Disclaimer: The characters and setting of "Chuck" belong entirely to Josh Schwartz & Chris Fedak and the team at NBC. No infringement is intended.
A/N: This is an M fic, with language and situations inappropriate for younger readers. Please respect that. The title and some of the darkness comes from Maroon 5's song "Back at Your Door".
Summary: She has everything she needs, everything she could want. So why is she standing here, a hand raised to knock on his door?
Back at Your Door
It doesn't mean anything, you try to convince yourself. You are committed, body and soul, to someone else, a man you live with, share your life with. You have everything in common, and a future that holds the promise of everything you have ever wanted.
But every time you see that dark, brooding figure who seems to have suddenly invaded your life, your mouth goes dry, your palms grow damp, and you have to fight to keep your hands from reaching out to touch him.
And he knows, dammit. Oh, he knows. He can see your pupils dilate, feel your breathing come a little harder and faster when he locks those burning eyes on your lips, on your breasts. That smirk, that habit he has of looming over you slightly, as if to remind you of his powerful physical presence: he knows exactly the effect he has on you.
You usually are careful to stay away from him, to keep social interaction just that – social. He is Chuck's friend, after all – well, perhaps friend is the wrong word. Chuck seems to regard him with an infinite amount of trust and a healthy dose of fear.
Much the way you do, actually.
You turn away impatiently from the sink where you are cleaning up the last of the dishes from your ruined Thanksgiving dinner. You sigh as you look at the nearly untouched turkey, the mounds of sweet potatoes still covered in more marshmallows than any reasonably mature person could ever wish to see, much less eat, and the dessert no one stayed long enough to taste.
Devon has gone on a run, saying he needed to work off some of the dinner he managed to put away without interruption, before going back to hospital for his next shift. Chuck has gone off with Sarah again, and Morgan has chased off after his intense little girlfriend, for which you give a sigh of grateful thanksgiving that would not have been out of place in a cathedral with full choral accompaniment.
You are restless, anxious. You don't know exactly is wrong with you, but you cannot sit or settle to anything. Idly, you pull a sliver of breast meat off the turkey you are about to wrap up, and put it in your mouth. Your eyes narrow, and you quickly cut off several pieces, adding generous helpings of the other dishes, and cut a large slice of the apple and cranberry pie you made that afternoon. Before you can think too hard about what you are doing, you pick up the container and walk over to John Casey's apartment.
You knock quietly; the lights are not on, but you have noticed that John often seems to prefer the dark. Coming home at all hours from your hospital shifts, you have often seen him standing at the window, as if he is watching for someone.
He opens the door suddenly, and you gasp with shock. His face, always impassive, is tight and set, as if with anger or fear, and he glances over your shoulder quickly before taking your arm none too gently and pulling your into the living room.
Once he closes the door, he seems to realize he has frightened you, and you can see him shake off the mood. He smiles at you, that polite smile that never seems to quite reach his eyes, and says, "Ellie. What a surprise. Can I help you with something?"
You smile a little tremulously and hold out the container of leftovers you prepared. "I thought … that is … Devon left for work, and I thought you might want … to finish your dinner. Everyone seemed to have to leave – suddenly."
Your voice comes out a little thready, and he smiles again, a little more genuinely this time, as he takes the container and glances at it. "Thank you. All my favourites, I see."
You nod and hold out the plate with the piece of pie. "No one stayed for dessert," you say softly. "And I wanted to know … if it tasted good, I mean."
Without breaking eye contact, he reaches out and breaks off a piece of the pie, lifting it to his mouth and placing it on his tongue. "Delicious," he says, his voice just above a whisper.
You reach out a hand, willing it not to tremble, and wipe a smear of filling from the corner of his mouth, "You missed some."
His hand moves so quickly, you gasp again as he grabs you and presses your palm against his mouth, flickering the tip of his tongue across it before putting the food on a table by the door and pulling you closer. "You should leave right now, Ellie."
You shudder – his deep husky voice strokes you like a rough hand, adding to your sense of dangerous excitement. "I have nowhere to be." You try to say it provocatively, but your voice is shaky and needy as you wrap your arms around the back of his neck, pressing your body tightly against him.
When his mouth comes down on yours, every thought but one flees crying from you: "More! More! Closer!" You whimper when he pushes you up against the door, his mouth forcing yours open. You can feel his desire hard against you, and you move your hips, enticing him without words.
Some men would have pulled away at this point, nobly checking to be sure that this was really what you wanted. Casey has one hand under your skirt before you can do more than moan, his breath hitching when he runs his fingers along cool bare skin. Your cheeks flush as you envision Devon's face should he come home and see your cast-off panties lying in the middle of the kitchen floor.
Casey's mouth is on your neck, his tongue laving the frantic pulse beating in your throat, your breasts bared by a casual exploratory hand. His fingers are thrusting deep into your pussy, which has been wet since you left your own apartment. When he thumbs your clit, you come hard, harder than you can ever remember, but it is not enough. It is nowhere near enough, and you have him ready to go in a stroke or two. He is hard and thick and you wrap your legs around him and push, begging in a thin needy whine for him to fill you.
His hands wrap around your ass, lifting you and then plunging deep inside you and you scream as his teeth scrape your nipple and he stretches you in one thrust that feels as if he is going to pierce your heart with his cock. He doesn't even pause, beginning a rhythmic pounding that constricts your lungs. Your head is banging against the solid door, and his fingers are wedged between your cheeks and you can feel him getting harder as your juices pour over him. It should hurt. It should hurt, but it feels too good for that and you tilt your hips so that he is riding your clit as he grinds into you. You can feel the tightness in your pussy; you are clenched around him like a fist around a staff and he is moaning and licking your breasts, sucking on each nipple in turn until you sob.
Your hands dive into his hair and you pull his mouth back to yours, nipping and biting as he plunges his tongue into you in sync with his cock and when you come this time, he swallows your scream and then throbs inside you as he shoots his load so deep you swear you can taste it in the back of your throat. You convulse around him, milking him until he shudders and nearly collapses against you.
It hurts to bring your legs down; you have a cramp in your thigh and you are going to have bruises on your neck. He is still hard inside you, and as he pulls reluctantly out, you can feel the mingled fluids running down your thighs. Your eyes are wide and frightened; this is not why you came here tonight, you tell yourself. You push away from him, relieved beyond measure when he lets you – he so easily could not – and open the door behind you, saying quickly, under your breath, "This was a mistake. I didn't want this."
But you know you lie. And he knows you lie. And if he courteously allows you to get away with it, it is only because he knows – he knows – you will be back.