Jace 🐾

Aftercare - what they're like after

Conquest might not be too adapted to how soft humans are in comparison to viltrumites, so he might need some time adjusting—a gentle nudge in the right direction from time to time. Overall, he's generally like a huge cat. If this man could purr, he would; in fact, he can manage a hum so low it actually does really sound like one! He's a cuddler. Big, rough hands grab you as soon as he's down on the bed next to you, pulling you close and inhaling your scent like like the faint smell of your sweat is the most heavenly thing to him. He's scared he might hurt your body, so little compared to him even if you are tall for the average human, but the urge to pull you close and smother you in his big arms is something akin to cuteness agression. If you ask, he'll fetch you water or a snack, maybe a heating pad or an exrta blanket. Over time, though, he'll get used to what you usually desire after a few rounds, and after cleaning you up, he'll get them without a specific request needed.

Body part - whats their favourite body part? Theirs and yours

It might sound cliche, but if you were to ask him what his favourite part of you was, he would jump at the opportunity to say everything. The soft skin he can nuzzle his face into, the limbs that try to tangle themselves around him in a hug or the hands that scratch at his skin when he's so focused on your pleasure that he gets lost in it all. Your favourite part of him would probably be your hands, though. How gently they can handle him even when there really is no need. How soft they feel all over him and how you love to hold his big, calloused palm in yours. It grounds him, calms him down when needed, and he'd die a happy man if your hands were on him while he went. His favourite part of his body? His arms. How such muscular, big sources of power that have blown through civilisations could now cradle you so gently. How easily he could pick you up and carry you where you needed to go or throwing you up into the air like a little child to hear you laugh.

Cum - anything to so with cum, really

His loads? Huge. Downright terrifying because where has this poor man been storing all of this? He prefers to come inside, liking the sense of intimacy it brings him, the idea that some piece of him will be with you at all times for a few days at least. He definitely had a breeding kink that just goes wild at the sight of you on his dick. If it's not inside you, he'll cum all over your stomach, your face if you let him. He loves seeing you streaked in something so innately his, marked by the evidence of what you do to him. If it comes time to clean up the mess, he'll lick it all up himself without a single complaint to be heard. You don't prompt him to, you're just laying there, still coming down and catching your breath when you feel that hot tongue strace over the lines painted on your stomach, up to your chest and neck.

Dirty secret - whats a dirty secret of theirs?

Secrets? Not this mans thing. He'll blurt out anything that comes to mind no matter how vulgar it is. Honestly, it gets you blushing and embarrassed most of the time because it just comes out of nowhere! He doesn't even try to make it sensual. It's just him still getting used to the fact that humans aren't as direct. It's just a remark here and there, in the middle of you and him minding your own business, cuddling, or anything that might be happening.

Experience - how experienced are they? Do they know what their doing?

Conquest has gathered lots of experience over his.. what? Five thousand years of life? He's not ever really had a partner, or maybe has, but had never really been in love—hence his lonliness. Despite that, his experiences are plenty. Tons of hookups over the years from planets he's conquered (I mean, who could resist him? Even if he's murdering their people with a smile on his face? I couldn't.). Maybe one or two other viltrumites in his earlier years, but none in the later ones, since not many are even willing or daring to get close. He knows exactly what you need, even if he unintentionally handles you a bit rougher sometimes. He's attentive and more than eager to please you. There's never a one to one ratio on orgasms, which 100% of the time works out in your favour, even if unintentional. He just loves to have his hands on you, and he gets plenty carried away sometimes.

Favourite position - self explanitory

It depends on the sex. In his desperate, rough days, he enjoys doggy a lot. It gives him plenty of curves to grab, limbs to restrain and skin to lick and bite. It allows him to reach deep, to be able to push and pull you away, and to him, it lets him move your body to a way that feels good for the both of you. On his gentle days, when he really wants to savour the moment, he prefers missionary, maybe something with you on top. In these positions, he can really admire you, watch you move and react to all the sensations he's making you feel, and be able to press his skin to yours. He enjoys the contact and intimacy of it, revels in the way you cling to him, and move against him. Your pleasure is his, and it only heightens his excitement to know and feel that you're having a great time. He lives for it. If he could see it all day every day for the rest of his life, he would.

Goofy - are they more goofy or serious in the moment? Do they make jokes?

Jokes, maybe, but he's mostly more serious during. He wants to be focused on you and your pleasure, as well as his. His intensity usually doesn't leave a lot of room for cracking jokes. On the other hand, he is a huge tease. Some days (the rougher ones), he's relentless, taunting and teasing non-stop, driving you mad with touches without getting you anywhere. He'll sneer when you whine and beg, making remarks about the fact that you have to be patient for him, taunting you for being so desperate, all the while not letting up on any of the shit he's pulling.

Hair - how are they groomed? Do the carpets match the drapes?

It's all grey. Everywhere. Obviously. He's got a nice amount of chest hair that matches the remaining ones on his head and his moustache. His forearms have a nice coating, too, that looks absolutely amazing when he rolls his sleeves up. The muscles with a dusting of grey body hair absolutely gives him some sort of greek god look that he really pulls off. The hair on his chest conects a trail down his softer stomach to his pubes, which are very much there, but he keeps them trimmed nicely. He's definitely not shaven, but he's neat and tidy. It honestly looks nice, framing him just right.

Intimacy - how intimate are they in the moment?

There's always a sense of intimacy with him, rough or gentle. Either in way he looks at you, caressing over the planes of your skin softly or the ragged breaths in your ear as he lays himself over your back, his face over your shoulder as he grunts out praises to your fucked out body, his firm hands keeping you in place and his pace showing absolutely zero signs of faltering or stopping any time soon, no matter the rounds you've already gone. His hands are so big, either very capable of grabbing at each and every part of your flesh, groaning about how good you're doing and how nice you feel around him, or how they cradle your body as he moves so slowly, cherishing you like his most prised posession, looking you deep in the eye as he commits the sight of you right to his memories, to keep this piece of you with him always.

Jack off - anything to do with masturbation

That piece of you leads him right to here, preserved for when needed, for the occasions where one of you is away. He doesn't really enjoy masturbation as much, since he rarely sees need to if he can't spill anything into you or feel your warm, soft touch or the scratches along his arms, sides and back whike he's so engrossed in the pleasure of it all. It just doesn't feel as good; his hands could never recreate the feeling of yiu around him or your hands caressing him, your mouth moving over and around him till he's all happy and sated. If he really is that messed up over the fact he can't have you, and he really can't stop thinking about it, he'll frustratedly take himself in hand and just force everything out of him over the span of fifteen minutes to an hour, depending on how desprate he is.

Kink - a kink of theirs. What are they into?

He has a huge breeding kink. Huge. Most viltrumites don't need or desire sex outside of breeding urges. They don't see the need to look for a partner who will only slow them down or make them soft outside of missions. If they do have one, though, it's on. Conwuest would do anything to keep you stuffed full of him all the time. Whether it is indeed for breeding perpouses or judt the thought of you being so full of him, he wants you to drip it when he's done with you, so to speak. Because he will indeed not let you drip it. If it's not quicky, he loves to stay buried inside you even after he's softened, letting you rest in a position that will allow it, keeping everything he's poured into you firmly there with no escape. It fills him with a sense of pride and duty, even if it is just for himself.

Location - what's their favourite place to get into it?

He mostly just prefers a bed, where he can take his sweet, sweet time with you and enjoy you thoroughly. Though, if we're being real, he would take you anywhere. In the kitchen, outside, on the floor, in the air.. the list goes way on. If it is indeed in a bed, he loves it because he can pound you silly into the soft surface, watching you bounce with the movements his heavy build is forcing on the mattress.

Motivation - what turns them on? Gets them going?

Everything. The way you walk? His dick is hard. Give him one wrong look? He'll absolutely pound the thoughts out of you. Caress his face just right? He wants to take care of you and make you cum till you go deaf and blind. He's just an absolute sucker for you, as serious about you as he ever has been and ever will be about another being. He wants you always, all the time, everywhere at once. He knows how to reign himself in of course, but when it comes time for that sweet release, he will ravenge you for just about anything that you do.

No - something they won't do / turn off.

Outside of the morally messed up shit, even if his morals are kind of messed up, absolutely nothing. Your wish is his command; this man is a freak and is proud to let you know it. You want to try something new? On it, boss. He's ready. From vanilla things to stuff that would make the devil break out a sweat, perhaps a little blush. He's all yours, opwn to experimenting snd switching things up. Positions? This man can bend you into whatever shape you want. You taking charge? Go right ahead. Even if proportions are off or you are nervous about things, he'll do his absolute best and try his hardest to make everything judt as enjoyable for you as he can. I mean, he'll enjoy it regardless.

Oral - preference in giving / receiving, skill, etc.

He doesn't mind receiving head, though with his size, it's hard for anyone to fully take him. Even half would be more than enough for the average person, so he doesn't really expect it or request it a lot. Giving, on the other hand? This man will slobber over you aaaalll day. Sucking, licking. Just nuzzling into you and nudging with his nose, he's got it. He's messy with it, but it's intense and pleasureful. He'll have you coming with his mouth plenty of times before you even get to the big event if you let him. He'll keep going till you try to tug him up or whine for him that it's too much. He loves overstimulating all your nerves till you beg him to go easier, to at least let you catch your breath. Sometimes, though, as much as he loves hearing you beg, it falls on deaf ears anyway. He blames it on his age. Yeah, right.

Pace - are they fast, slow, stamina, etc.

He varies, but boy when he switches it up from one to the other? Slow, deep, more grinding than anything turns to your hips being lifted off of whatever surface you were on an held up by him as he plummets your depths like a man on a mission. He can be relentless, so quick and hard you'll definitely not be walking straight if at all tomorrow, but at the same time, he can be so slow, sometimes barely moving yet still so intense it gets you where you want to go, less intense than usual, it's a slow and rolling sensation that lasts a while, something that you feel you'll never come down from, so opposite from the harsh, quick snap and bursts that usually take place, though even that varied in it's levels of intensity.

Quickie - their opinion on them, how often, etc

He definitely prefers to be able to take his time over anything else, so quickies aren't really his deal. When you do have them, though, they're usually in a fit of desperation. Maybe squeeze one in one last time before saying goodbye for something like a mission or trip that the other can't join on, maybe after an argument of any kind.

Risk - are they game to experiment? Do they take risks?

Conquest gives absolutely no fucks when it comes to risking a lot of things, even his life, as we've seen. It exitedls him, gives him a rush. Getting beat up with thr risk of very bad bodily injury? Bring it on. Toying with people to bring out the absolute worst in them and taunt them till they snap? Definitely his dead. Something he doesn't like to risk, though? Is you. Seeing you in any type of trouble or danger would send him mad, so he doesn't like to risk anything dangerous, even if you are the type of person who gets a thrill from it just like him. A place where you risk being seen is okay with him, of course, since there is something so exiting about that, but anything that crosses his line of danger is off limits. Somewhere public, like a bathroom stall of storage closet? Have at it! He's more than happy to oblige you if that is something you're into or would be willing to try. Despite that, he couldn't bare seeing anything bad happen to you, especially if it could be partially caused by him. So, he'll play it safe with you, make sure everything you do together is something that could easily be fixed by him if something were to happen.

Stamina - how many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?

All viltrumites have great stamina, since that was insured when only the most virile of the species were allowed to reproduce. Conquests stamina is something that never seems to run out, bred and trained for long and hard battle, sex is at the least of his worries when it comes to a workout. He can take you round after round after round until you're so spent you're barely awake, and he'll barely have broken a sweat, if at all. He'll let you rest when you're clearly too tired or you ask, of course, but trust me when I say that when you wake up, he's ready to go right back at it again.

Toys - Do they own toys? Do they use them?

I don't think he'd really have any at home, but if you suggest it, maybe give him some, he's eager to try it out. On you, on himself, whatevers possible. He wants to appreciate your gift to the fullest and is more than happy to do so. Things like vibes, he'll tease you for hours on end and try and figure out every single way to make you come using them. He enjoys seeing them used on you more, but if you want to he'll let you try whatever you want on him, just content to have you paying him such close attention, to have your hands on him making him feel so good in that way just you do.

Unfair - how much do they like to tease?

As mentioned before, Conquest will tease and edge you till you're begging and in tears if you let him. He loves seeing you desperate, hearing all the noises you make for him. The way you squirm and whine for him to just let you come already is just music to his ears and plenty of strokes to his ego. Knowing that this is the way he can make you feel, no one else, just exites him more than anything. He's infuriating. The endless taunting is so frustrating, yet somehow it still manages to brighten that fire inside of you. You desire it, his hands endlessly roaming with no intention of taking you any further for a good while.

Volume - how loud are they? What sounds do they make?

He's fairly quiet in terms of noise, but he loves to talk. Taunting, teasing, praising, remarking about how good you feel, hell, he'll tell a story or to to your absolutely fucked out body after multiple rounds, all while he's still moving into you relentlessly. He does make the occasional noises, rough and fairly hushed; hell groan out his words or give a grunt here and there. He just can't possibly keep completely muted with the way you feel around him, like he's wrapped up in heaven itself. Sometimes, he muffles the noise by shoving his face to whatever skin he can reach from that angle or kissing you till you're even more out of breath, if that was possible.

Wild card - a random headcannon

He has a thing for his size. Naturally, most(all) of his partners are smaller than him, even if they're tall for whatever species they are from. If he's relieving oral from you, he likes to just see the size of him against your face. The difference gets him going, how easily he can manhandle you even if you're strong. It makes him feel strong, powerful—which he loves. It's never at the expense of you feeling useless, but the way you're so small next to him is just a huge turn-on.

X-ray - whats going on underneath them clothes?

He's big for his size, and as a man of around 7 feet or taller, that's absolutely huge. He's around the girth of an average human fist, just a bit skinnier when flacid. The length of it is definitely enough to struggle with, but you make it work together. It's got a couple of veins along the side and underside, a colour just a bit darker than his usual skintone, and it turns a more reddish colour when hard, the more desprate, the more colour. It's pretty, which is weird to say of an old, weathered conqourers uncut dick, but it's true. The dusting of nest grey hair compliments him well—he's definitely an eyeful, and his naked body in all its glory is something to blink at. The source of attraction, though? It's definitely the junk he's packing. You just physically cannot stop yourself from sneaking a peek whenever you can.

Yearning - how high is their sex drive?

All day, every day. If he has the chance, he'll keep you to himself multiple hours a day, if not the whole day. For him, of course, it's the blink of an eye. In his 5000 years, you are the brightest thing that's happened, and he just wants to keep quaking those memories and moments with you like there's no tomorrow—including plenty of orgasms and then some.

Zzz - how quickly do they fall asleep afterwards?

He doesn't sleep that quickly afterwards. Sex just seems to wake him up more. Eventually, when you're asleep, he'll likely end up just watching you, so peaceful in his bed after the romp you've had. He's smitten, and he'll just sit or lay there for hours, watching. He'll never get tired of it, but it does help him calm back down, have him settle in with you, and scoot your body to his so he can tangle you up in his strong arms. He listens to the sound of your breathing until, inevitably, he too falls asleep.

Thank you for the request, anon!! It took me a while to get to it, sorry for that. I'm still getting back into writing but if anyone has more requests, please let me know! See my pinned post for the guidelines to my writing.

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It’s surely nearing midnight when the doorbell rings; a brief, jumping tune that cleaves impersonally through the silence of the dim house. It feels almost mocking in nature, when set against the quiet simmer of anxiety that’s become an unwelcome constant over the past several weeks. 

From your place in the bathroom, rinsing your toothbrush clean, you still. You make a move for your phone to check the time, but realize upon palming an empty pocket that you left it on the bedside table in your room. A long, unnerved stare into the darkness beyond the bathroom stretches endlessly, of such unblinking intensity you could almost swear you begin to see movement in the black. 

Only when the bell rings again, do you move. Your toothbrush slips into the cup by the sink alongside a dry, months-abandoned second. A thick swallow tightens your throat, switching off the bathroom light on your way out and letting your feet’s muscle memory guide you down the hall and through the living room. There, the darkness is notably weaker, abated by the wan threads of moonlight that spill across the floor, through the fine curtains.  

Your front door has no peephole, and although you've been meaning to get a doorbell camera installed you've not had the time nor energy these days to follow through. 

You fleetingly wish you’d grabbed your gun—then, just as swiftly, discard the thought. You're out of that life, of standing on complete guard whenever there’s an unexpected visitor at the door, of reaching for the nearest firearm at the first inkling of danger. It’s been years, coming up on four now since you left, but old habits die hard.

Your palm hovers steadily, for only a beat or two, above the handle. 

Fuck it, you think rather blandly, and tug the door open. 

The pause that follows is surely not as long in reality as it feels to you, but it is stark and charged nonetheless. 

Naturally, being closer to his eye level, your gaze latches on to Court, first. Scanning over his face, his bearing and his clothes, his bandaged palm, the nearly faded, yellowish bruise across his cheek. Battered, as per usual, but staggeringly intact. Relief swathes you whole; the months worth of built-up unease weighing your collarbones down unfurls all at once.

Next, your attention dips, settles instead on the shorter, scrawnier frame of a tired-looking Claire beside him. She’s fairing significantly better, but a pale pink burn on her cheek reveals a preview of what she must have been through in these weeks of radio silence. 

“Hi,” she says, voice turned inward but not necessarily out of shyness. You sense her exhaustion like a plume of thick smoke clinging to her lanky frame. 

She’s moving before you even fully get your own greeting out, sinking into your arms and clinging with a ferocity that stuns you, considering her state. You cup the back of her head, hair soft and clean, which hopefully means the worst has passed. Claire lingers in the embrace, clutching the back of your worn sleep shirt and burrowing her temple into your collarbone like she plans on staying there a while. 

In the meantime, you look back up to find Court staring right back. There’s that hardness to his jaw, faintly tighter than where it would naturally rest that suggests a degree of discomfort from him. Your heart clenches just at the sight of him, relief and concern equal parts to blame for your sudden breathlessness. You long to kiss him, to check out what’s got his hand cloaked in such thick dressing and ideally look over the rest of him, too—knowing when there’s one injury on the man there is always more. 

After a minute, Claire pulls away, and your hands follow her, soothing against her back. 

“You guys eat?”

Claire sniffles once and nods, dragging the heel of her palm against her eye. 

“We got Burger King on the way here,” Court offers, at which you give a faint smile. 

“Okay. Why don’t you head to the guest bedroom, kid? I’ll find you a toothbrush and some pajamas in a minute,” you tell her, pressing one hand fleetingly to her cheek before she nods and retreats. 

Now alone, the two of you turn back to each other. The breeze swings between you, beckoned in by the open door, and when you manage to tear your eyes away from Court’s steel blue pair, you finally speak. 

“You gonna stand guard there all night?”

He huffs; a flicker of amusement amidst the tension stretched through him like a taut wire. With shuffling feet he enters. Shuts the door behind him with a dull click. 

“Hey,” you murmur, planting both hands on either side of Court’s neck. Much to your satisfaction, some of his tension bleeds away at the touch, stepping even closer to circle you in his arms. 

“Hey.”

“You had me worried,” you chastise, but all of your frustrations ebb away at the feeling of him finally back in your arms. 

“I know,” Court sighs, ducking forward to plonk his forehead onto your shoulder, and you take the opportunity to press a long, warm kiss to his temple. “I’m sorry.” His back muscles ripple like weaseling little fish underneath the skin, against your circling palms; a testament to weeks worth of tension left to fester in his body.

“I’ll make you some tea, okay?”

Court expels a shallow puff of air against the neck he’s burrowed into, nodding once, sluggish, and then pulling back entirely. You gently usher him off into the kitchen, where you coax him into a stool by the island and then switch the kettle on. From there, you turn toward the hallway and stroll out of the kitchen, dragging a palm across the set of Court’s sunken shoulders when you walk past him. On the way to the guest bedroom, you stop by the storage closet and grab a thick quilt folded atop one of the metal racks drilled into the wall.

However, when a tentative knock on the cracked door gives way to a long beat of silence, you peek inside to find Claire curled up on the twin-sized bed, sneakers haphazardly kicked off by the rug. Your heart twinges with sympathy, carefully shouldering the door open and sidling inside, quiet so as not to disturb her well-earned rest. You shake the quilt out and then drape it over her small frame. She doesn’t so much as stir.

Making a mental note to lay out a new toothbrush and some clothes for her later, you back out of the room, and very heedfully shut the door.

Back in the kitchen, Court hasn’t moved an inch from his seat, forearms crossed over the laminate counter, head wilted. Neither of you speak upon your return, not for the few minutes in which you prepare two cups of tea, but Court does lift his head at one point, following your movements around with fond, tired eyes.

With a generous squeeze of honey into both mugs, the drinks are ready, and soon carried over toward the kitchen island. You slide one toward Court’s folded arms and settle into the stool beside his.

“Alright,” you sigh, turning to face Court with your whole body, “tell me.”

Court blinks down at the twirling teabag in his mug, fiddling with the paper end between three fingers, and after a long, smooth pull of breath, begins talking.

Last thing you'd heard from him, Court was to fly out to Bangkok for a regular job—before he went radio silent for just over two months. What you didn’t know was that Court’s target was apparently also Sierra, nor anything about Carmichael’s corruption—though that part didn’t surprise you as much.

He tells you about the encrypted drive, and Lloyd Hansen, and the chaos in Prague, and Cahill, all with a careful neutrality to his tone that sets you on edge. You stick a leg out, settling it against the footrest of Court’s stool and pressing your shin to his bouncing calf.

A long beat follows. Steam curls through the air between you, wisping against Court’s stubbled jaw like comforting hands. You set your mug down, nearly empty, and reach for one of Court’s forearms, thumbing over the faded tattoo there.

“Fitz?” you ask, treading very carefully. The line of Court’s mouth tightens—a fleeting twitch of motion—before he looks up, meets your eye. Shakes his head.

A long, thready sigh squeezes out of you. Your fingers tighten reassuringly, and Court then moves to cloak his own free hand over yours. He’s wearing this sad, lipped sort of smile now, a meager attempt at unimpassioned dismissal.

“It’s fine, it’s how—it was never gonna be old age, so…”

“Still. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah,” Court grates, nodding stiffly. “Me too.”

With another slow exhale, you push yourself to your feet, drawing your arms around him and into a firm embrace, head craned low to press your mouth into the top of Court’s ruffled hair. 

For a long moment, he remains stony and sober beneath you, something that had once bothered you, years ago when he was nothing more than a nameless agent you'd be told to patch up, and you were a dispensable cog in the machine that made him so. You understand now he can't help it—rather than a front he puts up it's his nature. One forced and beaten into place, but his nature nonetheless.

Eventually, though, when the embrace stretches on long enough, his arms slide up, large, rough palms encircling your bicep and shoulder.

"How's she holding up?" you ask next, because you know better than to focus on him too much; the trick with Court is to pry him open in tiny increments, coaxing that tightly concealed vulnerability out of him before he even knows it.

Court shifts against you—possibly in a shrug.

"As well as she can be, considering. She's a strong kid."

"Yeah, she is," you sigh, craning your neck back to peer down the hall where she sleeps. Your chest aches for her—so young, and already so wounded by the world. Court expels a wary breath, smoothing a palm down your bicep to latch under your elbow.

"I hope it's okay that I... came here. If I even suspect they know we're here, I'll be gone before—"

"Hey, none of that," you butt in, turning back to him, sternly holding his gaze. "You know I like having you here. Both of you. It's a big house, gets lonely sometimes."

Court's eyes flick all across your face, quietly analytical in that charming way of his—though now you almost feel the urge to shrivel underneath such close inspection. He's been through hell these past weeks, no point in making him feel guilty for how worried and alone you've been during them.

He seems to do so, anyway.

Before he can speak, you take his jaw in one hand and lean down to kiss him—finally giving in to the nagging urge that's been screaming at you since you first opened the front door.

At that—amusingly so—Court melts, his bandaged palm drifting outward to curl around your hip, mouth warm and pliant against yours. The kiss is soft, chaste, more of a greeting than anything else. You'd missed him so terribly it's almost humiliating, and now having him back has brought all that longing swinging back into your chest like an anvil. You aren't even togther—not officially, but you have a toothbrush for him in your bathroom and a vivid mental map of every corner of his body and the first place he thought to go to when everything went to shit was here.

That’s got to count for something.

You nip at his lower lip, just to tease, and crack a sly grin when he sucks in a small, sharp inhale in response. He chases after you when you pull away, brows slightly furrowed.

"Down, boy," you chuckle, weaseling your palm against his lips when his mouth wanders down your throat. "Let me check you over."

"I'm fine," he mumbles against your loosely sealed fingers, shifting in his stool to bracket you properly between his strong thighs. "Peachy."

"Court," you press, letting your hand sink, fingers sliding lazily down his chin. He reaches up to your own jaw, scraping one calloused thumb against your own stubble—somewhat longer than how you tend to keep it. You've been taking so many shifts at the hospital that your free time has been limited to showering and sleeping. Shaving has been moved to the backburner.

He meets your gaze yet again, with that privately discerning edge that suggests a deep consideration. His face softens impossibly; it was staggering, seeing it happen the first time, back when all you knew him as was just another dead-eyed mercenary capable of unspeakable violence. By the time you met him you'd long come to terms with the fact that no amount of good you could do as a doctor would ever couterbalance the suffering most of your patients inflicted on a regular basis, so you'd cared very little to connect with any of them beyond stitching them up scribbling away all sorts of painkiller perscriptions.

But Court had, even then, snagged your attention. While still stoic and stone-eyed, almost unnervingly so in the face of some of the injuries you've seen him bear, he'd crack the occassional joke with you—mostly lame puns or give it to me straight, doc quips while he was near delirious with blood loss. He had sensed your early apprehension around him and broadcasted every slow movement, apologized whenever the pain made him jerk sharply away from your touch, and once—minutes before passing out in the middle of the medical tent in a temporary base set up somewhere in Poland—denied attention from any other medic on location aside from you. You'd been halfway across the base, not on active duty but as always on call, when you were paged and informed an agent was causing a scene, asking for you by name.

"Don't touch me! Where is he? I need—he can..." was all that you'd caught before ducking into the tent, where a small flock of antsy doctors and nurses hedged Court in, your Head Physician approaching him with a cartoonishly-sized syringe in hand, brow set.

Court had spotted you approaching in an instant, and the rabid set of his broad shoulders had collapsed.

He managed a thready, "Oh, hey Doc," before buckling against you.

As it turned out, his manic state was not only attributable to the GSW in his abdomen, but to a truly inordinate amount of drugs forcefully pumped into his bloodstream by enemy agents. He'd spent the subsequent two nights sunken in a fever so indomitable you'd almost expected him not to bounce back.

"Okay," Court says, and you blink out of your daze, finding yourself back here—not Poland, not ducking your head to war criminals, not watching Courtland bleed out against your palms.

Your hand slides down the firm curve of his shoulder, and all the way into his palm, where you weave your fingers into his and pull him to his feet. From there, the two of you shuffle into the living room, and you push him into the couch with a soft press to the shoulder.

He sheds his shirt without you having to ask—he knows this routine inside out, and for all of his paranoid rituals, born from the type of life he's lived, this is your own. You know he's more than happy to oblige, if it helps you sleep.

"You know, there are easier ways of getting me half-naked on your couch."

"I don't know," you counter, eyes narrowing pointedly at him but your tone distinctly lacking of edge. "This was pretty easy."

Court makes an affronted face at that. "What are you implying?"

"What's this?" you begin in lieu of answering, taking his badaged palm into your lap, fingertips just barely dipping underneath the bottom edge.

"Switchblade," he pushes out on a sigh. In his eyes you find a glimmer of misplaced amusement; you shake your head fondly. "In and out. Pretty gnarly."

"I bet," you say, trailing your ghosting touch up his arm, following the old, ragged scar stretching up to the edge of his collarbone. You study his bare torso, momentarily setting aside the urge to admire the view in favor of indulging the nervous doctor in you; right above his sharp hip bone on his right side, a pucker of half-healed flesh, unbandaged but still bearing that ruddy tone of recovering skin.

"Those were scissors. Same guy. Only a few inches deep, not the worst of the bunch."

You squint through the dimness—the warm kitchen light offers its tepid glow, just enough so you can search for any abnormal irritation or discharge. You find none, and move to the next: another stab wound in the back of his shoulder; a nasty gash in the thigh; an impressive collection of greenish bruises and half-faded scabs. You change dressings where required, study wounds for any signs of infection or improper healing, feel along his ribs for any fractures—and you know, logically, he's spent the last few weeks in a hospital. You know the government-funded team of professionals who treated him wouldn't have missed something as elementary as broken ribs or developing infection.

But it helps. You have to see it for yourself, that he's joking around on your couch at one in the morning and in no imminent, life-threatening peril. God knows you've seen enough of him in it to last you several lifetimes.

By the end of it, Court is boneless against the cushions, head tipped back and angled toward you. His eyes are shut but you know he's awake; he'd fought the mounting weight of his eyelids as long as he could, just watching you, but he's only human. The lazy back-and-forth sweep of his thumb where he has his hand pressed to the small of your back underneath your shirt speaks to his wakefulness.

You readily embrace the warmth the small gesture brings to your ribcage, shifting and breathing like a neutron star fit to burst. Your hand finds his soft, golden brown hair, combing it through with your fingers, hairline to crown. A pleasant hum rumbles in his chest at that, faintly reminiscent of a cat's purr, and a stupid smile pulls at your lips.

"I missed you," you whisper, hesitant to disturb the intimate silence that has taken root. Your fingers dip lower on your ensuing comb, snaking between his head and the backrest cushion. "It was close, wasn't it?"

Court's eyes scrunch, still closed, but the silence preceeding his answer tells you enough. "A few times, yeah. Was touch-and-go for a minute, according to the doctors."

He cracks his eyes open, just a sliver, to catch your reaction. The fear has never relented—not for a minute since you left the CIA. It's as suffocating as it was then, but something you've had to learn how to live with, only because you had no other choice. Leaving that life hadn't been the hard part, it had been weighing on your conscience for the better part of a decade prior, but you knew once you left, Court could very well leave on a mission one day and never come back. You'd never even know. You couldn't treat him, you couldn't swipe his file if he was under the care of another medic, you couldn't say goodbye. You couldn't bury him.

Court knew this, and still he encouraged you to leave.

His palm glides up the warm skin of your back, thumb following the track of your spine.

"Come on, you know me," he says, urging you close with a steady pressure at the center of your back, "I'm not going out if it's not on your table, Doc."

You huff out a strained chuckle, finally yielding to his wordless ask and letting him kiss you. His body is hard and warm under your lazily meandering hands, sliding from his neck to his shoulders and down his chest. On their way down, you fleetingly tweak a nipple, and grin against his mouth when the kiss fractures. His fingers flex into your back, essentially hauling you into his lap—your head spins.

Licking into his mouth, you settle with your knees buried into the back of the couch, thighs braced on either side of his hips. When Court kisses, it's like he's starving. You've learned to ration your breaths during fleeting breaks, when either of you groans or gasps. He traps your head in place with a hand at the nape of your neck, the other still exploring underneath your shirt. After a while, it gets far too in the way and he pulls it off entirely.

The press of your bare chests makes the breath stumble in your throat, the ever-present warmth in your chest simmering and dribbling low into your groin. Beneath you, he's already half-hard, always enthusiastic when it comes to you. You jostle at a tiny buck of his hips.

Court makes a low sound—your name, possibly, trapped amidst a breathless grunt. He's breathing harder now, shifting restlessly beneath you. His hands can't quite seem to settle in one place.

"Court," you hum into him, planting two fingers to his pec and pressing him firmly against the backrest. The sudden severity of your tone gives him clear pause. "Relax."

His pupils have crowded into the lovely sea blue of his eyes, shrunken them down to twin rings, stark against the flush of his skin. You spread one palm against his chest, just barely catching the frantic kicking of his heart. The other reaches down to encircle his wrist where it'd landed on your hip.

"Relax. Okay? Hold still, I got you."

Court nods, dazed and unblinking as you slowly draw his hand to your mouth. There, you press many feathery kisses, trailing from the shifting tendons of his inner wrist, along the heel of his palm, up his thumb. His breath catches when you reach the tip, grazing the flat tops of your teeth against the pad.

Tentatively, Court sinks past your lips, hooking loosely behind your bottom teeth before searching out your tongue. You seal your lips around the knuckle, buzzing with lust-tinged amusement as his flush deepens.

His thumb flattens on the center of your tongue; in response, you faintly hollow your cheeks, and that does it.

A tremulous groan cracks out of him, head dipping back against the cushion. The erratic roll his hips make feels more automatic than deliberate, but he's quick to steel himself—always so good at following your orders it makes your whole body pulse with heat.

You can feel him, hard against your clothed ass—certain the motionless pressure must be driving him crazy, you decide to spoil him a little and give a few slow grinds of your own.

"Oh—fuck," he groans, low and unsteady. His thumb presses harder on your tongue for a moment, before he catches himself and releases it. You teasingly bite down, hoping he gets the message to be rougher, but he just swallows thickly and blinks up at the ceiling.

After a minute or so, you still, thrilled at the harsh exhale he gives, frustrated. You pull off of his thumb, noting the way he stares at the fine, sagging thread of spit that clings to your lip.

"Talk to me, baby," you hum, dabbing his cheeks and jaw with teasingly innocent pecks. "What do you need?"

Court reaches for your face, catching your jaw again—smearing your own spit against your cheek—to look you in the eye.

"You wanna fuck me?" You punctuate it with a slow roll of your hips. "Wanna be fucked?"

Court can't seem to string an answer together, can't even decide whether to gawk at your eyes or spit-slick mouth. Of course you don't expect him to be able to make such a decision, but asking anyway is part of the fun. It's fascinating just how easily you can get him like this, a bit of a power trip, really, and the glassy arousal in his eyes makes you strain against your sweats.

You feign deep thought, dragging blunt nails down the swell and valleys of his abdominal muscles. They catch on the elastic of his boxers, but wander no further.

"I know," you coo when another tiny noise resounds from low in his throat, "I know. You need me to take care of you, don't you?"

Your name on his tongue has always sounded lovely, but like this—thick with need and wet with spit, it's delicious. You kiss him warmly, just to soothe, and finally relent and paw at his straining cock through the thin material trapping it. You swallow his moan, pressing with a steady, circling motion and absorbing every shudder that rips through him.

He clings to your back, huffing and grinding up into your hand. When the kiss inevitably breaks, you migrate to his throat, where sharp bites are balmed by calculated swipes of your tongue.

"Fff—fuck, oh Jesus," Court moans, finding some sort of fleeting clarity and then reaching between your bodies to palm at your own neglected erection. You can't help but groan into his skin, allowing yourself a few lazy thrusts into his large hand before gently prying it away.

"It's okay, baby," you pant, thumbing at his swollen, leaking slit. "Let me focus on you first. You're so sweet, thinking of me."

Court offers a strained hum in response, squeezing your hip once.

"You look perfect like this, Court. You're perfect, all mine."

Much to his dismay, your hand abandons his cock in order to latch on to the back of his neck, which you guide off the cushion so he can properly face you. Then, you shift your weight, resettling how you’d been positioned earlier, with the cleft of your ass applying pressure to his cock.

For a moment, you stop to think. What he needs right now, what will make him feel the best and keep him happy and blissfully sapped for long afterwards. In the meantime, your thumbs pet the stubble across his cheeks in mirrored motions. His eyebrows are pinched, faintly warped upwards with arousal, pooling with nowhere to go. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you for a second.

He’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

You make sure to let him know this, and grin, catlike, when he squirms and flushes a pretty dark pink in the warm light. He twitches against your ass; you don’t need to look to know he’s absolutely weeping precome.

You lean in, kiss his cheekbone and brow bone, the side of his nose, the corner of his mouth. He murmurs your name again in a shattered voice, gripping your hip with one hand and back with the other so tightly you’re sure he’s trying desperately not to rut against you.

“That’s it. You’re doing so good, Court. You listen so well.”

“Don’t—” It comes out sharp, bladed through his gritted teeth but you can hear the early tones of a whine somewhere in it, and it only spurs you on more.

“What? You’re close already? Gonna come all over yourself, in your boxers?”

You don’t mean for it to come out so sardonic—it’s easy to get carried away when positioned like this, when the eyes on you are so fucked-out and desperate for you—but Court twitches again, full-body this time, and a wet moan cuts through the dense air between you.

One of your hands slip low, pivoting at the wrist to take ahold of the underside of his jaw, careful to steer clear of his exposed throat. You’d made that mistake once already.

“It’s alright,” you murmur, itching to kiss him or to continue mouthing at the sensitive spots at his neck, but the need to watch him crumble eclipses all of it. The spasmodic twitches in his thighs shake all the way up his body, and by proxy through yours. Still, the occasional half-grind against you slips through. You let them slide only because you missed him so much, and he’s been so good.

“You can come. Let me see you come, my good boy.”

Court’s head all but goes limp in your tender yet firm hold, eyes screwing shut, lips parting soundlessly.

His chest swells with a gasping breath, and his body tightens beneath you for a split second, before unraveling.

He comes with a teetering moan, sprouting from deep in the throat but still vaguely whiny in nature. You kiss him quickly so as not to wake Claire, and once his orgasm crests, he lets go and rides it out against your ass, soaking his boxers with his load.

Amidst his frantic humping the arms around your back draw you tightly in, snuffing out every inch of open space between you.

You choke out a moan yourself when your cock presses flush against his tensing stomach, fingers anchoring into Court’s hair.

He pulls away to burrow into your neck, emptying the last of his airy groans against your pulse point as his motions come to a slow, twitchy halt. At no point does he loosen his hold on you. You can feel the wetness beneath you, warm and thick.

Like earlier, you press the loose shape of your mouth into his hair, breathing in deeply, holding the smell of him close and deep in your chest. His breaths fan out across your collarbone, coaxing goosebumps to rise in their wake.

“Good?” you mumble, trying to pull back and get a look at him but rendered immobile by his unyielding arms. He nods against your throat.

You find yourself grinding, smooth and sluggish, against his stomach, eyes shut and feeling the press and drag of his hot mouth against your skin.

Finally (perhaps once he notices your motions), Court’s head straightens, and you get no warning before you’re being manhandled onto your back along the length of the couch.

“Thank you,” he whispers into a too-short kiss, one you can’t even chase after before he’s traveling down your torso in equally fleeting kisses.

“Don’t thank me,” you pant, hands finding his hair again, stretching lazily at his scalp. “That was hot.”

He shoots you a dopey grin, hands cupping your hips before he begins mouthing at the tent in your sweats. Heat flares through you, heels digging into the couch as you try to buck up into the contact to no avail.

Court wastes no time for teasing; he hooks his fingers into both waistbands and pulls your sweats and underwear down with one brusque tug, just enough to free your cock.

He presses damp, open mouthed kisses all along the shaft, glassy eyes pinned on your own. On occasion you’ll attempt to push up against the hold on your pelvis, and his fingers will squeeze once and the corner of his mouth will quirk up.

It’s embarrassing how close you are by the time he enfolds his lips around the head, but getting him off has always been a sort of extension of your own pleasure; it never takes much afterward for you to follow.

Your head spins as he takes you, inch by dizzying inch. He loves blowing you, and you love seeing him like this, hollow-cheeked and focused around you. Working his tongue in ways that make you see stars and taking you to the base, nose buried in the thatch of thick hair there.

“Court—Court, holy shit,” you pant, trying not to abuse his scalp too much but scrambling for purchase amidst the relentless flurry of pleasure swallowing your senses one by one. He’s so good with his mouth it’s unfair, and it’s only made worse by how smug he looks down there.

Your knee presses to his ribs, seeking out contact anywhere. At that, Court rubs a few clumsy circles into your hip bone, and pointedly sucks.

It’s over after that. It only takes a few swallows around your cock before your mounting pleasure reaches a crescendo, and you barely get a warning out before you’re coming into his mouth, down his happily obliging throat.

You muffle your own cry of bliss into the crook of your elbow, fucking into Court’s mouth until your orgasm begins to subside. Even then, you linger for a minute, one hand knotted in Court’s hair, his throat subtly working around your softening length, the soothing stroke of his thumbs on your hips a perfect comedown.

Finally, you squeeze out a heavy breath, tapping the back of his skull so he pulls off. You follow the sweep of his tongue across his lips with drowsy fascination. Wordlessly, he tucks you back into your sweats.

As he crawls back up your body, you steal a glance down at his crotch, and snort at the rather conspicuous stain at the front of his light gray underwear.

“You’re laughing at me?” Court grumbles, pecking up your jaw. “I just gave you life-changing head and you’re laughing at me.”

“Life-changing?” you chuckle, letting him kiss you—too flooded with post-coital endorphins to think it’s gross in the slightest. “Don’t break your arm patting yourself on the back.”

He snorts, going abruptly boneless atop of you and knocking from your chest a low oof!

“You should shower,” you murmur, tracing the curve of his shoulder blade with a forefinger. He grunts vaguely.

“I need to sleep. For a year.”

“Sure. But a pre-hibernation shower wouldn’t hurt.”

He breathes out, steady and slow and warm against your jaw. Your fingers begin instead an absentminded drumming rhythm against his strong back. An idea strikes, and you grin wickedly at the ceiling.

“I could even join,” you slyly add.