#⋅ v ; statesman ╱ when the whiskey is the only thing you have left to hold . ❜

[say-al0e]

What About Now

Rating: M | This is smut, no one under 18! Minors, DNI!

Summary: Sex pollen with Whiskey | Agent Whiskey is a thorn in your side, a name you’d prefer be kept out of your ear. But he blows into town with a mission sent from HQ and you have no choice but to deal with your complicated past. 

Warnings: Technically dubcon (it’s sex pollen but they’re very willing), fuck or die kinda, unprotected p in v, some exhibitionism, feelings, one use of ‘daddy’ (blink and you’ll miss it). I think that’s it?

Pairing: Agent Whiskey x fem!Reader

Word Count: 34.1k (yes, that’s 34,143 words; no, I don't have anything to say for myself)

MASTERLIST

“Well, now, sugar. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

Though you'd heard the door to your office open and the tap of boots against the hardwood floor, you hadn’t paid it any mind. Statesman’s New Orleans Headquarters was always bustling with activity and people were always stepping into your space for one reason or another when your door was cracked. You’d assumed - wrongly - that it was your assistant bringing another file that needed your signature, or maybe your second-in-command arriving early for the daily briefing.

However, none of the scenarios you imagined could’ve prepared you for the reality you were faced with.

The spicy scent of a cologne you hadn’t smelled in years filled your nose and suddenly your air conditioned office felt just as stifling as the Louisiana heat outside your window. As notes of oak, tobacco, clove, cinnamon, and something so uniquely him overwhelmed your senses, you found yourself wishing you’d paid just a little more attention to your surroundings.

Your body went rigid and the pen you were holding stilled in your hand as his voice echoed through your office, filling every corner with the low hum that still haunted the occasional dream. It sounded just the same as you remembered, if only a little rougher, and your heart began to pound as you prayed it was a nightmare. However, you knew that it wasn’t. It was a harsh reality you had started to think you’d never have to face again but that didn’t seem to matter as your name sounded so sweet spilling past his lips while that voice begged you to acknowledge his presence.

As badly as you wanted to look at him, to stand from your chair and cross the room on legs you weren’t sure would support you right now, you didn’t even bother lifting your head as you struggled to keep your breathing even.

A sharp static filled your ears as his words lingered in the air and began to mix with the ghostly echoes of the words he’d spat at you the last time you were this close to him. They overlapped one another until neither were distinct enough to pinpoint and fought for your attention. Sweet nothings, brash compliments, harsh dismissals; they blended and echoed and battled for your attention until there was nothing left but a hollow ringing in your ears and a burning at the back of your throat.

You ached to bring your hands to your ears, to block the noise and return to the silence you craved, but it was too late. His voice was once again firmly implanted in your mind and the only thing you could do was allow your eyes to slip shut as a pounding ache began to form behind them. You reached blindly for the bottle of aspirin in your top drawer as you counted to ten before you lifted your head and glanced at a part of your past you’d hoped would remain there.

Jack Daniels stood in your doorway in all his glory, a hand on his hip and a smirk on his lips, looking almost exactly as he had several years prior. There was a scar above his eye and a few strands of gray hair shining against the deep brown but there was no mistaking him. 

You fought the urge to pick up the stapler on the corner of your desk and throw it at him as you took two aspirin before schooling your features into the most neutral expression you could muster. “Agent Whiskey,” you began, not bothering to hide the flatness of your tone as you met his eyes for the first time in nearly three years, “what are you doing in my office?”

A flash of hurt darkened Whiskey’s eyes at your greeting but disappeared so quickly you were certain you’d imagined it as he stepped fully into your office. He pulled the door shut behind him and kept his eyes on you as he crossed the wooden floor with the same self-confident swagger you once greatly admired.

“Now, darlin’,” he began as he took a seat in one of the plush chairs in front of your desk, “I thought we were on a first name basis.” He paused, his eyes raking over you as best as he could with you half-hidden by your desk, and frowned as he took in the birthstone necklace you wore in place of the pendant that once rested against your chest.

Another flash of hurt, gone just as soon as it appeared, darkened the deep brown eyes that held far more than he’d ever let on before they quickly shifted to a molten gold. A mischief you knew far too well filled them as he met your eyes once more. “We were the last time we saw each other, anyway, Agent Prosecco.”

Your eyes narrowed and your jaw clenched at Whiskey’s reminder of your storied past. It was tainted by the memory of your last meeting, a moment that was by no means your proudest, and you’d struggled to forget it but it was a night seared into your memory. No matter how hard you tried to wipe it from your mind, the ghost of a feeling better left buried burned in your chest as you pursed your lips.

You stared at Whiskey, curious as to how he could be so nonchalant about your past, and hoped the hurt you felt wasn’t displayed as openly as you imagined it was. The way that he looked at you, the smirk on his lips and the fire in his eyes, disregarded the misery he’d put you through and you wanted so badly to ask him who the hell he thought he was, waltzing into your office as if he hadn’t done anything wrong.

There were a million things you wanted to say to him, though few were suitable for the workplace, so you settled for a quiet, “Things change, Whiskey.” Your tone was sharper than you intended, despite your volume, but he seemed to pay it no mind as he watched you lean back in your chair and toss the pen onto your desk. “What’re you doing here?”

Whiskey copied your actions and leaned back in his own chair as he lifted the cowboy hat off his head. “I can’t come congratulate you on your new position? Head of a Statesman office, that’s a big deal, sugar.”

“It is,” you agreed easily as you raised an eyebrow at him, “but it was an even bigger deal a few years ago, when I got the promotion. There was a party, you were invited. Do better.”

Whiskey placed his cowboy hat on his knee before he brought his hand to his mouth. “Would you believe me if I said I was in the neighborhood and wanted to drop in?” he asked as he brushed his fingers over the edges of his mustache.

“Not if your life depended on it.”

Whiskey tilted his head in acknowledgement of your response as you rolled your eyes and folded your arms over your chest. He sat quietly, his eyes burning your skin where they raked over your form, as you took in the sight of him.

Though everything in your life had changed since the last time you saw him, almost exclusively because of him, it seemed as if nothing about Whiskey had. He was dressed for the field, donning dark denim and a white button-down that was usually worn with a jacket and tie but now featured rolled sleeves - you were assuming those accessories had been the first to go in the oppressive Louisiana heat. He wore plain black boots, already dirtier than the ornate boots he kept for special occasions, and a simple black cowboy hat rested on his knee. 

But the work attire you knew all too well wasn’t what told you that his visit was (at least mostly) professional.

These days, Whiskey seemed to rarely leave New York City. It was a far cry from the fearless agent you once knew, always eager to jump into the fray and claim the glory, but the bitter fight with Poppy had left Whiskey semi-retired. He didn’t love paperwork, anyone who’d ever met him knew that to be a fact, but he liked it more than being cloned and accused of murdering one of his own. He was only called upon when he was desperately needed now, a fact that had been shared with you by Tequila the last time you were able to chat, and was rarely called out of the city.

New Orleans wasn’t exactly a quick commute from the penthouse he loved, despite his fondness for the simpler things in life, so you could only imagine what was happening that pulled the infamous Agent Whiskey back into the fray.

“Whatever reason you have for being here,” you began as you leveled him with an even gaze, “I imagine it’s pretty serious. Or, at least, I hope it is. I’d hate to embarrass you by kicking you out of my office.”

“You’d do that to me, darlin’?” Whiskey asked. His tone was light and teasing but a darkness clouded his eyes as he watched you shift in your seat.

“In a heartbeat,” you assured him, not missing a beat. “But I’d be sure to escort you out myself, not make my assistant do it.”

You knew that was a low blow, that it was unfair and petty, but you didn’t care much as you watched Whiskey’s jaw clench. He raked a hand over the dark denim of his jean and you felt a sort of satisfaction at the hurt that flashed in his eyes - one you knew you weren’t just imagining. You wondered, idly, just how far he’d let you go, just how far he’d go, before he acknowledged your past.

“I don’t like repeating myself, Whiskey,” you reminded him, your tone dripping with ice as you sat up straighter and uncrossed your arms. 

As you fixed him with your most withering look, Whiskey snorted and mumbled, “Don’t I know it, darlin’.” When you cut your eyes at him, he reached for the sunglasses tucked into his collar before he nodded to your own. “Put ‘em on.”

You stared at him, watching as he fixed the yellow sunglasses over his eyes, before you pulled your own on with a sigh. A file appeared in your field of vision and Whiskey cleared his throat as he gestured for you to begin taking a look. “Champ sent me down,” he began, his voice cutting through the noise that filled your head as your eyes raked over the words suddenly covering your desk. “Real important mission, he said, needed the best of the best on it.”

“Why’d he send you, then?” you asked, your tone distracted and only mildly sarcastic as you turned a page in the virtual document. “Everyone else busy?”

“Anyone ever tell you you ought to be a comedian?”

When you gave him your most saccharine smile, Whiskey breathed a heavy sigh as he leaned forward and gestured to a set of photos. “Couples are headin’ to the Big Easy for a weekend of fun and never makin’ it back home. Four have been reported missin’ in the last four months but there were no leads. Two turned up at one of the oil rigs in the Gulf this mornin’,” he explained as you began flipping through the photos yourself. “ME didn’t know what to make of ‘em. Said he’d never seen anythin’ like it before.”

“I haven’t heard anything about this,” you mumbled as you studied the photos of the couples for anything that might indicate what happened to them. “I know my city, Whiskey.”

“Ain’t sayin’ you don’t, darlin’,” Whiskey assured you as he zoomed in on a mark on one of the men’s hands. “They were treated as regular missin’ persons cases. Didn’t put two and two together until this mornin’. Champ tried callin’ you first but you were in the field so he got me on a jet and told me to go over the file with you. You seen this mark before? Didn’t show up in any of our databases.”

Just as you had for the last two years, you swallowed your own feelings and allowed them to settle uncomfortably in the pit of your stomach as you threw yourself into the case at hand. The bitter resentment you felt at the sight of Jack still lingered in the back of your throat but you ignored it. You’d been doing it for a while now, pretending that the person behind the agent didn’t exist and burying your feelings deep beneath the desire to save your adopted city in an effort to protect yourself from feeling anything else too deeply, and didn’t plan on stopping now.

You stared at the mark Whiskey focused on and frowned as you examined it. It was a modified fleur-de-lis with what looked to be a key at the end that appeared pale green against the skin. It looked familiar, alarmingly so, but you struggled to place where you’d seen it as you zoomed in on the mark.

“I’ve seen it,” you mumbled slowly, “but I can’t place where. It’s a hand stamp. We run bank records and credit cards to see if they hit the same bar?”

“Sure did,” Whiskey confirmed with a heavy sigh as he pulled up another photos, this one of the first man’s wife. He zoomed in to focus on the wife’s left hand where an identical mark, this time in purple, appeared. “None of ‘em visited the same place and none of the places they went have stamps like this. No one knows where it’s from.”

You frowned as you took in the new mark before you pulled your glasses from your eyes and dropped them onto your desk. With a heavy sigh, you pinched the bridge of your nose and hesitated for a moment before you lifted your head to glance at Whiskey.

“There are these places that are… off the grid,” you began as you leaned back in your chair once more and crossed your arms over your chest. “They’re sort of members only. The fees are paid in increments, months in advance, though it’s usually locals only. The charges show up as little things no one would notice; the grocery store, a coffee shop, a restaurant, a bar. They’re never for the same stores or restaurants so it’s nearly impossible to connect two people to the same organization. The amounts were consistent, so was the timing, but when we started digging, we tripped a sort of silent alarm and they started switching it up. Trail went cold.”

“You think this might be one of ‘em?” Whiskey asked as he tucked his own glasses back into the collar of his shirt and met your wary eyes with a thoughtful frown. When you shrugged, his frown deepened. “How the hell’d they end up dead?”

“Don’t know,” you answered with a sigh as you pressed the button that called for your assistant. “I don’t think it’s one of the ones we were tracking. We have their stamps on file and it would’ve flagged in the system but there were others we hadn’t found yet. There was no indication that any of them were connected to any suspicious deaths, though. What’d the ME’s report say?”

Whiskey winced as he brought his hand to his mustache once more. “It’s not conclusive,” he began, “but it looks like they burned to death.”

“Burned to death? There were no burns on any of the bodies,” you countered with a frown.

“No external burns,” he corrected with a sigh. “Don’t know what the hell caused it but they’re workin’ on figurin’ that out. Thought maybe some kind of drug. If it is, they’re gonna try to get us an antidote to stop it from happenin’ to anyone else.”

“Shit.” Whiskey nodded his agreement at your one word assessment but before the conversation could continue, your office door opened and your assistant stepped in. “Cola,” you sighed in greeting as she approached your desk. “Can you get me the files on those clubs we were tracking? Send them and Bourbon to the lab, please. I think it’s time to take a different approach.”

Cola nodded her understanding, though her eyes were on Whiskey as he stood from his chair. When he noticed that he had her attention, the shift in his focus - from business to fun - was immediate. “Well, hello there, sugar,” he greeted, grinning at her as he offered his hand, though you could’ve sworn his eyes flitted to you as she ducked her head. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

Cola giggled, a sound you’d heard far too many times when Whiskey was involved, and you rolled your eyes as your competent assistant was reduced to a puddle in front of your face. “The pleasure’s all mine, Agent Whiskey,” she cooed as her cheeks tinted pink. “It’s an honor to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Whiskey’s chest puffed at that and you audibly huffed. This time, you met his eyes as he glanced at you and fought the urge to sneer. “Only good things, I hope,” Whiskey teased as his eyes returned to hers. He kept his grip on her hand and watched as she batted her lashes at him.

Cola nodded eagerly. “The best,” she gushed, shifting just a step closer to Whiskey. “I’ve heard all about -“

Before Cola could finish her sentence, you stood from your own seat and cleared your throat. “Files, now, Agent Cola. We have four dead bodies and two missing couples, that we know of. Save your flirting for when we figure out how we got them."

Cola, who seemed to have forgotten you were standing there, stammered an apology on her way out of your office and you frowned as you watched her leave. You made a mental note to apologize to her later - she hadn’t done anything you hadn’t done, once upon a time - as you brushed down your skirt and reached for your glasses.

You caught Whiskey’s face out of the corner of your eye. A slight frown quirked his lips as his arms rested over his chest but it was gone and replaced by a smug smirk the moment you turned to face him.

“My assistant is off limits, Whiskey. New Orleans is a big city. You can entertain yourself with one of the fucking tourists after we’re done. Until then, at least pretend you’re a professional,”  you snapped as you gathered the few small weapons you’d left stowed in your desk while you were completing your daily paperwork.

“No need to be jealous, darlin’,” Whiskey cooed as he replaced his hat on his head and turned to follow you down the hallway to the elevator. “I was just bein’ polite.”

“Why on earth would I be jealous, Whiskey?” You paused near the elevator and turned to face Whiskey with a frown tugging at your lips. “You were being yourself, trying to charm your way into the pants of a fresh-faced agent who is clearly experiencing a delusional form of hero worship. It’s not happening here.”

You studied him, took in the darkness that clouded the deep brown of his eyes and the that way his jaw clenched despite the condescending grin he wore, before you added, “In your case, where there’s smoke, there sure as hell ain’t fire. You chew people up and spit them out when they’re no good to you anymore so leave my assistant alone and settle for fucking someone that won’t have to see you again after you leave them to pick up the pieces.”

Whiskey’s smile fell as he stared at you. His jaw clenched impossibly tighter and he exhaled sharply through his nose as his eyes clouded with an emotion you’d never seen from him. He swallowed roughly and looked to be considering speaking but before he could, you shook your head and pressed the elevator button. “‘L’ is for lab. I’ll be down in a minute. Don’t touch anything until I get there.”

To your surprise, Whiskey remained silent as he stepped into the elevator. You maintained eye contact as he pressed the correct button and it felt as if your lungs were burning as no air seemed to reach them. Your chest felt tight and your heart was beating far too quickly as the doors slowly slid shut but something in his eyes stole what little breath remained from your lungs. When you were faced with a distorted reflection of yourself instead of Whiskey’s heavy gaze, you swallowed a lungful of air and felt your knees begin to buckle.

The weight of the past lingered on your shoulders, pressing you down into the hardwood floor, and memories of what once was filled your head. Suddenly, as if a dam had broken, the memories you’d been fighting for years flooded your brain and the last moments you spent with Jack Daniels began to pull you under.

Your muscles ached and your eyes felt heavier than they had in weeks but you paid the state of your body no mind as you entered the New York field office. It was almost entirely empty, everyone save for Jack’s assistant having already called it a night, but you knew that the boss himself would still be seated behind his desk.

He had a habit of throwing himself into his paperwork when you were gone, something you realized early on because you happened to do the same. When you were gone, Jack rarely left his office. He once claimed that his penthouse was too quiet without you there and you knew just how he felt about sleeping alone.

You were two sides of the same coin and that was one of the things you loved most about him.

Just as you assumed, the light in Jack’s office was on as you slipped past his assistant with a grin that she never returned. You wedged yourself through the cracked door and shut it behind you just as quietly as you could before you leaned against the doorframe and observed him. He was hunched over his desk, pen in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. It was a familiar sight, one that was seared into your memory and made you yearn for nothing more than to take some of the stress from his shoulders.

You remained silent and watchful for another beat before you asked, “What’re you doing, drinking alone at this time of night?”

As your voice cut through the still air in his office, Jack lifted his head. His frown melted into a charming grin as he dropped the pen and placed his glass carefully onto his desk. “Darlin’,” he cooed as he pushed his chair away from his desk and stood to greet you. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. Wasn’t expectin’ you back until Monday but I can’t say I’m not glad to see you.”

“We gave ‘em too much credit,” you informed him with a laugh as you crossed the room and wrapped your arms around his waist. “They really weren’t that smart. Just really fucking lucky.”

Jack hummed his acknowledgement as he held you tight against his chest. “Well, their luck ran out. Knew you’d get ‘em. You’re my best agent, after all,” he praised with a grin that didn’t quite meet his eyes as he leaned in to press his lips to yours. “What brings you back to the office? Figured you’d head home, get some rest.”

“Didn’t imagine you’d be at home and I didn’t feel like being alone,” you informed him with a shrug as you shifted in his grasp to glance at his face. “I wanted to see you.” You didn’t question the set of his jaw or the darkness in his eyes, assuming it was just the exhaustion, and pressed yourself closer to him.

Jack’s smile softened at your admission and he reached out to brush a hand over your cheek. “I’m glad you did, darlin’.” He pressed another kiss to your lips, this one lingering, before he mumbled, “How’s Bourbon?”

“Still a pain in my ass but he’s getting better. Got off a few solid shots and managed to get one of ‘em in cuffs,” you answered as you chased after his mouth to deepen the kiss. “It’ll all be in my mission report, sir.”

A low growl left Jack’s lips at the honorific and he took a moment to nip at your bottom lip as he moved his hands to your hips. “Now, darlin’,” he hummed as he tugged you closer, “Tonic’s just outside that door. You don’t want to scar the poor girl, do you? Give me just a minute to finish up and I’ll take you home, give you the welcome you deserve.”

You sighed at his promise and pulled him into one more kiss before you relented and took a seat on the edge of his desk. “It’s nothing she hasn’t heard before,” you teased as you watched him return to his own seat.

Jack rolled his eyes good-naturedly and reached out to swat your thigh playfully as you reached for the abandoned glass of whiskey. “Don’t make me punish you, darlin’,” he cooed as he began sifting through the files that stood between the pair of you and the plush bed in his penthouse.

“Oh, but that’s what I want you to do, daddy,” you hummed, your smirk hidden behind the glass as Jack cut his eyes at you. When he gave you a withering look, one that told you to behave, you held up your hand in surrender. “Alright, alright. Finish your paperwork. I’ll just be sitting here, waiting impatiently.”

Jack shook his head once more and mumbled something that sounded like ‘such a brat’ under his breath. You held back a giggle, swallowed it with a sip of whiskey, and watched as he worked.

His usual jacket had long been abandoned, tossed over the arm of the couch in the corner of his office, and his sleeves were rolled slightly. It was rare to see him this way, less than perfectly coifed, and you were grateful that he let you in. You were increasingly able to see him at his most vulnerable, in ways that no one else had in a very long time, and it made your chest ache.

You weren’t sure when but at some point in your relationship with Jack, you’d fallen in love with him. You’d been sitting on the feelings for months, letting them bubble uncomfortably in the pit of your stomach, as you wondered how best to deal with them. You’d thought long and hard about it, about telling him exactly how you felt, and figured you had a pretty good chance of him feeling the same way.

You knew that Jack was a flirt, that he was a romantic and indulged in the motions without the feelings, but you thought you were different. You’d been exclusive for a little over a year, almost the entirety of your tenure at the New York field office. It was no secret, you were Whiskey’s girl. 

Everyone knew it.

His penthouse was more your home than your apartment. Your nights off were spent with him, exploring the city or keeping him company as he worked. You were his date to functions and he’d even met your parents. Your lives were so completely intertwined that it only made sense for you to fall in love with him.

“Jack?”

You spoke before you could think, his name escaping without your consent. Your voice was soft, a barely there whisper in the quiet of his office, but Jack lifted his head as if you’d shouted and offered a soft smile as his hand returned to your knee, his thumb brushing across the rough denim of your jeans. “Yeah, darlin’?”

“Can I tell you something?”

Jack recognized the tone of your voice, knew that it was serious, and nodded slowly as he dropped his pen and turned his full attention to you. “Of course, darlin’. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you assured him quickly as you placed your hand overtop his and gave him a reassuring smile. “I just… I think I’m in love with you, Jack.”

Jack blinked at your confession, his eyes blown wide and his jaw slack as he stared at you. There was no smile, no sparkle in his eyes, only a sort of fear that lingered behind the sorrow you saw gleaming when he registered your words. Your heart plummeted as you recognized the look and you wondered if you’d just made a grave error.

“Darlin’, I…” Jack trailed off, his eyebrows furrowed as he moved his hand from your knee and placed it on his own leg. “I think you’re great,” he began as he dropped his eyes and darted his tongue out to wet his lips, “but I thought I told you, I’m not lookin’ for anything serious. I just… we were just passin’ the time.”

“What?”

Jack watched as you stood from the corner of his desk, your cheeks heating in humiliation as you folded your arms over your chest and furrowed your eyebrows in confusion. He breathed a heavy sigh as he stood himself and shook his head. “I’m sorry if you got the wrong idea, darlin’,” he breathed, his voice soft as he took a step toward you, only to stop when you backed away. 

You stood staring at him for a long moment as you attempted to gather the words you needed to voice your thoughts aloud. It was difficult to string together a coherent thought. You heard what he said, you understood what the words meant, but it almost felt as if he were speaking another language as you tried to reconcile that understanding with the earth-shattering heartache you were feeling.

“So, none of this was real?” You managed to choke out a question, your own voice sounding foreign as you fought the tears that threatened to fall. “This year meant nothing to you?”

“Of course it did, darlin’.” Jack sighed as he leaned against the edge of his desk and crossed his arms over his chest. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. He looked over your shoulder, at the wall just behind your head, but you could tell that he was looking past you and it hurt. To have him confess that the year you’d shared meant nothing was hard enough; to have him refuse to look at you, that shattered what little resolve you had left.

“I care about you,” he continued, his carefully chosen words echoing through the office and ringing in your ears, “but-“

“Bullshit,” you snapped, your voice shaking as you turned away from him and glanced out at the glittering city lights. It was a view you’d fallen in love with, though you always joked that it could never compare to the view of Jack’s desk. “I should’ve listened,” you whispered, your voice losing strength as blinked at the sting of tears threatening to fall. “I should’ve told you to go fuck yourself the minute you started flirting, you asshole. Jesus, I can’t believe I’m so fucking stupid. I thought I was different.”

For the first time since you’d met him, Whiskey fell silent. He didn’t argue, didn’t defend himself or his actions. He remained quiet and watched for a moment as you stared out at the city. You knew how you sounded, broken and pathetic, and you imagined how awkward he must have felt as he watched you try to pull yourself together. A part of you liked it, a part of you wanted him to be uncomfortable, but the bigger part of you hated that he could reduce you to this.

You hated that he could break you with so little when he’d built you up so high and held your breath as you saw him shift out of the corner of your eye.

Whiskey breathed a quiet sigh as he crossed the office to stand near you. You could see him reflected in the plate glass window, his hand hovering near your shoulder. He seemed to think better of touching you and dropped it to rest at his side. “You should go on home, darlin’,” he sighed, his voice flat as he turned back to his desk. “Tonic’ll make sure you get there alright,” he informed you, his voice quiet as he pressed the button that called her in. “I’ll have Bourbon complete the mission report.”

You stared at Whiskey for a moment. There were so many things you wanted to say, so many questions you wanted to ask and curses you wanted to level. You wanted to yell, scream, make a scene. You wanted him to explain why he’d never mentioned this before, why he’d never bothered to tell you that this was nothing more than a way to pass the time for him.

But you couldn’t. You blamed yourself just as much as you blamed him.

He should’ve told you, yes, but you should’ve asked. You should’ve asked for clarity. You should’ve asked for a definition of what your relationship was. You should’ve told him that you were starting to feel something deeper for him the moment it began. 

Your mind raced with what your own perceived wrongs and you wondered if anything would’ve changed had you done things any differently. You liked to believe it would have but as your stomach churned and your heart raced, you were beginning to doubt it,

You liked to believe that you knew the man behind Agent Whiskey just as he knew the person behind Agent Prosecco. The man that you saw was more than the persona he wore and the techniques he used to get information. The man that you saw was a good man. You liked to believe that you knew him just as well as you knew yourself.

But as you stared at him, you were beginning to doubt that you’d ever known him at all.

“You can’t be serious,” you breathed, your voice echoing as you grasped at straws. You wanted him to tell you that it was a bad joke, that he was kidding, that someone put him up to this. But he remained silent and you knew. “You are,” you nodded, the words leaving your lips in an incredulous huff, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth as they settled into the awkward silence of the office. “Jesus Christ.”

Whiskey sighed your name then, your real name, and though you once relished how it sounded leaving his lips, you had never hated anything more in that moment. You wanted to snap, to tell him to never call you that again, but before you could, he said, “Go home. Take the week, get some rest.”

He’d easily slipped into the role of Agent Whiskey, commanding and compartmentalizing, and it made you angry. You shook your head at his order and stood your ground. “No. That’s bullshit! Come on. Be a fuckin’ adult and tell me the truth, Jack. None of this was real? None of it at all?”

“You’re out of line, Agent Prosecco. I suggest you leave before either of us says somethin’ they’ll regret.”

“I already have, Agent Whiskey,” you snapped as you stepped around his desk and reached for your bag. “Tell me this meant nothing to you. Tell me that it was all a waste of time,” you demanded as you turned to face him once more, pointedly ignoring Tonic as she hovered awkwardly in the doorway.

“Leave, Prosecco.”

Whiskey’s eyes remained on his desk as he waited for you to leave. Tonic reached out for you, moving to usher you out of the office, and you dodged her hands as you shot her a glare. It wasn’t her fault, you knew that, but you were angry and hurt. Humiliation burned white hot in the pit of your stomach and you didn’t bother sparing him a second glance as you turned on your heel and rushed from his office.

He didn’t call out for you, didn’t bother saying anything other than ‘leave’, and you were somewhat grateful.

Your dignity was already in tatters on his office floor, anything else would’ve added insult to injury.

You ignored Tonic’s rushed words, even if you felt bad about it, and didn’t bother acknowledging her declaration that Whiskey’s driver would be waiting for your downstairs. Instead, you kept your eyes on the bright silver walls at the back of the elevator and waited for the doors to shut before turning and sliding down the wall. You hugged your knees to your chest and avoided looking at your reflection in the mirrored doors as you made the descent to the parking garage.

You knew that continuing on in the New York field office was no longer an option, not with Whiskey as your boss and Tonic bearing witness to your humiliation. Everyone knew that you were involved with Whiskey, it wasn’t as if you’d kept it a secret, and they’d soon know that you were now nothing more than another page in Jack Daniels’ little black book.

By the time the elevator made it to the garage, you’d tugged your cellphone from your pocket and pulled up Champ’s contact. As Whiskey’s driver held open the door to the car, you pressed the call button and waited for an answer.

“Prosecco, everything alright? Not like you to call so late.”

You knew how your voice sounded and you knew that Champ would pick up on the tears that were clearly audible but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You needed to get out of the city and away from the New York office. Hell, you were wondering if you should leave Statesman entirely. But, for now, you were settling for getting on the next flight to Kentucky.

“Champ, I made a mistake,” you whispered, “can I come back to HQ?”

Champ readily agreed to your request with a warm, “Of course, Prosecco. You’re always welcome here, you know that.” He paused for a moment before he added, “I had somethin’ I wanted to talk to you about, anyway. Probably better to do it in person. Have a safe flight. I’ll see you when you get to Kentucky.”

You’d handed Champ a letter of resignation the moment you returned to Kentucky, written hastily on a piece of paper found on the jet, but he crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the can beside his desk. After reminding you of why you’d joined Statesman in the first place - and pouring you a bigger glass of whiskey than you thought yourself capable of downing - he offered you a role in setting up the newest office in New Orleans.

It was meant to be a small operation, just a handful of agents working together in an effort to build a presence on the Gulf Coast, but it turned into the third largest Statesman office in just two short years. You were the natural choice for the leader, according to Champ, anyway, and had a staff that consisted of younger agents who blended seamlessly with the crowds of tourists that lined the streets.

You were grateful that Champ had not only refused to let you quit, he’d also given you the opportunity you needed to step away from the dark cloud hanging over your head and begin anew. You had always excelled at your job and without the distraction of Agent Whiskey, you were even better.

You were hurt when Whiskey was the only senior agent not to attend the party Champ organized to celebrate the office’s successful beginnings and your promotion to agent in charge - you were crushed when he didn’t acknowledge your promotion at all - but the hurt quickly turned acrid as you realized that he’d spent a solid year leading you on.

Whiskey was good at reading people, he always had been. He had a knack for picking up on the smallest of cues and, when necessary, used them to his own advantage. He was easily one of the most observant people you’d ever met and you realized, after all was said and done, that he likely knew you were in love with him before you knew yourself. Yet he’d carried on as if nothing was wrong and let you continue falling deeper and deeper in love, all while he felt nothing.

You knew that it was harsh to think along those lines - Whiskey clearly felt something for you, once upon a time. And while he hadn’t clearly defined what he was looking for, neither had you. You’d assumed and had been left with an overwhelming mess of emotions that clouded your brain and formed a knot in the pit of your stomach.

But despite that, you’d carried on this long and before he stepped into your office, you would’ve confidently stated that you were over Jack Daniels. There was lingering resentment, of course, and a love that would always linger despite your resistance but you were certain you were over him.

You weren’t looking forward to working with Whiskey but you’d convinced yourself that, should the time come, you’d be able to do it. You were a professional, able to put the past behind you and continue on for the greater good. You had grown, had moved on and no longer saw Whiskey as anything more than a particularly grating colleague when his name popped up in important reports and on meeting agendas. 

However, seeing him in the flesh after so long made you realize that getting over Jack Daniels was easier said than done.

The hurt you hadn’t truly allowed yourself to feel, the humiliation that still kept you awake every now and again, the anger you spent too long stuck in - every emotion came rushing back to you and made your heart beat just that much faster as you leaned against the wall and struggled to gather yourself.

You didn’t want Whiskey to continue holding this much power over you, especially when he seemed particularly unaffected - even a little annoyed - by your presence. But you had no idea how to let go of the deep-seated feelings that refused to budge.

Whiskey was your first love, something you never got a chance to tell him, and those don’t disappear as quietly as others.

“I would ask what’s wrong but I heard. And I can still smell his fucking cologne. What’d he do, take a bath in it?”

Despite yourself, you huffed a humorless laugh at Bourbon’s question and blinked as you focused on him. He wore a soft frown and pinched brows, a look of concern that you rarely saw these days - one he wore almost daily when you first moved to New Orleans with him in tow and threw yourself into work to get over Whiskey. You hated that it was back and hated even more that Whiskey was the cause of it. Again.

“Fuck if I know,” you mumbled as you straightened your posture and unclenched your jaw. You stood for a moment, rolling your shoulders to settle yourself back into your body, and decided that you weren’t going to admit to him that you still loved that cologne - the same scent that used to fill your nose every time you buried your face in the crook of Whiskey’s neck or slipped on one of his button-downs after a night spent between his sheets. Instead, you pressed the elevator call button and glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. “Cola hiding?”

“Sure is. Steering clear of the lab and you. She thinks you’re mad at her. Said you snapped at her,” Bourbon informed you, his tone mildly amused though you could clearly hear the underlying concern - you loved Cola and had never even slightly raised your voice at her. “You alright?”

Though Bourbon wasn’t looking directly at you, you knew that he was keeping a close eye on your body language and would see through any lie you told him. He knew you better than almost anyone. You’d been the one to train him in New York and had taken him with you to New Orleans - though he’d initially insisted that he join you rather than you asking him to follow along.

Despite the rocky start to your relationship, Bourbon had become your best friend, your confidant, and you knew that you couldn’t lie to him.

As the elevator doors slipped shut and he pressed the lab button, you shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought I was fine, you know, that seeing him wouldn’t bother me. But he walked into my office, said my name, and smiled and it’s like the last few years didn’t happen,” you explained with a heavy sigh as you avoided looking at Bourbon. “And I don’t know if he’s just fucking with me because he knows he can or if he genuinely doesn’t give a shit what happened but he looked almost happy that I snapped when he started flirting with Cola.”

“Not telling you anything you don’t already know,” Bourbon began as the elevator descended further into the depths of the building, “but you’re going to drive yourself crazy trying to figure out his actions if you pretend it’s not happening or not bothering you. You gotta face this shit head on. You don’t have to talk to him, though it might help, but you can’t keep pretending you’re over it when you never even processed it in the first place. There’s a person behind Agent Prosecco. Let her exist for a minute.”

You turned to fully glance at Bourbon then, your eyes narrowed your arms crossed over your chest, only to be met with an even stare. “…you know, sometimes I think you should’ve actually put that psychology degree to use in an office somewhere instead of joining us,” you huffed as the elevator stopped and the pair of you stepped out into the lab.

“Would’ve made better money and wouldn’t have so many scars,” Bourbon agreed with a shrug as he trailed behind you. “But then who would offer you fantastic, rational advice? Someone’s gotta be the brains of this operation.”

“Thin ice, Bourbon,” you warned, prompting a grin as there was no real threat in your tone. You turned your attention to the lab, then, and spotted Whiskey leaned against a wall with a file in his hands. You heaved another heavy sigh as you crossed the floor and plucked the folder from Whiskey’s hands. When he raised an eyebrow, you pointedly turned away from him. “Agent Whiskey, that’s classified. I’d appreciate it if you kept your hands to yourself while you’re in my office.”

You could see from the corner of your eye that he looked amused, ready to argue that his security clearance was higher than yours - it wasn’t, not anymore, and you were hoping that you’d get to point that out to him - but seemed to think better of it. Instead, he folded his arms over his chest and shrugged. “Can’t promise anything, darlin’. Always seemed to have trouble keepin’ my hands to myself around you.”

“I suggest you try because if you don’t, I can’t promise you’ll be leaving with both of them attached,” you warned as you took the related files from Bourbon’s outstretched hand and ignored his snort of amusement.

“I’d ask if you’re always this feisty but I know you are,” Whiskey hummed as he pushed away from the wall and ventured closer to where you stood. He slotted himself between you and Bourbon, ignoring the latter’s annoyed ‘hmph’ as you laid out the files on the metal lab table.

“I would say it’s nice to see you again, Agent Whiskey, but I don’t make it a habit to lie,” Bourbon hummed as he began arranging files himself. 

You bit your lip to conceal your smile as you saw Whiskey glance at Bourbon. To your surprise, Whiskey ignored the slight and turned his attention back to the files in front of him without so much as a roll of his eyes. Instead of replying to Bourbon, he tapped a photo that looked slightly familiar and turned to you. “You said they realized y’all were lookin’ into them, right?”

“A few of them,” you confirmed, ignoring Bourbon’s advice and locking the part of yourself that still existed outside of Statesman away to focus on being Agent Prosecco. “The newer, bigger ones, mostly. They had the least security but the most ties because they weren’t really vetting their applicants. It made them the easiest to track. Why?”

“They could’ve changed the stamp.” When you furrowed your brows and tilted your head, Whiskey stepped a little closer and pointed at one of the earlier hand stamps you’d come across. “Think about it. You got someone lookin’ over your shoulder, tryin’ to figure out what you’re doin’. You don’t know exactly who but you’ve got somethin’ to hide so you change everything. Where the charges come from, how much they’re for, how frequently they’re added to an account…” Whiskey trailed off, his eyes meeting yours as he waited for you to catch onto his meaning.

“Identifiable marks that could lead back to you,” you finished, frowning when you glanced at the photo of a fleur-de-lis stamped in green ink on one of the older photos. “I don’t know, Whiskey. If it was anything else, I’d be on board, no question. But it’s a fleur-de-lis. I think it’d actually be easier to tell you how many places don’t have that as their symbol in this city. ‘Sides, these are the first bodies that have turned up with the mark. We’ve connected these clubs to drugs but no deaths.”

“What about Max?”

You and Whiskey both turned to face Bourbon, you with a start and Whiskey with a confused frown. He glanced between the two of you before he asked, “Who the hell is Max?”

“Max was the friend of an agent and the reason we have all of this information. He didn’t realize what it was at first, just that he’d gotten roped into this member’s only club, but that’s not all that weird here. There are secret societies all over the city and most of them are harmless. But when he realized it was less ‘Mardi Gras preparation’ and more ‘torch and dagger’, he gave Cranberry a call,” you informed Whiskey with a sigh as you stepped away from the table and moved to the computer to pull up his file.

You took a deep breath to ground yourself the moment you were away from Whiskey. The air no longer smelled as strongly of his cologne and you had to stop yourself from pulling in gulps of air as you reveled in the usually unnerving sterile lab scent. Having him so close made it difficult to focus but lives were at stake, you couldn’t afford to get lost in the past when futures depended on you doing your job.

As you tapped at the keys, Whiskey sauntered over to you and watched intently as you stared at the screen. His hand hovered near your back, almost as if he planned on placing his hand on your lower back as he used to - once upon a time, a long time ago - but he seemed to think better of it and shoved his hand into his pocket as you breathed a quiet sigh of relief. His scent was one thing, but you were half-certain that feeling his touch would’ve sent you into a full-blown meltdown.

“He called her one night, not long after he told her about the group, and said he’d been drugged at a club,” you began, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had settled over the room. “We tried to get to him but it was too late. The weird thing was, there was nothing out of the ordinary on the tox screen,” you pointed out as you gestured for Whiskey to take a closer look. “We thought it was some kind of ecstasy but it never showed up. There wasn’t even any alcohol in his system.”

“We had no fucking clue what it was,” Bourbon pointed out as he gestured to the report, “but it’s close enough to this that they’re likely connected Just seems like he got a lighter dose. They’re trying to figure out what happened but we’d only seen one person with that COD. Until today.”

“Looks like their body count’s up to five now. Whiskey, can you get with the lab on the rig? Have them send whatever they’ve been working on here along with any techs they can spare. Bourbon, call Rum. I know she’s off today but she’s been spearheading the efforts to figure this out. I’m gonna go give Champ a call. We’ve got work to do.”

To your continued surprise, Whiskey nodded his agreement and set off to alert the lab on the rig. He fell into place with the rest of your agents, readily following your command, and you had to pinch yourself to remember that this wasn’t some kind of fever dream. Jack Daniels was actually listening to you.

You weren’t sure what he had planned but you didn’t care, just as long as he cooperated long enough to stop whatever was happening in your city. You would deal with the fallout later.

While Bourbon and Whiskey coordinated with the lab techs, you ascended the stairs to your office and settled in for an unpleasant meeting with Champ. You only had five bodies but those were the only ones you knew about. There could’ve been more, lost in a city morgue with a confused ME incorrectly labeling them as just an overdose that wouldn’t flag in your system. That was what mattered, not the trepidation you felt going into your meeting with Champ or the feelings that seeing Whiskey had dragged to the surface.

The person behind the agent didn’t exist in that moment and you weren’t sure she would until the case was resolved. By then, Champ would be over whatever irritation he felt and Whiskey would be long gone, leaving you to pick up the pieces alone once more.

******

By the time your meeting with Champ was finished, the office was bustling with more activity than normal. The lab was filled to the brim with every tech you could spare, plus three from the rig, and they all busied themselves with trying to figure out what happened to Max and the two couples that had washed up that morning.

Whiskey seemed to be behaving himself, standing back quietly and letting you - and Bourbon, as you’d been in the meeting - call the shots, but you wondered how long that would last as you stepped back into the lab and weaved your way through the throng of analysts to update him and Bourbon.

The meeting with Champ went just as you expected - you shrank into your seat for most of it as you could feel his disappointment radiating through the screen - but the pleasant surprise was that Ginger would be making the journey to Louisiana to assist in synthesizing the drug.

The unpleasant surprise was that Champ had already formulated a plan and expected you to execute it.

“How’d it go?” You glanced at Bourbon and grimaced before returning your gaze to sweep over the room. You spotted Whiskey speaking with one of the lab techs from the rig and frowned. “That well, huh?”

You made another face, this one acknowledging that Bourbon was right, and turned to glance at him. “Ginger’s coming down to help out, which is good. But Champ’s got a plan of his own,” you informed him with a sigh as you gestured for him to follow you across the room to where Whiskey stood. “Anything useful so far, Whiskey?”

“Just gettin’ set up, darlin’. How’d the meetin’ go?” You cut your eyes at him and barely contained your huff of annoyance causing Whiskey to hold his hands up in surrender, though you could see the grin threatening to lift his lips as he turned to you. “So, what’s Champ’s plan?”

You rolled your eyes at how predictable both you and Champ were. “Hope you packed a change of clothes,” you sighed sparing him a final glance before you turned to look at Bourbon. “Whiskey and I are going undercover, posing as a couple from out of town, looking to have fun in the Big Easy. We’re working the couple angle to figure out what happened here but I’m still at a loss for how Max got involved. He was single, right?”

“No, he wasn’t.” When you frowned, Bourbon returned to the case file and ran his finger along the page until he found what he was looking for. “He told Cranberry he only joined the club ‘cause of his girlfriend. We didn’t get her name because he was barely coherent when we found him but he said it was for couples and something about the pollen. We looked into it but it’s pretty generic.”

“Okay, well, that makes a little more sense now,” you mumbled, glancing at the file and ignoring Whiskey’s presence as he moved closer and pressed his chest against your back to glance over your shoulder. “Couples are the ones going missing but where was Max’s girlfriend? We never found another body and it doesn’t make sense for them to have killed him and left her if they’re after pairs. She would’ve been the odd one out.”

“Unless she already had someone else lined up,” Whiskey interjected and shrugged when you and Bourbon glanced at him. “Think about it; your boyfriend sells out your sex club, gets who they probably think are the Feds on their tail, and threatens to bring down the whole operation. You’re young, havin’ fun; you don’t want anyone takin’ that away. So, you find someone else to take his place on your arm and kill the blabbermouth.”

“Okay, first off, wow. That theory was… surprisingly well thought out,” Bourbon complimented as he blinked in surprise. “Second, who said this was a sex club? We don’t know that. We don’t know what the hell they’re doing,” Bourbon pointed out as he glanced between you and Whiskey with a frown on his lips.

“It sure as hell ain’t no book club,” Whiskey snorted as he gestured to the files on the couples pulled out of the Gulf. “ME found evidence of sexual activity on, well, in the bodies. ‘Sides, you comin’ all the way to the Big Easy for a tea party?”

“Jack’s got a point,” you mumbled, not catching the look of surprise on Whiskey’s face as you uttered his first name for the first time in years as you focused on the tablet in front of you. “What if we’ve been looking at this the wrong way? We were thinking social club or even some sort of organized crime ring. But what if it’s a social club with a different kind of socializing?”

Bourbon raised an eyebrow before gesturing for you to continue with your line of thought as Whiskey nodded thoughtfully.

“Were they able to to figure out how many partners the women had before they died?” Your question was directed to Whiskey and you deflated slightly when he shook his head. “I think we should look into that. Poppy’s drug was meant to control, right? What if this one isn’t meant to do that? What if it’s meant to be a sexual stimulant?”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just use something already on the market, then? It’s saturated with shit like that,” Bourbon pointed out as he crossed his arms over his chest and studied you.

“Most of what’s on the market is designed specifically for men,” you pointed out as you shifted away from Whiskey and gathered the files you knew you’d need before gesturing for the two men to follow you. “This seems to be an equal opportunity drug.”

“Okay, but why limit it to couples?” Bourbon continued, posing questions that you knew someone else would ponder later on. His frown never lifted but he paid Whiskey no mind as the three of you headed for the elevator.

“Those are the rules,” Whiskey pointed out. When you and Bourbon both paused and glanced at him curiously, Whiskey shifted his weight and brought his hand to his hip as he cocked his head. “Swingers’ parties, clubs like that; they want an equal number of couples so if you’re lookin’ to switch, everyone’s got someone to play with. Most places, you can’t get in the door without a partner.”

A feeling that you couldn’t quite name - not quite jealousy and not quite anger, maybe a mixture of the two, twinged with a bitter disappointment - filled the pit of your stomach as you glanced away from Whiskey and focused on the wall near the elevator. You knew that you had no right to feel anything other than impassivity but it still stung and you didn’t want to know how he knew that - though it didn’t surprise you. Bourbon seemed to echo your thoughts as he grimaced.

“I’m not surprised you know that, Whiskey. Disturbed? Completely. Surprised? No.” You saw Bourbon glance at you from the corner of his eye but he said nothing about the way your jaw clenched when Whiskey shrugged again. You knew he’d ask about it later, when Whiskey was gone and he was the one to help you build yourself back up, but you were safe until then. “Okay, moving forward with that theory; if everyone’s taking the drug and having fun, why don’t we have more bodies? Not that I want more bodies,” he pointed out quickly, “but why is it only killing certain people?”

“Higher doses, maybe,” you pointed out, your tone quieter than it had been as you pressed the elevator call button and glanced at Bourbon, pointedly avoided looking at Whiskey. “Maybe a tolerance issue. Drugs don’t effect everyone the same way.”

“That’s a question for the techies,” Whiskey hummed as he followed you into the elevator before glancing between you and Bourbon. “Have him work that angle while we take findin’ this club and infiltratin’ it?” It was posed as a question, meant to be at least a faux attempt at respecting your authority, but Whiskey knew that he was right in assigning the tasks and so did you.

Though you still couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, you nodded as you held the door open. “Yeah. Bourbon, stick around the lab. Give the techs anything they need and let me know when Ginger gets here. I’ll pull the files so Whiskey and I can get started finding the club.” When he nodded and turned, you released the button and pressed the one that would lead you to your office.

“Two heads are better than one in this case, darlin’,” Whiskey assured you as he attempted to catch your eye.

You were stubbornly looking away from him but Whiskey’s words echoed in your ears as you stared at the gleaming metal of the elevator. It was difficult to be in an enclosed space with him, overwhelmed by the heat rolling off his body and the scent of his cologne filling the air, but your time alone with him was only just beginning. You knew that the pair of you needed to join forces to find the club and, as you mulled over your options, a thought occurred to. you.

“…it pains me to say this, but I think you might be on to something,” you mumbled, finally turning to glance at Whiskey.

He blinked, unsure of what you were getting at, but met your eyes eagerly as he said, “Glad I could be of some help, darlin’, but I have no idea what the hell you’re talkin’ about.”

“Two heads,” you repeated as the elevator doors opened and you rushed out, Whiskey on your heels. “Two clubs. We thought they modified their logo to avoid detection but what if they modified it because the club changed? They joined forces. Not only does it give them a larger pool of clients, it also screws us over because as far as anyone’s concerned, both those clubs no longer exist.”

Whiskey let out a disbelieving laugh as he followed you into your office and watched as you began pulling up case files of the clubs you’d been tracking that had either gone cold or seemingly disappeared. “See now, darlin’, this is what I love about you. You’re too damn smart. I knew you’d have your own office one of these days but New Orleans’ gain was New York’s loss.”

You kept your back to Whiskey as you dug through the filing cabinet and tried to busy your hands even as your eyes slipped shut. Whiskey’s casual usage of the word should’ve meant nothing to you - it clearly meant very little to him -  but your heart felt as if it were going to beat out of your chest as you heard the shuffling of paper behind you. 

You knew that he didn’t mean it in the way that you still so desperately wanted, even after he’d broken your heart, and you both knew that New York didn’t lose you because you were called to New Orleans. But what could you say to him that wouldn’t sound as pathetic as you felt in that moment?

Every little compliment he’d ever given you, every word of praise spoken in your direction - or breathed in your ear as he sought pleasure in your company - seemed to echo in your ears as you remembered why you’d fallen so hard for him in the first place. Those words, spoken with a reverence that still lingered in his tone, filled your chest and weighed on your heart as you tried desperately to bring yourself back to the task at hand.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and blinked back the tears that lined your lashes as you shook your head. “Please, Jack, don’t,” you finally whispered, your voice shaking as you clutched the edge of the filing cabinet for support. You heard a sharp exhale at the use of his first name and the sound of a file being placed on a table. You imagined he was planning to move, to step closer and reach out for you just as he had done in the past, but you shook your head again and held a hand out behind you. “Just… just stop, okay. You can’t say… We’ve got a job to do and I’m really struggling to even look at you right now. Let’s just focus on the task at hand and go from there, alright?”

Whiskey released a heavy sigh before clearing his throat. He paused for a moment, as if weighing his words, before you saw him nod out of the corner of your eye. “Sure,” he agreed, his voice rough as he tugged his hat from his head and tossed it onto your desk before running his hands through his hair. “Alright. I’ll take this stack, you take that one. Between the two of us, we’ll find somethin’ and I’ll be on my way back to New York.”

You nodded, your eyes slipping shut again as your grip on the filing cabinet loosened. You took a few deep breaths, centering yourself once more, before you swallowed the emotions that tied you to the human behind the agent. You steeled yourself once more and opened your eyes before setting about grabbing the stack of files Whiskey had pulled. You avoided his eyes as you took a seat at your desk but watched him out of your peripheral vision as he sat on the couch away from you.

The silence was tense and you knew that he had more to say but, for the time being, your focus was on work and you hoped his would be, too.

*******

By the time night fell, you and Whiskey had managed to track down the most solid lead you’d had in months. There was still no guarantee that this would be the answer you were looking for but something was better than nothing. If anything, you knew that you’d at least walk out of the club with a more complete idea of what the hell was happening in your city.

There hadn’t been much conversation after your plea for Whiskey to focus on the task at hand. He’d tossed out theories, names of clubs that could be the ones you were looking for, and other mission related pieces of information but steered clear of anything personal. He hadn’t mentioned your plea for silence but had kept his distance and, aside from disappearing to grab coffee once - an action that broke your heart as he’d grabbed one for you and remembered how you took it - he hadn’t left your office until you’d found a viable lead.

You wondered as you got dressed if it was because you’d scared him - it had been two years, you shouldn’t have been that emotional talking to him about the past - or if he was genuinely at a loss for what to say to you. You wondered, idly, if he was respecting your wishes or if he was just biding his time. With Whiskey, there was never any telling.

As you moved almost on autopilot, going through the motions of settling into your identity for the night, you thought about the person you once were and allowed yourself to identify the emotions that threatened to overwhelm you.

Anger bubbled hot in the pit of your stomach, a heat that stemmed from the idea that he still felt any claim to you after so long. Regret lingered in the back of your throat, an acrid taste that made you wish you’d never gotten involved with him in the first place. Joy shined through the holes in your defenses, happy to see him and have him so close after two years of wondering what had become of him. Disappointment weighed heavily on your mind, both in him for treating the situation with such nonchalance and yourself for still feeling so deeply for him.

And love, stupid, giddy, silly love that made your chest ache and your lungs burn was buried beneath it all, desperately clawing its way to the surface as you remembered just what made you fall in love with Jack Daniels in the first place. 

You hated it, hated all of it, and tried to steel yourself for the inevitable reality check that awaited you when he returned to New York - and pretending that you didn’t exist - but nothing seemed to work and you found yourself wondering if he’d like the dress you chose or how his hands would feel against your skin when he inevitably touched you on your mission.

You knew that was going to be the hardest part, the task that tore you down the fastest out of anything you imagined you’d end up doing over the course of the night, and couldn’t even begin to prepare yourself for the reality of feeling Whiskey touch you once more. That had always been his go-to, the way he calmed you and pulled you back in - even when he’d fucked up and your anger radiated off of you in waves. He knew the power his touch held over you and you were afraid he’d use it to shatter your heart all over again, even if it was only pretend.

You were lost in your thoughts, desperately searching for a way out of the fog of emotions that clouded your better judgement, and nearly cried in relief when a knock sounded at your office door. You took a moment, quickly swallowing the emotion that bubbled in your throat, before uttering a quiet, “Come in.”

Bourbon opened the door just enough to slip his head through the crack and let out a low whistle at the sight of you. He raised an eyebrow before he slipped fully through the door and shook his head. “You clean up good, boss,” he complimented, a grin on his lips as he eyed the outfit you’d chosen. “You ready for this?”

You weren’t, not even slightly, and you told Bourbon so as you allowed him to clasp the bracelet that doubled as a silent alarm onto your wrist. “I feel like I’m going on my first mission all over again,” you confessed quietly as you took the clutch that contained a few small gadgets - ones you were able to smuggle into the club - with a tense smile. “Ginger here yet?”

“Just landed,” he confirmed with a nod as he watched you straighten your dress for the second time since he’d entered the room. “You’ll miss her by about five minutes but we’ve got everything handled here. You’re good at your job,” he reminded you, his eyes meeting yours and filling with a confidence you wished you felt. “It’s time for you to do what you do best. I know I just told you to let yourself feel, to be the person behind the agent, but do what you need to do to get through tonight.”

You nodded at him, your lips in a thin line as you took in a deep breath, and Bourbon copied the action. But before either of you could speak further, you to worry or him to comfort, a knock echoed through the room.

Whiskey stepped in a moment later, dressed in dark jeans and a button-down that clung to him in all the right ways, and your jaw clenched in a desperate attempt to keep it from dropping. He was dressed as he always had on your date nights, down to the watch that you’d only seen him don when you were on his arm, and you marveled at how beautiful he looked.

Just as you felt yourself unable to tear your gaze away from Whiskey, he seemed to freeze in the doorway as he took in the sight of you. An unfamiliar emotion glittered in his eyes as they raked over your form and you desperately wanted to know what was on his mind as he took in the sight of you.

It was a look you hadn’t donned in a few years - your undercover missions these days mostly had you posing as a tourist in shorts and a t-shirt or as a young professional in pencil skirts and heels - but you guessed you didn’t look as out of your element as you felt based on Whiskey’s reaction. It was something you would’ve worn to a club in New York, a short backless number that he would’ve called dangerous way back when, and you were almost glad you’d chosen it as he dragged his tongue over his bottom lip.

“Well, damn, darlin’,” Whiskey breathed, his voice low and eyes dark as they raked over your legs - shimmering with lotion that caught in the low light of your office. “If I’d’ve known you were gonna look like this, I would’ve tried harder,” he complimented as he tipped his hat. His lips were parted, eager to continue spilling words of praise, but the terse smile you gave him shut him up. He must’ve remembered your tearful plea then, the way you’d begged him not to dredge up the past, because he straightened and tensed his shoulders as he cleared his throat. “Car’s ready,” he informed you as he adjusted the cuffs on his shirt and tore his eyes from your exposed skin. “You ready?”

Whiskey had seen you at your most vulnerable. He’d seen you bare your soul to him not so long ago, eager for his love, and he’d heard your tearful plea for silence only hours earlier. He knew the tells, could see the signs that you were anxious, but you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of confirming those vulnerabilities aloud.

You couldn’t let him know that you were afraid of feeling his touch, of the damage the warmth of his palm pressed against your skin would cause, or what hearing his voice, leveling compliments at you as he played the part of doting partner might do to your already fragile emotions. You weren’t going to let him know that there were a million other places you’d rather be, many of them remarkably dangerous but less emotionally taxing than heading to a club with him. You weren’t going to let him know that you would readily sacrifice yourself if it meant that you weren’t required to lean into his touch and smile as though your world weren’t imploding.

So you nodded. “Always,” you assured him, grateful that your voice didn’t waver as you turned to look him in the eye.

If Whiskey saw through your lie, he didn’t let on. He met your gaze for a moment, searching for an answer to a question he didn’t have to ask, before he nodded and gestured for you to follow him. To your surprise - and relief - he didn’t attempt to touch you. There was no hand extended to guide you to the car, no hand at the small of your back to usher you ahead of him. He kept his distance, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body but far enough not to touch, and you were grateful for it as you arrived in the parking garage.

Whiskey kept his distance still, even as he held the car door open for you, and nodded his acknowledgement when you breathed your thanks in his direction. When you were safely in the car, he only paused when Bourbon reached out to grab his shoulder. The pair spoke for a moment, both looking far more tense than you’d ever seen them, but the words were lost to you. You imagined you were the center of the conversation but didn’t pry as Whiskey rounded the car and climbed into the driver’s seat with a clenched jaw.

Whiskey pulled out of the garage and you settled into the uncomfortable silence as the pair of you navigated the streets. The only words spoken for the first ten minutes or so were your helpful hints as to which roads to avoid - even though your route confused the GPS you were using to make yourselves seem like tourists - and you imagined that would be the extent of your conversation as you watched the city you now considered home pass by in a blur.

Whiskey, however, had other plans.

“So,” he began, his voice loud in the stillness of the car, “are we gonna talk about it or are you gonna give me the silent treatment until we get to the club?” The question was asked casually, no malice or seemingly obvious ulterior motive, but he might as well have shouted it as you felt yourself flinch.

You bit the inside of your cheek at his question, uncertain of how to answer, and kept your eyes forward as you felt his gaze on the side of your face. He glanced at you a few times, his eyes flitting between you and the street, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him.

You weren’t intentionally giving him the silent treatment, he knew you hated that more than almost anything, you just didn’t even know where to begin speaking to him. You had no idea how to behave normally around him, not after all you’d been through, and you weren’t sure if you should yell or cry. You had no idea if you should tell him to get fucked and leave you the hell alone after the mission or if you should ask him why he hadn’t appeared earlier.

You honestly weren’t even sure if he’d listen to anything you had to say or if he’d brush it all off without offering so much as a half-assed explanation.

It was strange, not being able to be yourself in Whiskey’s presence, but it felt as if you were sitting alone with a stranger as you tried to gather yourself. Your thoughts were a mess, a jumble of emotions that barely made sense to you and certainly wouldn’t make any sense to him, so you let them roll around your head and overwhelm you while Whiskey watched from the driver’s seat.

He’d always been able to read you - even when no one else could translate your thoughts, Whiskey was once well-versed in the language of you - but this was new. There was nothing about this situation that was easy and the only thing that was clear was how much you hurt. You didn’t want to see his pity, the way he recognized the hurt in your eyes or in the set of your jaw, so you avoided looking at his eyes as you rolled the words around in your mouth before speaking them aloud.

“I’m not giving you the silent treatment,” you finally answered, your voice coming out stronger than you hoped it would. “I just don’t know what to say to you. Every time I think I’m fine, that I can talk to you like I would anyone else, you say something that makes my chest ache and it’s like the last few years didn’t happen. It’s like I’m standing in your office, spilling my heart all over again, and I can’t do that right now, Whiskey. I’m not the same junior agent I was back then. People are counting on me now. We’re working and we don’t have anything work related to talk about at the moment. Rest assured, I’ll put on my best smile and give an Oscar-worthy performance when we get to the club.”

Whiskey exhaled a heavy sigh through his nose and you could see out of the corner of your eye the way his jaw clenched and his grip tightened on the steering wheel. You could tell that he’d had an answer in mind and that wasn’t the one he’d been expecting (or hoping for). But it was honest and that was all you’d ever wanted from him; honesty.

So, he nodded.

His jaw clenched and his fingers tapped at the steering wheel for a moment, seemingly considering whether he should speak, before he sighed again. “You know I’m gonna have to touch you, right? Won’t do anythin’ you’re not comfortable with and won’t make it inappropriate, but we’re supposed to be a couple,” he stated with a sideways glance in your direction as he turned onto the street leading to the warehouse.

It was the thing you were dreading most but you knew it was coming. You’d been trying to put up walls, to prepare yourself mentally, but nothing was helping you get over the anxiety that pooled in the pit of your stomach as you imagined his hand on your thigh or the small of your back.

“I know,” you assured him with a single nod of your head, eyes focused on the street in front of you as you tried to hide just how anxious that made you. “It’s fine. You can touch me. It’s part of the mission. Just…” You paused, wondering if your request would sound as pathetic as it seemed in your head - especially as you were, as he pointed out, playing a couple - but ultimately decided to voice it anyway. “Just don’t kiss me, alright? Cheek is fine, neck is fine; just don’t actually kiss me.”

If he was surprised by your request, he didn’t let it show. He gave a nod as he approached the parking area and spared you another quick glance. “Alright, darlin’,” he agreed, his voice tight and his grip on the steering wheel strained. “Your mission, your rules.”

“Thanks, Whiskey,” you mumbled, your voice almost lost over the sound of the engine. You paused, swallowed the sting in the back of your throat, before you corrected yourself. “Jack. Thanks, Jack.”

Though it wasn’t the first time you’d said his name that night, Whiskey exhaled a breath as if he couldn’t believe you’d said his name again, before nodding once more as he pulled into the parking space. “Anytime, darlin’.” His voice was soft, softer than you’d heard it in years, and you had to blink back the tears that stung at your eyes as you stared ahead.

You wanted so badly to glance over at him, to reach out and pretend that the past few years hadn’t happened, but you couldn’t. That was better left in the past and you knew that dragging it into the present would hurt more in the long run so you settled for clearing your throat and grabbing your clutch. “Aright,” you mumbled. “Let’s do this.”

Whiskey turned in his seat to look at you, to fully take you in as you steeled yourself for the mission, before he nodded. “I’ll get the door for you. Hang tight for a second,” he mumbled before he climbed out of the car and adjusted the hat on his head.

Whiskey took his time rounding the vehicle, presumably to give you a moment to gather yourself, and you were grateful for it as you took a grounding breath and settled into the role you were supposed to be playing. It was one you hadn’t occupied in a long time but the knowledge of who you were supposed to be lingered in the back of your mind as your eyes followed Whiskey to the passenger door.

After a beat, the door opened and Whiskey met your eyes. When you nodded, he immediately shifted into his persona for the night. Gone was the tension that lingered in his shoulders, the emotions that clouded his eyes, the clenched jaw; in its place was the Whiskey that had caught your attention the moment you stepped into the New York office.

It was a callback to a simpler time, a posture that dredged up memories you’d buried, and you stared at him for a moment. He looked so handsome, so confident and eager to have you on his arm, that it took your breath away.

He let you look and you swore you saw a flash of amusement - tinged with something a little more meaningful - in his eyes as he stood by the passenger door, his hand outstretched to help you out of the vehicle. There was a smirk on his lips as he watched you shift in your seat to keep your skirt from riding up and it almost made you smile as you remembered the many nights you shared where you were in this exact situation.

“Ain’t nothin’ I haven’t seen before, darlin’,” he teased with a wink as you took his hand and stood easily on the too-tall heels that brought you closer to meeting his eyes.

You barely concealed a gasp at the feeling of Whiskey’s hand in yours. It was the first time you’d felt his touch in far too long but you wouldn’t have guessed by the way your fingers curled around his. It was natural, almost as easy as breathing, and you swallowed the bitter taste in the back of your throat at the thought that maybe Whiskey had always been playing this part. 

The parking lot was fairly empty, there was no line leading out the door like there would be at a traditional club, but there were enough people around that your act began sooner than you expected it to. Instead of rolling your eyes or ignoring the comment, you opted for the reaction you used to give him. You gave your best faux giggle at his quip and reached out to swat at his arm - just a little harder than he was expecting, based on the past - as you tittered, “Jack, honey, behave. We’re in public.”

Whiskey grinned and easily caught your hand. To an observer, the grip was light and playful but you felt him squeeze your wrist in warning as he dipped his head to meet your eyes. “Ain’t that the point of tonight?” It was teasing, a taunt he would’ve leveled in the past, but you knew that he was reminding of you where you were and how you needed to behave. When you lowered your gaze, a sign that you understood what he was telling you, Whiskey squeezed your wrist again - this time a barely there pressure - before he let you go and wrapped an arm around your waist. “Come on, darlin’. Let’s get inside and have some fun, hm?”

You let Whiskey take the lead as the pair of you approached the entrance. He nodded his greeting to those who were gathered near the door, none of whom seemed to interested in either of you, and released his hold on you as you approached the door. He gestured for you to enter first and followed suit. A bouncer stood near the interior door, the only thing that stood between you and the only lead you’d had in months, and you were mildly surprised when he opened the door without so much as a question of your names.

You supposed it would have been hard to stumble upon the place - it was in a part of town that was still grappling with infrastructure issues and a lack of rebuilding, even though the storm was sixteen years ago - so the somewhat lax security made sense. You certainly weren’t going to question it if it meant you got in the door.

When you felt Whiskey’s presence behind you, you nodded your appreciation to the bouncer and leaned into Whiskey’s touch as his hand found the small of your back. His palm burned against your skin but it grounded you in the moment and you were surprisingly grateful for it as you paused near the door to take in the club. You didn’t mind the air that blasted you from the vent above, you were happy to feel it as a wall of heat stood in front of you, and soaked in the feeling as you observed the beautiful chaos.

You didn’t bother hiding your surprise as you glanced around. You were supposed to be awed, impressed, even, and you were. How you’d gone months without realize this place existed was beyond you and you almost felt a little ashamed as you took in the sheer amount of people littering the room. Couples filled the space, nearly every available seat was taken, and you were in awe of just how vast the space was.

The interior of the club was a far cry from the dingy warehouse front you’d entered through. The walls were a rich purple, flecked with silver that glittered in the strobe lights.The floor was concrete but seemed almost mirrored as the light bounced off and illuminated the booths off to the side. The seats were plush and looked to be some sort of velvet. Each was roomier than you’d seen at other establishments but you imagined it had to do with the nature of the activities that occurred in this club as compared to others you’d been in.

Whiskey gave you a moment to look, likely taking in the club himself - though, based on his seemingly intimate knowledge of them, you doubted this was entirely new to him - before he leaned in closer. “C’mon, darlin’,” he mumbled into your ear, his mustache tickling your ear as his breath fanned over your skin, warm and sticky and sharply contrasting the cool air washing over you. You fought a shiver that threatened to run down your spine and began moving when he gently nudged you forward. “Let’s go get a drink, take a look around.”

The pair of you waded through the crowd, brushing past heated bodies in an effort to reach the bar. You observed as best as you could, your line of sight only slightly hindered by the low light in the club, and did your best to hide your thoughtful frown with a look of open curiosity as your eyes raked over faces.

Each face you were able to make out looked shadowed with lust, eyes blazed with a heat that you’d only encountered in Whiskey’s bed, and you wondered if everyone in the room was on the drug that you were in search of. That thought scared you slightly, just enough for you to reach for Whiskey’s hand, the one that wasn’t at the small of your back, and hold onto it as you moved deeper into the building.

You tried not to stare too long at any one patron but it was difficult - both because the environment was so new to you and because your role was to be the awed tourist, excited about the possibility of stepping out of your comfort zone. Your eyes raked over couples in each stage of lust, some barely touching though they glanced at one another hungrily while others were writhing in passion with fingers hidden by skirt hems or a single layer of denim. 

You met a few eyes, received a few winks, and tried not to think too hard about the newfound curiosity swirling in the pit of your stomach. You were on a mission, searching for a solution to a problem you’d let fester for too long, and didn’t have time to consider what the heat tingling in the tips of your fingers and threatening to consume your entire body meant.

By the time you reached the bar, you were desperate for something to make swallowing the feeling of Whiskey’s hand on your skin that much easier. His touch blistered - you were slightly worried you’d wake up the next morning to find an imprint of his hand at the small of your back - but all you could do was lean into it as you lifted yourself onto a barstool.

Whiskey leaned against the bar, his body turned toward you but his eyes roaming the club, while you angled your body toward his and glanced over his shoulder at the booths that lined the wall. The place truly was unlike any other club you’d seen - even in New Orleans - and you wondered how many others there were like it in the city.

The thought sent a pang of disappointment shooting down your spine and you tried to banish the thought as quickly as it appeared. Now was not the time to worry about the clubs that you were missing, the mistakes that you’d made and continued to make by not knowing every single thing that was happening in your city. It was time to focus on the task at hand, the people milling about and how they were ingesting the drug that had caused so much damage. 

Nearly everyone in the room looked to be under the influence and you knew that you shouldn’t have been surprised - you knew what you were walking into - but it was a little jarring to see it all up close. You had a better angle to observe as the bar was elevated slightly and you took advantage of it as you leaned in a little closer to Whiskey in an attempt to look less obvious in your observation. 

Couples littered the dance floor, hands wandering and mouths exploring exposed skin. Even more settled into booths, seated as close to one another as possible as they touched without hesitation or fear of detection. The vast majority was paired off, groups of four mingling amongst themselves, but there were others sectioned off into larger groups. One booth, off in the corner, held a group of eight with one woman in the center, enjoying the attention of the others. 

Though you knew you shouldn’t find any of what was happening around you appealing - you were on a mission, strictly there for business, and most of the people in the place were under the influence - you felt the heat that had been tingling in the tips of your fingers spreading. It felt as if flames were licking at your body, threatening to consume you entirely, and you couldn’t help yourself as your eyes lingered just a bit too long.

The room felt warm, almost stiflingly so, despite the cool air you’d felt rushing from the vents near the door and the ones you noticed near the bar, and you weren’t sure how much of that was to blame on the bodies that packed the room and how much of that was your own body reacting to the sight in front of you.

As you grew warmer, you found that you were simultaneously painfully conscious of and quickly growing used to Whiskey’s presence. His thigh, pressed against your own, radiated even more heat even through the denim of his jeans, and you had to resist the urge to press yourself closer to him as you finally returned your gaze to his face. When you glanced at him, he was already looking at you and you could tell that he had been for some time.

“See somethin’ you like, darlin’?”

The question was a double-edged sword and, no matter how you answered, you were poised to cut yourself on it. He was asking if you’d seen anyone of interest that he should keep an eye on, you knew that, but anyone else would’ve heard a partner eager to know what had caught his lover’s eye in the midst of such beautiful chaos. His tone, though, told you that he knew. Though it had been a while, he was still able to read you well so you weren’t surprised that he could clearly recognize the lust that clouded your eyes.

Though you tried to tamp it down, to hide it from yourself, there was no use trying to hide it from Whiskey. He knew, he always did. You weren’t telling him anything he didn’t already know and, after all, you were there to play a part.

“Mm,” you confirmed, shifting in your seat to bring your knee a little higher up his thigh as you tilted your head to look at him. “They look like they’re having fun,”you hummed, glancing at the table once more and drawing his attention to the group in the corner that had drawn a small crowd. He hissed and you bit back a grin as he returned his eyes to yours. “You gonna touch me like that?”

Whiskey dipped his head to glance at you from beneath the brim of his hat and raised an eyebrow at you. When you gave a minute nod of your head, confirming that it was alright for him to touch you, he reached out and placed a hand on your exposed thigh, his thumb brushing just beneath the hem. He grinned at you, his teeth glittering in the low light of the club when you gasped at the bolt of electricity that shot down your spine, but you could see the conflicting emotions that swirled in his eyes as he tilted his head at you.

“We’ve been here all of five minutes and you’re already worked up, huh, darlin’?”

It was meant to be light and teasing but there was an underlying hint of concern that tugged at your heart. He saw the cycle of your emotions, the way yours eyes flickered with each one that rolled over you, and wanted to make sure you knew he wasn’t ignoring it all.

You shifted a little closer to him on instinct, leaning into his touch as you had so long ago, and hated yourself for how easily you fell back under his spell. His touch sent you reeling, it sent a small shock down your spine every time his hand so much as twitched, and you could no longer remember why you’d been so afraid to feel it again as you embraced the feeling. But the moment you thought about upping the ante, reaching out yourself to knock the cowboy hat off his head and tangle your fingers in his hair, realization hit you and threatened to steal the air from your lungs.

Whiskey’s eyes remained on your face, scrutinizing every minute change that fell over it, and you knew he noticed the shift in your eyes as you struggled to lift the fog of his presence and remind yourself what you were doing here. He saw the moment you seemed to come back to yourself, to remember who you were not who you were supposed to be portraying, but before you could speak - or shift away from his touch -  he tapped your thigh. It was a long lost signal, used in the early days of your partnership when you were paired with him for missions to learn the ropes, that told you the pair of you had company.

You swallowed the emotions that were threatening to bubble once more, shoving themselves through the pleasant fog that was beginning to cloud your brain, and offered him a coy smile as you weighed the pros and cons of falling back into old habits. It was just for the night, just to play the part, but you hated how easily, “I’m always worked up for you, daddy,” fell off your tongue.

Whiskey’s fingers dug into your thigh briefly, an unconscious grip that told you the word affected him as much as it did you, and you saw his jaw clench before he let out a huff of breath that passed for a laugh and smirked at you. “Careful, baby. The night’s young. Party ain’t even started yet,” he reminded you, his eyes meeting yours - asking if you were alright without so much as a word - before he tilted his head to glance over your shoulder at the bartender.

“Don’t worry,” the bartender began, an easy smile on his lips as he glanced between you and Whiskey, “won’t take long.”  When Whiskey raised an eyebrow at him, the bartender laughed and gestured to the room. “The Pollen,” he stated, as if it should have been obvious. “It’s in the air. Not usually the fastest way to get it in your system but the stuff’s potent. Five, ten more minutes, max, and you’ll both be feeling it, not just her. Until then, what can I get you to drink?”

You leaned into Whiskey, hiding your face in his chest under the guise of wanting to be close to hide your expression as the pieces began to click. The fog that clouded your brain, the inhibitions that were seeming to slip from between your fingers, the boundaries you’d placed cracking so quickly; it was all making sense and you had no idea how to act.

You felt somewhat relieved to know that it wasn’t entirely your fault that you were turning to putty in Whiskey’s hands but the relief was short lived as your thoughts grew clearer, if only for a moment. This was confirmation that the club was involved in the drugs, that everyone was under the influence, but you needed more information. You hadn’t been planning on taking it yourself - there was no way of knowing how dangerous it really was and what it would do to you; you’d only seen the fatal end of the spectrum - but you didn’t have time to panic.

There were plenty of people running around unscathed, completely unharmed - if only a little aroused - so you kept the worry bubbling in the pit of your stomach at bay as you wondered how you were going to get a sample now. You’d been planning on pretending to take the drug and pocketing a sample for Ginger to reverse engineer but that was out. 

You had no idea how long you had until the effects began to overwhelm you both - you were already feeling it, though it didn’t seem Whiskey was quite as gone. You still knew nothing of the drug, of what it really did and how it worked, but you needed answers and you weren’t planning on leaving without them.

As you lost yourself in the possibilities, in contingency plans and questions of what was going to happen to you, Whiskey focused his attention on the bartender. He brought his hand to your back, his fingers tracing the skin exposed by your dress, and you shivered at the touch. He chuckled, though you could tell it was fake, before he answered, “Whiskey for me and the little lady’ll have whatever the bartender recommends.”

“Got the perfect thing.” The bartender’s reply was laced with amusement though the darker edge to his tone set off warning bells in your mind as you shifted just enough to glance up at Whiskey. He met your gaze briefly, his own eyes mirroring the conflicting emotions in yours, before he returned his attention to the bartender who placed the drinks down.

Whiskey thanked him and after a beat, he leaned in close - a gesture that could be construed as affection - and mumbled a quiet, “He’s gone,” in your ear. 

Though you’d felt it before, not even fifteen minutes ago, the brush of his mustache against your skin felt almost overwhelming and you struggled to bite back a moan at the feeling as he straightened up. You wondered, briefly, if you’d really missed him that much as you felt yourself aching for his presence when he shifted just enough to allow you to turn toward the bar.

“You alright, darlin’?” The question was earnest, another double-edged sword that was inviting you to impale yourself, but you didn’t care as much as you glanced at the drink you’d been given. It was pretty, a deep purple with what looked to be silver flecks of glitter floating throughout - a drink that almost exactly matched the walls of the club - and you took a cautious sip before eagerly taking a large gulp.

Whiskey, who was sipping at his drink, watched you carefully and you shrugged. “Fine,” you nodded, before adding, “it’s a little warm in here.”

Whiskey made a noncommittal noise but you could tell by the arch of his brows that he didn’t quite believe you. This was how it had always been - you got overwhelmed, downed a little too much to get yourself out of your head, and Whiskey kept his eyes on you, even if the mission called for you to split up. However, instead of voicing his disbelief aloud, he shifted just a few inches closer and slipped the hand on your thigh just a bit higher.

As if on autopilot, Whiskey’s thumb rubbed circles over your skin and you fought a shiver as you watched him sip his drink from the corner of your eye. You could see that he was studying the layout of the club, looking for anyone that could make getting the information you needed a little easier, and your chest filled with an ache that you hadn’t experienced in years as you turned to look at him fully.

Your eyes raked over his face, taking in the scar above his eye and the few shimmering strands of grey that appeared at his temples before tracing the slope of his nose and the curve of his lips. You watched his jaw clench as he thought and his neck as he swallowed. Your fingers tingled with the need to reach out and brush the tops of his cheekbones, your lips with the need to nip at the bronze skin of his neck. And you wondered why the desire was hitting you so hard as you shifted in your seat.

You realized that you missed moments like this, the real ones, where you ventured to some new and exciting venue with Whiskey by your side. Though he was a flirt, he never seemed to take his eyes off you on those nights. He always had some kind of hold on you - a hand on your thigh, at the small of your back, on your cheek, around your shoulders - and you hated how familiar it felt to have him gently nudging the hem of your dress up just a bit higher to brush at the bottom of a tattoo not many others had seen.

You were trying so hard to resist falling back into old habits, to resist getting your hopes up or believing that this was anything more than an assignment to him, but it was your job for the night to pretend. You were supposed to be a patron there with your partner, looking for a fun night in the Big Easy, and you would just have to deal with the personal consequences later.

You spent so much time forgetting that you were human first, a Statesman Agent second, that you knew the pain would be buried and left to fester until the case was wrapped and the paperwork was signed. Until then, though, Agent Prosecco had a job to do.

“I can see the smoke comin’ out of your ears,” Whiskey hummed as he turned to look at you. When you dropped your eyes, turning your head forward to look at the half-empty drink in your hand, he sighed before he leaned in and pressed his lips to the exposed skin of your shoulder. “Stop thinkin’, honey. Just do what feels right.”

You thought for a moment longer, the cloud had lifted just enough for you to rationalize your actions, before you downed the rest of your drink and turned to glance out at the dance floor. Whiskey’s hand fell from your thigh but he shifted closer once you were situated and leaned against your side. You were emulating the posture of a couple to your right, seemingly observing the dance floor in search of a couple that caught your eye, but you were really just looking for a moment to breathe.

Your eyes landed on a couple at the edge of the dance floor. They seemed blissfully unaware of their surroundings, wrapped up in one another as they moved to the beat that you couldn’t honestly say you’d been aware of before that moment, and you were entranced as you watched them. You felt warm, almost unpleasantly so, as you took in the sight of them dancing and felt your heart beginning to beat just a bit faster as your head started to cloud once more.

You worked to keep your breathing even, to quell the sudden panic that lingered in the tips of your fingers and seemed to creep its way under your skin, and realized with every breath that you were continuing to breathe in the drug. Breathing seemed to be getting more and more difficult, though, with each breath sawing into your lungs as if you’d just run a marathon, and you blindly reached for the new drink you hadn’t realized you’d been given.

You downed this drink just as quickly as the first, eager to swallow the panic that was rising in your throat, and Whiskey moved impossibly closer. He reached for your hip and shifted you slightly, just enough to turn you into him, and you nearly choked on the last dregs of your drink at the feeling of his hand on you. It wasn’t the first time he’d touched you, it wasn’t even the most intimate touch he’d given you, but it was jarring.

Though his touch was feather light, it almost hurt. Your grip on the glass grew just a little too tight and Whiskey tugged it gently from your grasp as you contemplated asking him to let you go. The room was getting hotter - it felt as if someone had turned a heater on full blast in the middle of a southern summer - and Whiskey’s body heat wasn’t helping.

Before you could voice this stream of consciousness aloud, you felt Whiskey’s breath fan over your skin as he leaned in closer and couldn’t fight the whimper that escaped your lips or the shudder that ran down your spine as you felt his mustache tickle your skin. His grip on your hip grew tighter, his attempt to keep you grounded, but it only served to fluster you as you blinked owlishly.

“Keep your eyes on them but listen to me, alright, darlin’?”

When you nodded, Whiskey hummed and tugged you further into his grasp as he cut his eyes to the couple. To an observer, it would seem as if the pair of you were discussing your plans for the evening, the possibility of inviting the pair that had taken notice of your stares into the mix, but the words out of Whiskey’s mouth were anything but the sultry invitation you found yourself desperate to hear.

“We need to get outta here, get you back to Ginger,” he observed, his fingers digging into your hip when you wriggled under his touch. “You’re burnin’ up, honey.”

You had no idea how he wasn’t on fire, how he seemed so normal when you felt as if the world was being set ablaze and tilted upside down, but you couldn’t find the words to voice that question aloud. Stringing together any words seemed an impossible task, made even more difficult by the overwhelming dryness that had you snatching his glass off the bar and downing the last of his whiskey before you shook your head.

“Can’t,”  you mumbled, the words sounding as if you were speaking through water, “gotta figure out what’s going on. Can’t disappoint Champ.” You tilted your head and brought your hand to Whiskey’s chest, patting it softly as you nodded. “I’m fine, Jack, promise.”

Jack squeezed your hip and shook his head slightly as he released a harsh breath at the feeling of your hand against his skin - the first sign that he wasn’t as alright as he seemed. “Honey, we don’t know what the fuck this shit does to a person. You look like you’ve been through the wringer already.” A quick glance at the mirror behind the bar confirmed Whiskey’s observation - your eyes were blown wide, mirroring the far off look you’d seen on other patrons of the club when you entered; your chest was heaving with every breath, your skin shimmered with a thin sheen of sweat - but you couldn’t leave. Not yet. But before you could tell him that, Whiskey added, “Champ’ll be more disappointed if he loses his best agent.”

“Ginger’s not goin’ anywhere,” you attempted to joke, sending him a half smile as you shifted on the barstool. When Whiskey frowned, you shook your head to clear it and tried to ignore the twinge of pain that hit you when he pulled his hand from your skin to wave the bartender over. As you waited, you quietly added, “Neither am I, not until I know what’s happening. We’re close, Jack, closer than we’ve been in months. Just gotta deal with it. I’m just a little sweaty, that’s all.”

Whiskey remained thoroughly unconvinced. He knew that you weren’t yourself and judging by the way he gripped the bar, you could tell that it was starting to hit him, too. You wondered, for just a fraction of a second, why it hit you so hard and he seemed so unaffected but lost the thought as soon as it hit you.

“It gets worse and you tell me,” he ordered, dipping his head to look you square in the eye as the bartender approached. You nodded and, satisfied, Whiskey asked for another drink before refusing a third on your behalf.

While he waited, you returned your full attention to the couple at the edge of the dance floor and tried to ignore the feeling that was startlingly similar to mild cramps. You assumed it was just a case of bad luck - and even worse timing on your body’s part - and thought nothing of it as you met the woman’s eyes and offered her a smile. She returned it readily, easily, and you felt the eyes of her partner sweep over you before their attention was back on one another. 

You lost track of how long you sat at the bar, watching as the patrons of the club passed you by. Whiskey kept watching, his eyes sweeping over every inch of the club, but all you wanted was for him to return his attention to you. You ached to feel his hands on your body again, a desperation that surprised and scared you, and surprised yourself when you reached out for his hand and brought it to your thigh once more.

Whiskey raised an eyebrow, curious as to what prompted your desire to feel his touch, but said nothing as he gently squeezed your thigh and leaned in to press a kiss to your shoulder. Feeling both his hand and his mouth on your skin was overwhelming in a way that you’d never experienced. It simultaneously was too much and not enough and you were caught off guard by the searing wave of heat that washed over your body and settled in the pit of your stomach.

The fire spread outward, the slight tinge of pain you’d felt before grew stronger, and you reached out to grasp Whiskey’s bicep as you gasped. “Jack,” you began, your voice shaking as your nails dug into his arm, “I… it hurts.”

It was a tolerable pain, coming in waves, but you could feel it growing in intensity and the thought scared you. Images of the couples from the morning flashed in your mind, blurry and far away - as if it were a lifetime ago rather than just this morning - and dread settled alongside the fire that burned beneath your skin.

You wondered if this is what they felt, if that was going to be your same fate, and almost let yourself drown in the sea of doubt and despair but, before you could, Whiskey pulled you back with a hand beneath your chin and a call of your name.

“What can I do, darlin’?”

You could tell by the strain in his voice that the Pollen was starting to affect him just as it was you. He was nowhere near as far gone as you were - something you didn’t quite understand - but the signs were there. His breathing was growing more labored, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he stared at you with eyes blown wide and nearly black with lust, but he was still able to hold onto the present in a way that was slipping between your fingers.

You opened your mouth to speak but shut it just as quickly. You had no idea what you needed, no clue what he could do to help take some of the pain, and you only hoped that your fear wasn’t as obvious as it felt as you clutched at his arm and met his eyes.

“Get her off.” The voice, strange but alluring, cut through the fog in your head and pulled Whiskey’s attention from you for a moment. You were slower to react, your head heavy, but when you turned, you saw that it was the woman from the dance floor. She settled into the seat beside you, her partner by her side, and offered you a sultry smile as she raked her eyes over you. “She’s aching for it,” she hummed, her eyes flitting to Whiskey briefly before returning to you. “Aren’t you, beautiful?”

Her hand reached out to brush your exposed shoulder and you swore your heart stopped at the delicate drag of her fingers across your heated skin. It was the most fleeting of touches but it felt heavenly and it pulled a moan, a breathless sound that rang in your ears and seemed to echo even in the din of the club, from your mouth. The fire that burned in the pit of your stomach grew hotter, scorching you from the inside out, and your thighs pressed together as you leaned into her touch. Another drag of her fingers, this time down your arm, had you keening. At the sound, she giggled and Whiskey’s eyes widened.

“You want your cowboy to take care of you, don’t you, sweetheart?” She was speaking to you but her eyes were locked on Whiskey as he stood in near stunned silence. The effects were beginning to catch up to him, too, and he had a hard time comprehending what she was saying as his eyes raked over your face. You nodded, agreeing readily, though neither of you knew how much was for show.

The only thing that Whiskey could manage was a simple, “What?”

“I knew I’d never seen the two of you in here before,” she mused, her hand leaving your skin - an action that drew a quiet whimper from your mouth, one that you quickly muffled with your hand but still caught the attention of your newfound friends and Whiskey. She reached out for her drink as her partner moved to stand behind her, his hands circling her waist as she leaned back against his chest. His mouth found her neck as his hands smoothed up the front of her dress, lingering just beneath her breasts, but both of them were focused solely on the pair of you as she continued to speak. “Mm, an orgasm is the only way to calm the fire. And if she doesn’t get it, the pain’s just going to get worse.”

Whiskey blinked, his eyes wide as he took in the information you’d been given, before he glanced at you. Your own eyes were wide but you knew that you should’ve been prepared. You knew, heading into the night, how the clubs operated. You saw it for yourself upon entering the club. It was what you’d expected but the reality of it in no way compared to the situation you’d planned for in your mission briefing.

Though few of your thoughts were still fully rational, you knew that you needed to leave. 

If Whiskey could get you to your office, get you to the lab so the analysts could get a sample of your blood, you figured you had a chance of surviving the night. They could give you something, anything, to take the edge off and keep you hanging on until they were able to break down the compounds in your blood. But more importantly, they could keep you away from Whiskey - you knew that Bourbon and Ginger would both do whatever they had to to keep you from falling back into Whiskey’s arms.

However, that rationality was clouded by the desire to give into the stranger’s advice, to let Whiskey take care of you and enjoy the effects of the Pollen. It was, you assumed, how others had survived the drug. You could take care of yourself, get Whiskey to take you home and lock yourself in your bedroom with the vibrator that rested in your nightstand drawer, but now that the stranger had planted the idea of Whiskey getting you off in your head, you wanted nothing more.

As Whiskey attempted to formulate a question, his mouth moving around unspoken words and his eyes flashing with emotions you couldn’t quite comprehend, your self-control began to slip. The hand you’d kept anchored to your thigh, nails digging into your skin and leaving half-moon crescents in their wake, moved to Whiskey’s jaw. You dragged your fingers over his stubble, nails leaving faint pink lines in their wake, and felt a sense of satisfaction at the way his jaw tensed beneath your touch. His skin burned, alight with a fire that you felt in your own veins, and you cooed at the idea that he was in as much pain as you.

“Please, Jack.”

Your plea was whispered, certain to be lost in the din of the club surrounding you, but Whiskey’s eyes burned into yours and you knew that he heard you. He’d been taking in the way your lips seemed kiss-swollen without being touched, the sheen of sweat that glittered under the neon lights of the club, the lipstick that he once loved to smudge and find stained on his skin the next morning. He was looking at you as if nothing else mattered, as if nothing else existed, and it pulled a whimper from your lips as your grip on his bicep tightened.

You had no idea what you were asking for and neither did he. Did you want him to take you home? To take you to your office? Did you want him to get you out of the club and get out of your sight? Or did you want him to take care of you, to help douse the fire that was slowly consuming your every thought and burning down every defense you’d built specifically to keep him out?

Neither of you paid any mind to the couple eagerly watching for your next move. Your skin prickled with the weight of their gazes but nothing beyond Whiskey mattered in that moment. You wondered what you looked like to the strangers, if they’d seen this kind of hesitation in other couples or if your cover was blown, but found that you didn’t particularly care as Whiskey’s eyes followed a bead of sweat down the side of your neck to the top of your dress. 

Whiskey was the first one to blink. The fog lifted just enough for him to realize what was happening and that the pair of you needed to make a move before it was too late. You could tell by the look in his eyes that he had no plan - there were a million possibilities swirling in the back of his mind but he hadn’t decided which route he’d take -  but he knew you needed to leave.

He brought his hand back to your cheek, his fingers splayed over your heated skin as a flash of worry clouded his eyes, and tilted your head to look him in the eye. You could see that he was concerned but he masked it with a smoldering look that you hadn’t been on the receiving end of in far too long.

“Come on, darlin’,” he urged as his free hand dropped to your waist and urged you to stand from your seat. “Let’s get out of here.” He paused for a moment before he seemed to remember where you were and added, “Want you all to myself tonight, honey. Promise I’ll take real good care of you.”

You heard a noise from your left and glanced over - a difficult feat when all you wanted was to stare into Whiskey’s eyes - to find the woman pouting playfully at the pair of you. “Shame you’re hiding such a pretty thing from the rest of us,” she hummed, reaching out to brush her hand over your shoulder once more, grinning when you keened and leaned into her touch. “But you better get her wherever you’re going fast, cowboy. You’re not too far behind her.” She paused, her eyes raking over the pair of you once more, before she tilted her head and met your eyes. “A word of advice, honey. Getting yourself off works for a moment but you’re gonna need someone else to really douse that fire. If you and your cowboy decide you want to do this again, you know where to find us. We’d be more than happy to lend a helping hand.”

You bit back a whimper as her hand disappeared from your skin but eagerly leaned into Whiskey’s touch as he squeezed your hip to remind you of his presence - as if you could forget. He pulled you into his chest in a bid to keep you close and you buried your face in his shirt, inhaling the scent of his cologne. You felt his chest vibrate as he spoke, probably to bid the couple goodbye, but found it difficult to concentrate on any particular noise when the sound of your heartbeat was nearly deafening. 

The journey out of the club seemed to move much faster than the journey into it. Everything was a blur of color and movement, no particular sight stood out as you let Whiskey guide you through the throngs of people. One of his hands rested on your waist, his fingers digging into your skin, while the other rested on your shoulder. You knew that there would be reminders of his touch the next morning - whether he meant for there to be or not - and felt a small tickle in the back of your throat that told you you wouldn’t be nearly as happy to see them then.

Every brush of someone else’s skin against yours, every bump of your arm against another stranger’s or brush of a piece of fabric against your leg, as you navigated through the crowd sent you reeling. It was so wholly overwhelming that you were almost certain you’d never make it out of the club. Each touch nearly sent you to your knees and if it weren’t for Whiskey’s iron grip, you would’ve crumbled to the floor several times over.

By the time you made it to the door, it felt as if you would suffocate in the heat of the club. Your breathing was erratic now, a desperate pant that couldn’t even begin to fill your lungs, and your knew that you swallowed at least a few more lungfuls of the drug when you passed under the vents near the front door. Whiskey kept pushing, nudging you out of the exterior door, and you were grateful for it when you felt the night air hit your skin.

The night air was still sticky and warm, nothing less than you would expect from your home, but it felt heavenly against your skin as a barely there breeze blew. However, the relief was short lived as another wave of overwhelming heat washed over you. This wave burned brighter than the first and felt as if it were engulfing your entire body in flames. This one also sent a rush of heat straight to your core, gathering between your thighs and buckling your knees as you sucked in a sharp breath.

Though you stumbled in your heels, Whiskey’s grip on you tightened and he managed to keep you upright. You could hear his stuttered breathing, could feel the ragged beat of his heart, but he was still holding himself together and you were grateful as he urged,“Just a little farther, darlin’.” His voice rang in your ear, soothing and infuriating all at once, as he all but carried you to the car and you couldn’t remember why you ever wanted to go without hearing it again.

Whiskey helped you into the passenger seat, nearly pouring you into the car with little effort, and buckled your seatbelt with clumsy fingers. You frowned at the tremor in his hands, so unlike the unflappable man you loved, and reached out for his hand. He stilled, leaning over you in the open door, and watched with dark eyes as you brought his hand to your mouth and pressed a kiss to the heated skin of his wrist.

Whiskey groaned low in his throat, a noise that shot straight to your core and had you pressing your thighs together in search of some sort of relief, before he gently pried his hand from your grasp. “Gonna get you outta here, honey,” he assured you, his voice thick and strained as he straightened and moved to close the door. “You’ll be alright.”

You let your head fall back against the headrest and tried not to shift in your seat as your nails dug into your thigh. The leather of the seats felt too warm against your skin and the hem of your dress irritated your legs where it fell. It felt as if every nerve ending in your body was exposed to the elements and even the faintest touch was enough to send you over the edge.

You tried to clear your mind, to focus on the situation at hand and prepare yourself to help Whiskey navigate back to the office, but your thoughts remained consumed by the overwhelming sensations you were feeling.

You’d taken MDMA once, in college, on the suggestion of a then-boyfriend. He’d sworn that it would be the best sex of your life, that you’d never forget the experience, and you hated to admit that until you met Whiskey, he’d been right. It was mind-blowing, exhilarating in a way that you’d never been able to replicate, and you couldn’t help but compare the sensations you were feeling to that night.

This was different, you knew that, but you imagined that only made things better. If your mind had been blown by that night, you expected that your entire world would be shattered by any pleasure that came from this experience.

You knew, in the back of your mind, that there was a reason you couldn’t let Whiskey be the one to take care of you. It came in flashes, clear as day, before disappearing behind the haze of lust that was clouding your mind. It was drowned out by the memories you had of him, of how good he could make you feel, and you desperately wished you could forget one or the other, just long enough to survive the night, but neither seemed to budge.

You remembered how he felt, what he tasted like, and that was a special kind of pain that only made the fire in your veins burn that much hotter. One night in particular, the first night you shared with him, stood out in your mind and seemed to play on a loop. You remembered the excitement you felt when Whiskey peeled the dark denim he’d worn on the mission down his legs, prompting a whimper at the sheer size of him, and the overwhelming bliss you’d felt when he spent far longer than you ever imagined he would with his head between your thighs.

You remembered the feeling of his hands, calloused from years of handling his lasso, raking across your skin and leaving a trail of fire in their wake as his fingers explored every inch of your body. You remembered the way his mustache felt, tickling your inner thigh as he lapped at your core and glanced up at you with those eyes. 

But then you remembered that he couldn’t look at you, that he’d looked past you, the night you told him how you felt. You remembered that the mouth that had spouted such beautiful praise, that had brought you such pleasure, shattered your heart with a handful of words. You remembered the way his hands shook as he gripped the edge of his desk, waiting for you to leave his office without so much as a glance in your direction.

You remembered that just as he’d lifted you higher than you’d ever gone, he’d also broken your heart and sank you lower than you ever wished to be.

It was an arduous battle, icy despair attempting to cool the flames of lust, and neither side seemed to be backing down. The only common ground the two had was the pain that settled in the pit of your stomach and flared into your chest.

You couldn’t do anything about the heartache, not with Whiskey so close to you, but the fire that blistered your insides could be dulled and the stranger in the bar had given you an idea of how. You were desperate to stop it, to feel something other than anguish, and without even thinking about the consequences, slipped your hand between your thighs.

The underwear you’d chosen - a pair that Whiskey had bought you and you’d kept in the back of a drawer untouched for two years but grabbed without a second thought - were soaked and your thighs were sticky with your slick but you couldn’t find it in yourself to be surprised as you nudged the soiled fabric to the side. Your folds were dripping and you released a breathless moan as your fingers found your clit and began to rub.

Your surroundings were lost to you as you focused on the electric shocks that jolted through your body. Nothing existed in that moment outside of the feeling of your fingers working at your clit. Though it felt better than almost any sensation you’d ever experienced, it wasn’t enough. The air in the car was stifling, too thick to draw in a breath and too hot to provide your heated skin any comfort, and it only made your frustration worse as you dragged your fingers through your slick before slipping them into your heat.

A frustrated whine bubbled in your throat as you searched for the spot that made your thighs shake but the angle was less than ideal. However, before you could shift to get more comfortable, the driver’s door opened and a low, “Fuckin’ hell,” broke through the fog clouding your brain.

You wanted to move your hand, you wanted nothing more than to yank it from between your thighs and beg Whiskey to forget he’d seen that, but you couldn’t. And to his credit, he pointedly glanced away from you as he clambered into the driver’s seat and tugged on his own seatbelt.

“I’m sorry,” you whimpered, your voice thick with emotion and lust as you desperately hoped the obscene noise of your fingers dipping into your dripping entrance would be masked by the sound of the car, “I can’t - I don’t… It’s not…. Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, darlin’,” Whiskey assured you, his own voice just as rough as yours felt. He glanced over again, his eyes meeting your own, before he turned them straight ahead and nodded. “I know. Do what you need to. Gonna get us back to HQ, alright? Just hang tight.”

“My place is closer,” you gasped as you curled your fingers and hit a spot that made your toes curl. “Call Bourbon. Tell him,” your order was cut in half by a broken moan, one that seemed to echo in the small space of the car as Whiskey took a curve just a little too fast and shifted you in your seat, plunging your fingers deeper. You gripped at the edge of your seat, your eyes unfocused and hazy as you tried to regain your train of thought. “Tell Bourbon to check the HVAC Think it’s related to MDMA.”

Whiskey nodded as he took the turn your GPS suggested before pressing the button to call Bourbon. You tried to focus, to stop the hand from moving between your thighs and give the call your complete attention, but you were so close. You felt your orgasm approaching, a wave of fresh water meant to douse the flames consuming your body, and you were desperate to cool down.

Bourbon’s, “Prosecco, everything alright?” barely registered over the ringing in your ears.

“It’s Whiskey,” he informed him, his voice sounding more strained than it had only a moment earlier. “We were both dosed. Was in the air and, fuck, I think it was in Prosecco’s drink. She got more than I did,” he told Bourbon with a glance in your direction, his eyes flicking to the hand steadily moving between your thighs before he shook his head and returned his attention to the road. “I’m takin’ her to her place but she thinks it’s some kinda MDMA.”

“Are you both alright? How’s she doing?” To  anyone unfamiliar with your right-hand man, the questions sounded almost clinical. Bourbon was assessing the situation, wondering what needed to be done to help you both, but you could hear the twinge of concern in his tone.

“Fine,” you breathed, forced through gritted teeth as you tried to swallow any moans that threatened to leave your lips. “Check the HVAC.”

Whiskey shot you a look, one that told you he knew you weren’t fine, before he said, “Y’all need to hurry the hell up. We know how to keep the symptoms at bay but I sure as hell don’t wanna be like this for much longer.”

At that moment, your first orgasm washed over you and a moan spilled past your lips, though you were thankful that it sounded more pained than pleasured. It didn’t help much, it barely dulled the blaze, but you didn’t feel quite as desperate to throw yourself over the edge again as your fingers slowed to a lazy pace. 

“Hang tight,” Bourbon ordered, his voice shaking just a bit as you imagined him pacing the edge of the lab. “We’re close. We’ll see you guys soon.”

Whiskey didn’t respond. Instead, he ended the call and glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. He bit back a groan of his own and tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he turned into your neighborhood. “Any better, darlin’?” The question was, again, double-edged. You’d seen the concern in his eyes at the club, the desperation to make you feel better. But you knew that he was at least somewhat curious if he’d be able to avoid some of the pain himself.

“No,” you whimpered, your voice cracking as tears welled in your eyes. “Jack, it’s not helping,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the roar of the car.

“It’s alright, darlin’,” he assured you, though the set of his jaw told you he didn’t believe that any more than you did. “We’re gonna go inside and it’ll be alright. They’re workin’ on it. Won’t be much longer.”

Before you could retort, tell him that it didn’t matter because you were half-certain you wouldn’t make it that long, Whiskey pulled into your driveway and threw the car in park. He sat there for a moment, his hands gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, before he took a deep breath.

“Where’re your keys, darlin’? Gotta get us inside.” The words were spoken through gritted teeth but they still sounded as if they’d been torn from his lungs with his last breath. You could see the way his jaw clenched and the way he pointedly avoided glancing at the hand that still rested between your thighs.

You felt a flurry of conflicting emotions - fear, embarrassment, frustration, desire, and a lingering sadness that bubbled every time your thoughts cleared enough to worry about what might happen after this was all said and done - but you couldn’t bring yourself to move your hand. You were afraid that if you did, your heart would give. You’d seen what had happened to the couples that washed ashore and you were growing increasingly afraid that you would end up just like them.

You could see that Whiskey was getting worse, that his own blood had to be boiling just as hot as your own by now, but he was still clinging to the last shreds of his rationality as yours slipped between your fingers. You wanted nothing more than to reach out for him, to drag his hand between your thighs to replace your own, but you couldn’t. You didn’t want to take advantage, to pull him into your bed when he so clearly wanted nothing to do with you, so you tried to focus on the task at hand.

“Bag,” you panted, the word coming out in a puff of air and clearer than you thought it would as your fingers continued circling your clit. The sound filled the car, your slick coated your thighs and your fingers and you couldn’t remember the last time you’d been this wet, but the mild embarrassment was nothing compared to the relief you felt when the fire began to cool slightly.

You slowed your fingers, nearly stilled them, just long enough to rake your eyes over Whiskey’s neck as he turned and reached for the bag discarded in the backseat, but realized your mistake the moment a sharp pain bloomed in your stomach. Your eyes slipped shut but not before you saw Whiskey stiffen at your gasp. You heard him badly attempt to stifle a groan as you keened, “Jack, it still hurts.”

“I know, honey,” he assured you, his own voice clearly betraying just how much pain he was in as he clenched the clutch in his hand to stop himself from touching the obvious bulge in his jeans. “They’re workin’ on it. They’ll figure it out and have us fixed up in no time,” he reminded you, desperately trying to soothe the fear he could clearly hear in your voice. “Gonna go unlock the door and I’ll come back for you, alright?”

“No, Jack, please,” you whined, your words slurring together as you forced them out in a rush of air. Attempting to speak was growing harder, taking precious oxygen that was already hard to come by, but the thought of Whiskey leaving, of him disappearing again, suddenly seemed like the worst thing you could imagine. The tears that had already been stinging at your eyes welled, lining your lashes as you glanced at him. “Don’t leave me.”

It was pathetic, a desperate bid to keep him in your presence just a moment longer, and you hated it. You hated that the idea of him leaving again made you so sad - he’d been gone from your life for years, you knew that you could survive without him - but it did and the rational section of your brain no longer seemed to function as you met his eyes.

Deep brown eyes glittered with unshed tears and you hated to see him look as upset as you felt. His hand was half extended, fingers flexing as he reached out for you, but before he could find your skin, he seemed to think better of it. He shook his head and dropped his hand to his own thigh. “I’m not leavin’, darlin’,” he assured you, his tone gentle as he gripped your keys. “I’m gonna unlock your door and then get you inside. Just gotta get us outta this car and then I’ll stay however long you want, honey. Alright?”

You nodded, eyes still watery and chest still aching with the thought of Whiskey leaving, and he repeated the gesture before unbuckling his seatbelt and throwing open the car door. You watched, your eyes stinging with unshed tears, as he rushed to unlock the door and left it open. He pocketed your keys before returning to the car and rounding to the passenger side.

Though it pained you, you slipped the hand from between your thighs and tried to stand on shaking legs. You wobbled, even more than you did at the beginning of the night, but Whiskey said nothing as you gripped his shoulder and held tight to him. He half-dragged you into your house, kicking the door shut behind him, and stepped into the living room before he let you pull away.

You leaned against the wall, the corner that began narrowing into the hallway leading to your bedroom, and watched Whiskey as he tossed his cowboy hat onto the coffee table. His hands fell to his belt buckle. As he attempted to unbuckle it with shaking fingers, he glanced at you from beneath his lashes.”Shit, darlin’,” he breathed, his cheeks flushed pink and hair curling at the temples, “you should go to your room. You’ll be more comfortable. I’ll stay out here.”

You knew that his advice was sensible, that you should listen, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move. It felt as if your feet were glued to the floor and your eyes were glued to his hands. The words, while you understood what they meant, rang hollow in your ears as your own breathing grew shallower at the thought of seeing him again.

“Don’t want to,” you breathed, the words escaping your mouth without your permission as you pointedly kept your eyes on the floor. “I can’t - you’re here,” you rushed, your words slurred as you tried to make some sense of the jumble of thoughts swirling around your head. “Shouldn’t but I want to see you. I’m sorry.”

Whiskey’s eyes slipped shut at your admission, a pained look crossing his face as he popped the button on his jeans and worked the zipper down. “Fuck,” he panted, his chest heaving as he attempted to maintain at least some semblance of his composure. “It’s okay,” he soothed, his eyes opening and finding yours. “Wanted to see you, too.”

“Jack,” you whimpered as you pressed your temple against the cool wood and attempted to keep yourself from slipping your hand between your thighs once more, “I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“What, ah, fuck,” Whiskey hissed as his hand slipped beneath the waistband of his jeans and you couldn’t force yourself to look away, despite knowing that you should. He’d given you the alright, told you that it was okay, and you couldn’t seem to tear your eyes away as he nudged the denim down to reveal that he’d gone without underwear. Your eyes lingered for a moment, tracing the trail of dark hair that led to his cock, before they snapped back to his face as he asked, “What’re you sorry for, darlin’?”

“I should’ve stopped this sooner,” you breathed as you gripped at the hem of your dress and tugged. The fabric was irritating your skin, the lace felt as if it were sandpaper, and you wanted to rip it over your head as you closed your eyes. “Wouldn’t be in this mess if I’d done something,” you confessed, glad to get the weight off your chest. “Should’ve realized something was wrong. Those people…” you trailed off for a moment, your voice dropping to a whisper, before you continued, “my fault.”

You huffed and dug your nails into your thigh as you tried to resist the overwhelming urge to cross the room and seek comfort in Whiskey’s touch. A scoff sounded in your ears and you opened your eyes to glance over at Whiskey.

“No,” he snapped, his eyes blazing with a fire you hadn’t seen in far too long as he met your gaze from across the room. From your peripheral vision, you could see his hand moving and a whimper escaped your mouth as you struggled to keep your eyes on his. You knew what he was doing, what he looked like, but you wanted to see it for yourself.

“This ain’t your fault, darlin’,” Whiskey assured you, his voice strong despite the conditions you were facing. “You didn’t know but now we do and we’re takin’ care of it.” He paused for a moment, a hiss of pleasure interrupting his defense of you, before he added, “But I fuckin’ wish they’d hurry, shit. Haven’t been this fuckin’ hard in years.”

You bit your tongue, ignoring the latter half of Whiskey’s statement, and shook your head. “It is,” you countered, doubling over and clutching at your stomach as a wave of pain washed over you. Your knees hit the hardwood floor with a noise that would’ve concerned you any other time, however, the pain didn’t even register as you tried to breathe through the fire that was constricting your lungs and clouding your vision.

Your core ached and your thighs were dripping with your arousal but it seemed that nothing you’d done up until that moment had even touched the fire burning in the pit of your stomach. The woman at the bar was right - touching yourself wasn’t dousing the fire in the way you’d hoped. Your fingers weren’t doing the job and you wondered if Whiskey’s hand would be enough for him as you registered the sound of him spitting into his palm.

“You can smack me later, darlin’,” Whiskey began, his voice breathless as his hand worked his cock, “but you need to touch yourself, sweetheart. Don’t deny yourself because you think you deserve to be punished. You really think you fucked up? Fine. We’ll sit down with Champ and talk about it. But we gotta survive tonight first.”

It was reasonable, sound advice that made sense, and you hated how rational Whiskey still seemed when you could barely think straight. You wondered just how much more you’d had than him, how much had been in your drinks - because he had to be right, the drinks had to have been spiked.

“Didn’t help,” you informed him, the words leaving your lips in a rush of air as you glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. “Too many thoughts. Fingers aren’t enough.”

Whiskey hissed, his hand steadily working his cock, but the pinch between his eyebrows told you that the stimulation wasn’t enough for him, either. You both knew what needed to happen, you both knew what you wanted to happen, but you weren’t going to be the one to ask for it. You couldn’t, not when he’d made it so clear that you were nothing more than a way to pass the time, but, god, you wanted to.

“I know what you like,” Whiskey reminded you, his voice quiet but loud enough to break through the noise of your thoughts. “I remember how to make you fall apart. I can make you feel real good, darlin’, you know I can. Let me help you.”

You wanted to let him, you truly did, but you knew that you’d regret it in the morning. You knew that there was a reason you’d been so keen to keep him at arm’s length, that there was a reason you’d cut every mention of him from your life, but none of those reasons seemed good enough in that moment. Nothing that had happened seemed bad enough to keep you from giving in to what you so desperately needed, to what he so desperately needed, but you tried to remind yourself that it was and you’d hate yourself for it in the morning.

“Jack… I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you bit out, your words weaker than you would’ve liked as you didn’t really mean them. You wanted nothing more than to have Whiskey between your thighs again, to have his hands on you and his cock splitting you open, but you knew that it would be hard enough to return to normal after this. You knew that you’d only be breaking your own heart all over again, that you’d only have yourself to blame when he left you in pieces, but god, you wanted it.

“I know, darlin’,” Whiskey acknowledged, his eyes earnest as he stopped his hand and focused his attention entirely on you. “It’s a real bad idea but I can’t stand to see you hurtin’. Never could stand to see you cry, darlin’.”

The tears that had threatened to fall only moments earlier lined your lashes once more and Whiskey made a noise of discontent as he took a few steps closer to you. He knew that was the wrong thing to say, you could see the regret on his face as he shook his head, but before he could speak, you shook your own head. 

“This doesn’t change anything,” you whispered,  your voice quiet as you cut your eyes to the floor. “I need you out of my city as soon as we’re alright. I can’t… you can’t do this to me, Jack.” You hissed at the wave of heat that rushed over you, dropping your head and shaking it when you felt his hand hovering over your shoulder. “You can’t come into my life and pretend it’s fine,” you ground out, your eyes twisted shut as you curled into yourself, “but, fuck, if it’ll make this stop hurting, please. Touch me.”

Whiskey hesitated for another moment before he closed the gap between the two of you, reaching out to tug you to your feet, and guided you through the dimly hallway to your bedroom. The feeling of his hand on your skin soothed the ragged beat of your heart, alleviated some of the ache in your lungs, but did nothing to soothe the ache in your chest as fought to compartmentalize the experience. 

This was to make the fire that threatened to destroy you disappear, to soothe the ache that threatened to tear you apart from the inside out. And though you knew there would be consequences in the morning, you found yourself grateful that it was Whiskey tugging at the hem of your dress.

Once upon a time, you’d have eagerly fallen into bed with him, Pollen or not, and taken advantage of his eagerness to strip you of your dress. You’d have flushed beneath the heat in his eyes and the reverence in the set of his jaw. He always put your pleasure first, made sure that you felt safe in his care and would never do anything to hurt you physically - even under the influence - and you were confident that the moment you told him to stop, he’d back away, even if it killed you both.

Despite your past, you still trusted him with your life. Just not with your heart.

“Take off the dress, Jack,” you ordered, your voice quiet in the dim light of your bedroom as his fingers toyed with the hem. “It’s okay.”

Whiskey met your eyes, the deep brown searching yours for an answer to a question better left unasked, before he did as you commanded and stripped you of the dress. It was tossed to the side, left somewhere on the floor for you to find later, before his thumbs hooked in the band of your underwear.

A spark of recognition lit in his eyes and they flicked to your face. His lips curved slightly, a smirk tugging at the corners, and you shrugged. “You had good taste,” you acknowledged, your voice shaking as you nodded your consent for him to tug them down.

“Shit, honey,” he whispered, his voice shaking as he sank to his knees in front of you. His eyes raked up your legs, taking in the slick gathered between your thighs, and he let out a heavy breath as his tongue darted out to brush his lips. “You’re fuckin’ drippin’, darlin’. Christ, I forgot how good you smell,” he hissed, his fingers digging into your thighs as he rested his forehead against your skin. “Can I taste you? Please?”

“Get naked,” you huffed, trying to mask your arousal with a hint of annoyance as you shuffled away from him and fell onto your bed, “and then you can do whatever you want.”

The fire was still there, burning brighter than before, but the sight of Whiskey shucking his jeans the rest of the way off before tugging at the button-up he wore - sending buttons flying that you knew you’d find long after he was gone - was enough to quell the panic rising in your throat. 

Try as you might, you desperately missed the way he made you feel. You missed the touch of his fingers, the burn of his mustache, the stretch of his cock. You missed the way he drew you close, his hands never stilling against your heated skin, and drove into you as deep as he could reach. You missed the way you felt him for days after, the way he ruined you for anyone who dared look in your direction.

You missed him, wholly and completely, and reached out a hand for him to take.

His right hand reached for yours, fingers tangling together and palms sweating even as the AC kicked on, while his left hand moved to your cheek to brush the errant tears tracking down your cheeks. He looked conflicted, torn as to whether he should move forward, but the squeeze of your hand and the set of your jaw told him what he needed to know.

He breathed your name then, your real name, and your eyes slipped shut at how sweet it sounded falling from his lips. It was a prayer, a mantra meant to guide him through the night, and you hoped you wouldn’t hate the way it sounded in the morning.

He squeezed your hand once more, three quick grips you forgot he’d once used to convey feelings he never dared speak aloud, before he released his grip on you and brought his hands to your hips. He tugged you to the edge of the bed, your legs hanging over the side, before he fell to his knees and pressed his lips to the heated skin of your inner thigh.

He didn’t want to tease, not when you were both so desperate for a release, so when your fingers tangled in his hair, he was quick to bring his mouth to your dripping folds. He pressed a kiss just above your mound, his lips warm and breath fanning over your skin, before he dove in.

You were thankful that he kept his grip on your hips, all but pinning you to the bed as the first swipe of his tongue through your folds had your back arching and your lungs constricting. Any other time, you would’ve been embarrassed by the noise that spilled from your mouth, the choked moan that echoed through the house, but you were too far gone to care.

Though he’d barely touched you, that first hint of contact was like pouring gasoline on an open flame. Your blood, already boiling from the Pollen, burned hotter than ever as he lapped at you like a man starved. His fingers dug into your hips, blunt nails a painful contrast to the beautiful pleasure he was giving you, and you tugged at his hair as his tongue lapped at the slick dripping from your core. His nose bumped your clit, brushing the sensitive bundle of nerves with every flick of his tongue, and every bit of air you were able to drag into your lungs rushed from them in a keening moan.

Whiskey’s name fell from your lips in broken whimpers and you weren’t surprised at how quickly he was able to toss you over the edge. There was still a tinge of frustration, nipping at the back of your mind, but it was silenced by the knowledge that you’d be full of Whiskey as soon as he made you come.

You heard the muffled noises he made, the moans and groans that were lost as he pressed his face impossibly closer to your folds, and it only served to send you soaring higher as his nose caught your clit once more and threw you over the edge. He eagerly worked you through it, his tongue never slowing, and would’ve stayed there, despite his own discomfort, through a second orgasm had you not yanked his hair to pull him away.

The fire dulled somewhat but breathing was still difficult as you tugged Whiskey up and gripped at his shoulders. With his hands still on your hips, he hauled you back onto the bed and watched as your thighs fell open for him. He took you in, eyes wild and skin glistening with sweat as your chest heaved, before his eyes dipped between your thighs once more.

While he drank in the sight of you, you took the opportunity to do the same. He was softer around the middle, his belly a little rounder than the last time you’d seen him, but it only made you ache to rest your head against his chest and draw nonsensical shapes over his skin in a moment of intimacy. One thing that hadn’t changed, however, was his cock.

His was still the largest you’d had and you felt your breath catch in your throat as you took in the sight of it. He was dripping, just as you were, and the tip looked painfully red. He’d been suffering in silence, no release compared to the two orgasms you’d had, and you cooed as you reached out for him before you could stop yourself. 

However, before your fingers could make contact with his cock, Whiskey knocked your hand to the side. “Wanna be in you when I come,” he confessed, his voice rough as he met your eyes. “Condom, darlin’?”

You couldn’t wait, not when he was so close to where you needed him, so you shook your head. “I’m clean,” you breathed, your voice sounding foreign in your own ears, “IUD.”

Whiskey released a breath neither of you had realized he was holding as he nodded and gripped the base of his cock. He sank onto the bed, his knees digging into the plush mattress. “Clean, too,” he confirmed, before he paused, his eyes searching yours once more. “This alright? You can say no, baby.”

You knew that you could but you in no way wanted to. Now that you had him in your bed, you were desperate to keep him there, even if it was just for the night.

“Fuck me, Jack,” you demanded, reaching out to grip his shoulders and urge him closer. “I want you to.”

Whiskey nodded, his eyes blazing with the heat that was burning him from the inside out, before he settled between your thighs. The feeling of his skin pressed against yours was simultaneously achingly familiar and startlingly strange. It had been years since you’d felt him like that, years since he’d been between your thighs, but your body hadn’t forgotten his.

He dragged his cock through your dripping folds, coating himself in your slick, before he notched the tip at your entrance and pushed forward. You gasped at the feeling of him, at the slight pinch you felt as he sank into you, and dug your fingers into his shoulders as he dropped his head to bury his face in the crook of your neck.

You tried to steady your breathing, tried not to sound so thoroughly fucked, but found it difficult as you focused on the feeling of his cock dragging along your walls. You felt every ridge and vein, every breathtaking inch, and wondered how you’d been able to go so long without feeling him as one of your hands drifted to his hair. It was everything you remembered, everything you’d been craving, and you forgot how to breathe as you tried to relax enough to let him in. You tugged at the deep brown locks in an effort to convey the feelings you were experiencing, and Whiskey let out a heavy breath against your skin.

“I know it’s been a while, but you can take it, darlin’. I know you can,” he hissed, his breath fanning across your neck and sending a shudder down your spine as he slowly sheathed himself. “Always such a good girl for me, hm? Takin’ everythin’ I give you.” The words were muffled against your skin but you heard them clearly and clenched around him as he filled you completely. “Fuck,” he moaned, his voice sounding just as wrecked as you felt, “shit, I missed this pussy. Missed you, honey.”

You couldn’t dwell on his statement, not when the reality of touching him was so overwhelming. Every ounce of your attention was focused on the way his hands felt, gripping at thighs to keep them spread; the way his breath fanned over your neck, sticky and warm and occasionally joined by the odd press of his lips; the way his mustache rubbed at your skin, leaving a patch of beard burn you’d be annoyed about later but only added to the experience in the moment.

He stilled, giving you a moment to adjust, and you shook your head as best as you could. “‘M fine,” you breathed, tugging at his hair as he pressed his lips to the crook of your neck to distract himself, “need you. Please.”

“Shit,” he huffed, nodding quickly, “sorry, honey. I’ll make the next round better, I promise. Gonna be quick.”

You bit back a whine at the promise of another round - you knew, in the rational portion of your brain, that this would be your reality until the Pollen wore off or the others found an antidote - and clenched around him as he began moving. From the way that he set an intense pace immediately, his hips shifting to find a more suitable angle as he drove his cock into your dripping heat, you knew that he wasn’t lying about it being quick. However, the fire that had been dulled slightly by Whiskey’s mouth was getting hotter and a quick release was something you both desperately needed. He rutted into you, barely pulling out, and babbled a stream of consciousness against your skin as he mouthed at your neck.

You could barely make out the words that he said, could barely comprehend anything beyond your own pleasure, but the words grew clearer the harsher his pace became.

“Feel so good around me, darlin’,” he panted, the words ringing in your ears as his hand dipped between your bodies to find your clit. “So fuckin’ good for me. Look so pretty like this, all fucked out. But that fuckin’ dress you wore tonight was a goddamn sin,” he huffed, his words clipped as he used the grip on your thigh to shift your body and wrap your leg around his hip.

The change in angle sent him impossibly deeper and you swore you could feel him in the back of your throat. You gripped at his shoulder, tugged at his hair, and choked out a gasp of his name as his fingers worked over your aching clit. The stimulation was too much, so overwhelming that you almost couldn’t breathe, but you never wanted it to end as you felt yourself falling over the edge once more.

“That’s it,” Whiskey groaned, his voice clearer as he lifted his head enough to watch you come undone, “good girl. Come on my cock, darlin’. Let me take care of you, make you feel good.”

As he babbled, his voice only pushing you higher and higher, he took in the sight of you. He watched the way your eyes rolled back, the way your lips parted and your head tilted. He moved the hand on your thigh to your back, pressing your chest to his as you arched into your climax, and leaned his head down to press his forehead to yours as he chased his own orgasm.

You fell limp in his grasp, boneless and thoroughly fucked, but Whiskey held tight to you as his pace grew more erratic, frantic in his desperate need to come. The noise that echoed through the room was obscene, the slick sound of his cock pumping into you and the slap of his skin against yours, but it pulled a moan from the both of you as he buried himself inside of you with one final thrust and filled you in a way you hadn’t experienced in years.

He gave a few more thrusts, eagerly spilling what was left of his climax into your cunt as you clenched around him, before he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your shoulder.  You felt a wave of calm them, a brief moment of respite, and knew that Whiskey felt it, too, as he fought to catch his breath. 

Despite the heat in the room, breathing no longer felt like a challenge - at least not in the moment - and you took advantage of it as you tried desperately to fill your lungs. It felt like the first time you’d been able to breathe properly since you stepped foot in the club, the first time you’d been able to think properly since then, and you found yourself reaching out for Whiskey as you settled into the pillows at the head of your bed.

You raked your fingers through his sweat soaked hair, your eyes cracked open just enough to see that he was already looking at you, but said nothing as you swallowed the brief panic you felt at the tingling sensation returning to the tips of your fingers.

Whiskey twitched inside you, still hard despite fucking you through one of the most intense orgasms you’d had in a while, and groaned as he nipped at your shoulder. “Think we’re gonna be in for a long night, darlin’,” he observed, tilting his head to meet your eyes.

You nodded, your eyes slipping shut briefly, before you took a shuddering breath and tugged slightly at his hair. “It’s starting to burn again,” you responded, your words sounding as exhausted as you felt. “I don’t… This isn’t how I pictured dying,” you mumbled, trying to force a laugh so that Whiskey took your words as a poor joke, but judging by the hand he brought to your cheek, it was as unconvincing as it felt.

“Don’t talk like that, darlin’,” he ordered, his voice steady as he shifted slightly his hips rocking into yours. “We’re gonna be alright. They’ll get us fixed up, yeah? Be back to normal in no time.” If you didn’t know him as well as you did, you might’ve believed him. But the year you spent with him had ruined you and you could see the concern in his eyes, the slight doubt that hid behind the lust blown black. But you didn’t let on. Instead, you nodded and reached out to nudge his shoulder.

“Sure,” you nodded, sounding more certain than you really were. “Until then, back against the headboard,” you groaned, biting back a whimper as Whiskey pulled out and left you painfully empty. “Wanna ride you, cowboy.”

You didn’t have to tell Whiskey twice. He moved, looking right at home amongst the pillows that decorated your bed, and you struggled not to imagine him becoming a permanent fixture in your life. You’d missed him, god, you’d missed him. But this was desperation, a desire to keep his partner alive, not the love you’d been craving.

He wasn’t yours, he never had been, and you shoved that desire to the back of your mind as you moved. You ignored the mess between your thighs, paid no attention to the mixture of cum that dripped from you, but Whiskey’s eyes were glued to your center as you moved onto his lap. He let you situate yourself, let you take control for the moment, before his hands moved to your hips to keep you steady as you gripped the base of his cock.

He moaned at the contact, low in his chest, and you clenched around nothing as you notched the head of his cock at your entrance. Your thighs shook with the effort, already boneless from the overstimulation you’d experienced, but you remembered how much he’d always loved seeing you seated on his cock. He usually ended up taking the reins, letting you just enjoy the ride as he fucked into you, but you could pretend for a moment as you shifted your hips and began taking him.

Whiskey looked conflicted, unsure of where he should look, and alternated between watching your bodies connect and the look on your face as you sank onto his cock. You felt as if the air had been punched from your lungs as he filled you. Though you’d felt the drag of him along your walls when he entered you what felt like a lifetime ago, this was something more.

Your eyes felt heavy, desperate to close and enjoy the feeling as you seated yourself fully on his cock, but you couldn’t look away from Whiskey’s face. His head tipped back, pressed against the headboard, and his eyes screwed shut as you shifted on his cock. You felt impossibly full, desperate to never lose this feeling, and eyed the expanse of his throat as you tried to adjust.

Your lips found the column of his throat, nipping and sucking at the skin on display, and felt his skin vibrate with a deep moan as you experimentally ground your hips against his. “Baby,” he breathed, his voice dripping with honey as his fingers dug into your hips, “shit, this pussy’s fuckin’ perfect. Ruined me for anyone else, I swear.”

A harsh breath escaped your lungs at that and you bit down a little harder than you intended on Whiskey’s neck as you lifted your hips and began setting a pace much quicker than any you’d attempted in the past. He hissed at the feeling, at the emotions you conveyed without saying a word, and moved one hand from your hip to your chin.

He tilted your head up and met your eyes. He looked serious, more so than you’d seen him since the moment you left his office, as he searched your face. The hand on your hip dug in, slowing your pace, but before you could ask what he was doing, Whiskey shook his head.

“I volunteered,” he confessed, his voice a deep rasp as he moved the hand on your hip to your lower back, tugging you impossibly closer and moaning when you shifted slightly. “Fuck,” he groaned when you clenched around him, desperate to keep to his train of thought, despite the burning that was beginning to grow overwhelming once more. “When Champ mentioned a case in New Orleans, I volunteered. He was gonna send Ginger, maybe Vermouth. But I told him I’d come down.”

You slowed, your limbs too heavy to continue moving, and tried to keep your breathing even. You blinked at him, unsure of what to make of his confession, and Whiskey shook his head. “I needed to see you again, darlin’,” he breathed, his voice heavy as he dropped his eyes, shifting his hands back to your hips to help you move. “I’m sorry, fuck, I’m sorry.”

Your eyes shut, desperate to break eye contact, and you shook your head. “Don’t, Jack,” you breathed, your voice sounding smaller than you’d ever heard it. “Not right now,” you begged. “I can’t… you can’t do that. Not like this.”

His grip on your hips tightened, his fingers digging into your skin as he pulled you closer. He held you to his chest, one hand moving to your back to brush the heated skin, before the other moved to your hair. “I know, darlin’,” he assured you, his own voice just as quiet. “I’m sorry, shit, for everythin’. This ain’t how I meant for this to happen,” he breathed, his words steady despite the erratic beat of his heart. “Wanted to talk to you, wanted to-“

You shook your head, your hand reaching out for his chest, and marveled at the fact that he fell silent as you shifted your hips. “Not like this,” you repeated, your breathing heavier than it had been only seconds before. “Fuck me, help me survive tonight, and then say what you have to. Not like this.”

Your eyes opened then, instantly finding his, and he searched them for a moment before he nodded. “Alright, darlin’,” he agreed, licking at his lips as he planted his feet on the mattress and shifted so that he could fuck into you. “Whatever you need. Just tell me what you want.”

You focused on the feeling of him inside of you, on the feeling of his hands brushing over your skin and his chest pressing against yours. You thought about what you needed, about what you were missing, and swallowed the emotion that bubbled in your throat as you glanced at his lips.

“You haven’t kissed me.”

It was a statement, a fact, and you were almost offended by it. Once upon a time, Whiskey lived to kiss you. He spent hours with you tangled between the sheets, his mouth on yours and his hands exploring your body, but the closest his lips had gotten to yours all night was the corner of your jaw.

“You asked me not to,” he reminded you, his eyes meeting yours as he helped you build a rhythm on his cock.

You vaguely remembered the drive to the club, a moment that felt like a lifetime ago, and shook your head to clear it as you clenched around him. His hand, the one that had been gripping your hip, moved to your clit and sent a shockwave through your body as your release came barreling toward you.

“I changed my mind,” you rushed, the words heavy as they spilled from your mouth. “Kiss me, Jack.”

Whiskey searched your face, looking for any sign of hesitation, before the hand on your back moved to your cheek and his mouth found yours. The kiss was a storm of every emotion the pair of you had been bottling up, every word left unspoken, and a mess of tongue and teeth as you gave him everything you’d held onto for far too long.

To his credit, he took it all without complaint. He eagerly drank you in, let you lead where he hadn’t dared dream of going, and moaned into the kiss as he chased your mouth when you attempted to move away. Even when you needed to breathe, when your lungs were aching for air, he kept his mouth hovering as close to yours as you’d let him.

He swallowed every moan that spilled past your lips, every whimper and every cry of his name. He kept you crushed to him, your body pressed impossibly close as you came on his cock for the second time, and kept you moving even when your limbs turned to jello.

He chased his own climax, rutting into you as he pressed his lips to yours, and kept you pressed onto his cock when he finally came. You whimpered at the feeling, the noise lost in the kiss, and swore that you’d never felt as full or as exhausted as you did in that moment.

You felt less panicked, less heated, less overwhelmed as Whiskey lifted you from his lap and situated you onto the bed beside him. When your head was pressed into the pillows, your eyes slipped shut and your chest heaved with the effort it took to catch your breath. He leaned in, pressing another kiss to your mouth - this one softer than any you could remember ever sharing with him - before you felt his weight shift on the bed.

You cracked one eye open, watching as he climbed off of the bed, and tried to ignore the sting of disappointment that pricked at the backs of your eyes. However, Whiskey must’ve felt your eyes on him as he turned his attention back to you.

He stood, unashamed of his nudity, and offered you a soft smile as he reached out to tap your thigh. “I’ll be right back, darlin’,” he assured you, his half-hard cock bobbing as he shifted away from the bed. “Just goin’ to get us some water. Don’t feel so fuckin’ hot anymore,” he breathed, eyeing your skin for evidence that you’d cooled any, “hopin’ we’ve got a minute to breathe.”

You didn’t trust your voice not to shake, though it could’ve been blamed on the physical exertion, so you nodded. Whiskey hesitated for a moment, waiting to see if you had anything else to say, but when you didn’t, he nodded himself and set off down the hall in search of your kitchen. 

You didn’t allow yourself to think. You focused on steadying your breathing, on lowering your heart rate, on stretching your limbs. You tried to force yourself back into your body, to catalogue the way that you felt physically, and save the mental aerobics for after Whiskey left.

He was right, you didn’t feel quite as hot as you had throughout the night, but the tingling in the tips of your fingers remained. It wasn’t spreading, not anymore, but it lingered. You imagined the fire would reignite itself soon, and almost called out to Whiskey to grab your cell phone so that you could check in with Bourbon.

However, to your relief, he stepped back into your room with two bottles of water in one hand and his cellphone in the other.

“We’re alright,” he confirmed, his voice stronger and more even than it had been in hours, as he handed you one of the bottles. “Shit’s rough,” he huffed as he climbed back onto your bed and settled back into the space he’d occupied minutes earlier.

“We’ve got something we think might counter the symptoms,” Bourbon revealed, his voice tinny over the speaker. You could hear bustling in the background, the sound of the lab operating at full capacity to counteract whatever had taken you and Whiskey out. “Got a sample from the HVAC system at the club and tried to alter it. Can the two of you get to us or do we need to come to you?”

“Think we can make it,” you breathed, answering before Whiskey had a chance to. “Don’t feel like I’m on fire anymore,” you informed him as you shifted and winced at the ache you were beginning to feel between your thighs.

Bourbon breathed your name, the relief in his voice clear as he said, “It’s good to hear you say that. I’ll turn the AC down for you. We’ll be waiting for you both.”

******

The hours after Whiskey ended the call with Bourbon passed slowly. You’d both gotten dressed in relative silence, only muttering appreciation as Whiskey helped you clean the mess from between your thighs or when you gave him an old Statesman t-shirt to wear. The car ride was just as quiet, though this time, you knew that there was quite a bit left to be said.

You needed to talk, you both knew that, but the priority was getting back to yourselves. You needed to be able to sit in your own skin, mind clear and uninfluenced by the Pollen. Whiskey knew you well enough to know that you wouldn’t listen to anything he said while he was so affected and you knew yourself well enough not to trust your emotions when you weren’t in control.

You would’ve given him anything if he’d continued speaking, if he hadn’t listened to your plea for silence. You would’ve spilled your heart again, told him that you hadn’t stopped loving him even though it had passed the point of pathetic, and you couldn’t afford to let yourself hope that this time would end any differently. You weren’t sure what he wanted to tell you, what was so important that he felt the need to volunteer for what turned out to be a spectacular disaster of a mission, but it had you preparing for another round of heartbreak.

You spent the hours following the receipt of the antidote wondering what had been on his mind. You played the moment over and over again, startlingly clear despite the haze that had felt so heavy at the time, and swallowed the lump of emotion that burned bitter in the back of your throat. 

You both hated and were grateful for the fact that you couldn’t see him as you came down. Ginger kept the pair of you in different rooms, away from one another and isolated from everyone else -  just in case - and though it was a bit of overkill, it made it easier for you to begin sorting through the pieces of your night. Without Whiskey in your sight, you felt like you could think more clearly. However, every thought still seemed to revolve around him.

You half-expected him to wait for you after he was given the antidote. You wondered if you’d find him leaned against a lab table or even pressed to the wall outside your observation room, offering a grin and a compliment when you emerged from isolation. But the cynical part of your brain, the one that had returned in full force with his arrival, expected him to disappear before you had the chance to speak.

And after you were deemed lucid enough to function, to return to your duties as director, you were bitterly disappointed to find that the cynical part of your brain had been right.

When you emerged from your observation room, you wandered back into the lab in search of the familiar cowboy hat. Bourbon, who had been seated by the door - waiting for an update - offered you a sympathetic look as he glanced at the other empty observation room.

“He got on the elevator a while ago,” Bourbon informed you, his voice quiet as he took in the crestfallen look on your face. “I’m sorry.”

You tried to hide the disappointment you felt when you realized he was gone again, just like that, and nodded. “Probably for the best,” you hummed, your tone wholly unconvincing as you released a heavy breath. The exhaustion suddenly felt overwhelming, threatening to drop you where you stood, and you took a shuddering breath as you wrapped your arms around yourself. “I’m gonna go grab a few things from my office before I head home. Think I’ll take a few personal days.”

You knew that Bourbon had more that he wanted to say - he had never been shy in his critique of your relationship with, and subsequent hangup over, Whiskey - but, to your relief, he bit his tongue. “Get some rest,” he encouraged, his voice soft as he reached out to nudge your shoulder. “I’ll hold down the fort and when you get back, we’ll start fresh.”

You nodded, unsure of what else you could say, before offering him what you hoped passed for a small smile. You could still smell Whiskey’s cologne in the elevator car, mixed with the scent of his skin, and wondered if it was really there or if it had been burned into your nose. You wondered if you’d be able to wash it from your sheets, if you’d be able to air it out of your pillows, and realized that you’d be sleeping on the couch until you could get rid of the scent.

You knew that you’d never be able to sleep in a room that smelled like him, not anymore, and hoped the rain would hold off.

You moved through the building on autopilot, nodding to the odd analyst or agent who greeted you as you wandered through the halls, and kept your eyes on the ground as you stepped into your office. You moved through the near darkness, illuminated only by the streetlight outside your window, on muscle memory alone and rounded your desk.

You were exhausted. Your body ached, a once pleasant sensation that you now dreaded living with, and your head throbbed. But neither of those things compared to the knot that was tightening by the moment in the pit of your stomach. You felt stupid, pathetic for letting Whiskey back into your life - back into your bed - and believing, even for a moment, that this time was was going to be any different.

You’d been deluded throughout the night into believing that there was more there. You let yourself imagine a future in which he wanted you, a beautiful vision compared to a past in which he’d left you high and dry. You’d considered the weight of his words, the softness of his touch, the restraint he showed in not kissing you, even after you’d given him permission to fuck you.

It had all rolled around your head, morphing into a gesture that made you hope he regretted asking you to leave, but your hope had turned into a bitter realization that you never really mattered to him as you sank into the chair behind your desk.

This time, instead of asking you to leave, he’d done it himself.

You felt a few tears escape your eyes, tracking down your cheeks and dripping onto your skin, as the events of the day truly began to weigh on you. It felt as if an anvil was pressing onto your chest, making it harder for you to focus, but before you could do anything about how you were feeling, a calloused hand met your cheek and brushed the tears away.

At the feeling, your eyes sprang open, searching the dark wildly for what you were assuming was a vivid hallucination, and widened when you found Whiskey seated on the corner of your desk. He was bathed in the orange warmth of a streetlight but you could clearly see the way his lips curved into a frown.

The Statesman t-shirt you’d given him was stretched tight over his chest, snug even though it had once been his - a fact neither of you acknowledged aloud - and you wondered if he thought it was funny that you’d kept his clothes. He observed you, his eyes raking over your face, before he asked, “How you feelin’, darlin’?”

His voice was rough, sounding every bit as exhausted as you felt, but you knew that it was real. It told you that he was there, that he was really sitting in front of you, and the realization brought more tears stinging at your eyes as you shook your head.

“Fuckin’ awful,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as you allowed him to brush the tears from your cheeks. You had so much you wanted to say but had no idea where to start. But Whiskey allowed you to take the lead in the conversation, waiting patiently for you to spill your thoughts.

“You knew,” you finally settled on, your voice a whisper as you glanced up at him from beneath your lashes. “You had to have known that I was in love with you but you never said anything. You never stopped me. You just let me fall.”

Whiskey sighed heavily, a sound that sank your heart and made your bottom lip quiver, as he nodded. “I did,” he confirmed, his voice dropping to a whisper as he shifted closer, “and I was selfish. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you to stop.”

“Why?”

Your question lingered. Whiskey let it hang in the air for so long that you thought about taking it back, telling him to just forget it and leave, but you needed to know. You needed some sort of closure, an answer for why he’d let you fall alone with no plan to catch you. You needed to know that he was at least somewhat apologetic for how he’d left things with you.

“Jack,” you breathed, your voice a little stronger this time as you met his eyes, “why?”

Whiskey sighed again as he dropped his hands to his lap. “I was in love with you, too,” he confessed, his eyes not meeting yours. “It scared the hell out of me. You were just this young thing, eager to learn and damn good at your job. Hell, you still are,” he complimented, offering you a weak smile as he glanced at you. “But Champ wanted you down here. Called me a few months before that night to talk about it and then again while you were on that mission with Bourbon. Talked about you headin’ up this office, startin’ the program down here. He was askin’ for my okay.”

You blinked, shocked at Whiskey’s confession, and felt your lungs constrict The admission that he’d loved you back, that you hadn’t fallen alone, nearly stopped your heart and you grew afraid that this was a fever dream. You wondered if this was a side effect of the Pollen or even the antidote, if you were going to wake up and find that the entire night had just been some elaborate fabrication of your imagination, but the feeling of Whiskey’s eyes burning against your skin as he searched your face was something you couldn’t have made up.

The smell of his cologne, the sound of his breathing, the quiver in his voice, the heat radiating from his body; it was all too real.

“You could’ve said that. You could’ve talked to me.”

It was a simple rebuttal, the most logical argument you could muster, but there were a million other things you wanted to say. You wanted to level curses at him, to tell him that he’d been an idiot not to just talk to you, but that was all you could muster. It was easier said than done, you knew that, but you wondered why he hadn’t just talked to you.

“What was I supposed to say? He wasn’t takin’ no for an answer,” Whiskey told you, scoffing slightly as he remembered a conversation you hadn’t been a part of. “It was more a courtesy for takin’ my best agent. He would’ve offered it to you regardless.” Whiskey sighed then as he brought a hand to his hair and tugged at the roots. “It was a good opportunity,” he reasoned, “and Champ knew it.”

“I would’ve said no.” The words rushed from your mouth in a jumble, barely making sense as you lifted your head and furrowed your brows. “I liked New York. I liked my job there. I loved you,” you reminded him, “I would’ve stayed.”

“I know,” Whiskey nodded, his eyes softening as he reached out for your hand. “I didn’t want you to leave but I wasn’t gonna stand int he way of your career. My time at Statesman has been windin’ down for a while. Hell, Champ reckons I’ll be retired in a few years, fuckin’ off to some farm in the middle of nowhere. But your time was just gettin’ started. I couldn’t keep you there, couldn’t have you resent me for standin’ in the way. Even if I left, you wouldn’t have taken over in New York. Here, you got the chance to lead. You deserved this office, darlin’.”

Rationally, you understood Jack’s reasoning. It made perfect sense and you appreciated the thought behind it. But that didn’t mean you agreed with it. Your heart didn’t follow that line of reasoning.

“We could’ve figured something out,” you cried, your heart beating rapidly in your chest as you tore your hand from his grip and moved to stand. “I could’ve visited or, fuck, you could’ve! We could’ve made it work. I loved you. Fuck, I fell so goddamn hard, and you just let me hit the ground. The least you could’ve done was explain yourself! You knew that I’d never felt that way before. I deserved more than just a dismissal, Jack.”

“You did,” he agreed readily, standing and following you around the desk. “And I’m sorry it took me so long to give it to you. I wasn’t thinkin’ about the future. I was only thinkin’ about that moment. And I needed to get you out of my office. You were goin’ either way, I knew that. I just had to get you gone.”

He hesitated for a moment, his brows furrowed as he watched you pace the area in front of your desk, before he confessed, “I thought about comin’ down here so many times. I did come down, for the party Champ threw when you became director. Made it all the way to my hotel before I chickened out and hightailed it back. I wanted to see you, to tell you the truth, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t come down here and look you in the eye, congratulatin’ you on somethin’ that hurt you so bad.”

You turned to look at him, to meet his eyes, and shook your head. “So you wait, you wait until I can hear your name without feeling like my world is going to end, and then you come storming back into my life, confessing your sins like I’m going to tell you it’s alright? Jesus, Jack. What did you expect to come from this conversation?”

This was more than you could’ve expected, more than you could’ve ever asked for - he loved you, really and truly - but instead of relief, you felt anger. You were pissed; angry that he’d taken your choice, taken any option other than leaving New York away from you. You were angry that he’d lied to you, that he’d convinced you that he never cared for you in the way that you cared for him. You were angry that he’d gotten so close but stayed so far away.

But, more than that, you were hurt.

You were hurt that he hadn’t trusted you enough to talk to you, to try and figure out where you stood. You were hurt that he’d kept it a secret for so long. You were hurt that he’d left you broken and hadn’t once bothered to see if you’d been able to pick up the pieces.

Despite the hurt and the anger you felt, a bittersweet relief settled in your chest and filled your bones. It made it easier to breathe, to stand, and you felt yourself spiraling down a path you hadn’t considered could ever become a reality as Whiskey shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he confessed, his voice quiet as he looked away from you, out at the view of the street from your window. “I just… I needed to see you. I waited too damn long but I needed to know you were alright. I didn’t plan on tellin’ you,” he laughed, the sound a humorless puff of air. “Didn’t want you to ever know. But I figured that after tonight, you deserved to hear the truth.”

He fell silent for a beat before he sighed. ”I’m headin’ back to New York. You won’t hear from me again until I retire. You’ll be invited to the party but I won’t blame you if you don’t come.” Whiskey offered you a somber look as he tapped at your desk. “I’m sorry, darlin’. I was selfish and you deserved better. I hope you find it down here.”

A million thoughts swirled around your mind but the most ridiculous of them all won. The relief, the beautiful ache you felt when you remembered how it felt to love him, drowned out the sorrow and the anger. It made you reckless, stupid and eager, but it was what prompted you to act when Whiskey turned and took a step toward the door.

“When you retire, do you have a particular middle of nowhere in mind?” Whiskey turned back to you, his eyebrows furrowed, and shook his head slowly. “Louisiana has a lot of land, can be pretty rural. It’s swampy as hell but there’s land. And no one bothers you way out in the country. New Orleans isn’t too far a drive from some pretty secluded places.”

Whiskey blinked, his eyes wide with surprise, before he retraced his steps and moved closer to you. “What’re you sayin’, darlin’?”

You stared at him for a moment, your eyes narrowed and your lips pursed as you tried to find the words you wanted to say. It was difficult, looking at him and not wanting to run or scream or cry, but now that you knew he’d loved you, too, you couldn’t let him leave.

Not again.

“I’m not… I’m not saying we can be what we were. Not right off the bat, anyway. And I’m not asking you to retire right now. But you said it yourself, you’re on your way out. You don’t go out into the field as much anymore and you have a little more freedom to travel. I don’t know if it would work, if it’s even worth a shot, but I missed you. I fucking hate that I did and I’m angry that I don’t hate you but I did and I don’t. There was something here, once upon a time, and it was a good thing. Maybe we could start over, try to see if we can find it again.”

“Darlin’…” Whiskey stepped closer, his eyebrows furrowed as he took in the look of uncertainty on your face. He brought his hand to your cheek, his fingers carefully brushing over your skin. “I can’t… I can’t ask you to do that for me. I don’t wanna interrupt your life. Don’t wanna make things harder for you.”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering,” you reminded him, searching his eyes for any sign of true disagreement. When you found none, you sighed. “My life hasn’t been much of a life. I come to the office, I go on missions, I get drinks with my staff sometimes. That’s about it. I don’t… I tried to date but I couldn’t find anyone that compared. You ruined me, Whiskey.”

Whiskey softened at that, his shoulders sagged with relief and his eyes grew glassy as he leaned in to press his forehead against yours. “You sure about this, darlin’? You don’t gotta do me any favors,” he reminded you, his voice quiet.

“I’m not doing you a favor,” you breathed, your voice steady and your eyes locked on his. “We didn’t work then and that destroyed me. But things are different. We’re different. So, what about now?”

“No time like the present,” Whiskey confirmed, his voice soft as he leaned in and ghosted his lips over yours. “Now seems perfect.”

______________________________________________________

Author’s Note: I don’t have anything to say for myself other than please take this monster away from me. I’m gonna go lay down somewhere now. Thanks @confettucini for a) reading this to make sure it made sense. And b) not letting me delete it all. Also, tell your husband I almost named this ‘Whiskey Business’

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[mandoalorian]

Agent whisky (Teacher) x New agent (student). As you’re both fighting, you both get hot and bothered and reader throws him against a wall and the rest in folds. (Fem reader)

After Class [Jack Daniels x Reader] SMUT

Word count: 2.4k

Rating: 18+

Warnings: SMUT, p in v, creampie, choking, teacher x student, exhibitionist kink, implied age difference

Masterlist

He was insufferable. He was your teacher — and oh, you hated him. You hated how he'd come into class smelling like sweet, honeyed cologne, causing all the girls to swoon at the mere sight of him. It was laughable, really. He wasn't anything special. He was attractive, sure. He had the charm of a king and the politeness of a saint. But it didn't matter because you hated him, and you wanted him to know that you hated him. So you'd talk during his lectures and you'd roll your eyes whenever he tried addressing you directly. He had this know-it-all attitude, he had these deep, chocolate brown eyes that were so easy to get lost in. The Statesman Academy shouldn't have even hired him. It was so easy to get lost in those damn eyes.

His eyes were just a few shades darker than his hair, which he kept hidden under a cringe-worthy cowboy hat. But you'd be lying to yourself if you said you hadn't dreamt of wearing it while you ride him. The dirty fantasies about Mr Daniels (though he'd have you call him 'sir') didn't become regular until a few months ago. Now it was every single class where you became hypnotised by his attractive looks.

You hated his perfectly groomed mustache and how the thought of it brushing against your cunt haunted you during his seminars. You hated the perfect curve in his nose and how you imagined it nudging against your clit as he performed the most life changing oral on you. If only he knew about the things that went on in that filthy little mind of yours.

You practically gasped out loud when Mr Daniels dropped your assignment on the desk in front of you, a circle with a big red 'F' marked on. He quirked an inquisitive eyebrow at you, before moving on to hand out the rest of the essays. No way— there was no way that your essay has been marked fairly. You might have been slacking just a little this semester (due to Mr Daniels obnoxious handsome looks), but not to the extent of getting an F in your finals!

"Well done class, we all performed exceptionally well this term. There is however one person I need to see after class, she knows who she is," Mr Daniels glanced briefly at you and you narrowed your eyes, folding your arms over your chest. "But have an excellent vacation and remember don't party too hard." He winked cheekily before dismissing the class. Once the students filed out of the room, and the bell rang, signifying the end of the day, Mr Daniels stalked back into the classroom. He said nothing, didn't even spare you a look. He padded over to his desk, sunk into his chair and began to go through paperwork.

You waited for something— anything. The silence was deafening, and you began to tap your feet against the floor impatiently. Why the hell was he holding you hostage in his stuffy classroom on the last day of term? You assumed it was due to your abysmal grade on your essay, but he hadn't even mentioned it. He was ignoring you and once again, you hated him for it.

You were staring him out with absolutely no shame, taking in all his features. You admired his broad shoulders and watched his bicep flex as he wrote comments on the work he was checking through.

He'd noticed your staring too. He always had. He tried to contain the blush that crept up on his cheeks as your eyes burned into his body, watching his every move. You could cut the sexual tension with a knife. If he was going to speak to you about your essay result, he'd need to have a drink first. After a few more minutes of silence, he excused himself and left the classroom. Each professor at the academy had their own affinity for alcohol, Mr Daniels' beverage of choice being a glass of warm whiskey. He poured it into a small tumbler, admiring the amber liquid as he dropped a few cubes of ice in, letting it clink against the glass. The mere thought of you in his classroom, waiting for you, was enough to make his cock stir. He sighed, gulping down the liquid and made his way back to the classroom. It was the first time you and Mr Daniels had some one on one alone time. He hadn't drank enough to get intoxicated, but it was enough for him to lower his inhibitions.

He walked into the classroom and locked the door behind him, before turning to face you.

"Why am I here?" you asked with an unamused frown.

"You went from being a straight A student to getting an F in your most important exam of the year," Mr Daniels huffed with a disappointed shake of his head. You didn't care— no, you couldn't let yourself care about your professor. But seeing the despondency written across his face was enough to make your heart yearn with guilt for letting him down. "What happened?" he quizzed you eventually.

You considered his question. You weren't a dishonest person, and you knew exactly what had happened. You had been so distracted by your professor's ravenous demeanor, that you'd become too overcome with sexual desire to even focus the slightest in his lectures.

"You happened." you said, regretting the words as soon as they left your lips. Your voice broke slightly— you sounded pathetic.

"Excuse me?" he asked, raising both of his eyebrows in disingenuous surprise. You wanted to wipe the smirk that you saw creeping up on his lips. Your education wasn't a joke.

"I was doing fine in Agent Tequila's class," you acknowledged. "Maybe it's your teaching." you shrugged.

"My teaching?" Mr Daniels gasped incredulously.

"Oh quit playing dumb," you said, suddenly rising to your feet. Your chair scraped against the floor as you stalked over to your teacher. "I know my worth Mr Daniels, and it's not an F."

"Please, call me Jack." He hummed, reaching out and caressing your cheek. You subconsciously leaned into his smooth hand as his thumb rubbed gentle circles into your jaw. You hadn't even realised how close he had gotten to you as he admired your face, and the intimacy began to take effect down below.

"Oh, first name basis?" you spat sarcastically, pressing the palm of your hand against his chest, threading your fingers through the buttons of his white shirt so you could gently graze the skin of his tan chest. "How polite."

"Manners maketh man," he smirked, quoting the Statesman mantra, and you wanted to wack that dumb cowboy hat off his head. "Let me translate that for you," he pouted condescendingly, letting his hands fall to your own chest.

He squeezed your tits through your blouse, drawing a few wanton moans from you. "Wh- what makes you think I need that translated?" you asked your professor, trying to keep your cool. This is exactly what you had dreamt about for the past three months. His thumb rolled over your hardening nipples, pinching them now and again so he could watch you squirm underneath his touch.

"The F on your paper?" he shot back. Your eyes widened and you pushed him into the wall, his back slamming against the concrete as he groaned from the pressure you'd placed on him. He would be lying if he said it didn't feel good though. It was rare he'd have a lady take charge — especially not one as young and bright eyed as yourself.

"I hate you," you snarled as his fingers dipped under the hem of your short, pleated skirt. He chuckled darkly, sending a frenzy of butterflies erupting in your stomach.

"Oh sugar," he drawled, the smell of scotch lacing his breath as he pressed a soft kiss into your jaw. You couldn't contain the small whimper that escaped your lips. He smirked, knowing exactly what he could do to you— how he could make you feel. "Look at you… got me pressed against the wall. I'm your teacher." he reminded you with a small tut.

"You drive me crazy," you admitted in a fluster, your hand falling down his button up shirt and resting at his oversized belt buckle. The coolness of the metal stung your skin as you parted your legs slightly, rubbing what you could on his jean clad thigh. "When you stand up there, in front of the class, talking all that shit about, about-" you couldn't even get your words out as his fingers graced your cunt, feeling out your clit under the material of your dampening panties.

"What?" Jack murmured, his teeth grazing your jaw as he sucked softly against your skin. "What is it?" he urged you to continue, your breathing jumping as he continued to softly press his thick fingers along your aching core. You tried to answer but nothing except lewd moan came out, and you felt your cheeks heat up with embarrassment. "You joined the academy. You wanted to train as an agent. Maybe you'd prefer it if I transferred your classes to, let's say, Agent Champ? Or the sweet Ginger Ale?"

You curled your fingers around his leather belt. "N-no," you growled. "I want you," you revealed as you unclipped it and tossed it to one side. You groaned wantonly as you felt his erection press up against your thigh. It was clear that your professor wanted you too. "You know if- if Principal Champ finds out about this…" you moaned, working your fingers at Jack's zipper.

"He's not going to find out about this," Jack snapped, his harsh tone causing your eyes to snap open.

"O-okay cowboy," you bit your lip seductively, finally pulling his zipper down and freeing his hard, aching cock. You immediately wrapped your hand around him, smearing his precum down his length and started to pump at his erection, satisfied with the string of curses falling from his tongue.

"Fuck- so good," Jack praised as you worked his cock with your hands. "But I want more… I want to bury my cock in the warmth of your pussy. Would you like that baby girl?" he hummed, both his hands grabbing on your shoulders as he turned around and pushed you into the wall. You gasped as he ripped open your blouse in one swift manouver, the buttons popping and falling everywhere. His hungry lips pressed against yours as he slid his tongue into your mouth, kissing you roughly and with passion.

"Someone could just walk in." you gasped as Jack yanked your skirt down, letting it pool around your ankles.

He groaned longingly as he played with the waistband of your panties. "Lace? For school? I knew you were a dirty girl." he chuckled darkly before pulling them down. He wasted no time, pressed two fingers into your weeping cunt and rubbing between your folds. He stroked tight and precise circles into your clit, desperate to pump an orgasm out of you before he even entered. Your eyes snapped shut as you pressed your fingernails into his still clothed back. "Oh, you like that don't you?"

"Mm don't stop," you begged, rolling your hips against his fingers.

"Is this what you think about during my lectures?" Jack cooed. "Or do you imagine my cock?" He pressed his blunt tip against the inside of your thigh, pushing himself in between your legs. "So fucking wet and all for me." your professor shook his head in slight awe. You pushed the hat off his head and tangled your fingers in his dark brown hair, tugging teasingly in attempt to gain a reaction out of him.

Without warning, two of his fingers pushed inside of you and began to scissor you open. "If you want my cock I gotta make sure you're able to take it," he whispered huskily.

His fingers worked like magic and it wasn't long before your walls tightened around him and you reached your climax. "Greedy pussy." Jack sighed, removing his fingers and sucking them clean.

"Please sir, fuck me," you begged, your hands cupping his face as he lined himself up with your entrance.

"I told you, call me Jack," he growled before pushing himself deep into your quivering hole.

"Fuck Jack," you whined once he was fully seated. He was bigger than you had ever taken before, and he set a brutal pace. The classroom filled with obscene wet sounds as every single thrust became harder and sloppier as his balls slapped against your dripping cunt.

Jack kept up his pace, not halting once. "You always- you always fucking answer back," he whispered, digging one hand into your hip and bringing the other to your neck, squeezing it just enough for your eyes to widen slightly.

"Mm you always give me a reason too," you shot back and Jack's grip around you tightened as he fucked you senselessly.

"Shit, gonna cum. Gonna cum inside you and you're going to take it— understood?" he asked breathlessly. You nodded in affirmation and it only took a few more messy thrusts before he spilled his salty seed inside you.

He carefully sat you down on the edge of his desk as you came down from your own high. "Are you okay?" he asked you as he tucked himself back in his pants and adjusted his tie.

"That better have earned me an A," you muttered, biting your lip and shooting a seductive glance towards your teacher.

"Fair is fair," Jack shrugged. "You can leave when you're ready. Have a nice vacation." he smiled, back to his usual polite professor self. It made you sick— the way he could just fuck you with no remorse against the wall of his classroom and then pretend like nothing happened.

You stood up, taking your clothes from the ground and lazily sliding back into your skirt. "I don't have a fucking blouse," you mumbled, your eyes following the abundance of buttons that trailed across the floor. "You ruined it."

Mr Daniels took his suit jacket and wrapped it around your naked torso, buttoning it up gently so you were all covered up. "Do you need a lift home?" he asked.

You bit your lip, remembering your parents weren't home and smiled. "Actually, yeah please." you told him, wondering if he'd be interested in a round two.

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[just-here-for-the-moment]

The Wedding Night

Word count: 4900+

Rating: explicit, 18+ only

Outline: Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x “You” (cis/het female reader; “blank canvas”/no physical description/no name/no use of “Y/N”)

Warnings: Jack running his filthy mouth; mentions of virginity and defloration; mentions of lack of experience; gorgeous lingerie; one light spanking; fingering/F receiving; oral sex/F receiving; oral sex/M receiving; unprotected P/V sex in the context of marriage; breeding kink; mentions of anal sex; mentions of blowjobs/gagging; mentions of sex toys/dildos; alcohol; marijuana

@quica-quica-quica - My love, this is what my brain did when we talked about me writing something for you that was "Xtra filthy Whiskey with a little fluff" ... You can drag me off to horny jail now, LOL. My work here is done! :D

A very special Thank You to @babypedrito for beta-reading and absolving me of all of my horny-jail sins.

---

"Are you nervous, honey?"

"No, I don't think so... well, maybe a little. Will it hurt?"

"Oh darlin' I hope not. I'll be real gentle with you."

---

The wedding had been elegant and fun and a little flashy, just like Jack.

The sheer number of guests had been stressful, but you had been blissed out all day, letting Jack spin you around the dance floor as many times as he could at the reception. You didn't want to start your wedding night exhausted, so you and Jack had opted for a mid-morning ceremony followed by a lunch reception. Statesman had splashed out for all of the liquor and an open bar, but you had been so busy greeting your guests and smiling for pictures that you hadn't had time to sip a full glass of champagne, let alone eat anything. The minute you and Jack arrived at your honeymoon suite, he had placed an order for room service and given you orders to eat, shower, and take a nap.

God, you loved that man. He was sassy and stubborn, but he did take excellent care of you.

When you woke, the last of the evening sun was streaming through your balcony doors. You stretched and yawned. The bed was empty, so you wandered out into the sitting room. Poor Jack was half-undressed and passed out on the sofa in front of a muted football game, the TV remote rising and falling on his chest as he snored softly. You shook his arm gently, "Baby?"

His dark eyes popped open and he smiled at you. "Hey, darlin'. Did you get some rest?"

"Yeah, Jack, I did. Thank you."

"Well I can't have you all tuckered out before we even get started. Wouldn't be gentlemanly of me." He winked at you.

You smiled at him and fluttered your eyelashes. "And are we going to get started soon? I'll need to change into my wedding night ensemble."

He sat up and grabbed your arm, pulling you down onto his lap as you squealed.

"Do you have to change? You look just fine as you are, honey."

You laughed. You had napped in an old undershirt of Jack's and nothing else except your wedding and engagement rings. You cooed softly at him as you rubbed your hand against his chest. "But Jack, baby, I bought it just for tonight. We only get to do this once, and I wanted to make it special for you."

He scowled as if he wanted to say no. You decided to pout your lower lip out just a little and sweeten your voice. "Please, baby? Please let me wear my special lingerie for you. It's my first request as your wife."

He pretended that he was giving in resentfully. "Alright, darlin'. If it'll make you happy."

You kissed him on the tip of his nose. "Oh, Jack. I think we'll both be very happy." You stood up off his lap and he swatted your bottom playfully.

"Now, now. None of that." You shook one finger at him playfully. "Just give me a few minutes and you can go lie down in the bedroom while I get ready. I'll meet you in there."

You bounced into the bedroom to grab what you needed, then locked yourself in the bathroom to freshen up. You heard Jack groan as he stretched and got up from the couch, soft footsteps moving to the bedroom. You caught your own eyes in the mirror and grinned. This was going to be so good.

It didn't take you long to get dressed, because your wedding night "ensemble" consisted of just three pieces. You had purchased an ivory-white babydoll nightgown with a big satin bow centered between the lace cups. The gown's skirt was billowy and entirely sheer, and the satin-ribbon hem hit you just at the top of your thighs. The back featured a slit from the band all the way down, forming a flyaway opening. There was a matching ivory lace thong with an open crotch, and you had found coordinating ivory marabou slippers with a kitten heel to tie things off. You were dressed in two minutes. All that was left was a quick touch-up of perfume and mascara, and a few deep breaths.

You opened the door a crack and called out to him. "You ready, baby? No peeking!"

"I'm not peeking."

You poked your head out to see Jack sitting against the pillows on the king-sized bed, hands dutifully placed over both eyes. You slunk out the door and stood at the foot of the bed, tucking and tugging the last tiny adjustments to your outfit. You put your fists on your hips and smiled at him. "Okay, you can look now."

Jack pulled his hands away and you saw his eyes take a half-second to refocus on you. When they did, his jaw dropped. He gave you one long look up and down, and you giggled and spun once to give him the full picture.

"Baby doll," he bit his lip and looked hungry. "You look good enough to eat. You did all that for me?"

You laughed. "All what, Jack? There's hardly any material here."

"Don't I know it." He whistled, long and low. "You want me to leave it all on or rip it off of you?"

You gasped and giggled. "You know I don't know what I'm doing. I guess I'll have to let you decide."

“Oh, baby girl... ” he shook his head and got up off the bed. “I don’t know if I can be in charge of such an important decision.”

“Well then, let’s just play it by ear and we can decide later.” You cocked an eyebrow at him as he wrapped his arms around your waist. “Because I am eager to get started.”

He smirked at you and tilted his head. “Is that so?”

“Yes, it’s one of the benefits of being Mrs. Jack Daniels. Now that you’ve made me an honest woman, I finally get to see what all the fuss is about.” You smiled shyly. “Unless, you don’t want to?”

“Now hold on a minute darlin’. You know I’ve been looking forward to tonight.” He kissed you. “I just want to do it right, that’s all. I wanna do right by my wife her first time.”

You bit your lip and looked up at him through your eyelashes. “I know you do, baby. I trust you.”

"Are you nervous, honey?"

"No, I don't think so... well, maybe a little. Will it hurt?"

"Oh darlin' I hope not. I'll be real gentle with you."

You smiled and leaned in for a kiss. Jack held you tenderly, taking his time and working your mouth slowly open before plunging in with an eager tongue. The kiss was nothing new to you. You and Jack had kissed like this hundreds of times… but now you were husband and wife, and it was your wedding night.

You let yourself melt into Jack’s embrace, and when the kissing got so good that you moaned, he smiled against your mouth. He moved his lips to plant kisses on your cheek and jaw and neck, murmuring to you in his low, gravelly drawl. “Are you ready?”

You nodded, and then released a breathy, “Yes, Jack. Yes, I’m so ready. Can we please go to bed?”

He pulled back. “Well, I need to know you’re really ready. We only get to do this once.”

You considered for a moment, biting your lip. “I do, I want to. But I’m a little nervous. Can I have some champagne? Just to relax.”

He nodded. “Okay, just one glass though.”

“Thank you, baby. I just want to relax a little bit, not get drunk or anything. I want to remember tonight for the rest of my life.”

He kissed your forehead. “Me, too darlin’.”

You sat on the bed as Jack went out to the living room to retrieve one of the “his and hers” champagne bottles that Champ had sent over, and two champagne flutes. He popped the bottle open and poured two glasses, then sat next to you on the bed.

“Cheers,” you said as you clinked your glass against his. “To us.”

“To us.” Jack sipped his champagne and wrapped his other arm around you, rubbing lazy circles into your back with his thumb. You loved his thick fingers and strong hands. You had seen what they could do with a dangerous whip and lasso, and you trusted him utterly with every part of your body.

When your glasses were empty, you felt a little looser, the edges of your nerves just barely blurred. You smiled at him and handed him your glass to set down on the bedside table. “I’m ready.”

He tucked his head down toward you, slotting his mouth over yours for a deep kiss. “Okay, we’ll get started. Lie down on the bed for me. Scoot back a little.” Jack stood up and faced you.

You lay back and scooted up so that your feet were flat on the bed. The hem of your nightgown slid up and pooled across your hips. Jack kneeled down on the plush carpet and stroked your leg with one strong hand. He lifted one foot and kissed the inside of your ankle softly. You shivered, and he repeated the action with your other ankle.

“Can I take these off?” He tapped the top of one slipper.

You lifted your head to look down at him. “Oh, yeah, sorry. I guess you should take them off.”

“Ain’t nothing to be sorry about, honey. You look amazing.” He slipped them off gently and tossed them theatrically over his shoulders, making you laugh.

“What should I do with my hands?” You wanted to know if you should be doing something other than leaving them palm-side down on the bedspread next to your hips. It felt stiff and awkward.

“Just relax,” said Jack. “You’re doin’ fine.”

You nodded, laying your head back down as he resumed stroking your shin.

“Can I touch you?” He slid his fingers a little higher, grazing the inside of your knee.

“Yes, please.”

He ran his fingers up to the inside of your thigh, sweeping your skin with a soft touch. Each graze of his fingers set your skin on fire, and you felt your anticipation build. You were getting wet; you could feel it, and you knew that it would help with what was coming next.

Jack paused his touch at the outer band of your thong, just at your pelvic bone. “Do you want to leave this on or take it off?

“I don’t know. Um, it’s crotchless, does that make a difference?”

“Not right now, but if it gets uncomfortable we can take it off.”

“Okay, just leave it on then... and thank you.”

“For what?” Jack stroked your lace-covered mound slowly. Little sparks of electricity flew everywhere, buzzing outward from wherever his fingers touched.

“For taking such good care of me. Especially on our wedding night.”

“Oh darlin’, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he drawled. “I’ll take care of you for the rest of my life. I love you.”

“Oh Jack,” you sighed. “I love you, too.”

“I’m going to touch you between your legs now. Just breathe and relax, okay?”

“Okay.”

You felt Jack’s fingers stroke down over your clit and pet you softly there through the lace before moving down. He hooked a strap of the open crotch with his finger and pulled it to the side. The pad of one thick finger paused at your outer labia and you bit the inside of your mouth nervously.

“You ready?” Jack sounded calm.

“Yes, please, baby. Please touch me.”

He answered by spreading your outer lips open and rubbing a line gently up and down over the inner labia, spreading moisture as he went. You were practically dripping for him. He pressed one finger against your opening and applied gentle pressure, letting your slick do the work of guiding his fingertip inside. You felt his thick finger enter slowly, and when it was finally all the way in you exhaled.

“Is that okay, darlin’?”

“Yes,” you breathed out. “Yes, you feel so good.”

“Okay, I’m going to put another one in. You tell me if it’s too much for you, honey.”

“Yes, Jack.”

He pulled his finger out to the tip and you felt its neighbor join it. The pair pressed into you again, slower than ever. You felt so good, all of your nerve endings sparkling, the wetness growing and growing as Jack worked you open. You could do this forever.

“How are you doing, honey?”

Your voice came out half-whisper, half-gasp. “Ohhhh, Jackie. I feel so good.”

“You sure feel good down here, darlin’. Makes me want to taste you.”

“You can do that?”

“Yes, ma’am. If you give me the go-ahead, I’ll eat you out like a Sunday dinner.”

You laughed, and more tension left your body. “Okay. Yes, please eat me… Wait, can I call it that?”

“If you let me do it, you can call it whatever you want.” He chuckled. “You ready?”

“Oh yes.” You flung your arms up over your head and stretched. “I’m ready, baby.”

Jack left both fingers inserted and used his free hand to open the straps of your thong wider. You felt cool air hit your clitoris and you shuddered. Then Jack’s warm lips met your intimate center and you moaned.

“Oh, Jackie. You feel so good. I can’t believe we’ve never done this before.”

He pulled back, sounding almost plaintive. “You said you wanted to wait until the wedding night, darlin’. I was just followin’ orders.”

“Well I’m glad we’re doing it now.”

“Me, too.” He kissed your clitoris again and you gasped. The contact sent sparks racing up your spine. Your legs shook and threatened to close around his head.

“Keep ‘em open for me, darlin’. I want to see this pretty pussy as I taste it.”

You shifted your feet a little further apart. “Is this good?”

“Oh, it’s good, honey. You should see yourself, all spread out for me on our weddin’ night. If I’d known you were going to look like this, I would’ve married you the day we met.”

You lifted your head to look down at him again. “Are you going to keep talking, or are you gonna eat me?”

He didn’t answer, but plunged his tongue out to flick your clit . Your hips bucked and he pulled his fingers out gently. He reached up and tugged at the front of your thong. “Can I take this off? It’ll be easier access.”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

He hooked the side straps away from your hips and you lifted your butt to help him slide it off. He threw it to the side and wrapped his strong grip around your thighs as he lowered his mouth to you again.

His kisses and licks were urgent, an open-mouthed assault on your tender and swollen pussy as you writhed and squeaked. His iron grip on your upper legs kept you anchored to him, even as you shifted across the bedspread. You had no sense of time passing; it could have been seconds or minutes later when you felt your orgasm build until you thought you were going to snap.

“Jack! Oh fuck... Jack, I’m gonna come. I’m coming for you now!” Your moans and shouts didn’t phase him, he just kept licking and slurping at you as your pussy throbbed and clenched around his tongue. He slowed his pace just a little as you climaxed, and kept holding you tight as he kissed you more gently, bringing you down with him as you finally relaxed.

You came back to yourself after a few moments, your breathing slowing into something more normal. Jack lifted his head and relaxed his grip on you. “How was that, honey?”

“Oh, Jesus, Jack,” you gasped. “For chrissakes. I think I saw stars.”

He chuckled and stood up. His face was wet from nose to chin, mustache slick, hair mussed and eyes twinkling. He was absolutely wicked. You couldn’t believe he was finally yours.

You sat up and hugged him around his waist, resting one ear against his tummy. “Ohhh, thank you, Jack. That was absolutely wonderful.”

He petted your hair as you squeezed him. “You’re welcome, baby girl. Do you feel good?”

“Yes, Jack. Oh, I feel amazing.”

“Do you want to try now?”

You pulled away and looked up at him, eager to try anything he wanted. “Try what?”

Jack took a half step back and shed his suit pants, then his undershirt and briefs and socks. You watched as he undressed, taking in the sight of his strong arms and hands. Your eyes widened at the sight of his cock, growing bigger by the second. When he was naked he gave himself a few lazy pumps and then cupped your chin with his free hand. He looked deep into your eyes with that calm, authoritative manner of his.

“You just kiss it around the tip a little and then open your mouth, darlin’. I’ll show you what to do after that.”

You grinned and nodded up at him. “Okay.”

You looked back down at him, at his fist wrapped around the base of his hard, dark cock. Every pump of his heart was sending more blood to his erection. The head of his penis was nearly maroon, and you wanted more than anything to give him the release he had given you so freely.

You leaned forward hesitantly and placed a few soft kisses to the sides of the head, next to the slit of him that was growing damp. Tiny pecks turned into softer smooches, and Jack waited patiently while you got your fill of the experience. The sensation of his velvety skin on your lips was enticing, and you found yourself moaning and drawing out the kisses for longer and longer.

Finally Jack tapped your shoulder, indicating you to stop. He brought his large hand up to cup your chin gently. “You ready, honey? You can open up if you’re ready to try.”

You nodded and opened your mouth obediently, as wide as you could, tongue hanging out. Jack laughed gently.

“Relax, darlin’. You don’t have to unhinge your jaw. Just open up like you’re going to take a taste of something delicious, ‘cause you are.”

You relaxed, letting your mouth close a bit. Jack placed the tip of his penis just inside your lips and took his hand off your jaw. He let it rest on your tongue and then he slowly slid it from side to side as he shifted just a bit deeper.

“You can suck on it if you want, real gentle.” Jack’s voice was encouraging, his drawl low and husky.

You closed your lips gently around the head and gave one experimental suck, like a lollipop. Jack pumped his fist up and down gently, “That’s it, darlin’, real slow and soft.”

You switched between soft sucks of the head and open-mouthed licks, feeling awfully pleased at the huffy breaths and moans that were coming out of Jacks’ mouth above you.

“God, honeybee. Is this your first time giving a man a blowjob?”

“Mmm-hmm,” you hummed.

“Well, darlin’ you’re doing just fine.” Jack brought his free hand to cup the back of your head. “Are you ready to go deeper?”

You flicked your eyes up to him, giving him a wide, innocent stare as you pulled off. “Deeper? How deep does it go?”

“Oh, all the way, darlin’. I think you can fit all of me into that sinful little mouth of yours.”

You looked from his dark eyes to his penis and back again. “Are you sure? I won’t choke on it?”

“Oh, no. I’ll be gentle, honey. We’ll go real slow and get you used to it.”

You nodded and opened your mouth again. Jack placed the head of his penis back on your tongue and you closed your lips gently around it. He removed his fist and then placed both hands on the sides of your head.

“Go slow, honey.”

You looked back up at him to see that he was gazing at you tenderly, enchanted by the sight of his cock disappearing into your soft mouth. He grinned softly at you. “Just go slow.”

You closed your eyes so that you could concentrate on it. He held your head gently between his big hands as you relaxed your jaw and throat, trying to take him as deep as you could. When the head hit the back of your tongue, Jack held it there and moaned soft praises to you.

“Oh baby girl, you are just perfect. Look how I fit in that sweet little mouth of yours.”

You glowed at his praises and pressed just a bit deeper. When the head hit the back of your throat, Jack made a soft hiss and pulled himself out.

You looked at him with wide eyes. “Did I do okay, baby?”

“Oh honey, yes. You did great, but if we keep doing that I’m not gonna last long, and we won’t get to the main event.”

You giggled. “Okay, where do you want me baby?”

“Why don’t you lie back on those big pillows and just relax, darlin’.”

You scooted up to the top of the bed and lay flat. “Like this?”

“Yes, darlin’. Just like that, pretty as a picture.” Jack knelt on the bed and crawled up to you. He reminded you of some jungle cat stalking its prey. He was going to devour you.

“Do I need to take my nightgown off?”

“Only if you want to, but it won’t get in my way.”

You nodded. “Then I’ll leave it on, I like it.”

“That’s fine with me, honey. Are you ready for me?”

You nodded vigorously. “Yes, Jack. I’ve been waiting so long. Please.”

He lay next to you and stroked you from hip to breast, cupping you through the lace before running his hand back down. He lifted the hem of your nightgown and pressed two thick fingers to your entrance. “You’re still so wet for me, but I have lube if you need it.”

You shook your head, “No, I think I’ll be okay.”

He assented. “Alright, but if you need it, you just say so and I’ll stop.”

“Okay, baby.” You cupped his jaw and kissed him deeply. “I love you, my husband.”

His face broke into a soft smile. “And I love my wife. Can’t believe I’m so lucky.”

“To find a virgin for your wedding night? Something special to deflower, that no one else has ever touched?”

“No, just to find you.” He kissed your forehead. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Even if you weren’t a virgin I’d still love you, still be the luckiest man alive to have you on my wedding night.”

Tears sprang to your eyes at his tender words, threatening to overspill. “Oh, Jack. I love you so much.”

He continued caressing you with his fingers. “I love you, honey. You think you’re ready for me now?”

“Yes, Jack, please please please. Right now.”

“Alright.” He shifted up to hover over you. “Just open your legs and relax your hips. I’ll be extra gentle.”

You did as he asked, releasing one slow breath out through an o-shaped mouth. He pressed the tip of his penis to your opening, then looked at you one last time with eyebrows raised for permission. You nodded and said, “Go ahead.”

He pressed in slowly, stretching you open. He felt so big and hard and glorious as he slid between your walls. The wetness in your core provided so much glide that he got all the way inside before you even realized it. He bottomed out and stopped, holding himself up on his arms to look into your eyes. You could feel your own slick mixed with Jack’s saliva drip down between your cheeks.

“Are you alright, darlin?”

You smiled, “Oh, I’m more than alright, Jack. My husband just took my virginity on our wedding night.”

He leaned down and kissed you. “I’m going to start moving in and out now, but if you need me to stop, just say so.”

You nodded. Jack started easing his hips in and out, and you could feel every steel inch of him sliding in and out. You felt another orgasm starting to build. “Oh, Jackie, I think I’m going to come for you again. Can you touch me down there?”

He shifted back to his knees and reached one broad thumb to swipe your clit. “God, honey, you’re so wet for me.”

You barely heard him as the room started to get fuzzy. You felt the dam threaten to burst, and you managed to gasp out, “I’m co-” before you bucked your hips again and came hard, clenching around his cock as he slowly pumped in and out.

“Oh fuck, baby girl. You should see yourself. That greedy little pussy is trying to eat me alive. I’m not gonna last much longer. Can I go faster?”

You moaned, “Oh my god, yes. Go for it.”

Jack took his finger off your clit and pumped just a little faster. “Oh fuck, baby girl. Where do you want me to come?”

“Inside, Jack. We’re man and wife now. You can fill me up and I’ll give you gorgeous babies.”

“Oh honey, I just want to fuck you and watch you get so round. You’re going to be pregnant before you know it.”

“Yes, Jack! Yes!”

“You gonna have my babies? You want all of me?” His words were exhaled in rough gasps. “I’m gonna fuck a baby into you. You won’t be able to get rid of me, you gorgeous girl. Gonna carry a part of me around with you for the rest of your days.”

You felt one more impossible rush of slick dripping from your pussy at his words, and you simply moaned, incapable of speech.

Jack suddenly fell onto you, face buried in your neck, and you felt him thrust hard and then stop. Something hot was releasing inside your pussy, and you whimpered and stroked the back of his head.

“Oh, Jack. I think I love you.”

He groaned into your shoulder, the words muffled. “I love you, too, darlin’.”

---

“Jesus Christ, Jack. That was amazing.” You took a sip of your champagne and passed the joint over to his side of the bed. “That was better than that time in Cancún!”

Jack laughed and choked on his toke, then passed it back to you. “God, I loved Cancún.” He took a long drink of champagne. “Was that the time I fucked you so hard the neighbors called the cops?”

You giggled. “No, that was that shitty little hostel in Amsterdam while we were on assignment, remember?” You took another puff and thought while you held it in, then you blew out a long string of smoke. “No, wait, it was Belgium.”

“That was fun.” Jack grinned to himself. “Remember Italy?”

“Which time? The yacht off the coast, or that blow job outside the Colosseum that one time at 3 a.m.?” You passed the weed back to him.

“Oh, Christ, honeybee. I forgot about the Colosseum.” He took a long toke and another thoughtful sip from his glass. “But that yacht was fucking amazing. I was balls-deep in you under that blue Mediterranean sky. God, you were so sexy in that little swimsuit you were wearing. Made me wanna marry you right there.”

“Aw, you old softie. You’re such a sweetheart.”

He handed the roach back to you to finish. “Remember L.A.? You looked so good gagging on my cock in that bathroom, mascara runnin’ all down your face. I almost felt bad it was a convenience store. I should have taken you back to the hotel first.”

“No way! That was hot. I had that plug in my ass all day, and you did me just fine when we got back. I couldn’t sit right for three days.” You threw your head back and laughed, nearly upsetting the bottle of champagne and the Altoids tin full of joints sitting on your lap.

Jack reached a hand out to steady the bottle. You fished a fresh joint out of the tin and closed the lid. A thought occurred to you as you lit it.

You exhaled and turned to him with wide eyes. “Holy shit, Jack. I should’ve bought my vibrating panties. Maybe we can run out tomorrow and buy a new pair.”

“Nah, they never get you off right. You said they move around too much.” He took the joint from you and drained the last of his champagne. “How about a new vibrator instead?”

“Okay, but tomorrow night it’s your turn to be the virgin.”

He exhaled a huge lungful of smoke and passed the joint back to you, waving his hand to indicate he was done. “Alright, but you have to promise not to be gentle. Can we do college professor and failing student?”

“Mmmm…” you thought for a moment. “Yes, but only if I get to spank you.”

“You got it, honey.”

You leaned over and kissed him. “God, I love my husband.”

He smiled at you and took your empty glass. “I love you, darlin’.”

--- Just-here-for-the-moment’s masterlist

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@anaaaispunk @justanotherblonde23 @gracie7209 @nicolethered @honestly-shite @driedgreentomatoes @dihra-vesa @1800-fight-me @the-queen-of-fools @juletheghoul

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[oogaboogasphincter]

The 50/10 Method (Agent Whiskey x f!reader)

Summary: Jack makes the most of your 10 minute study break. 

Word Count: 2.7k+

Rating: E (explicit) 18+ ONLY! bc this is just cringey smut lmfao

Warnings: smut (oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v sex (obvi use protection irl), very easily and conveniently reached orgasms (this is a fantasy i can do what i want skjfkd), dirty talk, one (1) allusion to thigh riding and one (1) instance of 💙spitting💙, fingering, positions i hope i've given enough detail so y’all can imagine what i was picturing💀), pet names (sweetheart, honey, cowboy *affectionately*, good girl, baby), there’s a sentence about reader having long-ish hair, reader and jack have a dog, swearing, reader is afab and is called things like good girl and the like, just overall trash grammar and structure 😇

Author’s Note: so this is very poorly written and extremely self-indulgent, as i myself use the 50/10 method 🙃. but i had a lot of fun with it, and i think that’s what writing is supposed to be all about! :) also i was heavily inspired to write this after reading “Take a Break” by @mellowswriting​ and “Study Buddy” by @pascalpanic​. please go check those out because they’re absolutely fantastic!!!!! +while you’re at it, i would highly advise you to read anything on their masterlists bc they’re just 💜exquisite💜

gif by @thernandalorian​

The lines of text on your computer screen are starting to blend into each other, creating a single run-on sentence that one of your previous English teachers would ridicule the author for. The sharp curves and angles that distinguish each letter from the next are becoming soft and dull, blurring into each other until your brain can only recognize it as a smeared streak of black on white.

It’s 11:00am on a Saturday, a big exam set for the upcoming Monday’s morning. You don’t feel rushed for time, or overloaded with unknown material, and the early hours of the day have been quite productive. Following a shared breakfast of homemade waffles in bed with Jack, your boyfriend, you didn’t complain when setting up your study station on the living room’s large oak table. If anything, you had been excited to begin studying early in the hopes of finishing your review by the end of the day. That way, tomorrow would be free for you and Jack to do whatever you pleased.

However, as the hours went by, your motivation was slowly but surely diminishing. The serene study atmosphere that you usually thrive in is now driving you mad. You yearn for a noise, any noise; a bird to sing a song in the tree outside your window, the smack of your dog’s loose wrinkles against each other as he attempts to shake the sleep out of him, a pencil unable to stop itself from rolling and dropping onto the floor with a tink.

You’re momentarily gifted with the crisp sound of a page turning. You flit your eyes over to gaze upon the source of your granted wish and your heart flutters in reaction to the sight: Jack’s resting on the couch, cowboy hat balanced on the back of it, deeply absorbed in the next installment of his favorite murder-mystery series. You find it curious that his desire for an adrenaline-filled challenge doesn’t stop when he comes home from mission after mission that nearly cost him his life. You’ll ask him about his insatiability one day, but for now you categorize it as fictional research for his Statesman assignments.

Your short glance quickly turns into an entranced stare. Jack looks... divine. Fetching. Luscious. As he’s lying on his back, neck propped up against the arm of the couch, his book balanced on his chest, relaxation radiates off of him in waves and utterly seduces you. You’re surprised that he hasn’t been a greater distraction to you throughout the morning. How have you managed to ignore the denim-wearin’, plaid-shirted, pornstache-sportin’ cowboy of your dreams that is only a few steps away?

Involuntarily, the thigh muscles of your crossed legs contract in an effort to bring some semblance of friction to your now weeping core. Similar to your imaginings of your dog earlier, you shake your head to force these heavy, unwanted feelings to dissipate and turn back to the work in front of you. Of course, Jack does the opposite of what you’d like him to do and takes an interest in your fidgeting. He peeks over the top of his book, “You cold, sweetheart?” 

His question is reasonable: you’re purposely wearing a skirt that’s so short it rides up quite high when you sit. You don’t dare to meet his eyes and answer while pulling a textbook close and opening it up, “No, I’m okay.”

Fortunately he returns to his reading. Your attention is able to retain itself for about a paragraph, but then your mind takes a sharp detour back to those pesky, steamy desires. You mentally huff at your inability to remain concentrated on your studies and rifle through the options of what you can do to satiate yourself for the time being. 

You could switch texts and force your brain to recognize the change and therefore become distracted. You could pick out some colored writing utensils and bring some fun to active reading. You could say fuck it, go straddle Jack and beg him to use you in whichever way he would like.

Jack interrupts your brainstorming, “Are you sure you don’t need a blanket or sumthin’? I can go get my jacket for ya.” 

The attentiveness of your southern lover melts your heart. You turn to him, “No, really, I’m okay, thanks.”

“I wouldn’t count a bathroom break as taking away from your 50 minutes, honey, if that’s what’s makin’ you twitch.” 

You had been implementing and strictly adhering to the 50/10 method all morning: study for 50 minutes, take a break for ten. Its effectiveness was never doubted, as it has proven to work for you for years. Only ten minutes into this 50 minute period, the devil of restlessness pokes at you and makes you think could time go by any slower? A hand comes up to cover the blush creeping across your cheek as you dismiss Jack’s suggestion, “No, that’s not it.”

Behind your embarrassed hand, Jack cocks an eyebrow at you. Your simple choice of words has given the Agent a hint, that there is something that’s bothering you, he just hasn’t figured it out yet and you don’t want to admit what it is for some reason. He returns to his book, however lost in thought about what your problem could be, while you task every cell in your body to pay attention to your studies. 

35 minutes remain on the clock, and Jack guesses, “Did you have too much coffee?”

You can’t help but grin at his sleuthing, “No, I just had my regular.”

He conjures up another possible solution five minutes later, “Are you itchin’ to get out of the house? We haven’t left in two days.”

He’s getting warmer. Both of you know exactly why you haven’t left the house in two days: you’d been occupied with activities of the sinful variety. You can’t gauge yet whether or not he knows he’s dancing around the answer, “Baby, you’re distracting me. And nope, it’s not that.” 

He smiles apologetically, “Sorry,” and uses his book as a partition, blocking your ability to procrastinate and just visually drool all over him.

Silence fills the next 20 minutes. Even though Jack is out of your sight, details from your observations exaggerate themselves in your mind to the point that they’re all encompassing, intoxicating. The way his jeans wrap around his legs ever so perfectly, the worn denim hugging those muscular thighs that he loves for you to grind yourself against when you’re feeling especially desperate (like now). How his plaid flannel slopes over the swell of his belly, stretching tight against his skin as his diaphragm contracts and deflating when he exhales. Even his large feet, strewn about lazily on the couch, his toes pointing in different directions, amuse you. 

Ten minutes remain in your study session. Feeling guilty about spending the majority of the last hour envisioning the seductive intricacies of your boyfriend, you actually start to study. 

“How many times do you think I can make you cum in ten minutes?”

Your eyes are ripped from your material and land on the menace lazing on the couch. He’s put his book down, one arm behind his head while the other is crooked, allowing himself to palm his cock through his pants. Jack’s wearing a shit-eating grin, bewitching your crossed legs to switch which one is on top; an excuse to apply more pressure to the yearning area between them. You fidget in the chair, shamefully trying to get the seam of your underwear to rub against you in just the right way. You shrug, “I-I’m not sure.”

He gets up and comes over to you, standing behind you and leaning forward to rest his chin on your shoulder. He murmurs in your ear, “I think we should find out during your next break.”

You turn to face him, “I think so too.”

He gives you a quick kiss, “Well, you better be a good girl and study for these last few minutes. Earn that break.” He places his large hands on either side of your head and turns it toward your materials, making you both laugh.

Somehow, you’re able to pay attention. Jack’s impending promise of ravaging you for ten minutes straight quells your jittering nerves and gives you something specific to look forward to. Before you know it, your alarm is beeping, alerting you that your break has commenced. Jack cages you by reaching forward and grabs the clock, programs it to ten minutes and keeps it in his hand. He grips the sides of your swivel chair, pulls it back from the table and spins you around to face him, the speed of the turn making your hair swoosh across your shoulders. Through mutual giggles, Jack lifts you up, winding your legs around his waist, your arms doing the same around his neck. “I want you to count for me how many times you cum.”

Breathlessly, you simply obey, “Okay.”

He practically runs to the bedroom. He sets the clock on the nightstand and turns the face towards the mattress so you don’t lose out on studying time. Tossing you onto the bed, your giggling continues as you bounce from the force. Jack hooks his fingers in your underwear and yanks them down, pulling them out from under your skirt and over your shoes. The way he wastes no time ridding you of any other garment makes blood and heat flood your center and air rush out of your lungs. He pushes your lost air back into your mouth with a kiss and then immediately retreats back to in between your legs.

He flicks the fabric of your skirt up onto your belly, letting himself have complete, unobstructed access to his early lunch. His fingers fondle your folds while his lips place sloppy kisses along the inside of your thighs. After he’s had his fill of that step, he sits back and stares at you: spread out for him, more than willing to take anything he wants to give to you. He blows out a whistle, eyeing your core, and you say, “Hey, you’re on the clock, cowboy. No time for dramatics.”

He nods, a smirk pulling at one side of his mouth, “You’re right, sweetheart.”

He spits onto your cunt, forgoing his usual gentle licks to adequately wet your pussy. A quiet fuck escapes your mouth as he plunges his tongue into you. Your fingers wind themselves in his chocolatey locks and pull, extracting an excited moan from your lover. His fingers knead the soft flesh on the backs of your thighs as he eats and when his mustache starts to tickle your clit, you’re done for. Your grip on his hair becomes vice-like and your whole body seizes up, constricted by enrapturing pleasure. You strangle out, “One.”

Jack unlatches his mouth only once he’s certain your first orgasm is complete. He stands, admires your wrecked expression, takes his cock out, spits into his hand and pumps his dick a few times. Hands slithering around your waist, he flips you onto your stomach and pulls your ass up, positioning you on your hands and knees. You’re a little bit dizzied by his manhandling in combination with his expert tongue, but this type of vertigo is the most enjoyable you’ve ever experienced. 

When he pushes into you, it’s a bit of a stretch because he hadn’t warmed you up with his fingers. He relaxes you by leaning forward, pressing his chest against your back and peppering soft kisses to your shoulder blades. The clink of his belt comically punctuates his thrusts, but your laughs are swallowed by intoxicated groans. You don’t know, and you don’t really care to figure out, how he already has you teetering on the edge of cumming again. Heightened senses tell you that you’re close; the fabric of his shirt feels unearthly soft as it brushes against patches of exposed skin, his fingertips are delightful lead in their clamp on you, his grunts and pants angelically reverberate in your skull. And then, suddenly and all at once, “Two.”

Jack’s pride shows itself in a smirk while he flips you onto your back. He makes a show of hooking your calves over his shoulders, eliciting laughter from the both of you. Resting almost all of his weight on top of you, your knees find your chest and his hands find your hair. The intimacy of it all is almost too much; his thumbs stroke your temples, palms cradle your head, those goddamned puppy-dog eyes bore into you. You turn your head in his grasp to check your timing: five minutes left. 

Jack’s tongue darts out to lick the pads of his fingers before he snakes it down in between the two of you to rub your clit. Your moans come out uncontrollably, your eyelids stutter and he eggs you on, “That’s it, sweetheart. Give me another one.”

Hearty moans are reduced to desperate gasps and you’re unable to verbally acknowledge the third orgasm that rips through you. Nonetheless, Jack can tell from the way your eyes roll into the back of your head and his name tumbles ferociously out of your mouth that you’re cumming. “’Atta girl.”

Jack takes his cock out of you and the whine that escapes your lips embarrasses you. He can’t help but laugh at your whimpering before he scoots down the bed and starts to eat you out again, framing his head with your quaking thighs. You find the strength to check the time, “Jack, there’s only a minute and a half left.”

He moans deeply into you, unaffected by your comment, and eases three fingers into your fluttering center. Like earlier, your hands fly to his hair like a magnet and find purchase so tight it makes your knuckles go pale. In a matter of seconds, circling your clit with his sopping tongue and tapping your g-spot with his deft fingers, Jack has you cumming yet again. This time you yell out the count, “Four!”

The sounds his ministrations make are lewd and exhilarating, pushing himself to his own precipice. You look down your body to find Jack’s other hand jerking his cock and his seed spilling out of him moments later. He groans into your pussy while you pet his hair, praising him for his efforts. 

Simultaneously, you both remember that you’re being timed. Your eyes meet the clock at the same time: 30 seconds. Jack springs from the bed and pulls you up with him, grabbing your discarded panties. He squats and taps your ankles so you lift your legs up, sliding each leg hole over your body and pulling your underwear up underneath your skirt. 

You fumble with his mussed clothes, stuffing his still-hard cock into his boxers, hiking his jeans up over his ass and zip and button them closed. You snake his belt around his waist and let his fingers do the work of buckling it before he picks you up bridal style and ushers you out of the bedroom, grabbing the clock off of the nightstand on your way out. 

Unhinged cackles follow you two down the hallway as you return to the living room. He plops you down in your chair, straightens you out, gives you a kiss on the cheek and then your alarm goes off. You raise your eyebrows at him, “Jeez, you didn’t waste a second.” 

He hums, then mumbles, “You get back to work now, babygirl,” and leaves you with a yearning kiss on the part of your hair.

Both of you return to your respective readings, hopelessly trying to downgrade your panting gasps to normal breaths. The absence of Jack’s warmth is already painful. But you rationalize that the indulgence of the last ten minutes is more than enough to get you through this next hour of studying, if not for longer.

Little do you know that Jack feels the same pain. His ache for your touch, sexual or not, will overtake him later and he’ll be unable to resist the temptation of coming over and distracting you again. Determined to finish your studying, you’ll propose a compromise: you can sit in his lap while he is lulled to sleep by the ambience of the afternoon rain and the enveloping comfort of you. The two of you can try to beat the record of four orgasms next semester. 

💘taglist: @pascalpanic​, @mellowswriting​

[kikis-writing-world]

Whiskey Straight - The Foil (4)

Jack Daniels x F!Reader

The masked men, who still haven't identified themselves, have you. They have questions and you're forced to admit things out loud that you hadn't been wanting to even admit to yourself.

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: Light kidnapping vibes (reader is blindfolded and tied to a chair at one point,) interrogation setting, SMUT: unprotected p in v, memories of unwanted sexual advances (if you made it through the last chapter, it's just reader trying to get over/deal with it.) If I've missed anything, please let me know. I care about you all and want you mentally safe <3

Series Masterlist  -  Prologue  -  One  -   Two  -  Three  -  Four  -   Five  -  Six  -   Seven

via GIPHY (Credit to Artsplained on GIPHY)

The thick, dark hood over your head kept you from seeing anything as you were led forward by a strong hand on your arm. It muffled the sounds around you but the echo of footsteps bounced around in the small space. You could only guess you were being led down twisting, barren hallways as two sets of shoes clacked against the floor.

You had tried asking questions when you woke, the hood already placed over your face. Your head felt heavy and lethargic, your chin rested against your chest. As you remembered everything that led to your situation, specifically the hard hit to your head, you were surprised to not be in any pain. You tried to lift your hands to remove the fabric covering your face, but they were tied down. It took you a moment to take stock of your body: You were sitting in a chair and some kind of straps held your arms in place. They were pliable, so likely made of fabric or leather as opposed to metal. Your feet weren’t secured, but as you shuffled them around, you could feel nothing but the legs of your chair and the floor beneath you.

You started to shout, asking where you were, demanding to be let go, but all your pleas were met with silence. By the time you heard a door open and footsteps approach you, your voice was hoarse. Still, none of your questions were answered as you were released from the chair and led from the room.

You were halted, the hand on your arm tightening as you stopped. You heard a door open in front of you and the hood was pulled from your head. You couldn’t adjust to the brightness of the halfway before , you were pushed forward into the darkened room.

“No, no, no!” You panicked, turning to find the door slamming shut behind you. There was no handle. You started to press your palms along the seam of the door, frantically searching for a way to open it. You whimpered, scratching at the door, when the lights behind you clicked on with a loud pop. You turned, backing yourself against the wall to take in the room.

Large and empty aside from the metal stool placed in the middle, the room appeared to be made of concrete. The lights came from the corners of the ceiling, pointing down on the stool like spotlights. One of the far walls housed a large mirror. You didn’t need to check it to figure it was a two-way mirror and you were being watched. Still, you approached the mirror cautiously, hoping to see through to the other side. You wanted a hint as to where you were and who was holding you here.

“Sit down.” A loud, robotic voice echoed through the room, making you jump. You hadn’t even made it to the mirror, and you scurried to back yourself against the wall once more. You leaned against it trying to be as small as possible.

“I said sit down.” The voice returned. You stared at the stool, taking slow steps towards it.A plain metal stool, it reminded you of the kind from science labs back in high school, or maybe in a doctor’s office. You touched it gently, making sure it wasn’t boobytrapped in any way before sitting down, facing the mirror.

You waited for further instruction, your breath coming in short, panicked pants. You blocked the bright lights from your eyes with a shaking hand.

“Who do you work for?”

“U-uh,” you stuttered out of fear. “It’s a sm-small office downtown.”

“Who do you work for?” The voice repeated.

“Stern and Carpenter.” You answered, giving the name of the company this time.

“Who do you work for?” You were asked a third time.

“I don’t know what you want!” You wailed. “I work an office job, data entry! I’m just a secretary!”

“Sure, Mrs. Daniels.”

You froze, breath catching in your chest as they used your real name. They knew who you were. Not Trisha Strickland, no code name or cover story. They knew you.

“What was a secretary doing in the woods with an international terrorist? Taking dictation?” The voice questioned. “How long have you been part of The Vulture’s faction?”

“F-faction?! I don’t know anything about a faction!” You gasped, shaking your head. “I-I’ve only known Phil for a few weeks, maybe a month and a half. I don’t know any Jackal.”

“Phil,” the voice pronounced the name slowly, dragging it out as if it was testing the way it sounded. “Is that who he said he was?”

“Y-yes. Phil Strickland. I barely know him!” You explained, unable to stop the hysterical tone to your voice.

“That’s not what it looked like when we found you.” You could hear the mocking tone of the voice, even through the robotic crackles.

You bit back a sob, hanging your head as you remembered Phil forcing himself onto you just before the men in masks had appeared.

“How did you meet him?”

You took a deep breath, closing your eyes as you thought back over the past month. You explained the first time meeting him. How he had dropped the briefcase at your table and rushed off almost immediately afterwards. You explained not wanting anything to do with him - you left out how that had changed over the past month. You told them how you broke open the briefcase, finding the gun and the documents and cash, how you wanted to get rid of it but didn’t want anything falling into the hands of someone on the streets.

You were interrupted, the voice asking why you continued to see him after you realized he was dangerous.

“He said he needed my help.” You sighed with a small shrug.

“Not because you were attracted to him?” The voice accused.

Your jaw dropped, insulted and shocked. “No!”

“You weren’t attracted to him at all?”

“No!” You repeated, shaking your head emphatically. “He’s not my type, and I’m happily married!” The words rolled off your tongue easily, you’d been telling them to yourself long enough now. Your hands fidgeted in your lap as you thought about the way working with Phil had made you feel. You felt important, you felt seen.

“Maybe a little.” You admitted sadly, your stomach churning at the admission. It wasn’t Phil’s looks or his charm or even his car that attracted you to him, it was the way he treated you. That he would compliment you easily and often, constantly thanking you for your help. You grew attracted to the attention he gave you. “B-but it wasn’t like that-”

“Is cheating on your husband common for you?” The voice accused.

“What?!” You gasped. “No! I’d never!”

“So this was the first time then?”

“I wasn’t cheating!” You wailed, wanting them to believe you desperately. You may have done bad things, but you hadn’t cheated on Jack. Phil had forced himself onto you, and you had tried to stop it. The memory made the stomach bile creep up your throat.

“Tell me about your husband, Mrs. Daniels.” They demanded.

Your brow furrowed in confusion as you stared at your own greening reflection in the mirror. “Jack? What do you want to know about Jack?” You waited, but they didn’t clarify. “What can I say about him?” You wondered aloud with a shrug. “He works for Statesman Distillery, runs the division...”

“So sex with him isn’t doing it for you anymore?”

Your jaw dropped once more. “That’s none of your fucking business!” You hissed. “What kind of question is that?!”

“You’re in a lot of trouble, Mrs. Daniels. I suggest you cooperate.” The voice glowered. “If we want to know about the most intimate details of your life, you had better tell us if you want to get out of here.”

You choked back another sob at the threat. The thought of never leaving this facility, of never seeing Jack again - you’d never get to make up for the month of bad decisions, never get to hold him or kiss him again. Would they tell him what happened, or would he go on never knowing what happened to you? You fought back the tears, not wanting whoever this bastard was to see you cry.

“Jack is a good man.” You whispered, closing your eyes. It was true, and you felt like you were reminding yourself just as much as you were telling them.

“But he doesn’t exactly ‘take you to church’ anymore-” The voice cut off abruptly. You were glad for it, the guilt and anger bubbling within you.

“Why did you go to Francis’ hideout.” They asked.

“Francis?”

“Francis Steinruck, legal name of The Vulture. Also goes by Phil Strickland.”

“Francis Steinruck.” You repeated quietly to yourself, the name tasting bitter on your tongue. You’d been so stupid to believe him. “He wanted me to go with him to Paris. For a mission. He needed a cover and he wanted me to… pose as his wife.”

The silence was deafening. Saying it out loud, you felt like an absolute moron, falling for all of his attention and flattery.

“And you agreed?” The flat voice nearly sounded in disbelief, not that you could blame it.

You nodded pathetically, unable to look up and face your reflection.

“Why?”

You shrugged before dropping your hands back into your lap. “I don’t know.” You admitted, nearly laughing at yourself. “I… I guess I just needed something. Something... more?”

“What did you need, Mrs. Daniels?”

You shook your head, giving another small shrug. “To feel alive? I just wanted to do... something outrageous. Something that was just for me… And it felt really good to be needed. Wanted.” You admitted with a sigh, looking up at the ceiling and blinking back the tears. These were all the thoughts you’d had since meeting Phil, but saying them outloud was just tearing open wounds you’d been ignoring in your life.

“He trusted me. When I talked, it felt like he was listening. He noticed things… He made me feel special.” You paused, taking a steadying breath. “I-I’m not getting any younger, you know?” You laughed bitterly, looking at yourself in the mirror. The tears threatening to break, the dark shadows under your eyes. It was all too apparent as you looked at yourself.

“There’s so much more out there in this life and I didn’t want to miss it. I wanted to be able to look back one day and say ‘yeah, I lived that life. I was wild once! I was reckless and did something exciting!’” You sniffled, not able to stop a few tears from spilling over, letting some of your deepest insecurities come to light.

They said nothing. You didn’t know if they were judging you or felt sorry for you. Both options made anger flare up inside you.

“I don’t give a shit,” you mumbled, wiping your face before feeling more confident as you defended yourself. “I don’t care if you understand or not, okay? I made a decision for myself, and maybe it wasn’t a good decision, and maybe I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. I don’t know. The point is I made it for myself, and you don’t have to understand that. I have to answer to myself, and to my husband, but certainly not to you.”

“This Phil… did you sleep with him?”

You sighed, feeling defeat spread through your body. You were exhausted and scared and wanted to go home. You didn’t think you could argue with the faceless voice anymore. “No.”

“You mean you did not have sexual relations with him?”

You huffed, halfway to a laugh as you shook your head. “If you’re going to ask me every goddamn question twice, this is going to take a really long time and I have to get home.” You snarled, standing from the stool.

“You’re not going anywhere.” The voice scolded you as you started to approach the door.

“Just get me out of here!” You screamed, hands flailing at your sides helplessly as the rawness in your throat flared up once more.

“Answer the question.”

“I already answered your fucking question!” You snapped. You couldn’t handle it anymore. The judgement from the people watching and questioning you, your own guilt and anger inside you. You grabbed the stool, swinging it with all your strength into the mirror. It barely cracked, a small spider web pattern spreading from where you connected.

“I did. Not. Sleep. With. Phil!” You screamed, bashing the stool into the mirror with every syllable. “I did not plan to sleep with Phil, I did not want to sleep with Phil!” You shrieked, nearly hysterical as you kept swinging the stool. The mirror broke more and more, your own reflection morphing into a jaded puzzle of yourself, but the mirror never shattered completely.

“Calm down!” The voice demanded, but you ignored it. They called for you to calm down over and over, but you swung the stool until your arms hurt. You swung and swung, screaming until you felt the last ounce of energy you had leave your body.

You stared at the cracks in the mirror, realizing it was never going to break. You panted, chest heaving as you caught your breath from the break down, stumbling back a few steps.

“One more question, Mrs. Daniels.” The voice prompted, sounding as calm as ever. “Do you still love your husband?”

The question made you drop the stool from your hold, clattering loudly to the floor.  You smiled sadly as you thought of Jack, sitting at home with his newspaper or watching a football game while he sipped from his favorite tumbler, having no idea what you had been doing or where you were now.

“Yes. I love him.” Your voice cracked, both from emotions and all the screaming you’d been doing.

The room was silent once more. You didn’t care what they thought anymore. You were just tired and wanted to go home. Curl up next to Jack and start to make your amends for your foolishness. You bent over, fixing the stool and sitting back on it, waiting for the voices to tell you what was happening next. You prayed silently to whatever power might be listening that they would let you go, that you’d get that chance to make your amends.

“There’s only one way to fix all this, Mrs. Daniels.”

You looked back at the broken mirror, the lines and shatter patterns too many to even make out your reflection anymore.

“You will work for us.”

You laughed pitifully, rubbing your forehead as you fought off the headache that was starting to form behind your eyes.

“I am offering you a choice. If you work for us, we will drop the charges and you can go back to your normal life. If not, you will go to federal prison and your husband will be left humiliated and alone. Your life as you know it will be destroyed.”

Your jaw dropped as you listened to the ultimatum. “Gee, what a choice.” You deadpanned.

“Yes or no?”

“Yes, of course I’ll do it.” You huffed in defeat, nearly wanting to laugh. It wasn’t a choice at all. “What do I have to do?”

“You will be contacted with the assignment. The code name of your contact will be Whiskey, and your code name will be Bourbon.”

You huffed, unable to stop yourself from rolling your eyes as you heard Jack’s voice in your head. “Bourbon is a whiskey, dumbass. You remember the part when I told you my husband runs a distillery, right?”

The lights clicked out suddenly, making you jump. Sassing them when they had started to show mercy may have been a bad idea.

“You’ll receive our call.” The voice echoed in the darkness. “Goodbye Mrs. Daniels.”

The door behind you opened, and you spun to see a man silhouetted against the light of the hallway. The door stayed open as he stalked towards you.

“Please, I didn’t mean it!” You defended, holding your hands up in front of you in surrender.

The man said nothing. He placed the dark sack over your head and grabbed you once again by the arm, pulling you out of the room.

You weren’t led back to the room you’d been in before, taking different twists and turns through the facility. You weren’t sure if that was a good thing or not. They had said they would let you go, to have you work for them, but that was before you mouthed off.

A door ahead of you opened and you could tell you were outside. Gone was the echoing of shoes, clicking off the pristine floors and bouncing off the walls. The crunch of gravel was under your feet, the sound of trees rustling in the breeze. Out was good… right?

A new sound just in front of you made you jump and as you were pushed forward to climb into a vehicle, you realized it had been a van door sliding open. The moment it closed, the van was moving. You fell to your side, catching yourself with your elbow against the scratchy carpeted flooring. With no one holding you and nothing binding your hands, you were tempted to remove the hood but you didn’t want to know what would happen if you saw something you weren’t supposed to. You stayed quiet and still, mentally pleading for them to let you go.

You weren’t sure how long you drove before the van screeched to a halt - literally screeched, throwing you forward with the momentum. Before you could even think to right yourself, you were grabbed and pulled out of the van. The hood was ripped off and something shoved in your hands.

Your purse.

You were next to your car, where you had parked it when Phil- or Francis, or whoever he was - had picked you up that night. Oh god, was it even the same night?

The van was gone before you even had your bearings about you, no chance at trying to catch the license plate or any distinguishing features. You stood in the deserted street, almost not believing that they’d let you go.

With shaky hands, you opened your purse and dug out your car keys. You dropped them twice while trying to unlock the door. When you finally did, you climbed inside and locked the door right behind you. Feeling even the tiniest amount of safety, locked inside your car, you finally cried. You wrapped your arms around yourself, sobbing as all the emotions from the night hit you. The terror, the disgust, the guilt- it all hit you like a tsunami as you finally broke. 

You wailed, angry with Phil, angry with yourself, gripping at the steering wheel as your knuckles turned white. Pulling at your hair until it hurt. Part of you wanted to hurt, you deserved it after everything you’d done.

You weren’t sure how long you sat in your car, under the overpass, crying, screaming, cursing - eventually you felt numb. Sore, exhausted and numb. It started to feel like the last day had been a movie, something you’d watched someone else live out, not lived it for yourself. You wiped your eyes, seeing it was a little after 11 at night. The last time you’d looked at the clock, it had been around 4 when Phil had picked you up from this very spot. Was it really only 7 hours later? It felt like a lifetime.

You took several long breaths, trying to calm yourself as you started the car. You felt in no way like you were up to driving but you had to get home somehow. You took your time, driving slowly and taking side roads to avoid having to navigate too much traffic.

The porch light was still on when you pulled up to the house, Jack’s Bronco parked in the driveway. A dim light was on in the den, the colours of the TV shining onto the curtains. You parked, wondering if he was awake, waiting and worried, or if he had dozed off.

You took a moment to try to make yourself look semi-presentable. Your red rimmed eyes and heavy bags were a lost cause, but you smoothed down your hair to look somewhat decent, straightening your clothes. There was no way he wouldn’t know something had happened. You thought of the threat that robotic voice had uttered - you will go to federal prison and your husband will be left humiliated and alone - and you knew you had to lie yet again.

You swallowed around the lump in your throat as you unlocked the front door, trying to calm the shaking of your hands as you entered your own home. It was quiet inside, the noise from the TV turned down low. You cleared your throat, wincing at the pain shooting through it before you called out to Jack, your voice as level as you could force it.

There was no answer as you kicked off your shoes, not bothering to right them from wherever they fell. You dragged your hand along the wall for balance as you made your way to the den, your legs shaky after everything you’d been through.

Lit by the lamp to his side and the flashes from the TV, Jack sat in his favorite armchair fast asleep. His head was flopped back against the chair, mouth open as he snored softly. The sight sent waves of regret through you. You might have cried if there were any tears left in you. You crossed the room, crawling into Jack’s lap.

Jack woke with a start as you curled up on his lap, grumbling to himself as he slowly figured out what was going on. You buried your head in his shoulder, curling your fists into his shirt as his arms came up to wrap around you.

“Hey there, darlin’.” He greeted happily, his voice slow and sweet like honey as he woke, his accent thick with sleep. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” He chuckled.

You didn’t answer, clinging to him as you tried to find it in you to beg for forgiveness for something you couldn’t even begin to explain to him.

“Sweetheart?” Jack asked, giving your arm a slight shake when you didn’t answer. “What’s wrong?”

“I-I’m sorry.” You stuttered, whispering to hide the strain in your voice.

“For what? What happened?” Jack shifted under you, sitting upright as his tone flooded with concern. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, face still hidden in the crook of his neck.

“Darlin’ look at me, please?” He asked, cupping your cheek as he tried to coax you out of hiding. You took a deep breath and let him pull your face into his view.

“What happened?” He asked calmly, but you could see the concern swirling in his amber eyes. He stroked your cheek as he waited for you to answer.

“Nothing,” you lied, shaking your head.

“Don’t look like nothin’. Talk to me?” The sweeter he was with you, the worse you felt.

“It’s stupid.” You denied once more.

“Rough day?” He guessed, and you were relieved for the out. You nodded as he brushed a large hand over your hair, smoothing it down. “I’m sorry.”

He pulled you into a soft kiss. It felt so different from the last set of lips that had been on yours. Welcome, warm, soft. You melted into the kiss, relishing the love and care behind it. You held him close as he tried to pull away, chasing his lips with your own. He let you lead the kiss, let you take what you needed in your emotional state. The more you kissed him, the more his mustache tickled your lip and his hands massaged your back and shoulders, the more you realized you needed him.

You adjusted yourself in his lap until you were straddling him, your thighs pressed tight to his in the chair. He hummed happily, his hand sliding down your back to rest on your waist. You licked the seam of his lips, pressing your chest to his as he opened his mouth.

He moaned softly as your tongues danced, cupping your cheek as his other hand teased along the hem of your shirt. You wanted to feel him, skin on skin, and you started unbuttoning his shirt. He took the cue to slip his fingers up the back of your shirt, callused fingers dragging over you. It made you gasp, the warm loving touch helping to erase the past several hours. You splayed your hands over his chest, feeling his warmth, the way his chest rose and fell as his breath sped up. It wasn’t enough.

“Need you, Jack.” You whimpered, foregoing the remaining buttons of his shirt to focus on the button of his jeans instead.

“You have me.” He promised, his voice low and husky as he pulled your shirt up. You didn’t lift your arms until his jeans were undone, sitting loose on his hips. Your shirt was discarded carelessly on the floor before Jack surged forward, kissing between your breasts as he palmed them through your bra. You tangled your hands in his hair, letting your head fall back as he focused on you, arching into his touch as your breathing sped up.

“Tell me what you need, baby.” He prompted before closing his teeth over the fabric of your bra, pulling it away before letting it snap back into place.

“Upstairs. Need you to fuck me.” You told him, nearly begging. “Need you inside of me.”

Jack groaned, long and low as he took in your request. His hands scooped under your ass, the only warning you had before he stood. You locked your legs around him, one arm around his shoulders as the other stayed in his hair.

He carried you into your bedroom with ease, despite your lips along his collarbone and you writhing in his arms. He set you on the bed, kissing you passionately as his hands slid up your back to unclasp your bra. You pulled at his shirt, not caring if the buttons opened or broke off. You needed it gone. Your breaths mingled in the space between your lips, panting as the heat grew between you.

He pulled your bra down your arms, dropping it to the floor before sliding his shirt off to join it. You pushed his jeans down his hips, pulling his briefs with them. He helped you, pushing them until they were too low, kicking them off his calves. He removed his lips from yours, kissing down your chest as he worked on your pants.

“Please,” you mewled, gripping his shoulders as you lifted your hips.

“I got you.” He responded, breath ragged as he pulled the last pieces of fabric out of the way.

He wrapped his arms around you, lifting you without warning to set you in the middle of the bed. You gasped, caught off guard, and tried to pull him up to kiss you again. The more he kissed you, the more you forgot about Phil. About feeling alone and unseen. The more you could think about nothing but Jack Daniels, the man you should have been thinking about this whole time.

You felt his thick fingers slide along the crease of your hip before dipping into your folds. You moaned, shaking your head.

“Need you now.” You urged against his lips.

“Okay. Okay.” He panted his understanding as his hand left you. You felt him adjust himself, the blunt head of his cock replacing his fingers at your core. You shuddered, dropping your legs open further for him.

“Please, Jack please.” You babbled, letting your head fall back into the mattress.

He shushed you, positioning himself at your entrance. “You sure you’re ready?”

“Yes, god please, Jack.” You nearly sobbed, canting your hips against him.

You gasped as he finally pushed forward, your breath catching as he stretched you. He groaned, letting his head fall against your shoulder as he entered you slowly. You felt his whole body shudder against you as he bottomed out, his short, quick breaths flitting across your skin as he struggled to control himself.

You gripped at his back, feeling the muscles taut under his skin, pleading with him to move. He obliged with a grunt, pulling out before snapping his hips against you. You cried out, back arching up off the mattress as he set a rapid pace, pumping into you steadily.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you sighed, repeating it like a mantra as your nails dug into the skin of his shoulder.

“Like that? That what you need?” He panted, lifting his head to stare down at you. His eyes were black with lust, hair matted to his forehead with sweat, jaw clenched.

You continued your mantra as his answer, wrapping your legs around him to push him deeper with your heels against his thighs.

He cursed under his breath, nose nudging against your before he took your lips again. All teeth and tongue as he fucked into you. The kiss didn’t last long, both of you struggling for breath.

“M-more.” You stuttered. You wanted him to fuck you. Hard and fast. Use you.

He grunted, increasing his pace. He choked on his words, losing his wits as he cursed, panted your name, ranted how good you felt. You were no better off, only able to ask him for more, more, more as he pounded into you.

He pulled you upwards suddenly, making you gasp in surprise as he sat back on his haunches with you in his lap. He wrapped his arms around your back, using his hands on your shoulders to push you down onto him as he thrust upwards. The new angle made your head spin, his pubic bone grinding against your clit as you cried out for him.

“Wha’d’ya need?” He demanded through clenched teeth. “Need’ya to cum. So fuckin’ close.”

“Don’t stop, god don’t stop.” You plead, wrapping your arms around him and holding him as close as physically possible. Your sweat-slicked chests rubbed together, your nipples hardening at the friction.

You felt Jack’s pace stutter as he got closer and closer to his orgasm. He snaked a hand between you, pinching your clit. Your whole body seized up, a gut-wrenching moan ripping itself from your chest as you came around him. His body shook under you as he rutted into you, your walls holding him tight. You heard him growl as the warmth of his seed filled you.

You collapsed into him, body turning boneless as you came down from your peak, your walls still fluttering around him, throbbing with every beat of your heart as you shakily gulped down all the air you could.

You felt the tremors shaking Jack’s body as his pleasure faded. He carefully lowered you back to the bed, cradling you in his arms before pulling out of you with a drawn-out grunt. He rolled to the side, falling onto his back as he caught his breath. You felt his cum leaking out of you, dripping down onto the blanket beneath you.

Neither of you spoke or moved, simply trying to catch your breaths as your bodies hit you with faint aftershocks of your orgasms. Your mind was finally quiet - the guilt, the anger, the stress all replaced with the only thing you could think of: Jack.

You jumped when his hand caressed your cheek, not having realized your eyes had drifted closed.

“Y’Okay?” He asked, his eyes sparkling with love and care even in the dim room. You nodded, resting your hand on top of his.

“Feelin’ better?”

You nodded again.

“Good.” He smiled tiredly before leaning over you, kissing you so gently you almost questioned if his lips were even touching yours. “Stay here.” He ordered once his lips left yours.

He got out of bed, grousing quietly as he moved. You didn’t think you could disobey him even if you wanted to. There was no way you could move.

He returned with a washcloth, gently parting your legs to clean you. You moaned softly as your muscles protested the movement. The cloth was warm and his touch gentle and soothing to your aching, swollen flesh. When he was satisfied, he tossed the cloth in the direction of the various discarded clothes littering the floor to be dealt with in the morning. Climbing back up the bed, he carefully pulled you to him, holding you close with your head nestled on his chest.

His heartbeat, slowly returning to a normal pace, beat steadily in your ear. His smell was all around you, he was all you could feel. His voice rumbled through his chest, speaking a soft good night as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. You mumbled your response, too tired, too spent to articulate. You were passed out mere moments later.

Tagging  @wickedfrsgrl @din-damn-djarin @dinthisisthe-wayson @seasonschange-butpeopledont @vonschweetz @insideafictionaluniverse @driedgreentomatoes @computeringturtle @thottiewinemom @phoenixhalliwell @sheerfreesia007 @and-claudia @weirdowithnobeardo @massivecolorspygiant @mrstaekim @chibi-liz05 @adrieunor @ilikechocolatemilkh @thirstworldproblemss @dynishot @diamond-doritos @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi

[the-roanoke-society]

ashes, ashes.

we all fall down.

the details below the cut are not necessarily pleasant and are incredibly infinity war spoiler heavy. please proceed with caution.

if i have to suffer, then i am bringing all of you with me.

it had happened so quietly in the woods in wakanda.

the roanoke estate—could not quite say the same. although in the beginning, it was. an unnatural hush, something translated into a spike in activity on our monitors in the basement. sol about knocked his coffee over and quickly called over drake, “dude, look at this—what the fuck is happening in africa right now?”

drake frowned, “this—wyvern! wyvern, c’mere for a second, sol and i are clocking a signal that—that looks—“

his voice trailed off as he looked upwards. wyvern was walking towards them from his desk at the other end of the basement, very slowly, with his hands over his stomach like he felt ill.

and then he just—he just—

“what the fuck. what the fuck.”

he was gone. just a substance that looked like some mix of fine grain dirt and ash, which quickly dissolved into nothingness.

“okay, sol, you saw that, right, you saw—“

“drake, i don’t feel so hot…”

but when drake turned, sol was gone.

tears of pure terror began to sting his eyes.

“shit. shit.”

something was wrong. something was very, very wrong, and beyond the extent of their doomsday protocols.

there had been no warning.

and if he was unsure before, he knew the absolute second that screaming began to echo through the estate.

he had never torn up those stairs fast in his entire life, already yelling, “annabelle? annabelle!”

there was no time.

mothman went mid-sentence, putting his shirt on, getting ready for the day, talking to specter over his shoulder. his speech had halted, slightly, and he frowned. then breathed. and broke apart. louise was on his bed, stunned into silence, unable to breathe.

cherub fell to her knees as exactly half of our medical ward turned to dust and suddenly the machines all began to read as flatlines, because they were no longer attached to healing bodies.

elfin had literally just kissed rougarou’s forehead three seconds before he felt a pull. not fae. not demonic. something—something else. “aly, love, i—“ that was all he got out. aly let her mug slip from her hands and it shattered on the kitchen floor.

pru—as something rather inhuman—remained untouched. our metallic grace, even now. but judas stumbled through the door, one of his arms already gone, and pru fell to the ground with him as the rotting traveled down his side and left him short a leg. “i’m scared,” he said, in a hushed tone. pru put a gentle hand to his face, but by the time she’d thought of a response, the dark spread over his eyes. he fell through her hands like ground glass.

and charlie—poor charlie. he held nova’s face in his hands. she went slowly. he had the upper half of her fading frame in his lap. everything below her knees was gone. “what—what is this? what’s happening?” ellie could just swallow, tears brimming in her eyes.

“it’s okay… it’s going to be okay…” she tried to reassure him, and failed. he let out a sob, and his own tears fell on her cheeks. “i love you, charlie.”

drake ran smack into hood as he rounded a corner, knocking the wind of out of both of them. “parker? parker, what the fuck is going on?”

“look, i don’t know, this isn’t like anything i’ve ever seen. it’s not fae. everyone’s—everyone’s—” her voice went up a pitch in panic.

“go get lilith. she’s going to know exactly what to do to fix this, okay? go, now, i have to find anna!”

and hood nodded, wiping at her face, as they blitzed past each other in opposite directions.

hood would get to lilith’s office just in time to see her cradling the white lady in her arms on the floor before her desk. but only for a moment.

“lilith.” hood’s voice broke then. “lilith we—we have to stop it, we have to do something.”

but lilith knew. as soon as she’d heard the snapping of that cursed gauntlet through the aural spaces of the earth, she knew. she quietly got to her feet—and pulled hood into a hug, smoothing her hair. maternal. “parker, dear—we can’t stop it.”

“don’t go.” arizona thought that maybe if she held phoenix close enough to her, the sun hitting her back and wind ripping across the estate grounds—she could stop it. and phoenix, having never known death before, was more surprised, than frightened. but—

one hand went into arizona’s hair, and he pressed his lips to her temple before he left her embrace. “you will never lose me.”

but she did.

drake finally hit the wing of the manor closest to his room. she had to be there. she had to be. and nightcrawler was—huddled in the corner with her arms around her knees. “toma?” he asked quietly, taking one step closer to her when she didn’t immediately acknowledge him. “toma. you okay?”

she was staring at the opposite corner of the hallway. “‘geist was there. adam, he—he was right there and then he wasn’t. he wasn’t, drake.”

“look, everything’s fine, hood went to go get lilith. we’re gonna—we’re gonna fix this, okay? just stay right here, yeah? okay? toma, nod if you can understand me.” she wouldn’t meet his eyes but nodded twice.

that would have to work.

sentinel tried to hold on to the scribe for as long as he could. she faced the unknown without a single trace of fear, or pain, or anything that wasn’t the absolute acceptance painted over her countenance. she felt it reach up her throat, going in a line up her torso, and for a moment, pushed herself back from walter to look into his eyes. they were swimming with tears. she just grinned. “it’s strange, isn’t it? out of everything… this…”

sentinel’s form shrugged as he found himself holding nothing, yet it was like he bore the world upon his shoulders. iuniore had stayed hidden behind a shelf, next to gramr, who held her solidly and let her cry into his shoulder. “everything’s going to be fine…” he kept repeating. if you said a thing enough times, then it would come true, right? isn’t that how this worked?

jd saw chimera from across the underground hangar and began to run towards him, fresh off the field and already feeling a pulling in his gut, a fistful of dread that weighed the same as a boulder. he never made it. chimera was screaming his name as he disappeared among our jets, cars and bikes. the more macabre would wonder if perhaps the ashes of him still remained on the shell of some porsche or volkswagen.

cerberus wondered if maybe the fact the he was in a different form that saved him.

which meant that he watched, powerless, as gowrow cracked into pieces. “son of a bitch.” his words echoed in the space he left, and hans cowered in the wake of his death.

he could smell it everywhere, death.

crowley was drawing circles, circles and sigils and wards. he could not draw them fast enough. he tried to put up invisible walls against the thing that ate seance up from the inside out. “i promise i will find you again.” she wasn’t there when he slammed into hands into the table so hard the skin on his knuckles cracked open and bled, and he screamed, a sound so full of rage that it traveled through the walls and up floorboards.

archivist heard it. and she kept checking herself, am i still solid? am i still there? hurriedly searching through the oldest books she had, because there had to be something in here, had to be anything in here, the screaming was boring into her brain, there had to be something—

drake heard it as he finally found annabelle hiding in his closet, her hands over her ears, which he moved to his face. “oh thank god, oh thank god you’re—“

oh.

annabelle sobbed silently, holding his face in her hands, as he left.

of course, our manor was not the only place wrecked into halves, broken bonds.

the statesman headquarters were doused in just as much hell.

“look at me.” tequila hadn’t been this pissed off and terrified in a good long while. “look at me elfie. you’re gonna be fine. okay? you are gonna be okay—“

sprite just leaned into him. not that there was much of her left to lean. it had surrounded her heart. and it was—strange, to still be wavering on the edge of consciousness, being able to breathe, but unable to feel your own pulse. “shhhh, sh sh sh… everything will—“

tequila just looked to champ, who’d had every trace of color drained from his face. “get roanoke on the phone.” he looked like he’d aged ten years in ten seconds, and his voice came out so weakly, that tequila wasn’t sure that ginger had even heard him. “now. this—we need back up. call lilith.”

houdini had no words. one moment, whiskey was there, a hand around her waist, a mug to his lips, morning light pouring into his kitchen.

and then he wasn’t.

she didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. it took him quickly. and—in the aftermath—she wondered if perhaps that was like a mercy.

and ashes mixed with ocean water in every single oceanic kingdom. the gauntlet had seen them, it knew what was under the waves. and it would do as it was bid, no matter how deep the waters were.

nereus’s last thoughts were of raziel. he didn’t weep because he was dying. he wept because she would never know that her face was the last thing that he wanted to be thinking of.

and ondine—she’d been down for a diplomatic meeting.

she’d never come back to kentucky.

if rum had known he was going to lose the love of his life and his best friend within the same three day time-period—“rod? you feel that?” that was all gin spoke before it circled his throat and broke apart the rest of his head—he would have reconsidered getting out of bed.

and meanwhile london—london had been split in half. a ripping apart on a scale that no one had ever seen.

succubus and harry had been walking around one of the public gardens, one for the flowers, the other for the butterflies, but both mostly for each other. and rae’s cries joined the rest of the city’s as harry, who’d gotten a little ahead of her, abruptly stopped, turned—and just looked at her.

she kept her eyes on his as he disappeared, and was never once able to read his face.

she was not the only one. because eggsy couldn’t find lycan—or his sister.

and even after it hit him, even after michelle had collapsed in a corner of their house and no amount of eggsy calling amy’s name would make her magically appear—he kept crying out for her.

succubus had never driven so fast back to the estate.

zed and roxy met her, faces pale and eyes bloodshot.

rae couldn’t stop crying. “something—something—“ she felt like she was choking. “we have to call borley, okay? where’s morgan? and merlin?”

“… where’s harry?”

“he’s—“

there’s no time. rae tried to snap back into agent mode as hard she could, but man that’s difficult to do when it feels like your world is ending. “he’s gone. we have to get ness. c’mon. morgan’s probably with merlin, this is—we’re gonna call it a code black, which means we need backup now. let’s go.”

it was too quiet in the basement.

they found merlin, standing in the middle of the basement, completely silent and motionless. facing away from them.

for a moment, no one spoke.

eventually, he must have sensed them there, because he turned—holding a very familiar flannel shirt in his hands.

“merlin? … merlin, where’s seraphim? where’s morgan?”

[hopewilled-archive-blog]

tag drop

⋅   meme   ╱   run the risk of being intimate with brokenness .  ❜ ⋅   open   ╱   i’m not looking to be found ; i just want to feel unlost .  ❜ ⋅   call   ╱   initiate the heart within me .  ❜ ⋅   wishlist   ╱   add our question marks to periods .  ❜ ⋅   ooc   ╱   the human equivalent of a trainwreck .  ❜ ⋅   psa   ╱   if you or a loved one has been diagnosed with mesothelioma . . .  ❜ ⋅   saved   ╱   kept safe from the horrors of the world .  ❜ ⋅   queue   ╱   thank queue for your time .  ❜ ⋅   promo   ╱   there's something so magic about you .  ❜ ⋅   self promo   ╱   sit on back and watch me crash .  ❜

⋅   character study   ╱   for the world is hollow and i have touched the sky .  ❜ ⋅   playlist   ╱   lost between the silence and the sound .  ❜ ⋅   likes   ╱   daring to sleep beside the dying fire .  ❜ ⋅   desires   ╱   i keep a close watch on this heart of mine .  ❜ ⋅   body   ╱   let the scaffolding be strong enough to hold this tired body up .  ❜ ⋅   skills   ╱   try to breathe until it turns to muscle memory .  ❜ ⋅   aesthetic   ╱   broken halos ;  folded wings that used to fly .  ❜ ⋅   self   ╱   angel boy ;  narrow and straight laced and fallen astray .  ❜

⋅   v ;  arc i .   ╱   what happened to the soul you used to be ?  ❜ ⋅   v ;  arc ii .   ╱   back before i lost myself somewhere .  ❜ ⋅   v ;  arc iii .   ╱   you don’t want to know my darkest lows .  ❜ ⋅   v ;  arc iv .   ╱   falling feels like flying until you hit the ground .  ❜

⋅   v ;  statesman   ╱   when the whiskey is the only thing you have left to hold .  ❜ ⋅   v ;  lantern   ╱   in fearful day and in raging night .  ❜

[dyingthing]

TAG DROP

⋅   memes   ╱   run the risk of being intimate with brokenness .  ❜ ⋅   open   ╱   i’m not looking to be found ; i just want to feel unlost .  ❜ ⋅   call   ╱   initiate the heart within me .  ❜ ⋅   wishlist   ╱   add our question marks to periods .  ❜ ⋅   ooc   ╱   the human equivalent of a trainwreck .  ❜ ⋅   psa   ╱   if you or a loved one has been diagnosed with mesothelioma . . .  ❜ ⋅   saved   ╱   protected from the horrors of the world .  ❜ ⋅   queue   ╱   thank queue for your time .  ❜ ⋅   promo   ╱   there's something so magic about you .  ❜ ⋅   self promo   ╱   sit on back and watch me crash .  ❜

⋅   character study   ╱   for the world is hollow and i have touched the sky .  ❜ ⋅   playlist   ╱   lost between the silence and the sound .  ❜ ⋅   likes   ╱   daring to sleep beside the dying fire .  ❜ ⋅   desires   ╱   i keep a close watch on this heart of mine .  ❜ ⋅   body   ╱   let the scaffolding be strong enough to hold this tired body up .  ❜ ⋅   skills   ╱   try to breathe until it turns to muscle memory .  ❜ ⋅   aesthetic   ╱   broken halos ;  folded wings that used to fly .  ❜ ⋅   self   ╱   angel boy ;  narrow and straight laced and fallen astray .  ❜

⋅   v ;  arc i .   ╱   what happened to the soul you used to be ?  ❜ ⋅   v ;  arc ii .   ╱   back before i lost myself somewhere .  ❜ ⋅   v ;  arc iii .   ╱   you don’t want to know my darkest lows .  ❜ ⋅   v ;  arc iv .   ╱   falling feels like flying until you hit the ground .  ❜

⋅   v ;  statesman   ╱   when the whiskey is the only thing you have left to hold .  ❜ ⋅   v ;  lantern   ╱   in fearful day and in raging night .  ❜

[just-here-for-the-moment]

Paloma, Part II

Series Masterlist - Part I - Part II

Word count: 8900+

Rating: explicit, 18+ only

Outline: Statesman!Frankie "Catfish" Morales, Agent Jack “Whiskey” Daniels, and "You" (OC cis/het female reader, Statesman research analyst, code name “Paloma”; age 26; reader is “blank canvas”/no physical description/no use of “Y/N”)

Warnings: “plot bloat” (trying to get Paloma where she needs to go); fully legal age gap; curse words; alcohol; Whiskey acting like a bastard; a little sprinkling of angst; open-mouth kissing; protected P/V sex; some extra-soft!Frankie

On your third Monday at Statesman New York you led a planning meeting that should have been easy. Jack Daniels made it anything but.

The worst part was that you hadn't even been properly introduced yet. Where Champ had rolled out the red carpet for you at Louisville HQ, Whiskey was a phantom, too busy to meet with you during your first couple of weeks. That made what happened in the meeting even more humiliating.

You started by outlining the research that your team had gathered, the analysis that they had carefully done, and presented the options and outcomes. When you were done, Whiskey threw his copy of your report down on the table and said, "That's horseshit."

You felt your face heat with embarrassment, but you tried to hold your ground. "Excuse me?"

Jack waved his fingers dismissively, "That's alright, I'll excuse you. This isn't the kind of work I expected from our new 'hotshot' team lead. Why isn't there information about the facilities we'll be targeting?"

"There are no 'facilities' at this location, Agent. It's a one-and-done for a drop and extract. There's nothing to raid, nothing to seize, and nothing to see."

"Really?" He arched one eyebrow at you and rubbed his thumb over his lower lip. The sheer cockiness of it made you burn with irritation. "So how come the information we got last Friday tells us that there's a production facility the next block over? You really gonna send our agents halfway around the world without botherin' to target the facility next door?"

You froze. Was he correct? That didn't seem possible. How had your team missed that? You held his gaze with as much assertiveness as you could muster, trying to match his attitude so that you wouldn't appear to be weak. "I don't have information about any facilities."

He cracked a smirk, "Well then, you're not very good at your job, are you darlin'?"

You swallowed hard and tried not to let tears rise. How dare he talk down to you? What the hell was his problem? Another agent spoke up, saying that if new information had come in recently, then you could review it and reconvene later to discuss its impact. The meeting disbanded.

You felt like you had been sucker-punched, and you weren't sure if you wanted to flee to your office, or sit gripping the edge of the table and glare Whiskey down. You opted to stay, waiting for everyone else to file out. Finally it was just you and Whiskey left, sitting at the big conference table and having some kind of a stubborn staring contest. This was not how you wanted to start your new job.

"What the fuck is your problem with me?" You gritted the question out and held his gaze. You knew that cursing at a senior agent, not to mention the one who was the face of Statesman Whiskey and de facto head of the New York office, probably wasn't the wisest way to start your tenure... but neither was backing down and letting him roll right over you.

"Nothin' personal, darlin', but I can't let you give my agents incorrect or missing information. Your team should have known about the facilities at this location."

"It sure felt personal, Agent Whiskey. If you have a problem with my work, you take it up with me privately. I don't mind admitting when I've made a mistake, but it's shitty to treat people like that in front of others." You glared at him, trying to look as fierce as you could.

He finally looked away from you, and muttered something that might have been an apology.

"What's that, Agent Whiskey? I didn't quite hear you."

"I said, 'I'm sorry.' You're right. That was unfair of me."

Before you could stop yourself, you found acid on your tongue. "Well, well, the great Agent Whiskey lowers himself to apologize. No wonder you flash that charm at everything on two legs. Your manners can't stand on their own, can they?"

If you hadn't been so focused on gathering up your paperwork, you would have seen a flicker of hurt cross his face. Instead you stomped out of the conference room and thanked the stars that you hadn't cried. By the time you got back to your office, a cold ball of regret was starting to form just below your ribs. You prided yourself on being able to work effectively with everyone, and you were extremely proud of your track record at Statesman so far. Why hadn't you been less confrontational, or tried to smooth things over? Why had you jumped straight to a pissing contest?

---

"God, what an asshole!"

"I told you, he's kind of a lot to take." Ginger's voice on the other end of the phone came through calm and sweet, as she always was.

You spun your chair to lean back and stare up at the ceiling of your office, trying to keep tears from forming. "Ugh, he's such a colossal jackass. I cannot believe he tried to undermine me like that in the meeting. I could have strangled him!"

"Just stay out of his way as much as you can. I'm sure he'll calm down once he sees what kind of work your team produces. You're doing great."

"Yeah, well... not so great actually. It turns out he was right. There was a report on a facility that came through very late on Friday, and one of my analysts went home sick, so I didn't get it in time for the meeting. That's the worst part: he was right, the bastard."

"Oh, Paloma. I'm so sorry. I'm sure that stung."

You let out a deep sigh. "I'll be okay. I just hope I get the chance to catch him making a mistake, and then I'll shove it in his stupid face. Make him lap it up with that ridiculous mustache of his."

Ginger giggled. "As much as I'd like to imagine that with you, I gotta run. Call me later? I miss you!"

"I miss you, too. 'Bye."

You hung up and spun your chair around, coming face to face with the sight of Agent Whiskey leaning in your office doorway. His arms were crossed casually, one foot propped over the other, looking like he could stand there all day. Your stomach leapt into your throat and then dropped down to your shoes. How much had he heard?

"Oh, kill me now," you breathed.

"Not just yet, darlin’. We have work to do." He popped up from his perch in the doorway and took a seat in one of your visitors chairs.

"How can I help you?" You kept your tone respectful, although it verged on frosty.

"Well, we need to revise the mission plan to include the new intelligence. Then we need to have a talk about civility."

You arched an eyebrow. "Oh, civility? I see. What kind of ‘civility’ did you have in mind, Agent Whiskey?"

"Well, for one, you can call me Jack. And for two, I was comin’ down here to apologize again, but apparently there's something you'd like to shove in my face and have me lap up with my ridiculous mustache?" He twitched one eyebrow up, looking smug and amused by the double entendre.

You closed your eyes and suppressed a groan. Maybe this was a hallucination and you were still in bed at home. Or maybe you hadn't actually left Louisville. You cracked one eyelid open, finding Whiskey’s deep brown eyes still on you. You decided to try to be the bigger person and smooth things over.

"I'm sorry. I was venting to a friend, and obviously that wasn't intended for your ears."

"Well now, I’m a big boy. I've heard worse and survived."

"I apologize. I let myself get irritated by your behavior in the meeting. It wasn't professional, and it won't happen again."

"Well, for my part, if I think you've made an error, I'll be sure to talk with you privately instead of calling you out in front of the team. Deal?" He stuck one broad, well-manicured hand out to shake.

You reached your own out somewhat reluctantly, then warmed to it, feeling how large and soft his hand was when it wrapped around your fingers. "Deal."

He gave your hand one final squeeze. An involuntary tingle ran up your arm, and you found yourself wondering whether he was as talented with his hands as he was smart with his mouth. Oh god, what was wrong with you?

You cleared your throat and pulled your hand away, trying not to jerk it back like he’d burned you.

“I’ll, um, I’ll have my team revise the mission plan to include the new intelligence, and then we’ll reconvene tomorrow. Sound good?”

“Sounds fine, darlin’.” He winked at you and you felt something flutter just below your navel.

---

Despite the conciliatory conversation with Whiskey, you still felt awkward and hurt, not to mention confused by some of the warmer feelings that had popped up uninvited. You spent the next six weeks trying to fly low and avoid Whiskey. You sent your senior analyst as your replacement for every meeting that you possibly could, and when you did have to attend them you timed your entrances and exits so that you wouldn't be in the conference room any longer than necessary. You transferred reports to Whiskey's office electronically, and when a hand-delivery was required you sent whoever happened to be closest to you. It worked great. You hadn't said more than "hello" and "goodbye" to Whiskey in so long, you were starting to feel like maybe you had escaped the awkwardness, the horrific start to your time in New York. It felt like a bad dream from another era.

One late Thursday afternoon, your plan fell apart. You got a request from Whiskey's assistant for a hard-copy file, and the entire office suite was empty. Each of your team members was off doing other things or had left early. You avoided it as long as you could, running to the ladies room to pee and then lingering in the hallway outside your office, just in case someone from your staff came back. After 10 long minutes you realized that you were "it" and that nobody was going to come save you. You sighed and trudged to the elevator. It seemed to move too quickly, depositing you at Whiskey's floor in no time flat.

As you rounded the corner you saw that Whiskey's assistant was gathering her things to leave for the day. After one too many disasters with "pretty young things," Champ had put his foot down and assigned someone to Whiskey who would keep him on the straight and narrow. Mary was what you called a "motherly hard-ass," while Ginger called her a “saint.” Mary had worked for Statesman almost as long as Champ, and she knew her stuff inside and out. Most importantly, she was completely immune to Whiskey's flirtations. He had tried once or twice to charm her, but after finding that her warm exterior concealed a brick wall of professionalism and a razor-sharp wit, he had relented.

"Hi Mary!" You kept your voice cheerful and light, trying to hide the twisting in your gut. "Here's the file he requested."

"Hi Paloma, you can go on in." Mary smiled wryly, "He actually asked to see you if you showed up. Sorry, kiddo, you're a lamb to the slaughter." She patted your back in sympathy.

Your shoulders slumped, "Ugh." Just as you were about to air your disgust in stronger words, Whiskey's door opened.

"Paloma! Glad to see you, darlin'. Come on in."

You shot Mary one last look, pleading for reprieve. She patted your shoulder and bid Whiskey a good night.

You forced your legs to move, and when you got inside Whiskey's office you perched on the edge of the sofa in the visitors area. Whiskey preferred to entertain visitors away from his desk, so he had a cozy corner of the office set up with two large chairs, a coffee table, and a black leather sofa that seemed to take up half the room.

You tossed the file on the table and spoke in a monotone that bordered on rude. "Brought you the file. Need anything else?"

Whiskey gestured to the bar cart. "Can I get you a drink, darlin'?"

"No." You shook your head. "But thank you."

Whiskey shrugged and poured himself something amber in a small glass. You couldn't take your eyes off his hands as they deftly maneuvered around the glassware and ice bucket. They reminded you a little of Frankie's hands: strong and thick, sure and precise in their movements. But where Frankie's hands were warm, work-worn and calloused, Whiskey's were primped and clean, just as manicured as his sharply tailored suits and slick mustache. You bit the inside of your lip to bring yourself back to reality before your brain could wander any farther down the path of what Whiskey's hands could do.

You focused your gaze on the file on the coffee table and waited. Whiskey settled himself into the big chair closest to your end of the couch.

"Paloma, darlin'. Thanks for coming up."

You cringed internally and tried to screw up the courage to ask him to just call you Paloma. The nickname of "darlin'" was starting to grate. For a moment you weren't sure if it was because you found it unprofessional or because you wanted to hear it more. Shit. What was wrong with you?

"What can I do for you, Agent Whiskey?"

"Please, call me Jack."

"What can I do for you?" You refused to give in, drawing your mental line in the sand. You could have a whole conversation with him without calling him Jack, couldn't you?

"Well now, I was hoping we could finally chat a bit - outside of a meeting, that is. You've been here almost two months and I'm sorry that I haven't taken the time to get to know you better." He winked.

You suppressed an eye roll and pursed your lips. "What would you like to know?"

You weren't going to make this easy for him, you decided. If he wanted information beyond your resume, or even a friendly conversation, he would have to work for it. You weren't simply going to open up like a flower under the sunshine of his charm.

"Well, I understand you're from Louisville. Beautiful place." He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees, trying to close the space between you.

"Yes." You scooted all the way to the back of the sofa and crossed your arms, somewhat amused at the difficulty you were giving him. He hadn't expressed any displeasure yet, but you were certain that he was going to get frustrated sooner or later.

"Well, darlin' I had no idea that we were growin' them so smart down there, not to mention so pretty. If I'd known, I would have lured you up here to the big city a lot sooner." He looked like he was about to wink again, or try to devour you.

"Is that so?" God, he was really buttering you up, wasn't he? You crossed one leg over the other, keeping your arms crossed over your chest for good measure.

"Yes, it is. I was awfully impressed by your analysis on the Rex Smith case ‘bout a year ago. I had no clue there were that many shell companies in the mix. I would've thought three, maybe four, tops. But you found thirteen!"

Your jaw dropped a little at that. Not only had he seen your work on your first case as Assistant Director in Louisville, but he had reviewed the case file thoroughly, remembered such a tiny detail, and was also giving you credit? You were starting to think that you had underestimated Agent Whiskey. His charm and sass were legendary, but you now realized that those traits didn’t indicate anything missing in the brains department.

He smirked at your reaction and teased you gently. "Better watch that mouth, darlin'. You're liable to catch a few flies if you don't close it."

Goddamn him. You closed your mouth and tried not to sulk. You didn't like making mistakes, especially not such idiotic ones. If you weren't careful, he was going to knock you on your ass.

"Can I get you that drink now, darlin'?"

"No, thank you. I need to get going." You uncrossed your legs and stood up. Whiskey stood at the same time, and you found yourself entirely too close to him, your bodies just inches apart as you tried to negotiate your exit from the seating area. Something warm that smelled like cedar and smoky bourbon was emanating off of him, and you were certain it was from the expensive side of the cologne department. His coffee-brown eyes held yours, and you caught yourself staring at him while your brain sent you panicky messages to, “Move! Speak! Leave!”

Whiskey let the moment hang, seeming to enjoy every second that passed like torture for you. His eyes were twinkling so hard you thought you saw sparks. You heard yourself exhale a breath that was far more shaky than you would have preferred. He put his hand out to shake yours, and you found yourself imagining what would happen if you bypassed the polite gesture and wrapped your arms and legs around him, knocked him to the floor and kissed that stupid mustache right off his face.

Instead, you reached out to shake his hand and accidentally brushed the front of his hip, just an inch from his crotch.

"Oh my GOD! That was an accident. I'm so sorry, I'm sorry!" You scrunched your eyes closed and buried your face in your hands. Mortification consumed you as you heard Whiskey guffaw. You felt like you were going to die of embarrassment, and you were pissed off that it wasn't a real possibility. Death would have been extremely welcome.

Whiskey put his hands on your shoulders and squeezed. His laughter died down to a soft wheeze. "Hey, look at me."

You dared a glance through your fingers. His eyes twinkled and his white teeth still showed in a wide smile. "I'm sorry I laughed, I know it was an accident. You weren't trying to take advantage."

You moaned and Whiskey chuckled again. "It's alright, darlin'. You didn't break anything."

“Argh! I’m so sorry. That’s the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done.”

“It’s okay, I didn’t think anything of it.” He pulled you gently toward him, and you did something you never imagined possible: you let him wrap you into a hug.

“I’ll forget it if you will, darlin’.” His deep voice rumbled against your body and you felt yourself melting a little. Tears of embarrassment pricked at your eyes.

You sniffed and pulled back. Whiskey let you go, but kept one hand on your elbow. He looked at you warmly and smiled. “Really, darlin’. Don’t think anything of it.”

You found yourself staring into his dark brown eyes, warm and shiny with humor. The mood shifted almost imperceptibly, turning him magnetic. Something in you snapped and you wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him.

Whiskey hummed a surprised noise against your lips for a moment, then opened his mouth to let you in. His mustache was softer than it looked, and hardly tickled at all as you wrestled each other for satisfaction. You found yourself tumbling down to the couch. Whiskey lay over you with one strong arm wrapped around your lower back, keeping you pressed close against him. His lips and tongue were eager and searching, and you responded in kind, nibbling his plush lower lip and flicking your tongue across the back of his top teeth. The taste of his liquor intermingled with the scent of his cologne, and it sent your senses reeling. He tasted and smelled and felt so good, and you wanted to stay there and drink him in forever.

Your lips parted from Whiskey’s and you took a gulp of air, looking into his brown-black eyes above you. The inrush of oxygen kicked your brain into gear and you felt cold; both from the absence of Whiskey's mouth on yours and from the dose of harsh reality that washed over you. This was wrong... wasn't it? As good as it felt, it wasn't right to make out with the boss in his office, after hours, on a couch for God's sake. What the hell were you thinking?

"Oh, shit!" You shoved Whiskey's shoulders up and away, rolling him toward the back of the couch as you slithered out from underneath him. You landed on the floor, then crouched and stood up. Whiskey shifted on the sofa, turning to lay face up on the plush leather and folding his arms behind his head. His grin hovered somewhere between 'Cheshire cat' and 'kid let loose in a candy store.' You groaned at the sight while irritation and the desire to flop back down on top of him fought equally within you.

"Well now, darlin'. You need to be off somewhere?"

"Yes. This was not a good idea." You waved your hands in front of you as if you were trying to erase a blackboard. "I think I need to leave."

"Feel free to come back anytime, darlin'. I'll be right here."

You took three swift steps toward the door and then spun to face him. "I need you to stop calling me 'darlin''. My name here is Paloma."

He cocked one eyebrow at you as you continued. "And another thing, Agent Whiskey: this never happened."

Before he could respond you yanked his office door open and jogged to the elevator. What the hell was wrong with you?

---

"Ginger, you have got to help me. I don't know what's wrong with me." You shuddered out a breath as you kicked your shoes off and sat down at your kitchen table. At your elbow was the biggest drink you could pour without causing a hangover.

"Are you okay? What happened?"

You gulped. "I kissed him."

"What?! Why?"

"I don't know! I just... I was in his office and he was standing really close to me and then I went to go shake his hand but I accidentally touched his crotch and..." you trailed off as Ginger laughed. "It's not funny, it's embarrassing!"

She giggled at you. "That sounds kind of funny. You'll laugh about it later."

"I won't. I wanted to die of embarrassment, but then he was so nice about it and he was looking at me softly and I just- I kissed him! What the hell is wrong with me?"

"Try not to worry too much. You're not the first lady to make that mistake and you won't be the last. He'll forget about you as soon as someone else catches his eye.”

"Yeah, I know." You weren't sure if being one in a long string of women made you feel better or worse.

"… although it does seem like you have a ‘type’ now.”

“What?!”

“Well he is tall, dark, and handsome. If he weren’t such a jackass I’d say he reminds me of Frankie.”

“Oh, hell no. That is not a fair comparison. They’re nothing alike.”

“You’re right, Frankie was a gem. Listen, just avoid Whiskey and keep your eyes on your work. He'll forget about you and it'll be like it never happened. And as irritating as he is, I know he's not a gossip. Don't worry, this won't get around."

You threw back your head and let out a long breath. "Okay. You're right. All I have to do is my job."

"That's right. And you're really good at your job, Pal. Don't let this derail you, okay?"

"Okay. Thanks, Gin. I appreciate it."

"No problem. Listen, I have to go, but I wanted to tell you that I’ll be coming to New York next week. I have to do some training with, uh, a consultant. And when I’m done we can have a girl’s dinner out, okay? Just try to have a good weekend."

"Thanks, I will. You too."

You sighed and finished your drink. The idea of calling in sick tomorrow floated up, and you seriously considered it. But you had already spent six weeks avoiding Whiskey, and your integrity wouldn’t let you call out without a good reason. You could make it one day until the weekend, right?

---

You awoke Friday morning with a pounding headache and a cotton-dry mouth. You were dreading going to work, but duty called. You showered and dressed as slow as you dared, and found yourself dragging into the office only 15 minutes late. Fortunately, there was enough work to keep you distracted, and at your 10:00 department heads meeting you found out that Whiskey was out of the office for the day. Relief washed over you, and you suddenly felt lighter. You could survive until the weekend without worrying.

The rest of your day was uneventful until around 4:00, when an assistant brought you a vase of fresh flowers that had been delivered to reception. You frowned and looked for a card. The arrangement was beautiful, featuring dark yellow daisy-shaped flowers with fuzzy chocolate brown centers, and pinky-purple blooms shaped like bottle brushes. Both types looked oddly familiar. You leaned closer to examine them as your brain twisted in confusion. Were those...? No way... orange coneflowers and dense blazing stars? Who the heck would send you an arrangement of Kentucky wildflowers? Mom? It wasn't your birthday yet.

You felt an icy ball of lead punch you in the stomach as you opened the notecard: "Even though nothing happened, I had a hell of a time. Hope to see you again. -Jack"

That motherfucker.

Just as you were about to sweep the flowers into the trash, there was a heavy knock on your doorway. You looked up, and your emotions spun from anger to elation so fast you almost threw up. Frankie stood in your doorway, looking soft and rumpled in a plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his sweet curls escaping the same well-loved baseball cap he always wore.

"Frankie!?" You leapt out of your chair and practically ran to him. He swept you up in a bear hug and pulled you six inches off the ground. "Oh my God, Frankie, I'm so glad to see you!"

"Hey, Paloma. I missed you. How's the big promotion? They make you head of the New York office yet?" His deep voice rumbled into your ear softly, and you laughed with joy. You never wanted to let go.

Frankie set you down and broke the embrace, and you immediately grabbed his hand and guided him to one of your visitors chairs. You took a seat in the chair next to him, turning it to face him and get as close as you dared without looking too desperate.

"Oh my gosh, what are you doing here?"

"I'm doing a quick consulting job for Statesman, helping Ginger train a few folks for an extraction. I have to work on the project Monday and Tuesday, and then I'll be in town until Saturday as a tourist. I took the whole week off, so I don't need to be back in Florida until next Sunday." He smiled broadly at you.

You felt your own face split into a wide grin. "Do you need a tour guide? I've been here two whole months. I can show you my favorite coffee shop and we could go to a few museums."

He smiled warmly back at you, and you felt like you had been wrapped in the world's softest blanket. "I'd like that. Statesman gave me an apartment for the week. Should be close by, if you don't mind showing me where it is?" He pulled a slip of paper out of his wallet and read the address.

You threw your head back and cackled.

"What's so funny?"

"That's my apartment! Statesman owns a few units in the same building." You grabbed the piece of paper from his hand to read the apartment number. "You're literally one floor below me for the week."

He grinned. "Well, shit. If I'd known that, I would’ve just told them to let me bunk with you."

You frowned and handed the paper back. "Wouldn't your girlfriend be upset with that?"

Frankie looked down at his shoes. "She's, uh, not my girlfriend anymore. We broke up."

"Oh, Catfish. I'm so sorry." You reached out to squeeze his forearm, and the feel of his warm skin over ropey muscles made you tingle. You vividly remembered how much you used to love grabbing those forearms as he pounded into you, how good they felt wrapped around you in the shower, how strong and safe Frankie felt at all times. You pulled your hand back and cleared your throat.

Frankie stood. "Listen, I gotta take care of a few things this afternoon, but can we go to dinner later? Nothing fancy, if you know anyplace I can go dressed like this," he gestured to his worn jeans and work boots.

"Unless, uh,” he pointed to the flowers on your desk. “Is there a boyfriend who would be mad if I took you out?"

You stood and smiled, biting your lip. "No. There’s no boyfriend, and I'd love to go to dinner. I'll come down to your apartment and pick you up at 7:00? 7:30?"

"Seven is perfect." He hugged you, and the smell of him spun you right back to Louisville. Frankie smelled like clean cotton and hard work, with a faint whiff of mechanic's grease just under the scent of his laundry soap and Old Spice deodorant. You used to tease Frankie about his habit of buying the same deodorant that he’d been using since junior high, but he always swatted you away with a, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Now the scent of it made you want to buy every package in the world and always have the smell around you.

When you broke the embrace it was so hard to let go, to not lean in for a kiss like you used to. He seemed to feel it, too, lingering just a moment longer with his arms wrapped around you and smiling wistfully as you finally pulled apart. You wanted to stay in his arms for hours, maybe even stow away on his flight back to Florida.

“I’ll see you at seven, Paloma.”

You felt your goofy grin reappear. “Okay. I’m so glad you’re here, Catfish.”

---

The hours until dinner crawled, and you spent more time than you thought wise trying to get ready. You showered and put on your nicest outfit, which was really just the all-black, most-recently-purchased version of your normal work clothes. Your job at Statesman didn’t call for anything very dressy, so you hadn’t expanded your wardrobe beyond work staples. Still, you spent entirely too long arranging your hair, sweeping it one way and then the other, trying to figure out what jewelry to wear, and then changing your hair again for the third time. You were contemplating another shoe change when your phone alarm went off, warning you that it was five minutes to 7:00. Oh, well, too late to change anything now. You brushed your teeth frantically and hoped Frankie wouldn’t care.

You floated down the stairwell and found yourself grinning idiotically as you rapped at Frankie’s door. He opened it looking exactly the same as he had at 4:00 that afternoon, and you chastised yourself internally for trying to dress up. Your irritation turned to pride, however, when Frankie looked you up and down with a low whistle.

“Jeez, Paloma, you look fantastic. Should I change?” He looked worried.

“No, you look fine! We’re not going anywhere fancy, I promise. I don’t know why I changed clothes, it was silly.”

“No, you look amazing.” He opened his arms for a hug. You felt warmth rush to your face as you leaned in. Frankie was always so eager to please and to compliment you, to make you feel good. You had missed him so much.

The walk to dinner was easy, conversation bouncing between the two of you as you made your way to the restaurant. Frankie filled you in on everything going on in Florida, about his friends and his parents and his job. You spoke enthusiastically about your new position and how much you loved New York. You decided not to share information about either one of your run-ins with Agent Whiskey.

Dinner passed in a swirl of giggles and wine and good food. Frankie made you laugh so hard you almost choked twice, and before you knew it, nearly three hours had passed.

“Frankie, I think the restaurant is going to kick us out if we don’t scoot soon. Do you want to go walk around a little bit?”

He drained his water glass and nodded. “Yeah, where to?”

“We can window shop down the street, and there’s a cute little park nearby.” You arched one eyebrow at him, “Wanna go play on the swings?”

He laughed and nodded. “Yes, let’s do that.”

You fought Frankie for the bill before letting him win. “Okay, but the next one is on me, Catfish.”

When you emerged into the summer night, you both took a deep breath, trying to clear your heads of the alcohol haze. You weren’t drunk, just pleasantly buzzed and a little silly. Without thinking, you tucked your arm into Frankie’s and snuggled yourself against him as you wandered along. Store windows were lit up against the dark, and you stopped here and there to look and giggle at displays.

You paused in front of an antique store. The window behind the bars was lined in red velvet, and on each of the little red display pillows sat a piece of vintage jewelry.

You were quietly gazing at an enamel bracelet and a sparkly tiara when Frankie’s voice broke the silence.

“You ever want one of those?”

“A tiara? No. I mean, it might be fun for a hot bubble bath, but I can’t exactly wear it to work.”

“No,” he nudged your arm and tilted his chin toward the far left side of the store window. “An engagement ring.”

You froze and suddenly couldn’t breathe. Your eyes shifted to a sparkly, square-cut sapphire ring sitting on the smallest pillow. You couldn’t form rational thoughts, and you weren’t sure exactly what kind of answer Frankie was expecting.

“I mean- uh, I guess I never thought about it. I haven’t seen anyone since we-” you swallowed hard. “I’ve been single since we broke up.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, and when he didn’t respond right away you found yourself filling the silence with nervous chatter. “I mean, I tried dating but it never went past a second date, and I don’t know anyone who would propose that early, and anyway I just- I mean I didn’t think- and you left so I didn’t…” you trailed off, realizing that you weren’t making any sense.

Frankie’s voice was low and serious. “I thought about it.”

That broke the spell and you turned to face him. “You thought about it? About me?”

He looked at you, almost shy. “Yeah, I thought about it a couple of months after we started dating. But with your job and my work, and… Well, you know what happened. You were there, same as I was.” He reached out a hand to cup your chin. “I was sorry it didn’t work out for us.”

You sighed and melted into him, “Oh, Frankie.”

He wrapped both arms around your shoulders as you gripped his waist. Your mouths found each other in the dark as if your last kiss had been yesterday. Frankie was warm and solid and familiar, and you found yourself aching to hang on to him, to keep him there with you for as long as you could.

You stood on the sidewalk together for what seemed like hours, exploring each other and passing silent messages back and forth with your lips and tongues and teeth. Slow swirls of the tip of his tongue around yours told you he missed you, and the tiny nips you bit against his bottom lip conveyed an urgency, a need that you couldn't express in words. You found your fingers entwined in his belt loops, pulling him as close as you could, mimicking the kind of connection that really required nakedness and absolute vulnerability together.

You turned sideways to loop your arm around his waist and walk unsteadily back to your apartment building, stealing kisses again and again as you strolled, then paused, then continued on your way. The trip took twice as long as it should have, but neither you nor Frankie was willing to break apart for longer than it took to step down off a curb or glance at a walk signal. You just kept kissing, drunk on each other and wanting more and more; silently cursing the fact that the apartment was still so far away, but reveling in the moments that you could seize right now to embrace each other as you walked.

When you reached your block, you murmured against Frankie’s mouth. “Do you have anything? I don’t have any protection at home.”

He cursed softly, “Shit. No, I didn’t bring…” He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence as you kissed him again.

“Don’t worry, that’s why I asked. There’s a drugstore right here.”

“I always knew-” he kissed you softly, “... that you were smarter than me.”

You giggled against his mouth and wrapped your arms around his neck. “You’re the one who can fly helicopters. I just stare at data reports all day.”

You walked into the pharmacy holding hands and made it through the checkout line in record time, urgently kissing again when you reached the sidewalk, navigating the final dozen or so yards to your building.

The elevator ride consisted of one long kiss, broken only by Frankie’s urgent, “Mine or yours?” You murmured, “Mine,” and pressed the button for your floor, folding yourself back into his arms. You unlocked your front door while Frankie held you from behind and peppered kisses down your ear and cheek and jaw, distracting you as you fumbled with your keys. When you finally got the door open, you tumbled inside together and slammed the door shut.

Now that you were someplace private, you could undress, fumbling against one another as you struggled to open buttons and zippers and bra clasps in between kisses; to continue your soft caresses while you kicked shoes and pants off and away. Finally you were both standing, wearing only underwear while you continued to embrace. You pulled away from Frankie and picked up the box of condoms where it had dropped, then you took his hand and led him to your bedroom.

You tumbled onto the bed together and continued the makeout session that had started miles away and what seemed like an eternity ago in front of the antique store window. Frankie’s strokes along your ribcage and thighs were light and almost ticklish, so familiar that you wanted to cry. You had no expectations of getting back together and attempting a long-distance relationship, but he was here right now. And that was good, right? It was familiar and lovely and sweet.

Frankie hadn’t changed a bit since you parted 10 months ago, except for a few more grays in his beard and one or two more crinkles when he smiled. You ached and ached for him, even though he was right on top of you, kissing you and touching you and murmuring your name. Your brain kept raising the idea of what would happen in a week when he had to leave, or what might have happened a year ago if Statesman hadn’t demanded so much from both of you. The knowledge that you had missed becoming Frankie’s wife because of shitty circumstances, combined with the threat of losing him again in just a few days time punched you in the throat, and a sob escaped your lips as tears sprang to your eyes.

“What’s wrong, babe? Did I hurt you?” Frankie looked you over, rolling to one side to examine your face with a worried scowl. He propped himself up on one elbow and hovered over you.

“No, I’m just-” You sniffed back another sob. “I just wasn’t expecting to see you, and I’m so glad you’re here. It’s just a lot, that’s all.”

He brushed a tear from your cheek. “We don’t have to do this right now; not if you don’t want to. I didn’t come here with the expectation that you would jump back into bed with me.”

Your heart leapt at that. Same old sweet Frankie, doing everything he could to treat you tenderly, to care for you. You knew that if you tried to explain everything you were feeling, he would probably take it personally. Frankie hated to see you hurting, and doubly so if he thought he was the one who had caused it.

“I might just need a minute. I’m okay, I promise. It’s just been a weird week.”

You decided to joke, to lighten the mood and try to ease Frankie’s worry. “My old boyfriend is back in town, and I just found out that I missed out on him being my husband, and I also kind of kissed my boss yesterday, so I’m not in a real ‘steady’ place right now.”

Frankie frowned at that. “You kissed Bill?”

“Oh, no! No, not my boss-boss.” You paused, unsure of whether or not Frankie would hate you for your next words. “I kissed Agent Whiskey.”

Frankie’s eyebrows nearly leapt off his forehead, but he didn’t sit up or let go of you. He didn’t run out of the room screaming. “Is there something I should know?”

“It was a mistake. I was in his office and I accidentally touched his crotch-” Frankie’s eyebrows raised another impossible inch as you continued, “Truly an accident, a horrible, embarrassing accident. And then I think I just felt really vulnerable and lonely and I kissed him.”

Frankie nodded. “It happens, I guess.” He looked at you tenderly. “Although I’ve never kissed my boss. He always has food in his beard.” You erupted in giggles and tucked your face against Frankie’s chest. He stroked your arm and shoulder, laughing against your hair.

Your giggles subsided, and you rolled away from Frankie, laying on your stomach and folding your arms under your chin. You sighed and turned your face to him. “I am glad you’re here, though. I really missed you.” You paused, trying to formulate your next words.

“It took me a long time to get over you, and I’m honestly not sure I ever did. If we hadn’t both had so much work and conflicting schedules, if things had been different-” Frankie leaned over and cut you off with a soft kiss.

“You don’t have to tell me how things could have been different.” He stroked your temple. “After we broke up I just couldn’t handle working around you. I didn’t hate you, I just had to leave. It hurt too much to stay.”

“I’m sorry, Frankie.”

“No, don’t apologize. It wasn’t you, it wasn’t me, it was just life.” Frankie leaned over and kissed your cheek, stroking your back with feather-light touches, raising goosebumps as silence settled over the both of you.

His touch felt amazing, conjuring electricity where his fingers met your skin. Tingles started to form in your pelvis and you found your breath shuddering in time with Frankie’s caresses. You sat up and moved to straddle him, entwining your fingers with his and pinning his hands to the bed next to his ears.

Neither one of you spoke as you rolled your hips gently on his and stole kiss after kiss, feeling his erection grow and press harder against your vulva, still separated by the fabric of both your underwear and his. Finally you broke your grip on his hands and Frankie reached up to cup your breasts. You arched your back to press yourself into his palms, and your nipples stiffened with the friction and the heat of his touch. You grabbed the backs of his hands and pressed them harder against you, as if you could multiply the sensations that were zipping through your body.

You leaned down for another kiss and then swung your leg off and over him. You stood next to the bed and pulled your panties off, then reached over Frankie to grip his waistband. He lifted his hips to assist you, and when his cock sprung free you nearly gasped at how much you missed him and missed this, the intimacy and the raw electricity and the closeness. You reached out to stroke his length a few times, running the pad of your thumb gently up the underside and over his slit. He was damp there, but not leaking yet, and you let go only to grab the box of condoms and rip it open.

“Here,” you handed him a foil packet and let him put it on. When he was covered you gripped him again and gave him three firm, slow pumps, pulling a moan out of the deepest part of his chest. You straddled him again and hovered over him, making eye contact as you lined up to insert him, taking him into the most intimate part of you. He stroked one large hand from your knee to your ass, then cupped both cheeks and pulled you slightly apart to help guide him in. You closed your eyes and let out a soft hiss as he entered. Everything felt so good and familiar, like no time had passed at all, like he had never left.

When you were fully seated on him, you placed your palms on his shoulders for leverage, watching with delight as the tendons in his neck flexed and his Adam’s apple bobbed, veins throbbing on either side of his beautiful throat as you rode him. He reached one hand down to thumb your clit, pressing and petting it and drawing whimpers from you as the pleasure swelled within you. Neither one of you spoke as you gazed into each other, moving together in a practiced rhythm, increasing the pace and the tempo and the force until you were shaking the whole bed. Then your head spun and you found yourself crying out his name as you climaxed around him. You slumped over him and buried your face in his neck, that gorgeous soft crook between his throat and his shoulder. He braced his feet and thrust up into you. Chills wracked your body as you squeezed and fluttered around his cock. He grunted and clenched his jaw, “I’m coming.” And then he pulled you closer and froze, holding you there as he filled the condom. When he relaxed his thighs and arms, you reached down and gripped the base of the condom to keep it on him as you rolled sideways and off.

You both lay staring at the ceiling, recovering your breath, trying to remember where you were and why anything outside of your shared pleasure mattered.

---

Frankie stayed at your apartment all weekend. The two of you kissed and caressed, showered and fucked, made breakfasts and dinners, watched movies and slept curled together, until you almost forgot how much you had missed each other, almost forgot the fact that he would have to leave.

On Monday you and Frankie walked to the office together and kissed at the front desk, parting ways for the day. You ran into Ginger in the hallway and squealed and gave her a hug. She smiled at you and wiggled her eyebrows. “Did you see who our consultant is for this project?”

“Yes! He came by my office on Friday and we went to dinner.” You leaned over to lower your voice and murmur, “And we spent all weekend together.”

Ginger laughed and you grinned and rolled your eyes. “It’s nice. I don’t know if we’re ‘back together’ or anything, but I’ll have fun hanging out with him while he’s here.”

Ginger bit her lip, “I’m glad. I know you guys really missed each other, but I’m happy you can see him while he’s here.”

“Me, too.”

You and Ginger made plans to have lunch together that afternoon, and your mood was light as you entered your office. It dampened a bit when you saw the flowers from Whiskey that were still sitting there. And it dropped further when you saw a note from one of your staff saying that Whiskey had requested that you come see him when you arrived this morning. You decided that you would just have to treat him like nothing had happened, and keep your head up. After all, you were on cloud nine with Frankie in town, so what’s the worst that could happen?

You found Mary’s desk empty, so you squared your shoulders and knocked on Whiskey’s door. He could try to irritate you all he wanted, but you were going to be cool as a cucumber.

When he opened the door, Whiskey grinned at you and motioned you in. You opted to stand next to his desk with your arms crossed. If this was business, you would keep it businesslike. He walked up to you and raised an eyebrow, still grinning like a fool.

You looked at him and frowned. What was his deal?

He started the conversation cryptically, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Did you get my flowers?”

You opted for the driest tone you could, “Yes. Thank you.”

He nodded, “Good. Listen, darlin’-”

You interrupted him. “Paloma.”

“Right, Paloma. I’d love to take you out to dinner sometime and apologize again for behaving like a jackass in that meeting a few weeks back.” He placed both of his large, warm hands on your arms and squeezed. “If we could see our way clear to some kind of understanding, I think I’d like it very much if we could-” a knock on his door cut him off.

Mary opened it and stuck her head in. “Agent Whiskey? I have the consultant here for your 9:00 meeting.”

Whiskey hissed out a breath and sounded disappointed. “Right.”

You pounced on the opportunity to escape. “I’ll just get going.”

Mary opened the door all the way and Frankie walked halfway in, freezing at the sight of you and Whiskey standing so close together. Guilt creeped up, even though you had no reason to feel that way, and you fought the urge to apologize to Frankie.

You and Agent Whiskey spoke at the same time, words jumbling together as Frankie approached to shake hands with Whiskey.

“Hi, Agent Whiskey. You can call me Ja-”

“Frankie, hi. I was just-”

“Oh, do you two already know-”

“We used to-”

You found yourself standing next to them as they shook hands and sized each other up. Your own discomfort was so strong that you almost didn’t notice that they were jostling each other as if they were fighting for dominance. A strange energy settled over the three of you as they stared at each other. If you didn’t know any better, you would have said it felt like they were fighting over you.

“Whiskey, this is Frankie Morales. He and I used to work-” Frankie cut you off, something he normally would never do, and his next words mortified you.

“Paloma and I used to date when we worked together in Louisville.”

You groaned. You weren’t embarrassed that you had dated Frankie, but the less information Whiskey had about your personal life, the better.

“Is that so? Well, I didn’t know that.” Whiskey’s voice was as smooth as the leather on his couch, and he cocked an eyebrow at you. Instead of irritating you, it had the effect of sending a flutter to your crotch. You gulped, hard.

Whiskey turned back to Frankie. “Any big plans while you’re here in New York?”

“Paloma and I are going out.”

“We’re what?” Your voice was louder than you had meant it to be and both men turned to look at you. You felt stunned by the double gaze, the two pairs of dark brown eyes, the strong noses and lovely mouths; features so similar to one another now that you saw them together. Maybe Ginger was right, maybe you did have a “type.”

Your brain did a somersault, throwing up the most shocking and simultaneously wonderful idea, and you wished you could banish the thought back to whatever delicious hellhole it had sprung from. You almost burst into tears, thinking that the stress of your job had finally broken your brain. Under normal circumstances, the idea and all of its implications would have been curious, but under the current circumstances it was absolutely ridiculous. The absurd, impossible word had popped into your head entirely uninvited: “Threesome.”

Frankie and Whiskey stared at you for three long, agonizing seconds, then they both spoke the same word at the same time.

“WHAT?”

“Oh, shit. Did I say that out loud?” ---

"Paloma" Series Masterlist Just-here-for-the-moment’s masterlist

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