[A/N] Happy Fanfic Friday! This one is for my beloved friend Luca, who introduced me to the entire Avengers franchise and now endures my flailing about Brucenat/Hulkwidow headcanons.
If you want more Brucenat after this, you can check out "MOSAICS," which takes place between Avengers 1 & 2. It may actually get an update this weekend (as opposed to waiting until next Friday), so there's that.
As always, I hope you enjoy!
His kiss waits for her as she comes down. In the pulse-quickened, trembling aftermath, she relaxes onto his thighs, hands slipping from back to hips, and loses track of her mind in his mouth. Stillness replaces the rushing gust of breaths, an avalanche of skin over skin, and the crashing waves of rustled sheets.
The comforter was long lost to the floor, back whenever their blissful deconstruction began. They devote to each other and not time, for they know a morning will patiently await the conclusion of a weekly ritual. In the gap between climax and an illuminated horizon, she kisses him; buries her fingers in the curls budding from his skull and simply kisses him.
Sometimes, even after years together, their foreheads will bump as they choose a simultaneous moment to stray from lips to unlocked chin, down the neck's landscape and up again. Right now, however, she's first to the worshipping. When she slides away to lavish the crux of ear and jaw, he instinctively nudges toward her, seeking her absence. A new smile presses from her lips to his skin, and she drags it down, nuzzling her nose into their scent captured in his pores.
Around her waist, his arms link to form the safest home she's ever known.
She emerges from the nook she's made for herself and rests her brow to his. Another time, in a time that felt closer in memory than in actuality, this is where he would check in. Always fearful, he would ask if his passion was permissible. Never was there shame of them, rather apprehension for her safety. Over a hundred reminders of her strength, combined with a few endeavors in pinning him down, finally affirmed that. Now, the question, "Was that okay?" doesn't come.
This is no different from any other time. No special occasion sparked their coming together. Yet, she rests atop him, Bruce still nestled within her and her in his hair, and thinks back to the mountains in Russia, where she asked him to marry her. Not right then, and not to prove anything, but ask if he had as much faith in them as she. His affirmation satisfied her more than the title of "engaged," and so they had been since that trip four years ago — "engaged."
It's not from any post-orgasmic delirium or dreamy reminiscence the question emerges, but from the same wonder that struck her years ago. With the sides of his head cradled between her still-damp palms, she murmurs for only him to hear, "Do you still want to marry me?"
Maybe not the best way to phrase that. The abruptness of it causes him to perk up, meet her gaze. "Of course," he says easily, checking her features for something that wasn't there. "I...I want to spend the rest of my life with you."
"How about now?"
An endearing mix of confusion and welcome surprise radiates from him. It reminds her of the expression she might see on Clint's kids' faces if they threw a surprise birthday party on an ordinary day.
The feeling leaks into Bruce's voice, "Get married right now?"
She smiles her reassurance. "Yeah."
The same joy starts to spread to him, even as he points out, "City hall's closed right now."
"We're also naked."
The bashful chortle her reply elicits only steels her will to act on this impulse.. He stores his laugh in the scant space between their chests; meanwhile, she presses on, "We don't need a government certificate."
She can feel the grin wound up in his cheeks when she embraces his face. In response, the arms around her unweave and rub up to her shoulder blades.
Utterly calm and sure, she continues. "I don't need anything to prove I want to be with you. This can happen whenever we want, just you and me."
"Alright," he agrees. "Right now." For all the things he's even been unsure of, for any insecurity that plagued him, none of them seemed to sway his mutual assuredness. "How do we start?"
This was happening. Despite what every shadow hissed at her, despite what she was trained to believe, somebody — this beautiful man, mirror of the truest parts of herself — wanted to remain with her, spend his life with her without question. He loved her just as much as she did him, and both of those facts ranked of the highest value in her view.
Without platitudes or a list of all the ways he's brought her joy, she asks this man she loves, "Will you spend the rest of your life with me?"
Nothing but a galaxy's luster in his eyes, he answers, "I don't want it any other way." Then he returns the sentiment, "Do you want to stay with me?"
"Affirmative."
He chuckles back, "'Affirmative?'"
Instead of fixating on the mock teasing, she seizes this man who holds her, shares in her sweat, who loves her and her shadows, her husband, and kisses him. There's no urgency, nothing ground-shattering reawakened. Better — it's her flush against him and his eager mouth moving with hers.
He seals their ceremony, parting for only as long as he needs to tell her, "I love you."