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Logically, Steve understands the draw. The paragon of justice, truth, compassion and the American way deserves a woman suited to the American Dream. But Steve’s never ascribed to the “American Dream”.
It’s hard to dream of white picket fences and quiet demure women when he’s seen the blood spattered over French beaches, when he’s seen dust-covered bodies in New York, when he’d watched his best friend gun down his (vaguely untrustworthy) boss. But cynicism, he’s discovered, has no place in the public understanding of Captain America.
The thing is, Steve doesn’t like nice girls.
He never has. He likes his women to have life stories, likes women who have fought for something, likes women who aren’t afraid to stand up to him, to tell him he’s being an idiot. Nice girls just aren’t his type.
Maria Hill, on the other hand, is exactly his type.
He feels the sting on the back of his thigh, hisses as he turns to find green paint splattered on his shorts. The high of summer has left all of the Avengers feeling stifled by their training and the rote of day-to-day practice. He’d been endlessly thankful when Maria had shown up a pair of paintball guns in tow to get him into the depths of the woods and away from the responsibilities of leadership. He hears her all but cackling to his left and slips her way, a smile playing about his face.
The hunt is on.
He thinks that’s why he doesn’t like nice girls. Nice girls don’t play dirty paintball, hiding in trees, more than happy to lure him in with a pained scream of his name only to turn and get him in the shoulder. He loves when Maria’s in residence.
He slips silently through the trees, listens for every rustle of the branches. She uses a different pattern every time they play this game. He thinks he’s onto this one, so instead of continuing along where the paintball came from, he darts to his right half way down the path, skipping through the greenery that hides the forest floor until he sees the flash of her pale skin.
He doesn’t think. He acts on instinct, lifting his gun to send the paintball flying.
He gets her shoulder, sees the bloom of yellow on the black of her t-shirt and yells triumphantly. In a couple of quick steps, he’s on her, sweeping her legs out from beneath her. But Maria is no wilting flower. She plays dirty, swipes at ticklish spots and uses every bend and flow of her body to play dirty. He’s laughing when he finally pins her hands above her head.
“Uncle?” he asks, voice lower than he’d expected. Her eyes change at the sound, her body bowing up into his.
“If it was?”
He leans down and takes her mouth. Nice girls don’t kiss like Maria does either, he thinks. This is a woman who is utterly unafraid of what she wants, of using her teeth, her tongue, to scramble his brain. There’s nothing sweet or demure about the meeting of their mouths, about the bite of her nails on the back of his neck, the same way there’s nothing gentle about the grip of his hands on her hips. Her hand slips over his back, her nails make the trip back up on bare skin and he lifts away from her mouth with a gasp.
“Does this mean I win?” she breathes out, her voice still sharp and short in her lungs.
“If I say yes, do you think we might actually make it to a bed this time?”
Last time she’d had scratches on her back for a week from the bite of tree bark on her skin. He’d blushed every time he’d seen them, in pride and in embarrassment.
Her grin is hot, unrepentant, wanting. “Only one way to find out.”
He lets her up, of course, even gives her a hand. He is utterly unsurprised when she turns on him right away, shoves him back the handful of steps to the nearest wide tree. He laughs a little as she presses her lithe body to his, cups her head easily in his palm.
“You planned this.”
She hums as she kisses him, licks into his mouth. Her hands skin his t-shirt over his head and drop it right there on the forest floor. She moves her mouth down his neck across his collarbones. He lets her (of course he lets her), her mouth licking at his pectoral muscles, dancing around a nipple until she can trace his abs with her tongue.
“Shit. Maria.”
He’s pretty sure ‘nice’ girls don’t do this either, down on their knees in the dirt, tugging at the drawstring of his shorts. She takes him in hand, uses the free one to shove his shorts down just enough so she can wrap her mouth around him. He swears again and knocks his head back against the tree. His hands thread through her hair, just for the touch, because when Maria is on her knees she’s the one running the show.
Steve is very, very, very okay with that.
He lets her play until he can’t really breathe without feeling like he’s going to explode. Only then does he tug on her hair to bring her up his body, his chest heaving as he takes her mouth. He doesn’t care about the taste of himself on her tongue, he cares about the way her neck bends back, the way her body presses against his.
“You can’t walk back like that,” she tells him, smug, her hand still sliding up and down his erection.
“No,” he agrees, voice gone low and dark, his hand slipping down from her hair to press against the small of her back. It aligns her hips with his, presses him into her just right. Her eyes flutter. “So what was your plan, sweetheart?”
His hands cup her hips, rock her against his thigh. Her fingers scratch at his skin in earnest, leave marks that heal minutes after she gouges his skin. He slows her hips so he can give her an arched eyebrow. “Is that what this is about? You want me all scratched up this time?”
Her head tips back and she moans when he takes up the invitation willingly. She can feel the heavy press of his teeth against her skin but he avoids using them. He doesn’t want to leave marks, not this time. It’s another thing he’s never really felt right about up against the idea of a ‘nice’ girl. Because sometimes, if he’s in New York City and lucky, Maria will give him an entire weekend and free reign of her body. He leaves marks beside her scars, in his more romantic moments, tells her that it’s his appreciation for what she’s gone through, for the woman she is.
“It’ll last what, a day?” Maria asks, drawing his attention back to the logistics at hand. “Then your back will be as good as new.”
“Maybe,” he allows as he wraps his arm around her middle. “I have another idea.”
He spins her with in quick movement, listens to the way her breath catches as he manhandles her against the tree.
“Hands up, sweetheart. No reason to scratch up such a pretty face.”
“Fuck you,” she says on a laugh, even as she does what she’s told. She bends at the waist so he can press against her ass, arms straight, back one long smooth stretch. He leans down to press a kiss to the back of her neck with a hum, slips his hand around the front of her until he slips it into her own shorts. The elastic stretches without effort and he tucks his fingers just below the line of her panties.
“Working on it,” he says against her skin, presses in to test. She’s soaked against his fingertips and he slides them out her shorts. A moment later, he shoves both shorts and panties to her ankles as he lifts his hand to his mouth. “Oh sweetheart.”
“God I hate that name.”
He laughs. “Not when you’re in the thick of it,” he replies, tugs his own shorts down again until he can press into her. “Not when you’re like this.”
Her entire body goes tense for a moment, then shakes as she takes him in, wraps him in the glorious heat of her body.
“No, when you’re like this you don’t care what I call you, do you, sweetheart. You don’t care about anything. Can’t even speak when everything’s just right.”
And he knows what that means. He pulls his hips back, gives her a slow, thick, deep slide that makes her back arch and her hands clench in the bark.
“Like that. Everything hard and deep. Knocks you out of your own head until it’s all you can focus on.” Her hips arch, press and she groans as she takes him in again, as she moves with him and against him. “You gonna touch yourself, sweetheart? Got the balance?”
She tosses her head. “I’ve already done the hard work.”
He laughs again, because God, he’s not sure he ever knew sex could include so much sass, but Maria’s not shy. She balances herself with one hand despite the slow delicious slide of him inside her, grips one of his hands at her hip to bring it around her front. They touch her together, fingers tangling and he speeds up. It’s delicious and beautiful, the sun dancing off her back through the trees, the way she can never wait to get back to the facility for this.
He can feel the first flutters of her around him – Maria knows what she’s doing, knows her own body, shows him, rather than waiting for him to figure it out – and he presses a little harder, thrusts a little deeper until her breath hitches and she comes, body vibrating against his. He stays in her as she comes down, aware of how sensitive she is after orgasm (they don’t even cuddle normally, and he thinks that’s another thing that disqualifies Maria from being a ‘nice’ girl).
What he doesn’t expect is for her to pull away completely, to stand and yank her panties and shorts up her leg. She’s a mess, sweat and he knows from experience, her own release between her thighs but she doesn’t seem to care. Instead she turns in a quick movement, falls to her knees and sucks him down before he can so much as reach for her.
And this time, there isn’t a damn piece of her that’s teasing. She takes him apart with a few knowing swipes of her tongue and the wet heat of her mouth. She swallows him down, eyes bright and triumphant. She pulls up his boxers and pants as she stands and he combs his hands through her hair while he catches his breath. He has to bite his lip against a groan when she licks him off her lips, watches her shift. His eyes light up.
“Come on. We did it your way, now we’re going to do it mine.”
“Oh?” Her eyes are still a little glazed, body wonderfully fluid as she moves to pick up her nearby gun. He reaches for her when she stands, takes her mouth. She tastes like him, like a strange possessive claim that goes both ways, but beneath it is Maria.
“I’m going to strip you naked and clean you up,” he says, licks into her mouth again in an obscene preview of what he means. “And you’re going to clench your hands in the sheets and let me.”
He thinks that maybe a ‘nice’ girl would baulk at the idea, would automatically tell him he didn’t have to, but Maria’s never done such a thing. Instead, she offers him a lascivious grin and runs her hand down his chest.
“You’re on.”