#are my thoughts from like 1 AM last night coalescing properly

[aluria-sevhex]

something about. masculinity as a desirable default. the idea of one rejecting masculinity so fully is incongruous. to embrace femininity is to be errant, and an errant thing is far less likely to exist. i find it rather curious how common "[character] transitions and changes nothing" headcanons are compared to how often it happens in real life. to be fair i do need to be more active in queer spaces in my non-online life, but i don't think i've personally met anyone who's an example of this. typically transition comes with. change.

transfemininity is one who is higher on the hierarchy choosing to reject such status in favor of a personal fulfillment at a high price, and such a concept is. incongruous. but if the character changes nothing, perhaps that helps to ease the mind a little and perserve the cultural masculine default.

You know it really is interesting how “[character] transitions and changes nothing” seems to only ever be applied to the idea of a character becoming a trans woman. Just an observation.

[ronearoundblindly]

The Right Partner (1/3)

Take My Hand, a Fools Rush In story

Summary: Steve is nervous on your wedding day.

A/N: This is entirely from Steve's POV. The next parts are from yours. Also, it's sappy, gang, and I cried dozens of times writing this. Hope you do, too? But in a nice way? 🤷🏻‍♀️ Enjoy!

Warnings for innuendo, some language, and--well--married life activities, so yes, there is smut. MINORS DNI. WC a honking 7.1k, like she's a biggin' this one. Wow, this got out of hand.

Steve is used to tight clothes, but his SSR uniform feels excessively tight as he stands in the mirror. It’s putting pressure on his waist and chest. Yeah, that’s what it is. The suit.

He pulls the lighter tie back and forth to straighten it, flipping the shirt collar back up and down. When he smooths it back down, he keeps his hand pressing over his heart, feeling it race.

“Quit fussing,” Bucky mumbles, standing behind him.

“I’m not fussing.”

Bucky simply tilts his head with a knowing look and goes to lean on the furniture.

Steve feels no better. He doesn’t have enough information. Are you nervous, too? Are you having second thoughts? Did he do enough to make this feel like your day too? Has he shown you enough love to convince you to hitch your life to his?

Steve Rogers’ life is far more of a zoo than he thought it would be growing up. The original plan was ‘go to war, end the war, come home, and live.’ He’s not quite done all of those things, but they are all on shuffle repeat.

His goal was to do his part. He wanted to stick up for the little guy. Each fight his fragile body got roughed up in could have been his last, so in the grand scheme of things, Steve only recently let himself plan ahead. Those once nebulous, unattainable hopes are starting to coalesce in the gravity of you. 

It’s great. It’s wonderful. It’s new.

It’s making Steve feel a little queasy.

Life is unpredictable. There’s no blueprint. Army strategy doesn’t much apply to single human-on-human interaction, teaches not to make the other party happy, and in terms of friendlies, sticks with ‘don’t shoot each other.’

He knows how to fight, to disarm, to destabilize, to surround and corner, to capture, and to thwart. Steve even knows—begrudgingly—how to kill. Those are his strengths.

What is he thinking? He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to be a husband.

Oh boy, he’s gonna puke.

“Take a breath, punk. It’s fine. You’re fine.” Bucky’s nothing but amused by Steve’s nerves though, so his best friend seems to purposefully offer lackluster help.

Steve adjusts his uniform’s tie for the twentieth time. It’s still not right. Steve’s hands are still shaking, and as sick as he feels now…he actually might want a hearty swig from Thor’s flask to take the edge off.

Buck intuits this and is already on his phone, calling in the cavalry, or so Steve thinks.

“What if I choke up and don’t say it right?”

Steve watches Bucky shrug. “Ok then—“ Bucky unfolds a little piece of paper “—one more time. I, Steven Grant Rogers…”

“I, Steven Grant Rogers,” Steve breathes through lips he can’t seem to move properly.

“…do solemnly swear…”

The tie is still crooked. “Do solemnly swear.”

“That I am up to no good.”

“That I…what?”

“Clever,” Tony’s rich laugh sounds from the doorway, “very modern for you boys.”

“Those aren’t my vows,” Steve (just shy of) whines.

“I sure hope not—“ Tony comes in “—don’t think your little lady would like all these guests to know your dirty little intentions for the rest of the night.” He waggles his eyebrows, elated by Steve’s frustration.

“I’m getting married.”

“Yes,” Bucky agrees, “he’s allowed to be as dirty as he wants with Nerd once they’re married.”

Steve snaps up at Bucky. “That’s not—“

“Oh, he did not wait until—“

“Tony, don’t!” Steve’s about to crack, face hot like he has a fever, and he’d be fine with the ribbing if it weren’t for experiencing a minor earthquake beneath him, rocking his composure since last night when Nat whisked you away after the rehearsal.

“I’ve got it. I’ve got you, buddy. Here—“ Bucky hands him his phone “—she sent you a little something.”

“Hey, Sketch,” your voice rings in his ear, “I thought you might need a message to help you chill the eff out, so I wrote you a poem. Here goes.”

Steve smiles instantly and relaxes his neck, head falling forward in a sigh.

“You’re pretty old but to me you’re new. I borrow you from the world where you’re dressed in blue. You can keep me forever, I promise you that. Our lives start today…just don’t anger Nat.

“See? I’m such a great writer—“ The message cuts off in laughter from both you and your sibling, Ro.

In the background, he hears Natasha grumble, “if that weren’t true, I’d be pretty pissed, now get over here so your—“ and it’s over.

Bucky beams, smacking Steve’s back with a jolting force, likely checking that his heart is still functioning.

“Awesome,” Tony adds, “final flourishes?”

He pulls a small velvet box from his pocket, and Steve stiffens.

“Tony, the rings are supposed to be with—“

“Hold your horses,” Stark dismisses. “This is something else. You’re missing a pin.”

Steve’s hands frantically sweep down his uniform as he checks. “Where?”

“You mind?” Tony picks something silver out and hands the box over to Bucky. He turns to grab Steve’s lapel and flicks it out.

The pin is a globe with many—but not accurate—lines crisscrossing it. Beneath that sits ‘1943.’

“First Stark Expo commemorative pin. I believe it technically is where you began in a way, and I’ve got to somehow make this day about me, so you’re welcome.”

He wants to be mad and say something sharp, but instead, Steve just gets hotter and more emotional. Tony, pleased with his work, pulls Steve into a tight hug that both cling to for a moment.

“I know, big guy. I’m just that great. There, there.” Tony—only half-jokingly—rests his hand on the back of Steve’s head before a gentle pat.

“Thank you,” Steve sniffs. “I can’t believe you kept this.”

“I brought you one, too, Dynamo.” Tony collects himself, pointing at the box Bucky holds. “Good ol’ Dad only printed about a hundred of those before his publicist stopped the machine, so it’s extra perfect.”

As the box opens, Bucky snorts.

“Oh wow. Yup. I see why,” he mutters, pulling out another silver pin with the same year and the initials for the World Exposition of Tomorrow.

Bucky smirks while Tony pushes the W.E.T. pin into place.

“Perfect,” he agrees, sharply straightening his matching uniform.

Steve nods. “Now I get why you kept them,” he says flatly, mind already far away again but at least his body jitters less. “Is it time?”

“Just about.” Tony smiles wide and earnestly. “We’re all ready to get up to no good. You just need to—” he waves his hand in front of Steve’s face “—fix this a bit.”

Steve frowns. “That’s my face, Tony.”

“Yeah, well, it’s making me nervous, so…” Tony walks off into the hallway.

Bucky’s expression tells Steve that the sentiment wasn’t wrong. He looks a wreck and a half, and he knows it.

Bucky shrugs. “I could sock you one if that would help.”

Between the Asgardian liquor and a punch to the face…Steve weighs his options and takes one final breath.

It’s crisp out. Overcast. Everything around feels subdued. The beautiful, turning foliage of the woods past AvIn campus sits quiet, framing the wrought iron archway.

Out of habit, Steve scans the tree line. All worst-case scenarios have been on repeat in his brain since Nat shuffled you away last night. There’s the obvious: being called out on an emergency, some of your family not arriving on time, the cake tasting like plaster, him looking like an idiot in every single photo…

Or the unlikely: Bruce hulks out for no reason, some evil agent(s) show up to hurt people, Steve missing a single moment of you walking down the aisle…

Sam’s taught him a technique for keeping his eyes open as long as possible—without looking like a creepy goof—so he can catch every second. Finally, all those stupid staring contests with Bucky have a good use.

Steve stands facing the woods, shaking out his arms in hopes of feeling less crawling beneath his skin. He’s so twitchy. He’s so damn nervous that Buck’s hand on his shoulder makes him jump again.

He knew he was there, for goodness sake. He’s being ridiculous.

Steve tries to crack his neck and accidentally hikes his shoulders clear up to his ears, so there’s one ding on looking like an idiot in a photo.

Sam makes a gesture to remind Steve to breathe. Tony flashes a thumbs-up and winks at him.

Steve’s stomach knots up as if he guzzled Thor’s Asgardian liquor, and he forces himself to smooth the front of his jacket. Steady. He can do this. Even though he feels tiny. Even though his knees feel weak and wobbly. Even though he’s having trouble breathing. He can’t magically develop asthma again, right? He tells his face to smile. Eh, he didn’t quite nail that.

It’s like he can’t register the mass of people—ok it’s not so many, but they’re there—in front of him until Buck’s elbow knocks his.

Steve snaps to attention.

The music warps to a crawl in his ears, and he’s dimly aware of Morgan tossing leaves over the aisle. There are approving murmurs and whispers when the bridesmaids slowly—gah, why is everything so slow?—meander past Steve’s right, but he’s still not looking. Not really.

The delicate rustle should be impossible to hear. You’ve barely inched a toe past the threshold of the building’s West Entrance, but Steve’s vision tunnels immediately into the distance.

He doesn’t see white first.

A deep, navy lace creeps up the long line of you before melting into the more traditional cream color. Some of the embroidered flowers dotting the dress are cast in burgundy, increasing in their cluster until solid along your neckline.

His heart stops, but not in cold. Steve’s sparking, concentration so honed and potent on your every step, every flutter and ripple of your gown, that he could light the ground you walk on with just his gaze.

Honest to god, he can’t see your father on your arm because the universe shrinks to the size of one half strip of carpet for the eternity it takes you to float to his side. He suffocates, blissfully, waiting so patiently.

And then your fingers smooth into his outstretched hand and squeeze.

The pulse wraps his entire body, somehow, someway, releasing all that pent-up terror all at once. He remembers. He remembers now. You’re gonna marry him. Your smile brings the sun. Your beauty brings him warmth. Your love keeps him alive.

He couldn’t breathe without you. That was the missing piece.

Steve should look forward. He should look at the priest and think of his lines and focus, but he just stares.

There’re burgundy flowers in your hair above sapphire earrings, and you’re gonna marry him. A pulse right there beneath the chain of your necklace beats rapidly, and you’re gonna marry him. Your mouth opens, sighs, speaks, and you’re gonna marry him. You’re giggling and helping him say some words…

And you’ve married him.

Your hands are steady in his as he slides a garnet ring over your finger, and your hands steady his while you slide a matching yellow gold band onto him. You’re married, and he’s yours.

Everything’s different. Absolutely nothing has changed.

One second he loved you and the next he loves you more. Unfathomable.

A gentle gust of wind knocks a wisp of hair out of place. We can’t have that, he thinks, tucking it back over your ear with a smile. He smells your hair and skin now, hears your breaths and heart, sees a familiar twitch of nerves, feels the tiniest tremble of your hands in his, and knows nothing but you in this moment.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the priest harps loudly from a planet away. “You may k—“

He gets to taste now, too. Steve can’t wait. 

The momentum does not start out sweet. You’d expect all delicacy and tenderness from him, but no, he’s married now. Your body bends and molds to him, bringing you close, closer, and closer still.

A chorus of ‘woah’ and one ‘dang, boy’ erupts from behind him, and the poor priest tries to slow Steve down.

“No need to rush. You have eternity.”

Doesn’t matter. As Buck would say, this isn’t kissing; this is necking, and Steve’s gonna neck his wife all he damn well pleases from this day forward.

“I told ya,” Tony cracks behind him, “always the quiet ones.”

“Made her stretch this morning, too,” Nat adds with a snort.

The priest just chuckles. It’s not his first rodeo either. “May I present Captain and Misses Steven Grant Rogers.”

“Even Stevens,” Steve whispers as he pulls away.

Your eyes open, dark and glassy.

“Even—“ but his lips cut you off with one more playful kiss.

He rights you and your dress, careful not to let his buttons and medals snag on the lace, which only leads to Steve petting his splayed hand down your entire bodice while your sibling stands feet away cheering.

“Steady on, brother,” Ro yells.

That is the moment when Steve comes back to himself. The sights and sounds of the rest of the world dial back up into existence, and he flushes, realizing he really couldn’t be held responsible if he’d gone further in the last few minutes. He just wasn’t in control of his body or mind.

But he remembers. He has every minute detail of you locked away permanently now. At least, your joy tells him that he did okay; he’s made you happy. He’ll need a video to figure out what he actually said, however.

Semantics, as Buck would say.

Normally, Steve is not this bold, but something about watching you smile and him thinking “that’s my wife” has caused him to push the envelope. Will this touch at your neck make your heart race? Will that question whispered in your ear make you shiver? For those reasons, he’s taking the ritual of removing your garter very seriously.

He stares right into your eyes through long lashes, ignoring the cheers and hoots of your guests, savoring your alternating excitement and shyness while he drags his hands over the soft skin of your leg.

You’re not wearing tights.

His fingers initially pass the scrunched satin and lace band to pinch at your inner thigh several inches higher than where he’s supposed to be, and you jump, unable to stifle of laugh of surprise. 

The audience reacts, too, but he can’t hear it. 

Stretching out his hand to smooth his palm back down causes the tip of his middle finger to brush against the lace of your panties, and he’s so proud of your widening eyes. He relents after he’s sure you see his devious grin and slides off the frilly band, carefully cupping your foot to wiggle it over your shoe.

Shit.

His wife.

In heels.

No tights.

Yeah, Steve isn’t usually this bold, but he could get used to this.

He eats dinner with his hand on your knee, barely able to feel the shape of you beneath all the layers of fabric, but at least he knows you’re right there. He does not know or care what he’s eating.

When you two cut the cake, the layer you’ve cut is your favorite flavor. Apparently, he’ll have to wait another year to eat his favorite from the topper??? No. That’s not fair. Steve doesn’t like that and plans to just take the thing on your honeymoon, wherever the hell that is since Tony won’t say.

Steve carefully places a big bite of cake in your mouth, hoping no crumbs fall down your dress, and you raise a piece high for him.

Then you take it right back before he can get it, eating it yourself.

What did he expect? It’s cake and you’re you. He smiles warmly anyway and licks icing from his fingers.

His solace is the top tier coming with him at the end of the night and that you’re his wife.

His wife, in heels, wearing no tights.

How much longer is this event?

He’s danced with you so many times before, but Steve suddenly feels entirely unsure about his hands. Where he places them naturally isn’t too suggestive in front of guests, is it? Is he pulling you too close? Is the hem of your dress under his foot?

His thoughts are consumed with what he might be doing wrong until your voice pierces through the static in his ears.

You’re singing.

You’re singing your song—his and yours—very softly to him as it plays in the background.

Just like that his feet are light as air. Just like that he’s tucked into the crook of your neck. Just like that his hands feel right hugging you.

Just like that.

“You ready for skydiving and scuba?”

He didn’t, Steve groans internally, staring at Tony’s inscrutable smirk above a scotch glass. He wouldn’t.

“No. No,” Tony snorts, “don’t worry. You two will really enjoy the Avengers cruise leaving from Florida in the morning.”

Steve’s gonna kill Tony because you’re gonna kill Steve if a giant ship in the middle of the ocean full of fans is what Tony’s chosen for your damn honeymoon. There wasn’t a way for you two to plan it yourselves, not with how unpredictable the whole engagement has been. Tony Stark is the only one with the resources enough to make a whole honeymoon happen at the drop of a hat, or a dime, or several billion dimes. Hell, you and Steve would have already changed flight and hotel bookings for anywhere three times by now based on missions alone.

His worry must show on his face; it must be exactly what Tony was hoping for because he beams back.

“Gotcha, Cap.” Tony winks. “Man, you are easy.”

Steve’s trying. He really is.

He’s also met Tony, so there’s a generalized fear of sheer Starkness that sloshes around the bottom of Steve’s gut like their drinks.

“All I’ll tell you—“ Tony grabs Steve’s shoulder and settles into a genuine smile “—is you’re taking a quinjet, and you’re welcome.”

“Great.” Steve’s face falls. “Very specific.”

Tony shrugs, turning to order a refill. “What do you want from me? You’re the logistics, guy.” He points off to the table where you sit talking to your family, huffing, “go snog your wife or something.”

Necking, Steve thinks, it’s called necking.

The sparkler sendoff is a nice touch, the flickering light of waving friends slowly replaced by steel as the bombay doors shut.

Bucky and Nat—who apparently know more about Steve’s honeymoon than he does—hauled his and her luggage aboard—only some of which you two were allowed to pack—before the dancing even ended. Steve scans the rest of the supplies tucked by the duffels of clothes and still can’t tell where you two are going. When he peaks at the clothes though…

Sweaters. Average apparel for this time of year on this continent. That’s a fairly comforting sign.

“Keeps, did you want to change out of your—“

He turns to see you clutching your arms and rushes over. “Are you cold?”

You shake your head, silent, so Steve takes the moment to look at you—really look at all of you—and admire your beauty.

You wear his colors with a twist of individuality, with an added delicacy that’s more Steve than Cap. No stars. No stripes. No harsh lines. Just your gentle curves and complex lace amidst blending colors. You are a representation but the farthest thing from a flag.

You’re a tangible promise.

He watches your breaths push your chest against the red rose trim of the gown’s bodice. There’s a refraction from your earrings that shimmers across your shoulder. He can smell the fading flowers in your hair.

“I haven’t…” you gulp out with shimmering eyes, “been in one of these since that day.”

Oh god, how did he not think of that? He didn’t know. It’s hard to fathom how many times Steve has ridden in a quinjet within the year and a half since you first met.

He didn’t know.

It’s so strange to think he didn’t know then what you would mean to him now. He’d boarded the jet with your Dream Team and had no idea. There was no magic indicator, no slow motion or love at first sight. His world did not turn upside down. More rightly, his world came to you that day.

He assessed the camaraderie of three men and two women. That’s all. He could tell which was the leader, Norm, and Steve thought nothing more of it until after his shield was suctioned to a hole in the hull. 

He secured two men and two women, one of which was trapped with her hand in his makeshift plug.

He remembers he prayed you’d live. That was the first real thing Steve ever thought of you—you specifically—that you’d live.

He remembers looping his arm in the cargo nets and holding you tight. He remembers how he thought about his own strength and if his hold was hurting you. He remembers that your eyes weren’t closed, but he knew you saw nothing. Not really. In fact, your eyes were open the whole time: landing, taking the shield off, examining your hand on the grass outside; all of it until you popped up and headed back toward the jet.

That was the day Steve learned your name.

He remembers you crying at Norm’s funeral and how hard—how brutally, valiantly hard—you tried to convince Steve that you were fine. He’s found that the best people are not fine when something like that happens. He has great respect for those people.

That was the day you earned Steve’s respect.

He remembers footage of the employee gym getting flagged during a day he was on duty as the therapy group leader. He recognized you as he fast-forwarded through hours of footage. You walked the entire time. Alone. After a full day of work. Your car never registered as leaving the compound gate either. In the circle, you were stubborn and cagy, refusing to roll over and open up.

That was the day you impressed Steve.

You didn’t lie. You didn’t tell him what he wanted to hear. You never rolled over, but eventually, you did open up. He felt drawn to a kindred spirit, a thing old Steve rarely feels nowadays, so he tested something. He opened his arms.

That day you hugged him—really, really hugged him—and he couldn’t remember the last time he was held. What’s more is you prompted him to focus on the touch, not for yourself, but for him. How he ached for this without realizing. How he missed it the moment you let go.

That was the day you stole Steve’s heart. He hasn’t regretted a moment since, except, perhaps, that he waited so long to ask you out.

“Are you scared, Keeps?” His voice is soft as is his embrace. “I promise you’ll be safe, but I can turn us ar—“

“No.”

There’s his stubborn girl.

When he steps back, you drop your hands in front of you hesitantly. “Not scared. No. Just…I don’t know. It’s strange to think about.”

That’s no lie either. It’s mind-boggling to imagine coming all this way. Steve gently cups your elbows to ground you both. He’s utterly grateful. His prayer was answered. He was given an incomparable gift.

Even though he trusts you, he knows this is scary, but he needs you to know that he’s here, right beside you, forever.

Partners.

His head sinks down to meet yours, forehead to forehead.

“Strange to be happy—“ which he means in a much deeper, more complicated sense than he could ever explain “—to have something so good come from something so bad.”

With one guiding finger under your chin, Steve tilts your head so your lips can meet. It’s not the same as his overjoyed outburst when you were announced husband and wife. That was in the good times your vows spoke of. Standing in the memory of how you met is one of the bad, but he still loves you, he still holds you, and that’s the promise of this kiss.

“Let’s get you comfy and warm, yeah?” He runs a finger over your bottom lip, further smudging your red lipstick, but he doesn’t care. You can rub off on him as much as you like.

He stands straight to pluck a burgundy flower from your hair. He tucks it away with his pocket square. He plans to press it in a book after he sketches it. 

Every detail must be preserved. He won’t simply rely on photos or video though. He’s old school. He wants the sensory memories as well. It’s alright that there’s no photographer here, too, because Steve has a solution for that which can wait until his hands, nose, ears, and mouth have had their fill of you.

Next he asks if you want to remove the rather large sapphires that seem to weigh on your ear lobes. You take those off yourself and hand them over.

When he raises his hands to help with the clasp of your necklace, he pauses, tracing the neckline of your gown with the tip of his middle finger.

His new wedding band passes over you heart.

He knows he’ll have to leave it behind on missions. There was a moment of wallowing since tattooing one on wasn’t an option with how his skin heals; the ink can’t take. Steve didn’t much like the idea of buying a matching dozen in order to replace them as they were lost or damaged. This one is special. It’s the only one. This one, today, the one you slid onto his finger, has meaning far beyond a circle of gold. He’s going to protect it and keep it safe, too.

“Help me with the back?” You sheepishly turn, forcing the full bustle of your shirt to sweep across his feet.

Good lord, that’s a lot of buttons, and the skinny loops are more finicky than Steve’s most detailed sketches. He manages to only destroy three fastenings out of what feels like thousands.

He’s rewarded with a peak of your skin beneath, absently running the back of his finger over the side of your spine on your lower back. Even though you two have been intimate, even though he saw this soft expanse even before then—on the day you first said ‘I love you’—somehow it’s different.

He can’t describe why this pang in his chest is good, why when he feels as if he can’t breathe he’s happy about it, why he won’t lift a finger to correct any of his past because every second led here. Your worth is indescribable.

Once the dress is undone and pools at your feet, you’re the star at the center of concentric blue, white, and red circles. You are his shield. You are what protects his humanity. You are his wife.

Tony didn’t pull any punches. The tent is basically a thin-walled house, practically a whole kitchen, a bed to actually fit both of you, and generously high ‘ceilings.’ Steve can stand to his full height throughout most of the space.

He’s stunned.

“Good evening, Captain and Misses Rogers,” F.R.I.D.A.Y chimes, startling Steve.

Of course. An entire artificial intelligence inside a fancy camp tent: the epitome of Stark, but Steve lands on feeling incredibly grateful in that moment.

There’s no one around.

You and he get to be completely alone for days, the air is so crisp and clean, and why is he just standing here?

Steve spins and rushes past the duffels he dropped at the ‘door,’ calling your name. His feet hit the ramp of the jet when he hears you behind him.

“Over here,” you harshly whisper. “Steve, turn off the lights!”

“What? Why?”

“Just do it.”

He smirks in confusion but trudges to the cockpit and shuts everything off all the same, muttering “yes, love” over and over like it’s a new phrase for him. When he thinks about it, it is because ‘love’ means wife now. Steve Rogers has a spouse.

He hurries back, squinting in the dark trying to see the outline of you when he realizes you didn’t layer much on.

“I thought you were gonna get warm, sweetheart.” His hand reaches out to test the thickness of the enormous sweater you’ve draped over you, but from the silhouette of your legs, there’s not much—oh.

Oh.

“I’m plenty warm,” you reply, your heart hammering so loud that he can feel it in his throat. Wait. No. That’s his heartbeat because Steve can see more and more by the second as his sharp eyes adjust.

Specifically, he can see your lack of bottoms and a clasp.

Steve swallows thickly. “Did you…are you wearing…?” He lost the words.

The damn garter belt is back, and if he thought he was being so coy and teasing earlier, he is not prepared to be controlled or wait now.

“Got the white one for a special occasion, ya see.” Your hot honey words stick to his brain and fill every crack. “But I was not going to wear these all d—AYY—“

In the blink of an eye, he scoops you up, strategically assessing the nearest surface which just so happens to be a picnic table a few feet away. He doesn’t mean to toss you down so hard, he swears, but he can feel the outline of satin over the swell of your ass.

Steve flips up the hem of your sweater without a second (or first) thought, nearly growling when the moonlight hits the pearly fabric.

He traces the edges of the belt and garters before realizing something else. There’s a glisten below the satin, and it isn’t more fabric. You’re bare and wet before him.

The instant his brain processes that you have no underwear on, the familiar scent of your arousal hits his nostril hard.

“Oh, Keeps,” he moans, one hand flicking open his belt and trousers while the other tangles in your wedding lingerie.

“For you, Sketch,” you gasp in response, breathy and thin with anticipation. “For my—“ you squeal at the intrusion of his fingers “—husband.”

You sound tortured already. It makes Steve realize how tightly wound he is from the whole day, too, and he’s sure this one will be quick. You’re both strung out on the essence of being married. There’s no way to calm down without getting off, or rather, that’s how he’ll justify taking so little time to savor you when he thinks of this later.

He has to pop open the bottom two buttons of his shirt so it’s out of the way, but his tie stays on. That you’re using to haul him forward atop you. He hears the clank of his belt down by his shifting feet and the sharp pants escaping your open mouth as he rolls his tip through your folds to line up at your entrance.

“Steve,” you breathe when he’s partly inside your heat, “look up.”

He can’t stop his momentum, and the drawing force of your walls against his throbbing cock keeps him sinking deeper even while Steve raises his head. His back arches to view the sky. He’s fully buried in you at the same instant he sees that you both are floating in the vast Milky Way.

The light shining down is not moonlight; it’s billions of stars and a nebulous stripe of galaxy that scars the night. 

He’s dizzy, light-headed, and utterly consumed by pull of the universe. His universe. You.

Your body is the central hearth of his world—his home—and your warmth fuels a combustion of euphoria in his veins. It powers the electric jolts of pleasure the sizzle up his spine. He steadies himself with both hands tucked beneath the garter straps to grip your thighs wildly, pinning you open to his lust, spreading the sound and smell of your union.

The raging spin of gravity controls Steve so completely, he can’t warn you he’s coming. He can’t let even a molecule out of his seizing lungs. He tips the scale of ecstasy to unceremoniously fall straight back down to rest in your waiting arms. His breath stutters like his hips, both dragging across your cool, damp skin. He’s not expecting those heavy ruts to push you over.

Your rippling orgasm drains him, and his soul begs you to take whatever pieces of him you want. Every drop. He’s yours.

“Sorry,” he huffs when his brain finally restarts. He lifts most of his weight off of you gently.

“Yeah, me too.” You stare at the stars, ravaged by the same G-forces that wreck him now. “I’m sorry you’re so good at that.” With a blind pat at his still clothed chest, you snort lightly, “terrible really. Want a refund.”

“Oh, ok. Did you say ‘repeat?’ Don’t mind if I—“

“Fuck,” you groan as he pumps once more. “No. God. Give me a minute.”

“Honey, I’ll give you a lifetime.”

The hum of sex softens in your expression when you turn to look at him, your eyes now adjusted to the low light of this beautiful night.

“Good…because I want to see the rest of the place.”

Everything is set up except the water. F.R.I.D.A.Y is ready with instructions on hooking up the jet’s water tank to the utility sink, so once all the packed supplies are in, you two are in for the night as well.

Though he can’t figure out where it’s coming from, the tent seems to be heated once closed.

Tony Stark. Genius indeed.

Steve mourns that the garter belt is off when you settle into the big bed, but he can see the indents left on your skin from the thigh-high stockings. He appreciates the time he had. Maybe they’ll meet again someday. He’ll survive without for now.

While you get comfortable and start to cuddle, his fingertips trace over your hip. Though you’re under the covers, the edge of the blanket drapes down your chest, meaning his big spoon view is all cleavage, and Steve’s got a full-blown montage of all his fantasies rolling around in that overwhelmed brain of his. They aren’t all sexual even; he’s so turned on anyway that it doesn’t matter.

He has time to savor you now. Days completely alone, and without the stress-tension of the actual wedding. Well past midnight now, Steve’s been a married man for exactly nine hours and twenty-two minutes.

He tightens his arm over your waist, whispering, “I love you, Misses Rogers.”

You stifle a yawn and wiggle closer to him. “Love you, Stevie,” you answer softly, chirping when he kisses your temple.

He feels you clench your ass against him, and Steve grunts. No doubt that was your commentary on his returned erection poking at your back.

“Sweetheart,” he tries in a low, cautious tone, “do you think we could…” Steve’s not sure how to word his request. He doesn’t talk dirty so he doesn’t have much vocabulary to express any sexual thoughts.

You turn slightly and lift a hand to his cheek. “You may do whatever you like, Captain. I’m all yours. I trust you.”

Steve’s heart swells with pride until his ribs nearly crack. He brings his hand to your cheek, too, and kisses you gently, pouring love and hope into each brush of your soft lips against his. This is his life. You are his wife. He could die happy but only after this lifetime with you he’s been promised.

When he breaks away from your mouth with a grown, his fingers are already tracing through your folds, the heft of his fist forcing apart your ass cheeks. Instinctively, you grab and lift it to give him better access, moaning when he penetrates you again. You’re still slick from before, some of his cum is there to smooth his way, but that’s good for what he wants.

He’s quickly satisfied by your openness, and Steve lines himself up to enter you. Even though the cabin is heated, even though he runs hot naturally, there is something wildly soothing about burying himself to the hilt in you. He gets one gasp of satisfaction from you before he pulls your hand away to take in his, lacing your fingers together. He lets himself be pushed out slightly as your ass relaxes against his pelvis. Steve stops moving, taking in deep breaths of you and settling your combined hands in front of you.

He kisses your stretched neck. “Can I stay like this for a while?”

Your walls grab at him, but he doesn’t thrust in response. Steve hears how your heartbeat picks up for a moment then tries to calm. You nod and hum approval. He snuggles up to you, his face resting against your spine between your shoulder blades.

He’s still. You’re still. The Earth is still.

Steve relishes every tiny detail of this moment. He takes so long to savor it that your heart slows and your breathing goes shallow. You’ve fallen asleep—likely a light sleep, sure, but that’s how much you trust him. His thumb rubs over your palm absently. As comfortable as he is, he cannot fall asleep like this. The residual effect of the day is an echo of all lovely things, emotional and supercharged with anticipation.

You married him. You two are married. He has no idea when the novelty of that will wear off, but for now, the thought alone makes him unbearably excited to have you close, and hot, and loud with him. His cock has been twitching the whole time he’s been thinking so hard about this, and you haven’t woken. Even if he wanted to let you sleep, eventually he’d have to pull out before he could sleep himself, so he slowly, experimentally, rolls his hips away.

Your hand tenses in his as another soft gasp escapes you. Your hushed voice calls him, says his name like a plea and a prayer. You’ve grown wetter, silky smooth and just begging to be used.

You untangle your fingers and press his hand to your breast.

He doesn’t need to be asked twice.

Like a dance you both have practiced for a lifetime, your needs synchronize. Steve nips at your shoulder while you spread your ass for him again, allowing his thrusts deeper. He’s rewarded with desperate whines and muffled curses until it all molds into one cry breaking in rhythm with his pace. God, you are sexy. God, he is so hard for you.

As much as he’s enjoying this, he knows that you can’t come like this. He abandons the nipple he’s been toying with to graze down your stomach and thigh, parting your legs and lifting the top one until you catch on and switch to holding that instead. His thrusts slow as he circles your clit, already soaked by your arousal.

He can tell you’re close when you go quiet, biting your lip as an “oh, fuck” escapes.

“That’s it, love. That’s it,” Steve pants, craving your coming apart as much as his own. “Baby, please,” he begs.

His favorite shattered sound rises in your throat, and he plants himself inside you to feel that fluttering grip of your orgasm to full effect. He has half a mind—as he continues to torture your clit—to wring one more out of you before he comes, but you’re tired, he remembers, and that wouldn’t quite be fair. He knows you’d say yes, but you have days to be alone, days to handle and tease and caress each other to the brink and back.

You drop your leg, pushing his hand out of the way, and reach back to pull at his hair. “Do it,” you growl as an order, “fill me up.”

Steve may not be able to talk dirty, but he has to admit that in the throws of passion, he likes hearing one or two filthy things from you. It’s almost like a taunt for punishment. The excitement of you playing with him that way has urgent pressure lapping at his spine, tightening his balls while the whiplash of his own orgasm snaps his hips flush against you. He continues to press forward, unable to recede so much as a millimeter, the intense surge of blood to his groin depriving his brain of the ability to care what he’s doing so long as he’s inside you.

He pushes. You release his hair. He pushes more. You shout a bit in confusion. He pushes again, almost drained of his sanity, it feels, and then he hears a slap as your torso leaves the warmth of his chest.

Steve finally opens his eyes.

You’ve almost fallen off of the mattress, braced by your arms, your feet secured behind his thighs.

“Sorry,” he shrieks, twisting so fast to get you off the floor that you flail, planting your hands hard against his chest. You’re sitting up straddling him now, still facing away, your bare chest heaving in the near dark, the blankets banished in a heap to one side. He presses a wide hand to your back for support. “Sorry, Keeps.”

“’S…” You try to control your own body again, incidentally clenching around Steve still inside you.

He moans, his other hand joining to hold your waist.

“’S fine,” you finally get out. “’S fine.”

A long silence descends while you both recover.

You turn to eye him over your naked shoulder. “Think you can sleep now?”

“Oh, god.”

He’s pretty sure he could die right now. He’d be happy and blissed out beyond his wildest dreams, but he definitely can’t walk over to get a warm cloth just yet. “Give me a minute.”

It’s you—his stubborn, amazing, unpredictable wife—who dismounts him and the bed first. “I got it, love,” you say, leaning down to kiss his forehead.

There must be a draft of the heating somewhere close because Steve’s hit by the intense aroma of him and you dripping from between your legs. He groans, filing that memory away with so many others from the day.

Sure, he can have you whenever he wants, but can he handle that? Through the tender care and warm embrace you offer, Steve makes a simple plan for his future: do whatever makes his wife happy…and do anything that makes her come like that.

He’s been married for eleven hours and thirty-seven minutes.

[Next Part]

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

@im-a-slut-for-fluff @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @fangirl-swagg @georgeweaslysgirl @austynparksandpizza @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes

beautiful sparkly dividers by @silkholland

[lorddistancebarry]

Forest In Chains - Chapter 1

"500, 600, 700, 800, 900.." Garcello counts the cash in his hands after he was given the bag of money. After Tabi fell and didn’t get back up from the half-giant cutting loose and throwing him through the cage into the left most stands of the audience. After the red haze cleared. After basically running with fire and panicking the entire way. He still feels the burns and cuts on his arms, chest and face from Tabi's strikes. The bruising deciding to make itself known by the numbness hidden via his bangs on the left side of his face. The wounds just adding on in a pile especially when the reaper decided to stop fucking around and went all in... his body shivers as the pain compounds and the wind from the September season hits him while he sits on the bench waiting for the bus.

"You barely von that, child." a deep, voice spoke.

Garcello looks up and looks intrigued and surprised at who it belonged to.

"Ruv.." He noted looking up from his money and putting it away, quickly.

"You did not expect me?" He noted with a smirk,"Illegal fight, legal fight. I come to all, vatch them. Sarvente spoke of it being good move. I believe her."

The large Russian man walks over and sits down like a neighbor to Garcello on the bus stop. "But, I can go on many years speaking about her." Ruv noted,"Vhat about you, Young Smoke? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." Garcello admits,"Just.. didn't expect to get cut and burned alive like I'm a fuckin piece of meat."

"Equalizers are not to be trifled vith. As gang or as fighters in vrestling circuit." Ruv chuckles,"Go to be undefeated, An equalizer gets sent, test you. It is cycle to see if you are actually good or you are veak bitch."

"Well, was i actually good?" Garcello laughs wryly,"Cause i feel like shit."

"No, you vere lucky, you use your strength. You are shit, but vorkable shit. Trainable." Ruv critiques as he takes out his vodka flask from his jacket. "So.. you're going to train me?" Garcello asked looking up as Ruv drinks. "Vin against Agoti or Vhitty." He directs looking to Garcello stoically,"Then I teach you. I vant to see if your are vorth time."Ruv takes another drink from his flask. Garcello takes out one of his cigarettes and lights it. A green light illuminates at the end as he inhales, steam and smoke coalesces and flares outward into a glowing green, mist smoke hybrid. "I see." He nods once,"And if I am worth your time?" "I train you.break you, see vhat you.. really are. Then ve progress from there."  Ruv stated looking to Garcello with his lone, glossy eye. Almost seeming to look through Garcello and into him.Garcello shivers looking back. Friend? Enemy? "I see." He gets up as the bus is rolling up."Well for now.. I'm gonna get dinner and go home. Thanks for checking up on me." "Anytime. I do not like promising student, be jumped by Equalizer scum." Ruv chuckles with a grin. Garcello pales a bit, "Uh... what?" Ruv looks to the fellow titan with an incredulous stare,"You scraped out vin, but you also humiliated Tabi. Young Reaper vill vant revenge..." The Russian raises an eyebrow,"You did not expect that?" "But you beat some of the Equalizer's asses and you didn't get  jumped!" Garcello points out as the whir of steam leaving the bus' brakes occurs and the door's open. "That is because of grace of God and grace of throwing truck across street." Ruv laughs wryly,"Now go, child. Before you are stuck here." Garcello waves Ruv off before getting on the bus and using his bus card. A satisfied beep of payment as he moves. Knowing the timer, he sits down quickly before the bus moves with a hiss of the breaks lifting from the ground and the bus hovers, flying down the roads and over ground locked travel.He looks out the window at the night sky and at the many lights below of Funk City. Advertisements, cars, city signs, street lights. Garcello lets his mind wander at the light pollution and the sound of hover cars flying by. Its mesmerizing. Watching everything just fly, zip, and zop by. Time could pass as the colors of the city and the energy takes him in. The concept when he was young had never gotten old or changed. The colors of the world, the lifeblood of the people moving, growing and just living. This is why he and his mother had migrated here. Such a decision had to be lived through not just decided on a whim. But this.. This wholesome peace and tranquility at this time. Away from the violence, the darkness and the weight of it all... Was a very big deciding factor. "One day... they will be able to feel this way.." Garcello resolves quietly as he looks down through the window to the city below. "Feel so.. free..." He coos starting to let the pain and tiredness get to him. Starting to fall asleep on the bus and get complacent in his space... until a growling, gurgling reminder makes itself painfully known in his core. The tender flesh of wounds on his abdomen only make it worse. His body went through hell.

It wants food, it needs it. He needs it. NOW. "First.... step... free myself." he grumbles softly as pain burns in his core and it forces him out of falling asleep and dragging on. Sitting up properly and starting to search for a close enough bus stop so he doesn't just add more suffering with a long as fuck walk that only lengthens the burning. Finding one, he pulls on the wire that signals the automated system to stop. The bus stops after a bit before landing with the soft 'woosh' of steam. Getting off the bus, he walks down the streets. Looking up to keep track of his own placement on the road, looking down to light a cigarette to ease some of the pain, looking back up now to search for those heavenly golden arches. After a minute, 6 cigarettes later.. the yellow and red light beams down upon his form. At this point, a soft, barely noticeable film of red covers everything and everyone that walks by and every sensation, smell and taste is heightened. Painfully so. "Finally..." he exhales, dry air hitting a watering, near drooling maw. He walks into the restaurant with a dragging motion of his feet. Garcello looms over to the counter with barely any real patience. People move away and those that don't, go quickly about their order then move. "Hi." he stated, "I would like.. the whole left menu. Twice. Add 6 McChicken meals. Super size it..." "I-is that-that all sir?" A timid female voice asked quietly. "Yes.." he confirms. Not really looking up. "It's going to be disc-discounted. Y-you don't mind right?" She asked.As she asks that, the red film sight as it was dies down a bit. Garcello looks up from the counter. There is only one person that ever asks about discounts in his mind. He looks at the attendant at the counter and sees the fuchsia and sky blue eyes looking up and right back at him from her gaunt, modest face and shivering, small frame. "Rebecca? What are you doin' here?!" He asked actually in shock. "Um.. well.." she shrugs,"I work here. Y/N got me the job, t-they're the manager." Garcello looks on in shock. He tilts his head back with an incredulous stare. Looking for you and seeing you wave a short, polite wave as you're working with the drive through attendants to ensure chaos is handled. Garcello looks back to Rebecca. "Don’t give me a discount girl just charge me normally. I'll treat ya." He says softly. "A-are you su-sure?" "Entirely." He nods handing over 80 dollars. "You were c-close but a bit over. Your price is 72 dollars and 12 cents." "I know." He nods,"Tips. Put the change in your pocket." Rebecca looks sheepish, looking down and shivering."B-but.." "Do it." He commands sternly. Rebecca takes the money, makes exact change and keeps it immediately. Every motion is fast and shaky like an unstable roller-coaster. "T-thanks..." she murmurs shyly poking her fingers together. "When are you two off?" He asked. "In.. 30 mins.." Rebecca looks up at Garcello. Her eyes narrow and she grimaces.."I'll get an ice baggy.. and. I'm going to be frank... I have questions. And if i have questions.. Y/N is going to want answers..." Garcello grinds his teeth,"Alright. I'll wait and we'll talk." Rebecca purses her lips then exhales,"Thank you." Garcello leaves from the counter and to one of the large benches at the furthest back of the restaurant and waits. Waiting, letting time pass as he patiently sits. His core burning with hunger and primal thoughts when the mental shock subsides. The herd is curious.. tell them. "I.. don’t want them in danger..." Lies are over... tell them something... they worry. They fear. "Garcello? Are you good?" You asked concerned, "Rebecca told me about.-" "The bruise on my face. I know." Garcello says as Rebecca comes over with the food trays. "Ice bag, 3 o clock?" Rebecca offers the baggie of ice. Garcello looks to it then takes the bag, wiggles up his cap and bangs, revealing the recently closed gashes, burns and cuts on his chin and face. Your eyes widen from the sight, brow furrowing in concern. "What h-happened?" Rebecca says before you do. You see Garcello is staring at the food, half listening. Mostly tired, dragging on fumes really. "No." You say then look to Garcello,"We talk. After you finish eating. Got it?" "Yes'm"  Garcello nods once then  finally let's his brain drop being alert.Rebecca looks to you with concern, she shakes more from anxiety. "Oh.. don't worry I know." Your reassure,"But overwhelming him is the last thing on my mind. I don't think this is a simple little 'fall' like last time anyway." "You want to h-hear it fro-from his mouth." You nod once and sit down before looking to Rebecca, she nods once with a small smile. "Both of us are signed out, we wont get in trouble with higher ups for over time."She confirms just before- CRUNCH! TEAAAR! SHHRRIIP! Garcello eats like they aren't there, there is no smacking noise. Just an absence of control from tiredness and physically going through hell. Hes going through hoops with food like a functioning sponge with water, trying to replenish what was forcefully squeezed out of him. Rebecca looks to you. "I.. haven't seen him like this.. or well this bad.. Do you think hes..." "I think so." you confirm," Maybe on drugs. But regardless of whatever it is... This cant be swept under the rug. Did you call Annie?" "I-I did." Rebecca nods,"She's coming as fast as possible. I warned her to not run red lights. I was promptly cursed out in German. I responded. She hung up knowing I was right." Garcello stops eating into his 6th McChicken. The man didn't unwrap the wrapper off, the whole ass sandwich is just getting murdered with his teeth. The devouring however stops short at the mention of Annie. With bloodshot eyes, he looks to Rebecca and you. "You.. are all going to be here?" he asked and you shake your head no. "No." You respond,"But. I'm happy you have a brain in there again. Because like it or not.. you're going to tell us what we need to know." Garcello pales in the face for a moment like he saw a ghost, his heart races in terror. His pupils contract as he knows hes cornered now. There is no wiggling out like before.

"We aren't g-going to hurt you, big guy." Rebecca coos softly. "I.. i know its jus'..." Garcello starts but its hard to put words together. "You know you can't bullshit us anymore." You finish looking at the man directly in his face. Garcello looks away looking down at the scraps of paper, unwrapped or just ripped apart making a mess on the table. "Yeah.. I cant." he confirms as Annie rampages in like a crashing tsunami and yells just as loud, scaring customers out of the restaurant. "NOW WHOMST THE FUCK JUMPED GARCELLO?! I'M ABOUT TO FUCKING BEAT THEIR SHIT IN!" Annie yells, her flesh is tinting blue from the glowing blue of her veins spidering from her skin. A sign of her stress before she drinks ‘the liquid’. "You bout to calm so i can explain." Garcello says strictly, unafraid as he’s been used to seeing the entity pour our from her veins and skin. He’s more than used to being attacked as he knows it doesn't like him. But for now it has no power here. Just like his other half. "Then talk." You egg on, as Annie takes a few breathes, grabs a chair and sits in it, the back of the chair acing the table."We're all listening." Garcello bites his lips. His S/O and his best friends, the core of the herd, his herd... now are looking at him like hes wounded. Doesn't help that he is on the outside and inside... ‘Now you gone and done it, Garcy.. but now.. what do you do now?’ He asks himself in his thoughts as he takes a deep breath in. Act as you are, You are alpha. Time to be a man.

[losille2000]

The Chocolate Affair, Chapter 3

TITLE: The Chocolate Affair CHAPTER NUMBER: 3/? AUTHOR: Losille2000 WHICH TOM/CHARACTER: AU!Tom, CEO!Tom GENRE: Romance/Drama/Spy Fiction FIC SUMMARY: When a mysterious—and gorgeous—stranger sends dessert instead of a customary drink one evening in a bar, Christine Callaghan can’t help but be intrigued, even though she’s on a diet… from men. RATING: M (sex, language) WARNINGS: Um, nothing yet. AUTHORS NOTES: Sorry for the wait! Thanks for reading, everyone!

Also on AO3 Previous chapters: 1 - 2 -  Character Bios: Tom - Christine - Alex - Rory

The Chocolate Affair Chapter 3

  I’m the center of attention at dinner, and there’s no way of escaping it.

 From the moment Tom introduces me, all the way to dessert, his curious friends find plenty of moments to pepper and pressure me into answering questions about myself. Questions I have no want to answer, but I scramble and scrape something together to force them to move on, relying heavily on what I can remember about developing proper cover on the fly from my time training at The Farm.

 I’m not overly skilled in certain aspects of spy tradecraft. My specific talents lie in looking at the bigger picture, decoding bits of information, mining into peoples’ minds and histories to find the best avenues for Operations to pursue. My official title—Targeting Officer—explains my role simply. I work behind a desk back at Langley, though my team often deploys to the far reaches of the world as needed. Even on location, though, I remain at command headquarters, away from dealing most of the lies required to make a successful and convincing spy.

 Even though everyone learns the same things while at The Farm, by the end of training, the commanding officers place cadets in the positions they decide are most appropriate to the cadet’s strengths. I have many strengths… well, all except one.

 I’m not a good liar.

 This is the first time in a very long time I can stretch these muscles. I hope they pass muster, knowing what kind of scrutiny I’m under from the man sitting beside me. I still can’t help but feel like a phony with these people; I hope my poker face doesn’t slip and reveal anything important.

 They say the best lie is the lie that incorporates a bit of the truth, so I stick to that, mostly. Where do I work? Oh, a humanitarian organization. What do I do? I am a psychologist helping refugees acclimate to their new lives in America and counseling aid workers coping with the horrors of war. They tell me how interesting and important the work is, like all rich people who don’t know true suffering, and move on to a discussion about their holidays in St. Bart’s and Paris. They don’t really care about the specifics.

 I sag back in my seat, relief washing over me. Regrouping would be easier if I excuse myself, but I refuse to move. No one else has left the meal. I glance at Rory and her husband, Alex, who have been quiet most of the night and talking amongst themselves and the couple kitty-corner to them. The man, dark haired and stern, I remember as Armitage. Richard, some sort of banker or hedge fund manager, with a nice lilting accent. His boyfriend, Lee, is American and owner of a chain of restaurants that serve only pies. I want to ask him why pies, but I decide against it because it will invite him to inquire about more with me.

 A server walks by and refills my wine glass. I reach for the goblet and lift it to my lips, savoring the fruity flavor by rolling the liquid around my tongue. The warm body beside me turns from his brief conversation with the lady to his right and slips his possessive hand onto my thigh like he owns it.

 When I bought the dress, I made sure it covered most of my thighs when I sat, whether I crossed my legs or my ankles. It fit the bill, but rode up just enough to reveal a few inches of skin above my knee.  He found that easily, as though he’s magnetized to the location, his fingertips dancing lightly along the hem and stocking-clad skin. Shivers of pleasure shoot up my leg and coalesce at the already tight ball coiling low in my abdomen.

 I shift in my seat, bearing down, nearly grinding on the cushion in a completely unacceptable manner, looking for friction in the place I want it most. A wayward thought crosses my mind: how am I going to handle sleeping with him if this lazy teasing makes me do that?

 I gulp down another mouthful of wine and set the glass back on the table, grateful that my movement and his hands are hidden under the crisp linen tablecloth. His fingers slip further inward and finally rest curled around the inside of my thigh, just above the knee. I’d say it was still respectable—possessive, yes—but in the bounds of normal public affection… that is, of course, if my skin didn’t burn where he’d settled his hand. A part of me wants his fingers to slide further up, dragging my skirt along with them, and to dip between my thighs at the apex of my legs.

 But even he isn’t that daring with all his friends watching.

 Instead, he leans over to me, his breath tickling my ear again. “Don’t drink too much, darling. I want you clear enough to give your consent, so we can properly enjoy each other later.”

 I swallow harshly, remembering last night, knowing he is thinking about it as well. I’d used the wine as an excuse to get away from him before I combusted into flames. I wouldn’t be so fortunate this time. I’m already smoldering from the inside out.

 “I won’t,” I mutter, feeling heat on my cheeks, quickly assigning it to the wine and not my reaction to him. I’m not some simpering fool.

 But damn, he makes it too easy to become one.

 Something about his comment makes me pause and consider, though. Did he not push for more last night because I said I had too much to drink? Was he really that much of a gentleman? He seems so secretive now—dark and dangerous—that I don’t know what to truly think about his principles. However, I suddenly find him more attractive now that I realize he didn’t push me. A less honorable man would have pushed. Is this all a part of the game? If so, he’s winning.

 “I don’t think I told you how beautiful you are this evening,” he says. One of the fingers on my thigh tickles haphazard shapes on the inside of my knee. Another digit joins in and I fidget awkwardly. I can’t see them, but I feel their length, dexterity, and strength as they tease my flesh.

 I suck in a breath and tamp down a shiver. “Better than last night, huh?”

 “You were beautiful then, as well,” he adds. “Just as I am sure you will be beautiful with nothing on at all.”

 I practically choke on the girlish giggle that rises in my throat. Where the fuck does this man come from? No one talks like this. Maybe it’s his wealth that gives him the privilege of brazenness. Or maybe it’s the power of his position in the world that’s enflamed his arrogance. And yet, somehow, none of it feels repulsive or smarmy. Simply confident and heavy with desire. That he obviously wants me—despite my belief that he singled me out because he’ll want more than my body—confuses me. I’ve never been openly or intentionally pursued romantically.

 At least, not to this degree.

 I did most of the pursuing with my ex. Not exceptionally beautiful or well known in the circles he traveled, I certainly wasn’t the first choice for a legend like Nathan. I wasn’t even a second or third, either. However, I’d found him both handsome and affable, and I couldn’t shake my attraction to him. My persistence paid off, I thought, when he finally chatted me up one free night while we were all out celebrating moving to the next phase of our training. I didn’t really connect that he only gave me a second look due to the lack of options while we were at The Farm. I was, as it turns out, an easy target for a serial womanizer.

 Our relationship just sort of happened and continued only because his family liked my clean, upstanding background. They saw me as the perfect political wife, despite my serious aversion to dresses, big Southern hair, and campaign fundraisers. I was convenient. His perfect cover, both for his job as an Operations Officer and for the future when he took the reins of his family’s political dynasty and ran for a seat in the Senate… or for President. The problem was that I fell in love with him, anyway.

 My past makes me wary of my present. Perhaps there’s something more in Tom’s pursuit mixing pleasure with his business. Does he need convenience and respectability, too? Or is it deeper? I can’t deny the flare of his nose or the slightly dilated pupils when he looks at me after I not-so-accidentally brush against his side while we dine. His physical attraction to me is blatant, more than I ever remember experiencing from my ex. What Tom could want from me besides my body, though, I don’t know. I don’t understand. I am outclassed in every sense of the word.

 Letting myself fall into the same trap as I did with my ex is a mistake.

 Tonight is a mistake, I know it.

 In a week, I return home to my cat and boring apartment, and then go back to work at Langley. My original plans with Tom involve tonight, only, but introducing me to his friends and business partners coupled with the extensive background check he conducted, hint at something else. Something more. Something I’m probably not willing to—or can’t—give him.

 Even though I know I can’t give him more, I also can’t find the incentive to leave. I like the glide of his thumb on my thigh too much to push the chair back and beg his forgiveness that I need to return to the hotel. The thrill of the unknown keeps me glued to my spot, trying not to let the entire world know he’s gently moved his hands up a fraction more, pulling at the hem of my skirt until he reaches the lacy edges of my new silk stockings.

 I clear my throat and glance at him again, finding a pleased smirk playing at his lips. A moment of frivolity at the lingerie store led me down the path of garters and stockings. Apparently, they’re a hit. Too bad I want him to tear them from my legs later.

 Dinner continues with dessert and little more attention is placed on me. We all retreat to the sitting room to relax in our food-induced stupor; some couples beg off for the night, others find seats with coffee and tea to continue the evening. Tom’s hand flattens on the small of my back again and he smiles at me. “Let me go see my guests off and I’ll be back.”

 I nod. “Sure.”

 He sweeps from the room, and I turn in my spot to look at my options for companionship. Fortunately, I find Rory coming toward me, carefully balancing two delicate cups full of coffee. I’ll need some of the caffeinated fortification if I’m to make it through the night.

 She holds one cup out to me. “Here. It’s black, but if I remember correctly, that’s what you take.”

 I grin. “The darker the better. If I could mainline it, I would.”

 Rory giggled again and looked to the side. “How about we go sit over there?”

 Spinning around, I see a cushioned bench along the wall to the right. It’s in a dim alcove between two slim bookcases, away from the main crowd. I don’t object and follow her over, grateful I don’t have to stand on my heels. I’m still so wobbly on them.

 “So,” she says, finally, then sips her coffee. “Is this supposed to be a date?”

 “You cut straight to the quick.” I stare at her for a minute. “You’ve changed.”

 Rory blushes and ducks her head. “Yeah, well, it’s been a long time, Christine. I’ve grown up a lot. You’ve grown up, too.”

 “True.”

 “So… are you on a date?”

 “I don’t know. Why?”

 Rory presses her lips together. “It’s strange, is all.”

 “What do you mean?”

 “I’ve known Tom well on five years now,” she says. “He’s never openly invited anyone to a dinner like this.”

 “He hasn’t?”

 Rory shakes her head. “No. I mean, I know he’s never wanted for female company because Alex has told me stories… but he’s never had a companion for a friendly dinner. You know, one he wants other people to meet. How long have you known him?”

 “Uh,” I say, looking up at the ceiling and thinking of a clock. “A little over twenty-four hours?”

 She splutters into her coffee. “You’re joking.”

 “No, I’m not. We met at the hotel bar last night, and he invited me after a ten-minute conversation. And I stupidly went along with it because I wanted to have some fun.”

 Rory frowns into her cup, twisting it around the saucer, watching the ripples forming on the surface. I can tell she wants to say something to me, I hope not to admonish me for jumping into this, but she finally sighs and meets my eyes again. “You should be careful, Christine.”

 Her warning sends a chill down my spine. My belly clenches and twists. “Why?”

 Rory shrugs. “It feels off.”

 “I know.” I nod in agreement. It’s nothing I haven’t already thought. None of this makes sense if all he wanted was a fuck. “Of course, I don’t know Tom like you do, but you’ve confirmed what my gut’s been telling me.”

 “I’m not saying be careful because he’s a bad man,” Rory adds, “but he’s also not a saint, either. And things have been weird between Alex and me, too, and it’s always involving Tom. More meetings, more private phone conversations. Alex has always told me everything, but now… I don’t know what’s going on. It’s freaking me out.”

 She takes a breath, reining in her sudden overflowing emotion. Her bottom lip quivers, but she bites it away. “And then you show up like a ghost and I’m torn between rejoicing that you’ve come back into my life and being worried about you. There has to be some connection, right? I mean two people out of seven billion don’t just coincidentally meet again unless there’s a reason.”

 I set my cup down on the bench beside me and reach out for her, grabbing her free hand between mine. “Don’t worry about me, Rory. I can take care of myself.”

 “I know,” she says. “I just don’t want you to get swallowed up. These men—these rich and powerful men—they consume so easily.”

 “Trust me, I’ll be fine.”

 Will I? I don’t even believe myself. Now that I know my misgivings aren’t completely insane, I can’t help but feel more intrigued by the whole situation. I should take her warning, and my better sense, and call the hotel driver for a pickup. But I don’t. I want—no, need—to release this ache Tom has created in me, and he’s the only one who can do it. Then I’ll leave, and I’ll use my connections to look into what’s going on with Tom and Alex, if only to protect Rory and her children.

 But then I stop myself. Why do I believe her? Is it because she was a friend? Should I still believe her? Is she still a friend? We’ve not seen each other in, what?, fifteen years? She could be a spy or a mole or something else, too, for all I know. Someone could have put her up to this, to gain my trust, to get me to let my guard down. So she could get information from me.

 Not for the first time, I curse my job. I love it, but I hate it, too. Protecting my country and the people in it is a calling—a passion. But I hate how it fucks with my personal relationships, or, rather, my ability to have them. I can never fully commit to trusting someone.

 I want to look at Rory, and share everything with her, but I can’t be the open book I once was.

 “Just be careful,” Rory warns again. “I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you and I didn’t let you know.”

 “Thank you.” I pick my coffee up again and quickly swallow what’s left in the cup. One of the servers appears at my elbow and asks if he can take it away.

 Rory hands hers off as well and sighs. “Oh, here they come.”

 I straighten my back and glance at the rest of the room; it seems to have emptied during our quiet conversation, leaving only Tom and her husband.

 “Are you ready to head out, älskling?” Alex asks, leaning over and pressing his lips into the flaming hair on top of her head.  Rory’s eyes flutter closed for the briefest of moments as she leans into the touch of his large hand on her shoulder.

 There’s no artifice in his actions or voice. He absolutely loves her and cares about her, so I wonder if Rory’s worries aren’t a little unfounded and somehow related to pregnancy hormones. In fact, I’m a little jealous she has such a secure relationship.

“Sure, I’m pretty tired,” Rory replies and looks at me. “When do you go home, Christine?”

“I’m here for another week.”

A wide grin stretches her lips, the previous worry evaporating from her green eyes. “Awesome! We’re here for a few more days before we head back to Chicago. How about we do a tea or something? I don’t think we’ve had enough time to catch up.”

 I read into her words. Of course, I want to spend time with her and see what’s been going on over the last decade and a half, but I also know she wants a full report of what happens after she leaves tonight. I don’t know if I’m willing to be that forthcoming. Especially if this night ends the way I want it to.

 As though he knows he has to reassure me, Tom sets his hand at the nape of my neck, fingers lightly digging into my bare flesh as he stills. An electric frisson shakes through me and I look to both pairs of eyes staring back at us. Alex wears a silly wolfish grin. Rory chuckles and turns to her husband, offering her hand for help up from the bench. He takes it without a second thought, as though he was born to be his wife’s helper. I watch them as he bundles her to his side and treats her like spun glass.

 I could be wrong—in fact, I’ve been wrong before—but body language is always a dead giveaway when it comes to reading between the lines of what motivates people. Whatever Rory may be worried about involving Alex and Tom’s business dealings, they have nothing to do with her or Alex intending to hurt her. Sure, she might be an unwitting participant, but the way Alex holds her tells me all I need to know.

 “How can I reach you?” Rory asks.

 I almost rattle off my cell number, but use the opportunity to test out a theory. “I’m staying at The Greystoke.” I turn and glance at Tom, then to Alex. They’re better than I thought managing their reactions. Tom’s hand, however, does press a little harder at my neck. So he did ask Alex for a little help.

 “Really? We’re up in the penthouse,” she says. “Maybe I’ll just waddle down to your room and we can have a girls’ night. What room number?”

 “1010,” I reply.

 A throat clearing turns our attention toward the sitting room entrance. Stewart is there in all his regimented glory. “Mr. Skarsgård, your driver has just pulled around.”

 Alex nods and gently pushes his wife forward. “Thank you, Stewart.”

 Tom helps me stand and offers his arm as we follow them out the door and through the foyer. We stand on the stoop and say our farewells, kissing cheeks with promises to meet up again within the next week. Eventually, the car crunches out of the driveway and the large gates swing shut with a metallic clang locking them into place, leaving us alone in a silent, cold London night.

 I shift closer to Tom, hoping for his warmth to seep into my chilled skin. He obliges by wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me to him until we’re facing, our bodies pressed together from knee to chest. He’s warm and solid—a tether to my suddenly floating head and hammering heart. We could survive a blizzard on his body heat alone, but combined like this, I feel like I’m on fire, like we could generate enough warmth to end an ice age.

 It certainly thaws whatever reservations I have about him, at least for a little while. I’m sure the cold will return once more during the night, after we scratch the itch that’s developed between us, but I can’t think about that. I’m going to have some fun. I’m going to live.

 “What next?” I ask, my voice coming out throatier than I intended.

 His eyes are hooded, watching me, committing me to memory again, as though the previous evening didn’t make enough of an imprint. “Would you care for a tour?”

 “Only if it ends in your bedroom.” My palms flatten against his chest, inching north to his tie, that’s moved a bit to the right throughout the evening, a sign that he isn’t perfect. I loosen it, pulling the knot out and leaving the open ends hanging on his chest while I run my fingers down the smooth black silk. “Do you ever loosen up, Tom?”

 A puff of warm air ruffles the tendrils of hair on the side of my face. He laughs lightly. “Only in my bedroom.”

 “Somehow I think that’s also a lie.”

 “Care to find out?”

 “I’m not wearing uncomfortable lingerie for nothing,” I whisper.

 Tom’s eyes sparkle. “Then I’ll take you on the short tour, so you don’t have to wear it any longer than necessary.”

 Somehow, it’s easy to forget everything as I allow him to guide me inside the foyer in the direction of the righthand staircase. The only thing—the most important thing—is that we get this over with so I can extinguish the need for release inside of me.

 Only then will I be able to focus on other things.