abby anderson defender

The humidity was too high? He was annoyed. The Colts didn’t win a game? He was sulking. The universe didn’t align to his every whim and need? He was pissed and he was going to make it everyone else’s problem.

And tonight, this was your issue, because you were scheduled to work the closing shift with Steve.

Great.

Robin says something to him that you don’t hear before slipping out of the booth, scurrying over to where you’re hanging your belongings up on the coatrack and hurriedly whispers, “He was up all night trying to find Dustin again, got no sleep. Rare form today.”

“I don’t understand how you’re friends with him,” you whisper back, letting your purse fall to the ground. “He’s an asshole, Rob.”

She makes a face, tilting her hand back and forth in the air as if to say, well…

“Steve’s a good guy when you get to know him,” she settles on saying. “Anyway, I have to run or I’ll miss my date. Have fun, be nice, and don’t kill each other, alright?”

“No promises,” you mutter, and Robin laughs as she skips out the door.

Steve is, if possible, even more irate when you slip into the booth, avoiding eye contact and gunning for the chair, hoping to keep conversation to the minimum for the next six hours.

He, on the other hand, has no such desire.

“Do you not know how to show up to work on time?” he huffs out. “Seriously, a couple of minutes is one thing, but half an hour—”

“And spend more time with your sparkling personality than I have to?” you snap without looking at him. “I think not. Besides, it’s not as though I suddenly have control over what the hell the military is doing.”

“It’s called planning,” he snarks.

You breathe in, once, sharply, and bite your tongue.

But Steve isn’t content to simply drop it, the way he’s never been content to drop it. And honestly, you don’t pretend to understand the intricacies of his life; You understand that he looks out for a bunch of kids, that one of them is in a coma, that another one is going off the deep end and taking all of his grief out on Steve. And at one point in time, that would’ve been more than enough for you to give him your deepest sympathies, to extend a level of grace only given to the most extreme of cases.

Except—

Then you’d met Steve, and he’d taken one look at you, wrinkled his nose, and asked Robin, “Did we really need to hire someone else?”

Your relationship hadn’t been anything better than adversarial ever since.

“—could take your job a little more seriously,” he continues to rant. “It’s not exactly like we’re flush with cash around here, and it’s not like there’s a shortage of people looking for jobs—”

The chair you’re sitting in scrapes against the floor as you stand abruptly, whirling around to find Steve standing entirely too close.

You see red, demanding, “God, what will it take for you to just shut up?”

Steve grins. “You could suck my dick.”

There’s a moment where the two of you are left standing there, chest to chest, nose to nose, and you can see the dare in his eyes. The tension in his shoulders, the set of his jaw. The fact that he doesn’t actually mean it, but he wants to push your buttons, to get you to react more than you ever have before.

He doesn’t have any intentions on you calling his bluff, and you’re determined to not lose this game.

“Fine,” you say sweetly. You move past him, snagging his wrist as you do. “But not in here. I don’t think Robin would be too happy if she found out.”

For the first time tonight, Steve doesn’t have a response. He doesn’t even fight you as you drag him along to a nearby closet, yanking the door open, shoving him in, and slamming it shut behind you. The room is plunged into darkness and you feel your way over to him, your fingers grazing the soft material of his sweatshirt. 

His hands find your waist, skimming up your sides until his palms are pressed into your cheeks, his breath hot on your lips, but before he can get any bright ideas, you say, “I said I’d suck your dick, not make out with you.”

You can practically feel his frown as he shifts his hands back, tangling them with your hair. 

“Fine,” he says shortly. “Then do it.”

That’s all the warning you get before you’re pushed to your knees.

You don’t waste any time reaching for his belt, undoing it with shaky hands as he continues to run his fingers through your hair, tugging at the roots the smallest amount when you pull his jeans and boxers down just enough to take him in hand.

A gasp gets caught in your throat when, even half hard, your thumb and pointer finger barely meet.

He lets out a throaty laugh. “Find something you like?”

“Fuck you.”

His fingers tighten in your hair. “Do you ever shut up? God.”

And as his thumb traces a path down your jaw, stopping just as it reaches your lips, you spit out, “Make me.”

His grip on your chin tightens as his thumb dips between your teeth, pressing down on your tongue and drawing your mouth open. Spit pools as you give him a few rough pumps, the tip of his cock jutting against your chin. He drops his other hand, then, placing it over yours as he taps the tip against your lips.

“Not so mouthy now, are you?” he says, pulling his thumb back and guiding himself in.

The heady taste of precome spreads across your tastebuds as he sinks into your mouth, his cock sliding over your tongue as you take him deeper. He lets out a low grunt, and for a moment, you wish that you’d had the foresight to turn the light on so you could see the face he’s making as he hits the back of your throat.

You gag and he lets out a quiet whimper as you pull back, instinctively looking up and wishing that he could see you as well. But even just hearing the sounds he’s making — you can imagine the wrecked look on his face, the flush spreading across his cheeks, and it’s enough to have arousal coursing through your own body.

(Because even though he acts like he has the power in this situation, you both know well enough that you’re the one wielding the proverbial blade.)

He guides you back down, muttering a curse when you take him just a little bit deeper, swallowing down your gag reflex as your hand twists around the base of his cock. 

And for all of the hell you gave him over everything, you find that you don’t quite mind letting him set the pace. There’s something intoxicating about the precome spilling onto your tongue as you hollow your cheeks, smiling when he moans, and all at once, he grips you by the roots of your hair and thrusts in.

“You can take it,” he grunts. “Fucking know you can. Always mouthing off, always getting in my business — well you’re all quiet now, yeah?”

Despite yourself, you nod, your hands sliding down to hold his thighs as he fucks your face, tears welling int he corners of your eyes. It should be humiliating to let yourself be used like this, to let your asshole coworker treat your body like an object for his own pleasure, but it’s hard to feel embarrassed when all of this is turning you on as well.

One tear slips down your cheek, and then two, and in a move that’ll no doubt have you reeling for weeks, his hand finds its way to your face, his thumb gently wiping away the wetness gathered there, even as he continues to use your mouth for his own pleasure.

“Just like that,” he says, voice dropping. “You like this, don’t you?”

You hum around his cock, wrapping your arm around his leg to pull him in even closer, to take him even deeper. He swears loudly when the tip of your nose brushes against his bush, and you only manage to hold him there for a few seconds before you’re forced to release, dizzy as you gasp for air.

You sit there, panting, and before Steve can even move, you pull him back closer, desperate to take him even deeper — to take him all the way — to have the exhilarating feeling of choking on his cock pull you further into the depravity you’ve found yourself in. He makes a noise of surprise when you repeat the motion, your nose pressing into his pelvis as he mutters fuck fuck fuck, and you whine when he pulls you off.

“You wanna choke on it that bad, huh?” he asks, condescending and sweet at the same time. “Wanna cry some more for me?”

“Fuck you,” you say, already reaching for his cock again.

But he doesn’t let you.

One hand grips your hair even tighter as he tilts your head back while the other slaps the tip of his cock against your lips, saying, “Open up for me. Gonna see what that bratty mouth of yours can do, yeah? Gonna make me feel good?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, though, before he bullies his way in, setting a brutal pace as he thrusts in and out of your mouth. More tears spill down your cheeks at the pressure, but there’s no part of you that can deny how good it feels either. To be used without care, to have someone’s aggression taken out on you. Your clit throbs at the thought of doing something more, of seeing what else he can do when he’s as pent up as he has been for months.

He laughs when you gag. “Who knew that all I had to do to get you to be a little nicer to me was use your mouth?”

You pinch his thigh in retaliation — you’ve been perfectly nice, thank you very much — and in response, he presses even further down your throat.

“Gonna let me come in your mouth?” His voice comes out a little more ragged, a little more choppy as his hips stutter.

You nod (as much as you can, anyway, with his thick length prying your jaw apart) and he makes a contented sound, smoothing your hair away from your face in a way that’s entirely at odds with how roughly he’s using your mouth.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Thought so.”

His hand curls into your hair as he presses his front against your face, your nose grinding into it. You squeeze your eyes closed as the head of his cock nears the back of your throat, and then you feel it — the way he fills your mouth and throat, his come flooding it as he finishes deep within you. He pulls back and the last few spurts land on your tongue, mix with the rest already dripping down your throat, and your tongue presses against the underside of his length as you swallow.

You sit there for a moment, the only sound being made is that of your panting, before he pulls you up suddenly, fingers digging into your forearms, his lips crashing into yours. A startled noise escapes you as he presses you back into the wall, hands scrabbling for stability, and in the next moment, he finds the pull chain and the small closet is finally filled with light as he pulls back, his eyes dancing across your face.

“Fuck,” he gasps out, as though he has a reason to be out of breath. “Fuck.”

You open your mouth to retort, to say something, but he only pulls you back in for another kiss, his nose crushing painfully into your cheek and his tongue swiping against your bottom lip.

You let him in.

Steve, it seems, has no issue in tasting his own come in your mouth, eager and willing to explore every corner as you sink further into his hold, your own arms coming around to wrap around his neck. You feel him smile against you, and you can’t stop your own giggles from spilling out when he runs his tongue along the roof of your mouth.

And finally, finally, you pull away, chest heaving as you search his face, his brown eyes gazing at you with something more than thinly veiled annoyance for the first time, and a decision is made before you can think it through.

“If you need some stress relief again,” you say, grinning. “Let me know. Might be able to help.”

He huffs out a laugh, dropping his head against your shoulder.

“And next time I’m having a bad day…” You pry his arms from you and slip past him, cracking open the door just the tiniest amount. You glance over your shoulder to find him staring at you in open surprise. “I know who to call.”