we've got a job to do.

it's a rare moment of respite — these days, alex is gone more often than he's home; called away for conflict after conflict. you know the work he does is important, you swear, you do, but there's a selfish part of you that wants, so desperately, to have a life of mundane domesticity with him. for him to be here, really be here, and to stay.

unfortunately, that's not possible, so you take what you can get until such a time as it is.

you don't ask questions about where he got the weed, about whether or not he's even allowed to be doing this given his job. you are so, so tired of questions — where and how long and when do you leave? tonight you let yourself have this without anxiety, without reservation.

the smell of marijuana hangs heavy in the air — grassy, something citrusy beneath it. it's good shit, not the street kind; something you'd get from a dispensary where they card at the door and make you pay in cash and have budtenders behind the counters that know a little too much about terpenes. he holds the joint between his index finger and his thumb, and he takes a long, long pull from it. you watch the smoke curl from between his lips as he exhales, and when he doesn't cough, you find yourself wondering just how often he indulges in this.

you think on this for a moment as he takes another drag, and you almost open your mouth to ask despite yourself, but he's bringing his other hand to your face, fingers catching your chin and tilting your head up just a little. he leans in, slow, giving you time to pull away if you want — because everything alex does is about comfort, is soft, is safe, and nothing is ever assumed — and you part your lips on instinct, your eyes going hooded.

he exhales the smoke slowly, and you inhale, your gaze holding his own. the moment is intimate, charged in a way that makes you feel warm and fuzzy. or maybe that's the weed, which hits almost immediately, your tolerance nonexistent. your limbs suddenly feel so very heavy, and the world seems to soften at the edges.

and you cannot stop looking at his face — not that you particularly want to anyways. the bow of his upper lip, how thick his eyelashes are, the flush in his cheeks, the way his pupils have grown impossibly large, eating up the blue of his irises.

he stubs the joint out, half-smoked, and sets it in the ashtray with care. your attention falls to his hands, and something warm and wanting coils low in your belly.

"alex," you breathe out, because you don't know how to convey this profound feeling in your chest, in your brain, but you need him to know you're feeling it all the same.

"i know," he replies, just as soft, as his gaze falls on you once more. "i know."

and then he's kissing you, and it is this immense, life-altering thing. you've kissed before, hundreds of times, but this specifically feels… monumental. important. the slow, damp drag of lips against lips, your breath catching in your throat. one of his hands — big, warm, so fucking nice — finds its way under your shirt, fingers splaying out over your flank, thumb smoothing small circles into the skin. you shudder, everything intense and electric and bright. he makes a noise into your mouth, low and wanting, and his hand slides lower, lower. fingers press at the waistband of your pants, and you pull away just enough to catch his gaze, your bottom lip caught between your teeth and your brow pinched together as you nod.

he cups you through your underwear, first, the breath punched out of his lungs when he discovers how wet you are. you mewl and your hips shift, and he doesn't want to tease you, not now, so he pushes the fabric aside and his fingers find your pussy. he kisses you again as two fingers crook into you, slow, slow, and his thumb finds your clit. you kiss back, messy but gently. there isn't a ravenous hunger, here — this is worship, this is divinity.

"feel good?" he asks, breathless, as he presses his forehead against your own, his eyes finding yours.

you nod, your lips parted, expression slack with pleasure. the angle is a little awkward, but you're so sensitive that it doesn't matter — any contact is good contact. you moan, soft and ragged, and your hips move against his touch without your conscious input. he hums at that, contented and approving.

"just like that. you're so pretty like this, sweetheart, you know that? do you think you could come for me?"

you can. you will. you know this with resounding certainty, heat pooling deeper in your stomach, an ache in your hips, something tight building higher and higher. your arms wrap around his neck, seeking closeness, something to ground you. he kisses your cheek, your jaw, the place behind your ear. you're trembling.

"give it to me, sweet girl. let me see you," he soothes.

you do not shatter — it is not so dramatic. you split open, tender, like stonefruit, and you shake apart. your eyes slide shut, soft sounds leave your lips, your heels dig into the carpet. his lips find more spots on your face to kiss at, gentle, gentle, and you're distantly aware of him murmuring praise against your skin.

as you come down, slow and dizzy, he pulls his fingers away from you. you watch through hazy eyes as he brings his hand to his mouth, and his tongue — plush, soft, slick — presses flat against the digits, licking away the evidence of you. you moan again at that, unbidden, and he keeps his eyes on your own the whole time.

your movements are awkward and clumsy as you move closer towards him, your hands falling to the button of his jeans, but he catches them with his own, gentle. looks you in the eye and shakes his head.

"don't want you to worry about me," he's saying, and a petulant part of you wants to protest. loudly. "just want to enjoy you."

it tugs at something in your chest, makes the fight evaporate out of you, because who are you to deny a request so sweet? you look up at him like he hung to moon for you, curling into his side, and his arm instinctively wraps around your shoulders, pulling you in closer. his lips find the crown of your head and linger there for a long moment.

phillip is feeling mean tonight.

not cruel, never that — but smug and smarmy and so sure of himself that you've forgotten how to be upset with him for it, and have instead circled back around to finding it attractive. he's got you bent over the bed, your feet planted on the ground, your face pressed into the mattress, and he is fucking you like he means to bully you. relentless and hard, hips snapping against your own with enough force that your entire body jolts. it's the kind of sex that makes your brain syrupy-slow, fuzzy and floating and free. fucked stupid, really; boneless and brainless. fingers clawing at the sheets, broken noises yanked from the back of your throat, choked.

"that's it, sugar," his voice has become hoarse, raw, feral — rasping and low, in his chest, and it makes you dizzy. "takin' my fuckin' cock so good."

you don't even realize that there are tears welling in your eyes — you're not all there, swimming in something blissfully liminal, too far gone to register the warmth spilling down your cheeks. but phillip notices. oh, he does.

the noise is tears from him is obscene. "fuck, darlin', yeah? 'm fuckin' you so good you're cryin' for it?"

his thumb brushes over your cheek — the one not shoved into the mattress — and he smears the tears over your skin; cheek to jaw, leaving the skin tacky and cool. you whimper as his other hand finds your clit, two fingers pressing against the swollen, sensitive bud. you're crying harder, now — not in a bad way; you know you can always say 'stop', and he would, no questions asked — but from a heady mix of euphoria and overwhelm. the complete surrender to sensation. his cock filling you up, the duvet against your body and half your face, the sound and smell of sex heavy in the air. the vulnerability of letting yourself be loved like this.

you're coming, then, spurred on by an increase in his pace and the feeling of his fingers rubbing your clit. you sob, shake through it, and he's shushing you, the hand that was just between you finding your hair, running his fingers through it, "that's it, sugar. good fuckin' girl."

what better way to be welcomed home after a painfully long deployment than this — you, lying on the bed, your legs spread, fingers working over your slick, puffy cunt. your other hand is tangled in the sheets, your eyes shut, your lips parted, the sweetest sounds spilling past your lips.

he should make his presence known, johnny thinks; greet you with that shit-eating grin he wears in situations like these, say something cheeky and unabashed about getting started without him, and fuck you so hard you see stars.

instead, he bides his time.

you're whining his name, now, your hips rocking up into your own touch. two of your fingers rubbing at your clit, fast and needy. his cock has swelled with interest, and he palms himself absently through the fabric of his trousers. not really looking to get anywhere with it — too focused on you, beautiful you.

your noises grow sharper, more urgent, and he doesn't even realize he's holding his breath when you fall apart, your back arching off the bed, the rhythm of your fingers faltering. he groans, quiet, under his breath. as you settle back onto the mattress, breathless and boneless, he swallows thickly. lets go of himself in favor of reaching for the doorknob to push the bedroom door open all the way.

"well, bonnie, thank you kindly for the show," and there it is, as promised, that wide, smug grin. "but i think i'm going to fuck you silly, now."

nothing about this is gentle.

one of phillip's hands is tangled in your hair, the other clutching at your hip like he means it. your legs are wrapped around his waist, and you're pinned against the cool, sleek wall of the entryway of your home. you didn't even make it past the shoe rack — he had been a sight to behold when you'd stumbled through the front door, all quiet calculation and cold upset. the kind of thing that would be worrisome if it weren't so… attractive, in all honesty. the severity of his expression; the way his jaw sets, the way his eyes narrow, the strength in his hands.

he'd been angry about 'looks' you'd gotten at the party tonight. men staring just a little too long at your pretty black dress. can't have any of that. no, sugar, you're his — and now he's making damn sure you know it, too.

the sound of skin on skin is obscene, rhythmic and loud, and he's making these noises in your ear that sound like he's coming apart at the seams. feral and animalistic, practically growling. you don't know how long it's been, you lost count somewhere around the third time you came. there's sweat dripping down his brow, onto the slope of your shoulder, bleeding into the thin fabric of the dress that he has hiked up around your waist.

"'atta fuckin' girl — take it. fuckin' take it." he's pulling your hair back, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive arch of your throat. bottom lip catching on it, dragging across the skin. "needed a reminder of who owns this pretty fuckin' pussy, huh? fuck, you feel so good."

you're aware, distantly, of the fact that you're moaning for it like you need it. like you're putting on a show. in truth, you're just so cock-drunk that any hope of a filter has long since passed you by. your nails dig into his shoulders, your eyes roll back, you try to say something back but it comes out as sharp, breathless sounds, punched out of you.

"'m gonna come," he's not kissing your neck anymore, now — too far gone for something even vaguely resembling coordinated. instead he pants against the skin, breath ghosting over it. "you're gonna fuckin' take it, y'hear me? all of it. fuck, darlin' —"

his hips stutter, his mouth presses flush against your throat, and the sound that leaves him is strangled and low, choked. his hips roll against yours, grinding, and you mewl at the way it presses against your overly-sensitive clit; too much and not enough. sated and starving. for a long, long moment he simply rests here, his face buried in the crook of your neck, your legs shaking where they wrap around his waist. you feel boneless, broken in the best of ways — and yes, his lesson has been made very, very clear to you.