ৎ𝓲 𝓭𝓲𝓭 𝓬𝓻𝔂 𝓽𝓸𝓭𝓪𝔂𝜗

now you're both at smurf's place.

the noise of the pool party is a distant static hum buzzing through the sliding glass doors into the dim quiet of the living room. smurf's shrill laugh cutting through the splashing, the sizzle and pop of the grill, craig hollering at someone about something stupid, glass bottles clinking, music too loud. all of it muffled and far away from the little bubble you and your boyfriend, pope, created in the living room.

he's dead weight across your lap.

sprawled flat on his stomach on the big red lounge couch, long legs hanging off the end, one arm tucked under his chest and the other holding his phone above his face while his head is pillowed on your soft thighs. your skirt has ridden up, the soft cotton bunched at your hips, exposing miles of bare skin to the cool air. his cheek is pressed against the warm inside of one thigh, his auburn curls spilling across your lap.

he's scrolling through his phone. aggressively. irritated by a stream of texts — people his brothers ripped off, loose ends he has to tie up because god forbid craig or deran handle anything cleanly. you can see the tension in his jaw even from this angle, brows in a mean furrow, the hard set of his mouth, the way his shoulders are drawn up tight. he's been like this since he walked through the door forty minutes ago. coiled, wound, a spring waiting to snap.

"you're getting worry lines, andrew." you look down at him from the book in your hand and frown.

then you reach down and push at the deep crease between his brows with the pad of your thumb, smoothing it out.

"m'sorry it's just that have to fix this mess these idiots left and—" he doesn't finish his sentence as your fingers card slow through his auburn curls, scratching gently at his scalp, dragging your nails lightly over the warm skin of his nape where his hair is shortest. it pulls a low rumbling sound from deep in his chest, something that vibrates straight through your thighs and settles hot and low in your core. you feel him physically relax at the contact. the tight line of his shoulders drops a fraction. his jaw unclenches.

"we're here to relax. now relax and put the damn phone away."

"hmm. fine." he obeys you easily, always does, almost like he physically can never say the word 'no' to you. he abandons the phone, letting it drop face down onto the cushion with a thud. his arm flops down beside it, limp and defeated, and he exhales — long and slow, the last of the tension leaving his body in that single breath.

you're both quiet for the moment, not the awkward kind. but in a way that feels comfortable, calm. nothing pope is used to but longs for desperately.

his dark eyes flutter open. he watches you from below, chin tucked against your thigh, face tilted up. he looks at you the way he always looks at you, like you're something he doesn't deserve and knows it and is terrified of anyway.

he studies the deliberate, unbothered calm of you. the way you're reading a fucking paperback like his ticking time bomb of a family isn't less than twenty feet away, like the man currently using your thighs as a pillow hasn't got blood under his fingernails that will take hours to wash out, like the world isn't constantly on fire around both of you.

he wonders how he got this. how he got a girl who holds his violence in her lap and tames it with only her fingers in his hair. who accepts him as is, doesn't flinch when he comes home with bruised knuckles and dead eyes. who just wants him safe, whole, and in your arms before the end of the night. who makes him feel like maybe the rot inside him isn't terminal but something you can fix.

his calloused thumb rubs absent circles into your bare thigh — rough pad dragging over your soft skin, back and forth, back and forth.

then he turns his face.

you feel the hot wet exhale of his breath against your inner thigh — closer than before, higher— before his nose drags slow along the soft skin toward your center. your thighs clench. your thumb stills on the page. he inhales, deep and shameless, pressing his face into the crease of your thigh like he's trying to breathe you directly into his lungs and bypass his respiratory system entirely.

"you smell..." he trails off, the words muffled against your flesh, his lips moving against your skin. "different."

"really?" you hum, not looking up from your book. "just my usual body mist though. you know the one you like..."

"yeah, i can smell that." he says, voice low, he rolls his head deeper, nose pressing into the warm crease of your thighs. "but there's somethin' else underneath it. somethin'…" he trails off, searching for the word, and settles on: "sweet."

and then, god help you, his nose twitches. actually twitches, like a dog catching a scent on the wind, and you would laugh if you weren't so busy trying to keep your composure because his nose is dangerously close to your pussy. and you've been hypersensitive all day and–

and something clicks.

the dull ache in your lower belly this morning. the tenderness in your breasts when you pulled your shirt on. the way you've been running hot all day with an aching need for him. you were–

"oh."

"oh?" he breathes out, like he already knows. of course he does. "you ovulating? aren't you early?"

you want to scream. the man is ridiculous. how could he possibly have known you were ovulating before you did? his nose is pressed against the inside of your thigh and he's casually sniffing out your pheromones, tracking your menstrual cycle like he's got your flo app memorized.

"what the fuck, andrew. how did you even ah—" he buries his face into you again — deeper this time, closer, nose dragging right over the seam of your panties right above your pussy folds — and the question leaves your mind.

you forget to care in that moment.

don't care about the science or the logic or the frankly alarming acuity of his senses. because instinctively, traitorously, your thighs fall open for him. an invitation your body makes before your brain can catch up and stop it, before you can remember that his family is quite literally right outside.

he makes that sound again. that pleased, hungry hum that makes something molten pool down to your core, as he accept the invitation, and sinks his head deeper between your parted thighs until his hot breath is ghosting right over the thin cotton of your underwear.

he groans and his whole body shudders against you.

"yeah. fuck. 's right here." his voice is wrecked already, barely above a whisper, vibrating against your pussy through the fabric. "this is what i— this is what i've been smellin', this is—" he breaks off. can't finish. doesn't need to. he buries his face directly against the slit of your pussy and inhales over the cloth, long and filthy and shameless, over and over, running the hard bridge of his nose between your folds, bumping against your swollen clit through the cotton until you jolt and bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste copper.

"smell really fuckin' good, baby," he mumbles, nose pressed so flat against the damp fabric you can feel the shape of it. "all musky and soooo fucking sweet." each word is muffled, spoken directly into your pussy, his hips jerk against the couch cushion, involuntary, and you feel the hard length of him press against your leg through his jeans. "christ."

"andrew." you hiss, your grip tightening in his hair, tugging which makes things worse because he love love loves when you get rough with him. "your family is right outside."

but he doesn't move an inch. "they're outside." his voice is calm, too calm, like he doesn't have his face buried between your thighs, nose pressed right against your clothed pussy. "they won't bother comin' in."

you should protest, say or do something logical like push his head away and slap him silly. but he keeps inhaling you. shameless and deep, nose pressed flat against the cotton that's growing damper by the second, and god help you, your hand is already pushing his head in deeper, fingers curling tight in his auburn hair.

because maybe you're just as bad as he is, a huge perv, maybe worse.

he loves when you use him like this, when you get greedy and desperate and stop pretending you're too good for the filthy things he wants to do to you. when your fingers twist in his hair and you grind against his face and all that careful composure cracks open and he can see the messy, wanting thing underneath. that's the real you, he thinks. not the paperback-reading calm. this. the girl who'll let him eat her out on his mother's couch knowing anyone could slip in and catch them any moment from now.

and you're dripping already. soaking through the thin cotton just from him sniffing you like a dog, and the fabric is clinging to your folds now, outlining every detail, and you know he can see it, see what he's done to you with nothing but his mouth and his nose and those big dark eyes looking up at you from between your thighs.

so without warning, his broad tongue drags a flat wet stripe right up the damp spot on your panties. slow. deliberate. the full width of his tongue, warm and rough, pressing the cotton between your folds as it drags upward.

you throw your head back, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat, the book slipping from your fingers and hitting the floor with a crack you don't even hear. your spine arches off the couch cushion.

"oh my god—"

he does it again. and again. long, slow, filthy laps over the soaked fabric, tasting you through the cotton, groaning low in his chest with each pass like he's savoring it. the friction of the wet fabric against your swollen clit is maddening —too much, but nowhere near enough — and your thighs are trembling on either side of his head, your breath coming in short shallow gasps.

"andrew — please, ah— slow down—"

you hiss it through your teeth, your grip tightening in his hair, tugging warningly. your voice comes out shakier than you want it to, breathless, the please slipping out before you can stop it, and you hate that it sounds less like a command and more like a whimper.

he doesn't listen. he never does, not when he's like this. not when he's got his mouth on you and whatever part of his brain handles reason and restraint just shuts the fuck off. he repeats the motion, the long, wet, dragging and groaning low at the taste. his hot tongue pressing the cotton flat against your folds until it's clinging to you, practically transparent, doing nothing to hide how drenched you are. his saliva is mixing with your arousal, making the fabric heavier, wetter, and the obscene squelch of it is quiet but loud enough in the stillness of the room that it makes your stomach clench with panic and want all at once.

"it's gettin' sweeter," he rasps, and when he glances up at you — chin wet, lips glistening, eyes wild, pupils blown so wide there's barely any brown left — he looks unhinged. feral. and you whimper at the sight of it, a small broken sound from the back of your throat that you couldn't suppress if your life depended on it. "i need more. need to taste your pussy, baby. please, please, please."

he's begging. andrew cody – who doesn't beg for anything, who holds everything tight and close and quiet, who would rather swallow glass than let anyone see him want – is begging with his face pressed against your clothed pussy and his eyes locked on yours and that desperate, wrecked please falling out of his mouth like he can't help it.

he's breathing hard already, chest rising and falling visibly beneath his wrinkled button-down. his dark eyes are wide and dark and starving, locked onto the wet mess between your thighs. you bite your lip hard enough to hurt, knowing that look, knowing exactly what kind of trouble it means.

it has been a while.

pope and the boys have been on 'business' for a week. a total blackout period, no calls, no texts, nothing, smurf's rules. and you were so fucking pent up, running on nothing but your own fingers and a dying vibrator that kept losing charge halfway through and leaving you a whimpering frustrated mess in an empty bed at two in the morning, thinking about him, aching for him.

you glance toward the large windows. everyone is focused on the grill and the pool and the obnoxiously loud chaos of it all. the sheer curtains obscure everything beyond them into a hazy glow. no one could possibly catch them unless they were actually looking.

just a little wouldn't be so bad.

so you part your thighs wider for him. skirt bunching at your hips. the wet spot on your panties glaringly obvious in the dim light. and with a low, shy, sultry voice — one that doesn't sound like you at all, sounds like some version of you that only comes out when andrew 'pope' cody is between your legs — you tell him:

"just a taste, popey."

and he groans — low and broken, almost pained — at that, at the nickname, at the permission, at the way you say it like you're doing him a favor when really you're both already drowning. his big hands grip your knees, squeezing hard enough to bruise through the skin, thumbs pressing into the soft hollows on either side.

the corner of his mouth twitches into a smile. almost guilty. completely full of shit.

"that's it. that's my girl." his voice drops, rough and low, barely audible. "my sweet fuckin' girl."

he dives in immediately. no teasing. hooking your panties to the side with one rough finger. you feel the fabric pull taut against your outer thigh, the elastic biting into your skin — and pressing his open mouth right against your bare pussy.

the first thing he does is inhale. long and deep, nose pressed right against your slick, dripping folds, and the sound he makes isn't human, his whole body shuddering between your thighs. then his tongue darts out — just the tip, just a taste — and he pulls back for a half second, lips parted, like he's savoring it, like he's letting it sit on his tongue.

"fuck." it comes out broken. barely a word. more like a breath with weight behind it. "tastes even better than it smells. how's it...taste so good?"

and then he's licking. long strokes from your entrance to your clit, flat and wet and obscene, groaning with every pass like you're killing him softly with just the taste of you. every now and then he buries his face deep and inhales hard, nose bumping your clit, mouth open against your hole, panting, like your pussy is a drug and he's been in withdrawal for a week and this is his first hit back.

"oh— oh, fuck—" your hand flies to your mouth, pressing the back of your knuckles against your lips, and the moan that escapes anyway is thin and reedy and pathetic. your hips roll up against his face without your permission, chasing his tongue, and he makes a low pleased sound against your pussy that just makes it worse.

the sounds are wet, sloppy, filthy — his tongue working through the mess you've made, the slurping wet noise of your pussy against his face, and he's making it worse, so much worse, drooling all over you, mixing his spit with your slick until your inner thighs and his chin are dripping and the couch cushion beneath your ass is probably ruined.

he doesn't care. he'll clean up after his sweet girl like he always does.

his tongue runs flat over your folds again and again. up up up. circling your clit, then back down, dragging through the wetness pooling at your entrance — before he pushes it all inside.

"oh, popey, there." you sigh, falling back completely into the couch, eyes rolling back. the angle is awkward, his face mashed between your thighs on a narrow couch, but he's tongue-fucking into you as deep as he can reach, swirling against your gummy walls, mapping the inside of you with nothing but the wet muscle of his tongue. his thumb comes up to circle your clit — the calloused pad dragging over the swollen bundle of nerves with just enough pressure to make your vision blur.

"mmnh— ah— andrew, that's— oh my god—" you're whimpering now, openly, shamelessly, any pretense of composure dissolved the second his tongue pushed inside you. small, hiccuping little sounds that spill out between gasped breaths, your free hand fisting tight in his hair, pulling, guiding, your hips grinding up against his mouth in stuttery rolls you can't control.

he moans into you when you pull his hair. a high, breathy, pathetic sound — mmhh — vibrating against your walls, and you feel it in your spine, in your toes, in the tight coil of heat building in your lower belly. his hips are grinding against the couch cushion now, shamelessly humping the fabric while he eats you out, and knowing that he's so turned on that he can't keep still makes you clench around his tongue.

"taste so good, baby," he mumbles against your pussy, pulling back just enough to speak, his mouth still on you, lips brushing your folds with every word. "so fuckin' sweet. been thinkin' about this — ah — been thinkin' about this the whole trip. couldn't stop thinkin' about it." he dives back in, tongue pushing deeper, and the words are lost in the wet obscene sounds of his mouth working. then he pulls back again, gasping, chin dripping. "every night. in that shitty motel bed. thinkin' about your pussy. made myself fuckin' crazy."

"popey i—i—" your voice cracks on his name, high and thin, and you're so wet you can hear it, can hear the slick sounds every time his tongue moves, and you should be embarrassed but you're too far gone, too deep in the heat and the filth and the risk.

"i know, i know," he breathes, and his voice is so tender it almost breaks you more than the filthy things he's doing with his mouth. "i know, sweet girl. i got you. been so long for you too, huh? gonna make you feel so good."

he seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, tongue working in tight fast circles, and a moan tears out of you — loud, too loud — and you slap your hand back over your mouth, eyes going wide with panic toward the window. the party noise continues outside. nobody heard.

he pulls back just enough to spit a thick, warm glob landing right on your clit, and then dives back in to lick it up with a broad, flat stroke that makes your whole body seize. a high, thin whine escapes your throat, muffled by your palm, and your hips buck up off the couch.

"quiet, baby," he murmurs against your clit, and he has the audacity to sound amused, lips curving into a smile you can feel against your flesh. "gotta be quiet. don't want craig comin' in here, do you?" he sucks again, gentler this time, and you whimper behind your hand, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the effort of staying quiet. "though i dunno... maybe i don't care. maybe i want 'em to hear. want 'em to know you're mine."

"asshole—" you hiss behind your hand, but it comes out broken and breathless and more like please than an insult, and he laughs — actually laughs, low and warm, right against your pussy, and the vibration makes your thighs snap shut around his head.

he seals his mouth back over your pussy and sucks, hard, tongue working your clit in tight fast circles.

"oh fuck, popey—" the little nickname slips out of you, wrecked and desperate, barely recognizable, and something about it makes him growl against your pussy, a low rumbling sound that makes your thighs shake. "popey, i'm— i'm about to—"

"i know." he mumbles against your pussy between filthy wet slurps, his voice completely destroyed, barely recognizable, thick with you. "'can feel it. feel you gettin' tighter. squeezin' my tongue—" he's whining now, actually whining, these high desperate sounds that are almost pitiful, vibrating against your pussy. "please. need it. need you to cum for me. wanna taste it. wanna taste all of it. every drop. give it to me, please, please—"

the please is what does it. andrew cody saying please, andrew cody whining into your cunt like he's the one falling apart, andrew cody begging for it like he needs it more than air — it unravels you completely.

you cum with a muffled cry, teeth sinking into your own hand hard enough to draw blood. your thighs clamping shut around his head, suffocating him, your back arching off the couch, your pussy pulsing against his mouth in thick rolling waves.

"ah — ah — fuck, fuck, fuck—"

the words spill out in a whispered frantic chant behind your bloodied palm, your body shaking, your vision going white and then blurry and then nothing but static and heat.

but that doesn't stop him. doesn't even slow. fucks you through it with his tongue buried deep, pushing against that spongy spot inside you that makes your legs spasm and your stomach clench, swallowing every pulse of it, drinking your slick down with these greedy gulping sounds, and you can feel his throat working against your thigh, feel him swallowing you, and the obscene intimacy of it makes you cum harder, a second smaller wave crashing through you that pulls a broken sob from your chest.

"oh god — popey, 's too much — ah — too much—" you're whimpering through the aftershocks, small sounds. your hips twitching away from his mouth, your thighs are shaking.

he moans at that, low and pleased, like you telling him that is like music to his ears. and with that he finally, finally slows. his tongue gentles from frantic to lazy, drawing long slow passes through your folds, licking up the mess all nice and clean, unhurried like he has all the time in the world. like his jaw isn't probably aching. like there isn't a full blown pool party twenty feet away.

when he's done, he leans forward and kisses your inner thigh. soft, a strange tenderness after all that filth. and then bites down gently, teeth sinking into the soft flesh just hard enough to make you flinch, hard enough that you know there'll be a bruise there tomorrow, a pretty purple, shaped like his mouth.

then he lifts his head.

your slick shines on his chin, his jaw, his cheeks. his lips are swollen and glistening and utterly wrecked, bitten red. his breathing is ragged, chest heaving, his auburn curls disheveled and matted from where you've been pulling at them, strands sticking to his damp forehead.

he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand but it doesn't do anything. there's too much of you on him. his face is a mess but he doesn't seem remotely bothered by it. if anything, he looks satisfied. like a big puppy that finally got his doggie treat.

but there's something deeper, a primal want that still burns behind his eyes, the throb of his cock still evidently hard pressing into the side of your leg.

"need more." he murmurs watching the mess between your thighs, and his thumb drags through your soaked folds, possessive.

"andrew, i just–"

"know you got more for me, sweet girl. always got more for me." he cuts you off, his thumb circling over your clit carefully and your breath catches. your thighs tremble.

you should say no.

you should pull your skirt down and find your book and go back to 'relaxing'. but his thumb is still inside you, still moving, still there. his face is still wet with you, and he's looking at you with a hunger, like the only thing that can feed it is you.

so you ask him before he even says another word:

"is your bedroom free?"

"yeah." he swallows hard. "yeah, okay." his voice comes out rough, unsteady. his warm brown eyes are fixed on you, wide, intense. focused entirely on your mouth like he's trying to memorize whatever you're about to show him.

you lean in to give him a small peck first, soft, barely there then look at him. he looks back at you before he copies you, leaning back in, and this time his lips aren't so stiff.

progress.

then you part your lips carefully, slanting your mouth over his until they're molding together, until his warm breath seeps into yours.

you swipe your tongue slow along his bottom lip and he sighs, low, shaky, his fingers dig harder into your thighs.

"you like that?" you pull back just enough to ask, breathless.

he stares at you. eyes heavy-lidded, mouth slightly parted, breathing ragged. "yeah."

so you do it again. and again. slow and patient, until he catches the rhythm, until his jaw unclenches and he stops thinking so damn hard about it, until his mouth finally moves with yours instead of against it. his hands skate over your thighs higher, trembling, squeezing the soft of them harder.

"andrew, stick out your tongue for me." he does it. listens to you without a second thought, without an ounce of shame, just pure, raw trust. "yeah, just like that, such a good boy."

you watch his pupils blow wide at the praise, his cheeks flush all the way to the tips of his ears. cute.

you lean in again and lave your tongue over his, slow and hot. tasting him, him tasting you, and he lets out this broken, pleased groan that vibrates deep in his chest and against your body. his hands spasm on your thighs, trying to tug you closer.

you push him back immediately and he actually chases your mouth for a second before yoy press a finger over his lips. "uh-uh. slower, baby. follow my lead."

"sorry." he mumbles, a little shy.

then, when you give him the go ahead, he leans back in, kisses you exactly as you showed him, setting the pace real slow. he breathes through his nose while he does it, groaning all ragged and needy, as your tongues swirl together, like you've been edging him for hours instead of kissing him for minutes.

and then pulls back just a fraction, his eyes desperately searching your face for approval. "am i doing good?" his face is trying so hard to stay flat, face blank, but the dark flush blotching down his neck like a fever and wrecked voice gives him away completely.

"mhm," your pussy pulses at the sight of him so desperate, so utterly helpless beneath you.

your fingers scratch fondly at his scalp, nails dragging through the auburn strands and he whimpers. "doing really good, popey."

he gets all twitchy when you call him that and his hips jerk up as he starts rutting against you like a dog in heat. and, oh, you can feel him. the growing bulge through the rough denim, pressing right against the damp seam of your thin panties.

he's so huge that the thick, heavy outline of him drags deliciously between your folds through the clothes, catching right on your puffy clit, and a embaressingly loud moan slips out of you before you can stop it.

the sound flips a switch in him and he moves before you can blink.

his hands clamp down on your waist, and suddenly you're the one being flipped down into his mattress, the breath knocked clean out of your lungs. the sheer strength of him makes something warm and desperate pool low in your belly.

his heavy body settles on top of yours, all solid muscle and desperate heat. the new angle has him pressing right against your pussy, the rough seam of his jeans dragging over your soaked panties, and you both groan at the friction.

"ah—popey, wait—" but he just kisses you again, muffling your protests, arms wrapping tight around your torso.

the air gets thicker, heavier and you realize not only is your boyfriend a fast learner but he's terrifyingly observant too—those sharp, dark eyes of his catching every micro-expression, filing away exactly what makes you whimper, what makes your spine arch, what makes you grind up harder into him. you can feel him learning your body in real-time, using your own reactions against you.

you’re whimpering against his tongue now, making pathetic, wet sounds you didn’t know you could make, melting into the mattress and rolling your hips up, chasing the friction against your aching clit, completely at his mercy.

and the sounds only spur him on.

"'taste too good." he whines as he sinks his tongue deeper into your mouth. turning the kiss sloppy and wet as he laps at you, licking into the roof of your mouth like he's starving, swallowing every needy moan he pulls from your chest.

he sucks at your bottom lip until it throbs, biting down just hard enough to sting. you let out a high, reedy whine before he licks over the hurt, obsessive and soothing.

"mmnh—'s too much, popey—"

he can't hear you or either he does and just doesn't care. his hands just slide down, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties, rolling them down slowly, too slowly, all the way to your ankles. and you hear the rustle of him unzipping his pants, the metal teeth parting loud in the quiet room before he presses his still clothed bulge against your bare pussy.

"oh."

so much for him being a bad kisser. huh?

but it's overwhelming, all too much, and you can hardly breathe. so you pull at his curls, hard, weakly pushing at his shoulders but he only groans low pleased at the feeling and presses you deeper into the mattress instead, one hand fisting in your hair to hold you exactly where he wants you.

he continues to tongue-fuck you stupid, devouring you until your eyes are rolling back and your lungs are burning, swallowing all your protests.

and his hips won't stay still either.

he's basically rutting against the slick folds of your pussy now, grinding down in these desperate, clumsy thrusts that bump against your clit every few seconds, making you jolt and whine each time. you can feel how wet you're making him, the fabric of his briefs damp where you're leaking through, and the filthy thought of it—of him wearing your slick, of marking him that way—makes you clench so hard your thighs shake.

only after what seems like hours, just when you're dizzy, about to black out from lack of oxygen, he finally pulls back. a thick string of spit connects your swollen, ruined mouths. he immediately leans in to lick it from the corner of your lips, greedy and hungry, panting heavily against your cheek.

"did– did i do good?" he asks all needy for praise, chin slick, those pretty brown eyes wide and utterly wrecked above you, his curls stuck to his sweaty forehead.

"mhm." is all you manage. a breathless sigh. your brain is mush, entirely fucked out from just the kiss.

he grins, a little too proud of himself. then he grinds into you. once.

"so can we fuck now?"

and when any of his brothers talk to you, especially baz okay, mostly just baz, something ugly snaps in him. if baz even just says hi to you once, pope gets quiet in a way that’s terrifying. he’ll grip his bottle until the glass shatters in his palm, not even flinching as the shards pierce his skin, blood welling up and dripping between his fingers. it’s like he’s too focused on the idea of someone else taking up space in your head, that his own body becomes an afterthought.

he'll never acutally tell you he doesn't like when you smile at other guys. he isn't built for conversations like that, never has.

but later, when you're asleep in his bed, breathing slow and warm against his shoulder, he reaches for your phone on the nightstand. he memorized your passcode weeks ago, just watched your thumb move over the keypad enough times until he knew the pattern better than he knew his own. he scrolls through the texts to your mom, your friends. then he checks the logs. the endless strings of messages and missed calls between you and him while he was at work. just how it should be.

after he puts the phone back exactly where he found it, down to the millimeter, he doesn't close his eyes. instead, he lies there in the pitch black and watches you for an hour straight, chest tight with a quiet, irrational fear that if he looks away, you might just slip out of bed and disappear into another man's arms. and, when he's definitely sure you won't, he pulls you flush against his chest, wrapping his toned arms around you so tight it’s almost hard to breathe, tangling his legs with yours, and finally lets himself drift off, anchoring you to him.

girls nights out make him sick. like borderline physically ill. the nausea sits heavy in his stomach when you mention them. he won't say a word, just nods his head, murmurs "have fun" in a voice so flat it sounds hollow. but he’s already planning the route in his head. he parks three blocks away from whatever bar you're at, sitting in the dark with the engine off, just waiting. he watches you through the foggy glass of the bar window.

it’s not about trust or the lack of. he knows his sweet girl could never ever lie to him. he knows you could never do him wrong.

it’s the men.

he knows exactly what runs through their heads when they see you walk in the room. watching you like a pack of wolves to a lamb. and he can't stand not being there to put his body between you and their eyes.

and, god, it drives him fucking feral knowing you had a love life before him. he hates the thought of other mouths kissing you, other hands that had touched you before his ever did. it lives under his skin like a deep, festering splinter he can't dig out.

and he tries to fuck it out of you every single time.

it’s like he thinks if he just goes deep enough, hard enough, slow enough, he can physically overwrite every memory of anyone who ever tried to claim you before him. that's when the quiet, simmering possession cracks wide open and turns into something desperate and hungry.

he leaves kiss bitten bruises in places you can't hide. the hollow of your throat, the dip of your collarbone. the soft inside of your thigh where your skin is sensitive, where the blood pools into a pretty, dark purple. little flowers blooming where everyone can see them, visible above the neckline of your blouse, impossible to miss. marks that scream "stay away" without him ever having to open his mouth.

and he can go the whole night just pounding into you, fueled by that inhumane stamina of his. his large hands grip your hips hard enough to leave fingerprints, dragging you back onto his cock with every painfully sweet stroke, until you're sobbing, a drooling, whimpering, beautiful mess. only then, only when you're completely undone, would he slow down, burying himself to the hilt and just holding himself there.

his lips brush over your ear, low and wrecked, "tell me." you always know exactly what he needs to hear before he even says it. "tell me you're mine. tell me this pussy's mine, sweet girl. please, please, please." he chants it into the damp skin of your neck, over and over, until the words lose their shape and just sound like a desperate prayer. and you moan it back, delirious and broken, "yours, yours, 'm all yours, popey."

"good girl."

his large hands come up to wrap loosely around your throat. not squeezing. just holding. his thumb pressed against your pulse point where he can feel your heartbeat hammering frantically against his skin—proof that you're alive, and here, and entirely his. he can feel the vibration of every moan and whimper right there under his fingertips and it makes his cock twitch inside you. he grinds his hips forward just once, slow and filthy, watching your mouth fall open and your eyes roll back.

and when he finishes, he finishes inside you. every single time. he thinks about it more than he should, obsesses over it when he's alone. getting you pregnant. watching your belly swell with something that is purely, undeniably his. a living, breathing proof that he's the one who gets to have you. that you belong to him and him alone.

a dark, twisted part of him hates that you're on birth control. to the point that he even has your cycle memorized down to the day. and when you’re ovulating, he fucks you with a savage, desperate intensity, filling you up over and over again till you're practically dripping, silently praying the pills fail. just waiting for that one slip-up that will tie you to him forever.

but he'd never say any of this out loud to you, of course. never let you know about the obssessively possessive thoughts that fester his mind, because he's terrified you'll leave him if he ever does, if you ever find out.

little does he know the more terrifying truth is, you already know.

and it doesn’t scare you in even the slightest, if anything, it only makes you love him more. because maybe you're just as unhinged as he is, because maybe you two are broken things feeding off a mutual madness, and you're more than perfectly willing to let him ruin you for anyone else, to let him consume you completely. whole.

just as long as he lets you ruin him for anyone else too.

for a moment it was dark, heavy and quiet. but as soon as the door clicked shut, the air changed. it smelled like that vanilla bourbon candle you'd been burning lately, too sweet, too warm, and something else. something that was entirely soft and comforting. a scent that reminded him what a home actually was.

the particular, curated warmth of a space that had been lived in by someone who loved gently.

you.

he felt like he hadn't seen you in a lifetime. the last few times he'd managed to drag himself through the front door, you were already asleep, or he was too comatose that he barely registered you kissing him on his forehead and slipping him out of his scrubs before passing out.

you were an angel. a saint. anyone else would have left him by now, fed up by a husband who was a ghost in his own marriage, absent and hollowed out, smelling like disinfectant and existential dread half the time. but there you were. still with him. always.

he passed the kitchen on his way through. stopped. on the counter he found a plate covered with saran wrap, food still faintly warm. and on top of it, a note in your pretty, looping cursive writing: be a good boy and eat. hearts all around it. little doodled hearts in the corners and beside his name and one big one at the bottom.

he stared at it for too long. his throat got tight. he set the note down carefully, like it was something precious, and kept moving.

his chest ached.

not in a clinical sense. this was worse. this was the dull, spreading ache of realizing he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a conversation with his wife that lasted longer than forty-five seconds. the last time he'd looked at you, really looked, instead of glancing at you over a coffee mug while his brain was already back at the pitt, replaying lab readings and imaging results. even now, even here, in the quiet of his own hallway, his hand drifted to his hip where his pager sat clipped to his waistband—habit, muscle memory, the phantom itch of obligation. he caught himself doing it. stopped. his fingers hovered there for a second, trembling, before he forced them away. forced himself to leave it there. just in case.

he dropped his bag by the door. toed off his shoes. didn't bother with the lights.

the bedroom door was open a crack. warm, faint streaks of moonlight from outside spilled through the curtains, painting a pale stripe across the bed.

and there you were.

jack stopped breathing in the moment.

you were asleep on your side, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other draped over the mattress. your hair was spread out, messy and soft against the dark sheets. and you were wearing one of his old tees; from his first years as a war medic. the faded olive green one with the frayed collar that he'd had since his second deployment.

it was too big on you. the neckline hung loose, sagging forward, and in the low light he could see straight through the thin, worn cotton. the bare swell of your breast. the shadow of your nipple, perky and soft against the fabric. the shirt had ridden up exposing the flat plane of your stomach, the dip of your navel, the gentle curve of your hips where the fabric bunched. and below that, lace. white lace panties, barely anything, just a scrap of fabric over the place he'd been thinking about for fourteen straight days.

fuck.

jack braced one hand against the doorframe. his one good leg failing him. his other hand hung useless at his side. he could feel it, the insistent heat and the weight and the need, starting to build low in his gut, spreading through his pelvis like a fever.

you looked divine.

and, god, he wanted to touch you. he wanted to crawl into that bed, slide behind you, press his bare chest to your back and pull you into him until your plump ass was right against his aching cock. he wanted to push the shirt up and put his mouth on the curve of your spine, taste the salt of your soft skin. he wanted to hook his fingers in that lace and pull it down slow, the way you liked, inch by inch, and bury himself so deep inside you that he could feel every pulse and twitch of your pussy around him.

he wanted to fuck you the way he'd been dreaming about in the on-call room between codes—slow and hard, your legs wrapped around his waist real tight, his forehead pressed to yours, while he whispered filthy, sweet things that made you whine all low and needy for him.

but you were sleeping. you were asleep, and you looked beautiful and peaceful, too pure, untouched by the horrors he'd seen today.

you'd been alone in this bed for two weeks while your husband worked himself into the ground, and you were probably wearing his shirt because you missed him, because you wanted to be close to him even in sleep. and he was not going to wake you up just because he got hard watching you sleep.

so he backed away from the door. quietly. one step, then another.

the bathroom. he'd go to the bathroom. he'd splash water on his face. he'd get himself under control. he'd take a cold shower. he'd—

he saw it the moment he stepped through the bathroom door. the hamper, wicker lid was slightly open. and poking out from beneath a towel was a flash of fabric—soft, pale pink, the kind of thin cotton panties you wore when you were just lazing around the house.

jack stood there for a long moment. his reflection in the mirror looked feral. flush creeping up his neck. jaw clenched so hard he could hear his own teeth grinding.

don't.

he reached into the hamper.

don't do it.

his fingers closed around the panties; lighter, softer than he expected. they were still warm. still faintly damp. he brought them to his face before he could talk himself out of it and—

oh, fuck.

you. it was you. that smell, musky and sweet and unmistakably, devastatingly you.

the scent flooded his senses and something in his brain just short-circuited. his eyes fluttered shut. his shoulders dropped. a sound came out of him that he didn't recognize; low and wrecked and desperate.

his hands were already moving. he pulled the pager from his waistband and threw it onto the bathroom counter where it clattered against the porcelain, the screen flickering once before going dark. scrubs shoved down. briefs next. he was already half-hard and getting harder by the second, and when he wrapped his hand around himself, he groaned through his teeth like a depraved man.

he dragged his fist up the length of his cock, thumb pressing against the underside just below the head, and his hips stuttered forward into his own grip. the panties were pressed to his nose, pressed to his open mouth, and he breathed you in like oxygen.

then he started stroking his cock. slow. real slow.

that was the whole point. that was what he'd been craving. not the rushed, fumbling quickies in the dark before his alarm went off, not the half-awake hand jobs that left him feeling more empty than satisfied. he wanted slow. he wanted to feel every stroke. imagining himself fucking into you.

he pumped himself, deep thrusts, his hips rolling forward like he was buried inside you, like his fist was your pussy, tight and wet and warm pulsing around him. he closed his eyes and imagined it. the way you'd clamp down on him. the way you'd whine when he went too deep. deep enough that he was grinding deliciously against your cervix. the wet, filthy sound of skin slapping against skin. the way you'd say his name all pretty when you begged for more more more.

"fuck—" his voice was wrecked. his neck was flushed, blotchy red spreading down from his jaw to his collarbones, and he could feel his pulse hammering in his throat. "oh, fuck fuck fuck."

his hand twisted on the upstroke. his thumb swept over the tip, smearing precum, and he used it to slick the shaft, making everything wet and hot and obscene.

his head dropped back. his mouth fell open. the sounds coming out of him were pathetic—whimpers, really, thin and shaky, the kind of sounds that would humiliate him if anyone at the pitt could hear them. dr. jack abbott, former combat medic, and attending physician reduced to a trembling mess in his own bathroom with his wife's underwear pressed to his face like a perv.

he pressed his tongue to the cotton, licking into the fabric, chasing the ghost of a taste of you—salt and musk and something sweet that made his eyes roll back. just a little taste. just enough to make him tip over the edge.

in that moment morals were the last thing on his mind, what was right or wrong. how he looked utterly desperate and pathetic.

he didn't care. couldn't care.

all he could think of was his hand over his cock and the scent of your panties at his nose while he moaned pathetically to no one: "baby—" the word came out broken. "oh, baby—"

"honey?"

his entire body locked up.

the voice was soft. thick with sleep. coming from the doorway.

his eyes flew open and there you were; leaning against the frame, the olive green shirt still hanging off one shoulder, your hair a mess, your eyes heavy-lidded and confused. the bathroom light caught the curve of your body; breast through the fabric, the bare skin of your hips, the lace panties failing terribly to cover your pussy.

"what are you—oh." your voice caught in your throat as you finally sobered up and saw what was in front of you; in his right hand, your pink panties to his nose. in his left, his cock, slick and flushed and leaking a copious amount of precum.

the silence lasted approximately one thousand years.

"i—" jack's voice came out strangled. he tried to drop the panties. tried to cover himself. ended up doing neither effectively and instead just stood there like a deer caught in headlights, neck burning, chest heaving, looking at his wife with an expression that fell somewhere between mortification and pure arousal. "i can explain, i just—the last two weeks, and you were sleeping, and i didn't want to wake you, and i—"

you sighed, "jack."

"—the thing is your panties looked so pretty and they were just there and i—"

"jack."

he stopped. his mouth hung open. his heart was going to explode.

you looked at him. eyes trailing over his body; his flushed neck, his bitten-raw lips, his swollen cock, his shaking hand. your gaze was unhurried. assessing.

then you said something that made his brain go completely, totally blank.

"keep touching yourself."

he blinked. "what?"

"keep touching yourself." your voice was calm. steady. but there was something underneath it—a current, a heat. "don't stop. i want to watch."

"what do you—" he gestured vaguely at himself, at the absurdity of the situation. "you want me to just—"

"mhm" you hummed, a small grin playing on your lips. "you heard me just right, jackie."

his hand twitched. his cock jerked in his grip. that nickname—it always got him. always. it didn't make sense, not logically, not for a man his age, not for a man who ran trauma bays and made life-or-death decisions before breakfast. but something about the way you said it—soft and sweet, a little mocking, like you knew exactly what it did to him—stripped away every layer of authority and left him raw.

you stepped closer, into the bathroom. bare feet on tile. the shirt swayed against your plush thighs. "keep touching yourself for me."

so he did.

because what else was he going to do? when you, his beautiful wife were standing three feet away telling him to touch himself all sweet and pretty and he had no other choice but to submit.

his hand was already moving again before his brain could form a coherent objection. slow stroke, base to tip, the way he liked you touching him. his thumb dragged over the head again and he hissed through his teeth, his hips rolling into it. the wet sound of it filled the space, obscene and raw.

he gave you a desperate look, awaiting praise, anything that told him this is what you wanted to see.

and you simply watched him.

your eyes tracked every movement—the flex of his forearm, the twist of his wrist, the way his abs contracted with every slow thrust into his own fist. you watched his face, the way his brow furrowed, the way his mouth fell open, the way his jaw went slack when he dragged his thumb just right over the ridge beneath the head.

and lower, his cock was huge, flushed dark and heavy in his grip, curving up toward the silver-streaked happy trail running down his belly. a prominent vein along the underside of the shaft, thick and pulsing with each stroke. the tip was blushing rose, shiny and wet, precum leaking in slow, steady beads every time his thumb swiped over it. each pass made a soft, sticky sound that echoed off the tile.

"yeah, just like that," you said quietly, encouraging. "you're doing so good, honey. keep going."

he made a pathetic sound from the praise. a desperate whimper that cracked in the middle, his chin dropping to his chest, his whole body shuddering.

then he heard a familiar beep. his eyes flicked, just for a second, to the counter. to the pager. dark screen. silent. it must have been in his head but his hand still faltered. the rhythm broke.

"eyes on me." your voice came out low, a little commanding. "stop thinking about anything else right now. just us. just this."

"but i heard–" his gaze drifted again. the pager sat there on the counter like a accusation. his jaw tightened. his hand slowed—

"jackie." softer now. but firm. "focus. don't think about anything except my voice. can you do that for me? can you stay with me, jackie?"

oh, now he was a gone man.

"i—" his voice cracked. "'m so sorry-yeah, i can—"

"good boy." the words hit him like a physical blow. his cock jerked in his grip, a fresh bead of precum spilling over his thumb, making everything slicker, wetter. the sound of his hand on himself grew filthier. "just listen to my voice. just feel how good this is. nothing else exists right now."

then you reached for the hem of the shirt and pulled it over your head.

you did it slowly. teasing. fingers curling under the frayed cotton, lifting it inch by inch, letting the fabric drag up the plane of your stomach, revealing your skin bit by bit like you were unwrapping a gift. just for him.

he watched as the fabric skimmed over your ribs first — the ones he'd trace with his lips on when you were half-asleep, counting each one with a kind of care that made your breath hitch. then the soft underside of your tits, where he'd bury his face after a long day, nose pressed into the warmth of you, breathing you in. then the shirt cleared your head, and your hair came with it, mussed and wild, falling over your pretty face. you dropped it somewhere behind you without looking.

didn't care.

jack's hand faltered. the panties fell to the tiled floor.

you stood there in nothing but those white lace panties, and you were stunning. soft stomach, the way your bare tits spilled over your chest, nipples already peaked in the cool bathroom air. the bathroom light painted you in gold and shadow and jack thought, distantly, that he might actually pass out.

"keep going, jackie," you whispered. "need you."

"yeah—okay, baby." his hand started moving again. slower now. his eyes roamed over you—your collarbones, the dip between your breasts, the way your ribs expanded and contracted with each breath. you were breathing harder now. he could hear it.

then your hand drifted up. over your stomach. over your ribs. and you cupped your own breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, and your lips parted and your head tipped back just slightly and—

"fuck," jack groaned. his hand tightened. his pace stuttered. the wet sound of his fist on his cock grew faster shlick shlick shlick frantic and shameless.

then you hooked your thumbs into the lace and pulled it down. stepped out of it. kicked it aside.

and he could see everything.

your pussy was glistening. swollen and slick, your folds shining with wetness. you brought two fingers to your lips, parting them slow, pushing them past your teeth. your tongue dragged heavy against the pads, cheeks hollowing as you sucked, coating them with saliva. he watched, chest heaving, panting low and ragged.

his mouth was practically drooling at the sight, a low, wrecked moan slipping from his throat, his cock twitching violently in his hand.

you pulled your fingers free, a string of spit connecting your lips. then you trailed the wet fingers down slow, leaving a wet streak trailing down your sternum, sliding over the curve of your navel, and disappearing right down between your thighs.

you dragged them through your already sopping pussy—slow, deliberate, showing him exactly how soaked you were just from the sight of him—and the sound it made was obscene. a soft, wet schlorp that seemed way too loud for the quiet bathroom. then you slipped them inside deeper. just to the second knuckle.

his mouty parted, jaw slack, a low moan rumbling out of him. "oh baby, you're so–." the words came out broken, barely held together. "so fucking hot."

"come closer," you breathed. barely a whisper. barely a command. but it hit him like a freight train. "jackie, come here."

he shuffled forward, no hesitation. one step. then another. until he was close enough to feel the heat radiating off your skin, close enough that the wet sounds of your fingers filled his ears. nothing else.

"can you feel me?" your voice was thin, ragged, barely holding together. your fingers kept moving, slow and deliberate, dragging through your own wetness with a sound that made his vision blur. "can you feel my heat, jackie?"

you pressed the heel of your palm against yourself and rolled your hips into it, a tiny, helpless movement, and when your back arched, your mouth fell open, letting out a filthy moan, the sound of his name, jack thought he saw god.

"uh huh," he moaned low at the sight. the sound came out feral. barely human. "yeah, fuck baby, i can feel you—"

he watched you intently, his adam apple visibly bobbing in his throat. and he took note of how your hands moved. commited the act to memory, taking mental notes he would use on you next time.

"i'm so fucking wet for you." you dragged your fingers out, and he watched a thick, glistening strand of slick stretch and break as you pressed them against your clit, circling slow, and your whole body shuddered. "imagine how tight i would feel wrapped around your cock." your eyes found his, dark and half-lidded and burning. "imagine sinking into me raw."

you were dripping, actually dripping, down your wrist. he could hear it. each tiny wet squelch of your fingers working inside yourself. your thighs were trembling, your stomach clenching, little ah ah ah sounds punching out of you with every curl of your fingers.

"oh, fuck—" his hand tightened on his cock, his pace turning sloppy, his hips snapping forward into his fist, precum smearing over his knuckles. "i'd fuck you so deep, baby—stretching you up real nice around my big cock. filling you up all the way to the hilt—i'd make you take every fucking inch and then i'd keep going—"

"ah ah— more jack" you whimpered. your fingers thrust back inside yourself, and the sound it made was pornographic, your pussy sucking at your own fingers. "tell me more. tell me exactly what you'd do to me."

"i'd—god—i'd pin you down," he groaned, his voice cracking. "fold you in half, thighs pressed to your chest, put you in that angle that makes your pretty pussy clench down on me so tight—"

"yeah?" you moaned low and needy, eyes rolling back. "go–ah–on."

"i'd burry my cock so fucking deep in your pussy baby and fuck you until i got you squirting all over my cock just like the last time, make a mess everywhere—"

"oh–fuck–jack!" you pressed your fingers impossibly deeper inside you and rolled your hips into your fingers, a tiny, helpless movement, and when your back arched, your mouth fell open, your tits bouncing with the shift of your hand.

jack almost came at the sight of it, his restraint wearing thin with every stroke, every moan, every second his hands are not all over you.

"can i—" he reached for you with his free hand. desperate. needy. pathetic. "please baby let me just touch you—" he breathed it out like he didn't even know he was saying it. "please, please—"

"uh uh, jackie" you shook your head. "keep touching yourself."

"but, baby, i—"

"just keep your eyes on me." your eyes found his and they were dark now, pupils blown wide, and your voice was still firm but had a tremor in it that hadn't been there before. "just–just a little more, mmkay?"

"okay, baby." he obeyed you easily.

and he watched.

he watched your chest flush, spreading down between your breasts, and he matched his strokes to the rhythm of your breathing without even thinking about it. in and out. slow and steady. the wet slap of his fist working his cock mirroring the wet slide of your fingers inside yourself.

he wanted to put his mouth there. he wanted to taste it. he wanted to bury his face between your thighs and stay there until you had to physically pull him away.

but you said don't touch. so he held back.

when he thought of it, there was something almost intimate about it all. the physical ache of wanting, and the sheer, agonizing will to stay perfectly still. it made a religion out of restraint. just two people laid bare in the quiet, watching each other with a mutual, burning, want. almost as if your souls were already committing the act before your bodies. like this was the truest form of your desire. it was all too much.

and far from enough.

he could feel your breath now. your exhales were skating over his sternum, over his collarbone, up the column of his flushed throat. and as his nose skimmed just above the curve of your shoulder he could smell you—that same scent as the panties, musky and warm and wet, your pheremones rising off your skin in waves, mixing with the vanilla still clinging to your hair.

his mouth was right next to your cheek. close enough to kiss. just mere inches away, you could almost taste him then, his breath brushing over your lips with each sigh.

but he pulled back.

you whimpered then. your head fell forward, your hair curtaining your face, and your shoulders curled inward like the pleasure was too much to hold upright. like some part of you actually hoped he'd give in.

take over and fuck you like you both yearned for.

"oh, fuck—" jack's voice was wrecked. absolutely destroyed. his neck was crimson, his chest blotchy with flush, sweat beading at his temples. his hips were fucking into his fist now—chasing something, building toward something, the slow rhythm he'd tried to maintain falling apart. the sounds his hand made on his cock grew louder, wetter, more desperate. a staccato beat that matched the frantic pulse of his heart. "oh, fuck, baby, you're so—i can't—you're so pretty—"

his hand slowed. his breath hitched.

a sound tore out of him—something caught between a groan and a sob. his whole body shuddered, hips snapping forward into his fist.

you lifted your head. looked at him through half-lidded eyes. his lips were swollen from biting them. his cheeks were wet.

had he been crying?

god, he looked so pretty.

your name fell out of his mouth like a prayer. then again. and again. each repetition more broken than the last, each one punched out of him with a thrust of his hips. his hand working frantically now, thumb pressing hard against the underside of his cock his other hand playing with his balls.

"baby, please—" the word came out whined and fractured, tears streaking his flushed face, barely holding together. the wet sounds of his hand on his cock had reached a fever pitch. "wanna cum, please let me cum—"

he was asking so sweetly. so needy. it almost tipped you over the edge right then and there. it was a rare sight—jack like this. he had his moments of softness with you, achingly tender ones. but this—begging, pathetic, wrecked, stripped of every ounce of control—it fed something in you that you didn't even know was hungry. something primal and dark that liked seeing the man who held other people's lives in his hands come completely undone in yours.

"yeah, oh jack, me too. i'm about to—" you whimpered it. low and desperate. more air than voice. "about to–"

"yeah, yeah, give it to me, sweet girl—" he could feel himself getting close. he could feel you getting close. could hear it in the way your breathing went ragged, in the tiny, desperate sounds escaping your throat, in the way your hand was moving faster, your wrist angling just—

"jack—"

he kissed you.

he didn't touch you with his hands. not once. but he could feel the heat radiating off your skin. the warmth of your bare chest millimeters from his, the flush of your body bleeding through the air between you, your nipples almost brushing his stomach with every shuddering breath you took. it was like standing next to a fire.

and oh, he wanted to burn in it.

his mouth against yours was all desperation. sloppy and hungry. his tongue pushed past your lips, found yours, licked over it, then dragged against the roof of your mouth. his nose pressed into your cheek. his teeth clicked against yours. he couldn't think straight. couldn't do anything but kiss you and stroke himself and—

you came first.

he felt it. your whole body seized against him—a full-body shudder that started in your shoulders and rippled down through your chest, your stomach, your thighs. you moaned into his mouth. loud. helpless. wrecked. and he swallowed it. every gasp, every broken sound—he drank them down like communion wine as you trembled apart. he could hear it. the way your fingers kept moving through the wettest part of your orgasm, the sound changing, growing thicker, sloppier as your release coated your hand and dripped onto the tile.

that did it.

the taste of you. the sound of you. the feeling of you shaking apart against him while your orgasm rolled through your body—jack's hips jerked forward once, twice, and then he was coming with a groan that came from somewhere deeper than his throat. it ripped out of him, muffled against your mouth, his whole body going rigid, his hand working through it.

he came all over you. hot, thick ropes of it striping across your bare belly, pulsing against your stomach with every wave, the head dragging through the mess he was making of you. and he kissed you through all of it. through the peak and the aftershocks and the slow, trembling come-down. he kissed you until his lungs burned and his legs shook and his hand finally stilled.

the sound of his fist on his cock slowed. each stroke more labored, more sensitive, until he finally stopped, his shaft twitching against your cum-slicked stomach.

when he pulled back, a string of spit connected your mouths. it stretched. broke. his lips were swollen. his eyes were glassy. he looked absolutely, thoroughly destroyed.

and then you both leaned in. slowly. like your bodies just gave up on holding you upright and decided to hold each other instead. noses brushing, breath mingling in the small hot space between your faces.

his fingers came up, tentative, careful, and skimmed over your bare skin. just barely there. light enough to raise goosebumps in their wake, trailing over your ribs, your waist, the curve of your hip. then his toned arms settled around you, large hands pressing flat against the small of your back, pulling you against him. not tight. just there. you could feel his chest rising and falling against yours, both of you breathing ragged and uneven, still coming down from the high.

your arms wrapped around him, fingers splaying across his firm back, feeling the warmth of him, the dampness, the way his muscles still twitched faintly in the aftershocks.

a beat. his thumbs drew slow circles against your lower back.

then you leaned back. just enough to look at him.

"hi, honey." you said and you smiled at him. soft. sweet. ruined and impossibly pretty. like you hadn't just watched your husband fall apart in front of you. completely ruined to only the sight of you.

"…hey, baby." his voice came out shy. small. a ghost of the man who barked orders in a trauma bay.

then a little sheepishly he added, "sorry for sniffing your panties like that i was just really...pent up. didn't wanna wake you up, baby."

"it's okay, honey. i don't mind." you laughed all soft, too sweet. your manicured fingers drifted up to trail through the salt and pepper hair on his bare chest. featherlight. just barely there. but you could feel him pulse under your fingertips.

"actually, if i was being completely honest..." suddenly you were flushed, smiling a little shy now yourself. "i've also been…pent up this week. been sniffing your shirts too."

"have you now?" that admission woke something raw in him. his jaw tightened. his throat bobbed. then, suddenly, it dawned on him at that moment, tonight when he found you wearing one of his shirts. "wait does that mean–tonight you were–"

you flushed a shade deeper.

"fuck." he groaned. he twitched against your belly, thick and hot and unmistakable. impossible to ignore.

his eyes trailed over you. the way your lips were swollen, slick and kissed raw. the way you were still panting, your chest heaving. your pupils blown wide, dark and hungry, your lashes fluttering as you blinked up at him through the haze. you looked thoroughly fucked and you hadn't even been touched.

his thumb came up, without a second thought, pressed against your lower lip. just resting there.

you opened your mouth, muscle memory. sucked it in slowly, your tongue pressing flat against the pad of it, your eyes never leaving his.

something shifted behind his eyes and he let out a low pleased groan deep in his chest. that hunger—the one you thought was sated—reared its head again. licking its lips. because this wasn't enough. it was never going to be enough. not when you looked at him like that. not when he had spent two whole weeks without you and burried in work at the ER.

you looked at him like you wanted him just as much too.

you released his thumb with a soft, wet sound. looked up at him through your lashes and asked, all pretty and needy and barely above a whisper—

"so you gonna fuck me now, dr. abbot?"

he was already getting hard again.

"fuck yeah."

author noteఌ︎: i think about that scene from animal kingdom alot. had to write it down somehow lol. i'm working on part two of misconduct btw :3