Shield and Gun Pt. 01

It had been a long three weeks since Natasha and Steve had holed up in the cabin, on the run from remnants of Hydra, and Hawkeye. They settled into a routine, though Black Widow admonished herself during this time as she had not so easily fallen into it.

Steve was a natural - coming from a simpler time of the 1940s and roughing it on the front lines of WWII, he seemed perfectly at home sans any technology or modern advancements. Natasha, on the other hand, had struggled to keep herself busy and found herself cleaning and re-cleaning her guns as Steve went about the daily business of chopping wood and starting a fire in the lone fireplace of the one-room cabin.

She was in the middle of cleaning the sights on one when a flash of sunlight broke through the misty haze of the morning. Looking at him, she idly played with the contours of her gun. He modestly wore a tank undershirt as he took the hard, sharp metal of his shield and expertly split a log, the sinews of his muscles left little to the imagination as it plainly showed his figure beneath moistened cloth from mild exertion and the damp mountain air of their hideout. Clutching his waist was a pair of sensible khakis he apparently kept in the bag on his motorcycle. Why exactly he carried a pair of pants around gave her momentary pause before she kept on with her unabashed leering.

His blonde hair was matted with sweat and moisture as he stoically split another log effortlessly, the warped glass of the window playing with his visage to her eyes. And as if he felt her eyes upon him, he stopped mid rise of the shield, and turned, meeting her gaze. Her cheeks flushed a deep red, matching the fiery crown the curls of her hair formed around her face. Without modern comforts, her hair had succumbed to nature and now furiously curled in the dampness of the air, a halo of red framing her face.

She smiled meekly, and waved at him idiotically. One corner of his mouth perked up into a lopsided smile.

"Don't come in...don't come in..." she thought to herself, cheeks still burning unencumbered from being caught looking at him.

But he had taken her wave as an invitation and gently put his shield down, gathered the split logs and booted through the front door.

"Did you need something, Nat?"

It was a line she had become accustomed to hearing from him, as he had patiently been waiting on her hand and foot due to her ineptness.

"Uhhh...no," she responded lamely, "...aren't you cold?"

His entry into the cabin had rushed in a breeze of cool air with him, causing her cheeks to deepen into an even deeper red.

He laughed genuinely, a playful lilting of the notes as his blue eyes creased at their corners, "Nah, this is nothing compared to being frozen for a few decades."

She placed the gun she had been cleaning down, carefully onto the table in front of her, "Sorry, that was a bit mindless of me."

Smirking, he walked over to the fireplace and deposited the fresh firewood in the metal basket. She couldn't help but watch him, his long legs allowing him graceful and methodical movement - so unlike the sharp albeit frantic movements of her own petite body.

As if he sensed her feeling of ineptitude, he sat next to her, looking at the gun on the table, "These things have gotten so complicated," he said, motioning vaguely in her direction, maybe to the gun. But a sense of double entendre was lingering in the air at his words.

It was her turn to smirk, "Is that why you've decided to not use them anymore?"

"I'm not slow, and I enjoy a challenge, why don't you show me how it works?"

Narrowing her eyes a bit, Natasha wasn't sure if they were talking about the gun still, but she obliged, reaching one slender, well manicured hand out at the metal contraption, when his larger hand rested on hers.

"That's not what I meant." He said plainly.

She panicked.

Eyes wide, she looked at him worriedly, "Wha-?"

He lowered his lashes, long and blonde at the tips but darker and ruddy at their roots, and then looked at her.

Without saying a word, he lifted his other hand to her cheek, still flushed and now burning more fiercely as her nerves took a hold of her, he stroked the pale skin affectionately. She was caught in his gaze, unaccustomed to him touching her like this.

Neither of them blinked, they just stared at one another, refusing to breathe. She hadn't realized she was holding her breath until she let it all out in one slow near-whimper and the spell was broken.

He lowered his hand back to the couch.

"I'm sorry," He said, and almost ashamed. She could see in his eyes, blinking now, that he meant it.

She couldn't respond. She didn't.

And her silence wedged between them, causing him to get up and go back outside, calling behind him, "Let me know when you're hungry. I'll start a fire."

Natasha had never been a woman scared of her own desires, but she was terrified. She and Steve had developed a well fought for friendship. Covertly, she had let the rumors circulate that she and Hawkeye were an item, even having him give gifts she bought herself. In truth, they were best friends, and she trusted him to keep her secret. If people thought she was already involved with someone, then no one would be so bold as to try to engage her.

Her cheek tingled of its own volition, reminding her of Steve's touch. He was the last person she thought would even think to cross that line.

The thought of Clint caused her to involuntarily reach up to touch the small pendant necklace Hawkeye gave her as a gift - a singular arrow connected to a chain at tip and quill.

But they were on the run from Hawkeye. He shot at her. He had become so singularly minded that she didn't even recognize him anymore.

Without her permission, her gaze returned to look through the glass pane window at Steve. And she couldn't help but wonder if she had been in denial this entire time...

That night was a particularly cold one, and after quelling the awkwardness between the two with jokes over meals and plans on what to do with the shambles of Hydra once they found they unraveled the mess they were in, things returned to a tentative normal.

Cocooned in blankets and quilts, with a roaring fire at her feet, Natasha was still shivering.

She rustled, sitting up in the lone cot like bed in the cabin and she could see Steve's prostrate figure asleep on the couch.

But she knew better.

"Sorry," she whispered over to him, knowing full well that the serum had not only enhanced his physical prowess but also his senses, and that he was quite the light sleeper.

"It's okay. Are you cold? I hear you shaking." He stirred, sitting up and looking back at her, the flickering firelight dancing across his well chiseled face and flirting shimmers in his cropped, blond hair.

"There aren't any more blankets. I'll endure." She offered him a smile that quickly left her lips as he stood up, clad in nothing but his tank and boxer briefs. Envious of his durability and tolerance for the cold, she chided herself - after all, she was the 'Russian.'

As her mind scolded her ethnic failings, he lumbered purposefully over to her, "Scoot over."

She looked up at him with bewildered eyes, "What?"

"Scoot over," he nudged her playfully.

Obliging, but still confused, she objected only in words, "This is smaller than a twin, Steve."

He squeezed his large frame onto the cot and deftly lifted her slightly on top of him. His hand nearly burned her cold flesh.

"Jesus Christ you are a hot."

"Why thank you, Nat, you're not too bad yourself."

She rolled her eyes, but was quite thankful for the body heat he was generating and she at once relaxed.

"You're so corny." but she curled up on him, reveling in his furnace like heat, "It's a wonder you didn't melt the ice when you crashed that plane."

She felt the deep rumblings of a chuckle, her ear planted on his expansive chest.

"Well if I had, I wouldn't be here today to keep you warm. So I'll be thankful that didn't happen."

So considerate, she thought to herself, he was always so damn considerate.

Her mind absentmindedly began to catalog all the instances of his consideration towards her, an exhaustive exercise, that she hadn't noticed he had shifted his hand from laying on it awkwardly to resting near her waist, his fingertips brushing her side.

His breathing was rhythmic and steady, and she found herself lulled, not into sleepiness, but pure relaxation.

She felt safe.

After a long while, she whispered to him in the semi-darkness, "Steve..."

"Mmmm?" was his only reply.

"Can you hold me?" She asked bluntly, before stammering out an awkward, "I-I'm afraid I'll fall off otherwise."

"Sure, Nat." And she felt his broad shoulders shift, his long arms curl, and his hands clasp at her waist, holding her securely.

She couldn't tell whether or not his hands had been shaking...but he wasn't cold.

Drifting further into relaxation and bordering on sleep, she nuzzled his chest and neck and felt him breathe out slowly.

With his hands splayed on her sides, she felt a twinge of wanton desire strike her in her half dazed state.

And it became obvious that he was struck with the same feeling, the fabric of his undergarments now beginning to strain against the pressure of his wants.

He didn't dare move.

She bit her lip, thinking quickly to herself. She wanted him, there was no denying that, but she was afraid that it was a product of the proximity and that it'd ruin their wonderful friendship. Plus, as far as she knew, Steve was a virgin, his body was probably extra sensitive to these kinds of things, and it's not inherently an indication of his actual desire, and...isn't he sleeping?

She decided to test, just for curiosity sake, or at least that was what she was telling herself, as she shifted her weight and her knee ever so gently rested against the length of his growing nethers.

He didn't move.

She smirked, knowing full well he was awake, light sleeper and all, but wondered about his motivation for staying so still. She even thought he had stopped breathing.

She looked up at him, the full line of his lips resting silently, his lashes lowered into a gentle sleep like expression.

"Steve..." she whispered at him.

He didn't respond.

"Steve..." she whispered again.

Still no response.

Rolling her eyes for the second time that night, she turned her body so they were now chest to chest, their lower extremities dangerously close to one another, "Like that is it?"

She lifted herself slightly, lowering her face a mere inch from his, Steve still laughably keeping a straight faux-sleep face.

She whispered breathlessly, "Do you want me?"

She felt his breath catch at her words, and he finally opened his eyes. The deep blue of his eyes were tinged with an emotion she often recognized in him - sadness, maybe even regret - but it wasn't as intense as when she normally saw them. They were a beautiful shade, with the illusion of shards of glass overlaid on dark waters - in the stillness of the night they looked nearly black.

He looked ashamed, and concerned, but answered honestly, "Yes."

The affirmation felt amazing. And she hadn't realized just how badly she had wanted that answer until she heard it. She supposed they had both been in denial in their friendship, willfully ignoring the growing attraction between them.

She couldn't help but smile softly down at him before whispering, "Good..." and she lowered her mouth to his, tentatively at first, a church-like kiss in which their lips molded willingly to one another - not sterile like the one kiss they had shared before on the escalator of the mall in DC, but sweet and restrained.

Opening their eyes, they looked at one another earnestly. He face was riddled with worry, not exactly the kind of reaction she was expecting, "Nat, what about Clint?"

She smiled gently at him, kissing his chin lightly, "We're just really good friends. Kiss me some more?"

The regret she had just seen in his eyes was replaced with a surge of relief, excitement, and...something else...

The moment was broken when he lifted his head to hers and kissed her passionately, no longer chaste, with his tongue tangling with hers, his hands cupping either side of her face, a guttural groan escaping him as she responded to his kiss in kind.

Her lips were plush and full, massaging his own as their tongues sparred with one another and she pressed her hips down on his navel, a scant inch away from a his more sensitive parts.

She was so tiny, he was afraid he was going to hurt her, but as if reading his mind, she grabbed his right hand and rested it on backside, pressing his splayed hand in an indication for him to squeeze.

He obliged, his heart pounding and blood racing as he felt the soft, tender flesh of her cheek, cool against the ever-growing heat of his body. His eyes closed, his mind raced at the image of them - her straddling him, on top of him, her back arched slightly as her full breasts rested upon his chest.

One of her hands ventured down and slipped underneath his briefs' waistline. He tensed. His breathing was ragged. But he kept kissing her.

He nearly jumped out of his skin as her small, cool hands wrapped around the shaft of him. He had never been touched there before - and he nearly lost his control in that very moment.

He groaned into her mouth. She pulled away, smiling down at him, "This is nothing..." she promised him and turning her head to the side, she caught his hand that had been resting on her cheek and took one of his strong fingers into her mouth, the sparring her tongue had been engaged in, now sparring with his finger, her eyes locked on his. Her hands gently stroked up and down, achingly slow, as she sucked on the digit, causing Steve's mouth to fall open and hold his breath once more.

His hand involuntarily squeezed her backside and his hips lifted against her down-stroke of their own volition. "Jesus Christ..." he seethed, breathless.

Natasha was enjoying herself - she had never been with such a seemingly grateful man, nor one so shamelessly enjoying himself.

"You've never been a virgin ever, Natasha," her mind reminded her.

After a moment she stopped, releasing him from her grasp and mouth and he looked utterly broken that she had done that.

Sitting up on him, her legs hugging his form as if riding a horse, she lifted the single shirt she had on over her head, her naked form resting firmly on top of him, only but her panties keeping any sense of modesty.

He stared at her in wonderment, instinctively rising to meet her and took one of her nipples into his mouth, his arms wrapping like chords around her tiny waist. It was her turn to swear, "Fucking hell, I thought you were a virgin?"

He mumbled something that she couldn't quite make out, her head dizzy with excitement at the jolts of pleasure his flicking tongue on her nipple was rocking through her body, but she thought he said, "Internet."

She was quivering from his ministrations, her hands now roaming her smooth back and gripping the ends of her hair almost forcefully arching her spine so he could better attend to her breasts.

Her hands clutched his blonde hair in kind, pulling him into her, her breathing haggard, inconsistent, and shallow as a deep warmth brewed between her legs.

Unceremoniously, he stood up, taking her with him and walked them both to the floor in front of the fire, between the tiny bed and couch. He laid her down stood over her.

Lashes fluttering open, she looked up at him, looming over her semi-backlit from the lowering glow of the fireplace, his broad frame heaving with heavy breathing as he slid the tank off. He was built so beautifully - with long muscles hugging his long bones with purpose and threat - an expansiveness to him that wasn't at all intimidating to her, but welcoming and comforting.

He paused for a moment, but then thought better of it and proceeded to lower his briefs.

She idly thought to herself that no woman had ever seen him naked before. She felt privileged, and as she caught sight of what he had been hiding and what she had been previously touching, she felt thankful. What a waste that he's only now having sex, his body was definitely built for it.

A rush of excitement ran through her then, but she didn't move, enraptured in taking him all in. From the faint tan line of his shirt to the lightly fuzzed navel leading a trail of hair down to that gloriously untouched manhood. She bit her lip and he lowered himself, ceremoniously taking off her plain panties and she all of a sudden felt a bit self conscious.

He was utterly, physically perfect, and here she was, marred and scarred from her haphazard life - her hand began to move as to hide the most jarring of scars - the bullet wound she had gained from the Winter Soldier, but his words stopped her.

"You're so beautiful, Natasha..."

They weren't the words of a man trying to woo her, he said it so matter of factly that she believed it. It was a statement - not a plea.

Bracing one arm, he raised himself above her, poised for their union.

He hesitated again, and she saw it, but urged him on, "No regrets, Steve, we both want this."

That was all he needed to hear, and he timidly pushed apart the gentle folds of her lower lips, the wet warmth enveloping him in welcome, and he shook in her arms momentarily.

"Fuck," he said, taking her aback, as she had never heard him curse in the years they had known each other.

He almost collapsed on her, so shaken with pleasure at their first direct intimate touch, but he caught himself, her hand encouragingly resting on his chest, "Not yet it's not," she teased him.

She was rewarded with a smile, a flexing of his lower muscle which caused her to arch her back, and the game was on.

He pulled back, the long length of him achingly leaving the comfort of her body only to plunge back inside causing her body to rack in response, a moan escaping her lips.

Leering down at her, he did it again, his own body beginning to quake with his movements, the rise of pleasure swelling in him.

Arching her neck up, she beckoned him for a kiss. He somewhat begrudgingly acquiesced, as he had been enjoying seeing her shake with ecstasy - her beautiful mouth agape, her cheeks flushed, her eyes half shut with her raspy voice moaning for more. Lowering his mouth to hers hungrily, he savagely kissing her mouth as he slowly exited and entered her body, his one arm taut at the strain of keeping from bearing his full weight on her.

He kept on with the slow movement, driving her both wild and mad, she wanted nothing more than him to take her as roughly as he was kissing her. Attempting to spur him on, she raked her nails down his back, maybe even drawing a little blood, causing him to cry out and grit his teeth while she bit his lip.

And with that, the movement shifted from making love to taking one another, ravaging each other desperately and he began to pound himself against her with an urgency that scared him.

With each assault, their tongues matched, darting in and other of each other's mouths in choreographed movement as they seemingly tried to claw their way into one another. He tucked one hand beneath her, lifting her hips forcefully with each thrust of his pelvis and he suddenly felt her entire body tense up. She squeezed him from below, harshly, almost causing him to lose himself, and he momentarily stopped his movements.

"No...please, don't stop."

He started again, causing her once again to tense and cry out, and each cry became louder and louder as he continued moving in her, their joining soaked with mingled sweat and the excited slick now pouring out of her, willingly urging him on.

He was close to climax and he knew it, he wanted to slow down, to prolong it, but she spurred him on, hip thrust matched for hip thrust, the sounds of her pleasure drowning him in satisfaction.