Tom Wakes up in his apartment

Tom woke up and could not move his legs.

Still half asleep, he tried to turn onto his side. An arm tightened across his chest, holding him where he was, and someone breathed against his shoulder. His eyes opened to grey light through the blinds and the familiar crack above his bed. The wardrobe door stood crooked, just as he had left it. He was home, though he had no memory of getting there.

Yesterday he had been in an alley, trying to persuade Wonder Woman to get off him and call for help. He remembered her hand coming towards his neck, then losing the strength to push her away.

Carefully, he turned his head. Black hair covered most of the pillow beside him, with some caught beneath his shoulder. Wonder Woman lay with her cheek against him and her eyes closed, close enough for him to feel each breath. He stared at her, waiting for some part of the situation to make sense, then looked down at the arm across his chest. Her thigh lay over both his legs.

Getting upright seemed worth a try. With one elbow braced against the mattress he managed to lift his shoulders before her arm drew him back down. The effort cost her so little that her breathing never changed. Her fingers settled loosely against his ribs again.

Right. Still Wonder Woman. For a moment he lay still, looking past her at his trousers, folded over the chair beside the wardrobe. His phone should have been in the pocket, unless she had taken it out. The chair was only six feet away. Normally he could have reached it before the phone stopped ringing; now he could not even get his feet onto the floor.

“Wonder Woman?” Her eyes stayed closed, her cheek resting against his shoulder. He waited, then spoke a little louder. “Wonder Woman. Can you hear me?”

The silence lasted long enough for Tom to consider trying on his own again. Easing one knee sideways only pulled at the joint beneath the thigh laid across it, so he stopped and worked both hands under her forearm instead. An inch of clearance gave him room to begin turning, and before he could get any further her elbow bent and returned him to the pillow. Nothing in her face acknowledged it.

He wanted to know whether she was asleep before trying a third time. Yesterday Wonder Woman had heard him explain the problem, agreed that he was right, and then rendered him unconscious, and being in his own bedroom did very little to improve the memory. Nor did the ache developing beneath her cheek. A woman who could bend steel was using him as a pillow, and Tom's most recent back injury had involved reaching for a phone at the wrong angle.

"Would you mind letting me sit up?"

Blue eyes opened beside his face. From this close it was difficult to watch both of them at once, and for a moment he found himself looking from one to the other, waiting for recognition to become something useful.

"Good morning," Wonder Woman said, ignoring Tom's request.

"Morning." His hands were still beneath her forearm. Getting them out required an awkward little tug that she watched without offering to help. "Could you move a little? I'm trying to get up."

“In a moment,” she replied.

The white fabric at her shoulder shifted as she settled against the pillow. Yesterday there had been armour beneath his hands while he tried to push her away. At some point she had changed, though he could remember nothing between the alley and waking here.

“Where did you get that?”

“My apartment.” Her glance followed his towards her shoulder. “I went back while you were sleeping.”

“You left me here?”

“Only for a few minutes.”

A few minutes away from him. He had been trying to persuade her to put some distance between them, and apparently she had managed it while he was unconscious. “While you were there, did you feel any different?”

“Different?”

“Did your head clear? Did you start wondering what you were doing?”

Her brow creased, but the arm across his chest remained where it was. “I was thinking about you waking up alone. I wanted to get back.”

He had hoped she might remember a moment of doubt, something he could ask her to hold on to. Instead, she seemed to be waiting for him to understand why she had hurried.

“You could have called someone while you were there.”

“We discussed that yesterday.”

“You told me you wouldn’t do it. Then you put me to sleep.” His voice rose on the last few words, and he stopped as her head lifted from his shoulder. With her watching him, he was suddenly conscious of how little room he had to move.

“You were frightened,” she said. “I wanted to get you somewhere safe.”

“I was frightened because you wouldn’t let me up.”

The hand against his ribs withdrew, allowing him a fuller breath. He waited for the rest of her weight to follow, but she remained beside him, looking troubled.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you.”

He could still remember her fingers touching his neck and the pavement seeming to tilt beneath him. Arguing about what she had intended would leave him explaining yesterday while she held him down again today.

“I wanted you to let me go,” he said. “I’m still asking.”

Her expression changed, and the arm across him began to lift. Once it rested on the bedding, he braced a hand against the mattress and tried to sit up, moving slowly enough that she could see exactly what he intended. Her thigh still lay across his legs. The movement pulled at his knee, stopping him halfway upright. “And my legs,” he said.

Looking down, she seemed to notice their position afresh. The pressure eased, and he drew one knee towards himself, then the other. With both feet on the carpet, he could finally turn to face her without having to look along the pillow. She had pushed herself upright beside him, leaving the way to the chair clear. His phone might be within reach if he stood. “Thank you.”

“You needn’t be frightened of me.” Her hand settled on the mattress close to his, and he resisted the urge to pull away. Now that he could stand, he wanted to do it before she changed her mind.

“I need you to listen when I ask you to move.”

With a little distance between them, he could finally look at her without having to turn his head against the pillow. Black hair lay tangled across the bedding, and grey light from the blinds striped her face and shoulder. Yesterday he had barely had time to register anything beyond the armour and the strength holding him down. Now he could see how closely she watched him, her eyes following every movement, her expression almost expectant. He could not remember the last time she had blinked.

Looking towards the chair gave him somewhere else to direct his attention. “Call the League. Please. Tell them to send somebody with a respirator.”

“I will not call them.” The answer came quickly, but her gaze followed his towards his folded trousers. “They would take you somewhere to be examined. There would be questions, tests. They have facilities for this.”

“Then they might know what to do.” His phone was still out of sight beneath the folded fabric. Reaching for it would mean standing, and he wanted to know whether she would let him before he tried. “You believed me yesterday when I said something was wrong. We could tell them what happened.”

“I believe you now.” A crease formed between her brows as she looked back at him. “And the facilities are safe. I know the people who work there.”

“Then call them.”

Her mouth opened, but no answer followed. For several seconds she watched him with the same troubled concentration, one hand gathering a fold of the sheet. “You would have to go with them,” she said at last.

He waited for the rest. When none came, his attention dropped to her hand, where the fabric had drawn tight between her fingers. “Yes. If they could help.”

“You would be somewhere else.” Her voice had grown quieter. “I would have to wait until they allowed me to see you.”

“You could explain that you were exposed. They’d want to help you too.”

The sheet slipped from her hand. “I do not want them to take you.”

Hearing it put so plainly left him unsure how to answer. Until then, there had always been something to argue with: whether the League could be trusted, whether the facilities were safe, whether anyone would understand his power. She had answered most of those objections herself and still refused to make the call.

“You met me yesterday afternoon,” he said. “You shouldn’t be worrying about when you’ll be allowed to see me. You should be able to leave.”

“I know when we met," Wodner woman stated dryly.

“Then doesn’t this frighten you?” He turned towards her, trying to catch some recognition in her face. “You’re Wonder Woman. Before yesterday, would you ever have brought someone home like this? Would you have stayed after they asked you to go?”

She kissed him, and it was not careful. Her mouth came down over his and her hair slid off her shoulder onto his face, and the first press of her tongue against his lower lip took his thoughts out at the knees. Tom had been kissed maybe four times in his life and never by anyone with no plans to stop, and his mouth fell open on instinct and then he had no idea what to do with the rest of it. She tasted warm. When he tried to pull back to breathe she followed him down and took the breath anyway, and he gave up on the argument, stopped resisting, and just hung on. When she broke off an inch away, breathing hard, she was looking at him like she had found something.

"...Oh," she said, clearly amused at this. "You have not done this much."

"Define much?" Tom questioned hopign she was not talking about the kiss.

"Have you." It wasn't a question, Wonder Woman had read it straight off him, and her thumb moved along his jaw as she said it, almost to herself, delighted: "You have not."

"Okay. And?"

"And." Her hips shifted, settling over him, and the drag of the nightgown and the bare skin of her thigh against his cock pulled a sound out of him that he could not swallow. Her eyes flicked up at the noise, pleased. Then her hand left his jaw and went down between them without one second of hesitation, under the hem of her own nightgown, past the waistband of his boxers, and closed around him, skin on skin.

The grip was firm and warm and entirely certain, and Tom's whole body jerked under it.

"There you are," she said.

"Is that—" He could not finish it.

"It is for me." She gave him one slow stroke, root to head, and watched his face the whole time, cataloguing it like she was going to be tested later. "You have been like this since you woke. I could feel it. It woke me."

"Nothing woke you. You were—"

"Then it woke me earlier," she said, unbothered, "and I chose to sleep through it."

The second stroke was slower, and his hand came off her shoulder and found the fabric of her nightgown instead, where it held, knuckles white, while the other stayed flat against her arm like a man steadying himself on a wall. He looked at her, because there was nowhere else to look. She was leaning over him with the light striping her shoulder and her hair down one side and her mouth slightly open, and she was beautiful and it turned out that knowing it and having it happen six inches from your face were two unrelated things.

"See," she said, and there was something quiet and awful in how pleased she was. She was watching his hand. "You have stopped asking."

As much as Tom hated to admit it he had about a minute ago, and he had not noticed until she said it, and that was the part that sat wrong. Not the hand. The hand he could explain. But he had stopped, and she had watched him do it, and he had lain there a whole minute with nothing left to push against and never thought to mention it.

"I have not stopped," he said. "I have stopped pushing. There is a difference."

"Is there."

There was, and he had maybe four seconds to prove it, because her hand was still closed around him, warm and entirely unhurried, and his own hand was still knotted in her nightgown where he had put it and never taken it back, and his mouth was still warm from hers. Every fact available was against him.

"Say it again." She said it the way she said everything, as though the outcome had already been settled somewhere else. "Say it again like you mean it, and I will move."

He had to think about it, which was the tell. "...Get off."

But Wonder Woman did not move, and she did not need to, because he heard it leave his own mouth and knew it was hollow before the syllable finished. He had meant it when he woke up. He did not mean it now, and the "now" was carrying all the weight.

Depseratley Tom tried her name instead, as though the name would stiffen it. "Wonder Woman."

"No," she agreed, and leaned down and kissed him again, slower, like she had all the time she wanted and no intention of letting him catch up.

Then she was sitting back up, and he watched her as Wonder Woman straddling him in the grey light, hair wrecked, nightgown rucked around her hips with one strap long gone, a crease across her ribs where the sheet had been, an old bruise on her forearm from something he had not seen. Tom thought, with a clarity that surprised him, that he would probably remember this exact second for the rest of his life, and that he would have said yes to all of it yesterday, in the alley, if she had only asked.

“I have faced monsters and stood before the gods,” Wonder Woman commented, “I have never felt anything like this.” Her gaze held his. “Twelve hours. You are right. I cannot explain it. But I do not wish it away.”

Tom held his breath. The light moved on her when she moved, and he followed it down the smooth line of her shoulder, over the curve of her breast, across the flat of her stomach, where the muscle showed under the skin. She was slender. Nothing on her said what she could do, and last night she had put him on a pavement with one hand. She let him look. Did not cross her arms, did not reach for the sheet, just sat in his lap like this was an ordinary morning, looked down at his face, and had the nerve to look pleased about it.

Then she got on with it. She lifted off him onto her knees, and the weight came with her, and he had not known how much of it there had been until it went. She reached down between them and took hold of him again, straightened him up against her, and set the head of him where she wanted it, unhurried, the way she did everything. The blinds she pushed shut with her free hand, without looking, and did not make it a question.

"I am going to take you now. Unless you have another objection you do not mean."

The ceiling fan turned above her. He had work in an hour. "I have so many objections," he said weakly.

"Good." She leaned down. "Tell me them later if you still have them."

Wit hthat Wonder Woman, Princess of Themiscyra, Daughter of the Queen of the Amazons dropped herself onto Tom's erect Penis.