight of Steve sleeping soundly beside her, without those shadows on his face, without that storm in his eyes. She felt content to lay there with him, as if she wanted nothing more for the rest of her life.
As if she hadn’t watched her friends disappear right in front of their eyes. As if she had given up on them.
“I didn’t know where you were,” Steve says, his voice low and gravelly, angry, in a way she hasn’t heard in a long time. “You were just gone.”
Of course.
She closes her eyes, her throat feeling tight, her chest feeling tighter. He doesn’t know that she’d woken up for the first time in years with a lightness in her chest that she had no right to feel. He doesn’t know that she’d stumbled from his bed and nearly tripped out the door in her attempt to not panic, don’t panic, don’t you dare panic—
He simply knows that she had been asleep in his arms and he’d woken up and she wasn’t there anymore. In a blink. In a snap.
His grip tightens at her hips as he lifts his head from the curve of her shoulder, fingers digging into her skin so hard, she knows there’ll be a bruise there in a matter of hours, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care about anything as she turns to look at him over her shoulder, her breath catching in her throat as she finds herself staring up into his stormy blue eyes, glassy and a little hazy from the alcohol he must have spent all day drinking. His body is practically simmering in his anger, in his hurt, even as his eyes flash in relief as his thumbs are smoothing circles into her skin, over and over, as if trying to commit her skin to memory. Despite what she put him through, he’s happy to see her.
Happy.
She swallows past the tightness in her throat, trying to turn to face him, but his hold on her keeps her in place. She tries to pull his wrists off but, stubbornly, he doesn’t budge.
“Steve,” she breathes, voice wavering as she reaches up to cup his jaw. “I’m right here. Okay?” She tilts her head up, brings her face closer to his. “I’m right here.”
His expression cracks at the edges, finally loosing his grip on her as he turns her around, pulls her to his chest. She can practically feel his heart thundering in his chest as she slides her hands up, over his neck, rubbing her thumb back and forth over the pulse there. His tension ebbs a little more. “Don’t ever do that to me again, Nat.”
Nat. His voice cracks on her name and she shakes her head quickly. “I won’t,” she promises, just barely getting the words out before he kisses her.
He cups the back of her head, kissing her hard, kissing her breathless, and she feels her knees start to give out from under her. She whimpers, reaching up to grasp his forearms as she leans into him, and he groans into her mouth as he nips at her bottom lip. He tastes like something strong and smooth and bitter, an alcohol she can’t place in this moment—not with hands sliding down her back as he leads them forward, his fingers pulling at her workout top. He pauses just long enough to tug it over her head and toss it aside, turning to push her up against the wall. “Don’t you fucking do that again,” he breathes, his voice gravelly and low and so fucking desperate that it hurts, and she knows he can see it in her eyes. How much she feels for him. What she feels for him. His expression cracks even more, the anger quickly fading until all she can see is herself.
He looks at her like she’s everything. He looks at her like she’s his life, and she left him. Didn’t even think about what he might take that as, because she’s just that selfish—
“Don’t do that,” he growls, kissing her again, a command and a plea all at once. Because of course he can read her just as easily as she can read him. “Don’t.”
She doesn’t deserve his reverence, his loyalty and his faith, but, god, she wants to earn it. She always has, and so she gives in, whispers, “okay,” against his lips and kisses him hard, harder. Until she can’t hear those damn voices in her head anymore, saying awful, terrible things that she’s not even sure if she believes anymore.
Not when Steve has always tried his damn hardest to get her to believe him instead.
He yanks away, her head tipping back against the wall as she stares up at the ceiling, her vision blurry. His thigh slots between her legs perfectly – they always fit so fucking perfectly together, she doesn’t know what to think – and his body rocks hers into the wall as his lips move to her neck. His kisses are both frantic and reverent, hasty in his urge to taste every inch of skin, yet he allows himself to pause just long enough to nip at her with each brush of his lips, soothing the mark with his tongue before he moves lower.
It’s dizzying, distracting her, making her fumble as she tries to undo the buttons of his shirt. Everything between them feels hot, frantic. Perfect.
He always feels perfect, even when nothing is at all.
“Nat,” he breathes, moving down onto his knees in front of her, and she tips her head forward watch as he hooks his thumbs over the waistband of her leggings and her panties, tugging them down her thighs as his teeth find the scar at her hip, nipping. His hand curves over her ass as he digs his fingers in, making her gasp as he bites lower, lower, teeth grazing the inside of her thigh. His lips murmur her name into her skin over and over again, a tease, a taunt. A punishment, she realizes, when his breath ghosts over where she’s aching and wet, pausing, his eyes flicking up to meet her gaze. She pushes her fingers into his hair, tightening, earning the wisps of a smile on his lips.
And her heart cracks wide open.
He licks a broad stripe up her sex, quickly finding her clit, and she lets out a moan.
He sucks at the tight little bud, once, twice, three times, drawing out a mewl from her lips as she coils forward and twists her fingers into his hair, and then his tongue slips lower, licking down to her entrance as her knees quiver.
She can’t move much with his hands keeping her pinned to the wall, and the angle is awkward with her leggings hitched at her knees, but, god, it still feels so good.
It takes him no time at all until she’s whimpering, grinding her hips as best as she can as he finds her clit again, sucking, circling, pushing her closer and closer to that dizzying edge. He groans, slips a hand between her legs and strokes two fingers over her slickness, almost toying with her wetness – because fuck she’s so wet – and then easing them inside of her as he pulls his lips off of her with staggered inhale, like he’s gasping for air. Her vision nearly whites out when he curls his fingers, thumb stroking over her folds as his lips hover, parted, just over her throbbing bundle of nerves. She mewls, knees quivering as his fingers continue curling, making her keen out as they brush that sweet spot.
Then he slips his hand out, takes her clit between his lips and hums as he pushes three fingers back into her, and her body jolts as she comes with a cry.
Her walls clamp around his fingers for a moment, pulling a groan from the back of his throat, and he thrusts once, twice, three more times, long and hard and deep, before pulling his hand away to grip her hips, holding her upright against the wall as her body writhes from the waves of her orgasm.
His lips are still against her sex, teasing her as he murmurs soft, sweet things, coaxing her back down from her high. All she can manage is a soft gasp of surprise when she feels him yank her leggings all the way off before standing, pulling her body off of the wall and gently tipping her forward, until she’s laying on her back atop the training mats.
He braces himself above her, his face slightly silhouetted by the bright, fluorescent lights overhead, and she feels a little bit like she can’t breathe as she stares up at him.
Sometimes, she still can’t believe he’s real. Sometimes, she still can’t believe that he’s become such an undeniable part of her, that she knows she wouldn’t recognize herself without him.
(And the hardest part to believe? That she knows she wouldn’t recognize him without her, either.)
As if hearing her thoughts, the quiet, fleeting trance is snapped between them and his mouth is on hers again, desperate, urgent, stealing her breath as her hands tug gracelessly at the zipper of his jeans. He groans into her mouth when she dips her hand inside, finding him hard and thick and pulsing as she grasps his length in her hand, and he shoves his jeans and his boxers down his hips before hitching himself up on one elbow, sliding easily between her legs as she draws the tip of him to her dripping wet folds.
She slides him up and down, up and down, rubbing him against her clit until the little bud is throbbing and his body is practically shaking in his effort to restrain himself.
“Why do you let me do this to you?” she asks, voice just barely above a whisper as she poises him at her entrance, and they both know she’s talking about more than one thing right now. Why do you let me dictate so much even though you’ve always been the better leader? Why do you let me have my way when I always end up hurting us both?
Why am I good enough for you?
He groans, drops his forehead to hers as he pushes into her, and her eyes flutter closed at the pure pleasure of him stretching her out, filling her deep.
“Because I want you to,” he answers, his voice sounding labored as he bottoms out inside of her. He shifts, reaching down to hitch one of her legs around his hips, knowing she’ll follow his lead, and her spine arches off of the mat as he starts thrusting into her. “Because I like that you want to.” There’s nothing easy about his strokes, no hesitance or pace to let her get used to him, because when her body knows his in the way it does – craves his in the way it does – she doesn’t need slow or gentle. She doesn’t want it.
She wants him and all of his frustration and his anger. She wants this man who always gives so much of him to take and take and take whatever he wants from her.
She wants to see the parts of him that no one else gets to see. No hesitance or doubt or restraint—just beautiful, selfish, wild passion. Just Steve.
She whimpers into his mouth as he kisses her hard, thrusts into her harder, faster, practically bruising her hips against the floor. Her nails scrape against his back, digging into the taut muscles there through the thin material of his shirt. His body always feels so fucking perfect above her, broad and solid, the thick muscles of his arms caging her in and blocking everything else out so that all she can focus on is his heat and his musk and his slick skin and just him. Her lips twitch into a smile against their kiss as she slips her hands around, pressing both palms against his chest, just above his thrumming heart, and he groans snaps his hips into her hard, as if this little gesture is enough to undo him.
His thumb slips between them, finding her clit and rubbing, drawing a mewl from her lips as her body writhes. It’s almost too much, fuck, it’s too much—
“I know, I know,” he soothes, circling his thumb faster as he angles his hips and thrusts deeper. “But I need you to come with me, Nat.” He groans, biting at her lip. “Nat, Nat.”
She couldn’t tell you how long it actually took, how many times he’d chanted her name as he thrust into her—but she feels him grow tense above her as he yanks his lips away and groans, long and loud right against her ear as his warmth spills inside of her. And it’s as if her body had been waiting for him because her spine arches off of the floor, her orgasm crashing down on her even harder this time, until there’s nothing but throbbing, frantic heat between them, her every sense going hazy with the force of her pleasure.
It feels as if it takes entire minutes before their breaths start to even out, his lips hovering just above hers as, slowly, she floats back down from her high.
He groans, his body sagging against hers in a warm, comforting sort of weight, pinning her to the floor, and she shifts her head to bury her face into his shoulder. She feels him turn his head to kiss her hair – once, twice, letting his lips linger as he breathes her in – and she winds her arms around the small of his waist and holds him close.
She knows that their fight is far from over, the war far from done. She knows that they’re far from healed.
But in this moment—in their moment, stolen, soft, sated—she also knows that they’re happy. And maybe that’s something they’ve earned after all.
Chantyyy I’m right there with you on the carol and Thor ship honestly but also the romanogers??? I know clintasha shippers are having a field day with the new content but I still see them as friends. If only we could get more context for all the romanogers scenes ugh can we talk about how significant their lines were in that trailer? Mom and dad of the avengers team :’)
I feel so many things from that trailer–
Tony being home! Gamora reuniting with Rocket!! (Okay, not shown but obviously she had to have come to Earth with Tony, right?) Clint training a little archer! Nat finding Clint, Clint comforting Nat! Thor and Carol!! STEVE AND NATASHA!!!!
@seaductress replied to your post “[clenches teeth] i really want to finish my last adlock fic (in the...”
The inspiration will come when it wants to and you’ll find your groove again don’t worry! Your fics have been some of my faves in the adlock fandom and I’m so thankful we have such an amazing writer like you :)
wowowowowowowowooow this is so kind !!! thank u this actually lifts my spirits a bit!
Don't know if you're still taking prompts but these are dirty and I love them so romanogers + 6
#16 requested by @allamaeatingramen. They seemed like very similar prompts so I combined them!
6. Do not be gentle with me. + 16. Take me now. Take me rough.
She’s seen Steve angry before. She knows just how frustrated he can get, just how hard he’ll lash out if he’s pushed over the line.
This is different, though.
This isn’t rage. This is hunger, the heat of desire radiating off of his body in waves as he pushes her against the wall and all but slams the door to the closet shut behind them, clicking the lock into place. Someone will still be able to let themselves in, of course, because this is the supply closet of the infirmary room and obviously there are several dozens of people that have access to open this door, but Steve doesn’t seem to care much about that in this moment and she can’t bring herself to, either. Her eyes barely have a chance to adjust to the dark when she feels Steve’s body crowding her space, backing her hard against the shelves behind her and causing the things on them to jump at the force. She lets out a little sound in surprise, but then Steve’s lips are sealing over hers, the kiss hot and heavy and with a sense of desperation that makes her whimper.
His body is totally tense, almost rigid, his fingers at her hips flexing as if curling into fists, and he presses his body a little harder against hers. She knows he’s still very much pissed off, but the fact that he really has nothing concrete to be pissed off at is even more frustrating. Steve has a thick skin, and while things may not roll off of his back as easily as people assume, he’s pretty good about keeping himself collected. Very few things are able to instantly set Steve off, to the point where he’s snapping at others and visibly pissed off, almost shaking because he’s so upset - but her getting hurt has always been a sure way to do exactly that. He’s protective, yes, but he’s also terrified of something happening to her, of losing her, that it throws him so out of sorts. She thinks that once upon a time, she might’ve been annoyed by this. She knows this isn’t him placing doubt in her abilities or blame in anyone who’d been working with her whenever she got hurt. He has faith in all of them and always has, but that kind of fear can close over you quickly, lapsing every sense of control.
They’ve all experienced it. It’s natural when someone is so important to you.
And maybe being rough with her might be the opposite of what you would expect considering that she’s hurt, but she’s fine. She just has a cut on her forearm and a bruise coloring over most of her left rib, but she’d gotten the stitches and no bones were broken, so whatever. She’s endured worse, and she knows that with Steve, the best way to deal with this kind of frustration isn’t to ease him back. It’s to let him ride it out. And maybe he could never truly take all that rage out on her, because he’s definitely capable of hurting her if he was that far gone, but he seems to know just how much he needs to dish out and just how much she can take for it to actually relieve him, and she loves that he’s comfortable enough to do so.
He pulls his lips off of hers and seals them over her neck, nipping and sucking the column of her throat as he all but yanks down the zipper of her suit. They both stumble a bit to get her out of her suit, and no, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time he just ripped her out of the thing if he did that right now, but it’s a little harder to think of a convincing reason for damage to her suit considering she’s just gotten back from a mission and has already been seen for her injuries, so. But they manage just fine, and then she’s standing in her bra and panties and he’s pushing her back against the wall, slanting his lips over hers again in a heated kiss as he reaches between them and presses his hand over the front of her panties. She’s already wet, and it’s really not taking much to get her even wetter, not with him stroking over her as roughly as he is right now.
“Come on, Steve,” she whispers.
Just let go, she means, and she knows he hears it, because he grunts a little in response and then works his belt off in one motion, pushes his pants down in another. She hooks her thumbs under the waistband of her panties and starts pushing them down her legs, but then his arm is hooking around her waist and hoisting her off, her panties falling to the ground as she instinctively wraps her legs around him, arms circling around his neck. He’s already hard and pressing between her legs and a shiver ripples over her in anticipation, and then he’s sort of shoving her back against the shelves as he angles his hips and pushes in one deep stroke, and her head definitely knocks something over when she tosses it back in a moan, but she doesn’t care, not even a little.
As much as she loves it when he’s gentle, when he takes his time, when he teases and whispers sweet things into her ear, she also loves this - the force of his body against hers, the strength and power rippling through his muscles as he handles her a little rougher than she’s used to. He doesn’t treat her like she might break, but he generally doesn’t treat her like this, either, and oh does it feel incredible when he does. The shelves are biting into her shoulders, and the way he’s thrusting up into her is already relentless, already delicious.
He shifts her up a little higher, sinks himself even deeper with the motion as he hooks his finger under the clasp of her bra and snaps it open, letting it fall to the floor as he dips his head down, closes his mouth around one of her nipples and sucks hard as his fingers tug at the other. She cries out, trying to roll her hips down on him as best as she can with this angle, trying to meet his strokes, but he’s keeping his thrusts uneven and she whimpers when she can’t quite find the right pace. He’s doing this on purpose, she knows, because he loves having her at the palm of his hand like this. It’s not really a kink thing, or maybe it is, but she knows that it’s less about him being the one in control and more about him loving how much pleasure she gets from him and only him.
He pulls his mouth off of her and then closes his lips around her other breast as he snaps his hips up harder, deeper. The edge of one of the shelves is digging into the small of her back, but something about it feels amazing right now and she’s fairly certain it has to do with the pleasure rippling through her veins as he drives her closer and closer to her high.
“Steve, I - oh, oh,” she moans, eyelids fluttering closed as she throws her head back against the shelves again, and the sound she lets out is loud and filthy as he angles his hips and brushes right against her sweet spot. He lifts his head up and stifles her moans with a kiss, because as much as he loves to her her let go, they’re still in an infirmary closet and the walls are far from soundproof. He groans from the back of his throat, reaches between them and presses the pad of his thumb over her clit, and her body jerks. His press is relentless, though, circling over and over again, pressing harder and harder, and she feels her walls start to flutter as stars start to dance behind her eyelids.
She whimpers into his mouth as she falls apart, her arms tightening around his neck and her fingernails digging into his shoulders as she tries to hold on, but her every muscle feels like liquid right now, so doing so it a little difficult. She knows Steve isn’t going to drop her, though so she lets herself ride out her high and kisses him through the burn in her lungs because he’s still rubbing over her bundle of nerves through her orgasm and it’s too much.
He’s close now, too, her walls fluttering tightly around him as he works her through her orgasm, and he groans lowly as he presses against her a little harder, forehead dropping to her collarbone as he lets out hot breaths against her skin. He’s still rolling his thumb over her nerves, driving her right towards a second orgasm on the heels of the first, and she doesn’t know whether or not she wants to cry out for him to stop or to keep going, but a few more thrusts and she doesn’t really have a choice. She’s being thrown right into the heat of another climax, and she bites down on her lower lip so hard in an attempt to stifle her cries that she swears she must draw blood. Steve lifts his head up, presses his face into her neck, and all it takes is a few more deep thrusts and he’s falling apart right after her, moaning against the column of her throat and sending vibrations over her skin. He pulls out his hand from between them and grasps onto one of the shelves by her head, bracing them as he thrusts a little more frantically through his high, and she’s so, so sensitive at this point that every little jerk from him just drags out her orgasm even more.
His body almost sags against hers as he comes down from his high, keeping her pressed there as they both try to catch their breaths. She pushes her fingers through his hair, cradles the back of his head. His body is totally pliant against hers now, the tension completely dissolved from his muscles. It makes her smile.
“Thank you,” he exhales softly into her skin, and she tips her head forward and kisses his hair, breathing out a little content sigh of her own.
