Once a year, he asked her to marry him, and once a year, she turned him down. They had done it three times now, and Hank had gotten a lot better at hiding his disappointment.
This time, he ddidn't flinch when she said no, didn't ask why not.
"But we're living in sin," he said, fingers digging into the muscles of her back, between her wings. "Wouldn't you rather be respectable, honey?"
"In this room?" Jan groaned as Hank's thumb dug hard into a pressure point that wasn't there when she was full size. "We're practically June and Ward Cleaver."
The hotel room had a pair of narrow twin beds in it, not exactly a honeymoon sweet by any stretch of the imagination, but they'd let Luke, Danny, and Jessica take the room with the kingsize bed, and Steve and Tony and Peter and MJ were sharing the room with the two doubles, which was bound to be an interesting experience for all concerned.
There were ways to cope with narrow mattresses, in their case. Jan's down pillow spread out around them like the biggest, softest bed in the world.
"It's been three years," Hank pressed. The fingers on her back stilled, and then Hank was slipping an arm around her waist and nuzzling at the patch of extra-sensitive skin on her forehead where one of her antennae would have been had she chosen to let it manifest -- not that she ever did, but Hank had sworn they would be useful someday and was still dilegently trying to duplicate a pair for himself.
Jan shivered, goosebumps tightening her skin, and leaned back into Hank, turning her head to catch his mouth with her own. She didn't have to worry about her wings being crushed, not with Hank; he fitted himself around and between them automatically, with the ease of long practice.
"Three years," she agreed, when she finally broke the kiss. "Let's not jynx it." She kissed him again, this time on the side of the neck, just below the corner of his jaw, and added, "So, we're in a hotel room in Vegas, living in sin. Tell me, Blue Eyes, am I your ridiculously expensive mistress, or am I the debauched and jaded socialite hooking up with the handsome stranger she met in the casino?"
Hank moaned, his eyes going half lidded -- pheremones, not strong enough to work on a full size human, or possibly not the right kind to affect a normal human at all, though Scott Lang had, embarassingly, also been able to sense them. So could Spiderman, which was why he and MJ were sharing a room with Steve and Tony and not with the two of them.
"Maybe you won me in a poker game," he suggested.
"You shouldn't have bet more than you could afford to lose," Jan purred, wriggling around so that she was facing him, stradling his lap with his arms still around her waist. "Now you belong to me, to do whatever I want with. Carry my shopping backs. Escort me out to dinner. Anything I can think of." She reached down and squeezed, and Hank's breath started to come faster, his hips jerking sharply underneath her.
"Anything," he agreed.
"Because," she prompted, letting her wings beat lazily a couple of times. Once a year, Hank asked her to marry him. After the last time, she'd finally figured out that it wasn't actually legal formalities he wanted.
"Because I belong to you."
"Yes," Jan said, "you do. And don't think, Henry J. Pym, that I'm going to let you forget that just because I'm not going to marry you again."
"Trust me," Hank gasped, shuddering underneath her, "I won't."
Slightly kinkier than I meant it to be, but in a fluffy way
This time, he ddidn't flinch when she said no, didn't ask why not.
"But we're living in sin," he said, fingers digging into the muscles of her back, between her wings. "Wouldn't you rather be respectable, honey?"
"In this room?" Jan groaned as Hank's thumb dug hard into a pressure point that wasn't there when she was full size. "We're practically June and Ward Cleaver."
The hotel room had a pair of narrow twin beds in it, not exactly a honeymoon sweet by any stretch of the imagination, but they'd let Luke, Danny, and Jessica take the room with the kingsize bed, and Steve and Tony and Peter and MJ were sharing the room with the two doubles, which was bound to be an interesting experience for all concerned.
There were ways to cope with narrow mattresses, in their case. Jan's down pillow spread out around them like the biggest, softest bed in the world.
"It's been three years," Hank pressed. The fingers on her back stilled, and then Hank was slipping an arm around her waist and nuzzling at the patch of extra-sensitive skin on her forehead where one of her antennae would have been had she chosen to let it manifest -- not that she ever did, but Hank had sworn they would be useful someday and was still dilegently trying to duplicate a pair for himself.
Jan shivered, goosebumps tightening her skin, and leaned back into Hank, turning her head to catch his mouth with her own. She didn't have to worry about her wings being crushed, not with Hank; he fitted himself around and between them automatically, with the ease of long practice.
"Three years," she agreed, when she finally broke the kiss. "Let's not jynx it." She kissed him again, this time on the side of the neck, just below the corner of his jaw, and added, "So, we're in a hotel room in Vegas, living in sin. Tell me, Blue Eyes, am I your ridiculously expensive mistress, or am I the debauched and jaded socialite hooking up with the handsome stranger she met in the casino?"
Hank moaned, his eyes going half lidded -- pheremones, not strong enough to work on a full size human, or possibly not the right kind to affect a normal human at all, though Scott Lang had, embarassingly, also been able to sense them. So could Spiderman, which was why he and MJ were sharing a room with Steve and Tony and not with the two of them.
"Maybe you won me in a poker game," he suggested.
"You shouldn't have bet more than you could afford to lose," Jan purred, wriggling around so that she was facing him, stradling his lap with his arms still around her waist. "Now you belong to me, to do whatever I want with. Carry my shopping backs. Escort me out to dinner. Anything I can think of." She reached down and squeezed, and Hank's breath started to come faster, his hips jerking sharply underneath her.
"Anything," he agreed.
"Because," she prompted, letting her wings beat lazily a couple of times. Once a year, Hank asked her to marry him. After the last time, she'd finally figured out that it wasn't actually legal formalities he wanted.
"Because I belong to you."
"Yes," Jan said, "you do. And don't think, Henry J. Pym, that I'm going to let you forget that just because I'm not going to marry you again."
"Trust me," Hank gasped, shuddering underneath her, "I won't."