✦summary: You know Steve doesn't see you like that. You know because you asked him, and he said no. So it's not really fair, that he'd reject you and keep making you love him after, is it. ✦
✦warnings/tags: steve rogers x female!reader, modern!au, no use of y/n, pining, rejection (at the start, off page, and steve's a liar about it), no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, some plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dry humping, teasing, making steve lose control, fingering, light spanking, praise kink, manhandling, big dick steve, squriting, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink, soft!dom steve), soft!steveoutside of smut✦
✦wc: 10.9k✦
✦Author's Note: this one hit ME too hard bc i based it on real life too much. oops. all the better for the horny ig. Enjoy!✦
You’re not looking for him in the crowd. And if anyone says you are, they’re a big, fat liar.
Active scanning is not looking. It’s a part of the job, to see who’s here. What kind of interviews you’re going to be able to get, who’s already closing in on who, who’s snuggled up and gossiping and might not notice you eavesdropping. If you’re smart about this—and you always are—you’re going to walk away from tonight with a comment from Secretary Ross, Pepper Potts, or even an Avenger themselves.
But not him.
You have no interest in walking away with a comment from him.
“They’re here.” Your coworker Stacy bumps your shoulders, her eyes wide and fixed across the room. “Holy shit, they’re actually here-“
“It’s their fundraiser.” You mutter, keeping your attention on a senator bumbling about near the drinks. “It would be crazy if they weren’t here.”
“Yeah, but- It’s all of them. I’ve never seen all of them-“
“Yes, you have.”
Stacy glares at you. “Well, not so close.”
You glance over, pointedly only looking at their feet. “They’re not that close.”
“I could touch one.” Stacy breathes, and you snort.
“You should go try that.”
That earns you another glare, and a smack on the arm. And you deserve it, but you just laugh and look back to your target. The tipsy, red-eyed senator who’s going to have a few more drinks, and tells you all about that bill congress is trying to pass about the Enhanced. You’ve read it three times, and it’s a disgusting invasion of privacy, but those documents were off the record. If you can get a Senator, talking about how he wants to force all superheroes to either be sterilized or record their sex lives-
Stacy pinches your arm, and you squeak so loudly it echoes off the domed, ballroom ceiling. Some attention darts in your direction, but everyone quickly loses interest when they realize it’s nothing all that interesting. Your face is burning as you smooth your dress, and it doesn’t stop burning. It feels like someone is tending to the hot embarrassment, fluttering in your tummy and restless in your fingers. Like someone is looking right through you, monitoring you, watching you-
“He’s looking at you.” Stacy hisses in your ear, buzzing with so much excitement you’re sure she’s about to turn into glitter and explode like fireworks, and you’re going to throttle her.
“He is now, because you,” you shove her shoulder. It doesn’t do anything to stamp out her thrill at your worst nightmare. “Fucking made him notice-“
“No, he was looking before-“
“No, he wasn’t-“
“Yes, he was-“
“No, he wasn’t-“
“Who wasn’t what.”
You freeze, and Stacy looks over your head with a fawning, dazed expression. You’re going to kill her. You’re going to cut her up into tiny pieces and burn them all in separate furnaces, and then you’re going to steal her dog and make it forget all about her, and marry her husband and make her cute little kid your Cinderella as bloodline punishment-
“Hi, Mr. Captain Sir.” She giggles, looking back down to you with a wide-eyed it’s him expression.
I’m going to kill you. You mouth. She doesn’t seem all that bothered by the threat.
“Uh- Hi. You don’t have to-“ You hear him shift on his feet behind you. “Steve is alright.”
You can picture him rubbing the back of his neck, trying to look smaller. More humble and approachable, when he’s a modern walking Hercules. A better version, who doesn’t kill his wife and kids. Who gets you drinks and tries to be your friend and is so stupidly polite and kind and you hate him, you hate him so much-
He says your name. You plaster on the widest, most plastic and sickly sweet smile you can manage. You want him to feel like you’re a bit of plastic that’s stuck between his teeth. To give up talking to you, because it’s not fair.
Steve’s just as handsome as the last time you saw him. And the time before that. And the time before that. If anything, he’s more handsome. You don’t know how he does it, changing absolutely nothing about his appearance and looking hotter every time you get eyes on him. His hair is styled the same as always, but it looks so soft. You could run your fingers through it and it would probably feel like a cloud. His stupid, sharp jawline is slack as you glare up at him, and he’s so tall it makes you dizzy, and he’s fixing you with that puppy look that makes you feel like you’re important to him.
And you’re not. You know you’re not.
You went down that road once. You tried to be important to him, and he said no. And he’s Steve, so he was sweet and perfectly kind about it, and still wanted to be your friend, and you’d thought you were already over it so you’d said yes.
You thought you could just be his friend. He hadn’t made anything weird. Neither of you had ever even brought up your failed attempt to ask him out again. And at the time, you’d thought you were over it.
But Steve is Steve. And he’s got some titanic hold over your heart that’s left finger marks dug in through the landscape. There’s a depression over the cavity of your chest, and your ribs have molded to fit it, and now it’s far too late to go back. You only know how to have feelings for him. You’ve tried to get over it. To ignore it. To forcibly re-mold your love into something platonic, or clawed your way through some relationships in the hope they’d help you move on.
They don’t. They won’t. Nothing can.
The big stupid boy-scout standing over you owns you completely, and you can’t even tell him without making it a problem.
Your new strategy had been to ignore him. Stacy ruined that.
She thinks he secretly has feelings for you. You tune her out every time she starts to crow and preach about it, because you know your heart is going to take it as gospel and not parody, and you can’t afford false faith. All you have is what’s grounded between your fingers.
Steve’s right here. He’s smiling at you, all pretty and nice, and you have to smile back or else it will make him feel bad. He’s got a drink in his massive hand for you. You’ve had a million wet dreams about that hand around your throat or cupping your pussy.
You’re aching thinking about it. In an ideal world, this would be the part where you ran without looking back.
In an ideal world, you’d be standing on his arm right now, instead of all stiff and weird in front of him.
You need to get a fucking grip.
“Hi.” You say, and it’s sounds lame and idiotic and pathetic-
Steve’s face splits into a big, happy smile. “Hi. How’s the night going for you, do you have your victim picked out?”
You scowl. “It’s not- They’re not victims-“
“You treat them like they’re victims.” His grin widens. “Sometimes I feel like I should be saving them.”
“They’re all fine. It’s not like I’m drugging them or something.”
Steve’s brows raise. “That makes me think you are drugging them.”
“Nuh uh.” You stick out your tongue, and he laughs under his breath.
“One day you’re gonna say something that actually gets you in trouble, you know.” He holds out the drink he brought you.
It’s your favorite. It’s always your favorite.
You told him what your favorite drink was, the very first time you attended one of these parties. He’s never forgotten since, and it makes you love and hate him all the more.
“I don’t think I will.” You mumble, both trying and desperately failing not to brush his fingers. His skin is warm. He’s warm. He’s like a walking furnace, and you’d like to just bury your face in his pecs and breathe him in and-
“Kid, you already have.”
Steve looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. His eyes are sparkling, and in the background you think Natasha Romanoff is circling like a shark, trying to get his attention, but if he notices he pretends he doesn’t. He just looks at you and calls you kid, and the word plummets like a cold stone into your gut.
Kid. That’s all you are to him. Kid.
“But if I got in trouble, you’d save me.” You take a long sip of your drink, and you like to torture yourself.
With his presence. His closeness.
How fast he nods. How certainly he answers.
“’Course I would. Already saving you by pretending I don’t see you getting all those Senators drunk.”
You laugh softly, but the sound hurts. When you look over your shoulder, Stacy’s abandoned you for the food table. You catch her eye, and she shoots you an excited thumbs up. She probably thinks this is going great.
“Are you feeling alright?” Steve says suddenly, and he sounds like he really, really cares. “You been looking kind of sick- Not that you look bad- You look good, uh- Really good, but-“
“I’m fine.” You turn back to Steve, and you wonder if he can see it.
The pain, leaking down like a toxin from your eyes. Everything kind of blurry. You’d throw up, if you didn’t think he’d take care of you after.
“Everything’s fine.”
Steve’s lips twitch. You’re not sure he believes you.
But it doesn’t really matter anyway. You’re not his to get an answer out of. He decided that.
And you’re just doing exactly what Steve wants, all the time.
“You do look nice.” He mumbles, taking a sip of his own drink, as if it could even do anything to him.
You smile, and there it is again. The shameful, unrelenting heat in your stomach. “Thanks.”
I dressed up for you.
“I think he’s in looove with you.” Stacy says, spinning around in her chair. You flip her off, not looking up from your computer.
“Is the printer out of paper still?”
“I don’t know, you print everything for me.” She pokes your chair with her foot. “Pay attention to me, I said Steve’s in love with you-“
“No, he’s not.”
“Yes, he is.”
“No, he’s not-“
“Yes, he is-“
“Is this the same thing you were fighting about last time?” Steve’s voice comes from over your shoulder, and you freeze. “Or is that just… How you two talk.”
Stacy looks awfully fucking pleased with herself for a dead woman. “It’s the same fight as last time.”
“Oh.” He pauses. You can hear his concern, and it makes you want to vomit. “Is everything okay?”
“Mhm.” Stacy beams. “Hi, Steve.”
You glance up, and Steve looks properly bemused and adorable about her whole demeanor. It makes you want to hold his face and kiss the tiny, pouting frown off his lips. You smack yourself internally. Get it together.
“Hi, Stacy.”
She almost glows. “You remember my name?”
“Yeah.” He glances down at you. “I try to remember most people’s names.”
Stacy swoons. “Of course you do.”
Steve blinks, and you clear your throat.
“What are you doing here?”
“Uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, giving you a small smile. “Lunch, remember? We planned it last week.”
Oh. You did do that. “I told you to wait outside, my boss is going to try to interview you-“
“Oh, she already did.” He laughs. “But I’m here for you, not a front page.”
You flush, and Stacy giggles like she’s watching TV.
“So…” Steve shrugs. “Lunch?”
Right. Lunch.
“How’d you even get in the building.” You grumble, grabbing your jacket as you stand. He shrugs sheepishly.
“I took a photo with the guards.”
“Steve, I told you to stop doing that-“
“It made them really happy, okay? And I went through all the metal detectors, same as everyone else-“
“I know, but you hate taking the photos, you can tell them no.”
Steve frowns. “It’s not that big an inconvenience for me-“
“But you hate it.”
“I don’t hate it-“
“Steven Rogers.”
You glare at him, arms crossed over your chest. Steve sighs, slumping like a scolded child.
“I don’t love them.” He mumbles, and you nod.
“Next time, tell them no.”
“But then I can’t come upstairs.”
You shrug, starting at the door, your shoulder bumping against his. “You can text me. Like you’re supposed to-“
“Or I can just do the photos-“
“No-“
“Bye, guys.” Stacy calls from behind you, and you look her with wide eyes. You’d forgotten she was there.
“Um… Bye.” You wave awkwardly, and she grins.
He’s here for you. She mouths, and you roll your eyes.
No hope. It just makes everything else harder.
If Steve wanted you, he’d say something. And you’re a big girl. You can handle just being his friend, because he won’t leave you alone long enough for you to properly avoid him. You can handle it.
His hand finds your lower back, when he opens the door for you. You almost trip over your feet from the dizzying touch.
You can’t handle this at all.
The most annoying part about having undying feelings for Steve Rogers is that it’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. Golden Boy Number One. Mr. Perfect Specimen.
You’re in love with the little blond boy with abs and a dopey smile and sweet blue eyes. You’re obsessed with Mr. Muscles. You lose sleep over the guy who looks like he could crush you in a headlock then kiss you to sleep after.
Incredibly original. Groundbreaking, even. The love of your life is the masculine celebrity who’s respectful and kind. Never before heard of stuff. You’re really shattering glass ceilings with that one.
You want to shoot yourself in the face.
It’s impossible to avoid even thinking about him, when he’s everywhere. You go out to the corner store, and he’s on the little TV mounted in the corner. Avengers brand yogurts line the grocery store, and you glare at Strawberries and Cream and Justice until your head hurts. He told you about that. He was pretty proud of how all the proceeds were going to charities.
“It’s a stupid name, though.” You’d said, and he’d shrugged.
“Tony says the name doesn’t matter, as long as it’s got our faces on it. Apparently that’s what people are buying for.”
He’d frowned at that, and you’d given him an affectionate smile. He hates the glory of all of this. You know he does, and you’d told him gently you’re sure people will also buy for charity.
You’d been lying through your teeth, though. When you grab the yogurt and shamefully shove it into your basket, it’s not for cancer research or orphans or to save the bees. It’s because Steve’s face is smiling at you from the plastic, and you’re no better than the fangirls who get all doe-eyed over his every breath.
Not that you’re much better about that, either.
“I could give you an interview.” Steve offers on day, when you’d been complaining to him about slow news. “It can be about whatever you want-“
“I don’t want your pity journalism, Steven.”
He frowns. “It’s not pity. I’m trying to help you.”
You shrug, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “Well, I can’t accept your help.”
“Why not-“
“It’s unethical.”
“I… don’t think that’s true-“
“Well, I didn’t earn it.”
“You don’t have to earn it.” He says, all earnest and sweet and kind, and you want to die. “You work hard, I know you work hard, and if this can help you- Here, we can do it right now-“
“I don’t have questions ready.” You cut in quickly. Flatly.
Steve just shrugs. “Make some up. I know you can.”
You wish he’d stop believing in you. It makes your heart flutter.
“I have nothing I want to ask you.” You mumble hopelessly, and he frowns.
“I don’t believe that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you always have something to ask me. To ask anyone.”
You flush, turning to the side to avoid his gaze. “Maybe I just know everything about you,” you mutter, and he snorts.
“No. You don’t.”
That gets your attention. You snap your head in his direction, and he smiles at you. Like he already knows he won.
“There she is-“
“Shut up.” You lean across the table, and his smile widens. “What don’t I know about you.”
“A lot.”
“Like what-“
“You have to ask me to find out.”
You narrow your eyes. He keeps fucking smiling.
“You suck.” You grumble.
He shrugs. “I know you think that.”
You’re both leaning across the table. If you reached up, just an inch, you’d be able to trace the line of his nose. He’s so handsome. It’s unfair, and you can feel a smile tugging at your lips in response to his.
“I’m going to punch you in the face-“
“I’d like to see you try, kid.”
Kid.
You lean back, ice water feeling like it was poured through your veins. Steve notices the shift. He frowns, but you don’t give him the chance to question it. You just push on.
“I need a napkin.” You mutter., leaning back into your seat. “To write questions.”
“Yeah. Right.” He rubs the back of his neck. Opens his mouth, then closes it again, shaking his head slightly. “I’ll go get that for you.”
Of course he will.
And when he’s talking to the waitress—paper and a pen in his hand—she twirls her hair and giggles. Same as you would, if you got to know him where he didn’t know you. Where he might just find you pretty, and give you a chance, because you were friends first and you think that’s where you all went wrong.
This all might’ve been easier, if he really was just a celebrity crush. If you loved him because he was Captain America and not Steve. Your Steve. Who brings you back two pens in case you don’t like the first, and shares his food with you while you gloss through the interview—feeling little detached from your own body, like he’s a million miles away—and touches your lower back again when you finally leave lunch.
You might’ve gotten to touch him more, if he didn’t mean something to you.
But you wouldn’t trade knowing him for the world.
And that just makes it all hurt even more.
Steve’s been trying to get you out with his team for years. You’ve said no, over and over and over. You don’t need to feel even more mortal than you already are. Don’t need the reminder that he probably rejected you because you’re not even a quarter of what he and his friends are.
Not that you think Steve would think you’re any less because you’re not enhanced. You know he wouldn’t.
Consciously.
But that doesn’t change the reality of it. He wouldn’t want you, when he’s surrounded by other Gods, like he himself, far more worthy of his attention. You can be mean and sharp, but you don’t have the cool, collected, deadly beauty of Black Window. And you’ve heard the rumors about them.
You’ve heard all the rumors. About Steve with everyone, because people like to talk. There isn’t a pair of people on the Avengers that the public hasn’t theorized about secretly dating.
And you know none of it’s true. Steve’s told you himself.
But that doesn’t make it hurt any less, when you think about him with someone else more worthy. Someone he wants.
Which is why you didn’t want to do this. And Steve had always respected that—because he’s perfect, and he respects everything—so you’d thought you’d never have to. He asks. You say no. He doesn’t push it, or demand to know why. He waits months before asking again, and you know he only does that because he thinks you’re just too busy to go out the other times. That you’re saying no because you simply don’t have the energy, and not because the idea makes you feel itchy. And you don’t want to tell him. You like that he asks you. It makes you feel important.
But you still kept saying no.
Until Stacy overheard him ask you, and said yes for you. And Steve beamed, and you couldn’t stand to burst the delicate little bubble of his joy, and now you’re here.
Huddled in the corner of a bar with the fucking Avengers all around you. Hawkeye and Thor are throwing darts in the corner. Hulk, Black Widow, and Falcon are playing pool. The Vision is eating onion rings, and everything feels like a very, very bizarre dream.
Steve hasn’t left your side since you got here. It’s been the only anchor you have. You’d been able to hide in his shadow and duck under his arm, avoiding pressing questions and conversations you don’t really want to have. It’s not too weird for him to bring a civilian friend, at least. None of them have commented on it, besides throwing you passing looks. Steve mentioned that they all do it, from time to time.
But you’re the only one here right now. And if you could, you’d sew your hand into Steve’s so he couldn’t leave you alone.
And that’s always a little true. You want that all the time.
More than usual right now. But all the time.
“I’m going to get drinks.” He mutters, and you grab his bicep like a scared child.
“Wait- I’ll come with you-“
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” He grins down at you, patting your head like you’re a dog or something. “You don’t have to stand up.”
You want to shout at him that this isn’t about him being a gentleman, it’s about him not leaving your sight. But you’re weak. And pathetic. So you just nod, and Steve smiles at you before walking away.
You try to hide in the shadows, avoiding any attention. It doesn’t work.
“You’re the journalist.” A cool, lazy voice cuts through the air, and you look up to find Tony Stark standing over your table.
“I’m a journalist-“
“No. You’re Roger’s journalist.” Stark drawls, sliding into the booth. You stiffen, but don’t dare to move away.
That’ll make it seem even more obvious, when Steve comes back and you don’t inch away from him.
“I understand what he’s been going on about.” Stark continues, looking you up and down slowly. “Didn’t know they made them like you anymore.”
Your eyes narrow. “Like me?”
“Mhm.” Stark smirks, and you raise your chin.
“What am I like, Mr. Stark?”
He chuckles, leaning back. “Little spitfire, aren’t you-“
“Only to people who deserve it.”
That makes him laugh louder. Everything feels more and more like a fever dream by the second.
You look out to the bar, trying to find Steve. Internally begging him to come back. He’s by the bar, your drink already in his hand. It’s the same one you always get. He’s holding it close to his chest, like it’s something priceless.
There’s a woman standing next to him. Just another random girl, in a tiny dress with some pretty good makeup, giggling and batting her lashes at him.
And Steve’s entertaining her. smiling at her.
The same way he smiles at you.
You don’t want to be here. You didn’t want to be here. You don’t want to see how it’s not even the Avengers that he’d want more than you, it’s everyone else. She’s getting the same attention you try to drown yourself in, but you’re not the one who might go home with him. His grin is a little tighter with her, because he’s probably restrained and trying to play his cards right. She looks like she’s talking sweet, and he’d probably want that more than you, poking and mocking him all the time. He’s a God. He’ll say he’s not but he is, and what kind of god would want to be worshipped by someone who shows love with insults and eye rolls.
There’s a tight feeling, around your throat like rope. Your eyes are burning, and the world is blurring, and you don’t want to see this. You can’t see this.
You tried to be his friend. You really tried.
But you can’t.
“What’s wrong with you?” Stark asks, and you look over to find him watching with a strange expression.
“Nothing.” You clear your throat, fumbling for your bag. “I just- Remembered something. That I have to go do.”
You glance over to Steve again. He’s laughing at something she’s saying without shaking his head and tipping his head back, without looking away from her. Like he does with you.
“Right now.” You mumble. “I have to go do it right now.”
Stark hums, tapping his fingers on the table. “Right now, huh.”
“Yep.” You stand up, and he gives you an almost amused look.
“What is it? If it’s so urgent.”
“Stuff.” You snip.
Stark chuckles, shaking his head. “Jesus, he’s batting in a whole other sport with you.”
“What the fuck does that mean-“
“Nothing.” Stark smirks again. Like he knows something. “Go on. I’ll tell Cap you had stuff.”
You scan over his relaxed features, and he just keeps grinning, lazy and unworried. You could get an answer out of him, if you tried.
But you look up, back to Steve. And he’s grabbing his own drink from the bar. Still chatting with the girl. If he brings her back to the table, you’re going to vomit.
You have to go now.
“Thanks.” You mutter, giving Stark a tight grin. “Have a good night.”
And Stark laughs, as you turn away.
“Oh. I’m sure I will.”
You avoid Steve for a week.
Properly avoid him.
He calls ten times, just the night you leave the bar. He texts almost every hour for the days after that, and you mute him. If you look at the messages, you’re going to respond to them. If you respond to them, he’ll convincing you to talk to him. If you talk to him, or see him, or even stand near him, you’re never going to get over him.
You’re going cold turkey on him, like he’s a drug.
To you, he is. And you need to get clean. You need to move on.
Steve doesn’t come into the building to steal you for lunch, but he calls you every day. Your fingers fidget, still trying to pick up the phone.
You don’t know how you manage not to, but you do. When you ask the guards downstairs, they say he’s walked through the door and walked back out five times. You force yourself not to think about it, and somehow manage to do that too. And you’re going to be able to do this. You’re finally going to move on.
Moving on means moving. Not staying in the same little pit, waiting for his sun to change its path and shine on you. You have to climb out, and find a new place to be. Someone new to want.
You’ve done this part before. The whole dance of downloading the apps and going on the dates and telling yourself you want them, even though they aren’t Steve. But this time is going to be different. If you tell yourself that enough, it will feel more and more true.
There’s a guy you’ve been chatting with all week, and he seems sweet. He compliments you, and he was polite when you met for coffee, and he’s far from bad to look at. And it’s not like you’re going to marry him. You just need someone to be close to you that isn’t Steve.
And maybe this guy—you can’t really remember his name, but you’ll learn it—is blond haired and blue eyes and broadly built. Maybe you swiped through photo after photo, looking for a phantom of him, but that’s nobody business expect yours, and your pillow’s. It knows better than anyone that there’s only one way you can fake it.
Which is exactly what this game is. Faking it until you make it. Until you’re over Steve, and there’s never any temptation to look back.
You dress up, telling your brain you’re going on a date with Steve himself so you put in all the effort. Another thing that’s nobody’s business. You’re doing what you need to, and it’s going to get you over him. You’ve got lashes and glossy lips and heels that are going to hurt in the morning, and this guy doesn’t seem strong enough to carry you like Steve would, but that’s where you need to shut your brain up. There’s not going to be anyone who’s like Steve. This guy looks like him enough to get you out the door, but it’s not him, and that’s okay. That’s good. It’s going to help you move on. You’ve got your jacket, and your purse, and you’re going to do this and move on-
You yank the door open, and freeze.
Steve stares at you, hands his pockets, mouth hanging open.
This is usually the part where one of you says hi, but you can’t remember how to speak. He’s here. Why is he here. He’s been giving you space, because he’s amazing and polite, and it had been so much easier to pretend it was just because he didn’t care when he wasn’t right in front of you. Looking like you’d just punched him in the face, all pale with sagging shoulders and sad, dull eyes. As if he’s lost sleep.
He scans over you. Over your revealing outfit and makeover. His throat bobs, and you could swear he slouches further. When he meets your gaze, he doesn’t smile. It makes you want to cry.
“Steve-“
“You’ve been avoiding me.” He mutters, the words thick and low. “And- I’m not here to fight about it. I didn’t think you were going to open the door, I didn’t- I wasn’t going to bother you. Just- Never mind.”
You blink. “I- What are you-“
“You got a date?” He nods to your outfit, and something in his pockets shift. He’s fisting his hands.
“Um-“ You glance to his pockets again, then back to his weighted gaze. “Yeah. I do.”
“With whom.”
Shit. You still can’t remember. “Someone I met on an app. Steve, what are you-“
“On an app.” He echoes, the words sounding hollow. He chuckles under his breath. “You know, Stark made me try those once.”
You swallow. You don’t want to hear about his dating life. “How did that go.”
“Bad. And I tried, I just…” He trails off, shaking his head, and you think you can feel his stare burrowing into your heart, shaping it even further in his name.
This is exactly what you were trying to avoid. Seeing him makes you love him more, think about him more, need him more. He’s got a gravity over you, and he doesn’t know it, and why is he here.
“Is he nice.”
Steve’s voice is low. Pained. You don’t understand the question.
“Who?”
“Your date.” He grunts. “Is he nice to you.”
“Oh.” You forgot about that part. “Yeah.”
“Good.”
Neither of you speak for a second. Steve stares at you so hard our head spins, and you can’t look him in the eyes.
“What did I do?”
His voice breaks suddenly, and you feel the crack in your ribs. It yanks your gaze up, and you’ve never seen him so sad. Frustrated and annoyed, sure. Tense, all the time. But never just… Sad. Defeated. Like even he isn’t sure what to do. It feels wrong. Like the world is bleeding together and caving over itself.
“You didn’t do anything-“
“I must have.” He scans over your features, his own so openly aching. “You’ve never been mad at me before, and- Now you’re-“
He waves to your outfit, and you frown.
“It’s just a date-“
“Just a date.” He mutters under his breath, and your mouth falls open.
“I’m allowed to date, Steven-“
“I know you are!” His voice raises for a second, but he quickly pushes it back down. “I- I know, but that’s not- Why are you avoiding me?”
He’s pleading. It’s almost bleeding out of his voice, staining all over you, and you wrap an arm around your stomach like you can stop yourself from bleeding back. This isn’t fair. Steve’s not stupid. He can’t have just forgotten your mistake of expressing your feelings, he’s not nearly oblivious to be unable to put two and two together, and he certainly can’t be dense enough to not tie together that you’re avoiding him, and going on a date. You don’t go on dates. You’re usually too busy trying to steal some love from his shadow.
Yet here he is. Looking at you like he really doesn’t understand. Being so nice about it, when it’s clearly been bothering him. No demanding to understand. No shouting about how hurt he was. Just pleading.
Because he’s golden and perfect. All respectful, like you’re just another lady to him.
Like you’re not worth enough for him to fight a little dirtier for.
A lump is pressing up your throat. It’s a battle to hold his gaze.
“Why do you think I’ve been avoiding you.” You mutter, and he shakes his head.
“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” Steve rubs his face, working his jaw. “I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what I did-“
“Steve-“
“And I’ll fix it, whatever I did, I’ll fix it-“
“You can’t fix it!” You shout.
He stumbles back like you slapped him, and tears burn at your eyes.
“You- You can’t fix it, Steve.” You whisper, staring down at his shoes. “Just- Stop.”
“Stop what?” He rasps. “I- I know I messed something up, but-“
“Stop being so nice to me.”
He’s silent for a moment. You don’t even know how to justify that one. It sounds pathetic to your ears.
“I... I’d rather not.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“Then please leave me alone.” The words hurt, but you push them out like an apple lodged in your throat. “I- I tried, okay? I really tried, but I can’t.”
“Can’t-“
“Can’t be your friend.” You whisper. The tears burn on your cheeks. “I can’t be your friend, Steve, it’s too hard. I- I-“
You sniff, and Steve rasps your name. You have to shake your head. He can’t talk right now. It’s already too hard.
“I love you.” You say, barely a breath. It doesn’t matter. He’ll hear anyway. “I love you too much, and- It’s not your fault that you don’t- That it’s not the same. But please.” You shift on your feet, hugging yourself tight. “I- I need space.”
Steve doesn’t say anything. There isn’t anything he could say to make it better, not anymore. But something in you still fractures, when he just steps to the side. Giving you a path out.
Letting you go.
You think it’s hope. The hope that one day he might feel the same, the dream that you’d tried so hard not to feed, but tended to bloom on its own. That one day he’d look at you and realize he made a mistake.
But he steps to the side. And that’s all it’s ever going to be.
A dream.
You bow your head and shuffle past him, face burning and skin crawling with shame. You’re going to go on this date and pretend like everything is fine, if you can even make it out of the hallway without breaking down. Your knees are wobbly and tears are coming faster than you can wipe away, but you just need to get out. Out of this hallway with its suffocating air.
Away from Steve, and your heart, broken at his feet.
You’ll get over it. You’ll get over it. It’s hard to breathe right now but you’ll get over it-
“God- Screw it.”
A strong hand wraps around your wrist. It takes you by such surprise you don’t even think to fight.
Steve spins your around, grabbing your jaw and picking you up in a single movement. You gasp as his lips slam over yours, sudden and demanding. He kisses you like he doesn’t know he’s already got a claim on you. Like he’s trying to brand your lips with a bruising, hungry desire. All you can do is breathlessly kiss him back, scraping at his shoulders and trying to keep up with what’s happening. Steve tastes a little like honey and salt, and you’re sure he ate something earlier but you don’t really care what. His hair is just as soft as you thought, and you’re being crushed under the force of him but it’s intoxicating and exhilarating and you feel like you’re being remade-
It’s over. Just as fast as it started. Steve stumbles back, fumbling with his hands like they’re still trying to reach you against his will. He braces them on his hips, staring at you with wide eyes.
You gape at him, trying to catch your breath. You reach up to brush your own lips, trying to make sure the tingly feeling there is real. Maybe press it deeper in, until you can feel it forever.
Steve clears his throat. You blink at him through the slowly drying tears, not really sure what’s happening.
Neither of you dare to speak. Or move. You’re breathing shallowly, like anything too big is going to tip the whole world over, and it will all slip through your fingers.
He takes an uncertain step forward, and you should take one back.
But you’ve never been all that good at moving away from him before. You have no interest in learning that skill now.
This time, you grab him at the same time he grabs you. You stumble into each other, uncoordinated and desperate, unbothered by bumping noses and smushed limbs. You just need to be close to him. To feel him as much as possible, as fast as possible.
He’s never been a drug. You’d been getting a secondary high, but this-
This is a hit.
And you need to have more.
You grab at his collar, pressing up to meet his every kiss, and you’re quickly making out with teeth and tongue in the middle of the hallway. Steve’s arm wraps around your ass, lifting you effortlessly off your feet, and you moan into his mouth.
He trips as he walks back into the apartment, and you end up pressed against the wall at least three more times before you make it through the door. Every time Steve slams you back, devoting all his attention to kissing you until you’re drooling and sloppy and just trying to push further into his open mouth. At one point he slots his knee between your thighs, and you start to shamelessly grind down as he sucks your lower lip between his teeth.
You giggle, dazed and sore with overflowing need for him. He kicks the door closed behind you, and you think you’re going to end up riding his thigh against the wall, but he starts down the hall. To your bedroom.
He makes it about five steps before you rake your nail through his hair and start kissing over his jaw. Steve moans into your ear, lagging a little sideways, and you shriek as you both topple down onto the couch.
It takes you a second to catch your breath, and that’s all Steve needs to get the upper hand. He grabs your jaw, tipping your head back as he starts to suck and nip at your neck. You squeak, grabbing his head, and he moans against your skin. His knee pushes back between your thighs, and this angle is even better than before. You can’t help the roll of your hips, down onto the muscle of his thick leg.
“St- Steve-“ You voice is high, and he hums, licking up your throat before making out with a soft spot under your jaw. “Jesus fucking- God-“
“I know.” He mutters, dragging his hand down your thigh and grabbing under your knee. He squeezes gently, hiking it up to your chest, pushing his knee down even harder than before.
“Fuck- You-“ You gasp, your pussy clenching around nothing as your clit gets rubbed through his jeans, through your panties.
At this angle, you’re almost exposed to him. Your dress pooling around your tummy, the wet spot on your underwear growing bigger and bigger. You grasp at the skirt, trying to tug it down a little. It’s one thing to be riding his knee, another for him to see you.
Steve grabs your wrist, pushing the fabric further down than it had been before. Your eyes almost cross when he starts to rub his knee back and forth, the pressure overwhelming and perfect. You didn’t think you could cum like this, but there’s a familiar pressure building up in your stomach, and you have to bite your tongue to stop a wanton moan from escaping your lips.
He sits up to look at you, and you’re sure it’s a shameful, lewd sight. Your makeup smudged, your hair ruined, a picture of depravity and sin as you chase pleasure on his leg. This isn’t the kind of thing you thought he’d be into. He’s too perfect, too good, and maybe you’ve wanted to be put in a headlock and manhandled and used, but Steve’s all about honor. You’d been so sure that, even if you got to have him, it would be lovely, vanilla sex that was filled with such emotion it would make up for the simpleness.
But that’s not what you see in Steve’s eyes. They’re hooded and black with lust. His jaw is clenched as he watches you, and he pushes your leg further up with a gentle squeeze.
“Oh-“ You gasp, trying to reach up to grab him.
Steve grabs your second wrist without letting go of the first. Holds him in one hand, and leans over you as he pins them both over your head. Your mouth falls open, breathing fast and needy.
His own chest is heaving. He looks down to his knee against your core, and a deep sound rumbles from his chest. You’re wound so tight you’re certain you could snap, sudden and fast like a rubber band. You strain against Steve’s hold, and his attention snaps back up.
“You’re good, doll.” He coos. “Relax for me.”
You blink at him, shaking your head. You can’t stop grinding against him, but you need him close. Need to be under the pressure of his body, to feel like there’s nothing else in the world.
Steve picks up the speed of his knee, almost drilling it down into your cunt without touching you at all. You gape, head lolling to the side, and he grunts.
“Look at me.”
His voice is deep. Not a suggestion. An order.
You blink up at him, almost drooling, and he leans down until his lips are ghosting over yours.
“I don’t want space.” He mutters. “I want you.”
You swallow, still rubbing your pussy up into his knee. “You- You can’t just-“
“Shh.” He pushes further down, until it feels like he’s almost inside of you. You snap your mouth shut. “Is that all I did?”
“Wha- Oh-“
He drags his knee in slow circles, and you make an incoherent, starved sound. Steve doesn’t even break a sweat.
“You and me.” He mutters, studying your every expression. “That’s it. That’s what was gonna make me lose you.”
“You- You didn’t lose me-“
“Almost did.” He squeezes your knee. “You walked.”
You glare up at him. “You let me-“
“No, I didn’t.”
Steve’s lips slam back over yours, and you can’t really argue with that. Your eyes flutter as you give into the kiss, your body sparking with a million, delighted nerves. Steve groans against your lips, fucking his knee against your core, and he’s hitting your clit just right, the fabric soaked and filled with rough friction.
Your back arches off the couch as you cum, and Steve lets go of your wrists. You grab his face, trying to pull his lips closer, and he wraps around your back, holding you up. Your toes curl, body shaking as the pressure becomes sensitive, your pussy gushing and clenching around nothing.
Steve rubs your spine, kissing along your shoulder, up your neck, over your cheeks. You hum softly, floating down and tucked into his arms. He leans back against the couch, taking you with him. You slump over his chest, burying your face in his neck as his hand slips under your dress. Thick, calloused finger pads gently graze your hips and waist, and you squirm.
“I- I didn’t want to ruin something.” He murmurs in your ear, and you pause.
“Ruin…”
“Us.” Steve’s face presses into the curve of your neck, warm breath tickling your skin. “You were my friend, we work in a lotta the same places, and I just- I didn’t want to risk that.”
You swallow, leaning back and waiting until he meets your glossy, sad gaze. You take his face between your hands, and he covers them with his own.
“I was willing to risk it.” You whisper, and he sighs.
“I know. But-“ He looks away, words choked and low. “I thought it was a crush. That you’d get over.”
You laugh weakly. “Well, it wasn’t.”
“I know.” He sighs. “Mine wasn’t either.”
You lips part with a sharp breath, and Steve looks back to you with nervous, hopeful eyes.
“I love you.” He squeezes both your hands, guiding them to his lips. “It is the same. So- Tell me that fixes it. Please.”
It does.
Just as fast as they’d shattered, your dreams weave themselves back together. They’re clearer than before. More colorful. It’s no longer like looking through a mist, or watching a reflection in the water. When you touch Steve, he doesn’t ripple away. And that’s more than enough.
You lean down and kiss him. It’s slower than the other kisses. Steve grabs your hips, but lets you press his head down. You wrap your arms around his neck, tracing his lips with your tongue, and he hums in content. Drags you further forward in his lap.
Something thick and hard presses right against you, and you almost go limp. Like your body is already trying to get ready to take it. To take Steve’s cock that can’t be as large as it feels, straining against his jeans and twitching when you drag yourself slowly back and forth.
“Hey.” Steve grunts, grabbing your hips firmly. You hope he’s holding tight enough to leave a bruise. “Easy.”
You snort, leaning back to give him a pointed look. “Easy?”
“Yeah, that’s what I-“
“I just came on your knee.”
His ears turn a little pink, and he coughs. “I, uh- Fair.”
“Mhm.” You hum, smiling smugly, and you take all the strength in your jelly legs and grind right now onto his clothed cock.
Steve hisses, his fingers digging into your soft skin. “Jesus- Baby-“
You brace your arms on either side of his head, dragging back and forth as slow as you can. Steve’s eyes flutter, his tongue darting over his lips as he watches you move on him. His muscles flex with the effort not to grab you.
You’d very much like to see him give up.
“Does that feel good?” You whisper, making your voice sweet and innocent.
Steve grunts. You’re going to have handprints on your body in the morning. The thought just makes you move faster.
“I don’t want to go slow, Stevie.” You purr, and his chest heaves under you. “I want you to fuck me. Pleeease.”
You whine dramatically, thrusting forward, and Steve’s face drops against your chest.
“Jesus, woman.” He lips graze over your breast, and you moan. “Come on, ‘s not playing fair-“
“Don’t wanna play fair.” You hum, slowly reaching between your bodies. “Wasn’t fair how you turned me down.”
“’M sorry about that-“
“You should be.” You kiss under his ear. “Hurt my feelings.”
“Thought-“ He grunts as you palm his balls through his jeans. “Thought I was helping-“
“You weren’t.”
“I got that now-“
“But you know what would make it better?” You lean back up, holding Steve’s gaze with a lazy smile.
He nods quickly, and you giggle, wiggling down onto his bulge.
“Fucking me.”
Steve looks down, and a rumble echoes through his chest when he sees it.
You’d peeled off your ruined underwear without him noticing. Leaving your bare, sweet and soaked pussy pressed against him. You moan, watching him as you grind down, and he’s so close to snapping. You can see it in the tension of his jaw, feel how his fingers keep twitching on your hips. You smile at him, licking your lips, and that dark look flashes over his features. The same one from earlier, that had him overtaking you like a storm.
Steve’s a good boy. A sweet boy.
He also doesn’t like things that he can’t account for. Used to pick fights in alleys as a kid, always wanted to be the person everyone looked to for help.
You’re sure that, between the two of you, you can let him have a little fun without compromising his moral compass.
He has to, if you’re begging him for it. Not very chivalrous, to ignore a lady in need.
“Pleaseee.” You whine again, ghosting your lips over his. “Fuck me, Stevie, fuck me until I can’t walk-“
He mutters your name under his breath, and you just pout at him.
“Make me yours, make me cry, fuck-“ You throw your head back, the teasing him going straight to your own core. “God, fucking- Please, Steve-“
That does it. The explicit, wet cry of his name seems to snap something in Steve’s resolve, and he’s on you in a blur of hands and lips. Grabbing a fistful of your ass before hauling you up his chest, kissing you breathless as he stands. He keeps carrying like you weigh nothing, and you want to be trapped in his arms forever.
“Steve- Shit-“ Your jaw drops he tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Fuck, slow down-“
“You said you didn’t want to slow down.” He reminds you in a deceptively soothing voice, big hands rubbing on the back of your thighs. “Said you didn’t wanna play fair.”
“I- Um- Ooooh-“
You drop your head against Steve’s shoulder, biting at his shirt as thick, strong fingers tease the lips of your pussy.
“Wet fuckin’ pussy.” He muses, spreading you open so the cold air hits your cunt. “Knew you got soaked for me, princess. Didn’t know it was this bad.”
“You- You-“ He needs to stop humiliating you and touching you at the same time. It makes you feel like you’re burning alive in the best way possible. “You knew?” You squeak, and Steve chuckles.
“Always knew. Told you, thought it was a crush.”
You try to twist and glare at him. “And you didn’t tell me-“
“Like you would’ve wanted me to tell you I could smell how badly you wanted my cock.” Steve smacks your ass with a scoff, and you flop right back over his shoulder.
“Fuck-“ You whimper. He’s right. You can barely even stand that right now. “Steve, please- Please-“
You’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore. Mercy, maybe. More mocking attention. Anything he can fucking give you, because you feel like you’re about to explode.
Steve spanks you again, this time on the other cheek, and you moan.
“’Course you like that.” He mutters. “Dirty girl, testing me every fucking day.”
He drags his thumb through the mess between your legs, and your pussy clenches, trying to drag him in. He laughs, pushing down for half a second before dragging down to your clit and rubbing in quick, tight circle. You gasp, pushing uselessly at his back, already overstimulated and still needing more.
“Felt that.” Steve flicks your clit, and your whole body shakes. “Greedy, princess. You’ve been waitin’ this long, you can hold it a little longer.”
“Ca- Can’t-“ You gasp, pressing your cheek against the broad muscle of his back. “Can’t, Steve- Can’t wait-“
“Yeah, you can.” He grunts. “Christ, you’re dripping all over my hand. Going to take me no problem, aren’t you, baby.”
He’s playing with your clit like it’s just a little button for his whims, and you have to bite your inner cheek to stop yourself from falling apart all over his hand.
“Steve- I- I’m going to- Oh my god-“
Steve slaps right over your pussy, the wet sound echoing in your ears as he shoves those two fingers right into your pussy. He finds your G-spot in a second, crooking his fingers and dragging them over your sensitive walls. You cum with a cry of his name, sudden and harsh. White dancing at your vision, your body seizing up as Steve dumps you down onto the soft mattress.
He presses his wrist further, folding your body up. You grab his neck for an anchor, and he kisses your wrist as he slides a third finger into your dripping mess of a pussy.
“Getting you ready.” He mutters, wiping some hair from your face. “It’s okay, babydoll, you’re doin’ real good.”
You whimper, the orgasm still shaking through you. You’re struggling to breathe when Steve finally pulls his hand away, and the loss makes you whimper.
Steve laughs softly, leaning down to kiss you all sweet and loving, like you haven’t been turned to a puddle under his hands.
“Breathe.” He murmurs, squeezing your breast gently, and you take a loud, stuttering gasp. Steve kisses your nose, smiling like he’s being offered ice cream, and you watch him in a starry-eyed daze.
You hear the click of his belt, and as much as you’d like to reach down and feel him, you can barely manage to hold onto his shoulders right now. Steve pulls slowly up with one last chaste kiss on your lips, and your breath hitches in your throat.
He’s massive. That’s the kind of dick you’ve only seen in cartoons, because even the porn industry can’t replicate it. You’re not sure how he gets around so easily in his tight suit, with that fucking horse cock acting like a third leg. Thick and veined, already beading with pre-cum as he strokes it slowly in his hand, a sheepish expression on his face.
“I was… Endowed.” He mumbles, ears red. “Before the serum. Then…”
He nods to his cock, and you laugh breathlessly.
“Jesus, Steve-“
“It won’t hurt you.” He says quickly. “I know there are those rumors ‘bout be being a virgin, but-“ He sighs, pouting slightly. “God forbid a man tell Tony Stark he doesn’t want to talk about his sex life, suddenly he’s never even touched a boob-“
“Dude.” You smile up at him, and he cuts himself off. “Look me in the eyes and tell me if I still think you’re a virgin after that.”
You tilt your head to the hallway, but Steve just frowns.
“Dude?”
“Um-“
“Don’t call me dude when I’m about to fuck you.” He grumbles, and you’d laugh at him if that didn’t make your heart skip. e
“Sorry, sir.”
You say it half to mock him, half to test something.
Steve’s jaw ticks, and his already rock-hard cock twitches in his hands. You giggle as his eyes narrow, and you’re still laughing as he prowls over you, that dark, hungry look back on his face.
“You think something’s funny?” He grunts, and you shake your head.
“No, sir.”
Steve groans, dropping his face between your breasts.
“Gonna be the death of me.” He mutters under his breath, and you’re still laughing softly.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
You laugh again, because you’re really not. It’s hilarious, and he’s adorable, and this is going to yield some fantastic results.
Steve assesses you like you’re a mission to be accomplished. And you know him.
He never does anything halfway.
“Alright, princess.” He mutters, tapping the head of his cock on your clit. “Open.”
You squeak, still giggling, and spread your legs slowly.
The last laugh is pushed from your chest as Steve slowly starts to sink himself into your heat. Your mouth falls uselessly open as you bow off the bed, your body almost unable to rationalize how full you are.
Steve splits you open, his cock slowly driving through you and hitting spots you didn’t even know you had. He grinds slowly down into your pussy, bullying you further open, and you think he’s found a button inside you that just makes you a limp, sensitive fuck-doll, because you whine out his name but it takes everything you have.
“I know.” He grunts, the tip of his cock pressing into your cervix. “You’re taking it, baby, there you go.”
“Steveee-“
“Feels good, doesn’t it.” He presses at sweet kiss to your lips as he bottoms out. His fingers lace slowly through yours, and you nod.
You’ve never had so many pleasure points being hit at once. Steve’s still got a hand on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers as you try to breath around him. He’s patient. You don’t want him to be.
“More.” You push out, and he raises his brows.
“Sweetheart-“
“More.” You roll up into him, moaning loudly as he hits even deeper. “Fuck me, Steve- Mmm-“
He kisses you, passionate and messy, and you almost scream in satisfaction as he starts to move.
He’s unrushed. Completely in control of you, and aware of it. His dick pulls almost all the way out before slowly pushing back in, the torturous pace making you feel like a live wire.
“Yeah, that’s it.” He coos, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “Pretty girl, you like being stuffed up with my cock, don’t you.”
“Ye- Yes-“ You tip your head back into the pillows, your free hand grasping at the sheets. “Yes- Oh my god, yes-“
Steve’s started to grind against your g-spot whenever he hits it, letting his thickness press and drag over the sensitive, gooey spot until you’re moaning and writhing around him.
“Feel that, don’t you.” He mutters, pushing in a little harder than last time. “Feel my dick inside you, baby, feels so good, doesn’t-“
“So good.” You babble, but who can blame you. “So good, Steve, you’re so-“
Your words turn into a broken moan as Steve drives back into you, and he’s going harder and harder every time. Still pulling almost fully out slowly, letting your arousal gather and drip down your thighs and ass, but then slamming back into you so hard it makes you think the world is shaking.
A breathy sound escapes your lips, maybe a plea, and Steve moves your tangled hands between your bodies, pressing you down into the mattress as he rises up for a better angle.
“You’re so fuckin’ wet.” He growls, pounding into your cunt like he owns it. “If I’d know you wanted me this bad I woulda had you all over this city.”
You whine, squeezing around him. Steve chuckles.
“Oh, you like that. Like the idea of being my good little cockslut, letting me play with you wherever I want.”
Big, steady hands press your knees up, letting Steve hit even deeper than before. A strange, tight feeling is building in your gut, but it feels good. All of this feels so good. You’re spent and cockdrunk, but you feel used in the best possible way. The filth Steve is drawling in your ears makes your brain go all quiet. You’re just a happy, humming bundle of pleasure, Steve’s massive body draped over yours, and you’d probably do anything he wanted, if he just fucked you like this after.
“You were made for me.” He groans, lips wandering all over your face as his cock drills into you. “I’m gonna take such good care of you, baby, swear it, just sing for me, come on-“
You moan, long and loud. Steve grins, kissing under your ear.
“Good girl.” He coos. “There you go, just like that. Come on, doll, I know you’re getting close.”
You are. You’ve been close the whole time, but this feels more and more different by the second. There are wet, sinful sounds filling the room as your skin slaps together, and Steve’s breath is hot in your ear as he starts to lose a little control of himself.
He moans when you start mindlessly humping up to meet him, forcing his cock into the tightest spot into you that makes everything all colorful and hazy. You gasp softly, chasing up from a little more, and Steve wraps and arm around your back.
“Fuck- Fuck- You feel so good,” he groans your name in your ear. “So good, it’s- Christ-“
That strange pressure in your tummy is going to burst. It feels like Steve is driving right against it, daring it come undone.
“Steve.” You breathe out. “Steve- I- I’m gonna-“
He growls, deep in his chest and rolling through you. Steve grabs you and wrestles you down into the mattress, pushing your legs up to your chest and fucking you fast and brutal.
It’s a sight above you. Steve, panting and moaning as your pussy sucks him in, glistening arousal shining all over his cock when he pulls out and smearing on your tummy. Your tight walls are starting to contract, and he doubles over, groaning your name as his thrust become shallow and unmeasured.
Tears start to stream down your face. Steve looks at you like you’re an angel, fucking you like you’re just a toy, and you can’t even remember how to tell him how good it feels.
“Steve…” You wiggle below him, crying out as he just fucks you hard. “Steve- Ooooooh-“
Your eyes roll back, the tears burning on your cheeks from the impossible to handle pleasure. Steve leans down and kisses them off your cheeks, the softness in such contrast with how he’s turning you into a bundle of nerves and tears.
“My pretty girl.” He mutters, kissing your lips sweetly. “Close. We’re so close. You can make it. Make it for me.”
You nod, almost hypnotized into agreeing. And Steve’s abusing that spot inside of you. Sensitive and overwhelming, making your toes curl and eyes cross.
“Steve- I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” Not a suggestion. Steve’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing it back and forth as he ruts into you. “Come for me, now.”
The command rolls through you, and that pressure bursts. Heat washes over you, making you bow off the bed as a funny, wet feeling gushes out between your thighs. Steve groans, slamming his mouth back over yours, groaning your name as you start to milk his cock.
“Fuck,” he groans, and you wrap your arms tight around his neck. Tight enough to strangle him, if he was a normal man. But Steve just splays his hand possessively over your back and moans against your lips, driving home into your cunt as his release rippling through him.
It’s almost as good as your own orgasm. You’re tucked into a shaking, flexing heat of muscle, his deep voice moaning your name in your ear, his cock still thrusting and twitching inside you. Over, and over, and over-
You can barely breathe in the best way. You’ve never had a man cum so much. It starts just hot and sticky, then it’s drooling out, down your ass and onto the sheets. You can feel it in your throat, almost taste it, and even after Steve pulls out it’s everywhere. Painting your pussy creamy and white, branding your abdomen, your tits, your thighs.
Steve stares down at you with a gaping mouth as you both come down from the high. You laugh, hoarse and breathy.
“Woah.”
“Shit.” Steve mutters, grabbing at the remainder of the clean sheets and wiping them over your body. “I- I didn’t- I usually pull out, you just-“
“Steve-“
“We need to get you in the shower, it’s everywhere-“
“Steve-“
“I’m so sorry-“
“Steven.” You smack his shoulder, and he stops dead.
You’re already bridal style in his arms, naked and covered in his cum, some of it dripping all over the floor. You’re going to need to hire a cleaner. Or invest in really, really big buckets that you’ll keep next to the bed.
“Does that happen every time?”
He swallows, and nods.
“Uh- Not that much.” He mumbles. “But yeah.”
Pride glows in your chest. You get the most of him. “Okay.”
Steve blinks. “Okay?”
You nod, and he shakes his head.
“I ruined your room-“
“I liked it.”
He stares. You smile.
Steve rolls his eyes, and presses a kiss to your brow.
“You’re impossible.” He mutters, and you giggle.
“Yeah, but you love me. And you can’t take it back now, you already said it-“
He grabs your chin, turning it so he can fully capture your lips.
“I do love you.” He mutters against your lips. “And no one could make me take it back if they tried.”
You smile. You have no plans to do that.
Steve is somehow more than you ever dreamed. And there’s no way you’re letting him go now.
✦End note: this was so fun for me to write i love a puppy dog man. i hope you enjoyed it!✦
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synopsis . You clearly don’t understand who it is you belong to, so the fire lord makes things a little clearer for you via drawing his name out into that sweet cunt of yours. content . afab!reader, oral sex (f!receiving), possessiveness, royal advisor!reader (ib: my dearest @yenayaps), fingering, pet names, faint manhandling, he’s kinda feral, slight corruption kink, praise, etc.
author's note: we’re all obsessed w tht one edit, no?
“I simply don’t believe I serve much purpose to you anymore, my lord—“
“It’s only us in here, I’ve said many times before that you don’t have to call me that.” Zuko muttered, annoyance etched into his every unfairly pretty feature.
You struggled to meet eyes or reason with him, but continued in your rant nonetheless. “—You hardly heed the advice I give you, despite it being my sole purpose to you, and I've reason to believe I would be a better fit for another nation. I’ve received word from the Earth Kingdo-“
Amber eyes snap up from the floor and directly onto you, his body pushing him up from his throne to stand up straight as he scoffs, “What?”
You're hesitant to lift your chin and face him head on, gulping as your words jumble up at the center of your throat. Carefully, you lift your gaze slowly and allow yourself a moment to naturally collect both yourself and your thoughts. Patiently uttering, “My lord, please stop interrupting me. I-“
Doing the exact opposite once more, “No, seriously, what?”
You huff, meeting his eyes with your brows all furrowed. After a short pause, “What do you mean what?”
Zuko's eyes appear to be softer on you as he departs from his throne and nears you, “You’re leaving me?”
The question and the way it exits his lips is enough to make your body feel hot for reasons unbeknownst to you. Thus causing you to shoot your eyes off to the side, “W-Well, I was considering-“
“That won’t do.” Flies right out of him without second thought, as if he no longer wanted the concept to be entertained or considered at all.
You return your full attention to him with widened eyes, unconsciously stepping forward, “Pardon?”
Zuko gestures a hand out with a shake of his head, “Come here."
As you obediently move to do as you're told, you feel the intensity of his eyes raking over your frame, the heat behind them easily carving itself into your very being. Fuck if it wasn't as intimidating as ever to be alone with him like this, no matter how many times you've found yourself in this exact position in the past.
He's moved to the side of his throne and directs you towards it, ignoring the confused looks you throw his way, “Sit. I’ll show you what other purposes you serve for me.”
Everything was happening much too fast.
The man whom you’ve been diligently serving for the past few years was requesting your consent to touch you intimately so suddenly that you felt as though you were dreaming.
It’s not like you haven’t imagined it before—hell, look at him! Everyone in the Fire Nation has indulged in a fantasy or two, it’d be strange if they didn’t. Especially if they were in your shoes, being so close to him at nearly every waking hour and getting to know him on levels beyond regolness.
So when his lordship humbly requested that you sit yourself on his throne and let him give you a nice feel of what your purpose is to him, it was only natural that you succumbed to the years of not-so-hidden need that has been weighing itself on your shoulders.
Heart pounding in your chest, none of your imaginations of the past could ever quite compare to the real thing of watching the fire lord lower himself down to his knees, bring his hands to your legs, and steadily part them open whilst constantly whispering gentle confessions in hopes of insuring you're entirely comfortable with this.
Truth be told, he'd always had a bit of a crush on you—having taken quite the liking to you from the day he'd chose you to be his royal advisor.
It was an odd sensation for you to find yourself seated where Zuko typically commands the nation, especially with the way he'd loomed before you with a hint of delectable saliva building up at the corners of his mouth. You barely caught on to the way he'd asked you to undress yourself before him—to bare your body for his greedy eyes to take in—before his hands were virtually everywhere.
There was a sense of heat felt from his faintly shaking palms, as if this were the most nerve-wracking act he'd ever participated in. You were steady in your undressing, considering you needed some sort of moment to prepare yourself for what was to come.
By the time you found yourself naked—regal, advisory robes splayed out against his throne as your body sat all prettily perched upon it—Zuko was all but drooling. You'd seen his lordship make many expressions over the years but this—this was unlike anything you'd ever seen before.
And it was all for you.
In the next instance, Zuko was gripping onto your knees, letting his fingers touch with a certain firmness as he spread your legs apart. Your limbs felt mushy under his skin and you already felt your lungs struggling to maintain a steady flow of oxygen. You had an arm coming up to hide your flushing face before he'd even gotten anywhere with you and he couldn't help but crack a cheeky smile at the display.
Who knew his dutiful advisor—who'd just threatened to leave him mere moments ago, mind you—could make such cute expressions from the slightest of touches?
"Relax," Zuko cooed gently, leaning forward to lightly kiss at your inner thigh, "I'm only trying to help you understand your purpose."
Breath hitching, "My lord, I really don't think-"
His tongue rolls out along the inside of your leg and you flinch as if you'd never been touched before. This was the Fire Lord, after all. Having him like this-, watching him do something so obscene...
"You don't need to think," He hushes out to you, the curve in his lips felt right against your tensed skin, "Not now, anyway. Just feel. Can you do that for me?" It took you a few seconds but, eventually, you nodded your head. To which he cracks a smile, "Atta' girl."
Then his head traveled further up and you held eye contact with him whilst his mouth slipped over to cup the soaking lips of your cunt. Those same fiery amber-shaded eyes of his roll back almost instantaneously, a rumbling groan pouring out from deep within the pit of his stomach in reaction to the taste of you on his tongue.
And you expected him to let this go? As if.
You clasped your lip tightly in between your teeth, your hands moving out to grip onto the arms of the throne as you braced yourself, hips jerking forwards ever so slightly to meet the feel of Zuko's hot tongue. A sloppy trail of saliva is left in the wake of every flick from his oral muscle, the hum he lets out against you enough to have your legs squirming around under his touch.
There's a smooth sound of schliiiick that rings out though the throne room, the noise surely loud enough for someone beyond its large walls to hear. Not that you or him seem to care, though.
Whines 'n moans are easily pulled from somewhere in your throat as his mouth maneuvers suavely to capture the entirety of your saccharine taste onto the center of his tongue.
Your back soon slumps against the throne, leaving you to stare in awe at the starving lord of a man who's cravings could only be satisfied through the taste of your sloppy cunt. There's a feeling of paranoia haunting you from somewhere within your gut that at any moment now a person could knock on the throne room doors or simply burst right in with an urgent matter but, ask Zuko if he cares!
Spoiler alert: he doesn't.
The tips of his tongue dive and dip all around the very ends 'n ins of your pussy, lapping out the most provocative of gushes form deep within you. You're a blissed-out mess of moans before he even thinks to pull himself up for a moment to breathe. And by then, your hands have buried themself into his long lushes locks of hair, tugging and pulling at his head as your teeth tatter against themself in an honest attempt at maintaining even the slightest fracture of your composure.
Then Zuko's body shifts forward and suddenly his tongue his snaking its looong self past your folds, wetly spreading you open on it. Your back arches almost immediately and you think your eyes cross just as your fingers scrape over his scalp.
Zuko's head tilts ever so slightly to lick at your insides at a circularly different angle, tongue plucking itself in and out of your gushy entrance simply to have your arousal leaking all down the expanse of his jawline.
When the man tugs himself away to gasp, he's only diving back in half a second later to kiss over your clit and then smear the tip of his tongue around it—showcasing to you that his skills go beyond mere fire bending and that his tongue has learned how to bend the feel of a new element to you.
Something raw jumps out of your throat and you pant out his name whilst he shakes his head into you and then proceeds to respond to your calls by spelling his name out around your clit.
Then come his fingers—and fuck if they aren't farrr thicker than you were prepared for, initially prodding at your drooling hole, and then carefully pushing into you after a mere tease to that clingy ring of resistance he's met with.
Your lower lip pushes out and you moan just past it, earning his attention for the first time in a while as his eyes come up to find your lewdly-set expression.
"Ah," Using a free hand to wipe some of the slick from his mouth, Zuko moves up towards you and keeps his fingers working your insides, "Don't pout. You can take this much," He encourages, a second digit carefully slipping into you. "See? Two of my fingers, buried so deep inside you like that..." His words earn a particularly filthy squelch. "Shit, you should feel honored by this, sweetheart."
You manage a huff at that, nails chafing into the arm of the throne again, "Y-You and that damn-, ngh, honor..."
He snickers, his thumb poking forward to plumply round your clit, "Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you don't feel honored to have me this devoted to you."
"Zuko," You moan instead of answering correctly.
Letting it slide due to his soft spot for you, he merely sighs. "Please understand that this is your purpose to me, not abandoning me to go whisper in the ears of Earth Kingdom fools." Zuko explains to you, voice coming out in warm waves against the crown of your ear, "Understood?"
You nod, "Y-Yes, Zuko."
His head cocks to the side, fingers jolting up against your slicked walls to curl, "You address me so formally any other time but now..." He pulls away a few inches to cast his eyes over your expression, fully appreciating how gorgeously you fall apart on just two of his fingers.
He can only begin to imagine how satisfying it would be to see you do the same on his cock. Fuck, you probably wouldn't even be able to handle that, would you?
No, but you'd damn sure try if he let you...
Meeting his gaze, "Yes, my lord." You correct in a short whisper.
For the first time ever, Zuko realizes the title doesn't sound so bad coming from you.
At least, not in this context since his cock promptly hardens through his robes in reaction to that sweet, sweet tone of yours.
He would've spelt his name out into your cunt and split you open on his fingers a long time ago if he knew this would be the result!
A smirk splays out across his wet mouth and he leans in, his breath mingling with your own, "Cum for me, my advisor. Show me where your loyalties lie."
That quickly sends you right over the edge, your cunt clenching and twitching all around his fingers as one of your hands move out to clutch onto his royal clothing.
Breathlessly puffing, "F-Fuuck.."
Zuko watches you closely the entire time, loving the way your thighs quiver, and how good your pussy feels releasing onto his hand.
Only leaning away as you're done to murmur, "See? Now, tell me again about leaving?"
(not proofread, GULP) || banner art by Rororogi Mogera || tags:
──── dean “testing the waters” winchester who’ll call you his girlfriend and wrap an arm around you at the bar when women approach, but won’t kiss you when you’re having sex later that night back at the motel.
the same way he’ll always take point during a hunt, physically moving your body behind his like a shield, but then reacts to your touch like it’s acid any other time.
or how he laps at your pussy like it’s the last good thing in the world, the bottom half of his face glistening with your release and arousal, his fingers pressing into your soft skin, keeping your thighs apart to bracket his head, but then scoffing when you jokingly try to hold his hand the next day.
or how he gets funny when you wedge up against him, trying to cuddle in the middle of the night, even after he’s put a pillow between the headboard and wall just an hour earlier to avoid keeping sam awake in the next room over.
──── dean “testing the waters” winchester who doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing, but knows that he’s hurting himself by keeping you at arms length. but what’s he supposed to do with someone like you when he’s someone like… him?
akin to a deer in headlights, dean stands frozen and wide-eyed when you corner him alone in the motel room, finally asking where you stand with him—pleading for the reason he’ll have sex with you, but never kiss you, never hold you, and never love you the way you need him to.
──── dean “testing the waters” winchester who confesses he thinks you’re too good for him, and that he didn’t think you could ever want him like that. he winces at your expression when he tells you he was just “testing the waters” and “getting what he could,” but then proceeds to swallow down the lump in his throat when you tell him you want— no, need more than whatever this bullshit is.
he barely holds back the soft whimpery noise when you tell him you want him to be your boyfriend, not some easy fuck anymore, and that you want to be his girlfriend, officially.
──── dean “testing the waters” winchester who engulfs you in his arms, nodding into your neck, his words muffled but raw, “you’re mine– fuck, you’re mine.”
summary: “I will pay for your coffee,” you add quickly, stepping forward and leaning into his space. He keeps shaking his head, so, in a moment of pure madness, and lacking better ideas, you just say: “I’ll go down on you.”
word count: 4k (smut and fluff mainly)
a/n: i know i'm supposed to work on the part two of my andrew story, but...yeah, episode 7 was really something for my brain
❤︎ Thank you so much for reading!
One of the few undeniable advantages of the apartment is its location.
A single block separates your front door from the ER, which means: no subway delays, no buses filled with people’s germs and no waisted minutes that could be spent studying.
The apartment itself, however, is less impressive. It’s small, a fifth-floor walk-up with a radiator that only works every other day in winter, but it saves you from many issues, especially after a twelve-hour shift. Like most attendings say: efficiency is survival in third year. And this place is efficient.
The other perk is Jack Abbot, who objectively is a good roommate.
He pays rent two days early, every month, without fail. He wipes down the counter after he cooks, because apparently, in Jack’s mind, you could be an M3 and have the time to cook (Oh, fuck off, is your main and consistent thought every time he sets a plate of actual food in front of you at breakfast and dinner). He rewinds the VHS before returning it, and he even agrees to 4am study sessions when you are doubting yourself with the tracheobronchial tree structure.
The only problem with Jack Abbot is…he does not bend. For anyone.
It’s a mistake people make about him at the hospital. They assume that because he listens more than he talks and doesn’t talk the loudest in the room, he must be easygoing. They’re all wrong because in ‘easygoing’, there’s the word easy. And Jack is many things – observant, funny, annoyingly competent - but easy is not one of them. Right now, for instance, he’s being impossible.
Sprawled at the dining table, legs stretched out, hair still damp from the shower and curling at the nape of his neck and a gray shirt clinging enough to make you look away, Jack is in the middle of Sabiston Textbook of Surgery, annotating it.
You pause in the doorway for a second, watching him read before clearing your throat.
“Jack.”
He doesn’t even look up. “No.”
“I haven’t said anything yet!”
“Don’t need to,” he replies, flipping a page. “If it’s prefaced with my name in that tone, the answer is no.”
You step closer and place your hand flat over the open page of Sabiston, earning a mildly annoyed look from him.
“I just need a small, tiny favor.”
“No.”
“Please at least listen to me!” you implore.
One corner of his mouth lifts, and there it is, that smirk that you want to either punch or kiss “You want to switch our trauma shifts tomorrow.”
You hesitate just long enough for him to catch him, his eyebrow lifting slowly. “Why do you need it?”
“I…” you exhale, a little embarrassed. “I haven’t completed my procedure log. I’m missing one intubation and I really need it to pass the rotation.”
“One intubation,” he repeats, a little judgy, closing the book with his pen marking the page. “Haven’t you been on three different procedures already?”
“I know,” you snap, heat creeping up your neck. “I know. But Meyers took the first one because he is an asshole who can’t stop himself from playing mister Know-it-all, the second one went to Patel because he hadn’t logged one either, and the third…”
“You froze.”
I hate you for remembering this, I hate that you noticed, I hate how right you are, you thought.
“It was just…one second.”
“In trauma,” he replies, leaning back in the chair and hands folding behind his head, “one second is the difference between life and death.”
You glare at him. “Jack…I am missing one intubation. Just one. If I don’t log it, Reyes will tank my evaluation, and I’m not repeating this rotation, I physically cannot handle doing another six weeks of this while pretending I don’t care when he calls me ‘sweetheart’ in front of the interns like I’m a pretty accessory instead of a med student. So yes. I want your trauma shift cause I need it. You can’t even fathom the depth of my despair right now.”
“Oh, I think I have a pretty vivid imagination,” he replies.
“I’ll do the dishes for a month.”
He snorts.
“I’m serious!”
“You can’t be trusted with my plates.”
“I will pay for your coffee for a month,” you add quickly, stepping forward and leaning into his space.
He keeps shaking his head, so, in a moment of pure madness, and lacking better ideas, you just say: “I’ll go down on you.”
That gets his attention. “You…You’re not going to go down on me.”
“I’m sorry, which part of ‘despair’ don’t you understand with your so-called vivid imagination?”
He frowns, with that tiny crease between his brows that you want to kiss as much as his smirk, his throat moving as he swallows. “You’d actually…do that?” he asks carefully.
You hadn’t expected that answer and for a moment, the weight of what you just offered settles in. The apartment suddenly feels too quiet, and you become acutely aware of the fact that you are standing very close to Jack, that his hair is still damp and you want to run your hands through those curls, and the way the lamplight catches in his hazel eyes and turns them warmer, almost golden.
The fact is…you like Jack. You’ve liked him for the past few months, and quite frankly, being his roommate has not helped with your massive crush problem.
You shrug, forcing your voice into something light and easy. “Yeah. I’m okay with it. If you are, I mean.”
His fingers flex against the edge of Sabiston, not looking away from you and saying quietly. “So, um…we do this and you get my shift?”
“A privilege for another,” you clarify, voice steady even if your pulse is sabotaging you. “You help me log the intubation and I… return the generosity.”
He nods once, and to your quiet, personal satisfaction, a faint blush creeps across his freckled cheeks, like a tell he can’t suppress. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay,” he says again, quieter.
You reach for the back of his chair, gently turning him toward you, your faces now inches to each other. “How about now Jack? Or are you too busy studying…let me guess: the saphenous vein?” you murmur, with a teasing smile.
“It was the VSD actually,” he breathes, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before snapping back up. “But…yeah. Now is fine.”
You drop to your knees, his knees parting quickly, confirming your personal theory: it has been a long time for him. Probably as long as it’s been for you. Third year is not exactly fertile ground to start having relationships: no time, no personal life, no sleep and not to mention that you have never seen him bring anyone back here. Not once. He’s never acted on any nurses’ or classmates’ flirtations. The apartment has always been just the two of you.
You hook your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling it down as he lifts his hips. “I’m not entirely sure that I haven’t passed out on the table and this is all just a hallucination,” he continues, a groan escaping his mouth when you let your palm graze over his half hard cock, eyelids shutting completely the moment you wrap your hand properly around him.
“I don’t know…” you joke as you start moving, enjoying the view of Mr. Perfect Grades keeping his hands diligently on his legs and pressing his teeth on his lips. “You look very awake to me.”
You wet your lips lightly, running your tongue over them as his gaze finds yours. You’ve always loved that part: the control, deciding when and how it happens, to go slower or faster, feeling someone react under your hands and mouth, but still…you’re a little nervous. It’s been a while and you hope you haven’t lost it in…oh my god a year ago now? Yeah, it was definitely a year.
Either way, you don’t give yourself more time to think about it before dipping your head to take him in.
Multiple things come up to your mind: first, he’s not the kind of guy to put his hands on your hair to get you to move faster or deeper – which you appreciate - second, he’s vocal, muttering your name and profanities each time you manage to fit him entirely in your mouth - you still don’t know how you do that, the guy is huge - and third, you are officially on your knees, blowing your roommate, crush and student rival.
Once he’s done, you stand back up, knees numb and wiping the back of your hand over your lips, both struggling to catch your breaths.
“6am. For tomorrow. But get there at 5.30,” Jack says, closing his eyes briefly before putting his pants back on. “And you better do this intubation.”
──────────
Two weeks later, he’s the one standing in the living room.
“Hey.”
You don’t look up from your notes. “No.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, dropping onto the couch beside you. “Please.”
“No,” you repeat, turning a page calmly even though the corner of your mouth is threatening to betray you. There’s something so satisfying about denying Jack Abbot anything.
He drags a hand through his hair, mussed from the shift at the hospital, and puts his hand on yours (don’t freeze over that, it’s stupid anyway). “It’s just one procedure.”
You raise an eyebrow, finally looking at him. “Doctor Abbot missing something on his log?”
“No,” he starts before hesitating, his pride wrestling with the request, “it’s about the thoracostomy. Reyes is letting one M3 take lead tomorrow and I need someone to cover triage so I can stay in trauma long enough to be picked.”
You let your gaze drag slowly over him, pretending to think. “No.”
“You’re enjoying this,” he sighed, his hand still clasps around yours.
“Oh, immensely.”
“Please. I’ll make it up to you.”
You snort softly and close your notebook, setting it aside before turning fully toward him, your knees brushing his. “How, doc?”
“I’ll go down on you.”
“What?” you ask slowly.
He shrugs, trying for casual, one hand still loosely wrapped around yours, his thumb brushing absently over your knuckles. “One privilege for another. That’s…that’s our thing, right?”
“Um…yeah. You really want to do this thoracostomy?”
His lips pull into that maddening kissable half-smile that you love more than anything, the one he gets in the ER whenever he answers correctly to one of the residents’ questions. “I really want to do it and erase Meyers’ smile once and for all. So, what do you say?”
“Okay,” you reply, parting your legs (oh yes, Jack, you’re gonna have to kneel for this one, no way I’m passing on an occasion to let you do everything) “but be quick, I still have to read the biological markers of…”
The words don’t get out of your mouth when he kneels in front of you, pulling off your pajama short and underwear, the leather of the couch making you feel hotter than you were already.
“I’ll be very quick and thorough, I promise,” he replies, amused – probably because you were now completely silent – before working his tongue on you.
And wow, you have received plenty of good cunnilinguses in your life, even if it’s been some time, but this one…is miles from the rest. You can recognize it happily… Jack has some wicked knowledge of the human anatomy and how to get you there in a few minutes.
“You better be fucking great for this thoracostomy, Doctor Abbot,” you say as you’re try to catch your breath, Jack picking up your notes, ready for a new study session (you don’t comment over the fact that he doesn’t go rinse his mouth or put distance between you and just…drags his thumb across his lower lip and then licks it clean).
“You know me,” he replies with a smug smile that makes you roll your eyes.
And yes, you know. The next day proves it. You’re buried in triage when you hear from your resident, the Doctor Robinavitch – a young, tall man, barely a few years older than you who keeps trying his best to be half your friend, half your boss – that Jack had been an example of calm and solid, earning a fist bump from both Reyes and Robinavitch.
You nod slowly, pretending you don’t feel the faint flare of something warm under your ribs, travelling down your body. Pride. You are so proud of him, and you want to reply to the resident, of course he was solid, of course he didn’t choke, this man is great and kind and…actually is also a great giver, but you don’t need to know that.
You catch sight of him later in the hallway, walking toward you with a protein bar in hand, a little smile on his face. And that smile, Jesus, all warm and bright and unguarded…it’s definitely a second privilege he doesn’t need to know about.
──────────
Four days after, you get behind on your charting.
Because you’d rather slit your wrist than stay late in the ER with Reyes breathing into the back of your skull, you make another deal with Jack.
“If you stay up with me until it’s done,” you murmur to Jack in the CT-Scan room, “I’ll give you a very nice orgasm.”
He checks to his left and right. “Define ‘very nice’”.
“You’re insufferable.”
“Hey, I’m the guy who’s gonna stay to help you, so be a little more grateful.”
You salute him with your pen. “Aye aye doc.”
Late that night, steam fogs the bathroom mirror, the water running hot. He’s already under the spray when you step into the doorway, taking off your clothes (after all there’s almost nothing he hasn’t seen already). You step closer before putting your hand on him, his palms ending up on the tiled wall behind you and muttering a “Jesus fucking Christ.” at the combined feeling of the water cascading on his body and your movements who only grows faster, making him come in a few minutes, your name on his lips.
“You know…it’s stupid to waste the water,” he murmurs after a while.
“Oh, really.”
“I mean, we’re two broke med students, it’s cost-effective. And we’re already in here anyway.”
Surely you can’t disagree with this idea.
Efficiency, after all, is very important in medicine.
──────────
“Hey kid.”
You look up, the Doctor Robinavitch standing there with that expression – the one who wants to gossip but tries to refrain himself from it.
“Um,” you say cautiously, pen lingering over the chart. “What?”
He glances down the hall then back at you. You follow his gaze automatically.
Jack is at the nurses’ board, talking to one of them, arms crossed and sleeves rolled up. He laughs at something, shaking his head. You look away, glancing back at the resident, who’s already staring at you, leaning over the table just enough to meet your eye level.
“…What?” you repeat, sharper now.
“How long?”
You blink. “How long what?”
“Whatever that is,” he replies, gesturing vaguely between you and the air.
You scoff lightly, going back to writing your charting. “There is no ‘that’, Doctor Robinavitch.”
He sighs deeply, rubbing a hand down his face. “Listen kid, you realize the entire staff has a betting pool, right?”
Your pen freezes mid-word. “On what?”
He just stares at you until you break (my god how you hate when he does that, condolences to all the future doctors who’ll get him as an attending).
“We’re not together. It’s…it’s not like that,” you try to explain weakly instead of saying we’re just roommates who are the type to perform oral sex to get what we want, no big deal there. oh, and now we take showers together every night to save the planet, not to…give the other a freebie.
His smile widens. “Oh, so there is a ‘that’.”
You look back at the nurses’ station. Jack is still there, but now he’s looking directly at you, an eyebrow raised with a small, knowing smile – like he can feel that your mind is turned to this morning and the two orgasms he gave you before going to work.
You can’t help but smile back at him.
Robinavitch follows the silent exchange, then looks back at you with open disbelief. “That,” he says slowly, “right there, is definitely a thing.”
Before you can gather your words to get a more convincing denial, a monitor alarms from down the hall.
“Go, kid. And try not to share lovey-dovey looks over the patient.”
You shove his shoulder as you pass him, heat rising in your cheeks.
“I hate you, Robinavitch.”
“I know that’s not true!” he calls after you.
Annoyingly…he’s right. You don’t hate him.
And there is a thing.
──────────
It happens after the code blue.
You and Jack are walking home in silence, refusing to mention how, when you had stepped into the patient’s room, he had handed you the laryngoscope without hesitation – you, not himself – like there has been no other option in his mind.
Your hands brush every few steps, neither of you pulling away.
By the time you reach the apartment, your body feels heavy, exhausted, dumping your bag on the hallway floor and ripping of your jacket as you go straight to the bathroom.
The light is too bright. It exposes everything: the smudged mascara under your eyes, the dark circles who can’t be hidden well by the foundation, the way your eyes are reddened by your need to cry.
You grip the edge of the sink and stare at yourself, murmuring “You did well, don’t worry. The woman is alive. The baby is alive. You did well.”
The door opens quietly behind you.
“If you’re about to tell me I did great, don’t.” you mutter, voice flat, refusing to meet his eyes in the mirror. If you look at him, you might crack.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, you feel him step into your space, listening to him opening the cabinet and the rustle of cotton pads. He reaches around you, close enough that his arm brushes you before gently turning you by the shoulder so you’re facing him instead of your – miserable, pathetic – reflection.
“Hold still,” he murmurs.
His face is close to yours – barely four inches away. Close enough that you can see the freckles across his nose. Enough that you could close that distance with the smallest tilt forward and drown your thoughts in something easier than this ache sitting in your chest.
The cotton pad is cool against your skin. He wipes slowly beneath your eye, careful, his thumb steadying your jaw. “Can you do me a favor?” he asks quietly.
“I’m not in the mood tonight,” you reply automatically.
He rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat in it. “No, not like that. Not…” he exhales, dragging the pad gently across your cheek, “not everything is about having sex.”
“I wouldn’t call exactly what we’re doing ‘having sex’,” you say, sharper than you intend.
He stills and for a fraction of a second, something flickers across his face in between surprise and hurt. “Oh. Um…Okay.”
His throat bobs as he switches to a clean pad, focusing on your eyes.
Eyes closed, you try to explain yourself better, words coming out before you can filter them. “That’s not what I meant,” you murmur. “I just…I don’t want this tonight and I don’t want this to be another thing that happens because we almost lost someone. We…we can’t keep doing this.”
Fuck, you don’t even know what this is anymore.
You feel him getting even closer – so close that his breath brushes your lips when he exhales. He finishes wiping up your face. “Can you…” he starts, voice lower now, uncertain like you’ve never heard from him, “can you let me just be here? With you?”
You open your eyes slowly, now seeing everything: the faint traces of tears at the corner of his eyes, the way his curls have fallen messily over his forehead from running his hand through them too much. He looks younger like this.
“I’m sorry Jack. I didn’t mean to make it sound like…like what we do doesn’t matter. I just…” your voice breaks, “I don’t want it to be the only reason we touch.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “It’s not.”
You study him, skeptical.
“Fine,” he admits quietly. “It started that way because we’re two massive idiots who don’t know how to say what we want without turning it into…a mess. But it’s not why I continued doing that.”
He sets the cotton pad down in the sink and brings both hands to your face now, his palms feeling warm against your cheeks.
“I don’t want this to be about that. I…I want to be the person you come home with after something like tonight. Not just the guy you’re giving blowjobs to who turns out to be your roommate.”
“Great blowjobs, you mean. Wonderful. Fantastic,” you reply, trying to smile a little.
“Yes, sure. All of the above and more,” he nods, matching your grin with that crooked, infuriatingly gorgeous one before leaning in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. He waits until you give the smallest eager nod before his mouth brushes yours.
Oh. Oh. Okay. You should have started here weeks ago.
The kiss is nothing like the moments you’ve shared before. It’s unhurried and soft, his lips moving against yours like he’s learning a part of you he doesn’t know.
And God, he’s a good kisser too – good doctor, good giver, does this man know how to be bad at something?
He tilts his head slightly, deepening it and learning to read every small reaction: when you sigh softly against his mouth, he runs his tongue against yours, when your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, he pulls you closer.
Out of breath, he rests his forehead against yours, noses brushing.
“I like you, okay? I like you when you study until four in the morning. I like you when you are right about a diagnosis and high five me. I like you when you’re scared. And stubborn. And exhausted,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’re my person. In the ER, here, everywhere.”
You swallow. “My god, how didn’t you get with, like…all the girls of the hospital?”
“Well, you see, I was a bit busy trying to get the attention of a certain woman,” he replies, chuckling.
“Oh, do I know her?”
“Hm. I’m not sure,” he murmurs, lips still close enough that your breath mingles. “She’s obstinate. Overworks herself and pretends she doesn’t need anyone. Terrible at dishes.”
You pinch his side. “Rude.”
“Oh, and she rolls her eyes when I’m right,” he continues. “Which is very often.”
“Unbelievable.”
“And,” he adds, softer, “she has this look she gives me every time there’s an alarm. Like she’s checking if I’m okay.”
You swallow. “Oh. Her.”
“Yeah.” His mouth curves, his nose brushing yours deliberately. “Her.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you love that.”
You hesitate before nodding. “Yeah,” you admit. “I do love that.” I love you, I love you, I love you.
“Yeah?” he asks, a smile spreading across his face as his hand slides to the small of your back. “Good.”
You don’t give him time to get smug about it before kissing him again, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you. His breath catches against your mouth, a surprised sound that makes you press him against the bathroom’s door.
Against his lips, still holding onto his shirt, you murmur, “Shower?”
Summary: Jack Abbott has spent weeks pretending he doesn’t know, pretending the sweet night-shift nurse and the girl on his screen aren’t the same person... But the moment someone else gets too close, whatever restraint he had left finally snaps… and Jack makes it very, very clear he doesn’t share.
Jack Abbot x NightShiftNurse!Reader, Jack Abbot x CamGirl!Reader, slow burn, SMUT MDNI (I will block you, be so fr)... anyway. Night Shift Reader x Jack Abbot is my fav!
Jack Abbot knows not to mix work and pleasure.
He’s seen firsthand – thanks, Robby – how messy it can get.
Which is exactly why he keeps his distance.
Especially from you.
You’re too easy to like.
Soft around the edges, always smiling a hundred-watt smile, even at 3:00 AM, always coming in with a coffee for someone else, polite with patients, gentle with the frequent flyers everyone else gets tired of. You’re good, great even.
Which is exactly why Jack has to keep it professional.
Keep it contained.
Keep his quiet, decidedly unprofessional, embarrassing crush on you to himself.
Keep it down deep, away from you, where it belongs.
Which is also exactly why he feels so dirty right now.
A bad shift turned into a long, restless day… and now he’s here.
In front of his laptop, half-wired, half-exhausted, looking for something, anything, to take the edge off.
He’s clicking through cam girls like he’s reading charts. Clinically, medically, coldly. Too loud. Too fake. Too much– Jesus.
That’s when he finds her.
A woman wearing an oversized t-shirt and nothing else, face not showing in the ad for her page.
When he hovers over you to view the free portion of your live, it’s a pleasant surprise.
Because your cam persona isn’t loud or flashy.
You’re not performing like the others on the site – no exaggerated reactions, no over-the-top theatrics, no moaning like a porn star. Your voice stays low, conversational, like you’re talking to one person instead of a room full of strangers.
It hooks him immediately.
He pays the fee to join before his brain can tell him this is a bad idea.
He stays on your live, watching you tease yourself, slowly, methodically. Unrushed.
He palms himself through his pants.
“Fuck,” he groans.
Jack leans back slowly in his chair, eyes narrowing just a fraction while you finger yourself for him.
Because something about you feels… familiar. Not enough to place. Just enough to itch at the back of his brain. He tells himself it’s nothing. Projection. Wishful thinking.
That she just bears a striking resemblance to his favorite night-shift nurse… Because it can’t be you.
Because the girl on his screen is confident in a way you aren’t at work. There’s a steadiness in the way you hold yourself in front of the camera, a quiet tone that says you’re in control.
Still.
His jaw flexes.
Because now and then–
The tilt of your jaw, face just out of frame, lips sucking on your toys. Teeth smiling around fingers you’ve sucked into your mouth. Soft cadence of your voice. It hits a little too close.
Jack exhales slowly through his nose.
“Fuck,” he says sharply whilst he fishes his cock out of his pants and grips with a low moan.
But then you’re taking a donation to fuck yourself in front of the camera with a dildo.
“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than anyone. “Not a chance.”
But that doesn’t stop him from squeezing his aching cock.
That doesn’t stop him from pumping his fist.
That doesn’t stop him from imagining it’s you – sweet, gentle you – while gripping his weeping shaft.
That doesn’t stop him from coming back night after night.
Because watching you feels dangerously close to something personal.
Because sometimes, late enough into the stream, when your voice drops softer, warmer. He can almost pretend.
Almost.
The next shift with you is worse.
Because now Jack’s brain won’t shut up.
You’re at the nurses’ station, head bent over a chart, a faint crease between your brows when you concentrate, chewing gum as if it had upset you.
His stomach does something stupid.
Because now that he’s seen the cam girl, his brain keeps drawing lines that probably aren’t there.
You glance up – catch him looking.
Jack looks away first, sharp and immediate, like the moment burned.
He’s professional – if not a little cold – with you for the rest of the shift. You don’t seem to notice, though, the way his jaw is clamped tight every time he’s next to you.
And that night…
He logs back in.
Finds your stream again.
Watches longer than he means to.
There’s a new donor in the chat, throwing big numbers around.
Jack’s eyes narrow at the screen.
That’s new…
Something prickly and irrational crawls under his skin. Ridiculous. He knows it’s ridiculous.
He doesn’t even know if it’s you.
Probably isn’t.
Definitely isn’t.
But when your voice goes a shade warmer… and you begin to listen to someone who thinks they own you–
Jack’s fingers hover over his keyboard. Then, before he can think otherwise–
He donates.
More than he means to.
Your eyes flick to the total, and you smile softly. Privately. And Jack’s chest tightens.
Because for half a second, just one, his stupid, tired brain lets him imagine that smile was meant for him.
He leans back slowly in his chair, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“Jesus… get a grip,” he mutters.
But before he can rip himself out of his fantasy, you’re talking, “It’s whatever you want now.”
And Jack realizes you’re talking to him.
Because he just donated the largest amount. So now it’s you at his beck and call.
I want you to touch yourself for me. He types.
“I’m already touching myself,” you softly keen, hand running over your core, “‘Gonna have to be more specific than that, honey.”
Jack takes a sharp breath in through his nose and types out what he wants from you.
I want you to deepthroat your favorite toy and put a vibrator on that pretty clit of yours, too.
Part of him cannot believe he’s doing this right now.
But you just smile, and pull out your thick pink dildo, and begin rubbing and licking it.
You’re spitting onto your hand, and Jack follows, doing the same.
You thumb the head, as if it’s real, as if you’re gathering precum on your fingertips, and Jack’s trying his best to keep up with your feather-light touches as he gathers his pre along his thumb.
You pull out a suction vibrator and place it in between your legs, in view of the camera, as you buck your hips down into it. You put the pink shaft to your lips, then kiss the side before sucking hard on the tip.
Your deft fingers gripping the base – Jack does the same.
Hollowing out your cheeks, the upper half of your face is still just out of view.
It’s perfect, Jack realizes, and he lets himself imagine that it’s you. He lets himself picture you, naked, save for that baggy t-shirt. He lets himself imagine you, sucking and fucking yourself onto your vibrator, for him.
Jack types in the chat with one hand, still pumping his shaft:
Not what I asked for, sweetheart.
Your computer pings, and you must look at the chat in between gentle sucking of the pink toy in your mouth.
“Someone’s needy tonight,” you coo, “but you’re right, sorry sweetheart.”
Then you angle the camera differently, and Jack realizes the end of the dildo has a suction cup, you move to stick it to your wall, and move the camera closer.
You’re sitting on your knees, one hand holding the vibrator between your legs, the other pumping the shaft.
“This what you wanted,” you smile, “this what you needed?”
“Yes–” Jack pants to himself, pumping his shaft in sync with your hands.
Then, slowly, you begin bobbing your head up and down the shaft.
Jack’s pumping in time with your head, up and down, up and down.
You begin going faster, deeper, and your hand fills the gap between where your mouth doesn’t reach.
Jack’s grateful for the people in the chat because he doesn’t have a free hand right now, one is cupping the base of his shaft, the other’s fisting in rhythm with your mouth.
Hold your head down I want to hear you gag
And you must’ve read it because you do exactly that.
Taking your hand from in between your legs, you push your head onto the dildo, deeper, gagging softly.
You’re pushing faster now, in time with your head bobbing, deeper – almost to the base, almost.
Jack’s close, but you’re teasing, mixing the pace, slower, then speeding up. Gagging and moaning all the while softly.
All the while, he’s thinking about his poor, pent-up little night-shift nurse, who’s probably safe asleep in her apartment, nothing like the girl enjoying herself on camera for nearly 100 paying viewers to see…
He’s thinking about how pretty you’d look for him, down on your knees for him, gagging on his cock. How you’d look with his cock in your mouth, he lets himself close his eyes and picture you.
You moan a sound that has Jack knowing you’re close, and he pumps harder now, sloppier.
He wants this to last, but he knows he’s close.
Just when you moan and gag again – he spills onto his fist – and he keeps fisting his cock. Through the overstimulation, he’s milking this for all it’s worth.
If he’s going to be a dirty old man, jerking off to the thought of you, then he may as well get his money’s worth.
When he’s finally done, he types a simple:
Thanks doll
“No worries,” the girl beyond the camera rasps, throat raw.
And he logs off, knowing he’ll be back later…
The next morning, Jack tells himself he’s being ridiculous. Again.
He’s halfway through his second burnt coffee when you walk into the nurses’ station, and the first thing he notices isn’t your smile, but your voice.
“Morning,” you rasp gently to the charge nurse, softer than usual. Rough around the edges.
Jack’s head lifts before he can stop it.
His stomach drops.
Because he remembers – very clearly – the way the cam girl sounded near the end of the stream last night – a little breathless. A little raw.
His jaw tightens.
Coincidence.
Has to be.
You move past him, setting your bag down, and that’s when he catches the second thing: you’re chewing gum. Not unusual on its own. Except the way you’re doing it is… careful. Measured. Like your mouth hurts.
Something cold and sharp slides down Jack’s spine. He watches you longer than he should.
Long enough that you finally glance up, you freeze just slightly when you realize he’s already looking.
“…Everything okay?” you ask, voice still rough, still soft.
Jack doesn’t answer right away. His eyes drag, slow, clinical, traitorous, over your face. Your lips look swollen and bruised.
His pulse speeds up.
“Throat okay?” he asks finally, tone neutral on the surface, too neutral.
Your fingers falter on the chart in your hands.
Barely.
But Jack sees it.
“Yeah,” you say quickly, then clear your throat – wince just a little after. “I think it’s the dry air.”
Dry air.
Jack hums once, low in his chest. Not agreement. Not disbelief. Just thinking.
His molars grind together.
Jesus.
He drags his gaze away first this time, but the damage is already done. The thought is there now – ugly and persistent and impossible to ignore.
Probably nothing.
Probably.
Except for later that shift, during handoff, the interns are milling about. Dr. Robby needs a moment to think – clearly overwhelmed already – he has Whitaker take Javadi and Santos to you.
Jack’s interest is piqued.
“Just go over a general secondary assessment of the throat– I don’t care,” Robby says, exasperated.
His eyes find Jack’s as if to say Help me out here.
The exam room is already too crowded when Jack steps in.
You’re perched on the edge of the table, hands folded neatly in your lap, looking perfectly composed in that way that’s always driven him a little bit crazy. Across from you, Javadi is holding a tablet like it’s a lifeline, eyes bright with the particular intensity of an intern who does not want to screw this up… You think it has something to do with Oglevie’s presence lately and how badly she needs the ER residency.
But Jack doesn’t care; he keeps his expression neutral. Clinical. Professional. Routine.
“Alright,” he says evenly. “Victoria, walk me through what you’re seeing.”
Victoria nods quickly, stepping closer to you. “Patient reports throat irritation. No fever, no visible exudate…” She glances at you apologetically. “Can you open for me again?”
You do. Obedient. Trusting.
Jack’s pants tighten a little at that. You're so good.
Victoria leans in, frowning slightly. “There’s… some… soft palate discoloration. Posterior.”
Jack moves before he can stop himself.
“Let me see.”
Your eyes flick to him – quick, sharp, gone – and something in his chest gives a hard, unpleasant twist.
You open wider when he gently tilts your chin up, the latex of his glove cool against your skin. He tells himself he’s looking clinically.
Objectively.
Professionally.
And then he sees it.
Faint, but unmistakable.
A shallow, mottled bruise blooming across the soft palate.
A bruised palate means one thing: you've been a very busy girl.
Jack goes very, very still.
Behind him, someone snorts a laugh.
“Oh my God,” mutters Santos, not nearly quiet enough. “That is textbook.”
“Santos,” Jack says sharply, not looking back.
Too late.
Because now Whitaker has leaned halfway into view, eyes lighting with immediate, terrible understanding.
“Well,” Whitaker drawls, “someone’s been busy–”
“Whitaker,” Jack snaps.
The room goes tight.
You, meanwhile, have gone absolutely motionless under his hand. Not confused. Not surprised. Mortified.
But Jack feels like a live wire.
Victoria, poor thing, is turning pink by the second as the realization dawns on her. “Is that– I mean, could it be–”
“Differential diagnosis includes multiple benign causes,” Jack cuts in smoothly, voice back to icy calm, as something dangerously close to jealousy churns low in his gut. “Dehydration. Mechanical irritation. We don’t jump to conclusions.”
His thumb shifts slightly under your jaw.
Your pulse is racing.
He feels it.
Trinity makes a soft, disbelieving noise but, mercifully, shuts up under the weight of Jack’s stare.
“Exam’s done,” he says shortly, stepping back and stripping off his gloves. “Javadi, chart the findings. Everyone else – unless you have something medically useful to add – out.”
There’s some shuffling.
A very pointed look with raised brows from Trinity.
Whitaker, Huckleberry that he is, just smiles on his way past you.
The door closes.
Silence settles.
For half a second, Jack lets himself look at you – really look.
Your eyes are fixed somewhere over his shoulder, cheeks warm, composure just barely holding together.
“Thanks,” you mumble, “sorry about that.”
And God help him–
It’s the first time he’s been almost certain.
Jack clears his throat, voice carefully neutral again.
“You’re fine,” he says, quieter now. “But if the irritation doesn’t resolve, come back, and we’ll reassess.”
Professional.
Measured.
Like his pulse isn’t racing.
Like his mind isn’t spiraling somewhere dark and possessive – somewhere he absolutely should not be going at work.
After that, things change. Not all at once, but slowly.
And it’s clear. You know. You know he knows.
Neither of you makes a move, though.
You still cam once a week, sometimes twice.
He still logs on every time, sometimes donates to take control, sometimes lets others play with you.
It comes to a head at work, though.
Because Jack Abbot has been different… not overtly. Just enough for you to notice, though, because you’ve always kept a careful eye on your favorite attending.
Too observant.
Too quiet when you speak.
Too controlled.
You notice the way his eyes linger now – not inappropriate, nor obvious – just a fraction too sharp, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he’s already halfway finished.
It makes your stomach twist every time you walk onto the floor.
You keep your head down. Do your job. Be the same soft-spoken, kind nurse you’ve always been.
But tonight, tonight, something feels wrong the second you step into the supply room. The door shuts behind you with a soft, decisive click. You freeze.
Jack is already inside.
Leaning against the counter.
Watching you.
Your pulse jumps so hard you’re sure he can see it in your throat. You’re going to be sick.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Then, very evenly:
“You’re careful,” Jack says, tilting his head.
Your fingers tighten around the box of saline you’re holding, and you stutter, “I– what?”
His gaze doesn’t move from your face.
“Online,” he says quietly. “You’re careful there, too.”
The floor feels as though it’s dropped out from under you.
Heat floods your face so fast it makes you dizzy. “I don’t know what you’re–”
“Don’t.”
Not loud. Not angry. Final.
Jack pushes off the counter slowly, stepping closer. Not touching. Not crowding. But the space between you suddenly feels very, very small.
“I wasn’t sure,” he admits, voice lower now, rough around the edges in a way you’ve never heard from him at work. Breathing a little erratically, like he’s trying to control something, “Not at first.”
Your heart is pounding so hard it almost hurts.
“I thought I was projecting,” he continues. “Thought I was seeing what I wanted to see.”
What he wanted to see.
Your breath catches.
His eyes flick briefly to your mouth.
Then back up.
“But then the exam,” he says softly. “And the way you looked at me after.”
Your grip on the saline box slips.
He notices.
Of course he does.
Jack exhales slowly, like he’s been holding this in for days.
“You have any idea,” he says, voice tightening just slightly, “what it’s like realizing the nurse who brings me coffee at three in the morning is the same person I–”
He cuts himself off hard.
Jaw flexing.
Control, always control, snapping back into place by sheer force of will.
Silence stretches.
Both your breathing is shallow, rushed.
You should deny it. You should lie. You should absolutely, definitely not say:
“You donated.”
Jack goes completely still.
The air between you turns electric.
“So you do check your donors,” he hums.
Mortification and something hotter coil low in your stomach.
You swallow. “You could’ve had a different username…”
That almost, almost, makes his mouth twitch.
But the tension is still there. Thick. Heavy. Coiled tight.
Jack steps one pace closer.
You lick your lips, expectant.
Your back hits the shelving, not trapped, not quite, but close enough that your pulse is definitely not behaving professionally anymore.
His voice drops.
“You going to tell me to forget what I saw?”
You open your mouth, biting your bottom lip, then close it.
Because the truth is, you want him. You want him to want you, too. And you don’t know how to say that right now.
Jack watches the hesitation happen in real time, and something in his expression finally cracks. Not anger, but something hungrier.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s what I thought.”
His gaze dips once more to your mouth, brief but devastatingly deliberate, before he straightens, professionalism snapping back into place like armor.
“Get back to work,” he says, voice smooth again.
Like he didn’t just tilt your entire world sideways.
You’re certain this isn’t over.
It happens three shifts later during hand-off.
You’re at the nurses’ station, laughing softly from your chair.
And the man standing just a little too close to you is very much not Jack. He clocks it immediately: tall, confident, and too familiar with you, with the way he’s leaning against the counter as if he belongs there.
Jack’s steps slow.
Because you don’t laugh like that with just anyone.
“You never text back,” the guy is saying with an easy smile, voice pitched low like he’s used to getting away with things.
Your smile turns sheepish. “I’ve been busy.”
“Busy,” he repeats, smiling like he doesn’t quite buy it. His hand slides onto the back of your chair, familiarly, casually.
Jack’s jaw locks.
Hard.
Trinity, traitor that she is, murmurs from beside him, “Oh, this should be good,” under her breath, “You think that’s who the bruised palate’s from?”
Jack doesn’t answer.
Because something hot and unpleasant is already crawling up the back of his neck. He watches the way the guy leans closer. Watches the way your shoulders pull in just slightly, not uncomfortable, but aware.
It’s familiar. Too familiar for Jack’s liking.
Jack moves before he knows he’s doing so.
You don’t notice him until his voice cuts cleanly into the conversation.
“Everything alright here?”
Cool and even, but sharp enough to make you both look up. Your eyes widen a fraction. The guy turns, brows lifting. “Yeah, doc, we’re good.”
Doc.
Jack smiles… It doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I’m sure you are,” he says mildly.
Silence drops.
Because now Jack is standing very close to your chair.
His hand settles on the back of it, not touching you, but unmistakably claiming. The guy notices. Of course he does.
His eyes narrow just slightly. “We were just catching up.”
Jack’s gaze flicks to you.
Not soft. Not gentle. Searching.
“That so?” he asks quietly.
Your pulse is suddenly doing something extremely and decidedly unprofessional.
“Yeah,” you say carefully. “We… know each other from before.”
Before.
Something in Jack’s expression darkens. Subtly. Dangerously.
“Oh,” he tilts his head.
The guy smiles easily. “Yeah. We go way back.”
Jack is very still.
Very quiet.
And then, his hand slides from the back of your chair to rest lightly on your shoulder.
Warm. Firm. Possessive in a way that makes your breath hitch.
It’s not inappropriate. Not overt. But very, very deliberate.
“Funny,” Jack says mildly, eyes still on the man in front of him, “I don’t remember seeing you on staff.”
The guy’s smile tightens, and he scratches at his jaw, “I’m in imaging this week.”
Jack hums.
Unimpressed.
Then, finally, his gaze drops to you.
And the shift in it is unmistakable.
“You’re needed in Trauma Two,” he says quietly.
Not a request.
Your heart trips.
“Okay.”
You stand a little too fast.
Jack’s hand stays on your shoulder just long enough to guide you past him.
The message is crystal clear.
Mine.
You make it halfway down the hall before you hear footsteps behind you.
Of course you do.
Jack falls into step beside you, silent for three long seconds.
Then, low:
“You want to tell me who that was?”
Your stomach flips, “That was ancient history.”
His jaw ticks.
“That right.”
Not a question.
You risk a glance up at him.
Big mistake.
Because whatever leash he’s been keeping on his reactions lately?
It’s hanging by a thread.
“He touch you like that again,” Jack says quietly, voice controlled but thin at the edges, “we’re gonna have a problem.”
Your breath catches.
“Jack–”
He stops walking.
So abruptly, you nearly run into him.
When you look up, yeah, there’s absolutely no pretending anymore. You feel dizzy looking into his heated eyes.
His voice drops lower. Rough. Openly possessive now.
“You don’t get it,” he says quietly. “Those people online? I don’t give a shit about them thinking they own you.”
His eyes lock on yours.
“But someone real,” he continues, thumb flexing once at his side like he’s physically restraining himself from touching you again.
“That,” Jack Abbott says softly, “I can’t– I won’t– ignore.”
The air between you goes dangerously thin.
And for the first time, he’s not even trying to hide it.
After the shift, your walk to your car is quiet, but you hear footsteps behind you, you turn and it’s him.
You almost open your car door and leave.
Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to. “Jack…”
That does it, because you watch the exact second the last thread of his restraint snaps.
His hand comes up, fast but controlled, bracing against the car beside your head. Not touching you. Not trapping you.
But close enough that your pulse absolutely loses its mind.
“Don’t,” he says roughly.
Your breath catches. “Don’t what?”
His jaw flexes.
“You don’t get to say my name like that,” he murmurs, voice low and frayed at the edges, “and then look at me like you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”
Heat floods your face.
“I’m not–”
“Yeah,” Jack cuts in quietly. “You are.”
For a second, neither of you moves.
Then his gaze drops – slowly, deliberately – to your mouth.
You feel it like a physical touch.
“When I wasn’t sure,” he admits, voice rougher now, “I could pretend I had some goddamn self-control.”
Your stomach flips.
“But now?” His eyes lift back to yours, dark and unsteady. “Now I know.”
The air between you tightens.
Your fingers curl lightly into the fabric of your scrubs. “Know what?”
Jack lets out a quiet, humorless breath.
“That it’s you,” he says.
Simple.
Devastating.
Your heart stutters hard enough that it almost hurts.
“And I’ve been trying,” he continues, jaw tight, “real hard– to be professional. To give you space. To not–”
His voice cuts off sharply, like he nearly said too much.
You swallow. “To not what?”
Big mistake.
Because something in his expression goes feral.
His other hand comes to rest lightly at your waist, still controlled, still careful, but the possession in the gesture is unmistakable.
“–to not want more,” Jack finishes quietly.
Your breath leaves you in a rush.
The parking lot suddenly feels too small.
Too warm.
“You’re my favorite nurse,” he goes on, voice low and strained. “You bring me coffee. You smile at me like I’m just… some guy, like I’m not fucked up.”
His thumb flexes once against your side.
Barely there.
“But then I go home,” he continues, eyes locked on yours, “and there you are again — sounding like that. Looking like that. Taking orders from strangers like they get to have you.”
Jealousy, raw and unfiltered, bleeds straight through the words.
Your pulse spikes.
“Jack…” you whisper.
His head tilts slightly, studying you like he’s trying to read every thought you’re having.
“You going to tell me to back off?” he asks quietly.
Your lips part.
But only a breath – no sound – comes out.
That’s all the answer he needs.
Jack exhales slowly, like something inside him finally gives way.
When he speaks again, his voice is rough and openly possessive.
“I don’t want to share you with a goddamn chat room,” he says, “I don’t want to share you at all.”
His gaze softens just a fraction, but the intensity doesn’t leave.
“I want more,” Jack admits, low and unguarded in a way you have never heard from him before.
Not a command. Not a demand. A confession.
Heavy. Real. Terrifying.
His thumb brushes once, just once, against your waist.
“If I’m crossing a line,” he adds quietly, eyes searching yours, “you tell me now.”
The space between you hums.
Because for the first time since this started–
Jack Abbott is done pretending.
And so are you.
“You’re not,” you breathe, “I want– I want you, too.”
He presses closer into you. You hold his shirt in your hands.
“I want more, Jack.”
And Jack freezes at that. Because now it’s real. You’re real. You want to be his.
Because hearing you say it – soft and breathless and looking at him like that – hits him straight in the chest.
His eyes drop to your mouth again, slower this time. Hungrier.
“Yeah?” he asks quietly.
Your fingers tighten in the front of his shirt.
That’s all it takes.
Jack moves.
His hand at your waist slides firmer, pulling you the last inch closer until there’s no space left between you – your scrubs brushing his chest, your breath catching on his collar.
“Careful what you ask for,” he murmurs, but there’s no real warning left in it.
Only heat.
Only want.
You barely get a breath in before his mouth is on yours.
It’s not gentle.
But it’s not reckless either – it’s controlled in that dangerous way Jack does everything, like he’s been holding this back for weeks and is finally, finally letting himself have just enough.
Your hands clutch tighter in his shirt.
His breath quickens… that does something to him.
You feel it in the way his grip flexes at your waist – thumb pressing in like he’s making absolutely sure you’re still right here. Still his.
When he pulls back, it’s only an inch.
Barely enough space for air.
His forehead nearly touches yours.
“Jesus,” he breathes.
You swallow. “You’re the one who started this.”
A mistake.
Because something dark and pleased flickers across his face.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Jack murmurs, voice low and rough, “you have no idea how long I’ve been trying not to.”
Something inside you coils tighter. Hotter. Deeper.
His hand slides from your waist until it settles at the small of your back, drawing you in again in a way that is unmistakably – and unapologetically – possessive now.
No pretense left.
No distance.
“And for the record,” he adds quietly, eyes locked on yours, “I meant what I said.”
Your breath catches. “About what?”
His thumb presses once, firm and grounding.
“Not sharing you,” Jack says simply.
The parking lot feels very far away.
Very quiet.
Your heart is pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it.
“You gonna make me regret finally losing my self-control?” he asks softly.
You shake your head before you can think better of it.
Something in his expression softens, just a fraction, but the heat in his eyes only deepens.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, “thought so.”
You look at him, eyes wide, expectant, and Jack nearly kisses you again, instead he says:
“Come back to mine.”
And you do.
Because you trust him. You're too trusting. Too obedient. You’re so good for him–
And Jack has to stop his train of thought before he gets carried away.
The drive to his place is quiet, hand on your thigh, he brushes his thumb back and forth every so often. Reminding himself that you’re here. You’re his.
The silence stretches, a little too long for your liking.
“Having second thoughts?” You smirk, but the insecurity in your voice slips through.
But before you can spiral into thinking Jack doesn’t want someone who whores themselves out–
“Never about you.” He says. Definitively. Certainly.
“I asked you to come over,” then, he adds, squeezing your thigh, “I meant it. I want you.”
You smile at that, and Jack flickers his eyes to you, familiar.
The rest of the drive goes by uneventfully, quietly, but no longer tense.
His hand still rests on your thigh, and as he backs into his parking spot, he puts his arm over your headrest to see behind him.
His head tilted long, stretching. You want to kiss and bite his neck.
As if he can hear your thoughts, he smiles, “Patience.”
You scoff at that and smile, “I’m not the one with restraint issues, Mr.-Everything-Alright-Here?” you mock in your best Jack Abbot serious voice.
Jack palms his face and makes a displeased noise, “Don’t remind me about that.”
But he’s not upset, because he’s the one taking you home.
The walk to his apartment feels like a dream, all polished floors, high ceilings, and expensive sconces. Door after door passes, until Jack stops, and you almost bump into him from following him so closely.
When he opens the door, he holds it open for you.
You walk in, still dazed, still unsure if you’re really what he wants.
The door barely clicks shut before Jack moves.
One second you’re standing there, still catching your breath – the next his hand is at your waist, firm and sure as he pulls you into him like he’s done pretending there’s any distance left between you.
You barely have time to inhale.
His mouth finds yours. Hot, demanding, and weeks past restraint.
It’s not careful the way it was in the parking lot.
This is the version of Jack that’s been simmering under pressed shirts and tight control – the one who’s been watching you across the nurses’ station like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth.
This is the Jack who fists his cock to the thought of you on your knees, you’re starting to realize.
Your fingers fist in the front of his shirt on instinct.
Jack makes a low sound against your lips.
That clearly does something to him.
His grip tightens at your waist, thumb pressing in like he needs the physical proof that you’re really here, really in his apartment, really kissing him back.
“Jesus,” he breathes against your mouth, already a little wrecked.
You don’t even think before you kiss him again.
That’s the moment his composure really fractures.
Jack crowds you back a step until your back brushes the wall beside the entryway. His hand slides up, bracing beside your head, boxing you in just enough to make your pulse absolutely sprint.
Still giving you space to stop him.
You don’t.
Your hands slide up into his hair instead.
Jack exhales sharply through his nose.
“Yeah,” he mutters, voice roughening, but he’s grinning, “That’s– not helping.”
But he doesn’t move away.
If anything, he leans in closer, mouth finding yours again – slower this time but deeper, like he’s finally letting himself take what he’s been denying for weeks.
You feel the moment he loses the last clean edge of his control.
It’s in the way his hand slides more firmly to the small of your back.
In the way his breathing goes uneven.
In the way his forehead presses briefly to yours when he breaks the kiss, like he’s trying – and failing – to get himself together.
“You’re trouble,” he murmurs.
You smile, a little breathless. “You invited me.”
That dark, pleased flicker crosses his face again.
“Yeah,” Jack says softly, eyes dropping to your mouth. “Starting to realize that.”
But his hand never leaves your back.
Never loosens.
If anything, his thumb traces once, slow and deliberate, like he’s still grounding himself in the fact that you came home with him. That you chose him.
When he kisses you again, it’s slower.
Still heated.
But threaded now with something more dangerous than just wanting.
Possession.
He pulls you into him, sliding a thick thigh between your legs and pushes it into your core. Your breath hitches–
“Jack–” you moan, soft and real and all for him.
“That’s right,” and he groans your name like it hurts, “That’s it, baby.”
You can feel how aroused he is through his scrubs; you can feel his cock pressing into you where your bodies meet.
You’re grinding against his thigh now, kissing and sucking and nipping at his lips, his mouth, his neck.
Pawing at his chest with one hand, pulling his hair with the other.
He rubs his hands up and down your back, claiming.
Before you can fuck in his entryway, though, you gasp out–
“Bedroom–”
“That right, honey?” he coos, “That what you need?”
And you realize he’s mocking what you said on your live – and that does something to you. Something that coils tight and low in your stomach.
Your next moan sounds a lot like a yes, please, so Jack acquiesces and pulls away.
Before you can complain about the lack of Jack, he’s guiding you by the hand to his bed.
It’s a short distance, but time feels unreal when he pulls his shirt off and over his head, tossing it to the side.
He does the same with his pants and shoes, carefully taking off his leg, and sits on the edge of the bed.
You mirror his actions.
Taking off your scrubs, you’re soon just in your bra and panties, almost bare in front of a man you thought you’d never have.
He pulls you into his lap, and your mouths crash together, heated.
His hands are at the nape of your neck, traveling down behind your back.
He unclasps your bra with ease, and you help him slide it off, never breaking your kiss.
He makes his way to your aching nipples and – ever so lightly – brushes over them with his thumbs.
You gasp into his mouth.
Big mistake.
Because Jack feels it – the soft hitch of your breath – and something in him goes sharp and hungry.
“Yeah,” he mutters against your lips, voice already fraying, “there it is…”
His thumbs and forefingers then go about gently tweaking, brushing, and pinching until you’re certain they’re red and aching, but you just kiss him back harder – equally possessive. Equally wanting.
Your hand snakes down between you two to his weeping member. You give it a feather-light brush before stroking hard and firm.
You physically feel that last thread of control in him finally snap–
Jack kisses you hard and moves one hand lower to your clothed core, pressing down on the wetness between your legs. You buck into his touch–
Then he stops.
“Jack–”
“You gonna be good for me?”
“Yes– yes–” you plead, “Yes– I’ll be good, Jack–”
He hums at that, “M’kay.”
Patting your rear once, twice, you know he wants you to stand.
So you do.
Hands on his shoulders, you’re standing between his thighs.
“I’m all yours,” you breathe, threading a hand through his hair, the other caressing where his neck meets his jaw.
On either side of you, he traces his hands down your sides, pulling down your panties when he reaches your waist. His touch burns into your skin.
You should feel bare, exposed, hell, you should feel shy, but Jack’s already seen all of you. And you know he likes it.
Jack pulls you close, back onto his lap, and turns your body so now you’re in the center of his bed.
He pushes your legs apart and climbs between them. Thighs on either side of his head. His pupils are blown wide, and he looks like a man in the desert who’s just seen water.
He looks saved between your thighs.
Licking a long stripe up your wetness to your clit, you gasp–
“Jack–”
He hums into your pussy.
You’re gripping his hair, rutting and bucking into his unphased tongue.
“Jack–” you say again, desperate.
And he slips a finger into your weeping hole, curling, searching for that sweet, spongy spot inside you.
He finds it quickly, and you arch into his touch.
You feel him smirk from between your folds. You want to scoff, but he presses just right, and you swear you see stars–
You moan out, “Right there– just like that–”
And he doesn’t need more encouragement, he’s pressing down again and again and sucking on your clit again and again like he doesn’t need to come up for air.
You’re holding his shoulder with one hand, the other in his hair, pushing his face into your hips.
He doesn’t seem to mind that you’re taking what you need; in fact, he seems like he’s died and gone to heaven.
Just when you think you can’t get any closer, he’s sliding another finger in, and the pressing, and the stretching, the stimulation to your clit and–
You’re over the edge before you realize what’s happening.
Legs shaking, Jack removes himself – not his fingers – from the space between your legs. He’s lazily fucking into you with his thick fingers while he takes off his briefs with his other hand.
You want to help him, like he helped you, but it’s too much–
The overstimulation has you tearing up, bucking softly into Jack’s hands as he fingers you through your come down.
“Jack, Jack, Jack–” you softly chant, “‘s too much–”
He crawls over you and holds himself above you with one arm, the other busy fucking a third finger into your slick hole.
“I thought you were gonna be good for me,” he kisses the single tear that fell on your cheek, “Like you always are.”
“I am–” you cry, “I’ll be good–”
“‘T’s okay,” he says, voice lowering, “I know you can take it.”
And the stretch feels like too much, even for you right now, because his fingers are longer – thicker – than yours, they reach that sweet spot with ease, where yours reach and angle for it.
Then, with a searing kiss, he presses down on your poor clit and rubs – you moan out in protest – but it only pushes him further, your cries that it’s too much just push him further.
Like he wants you to cum again, but you don’t know if you can this quick–
You try to tell him, but it comes out garbled in between tongues and kisses.
“You had enough – she had enough?” and he glances to where his hand is pumping into you.
“Yes, Jack– I’ll be good–”
“Nuh-uh, I’m asking if she’s had enough, honey.”
You bury your face in his neck, “She– she’s ready for you,” you whisper.
His voice leaves no room for argument: “I need to hear you say it.”
“She can take it,” you say, a little louder this time.
You know he hears it, because he’s taking his fingers out now, and bringing them up to your mouth.
“I know she can,” he says, voice low, “can you take it?”
You nod, and suck his thick fingers into your mouth, tonguing the space between them, tasting yourself and your wetness on them.
You’re keening into his hand as Jack fucks his fingers into your mouth, careful of the roof of it.
When he’s satisfied, he wipes a thumb across your cheek, kisses you deep and hard, and lines himself up.
He’s still kissing you when he runs his aching cock through your folds, once, twice, before lining himself up at your entrance.
When he pushes in, you’re grateful he used three fingers because the stretch is divine – riding the line between pleasure and pain.
You know you’ll be sore tomorrow, that’s for sure.
You’re clawing and gripping at his shoulders, shaking against him. He holds himself tighter against you and snakes an arm behind your neck.
It’s sharp, claiming, possessive.
When he’s finally, finally, all the way in – you feel full. He’s thicker than any of your toys, longer, too. You weren’t a size queen by any metric, but God, this could change your mind. Because he’s filling you up, and he feels so good–
“Yeah? I fill you up?” he grits out, “I make you feel good, baby?”
You’re so blissed out you hadn’t realized you’d said that aloud.
But the feeling is mutual, because Jack hasn’t moved because you’re gripping him like a vice, and he doesn’t want to cum too fast – it’s been a while since he’s had a pretty little thing like you beneath him, and he doesn’t want to embarrass himself.
“You’re perfect–” he groans into your neck.
Then, he starts slowly pumping in and out. In and out.
He’s fucking himself into you, arm behind your neck and arm at the side of your head, flexing hard, like he’s showing restraint.
“Let go for me,” you say.
“Tryna be good to you– good for you–” he grits.
“You’re…” you pause, “you’re always good for me.”
And that does something to him, because he knows you’re right.
He’s been so good for you.
So patient.
So damn patient.
“You can let go,” you say, determined for him to snap, it seems.
And snap he does.
He pulls himself into you by the arm behind your neck and begins fucking into you at a harsher pace.
He’s angling his leg a little higher, pumping faster now.
Letting go.
His hand beside your face is balled into a fist.
He’s fucking into you like you’re his.
Like you’re not going anywhere after.
Because you’re not.
He’d make sure of that.
He’s biting and sucking patterns into your neck, and you’re breathing out moan after moan that he fucks out of you.
“Jack–”
“You need more?” he murmurs into your neck.
“Yes, please–”
“Knew she could take it. Knew she needed it.”
You can’t tell if he’s talking to you or not at this point, but he keeps going through the fucking–
“Knew you’d be good for me. Knew you’d be mine–”
“I’m yours–” you breathe.
“I know,” he grits.
He’s kissing you again, hard and dirty and raw – you can tell he needs to take right now, so you let him.
He’s kissing you like you might leave.
He’s fucking you like he’s making sure you won’t.
Deep.
Hard.
But it’s getting sloppier now – messier.
You know he’s close.
“Inside–” you breathe in between kisses, “I want you inside,” more firmly now.
And he holds you tight and close, and presses his weight into yours, and fucks it into you.
He’s spilling into you still, rutting gently into you, kissing your bitten and bruised neck.
Soothing over everything he can’t say.
The apartment is quiet in a way that feels almost unreal.
Your breathing hasn’t quite settled yet. Neither has his.
Jack is still close, still warm, but something in him has shifted. Not the heat. That’s still there, simmering low in his eyes.
But that sharp edge is gone.
Replaced with something steadier.
Grounded.
His hand slides more gently along your back now, slower than before, like he’s reminding himself you’re here. That this is real.
You swallow, a little dazed, a little floaty.
“…Jack,” you murmur.
His head tips down immediately, attention snapping to you like it always does when you say his name like that.
“Hey,” he says softly.
It’s different from the rough voice from earlier. Quieter. Careful in a way that makes your chest ache.
You hadn’t realized you were still gripping his arms until his fingers brushed lightly over your wrist.
Not prying.
Just there.
Grounding.
“You with me?” he asks, low and warm.
You nod quickly. “Yeah. I’m–” You huff a small, embarrassed breath. “I’m good.”
His eyes search your face for a long second anyway.
Of course, he doesn’t just take your word for it.
Jack’s thumb comes up, brushing once along your cheek like he’s checking for something only he can see.
“Talk to me,” he murmurs.
Your heart does something soft and stupid in your chest.
“I’m okay,” you say more quietly. “Promise.”
He exhales slowly through his nose.
Some of the tension finally leaves his shoulders.
“Yeah,” he says, almost to himself. “You just… looked a little overwhelmed for a second.”
There’s no judgment in it.
Just concern.
Real, unfiltered concern.
“I wasn’t overwhelmed,” you admit softly. “It’s just… you.”
That makes something flicker across his face – brief, unguarded.
Jack huffs out a quiet breath, almost a disbelieving half-laugh.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Story of my week.”
You smile, small and shy.
His hand settles more securely at the small of your back, warm and steady, thumb tracing slow, absent patterns like he can’t quite stop touching you now that he’s started.
Possessive still.
But gentle with it.
“C’mere,” he says quietly.
Not an order.
An invitation.
He shifts back against the headboard and draws you with him, slow enough that you can pull away if you want to.
You don’t.
You go easily.
Like you belong there.
Jack notices. Of course he does.
His arm comes around you more fully this time, broad palm resting warm between your shoulder blades, holding you close without crowding.
Your cheek brushes his chest.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
You can hear his heartbeat.
Still a little fast.
“…You always this intense off-shift?” you murmur.
His chest moves under your cheek – quiet amusement.
“Only when I’ve been trying not to kiss someone for about three weeks straight.”
Heat creeps up your neck.
You mumble, “That seems like a you problem.”
His hand slides up your back, slow, until his fingers settle warm at the nape of your neck.
Not pushing.
Just there.
“Sweetheart,” Jack says softly, voice roughened in that way that’s becoming dangerously familiar, “you are the problem.”
Your breath catches.
But before the moment can tip back into something too heated, his thumb strokes once – slow and soothing – along the side of your neck.
Grounding you again.
Grounding himself.
“You hungry?” he asks after a beat, quieter now. “Thirsty? Need anything?”
The question is so practical it almost makes you laugh.
You tilt your head up to look at him.
“…You always this annoyingly responsible?”
Jack’s mouth twitches.
But his hand never leaves you.
Never loosens.
If anything, his hold settles a little more securely, like he’s already gotten used to the weight of you there.
Like he plans to keep you there a while.
And for the first time all night, Jack Abbott looks completely, quietly sure…
𖧁୧ mean!simon x reader ⎯ cw: age gap (unspecified & legal)
𓋭 ๋ ׅ simon needs you to stay quiet while your parents are down the hall. emphasis on age gap and all that jazz.
likes & comments appreciated! let me know your thoughts please, reblogs are SO important ♥︎
18+ only. | my previous post.
“Christ, you can be such a kid sometimes; quit whining,” Simon sighs sharply with exasperation—bordering on urgency—hips slamming into yours as if to drive the point further home. He doesn't quite mean to be harsh, but he's on edge as is with your parents slumbering down the hall and keeping you quiet is proving to be a task.
He watches you blubber and twitch on his cock almost like it hurts, and maybe it does, but it only reminds him of your youth and inexperience; something about that makes him angry. At himself? At you and your naïvete? At the sands of time itself, perhaps.
“Well, go pick on someone your own age then,” you mumble defensively, your furrowed brows peeking over your shoulder at him. A dewy flush has spread across your torso and creeps up your ears, sweat glistening along the valley of your curved spine as you twist to glare at him petulantly. Simon finds you pretty just like this—with your bra strap sagging down your shoulder and your lower lip sticking out, and all.
You don't even know the weight of your words.
He scoffs derisively, a near-laugh, almost amused by your quip despite himself. Guilelessly, your heart flutters triumphantly at the idea of amusing him somehow, for the modicum of approval, before Simon leans in to sneer in your ear, lips set in a straight line, “Shut it.”
“Yer gonna wake your parents, y'want that?” His fingers braid through your hair, gathering the strands at the base of your skull in a tight fist and dictating where your head stays. (A piteous 'Ow!' is consequently muffled into the bedding.) He pulls out halfway before sawing back inside, watching your puffy cunt spread wide to swallow his thick shaft, a bead of drool pooling at the corner of your mouth. “Won't be able to fuck this sweet lil' cunt anymore if they take you away from me. We don't want that, do we, pet?”
“N-No—”
“Good.” He rewards your compliance by plunging into your heat with a thrust that makes the bedframe creak under his weight in protest, smushing your cheek in the mattress with the hand on your head. You scrunch your eyes shut to brace yourself for the onslaught Simon pours over you, jerking in time with his unforgiving ministrations. The frilly throw pillow wedged between the bedframe and the wall trembles with each pass, soaking up the noise while it takes the brunt of your activities.
The stickiness of your arousal streaks his shaft—glistening webs stretching out between you and his sack, drenching him anew as he withdraws then rams back in. His blunt fingers trace your mouth where choked moans emit from presently, inspecting the cushion of your lips in a sort of appreciation for your good, silent behavior. They slip past the rim of your warm mouth, forcing your lips to gape around the intrusion as they hook on; feeling your wet tongue under the pads of his fingers. Feeling you salivate as he grazes your tender g-spot. With all his years of experience and your lack of it, you're so easy to figure out.
He observes your voice inadvertently grow in volume as you struggle around the intrusion in your mouth, wringing out staccato whines from your throat as his cock pistons inside you. Your brows knit together helplessly, slurping, drooling, and whimpering around his digits all at once while you try to swallow your voice, and Simon aids you by relieving your jaw and letting you suckle on his fingers instead. Your soft lips seal around his middle and ring finger all too readily, puckered and suckling.
Simon can't help but coo at the sight in his low baritone, tutting quietly, “Just like that. Real quiet now, aintcha?” Your spit bubbles around his knuckles as he pushes deeper, enough to make you gag, but Simon makes it clear he doesn't mind the mess with the evidence of his desire throbbing inside your cunt meanly.
“Just need a firm hand to reel you in every now and again, hm? Is thaʼ what you need, luv?” The warmth of his breath brushes against the shell of your ear, his sweaty chest against your back, your eyelids blowing wide as you peek at his shadowy silhouette out of the corner of your eye. He can feel your tongue flounder against his fingers, a muffled noise behind his knuckles.
By way of the obstruction in your mouth, you don't bother with an answer—rather, your mind is someplace entirely—eyelids blissfully sliding shut as his girth, curved just right, plunges in and out of you, your walls squeezing around him welcomingly.
“Is it?”
Nodding your head in haste, your eyes water as his cockhead slams against what you're pretty sure is your cervix. You gasp for air as though trying to make room for him in your ribs, and Simon can feel every spasm of your aching pussy around him, painting your insides with pre.
The syllables of sorry and yes are mouthed around his thick digits, and a secret part of Simon relishes this, all of it: you, unadulterated and unfiltered. Still new, still unpolished. Simon, a grounding force. Someone to teach you to handle all that buzzing energy.
Simon's burly form is like a blanket on top of you, his angular nose nuzzling the nape of your sweat-damp neck. In the dark of your room, everything sounds awfully... wet—from the suckling sounds from your mouth, to the wet slide of his cock inside your dripping hole.
His eyes slide from the crown of your head to the strip of light under your bedroom door, which has remained undisturbed—until now. Simon’s heavy-lidded gaze lingers on the shadowy movement beyond it, the drone of his shallow pants filling your ears as you're immobilized under him, his broad frame blocking out the rest of the world.
It's only when his fingers pop past your lips and clamp tight over your mouth that you're alerted to the distinct noise of your father's yawning outside, floorboards creaking below his lumbering feet nearly lost under your own rapid heartbeat in your ears. “Quiet,” Simon mutters in your ear brusquely, straight teeth nipping at your earlobe.
“Honʼ? You awake?”
As your stomach drops fearfully, so too do your thighs clamp together when Simon bucks his hips against you.
“Hah, wait, Si—”
“Shut up nʼ take it.”
You're drowning in the sheets, really, getting fucked into the mattress by the man on top of you while your father's voice floats into the room. He never pulls out fully, just saws in like he's intent on making you feel every inch of his veiny girth and breaking you down here and now. Simon’s achingly close, and he's hardly eager to put this on hold for later—especially when your spasming cunt seems to be milking him for all he's worth. So he doesn't.
You don't respond to your father, hoping to feign sleep—and he tries again, God bless his soul. The bedding smothers your head, your stifled breaths echoed back to you making his voice almost inaudible.
“Could've sworn...”
The muttering trails off, and his footsteps lazily recede down the hall into a soft pitter-patter. You hold your breath, waiting to hear the click of his bedroom door, only it never comes. Is it anxiety or butterflies twisting in your belly? You can't tell.
Simon knows you're trapped like this, smothered and stuffed full with his cock, and he likes that. You have half the mind to keep your mouth shut as he unloads his spend in you with choked grunts, the only half-hearted sign of disapproval your kicking legs.
You finish in the same breath that the heavy footfalls close in on your door, leaving a creamy ring around the base of Simon's shaft as he fucks his cum into you with wet squelches.
“It's 3 AM, go to bed!”
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๋ ׅ authorʼs note — idk about you, but my parents still get mad at me for staying up late at my grownass age. this one is rushed & full of bad run-on sentences. enjoy my word vomit its so bad lool.
synopsis: Everyone knows that yourself and Steve should never have been put on the same team; you fight like dogs and spark like live-wires. But maybe not all of that tension is hate.
warnings: enemies to lovers, smut smut smut (fingering, oral - f receiving, unprotected p in v, creampie, size kink, mild spitting, rough sex, hate sex but add yearning, slight exhibitionism & public sex & risk of getting caught - fawking in the workplace), canon-typical violence (nothing graphic), description of gunshot, a lot of fighting but they are closeted cutiepies, cursing, steve rogers is a MUNCH and that's canon (to me),
word count: 12.3k words (literally 5k is smut. i wish i was joking. i have no impulse control)
a/n: i tried to do a bit of an inverse on the whole 'steve rogers is a golden retriever' thing in this so there are way too many references to dogs lmao (see: title). i physically cannot write hate sex without yearning bc i am a lover girl. someone release me from these shackles.
Steve has a big fucking issue with you.
You can’t remember exactly when it started but you do know that you liked each other just fine before you joined his team. Back then, you’d thought his unyielding, boy-scout-adjacent sense of duty and honour was kind of cute. He’d hold doors, call you ma’am, talk about doing the right thing as if it was just easy in a job like this. As if it was always clear as day what the right thing to do was.
Now, his virtue is just exhausting.
You’re watching him spar with Sam from the corner of the training floor as dusk descends outside the window and the training room becomes a sort of cave. Dim yellow light is spilling over the room, drowning it in a blurry smog. People are clearing out for the day, but not Steve. Each of his punches are pulled, each strike carefully calculated to inflict just the right amount of force in order to win but not injure. Steve could have Sam pinned in two minutes flat and both of them know it. The frustration in Sam’s expression is tickling you - you recognise it well.
You used to taunt Steve for this kind of thing during training runs and team building events, and he’d tease you right back. That boyish smile would give way to something a bit more wicked and an unnamed heat would pool low in your stomach at his crack in composure. You had been sure he was only days away from asking you out - some very proper invitation to the pictures with an assurance that he would drop you back by a reasonable hour, most likely. But then you got a promotion and came under his leadership.
He moves through missions like he’s got some do-gooder checklist in his head, and you can feel him watching every corner you cut. He doesn’t have to say a word (though he often does); the disapproval is baked into the air between you. Whatever spark had been building between the two of you got buried somewhere between all his rules and all the ways you’d break them.
A side-mission from Fury here, a refusal to wait for backup there - and suddenly you two are enemies. Or adversaries, at the least
You remind him frequently, in the throes of fiery screaming matches that make the rest of the team avert their eyes, that this is the way SHIELD trained you. He is the one going against the grain, not you. But it doesn’t seem to matter to him because his trusty moral compass never points him wrong, it would seem.
Things have gotten so bad by now that you think Steve, patient and tolerant as he is, might have even considered requesting that you be transferred if you weren’t so damn good at your job.
And you are good. That can’t be denied.
But there’s something about working with Steve that makes you great. When you’re not at each other’s throats.
You move around each other on missions as if performing choreography that only you two have rehearsed. You’ve saved his ass more times than he has ever acknowledged or thanked you for, but he has done the same for you. You have a deep understanding of how he works, mind and body. He keeps his moves varied as a rule, but you have learned to read the minute shift in his centre of gravity before he strikes, the smallest drop in his hips that means he’s about to duck, the tightening of his frame before he lunges. Equally, you know when he’s running multiple scenarios behind his eyes, when he’s processing angles before he commits.
It makes you his best possible partner on the field and the biggest pain in his ass in training.
“You’re up,” Steve mutters to you while Sam limps to the corner of the room, grumbling something about how next time Steve needs to stop dragging this shit out before he gets a leg cramp.
You haul yourself up slowly, moving to the centre of the gym with exaggerated languor just to piss him off, rolling your shoulders as you go. His sweat is making his white t-shirt entirely transparent, the thin fabric sticking to his defined pectorals and torso. He shakes his head, spraying sweat over the mat. It should be kind of gross, really, so you’re a bit disgusted by how hot it is. You see his jaw tick with impatience, and you begin to stretch your calves, too.
“You couldn’t have done this while you were waiting?”
“And risk seizing up again while you played with your food?”
“Just because I don’t use full force, it doesn’t mean I’m ‘playing with my food’,” he says, frowning at you in that disappointed-teacher way of his “Every time you all fight a super soldier, it makes you better. I use more force every time.”
You say nothing, only because you’re cautious about baiting him too much ahead of the ass-whooping you’re about to get. You roll your shoulders one more time, looking up at him.
“Let’s go.”
Steve lunges, coming at you hard and fast. A blur of muscle flies past your eye-line, fist cutting into the air where your jaw had been just half a second before. The force of it sends a gust that moves wisps of your hair and the speed of your dodge sends your boots skidding across the mat. You raise an astounded eyebrow at him and he shrugs with a tight smile.
On days like this, when his restraint is frayed and he is too irritated to be sanctimonious, you are reminded that he can be a little bit fun.
When you slide by his guard again, your eyes catch his for a fraction of a second before he lands a surprise hit to your abdomen that pummels the wind right out of your pipes. You groan but stop yourself from bowling over right into his knee that comes shooting up for you. You see him bear left and you glide away in the opposite direction.
“Testy today,” you say, but you can’t hit the patronising tone you are aiming for. Your voice comes out scratchy from the knock you took. He says nothing but leaps at you again.
You lean back and dodge the hit but go sprawling to the floor. Before he can pin you, you sweep a foot under his. It’s not enough to knock him in itself but he blunders for a bit and with one more kick, you send him to his ass. You get a foot in his side and hear Sam hoot in delight as he clears out of the training room with the remaining agents.
Steve’s on his feet in a flash, but by then, so are you. There’s a glimmer of something on his face, like surprise or maybe excitement. You try not to get too arrogant.
And it’s a good thing you don’t. Because after five minutes of hits and dodges, he has you on the ropes again. You’re giving it as good as you’re getting but you don’t have his stamina or pain tolerance. You can feel your equilibrium slipping, movements getting sloppy. You’re over-balancing, tumbling instead of landing.
There’s something about the current between the two of you today that makes you want to win in a way you never do with Steve. You had never even really seen it as a competition before, safe in the conclusion that he and all his serum-amplified testosterone will have you beat eventually. It was always a matter of if, rather than when.
But Steve is coming at you properly today, not pulling his punches (as much), not giving you the space to recover before he’s on you again like a hound on fresh blood and it’s making a sort of swooping adrenaline sing in your blood.
You don’t think too much about it, sweeping behind his back and hooking a leg over his. The serum means you don’t have enough strength to bring him down, but the confusion makes him stumble. With two hands on his shoulders, you climb his broad frame, boots digging into flesh, hands ploughing through his hair. He reaches a hand back to peel you off with bruising strength, but you have an iron clasp. His fingers dig into your t-shirt with almost enough force to pull it clean off.
You eventually reach the peak of him with immense difficulty. You are able to lock your thighs around his broad neck and curl your knee around his throat, squeezing hard. It’s not enough. His hands are pulling at your legs, but he’s not tapping out. You can only hold this grip for a matter of seconds, before your muscles loosen, and Steve will have your tired body pinned.
Impulsively, you dive backwards, head swooping down towards the floor. The force of it sends Steve flying back with you and you vaguely feel three taps - a victory - against your thigh before you both hit the floor.
You crash hard on your back. Your head takes a small bump to the mat and black dots dance behind your eyes for just a second, but your ass and shoulder blades take the brunt of it. It’s far from the worst injury you’ve received in training, but it’s been a while since you’ve received more than a hit. You take a few deep breaths to centre yourself, groaning once air returns to your body. Only then do you realise that Steve’s head is planted firmly on your lower stomach, neck still pressed up between your thighs. You scramble away with what you hope is a collected suavity, all bones and muscles shrieking in opposition to the sudden movement.
When Steve spins around, you know you’re in for it.
“What the hell was that?” he spits, picking himself up from the floor. His eyes are blazing, hands on his hips while he looks down at you where you are sprawled out on the mat. You close your eyes and let out a long, deliberate sigh - precisely the response you know will drive him crazy.
“That was me winning, Steve,” you say, ignoring your groaning limbs to pull yourself up. He does not offer you a hand up.
“No,” he said, voice strained and thick with irritation. “That was you trying to get yourself killed. Are you insane? You could have a concussion.”
“I know a concussion from a small bump,” you say, brushing him off with a limp hand. You move over to get your water, trying not to stagger. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“This is your problem, you know that? You always think you know best and everyone else is just dramatic or not seeing your vision, or whatever it is. You’re a good agent, but that’s not enough. You’re going to get yourself killed some day and it won’t be some great, heroic gesture like you probably think. It will be something stupid like this.”
His speech might have made a mark on you if it had been the first time you had heard it. As it stands, you just roll your eyes and take a sip from your bottle to look busy. The water mixes with blood from where you had bitten the inside of your cheek. It tastes bitter and metallic going down.
“God, you’re-”
You glance warily at Steve, wondering whether he is about to curse at you for the first time since that mission in Moscow. He swallows it. “You don’t listen.”
You shrug with a smile, watching his face go from a blushing red to a deep crimson. His eyes narrow and he spins around, broad back tensing as he storms out of the gym.
“Steve?”
He stops, twisting ever-so-slightly.
“You not gonna congratulate me on my first ever win?”
You think he might have given you the finger if he was anyone but himself.
You do end up grumbling your way over to the med bay eventually, but only because Steve threatens to suspend you from any further missions. You turn out to not have a concussion so you feel perfectly justified in scowling at him days later from across the quinjet the whole way to the shipyard two states away.
The air is warm despite the February frost splotched on the grass below. The hour is getting late; the setting sun turns the lakes and rivers a deep orangey red.
You hadn’t expected Steve to bow down or apologise, but you did expect him to ignore you. Instead, he’s watching you with a detached curiosity, like you’re some rare lab specimen or an interesting insect.
“I know you’re not seriously mad at me for sending you to the med bay,” he says. “Because that would be insane.”
“They did a whole medical evaluation, Steve,” you snap at him. “I was in there well over an hour. All for fuckin’ nothing because I’m healthy as a horse, apparently.”
“Well you missed your last mandatory check-up. So you’re welcome,” he says, his lips stretching into a handsome little smirk.
You frown. You are usually the one provoking him and you’re not overly fond of how it feels to be on the receiving end. You can feel Steve’s eyes on you, heady and pleased. He’s leaning back with his arms crossed, lofty thighs spread open with an abnormal arrogance. One that would not be on display if the rest of the team were with you.
You can fully appreciate his size from this angle, the fabric of his t-shirt straining against his biceps, his wide shoulders holding strong like an impenetrable wall of muscle and brawn. He looks particularly good when he smiles - even if it’s at your expense. He could have passed for a Gladiator, or some Greek god in another universe - the kind whose likeness would be captured in marble for future generations to marvel at and admire. It wracks you how unfair it is that he can be so irritating but still look like that.
Have you thought about him bending you over? Sure. Many a time. But you still can’t stand the guy.
“You still seeing that guy in R&D? Uh- Mark, or whatever.”
You give him a side-glance. Steve doesn’t forget anyone’s name. He is the kind of guy to be introduced to a hundred-man team and be asking Lucy for a debrief and thanking Jim for the coffee the very next day. You think he might be on a first-name basis with everyone he’s ever met. So you know that he knows his name his Mike.
“No,” you mumble. “We broke up last month.”
“Why?”
“None of your business, Rogers,” you say. You’re trying to appear unbothered, but you’re a little rattled. Your teeth are grinding. “What about you? Any dates recently?”
“A couple.”
“And how were they?”
“Good.”
You scoff. “You talk this much with them? Your chattiness might scare them off.”
“The ladies I take on dates might not have the same preferences as you, you know,” he says with a raised eyebrow. Your lips twitch at that term - ‘ladies’. How old-school.
“No, I’m sure they love one-word answers and taciturn grumbles.”
“I’ve had no complaints.”
Your mouth opens and closes stupidly. The shells of your ears prickle with heat as Steve just grins wider, shifting his hips to lean further back. He looks so goddamn cocky, so punchable. You wish you could take a picture and show him to all those trainees you had heard refer to him as a ‘golden retriever’. He seems more like a Mastiff to you; huge, stubborn, impossible to deal with.
You purse your lips together, eyes dropping to his army dog tags. The chain droops down his tanned, fabric-clad chest, the tags sitting neatly in the deep groove between his pectoral muscles.
“Why did you and Mike break up?”
Your cheek twitches up. “So you do know his name.”
“Tell me.”
You turn your gaze away from him to watch the sun set out the window, even if it makes your retinae burn. “My fault, mostly. I don’t really, uh- know how to do it.”
“What? Relationships?”
“Yeah, I guess. I’m not used to having to let someone know when I’ll be home or making sure I have time for them between back-to-back missions. I blame my career choice.”
“Maybe you just didn’t care enough.”
Your eyes snap back over to him, eyebrows shooting straight to your hairline. “What?”
“I’m just saying. It’s not your career choice. Lots of people in this line of work have relationships that they prioritise.”
“What, you’re suddenly Dr Phil or something? It’s not like you know the ins and outs so don’t-”
“Dr Phil?” A cute little line forms between his brows.
“He was this-” You pause, heaving a frustrated breath out your nose. “You know what? Never mind.”
“My point is,” Steve continues. “I think you would want to do all those things for someone you cared enough about, even when it’s difficult. It wouldn’t be some tick-the-box.”
All traces of arrogance are gone from Steve’s expression, only genuine interest remaining as he scans your face like he’s trying to solve some puzzle. It makes you uncomfortable - you would prefer for him to laugh at you or lecture you.
“I could be dating Brad Pitt and I still would not care enough to answer a text about what’s for dinner when I’m busy.”
He frowns. “Who is Brad Pitt?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
The walk to the shipyard is quiet. Silent, if not for the steady scratch of Steve’s boots grinding against the gravel. The hum of the quinjet dulls the farther you walk.
You may not particularly like Steve, but you appreciate him at times like these. You couldn't be more perfect mission partners for each other if you tried. The way you fall into your posts quickly and seamlessly, giving each other the space and silence to focus on preparing for the mission while also trusting that you will speak up if the situation calls for it.
Your methods and routines are practically identical. It’s almost a shame that the moment things break open, that quiet alignment shatters.
Steve holds a fist up, signalling you to stop. You do, falling in behind him. You’re not sure what he’s hearing, but you trust him implicitly when he makes the motion for you to duck behind a flatbed truck. You press yourself against the cool metal and Steve plunges in after you, his warm chest and stomach caging you. Hardly a second later, you hear what he had - a door clanging open, boisterous voices spilling out, all speaking over each other in Russian.
Steve meets your eyes, gives you a silent signal and you nod, moving out from behind the truck as silently as a deer and blending into the night. You weave through the shipping containers with practiced alacrity. You don’t need to look to know Steve is right behind you; you can feel him.
You split angles without having to speak. Steve covers the high runways while you sweep the lower lanes between cargo. The night has cooled and the wind is vicious now, needling the hulls of the half-empty freighters and blowing the hook block of the crane overhead until it swings like an unsteady pendulum over the flooded pier. Steve is keeping close. His hot breath feels sharp on your neck against the biting wind.
You get within five hundred feet of the main electrical substation before you’re spotted. A pair of guards open fire from the building behind you, spraying an uncoordinated bouquet of bullets in your direction. You find cover effortlessly and huff with humour at the sloppy execution. They had just revealed that they are aware of your presence without allowing you to get close enough for a good shot.
“Idiots,” Steve mutters, as if he’s genuinely disappointed. You smile up at him, almost expecting him to say something about how he expected better from them.
You easily dodge their fire as you advance leisurely and safely, winding in and out from behind shipping containers. You decide that you’re not in the mood to go at it with Steve today, so you take his lead even if it’s significantly slower than how you would choose to do this yourself. You don’t worry about the shots that get too close - whatever you can’t dodge, Steve fends off with his shield.
You are out of the gunmen’s range when you make it to the ladder that leads up to the platform you need to get to, but you have no doubt they are headed your way. You go first, taking your gun from its holster, aiming it upwards, and heaving yourself onto the ladder. The iron bars are slick with seawater and heavy fuel oil; you have to grip tight so you don’t slip.
You’re making careful progress up the ladder with Steve behind you, eyes pointed upwards for any sign of unwanted company. The metal feels slithery beneath your fingers and it takes you an extra few seconds to climb each step. It’s shuddering under each step and you wonder vacantly whether Steve’s weight will make it collapse.
You don’t have much time to prepare for the gunman that approaches above you. Your fingers are still clumsily fidgeting, trying to aim your gun while also grasping the slippy bar of metal. You get your shots off at the same time; yours hits, his does not.
What it does do, though, is make you dodge. Your body bears left, foot skidding on a rung of the ladder and suddenly you’re slipping downward, stomach swooping as your body collides with Steve’s.
He scarcely reacts, catching you with one arm, using little to no exertion. His fingers clamp around your waist, steadying you. For a fraction of a second you both freeze - your breath catching, his jaw tensing, bodies flush together, faces inches apart. Every hard plane of his body is pressed up against you. There is a throbbing warmth low in your stomach.
“You good?” he asks, breathy and deep.
“Move,” you say, voice tight, shaking out of his grasp and climbing up once more. He sighs and mutters something under his breath but you can’t make it out. Your heart is galloping, your pulse thundering in your ears.
You barrel over the platform, and go running towards the tower just as another guard reaches the door, attempting to get to the breaker panel before you have the chance to disable it. He locks the door behind him but Steve kicks it in with a crash. You slide low, sweeping the guard’s legs. Steve disarms him before he can even hit the floor.
There’s no need for discussion as you both fall into your respective roles. The room is oppressively grey and layered with multiple wires, but you find your way to the breaker panel. You work on planting the shutdown device on the primary switchgear while Steve holds off reinforcements, laying enough suppressive fire to keep three guards pinned behind a forklift.
You’re more aware of his presence than usual while you work. He sits like some nagging instinct in your head, telling you to look. You know if you do, all you will see is his back, a heavy fortification of muscle and hard lines and sweat. You don’t need that kind of distraction. Your nerves are already fried from the uncomfortable consciousness of how his body felt pressed tight against yours.
You step back, watching the disruptor activate and the power shut down around you with a whining drone. The grey space becomes black and for just a split-second, yourself and Steve stand alone in the dark, no sounds pervading the room except your laboured breaths. The street lamps outside have extinguished - the bullets outside pause while the gunmen assess their situation.
Steve moves, shattering the stillness. He grips your wrist and pads quietly out the door, taking full advantage of the blackness to make a discreet getaway. You grab your wrist violently out of his grip but you follow him silently. You can’t see anything very well, but you think he might roll his eyes.
The shipyard is drowned in darkness, the only light the thin silver sheen of rain on metal. You move with Steve between the towering containers, keeping low. Every small sound seems deafening now - the clink of a loose cable swaying in the wind, even your own breaths.
A pair of guards drift close, their flashlights slicing through the blackout. You flatten against the cold steel wall, willing yourself still as the beams skim past, bright enough to catch the rivets beside your cheek. When the voices fade, Steve breaks across an open stretch at a quick, silent sprint. You follow.
You’re not sure why you do it. It’s usually Steve’s job to scan the high ground. His serum-enhanced eyesight can catch movement long before you can. But Steve is preoccupied with sweeping for guards on ground level, so you do it instead out of pure intuition. And you see it: a sharp, unmoving glint on the crane platform above.
Your pulse spikes.
There’s a shooter.
You had caught sight of him too late to find cover. You are out in the open. You can’t see the shooter well, but you know who their target will be and it’s not you. Steve is too far ahead to be able to warn him in any sufficient way.
In a moment of complete and utter instinct, and maybe more than a little stupidity, you raise your gun and shoot. You miss.
The shooter turns their attention to you now. You fire another, miss again.
The hit slams into your shoulder so hard, it immediately steals your breath. You stagger forward, fingers going numb. The gun drops from your clasp.
You try to breathe, but the pain is sharp and choking. Your vision wavers from blood loss and the sheer, overwhelming burn tearing through you. Steve’s gun cracks somewhere to your left but the sound bends around the pain, distant and warped. You can’t lift your arm. You can’t even unclench your jaw.
You wait to feel the blood clot around your wound but it’s slow and reluctant. You hold on for one more second, and then blackness swallows you.
The only thing that you’re aware of when you open your eyes is the pain. Not the cold, harsh light of the hospital. Not your family and team members that sit around you, looking morosely at the floor and bouncing their legs. Not even that Steve is absent.
For some length of time that feels very long, you exist in that state; slinking in and out of consciousness. But the pain never disappears, not even the bouts of darkness. In those moments of oblivion, the pain goes behind a cloud, but it always returns with a violence. You get to know this in a vague sort of way, feeling dumbly grateful when the pain is at bay but never being so naive as to think yourself free of it.
Although you will later find out it is only two days, it feels like a small eternity before you can clear the film that feels like scum from your throat and croak anything out. You must not be of fully sound mind yet or maybe the painkillers are making you loopy, because the first thing you say to the room, crammed with familiar faces, is; “Steve?”
You’re assured by someone - Maria? Natasha? - that he got you out. That he’s ok.
And then that grey cloud descends once again. The pain and the haze return.
It’s not that you care that Steve doesn’t come to visit.
It turns out that your wound is just a through-and-through shot to the top of your shoulder. One centimetre in any direction and the bullet might have lodged itself firmly into your neck or paralysed your arm for good. The area is packed densely with muscles and nerves so you are wreaked with pain, but as it stands, it did no permanent damage.
So, really, there is no need for him to visit. And you definitely don’t care. You just think it’s bad leadership is all. You would have showed up for him if the roles were reversed, no matter how much of a pest he is. Would have sent a card. Even a text, at the very fucking least.
You leave the hospital after the dullest week of your life. You hadn’t, until that point, realised how tangled your life purpose is with your career. You feel rabid after just a day or two of consciousness, restricted to your bed with no files to review, no cases to crack open. Just you, a few beat-up novels you had been meaning to get around to reading, and whoever decides to drop by to see how you were doing.
Maria lets you know that you are required to take another two weeks of leave before returning to work. Standard policy. Your requests to be forwarded files related to your ongoing cases are rejected. You can’t even enter the building to go to the gym.
In the absence of anything better to do, you watch films back-to-back. Try some recipes you had earmarked. Visit the new museum that had opened in the next block over. Wait to hear from family, friends and colleagues. But not Steve. You’re definitely not waiting to hear from Steve.
You’re not usually great for following orders but you follow the doctor’s instructions closer than you have abided by anything in your entire life. By the time you return to HQ, the pain in your shoulder has flattened to a dull ache and you have formed a resolution to try to find some sort of hobby outside of work. You had no idea your real life is that grim.
Maria meets you with a distant smile at reception.
“Welcome back,” she says pleasantly, turning to walk with you through the building. Quiet conversation, the rustling of paper and the heavy clicks of agents suiting up covers the space you walk through. “We’ll do a mini induction and then I’ll let you get to it.”
Maria’s office is pristine. The door clicks shut behind you, muting all murmured voices outside. Everything looks recently straightened, recently dusted, recently organised. Sticky notes, task lists and cables are perfectly spaced out into their correct positions. The files stacked on the shelves are bound and appear to be in alphabetical order. You picture your home office space with a dim sort of shame as you sit down in front of her.
“How is your shoulder?” she asks without much interest.
“Much better, thank you. Should be able to get back out there now.”
She opens a cabinet in her desk and pulls a bloated yellow file. “That won’t be possible. We have made the decision to transfer you to another team. You’ll need a few weeks to catch up on the ongoing cases.”
“Another- what?”
Your brain is whirring, trying to catch up with what Maria just said. She doesn’t reply, just watches you buffer.
“You’re really taking me off the team on my first day back? Am I being punished for getting shot?”
“Not punished, no,” she assures you patiently. “You’re not being demoted, your day-to-day won’t even change very much but you’ll be working under Romanoff now. It was just decided that you would be a better fit somewhere else.”
“Decided by who?” you ask, even though you know the answer.
“By the leadership team,” she replies diplomatically.
Your gaze narrows on her but she is unperturbed. The sound of the seconds ticking by on the clock are suddenly deafening. You’re engaging in a sort of silent stand-off with her and you’re certainly not winning.
“Where is he?” you ask at last.
“On assignment.”
“When will he be back?”
She smiles at you tightly and you realise she can no longer tell you. You’re not on his team anymore.
A wild instinct runs through you; you feel you might be a few seconds away from stomping your feet like a child, shouting at her that it’s not fair! and he started it!
Instead, you huff out a harsh breath and snatch the file up from the desk.
The hour is late and night is spilling through the windows. Yourself and Nat are the only ones left in the room; maybe the only ones left in the building. She lounges against the opposite row of lockers, boot propped up, grinning like you hadn’t just run a mission that by all rights should’ve ended in a four-page incident report and at least one formal reprimand.
“We are a match made in heaven,” she says with a dreamy sigh.
You snort. “Tell that to the clean-up team.”
“Let them file a complaint,” Nat says, waving a dismissive hand. “Clean exit, no casualties, minimal property damage. Made decent time too.”
“Mm.”
It had gone well. Better than well. Nat works like you do - zippy, instinctive, a little unhinged when the situation calls for it. There had been no questioning glances when you made a split-second decision, no screaming matches in lieu of a debrief. Your third mission back was a big fat success. You should be overjoyed.
But as you wipe the shower-water from your skin and peel your top on, all you can summon is a hot, directionless anger. Or, maybe not entirely directionless.
Because for the most part, you can direct it towards Steve. Your shoulder has mostly recovered with only a mild stiffness left to show for it but you’re still suffering from a wounded pride. The fact that he didn't bother to check up on you and requested a transfer after you quite literally risked your life for him is bad enough. But he’s been a ghost to you in the three weeks since you returned to work.
That first week, he had been on assignment in Hungary. You had gone on a hunt for him as soon as word got around that he was back, but he was nowhere to be found. All his usual conference rooms were vacant and he had clearly started training elsewhere. You have not been able to track him down in the weeks since and you have no doubt in your mind that his sole intention is to avoid you.
Because he feels guilty for what had happened? Or maybe because he doesn’t want to have to thank you? You’re not sure. But you’re pissed.
And not just at him either. At yourself too.
Because, alongside that anger, there’s an uncomfortable hollowness tugging at you. You bring it with you everywhere you go. It weighs you down like a chain. He won’t vacate your brain no matter what you do and you can’t quite deny that maybe you might miss him. Just a little.
The anger is not the worst of it; it’s that other thing - the tiny, shameful spark fluttering under your ribs when Natasha lets you rove free instead of testing you, challenging you, making you better. It’s the way your life feels just a bit emptier without someone to tease and provoke.
And it’s humiliating, because - seriously? How original. You really had to go and join the queue of people pining after the tall, hot, golden-boy with perfect manners and stupidly earnest eyes and muscles so perfect that only scientists could have sculpted them. Brilliant. Groundbreaking. As if you don’t already hate him enough without adding that to the mix.
“I was gonna drag you for a drink but the energy you’re giving off right now is rancid,” Nat says, walking towards you with her towel in hand. She snaps it at you but you jump out of the way before she can make contact. “You’re so pissy all the time since you got transferred.”
“I’m not pissy,” you snap, obscurely aware that you’re proving her point.
“Why do you even care? You and Rogers fight like dogs. You never wanted to be part of his team in the first place.”
You’re purposely avoiding her gaze, but you know the exact look that Nat is giving you based on her tone alone and you hate it with a burning passion.
“I don’t care. It’s just not fair, but it’s whatever.”
She sighs, picking up her duffle bag and flinging it over her shoulder. “I’m gonna leave you to whatever this is,” she says, waving her hand vaguely in your direction. “Get eight hours tonight and try to come back less cranky.”
She walks out, hips swinging, and you wait another moment or two before following suit.
HQ feels different at this time of night. The overhead lights seem a shade too bright without bodies moving through them and your footsteps sound sharper against the floor. The whir of a printer on standby and the buzz of a monitor stand out more. Clean, white light is shining on empty desks.
There is a weight on you as your make your way through the carpeted corridors, passing empty offices and meeting rooms. Nat is right - you are pissy. You’re so goddamn angry and mortifyingly upset, crucifying yourself with mental images and memories you would do anything to be rid of. You had always been mildly curious about those feelings that you observed in movies, the ones all your friends used to rave about when they met someone they fell head over heels for. You have dated, have even been in a few serious relationships. But you always knew there was a big gap between what you had witnessed and what you had experienced.
You wish someone had told you how stupidly painful and embarrassing it could be. You would have tried harder to steer clear of it.
You almost think that you’re imagining the picture of Steve in the meeting room to your right, framed by the semi-frosted window in the door. For just a split-second, you think it might be another one of those humiliating daydreams. But no - he’s burning the midnight oil; his neck is craned over a file, a small lamp pouring light over his handsome features.
You’re not one to question your instincts. You hurl the door open with an aggression that has Steve’s head snapping up in shock, pen falling from his hand, mouth parting. You listen to the door tumble closed before you realise dimly that you have no idea what to say to him. You’re floundering a little, but you keep your expression steady.
He breaks the silence first.
“You’re here late.”
“Just wrapped an assignment with Nat,” you say, hand on hip. “Turns out we make a pretty solid team. It’s refreshing.”
His jaw ticks, but he gives nothing else away. He looks back to his papers, as if dismissing you. “Glad to hear it.”
That’s it? That’s really all he’s giving you?
You can feel fiery heat crawling up your neck and you try to stop the furious shake in your hands. Composure is becoming more difficult to maintain and you know that you’re about a second away from bursting but his gall is astounding. He really has nothing else to say? After everything?
“You got me kicked off the team.”
“You didn’t get kicked off anything,” he sighs, leaning back in his seat. His eyes are travelling your form warily, like he isn’t quite sure where you’re going with this. “You got transferred.”
“Yeah, transferred out of the team.”
“I thought you would be happy,” he says wryly. “You were always complaining about having to work with me. I think you even said you’d rather work with Natasha a few times.”
“I am happy!” It comes out as a bark. You’re embarrassed by your petulance even though you can’t cork it. You know that you’re acting like a child. Steve’s lips are creaking upwards, his eyes lit up in amusement.
You clear your throat. “I am happy,” you repeat, in a low, controlled voice this time around. “It just feels a bit ungrateful is all.”
The way Steve’s poise breaks, superior grin twisting itself into a snarl, is hugely satisfying. You are self-aware enough to know that you’re being hugely immature, but it just feels so good to drag him down to your level.
“You think I should be grateful that you almost got yourself killed on a mission?” he snaps, standing up from the meeting room table and walking towards you. You meet him half-way, until you are inches from each other. Your neck stiffens with how it bends up to meet his enraged eyes. Your body is humming with this familiar rhythm, as if fighting with Steve is the only thing that makes you feel alive.
“Well, I got shot saving you, so yes - I would say that’s a pretty good reason to be grateful,” you snap back, eyes narrow.
“Don’t be dense.” His voice is tight and poisonous in a way you have rarely ever heard before. “That was a really fuckin’ stupid decision and you know it. You took a bullet for the super-soldier with accelerated regenerative healing and a vibranium shield. Does that sound like a good decision to you?”
He sounds more furious than you have ever heard him in your life - and you have made him mad more times than you can count. He had cursed at you. He hasn’t done that since Moscow.
“I knew what I was doing,” you spit back with equal fury. “That shooter had all the time in the world to get into position; they would have been aiming for your head and they would have hit their mark, too because you weren’t paying enough attention to raise your shield. I knew that pulling them over in my direction meant that they would shoot me but they would have less time to aim. Just because you think I’m stupid doesn’t mean I am, you jerk.”
He is struck dumb momentarily, brows furrowing and lips pursing in thought. You are close enough to see the twitch of his mouth, to feel his disgruntled puffs of breath against your skin. Contentment slithers up your spine. Seconds tick by in silence; Steve pensive and stoic, you smug and satisfied. You have won this round and decide to go out with a bang.
“But I guess I should be thanking you because I have a new team lead now who trusts my judgement and doesn’t pick a fight every five minutes. So thank you. And go to hell.”
You turn on your heel, already halfway into your stride, and his hand shoots out so fast it must be instinct - large, calloused fingers closing around your arm before you’re even finished the pivot.
There is a second where he just glares hard. His blue eyes eat up every inch of your face.
And then your body meets his chest and his lips are instantly on yours in a heady explosion of fire - it’s a violent, fervid thing and you surprise yourself with how quickly you return his passion. You had imagined this moment in the last few weeks - in all your dirtiest daydreams, you made him sweat it out a bit, even beg. But maybe you can make him beg later - you had missed him too much to turn him away now.
Your lips move like it’s another one of your fights, faces pressed against each other in a messy battle of lips, tongues and teeth. His hands travel to your hips and pull you flush against him while you fist his crisp blue shirt, folding wrinkles into the perfectly ironed fabric.
Your feet leave the ground as he lifts you with irritating strength, pushing you onto the meeting room table and settling himself between your legs. His sheer power - the way he can lift you like you’re absolutely nothing - makes heat pool in your tummy, something stirring low. You’re pushing your lips against his fiercely, channeling all the pent up anger from the past number of weeks.
He isn’t gentle. He’s rabid as a stray dog. His fingers grasp harshly onto your hips with bruising strength. Despite the fact that you’re already pressed up against him, he tugs you tighter to his body, like close is not close enough. You can feel the large swell of his cock against your thigh, hard as a rock, and you have to stop yourself from adjusting your position and grinding down on him. You’re eager enough to do it, but he can't know that.
Your hands travel around his chest and shoulders, fingers delving into every curve of muscle there. He feels so big and broad against your touch and it turns you on so much that it almost pisses you off.
“You’re such a dick,” you gasp, the sound muffled against his lips.
“I know,” he says back between kissing, his mouth not moving from yours.
“Didn’t even visit me in the hospital.”
“I know.”
“I hate you,” you say, aiming for a sharp tone. It comes out breathy. He’s still kissing at your mouth, lips moving wildly - out of sync and jumbled.
“Shut up,” he grunts, hand going to your lower back and pushing your pelvis forward so you grind against him. An embarrassing whine rips itself from your throat as pleasure sparks through you, lighting up your body. You grind down again, addicted to the feeling, and Steve groans against your lips, hips jerking up.
It prompts something filthy; the two of you still fully clothed, bucking and grinding against each other like feral animals. There is a delicious throbbing in your core, your entire body crying out for more of him. His left hand is still on your hip, encouraging your body to continue grounding down against his hard cock through layers of cotton, but his right hand moves up to grab your jaw with a possessive force. You are giving it back to him too, hands clutching and grasping at him with a brutality.
He pulls away to lift your top over your head, eyes levelled at you with a burning intensity. His pretty blues are darker now, less earnest.
“Steve, we’re in the office,” you object, fingers reaching out to grab it back. He tosses it to the floor before you can.
“Don’t care,” he says, reattaching his lips to yours, fingers crawling to the waistband of your trousers. “Gonna fuck you right here.”
Your stomach clenches. It’s a strange role reversal. You’re not accustomed to being the one who stops and thinks about things before acting - that’s always Steve’s remit. You should be concerned that his perfectly constructed control has been tossed out the window, but it only makes you more excited. You know that there is something dangerous deep underneath each layer of restraint that Steve exercises. You have always known you’re better at digging it out than anyone else in this world. When you do, it’s a beautiful thing.
How can you do anything but give in?
Steve’s fingers play with the button of your jeans, popping it open with an effortless tug before he slides them down your legs along with your shoes. You’re left in just your underwear, splayed open before a fully-clothed Steve Rogers like you’re some sort of offering. He watches you with dark eyes, something between worship and hunger enveloping his features.
His eyes zero in on your bra-clad breasts. “Take it off,” he says, voice strained, and you reach up with urgency to unclip it, tossing it carelessly somewhere across the table.
“Suddenly so good at taking orders.” His hand reaches up to palm your breast, the other playing with the waistband of your panties. Your body arches to his touch involuntarily. “Should have done this months ago. Might have made you behave.”
He can probably tell you’re about to say something snarky, because his lips meet yours ferociously yet again and what would have been a rude retort turns into a moan when his thumb presses down on you over your panties.
Steve pulls away, eyes catching yours with surprise before dropping down to your core, covered in a thin layer of now-transparent fabric. “You’re soaked through,” he breathes, awe colouring his tone. “See how wet you are for me?”
Hot humiliation floods your face. “Fuck you.”
He gives you a slow smirk, eyes glinting. His tongue pokes out to wet his lips, leaving them glossy and shiny, and you realise he enjoys this as much as you do. His head dips down, lips just brushing over your neck, breath caressing your skin, before he’s lathering kisses there. He hooks his fingers over your underwear and yanks it down aggressively. You watch it cascade down your legs pathetically, chest heaving with the pressure of his lips under your ear and his fingers sliding down your stomach torturously slow.
His fingers just graze over your wet heat and your blood is singing in your veins. You feel overpowered by him in the most mouth-watering way; his large frame trapping you, caging you in. He presses two fingers in, harsh and sudden, and you gasp.
“You get so turned on fighting with me, don’t you sweetheart? I knew it. Knew you were getting all wet every time I raised my voice at you. You pretend you don’t like me but you love when I boss you around.”
You want to slap him, but he’s right. And you consider that if you do, he will stop. His fingers are so big and calloused inside you and it simply feels too good to ever stop. You’re breaking into a sweat while he pumps in and out of you, your slick spilling onto his perfectly tailored work slacks while your walls clench around him.
When his other hand reaches down to grind down on your clit with vigorous strokes, a burst of white-hot pleasure works its way through you, licking up your spine. You pull hard at his hair, looking for anything to anchor yourself and hear him hiss a moan against your neck. The sound makes you clench around him and his fingers pump into you with renewed roughness in response.
You’re absolutely ruined. He has turned you into a complete wreck. You can no longer deny how badly you want him nor how much you need this; you don’t even try anymore. Your hips are wiggling down, trying to take him deeper. You have lost all semblance of shame, too taken up by the pleasure that his fingers are delivering you.
“Look how desperate you are,” he says, eyes caught where he is filling you. You don’t want to look down, shame working its cruel way through you at his taunting, but he grasps your jaw, tilting your head downwards. His fingers are warm and wet with your slick.
His two fingers are enough to stretch you out - they almost look too big for your hole. You shudder at the sight of them sliding in and out, knowing his cock will stretch you out all the more. Steve’s staring at your pussy like a man who is starving.
His fingers pull out from your heat quite suddenly. You’re hazy and confused until he lowers to his knees on the ground in front of where you are perched on the table. Your eyes connect in a moment of explosive intensity. His pupils are blown wide and when yours begin to flutter shut, he pinches your thigh gently in warning. You are forced to stare while he lowers his face between your thighs, eyes gleaming.
“Gotta taste you,” he says, almost to himself, and then that stupid fucking mouth that pisses you off so much every single day meets your cunt.
The sound that comes out of your mouth is unintentional and would be entirely mortifying if you were thinking straight. Your head falls back, eyes shutting. He pinches your thigh again, harder this time.
“Eyes on me, sweetheart.”
You eyes spring back open, twitching as you fight the instinct to squeeze them shut. He holds your gaze captive while licking a messy stripe up your folds. You can feel sweat collecting at the top of your forehead at the sensation. He is ravenous and unrelenting, sucking on your clit before soothing it with soft kisses. Exploring your folds with his lips. Dipping his tongue inside and gently nipping, testing your limits.
He’s eating you out in a way you never have been before; it’s not some repetitive flick of the tongue against the clit, picked up from porn and designed to make you cum as fast as possible so he can get the hell up and get his own rocks off. Steve is learning you, watching your expression closely to see what makes your breath catch. You feel him grin against your pussy as a moan slips out reluctantly when he drags his teeth over the hood of your clit, offsetting the pleasure with the tiniest bit of pain. He groans when you lose control and your eyes roll back in your skull.
He pulls back just a few inches and you watch him spit a thick glob of saliva straight onto your cunt. He’s still holding intense eyee-contact with you when he runs his fingers through your slit, mixing your wetness with his own. It’s sliding down through your ass and onto the table, reminding you exactly where you are. The fact that you are doing this in a meeting room in your place of work makes it seem even dirtier.
He shoves two fingers back into you without warning and your hips buck. He continues to mouth at your clit in the most beautiful patterns and you truly feel like he is doing this purely for himself, like he’s enjoying it as much as you are.
He sucks hard, sliding your clit into his mouth and you’re not in control of the words or sounds that spill out of you. You’re telling him how amazing you feel and how fucking good he’s eating you, but you realise you might have fucked up because you can just feel his arrogance. It’s pissing you off. You need to remedy it quick.
“Maybe I should keep you down here like this all the time, Steve. What do you think? Can’t bitch at me when your mouth is busy. And you’re just so good at it too.”
You can feel the smug smile melt into something more sinister. His eyes grow darker, but he never moves them from yours. He continues to lap at you, but his mouth is more aggressive now - a stormy sort of warning. You ignore it.
“Bet you’d let me put you on your knees after every mission if I wanted.” Your voice is coming out a bit too breathy for the sort of control you’re aiming for, but you continue regardless. “Keep you there for hours if I need to.”
Steve is standing up faster than you can register, a rough scowl painting his face. “Fucking brat,” he grunts, voice low. Your pride does not allow you to complain about how close you were to coming on his tongue.
He’s unbuttoning his shirt with rapidity and you get the message, part terrified and part exhilarated by what’s to come. You go to work on his belt in the meantime, clumsy fingers frantically unbuckling so you can yank his trousers down his legs.
Steve shrugs out of the sleeves of his shirt, you almost groan. It is just so utterly unfair. It’s not like you’ve never seen him in this state before - missions sometimes require you both change clothes in less-than-ideal settings. But seeing him in this context, a thin sheen of sweat coating his pecks, an enormous bulge in his underwear that you know you have inspired; it’s unearthly. It’s only for you. You want him in wicked, sinful ways. And you’re determined to have him.
You try to hide the shake in your hands as you reach towards his underwear. Time slows down as you pull down it down to reveal his cock - what had been a frenzied blur of limbs and clothes patters off into cautious movements, heavy breaths.
You actually groan when you see it; standing tall and fucking huge, slightly curved, subtle veins running lines up to the tip. A pearl of liquid has collected at the tip, smudged on the swollen head. It’s so pretty, you can feel your eyes becoming a bit hazy. The light in the room seems to ripple and bend around it.
Your fingers reach out tentatively, dragging down his length. He hisses, hips jerking up to your touch when you wrap your fingers around him. You can barely wrap your hand around it and you’re startled by how small your hand looks in comparison.
“You think you can take it?” Steve asks you.
“I can,” you confirm with certainty.
“Let’s see about that, sweetheart. I think I might break you,” he returns and you wonder vaguely whether Steve is just baiting you, taking advantage of all your stubbornness to make sure you push yourself past your limit.
His body brackets yours again, leaning over your body to give you a filthy kiss. His mouth is absolutely dripping with the evidence of your arousal and his own spit. You can taste yourself on his tongue, mixed with something that is pleasant and categorically Steve Rogers. His lips move hot and dirty against yours, tongue pressing in on yours while his cock nudges your entrance. You gasp against his lips.
“Yeah?” he murmurs against your lips. “You ready for me?”
You nod furiously and he reaches down to fist his cock. You feel his thick length begin to nudge at your entrance, the head slipping in slowly. Your cunt pulses with anticipation as you feel the sweet ache of him breaching you. You let out a low whine, caught somewhere between pain and pleasure, as he pushes in further, the thickness of him stretching your walls.
It’s a tight fit. He gets just less than half-way, before your pride breaks and your hips jump away from his at the burn. His jaw twitches, blue eyes fluttering closed for just a second.
Steve reaches down to stroke at your clit and the rush of pleasure makes you loosen up just enough for him to notch in a few inches further. “C’mon, sweetheart. Thought you said you could take me.”
“I can,” you say, the words pattering off into a whine. “Just big, is all.”
“Sure is,” he says, pushing in further and smiling wickedly at you. “And I’m gonna make you take it all, baby. Gonna make you feel it here.” His fingers press down hard on your tummy.
His cock is stressing its size inside you, hitting places previously untouched. You can’t quit believe that he still has more to give you but he does. You’ve never felt anything like this before, never had anything this big inside you and it hurts in the most delicious way.
“Fuck,” Steve spits, breathless. “Yeah, okay, I think you can take me all the way. Just a little bit more, sweetheart. Let me in.”
If he hadn’t eaten you out until you were an inch from nirvana, you’re not sure this would be possible. But as it stands, he bottoms out and you feel like you’re floating. Your hips are twitching, unsure whether to escape or grind down harder.
“Squeezing me so tight, baby. Think you were made for my cock,” he hisses, his face tightening with a primal need. “You okay?”
You’re not sure that your vocal cords are still working so you just nod and listen to his deep breaths. Your back arches when he presses sloppy kisses to your neck while you adjust to him. It feels as if he is moulding you around him.
Your fingertips drag down his back and he shivers, jerking his hips forward involuntarily. “Sorry- ah, fuck-” he groans, face clenched tight.
He withdraws a couple of inches, cock dragging through your walls, before slamming himself back in. He looks down at you like a kicked puppy when he hears your strangled gasp. “Feels too good. Gotta- agh. Can’t help it, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”
You like this side of him, you think idly. You had seen Steve in many different moods, but never like this. Apologetic and pleading. He is a boulder above you; 6 foot something of pure brawn, but begging you so nicely to take his cock. “I know it’s big but you’re such a pretty little thing for me. Have to move.”
You still can’t talk so you nod at him in encouragement and watch relief pour over his face. He kisses you again with intention, bucking his hips into yours with beautiful friction. You are stuffed so full, it feels like he’s everywhere at once. This whole thing is becoming far sweeter than you were expecting.
Steve finds a leisurely, pulsing rhythm as he rocks himself into you, lathering kisses over your lips in a way that is entirely too romantic for the setting. He rubs tantalising circles on your clit, helping your walls to relax into him - helping you let him in until you find your voice, babbling about how much you want him and how good he’s making you feel.
You’re becoming aware that he owns you now; that maybe he always had. He thrusts into you with a beautiful sort of reverence and you know that you are ruined. Sleeping with anyone else would feel like a brutal punishment after you felt him like this.
A noise from outside - the faint tread of boots on the ground - makes you both stop cold. Steve freezes completely, his dick coming to a stand-still inside of you. They are faint but getting closer by the second. Your eyes meet Steve’s wide ones. He starts looking around the room. at your intertwined bodies. You can see him assessing the situation, working out solutions, but a smug part of you notes that he still doesn’t pull out of you. He dick doesn’t soften; you actually feel it twitch inside you.
Your pussy jumps at the realisation that he’s excited by it. Maybe he doesn't even know it yet, but he is. You know it by the way his hips give involuntary, shallow thrusts. By the way his pupils grow impossibly darker.
So you do what any sane woman would do with Captain America’s cock buried deep inside her. You grind down.
Steve eyes snap back to yours with astonishment. He looks wild; entirely out of control and somewhat furious. He brings a hand to your hair, tugs it with a warning that you don’t pay any heed to.
You grind down again, this time removing your right hand from his broad shoulders and bringing it slowly down to your clit. You rub and squeeze there, using his cock to get yourself off. The way his eyes are burning as he watches you only makes it so much hotter. You feel yourself approaching your peak.
The steps get louder until you see a flash of cherry red pass the window and you know it’s Natasha. She’s on her way back to the locker room, perhaps to check if you’re still there. You don’t stop moving on his cock even as she passes by you and the locker room door swings open and shut.
“Are you insane?” Steve spits in a low whisper. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
You just smile back at him because you can see his eyes growing hazy. You not sure he even realises that he himself has begun to thrust into you again. A flush is working its way up his neck and you wonder whether it’s anger or arousal. Maybe both.
You’re halfway through a moan when the door to the locker room swings back open and Natasha begins walking out again with a huff. Steve’s hand goes up to cover your mouth, so large it almost envelopes your entire face. He’s giving you look like he’s disapproving of this development but he doesn’t stop fucking you.
Natasha’s footsteps stop for a split-second. You feel a disinterested sort of confusion, too wrapped up in the way Steve’s cock feels as it drags through your walls.
Something spasms between your legs and you realise you’re about to cum. Your blood freezes. You feel Steve tense, breath snagging in his throat. You’re sweating now - praying that all those gasps you can’t mute are not audible from outside.
You hear Nat let out a long, irritated sigh from outside, but you’re too far gone to even care about the consequences anymore. You squeeze around Steve’s length once and then your eyes are rolling back into your head while she resumes moving down the hall. As she approaches the glass window of the door, you try to crouch, as if that would prevent her from seeing your and Steve’s very naked bodies as he fucks you through your orgasm. You can see the faint shadow of her figure sliding across the frosted glass. For one horrifying second, you’re sure Nat will glance in.
But she doesn’t. She keeps walking, footsteps fading with distance until the hallway is left silent again and your pussy is squeezing with aftershocks.
“You’re seriously fucked up, you know that?” Steve asks, but there’s more awe in his tone than malice. “You really get off knowing someone could walk in here and see me fucking you?”
You don’t even know how to answer him. He’s given you no time to recover from your orgasm, fucking into you again with a renewed vitality. You’re overly sensitive, the pressure of his massive cock inside you bullying your sensitive hole. It shouldn’t feel good, it should be too much too soon - but it’s not because it’s Steve. And you don’t think you could dislike anything that he chooses to do to you.
“You wanna be fucked like a whore? Fine,” he says, pulling his cock out of you with lightning speed and flipping you around on the table so your ass is arched up for him. He takes a second to look at you, squeezing at the skin of your ass, dragging his thumb all the way up from your clit, past your wet heat and through your ass. He’s mumbling something unintelligible. You clench and shudder, a moan breaking out through your lips.
When he fists his cock and presses into you again, all that slow romanticism from earlier is gone. He is fucking you hard and fast, his thick cock pressing into a heavenly spongey spot that you didn’t even know existed. “Fuck Steve!” you cry out, ass working its way back on him of its own volition.
“Such a fucking brat. Couldn’t even wait patiently for me to fuck you for one minute. Too desperate for my cock.”
You want to argue that he was also fucking you, but your brain is not working fast enough to come up with the words. All you can focus on are his dirty words, the obscene squelching noises of him filling you, and how it feels to be taken by him.
“Maybe I should punish you for that. Always so disobedient. Maybe I’ll leave you high and dry here, fill you up and not let you cum.”
“Try it,” you growl, brain suddenly fully operational. “I’ll make you regret it.”
You hear him huff a laugh from behind you. “You’re adorable. Fucked out on my cock and still think you’re in charge. I’ll make you cum sweetheart, but only because I want to see you fall apart. Next time you won’t get this lucky.”
His cock hits a spot inside you that almost makes you see god. His hands are so tight on your hips as he fucks himself into your body that you’re sure you’ll have bruises tomorrow. You hope you do.
“That’s it, isn’t it baby? That’s your spot. Fuck. Maybe I should reward you, now that I think of it. All my sweet girl wanted was to get caught getting fucked by me. You just wanted to show everyone that you’re mine. Want everyone to see me fucking that attitude right outta you.”
Being called his coils your stomach in a way you’d rather not examine. Instead, you twist your head back and scowl.
“Fuck you,” you spit, voice strangled.
He chuckles again, but it’s strained. He’s pounding you with a force that you feel all the way up to your belly, all the way up to your teeth. You know you’re not far from coming again and neither is he.
“Is my pretty girl gonna cum on my cock again?” he asks, patting and squeezing your ass encouragingly. You nod, eyes squeezed shut, not even sure that he can see it from his angle. A desperate whine escapes.
“Good fucking girl. ‘Cause I’m about to come inside you. Want you walking out of here with me dripping out of you. Gonna fill you up so good, keep you topped up for every mission. Make you mine.”
That sends you tumbling over the edge, white-hot pleasure soaring through you. Your cunt clenches down hard on him and you feel him burst, spilling sticky ropes of cum into you. He groans loud, telling you how good you are for him while holding your hips with a bruising power, fucking into you violently. He shudders behind you, and eventually his aggressive thrusts patter out and slow into shallow jerks.
Dark spots are exploding behind your eyes for a while as you come down, chest heaving as Steve drives his cum back into you slowly. You feel your mixed spend dripping down your thighs, spilling onto the wooden floors below. Steve hisses as he steadily pulls himself from your tight heat. He stops momentarily while he, presumably, watches his cum drip out of your hole.
And then he reaches down to grab his underwear. He wipes it across your privates and thighs as a makeshift towel. It is decidedly not romantic, but the fact that he’s willing to go home in soggy underwear just to clean you up makes your chest tighten with affection regardless.
Steve begins to dress but it takes you another minute to gather the strength in your limbs to haul yourself up. Your hands are shaking as you yank up your panties and try to buckle your bra. Steve is fully dressed now, watching you intensely, thighs spread out on an office chair.
You’re feeling slightly awkward in a way you never do around Steve. You’ve never been short of quips or insults to throw at him, but the air has changed now and you’re not sure where you stand or how to navigate this.
You have just tugged on your jeans when Steve leans forward to grab your hips, pulling you onto his lap. You hadn’t realised that you were waiting for him to do it until he does. You go with no objection, curling into his chest. It feels strangely natural for how combative you’ve always been with him. He nuzzles his face into your neck with a shy affection.
“I’m sorry for requesting the transfer. I regretted it immediately after if I’m honest.”
“Why did you? It was kinda fucked up, Steve. And you didn’t even come to visit me when I got shot. It hurt my feelings because I would have been there for you.” You can’t even look at him when you say it. You are vastly uncomfortable being this vulnerable with him, but you suppose if there’s ever a time for venturing into uncharted territory, it’s now. Steve was right about what he said regarding your past relationships - you just never cared enough before. But you do now.
“I stayed there until you were stable,” he says. “I was just so angry that I couldn’t even look at you. The idea that you risked your life for me killed me. I hate the way you risk so much on missions. It makes me feel like I can’t protect you.”
“But sometimes you can’t, Steve. I know I should be less reckless. Being away from you for the last few weeks made me realise that. But I have to be able to make my own decisions too.”
“I know. I know it’s just part of what happens on missions but I can’t deal with you getting hurt for me. Not with you. Because I…”
He swallows hard, eye downturned. He fidgets against your thigh and it makes your heart ache. You’re feeling embarrassingly gushy, watching him be this fragile and open. You’re taken off guard by it.
“Because you want me?”
He gives you a tight, sad sort of smile.
“I want you so bad, I’m not even sure ‘want’ is the right word for it anymore.”
You’re fighting a goofy grin but it’s beaming out of you like sunshine. You kiss him nice and slow, feel his lips move ardently and reverently against your own. Your heart flutters where it presses against his chest, as if trying to fly its way closer to him.
You pour every ounce of your adoration into the kiss and feel Steve's grin against your lips as a response.
You pull away only when your phone buzzes with a text.
NAT: so i see you’re out of the doghouse
NAT: and now i need to find a new partner. goddamn.
a/n: initially this had bucky instead of nat but i kept accidentally creating sexual tension between him and reader lmao i can't help myself with that man
[ ཐི༏ཋྀ ] / Satoru Gojo x you = brat (tamer) x brat. This man is a bratty switch, and no one can tell me otherwise, not even Gege Akutami themselves.
[ ཐི༏ཋྀ ] / Satoru Gojo taunting and teasing you as punishment for daring to argue back or pout when he is too busy to give you all his time and attention.
[ ཐི༏ཋྀ ] / Satoru Gojo's favourite method of punishment involves overstimulation and forced orgasms, and he'll prompt you to thank him and apologise for each and every orgasm or near-orgasm.
[ ཐི༏ཋྀ ] / When Satoru Gojo is feeling submissive, or his partner is in the mood to dominate him (in other words: you put in the effort needed to dominate this brat), he can be quite the service sub.
[ ཐི༏ཋྀ ] / Submissive Satoru Gojo, like when he is dominating you (same method, different motivation), will worship you and your body until you're overstimulated and utterly spent.
[ ཐི༏ཋྀ ] / Submissive Satoru Gojo very much enjoys being called a good boy. Bonus points if you tell him how wonderful he is and what a good job he does at being the "strongest" sorcerer. (I like to imagine it's a source of much anxiety for him, and having it mentioned in intimate settings and situations by you (with no ulterior motive) will make him melt into your arms.)
[ ཐི༏ཋྀ ] / Satoru Gojo loves to give and receive aftercare. His go-to is having water and a few snacks within arm's reach while you cuddle skin-to-skin under a soft, clean blanket, then he'll carry you (even if you protest) into the bathroom so you can enjoy a bath together.
@anomalousmoth. ⋆˚࿔ Please do not repost my writing or feed to AI models. ◝ .ᐟ And thank you for reading & interacting.
꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ SIX EYES? ⋮ ⌗ ┆next time, don’t be too curious with how much power exactly the six eyes have… or maybe do. ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ
a story wherein gojo satoru uses his six eyes to find your gspot and overstimulate u (inspired by the one tiktok that i saw!)
“how much can you actually see?” you ask one evening, an especially late work night for you and him, curiosity getting the better of you.
gojo looks up from his phone, that insufferable smirk already forming. “everything. why?”
“but like… how much is everything?” you’re genuinely curious now, despite knowing this might be dangerous territory. “can you see through walls? can you see… inside people?”
his eyes gleam with interest behind his blindfold. “wouldn’t you like to know.” he tilts his head. “why? scared of what i might see?”
your face heats. “i’m just—”
“curious what i know about your body?” he stands, moving closer with that predatory grace. he grins at you almost triumphantly and from then on, you knew you shouldn’t have asked. “why, you feelin’ shy at the possibilities?”
you don’t know how it happened.
but like he wasn’t your senior colleague and you weren’t supposed to be having a very important meeting in his office, he was pressing you against the plush of his couch, lifting your hips up to pull your trousers down and started making you go absolutely insane.
mindblowingly, mind-numblingly insane.
it’s easier to just show you, he said.
“there it is.”
gojo’s fingers curl inside you with devastating precision and your back arches off the couch, a strangled moan ripping from your throat.
“yeah, that’s the spot.” his voice is smug, cocky, absolutely insufferable. “told you i’d find it.”
he’s only been touching you for minutes but he’s already mapped every sensitive place like it’s nothing, like your body’s an open book only he can read.
“fuck, you should see yourself right now,” he breathes, clearly getting off on his own abilities. “everything just lit up. like fucking christmas lights.”
“satoru—please—”
“please what? want me to stop?” his thumb finds your clit and you nearly sob. “nah, you don’t. i can see that you don’t. your body’s begging for more even if your mouth is too proud to admit it.”
you’re shaking already, completely at his mercy.
“this is what happens when you fuck someone with the six eyes, baby.” he sounds way too pleased with himself. “i don’t have to guess. don’t have to fumble around hoping i hit the right spot. i just—” his fingers press deeper, harder, “—know.”
the precision is maddening. every curl of his fingers hits exactly right, his thumb moving in a rhythm that shouldn’t be sustainable but is because he can literally see what works.
“you’re gonna come in like… ten seconds,” he announces casually, like he’s commenting on the weather.
“i’m not—”
“yeah you are. i can see it building. see every muscle getting ready to clench. your cursed energy’s about to spike and—”
you come exactly when he predicted, crying out his name, and his laugh is absolutely sinful.
“called it.” the smugness is unbearable. “god, that never gets old. anyway, ready for round two? pussy still clenching my fingers real hard, baby.”
“wait—i need—”
“no you don’t.” his fingers don’t stop. “your body’s already gearing up for another. don’t argue with me, i can literally fucking see inside you.” his eyes glowed that stupid shade of blue. “just creamin’ with every stroke, god, what a sweet girl.”
he adds another finger and you keen, oversensitive but somehow building toward another impossible peak.
“see? told you.” he’s so fucking cocky about it. “this is why i’m the best you’ll ever have, baby. no one else has these eyes. no one else knows your body like i do and no one ever will.”
his fingers curl viciously and you nearly scream.
“that’s what i thought.” he smirks at you, tilting his head sideways as you watch him with teary eyes. “now stop pretending you want me to slow down and just let me work. let’s get you properly fucked out. i’ve got at least three more orgasms to pull out of you, and now you know—the six eyes don’t miss.”
you’re going to die.
you’re going to die from his cursed technique and you’re not even mad about it.
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