He returns in time to shower, grab one of his most expensive suits, and leave. His skarmory looks at him angrily during the return trip, tired after flying from Lilycove, and whistles dismissively when Steven promises him a warm pokécenter and a full plate when they arrive to Ever Grande.
Wallace is in the middle of his speech when Steven arrives, short of breath and wind-swept. Winona looks at him accusatively, and Norman has his arms crossed, which means he's feeling annoyed, but Phoebe grins as she gives him a thumbs up and Roxanne is distracted, so she doesn't get her chance to glare. He doesn't notice anyone else, too anxious to sit down and start waiting to go home.
"—thank you sincerely for being here tonight; it is with great pleasure that I announce that the fund raising was successful and will cover the biggest expenses of the storm." Steven sits down at the same time the clapping begins, and Wallace smiles at him cheekily, even going as far as to wink. The former champion raises his empty glass to his, smirking back, and then finds Glacia's icy eyes pausing on his. Shit, he thinks.
"An hour and forty-two minutes," Glacia says, and takes a sip of white wine. Maybe vodka – Steven won't be surprised if the older woman tries to get smashed. That's one of the few things they have in common: she hates social events, too.
"It wasn't on purpose today," Steven replies, trying to flatten his hair. "I just got back from Mt. Pyre because someone," and his eyes slide to Wallace, piercing and accusing but also amused, "didn't find the time to return the orbs."
Glacia sets down her glass, narrowing her pale eyes at him like she's trying to see if the truth shows on his face or not. Steven decides to change the subject.
"Where is the rest of the Elite?" he asks, lifting his glass when the waiter glides by, filling his glass half-way as smoothly as he fills Glacia's. "They are really trying to get us drunk," he comments, swirling his glass and smirking.
"Phoebe is the representative for Pacifidlog, and Sidney is the representative for Fallarbor." She doesn't mention Drake and Steven wisely doesn't ask. "And if you aren't appreciative of the wine now, just wait until it is Sidney's turn to speak again."
Steven hides his smile behind the rim of his glass, tipping it into his mouth.
"Lots of gym leaders up there," he says, licking his lips.
"The media prefers it like that," she replies. "And so do the people; look at how they shine with promise," Glacia continues, turning her pale face in the direction of the highest table, where the representatives of each town sit. "There's Wallace for Sootopolis, Wattson for Mauville, Roxanne for Rustboro — every gym leader is up there, really. I'm glad I'm not from Lilycove or something."
"Why, Glacia, wouldn't you like to give a speech over how ruined Mossdeep is?" Steven teases, letting his eyes linger on Tate and Lisa's nervous smiles. At their side, Winona watches over the rest of the room like a hawk; Tate tenses when she reaches for her glass of wine. Flannery, besides Norman, looks just as uneasy, but that might also be because the eyes of the room are on her. How could they not, Steven thinks, sure that no one would waste such a pretty dress like that.
"Don't tell me you aren't glad Tate and Liza can cover you on this one, Mr. Mossdeep," she replies dryly, but Steven is too busy admiring to take the bait.
He rests his head in his chin, staring, wondering if she's wearing heels too – she must be, he hopes. Flannery nervously reaches for the strap of her dress, sliding down her shoulder like Steven wished his hand would, and then takes a quiet sip of red wine. He averts his eyes, staring at the tablecloth instead. It is white, with gold borders, but Flannery's dress is dark green and a lot more interesting to look at, so he risks another glance.
"Hungry?" Glacia says, her lips thinning into a grin. Steven leans back in his chair, taking his glass of wine with him.
"I do not enjoy drinking on an empty stomach," he says back, watching the gleam of the ripples as he swirls his glass.
"It certainly seems you do," Glacia returns, brushing her blond hair behind her ear. She's wearing earrings, and if Steven had no shame he would tell her she does look nice tonight, and that Drake and her will end up making out behind some curtains by the end of the night. He just wrinkles his nose at the thought, instead sipping his wine.
There is another set of clapping; the serving men waltzing around them deliver scrumptious plates as soon as Wallace sits down, chatting with Sidney and Phoebe animatedly. Steven begins digging into his filet mignon, drinks his wine, and spends the rest of the night bad-mouthing other people with Glacia.
"Disgraceful," she's saying now, about the dress of the woman who is the head of the event.
Steven half-agrees; he makes a lolling gesture that drags more than he would've thought. He sets his glass down, then, finally realizing he must be drunker than he'd realized, because he's actually agreeing with Glacia instead of pretending to be an asshole. The older woman notices, of course.
"Light-weight," she says, and downs the rest of her glass with an ease that both surprises and amazes Steven. Her lipstick kiss remains on the rim, pale pink and glossy.
"I concede," he returns, grinning. The event is nearing the time of night when smokers go out while they wait for the desserts, and Steven has never been one to discard chances of fleeing, so he bids Glacia a quick goodbye and walks through the nearest veranda door available.
There's already someone there, and he stops, meaning to return, but the girl leaning over the edge has her hair pinned into a gorgeous bun and Steven's brain stills, eyes caught in the pearl hairpins. Flannery looks over her shoulder, the strap of her dress threatening to fall once more, and Steven stands, surprised, his hand still around the knob (his eyes darting out to notice her heels, god, he's so glad). Distantly, he hears Wallace's laughter, and it's loud enough for Steven to know the other man is drunk. He steps inside the veranda, quickly closing the door behind him, lest Wallace not see him, and then looks at her.
She's still gaping, too, and he lets her, because this suit suits him (no pun intended), and because it's been a week and a half since the last time they talked. Steven's not a sentimental person, but he spent days thinking she'd died and he misses her. Lavaridge is injured but Flannery and her entire town's population are not and he is – he wants to kiss her so bad.
He's taking his first step in her direction when he finds that Flannery has already preceded him, pressing her hands into his neck as she kisses him, first hard and passionately and then slow and – and so, so carefully. Steven's left hand finds solace on the small of her back, but his right is cupped around her cheek, bringing her closer.
Flannery parts eventually, flushed red and wearing bright eyes; Steven's right thumb runs across her cheek.
"I thought you'd died," Flannery whispers, and Steven kisses her again, brings her butt closer with his left hand. Flannery lets him, leaning in, and he almost moans in her mouth, but manages to bite her lip and the sound dims. Her voice doesn't. She lets out a breath that is ragged and high and ends in a sigh. Steven almost comes right there.
"I thought you'd died too," he confesses, and thanks the heavens the veranda doors lock; he fumbles around the grass wall before he finds the door and, consequentially, the knob. The click is loud and Flannery doesn't manage to hide her grin before she ducks her head into his neck. Her ears are red and he bites them, warranting a moan that somehow slips through her tightened lips. "I saw you smile."
"You always do," she answers, a little petulantly.
Steven doesn't answer right away, instead finding hem of her dress and giving it a little tug, a question of may I. Flannery nods into his neck and he wants her, god, he wants her so much it frightens the hell out of him. The street lights outside spill across her hair when he somehow manages to stumble after her, into the square of light that manages to pierce the thick grass canopy that hides them from the other verandas.
"I like the confirmation that your reaction regarding the matter of fucking me is a positive one," he murmurs into her ear, and Flannery doesn't trip, but her hands tighten around the lapel of his suit, and he hears her inhale.
"I'm – I was worried, and now I'm not, and – and you're here with me and – oh," she manages, stammering and sighing, while Steven slowly rolls the hem of her dress up her thighs, and yes, he forgot how fantastic her legs are but he's remembering right now. Flannery's calves brush agains the plush sofa placed between the canopy and a glass coffee table, and Steven dips her in it, kneeling between her legs. Flannery's face is red, and she doesn't find it in her to look at him just yet, but she presses her heel against his back and flinches when he presses a kiss into her thigh.
Her green dress looks even better pushed up to her waist. He doubts she'll feel comfortable taking anything other than her underwear off, but he guesses he'll be able to wait until they're home. No, not home – just his house in Mossdeep, with his bed and his burning desire to make up for lost, anguishing time.
His fingers curl around the elastic of her panties, and Steven's hips almost shiver when he notices how small they are. Flannery, still looking away, just bites her lip and eventually says, "the others would show, the – the dress is tight," in between gulps of air. Steven's hands pull her closer, and he very purposefully shoves her underwear in the pocket inside his jacket.
Flannery protests at that, somewhat, but it all dissolves when Steven finally presses his mouth against her.
"Steven," she says, eyelashes fluttering and voice breathy, and he rewards her with a flat lick. Her heeled ankles press harder against his back and he likes it. Flannery presses her bruised lips together and muffles her moan against her hand. Steven kisses her clit, and she finds his hair and tugs on it, never harshly, always mindful. A fleeting thought reminds him he'd like it to sting, maybe, but he's too busy to talk. Her legs close around his head and he takes it in stride, only pulling away when she starts trembling.
He delicately pulls her legs off his shoulders and then gets up, wiping his hand with the sleeve of his white, crispy shirt. As if reminded of his jacket, he removes it, throwing it on the couch's fat white arm before kneeling over her on the couch. Flannery brings him down for a tremulous kiss, and her hands linger at his belt buckle before they shy away, hooking around it instead. Steven's hips tug against hers, and it's only the blessed reminder that he can't ruin his pants that stops him from grinding against her.
Flannery's moan is clearly a complaining one and he undoes his belt hurriedly, straightening. Flannery pulls him back down, unbuttoning his shirt with quick, shaking fingers. He manages to reach out for a place to lean on with his right hand, and his left manages to do the rest alone. Flannery strays from his shirt to help him open his zipper, and then palms his hip bones before roaming to his back. Her fingernails, cut short for practicality, rake across his skin, and Steven hisses into her ear. Flannery's fingers dig deeper, and her legs tighten around his waist.
Neither of them are going to last long, he knows, and leans down to kiss her, folding his arms on each side of her shoulders. Flannery's hands grab tight around his hair, and he groans.
"You're really proactive today," he says, denying her. Flannery's pink cheeks fade into a redder, deeper color, and it extends to her ears. Steven kisses every single of one of her freckles twice, chuckling as he does so.
"You're really mean today," Flannery replies, that petulant tone present again, and Steven's smirk widens into a grin. Her index finger slides across the elastic of his boxers.
"I want it to last," he confesses, without a stain of shame, and Flannery trembles in his arms. That's good, he thinks, and then says it aloud.
"God, I love you," Flannery whispers, and kisses him before he can twist his face into unwilling surprise. His face slides into a warmer territory, and Steven cannot remember the last time he blushed, but here he is emulating a schoolgirl in love; Flannery kisses him eagerly, legs closing around his ass, but Steven breaks away from her mouth, eyes wide. Her face is redder than his (he hopes), and she turns her face away from his eyes when he searches the red of her irises.
"What?" he asks, voice tense and tight and god, every time she breathes he can feel it and he's half-sure he's going to end up coming all over her if he doesn't hurry the fuck up and – "What did you say?" he repeats, breathing hard, trying to look at her, trying to see the way her face is most certainly scrunching up in embarrassment right now.
"Nothing, it – it was stupid—" she starts, voice muffled by the collar of his shirt, and he decides to sit up instead, inching back. Flannery's eyes widen when he does so, but he doesn't know if it's because he can finally stare at her or if it's because his dick is still pushing up against the fabric of his boxer briefs. At least, he thinks, they're the black ones, and if he does end up making a spectacle of himself the stain won't be too bad.
"No it wasn't," he says, a little too quick, and she finally raises her eyes to his. Steven pulls her into his lap, sitting back against the pillows, and thanks the gods for the human ear, because the tiny sigh she tries to bite down makes wonderful things happen inside his stomach. He clears his throat: "I – I guess it's time one of us – said something?"
"We're not even dating," she says, very seriously, but lets him kiss her anyway. When he parts, she continues: "I just – it kind of just – slipped out." The color is back on her cheeks, as red as her eyes. She lowers them. "I, um. If you think it's – too much, I can—"
"It's fine," he replies, just as quickly as his last assurance. The wine has finally reached the top of the drunk mountain, he thinks, and then adds, god, what kind of metaphor was that. He doesn't care. His left hand cradles her cheek, and then stays. Flannery looks down at him, eyes sharp. "I didn't think we were just fuck buddies, if it pleases you," he adds, nonchalant, and she blushes.
"Really?" She sounds surprised.
"Really," he says, a little offended. A little amused, too. "Is my reputation that sleazy?"
"What? N-No," Flannery denies frantically, her hands twisting the collar of his shirt. Wallace will notice, Steven thinks, at the same time he realizes he doesn't care one tiny little bit. "I – I dunno, I just. I dunno." She hangs her head, and her hairpins catch the light, and she's beautiful. He breathes in, mouth dry. "You're not the kind to stay."
He knows. He knows, of course he knows.
"I guess it depends on the person," Steven says, in a murmur, and allows his left hand to wrap around the side of her neck, bringing her closer.
"You really are drunk," she concludes, and even though she's smiling he detects a little hesitation, so he stops. His undone buckle clinks against the button of his pants and he remembers he has her underwear in his pocket. What the fuck am I doing, he thinks, and leans back, dropping his hands. Flannery gingerly adjusts herself on his lap, the folds of her dress gathering around her thighs. He can't look away. "So," she adds, tentatively, one soft finger curling around the elastic of his underwear, "we're dating?"
"For a while now, if you haven't noticed," he replies smoothly, smirking at her. It feels a little lop-sided but she grins at him, and lets go of his boxers in order to wrap her arms around his neck.
"I didn't," she starts, but whatever else she had planed to say melts into the kiss he presses into her mouth. His hands begin lifting the hem of her green dress again, a habit, and Flannery hums and fiddles with his boxers, bringing his dick out. She parts, then, kneeling above him. The straps of her dress have fallen and he wishes the rest of her outfit went along. "I'm going to start leaving toothbrushes at your place," she adds languidly, reaching between his legs, a strand of hair lolling against her cheek.
He sighs slowly when Flannery sits, feeling the relief burst like a water balloon, his clever comeback forgotten.
"Fuck," Steven says instead, hands pressed hard against her butt. Flannery only pants against his mouth, pink-faced and focused. "Fuck, I missed you," he continues, mouthing against her neck.
She rolls her hips sharply against his, a reflex, and lets a whine melt out of her lips. Steven groans in reply, helping her with the movement; Flannery's never been the one to top, never been the one to actively reach him out, but he suspects she doesn't dislike having him writhing under her. If she's anything like he is, she loves it, craves it, wants to see him come. The thought has him feeling flushed, and he brings his hips up, trying to slam his frustration out of his system.
Flannery bites her lip, brow furrowed in concentration; he's leant back to watch her, he can't help it.
"Oh," she moans, eventually, slumping against him lazily. Steven brushes a hand past her shoulder, down her ribs, wishing she were bare. Her thighs close around his stomach shakily when he slips his hand under her skirt, cupping her ass. "Mm," she manages, teeth worrying at her bottom lip, and then exhales, searching for his mouth. He presents it easily, leaning his head to the side and pressing her against his legs harder, until she moans inside the kiss.
He's close too; the wine has tired him, brought him to an orgasm too soon, and when she parts Steven understands he's going to come first. The thought appalls him, and so he presses Flannery closer, slams into her hard enough to make her do this breathy little noise, and then says, "I love you," in a groan, biting at her lobe as he goes.
Flannery's breath cuts short at the sound of his voice, and she buries her head in his shoulder, arms squeezing around his neck like her legs around his hipbones, and she's lost. He presses a kiss against her neck, then another, and then other, until she stops shaking and panting.
"That was a cheap shot," Flannery says half-drowsily, and shivers when she pulls back. Her cheeks are flushed, her arms pimpled with goosebumps, but the absolute worst is how bruised her mouth is. Steven wonders how many people will notice.
"Many more to come," he replies with a smile, kissing her lazily, and helping her up when her trembling legs fail to steady her. They're getting too good at this whole secret sex thing, he realizes, when they get somewhat presentable in a span of two, three minutes (tissues and a hair comb go a long way, and he's glad she's thought to bring them).
"You should probably go on ahead," he tells her, unlocking the door as he presses another kiss on her mouth.
"Mm," she hums, nodding, and Steven catches her bright grin before she can hide it. He spins her around, feeling selfish, and kisses her again, leaning her against the half-open door. She giggles, but she lets him, slowly edging away. "You're a sappy drunk," Flannery says, when she pulls away with a smile, "and I have to go already."
He says nothing, only smiles, and watches her hurriedly walk away, her heels clipping against the floor. He smiles to himself, then, enjoying the silence and the privacy, and returns to the veranda. The balcony turns to Ever Grande's watery hills, the sound of waterfalls distant, and he leans against it, thinking of what awaits the two of them once this dinner is over.