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It took almost three weeks of wheedling to convince her to go to the Halloween party. Not one she wanted to go to, of course not. “Just another one of your Hollywood bullshit parties,” Sonya had said disparagingly, rubbing at the bridge of her nose with her hands. “They’re a waste of time, Johnny. You know I hate them, I get bored off my ass. You go, have fun.”
“I won’t have fun if you’re not there,” he’d countered, crossing his arms and scowling at her across the couch. “I’ve already got a costume in mind. Pull a little Thriller action, letter jacket and werewolf getup. I can get it for you too, easy as pie. Jeans, tee, jacket, little extra fur here and there… Done in half an hour.”
“You think I’m going to glue acrylic fur to myself?” She had given him a look of death over her tumbler of whisky, leaning back into the plush cushions, and jabbed him with a foot. “With my luck, that shit’d never come off. No.”
“Fine. You pick your own costume — as long as it’s not something out of your closet — and I’ll leave you alone about it. No ‘oh I’m pretending to be a normal person’,” he’d added mockingly. “Just… I’d like to get out, have fun with you. It’s been a while.”
She’d given him a long, considering look, before grudgingly nodding. “Fine. But you don’t get to say a word about what I wear.”
And now, here he is, watching his wife in ballet attire circulate through a room. Sonya Blade is not a pretty pink ballerina, or some modern dance version. She’d joined him downstairs just as the limo got there, all black feathers and the most intricately embroidered leotard or bodice or whatever and tutu that he’d ever seen, carrying a black swan half-mask, and wearing pale satin slippers with ribbons that chased around her ankles. The image of her walking down the stairs was going to live in his memory forever, black feathers and satin and perfect composure that commands attention. If it wasn’t a conscious choice, she has the unconscious
His dick had sprung to attention as she contorted to get into the limo, bending and flexing in ways usually reserved for workouts, and it had taken most of the ride to go down. He’d done everything in his power to distract himself from the bare skin of her shoulders and the long vee of it in the valley of her breasts, ending somewhere around the bottom of her sternum. Thinking about the itch of the fake fur glue on his face and on his arms, how the false fur was warm and uncomfortable but they’d matched it to his hair color for perfect effect (thank God for friends who did special effects). Don’t think about how her dress had almost no back, either — it was like she was half-naked, but also somehow so removed from his reach that he couldn’t touch her, austere and inviolate.
It made some visceral instinct in him climb to the surface, pushing away normal, civilized behavior.
“A tutu? Really? Cass will lose her mind when she finds out she missed Mama as a ballerina.”
Sonya smiled. “Who do you think helped me come up with the idea? Swore her to secrecy, as only a six year old can keep a secret. She almost slipped twice that I heard, around you.” She’d handed him a pair of small black wrapped packages, one about the size of a pack of playing cards that looked like a reusable shopping bag, the other bulkier but still fairly light. “You’ve got pockets, I don’t. Can you just stick those in your jacket? If I need them, I’ll grab them.”
“Please don’t tell me this is work shit,” he’d groaned, but tucked them away. The biggest package barely fit in one of his pockets, but it was soft enough to give and squish away. She’d shaken her head, then leaned forward to make sure she wasn’t crushing her skirt, and it gave him a better view of the feather-covered cups of the bodice and that spread of skin between them, and suddenly breathing became very, very difficult.
“Eyes up here, Johnny. It’s not work related, I promise.”
“I love you,” he’d informed her breasts earnestly. She’d laughed, reached out with a hand and tipped his face up to look at her.
“I love you too. Now c’mon and tell me who I have to schmooze with tonight.”
He’d spent five minutes with her at his side — or as close as he could get with the tulle skirt between them — and then she’d tucked her hand into the pocket of her jeans, squeezed his ass once, and went to get a glass of champagne.
He’s been on the hunt for her ever since.
He wants her, with a kind of feral hunger that is far too appropriate, given his costume. He keeps moving towards her, and he knows she sees him as he moves. But a word, a pause, a “just a minute”, and she’s gone by the time he arrives. It’s like a game to her, holding conversations across a room, but no sign of her remains by the time he gets there. Then he’s tripped up and caught by smalltalk and networking in his own turn. Then he shifts and catches sight of her again: an elusive beast of the shadows, always just out of reach.
She’s in a tutu, she shouldn’t be able to disappear like that. There’s only one woman dressed like that, too - and it’s her. It’s not like a woman with a swan mask and a goddamned two foot tulle skirt should be able to hide. The room is full of angels and demons, peacocks and Vikings, and she is the only ballerina. That costume has a radius and requires clearance. She should not be able to vanish.
And somehow, she does. Covert Ops Odile.
It becomes their private game in this too-public space. Conversations, the General and the Movie Star, each in the little circles that demand their time and attention one-on-one. She has obligations as his wife, and more than one soul is desperately curious about her service, about the Netherrealm War, about Outworld, about everything they can think of. The rarity with which she comes to these events means everyone wants a chance at her, to try to piece together the puzzle that is General Blade. They tangle her up in conversations, and between her need to keep a good head on her shoulders and good look for the service — and her inability to gracefully make an exit if her life depended on it — he almost closes in on her twice. Somehow each time she makes a polite excuse and departs, and he swears he feels the brush of feathers from her mask the second time, the near-victory making his heart pound.
“She was just here,” one person has the gall to gush. “There… I think she’s going upstairs?”
His eyes track up the stairs and lock onto the ascending layers of frothy black tulle. Lights sparkle and catch on the intricate beading, and his eyes drag upwards slowly as the movement pauses. Up the lines of feathers and beads that cup her breasts before stopping just above them, the spread of bared skin along her sternum and over her chest and shoulders, and that ridiculous mask with its sweeping black feathers along one side. She is darkness and light, and she is halfway up a staircase, and he swears she is fucking laughing at him.
There — one hand curls over the railing, and she’s definitely flipping him the bird. It’s a challenge he can’t pass up.
She is not getting away, not this time.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he says with his most polite voice, only gritting his teeth a little, “I need to go catch my wife.”
The second floor is more intricate and warren-like than the first, wood paneling and pristine white paint and obnoxiously expensive art. It’s rooms and doors and doors and rooms, most of the doors left open for smaller conversational spaces, and the doors that are shut — well. Everyone respects those. Johnny finally corners her in a room that looks like a study or a library or something that he’d have if he had this particularly extreme level of money. It’s there for decoration more than use, he guesses; an extra room just for the sake of having it. Bookshelves line one wall, an ornately upholstered chaise, a pair of chairs in a corner, and there — standing by a desk near the windows: his wife in her black costume, feathered mask and all. Cornered. He licks his lips, shutting the door behind him.
“This was not part of the plan.” His voice is rough despite himself. He crosses the room in slow, deliberate paces, eyes locked onto her.
Beneath her mask, her mouth kicks up in a hint of a smile. “Oh, and don’t you always give me shit about being locked into a plan?” Her voice is low and tempting, more than a little amused. It takes on a faint hint of imitation as she continues. “ ‘Go and socialize, Sonya. Everyone likes to see you, Sonya. Come on, they think you’re dead and I’m just not admitting it.’ Well, I came, and I socialized. I made sure everybody saw me.”
“I didn’t get to talk to you after you went to get a drink.” He sounds sour, a little angry or annoyed, and that smile dancing on her face only deepens.
“I found a way to enjoy myself. None of the people here want to talk about anything I know, so I found a way around it.” She swallows and his eyes lock onto her neck, the motion of her soft skin and vulnerable throat. “You always give me shit about improvising. So I found a way to get what I wanted.”
“I didn’t realize I was going to be chasing you all night.” He takes a step closer, nostrils flaring as he inhales the smell of her, sweat from the heat of mingling downstairs, the faint smell of her perfume, the perpetual hint of gun oil that lingers on her no matter what she does. She looks up at him, ever so slightly, and her eyes seem impossibly large behind the mask, nothing but china blue. He lets out a low rumble, and Christ if he doesn’t want to pin her up against the desk right now, crush that ridiculous tutu, and fuck her until she can’t stand on those incredible legs of hers.
She swallows again, that smile going even deeper, and he watches the rise and fall of her breasts as her breathing quickens. She takes one step back almost reflexively, and then a second, her ass connecting with the desk. He feels a smile spread across his face of its own accord, and even the itching of the fake beard glue is forgotten as all the blood rushes south.
“Caught you.” There’s less than an arm’s length between them, and with one final step it’s gone. He growls softly, crowding her against the desk and crushing her costume between them. His hands grab onto her bare arms, one grazing the feathers and embroidery of her bodice, dragging down the vee of bare skin between her breasts. Everyone has had time with her tonight but him, and he wants to mark her, irrefutably lay claim to her. He brought her; he’s taking her home again. He looks up and her eyes are wide and glassy, lips parted, and his pants are now definitely uncomfortable.
His hands slide up her thighs, nudging them apart as he does. He rubs a hand across her, at the spandex beneath the costume, and lets out a low growl. It’s damp, and he swears it’s only getting wetter by the second. He presses his hand hard against her and she sucks in a breath, then rocks against the heel of his hand. Once, twice, three times — encouragement if he’s ever seen it.
Her own hand reaches down and palms the hardness of his cock over the jeans, and he lets out his own sound of strained pleasure. She does it again, squeezing him in her grasp, rubbing through the fabric.
Teasing.
Only fair to reciprocate, so he grins at her with all the feral werewolf attitude he can muster and drags his fingers across the wet heat of her, watching her lust-dark eyes roll back and briefly close. He folds one finger into a knuckle and rocks it across her, feels her push down against it. Her own hand begins to fumble with the button and fly of his jeans, pushing them down enough to give her more access to his cock. She palms him again through the soft material of his underwear, sending jolts of electricity down his spine with every movement. It’s hard to think with her hands on him like this, every brush of her fingers sparking nerves and making the lust and need coil tighter and tighter in his abdomen.
She reaches in and begins to stroke his cock in earnest, slow pumps with her fist that make him moan. It’s an awkward angle and jumble of limbs and costumes, but he’s not going to back away from this, not when he has her pinned down and almost writhing with need. He loves this woman, as sexy and indomitable as she is, and he loves her even more when he gets to see this vulnerable side, almost out of her mind with wanting, and he’s the one who put her there. Her hand tightens on him, freezes, begins to draw away.
He has to clear his throat before he can make it work right again. “Keep going,” he manages. “Don’t stop.” Barely giving her time to think, he pushes the crotch of her underwear aside and slides one finger over her folds. She seems to war with leaning into the role or shedding it entirely, and a little of his worry fades at that. This is still her under the absurd get-up, and she spreads her legs a little wider, pushing back against him in demand.
There she is. And that realization makes him groan from the bottom of his being, love and lust intermingled for this woman who makes a game of hunter-and-hunted to keep herself from being bored at a fancy party. He loves her so damn much, and he does not deserve her. His heart rabbits against ribs that suddenly feel too small to hold it in, heat streaking through his body as she pushes back harder. He looks up to see her with her body slightly twisted, head turned back to look at him, blue eyes gone almost invisible behind the mask. Her mouth is open, curving ever so slightly down, as she rocks against his hand again.
He slides a finger in, feeling her clench around him. With his other hand, he pulls his cock the rest of the way from his underwear. Freed from the offending garment, his brushes against enough her bare thigh, and she shudders and clenches around his finger again. There’s another low rumble from his chest and he starts to finger her quick and hard, rocking himself against the inside of her thigh. She groans and pushes back against him as he works them both into a frenzy, taking her pleasure and his for his own. Right now, even the giving is selfish; he caught her, and he’s going to make her come apart on his cock because that’s what he wants. He had to hunt her all night, he caught her, and he is going to take.
His hand moves, thumb circling her clit, and he feels her body shake with pent-up desire.
He pulls his hand away; muffled by her arms, she groans a complaint.
“Turn around,” he growls softly. “On the desk.”
She straightens up, meeting his eyes for a moment, and then turns. He pushes her down, not ungently, her belly against the top of the desk, feet planted wide and lifted up ever so slightly.
He pushes aside the fabric again and lines himself up at her entrance, head of his cock brushing against her wetness. He doesn’t have to restrain himself, feeling her angle herself up ever so slightly, tip her hips to help him, as he slides into her in one thrust. The skirt is irrevocably crushed between them, and between her and the desk. This, this is the way it should be, fitting tight inside her and feeling her around him, like coming home to a place where only he belongs. That might be a sigh he can hear over the rush of blood in his ears, or maybe he’s just imagining it, but he takes one moment to savor it before he begins to move.
Time doesn’t quite slow, or stop, but dissolves instead to only the two of them. She pushes up slightly, and one of his hands presses against her chest as they adjust to the new angle. He feels his orgasm lurking at the edges, waiting to pounce the minute he moves again. Her neck is there, right in front of him, and he can’t help himself. He leans down and licks the a stripe up from the knob of her neck to her hairline; her body squeezes around his cock as she shudders in response. He drags his teeth across the soft skin of her nape, the hand at her hip holding her still. He’s sure he can feel her body fluttering around him, and then he slowly and deliberately sinks his teeth gently onto the back of her neck, biting her.
Her body’s response is immediate and unequivocal as she pushes back against him, clenching and shuddering. He’s certain he feels her get even wetter around him, and damn he loves this woman. Her heart is hammering under his hand, chest shuddering with her breaths, as she tries to make him start thrusting again. He desperately wants to but knows how close he is. The tulle of her skirt is crunched between them while the hand on her hip digs in a little more, fingers leaving marks he will kiss tomorrow. He lips at her neck, down the column of her spine until the back of her costume takes over, pressing his forehead against her flushed skin, trying to get his restraint back. He needs a minute — maybe two, or three — before he knows he won’t come apart, but his body protests the thought of staying still another breath.
He peels his hand away from her chest, glides it along the feathers, and around the awkwardness of the tutu still sticking out around the sides, eventually settling his hand between her legs again. At this angle, he has her clit right between his fingers. She slides forward ever so slightly, with barely any space to move, and then rocks back along him. Self-control mostly regained, he begins to rock again, working his hand in tandem with his hips, finding a rhythm that will keep pleasure at bay as long as possible, but it’s a hopeless cause. His fingers working at her in the way knows she likes, fingers playing over the sensitive bud of nerves as she grinds back against him, the backs of her thighs smacking against his with a fevered pace.
She lets out a cry muffled by something and rocks against his hand, grinding down hard on his fingers, all of her convulsing around him. It’s like being in a silk-wrapped vise, and that’s all he needs to fall over the edge right after. His hips stutter out of rhythm and snap into hers once, twice, three times — and then his climax explodes through him, the world going blinding white as molten pleasure pours through him.
When he can think again, he runs his hands along her sides and lets out a sigh. “I love you.”
“I guessed.” Her voice is low and almost raspy, and he wonders just how much noise she was making — how much they both were — and if anyone will come knocking. He hopes to hell they won’t.
She is everything, and she’s spent hours jerking him around, and it strikes him in a moment of clarity that maybe that’s what all of this has been about. He laughs with admiration, and wonders who really was the hunter tonight and who was the prey. He pulls out slowly, taking a wobbly step back as she sinks back down flat-footed, gasping in breaths. Her outfit is absolutely wrecked, thighs slick with wetness, and there’s not a single eye that wouldn’t be able to figure out he’d just been fucking his wife. She hates the media attention; he’s absolutely gone and wrecked it now.
“Sorry I wrecked your costume, babe. This… this was not part of the plan.”
She turns around slowly, and fear suddenly pulses through his body. She’s not angry, she’s not furious, she’s not even disappointed. She’s still smiling, and that is enough to freeze his body solid.
“Give me the stuff out of your pockets? What I gave you in the car.”
He squints at her, and worry courses through him now, but he fumbles — first to put his dick back in his pants and zip up in case anyone comes in, and then for the two packages. He hands them both to her, watching suspiciously.
Her fingers find the back of the tutu and she does something there, the crushed tulle falling to the ground in one piece, the embroidered material evidently attached to the bodice. She then sheds the top of the costume, then the mask, and for one moment is standing there in nothing but black underwear and ballet slippers. She opens the bigger package, and shakes something out - and out - and out -
And before he can even realize it, she’s slipped on a Catwoman costume — Michelle Pfeiffer, 1992, Batman Returns, a little part of his brain advises him — all shiny not-quite latex bodysuit covering her from ankle to throat. The second package is in fact a reusable shopping bag with a tightly folded mask in it, and while she can’t quite tuck her hair in, it does the job just fine.
“But — the costume…” He stares blankly at her, at the complete costume change she’s managed. She’d handed him those things when she got in the car. She’d planned this, down probably having a layout of this mansion about a week after she agreed to this.
“Oh, the tulle’s easy to replace. The rest of it, you paid good money for. I’m not wasting it. It’s going in the bag.” And she takes the bodice and the tiny fabric skirt and tucks them into the bag the mask had been in. “After all, Catwoman wouldn’t be so stupid as to show up in costume, would she?” She grins, and walks over to press a kiss on his stunned lips. “It wasn’t part of your plan, Johnny. It absolutely was part of mine.”