are you mine
Bruce Banner is soft-spoken, sweet. He knows this. He doesn’t actively pursue it, but what can you do? He barely meets anyone’s eyes unless he knows them well, he makes stupid dad jokes that have you snorting, he flushes when you kiss his cheek in front of anyone. But there’s something there that only you manage to tug out.
You’re not dating. He’s not sure what it is exactly. The older man is what one’d call a workaholic – before you, he’d eat and sleep in his lab. If he wanted to spice things up a little, he’d go eat and sleep in a lab in a different country! No time for dates. No time for girlfriends. No time for anything.
Except maybe Tony’s new pretty little assistant-slash-intern-slash-apprentice. Young – not even out of college – sweet and funny and full of laughs, brings Bruce coffee and healthy takeout from a place so far away he doesn’t actually know how you get it. And when Tony dismisses you at 9:30 so you can both go home – you, to rest, Tony, to continue working at his home lab – you stick around, keep Bruce company. If he’s not in bed by midnight you drag him there yourself.
Maybe that’s how it started.
He had… thought about you. Holding your hand, kissing you… fucking you. As any sane man would, of course, because you’re fucking stunning and don’t seem to notice the hold you’ve got on him. But it was weird – he was so much older than you, wrinkles tugging at the corner of his eyes and lips, greys sprouting from a select few areas on his head. And don’t even get him started on the Big Guy, who was making it his personal goal to meet you. You excited him.
So he’d never acted on it. For months it’d just been that rising, rising tension, always threatening to boil over before it was removed from its metaphorical hob and returned to simmering. And then you’d smile at him – that soft, bubbling smile reserved for him – and the cycle would start anew.
One night the tension had snapped and broken. You’d taken the first move, right outside his bedroom door – stepped forward and wound your arms around his neck, pulled him close and kissed him breathless. And then you’d pulled back for a second, pupils blown wide and panting.
“Take me inside?” You’d asked quietly.
He’d swallowed. “…Course, princess.”
That night had been intense. You’d been so pliant and sweet, all gasping and whining into his mouth, scratching at his back and begging for more – faster, please, I need it, and then–
“Oh – daddy!"
You had both cum at the same time because of that stupid fucking word – him with a disbelieving moan, you with a broken whimper and body-wracking shudder. He loves it, the trust you place in him. So many people walk around on eggshells around him, too terrified of making him angry and invoking the Other Guy. But he knew that that word – that 5 letter word – meant that you trusted him. That you knew he’d take care of you. And that was all he’s ever wanted.
So no, you’re not dating. You eat lunch together and test hypotheses and he calls you princess like it was the one thing his mouth was made to do but you’re not dating. Not when you’ve surely got a long line of young men looking after you.
He watches you now, flicking through files across the table from him, completely and utterly focused. So pretty. So fucking pretty.
"Hey, princess,” he calls softly, suddenly ready for a break. “You wanna come over here?”
“Just a sec, Bruce.” You’re just as quiet, as if speaking any louder would destroy the carefully cultivated peace. The files you’re looking for are completely redundant and unusable – at this point, it’s just playing hard to get.
“I’m not asking.” He swipes away the hologram in front of him. He’s aware that he sounds like a douchey teenage boy. He’d probably get further faster if he’d just said I’m bored. Come over and sit on my dick.
“You’re not my boss.” But you place down one of many thick binders and round the table, arms folded. You hop atop the counter easily, eyes levelled, and even with your apparent annoyance you still spread your legs, take hold of his shoulders.
“I am your daddy,” he replies – half joking, half serious. And he expects you to melt, like you usually do, but you stiffen instead. Immediately Bruce pulls back, holds your chin between his fingers. “Hey, what’s wrong?"
You don’t answer for a moment. Simply ruck up your skirt and roll off your panties and lay down on your back, tugging him forward so he’s folded over you. He can feel your wetness, your warmth through his slacks, and he swallows dryly.
"Nothing.”
Your fingers work deftly to unzip his slacks, back arching as you reach down to pull him out of his briefs. He’s already hard — has been for the past while — and to his surprise you instantly just press him to your entrance, hook your ankles at the small of his back to push him in further. No foreplay whatsoever.
“Don’t lie to me,” he breathes, resting his lips in the crook of your neck. “Don’t lie to me, princess. What’s bothering you?"
He begins to thrust; lowly and languidly, forehead pressed into your neck, arms clinging to you like you’re the only thing he needs to survive. Which may be true – he just hasn’t had the courage to say it yet.
You’re screwing up your eyes when he raises his head again. “…Are you mine?”
And you sound so fucking sad, so fucking upset, that he genuinely stops in his tracks.
Are you mine?
Yeah, he’s yours. An understatement, really, and more than he’d like to admit – body and soul and all that. Somewhere between the late night trysts and coffee runs and stupid jokes he’d gotten in deep. Whether you’re his is another story.
“C-course I’m yours.” He straightens up in confusion – almost forgets that he’s still balls deep inside you – awkwardly places his hands on your thighs because he’s not sure whether that’s okay for him to do anymore. “W-what makes you think otherwise?”
You open your eyes, then. Eyelashes clinging together from your watery eyes, bottom lip pouting out. “I – you never – I just thought…”
“Are you mine?” He doesn’t need to ask, really. Maybe it’s The Other Guy who wants the reassurance, maybe it’s him. But you deliver, dewy lips splitting in a shy smile.
“Yeah. If you want me to be.”
The scientist beams. “Good.”
“Good.”
You stare at each other for a few moments, before you shift a bit, licking your lips. “Uhm, could you move–?”
“Oh, yeah, of course–”