Let’s Try To Salvage 13 Years

When you get home, you don’t stand a chance. He’s sitting on the bed with his legs spread and the vibrator in his hands, a cocky smirk on his handsome face.

“Right here, sweetheart.” He beckons you with two fingers, and you swallow. You can’t help but obey. Dean’s got a hold on you that he still doesn’t fully understand, and if he told you to fall to your knees, you press your cheek against his thick thigh and beg him to put himself in your mouth.

Instead, tonight, he holds you right above him, one massive hand on your waist and the other pressing the head of the vibrator between your thighs. You tremble, clinging to broad, thick shoulders, panting his name as the pleasurable sensation becomes too much to bear. Dean smirks, dragging the toy back and forth, drawing slow, grounding circles on your hip with his thumb.

“That’s it, baby girl,” he coos, watching your every nervous reaction, drinking up your every moan with a smug grin. “Feels so good, doesn’t it? Makes you just wanna fall apart, get really messy, standing up and beggin’ for some more.”

You moan, face burning and body alight with need. Dean drags your panties to the side, pressing the vibrator against your bare clit. You almost jump, but he tugs you right up to his chest, splaying his free hand on your lower back. The feeling is almost too much to bear. You can’t speak, can’t move, can’t do anything but stare at Dean with teary eyes and try not to let your knees give out.

“You’re gettin’ close,” he grunts, because he always knows. “You gonna cum for me, baby?”

You whimper and pull at his hair. He grunts, pressing his face into your neck, and sucks and kisses his way over the soft skin. Up your throat, along your jaw, right to your ear. He nips softly, and whispers in a low, rough voice.

“Let go, pretty girl. Cum all over my fuckin’ hand.”

The orgasm crashes through you, white-hot and wet. You pussy gushes, your eyes roll, and your legs finally give, sending you right into Dean’s lap. He catches you easily, keeping the vibrator pressed against your overstimulated cunt. You writhe and push at his chest, almost unable to take another second, but still grinding down into the overwhelming pleasure. Dean kisses you, deep and bruising, and finally pulls the vibrator away.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, leaving light kisses all over your face. “Never gonna get enough of watchin’ you fall apart, baby. Fuckin’ never.”

✦Dean Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦

✦Author's Note: this one is very specfically self-indulgant i fear but i hope you enjoyed it as well

A glint appeared in his eyes as he looked at you, chin ticked up, trying to read your reaction. You’d pressed him, eyebrow quirked up, watching as he slipped his beer between his hands. He doubled down that he had just called by to say hi to one of his best residents, and  the ever cautious doctor he was staying for a little while to be on standby if anyone needed to be driven home if they had gotten too drunk. What Jack hadn’t bargained on was having to actually drive someone home and he definitely didn’t bargain on bringing anyone home to his house. You weren’t too drunk, you’d hung off every word from the moment he’d started talking, throwing every flirtatious comment back in his face, tracing the vein on his forearm until he couldn’t help but ask you to come home with him. You hadn’t intended for it to go beyond that night, just a bit of fun, but you were completely made from the moment you coaxed out a breathy “fuck sweetheart” from that man’s lips. 

You learnt fairly quickly that he really does love to tease, pushing your buttons in public for the sake of your reaction. You should have known, an ER Doctor, of course he’s an adrenaline junkie, but a considerate adrenaline junkie, always taking note of just how much it drives you crazy. You’d speak about it after he messes with you in public the first time. In the early days of you guys dating, you found out a few drinks got Jack a little more confident in his need for physical touch, making him a lil handsy, grabbing at your waist, rubbing a circle on your hip, his other hand palming discreetly at your ass as you waited in line for dinner, taken slightly by surprise you let out a soft giggle.  

“J, please - we’re in public”

“What sweetheart?”

As he took his arm away from your side pulling away from where he’s practically glued to your side he took you in with a quizzingly look in his eyes. At that moment, you know you’re done for with him, a fire lit in the bottom of your stomach as you met his eyes, a fit of laughter slipping past your lips, slipping away from his grip as the stewardess makes their way over to bring you to your table. After dinner that night is when you first brought it up with him, catching him off guard as you sunk down onto his length, gasping with moans fluttering up your throat, a hand placed on the square of your chest as you speak to him through gritted teeth. 

“Baby - fuck - if you’re gonna touch, ah, me like you did earlier we should set some ground rules”

Stilling under you, Jack groaned as your hands snake up his chest to grab his attention. With is and tired letting out a deep sigh he responded with a simple 

“We really gotta talk about this now?”

“Yes baby, now” 

As you started back up, hips lifting and grinding back down onto Jack, you started to set a few ground rules, orgasm slowly curling in your stomach, excited at the prospect of this little experiment beginning between the two of you. Harsh slaps landed on your ass, grunts tumbling from Jack as you decided your baselines and groundrules; no sex in public, safewords, nothing below clothes and such. 

“My sweet girl, such a dirty girl beneath it all, huh?”

You let out a soft scoff that turns to a moan as his lips meet your skin, realising that sticking around with Jack Abbot was going to be the worst or best thing that ever happened to you. 

So that's how you ended up, at a barbeque at Dana’s house leaning against the counter in her empty kitchen, jack slotted beside you, his front facing you, eyes flitting half between you and the window facing out onto the party. From the backyard, it probably looks like the two of you are deep in conversation, flirting back and forth distracted from the task of getting ice from the freezer. What they don’t see is Jack’s hand creeping up under your skirt, fingers reaching into your inner thighs teasing up towards your cunt. It’s not even the first move in his onslaught of teasing you today, there was just something about midday heat that turned Jack feral. When you had arrived, donned in your favourite sun dress, a scattered print of pink flowers and lace and Jack, dark linen shirt with the top buttons undone and slacks, you looked like a couple from a travel brochure, both sunkissed and at ease sauntering in, hand in hand to the party, without a care in the world. Dana’s summer barbeque was a highlight of the year, with every locum on hand taking shifts to cover shifts so that as much of the Pitt crew as possible could enjoy a well deserved party, so your debut at the annual party was a big deal. The yard was packed, coolers within arms reach everywhere, platters of grilled food being turned out by Robby at a godlike speed, chairs and loungers scattered around with groups for friends from all parts of Dana’s family's lives filling the yard with laughter and chatter that made you feel at complete ease. 

Surrounded by friends, and friends of friends, you let your guard down slightly with Jack, expecting him to be focused on catching up on a badly needed break from all the chaos that followed him around on the daily. And at first he was on his best behaviour, leaving a minimal distance between the two of you as you went around and greeted the crew at the party, Ellis and Walsh pulling you into gentle hugs, telling you how unfairly good you guys looked. As you make the rounds, you relax more into the day, letting the sun warm your skin and your laughter flow freely as you pass the gaggle of nurses who let out a chorus of wolf whistles at the pair of you.  It wasn’t until the two of you were caught fairly stationary saying hello to Dana and Benji, when Jack started to act up. To Dana and her family, you seemed like a lovely-dovey couple, with Jack pressed up against your side, hand on your waist, joining in on the pleasantries letting you take the lead in the conversation. Luckily they hadn’t noticed Jack applying light pressure to your hip, his knuckles turning white with his grip, pulling your hip ever so slightly closer to his front. Game face prevails as you straighten up, smiling brightly at Benji, telling him the latest gossip from the office, seemingly hiding the fact that all you can think about is Jack’s bulge grinding ever so slightly into your hip. Usually you can get a read on Jack and his antics, but today caught you off guard, swallowing the gasp that rose up your throat when he pulled on your hip, you knew it was game on for the rest of the day. Moving through the groups hanging around the backyard, you slip your hand around his back, settling it into the back pocket of his jeans, once you have your back to the garden fence, pressing a small pinch on his ass as you’re chatting away to Heather, who’s back visiting Robby. The sun is beating down onto the whole backyard, so the beads of sweat gathering at the nape of your neck and along Jack’s forehead can be passed off as the heat from the sun, not the heat building in both of your cores. Suppressing a yelp in reaction, Jack asks where the drinks are, leaning into your ear under the guise that he’s asking you if you would prefer a seltzer or a beer he murmurs a cheeky “you have no idea what you’ve just started.”

Later on, he saunters up to you as you sit on a sun lounger chatting to Trinity, offering up a piece of food from the barbecue drawling about how you have to taste it, a cocky glint in his eye as he stares down at you. Sitting up to meet his hand stretching down towards your mouth, he slips his index finger slightly into your mouth with the food, willing you to discreetly suck on his finger. Barely breaking eye contact from him, unable to hide the darkness in your eyes, you break contact with Jack, you ask him ever so sweetly 

“Hey J? Can you grab me a plate?”

Touching your arm with a delicate rub, Jack nods down and places a light kiss on the top of your head and without another word he turns and heads back to Robby. As Jack slips away you attention to is back on Trinity, who with the roll of her eyes and a sarcastic lilt raises her beer to her lips, 

“You guys are so in love, its gross”

When Jack returns with a plate of food for you, he sets himself down on the end of your lounger handing over your plate, catching sight of how much of an effect he’s having on you. Under his stare you shift around slightly on the lounger, crossing your legs in an effort to divert your attention to the searing heat building in you. You try to ignore his gaze and focus on Trinity’s latest dramas with Garcia. The heat of the afternoon sun is beating down on you all, making you practically squirm under Jack’s touch, his arm laid across your calves, unable to fully listen to your friend. Your internal tension is broken by Dana, coming over, her smug grin breaking through her words as she sat on the ledge beside you. 

‘How are my two lovebirds doin’ over here?”

Taking Trinity’s mock gag, Jack’s grumble of a yes, eyes closed in pure contentment from sitting in the sun and your sweet blushing as a positive answer, Dana, in true Dana style barks out 

“Well, hate to be a party pooper, but I need ice, could one of youse grab some from the kitchen, gotta catch at least one second o’ peace?”

You practically jump up at the chance to get a bit of space to collect yourself, standing up practically before Dana finishes her sentence, letting out a quick “got it” you run off to the house. Barely opening his eyes, Jack lets out a huff of contentment, knowing he is having the exact effect on you that he's been hoping for. 

Knowing his plan has worked, Jack left it a beat or two before he followed you into the kitchen, making up a lame excuse that he needed to get out of the sun for a minute, muttering something along the lines of blaming his long gone auburn hair and Irish genes for his inability to cope with the heat. And look, it wasn’t a complete lie, he did need to cool down, from the sun searing down on him, but he also really needed a second to collect himself and deal with how his cock was starting to twitch underneath his slacks. Following your steps into the kitchen, the coolness of the marble countertops under his hands seems to help ground him. Jack slumps slightly against the counter, letting the weight be taken off of his prosthetic for a movement and lets out a deep breath. In his head, he knows he shouldn’t be messing with you, not around his friends, but seeing you in that dress, who could blame him? Jack’s deep sigh startles you, jumping back slightly from the sink, where you too were lost in thought, no doubt mind swirling with similar thoughts. You twist to see who’s there and let your shoulders slump in relief when you see it's just Jack. 

“Jesus baby, you scared the shit out of me!”

A deep chuckle rises from Jack’s chest, he pulls himself up from leaning on the counter, practically sauntering over to your side of the kitchen, taking a teasing jab at you, his voice coming out low and husky. 

“Oh I’m sorry baby, just wanna check on my girl, you seem so - um - distracted out there.”

“J- Jack, not here, oh my god are you crazy? All of your, like, coworkers right there?”

You hiss at Jack, eyes darting towards the door and back to him. A silence stretches out between the pair of you, the heat you both came to the kitchen to get a bit of a reprieve from fills the air. Jack makes no effort to hide his desire as he stares at you slowly closing the gap between you, his hand raising to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. His gaze fixated on your lips as he tries to slide up beside you inconspicuously, looking out the window while murmuring in your ear. 

“Just want to make sure your alright baby, thats all”

And with that, he lets his hand fall from off the counter he was gripping, swapping the counter for your thigh. You let out a mock wine ‘Jackie’ that only seems to spur him on, fingers gripping and crawling up your leg at a snail's pace, driving you completely insane. Jack’s breathing seems to instantly become ragged at the sound of a whimper slipping past your lips. 

“Jack - the ice - please gotta get back out there”

You try to be stern, lifting your leg slightly to shake him, but he flattens his grip on the front of your thigh pressing it back down, and with one swift motion his hand slides up criminally high. Jack doesn’t respond to your meek plea, he just lets out a huff, turning his gaze out the window. You know you absolutely should be stopping him right now, but all you can focus on right now is how all you can hear is your pulse and Jack's breathing. In an effort to save your dignity, now with his hand ghosting the hem of your underwear, you clock your head towards the window, looking out to the garden eyes wide, but you can’t really hide the smile threatening to break through. Always quick to notice you faltering jack tuts, letting his hand graze across your core quickly. 

‘Oh sweetheart, it doesn’t seem like you’re in a rush”

“Jack, ‘m being serious right now”

His hand pulls away from your core, resting to lie on the top of your thigh again fiddling with the lace trim of your underwear. Neither of you say anything for a beat, staring out the window at the party, the heat in your stomach not dissipating and the tension building. While you look out the window, watching Trinity throw proverbial jabs at Frank, half the yard watching and falling over with laughter, all you can think about is getting out of here. Jack’s face seems to be inching closer and closer to yours, the tension bubbling up in your chest to the point that you can barely handle it. But, the tension isn’t cut by Jack’s lips finally meeting yours, even for just a quick peck; it’s broken by a cough coming from the doorway. It’s like all air got sucked out of your lungs, the embarrassment completely flooding your face. Robby stands still for a second taking in the scene, Jack’s brain catching up to the fact that you aren’t alone anymore pulling his hand away from under your skirt as if it’s any less incriminating.

“Well, Jack Rabbit you really do live up to your nickname don’t you”

You let out a groan of pure embarrassment, tucking your head in towards Jack's neck. The embarrassment feels overwhelming, like Robby’s been watching you for longer than you’d like, but you know or at least like to think he would have a bit of respect for you. Jack, not faltering in his calmness in front of his best friend, rubs your back lightly scoffing at Robby’s comment. 

“Oh knock it off Micheal, not as if you’ve seen or done worse in the goddamn hospital, brother”

“Look Dana’s just lookin’ for her ice, brother, better let her get back to it”

Cocking his head towards you and walking back out to the garden.  As if you’re on autopilot, you slip from Jack’s touch averting your from him, you let a sharp tsk when he goes to grab your arm, grabbing some ice from the freezer finally, and follow Robby back outside. 

The pair of you don’t last too long at the party after that, thankfully everyone seems to be none the wiser, even with Robby’s not so subtle smirk every time he looks over at you two. You fain some excuse about the heat getting to you and needing to lie down for a while, allowing Jack and yourself to bow out fairly discreetly. Once in the car, Jack tries to coax a little bit of a response from you, hand on thigh squeezing lightly, swatting his hand away, you turn to look at him -  

“Don’t you think for one second I’m not still pissed at you Jack”

You know you don’t fully mean it, but you turn to look out the passenger window for the rest of the ride, not swatting his hand away when he goes to place it on your thigh again. It takes all of five seconds for Jack to be on you when you get in the door of your apartment. Pushing you up against the wall, crowding your body with his he lands a bruising kiss on your lips, wasting no time licking at yours to deepen the kiss. Hands trail everywhere, bunching up skirts, shirts, calloused hands on soft skin, nails gliding along firm muscle, the desperation bleeding through both of your touch. Between heated kisses you Jack pants out a constrained

“Wanted you all fuckin’ day, baby’

Rubbing your palms under his shirt and along those firm pecs that drive you mad, you pull back, completely amused by him stating the painfully obvious. 

“Really J, I had no idea”

The smirk on your lips, Jack is keen to swipe it off, he pushes his weight back on top of you, grinding his hardening bulge right into your core. He babbles away right into your ear about how he couldn’t control himself, not with you looking the way you do; a hand reaching up to pull the top of your dress down to reveal your cleavage. Jack swallows your gasps hand pawing at you breasts while the other holds a deadly grip on your waist. Moan after moan spills from both of your mouths, feverishly pulling the layers off of each other, mouths trailing on the newly exposed skin. Skimming down the stubble on Jack’s neck biting down lightly on his shoulder, eliciting the most delicious groan from him, mumbling an ‘oh baby’ he pulls you flush with him walking backwards toward the bedroom door. Pushing Jack through the door, you walk him with hands cradling his bare hips until his thighs hit the edge of the bed. Hands moving down, splayed against the muscle of Jack’s thighs you settle him down onto the edge of the bed, you stand, straightening your posture and take the hem of you dress and pull it over your head. The site alone makes Jack throw his head back, hand palming at the tent forming in his pants, looking at the light sheen the summer heat has coated your body with. Dodging his wandering hands, you kneel between his legs and you reach for the buckle of his belt he reaches for your chin with a questioning look crossing darkened eyes. Leaning your head criminally close to the strained tented cock in his pants, you allow the vibrations of your voice raise goosebumps against Jack’s skin. 

“Hm Jackie, m’ just giving you what you want baby, and what I want too baby”

With that, a swift motion you take his length out of his pants, licking a confident stripe up his cock. His breath becomes shallow as you take him into your mouth; the salty taste of precum coating your tongue, grabbing your hair at the nape of your neck, he pulls you off of his length. You exchange a look, softened eyes sharing an understanding of what you both need and with that Jack tightens his grip on your hair, slowly lowering your mouth back down on his leaking tip. A deep groan escapes your mouth, causing Jack to buck his hips up into your mouth, hissing a ‘sorry baby’ and swiping the tear leaking from your eye away.  Getting down to business, in the way you know will make him fall apart, whimpers and moans sliding out of his head before he grabs the nape of your neck after you pay close attention to the tip, swirling your tongue around. 

“Fuck - you gotta - I mean if you keep, ugh doing that baby -”

You pop off of his length, wiping away the wetness around your mouth, smiling up with a dazed look across your face, asking with a low breathy voice 

“You like that huh?”

“I like that a little too much baby”

And with that, Jack pulls you up from the space between his knees, mouth finding your nipple through your bra, as he fumbles with the hooks at the back. As he mouths at your nipple, he lets out a guttural groan at how receptive you get, touching at the wet spot forming in between your legs. Maneuvering your legs off of his hips, Jack lays you down, swiftly removing your underwear, after a quick mouthing of your clit over the cotton now lying on the floor. Neediness builds in your core, your hips buck up into the air towards Jack, who's repositioning himself between your legs letting a firm slow stripe across your core, lapping away at the wetness that is seeping out of you. 

“That’s it, that's my girl, good, lemme hear it’

Jack's praise drives you out of your mind, along with the focus he is placing on your clit, the white hot heat is pooling and tensing in the pit of your stomach. Jack knows how easy it is getting you to this point, after teasing you all day, and the smug laugh he lets out sends a deep pulse of pleasure through you. The taught heat in your core snaps at record speed, causing you to cry out a stream of profanities, Jack’s hand holding you steady as coaches you through your high. 

“Ohhhh there she is, there's my good girl”

It sounds filthy coming from him, deepening the desire in your stomach, you pull at Jack’s waist to try get as much contact with his skin as possible

“I need you right fuckin’ now Jack”

Not putting up with anymore teasing Jack lines himself up with your core, and pushes in, both of you letting out sweet moans of release. Jack’s hips pull back and snatch back in flush with yours with a precision and control that elicits a deep sound from the center of your chest. Drilling into you, he takes your hands about your head and holds them there, praising you for being his sweet girl, who knows how to take him so well. Mind emptying by the second your core flutters and constrains around Jack, who hisses in response; your sole focus on feeling as good as you both can. Your nails run down Jack’s back, focusing at the sensitive site behind his ear, you let out a breathy plea for him to fuck you harder. Always eager to please Jack leans back slightly on his thighs trying to gain a better angle to hit the spongey spot in your cunt that trips you over the edge. The room is filled with the salacious sounds of sweaty skin against sweaty skin, moans, and filthy sounds of Jack's length slipping in and out of you. It takes a handful more deep thrusts until Jack warns you through gritted teeth,

“Oh fuck baby I’m not gonna - fuuuck - m’ not gonna last”

A new fit of determination flashes across Jack’s face, pulling a hand down onto your clit circling around as he fills you up, emptying your brain of any coherent thoughts. 

“That’s it, give me one more baby”

Jack can see your brow furrow a bead of sweat running down the side of your face that you're close, your core fluttering around him. With a thumb pressing down harshly on your clit you let go, moaning loudly with Jack following soon after with a few harsh strokes, warmth flooding your core as he collapses breathing heavily onto you. For a few minutes you sit there in silence, hearts beating in time with each other before Jack pulls out and kisses your forehead. Leaning down to grab you a t-shirt off the floor, you press a kiss on his back, sighing with a deep feeling of contentment. You playfully jeer at Jack as you pull an old t-shirt he hands you over your naked body,  

“How are you always so good at this old man”

“Oh well, this Jack Rabbit has to work through this energy somehow”

In typical Jack fashion he drawls while staring at you intently; you groan with affection, leaning on your elbow, picking up the pillow below you and playfully hitting Jack across the head for that comment. So yeah, Jack Abbot is a tease and a flirt, and you get you into all kinds of trouble, but you don’t regret letting him push your buttons one bit.

꩜ thank you for reading! | likes, reblogs, and comments always appreciated! ꩜

No hi, hello, how are you. If you were to scroll through your text thread with Dr. Jack Abbot, you would see that the faux pleasantries stopped three months ago. The two of you started sleeping together four months ago; it took four weeks for Jack to discern that he didn't need to use basic human greetings to get you in his truck, in his bed. That's not to say you were easy—god, no—it was just that you two had a mutual understanding for what this was.

Sex. That was all it was. Pure primal, fuck like you're going to die otherwise, sex.

It started after the night of the PittFest mass casualty. You had come in early along with your fellow night shifters to work through what was one of your most gruelling shifts to date. The Pitt only lost six patients, but the weight of that day was going to stay etched into your bones for the rest of your life.

Dr. Abbot came back to the ED around two am, checking in on how Shen was handling things—at least, that's what he used as a guise. The truth was that he had struggled to close his eyes once he got home, tossing and turning with the police scanner on, endless memories of dust and gunshots plaguing his mind.

He stayed until shift change, the act of caring for others quietening the buried memories that were crawling to the surface. He stayed to keep an eye on his staff—noticing how people were a little more quiet, how they were exchanging soft, hesitant smiles with one another instead of their usual jokes. At least, that's what he noticed about you.

You couldn't remember what exactly was said to transition from you two walking towards your cars to you sinking onto his cock in the backseat of his truck. In your memory overridden by lust, you could vaguely hear him saying something vulnerable; a response you weren't expecting after your exhausted tongue let slip how you were struggling with the events of the day.

Mutual words about feeling on edge, needing some kind of release, were whispered into the hazy dawn glow—the fusing saffron skies and coral clouds painting you both in a different light.

Mosaics of amber and olive flaked with gold stared up at you, catching every morsel of pleasure that scrunched your eyebrows and relaxed your mouth. Strong, sure hands moulded the flesh on your hips, keeping you completely at his mercy as he pounded up into you. One of your hands met the condensation slicked window, the wet glass providing no support as his every thrust bruised your cervix.

Your nails dug crescents into his sun-speckled canvas, a crescendo of moans and gasps drowning out the wet mess gushing from your core. Hands you admired while wrist deep in chest cavities clutched your ass, one rearing back to land harsh slaps to the heated and aching skin—setting the fire coursing through your veins ablaze.

Your head flung back with a guttural cry of his name, the warmth of his release coating your walls plunging you into a sea of ecstasy. A groan of your name pushed through the ringing in your ears, the thick chest pressed against yours rapidly rising and falling with pants.

The sex thick air in the truck turned suffocating in the tense aftermath—both your minds spiralling about how bad of a mistake this was. Jack's stomach curdled from his blatant abuse of power, your hands trembled in fear of fucking for special treatment accusations—terrified of tarnishing your reputation.

Jack was the first to break the silence. "This was a one time thing."

You nodded, avoiding his eyes as you straightened your scrub top, pulling your pants up while his seed continued to leak out of you. "Agreed."

Despite his unforgiving mind reminding him how badly he screwed up, Jack fell into a dreamless sleep—the ghosts that permanently resided in the back of his mind staying locked in their rooms, letting him rest alone for once.

He struggled to make eye contact with Dana when he arrived for his next shift—the feeling of betraying one of his dearest friends gripping his chest. The logical side of him reasoned that you weren't her daughter—you were an adult capable of making her own questionable decisions, and letting him manhandle you in the back of his truck was just one of them. Unfortunately, that logical side couldn't silence the guilt that invaded him when he saw her wrap an arm around your shoulder and kiss your temple.

However, that guilt vanished hours later—replaced with a sick sort of admiration, one wrapped in barbed wires of lust. He always knew you were competent—hell, out of all his residents, he would trust you the most with his life in your hands. He always knew you were beautiful—it was a fact he accepted with ease the second you set foot in the Pitt.

But now, he knew how your pussy felt squeezing his cock—knew how your hips moved the closer you got to your release, how you crumbled into a whimpering mess as you reached your precipice. Your competency mixed with this new knowledge created a dangerous concoction, one that infiltrated his bloodstream and made him drunk on the thought of you.

You tried to not let it affect your work—willed your nerves to steady with a scalpel in hand, trying to ignore the empty ache you felt since you left his truck. The ache you tried to soothe on your own but failed every time. Because Jack Abbot had fucked you better than all of your exes combined, and it pissed you off. You refused to be a cliche—the young resident who followed the older, handsome, charming attending around, basking in whatever affection and praise he discarded without a care.

You were better than that. Stronger. Evans women didn't risk their careers for silver foxes who hid behind wry quips and flirty smiles.

Apparently, you weren't as strong as you thought.

One week later, you found yourself back in his truck—your knees pressed into the worn carpet, drool dripping down your chin and neck, the air filled with the sounds of his grunts and your gagging.

He instructed you to slip a hand into your pants, to swipe your fingers through your folds and show him how wet you were from sucking an old man's cock.

"Fucking soaked," he groaned out, the slick on your hand shimmering like liquid gold as the sunrise filtered through the tinted windows. "Knew you'd like being on your knees," a calloused finger tapped your cheek, urging your glistening eyes to meet his, "always so eager to please."

The finger slid down to your jaw, tracing a line until his hand cupped the back of your neck. His grip was tight and strong, keeping your head exactly where he wanted it. His other hand encircled your wrist, yanking your hand coated in your arousal to his mouth. Eyes black with hunger penetrated yours, daring you to look away and disobey his silent command. His tongue slipped out, licking a strip up your fingers. Your responding whine was muffled by his cock thrusting down your throat, resulting in a sinful vibration that had his spine tingling.

In this moment, he wasn't your attending and you weren't his resident, weren't one of his closest friends' nieces. You were two willing adults—a man and woman troubled by their own demons, seeking release and relief.

His hand gripping your neck kept you still as he started to fuck your mouth in earnest, each hit of his tip to the back of your throat earning him a gag. Jack watched as tears breached your waterline, slipping down your cheeks to mix in with the slobbery mess glazing your neck. His eyes drifted down, taking in the sight of your wrinkled black scrubs—committing it to memory, to fuck his fist to later. The shift of your hips didn't go unnoticed, the way you were trying to grind against nothing drawing a mocking laugh from his chest.

"You that desperate, huh? Drooling all over my cock got you so worked up you're tryna fuck nothing."

You nodded your head with another muffled whine, lust overpowering your innate urge to bite back. He eased your head back, leaving his leaking tip resting on your tongue, letting you fill your lungs with oxygen before he continued his efforts to ruin you.

"Touch yourself, pretty girl."

You happily obliged, trying to pull your hand from his grasp.

"Uh-uh," he tutted, tightening his grip—just shy of leaving bruises. "This one's mine. You got another one, don't you?"

Your hand clutching his thigh for support let go in an instant, eager to please Jack and in turn please yourself.

You were so sensitive, your panties already soaked, your clit puffy from arousal and neglect. The first touch had you mewling around him, your hips humping your hand with fervour. Jack chuckled above you, gleaming eyes enraptured by your desperation.

"Fuck your fingers like you wanna fuck my cock." He ordered, heat gathering at the base of his spine when you obeyed immediately. He brought your hand back to his mouth, eagerly licking and sucking your slick off it, all while keeping his eyes locked on your hooded, hazy ones. "Taste so fucking good," he moaned, his hips picking up speed.

He came down your throat minutes later, watching your eyes roll back as you swallowed all of him down. Your own orgasm rushed up behind you, tightening every muscle in your body as you clamped down on your fingers with a moan.

Jack manoeuvred you onto the seat next to him, brows furrowed as his post orgasm clarity soured his gut again.

He kept his eyes locked on where he was twisting his ring around his finger. "That wasn't—I didn't mean to," he cleared his throat. "I didn't intend on being so harsh—mean."

You could feel the stress radiating from him, his words softly spoken and genuine.

"It's okay," you murmured, biting your lip. "I…I liked it." And because you wanted to ease his worries and silently give him permission—"I've begged for worse."

He lifted his head, shocked eyes meeting yours with a disbelieving chuckle and shake of his head.

"This is gonna keep happening, isn't it?"

You answered by pulling your scrubs and panties down your legs, pouting at him with a twinkle in your eyes.

"Need you to help me clean up my mess, Doctor Abbot."

You collapsed into the drivers seat of your car with two orgasms and a mutual agreement under your belt.

Strictly physical, no strings attached. No kissing, no cuddling, definitely no staying the night. Nothing untoward within the Pitt's walls—these two hookups in the parking lot staying as the only ones.

Never speak a word of this to anyone else.

Three nights—technically mornings—a week you found yourself pulling into Jack's driveway, parking your barely road-legal car behind his truck. His black, navy, and white minimalist interior didn't surprise you one bit, neither did the barren walls. The first few times, he led you into the kitchen with the offer of a drink, exchanging idle chatter about the weird cases that came through the Pitt's doors hours before.

The first time your skin touched his soft sheets, he had you on your back with large, calloused hands pushing your legs towards your chest as he devoured your pussy like a man starved. He made your vision dance with stars, made your ears ring from two earth shattering orgasms before he removed his face—his mouth and chin soaked with your release, a cocky smirk deepening the lines carved around his eyes. Your skin was still tender from his stubble when he sunk in deep, reaching spots you didn't even know existed—pulling sounds from your chest you didn't know you could make.

As you floated from his front door to your car, you knew that Jack Abbot had ruined you for any other man. No one had read your body that quickly before, no one else had found the switch to turn off your brain and give in to primal desire.

And you didn't even know what the simple touch of his lips against yours felt like.

By the sixth night you had learnt absolutely nothing new about him. Well, nothing that was outside of bodies and pleasure.

You learnt he was an ass man, needing to land slaps to your cheeks no matter what position you were in. You learnt he liked to talk—liked to mock every pathetic sound he wrung out of you. You learnt that he had a bottle of blue pills in his bedside drawer, learnt that he was unashamed to swallow one down in front of you and fuck you with his tongue and fingers until it took effect.

You knew exactly what Jack liked in bed. Outside of that? Absolutely nothing.

His favourite colour? Fuck knows. How he cared for his leg after a long shift and long night of screwing you senseless? That was between him and his physiotherapist, you guessed.

And he knew nothing about you. Or, at least, he didn't try to get to know you.

You stopped thinking of this arrangement as friends with benefits—friends felt too generous of a word. Coworkers with benefits sounded the closest to the truth. You worked together, spent at least twelve hours a day in the same building, exchanged the occasional witty remark under fluorescent lights. There were no lingering looks, no secret touches, no dropped voices and subtle smirks. And you were fine with it being that way.

Until you weren't.

By month two it had become impossible to ignore the pang that ricocheted behind your ribcage every time you drove away. The pang that grew to an ache every time you went to Dana and Benji's for dinner.

You adored their relationship, admired it. Your parents' messy divorce had left you skeptical of love, had you doubting if it was worth pursuing if it only ended in misery and spite. But your aunt and uncle softened that cynical side of you, reminding you that yes, love could be messy, but it could also be beautiful and fun. It could be coming home to your best friend everyday, hugging each other even after an argument because going to sleep angry never solved anything.

You tried to find what they had in your exes, putting more effort into relationships that drained you by the end. You heard too many times to count that your lives weren't compatible, that they couldn't give their all to someone who was happy to run out the door when the hospital called.

They didn't understand you—didn't understand what it meant to make a difference, to hold someone's life in the palm of your hands and safely return them to their loved ones. They only focused on the days when you couldn't save someone, when the grief held you captive and motionless. They didn't want to continue holding your hand on those hard days.

And so somewhere along the way you stopped trying—convincing yourself that you were fine with casual, that it was the most suitable relationship for your lifestyle. But every time you saw Dana and Benji, you knew that wasn't true.

They reminded you that you wanted, and deserved, more.

Jack had never slept better. Even with that little voice in the back of his head telling him that he had crossed a line—that he was risking not only your career but his friendship with Dana. He managed to silence that voice three times a week; the sounds of the pleasure he was unleashing on you drowning out everything else.

He truly believed he could keep things separate—that the beautiful woman he had in his bed wasn't the same beautiful woman he trusted and found himself proud of every shift. He could totally keep them separate.

So what if his eyes followed your ass when you walked away from the Hub, admiring how the black scrubs clung like a second skin, knowing how they looked discarded on his bedroom floor. Knowing how the globes of your ass felt clutched in his hands, the sound of his palms slapping them reverberating off his walls.

So what if he found himself craving your taste a minimum of three times every shift, the mere thought of your sweet nectar drenching his face leading to inopportune boners.

No one had to know that whenever he saw you biting back at arrogant surgeons that his eyes were glued to your lips, remembering how good they looked—how good they felt—wrapped around his cock. The no kissing clause had been his suggestion—a subconscious part of him knowing that if he felt your lips against his, he wouldn't be able to let go.

The simple act of kissing felt infinitely more intimate than everything else you did. It was a tender act, saved for the person who walked out his door in the morning only to return in the evening. Saved for the person that had left one cold, winter morning and never returned in the frigid evening.

Jack ignored the warmth that spread throughout him in your company, convincing himself it was just lust, just sexual desire. He convinced himself he didn't need to know anything new about you—he already knew what type of student you were, the doctor he had watched you flourish into from the sidelines.

He knew where to touch you, that mouthing at the spot below your ear made you putty in his hands. He knew what positions had you trembling, had your eyes rolling back as you squirted on his dick, on his face. He knew his favourite view was a tie between you above him, suffocating him as you ground your pussy on his mouth, nose, chin, and him behind you, holding you up with a bicep wrapped around your neck in a chokehold, ordering you to keep your eyes on the mirror across from his bed as he stretched your tight pussy with his thick cock over and over again.

He knew that your car was a piece of shit, knew he was worried every time he heard it sputtering out of his driveway—worried enough to demand you stop driving it, to let him drive you to and from work until you could get it fixed, or better yet, buy a new one from this century. (You compromised by getting the bus instead, saying that you two arriving and leaving together would look suspicious.)

And unfortunately, due to his close friendship with Dana, he knew other things about you. What your childhood nickname was, that you once found an abandoned kitten and tried to hide it from your parents—the kitten that was now an old cat, spending it's days curled up on the couch in Dana's sunroom. He knew your parents had an ugly divorce, one they threw you in the middle of—forcing you to choose a side, which subsequently left you in the care of Dana and Benji for a few years.

He knew more about you than he ever wanted to.

"Strip."

Oh, you fucked up.

The drive to Jack's had been dead silent, his anger rolling off of him in waves—sitting in between you two like a physical being. It had your muscles tensing, and more shamefully, had a fire brewing in your core. Because you liked when he got mad—when he barely spoke a word to you, choosing to get his frustrations out by relentlessly drilling you into his mattress. You liked when he got mean—because at least then you knew he was feeling something towards you other than indifference.

You did as you were told, stripping out of your black scrubs, leaving you in your mismatched bra and panties. From his spot leaning against the wall, Jack could already see the damp patch spreading on your underwear. He let out a humourless chuckle, a thrill running through him seeing how desperate you were already.

"Take your bra off. Lie on the bed."

Again, you followed his instructions with no complaint, no backtalk. Which was the complete opposite to how you had been three hours before—questioning his treatment plan in front of everyone in Trauma One, implying that his orders would cause the patient unnecessary problems later on.

You had a good argument, but he was not going to let your attitude go unchecked. He was not going to let you think the way you spoke to him was something you could do again.

He pushed off the wall, ignoring the pain in his leg—he would deal with it later, once you were in an uber on your way home. He sat down next to you on the bed, trailing light fingers from your ankle up your leg, avoiding the area you wanted him the most. He revelled in the sight of your breasts heaving up and down—you were so responsive, nothing more than his teasing touches starting to unravel you. His fingers continued their journey up your body, skimming over your trembling stomach and resting in the valley between your breasts.

The light touches distracted you enough that you weren't expecting his other hand coming up, slapping your tit before pinching the pebbled nipple. Hard.

"Ah—Jack!" You shrieked, your back arching away—or towards, you weren't sure—from the pain. Whimpers slipped from you as his touch eased up, his head dropping to place soft kisses around the tender skin. The fingers between your breasts trailed to the neglected nipple, tweaking it gently.

He pulled back, smirking when you whined at the loss of his touch. "Anything you want to say before we get started?" He drawled, raising his eyebrows pointedly.

You pouted, pretending to think. "Your curls looked really good today."

A rough hand dropped to your thigh, spreading them apart and pinching the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. "Flattery will get you nowhere, not in this room."

"So there are other rooms where it will get me somewhere?"

"You need to learn when to keep your mouth shut." He didn't give you time to talk back, raising his hand and landing a harsh slap to your clothed pussy. Your hips shot off the bed with a gasp, chasing the friction—needy for it. He openly laughed at you, his free hand pushing your thigh down as he delivered another slap.

He moved back to sit on the edge of the bed, patting his thigh with a warning look. He watched with sick pleasure as you crawled towards him on all fours, grabbing your upper arm once you were close enough and pulling you over his lap with force. You let out a yelp, muffled by the sheets as you failed to catch yourself on your arms.

His hands gripped your ass cheeks, squeezing and kneading them. "Love this ass, sweetheart. Distracts me a bit too much at work, though. Somethin' else you need to be punished for."

You huffed, pushing up on your arms. "How is that my fau—" you cut off with a gasp, a hard slap to your left cheek stealing your breath and jolting you forward. The heat travelled the short distance to your core, adding fuel to the flames already blazing. Your panties were embarrassingly soaked from his rough treatment, sticking to your skin and his scrub pants.

"What did I say about keeping your mouth shut, huh?" His hand rubbed over the tender spot, tsking.

"Technically," you started, voice light and breathy, "you didn't tell me to shut my mouth."

You were rewarded with three slaps in quick succession, pulling a loud moan from you. You ground your hips the best you could, trying to get the right angle for your aching clit to rub against the growing bulge under you.

"Fucking brat," Jack spat, faux malice lacing his tone. "Running your mouth in my ED, and now you're trying to get off without my permission?" He pulled the ruined cloth between your legs to the side, a light finger ghosting along the slick covering your folds. He groaned, pulling his finger back to suck it clean. "You're dripping—not much of a punishment if you're enjoying yourself, is it?"

Any response you had is stolen from your mouth, whines falling out instead as he plunged two thick fingers into you. He didn't start slow—he never did when he was like this—pistoning them in and out at a force that was bordering on inhuman, making sinful wet sounds fill his room. His other hand forced your head into the sheets, muffling your whimpers—the sheets growing damp underneath you from your drool.

He hit your sweet spot with every thrust, your clit rubbing against his leg from the force. You could feel your high rapidly approaching, the spankings leaving your nerve ends feeling raw and exposed. Jack could feel it—how your walls were fluttering and clenching around his fingers, your muffled whines and moans turning high-pitched. He inserted a third finger, stopping the thrusting and leaving them still—the pads of them rubbing oh so slowly against the textured spot.

He knew it felt like torture to you, how slow he was going—keeping you right on the edge, suspended in the air, looking down at the waves of pleasure he was denying you. Your hips moved back and forth, trying to fuck yourself on his fingers. His hand left your head, delivering another harsh slap to your aching ass—making you sob from the unbearable mix of pain and pleasure swirling in your core. "Who said you're allowed to do that, sweetheart?" He asked, mockingly sweet.

"Please," you whimpered, turning your head to look at him with glazed eyes. "Please, Jack."

"Begging isn't gonna do you any favours tonight, pretty girl."

He pulled his fingers out, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing. "Up you get," he said, helping you move until you were straddling him—your naked thighs bracketing his clothed ones. One large hand was clutching your ass, keeping your hips from meeting his—prolonging your search for sweet relief. His other hand came up to your mouth, a wet finger tapping your bottom lip. "Clean up your mess," he muttered, hooded eyes focused on your lips parting for him.

You licked the tip of his finger teasingly, moaning at the taste of yourself on his skin. Something low rumbled in his chest, and he pushed all three fingers into your mouth—watching intently as you licked and sucked your slick off of them. Your dazed eyes met his and it struck him—not for the first time—how beautiful you were, how you allowed him to see you like this. It made that annoying thing in his chest happen—the thing that felt like his heart was aching in longing, yearning.

He thrust his fingers in deeper, making you gag around them—watching in sick delight as tears slipped down your cheeks. Your hips started to rock in his hold, seeking friction that you weren't going to find. His cock was painfully hard and tenting his scrubs, making it impossible to ignore—especially not when you looked so fucking ruined.

He removed his fingers from your mouth, a string of saliva keeping them connected to your lips. He felt the overwhelming urge to kiss you—again, not for the first time—and knew that the only way to stop himself from doing so was to fuck you from behind—a position he had been favouring lately, for this very reason.

He unceremoniously shifted you onto the bed next to him—a small, surprised squeak escaping you. His lips twitched at the cute sound, and he briefly forgot what he was doing, what he was mad about. Your hand sneaking onto his lap to squeeze his cock reminded him.

Jack abruptly stood up, placing himself between your open thighs. He gripped your chin, tilting it up so you couldn't look anywhere except his eyes—his desire painting them black, amber flames surrounding the dilated pupils. "You're just making this harder for yourself, sweetheart. You sure there's nothing you wanna say?"

Your eyes dropped down to the tent inches from your face, your fingers twitching with the need to start palming him. "You sure you're not the one making it harder for yourself?" You met his eyes again, watching them narrow menacingly as your innocent smile morphed into a cheeky smirk.

His hand moved from your chin, gripping your cheeks hard and squishing them 'til your lips puckered. "Still haven't learnt your lesson." He pushed your head back, encouraging you to lie back.

He grabbed the sides of your soiled underwear and yanked them down your legs, leaving you completely bare while he was still fully dressed. His hands found your waist, flipping you onto your stomach with ease and pulling you back so your legs were hanging off the bed with your ass in the air.

Your cheeks received one more slap each—Jack really was obsessed with your ass—before you felt his tip prodding at your entrance, slipping down to nudge your clit. You whined at the teasing, pushing your ass back against him. A large hand splayed between your shoulder blades, pressing you into the mattress with force.

"Stay. Still." He ordered through gritted teeth.

Then he plunged in, sinking to the hilt in one thrust. A choked moan lodged in your throat, his size still a shock no matter how many times he stretched you open. He gave you no time to adjust, setting a harsh rhythm, making your hands scramble around on the sheets looking for support.

"So big," you gasped out.

A deep laugh rumbled from him. "So big," he mocked you. "You say that every time."

Skin slapping against skin filled the room, along with his grunts and your mewling. You could feel the fabric of his scrubs on the back of your thighs—the fact he was fucking you while fully clothed sending a shiver down your spine.

Jack picked up on the signs of your impending orgasm straight away, feeling his own tightening his balls. "Hold it," he demanded, slipping a hand under your hips and easily finding your clit. You sobbed into the sheets as he rubbed tight circles, your body locking up in effort to keep your release at bay.

"S'not fair," you whined, high and wrecked. The fire in your core was raging, threatening to set you aflame—Jack's orders be damned.

"Y'know what's not fair?" Jack grunted. "When pretty residents walk around like they own the place." His hand moved from your back, his palm resting on the sheets next to your head. He dropped forward, dragging his lips up your spine, biting down on the curve where your shoulder met your neck. Your eyes rolled back, the pain adding to the dizzying pleasure that was making your whole body ache from holding back. "S'not fair," he mocked you again, "when you make me walk around hard. All. Fucking. Shift." He punctuated the last words with hard thrusts, the force knocking breaths out of you.

"Come in me, Jack, please." You whined, delirious and in need of whatever he'll give you. "Need it s'bad, I'll be good f'you—promise!"

He groaned at your begging, pulling out at the last second to deny you what you were so prettily asking for. Even if he wanted nothing more than to fill you to the brim, this was part of your punishment. He spilled over your ass and lower back, painting your skin in white streaks.

You sobbed at the loss of him, at his hand leaving your burning clit and giving you no relief. He leaned back over you, his mouth hovering right next to your ear. "Aw, you wanna come, sweetheart?" You nodded fervently, tears soaking the sheets below you. He gripped your chin tight, turning your face until your lips were inches from his—your breaths mingling together. "Be a good girl and apologise."

"But I didn't do anything wrong." You whimpered out.

He tutted. "Try again."

His hand returned to your clit, fingers rubbing agonisingly slow figure eights—the fire blooming at full force beneath his touch. He watched the sweat beading at your hairline, the tremors running through your body making his bed shake; you were so determined to not give in, and it only made him inevitably breaking you that much sweeter.

He moved his head, nuzzling into the side of your neck—breathing in your intoxicating scent before he started nipping and sucking at the spot below your ear. And just as he predicted, that was your breaking point. Your body shook harder underneath him, a debauched moan slipping from you lips.

"M'sorry, Jack! I'm so sorry—won't do it again." You whimpered, hips rolling back and forth, trying to hump his hand. "Please—it hurts so bad!"

Satisfied that you finally said you were sorry, he moved off of you—flopping onto his back next to you and not wasting a second to grasp your waist and pull you on top of him. He positioned you so you were hovering over his face, giving you a moment to get your bearings before yanking you down and absolutely devouring you.

Your hands were quick to thread into his curls, tugging hard as you rode his face. Three fingers thrust into you again, this time curling and hitting your g-spot perfectly. The most sinful sounds he'd ever heard fell from your mouth, a sharp cry jolting out of you when his lips wrapped around your clit and sucked hard. You were so close already, the teasing and edging for what felt like hours leaving a painful knot that was ready to unravel violently.

"Jack—oh, fuck!" You shook above him, your body glistening with sweat as you climbed higher. He groaned, marvelling at the sight of you—yeah, he was never going to forget this. It sent vibrations through your pussy and your vision started to blur at the edges. "I'm gonna come—please let me come!"

He doubled his efforts, silently telling you to let go. You threw your head back with a scream, an all-consuming orgasm tearing through your core—ripping every single one of your nerves apart, a new galaxy bursting behind your eyes. You squirted all over Jack's face, his eyes never once leaving your heaving body as he eagerly drank every drop you offered him. He continued fucking his fingers into you, mouthing at your clit as you came down. You tried to lift your hips off his face but he refused, not letting up until overstimulated sobs left you and you begged him to stop.

He sat you on his chest, rubbing his hands along your thighs and hips. "That wasn't so hard now, was it?"

You returned home feeling both light and heavy—your head light from the brief sub space Jack put you in, your heart heavy because you couldn't do this anymore.

You couldn't do casual, you deserved more. And you knew Jack could never offer you what you truly needed, not when he was so adamant on being alone—which, honestly, was bullshit. He was never alone—choosing to either strap his SWAT vest on or pick up an extra shift in the ED, calling you up when he wanted company sex, refusing to sit in the silence by himself.

You didn't re-download the dating apps right away, content with accepting the fact that you were ready to start looking again. You continued your routine with Jack, albeit with a little less enthusiasm than usual. If he picked up on it, he didn't say anything—it wasn't like you two talked much anyways.

A few weeks later, you were at the Northside Farmers Market with your mom, browsing the stalls before you had to leave for your night shift. It was something the two of you tried to do every other week when your schedules lined up—an old tradition you had as a kid, every Friday going to the market to buy fresh, local ingredients for your family dinner the following Sunday. It stopped when your parents' tumultuous arguments in front of the vendors, the public, tainted something you once held so dear. Now that you were an adult, you were determined to replace those memories with good ones again.

You were at the baker's stall, exchanging idle chit-chat with Billie—the vendor—when a tall man approached the stall. Billie's face lit up at the sight of him, the older woman rounding the counter to pull him into a hug.

"Ollie," she said, pulling back and swatting his arm lightly. "I should be mad at you, y'know. You work how many blocks away, and you're only visiting your Ma now?"

You turned to the man in surprise, watching his cheeks flush red. He was older than you—most likely in his forties, if you were to guess from the few grey hairs streaking his dark beard. He was ruggedly handsome but tamed—his clothes looking like he would fit in on a farm, but the stitching on his jacket told you he would've paid at least a couple hundred for it.

Before he could respond, Billie looked between the both of you—the smile of a cunning mother overtaking her face. She placed a hand on his bicep, turning to you. "This is my son Oliver, he works at Westbridge as an anesthesiologist. If I remember correctly, you work at a hospital, don't you?" Oliver turned to you fully then, kind green eyes looking you up and down in pleasant surprise.

You smiled bashfully. "Yes, you remember correctly. I'm a third year resident at PTMC, specialising in Emergency Medicine." Oliver held out a hand and you shook it, offering him your name.

Billie returned to the other side of her stall, helping out with another customer. You and Oliver stepped to the side, falling into easy conversation about your jobs. Time passed quickly, and before you knew it your warning alarm to leave for your shift was going off. Oliver politely asked if he could get your number—saying that it's been really nice talking to you, and that he would love to get to know you more over a coffee or dinner sometime. You happily gave it to him with the smallest flutter in your chest—something in the shape of hope.

You found your mom at the books & records stall, gushing to her about the handsome man you just met.

"People hardly meet organically anymore!" She exclaimed, looping her arm through yours, the two of you practically squealing as you left the market.

Not even an hour later, you were standing at the Hub, talking to Lena about the parents in North Three with a degree in medicine from Google University, when your phone vibrated in your pocket. You pulled it out to see a text from an unknown number.

7:15pm

(412) 858-5725: It was really great meeting you today, I would love to take you out for dinner one night soon if you're interested (412) 858-5725: I completely understand if our schedules don't match up, no pressure at all :) (412) 858-5725: This is Oliver, by the way. If that wasn't obvious already haha

"I know that look," Lena singsonged, pointing an accusatory finger at your face. You looked up from your phone to see a sly smirk on her face. "Who's the guy?"

You looked away, biting your lip to suppress the smile you didn't realise had bloomed across your face. "It's no one, really. We only met, like, an hour ago."

"Ah, young love," the older nurse swooned. "Let me know how it goes, hon." Then she was throwing you a wink and calling after Vivi who was rushing past.

Luckily, you and Oliver figured out you both had the following Friday off and made plans to go to a family-owned Italian restaurant—not too intimate, not too casual. You kept the date to yourself—not even telling your mom—in fear of jinxing it. The two of you exchanged a handful of texts before your date, each one making you feel more giddy about your upcoming date.

You went to Jack's once in the week before your date with Oliver—cutting your usual three nights a week down to one, claiming that you were feeling too unwell the other nights. Which technically wasn't a lie, the guilt was starting to make you feel uneasy. You reminded yourself that you had no reason to feel guilty—you and Jack weren't dating, weren't exclusive, and you hadn't even been on a date with Oliver yet. But even with your reasoning, there was something clenching your chest and curdling your gut. You reminded yourself that you and Jack were just coworkers who used each other for stress relief; you didn't tell Shen about your date, so why would you tell Abbot?

The guilt stayed with you as you got ready for the date—feeling like you were trying to cover a cold secret with someone else's warmth. Your thoughts were briefly distracted when your phone pinged with a text.

7:03pm

Abbot: Come over to mine tonight. 9pm.

You: Sorry, can't tonight. I have plans.

Abbot: 👍

You scoffed at his response, your previous guilt evaporating in an instant. This was what you needed—the reminder that you deserved more than what Jack could give you.

You walked into the restaurant just before seven thirty, feeling like you had something to prove—to yourself or to someone else, you weren't sure.

The date went well—great, even. Oliver was charming, but also humble—mentioning his less than glamorous upbringing, how he got into med school on a scholarship, that the first thing he did with his first big paycheck was pay off part of his parent's mortgage.

You bonded over the struggle that was med school, the failing healthcare system, the weirdest cases you've worked on. Dinner continued into dessert, then another bottle of wine, but there was still a tension in the back of your head. It had you turning your head when he leaned in to kiss you, his lips brushing your cheek instead of your lips. It had you comparing the hand on your bare shoulder to another hand, one that wore a dark ring and knew exactly how to touch you.

You parted ways with tentative plans for a second date; the next time your nights off aligned wasn't for another two weeks, and you both didn't want to put too much pressure on a set date just yet.

You visited your mom the next day for lunch, filling her in on all the details about your date. She was ecstatic for you, claiming that she always knew the market was going to pay you back somehow.

Monday rolled around quickly, and you walked into your shift ten minutes early like you always did—allowing yourself a few minutes to catch up with your aunt before she went home. Dana was at the Hub as usual, complaining to Robby about the nurse shortage and the pressure it was putting on her people.

She looked over as you approached the counter, her face morphing into a smirk that you knew meant she had been talking to your mom.

"Hey, doll. How was your weekend?" She emphasised the question with a small wink. "Your mom told me you had a handsome date on Friday."

You rolled your eyes at her fondly. "I should've known she'd tell you as soon as I left on Saturday."

Dana rounded the counter and slung an arm around your shoulder. "It wasn't straight away, she waited until we had dinner that night." You laughed with a small shake of your head. "Don't leave me hanging, how was it?"

Robby was still stood behind the counter with his arms crossed, partially paying attention to you and your aunt. His face was pulled into a puzzled expression as he observed Jack standing not far behind you—clearly eavesdropping on your conversation with Dana, a small frown furrowing his brows and setting his mouth in a straight line. It wasn't really eavesdropping since you were both talking at a normal volume, any of your colleagues passing by would've heard your conversation.

What Robby found odd was that Jack had stopped walking on his way to the lockers to listen, one hand frozen on his bag strap and the other curled into a tight fist at his side. His cheek twitched in the way that meant something was bothering him, and Robby came to the chilling realisation that Jack was jealous. Over you—Dana's niece.

You started recounting the date to Dana, a giddy smile stretching your lips. It felt good to be openly wanted by someone, to not be a secret kept in the dark—to be something other than a stress relief booty call.

Robby watched in unease as Jack continued to stand as still as a statue, the vein in his forehead starting to bulge as a dark red crept up his neck.

Robby grabbed a tablet and casually rounded the Hub's counter, trying not to draw your attention. He started towards the North rooms, grabbing Jack's bicep in an iron grip and forcing him through the North Bay doors.

Once safely out of your earshot, he turned to his friend with a scolding glare.

"What the fuck did you do?"

Jack was pretty damn proud of himself. He managed to get to the end of his shift without blowing up at you once. It was due to Robby's threat ringing in his ears for the most part—having your best friend threaten to castrate you with a dead serious face tends to lower your anger to a simmer.

Jack hadn't uttered a word to Robby, the guilt and jealously written all over his face told him enough. Robby kindly reminded him that he was the least of Jack's worries—if Dana found out he so much as touched a hair on your head, losing his dick would be sweet relief compared to what she'd do.

So, Jack treated you as normal—ignoring the stabbing in his chest, the beast in his gut demanding to be let out.

There were less than ten minutes left of his shift when he caught sight of you talking to Lena at the north nurse's station.

Keep walking, he told himself. His feet didn't seem to get the memo.

"I meant to ask," Lena said, leaning her arms on the counter. "Any update on Market Guy?"

Robby had dragged Jack away before he heard the full recount of your date to Dana, which he had been both grateful for and disappointed by. He needed to know like he needed air to breathe—which was a terrifying realisation to him.

"We went out for dinner on Friday," you replied, biting your lip to hold back yet another smile. "It was really nice. He was a total gentleman, very charming, pretty down to earth." Lena nodded along, hanging off of every word. "We're planning a second date for when our schedules next align."

That was it for Jack. His vision clouded with a red fog, the beast in his gut rearing its head and breaking out. He stormed over to the two of you, gripping your upper arm.

"We need to talk," he bit out, ignoring the shocked look Lena gave him.

He didn't wait for your response, pulling you towards the only empty Central room. Once the door was closed, you struggled in his hold, trying to rip your arm free.

"Let go of me, Dr. Abbot." You demanded as calmly as you could, your heart beat quickening at the storm rolling over his face. He let go but stepped closer, crowding your personal space.

"That's why you couldn't see me on Friday? Because you had a date?" He seethed through clenched teeth.

You stepped back, anger starting to grip your chest. "I'm sorry—what?"

He followed you, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Did you sleep with him?"

"How the fuck is that any of your business?"

Unbeknownst to the both of you, the day shift had started filtering in—Robby and Dana finding their command posts at the Hub. Dana was the first to notice the two of you in Central Seven, her eyebrows drawing together at the furious look on your face.

"Hey," she said to Robby, getting his attention. She nodded towards where you and Jack looked like you were having a heated discussion. "You know what's going on with them?"

Robby followed her eyeline, tensing as he saw what he prayed wouldn't happen within the walls of his ED. He rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head. "Uh, no, not a clue."

Dana eyed him suspiciously. "Well, do you mind telling them we have patients who could use that room?"

"I'd rather not go in there."

Dana slowly turned to him, levelling him with a glare. "Michael Robinavitch, what aren't you telling me?"

Back in the room, your hands were starting to shake from anger, and Jack's head was throbbing from holding back the full wrath of his jealousy.

"I have the right to know if you're screwing other people."

You let out a humourless laugh. "Are you kidding me right now? You don't have the right to know shit!"

Jack's cheek twitched. "Yes I do. You said no to me to see some other guy."

"Oh, what—so I'm meant to come running at your beck and call?"

His jaw flexed and he opened his mouth, but your anger and disbelief at the situation had taken over.

"This has just been one big waste of time! I don't want casual anymore—not with you, not with anyone."

Jack opened his mouth before he could think better of it. "I didn't hear you complaining when you opened your legs for me."

A crack echoed throughout the room, the sound of your palm slapping Jack's cheek filling the tension riddled air. "You're a fucking asshole, Jack Abbot."

You shoulder checked him as you rushed out the door, refusing to let him see the tears streaming down your cheeks. You hurried past the Hub, not noticing Dana and Robby watching you with shock painting their faces. Your hand was tingling from the impact, your vision blurring as you made your way out the ambulance bay doors.

Dana didn't stop to think, storming into Central Seven where Jack was staring at the ground—his hand rubbing his tender cheek.

"What the fuck did you do to my baby?" She demanded, her voice dangerously low.

Shit.

The cold morning air made the tears staining your cheeks sting slightly, the sensation grounding and stopping you from completely falling apart. You never cried over a man—it was a rule you made for yourself when you were young, after seeing how your dad would make your mom fall apart at least once a week. They weren't worth your tears.

You wanted to charge back into the ED and slap Jack again for making you cry.

You stayed sitting on the ground with your back against the brick wall until your tears dried, until your breaths evened out and didn't hurt on their way out your lungs. You tensed when you heard uneven steps approach you—there was only one person whose steps sounded like that.

Your head shot up as he sat down opposite you, glaring daggers at him. He raised his hands placatingly.

"Please don't hit me, I'm here to apologise." When you didn't make a move to leave or attack him, he slowly lowered his hands. "I'm really sorry, I didn't mean what I said—to imply that you were easy."

"Then why did you say it?" Fuck, you hated how small your voice sounded.

He let out a long breath, looking up at the sky. "Because I was mad—upset." He looked back at you, his eyes softer than you'd ever seen them. "I didn't know that's how you felt…you never said anything to me."

"How could I when you barely speak to me? You just fuck me and then push me into an uber. Really makes a girl feel special," you shook your head, wrapping your arms around your chest—starting to feel exposed. "I can't read your mind, Jack. You can't tell me you want casual one day and the next get mad because I went on a date."

He had the decency to look ashamed, wincing and squeezing his eyes shut. "That's fair. I don't really have any excuses, no good ones at least."

You sighed, your head feeling heavy and starting to throb. "I don't need excuses; I just want to know why. Why you act like you don't know me, why you won't—" your voice dropped, wobbling slightly. "Why you won't kiss or hug me. I mean," you let out a bitter chuckle, "do you even know what aftercare is?"

He started to twist his ring around his finger, his mouth moving side to side as he struggled to find the right words to say. "Kissing and hugging felt too intimate—felt like things I couldn't take back." He looked up at you again, his eyes glassy. "I didn't want to admit to myself that I had—have—feelings for you, and the thought of kissing you…I mean I've thought about it a lot—to the point it's been driving me insane." He rubbed a hand along his jaw, a huffed laugh leaving him. "I was worried that by kissing you I wouldn't be able to let go, and that terrified me. It meant you could become another photo I keep in my nightstand."

You knew what he was talking about—you had opened it while looking for tissues, finding a collection of photographs in the drawer. You tried not to snoop, but you were fairly certain one of them was his wife and a couple others were his old army buddies.

"I get that, I do. The universe has handed you more than enough grief and hardship for one lifetime." You stood up, closing the distance between you and sitting next to him. "But that isn't solely your decision to make, Jack. You've been hurting us both by keeping your feelings to yourself." You brought your knees up, hugging them to your chest and resting your cheek on them. "And, honestly? A girl needs kisses and cuddles after coming four times in one night; a sub drop can be pretty brutal."

Jack's guilt multiplied tenfold. "Shit. Fuck, I'm sorry—I didn't even think about that." He shifted slightly, turning to look at you fully. "I would like to try again, if you'll let me. No casual bullshit, no pretending like I don't think about you all the time. Lots of kissing and cuddling—and orgasms, so many orgasms."

It was then that you noticed the ice pack in Jack's hands, resting over his groin. You couldn't stop the snort that slipped out. "I see you had a chat with Dana."

"Don't know if I would call it a chat. She's got a harder kick than I was expecting."

You hummed. "Just be glad you didn't get to experience her right hook—she gave my dad a black eye when she found out he was cheating on my mom. And she won't hesitate to give you one if you hurt me again."

His eyes were shining, hope swirling around the honey gold and sunlit green. "Does that mean you'll give me another chance?"

"Yes," you replied, letting the small smile break through. "But no sex until I think you deserve it."

Jack nodded, his own megawatt smile putting the sun to shame. "You're in charge here, sweetheart." He leaned in slowly, his eyes flicking between yours and your lips. "Can I kiss you, at least?"

You barely managed a nod before his mouth descended on yours, his lips achingly tender. He moved slowly, basking in the warmth he had been denying himself of for so long. A cold hand came up to cup your cheek and you jerked away in surprise, making him laugh and apologise before diving back in, settling the hand on your back to pull you in closer.

"I was right," he mumbled against your lips. "There's no way I'm letting go now."

It was Friday afternoon and you were desperately, achingly horny. 

You’d tried your old faithful vibrator, which was doing the job fine, but you were desperate for some human connection. Your mind drifted through the mental rolodex of who you could call up for some casual fun. It was a short list, your demanding schedule not lending itself to a particularly vibrant social life. You’d only been on a handful of dates in the past year, most of which ended in disaster. 

Alex was out of the running because of his unfortunate odor problem. 

Sam was out due to a creepy doll collection he failed to disclose until you made your way to his apartment. 

And Daniel was out because, frankly, he was terrible at sex, which is kind of a sticking point for you right now. 

That left James, a guy you met on one of the apps and who was decent enough with his mouth that you’d seen him a handful of times. You didn’t hook up with him often, mostly because he was particular about your pubic hair. He preferred for it to be cleanly shaven, or at least heavily trimmed before he would consider going down on you. 

So despite the fact that he wasn’t much good at fucking, you tended to go back to him when you needed a release. Yes, your standards were abysmally low, but the truth of the matter was that residency didn’t really give you any time to get out and meet new, better hook-ups. So James it was. 

It had been a couple months since you’d hooked up, mostly due to this preference of his. Unfortunately, taking the time to take an ‘everything shower’ just to get your pussy eaten was a luxury that you were not often afforded due your residency schedule. 

But today you’d had the time, energy, and desire to get devoured, so you hopped in the shower to take care of everything. By the time you emerged your hair was double cleansed, you’d applied a hair mask, exfoliated, shaved your legs, applied moisturizer and body oil, and–most importantly–your pussy was cleanly shaven. 

You had a renewed pep in your step as you made your way over to your bed, ready to entice James. You maneuvered onto the bed and experimented with a few poses before landing on one that showed off your assets the best. You propped up your phone–timer set for 10 seconds–and you scrambled into position, perching back on your haunches and settling back on your feet, back arched a little uncomfortably. 

You heard the shutter of the camera going off and quickly extricated yourself from the uncomfortable position. Looking over the image, you were very impressed. 

The photo pictured your nude body from the chest down, beginning with the barest hint of the underside of your breasts showing, then the expanse of your stomach and curve of your hips. Lower, your fingers were on your pussy, parting your lips just enough to tease. It was a damn good nude, if you did say so yourself. James was lucky to receive it. 

It had been so long since you texted him that instead of scrolling through endless scam messages and bill reminders, you just typed in the first few letters of his name to pull up his contact. As soon as you typed ‘ja’ it popped up, and you quickly began composing your message. 

Gnawing at your thumbnail, you went back and forth on a few messages, trying to sound sexy, but playful. After five minutes of deliberation, you decided to just go with what you had. Honestly, it’s not like James was going to give it more than a second thought–if he wanted to fuck he wasn’t going to care about how sultry (or not) the message you sent him was.

You settled on: 

you: shaved just for you. want something sweet to eat? ;) 

You looked it over for a minute, nodding to yourself and hitting send before you could psych yourself out. 

What a mistake. 

Jack sat at the work station, mouth open and slackjawed, still staring at his phone screen. 

Not at the photo anymore–no, that had been quickly swiped away–but the image was still burned into his retinas, the after image projecting onto the back of his eyelids when he closed them. 

Why? 

Because three minutes ago he received a text message from one of the day shift residents. He was concerned, initially, because there was little reason for day shift residents to contact him as opposed to Robby. Which is why Jack opened the message as soon as he saw it come in, thinking it might be an emergency, especially because it was you. 

Instead, he was greeted with a sight he thought he’d never have the pleasure of seeing. 

You, stretched back on your heels, breasts barely visible, pussy on full display for him. Your fingers held you open, your folds glistening in the late summer light that was streaming in, your pretty little clit in the center, just begging to be sucked. It was, quite possibly, the prettiest pussy he’d ever seen. 

He couldn’t take his eyes off of the photo for a good 30 seconds, before the logical side of his brain kicked in and he remembered oh yeah, I’m at work and can’t be caught looking at my resident’s cunt. 

He wasn’t unfamiliar with you, even though you’d only worked a handful of shifts together. But he saw you every morning at handoff, and you two shared warm smiles and easy jokes, your sardonic wit matching his bar for bar. He knew you were smart, able to hold your own in a trauma, and compassionate and empathetic underneath it all. And he couldn’t ignore the fact that you were gorgeous either. 

And he would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of you in this sort of light before, either. Jack Abbot was not a proud man–he could admit that on more than one occasion, he’d stood in his shower fisting his cock to the image of you on your knees for him. 

It was especially bad when you did something impressive at work. Like the time you went toe-to-toe with a surgeon about whether a patient really needed surgery when you insisted that all they needed was a pericardiocentesis, and to prove your theory, you stuck the needle into the pericardium and extracted the fluid despite surgery’s objections. A ballsy move, one that would have been deeply problematic if you were wrong, but paid off. He’d had to rub one out in the bathroom that day. He apparently has a thing for competency. 

“You’re gonna catch flies, Abbot,” Ellis said, walking out of an exam room, IPad tucked under her arm and smirk wide on her face. Jack shook himself out of his reverie, trying desperately not to think of your photo (but failing miserably). 

He cleared his throat, “Sorry, what’ve you got for me?” he asked, still a bit dazed. Ellis looked at him skeptically–there wasn’t much that threw Dr. Jack Abbot–but proceeded to present her case anyway. 

Once he approved her plan of treatment, Jack returned to his phone. He sat there for a long moment, contemplating what to do. You hadn’t said anything else, no frantic “I’m so sorry, that obviously wasn’t meant for you,” texts that explained the situation. Jack was positive it wasn’t intended for him, and he didn’t want to embarrass you more than you were sure to be. 

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, dancing nervously as he typed out his reply.

You started getting ready after sending the text, anticipating that James would want to meet up tonight. You did your hair, applied a bit of light make up, and threw on a cute little sundress. 

It was about an hour later when you went to check your phone again, fully expecting to see a cheeky message from James inviting you over for some fun. 

What you saw made your stomach drop instead. You felt dizzy, nausea washing over you in roiling waves. The text thread you were looking at was addressed to Jack Abbot, not James. And staring back at you was your nude body, followed by a response from Dr. Abbot. 

Jack Abbot: I don’t think I’m the intended recipient for that photo. 

Jack Abbot: But for what it's worth, a real man would eat it even if you didn’t shave. Would prefer it, actually. 

Jack Abbot: Sorry, that was inappropriate. I’ve deleted this text thread, along with the photo. We can pretend this never happened. 

There’s no fucking way. Absolutely not. There is no possible way that you accidentally sent a nude photo of yourself to your fucking attending. Not just any attending either, but the one you'd had a big fat stupid crush on for the better part of a year. The one you’d spent endless nights fantasizing about with your fingers plunged deep into your cunt, whose visage you’d pictured hovering over you, fucking you hard and deep; the name you accidentally moaned when James was eating you out the last time you hooked up. 

Your mind refused to accept that this was reality, hoping against hope that this was some twisted fucking nightmare. 

Shame welled up inside you, your cheeks hot from embarrassment and tears pricking at the corner of your eyes, mortification settling in earnest now. In addition to being humiliating, you also felt like a fucking creep. From his perspective, you just sent him a completely unsolicited nude photo. 

Even more so, you hated that this probably killed any chance you had with him, even if that chance had been slim to none to begin with. 

You paced your bedroom, thumbnail chewed raw as you tried to do damage control. What does one even say after they accidentally send a nude to their boss? After far too much deliberation, you decided to keep it simple, apologize, and crawl into your bed for the remainder of your two days off. 

You: Dr. Abbot, I am so sorry about that!! I obviously didn’t mean to send that to you. 

You: I meant to send it to a James and must not have looked closely enough before I sent it. 

You: Thank you for deleting the photo, and I’m so sorry once again that you were subjected to seeing that. 

You threw your phone as far away from you as possible, recklessly disregarding its safety despite the fact that you most certainly could not afford to repair said phone if it was damaged, and flopped onto the bed, screaming into a pillow. Your throat was raw by the time you surfaced for air, your body limp and exhausted, mind shuffling through worst case scenarios. 

In the midst of your spiral, your brain drifted to the other part of his message: a real man would eat it even if you didn’t shave. That was, admittedly, inappropriate, but no more so than sending a nude to your superior, so you figured you were even. He probably just meant it to be supportive; to try and diffuse the awkward situation. 

But another part of you wondered if he meant something else. If he was signalling to you that he would eat it, bush or not. The thought was indulgent, if not utterly preposterous. He was an attending; you were a resident. There was no way he’d meant anything by it. But you couldn’t help thinking…  

Did he like the photo? Was he picturing you with a bush? Did he think about tasting you, about swirling his tongue around your clit or plunging it deep into you? 

A notification dinged, shaking you out of your daydream, and you contemplated whether or not you actually wanted to see what he said, if anything at all. Curiosity eventually won out, hands grappling for your phone and swiping open the notification. 

Jack Abbot: No worries. 👍 

It was a completely normal response, which almost made it worse. Part of you wished he would lash out, call you disgusting or a whore, at least you’d know what to do with that. Shame or disgust were easier to digest than nonchalance. 

You didn’t bother to send the photo to the correct person, your lust dampened, the fire doused with cold water, remnants pulverized to ash. Groaning, you burrowed into your bed with no intention of leaving for the next two days. 

You had no idea how you were going to face him Monday.

You woke up two days later and ran through your options. 

Flee the country and never return to Pittsburgh ever again (unrealistic, you’d devoted too much time to becoming a doctor, you weren’t giving up because of some catastrophically stupid mistake)

Arrive to work 20 minutes late, hopefully avoiding Jack Abbot by all costs (unlikely, the man worked more overtime than anyone except Robby. He was sure to still be there, and all you’d get was attendance point for your trouble) 

Be a mature adult, apologize, and forget this ever happened, like he suggested (undoubtedly the best choice, but could you really ever forget that your attending has seen your pussy? And, a far sicker thought, did you want him to forget?) 

Indecision weighed on you as you got ready, ultimately deciding on lucky number option 3. Your only saving grace was the fact that you were on day shift, and Abbot rarely worked days. The only interaction would be at handoff, and maybe if you could busied yourself enough getting a jump on patients, you could avoid him for as long as possible. 

That was your plan of action as you walked into chairs, head down as you scanned into the ED and approached the nurses station. You didn’t hear his voice, which was a good sign; typically, you could hear it as soon as you entered, steady barking out orders over the hum of the department. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself and thinking for the first time since you sent that photo that things might be okay. 

You spot Ellis at a work station, and beeline to her to get the handover started. 

“Hey Ellis, how’d the night go? Any weird and wild cases?” you ask, 

“Oh, you know, the usual,” she said, “foreign body extractions, a couple MIs, an insomniac who overdosed on benadryl and swore that the hat man was after him for money,” she laughed, shaking her head.

“To be fair, the hat man could be after him for money,” you said solemnly, face straight for a second before you burst out laughing. 

Handover continued smoothly, Ellis updating you on which patients needed labs or imaging and which needed to be discharged. You almost made it through unscathed, your body turning to make your way to North 5 when you heard his voice calling to Ellis. 

Your shoulders tensed–body betraying you by freezing in place–and he was next to you before you could scuttle away. Resting his forearms on the counter next to you, he continued talking to Ellis–about what, you couldn’t say, static filling your ears as you remembered what you’d done. 

“Morning, Doc,” he said, startling you out of your daze.  

“G-good morning, Dr. Abbot,” you stuttered, eyes glancing briefly at him before settling on his chin, unable to meet his eyes for more than a second. 

He looked annoyingly normal, showing no sign that anything unseemly had occurred between you. You chanced another look at his eyes, the hazel orbs showing no hint of amusement or belittlement. But there was a look of acknowledgement, a steady one that should have reassured you that everything was okay, that you weren’t a laughingstock. The same look he’d give you in a trauma when things went sideways through no fault of your own. 

And In any other situation, it would be reassuring. But right now, all it did was remind you that he’d seen your most sensitive parts, that he’d commented on the state of your pubic hair (or lack thereof). Heat bloomed in your cheeks, and your breath caught in your throat, eyes unable to breakaway from his gaze. 

When you did manage to look away, it was, traitorously, to look down at his lips. They looked so soft, and for a split second you imagined yourself leaning in, capturing his lips with yours and kissing him into oblivion. You snapped back to reality half a second too late, seeing the edge of Abbot’s mouth turn up in the barest hint of a smile. 

Clearing your throat, you quickly excused yourself to see a patient, all but running to the exam room. You managed to slow your breathing and compose yourself before you entered the room, squaring your shoulders and getting back to work. 

This was going to be a lot harder than you anticipated.

Jack was being honest when he told you he deleted the text thread with that photo in it, a fact he was coming to regret as he laid in bed post-shift, body tired but too wired to relax and fall asleep. He’d committed the photo to memory, though, losing himself in it as he dragged his hand up and down his cock, thinking about how soft you’d be, how sweet you’d taste, the sounds he’d pull from you as he fucked you with his tongue. He’d fallen into this routine an embarrassing amount of times since he received that photo, feeling like a pervy, dirty old man all the while, but doing nothing to stop himself either. 

His hand glided over his shaft once more, imagining that it was your warm, wet walls wrapped around him instead, and he was coming hard, painting his stomach with streaks of warm, wet goo. He sat there, breathing heavy, as a twitch of shame rolled over him. He shouldn’t be jerking it to the remembered image of a resident’s pussy, a woman at least 15 years younger than him, if not more. 

But it was harder than he’d thought it would be to put that photo behind him. It was all he could think about as soon as he saw you that first morning, the image looping in an endless projection in his mind. It was completely unprofessional, and frankly dishonest. He’d told you that you could both pretend it had never happened, but he wasn’t so sure that was possible anymore. 

And it was clear you hadn’t forgotten either. You were jumpy around him, the easy quips you used swap in the morning abandoned for stuttered greetings and awkward silences. He’d also caught you looking at his lips on more than one occasion and stealing glances at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. He wasn’t sure if it was true attraction, or just some morbid curiosity that was sparked by the unusual situation you two found yourselves in, but Jack wasn’t about to get his hopes up for the former. 

As difficult as it was to keep his head on straight after seeing that photo, the more troubling part was that he’d lost the 10 to 15 minutes he spent every morning talking to you, a small ritual he looked forward to every shift. He hadn’t realized how much those moments meant to him until they were gone. Even the worst nights were magically better when he was able to make you laugh at handoff, your smile making his chest swell with pride and head fuzzy with feelings he had no business feeling. 

Jack knew he had to do something to ease the tension, to get things back to normal. Or maybe a new normal, if he had anything to do with it.

The days passed in a similar fashion to that first day. Jack would greet you politely and attempt your typical banter, and you would awkwardly stutter out an adequate reply before making your escape as quickly as possible. You weren’t sure why you weren’t able to be a fucking adult and put it behind you, but you just couldn’t. Every time you thought you had the courage to revert back to your typical routine with Abbot, you chickened out almost immediately, bumbling your wall through some moronic excuse. 

To make matters worse, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. It was worse than it ever had been before; what used to be an errant thought that would arise only in the throes of pleasure were now occurring during the most mundane tasks. You thought about what his full, silver curls would look like buried between your thighs while you were doing laundry; what his mouth would feel like on your breasts, teeth pulling at the pebbled skin of your nipples while you cooked dinner; how he would fuck you–would it be soft and slow, or hard and punishing?–while you cleaned the bathroom. 

Your luck ran out about a month after the incident, as you were calling it. For the most part, you were able to keep your interactions with Abbot brief, albeit awkward. But today he was scheduled on day shift, covering for Al-Hashimi while she was home sick with her son. You’d only found out when you walked in, seeing his name on the board despite the fact that he was off last night. 

You felt a wave of nausea wash over you; how were you supposed to go a whole day avoiding him? You managed pretty well for the first half of your shift, presenting exclusively to Robby, which wasn’t all that different from your normal routine. You avoided the traumas Abbot was running, hiding in exam rooms under the guise of checking vitals or reviewing scans. It was working fairly well until midday, when you were unfortunately in the vicinity of the ambulance bay when paramedics burst through. 

“Santos, Mohan,” Abbot paused, eyes flitting over to where you stood before calling your name as well, “with me!” he said, already moving into the trauma room and gowning up. You reluctantly followed, slipping on your own trauma gown. He was behind you before you could secure your gown, fingers brushing against the nape of your neck as he tied the strings for you. It shouldn’t have sent a thrill down your spine, but it did. You stuttered out a thank you as you moved to assess the patient. 

The paramedic was halfway through the bullet when you arrived at the bedside, hands moving to transfer them from the stretcher to the bed. “– multiple lacerations, bruises to the face, chest, and abdomen. Possible tib-fib and facial fracture.” You looked down at the patient, a teenage boy who couldn’t have been older than 15. 

“BP’s low, 70 palp; pulse ox is 85,” Princess called out.  

You slid the chestpiece of your stethoscope over the patient's chest, listening to the lungs. Unfortunately, your brain went blank when Abbot sidled up next to you, arm pressed tight against yours in the cramped trauma room. 

“What do you think, Doc?” he asked, listening with his own stethoscope now. 

You blinked, brain lagging as you tried to compose yourself; to try and save this boy’s life. 

“Uh-um good breath sounds?” you said, a question more than an answer, though you were certain about the breath sounds. “Airway is patent, no tracheal deviation, no blood in the canal,” you finished, regaining a bit of confidence as you averted your gaze from his. 

“Good,” he said, hand grasping your elbow and moving you down to the end of the bed. “What do we need to order?”

Santos, blessedly, answered before you could embarrass yourself further, “C-spine, chest and head CT.” 

“BP is down to 60!” 

“Alright people! What are we dealing with?” Abbot called out, eyebrow quirked at you.

Every differential evaporated from your mind. “He’s bleeding from somewhere,” was all you could come up with, though that was obvious. Instead of dwelling on that, you turned your attention to the boy, your eyes examining his body, searching for the source of bleeding. With Samira’s help you flipped the boy over, desperate to find a stab wound or gash, but coming up empty. 

“Must be the belly,” Santos said.

“Alright, lavage kit please!” Abbot said, turning to you, “you ever done one of these?” 

You shook your head. 

“Well, today’s your lucky day, then,” he said, handing you an 11-blade.

Despite your best efforts, your hand shook as you pressed the blade against the skin. 

“I-I can’t,” you whispered, low enough that only he could hear. 

“You can,” he said, stepping behind you to steady your hand, guiding as you made the incision. He handed you the tubing next. “Make sure you’re into the peritoneum,” he whispered, lips right next to your ear. His hand was still on top of yours as you slid the tubing in, “I’m in, hook up the saline and extension tubing,” you said, breathing a sigh of relief.  

Your relief was short-lived. The results of the lavage came back–negative. “Shit, nothing. It’s not the belly,” you said, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

“What the fuck? Where the hell is this kid bleeding from?” Abbot cursed, pacing around the bed to see if anything was forgotten. “You check his back?” he asked. 

“Yes, nothing there. Maybe it’s a faulty blood pressure cuff?” you said, grasping at straws, but moving to flip the boy over and recheck his back again anyway. 

Abbot was next to you, eyes raking over systematically to find the source when suddenly Mohan pointed out a tiny mark on the boy’s lower right side, “What is that?” she asked. 

“That is a very small puncture wound. Probably an ice pick, if I had to guess,” Abbot answered.

Fuck. You should have caught that. You were standing right there, staring at the lower quadrant of the boy's back. You’d even seen the small mark, but dismissed it as a mole. You felt sick to your stomach, fear and shame welling up in you. You had never had a reaction like this in a trauma, not even on your first day as a med student. 

Garcia burst through the door just as Abbot was getting the patient ready to head up to the O.R. “Puncture wound, probably hit the kidney or renal artery,” he said, passing off the patient. She nodded, taking over from there. 

“Good pickup,” you congratulated Mohan weakly as you walked out of the trauma bay, hoping you could make it to the bathroom and wallow in self-pity for a few moments.

You heard him call your name shortly after you exited the trauma bay. Heart sinking, you turned to face him. “Yes, Dr. Abbot?” you asked, fidgeting with the hem of your scrub top. You weren’t sure you could handle being yelled at by him today. You’d never been one for tears at being reprimanded, but you could already feel the tell-tale prickling behind your eyes, and you were almost positive that the dam would burst at a harsh word from Abbot. 

“A word, please?” he asked, gesturing you to the stairwell, the only place with a semblance of privacy in the ED. You sullenly followed after him, bracing yourself for impact. 

You leaned back against the wall, fully expecting him to start yelling as soon as you were situated under the staircase, hidden well enough from passersby, but all you felt was a warm, heavy weight on your shoulder. 

“You have to settle down, okay?” he said, one hand planted firmly on your shoulder and the other grasping your chin between his fingers to direct your gaze to his. “Look, I know what you sent me was embarrassing, and we probably should’ve talked about it, but you can’t get this worked up over it when I’m on shift as your attending. It can’t affect your work, you're too good of a doctor to let something like this throw you,” he said earnestly, eyes sincere when you looked into them. 

You stood there, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. Your mind still hadn’t fully caught up. “I… you didn’t bring me out here to yell at me?” you asked, voice coming out weaker than you intended it to. 

He shook his head, confused, “What? No, of course not. I barely noticed that puncture wound myself,” he said, alleviating your anxiety somewhat. 

“What I’m concerned about is how wound tight you are around me. I’m not saying you have to like me or anything, but you have to be comfortable working with me. You didn’t make an error in this trauma, but you could have. And I know it would eat you up if something like that happened,” he said, thumb gently sweeping over your chin. 

“I can’t let you jeopardize your education because you’re embarrassed about mistakenly sending me a revealing photo. It would kill me if you didn’t reach your full potential because of something like that, if I had any part of it,” he shook his head, a pained look on his face. 

Oh. You couldn’t breathe, your cheeks surely inflamed at this point. You were suddenly very aware of how close he’d gotten–and of his hand on your face. His fingers were warm against your face, skin rough, providing delicious friction as his hand repositioned, thumb stroking along your jaw as he subtly tilted your head back. He smelled like clean laundry and coffee, with a slight tang of antiseptic.

Your lips parted, ragged breaths falling from your lips. 

“Dr. Abbot–”

“Jack. Call me Jack,” he murmured, so close that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. If you tipped your head up just a fraction, it would close the distance between you; would bring your lips flush together. Your eyes fluttered shut at the thought. 

“Jack, I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about that picture,” you admitted quietly. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asked, tongue darting out to wet his lips, “I can’t stop thinking about it, either.” 

“Really?” you looked up at him from under your eyelashes. 

He nodded, moving impossibly closer, lips ghosting against yours. He hesitated briefly, a look of doubt flashing across his face before his gaze steadied–a decision made; a line ready to be crossed. His grip tightened against your jaw, “I can’t stop thinking about you spreading that pretty little pussy open, or about the prick who wanted you to shave before he’d think about going down on you,” he said, shaking his head in disgust. 

“You know how many times I fucked my fist to the memory of that photo? How much I’ve thought about how you taste, what sounds you’d make when you cum?” he asked. 

A strangled moan escaped your lips at his words. You’d never seen this side of Jack Abbot before, and it was intoxicating. “I-i think about you when I touch myself too,” you whimpered, your admission seeming tame compared to his vulgar words, but you wanted him to know you were also going crazy over him; that this wasn’t one-sided.  

“Yeah, pretty girl? You think about me when you stuff that little cunt with your fingers? Wish it was my cock instead?” he asked, his other hand snaking down to your hip, fingers inching their way under your scrub top to caress the skin there. 

You nodded, the proximity and dirty talk stealing your breath and leaving you unable to form an intelligible sentence. 

“Did he eat your pussy, sugar? You got all dolled up for him, did he at least treat you right?” he asked, breath fanning over your lips, stubble just barely grazing your sensitive skin. 

You shook your head, dazed. “I didn’t send it to him,” you said, a little bashful, “was too embarrassed after I sent it to you.” 

He groaned, forehead falling against yours, “poor baby, put in all that effort and didn’t even get to cum, did you?” he asked, just the slightest bit condescending. 

You let out a pathetic whine, shaking your head ‘no’ at his question. Heat pooled deep in your belly and you felt your panties quickly dampening.  

He tsked, “we’ll have to rectify that,” he said, “You shave again? Or you let her grow back natural?” he asked.

You bit your lip, still a bit shy despite all the filthy words that he’d spoken in the last 5 minutes. “I’m au naturelle,” you whispered, a slight smirk tugging at your lips. 

“Good fucking girl,” he growled before his mouth was on yours. His lips moved against yours with a ferocity you’d never experienced before. There was nothing uncertain about the kiss, his lips firm as he devoured you, tongue licking into your mouth and sliding against yours deliciously. One of your hands slid up the side of his neck to play with the curls at his nape while the other fisted in the fabric of his scrub top. 

His spit tasted like the stale breakroom coffee and the spearmint of his gum, and you couldn’t get enough. You suckled at his tongue, trying to keep up with his relentless pace, but eventually let him take the reins and kiss you silly. 

You were both panting when you pulled away, a string of spit drawn taut between your lips before snapping. Jack held your head between his hands, thumbs brushing softly over the apples of your cheeks. 

“Talk with me. Tonight. Come have dinner or a drink with me, and we can talk about it all,” he said, a borderline pleading look on his face. 

You nodded, still a little dumb from the kiss. “Yeah, yeah, sure. Okay,” you said, slowly extricating your hand from his scrub top. 

He let you go with a final squeeze to your jaw, moving to re-enter the ED before you. 

You stood there a moment longer, wiping your lips to get rid of your combined saliva and to lessen the kiss bitten look you were sure you were sporting before getting back to work.

The rest of the shift was painfully slow, the hours passing by like molasses. You couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss, the way his lips molded against yours like it was their rightful place. You did make a concentrated effort not to let it impact your work, though. Jack was right about that; nothing could come between you and finishing your residency. 

It was just after 7:30 when you exited the hospital, and you immediately spotted Jack leaning against his truck waiting for you. You smiled as you approached him, nervous butterflies erupting in your stomach. Despite that breathtaking kiss, you still didn’t know where you stood. Was he just satisfying a sexual curiosity? Or was it possible that he also had feelings for you? 

He cleared his throat, “So I was thinking we could order something to my place and talk there. Unless you want to go somewhere else, to a restaurant or your place,” he rambled, nerves undercutting his typically confident energy. 

“Your place sounds good,” you nod, still a bit shy.

His hand was warm on the small of your back as he guided you to the passenger side, opening the door for you and helping you step up into the cab. The ride to his house was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Some 90s alternative rock playlist hummed quietly in the background while you ordered pizza for the two of you–on his phone, with his card, he insisted. His hand rested lightly on your knee, the heat of his palm burning through the fabric of your scrubs.  

You arrived at a beautifully manicured house in a suburb far enough from the city to be peacefully quiet. It’s different from what you pictured, you realize as you walk in. You assumed that a man who worked as much as he did wouldn’t have the time or energy to put into making a house a home; you pictured a sterile kitchen and minimalist fixtures, white walls with abstract art. 

But it was homey. The walls were painted, photos scattered across them. The couch looked comfy, something picked out with intention, not the first option plucked from a furniture catalog. There were plants, beautiful, well taken care of ferns and pothos littered about. Warm light filtered through the kitchen, the island topped with butcher block and bracketed by two upholstered stools. 

“Do you want anything to drink? Water, wine, beer?” he asked, opening the fridge and grabbing a beer for himself. 

You focused your attention back on him, abandoning your pseudo-psychoanalysis of his house and drifting over to perch on a stool. “Wine would be nice,” you said, grateful for something to occupy your hands. He nods, pours you a modest glass of red–something French that probably costs ten times the amount of your shitty grocery store wine. 

The pizza arrives soon thereafter, and you sit down at the island to eat. Conversation is easy, and you feel more at ease with him now than you ever had before, a drastic 180 from this morning. You talk about your day, life, post-residency plans; he lets loose a few embarrassing stories from his own residency days, one featuring a very unfortunate Robby being pantsed by a 6 year old in the middle of the ED. Eventually, though, plates are cleared and glasses are downed, a natural lull falling over the conversation. 

“So,” he starts, head resting against his palm, arm propped up on the counter, “that photo…” He’s got that sly smirk on his face now, comfortable now to tease you about it. 

You groan, burying your head in your arms. He laughed, “you don’t have to explain yourself, but I am curious what series of events led to me receiving that photo,” he said… “a series of events for which I am very thankful for, by the way.”  

You turned, resting your head sideways on your arms, and started explaining all about James and his preferences, how he was your only real option for some skin-to-skin contact. Jack, for his part, listened quietly, offering little commentary until you finished your great tale. 

“So you’re telling me that this kid can’t even fuck you right, yet he demands you shave before he’ll go down on you?” he asks, a horrified look on his face. 

“Welcome to the joys of modern dating,” you joke, shooting him a halfhearted smile. 

He shook his head, “unacceptable,” he said before hooking his leg around your stool and pulling you closer. You gasp, steadying yourself with a hand on his thigh as you fight not to topple onto him completely. He was close now, one hand coming up to rest on the hollow of your neck while the other slid up your top, thumb strumming over your ribs. 

Jack didn’t hesitate this time. This kiss was different–no less searing, but a little more leisurely–like he wasn’t worried about scarcity anymore, confident that he had the time to take you apart and put you back together again before the night was over. His mouth was molten against yours, tongue delving deep in your mouth and swallowing up the steady stream of desperate whines escaping you. 

The hand on your neck coasted upward, tangling in your hair and angling your head back to deepen the kiss. Your hands slid under his shirt, groaning as they came to rest on his tummy. He was warm, the muscle firm under your hands as you lightly scraped your nails over his flesh. His chest rumbled under your touch, the hand in your hair tightening, the twinge of pain a welcome contrast to the overwhelming pleasure of his lips against yours. 

He barely broke the kiss to whisper into your mouth, “let me show you what its like to have a real man fuck you. Please, sugar,” he pulled away finally, resting his forehead against yours.

“Please fuck me, Jack,” you said, eyes hooded with lust. A moment later you were being scooped up from the stool and carried toward his bedroom. While Jack focused on not running into anything, you trailed open-mouthed kisses along the length of his neck, sucking the skin between your teeth before soothing it over with your tongue. You nipped gently at his adam’s apple, smiling when he yelped at the contact. 

“You’re trouble, you know that?” he chuckled before dropping you down onto his bed, your body bouncing slightly before settling. He stood between your legs, face cradled between his meaty hands. “I want you to listen to me, okay?” he asked, waiting for you to nod before continuing, “I want to do so many filthy, obscene things to you tonight; want to fuck you into oblivion as many times as you’ll let me, but I want you to know that if you want to stop, at any point, you just say the word and we’re done. No questions asked. Understand?” 

You nodded once more, but that was insufficient for Jack. “need you to use your big girl words, okay, pretty? Tell me you understand,” he said. 

“I understand, Jack. If I want to stop, I’ll tell you,” you replied seriously, even though you knew there was no chance you’d want to stop. 

“Good. Now, I want you to take off your scrubs, scoot up to the headboard, and get comfortable while I take care of my leg, okay?” 

You did as he bade you, left only in a pair of pink cotton panties and bra. You hadn’t planned on being in this situation, but you were glad they were a matching set at the very least. Settling against his pillows, you watched as he shucked his pants off, the sleek metal of his prosthesis glinting in the low lamplight. 

He sat down at the edge of the bed, fingers undoing the mechanism with practiced motions, twisting the appendage off and setting it to the side. The skin looked a little chapped, but not raw, which was a good sign. 

“Is there anything I could do to make things more comfortable for you?” you asked. You wanted to make sure he knew you weren’t put off by his leg, wanted to make sure he didn’t feel like he had to overcompensate because of it. 

“No, thank you, sugar. You’re doin’ plenty already,” he assured, turning around to face you. His eyes darkened as he took you in, his gaze hungrily raking over your newly exposed skin. He moved to hover over you, forearms braced next to your head as kisses you again, this time a sweet press of his lips against yours before he began trailing his mouth along your jaw and down your neck, laving hot kisses all across your neck and collarbone. 

A gasp punches out of you when he sucks harshly at the spot just below the ear, the spot that turns your insides to putty. He grins against you, focusing his attention there until you’re a writhing, moaning mess under him. A hand reaches behind you to make quick work of your bra clasp, the flimsy material soon thrown across the room, forgotten immediately. His hands are on you in a flash, thumbs teasing along the underside of your tits. 

Whining, you claw at his shirt, desperately wanting to feel his bare chest against your nipples, and he obliges, one-handedly throwing the thing off. The fine silver hair on his chest scrapes against you, your nails digging into his back as you pull him flush to you. Jack groans, hips involuntarily rutting against you, his hard cock a delicious pressure against your aching cunt. Your hips cant up, chasing the friction and grinding yourself against him. 

“Careful, you keep doin’ that and this’ll be over before it even starts,” Jack warns, nipping at your bottom lip before continuing his maddening descent, mouth exploring your breasts–conveniently ignoring your painfully hard nipples. “Jaaaack,” you whine, thrusting your chest upward. He takes the hint, lips suctioning against a nipple and using his tongue to flick the pebbled flesh. Your hand fists in his curls, holding him there as his hand moves to tug at your other nipple. When he decides he’s given enough attention to one nipple, he switches sides, giving the other the same treatment. By the time he moves on, your tits are sure to be sore and red tomorrow, but you could not care less about that right now. 

He kissed down your stomach, lips lingering at your navel before pulling back, eyes travelling down between your legs. “Fuck sweetheart, is all this just from me playin’ with your pretty tits?” he asked, eyes fixated on the wet spot on your panties. You whimper in response, mind too fuzzy to form words. His fingers skate over your waistband, your tummy contracting in anticipation. Ever so slowly, he drags your panties down your legs, discarding them over his shoulder as he settles between your legs.

His pupils were blown wide, utterly entranced by your pussy. The attention made you want to shrink in on yourself, your legs subconsciously moving to close, but his wide shoulders and firm grip on your thighs stopped you. “Fuck, sugar, this is what she looks like with some curls on ‘er? And you let some boy convince you she needed to be bald?” He shook his head, a genuinely pained look on his face. 

He moved to spread you open for him, thumbs stroking up and down your lips as he took you in. Without warning, he surged forward, pressing a chase kiss against your clit before sitting back and continuing to admire your pussy. You squealed, hips twitching forward in search of more friction, the brief contact making you dizzy with need. It was slightly embarrassing, being watched like this, but you were growing impossibly wetter anyway. 

Jack’s hands moved back to your thighs as you squirmed, grip tightening, fingers sinking into your soft flesh just enough to ache, and spread you further open. “Don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” he said, pressing hot kisses from your knee to your inner thigh, stopping right at the crease between your pussy and thigh, breath fanning over your puffy folds. Your clit was throbbing, your hips subtly shifting against nothing. 

“‘m gonna show you just how pretty this pussy is, not gonna stop until you feel it,” he said, looking directly into your eyes, “you okay with that?” 

No sooner had you nodded than he was on you. He didn’t waste any time, swiping the flat of his tongue through your folds from entrance to clit in one long stroke. His tongue was hot against your cunt, the muscle firm as it lapped hungrily at your folds, exploring every inch of you. He groaned, nuzzling his face deeper into your pussy. “Fuck, you taste better than I could have ever imagined,” he moaned, tongue dipping into your hole to collect the slick gathering there. 

He didn’t surface for air, mouth working against you relentlessly; like he’d been deprived of something vital that had been restored to him, and he wasn’t about to let it go again. It was primal, almost animalistic the way he licked, sucked, and nipped at your cunt. Your back arched almost painfully off the bed, hands fisted in the sheets and moans slipping from your lips unbidden. 

He alternated between circling your clit in tight little circles with the tip of his tongue, and suckling on it, lips wrapped snug around the bundle of nerves. Your body was hot, your legs trembling as the coil in your core wound tighter. One hand moved to grip his curls, the hair soft between your fingers as you tugged at it. He moaned into your pussy, the vibrations bringing you right to the edge.  

“Fuck, right there, Jack,” you gasped, “I’m so close, so–”

“Cum for me, sugar, let me taste you,” he said quickly, head bowing back down to suck your clit harshly, teeth grazing it just the littlest bit.  

And you did, white hot pleasure coursing through you, body contorting, legs squeezing his head between your thighs as you rode out your orgasm. You felt like a live wire, your nerves firing on all cylinders while Jack kept gentle pressure on your clit, drawing out your release as long as possible. Jack lapped up all your spend, not letting a drop go to waste. Boneless, you weakly pushed his head away, the overstimulation too much. 

He sat back a fraction, face dripping with your juices and his saliva. There was a gleam in his eye as his thumb replaced his mouth, rubbing soft circles against your clit. A high-pitched whine escaped you, your sensitive nub begging for reprieve. 

“You can give me another one, can’t you pretty girl?” he asked, voice brooking no argument. 

“I d-don’t–fuck–I don’t know,” you blabbered, the painful overstimulation quickly giving way to pleasure, your hips canting forward against his thumb. 

“I think you can,” he murmured, swiping a thick finger through your folds before sinking it in and curling lazily against that sweet spot on your front wall. “Fuck, Jack, feels so good,” you moaned, moving you hips in time with his finger.  Before you knew it he was adding another finger, a slight sting accompanying the stretch. All you could do was whimper, his fingers switching between slow and deep, and fast and hard strokes. 

Your second orgasm hit you without warning, pleasure reverberating through your body from the top of your head to the soles of your feet, your toes curling as you came harder than you ever had in your life. Jack’s fingers kept moving, wringing every last after shock from your body. You were panting now, trying to catch your breath but failing miserably. 

And yet, Jack’s fingers were still moving, scissoring you open now. It was too much, the sensations bordered more on pain than pleasure. “I can’t–can’t do a-another one like this,” you stuttered out.

Jack looked at you, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Tell me you have the prettiest pussy,” he said, fingers slowing a fraction as he waited for you to answer, gaze leveled directly at you.  

You whined, face heating at the order, “J-Jack, please, just wanna cum on your cock,” you said, hoping it would break his resolve. 

“I’ll fuck you as soon as you say it, sugar. Say you have the prettiest pussy.” 

You squirmed, cheeks hot as you whimpered, “I can’t–I’m not–” was all you managed to get out before a sharp slap landed on your pussy. You gasped, the pain shocking but not unwelcome. 

“If you want to cum on my cock, you have to be a good girl,” he said, face severe as he continued curling his fingers against your sweet spot. “and good girls do what they’re told. So, I want you to say, ‘Jack, I have the prettiest, sweetest pussy’ okay? Can you do that for me, pretty girl?” he asked, thumb circling your clit. 

You huffed, trying to catch your breath. “Ja-aack, fuck, I-I have, hng, I have the p-prettiest, sweet–ah–sweetest pussy,” you stammered out. 

“Knew you could do it for me,” he praised, fingers leaving your cunt to pull off his boxers. His cock sprang out, curving slightly and resting against his abdomen. It stole the breath from your lungs–It was obnoxiously thick and decently lengthy, tip flushed red and leaking precum steadily. Your hand reached out to feel him, maybe jerk him off a little before he fucked you, but Jack stopped you, pinning  your wrist down on the bed. You whined, lip jutting out in a not-so-faux pout. 

“I’m trying not to cum in 5 seconds like a teenager, sugar, and if you put your soft hands on me right now I’m not gonna be able to last,” he said, reaching over to his bedside table to grab a condom. He stroked his cock a few times before rolling the condom on and lining himself up with your entrance, neither one of you interested in teasing anymore. 

He eased the tip in, your walls fluttering around him to accommodate his girth. Your legs spread open wider for him as he settled between your hips, pushing the rest of his length in slowly until he was flush against your hips, his pelvic bone rubbing your clit just right. The stretch was intense, your walls fluttering and clenching harshly at the intrusion. Your hips wiggled slightly, trying to get used to the twinge of pain from the sheer size of him. 

Jack hovered over you, one arm resting next to your head while the other gripped your hip tight. His face was twisted, almost painful looking. “You gotta relax for me, sugar, you’re gripping me like a fuckin’ vise,” he grit out, head falling into the crook of your neck, placing chaste kisses there, trying to loosen you up. You tried, willing your muscles to relax around him.  

A few moments passed before Jack was able to move, pulling out to the tip before thrusting back in harshly, setting a brutal pace. You moaned, Jack’s hips snapping hard against you, cock dragging through your walls exquisitely. You tried to keep up with his pace, your hips meeting each thrust, cunt greedily sucking him back in each time. 

Your back was arched, hair splayed out across the pillow as you took what Jack gave you. 

“So pretty for me, sweetheart,” he said, sitting back on his haunches, “my perfect little pussy.” He grabbed at your thighs, pushing them up toward your chest, knees nearly at your ears. The new angle forced him deeper than before, his thrusts fucking you into the mattress. You were entranced by the view of him fucking you, curls dripping and chest glistening with sweat as he pounded into your pussy. 

The room sounded obscene between the slapping skin, your combined moans, and your squelching cunt. Moans were falling from your lips at a near constant rate, and Jack was louder than you’d expected, throaty groans and grunts reverberating like music to your ears.

You’re honestly not sure you’ve ever come more than twice in a night, but it didn’t take as long as you thought for your third orgasm to build, the waves cresting fast. The only thing you could think about was Jack’s cock hammering into your pussy. 

“I think I’m gonna, gonna cum again,” you breathed, “don’t stop, Jack, pleasepleasepleasepleeeeeeease,” you keened.  

Jack’s hand found your jaw, tilting your face up to kiss him sloppily, “cum for me, baby, let me feel you milk my cock,” he said, thrusts growing more uncoordinated as he neared his orgasm. 

It only took a few more deep, punishing trusts before you were coming undone around his cock. You held eye contact with Jack as your orgasm washed over you, your mouth parted wide, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes at the overwhelming sensations. You felt so full, your walls pulsing mercilessly around him. 

Jack gripped your hips in both hands, his trusts faster and harder than before as he chased his release. “wanna feel you cum in me Jack,” you croaked, throat raw, hands reaching out to paw at any skin you could. 

Jack groaned, hips stuttering a few more times before thrusting deep into you once last time and cumming. He ground his hips into yours, milking every last drop from his cock. You felt the warmth of his cum through the condom, your cunt clenching again at the feeling, your mind already flashing forward to imagine him fucking you raw–you let about another garbled moan at the thought. 

Spent, Jack collapsed into you, cock softening inside your still pulsing cunt. His weight on top of you was comforting, grounding you back to earth. You were content to lay there, coming down and catching your breath. 

Eventually Jack rolled off of you, disposing of the condom and grabbing a few wet wipes from his nightstand to clean you both up. 

He pulled you against his side, big hand petting your hair, “You okay, sugar? Was that too much?” he asked, voice hoarse. 

“no, was so good, Jackie,” you mumbled, feeling floaty and sated. 

“Good,” he whispered, pressing soft kisses onto your hairline.  

You sat in comfortable silence for a while, head resting on his bare chest, his heartbeat a comforting thrum in your ear. One large hand ran up and down the smooth expanse of your back while the other held your hand against his chest, fingers intertwined together. 

“I hope you know this isn’t just a one time thing,” he said suddenly, his arm tightening its hold around you. 

“No?” you asked, trying to keep the hopeful edge out of your voice. 

“Uh-uh, you’re mine,” he says possessively, hand snaking down to cup your sensitive mound, “this is my pussy now.” 

You want to be offended, want to point out that you’re more than your cunt. But you know Jack knows that, and more than anything your head grows warm and fuzzy at the thought of being someone’s. Of being Jack’s. 

“Yeah, ‘s all yours, Jackie,” you mumble, falling asleep against the gentle rise and fall of his chest, happier than you’ve been in a long time.

“oh honey, i don’t know if i have it in me tonight.” 

and you just pout at him, dragging him from the dimly lit doorway to the middle of the sidewalk, arms wrapped together holding hands you pull away melodramatically 

“really honey, not tonight - not when I look like this?” 

your free arm flailing by your side, showing off your dress you picked for today, giving Jack the perfect level of teasing and begging that makes him cave so, so quickly. As he pulls you back into his side gruffling as another couple passes you by smiling politely at the scene, Jack turns to you 

“you really think putting on a show like this iis going to get me to give in to you?” 

and you giggle, batting your eyelashes up at him 

“please baby, we’ve been having such a good night”. 

At this point the whiskey and wine is stirring up a warmth between your legs, making you both bold in the golden streetlight. Jack grabs your waist, letting his hand wander down towards the bottom of your ass, groping slightly as he pulls you towards the uber pickup point, murmuring, 

“oh honey, yes we have, but maybe we call it a night here, hm?” 

and the grin he flashes at you makes the warmth between your legs grow. As you wait for the uber to arrive, 3 minutes have never felt so long, swaying side to side you whimper leaning into his touch silently begging him to let his middle and ring finger push into your hip as he holds your side. But he is persistent on keeping up the act, humming away as if he isn’t listening to you, looking at the uber map. And when the uber arrives and you climb in first he can’t help but look at the way you dress rides up, knowing he has no intention of holding out on you when you get home. As Jack sits in beside you, niceties to the driver aside, he lays a firm grip on your thigh, whispers while looking forward, not an inch towards you 

“maybe I’ll think about continuing our night when we get home baby”

and it takes every ounce of your strength to not moan out loud there and then. God, this man sure knows how to work a woman up. 

Or when you are staring up at Jack, wetness pooling in your panties, waiting for him to make a move. You see, you can’t make a move for yourself, Jack has your arms pinned above your head with one hand as his other one roams the sheets around you, smoothing them out, occasionally touching the side of your hips or calves. He acts as if you aren’t there under him, tutting any time your hips grind the air looking for some relief. This has been going on for 15 minutes, and you have no idea how he has such restraint. Jack acts as if there is nothing a-miss in this scene, it seems to him that if someone walked in right now they would wonder why he was smoothing out the sheets with such determination.

“What's wrong baby, hm? You seem a little worked up down there.”

All you can do is whine, feet flattened on the bed to arch up higher, desperate to gain some kind of contact with Jack, and all he can do is smirk and laugh that filthy grovely laugh in response. His free hand starts to inch up your legs, flattening each down one at a time. Goose bumps rise in the wake of Jack’s touch, it runs up your legs, expertly teasing the sensitive insides of your thighs with the pads of his fingers gripping slightly before moving up to your hips. You hiss as he ignores your panties and core, hips grinding his as he lowers himself down on top of you, lips ghosting your hardened nipples. 

“Jackie, please, ugh i ne-”

You moan into his touch, lips finally making contact with you nipple, his hand tightening its grip around your wrists above your head, his other grabbing your breast, hard. He relishes in your moans, relishes in how little it takes to work you up. You feel the hardness of him inbetween your legs, feverish with desire you try and use your leg to hook around his prosthetic for some kind of leverage, but he lifts off your tit with a pop and lets go of your other smirking with a level of cockiness only he can pull off. As his hand reaches down to push your leg off his, 

“What's that my sweet girl? you're so needy today, what is it that you need, hm? Tell me baby”

Thoughts are barely reaching your lips, you moan again rolling your hips against his, eliciting a deep groan from him, but Jack’s impatience reaches its limit. He pulls off you completely, adjusting his stance to kneeling at the edge of the bed he stares at you. 

“What am I going to do with my sweet girl” 

He goes to stand off the bed, a faux annoyance washing over him, you keen desperately for him realising your mistake in not begging him to touch you. You flip yourself onto your stomach and crawl up the bed, your face resting on his thigh hand reaching for the top of his boxers. 

“Baby m’sorry, please, please, touch me, I need you”

Now craning your head up to look and meet his darkened gaze, he smiles down at you. One hand reaching down to lift you off his leg and unclasp his prosthetic, once off, he pulls you up for a bruising kiss and pushes you back down onto the sheets. Taking his sweet time Jack relishes the heat radiating off your skin. Mouth crawling all over your skin peppering kisses and light sucking on the sensitive patches of skin under your Jaw, your side and your hips you breath another desperate “please” and with one last laugh against your skin Jack pulls your panties, now visibly damp to the side and gets to work with one long languid lick up your cunt. 

“Oh my baby, I think you taste so much better when you beg” 

With that he drives you mad and your hips buck into his mouth, two firm hands grip you and hold you to the sheets. You are his baby girl, and you do think you probably taste so much better after being worked up for so long. 

Even if it is him teasing you in the living room, sitting together on a rare shared day off, lazily half paying attention to the boring nature documentary Jack insisted on watching. You go to reach for the tv remote resting on Jack’s lap, frustrated that he wants to watch something so mundane like migrationary birds, when you could be cuddled up watching a rom-com or at very least a thriller that has you pushing your head into his biceps. But no, Jack has caught on too quickly, snapping his attention from the tv to grab the remote from his lap and dangle it away from you. He laughs heartily, staring cockily at you,  holding the tv remote just out of your reach taunting you.

“nuh-huh, not giving it to you until you say please!” 

and he just loves the way your eyes light up laughing, reaching over him to try swipe it out of his hands. He pulls back even further, back stretched fully against the couch, creating as much distance as he can between your hands and his. He chuckles, changing the channel again to another nature documentary, and turns to you groaning, hopping onto your knees to gain a better vantage point. Jack just laughs some more, a murmur of nu-uh’s running out of his mouth, staring over at you. It’s a 50/50 chance that this ends up with you pinned writing under him, but this time it doesn’t. You wriggle your ass in your sweats as you lean over his lap, trying to distract him as you reach for the remote in his hands, but it's no use. His eye is still on the prize, eyebrows raised and you huff and he laughs as he lands a harsh slap on your ass, 

“no way sweetcheeks, still need to say please!” 

you give in letting out a yelp and a laugh, throwing your head back to look back at him, a slight arch in your back to try win him over once more 

“ok, ok! Pleeease give it to me Jack!” 

Big eyes over your shoulder, hair half covering your face you reach up towards his hand. Jack laughs letting you take the remote and grabbing your hips to pull you back over to where you were sitting. As you settle back in, after a fit of laughing, he leans down and whispers in your ear as if your in a crowded room as if the empty room was too innocent to hear what he wants to say to you 

“don’t you think for one second i didn’t see what you were trying to do baby - you are trouble”. 

You stare back up at him, eyes wide and bright with a devilish grin

“I have no idea what you are talking about baby” 

and you snuggle back into him, paying extra attention on sticking your legs out and over his lap and squeezing your thighs together in his full view. Two can play this teasing game; and yes you are trouble, dressed in his old t-shirt and a pair of loose sweats, but you are his favourite kind of trouble.

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"Did I wake you?" He speaks softly down the line. You can hear white noise in the background, the sound of tyres on asphalt.

"No- no-" you slump your head against the back wall, "-I'm up- I'm awake-"

He gives a hesitant laugh, "Look, I'm only a couple hours away, honey- I- you free tonight?"

You state the obvious, "You're already driving."

So does he, "I'm already driving."

"Then yeah- yeah I'm free-" you suck in a small breath, "-you on a hunt?"

"Just got done with one-" he speaks quieter, "-Sammy can take care of the cleanup."

You don't even want to start to understand what cleanup refers to in this case, "Did it go alright?"

"Yeah- yeah look I've gotta go- just don't wait up, okay? I'll call when I get there- go back to sleep-" He hangs up- you don't take it personally, he's always blunt on the phone.

Despite his request you don't sleep. You wouldn't be able to even if you tried. Instead you pull yourself together, slowly, as slow as you'll let yourself. It's always exciting knowing Dean's coming, you get a secret giddy feeling- it's not supposed to be such a big thing. He's said it from the beginning, it's supposed to be easy, relaxed, no commitment. As much as you tell yourself that, you'll never truly believe it.

You have a shower, scrubbing yourself clean, dousing yourself in the scents of your bathroom, your shampoo, your soap. You're not sure if he ever notices things like that, he certainly never says it, but do it anyway, just in case.

The time ticks on, you start feeling nervous as you tidy away your apartment. You don't know why, Dean's never given you a reason to feel like that- maybe it's because you're starting to realize this means a lot more to you than you previously thought.

You tuck yourself back in to bed, staving off sleep for as long as you can. You pull an old movie up on your laptop, something you're barely watching as your eyes fall heavy. But you don't let yourself sleep, not even when you have to switch to a different movie. Four hours without a call- if it was anyone else you'd start to worry, but you know how Dean is.

You want to picture him again, that way you only can when you're just waking up. But you refuse to let yourself get to that point, even if it is tempting. You don't want to miss a second once he arrives.

Your phone goes, you don't even let it ring once, picking up straight away, "You here?"

He laughs, "Downstairs"

"I'll buzz you up."

You can hear him on the stairs as you head towards your door, that excitement's back- pumping through your body.

You open the door, Dean drops his duffel, dragging you into a hug before you even get a look at him, "Oh there's my girl-" his arms wrap around you tight, over your shoulders keeping you close, "Fuck, honey- missed you like you wouldn't believe-"

He sinks into you, relaxing against your body- a comfort he's been seeking since the last time he saw you. Your arms wrap around his waist, palms smoothing over his back.

After a moment- longer than either of you have an excuse for- he pulls back, a slow blink as he finally gets his look at you.

You suck in a small breath as you take him in, he looks wrecked, utterly wrecked. The first thing you notice are the deep circles under his eyes, the creases in the corners just begging for sleep. Then you see the bruising, the cuts.

"You wanna wash up?" You prompt, the same routine as always.

He shakes his head, "Let's just go to bed."

You give a small nod, picking his duffle up from the floor and carrying it through to your bedroom. He trails behind, watching you carefully, taking in everything he's been missing. You drop it once you get in the room, hesitating to wonder what it's filled with.

Dean looks at you, meak. You don't see him like this often- you're not sure you've ever actually seen him quite like this. You push yourself up onto your toes, pressing your lips against his. He's soft against you, a small smile.

You pull back, reaching your hands up and pressing your palms onto his chest, "You okay?"

He smiles, "I'm just glad I'm here."

Your hands move over each other slowly, first his t-shirt- you tug at the bottom of it, pulling it up as he stretches his arms up for you. You're thankful that his body seems to be in a better condition than his face- though not by much. There's still a scattering of bruises across his chest and stomach, thick gauze on his abdomen you imagine must cover a deeper cut. Then it's his turn, he reaches out for your own t-shirt, dragging it up, exposing your bare chest to him. He smiles at you, taking you in, eyes washing over you with a look of admiration.

He deals with his own belt, you reach out to the waistband, both of you working to shuffle him out of his pants. More bruising, another gauze on his outer thigh- maybe Sam bandaged him up, maybe he did it himself.

He reaches out to your waist, both of you left in only your underwear as he pulls you towards the bed. The back of his knees hit the mattress, he collapses against it, sinking down onto the edge as he tugs you on top of him. You follow, both of you sitting, his legs hanging off the end, your legs either side of his hips.

Your hand moves instinctively, up to his face, cupping one cheek. He closes his eyes, head tilting into you, a quiet hum as he feels you. You lean forward, kissing his forehead, then his cheekbone, working your way over his face. You press kisses against bruises, brush your lips against the cuts. He keeps his eyes closed, letting you follow through the process.

Finally you pull back, a soft voice, "Tough hunt?"

He glances at you, a small smile, "I'm alright, these cuts are old, honey."

These cuts are old. - You don't know how bad I missed you.

You laugh slightly- it sounds forced, "Can't be that old."

"They're from a couple weeks ago- had a hunt that was- fuck it was something else- really thought you were gonna get your phonecall for a minute there-"

You know the deal- you've always known the deal. Sam has your number, tucked away somewhere safe, waiting for the day he'll need to ring- the day he's going to tell you Dean's dead.

It had started as a joke- a sick, twisted thing both of you laughed about- when Dean dies you'll lose your best customer- who would eat your leftover pie if not him? But then the thought dwelled, more than either of you pretended it did. How would you know?

Dean couldn't stand the idea of you thinking he'd run off without telling you, and you couldn't stand the idea of never knowing what happened. So he made the deal, Sam will call- he'll keep it simple 'Dean's dead, bullet through the temple, died quickly.' And that will be that.

You've met Sam before- right at the beginning- you know he won't keep it simple, but you have to commend Dean for trying.

You press your lips back against his cheek, staying there as you speak, like you're afraid to see his face when you do, "You've been getting worse."

He swallows hard, "I know."

"You need to stop."

"I can't." One hand moves up to settle on your thigh, the other on your waist, thumb rubbing small circles against you.

"You're gonna die-" It's more blunt than you normally are.

He pulls back to look at you. You watch him carefully, his eyes jut between your own, then fall down to your lips, just for a moment, before they settle back up again, "I can't just quit, honey. It's not how it works. Ain't got nothing else."

"You've got more. You've got Sam." You don't say the obvious. That he has you. It feels like you've had enough candor for the night.

"This kind of life-" he shakes his head, "-it's not something you can turn your back on."

You brush your thumb against the bruise on his jaw, pressing another gentle kiss against it. You speak quietly, "What would you do instead? If you weren't doing this?"

"Those are dangerous thoughts to have, sweetheart."

"We both know you're never gonna leave it, I just wanna pretend."

He considers for a moment, eyes glossing over you, more thoughts in his mind than he's willing to let on, then he takes a careful breath, "Maybe I'd fix up cars."

You smile, "Yeah? Old ones like your baby?"

"She's not that old-"

"Older than you- and you're pretty old-" you laugh.

He shakes his head, face breaking into a smile, "Shut up-"

You kiss the tip of his nose, "Go on, what else?"

"I'd- uh- I'd want a house, with a yard. Somewhere I could have a dog, maybe even a couple kids- treat 'em right-" he takes a deep breath, "-read 'em stories before bed, eat at the table- like a family's supposed t'. Maybe I'd grow a beard out- finally let myself get fat-"

"Get a dad bod?" You laugh.

He grins at you, "With all the pies you bake I wouldn't get a choice!" He joins your laugh, "Just think, honey, we could fuck ourselves silly every night with no hunts to stop us."

You laugh back, "That sounds good-"

He pauses for a moment, let's his fingers tap against your skin as he thinks, "How did I get you, pretty girl?"

You smile, "Who said you've got me?"

He swallows hard, "Don't tease- not tonight-"

You nod, voice quieter, "You've got me-" you lean forward, pressing your lips against his, "-you've always got me."

He pulls your body closer, sinking into a kiss, your chest against his, your hands moving to his shoulders, running along them, feeling the shallow muscles that frame his body. One of his hands moves to your back, the tips of his fingers gliding up your spine, a gentle pattern against your skin.

He shifts, lifting you slightly, his arms still wrapped around you as he lowers you to the mattress. His body finds its place against yours, lips pressed against your own, his hands moving to cup your cheeks, your own hands smoothing down his chest, your legs wrapped around his waist.

He kisses you deeper, mouth opening slightly, then moves his lips, kissing along your cheek, across your jaw. He nestles his face into the crook of your neck, hiding himself away, his lips still against your skin, "I've got you-" he says it more to himself than to you.

He trails lower, kissing down your neck, your collarbone. He's being messy with it- leaving a trail of saliva against your skin as you smile down at him, your fingers tangling into his hair. He keeps going, across the top of your chest, the valley between your breasts, down to your stomach. He grins up at you from your abdomen, his worries dissolving as he explores your body.

You reward him with the only thing you know he wants, hooking your fingers around the sides of your underwear and starting to drag them down. His eyes widen slightly, wetting his lips in anticipation as he looks down at you. You shuffle awkwardly, laughing as you get them down past your knees- Dean takes over, pulling them off the end of your legs, throwing them to one side as he looks back at you, naked and stretched out beneath him.

He thinks you look gorgeous- a sight he'll never get used to- he'll never get the chance. Not when he only visits once every few months, when he only sees you on random nights scattered between hunts. You're his reward for not dying, a pretty moment of peace between so much blood. You don't deserve that- he knows- but he can't imagine letting you go.

He kisses up the inside of your thigh, hooking his arms around your legs as he pulls you into him. You relax against the mattress, pushing one hand down into his hair, the other tangling behind your head into the pillow. He doesn't tease, tonight isn't the night to make you beg, he can barely hold back long enough to make sure you're comfortable before he's diving in.

He laps at you like he's starved, eyes fluttering shut, a deep groan pushed out of him. You gasp, hips lifting into him for more, gripping his hair tighter, pulling him closer. He pushes his tongue into you, a glazed look across his face as he tastes you.

He's slower than he wants to be, but he needs you to feel all of it- the way his tongue curls around your clit, already swelling under his touch, the way his stubble rubs against you, harsher than you're used to. He wraps his mouth over you, sucking at your pussy, dragging his tongue through your folds, face buried between your thighs.

Your back arches off the mattress, body grinding against him without meaning to. You tug hard at his hair, he lets out a quiet moan- you don't mention it, too consumed by your own feelings.

You're soaking over him- he's in fucking paradise. His cock is strained against his boxers, so hard it almost hurts- taking in every second he can of you wrapped around his face.

"De-" you stutter out nothing, your mind too overwhelmed to get out anything else.

You feel him grin against you, he pulls back only slightly, "Pretty girl?"

You look down at him, pulling on his hair to get him to ease up, "Dean- seriously-"

He draws back further, raising an eyebrow.

"Come fuck me-"

He doesn't need to be told twice. He moves quickly, tugging his boxers off while you pull yourself back up the bed slightly, regaining some composure as you let your eyes wash over him. He looks back at you, watching you watching him, your eyes meet as you give each other a small smile, safe.

He shifts up next to you, one hand running along your cheek, pushing a hair out of your face. He wets his lips as he pulls you closer, your legs tangling slightly, your hand finding his chest. He's half on top of you, half next to you, your legs caught around each other. He can't pull himself up to get properly above you, his leg too damaged to hold himself up for long enough. Even if he could, he doesn't want to, doesn't even want to turn you over, he wants to see you. He spreads your legs apart with his knee, moving to fill the gap between them.

It's awkward, the sort of position he'd never normally let himself get into. He's supposed to be laying under you so you can see his abs, or above you so you can watch him fuck into you. And sure when his body's busted he doesn't want you seeing him at all- but this is different, this feels clumsy.

But you don't care, he realizes. You're just happy to be here with him, your bodies meeting, faces so close. He pushes into you slowly, your face breaks into a dazed smile, eyelids fluttering shut. He leans forward to kiss you, lips staying hesitant against yours as he lets out his own soft noises, breathy and desperate as he starts to roll his hips.

"Fuck honey- you're too sweet to me-"

You run your hand down his chest until you reach his stomach- you press it flat against the bandage holding him together, not firm, just feeling the damage under your palm. He takes a shaky breath, rubbing his thumb across your jaw as he kisses you again. You take his lips between yours, fitting together perfectly as you hold him there for a moment, breaking apart only so you can both rest your cheeks against the pillow again.

He looks exhausted, you can't look much better, both of you too tired to care, too desperate to do anything but feel the way your bodies react to each other. Dean fucks you deep, pushing his whole length in every time, forcing a breathy gasp out of you on every thrust. He's only just managing to hold back his own sounds, a whimper stuck in his throat he's refusing to let out.

You're stretched out around him, he feels bigger at this angle, maybe you're just not used to it, or maybe you're not used to him going so slow. The way he's moving sends your mind dizzy, you can feel every careful inch, every steady moment.

Your lips land back against his jaw, planting a light kiss against his skin. You draw in a breath, speaking quiet, "Tell me what you want-"

He goes to what he knows, "I wanna fuck you 'til you can't walk-"

You smile but shake your head, "No- no honey tell me what you want-" 

He thinks for a moment. It must be a trick, an impossible question he can't answer- he wants to fuck you senseless, wants to make you scream, wants to leave hickeys on your neck to mark you for the next man.

But that's not right. That's not what you want to hear. And he realizes, maybe tonight that's not what he wants either, maybe tonight he can ask for more, "I- jesus I want you- wanna make you mine-"

You give a subtle nod, kissing his stubble again, your own hips rolling in time with his, helping him hit that sweet spot that's sending your thoughts tumbling.

He keeps going, he can't stop himself now "-want to make you breakfast in the morning- every fuckin' morning-"

He feels an ache in his chest he'd blame on the hunt if he was more lucid- he's not in control enough to do anything right now though, too exhausted and too overwhelmed to have any tangible thoughts, "-want us to spend Sunday's in the yard- watching our kids play, getting covered in dirt-"

He says it like he can't imagine not saying it, like it's all he's ever wanted. It is all he's ever wanted.

"-want to sit on the grass with those tiny little yellow flowers sprouting up all around us-" He can't believe he's saying this. He feels like a fucking idiot, too tired to stop himself. He knows it's too much. He knows he shouldn't. God this is more than he's ever said to you. More than he's ever even said to himself. He knows you won't look at him the same after, it's fucking shameful.

"Buttercups." You murmur, your eyes still half lidded.

"What?" He swallows hard, part of his brain wondering if this is some safe-word he's forgotten about.

You offer a small smile, kissing the tip of his nose, "Those flowers- they're buttercups."

"Buttercups?" He can only repeat it, confused that you're going along with his crazed ramblings.

You murmur in affirmation, too focused on the way he's pushing into you to realize how much weight your reply seemed to hold. Your fingers trickle over his skin, light, feeling your way up his side.

"Those are some pretty flowers, pretty boy." You say it like praise- it makes him giddy.

He kisses you again, deeper, lips holding onto yours, keeping you close. He tugs your lower lip between his teeth, making you gasp into his mouth. He feels like he might come right now, but he focuses on your lips, trying to stave off the feeling in his core.

He pushes in harder, filling you deep. Your mouth stays hesitant against his, breath shared- fingers tangling into your hair, holding you steady as he speeds up.

"Just- fuck- just like that-" you mumble against his lips.

"Yeah?" He murmurs, missing you again.

"Don't stop- I'm so close De-" you whimper out, nails digging into his skin, "I'm so- jesus-"

He moves faster, tugging you into him, his hips bucking into you. Your legs tangle into his, your whole body shaking with pleasure. You grip hold of him tighter, desperate for him, desperate to feel him.

He kisses you gently, voice quiet, "I want you, honey- want you every damn day-"

Your orgasm floods through you, filling your body with silky pleasure. You keep him close, your hands on his body, your lips against his. It feels like honey in your body, sticky and sweet and delicious.

He can't hold back any longer, his hips buck as he spills deep into you. He groans out, quietened only by your lips, his body overwhelmed with everything he's been begging for, his breath stuttering as he squeezes his eyes shut.

You stay like that for a long time, your legs tangled up, your hearts pounding in your chests. He feels a drowsy fog overtake him, but staves it off just long enough to pull out of you. You whine quietly, head relaxing against the pillow, too dazed to get any real expression out.

He's so exhausted he thinks he might wipe out before he manages to move any more, but he still wants to check you're okay before he sleeps, still needs that moment of careful consideration. He drags himself up, stumbling his way to your bathroom in the dark, dragging his hand along the wall to work out where he is. He wets a washcloth, then makes the journey back the way he came, your bedroom easier to find.

You're still stretched out across the mattress when he walks back in, your dozing body just as gorgeous when you don't realize he's looking. He makes his way back towards the bed, you stir only slightly as he settles beside you, opening your eyes only when he presses the washcloth between your legs.

"Shit- that's cold, Dean-"

He laughs slightly, "Sorry, sorry I'm done-" he moves it away again, throwing it to the floor next to the bed.

You smile at him, pulling him back towards you and planting a small kiss against his lips. You pull back to look at him- it seems like you're going to say something- but then you stop yourself, pulling him back into you so he can lay his body against yours.

You drag your hand down him, fingertips across his skin, rippling against the muscles on his back. You find the gauze at his abdomen again, just for a moment, then pull away, back to your patterns across his body.

He settles, finally, breath falling slower, mind lethargic. He wants to talk to you, wants to explain all the stupid things he was saying, wants to defend his exhausted state and confused mind and insane thoughts. But he can't right now, his body won't let him, too tired to even picture opening his eyes.

You run your fingers over his arms, just slowly, glancing across the scars that cut deep. You take a slow breath, falling into the same state as him, your night finally catching up with you. You crease your eyes open to take one final look at him, his body pressed against yours. He looks smaller like this, delicate.

"Sleep, honey-" you kiss the top of his head, "-sleep and dream of buttercups."

🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧

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One second you were minding your business, enjoying what was left of your coffee and your relatively peaceful morning, and the next Nick Fury was informing you that you would be spending the foreseeable future pretending to be happily married to Steve Rogers.

"You're going." Fury didn't even break stride. He rolled his eye and kept walking down the hallway toward the conference room, clearly done entertaining your complaints before you'd even finished making them, with you hot on his heel. 

Your footsteps echoed in the wide hallway as you walked backwards, facing Fury. "Can't I marry someone else for this?" You pondered. "What about Barnes?"

Fury stopped so suddenly you nearly tripped. "You want to pretend to be married to Barnes?"

You opened your mouth, immediately closed it, thought for a second and shrugged, squeezing your eyes shut. "That's not the point."

"That's what I thought."

The polished floors reflected the overhead lights as the two of you moved through the hallway. “Nat, maybe? Some of those married dudes would eat up girl-on-girl and spill the beans right away. Mission would be so quick!”

Fury walked with the patience of a man who'd dealt with far worse than you. The fact that he hadn't strangled you after years of working together was honestly kind of impressive, a little endearing almost.

Both of you quickly arrived at the conference room door, Fury stopping with his hand on the handle, turning his face to you and letting our a frustrated sigh. "Do you like working here?"

You rolled your eyes, "Yes, sir." What kind of question was that?

"And what's your title?" His brow quirked up.

A confused look plastered all over your face. "Agent."

He leaned down to talk to you closer, almost like explaining rules to a petulant child, "Then be an agent." and proceeded to push the door open and hold it for you, giving you full view of Steve Rogers sitting at the head of the table with a sour expression on his face, just as displeased to have to pretend to love you for the mission. 

The training room should've been empty half an hour ago, and technically, everyone was done for the day. 

It should’ve been quiet—mats wiped down, lights dimmed, everyone gone for the night.

Instead, the air was thick.

Heavy with sweat, heat, and something sharp enough to make the back of your neck prickle. The entire team and a couple recruits were watching you.

Well, you and Steve. 

At first not openly—no one was stupid enough to make it obvious—but they lingered. Leaned against walls, sat on benches, hovered just close enough to pretend they had somewhere else to be.

It started as any other training session did, you rotated partners, almost like shark bait: in and out, partner after partner cycling through you while you stayed planted on the mat, pushing your stamina, your endurance, your patience.

Until you ended up on the other side of the mat from Steve. 

Barefoot, sleeves rolled, skin already lightly sheened with the littlest bit of sweat that somehow made him look betterinstead of worse—which was deeply, personally offensive.

Here's the thing: he was a super soldier. He had endless stamina, super strength, reflexes that outmatched 99% of the population, and he had it all with perfect blond hair and barely breaking a sweat on his sculpted body.

It infuriated the hell out of you. 

He blocked every kick, every punch, and when he didn't he wasn't even phased. 

It made you go harder, to the point where you found yourselves now: almost trying to hurt each other. 

By then, no one was even preteding to be occupied by anything else, shamelessly staring at the two of you at the center of the mat like Oppenheimer waiting for a bomb to go off. 

Steve had stopped treating you with the same careful restraint he used with newer recruits. He'd throw you harder into the mats, knock the wind from your lungs, shove you back with enough force to remind you exactly how much stronger he was, and you'd borderline play dirty.

Every hit had a little more weight behind it. Neither willing to back down. Neither willing to lose.

Sam was sitting backwards in a chair, chin propped on his arms, watching like he had front row seats to the best show of his life; Natasha looked delighted; Bucky looked concerned, brows drawn, arms crossed tight over his chest, like he was trying to decide whether to step in or let you both learn your lesson the hard way.

Steve stood opposite of you, his feet staggered and his arms up, making a "come at me" motion with his fingers. His hair was slightly mussed, a damp strand falling forward over his forehead.

"Come to daddy."

The entire room held their breaths, and you saw red. 

In hindsight, you should've planned a better move than to just charge at him, the strength in your muscles and bones not being able to match his. You should've thought of something tactical, something smart. 

But also… you fucking hated his guts. 

Which is exactly how you ended up with your cheek and stomach pressed to the sweaty mat, with Steve's whole weight on your back, your wrists pinned between the two of you and his right arm laced under yours and up your back, hand holding your neck down. 

His hands caught you mid-motion, grip iron-tight as he twisted, using your momentum against you with terrifying ease, his grip locking your body in place, the angle just shy of painful.

"You need to work on your psyche. Mind over matter." His stupid voice right in your ear made goosebumps bloom up your spine, so you did what any reasonable person would do.

You flexed the knee that was between his spread legs hard enough that you hit him square in the balls, giving you the out you needed. 

You straightened on your feet, pushing damp hair back from your face, a breathless, borderline feral grin breaking across your lips as he winced on the mat in pain. 

"Who's your daddy now?" 

Your breathless laughter was cut short, Fury's booming voice breaking through any pain or enjoyment present in the room. "You do know domestic violence is not part of your cover story, no?"

Both of your heads whipped in the direction of his voice. 

He continued to walk in your direction, dropping two folders in front of your feet, and Steve, who was still kneeling down on the mat. "Shower this off. You leave in the morning, lovebirds."

The neighborhood looked like the kind of place where people complained to the HOA because their neighbor's hydrangeas were the wrong shade of blue.

Every lawn was trimmed within an inch of its life, sharp lines cutting through impossibly green grass like someone came out with a ruler every morning. 

The mailboxes all matched—sleek, black, expensive-looking—and every driveway held something polished and obscene:luxury SUV or a car that definitely cost more than your first apartment.

The houses themselves were enormous. White trim, brick facades, wraparound porches, massive windows that left little room for privacy on a street that looked like it loved to mind every business but its own. 

You sat in the passenger seat while Steve drove to your home, the undercover file open across your lap like a book while your bare feet rested on the dash. 

Because annyong Steve was free, and your favorite past time. "No feet on the dash."

You turned a page, ignoring him. "They're staying." You read more of the file. "It's more comfortable that way." Your light blue summer dress was bunched up higher across your thighs, and he did a double take before taking a right turn to your house block.

He sighed. "If we crash—"

"Just look at the road instead of me and we'll be fine." That made him shift in the driver's seat, straightening his posture and looking ahead, his Adam's apple bobbing in annoyance.

What irritated Steve about you was the fact that these comebacks never even seemed to make sense or be thought of, it just rolled off your tongue, almost just for the plot. And you didn't even care. 

He didn't even know why you hated him so much in the first place, but he reciprocated the feeling as soon as he saw how insubordinate and bratty you were. 

Steve sighed the long suffering sigh of a man questioning every life decision that had brought him to this moment. "You're impossible." Muttered under his breath. 

"You're a Senior Project Manager at your own company, honey!" Fake admiration and praise filled your voice. "Oh, you proposed quick! Only a year after our first date." You turned to him, your first real smile plastered on your face. "You're so down bad."

The car came to a stop in your driveway, and Steve turned it off, unclipping his seatbelt. "Put your shoes on, we're here and I feel eyes already." 

"Bossy." You muttered, doing exactly as he said. As you got out of the car, your voice went up an octave, carrying through the humid summer weather. 

“Ready, honey?” you asked, slipping the word out effortlessly, like you’d been saying it for years.

He opened the front door for you, making sure whoever was watching heard him just as well, possessive in a way that made your breath hitch before you could stop it.

“After you, sweetheart.”

You'd barely had enough time to figure out which bedroom closet was yours before the doorbell rang.

ding-dong. ding-dong.

You froze in the middle of the bedroom, one hand still gripping a hanger, Steve somewhere down the hall filling a modified cabinet with all sorts of concealed weapons.

You dropped the hanger onto the bed without another thought, smoothing your hands down your dress as you moved. Steve stepped out of the kitchen at the same time, wiping his hands on a dish towel like he’d been doing something domestic instead of checking sightlines and exits.

Ben and Julie Poindexter stood in your porch like they had been plucked straight out of a catalog. They were ones you hoped to make the acquaintance of quickly, as he was the right hand of the big druglord you and Steve were tasked with making an airtight case on.

Years of field work had taught you that monsters were rarely obvious, still, some primitive part of your brain always expected criminals to look like criminals.

Instead, Ben Poindexter looked like somebody who coached Little League and had multiple PTA moms undoing extra buttons in their cardigans to get his attention. Beside him, Julie beamed, already leaning slightly forward like she couldn’t wait to know everything about you.

“Oh my goodness,” she breathed, eyes lighting up. “You must be the Adlers!” You felt Steve shift beside you, his hand coming to rest warm on your back with an ease that shouldn't be there in the best of actors. 

He smiled, and it was a good one. The kind that made people relax immediately. The kind that five years ago made you—

“Guilty,” he said easily. “Frank.” Right. Frank Adler. 

He extended his hand and Ben took it immediately, introducing you then. “I’m Dex,” the shorter blond said in return, just as easy. “This is my wife, Julie.”

“Hi,” you said, stepping forward like you hadn’t been mentally preparing to dismantle her entire social circle for intel. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

She lit up.

“Oh, you are just adorable,” she gushed, reaching out to squeeze your arm like you were already best friends. “We saw the moving truck this morning and I told Ben, I said, ‘We have to go introduce ourselves before everyone else gets to them first.’”

You faked confusion. "Ben…?"

He chuckled lightly in response. "That's me, I… uh… Ben's really only for her and my parents. Friends call me Dex."

You smiled back in understanding. “We appreciate that,” he said smoothly. “It’s been a bit of a whirlwind getting settled.”

“So,” Dex cut in, tone casual but eyes observant, “what brings you two here?” There it was. The first test.

You felt Steve’s thumb twitch slightly against your back. A cue , or maybe just instinct. “Work, mostly,” he said, not missing a beat. “I just transferred to oversee a new branch out here.”

Julie gasped softly. “Oh! That’s right, you’re the project manager, right? We heard something about that—”

Of course they did.

You tilted your head toward Steve, letting your smile soften just a touch as you looked at him. Pride, affection… Just enough to sell it.

“He won’t say it, but he’s very good at what he does.” You interjected, turning your sweet smile to your nosy neighbors again. 

His hand pressed a little more firmly into your back before easing again. “Someone has to pay the bills,” he joked lightly, glancing down at you.

"It's a 50/50 relationship," you shot back, nudging his side with your elbow just enough to look playful. "You earn money, and I look pretty in the things it buys." Your hand reached up to scratch the freshly shaven skin of his chin.

“Wow,” Julie breathed, practically vibrating with delight. “You two are so cute.”

You laughed, soft, a little embarassed… and completely fake. Dex watched that exchange carefully. His smile stayed in place, but his eyes sharpened just a fraction.

“New couples usually take a while to settle in around here,” he said, tone still easy. “But I think you two will fit right in.”

“Well,” you said lightly, leaning just a little closer into Steve without thinking about it, “we’re counting on our neighbors to help with that.”

Julie clasped her hands together. “Oh, you have to come to dinner this weekend! Everyone’s going to be there—it’s kind of our thing.”

“We’d love to,” Steve said, lightly nodding.

Both of them smiled in satisfaction, briefly saying their goodbyes and we'll let you get settled. As they started to step back, Julie waved enthusiastically. “Welcome to the neighborhood!”

Integration happened faster and easier than either of you expected. Almost like… bait. 

It started with waves.

Small, polite acknowledgments from across driveways—neighbors watering already-perfect lawns, women in linen sets pausing mid-walk with their equally curated dogs. At first it was just smiles, quick introductions repeated twice because no one actually listened the first time, or maybe they expected you to slip up. 

Names, occupations, how long you planned to stay.

Somehow, without either of you saying much at all, your lives had already been filled in for you. Steve—Frank—was “the project manager from the city.” You were “so sweet” and “adjusting beautifully.”

It was unsettling.

Steve got pulled in first.

Dex made it look casual—leaning over the fence one late afternoon while Steve pretended to struggle with a hose attachment he absolutely knew how to fix.

“Couple of us head out to the club on Saturdays,” Dex had said, like it wasn’t a test. Like it wasn’t an invitation into something much bigger. “You golf?”

Steve had shrugged, wiping his hands on a towel like the answer didn’t matter. “Enough not to embarrass myself.”

Dex chuckled. “Good. Fisk hates losing.”

That was how Steve Rogers found himself in pressed polos and quiet greens, standing under the sun with a man who ran half the city from behind clean hands and cleaner money.

Wilson Fisk didn’t look like a monster either. They never did.

From the sidelines, it would’ve looked normal—three men talking shop, trading easy laughs, the soft crack of a golf ball slicing through the air.

But Steve came home with tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before, and eyes that thought too much.

You were integrated differently. Faster, deeper in a sense. If you wanna know a man, you need to know the woman in his life first. Julie took one look at you and decided you were hers.

Brunch turned into wine nights, which turned into yoga classes and impromptu shopping trips where you learned which women talked too much, which ones listened too closely, and which ones pretended not to notice everything while noticing everything.

You laughed when you were supposed to, touched arms at the right moments, let yourself be pulled into conversations about renovations and charity events and who was “having trouble in their marriage” this week.

You played the part. Perfectly.

But you also listened. And Julie talked, about Dex, about their marriage, about his schedule, the men he worked with, his "job".

About Fisk in a careful, vague way that told you she knew just enough to be useful and not enough to be dangerous.

Inside the house, however, nothing really changed. You were in bliss whenever Steve was anywhere outside of the five thousand square feet of the house. And in hell when you could hear his footsteps through the hallways. 

“Why are your shoes in the middle of the hallway?” “Because I took them off.”

“You put a gun in the cereal cabinet.” “It was concealed.”

And yet, somewhere in between the arguing and the slammed cabinets and the pointed silences, you moved around each other.

Steve adjusted the cuff of his polo as he stepped out onto the green, the sun warm against the back of his neck, the grass trimmed so perfectly it almost didn’t look real. Somewhere in the distance, a fountain trickled softly—controlled, decorative, intentional.

Everything here was curated, including the people. Dex stood a few feet ahead, already mid-conversation with a Fisk, Steve immediately recognizing his big frame.

“Frank,” Dex called easily, turning just enough to wave him over. “Glad you made it.” 

Steve walked up at an even pace, shoulders loose, posture relaxed, every movement deliberate in its lack of tension. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Dex clapped his hands lightly. “Let’s see if you actually know how to swing that thing.”

The game itself was uneventful on the surface, small talk, a couple of drinks over a few holes, business talk, the kind of conversation that never said anything directly but still managed to reveal everything if you knew how to listen.

Steve pretending to be worse than Fisk at golf remembering what Dex said about him not liking losing. 

Well, who does? He thought.

He missed a shot he could’ve made here and there, fake grimace on his face to help sell the lie, burrow himself deeper in the web.

Dex talked the most—easy laughter, casual stories, the kind of man who filled silence before it could become uncomfortable.

Fisk didn’t, he was quieter, more measured. Almost amused. 

By the ninth hole, Steve could feel the shift, the attention settling more fully onto him. He was past the evaluation phase and onto something else. 

Fisk set his club aside after a clean shot, stepping back as one of the attendants moved to retrieve it. He didn’t look at Steve immediately, instead adjusting his cufflinks with slow, precise movements.

“Beautiful house you’ve got,” Fisk said finally.

Steve shrugged lightly, taking a swing of his beer. “Got lucky to swoop in right when it went on the market.”

Fisk hummed. “I find luck tends to favor the well-prepared.” Steve didn’t respond, Fisk’s gaze lifted then. “You and your wife settling in well?”

For some reason, hearing such a dangerous man mention you made him uneasy. And it shouldn't, because he hated you. Steve forced his expression to remain easy. “Yeah. She likes it here.” He paused for a second. “She’s… adjusting.”

Fisk’s lips curved slightly. “Is she?” Steve’s grip on the club in his hand tightened just a fraction.

Dex shifted beside them, glancing between the two, something quieter settling over his usual ease.

“You know,” Fisk continued, tone almost conversational, “I take a great interest in the people who choose to live in the neighborhood.”

Steve tilted his head slightly. “Seems like a lot of effort.”

Fisk chuckled softly. “It is if you don't have the… resources.”

Steve didn’t like the way he said that, didn’t like the weight behind it.

The back nine loosened things.

Or at least, that’s what it looked like.

Dex got louder, a little more relaxed with each hole, his posture easing into something casual as the game stretched on. Drinks appeared somewhere around the seventh—cold, expensive, handed off by staff who moved like ghosts—and by the tenth, the conversation had shifted.

Way less about business. 

Dex snorted at something one of the other men—some hedge fund name Steve hadn’t bothered to remember—had said, shaking his head as he lined up his shot.

“I’m telling you,” the man continued, grinning like he thought he was hilarious, “if you’re doing it right, she’s not walking straight the next morning.”

One of the others chimed in with something worse, cruder. The kind of joke that got easy agreement and knowing looks passed around like currency.

Steve didn’t react, just stood there, one hand resting loosely on his club, gaze fixed somewhere out over the green like he wasn’t listening.

“C’mon, Adler,” Dex called, nudging him lightly with his elbow. “You’ve been real quiet over there.”

Steve glanced over, trying to seem unbothered. Like he didn't want to roll his eyes at everything coming out of that prick's mouth. “Just listening.”

“That’s not how this works,” the hedge fund guy said with a smirk. “You gotta contribute. You’re married, right?”

“Familiarity,” Fisk continued, almost thoughtfully, like he was discussing market trends instead of people, “breeds a certain ease.”

“Guess some guys are just more private.” Steve chimed, moving as to redirect the conversation, walking a couple steps to the next hole. "I don’t feel the need to talk about my wife like that."

Silence fell upon the group for a second, Dex interjected to change the subject quickly, but the way Fisk looked at Steve the rest of the time made he hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Steve unlocked the kitchen door, toeing his shoes off as soon as he stepped inside. The house was clean, marble countertops reflecting the golden light coming through the curtains.

A candle burned on the center island that made the house smell like a bouquet of fresh flowers, blooming in deepest winter.

The door clocked shit behind him with a soft, controlled click, as he called out "Babe?" while letting his keys rattle against the marble.

He stepped further into the kitchen, eyes sweeping automatically—back door locked, blinds angled just enough, nothing out of place. The cabinet he’d modified earlier sat closed, unassuming, hiding everything it needed to.

He called out for you again, "Sweetheart?", feet padding into the house and when he got to the bottom of the stairs, he heard the shower running on. 

Steve's mind kept replaying the interactions he'd had that day, how Fisk seemed to have too much knowledge of his dynamic with you to not have—

Of course.

A man like Fisk wouldn't just intentionally have a blind side. 

The motherfucker had surveillance on your house. 

In your house. 

The sound got clearer and clearer as he moved up the stairs. The hallway stretched ahead, quiet and sun-dimmed, and then right outside of the bathroom door, steam curling underneath it. Steve paused just outside it, his hand hovering near the frame, his head tilting slightly as he listened.

You were humming, soft and absentminded.

Like you weren’t in the middle of a mission that had just taken a very sharp turn.

He exhaled softly through his nose, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching briefly on the tension sitting heavy there.

He should wait, he knew he should. Whatever he had to say could wait ten minutes.

Five.

Hell, two.

But the words Fisk had said—had implied—sat in his chest like a weight that refused to settle. So if Fisk had creepily put surveillance in your home like Steve was 98% sure he had, you were gonna have to roll with the punches.

Steam hit him immediately, warm and thick, fogging the edges of his vision for half a second before it cleared. 

Stripping his shirt, kicking off the rest of his clothes in a blur of motion that would’ve felt ridiculous under any other circumstance.

He walked into the shower, watching you let the water trickle over you, over your face, your neck, your chest, and he thanked every God he could think of that his body was cooperating and he did not have more than a half-hard on right then and there.

Which meant that you finished rinsing your shampoo off and opened your eyes to find a very, very naked Steve Rogers encapsulated by the shower stall glass around you. 

With you.

All naked, and very wet, and very naked, and—

"Ahh!" You shrieked in surprise, stumbling back half a step, water splashing over him as your hands came up instinctively. "What the f—" Steve put his index finger on his lips with one hand, the other motioning to his ear and out.

We're being listened to.

"Honey," You immediately switched into your undercover tone, "you scared the crap out of me!"

Steve stepped closer, couldn't risk his voice being any louder than absolutely necessary to get you the information right then and there. 

His frame in comparison to yours felt even bigger now, steam curling around him like vines. You'd blame the way your nipples hardened at the sight on the water. 

“Fisk,” he whispered, barely audible over the spray. “He knows something’s off. Pretty sure we’re wired. The house is.”

Your breath hitched.

Absolutely having nothing to do with the fact that you were trying very hard not to stare at his— "Where?"

"Everywhere." He confirmed. 

Water ran down both of you in steady streams, heat curling between your bodies, steam thickening the air until everything felt too close.

“Well,” you murmured, louder now, just enough for anyone listening to catch it, your tone dipping into something softer, more playful, “next time, maybe knock?”

Steve huffed out a quiet breath that could almost pass for a laugh, his forehead dipping closer to yours, but not touching, droplets of water falling from his hair onto you.

“Didn’t think you’d mind.” One of your hands braced lightly against his chest, the other gripping his arm as if for balance.

Your hand slid up to the nape of his neck, pulling the hair there enough to make him hiss. “Oh, I mind,” you said lightly, your fingers threading just a little deeper into the short hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You were pretty good at… faking it. 

Night settled over the house smoothly, the sun bleeding into deep indigo slowly and surely until stars littered the sky and you all you could hear was the fair sound of nature beyond the glass.

The neighborhood dimmed in stages—porch lights flicking on one by one, warm squares of yellow glowing through wide, uncovered windows. Somewhere down the street, laughter carried faintly. A dog barked once, then twice, then went quiet again.

As your brain processed the information Steve had given you, you moved through the motions anyway. 

Teeth brushed. Face washed. Lights turned off and on in the right order. The kind of routine that would look normal from the outside, mundane and unremarkable to anyone paying attention.

The thought sat in the back of your mind, somewhat panicked and loud, but also a constant, steady pressure. 

You dried your hands slowly on a towel, eyes flicking briefly to the mirror. Your reflection stared back—hair dried and silky, skin still warm from the shower, expression carefully neutral.

Steve stood near the dresser, back half-turned to you, pulling a t-shirt over his head. The fabric stretched sinf— normallyacross his shoulders before falling into place, softening the sharp lines of him into something more… domestic.

You watched him through the mirror without meaning to, picking up a book, turning on his bedside lamp, and crawling under the covers of your bed, letting the light comforter rest on his legs and hips while he flipped through the pages with his back resting against his pillows and the headboard.

You bit your lip, thoughts blooming fast and messy under your skull, and flicked the lights in the bathroom off, walking towards your side of the bed. 

Your short camisole shifted through the air as you moved, light and soft, brushing against your thighs. Steve's eyes immediately clocking your bare legs before he forced them onto the words in front of him. 

You laid onto your side and closed the distance between you in one smooth motion, your body fitting against his side like that's where it was always supposed to be. 

Your arm slid across his waist, your cheek pressed lightly against the plane of his pecs, and you felt the very warm, solid, real muscle of him under your face go completely still. 

Not in any subtle way, you could feel the exact moment his brain short-circuited.

He turned his face just enough to look down and meet your gaze. His expression screamed an unfiltered "what the hell?"while yours softly said "we have to sell it."

He shifted, turning just enough so he wasn’t facing away from you anymore, his arm coming up—hesitant for half a second—before settling around you, his hand resting on your forearm, thumb tracing soothing patterns on the soft, moisturized skin. 

As you laid there, the cogs in your brain turned. You bit the inside of your cheek lightly, the more he believes it, the quicker we get out. 

You moved forward, your hand pressed against his chest, using him for leverage as you pushed yourself up, swinging one leg over his hips in a smooth, deliberate motion until you were straddling him.

The poor book slid uselessly to rest on the mattress on the other side of his body. You nuzzled your face into his neck, pretending to pepper kisses on the skin there, and Steve stiffened up.

His hands instinctively came up, not grabbing or even stopping you, just hovering at your waist like he didn’t know where they were allowed to go.

Your mouth lingered by his pulse point just long enough to make it convincing before you spoke, your breath hot against his skin. "Play along." You whispered.

You felt the tension in him—every muscle coiled, controlled, restrained in a way that had nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with the position you’d just put him in.

“Sweetheart,” he said, louder now, his tone shifting seamlessly, to something warmer, rougher, like it belonged to someone else. “You trying to kill me?”

From the outside, it sounded like a joke. A husband amused by his wife.

You tilted your head, letting your lips ghost just below his ear. “You just been working so much lately,” you murmured, just loud enough to carry.

His grip on you flexed, and he leaned into it. 

“I know, baby, I know,” he said, voice dropping, threading something you hadn’t heard from him since he had your face pressed into a sparring mat through it as his hands settled more firmly at your hips, anchoring you there. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Your stomach flipped, shameful heat pooling low in your core even though you tried to ignore it and call it by a different name. 

His fingers pressed just slightly, grounding, guiding, selling the illusion with an ease that made your pulse stutter.

Steve moved, fast as always, one second you were on top of him, the next your back hit the mattress, making it dip hard beneath you as he flipped you with practiced ease, your breath catching as his weight settled above you, caging you in without quite touching.

His face dipped toward yours, close enough that your noses almost brushed.

“What you’re doing,” he murmured against your ear, his breath warm, controlled, “is reckless.”

Your fingers curled slightly into his shirt, heart beating too fast, and you tilted your head just enough to whisper back, your tone soft and teasing, so low he almost didn't hear it. “So is getting caught.”

You tilted your neck up, and your lips connected with his.

It had been weeks of little pecks, prim and proper kisses in front of your neighbors, just enough to sell it on the outside. 

Holding his face in your hands and actually kissing Steve Rogers felt like a completely different experience. 

His tongue licked into your mouth with an intention you never really expected from Steve. Specially a Steve that was faking it. Your hands roamed the plane of his shoulders, trying to make it seem like the actual rustling of sheets one would expect of a couple who was going to—

He should really take this shirt off. 

And so your hands went to the hem of his white cotton shirt, pulling it up. Steve reluctantly let you take it off of him, leaving him only in the grey boxers that let you see he wasn't faking that much. 

"Oh my God," You whispered. "Are you serious?" That was more of a hiss. Was he seriously getting hard right now?

"I know," He whispered back, annoyed, frustrated, "I know. Just shut up about it."

Oh.

He wanted you to shut up about it. He wanted you to—

The petty part of your brain took over, and before you couldn't think of a less reckless thing to do, you squeezed your legs tighter around him, bringing his bulge flush against your clothed pussy. 

"O-oh—" Steve was surprised, not about the pettiness, but at the action itself. You bit your lip, almost proud of yourself, and tilted your hips up.

That earned you a scolding look. 

"Mmm," you breathed, just loud enough to carry, your voice shifting instantly to a soft, breathy, higher pitched version of yourself. "Fuck, baby, right there."

Steve's ears were ringing. Mostly because he didn't know what to do with his hard cock rubbing up and down against you. “Relax,” you murmured against his jaw, barely moving your lips. “You sound like you’re filing paperwork.”

He huffed softly, turning it into something that passed. “Maybe I like paperwork,” he muttered.

You scoffed. “You do not.”

“You don’t know that.” He whined softly against you. 

"You need to actually move your hips, Steve. Video needs to look like you're fucking your wife." You whispered in his ear. 

It's not like he couldn't feel how wet you were, slick pressing through the cotton of your panties and onto his underwear, darkening a spot there. 

“You’re unbelievable,” he breathed low, close to your ear.

“Say it louder,” you shot back quietly.

“You’re unbelievable,” he repeated, louder, tone shifting, like it meant something entirely different now.

Your heels dug into his ass cheeks, pulling him closer and closer to you, and closer and closer to the edge. 

You could feel the length of him twitch with each pass of his hips, and you pictured the leaking head of him making a mess out of the inside of his boxers, precum slicking him all over. 

“Okay—” he muttered quickly under his breath, breaking the moment before it could stretch too far. “We need a time frame. We can’t just—keep going forever.”

“Two minutes,” you whispered. “Make it believable.”

“Two minutes?” he echoed, actually offended. “That’s insulting.”

The thought of it sent heat down your core. His face was buried in your neck, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as your hands threaded through his hair. "Talk about me." Another perfectly placed thrust that nudged your clit. "'bout how I feel."

Steve grinded his teeth like he was fighting a mental battle between letting himself be consumed by this moment, and being proper. 

You nudged him again with your heel. 

"Nice and tight, sweetheart." He let his voice carry, surprisingly unwavering for how close he was. "Never get enough of your pussy."

What in the fuckity fuck?

Steve?

He almost said your name, your very real name, too lost in himself, letting his rhythm build up much too realistically, his thrusts deeper, the bulge now rubbing and nudging your clothed entrance as well. 

Your could hear the sound of wet fabric shifting, your panties getting caught and letting one lip slip out of safety and closer to Steve's leaking cock. 

"Frank," You said loudly, trying to catch his attention without success. "Frank." You tried again, more stern, being met with the same squeezed-shut eyes you tried to get an answer from. You dropped your voice low, hushed like a secret. "Steve."

That made him open his eyes, powder blue irises staring at you as his thursts hit a spot that had him moaning, stuttering over his own breath.

And spilling all inside his boxers, looking right into your eyes. 

His hips stuttered, almost as if his body wanted to milk itself dry, and his breathing slowed. 

You were speechless, big wide eyes looking up at him, genuinely not knowing what to say.

Both of you stared at each other in shock, horror, confusion as to why it felt so good to do that without someone who managed to get under your skin without even trying. 

You stayed like that until you felt the warm trickle of his seed seep through the cotton of his boxers and onto the front of your panties.

Steve dropped back to his side of the bed, and both of you avoided each other's gaze, just staring at the ceiling. 

"Are we—"

“…go to sleep,” you muttered.

Whatever Fisk needed proof of, seemingly he got it, since both you and Steve got invited the the biggest 4th of July bash of the neighborhood. 

Right at the belly of the beast. 

The whole backyard looked like something out of a magazine. 

String lights draped across the perimeter, glowing warm against the deep navy of the night sky, fireworks already starting to crackle faintly in the distance. 

The lawn stretched wide and immaculate, dotted with clusters of people holding drinks in delicate glasses, laughter spilling easily between them like nothing in the world could touch this place.

It was loud, busy, perfect, and underneath it all— wrong.

Steve had light wash jeans and a light blue polo on, you had a strapless summer dress and one of his linen shirts on, the shirt unbuttoned to give the air of a casual outing. 

You stood near one of the long tables, fingers loosely wrapped around a Moscow Mule you hadn’t touched, your eyes scanning without looking like you were scanning. Steve was across the yard, pulled into a circle of men near the grill, one of them mid-story, the others laughing at something you couldn’t quite hear from this distance.

And there she was.

Blonde, tall, and much too interested in your— Steve.

Her hand landed on his arm like she’d been waiting for an excuse, your eyes narrowed at her as you shoved a piece of salami and cheese into your mouth.

“That's Sharon.” Julie’s voice chimed in beside you, far too cheerful for how observant she actually was. “She's new. Came to stay with her aunt a bit, they live a few strees back. Divorced. Which means she’s—”

“—looking,” you finished lightly, before finally taking a sip of your drink like you hadn’t already clocked every detail.

Julie laughed. “Exactly.”

Your eyes flicked back to Steve. He hadn’t moved away, hadn’t stepped back, hadn’t even noticed.

Of course he hadn’t.

He was listening—really listening—to whatever the man next to him was saying, nodding slightly, relaxed in that effortless way that made people lean in closer without thinking about it.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, lowering her voice just enough to feel conspiratorial. “If he's anything like Dex, he's clueless. They don’t even realize when they’re being flirted with.”

You hummed softly. "He is clueless, alright."

“He’s very charming,” Julie added, watching you now instead of them. “Frank, I mean.”

Your lips curved. “He has his moments.”

Julie giggled, and you finished downing your drink, making your way to him, wrapping a hand around his perfectly sculped bicep and turning on your smile to the sweetest setting possible. 

His body reacted immediately, adjusting to your touch like it always belonged there. His gaze dropped to you, surprise flickering for half a second before smoothing into something softer.

“Hey,” he said, one hand coming up to rest at your hip without thinking about it.

“Hi,” you replied, tilting your head up toward him, your smile warm in a way that felt almost too real. “Sorry,” you said sweetly, not sounding sorry at all. “Am I interrupting?”

She blinked, then smiled tightly back at you. “Not at all.” Steve’s hand pressed slightly into your hip, a silent question that you answered it by leaning just a fraction closer into him.

“We were just talking about the neighborhood,” she continued.

“Were you?” you asked, your tone light, but your grip on Steve tightening just enough to be felt.

“Oh—yes,” she said, glancing briefly at him. “Frank was just telling us about his work.”

“Mm,” you hummed, eyes flicking up to his. “He works too much.”

Steve’s brows lifted slightly. “Oh, I do?”

“You do,” you said simply, sighing longingly, your fingers sliding absently against his side like it was second nature. “I barely see you anymore.”

Sharon laughed softly. “That’s a shame.” Steve lifted the beer up to his lips and took a swing.

“It is,” you agreed, smiling again. “But I make sure he makes up for it.”

Steve choked on his drink. Actually choked. Coughed once, quickly covering it with a laugh that didn’t quite hide the surprise.

His hand flexed at your hip. “Yeah,” he said, voice dropping just slightly as he looked down at you, something new threading through it. “I do.”

For a moment it didn't feel like pretending, but it also didn't feel real. It felt like a limbo much too similar to five years ago, when he first recruited you into SHIELD by accident. 

FIVE YEARS EARLIER

Colombia had been too hot. The humid, muggy weather made your skin sticky, a sheen coat of sweat all over your arms and legs, even though you were only wearing a white tanktop and a flowy, maxi floral skirt. 

Music was bleeding from open windows, people crowding narrow streets, making it the kind of place where mistakes didn’t just cost you the mission.

They cost you everything.

You’d been handling it just fine, up until you weren’t. The intel had been wrong. Or incomplete. Or leaked.

You didn’t know which yet—only that the second you stepped into that dim, crowded cantina, something in your gut twisted. Too many eyes, too many men pretending to drink, too many sharp ears and even sharper looks. 

You were planning an exit strategy, a way to get out of here with as few scratches and as many of these men killed. Mid counting how many thing you could use as a weapon, in walked a picture perfect specimen. 

Muscles everywhere, blond hair lightened even more by the sun, the faintest sunburn across his nose and cheeks making his blue eyes stand out more. 

You turned slightly, lifting your drink to your lips like you were just another woman trying to cool off, not someone seconds away from deciding how many people she might have to kill.

He clocked the men immediately. 

And then he clocked you. His broad frame faked a smile at you and stepped quickly to stand beside you at the bar, hand resting on your hip.

“Don’t,” he muttered under his breath, pretending to try to get the bartender's attention.

“Don’t what?” you shot back just as quietly, adjusting your sunglasses on your head like you were annoyed at them and happy to see him, not seconds away from being cornered.

“They’re looking for someone,” he said.

“I know.” A beat where he leaned down to whisper in your ear.

“They’re closing exits.”

And you responded through gritted teeth and a smile. “I noticed.” You let your body rest closer to his, feeling the heat radiating off of him.

Outside, thunder and lightning started, and a summer storm came pouring down. 

“Babe,” you said, loud enough to carry, tilting your head up at him like you were teasing. “You said one drink.”

He leaned into you, his hand sliding from your waist to your lower back, pulling you closer in a way that felt practiced.

“Yeah?” he shot back easily. “Thought you wanted to see more of the place.”

“Oh, I do,” you laughed lightly, fingers curling into his shirt. “Just… from inside a bedroom window right now." You leaned in closer, lowering your voice just enough to make it look intimate, like you were sharing something private instead of tracking his every movement.

“Relax your shoulders,” you murmured.

He huffed softly—almost a laugh, almost something else—and adjusted just slightly, his grip tightening at your lower back like he was settling into the role instead of fighting it.

A beat passed between you—quick, sharp, charged—and then he leaned in closer, his mouth ghosting just along your temple.

“Storm’s our out,” he whispered. “We gotta go.”

“Come on,” you said, tugging gently at his shirt, turning your body into his as thunder cracked loud enough to rattle the windows. “I am not ruining my hair for this.”

“Tragic,” he murmured, letting you pull him toward the back hallway.

The rain hit hard the second you stepped out of the main room—heavy, sudden, loud enough to drown out most of the noise behind you. The narrow corridor smelled like damp wood and cheap liquor, dimly lit and barely used.

Perfect.

Your hand stayed fisted in his shirt as you stumbled slightly—just enough to sell it—as he caught you, his arm tightening instinctively around your waist.

“Careful, sweetheart.” he said, louder now, for anyone who might still be listening. “You’re gonna slip.”

The back door burst open under his hand.

Rain poured down in sheets, warm and relentless, soaking the edges of your skirt instantly as you both stepped out into the alley behind the cantina.

Steve looked around to make sure no one followed, he kept you closer than necessary as you moved, your bodies angled into each other like you were shielding yourselves from the storm instead of disappearing into it.

One block, then another, until you were far away and safe in the back alley of the Sofitel. Your clothes were soaked, as were his, your shirt basically see through, you kept moving, pulling him down the short hallway and into the first unlocked door you found—some storage room or unused guest space, it didn’t matter.

The door shut behind you with a soft click. Steve walked in last, and you didn't put distance between you two, though right now looking at him through wet lashes you wish you did.

His eyes reflected the gloomy sky outside, his lips were pink and plump, and you felt yourself being drawn closer and closer to him, as did he. 

The storm outside cracked again, lightning flashing briefly through the thin curtains, illuminating the space in stark white for half a second, loud thunder taking you out of your trance, Steve jerking away like he was burned. 

"I, uh… I think we lost them." Your voice was shaky and unsure. 

“Not bad,” he added, quieter now, his eyes flicking over your face like he was reassessing something.

You scoffed lightly. “High praise.”

PRESENT

“Fireworks are about to start,” someone called from across the yard.

And just like that, the moment broke, and your attentions turned to the mission at hand: while everyone is distracted, get into Fisk's office and copy all of his intel. 

Steve leaned down slightly as people shifted away in the direction of the fireworks, his lips brushing near your ear, voice low. “You’re laying it on thick.”

“Am I?” you murmured back, sly smirk playing on your lips.

“A little.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "You should go for the office. I'll keep watch."

Steve looked at you like he wanted to say something, but nodded and snuck away, your eyes immediately making sure all persons of interest were accounted for and not in the office. 

The party swelled around you.

Fireworks cracked overhead in bursts of red and gold, laughter spilling across Fisk’s perfectly manicured lawn, glasses clinking, music humming low beneath it all.

Steve had been gone for about five minutes when you noticed Dex was gone mid conversation with Claire and her husband Matthew. You saw the little flop of blonde hair make its way into the house and your blood ran cold. 

Steve.

“I’m gonna grab another drink,” you said lightly, lifting your empty glass as proof, bee-lining up the stairs on the porch and to the kitchen. 

You moved like you weren’t tracking footsteps that weren’t yours, counting seconds, mapping distance in your head.

You slipped inside through the side door, heels soft against polished floors, your breath steady even as your pulse kicked harder.

You moved faster, turning the corner just in time to see the office door slightly ajar, light spilling out onto the hallway, and footsteps approaching from the opposite direction.

You pushed the door open and slipped inside, Steve standing by the big mahogany table with a thumbdrive pluggesd into the desktop, downloading everything.

“What—”

“Dex,” you cut him off, already crossing the room. “Coming.” His expression shifted instantly, worry, anxiety, combat. 

A shadow passed the crack of the door and you closed the distance between you, pushing yourself to sit on top of the table and pulled Steve to stand between your legs. Your hands grabbed his shirt, yanking him down toward you hard enough to make him stumble.

He exhaled harshly the second your lips touched, tasting the vanilla macadamia flavor of your lipgloss. Your tongue licked into his mouth and one of his hands found the plane of your back, the other bracing against the desk behind you as he backed you further into it, the impact soft but enough to sell it.

“Mm—” you exhaled softly, the sound slipping out before you could stop it.

Your fingers thread through his hair as you sighed against him, losing yourself in the cedarwood of his cologne, the taste of beer on his tongue, and— 

The door creaked open lgithly with someone's breathy "oh." coming through at the sight.

You didn't pull away, didn't even flinch. If anything, you leaned in more, your body pressing fully into his, your mouth lingering just long enough to make the moment undeniable.

You heard a the sound of someone clearing their throat, and that made both of you break apart. Your lips brushed his once more before you turned your head, like you’d just noticed her. “Oh—” you said, a little breathless, but smiling.

“Sharon,” your eyes widened slightly when you looked behind you, a flush creeping into your expression like you’d been caught.

Her gaze drifted from his hands on you to the hem of your summer dress, pulled up and draped high on your thighs, then up to your hands in his hair and Steve's face — his expression a mix of very confused, flustered, and fucked out. 

Steve cleared his throat, stepping back just slightly, like he was trying to recover something that had already slipped.

“We were just—”

“—busy,” you finished easily, sliding off the desk but not moving far from him.

“…right,” she said after a second, her lips pressing into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Well, enjoy the, uh… the party."

You stifled a laugh, biting your lip, as she walked away leaving the door open behind her. You hopped off the desk as Steve got his brain working again. 

“What the hell was that?” His voice cut through it, low and sharp.

You shrugged. "Saved your ass, you're welcome." You smoothed the hem of your dress against your thighs and walked around the desk, making your way out the door as Steve hushedly called out for you, swiming the thumb drive into his pocket before following you out of the house. 

Your heels hit the pavement in sharp, even beats, your jaw locked, your eyes fixed straight ahead like if you didn’t look back, he wouldn’t follow.

Fuck him and his long legs that caught up to you as soon as you reached your lawn. 

You stormed into your kitchen, pushing the door closed quicky to slam it behind you, but making it hit Steve on the shoulder as he crowded the space behind you. “Hey—” he pushed still, stepping closer. “No, seriously. What was that?”

You still gave him nothing, your jaw tightened. You stood with your back to the kitchen island, fingers gripping the marble, biting your own cheek. Your gaze stayed anywhere but him.

“That wasn’t about getting caught,” he said. “You knew she—” Then it seemed to dawn on him.  “You kissed me to make her jealous.” His voice was incredulous, almost like he solved a decade long mystery right then and there. "You were jealous."

You scoffed, still not meeting his eye. "Jealous? Over you? Plea—"

He crowded you even more now, bending down to look for your gaze and force you to meet his, sly smile playing on his lips. "You were jealous."

You huffed, finally looking into his eyes, sunlight playing on his face making the blue just a tad lighter. Steve had his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, almost waiting for a response from you. 

For what it felt like a second and a day all at once, your brain went numb. 

And then your hands were on each side of his face, bringing his lips to crash into yours. 

Steve's lips were warm against your mouth in the same way they were minutes ago. He stepped forward, towering over you making you tilt your head up to keep the kiss going, his hands grabbing your hips as he pressed you against the counter. 

He licked into your mouth and your hands fell to the nape of his neck, his shoulders, and finally his arms.

Steve leaned over, pushing you back further, until you had no more oxygen to burn in your lungs and you broke the kiss, making him kiss your jaw, below your ear, and down your neck. "You had no reason to be jealous, you know."

He grinded his hips against yours, letting you feel the length of him hardening by the minute. "'M not jealous." You felt underwater, dizzy, borderline having fuzzies in your vision. 

Steve chuckled against your neck, the warm breath making shivers run down your spine, his hands dropping to graze outside of your thighs. "Mmhmm." His right hand brushed over your thigh and made it way to your core, tickling the skin of your inner thigh. 

His fingers quickly found the wet spot on the front of your underwear, kissing his way back towards your lips. When he pressed deep circled into it, he felt you sigh into his mouth.

"Steve… People might see…"

"Don't care" he pressed his fingers harder, until your hips were bucking to get more friction, and you were whining against him. Words came muffled against your mouth. "Not jealous, huh? Didn't want me a single bit, right?"

You scoffed despite youself, "You're the one that came into your pants the other day." 

That did it. 

Skin to skin. His rough fingers sliding through your soaked slit, dragging your arousal across your folds, teasing you right at the entrance. You broke off mid-sentence, a soft whimper catching in your throat.

His thumb easily found your clit, and one of your hands squeezed around his bicep while the other pulled at the hair at the nape of his neck, your moans getting breathier and breathier by the minute.

His fingers thrusted in and out of you bringing you to an edge so close you could taste it, letting out little pants by the crook of his neck, inflating Steve's ego, making more blood rush south. "Wanna try that again?"

He curled them just right, your slick coating his knuckles as your hips twitched against his hand.

Your head fell back, lips parting on a desperate moan. "N-not jealous…" through gritted teeth, making him click his tongue. 

"Suit yourself." And just like that, his fingers were gone, slick mess on your thighs and an unsatisfied beast inside of you.

"Steve, what the—"

He pulled away the slightest bit and bent down, lacing his arm around your legs and throwing you over his shoulder, walking away in the direction of the stairs.

Steve nudged your bedroom door open once you got upstairs and flopped you down on the bed, making you bounce on the mattress.

He hovered over you, settling between your legs and rubbing the heat of him against you, while one if his hands snuck to the back of your dress and pulled the zipper down. He pulled the clothing item down your body as he kissed the same path, and soon you were only in his shirt and a thong.

Your legs opened to accommodate him further, thighs falling to your sides, and he slotted himself chest to mattress, lips barely an inch away from your pussy. Steve kissed your inner thigh once, then again, and your fingers threaded through his hair. 

"She's wetter than that night," He spoke softly, but his voice had a dark tone to it, blue eyes staring up at you. "Can't blame me from coming in my boxers when," and a bite to your flesh. "you were grinding a wet spot onto me, honey."

Fuck him and that nickname. 

His middle finger came to curl beyond the hem, pulling the sticky wet fabric down your thighs, and both of his thumbs spread your lips, watching your hole clench around nothing. 

His gaze once again reached yours, almost asking for permission. 

You didn't seem to be able to find it in you to say anything, not a single word but a quiet "Please." leaving your lips. 

The second his tongue touched your slit, you were all the way back in that mission in Colombia. Wet, horny, and almost begging him.

At the first taste of you, one would think Steve got possessed, quickly settling further into the mattress and wrapping his arms around your thighs, holding them open. "F-fuck, Steve—"

He groaned against you, the vibration going through you like electricity through water. His tongue traced your entrance, nose nudging your clit, and your back arched off the bed slightly, pushing your hips closer to his face.

Steve's fingers pressed against the tops of your thighs with bruising strength, not that you minded. 

Not at all. 

He licked zigzag patterens up and down your slit, and then would circle your clit with his tongue, sucking the nerves into his mouth and flicking it. "O-oh my God."

He chuckled into you, "Stop squirming." 

Like you could help it. Like it was your damn fault he let Sharon touch him and flirt with him and all but forced you to make sure everyone bought this sham of a marriage. 

"Easier— fuck me, easier said than done, Rogers." Your nails scratched deeper into his scalp.

Steve angled his head differently so he could tense his tongue and fuck you while his thumb moved from your thigh to rub quick circles onto your clit. 

Your thighs closed around his head, eyes squeezing shut as you heard him breathe heavy against you. Steve's other hand landed on your breast, kneading the skin there, pinching and pulling a nipple drawing a mewl out of you. 

"Steve, Steve, I'm— fuck, I'm gonna—"

You really shouldn't have told him, though he'd know you were close judging by the little flutters of your walls around his tongue. 

He pulled away harshly, chin slick and lips swollen, his hair a mess from you running your fingers through it. 

He stood by the foot of the bed, stripping down to nothing watching your dumbfounded fucked out expression. Your hair was matted, your nipples were hard, and there was a wet spot on the white comforter under you. 

In front of you, though, stood 230lbs of pure, unadultered, perfectly sculped by God, blond 100% American Prime Steve Rogers. 

Standing naked, tall, thick and proud.

And hard.

Your mouth salivated at the sight, looking at the leaking head of him appear and disappear inside his fist with each slick stroke he gave himself. Steve caught your ankle with his other hand, and pulled you to the edge of the bed, your toes touching the soft carpet of the bedroom.

He turned you around, fingers gripping the linen of his shirt you had on, dragging it down your arms but not over your wrists, twisting the fabric around his own fist. 

And just like that, you were face and shoulders down on the mattress with your wrists tied behind you, feeling him rub the head of his cock up and down your puffy slit, coating himself in your wetness. 

Steve heard a muffled whine from you, any words being impacted by the fabric of the bedding, "What was that, sweetheart?" He leaned over you, the tip of him notching just a smidge further. 

You turned your head to the side. "Steve, please…"

He clicked his tongue again. "No, you didn't want me, remember? Think I shouldn't even be doing this to you."

He motioned to pull out and you whined louder. "She— she was all o-over you…" Tears pricked your eyes from the pressure in your chest, from the ache between your legs, from the desperation of being kept at the edge. 

“Steve, please put it in…”

"Yeah?" He gave you the cue to keep going, pushing in unbearably slow and barely any. 

You nodded against the mattress. "Pissed me off." You gulped. "Please, please don't leave me like this…"

"All you had to do was stop being such a brat about it."

And then he thrust in enough to knock the air out of your lungs. The squelch of his cock pushing into you was obscene. And in your mind every inch he pushed after that thrust had one though going through your head:

There's more?!

"Oh God…"

That made Steve chuckle. "Just me, baby."

"Is— is it all in?" Your voice trembled, and if you had a mirror you'd see Steve's evil smirk as he dragged your wrists down to where your bodies connected, arching your back and hurting you with the stretch, only to wrap your delicate hands around what was left of him.

"Barely half." He grunted.

You whimpered, both in fear and anticipation, and Steve took the queue to push the rest of the way through, until your hand was flat on his pelvis, and then he let you rest against the mattress again. 

"So fucking good." He gave a couple tentative thrusts. "Can feel you gripping me like you don't wanna let me go."

You moaned at the feel of him hitting that sweet spot inside of you, making your eyes roll. "So— hah! Good, Steve…"

After he felt your pussy get used to the size of him, that when he really stopped playing nice. 

You could feel every ridge of him, every vein, the length of him pulsing and pulsing inside of you, throbbing against the spongy spot that made you see stars.

“Steve, please, please let me—“

Another harsh thrust interrupted you. “Tell me the truth then.”

You whimpered. The bastard was really going to make you admit it.

As you tried to think through it, brainless as you were, he slowed down, and down, until you could feel the pulse of his cock inside of you just as he could feel your walls flutter around him.

You whimpered, cheeks blushing at the thought. “I was jealous! I was jealous, okay?!” You pushed your hips into him, chasing friction harder, deeper.

“She thought she could have you and— and—“ He picked up the pace, your brain mush as your neck strained to keep your voice from being muffled. “And you’re my— Oh— oh my God!”

“Yeah?” Steve leaned over you, fingers finding your clit with ease. “I’m your what?”

You could cry. You could cry right no— oh you had tears streaming from your eyes onto the bedding. “Steve…”

His eyes rolled to the back of his head.

“That’s right, I’m your Steve.” His fingers picked up speed as did his hips, lips kissing your shoulder blade. “Come for me, pretty girl. Come all over my cock.”

“Mmmmngghhh—“ your vision went white, your body clenching tight around him and pulsing, as your moans got drowned out outside by the fireworks still going.

Steve slammed his hips deeper into you, to the point of almost painful, muttering curse words in sequence of “fuck, fuck, fuck.” until you felt him spill thick ropes of cum inside of you, filling you up until it dripped onto the floor.

As you both caught your breaths, you heard the wet schlick of him pulling out, dropping himself on the bed with a bounce.

After a minute, you spoke. "There's gonna be so much paperwork to explain all this..."

He looked at an imaginary watch on his wrist, turning to you with that boyish smile of his, sheen coat of sweat on his chest and hairline. “Got time for a couple more rounds before all that. You tapped out?”

You smirked at him, using your arms to push yourself up, hands on his chest for leverage as you straddled him, slick pussy on top of his hardening cock.

“I could do this all day, Cap.”

final thoughts: this started as me and Maddie just thirsting over the shower scene, and then... yeah... heh

A = Aftercare (What they're like after sex)

This man is a cuddler. He will not let you go. You've got to wrestle yourself out of this man's arms to get up. I mean a full on bear hug sort of guy. Soft. Ultimate Labrador energy. Will find time to clean you up but ultimately you’re trapped in bed with him.

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner's)

Poe knows he has a good ass. He didn't even realise how good until he couldn't fit his ass into flight seats (this is canon) and decided to take it in stride.

As for his partner, he loves ass and tits equally, well he might be a little bit more inclined to ass but he loves both. However the ultimate turn on for him is thighs, he loves digging his fingers into them, loves them around his head.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically... I'm a disgusting person)

Poe can be a nasty mf, if he's feeling cocky or playful who knows where it might end up. But if he's intimate then he loves finishing inside you, watching it leak out of you. Definitely finds it a turn on in any case.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Poe Dameron is very much an open book about everything to do with sex, however with a serious partner he could be a little nervous due to his reputation, worrying they might not realise how serious he is about them, that they think he might not be loyal. Just a little nervous about his flyboy reputation in general. But when they assure him they love him and trust him he’s completely honest with them.

Also if he’s in love he’s definitely thought about proposing in the middle of sex too many times to count.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they're doing?)

As above, bi Poe. This man is in his early thirties and has been a hotshot fly boy turned commander. He is definitely experienced and he sure as hell knows what he's doing. But as he's gotten older he's become more serious about his relationships, looking for something that will last.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

All of them. He is a 7 positions in 70 minutes type of guy. Depending on the mood his favourites would be girl on top, or from behind and likely something else that requires flexibility. He's an adrenaline junkie so I imagine he's playful in the bedroom. But if he's intimate then missionary or spooning sex, I can see spooning sex definitely being a number one go to for him, something about his ring on your chest, able to kiss you or press you into the bed and whisper absolute filth in your ear, he has range.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Goofy as hell. It is not sex with Poe Dameron if he doesn't make you laugh before during and after. If he's come back from a life or death mission he will be more serious but that's the exception.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

That man has the most beautiful curls and it is the same below, the carpet does match the drapes. It's well kept but no shaving or any of that, not overly trimmed but not messy.

Would never ask his partner to change there’s, fully believes it’s their choice, he’ll go down on them all the same. Hygiene obviously a must.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect...)

Even when he is being goofy and playful he somehow knows how to make it intimate as well. There'll be times when sex is more about pleasure and playing around and exploring, but if he craves intimacy then he will be the most romantic, caring man in the galaxy. Can he the nastiest mf if he is in the mood but damn can he be the most romantic as well. Again, he has RANGE. But at heart is the ultimate romantic.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Often, sometimes to holovids but if he's in a relationship then his mind and images of you are all he needs. However that's only if he's away on a mission, more often than not he'll tease you all day long instead until he can get you alone, in a cupboard or in the bedroom.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Choking: I can definitely see him with a hand around your throat, or yours around his. Nothing extreme, usually it's not even to do with breathplay, but aesthetically he finds it extremely hot.

COMMANDER KINK: I will never shut up about this, this man has the ultimate commander kink. Call him commander in the bedroom and watch what happens next.

Light bondage: he definitely likes playing around and experimenting in the bedroom, I can see him tying a partner up and teasing them, and vice versa.

Edging/overstimulation: you get one or the other. He'll either edge you until you are begging or overstimulate your until your begging. Either way, you will be begging if he decides to be a cocky mf.

Hair pulling: pull those beautiful curls and he will lose his mind.

Strip tease: he would be into it. Sit him on a chair and tease him with a strip tease and/or lap dance. He will play it off like the cocky mf he is but on the inside he is screaming.

Oral fixation: will go into detail below

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

He will do it everywhere and anywhere, especially if there is a risk of being caught. Unless it would be by Leia, he would die on the spot if that happened. He would do it in the hanger, closets, cockpit, bedroom, shower, if you are offworld watch him take you on a beach. He definitely has a list he is ticking off. And yes, he has definitely done it in the x-wing to varying levels of success, after his last one was trashed he may have requested his new one have a larger cockpit for reasons.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

He is the ultimate adrenaline junky, it doesn't take much to get him going, but flying is a big one. You in a flight suit is an even bigger one. Anything with a risk or thrill is a turn on for him. Also has a soft spot for you and BB8, the way it goes straight to his heart you might as well be holding his baby every time you talk to BB8.

N = NO (Something they wouldn't do, turn offs)

Would do playful or mild degradation but nothing awful, would spank but wouldn't smack you around. Also nothing too painful, especially after when he was tortured. There is very little Poe wouldn’t do as long as it wasn't too extreme, but he would want to sit and talk and make sure you’re both on the same page before doing anything. Consent king 100%

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

Oral king. Honestly would make it his day job if he could. Turns him on massively and gives him the perfect opportunity to tease the hell out of you. Can get a little nasty with it. If he feels cocky he will 100% spit on it. Loves having his hair pulled and having thighs suffocating him.

As for receiving, it's his weak spot. He will try to be cocky but he loses his mind, doesn't mind if you swallow spit or whatever you want to do. But watch him give you an open mouthed kiss after you swallow. He has no reservations around cum or bodily fluids.

P = Pace (Are they fats and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Like I've said. Range. He will do it all in one night if that's what you want. It all depends on the mood. This man can go from an adrenaline high to really just needed to be held and loved. He goes from one high to the next, through love or flying. And as the war progresses the stress gets to him more and more, it's then sex often is rough or as a stress relief, or intimate and sensual when he really just needs some love. Either way, he’ll make it intimate and make sure you know he loves you.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Has no reservations about quickies, sometimes it's the only chance you get in the resistance, but he will always draw it out later on when he has the time.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Will take just about any risk with the exception of Leia catching him in the act because that may just be the only thing that could bring this man shame. He is an adrenaline junky, he's no different in bed.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last...)

He can go for rounds, teasing you in between them or just being intimate in general. He doesn’t even mean to do it, but one minute you’re in the middle of after care talking about something he did that you liked and next thing you know he’s getting you ready so he can do it again and that can easily turn into a nights worth of activities.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

He’s definitely bought some over the years, either jokingly or out of curiosity. Likely wouldn’t use them that often but if you wanted to he’d be all for it. And would love teasing you with a vibrator. Can definitely see him buying you vibrating panties and just having the biggest most self satisfied grin on his face all day long. Is more silly with them than anything else.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Cockiest mf in the resistance. He will tease you like it’s his job. Outside of the bedroom and within. Watch him tease you throughout the day shamelessly and pull you into bed the first chance possible. And as for edging and overstimulation, he enjoys it but the moment you bat your eyes or beg he’ll give in and give you what you want unless you’ve specified otherwise. Always makes sure you’re comfortable and want him to overstimulate you to the point you can’t talk before he does it. He loves to tease and loves getter teased in return, banter is his favourite thing, but the moment you’re teasing or edging him he will be the absolute whiniest man and will beg for you to just touch him. Will tease all night but cannot take it in return for more than five minutes.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Unapologetically loud. Makes all those pretty noises however tries to cover it up with that obscenely dirty mouth of his and all the filth he’ll whisper in your ear. Biggest dirty talker, again sometimes intentional but most often there’s no filter between what goes through his head and his mouth so you get to hear exactly what he wants to do and how he likes it.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

After sex he loves to lie there with his head on your chest, playing with his mother’s ring around your neck, unable to wait for the day you wear it on your finger. He’s a romantic at heart, maybe a bit of a surprising traditionalist in wanting to get married and love one person for the rest of his life, very much bases his perception of love off of his parents marriage. Poe may be a flyboy adrenaline junky on the surface but deep down he is an extremely loving person who craves a deep connection, who wants to spend his life with someone and love them truly.

X = X-Ray (Let's see what's going on in those pants, picture or words)

Above average, not overly long or thick to the point it’s uncomfortable, but decently above average in both areas and definitely knows how to use it. In his mind his mouth and hands are equally as important tools in getting his partner off.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

HIGH. And watch him get grumpy when he’s celibate. It’s like he’s hangry but horny edition. (My personal headcanon for his grouchiness in the rise of skywalker.) Would never push anything if you aren’t in the mood but will get a whiny if you purposefully with hold to tease him. It’s average enough when he’s not in a relationship and focusing on work, he can touch himself and keep himself happy enough but if he’s with someone then he’d to it anywhere anytime.

Z = ZZZ (... how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Handler—that’s your official title.

In practice? More like assistant.

In reality? Babysitter.

Who's your asset?

Soldier Boy—America’s first superhero, presumed dead for decades, until he clawed his way out of some Russian hellhole. He came back meaner, angrier, and with a vendetta. Payback, his old team, didn’t stand a chance. He wiped them out without blinking.

Vought, ever the master of spin, welcomed him home like a prodigal son. New narrative, same suit, same brute underneath. His face plastered on every screen, his sins scrubbed clean with a PR firehose.

Since then, he’s burned through handlers—ten, maybe fifteen. You're number sixteen. The only one who's lasted. The only one he listens to. Somehow, you’ve managed to hold the leash no one else could. For some reason, he lets you.

You remember the first time you met—how he looked at you. Eyes sharp and unreadable, like he was sizing you up for a fight... or something else. A year later, that look hasn’t gone away. You still don’t know what it means. Maybe you do. Maybe it’s safer not to think about it too hard.

The bond you’ve built with him is… unorthodox. Not quite handler and asset. Not exactly friends. Definitely not what Vought had in mind. It doesn’t have a name, but it’s there—shaped in the silences between The Seven meetings, PR stunts, quiet limo rides to bullshit charity galas. Drunken elevator trips up to his penthouse in Vought Tower.

There were nights—when he’d had one too many—where he let pieces of himself slip. Russia. His father. Things no one else got to hear. You’d be on the floor in a silk gown, wrestling with the laces of his boots while he sprawled across the bed like a fallen statue, mumbling through the haze.

“How fucked up is it,” he said once, voice slurred, “that the gentlest hands that’ve ever touched me… are on Vought’s payroll?”

You dropped his boot with a sigh. “Maybe if you turned down the whole ‘I fought the Nazis’ routine and actually let someone in—”

“Fuck you, dollface.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck me,” you muttered, flicking off the lights and shutting the door behind you.

You never talked about those nights. You think he appreciates that—how you don’t bring it up, don’t push. How you let him keep his armor on, even when it’s cracked and slipping.

Now? You're here. Just another day on the job.

“Hey? Hello…?” You snap your fingers in his face. “Can I get your attention, please? We really need to go over these.”

“Goddamn, doll,” he mutters, dragging his gaze up to you. “Let me breathe for a fucking second, would ya? You’ve been yappin’ that pretty mouth all morning.”

You slap the papers you were reading from down on the glass coffee table.

“If I don’t get your okay on one of these scripts today, it’s gonna be my ass, SB.”

He leans forward, the leather groaning under his weight. Flicks his blunt over the ashtray. His eyes drift—predictably—to the curve of your hips in that pencil skirt.

“And what a fine ass it is,” he smirks.

You roll your eyes, hand planting firmly on your hip. “Seriously?” You snatch the blunt from his fingers like a pissed-off teacher.

“What?” he says, holding his hands up, unbothered. “I’m trying, I swear. You know it gets loud in here.” He taps two fingers against his temple. “Hard to focus. Especially when it's this bullshit.”

You want to stay mad. Really, you do. But you can see it—the way he’s barely holding the noise back—you can’t help the way your anger fizzles out.

Your shoulders drop. A sigh. “If I let you do the thing… will you check in here so we can finish this?”

It’s an arrangement. One that’s never talked about once it’s done. But for some reason, it helps him quiet the chaos in his head. You don’t even know how it started—no, that’s a lie. You do know. Just like you know exactly why you keep letting it happen.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just nods and stands.

You reach across him to stub out the blunt, then sink into the warm space he left behind on the couch. He scoops up the scripts you’d flung and hands them back to you without a word.

You start with the one on top. “Okay, so this one’s called Red Blood, White Stripes…”

As you speak, he rolls up his sleeves, the fabric stretching over his forearms.

“It’s a war drama,” you continue. He undoes the top two buttons of his shirt.

“Think Saving Private Ryan,” you say as he slides the coffee table back to make room. “Except you’re the guy doing the saving—and the killing.”

“Yeah… don’t know about that,” he mutters as he nudges your heels apart with his boot.

“Says you’re sent behind enemy lines—” He drops to his knees, grips your legs at the bend, and yanks you down so your ass is perched on the edge of the couch. “—to extract a rogue American agent.”

You lift your hips automatically as he pushes your skirt up, panties dragged down and off in one fluid motion.

“Don’t think I’m feelin’ this one,” he huffs, eyes locked on the wet heat between your thighs. His tongue flicks out, wetting his bottom lip.

You toss the pitch to the floor. He leans in, kisses the inside of your thigh—slow, deliberate.

“Okay… Homeland Security. Action thriller.” You grip the stack of pages a little tighter as his breath ghosts over your core.

“Yeah? What’s it about?” he asks, hands sliding up your legs, thumbs parting your lips right before pressing a kiss to your clit.

You take a shaky breath. “Like Die Hard in the suburbs.”

He swipes his tongue between your folds, firm and hot. You make a small sound in the back of your throat but force yourself to stay focused.

“Terrorists take over a small American town on the Fourth of July…” you begin, voice wavering.

His hands move. He grips your thighs tight, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he spreads you open wider. His mouth is relentless—tongue gliding, teasing, claiming. Hot, wet, precise. His beard scratches against your skin, leaving a burn that makes your toes curl—the kind of pain that makes you ache for more.

You try not to react, to hold on to the professional thread of this bizarre little ritual, but he knows your body too well by now. Knows exactly where to circle, where to flick, where to suck until your knees start to tremble.

You clear your throat, determined. “You’re on leave… drinking in a dive bar…”

He groans low against you, the vibration lighting you up from the inside. His hands slide beneath your thighs, hooking them over his broad shoulders as he dives in deeper. His tongue drags slow and flat, then fast and pointed, alternating like he’s conducting an interrogation with his mouth.

“You sober up just in time to—ah… ah, f-fuck…”

His mouth seals around your clit, tongue swirling the swollen bud. He gets you. Hits that spot with precision, curling his tongue just right, and you nearly lose your grip on the scripts in your hand. He’s breaking your composure and he knows it. It’s a mission to him now—and he never leaves a mission unfinished.

“To kill them with fireworks,” you finish on a shaky breath, your voice barely a whisper.

He pulls back just enough to glance up at you, chin glistening, eyes burning with amusement and hunger.

“Who the fuck comes up with this shit?” he mutters, shaking his head before diving right back in.

You arch off the couch, a soft whine escaping before you can stop it, the script forgotten as you toss it blindly to the floor.

“Captain of the Stars. Sci-fi epic,” you breathe, trying to keep it together.

He answers by slipping his tongue inside you, slow and deep. Your free hand flies to his hair, threading through the thick, messy strands. You tug gently, and he groans into you—a low, filthy sound that vibrates straight through your core.

He fucking loves when you grab his hair. Loves it rough. Loves your loss of control disguised as dominance.

“You’re cryo—" you start, then stop. Cryogenically frozen. That’s what the pitch says.

Without thinking, you toss the script to the floor.

No. Not this one.

Something twists in your gut. That strange, protective instinct you have for Soldier Boy swims to the surface. Fuck them—the suits, the assholes upstairs, whoever thought it was a good idea to pitch a story where he willingly steps into another glass coffin. Even for a movie.

You blink down at him—between your thighs, his eyes closed, mouth worshipping you.

Your chest tightens.

Though you'd never say it out loud, this man—who drives you up the wall and makes you want to rip your hair out—is one of the closest things you have to a… you don’t even know. But it’ll be over your dead body before you let Vought put him in another box.

It's that thought that drags your fingers tighter against his scalp—grounding yourself in him as much as he’s grounding himself in you.

He pulls away, sensing the shift. His brows knit, breath ragged, eyes flicking up to yours. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing… get back to it.” You lean forward, grab his collar, and pull him back in. He smirks.

You let your head fall back, lifting the next script to your line of sight.

“Justice Boot. Buddy cop comedy… fuuuck.”

He does that thing you like—God, you don’t even know how to describe it.

“You’re paired with a rookie female supe for PR reasons,” you breathe out.

Your back arches.

“Chaos ensues when you refuse sensitivity training and instead teach her…” A shaky inhale. “That real justice involves a baseball bat and bear traps…”

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t slow. You set the script on the couch next to you. A maybe.

His hand reaches around your thigh, tugging your blouse loose from your skirt, sliding beneath to trace the line of your stomach, then higher—to palm your breast through lace.

You’re spiraling.

“Fuck… just one more,” you whimper, unintentionally.

He could finish you right now—he knows it. But he waits.

“Victory Squad: The Musical,” you try, breath catching. “You sing, you dance, you kill Nazis—yeah… yeah, right there…”

He slips a thick finger inside you. Your thighs clamp closed around him. He yanks you back open.

Another deep breath. Just get through the pitch. Just one more—

“You sing, you dance, you kill—”

You give up.

The last script hits the floor with a soft thud.

Both hands tangle in his hair. Your eyes close.

He’s won the battle. You’re not sure but you think you can feel him smirk between your thighs. He adds another finger, curls them just right, does the thing with his tongue.

“Fuck…fuck…ye…yes...” you come hard. Legs shaking on his shoulders. Walls fluttering and pulling him in. He works you through it with that same relentless focus, mouth and hands steady.

You go limp against the couch, head spinning, nerves humming under your skin. He finally slows, easing off. He knows exactly when too much becomes too much. His mouth lingers on your thigh, one last kiss before he sits back on his heels.

No words.

He doesn’t toss your panties at you like he used to, doesn’t bark out some crude one-liner and walk off. Instead, he finds them on the floor and eases them back up your legs with surprising care. Smooths your skirt down over your hips. Adjusts the hem.

Your eyes meet. There’s a pause. A beat where neither of you speaks, if you do, it might ruin whatever fragile, unspoken thing is sitting heavy between you.

You rise, standing over him. One hand under his chin, tilting it up. The other wipes his mouth with the edge of your blouse before tucking it back into your skirt.

You bend, gathering the discarded scripts into a messy pile. He watches, still kneeling like a soldier waiting on orders.

“I’ll tell the team we’re going with the buddy cop comedy,” you say, voice rough.

He grins, slow and lazy. “Tell ’em my co-star better be hot.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the tug of a smile that pulls at your mouth.

You turn to leave, then stop. Glance back over your shoulder.

“Get cleaned up. You’ve got an interview in an hour.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, mock salute and all—but his tone is softer now. His head clearer.

You leave the penthouse with his heat still lingering between your thighs and the sound of him lighting another blunt behind you.

credit & links:

⟡ more soldier boy.

⟡ gif & pics from pinterest, edited by me.

⟡ dividers by @easytiger-xo.