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a bridge to arch the flood

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"What do you want?" Diana asks him. He's already nude, sitting on her bed and looking out the window with a vague expression on his face—as if he's seeing neither the rooftops of Paris nor the steady rain that falls on them. Another woman might, perhaps, have taken offence at his seeming lack of eagerness. But if Diana has learned anything these past months fighting alongside Steve—this Steve—is that he long ago took to heart the maxim that if something is worth doing, it's worth doing right.

Steve looks over at her, brow furrowed. "I don't... I'm not... picky," he says, and then huffs out a laugh. "A century's practice and I'm still terrible at talking to women."

"If it makes you feel any better," Diana says, pushing her dress down over her hips and unhooking her bra and unlacing her sandals. "I have lived longer even than you, and I don't think I understand men."

"You know, more than you'd think." Steve's words start out wry but finish shaky when Diana walks over and sits astride his lap. Through her underwear, she can feel him begin to harden. She hitches her hips and watches with pleasure how his eyes flutter closed and his cheeks flush.

"What do you want?" Diana asks again. She isn't impatient, exactly, but it's been a while since there was anything between her legs but her own two hands and she made him this offer in the first place because she thought he would make a worthy bedfellow.

Steve lets out a breath and then lies back, taking Diana by the hips and coaxing her along so that she's on her knees over him and his mouth is hot against her through the thin cotton of her underwear. He's breathing her in. She shivers. "Like this to begin with, then?"

Steve runs the tips of two fingers along the seam where fabric meets the flesh of Diana's belly. "Please. I've thought about this," he says. His lashes are long against his cheeks. "Doing this for you. You... you letting me."

There is much that Steve isn't saying, but even more that Diana can imagine. Him, touching himself. Thinking of her. Saying her name in his shower, his bed. Fighting alongside her and never letting that show. She feels the first real heat start to build low in her belly, because she is a daughter of Zeus and she's not insensible to the effects of true veneration.

Diana shifts off him to remove her underwear, and Steve makes a faint noise of protest. "Shh," she says, tossing the scrap of black cotton to land on the rest of her clothes, and then leans over to smack him on the thigh. "Move up. I'll want to have the wall to brace myself against when I ride your mouth."

She laughs at how eagerly he moves, his head falling onto her pillows with a dull thump. "You know," she says as she gets into position, "I've never done this with someone who's bearded. You'll have to convince me of the benefits."

"Ma'am, yes, ma'am," Steve says, already sounding more winded than he does after sprinting a full league.

The first shock of his mouth against her is exquisite. Diana lets her head roll back on her neck, hisses through her teeth. She gives brief but sincere thanks to whichever woman before her taught him, and taught him well. He licks, hot and wet, from her perineum to her clitoris, wraps his lips around her and sucks. His beard is a ticklish, distracting scrape against the soft skin of her inner thighs. Diana's fingers scrabble against the plaster walls.

"Good?" Steve asks her when he finally pulls back. He's fever-flushed, his hair sticking to his forehead and his beard damp from her. His hands, resting on her thighs, are shaking ever so slightly. He is truly enjoying this: being beneath her, having her taste on his tongue.

"Yes," she says, grinning. "I want your fingers as well."

He gives her two, pushing them into her in one long, easy movement at the same time he starts to lick at her again. It is delicious and Diana arches her back and takes what Steve so ardently wants to give her, trusts that his strength will be equal to the task of holding her up. Steve crooks his fingers and Diana moans. He sucks at her, and licks, and sets up a hard and fast rhythm with his hand that has sweat trickling down the nape of Diana's neck.

"Another," she says, and holds her breath when he pushes in a third finger, smooth and steady. Diana's chest burns with lack of air, her blood fizzes with anticipation, and her release arrives on a gasping sob. A release, truly: a tension she'd barely noticed in her shoulders and back fading away as she clenches around Steve's fingers. It takes her a long moment before she can move again, shuffling down his body until she's sitting on his strong thighs.

"You are lovely," she tells him, trailing her fingers over his chest, his belly, where he is as finely carved as any ivory statue. He arches into her touch, Galatea to her Pygmalion. Built, like her, to fight; choosing, as she had, to try to be the bridge regardless.

"Diana," he says, fingers tangling in the sheets, "please."

She takes pity on him, takes him in hand, and strokes him to completion. He is silent as he comes, biting his lip and squeezing his eyes shut. When Diana had first heard of Captain America, seen the triumphalist news reels, she'd feared that perhaps he was a son of Ares, come to lead more young men to their deaths in service of the old lie.

True, maybe, for Captain America. But not, she thinks—as he blinks open his eyes and looks up at her with a bleary, sheepish grin—not true for Steve Rogers. Diana is glad.

The rain outside is heavier now, an incessant drumbeat against the windowpanes. Diana will need to take an umbrella with her when she ventures out to the corner boulangerie in a little while—but time enough now to drowse on rumpled sheets. The world outside will wait for them, for a time.