Maria saw the uniform before, of course. But it was one thing to see it in a museum-type display case. It was quite another to see it wrapped around the body of a man built to wear it (and vice versa). She tried not to look at him when he was casually standing on the bridge, arms behind his back at parade rest, head held high. The rest of the team were impressive, but she felt above most of them. Stark and Banner were only there because accident and necessity made them more than human. Thor was born more than human, helping out because of a sense of guilt or responsibility for Loki's behavior. Natasha and Clint... she respected them. They were following orders.
But Rogers was different. He chose to be there, and he chose to be a hero. Stark did what was necessary to survive and built a suit that made him a formidable foe. Banner was an experiment gone wrong. Rogers had stepped willingly into the device that would forever change him for one reason and one reason alone: to serve his country.
The thought made her wet. She adjourned to her quarters, a place where she could rest until the next crisis arose. In the helicarrier, it was easy to lose track of the days. They rode above the clouds, high enough to see the sun in the far distance. From time to time they would descend, and night would fall like a curtain draped over the world, and she'd realize it was night again. Now she wasn't sure what time it was, if it was night or day in the corner of the world she'd once called home. She was a citizen of SHIELD now, and night was just the time when nothing was on fire.
She unzipped her jacket and put her hand against her chest, standing next to the bed as she dragged her fingers over the curve of her black tank top. She wanted more than to just bed Rogers. She knew exactly what she wanted, but it was something he would never do. Even if she asked for it... well. Asking for it would ruin everything, wouldn't it? Maybe it was something best left to fantasy anyway.
Maria sat on the edge of the bed and closed her eyes as she moved her hand to the curve of her breast. She moved her legs apart, boots flat on the floor, and pictured him in front of her. His broad chest with the pristine white star gleaming in the center. A field of blue body armor, with red and white stripes over his abdomen. His mask pushed back to reveal a shock of blonde hair that matched his baby blue eyes. She knew what the colors meant as he stepped closer. Her legs widened around his thighs. She listened to him breathe; her eyes were filled with the colors of him. White for fidelity and loyalty. Blue for valor and honor. Red for blood and sacrifice. He wore them proudly, and he wore them well.
Maria imagined his hands gripping the collar of her jumpsuit and yanking, pulling it roughly open so that the zipper coughed as it was opened. Then his hand - he had to still be wearing the gloves - would close around the tidy bun of her hair, gripping the braids to yank her head back, and his lips would cover hers. He would push her down onto the mattress (she lowered herself, lifting one leg up to stretch toward the pillows as she lay at the foot of the bed). She could feel him on top of her, holding her down, his weight pressing against her crotch as he stared down at her.
She would want him to rip her clothes, but as this was just a fantasy, she squirmed and removed them in one piece. She let her jacket fall to the floor, grunted as she took off her belt. Her fantasy lover rose off the bed and watched her. Oh, that was good. Faster. Take them off. She trembled as she pulled her top over her head, then reached back to unhook her bra.
She stood up and pushed her pants and underwear down. She started to undo her boots, but she decided Rogers would be in too big of a hurry. So she dropped suddenly to her knees, pretending a firm hand on her bare shoulder had forced her down. She gasped, and he forced her to look up at him. She closed her eyes and moved her right hand between her legs. With her left hand, she mimed Rogers' touch on her cheek, stroking it before moving to her bottom lip.
Her thumb dipped into her mouth, and her fingers pressed against her sex, and she pressed against her palm with a moan. The air was cold against her skin and she felt it erupt in goosebumps, felt her nipples tighten. She arched her back and rolled her shoulders so that the fantasy man in front of her would have an unimpeded view of her breasts. She gasped as he stepped closer and she leaned forward. It was easy to imagine the feel of his uniform against her tongue as she licked the bulge in his uniform pants. She could almost taste it, could feel him swell against her, and she moved her arms behind her back. She crossed her wrists and curled her fingers, aching for a touch but knowing the Steve Rogers in her fantasy would tell her not to.
The nails dug into her palms as he gripped her hair again and pulled her forward. His other hand opened his pants, and Maria gasped as he guided his cock to her mouth. She pressed her tongue against the head, and then she closed her lips around it. She could almost feel him in her mouth, could feel the throbbing of the veins against her lips. She moved her lips against the empty air, her knees too far apart to squeeze them together for relief. She ached for his touch.
No. Not yet.
She bit back a whimper and trembled as she let her fantasy take over. She swirled her tongue against her bottom lip, her memory providing the cock that she was wetting, turning her head to the side as Rogers began to thrust into her mouth. She could feel his fingers in her hair, could imagine the taste of him, and her eyes rolled back as she lifted her chin.
"Please," she whimpered, desperate, needing a touch even if it was her own. She stood and tossed herself face down on the bed, but in her mind it was his hands tossing her. His weight on top of her, holding her down. She reached out and opened her bedside drawer, shaking as she pushed aside her books to find her realistically-shaped dildo. She pushed it into her mouth, moaning as her lips closed around the solid shaft.
Once it was wet enough, she lifted her ass in the air. "Please, Captain Rogers... please..."
She imagined him kneeling behind her in full uniform, one red glove in the small of her back while the other gripped her hip. Her legs were only as far apart as her lowered pants would allow, and her toes curled inside her boots. She cried out as he (her toy) pushed inside of her. "Captain America," she said, finally giving in. "Fuck me, Captain America."
She didn't last long; pushed to the edge by her fantasy and self-denial. She crossed her free arm under her head, biting down to stifle her cries as she clenched the toy inside of her.
Finally, she sank flat onto the bed, the toy still inside her, and nestled her cheek against the crook of her elbow. She quaked with the aftershocks of her orgasm, eyelids heavy, and breathed deeply through her nose before pursing her lips and letting the air out in a rush. She imagined him coming inside of her, the seed of the epitome of American soldier draped in Old Glory, and another post-orgasmic shudder passed through her body. She wanted it. She wanted him, so badly.
Maybe when everything was over, when the dust settled and the world was marginally at peace again, she would give Captain Rogers a proper reward for his part in saving the world.
Maria smiled at the thought. Maybe, when it was for real, she would make him beg.