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Avengers: The Bloodstone Agenda (TheCorsair & surrealobsession)

Loki leaned into her body as she growled her demand, his fingers digging into the flesh of her ass. His fought hers as she claimed his mouth, tongues slipping and darting for domination. His hips bucked, pounding his cock deep into her slick heat of her sex without withdrawing. He made a noise that was half moan, half growl as he tore his lips from hers and his sharp teeth bit down on her jaw, her throat, her shoulder, leaving marks and once drawing blood.

"So... fucking... good..." he snarled in his lust, letting her taste the smear of her blood on his tongue as he kissed her again. The rhythm of his hips against hers, his cock in her cunt, bounced her breasts against his chest - still covered by shirt and coat - and filled the air with the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh and against the wall. Her sex clenched around him like a slick velvet vice, and he threw his head back with a snarling sound of animal lust.

"Again," he demanded, reveling in the feel of her body, "tell... me... what... you... want..." The words came out in explosive grunts as he fucked her hard against the wall. His lips found hers with bruising force, matching the power of his thrusts and the steel grip of fingers on soft skin. "What... do... you... want..."
 
Bobby cried out with every thrust of his hips, her fingers buried in the long. raven strands of his hair. His biting only added to the overall sensation, only made her want more, feel more out of control. So lost was she that when he drew blood she barely noticed, all focus on the heat between them, the fire building as her walls began to tighten. The angle was perfect, keeping her trapped against the wall, his sharp pelvic bone pressing into her straining clit and stimulating her more effectively than if she had wriggled her fingers between the tiny space of their bodies.

She managed to loosen his tie and ripped open his shirt at the top, exposing his pale flesh. Her own teeth found him now, biting him as he had her, leaving marks and redness behind, once breaking the skin. Their blood mingled on her tongue, obscene, violent, sickening and yet so right. There was no sex and violence, no separation. Just passion, burning and intense and sending her closer to the edge.

"Fuck me! Don't stop...keep fucking me," she growled moving back to grip his shoulders. She was right there, right on the edge, but not quite going over. Wanting to prolong it as much as possible, to savor the feeling of him filling her, taking her more thoroughly than she ever had been before.

"Do you like the way my cunt feels around you?" she panted into his ear, biting the lobe. She had always had a taste for dirty talk, and he had whipped her into a frenzy with his own.
 
"Yesss..." Loki hissed, both in answer to her question and in response to her lips and teeth. "Such a sweet cunt," he groaned, words in rhythm with his body. Then he shifted his stance a little, gripping her hips and lifting her up as he pulled out to pull her to him as he thrust home again, as if he were using her to jerk himself off.

"You love this, don't you?" His mouth was on her throat again, sucking and biting. "Getting fucked... against a wall... by a... stranger..." His lips bruised hers, and his cock throbbed. "Such a... good... fucking... slut..."

He moaned as she clenched around him, nearly sending him over the edge. "Gonna... cum... Bobby..." And then he stopped, holding her pinned against the wall by hands and cock and weight. "You want that, Bobby? You want my seed filling you, as I fuck my cum into this tight cunt?" He slammed himself forward. "Tell me, Bobby. Tell me what you want."
 
"Oh God," she sobbed as he fucked her, calling her names, talking dirty. If there had ever been anything that drove her crazy, it was that. And he did it with such authority, such confidence. He knew she loved every second of what he was doing to her, the filthiness of it all. The marks he would leave on her neck would be a testament to his claiming, and that drove her wild, as well.

"Yes, I love it," she panted, feeling herself right there, so close, so very close... "Taking your cock, knowing we only just met. Showing you what a little whore I am."

She was moaning, wanting her release more than anything, wanting his. When he stopped she actually whimpered in frustration. But then he was slamming himself forward, slow but hard, and his words drove her right to the point of the edge.

"FUCK! Yes! I want your cum," she shouted as her climax lingered, beginning with a slow shiver, perched just short of a full orgasm. She wriggled and knew the moment he moved again her walls, clenched right around him, would bring her release.

"Please, give it to me," she begged, biting his lip. "Fill me with it..."
 
As if biting his lip were a trigger, Loki crushed her against the wall, his cock working like a piston within her. He groaned aloud as he felt himself grow harder as her walls gripped and massaged his shaft, and his whole world contracted to the agonizing pleasure of wet friction and skin on skin.

"FUCK!" he roared triumphantly as his orgasm erupted, white-hot seed spurting deep into her womb.
 
That sudden frantic thrusting was all she needed. She cried out his name, letting it fall from her lips like a prayer. Her eyes closed and her head fell back against the wall, hitting in a way that might have been painful had she not been totally lost in her bliss. Fingers dug into his shoulders, his flesh protected from their cut by the layers of clothing still held to his body.

Wave after wave of pleasure shuddered through her body, until she was gasped, coming down. The thought that she had taken him, taken his cum when they had only just met, was surprisingly erotic. She had never done such a thing before, always insisting on protection and preferring to be finished on rather than in.

This was more intimate, more intense, and she felt claimed and satisfied by the result. Laying her forehead against his, she caught her breath, then grinned.

"Bloody murder then fucking...you sure know how to treat a girl," she told him.
 
Loki groaned aloud as he felt her orgasm, felt the delicate walls of her sex pulsing and milking him. His cock throbbed in time with his pulse and his movements, filling her with his seed as her gasped and clung to him. Slowly, reluctantly, his thrusts became less and less urgent as he spent himself in her willing body. Finally, hair and body slick with sweat and their mingled juices, he leaned against her. For a moment they stood, forehead to forehead, gasping for breath.

She grinned. "Bloody murder then fucking...you sure know how to treat a girl," she told him.

"Oh no, Bobby," he grinned back, his softening cock still nestled in her. "I'm not interested in girls." He kissed her gently. "I know how to treat a woman."
 
The bustle of the airport was stressful in the extreme. Natasha has always hated crowded places; there were too many people, too many variables. It was impossible for even a well placed tactical team to keep an eye on everything. But they didn't even have that safety net; Steve and herself stood in the middle of the din, tourists and returning residents just trying to get through the day and to their destination. Her eyes flickered around, distrustful, half-expecting an enemy to pop through the throng in a Hawaiian shirt.

"Are you traveling for pleasure or business?" came the heavily accented voice from the counter. She looked over, forcing her scowl into a smile. Customs had become murder in recent years, more stringent than ever before. Natasha knew it didn't matter...the people you had to worry about didn't often fly on commercial jets.

"Please," she said, gripping Steve's arm in what she hoped passed as a new bride's vigor. "Honeymoon."

"Ah!" said the customs agent with a knowing smile. "Well, you will love Iceland, it is a most romantic and beautiful place. Everything seems to be in order. You may pass through." He handed back their documents, waving them through the line to get to the quietly chattering British tourists behind them.

Natasha led Steve away from the kiosk and toward the exit. The Reykjavík airport was not nearly as large as many others she had been in, and they didn't have far to go before they were walking in fresh air and sunlight. She sighed in relief. "Well, we at least got here," she said, knowing that they still had a couple of nights to kill before they were contacted by their source and given a charter to the small laboratory Selvig was running.

"I suggest we get the hotel and check into our room."
 
It had been a busy two days for Captain Steven Grant Rogers, 101st Airborne Division, 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 2nd Batallion, Able Company, on special assignment to the Office of Strategic Services (Retired). Not because of the necesssity to put together convincing cover identities - SHIELD could churn those out in a matter of minutes - but because of the need to pack. Or, more precisely, because Tony Stark had shown up to help with the packing. And then, within a matter of minutes, had tossed half of Steve's clothes back out of his suitcase.

Actually, Tony had almost tossed them out the window, insisting the whole time that he was doing him a favor. "Seriously, Steve," he'd said, looking at a flannel shirt with dismay, "what the hell is this? This is not what a man on his honeymoon wears."

"It's comfortable!"

"It looks like you mugged a lumberjack!" He tossed the shirt back on the bed. "You, Captain, need a wardrobe change."

"There's nothing wrong with my clothes!"

Tony had laughed, throwing one arm around his shoulders and putting his sunglasses on with the other. "Steve, I have it on good authority from Pepper that you are a good-looking man - which made me consider melting your face with a repulsor blast, by the way - but you need to dress like it. You dress like my dad!"

"I knew your dad!"

Tony stopped, turned, and looked at him. "And I feel so bad for you, Steve. C'mon!"

C'mon traslated into a visit to Tony's tailor, two new suits, and four new shirts. And two new pairs of shoes. At his rough estimate, the suit he was wearing now - black linen slacks and jacket, cream-colored oxford, and black leather loafers - would have paid his salary for a year in the Army. Maybe Bucky's as well. But, hell, maybe Tony was right. Because the suit made him look pretty good. And between it and Natasha clinging to his arm, he felt like a million bucks.

Or was that a billion bucks, now? Inflation was pretty bad, these days.

Despite the woolgathering, he remained aware of his surroundings as they emerged from the airport. It was every nightmare of city-fighting imaginable. A million places for a rifleman to hide, civilians everywhere - any one of which could be an enemy combatant, and no good cover. Had he really been here on a pleasure trip, he wouldn't have been cared. But his camouflaged shield was heavy in the arm that he didn't have around Natasha's shoulders, and the crimson stone in it's shielded container in his pocket felt noticible.

"I suggest we get to our hotel and check into our room," Natasha murmured, pressing up against him as he signaled a taxi.

He grinned and stooped his head, lips brushing her coppery hair he tightened his arm around her. "After six hours in the air? Yes. Definitly." It was an act, of course, a performance to make them look like honeymooners. But it still left him uncomfortable - she was Clint's girl, and he was enjoying this far more than was right. He actually felt relieved when the taxi pulled up.

"Vio purfum ao fara ekki a Hotelio Borg, vinsamlegast," he said as he slid into the cab next to Natasha, hoping he wasn't mangling the pronunciation too badly. And, after a few minutes of driving through a very scenic city, it seemed that he'd done okay.

hotel-borg-reykjavik.jpg


(OOC: I give you the Hotel Borg, a real five-star hotel in Rekyjavic. Clearly, Tony made the reservations.)
 
(( OOC: Dayum! ))

Natasha wasn't usually one to enjoy herself on missions. Even when she had been beside Clint, she wouldn't call things pleasant. There was passion, yes, and pleasure. But that was intense, almost painful in the way they approached one another the rest of the time. Like something on the side of business, abrupt and lacking any emotion that didn't hurt. It frequently reminded her that she wasn't normal, she wasn't just some woman who could afford the luxury of a true lover.

Her time with Steve had been different. He joked with her on the plane, remained silent rather knowingly when she wanted to be alone with her thoughts, held quiet conversations with her when she didn't. She felt relaxed and like any other person on a vacation. Even the way he touched her in public was comfortable, something that she had never felt with anyone. Perhaps because there was something pure about it; he reminded her of the men from her youth, more proper.

In the cab, she occasionally glanced over at him, giving a smile when she caught his eye. He really was handsome, well groomed and just an overall polite man. Sure, he was kind of idealistic, old fashioned. But she found it endearing. She found his ease of speaking the language, even in a limited capacity, a surprise. She didn't show it, however, and remained silent until they had arrived at the hotel.

Stepping out of the cab, she stared and couldn't help but let her mouth fall open. "Wow," she murmured. It was gorgeous, obviously very high class, and expensive. "OK, this is going to be way more enjoyable than I had anticipated."

Indeed, when they were led to their room - they were sharing a single bed to keep up appearances - she was stunned by how fine it was. Sure, she had been in five star joints in the past. It was sometimes necessary. But this was beyond what even she was used to on such high profile assignments.

Moving to the bed, she flopped down onto her back and stared at the ceiling. "Remind me not to punch Stark in the face next time he annoys me," she told Cap, sighing happily at the feeling of the bed under her.
 
Steve made a few mental calculations to convert local currency to dollars, tried to decide what tip would be appropriate - prices in the future were still absurd to his mind - and then with a sort of mental "hell with it" gave the man a larger tip than probably made any sense. Which got a pleased and surprised expression, followed by a tip of the cap. He returned the gesture with a sort of two-fingered salute, and closed the door.

"Well," he said, "I guess I'm managing to live up to my cover."

Natasha was already stretched out in the center of a bed large enough to have slept his whole family, back in the Bronx. Heck, large enough to have been his room, when he'd lived at home. Not that he'd ever had anyone like her in his room back then, and certainly not in his bed. "Remind me not to punch Stark in the face next time he annoys me," she told Cap, sighing happily.

"Sure," he agreed, taking a seat. "Is kicking off limits as well, or just punching?" Then he stretched out, unfolding to his full height and reveling in simply not moving. Flying was still something of a treat, at least when he ddn't have to jump out of the plane, but it was nice to stop flying as well. "I don't think I'd want to live here, though."

He left that hanging in the air, then grinned at the ceiling. "I mean, my uniform's the right color. But I'd have to ditch the stars and stripes for a red and white cross. And there'd be a big white 'I' on my forehead. Everybody'd think I was a lieutenant."

Another grin. "Lieutenant Iceland. Just doesn't have the same ring."

He rolled his head to the right, watching her as she stared at the ceiling. Oddly, it wasn't the thought of sharing a bed with her wasn't making him feel awkward. Yeah, she was gorgeous. And some of the guys would have probably grabbed right for her. Except for the fact that they were al dead, but he was pretty sure Frenchy would still try. No, it was the hotel itself. This was the sort of place a classy lady like Natasha deserved to be taken, for a real honeymoon. But instead of it being her and Clint and a celebration, it was the two of them here on business.

Although, to be honest, he was sort of glad Clint wasn't here.

He sat up. "So... feel like doing anything? We've got a few days to kill, after all."
 
Natasha laughed in spite of herself. "General Scandinavia...I dunno, it has a bit of force behind it. You stand for social justice, free healthcare and herring!" Turning on her side, she leaned her cheek on the palm of her hand and considered him. "There isn't really much we can do," she admitted, sighing. "While going out a bit is alright, the more we stay in the less we risk exposure. Besides, they aren't going to expect two people on their honeymoon to be taking in the sights, if you know what I mean."

She grinned, unable to stop herself from the teasing look she gave him. He was so innocent in so many ways, so easily ruffled. There was a certain appeal to rattling his cage and seeing that sweet blush that sometimes stained his cheeks. "Unless you would prefer us play honeymoon for real, though I assume that isn't what you meant."

A wicked glint in her eye, she sat up and moved against the baseboard, picking up the remote. A button brought an electronic whir that opened a screen on the wall, revealing a large, flat screen television. "We could always watch a movie," she suggested. "Get some room service. If Stark is paying, who are we to reject his generous offer." Her grin turned to a smirk.
 
Steve found himself laughing as well. "General Scandinavia? Well, that does sound better than Lieutenant Iceland, yeah." Shaking his head, he watched her roll over to face him. "I don't know about the herring, but the other two sound all right anyway. America's a rich country - why not provide a basic level of health care for everyone?"

About then, his thoughts went off along an inappropriate direction. He sat up. "So... feel like doing anything? We've got a few days to kill, after all."

"There isn't really much we can do," she admitted, sighing. "While going out a bit is alright, the more we stay in the less we risk exposure. Besides, they aren't going to expect two people on their honeymoon to be taking in the sights, if you know what I mean."

"True..." Steve allowed. "Which, now that I think of it, is one of the weaknesses of..."

She gave him a sly grin. "Unless you would prefer us play honeymoon for real, though I assume that isn't what you meant."

"...of... of...of..." He could feel his thoughts derail at that statement. How the hell did she expect him to respond, when the answer was yes and no all at once. "Uhm... uh..."

Goddamn it, Rodgers, say something! But to be honest, his total experience with women and romance had been a few double dates with Bucky, and Peggy Carter. Being made into America's first super-soldier hadn't changed any of that.

A wicked glint in her eye, she sat up and moved against the baseboard, picking up the remote. A button brought an electronic whir that opened a screen on the wall, revealing a large, flat screen television. "We could always watch a movie," she suggested. "Get some room service. If Stark is paying, who are we to reject his generous offer." Her grin turned to a smirk.

"Movie, right," Steve agreed, jumping on the offer with the air of a man grabbing a lifeline. "Yeah, sounds good." He picked up the phone, glanced over the menu, and hit a few buttons. The phone rang once, twice, then picked up. "Borg Restaurant," someone answered.

"Hi," Steve said, "this is room 802. I'd like you to send up..." I have no idea what any of this is... "...ah, an order of the Four Tasting..." He glanced over the menu again. "And a bottle of the Peacock Chardonnay Blanc." He nodded once or twice. "All right. Thank you."
 
Natasha watched him stammer and blush, feeling that wave of affection that was still just beginning to be recognizable flow within her once again. He was cute, she had to admit. And sweet, much sweeter than she was used to. In a way, it made her nervous. But in another, she found herself wanting to take advantage of the attraction that she had realized on the flight had been sparked long before she had noticed it entirely.

The job they were doing was dangerous, all jobs in their lines of work were. Especially now that she had moved from the more comfortable and secretive espionage to actual heroics. There was no subtlety, and no arguing your way out of such things. Either one of them could be dead by tomorrow. What was the harm...?

When he had returned to the bed, the room service ordered, she selected a film she thought might at least be familiar to him. Casablanca was released sometime in the 1940's, at least...she vaguely remembered it causing a stir in the theaters thanks to its war time themes and critique of the Nazi's. As the opening credits slowly began, she looked over at him and smiled.

"You know, you are pretty cute when you get flustered like that. It's been a long time since I caused such a reaction in a man. I think I like it."
 
The way the room was arranged, the best view of the television was from the bed. Coincidence? Most likely not. So Steve hopped up on the bed next to Natasha - he'd need to get used to the idea anyway, since he'd slept on enough floors during the war - and watched her change the channels. "I never thought these things would go anywhere," he admitted. "My kid brother, though... he loved them. They had one in the lobby at Woolworth's - bought five minutes of watching for a penny."

The screen flickered, turning black and white. For a moment, he thought something had gone wrong. And then he saw the title screen. "Casablanca? I really wanted to see this when it came out last... ah..." He bit his lip, then continued. "When it came out. Kept missing it, though. Back home and in the ETO. I hope it's as good as I heard."

Natasha laughed. "You know, you are pretty cute when you get flustered like that."

Well, that certainly distracted him. "Uhm... really?"

"It's been a long time since I caused such a reaction in a man," she added, voice playful. "I think I like it."

"Uhm..." Steve managed again. "Really? I mean, Clint seems like a cool fellah, but I'd imagine you can still get him flustered any time you want." Hell, you manage it with me easily enough...

Tbere was a knock at the doot. Unsure whether to be relieved or irritable, he hopped down and checked the peephole. Then he opened the door, accepted a wheeled cart with a tray and a bottle, tipped too much again, and closed it. "Room service," he announced. "I didn't quite follow the menu, but we've got a sampler of some sort. Chicken... fish... asparagus, I think... and some sort of shellfish."

Flipping over two flutes, he worked open the bottle. "Oh, and wine. To compliment the meal." He poured the first glass and offered it to her. "Or, you know, in case it's terrible. You can hide a lot of bad food with enough wine."
 
She was surprised by his comment about Clint and couldn't help but raise an eyebrow curiously. But then, as he scurried to the door to get their room service, it all suddenly clicked. His nervousness, his way to pulling back whenever he seemed like me might be flirting, the way he had called Clint before agreeing to go with her to the Museum. He was an old fashion man, after all, and an old fashion man would never go for a friend's gal, no matter what she did to entice him...

When he came back with the tray, she took the offered wine with a cleared throat and a smile. "Thanks," she said, taking a sip. It was good, and she gave a nod of approval. She didn't drink often, but wine had always been her preference. It allowed her to relax without worrying about getting drunk. Besides, most other liquor reacted badly to her changed biology, and she avoided it unless strictly necessary.

"You know, I think you have the wrong idea. About me and Clinton, I mean. We had something at one point, but that was quite awhile ago. It never really panned out, there's just too much history. We aren't together, Steve."
 
Noting Natasha's seal of approval, Steve sipped his wine as well. It wasn't bad, he guessed. Wine had never been a thing in his family - beer, more likely, or homemade gin. And ever since Doctor Erskine had changed him, alcohol had nearly no effect on him whatsoever. But he'd learned to drink in the war, primarily as a way of being social, and this glass of snooty spoiled grape juice was far from the worst thing he'd ever consumed.

Natasha gave him a strange look. "You know, I think you have the wrong idea."

"Hm? No, I'm pretty sure this will..."

"About me and Clinton, I mean."

"...cover the taste of wait. What?" This was not quite where he'd been expecting the conversation to go.

"We had something at one point, but that was quite awhile ago. It never really panned out, there's just too much history. We aren't together, Steve."

"You're not?" You're not! His eyes flickered as he thought hard about the subject. "I just... that is... you seemed..." Then, laughing, he downed his glass. "Let me start again: I clearly lept to an assumption. You two just seemed so... close, I guess."

His smile was alf wry, half shy as he poured himself another glass. It was a lot to process, and it made several things she'd done and Clint had done make far more sense. He'd just been misinterpreting things, and assuming that the future was kind of alien in more ways than one. And while it didn't make their sleeping arrangements any less inviting or awkward, it certainly changed the reasons. "Let me start again, again."

The shyness fell away as he looked into her eyes. "Are you doing anything right now? There's a movie getting ready to start that I've been looking forward to seeing for a while, and maybe you could go with me? Afterwards, I've heard there's really good restaurant nearby. We could have dinner, and go dancing."

He held the serious expression on his face for a moment, then winked. "Surely, newlyweds going to a night club isn't out of character?"
 
That tore it, he was adorable. While she was not normally that sentimental, the look on his face as he embarrassingly worked out where he had made his false assumption was too sweet to ignore. As was the way he invited her to watch the film, and everything that came after. Her eyes sparkled with amusement and warmth as she nodded, unable to help the faint blush that tinged her cheeks. When had she last been asked out, at all? Sometime back in the 1960's, she believed. A young and heartsick Englishman.

"That sounds like the perfect evening," she agreed, but then her look turned a little more sultry. "To begin with." Leaving that comment hanging, she settled back and turned to watch the film. However, after a moment, she took his arm and put it over her shoulder, laying her head against his own. It made her heart beat faster, her body feel warmer. She could almost pretend it really was their honeymoon, just two normal people without a care in the world, unaware of the horrors that lurked below their noses.
 
"To begin with," Steve echoed, feeling his pulse race as she curled into him. He could have said more, but the moment was too perfect. It wasn't Captain America and the Black Widow in the room, just then. It was just a man named Steve and a woman named Natasha, and pleasant warmth and good company, and the tingling thrill of possibilities to come. And, of course, a movie that he'd waited either a year or half a century to see. Depending on how you counted it.

And then the fanfare played, and the map of Africa came up on the screen, and it could almost have been 1943 again.


Later...

"I gotta say," Steve said, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the crowd and the... music? Is that what they were calling this? "This isn't quite what I'd expected when I saw 'night club'."

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It was called Astro, and it was a block from the Hotel Borg. A squat, long building with a long line of half-dressed men and women - some of whom were still sober - waiting to get in. From the outside it had seemed to pulse and vibrate, and inside the noise was deafening. And Steve was certain most of the people on the floor were having seizures from the way they flailed around wildly. Nobody seemed concerned, though.

He was also glad to see that he wasn't the only person in a suit. It made I feel less conspicuous.

"I mean, really," Steve continued. "I've been to a few clubs before. Even a jazz club in Harlem. But..." he gestured at the packed floor, "how do you expect to dance in the middle of somebody's group pilates session?"

Pilates. A good, 21st century word that he only new because he'd asked Tony what the hell he'd been doing one day.
 
The movie had been wonderful, cuddled up on the bed. So innocent and pure...his hands had even stayed in appropriate areas, and he hadn't once taken advantage of their position to push it further. It had put Natasha at ease, allowing her to enjoy herself without worry of where it might be going. Although she knew by the end of the film where she would like it to go, at least that night. His suggestion of a club was a good one, as it would give her a bit of time to be sure before taking things to the next level.

Natasha was nothing if not cautious.

However, he seemed overwhelmed in his suit and tie at the loud and pumping surrounding of the club itself. Modern to a laughable degree, it was one of those places that would be dead within a couple of weeks and replaced with something equally ridiculous. But she was there with him, and his discomfort was adorable. So she grinned and grabbed his hand, pulling him to the dance floor.

"It's OK, I'll show you, Captain," she called over the music. Pulling him to her body, she did not gyrate or grind in the way those around her did. She was much too old for that, and even thirty years ago wouldn't have behaved in such a way. But she danced close and there was touching. A lot of touching.

Wrapping her arms around his neck at a time, she brought his forehead to her own, looking into his eyes as the music pulsed energetically around them.
 
He actually yelped in surprise as Natasha dragged him onto the crowded dance floor, promising to show him how to dance. For a moment he considered protesting and explaining that he knew how to dance, and that what these people were doing wasn't dancing. But then she was standing really close with her arms around his neck, and he decided to shut the hell up and concentrate on her eyes and the music instead.

Oh, and her body. She wasn't 'dancing' with him the way a number of the other ladies were 'dancing' with their partners - and he blushed a little when he noticed what they were doing - but she was still warm as his hands went around her hips, and very responsive as they began to dance. All in all, he was certainly paying attention to her body.

After a few minutes, though, he started to grin. The lyrics and the instruments were different, but the beat? The beat wasn't a whole lot faster than the songs he'd heard in Harlem, or at the USO clubs in England. The more things changed, it seemed, the more they really did remain the same. "Hey, Natasha?" he grinned, raising his voice to make himself heard by his partner. "You know how to Balboa?"
 
Dancing with him was pleasant. More than pleasant, really. Obviously, she knew he had a fine body under that suit...his uniform left little to the imagination. But actually feeling him pressed against her was doing things within her that she was only half comfortable with. Mainly because it proved what she had been coming to see all along, that she really was attracted to him and wanted to do more than just sway a bit in a dance club. And they were sharing a room...

His question caught her off guard. Balboa? Oh, it had been a very long time since she had done that. In spite of herself, Natasha grinned. Putting herself into position, one hand in his, the other on his shoulder, she raised an eyebrow.

"I expect you will lead, Captain?" she joked.
 
"Of course I will," Steve agreed. "Just as far as you're willing to follow, I expect."

He stepped off, gripping her hand and holding her close and showing off - just a little - as he decided to keep up with the beat. It wasn't until the first flashy move, as they spun around each other, that he'd realized how flirty he'd sounded. But, with Natasha snugged up against him, he decided he was fine with that. Because he was enjoying himself, and enjoying her, and she was drop-dead gorgeous. And he saw no reason not to enjoy flirting with a drop-dead gorgeous woman who'd been flirting with him, now that he knew she wasn't with Clint.

Her hair spun around her in a copper-red spray as they spun again, and he found himself thinking of another dance. One he'd missed, back in 1944. The thought gave him a momentary twinge of guilt, as for an instant he felt as if he were betraying Peggy. But then Natasha was back in his arms again, and he could almost hear Peggy's laughter. He'd been seventy years late - she'd lived her life, and would have yelled at him for dwelling on the past.

The song ended to hoots and shouts and applause, and it took Steve a moment to realize that it was directed at them. He blushed a little, and gave Natasha a look that was both playful and shy. "It's all you, you know. Even Banner'd look good, with you as a dance partner."

"This next one's for the classy couple in the back," the DJ announced. "Rest of you boys best be steppin' up yo game, if'n yo wanna compete with that."

As the sound of trombones filled the air, Steve smiled at Natasha. "May I have this next dance?"
 
She had been so lost in the dance - and, if she was honest, in Steve's rather lovely eyes - that she had lost all sense of the world around her. A dangerous fact, but one she couldn't help as he swept she around the dance floor. When she realized they had amassed an audience, she blushed herself. But the next dance was for them, and she took it willingly. In the end, they spent a good portion of the evening in one another's arms, moving across the dance floor and even inspiring a number of other couples to try their hand at some more traditional steps.

Entering the hotel room later on, Natasha smiled at him. "I can't remember the last time I had such a good night," she told him, feeling butterflies in her stomach as she looked up into his face. "Thank you."

There was a tension in the air, so thick you could cut through it. Her body was warm and tingling, and he was a mere step away. Her eyes flickered from his lips to his eyes and back of their own accord.
 
The dancing had been fabulous - he hadn't had so much fun since... well, since 1944. The rest of the clubgoers hadn't known that, of course. Just that some guy and the utterly gorgeous woman woman he was with were eccentric enough to do an old fashioned dance to new music, and that they were good at it.

Steve utterly lost track of how long they'd been dancing. Mostly with each other, once or twice with people that wanted to try the footwork so they could do it themselves. He supposed the few other women he'd danced witn were pretty, but none of them compared to Natasha, or felt as right in his arms.

Finally, ushered out when the club was closing, they stumbled out into the street. He took her hand as they walked the block back to the hotel. Not because of their cover - although that would have made sense - but because it seemed the fight thing to do.

As he closed their door behind him, Natasha turned to look at him. "I can't remember the last time I had such a good night," she said, looking into his eyes. "Thank you."

A hundred possible responses died in his throat as he looked at her. There was something almost nervous about her. Anxious. Not the Natasha he knew. She looked... looked..

Looked the way he felt.

Gently, he took her hands and drew her close. It wasn't hard. They must have practiced the same movement a undred times on the dance floor. But not quite like this. Not slow and deliberate. Not ending with him looking into her upturned face, his eyes looking deep into hers.

Not with him slowly lowering his head, his lips meeting hers. He hadn't felt the soft caress of her mouth on his or the heat of her breath. "Thank you," he murmured, smiling.
 
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