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you and your high top sneakers and your sailor tattoos

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Steve comes back from his visit to the nursing home with the desperate desire to get drunk. He can't, really, and it's one of the only regrets he's got about this body of his: this inability to save his friends and then get drunk and wallow about it afterwards.

He stands on the sidewalk in front the SHIELD building and considers his options. He could go back inside and wreck another set of gym equipment, but that won't really make him feel better, and he'll have to deal with Fury's irritation (and possibly paperwork) afterwards. Or he could walk into one of the many bars in the neighborhood and drink as much he can in as little time as possible, and see if this is the time the alcohol finally outpaces his souped-up metabolism.

He doesn't want a strip club--he likes looking at naked women as much as the next person, despite what the rest of the team thinks, but right now they would just be a distraction. He doesn't want a brightly-lit, tourist-friendly theme restaurant either, the kind that have proliferated in Times Square in the years he was gone. Since he's been back, he hasn't spent much time in the kind of hole-in-the-wall dive he's craving now, the kind of place where nobody ever asked for ID or cared if you had to be carried out by your best friend because you'd tried to go shot for shot with him and couldn't handle it.


He turns to see Agent Coulson's assistant walking out of the building. She's dressed all in black, like any good employee of SHIELD, though she's wearing a pair of pink high top sneakers instead of the usual spit-shined black boots.

He bows his head in greeting. "Ms. Lewis."

Her mouth quirks in a grin. "Captain Rogers." She tosses off a little mock salute and even in the midst of his bad mood it makes him smile. "You look like a man who could use a drink."

He knows he should stop being surprised by how perceptive she can be--she works for Agent Coulson, who likes them all to think he's omniscient, and her efficiency is a large part of that. Or maybe he's just wearing his feelings on his face again. It happens. "You're not wrong."

"Let's go," she says, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. "I hear the frozen margaritas calling my name."

The place she takes him to is a few blocks and one flight of stairs away. It's warm and familiar--wood paneled walls and a grizzled Irishman behind the scarred copper-topped bar. If it weren't for the widescreen TVs cluttering up the place, Steve could almost believe he's back in Brooklyn in the forties. There's music playing, but softly enough that he can't identify it and ruin the illusion.

"Scotch, neat," he says as the bartender lays laminated menus down in front of them.

"And I will have a frozen blue raspberry margarita," Darcy says. She pulls a credit card out of her wallet and hands it to the bartender. "We'd like to open a tab."

Steve feels like a heel. "Ms. Lewis--"

"First of all, it's Darcy, and second of all, hell, yes, SHIELD can buy us some booze to drown our sorrows."

"If you say so, Darcy."

"I do." She nods decisively. "If only more people listened to me. The world would be a much better place."

The bartender sets their drinks down, and Darcy raises her glass in a toast before she takes a sip of the blue, slushy drink. Steve knocks back his two fingers of scotch, enjoying the acrid burn of it as it slides down his throat and into his belly, and taps the rim of the glass for another. The bartender fills it up and wanders away.

"So," Darcy says, playing with her straw, "I know why I needed a drink, but what's your story, Captain?"

"Steve," he says. "Please."

She swallows and licks her very full, very pink lips. "Okay, Steve. What's got America's favorite son all in a tizzy?"

"I went to see," he hesitates, "an old friend today."

"Oh," she says, drawing the sound out. She takes another long sip of her drink. "Agent Carter's not doing so well, is she?" She taps her fingers on the bar. "I read her file." She huffs softly. "I've read everybody's file." Then she shakes her head. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's--" It's not fine, but he can't bring himself to say anything else.

"It's fucked up, is what it is," Darcy says. "I thought it was hard for Thor, you know? He's not even from this planet. But he gets to go home and come back whenever he wants now. You, on the other hand." She shakes her head. "You died saving the world and you got to come back, but everybody you knew is gone. That is legit sad."

"It is." He knocks back another drink.

"Whoa, take it easy there, soldier," Darcy says, taking his hand. Her fingers are warm and soft.

He shrugs. "I can't get drunk," he tells her. "Not really, not anymore."

"Man, it's just one sucky thing on top of another with you," she says. She doesn't let go of his hand.

He laughs, because if he can't laugh, he'll cry. "So why are you here drowning your sorrows on company time, Ms. Lewis?"

She lets go of his hand and he finds he misses the warmth of her touch. She doesn't seem aware of it. She waves over the bartender and orders some French fries before launching into some complicated tale involving Clint and Natasha and their former relationship, which apparently ended badly.

"And now he's all, 'I'd love to date you, Darcy, but there are regulations against dating within the team for a reason.'" Her impression of Clint is terrible, but it makes Steve bark with laughter. She grins at him. "So fine, okay, I'm a big girl. I can roll with that. Even though I'm not even technically on the team. Whatever." She flicks a hand dismissively. "But then he needs to stop being all flirty and staring at my boobs, you know?" She gestures towards her chest with a French fry and, embarrassingly enough, Steve's gaze drops to her breasts, which definitely rate as magnificent. The tops of his ears burn when she catches him.

"No, see, it's all right if you do it once, or while I'm pointing at 'em. I mean, I have a great rack. I know it. I even flaunt it sometimes. People are going to look. I accept that. But he looks with intent. Which would be fine if he was going to follow it up with some action. But he won't." She takes another long sip of her drink and then stops, her forehead wrinkling in a frown. "Whoa, brainfreeze." She holds the glass out to him. "You want a sip?"

He takes the glass and takes a sip. He can taste her sticky lip gloss on the straw, but then there's the slushy sweet flavor of the drink, chased by the aftertaste of alcohol. "Tastes like a snow cone," he says after taking another sip, "but with booze."

She grins and points her fingers at him. "Exactly. Also, it makes my tongue blue." She sticks out her tongue to show him, and he laughs.

"Yes, yes, it does." He takes another small sip before handing the drink back to her. "I think next time, I'm going to have one of those. Do they come with little umbrellas?"

Darcy waves at the bartender. "My friend here wants a frozen blue raspberry margarita with a little pink umbrella. Can you do that?"

The bartender smiles at him. "Sure."

The bar starts filling with people--mostly groups of young women in skirts or suits, just like Darcy. He can feel their glances like an itch between his shoulder blades, and with the noise level starts rising and the volume of the music with it, he shifts, using it as an excuse to lean closer to Darcy.

"So," he says, "how did you end up working for SHIELD?" With his mouth close to her ear, he can smell her fruity shampoo. He likes it.

She's a born storyteller, and she has him laughing in disbelief in a couple of minutes. "You tased Thor?"

"Damn right, I did," she says, nodding proudly and slapping a hand down on the bar. "I'd do it again if I had to."

He eats some of her fries, and says, "Remind me not to get on your bad side."

"I don't think that's going to be a problem," she says, taking a sip of the margarita the bartender sets down in front of him. The umbrella is as pink as her sneakers. "Mm, that's good." He offers it to her but she shakes her head. "No, thanks," she says. "One was enough for me." He takes a sip and lets it melt on his tongue. "Anyway, he and Jane got all googly-eyed over each other, and Coulson got all googly-eyed over having an assistant who was already familiar with the whole situation, so here I am."

"I can't imagine Agent Coulson going googly-eyed."

"Well, I was exaggerating for effect," she says, squeezing his hand for emphasis. Her fingertips are cool and damp from the condensation on the glass. "Basically, he had an expression. That doesn't happen very often."

He laughs again. "That's true." He takes the umbrella out of his drink and twirls it around. Then, feeling bolder than usual, he reaches out and tucks it behind her ear. The color pops against her dark hair. "I would really like to draw you," he says before he can think better of it.

She blinks once, and then again, a flutter of lashes he wishes he could capture on paper. "Um, okay."

She waves the bartender over again, this time to get the check, and he's going to say, "I didn't mean now," when she glances at him with a smile that makes him blush. Oh. Oh. He should really correct her assumption before things get awkward, but she signs the check and takes his hand, and he finds he can't get the words out. He finds he doesn't want to.

To keep from getting flustered as they walk the four blocks back to his quarters at SHIELD, he concentrates on not bumping into any tourists and thinks about the colors he'll use to capture the pink of her mouth and the blue of her eyes.

Her hand is warm and soft in his, and she doesn't seem to mind that his palm is sweaty. Maybe hers is, too. He can't really tell.

The elevator ride up to the residential floor of the tower is quiet--his mouth is suddenly dry and Darcy seems content with smiling at him whenever he manages to meet her gaze. He wonders if they're actually going to do this, and what her expectations are if they do.

"Coffee?" he asks when the door to his quarters is closed. He leads her into the small living room with its squashy blue sofa and flat-screen television.

Darcy smiles and gives him a look from beneath her lashes; she reminds him of a movie star, though he isn't sure which one. After a look like that, he's lucky he remembers his own name.

"I thought you invited me up here to see your etchings."

"I, um, yes," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "I really would like to draw you."

The seductive look disappears as if it had never been there, replaced by a frown of confusion. "So you don't want to have sex?"

Her bluntness is as charming as it is startling. "Can't we do both?" he asks, feeling the heat of a blush in his cheeks.

"Oh my god," she says. "Is this the first time since," she waves a hand, "you got thawed out?"

He gives a self-deprecating little laugh. "More like, uh, the first time ever." He doesn't think jerking off with Bucky when they were teenagers counts. They'd never touched each other, even if he'd secretly wanted to. Not that that's any of her business.

Her eyes go wide and her mouth falls into a shocked O before she says, "No way!"

He shrugs and smiles awkwardly. "Yes, way."

"But--Agent Carter?"

"We never--the war--there wasn't time." He feels another pang of sadness at the loss. Peggy had looked--Peggy was old and frail now, but it was the dementia that had hurt most. She'd looked at him like they'd never met, and he'd felt like someone had kicked his ribs in. He sinks down onto the sofa, deflated by the memory yet again.

"I'm so sorry," Darcy says, sitting beside him and taking his hand in hers. "I shouldn't have brought it up. Unless you want to talk about it? We don't have to--I mean, I know you're in love with her."

"And you're in love with Clint."

"No," she says. "To be honest, I think I could be, if he got his head out of his ass and gave me the chance. But the difference is, I still have a chance with him. You don't with her." She shakes her head. "You mentioned coffee?"

He leaps gratefully at the lifeline she's throwing him and heads for the fancy coffee machine Tony'd installed when he discovered Steve was still living on SHIELD premises. "Yeah. I think I finally figured this thing out." He finds the filters and the coffee and gets it brewing. "Coffee is way more complicated than it used to be."

"I bet," she says. She fiddles with the laces on her pink sneakers, and when he glances over, she's got them off; her toenails are painted dark purple, and her toes are curled against the blue carpet. She gets up and looks at the drawings of Bucky and Peggy and the others he's put up on the walls. "You did these?"


"They're really good."

He shrugs. They're not his best work, but he'd wanted to capture everyone he could remember before their faces started fading away.

"No, I mean it," she says, joining him in the little kitchenette. She's not a big woman, but she's got a lot of presence. Or maybe he's just mesmerized by her breasts. He reminds himself to keep his eyes on her face. "I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."

It's true, he realizes. It's one of the things he likes about her.

"What did you have in mind?"

Steve blinks, images of her undressed and draped across the sofa or his bed chasing themselves across the insides of his eyelids. He opens his mouth and closes it again, unsure of what to say, sure his blush is giving him away.

"About drawing me, I mean," Darcy says, "though I take it sex is not off the table?" She cocks her head and grins wryly.

He clears his throat. "Yes. I mean, no. I mean, sex is definitely on the table. Though not on this table. It's a little wobbly. I think the sofa would be more stable."

She laughs and reaches up to cup his face. "Okay. Also, probably not the best idea if you've never done it before." She guides him down into a kiss. He can taste the lingering hints of her lip gloss on her lips and her drink on her tongue, and underneath that an interesting heat. He slips an arm around her waist, marveling again at how tiny she is and how good she feels fitted against him.

The insistent beeping of the coffeemaker makes him break the kiss. They're both a little short of breath.

"Well," she says brightly, "you're pretty good at that part."

He laughs breathlessly and turns the coffeemaker off. "You don't really want coffee right now, do you?"

"No," she says, taking his hand and leading him back to the couch. "Maybe later."

He feels like he's got two left feet, so he's glad it's only a few steps. He manages it without stumbling, and then he's sitting on the couch and she's sitting in his lap. He has a lapful of warm and curvy Darcy and she's kissing him again, licking into his mouth and nipping at his lower lip and generally making him too dizzy to think straight. Even if he could get drunk anymore, this is a way better high than drinking.

He doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he settles them on the soft swells of her hips, which makes her press down against him. That wrings a gasp out of him, which she swallows. She sucks on his tongue and tingles shoot down his spine. He thinks the top of his head might blow off. He doesn't think he'd mind, though, as long as she keeps kissing him.

She leans back and runs a hand through his hair. "You can touch me." She takes one of his hands and slides it up underneath her sweater. "I want you to touch me."

Her skin is soft and warm, and it's her turn to gasp when his thumb brushes over the curve of her breast. The lace is soft and a little scratchy, and when she shifts, his palm slides against a peaked nipple, which wins him another little gasp. The sounds go right to his dick, and he moans softly into her mouth. The sound startles him.

She brushes his cheek with her fingers. "You okay?"

He swallows hard. "Yeah. It's a little overwhelming, but in a good way."

She laughs softly, and he can feel the way her breasts move with it. "Good. Hold on a second." She leans back a little, pulls her sweater up over her head, and drops it to the floor. Her bra is black and lacy and complicated-looking. He's thinking about how he's going to get it unhooked when she starts unbuttoning his shirt.

Her mouth curves in a half-grin. "Seems only fair."

"Good point." He shrugs it off and tugs his t-shirt off over his head.

"God," she says, reaching out to run her fingers over his chest. "Wow. I wish I could draw," she says, "because I would totally draw you." He blushes and she follows the line of color down his chest with her fingers. "You're amazing." She ducks her head, and he feels a pang that everyone who ever knew him (loved him) before he looked like an adonis is gone.

To chase that feeling away, he threads a hand through her hair and captures her mouth in a slow, wet, messy kiss that leaves them both gasping. The lace of her bra rubs against him, setting off little bursts of heat in his veins. Her hands continue to stroke his chest and his shoulders, making his skin feel like it's too tight for his body, like he'll burst right out of it if he doesn't get some sort of relief. His hips push up into hers and she grinds down against him. He tips his head back and groans at how good it feels. She licks his neck and then bites at the hinge of his jaw, and the hand tangled in her hair tightens. He can feel the puff of her breath against his skin and it makes him shiver.

"Okay," she says, reaching behind her and unhooking her bra. (He's silently grateful that he didn't have to do it himself.) She slides it down her arms and then drops it to the floor on top of her sweater. Then she takes his hands and cups her breasts with them.

"Oh, god." Her breasts are firm and heavy. Funny how he'd never thought about that before, but there's a tangible weight to them that feels right in his hands, the skin silky smooth beneath his fingers. He brushes his thumbs over her nipples and she gasps and arches into the touch.

"Good," she says. "That's good."

"You should never wear a sweater again," he says fervently.

She laughs breathlessly. "I appreciate the compliment, but I like it when people look me in the eye."

"Right," he says, his gaze snapping back to her face. "Of course."

"It's okay, Steve." Her mouth is wet and pink, though now it's from his kisses rather than her lipstick, and it curves in a wide smile. "This isn't one of those times."


"God, you really are the most adorable thing." She kisses him again, nipping at his lower lip when she pulls away, and then arching her back to thrust her breasts in his face.

He leans in to lick and then leans back. "Is it all right if I--"

"Yes," she says. "Please." But then she tips his chin up and looks him in square in the eye. "Unless I specifically say 'no' or 'stop,' I'm okay with whatever you want to do. Does that work for you?"

"Yes," he answers. She's half-naked and letting him kiss her breasts; he's not going to argue. "Yes, it does."

"And if I do anything you don't like, just let me know, okay?"

He can't imagine that happening, but he says, "Okay," just in case.

"Okay, then." She threads her fingers through his hair and arches up again so he can lick and suck at her breasts. She tastes of skin and sweat, with faint hints of lotion. He really likes the sounds she makes when he does it, and the way her hips rock against him, like she can't get close enough. Her nails scritch across his scalp, and he's never really thought of that as a particularly sensitive area, but something about it, combined with everything else, takes him right to the edge. He'll never get over the embarrassment if he comes in his pants like a schoolboy, so he stops for a moment, just rests his forehead against her chest and breathes.

Darcy drops a kiss on the top of his head that might have struck him as incongruous if he'd heard about it instead of experiencing it.

"I hear reciting baseball stats helps," she says.

He raises his head to look at her. "Really?"

She shrugs, which does amazing things to her breasts. He cups one in his hand, fingers molding to the perfect curve of it, and thinks for a fleeting second about how to capture it on paper.

"It's a cliché, so there's probably some truth to it. Derek Jeter hit .297 this year, but he only had sixty-one RBIs."

"I don't know who that is."

She slides her hands down to his shoulders and leans back to stare at him. "Only the greatest Yankee since Don Mattingly!"

"I don't know who that is, either. Why didn't you tell me you were a Yankee fan?"

She laughs and the vibration of it flutters through him. "Is that a problem?"

He actually takes a second to think about it and comes to the conclusion that his body absolutely doesn't care. "No, but you have terrible taste in baseball teams." He smiles, to take the sting out of it.

"I grew up in Woodhaven," she answers. "It was either the Yankees or the Mets." She says the latter like it's a fate worse than death. From what he's read, that could be true. Not that the Dodgers are in much better shape. He still can't get over the fact that they moved to California.

"I thought you were from New Mexico."

"No, my mom moved us out there when I was fourteen. There was this guy--" She shakes her head. "That's not important." She leans in and kisses him. "We should go to a game up at the Stadium. They just rebuilt it again." He can feel her lips shaping the words between the kisses she's pressing to his cheek and jaw. "I bet Tony would let you have the corporate box and everything."

"Sure," he says, remembering the time he and Bucky took a trip up to the Bronx to see how the other half lived. He tips her head down so he can kiss her again before he starts thinking about stuff that would really kill the mood they've got going. The conversation's allowed him to reassert some control, though, which is good.

This time, she pulls away and he leans after her, makes a small, needy sound that would be embarrassing under any other circumstances.

"Easy, Captain," she says, sliding off his lap. The room is a lot colder without her warmth pressed up against him. She unzips her trousers and slips out of them. She's wearing purple underwear that look like little shorts. She nods her chin at him and says, "Time for the pants to come off. You, too."

He does what she tells him, less gracefully than he'd like, his erection making him careful of the zipper and then self-conscious when his khakis fall to the floor. His jockeys don't hide anything.

"I knew you were a tighty-whiteys man," she says. "Natasha owes me twenty bucks."


"Not that I'll ever tell her, I mean." She gives him a quick, nervous smile. "Nobody has to know about this, if you--"

"You're worried about what might happen if Clint finds out."

"Yes. No." She twines her fingers together and cracks her knuckles. "A little bit. I also don't want you to feel obligated, or have to deal with any," she pauses, as if trying to find the right word, "bullshit, from him or anyone else."

"I can take care of myself, Darcy." He takes her hands. "I'm a big boy."

She glances down and then up again. Even before she speaks, he can feel his face get hot. "You really are." She hooks her thumbs in the waistband of her underwear, but doesn't pull them down.

"If you're having second thoughts," he says.

She takes his hand and puts it between her legs. She's hot as a furnace and the thin cotton of her panties is soaked. "I'm not. Are you?"

"No." He presses his fingers against her and she sucks in a deep breath. "I want this," he says. "I want you." It's not anything he ever expected, but it feels right. He rubs her again through her underwear, watching her whole body shiver in response. "Take these off."

Her grin has a sharp edge to it that makes his cock twitch, and she tosses off a mock salute. "Yes, sir."

His fingers smell like her when he pulls them away, salty and earthy at the same time. He licks them experimentally and finds he likes the taste. She makes a soft choking sound and he looks up to see her staring at him, fingers still hooked in the waistband of her underwear.

"Are you okay?" he asks, concerned.

"Oh, god, yes." She takes his hand and puts his fingers in her mouth, sucking on them the way she'd sucked on the straw in her drink earlier.

He feels a jolt of pleasure right to his dick and gasps at the sensation. "Oh," he says.

She lets his fingers slip out of her mouth with a wet pop and smirks. "Yeah."

He sets his hands on her hips and slips his fingers beneath the elastic of her panties. "Weren't you taking these off?"

She tosses her hair and swivels her hips under his hands. "Why don't you do it?"

"I think I will." He pushes them down, running his hands over the soft skin of her belly and thighs. She inhales sharply when he drops to his knees and presses a kiss to her belly. His mouth waters as he breathes her in. She holds onto his shoulders as she steps out of her panties, and then runs a hand through his hair. His stomach twists nervously, or maybe that's desire. The last time he saw a naked lady was in a life-drawing class and he'd been more concerned about getting his anatomy right after the first few minutes of embarrassment. But he's come too far to back out now. He leans in and licks a stripe up her inner thigh, enjoying the tremor that runs through her and the way her hand tightens in his hair. "Darcy?"

"Get up here, you," she says. "You can get better acquainted with my lady-parts later."

He mouths the word lady-parts in bemusement, but she's not paying attention to his mouth at the moment. She shoves his jockeys down as he stands, and it's his turn to shiver at her touch. She takes his hand and twists at the waist, looking at the doorway to his bedroom.

There's a small tattoo of a nautilus shell on her shoulder, the center of it circling the jut of her scapula. He reaches out, runs his fingers over the spiraling lines. "The army warned us about fraternizing with tattooed ladies."

She throws a laughing glance back over her shoulder. "They just didn't want you running off with any sailors."

"I don't think there was any danger of that."

"No?" She turns back to him, grinning. "Not even if they looked like Cary Grant?"

He laughs. "Well, maybe if they looked like Cary Grant. But none of them ever did."

"That's a shame. Do you want to do this in the bedroom or on the sofa?"

"Sofa's good," he says, pulling her back towards it, self-conscious about his erection. And then he stops. "Rubbers. We need--"

"Oh, oh shit, yeah. In my bag. Hold on." He enjoys the view while she bends down to rifle through her purse. "Gotcha." She holds up a little foil square triumphantly. "We are good to go."

He sits on the sofa and she climbs into his lap, gently tearing open the packet. "I'm on the pill, but hopefully, this can stop your super-swimmers."

"I don't think--" He breaks off and gasps as she rolls the rubber down onto him.


He nods, afraid his voice might break if he speaks.

"Okay." She gives him a wide, bright smile, and then she raises herself up and guides him inside the wet heat of her body. She moves slowly, her eyes closed and her lower lip caught between her teeth as she takes him in, inch by agonizing inch. And then she stops. He closes his eyes, tries to get control of the pounding in his ears, the desperate need to move.

His hands curl over the curves of her hips. "Darcy?"


"I really need to move now."

Her smiles goes wicked. "Oh, do you?"

His hips jerk up in uncoordinated little thrusts that aren't nearly enough to satisfy the need that's building in him. He can feel sweat prickling along his hairline and trickling down between his shoulder blades. "Please?"

"Well, I guess if you really need to move," she says, leaning in and kissing him, "I won't stop you."

She moves with him, letting him set the rhythm once he's got the hang of it. He can't stop talking, telling her how beautiful she is and how good she feels.

"Wow," she says, "I did not expect you to be a talker."

"I'm just full of surprises."

"I can see that. I've got one for you." She guides his hand between them and says, "This is the clitoris."

He moves his fingers the way she shows him to, watching the way her body responds to the touch. "I do know something about anatomy. I went to art school, you know." He flicks the small nub carefully and she gasps and clamps down.

"They teach you that in art school?"

"Not exactly."

It makes her laugh, which vibrates through him and sets off shock waves of pleasure down his spine. She tightens around him again, her breathing ragged, one of her hands playing with her nipples. He can't stop thrusting up into her tight, wet, heat, the world going white behind his eyes.

He slumps forward when he's done, rests his forehead against her collarbone and she smoothes his sweaty hair back.

"You all right?"

He grins at her. "I could do this all day." He's still hard, and unless he missed it (which is embarrassingly possible), she hasn't come yet.

She hums into his mouth in response. "I can tell. Hopefully, we've got more condoms."

He lifts her off him. "In the night table drawer." She gives him a curious look. "Tony and Clint give them to me. They think it's funny."

He's gotten rid of the used one by the time she comes back, full strip in hand this time. "Joke's on them now, huh?"

This time, he lays her down beneath him on the couch and settles between her thighs. She wraps her legs around his hips and thrusts up, her head tipped back so he can lick and nip at the curve of her throat. She skates her hands down his back, the sting of her short nails sharpening his pleasure, and then grabs his ass, laughing when he cries out in surprise. It's less frantic this time, and he's less worried about embarrassing himself and more interested in making sure she's enjoying it. He doesn't need to recite the batting averages of the 1941 Dodgers' lineup, but he does anyway, murmuring it in her ear to make her laugh.

She climaxes first, her whole body going taut and then loose beneath him, and then she comes a second time just before he finds his own release.

"I could lie here forever," he murmurs, nuzzling into her ear and then licking the sweat off her neck.

"Or at least until the next time Loki tries to destroy the world," she answers hugging him close.

"Or that." He huffs a soft laugh. "Are you sure I'm not too heavy?"

"You will be in a few minutes, but right now, I'm enjoying it." She laughs too. "I can't believe I just punched Captain America's v-card. I'm awesome."

"You are," he says, sincere beneath the amusement. "Don't ever let anybody tell you different."

They lie there quietly for a few minutes, catching their breath. Eventually, he gets up and gets rid of the condom over her sleepy protests, and then tosses her over his shoulder and carries her into the bedroom.

"Mm," she says. "I like the view." He slaps her ass and then feels his ears burning in embarrassment at his forwardness, but she just wriggles in his hold and laughs. When he drops her onto the bed, her body's splayed open for him, beautiful. She's flushed, her eyes heavy-lidded and her lips pink and swollen.

"I should paint you like this."

"All right," she says, stretching and yawning. "But first, I'm gonna take a nap."

It's still early--just past seven--so he figures a nap can't hurt. She probably won't stay the night--he's not even sure he wants her to, though he wouldn't mind having sex again before she leaves, or at least getting more intimately acquainted with her lady-parts--but he climbs into bed beside her and puts his arms around her as she sleeps.