#sub drop

Head in the fucking game, you tell yourself. Eyes on the target—you cannot fuck up in the middle of a procedure. Just because some guy can’t be bothered calling you back? People are literally dying in the walls of the hospital. You cannot afford to be so vapid that you’re more worried about unread text messages and zero call backs.

You refuse to fail anywhere else, hovering, anticipating the doctors’ needs before they verbalise it. This is what makes you valuable to the team. They’ve said it again and again—they need more nurses like you.

And especially in front of Jack. You admire him—respect him a lot. You never wanted to be a doctor, but you love working as a nurse. With him. Being useful to him and the night shift.

“Swap out with Tim in Trauma 1,” Jack says, eyes darting to you.

“You got it, boss.” You don’t even try to argue with what you think is his judgement call of getting you out of his way. Making you someone else’s problem.

The thing was, he noticed. Of course he fucking noticed. Nothing happened in the ED, to his staff, without his knowledge. It was his job as an attending to ensure he was on top of it.

He noticed it in your docile greeting, normally a little more upbeat. He noticed it in the questioning look that Parker shot him when you were quieter than usual, citing the fact that you were tired. When Shen picked up on your dour mood, offering some coffee that you flatly dismissed, telling him you weren’t in the mood. For coffee, or for him; you left it up to interpretation.

It was downright rude. Rude and you didn’t go together. It was why they liked having you on night shift.

It worries him. The not knowing. The questioning. The way everyone looks to him for answers and he can’t provide them. You’re usually the kind one, the one that’s happy to help. But today, there’s a cloud hanging over you. Something bogging you down.

“What’s going on?” Shen whispers, nodding his chin towards you. You’re at the desk in central, blankly staring at the screen more so than typing the notes you should be inputting.

“Don’t know,” Jack confesses, and he hates that he doesn’t know. So much for being the one that protects the hive. As much as he makes himself the reliable one that everyone, especially his night shift team, can depend on, someone always falls through the cracks. “Been weird all day.”

“There you are,” Lena says, walking up to lean against the desk. Hovering over you. “We need you in central 8. Patient barely speaks English. Wanna see if you know what language she knows?”

You shoot her a clearly unimpressed look. “Right, because I must speak every language under the sun,” you bite out.

Lena pauses, eyes narrowed at you. “Are you—?”

“Hey.” Jack steps in, frowning. Not that he thinks it’ll escalate into a fight, but he’d rather not entertain that possibility. Night shift was meant to be chill; have less personality clashes compared to day shifts. Less staff, as well, which was why it was essential everyone worked well within the team. “Lena asked for a favour.”

You look away from him, cowed. Chastised—again. “Central 8, yes sir.”

You scurry off to the patient in central 8—Indonesian, which happened to be a language that you taught yourself for the fun of it, years ago. This isn’t even the first time they’ve asked you to try and communicate with a patient in another language. Ridiculously, it’s the first time you’ve taken offence to it.

You and Princess have a bet on who could learn the most additional languages. It’s been a long 18 months since she and Perlah initiated the bet. You refuse to lose, and Princess is competitive. Between the two of you, you’ve got a conversational handle on a minimum of 15 languages right now. It’s circulated around the hospital like common knowledge at this point.

“Hey.” Lena follows you when you’re exiting the room. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to imply anything—”

“It’s okay,” you say, quick. You feel embarrassed by your earlier reaction. “Really. I’m sorry. I’m feeling really crabby today, and I took it out on you. I’m really sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.” You’re absently massaging the back of your neck in a self-soothing fashion, and it’s the only reason she sees.

“Whoa,” Lena gasps. “Hey, did someone hurt you?” Ever the medical professional, she steps close, reaching.

Really, it’s on you. The bodily flinch before she makes contact with your shoulder. You both know she’s done it before—calming, gentle touches. Reassuring. Maternal. Her and Dana, mother henning the hospital when they step into the role of the respective shift’s charge nurse. You’ve always accepted those.

Except this time, your skin feels like it’s burning and itching at the same time.

She stares at you.

You feel frozen, heart thudding too fast in your chest. A dramatic reaction to a familiar touch. A mountain out of a mole hill.

“Hey—” Lena starts, softer. Like you’re a wounded animal in need of comfort.

“South 16’s opened.” Jack’s voice, clear and sharp.

You wince, pivoting to the side, where his eyes are on you. “I don’t need—”

“Get in there.” And his tone brooks no room for argument. “Now.”

With a sigh, you march yourself into south 16. Jack follows after a few minutes, no doubt gathering whatever supplies he thinks he needs. Door closed, curtain drawn.

You’re both silent, waiting for the other to cave. You’re perched on the edge of the bed. He’s standing by the door.

He breaks first. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

His jaw clenches. Takes a seat on the stool. Wheels it to the foot of the bed. “I need to see how bad it is,” he says, carefully. Like he’s actively choosing every word.

“Nothing’s bad. Nothing hurts.”

Which, apparently, is the wrong thing to say, based on the breath released between his teeth. Maybe the right thing would have been to deny any source of pain.

He says your name, eyes analytical as he studies you. Something in his face softens. Pushing the stool back. “Would you be more comfortable if I got Dr Ellis or Lena to do the examination?”

You frown. “What examination?” You look—really look, this time—at the supplies he brought in. One of them is a white cardboard box, Sexual Assault Evidence Kit printed in bold letters among other black ink. You’ve catalogued enough of them to know you’re not mistaking it for any other kit. Have done a few on patients as well.

“I’m not—this, this wasn’t—” You take in a breath. Eyes boring into Jack’s, trying to impart the determination of your next words. “It was consensual.”

It’s silent in the room, with the door closed. With neither of you speaking. Jack doesn’t move; you barely breathe.

“Are you sure?” he asks, finally.

“Yes.”

“Okay.” And just like that, the weighted worry drops. He’s still concerned, of course. As soon as Lena had asked if someone had hurt you, everything in his mind jumped to a horrifying conclusion. He’s glad their shared assumptions aren’t correct. In his relief, he’s forgotten about your other symptoms—the moody countenance. “Can I still check you over? For my peace of mind?”

“Sure,” you sigh out. Shuffling further on the bed, back turned towards him, shucking your scrub top, then turtleneck beneath it. You know where the worst of it is.

“Jesus, kid,” he hisses. With you turned away, you don’t see the way his jaw ticks, compelling his fingers to unfurl from taut fists. He forces his attention to remain on the bruises and red wounds, and not the black lines of intricate artwork sprawling further down your back. Accentuating the lines of your body.

You hear the snap of the disposable blue gloves.

“It looks worse than it is,” you say.

“Bruising looks like it’s at least a day old.” His voice is clipped. Tight. Overcorrecting professionalism into cold and distant.

They must be purpling by now, you assume. “It’s been—uh, since Saturday night.”

You feel the cool swab of antiseptic on the bruises; the bite marks, the scratches.

“You know,” Jack says, and you feel his warm breath fan across your bare skin. That, alone, makes you shiver. “Even if you changed your mind part way through, it’s still sexual assault.”

You shoot a look over your shoulder at him.

He attempts a poker face. Do not react.

“I didn’t change my mind,” you say, firm. You turn back to face the wall. Stare down at the bed beneath you. “It’s—” And maybe it’s easier to admit when you don’t have to look at him. “I wanted it to hurt. For him to be rough.”

Jack breathes in. Do not react. He’s a doctor. He’s also tended to previous partners like this before. His own wife, even. Clinical hands; he’s seen this before. He cannot treat this like a new thing, just because it’s you.

“Where’d you even find the guy?” He doesn’t know why he’s asking. To twist the knife lodged between the fourth and fifth ribs, maybe.

“On an app.”

“What? Just a random dating one?”

“No. It’s—you know, specifically for hook ups of the non-vanilla kind.”

“The what kind?”

Oh my God, he’s going to make you say it outloud. Gaze resolutely stuck on the creases of the white, sterile bedsheets. “The kinky kind.”

A pause. “They have those, now?”

You can almost hear the beginnings of a ‘back in my day’ spiel. And isn’t that a thought? Dr Jack Abbot searching for his own BDSM partners—in his youth, maybe. You don’t want to think about his exploits in his current era. You’re already topless in front of him. You cannot bare yourself to him any more than this.

“Yeah,” you chuckle, a little breathlessly. Get it together. You can’t get all giggly in front of your boss. “They do, grandpa.”

“Hey. Careful now,” he remarks, amused. Something loosens in his chest, allowing him to breathe easier. It’s probably the first time he’s heard you express something akin to a laugh during this shift. He doesn’t realise how much he missed that today; how much he needs it to carry him through.

The ED can be a harrowing place, but it’s a lot less dark with you by his side.

You hum, letting the silence relax you. It must be past 3 AM, you think. There’s always that patchy, tranquil moment after the sporadic rush between midnight and 3 AM.

“So what?” he asks. Cotton swab dabbing ointment onto the wounds. “Your date just fell asleep and forgot to take care of you?”

You let out a huff, humourless. Head dipped. Embarrassed, again. It flushes down your neck. “He left as soon as he was done.”

Jack goes deathly still. The swab hovers, pinched tightly between his fingers. “What?”

“He, uh—left,” you sniff. Do not fucking cry over this. “And I’m pretty sure I got ghosted too, because I’ve been trying to—um, call him. Or text him. Which sucks, because, I…” You suck in a breath. “We took our time. Went on three separate dates before Saturday. Dinner. Movie. Museum. Four fucking months of talking and he dipped as soon as he got his dick wet.”

Jack is uncharacteristically silent over your shoulder.

You shuffle around, facing him.

He’s frowning. Lips downturned. Eyes stormy. Lines of his body wound tight. An older man outraged by the woes of modern dating, you assume.

“It’s fine,” you say, because you feel the sudden need to mollify that anger. To appease him. You try to covertly rub your eyes to wipe the tears that have collected. “Honestly, I’ve always been a bit bad about handling rejection, but I’m working on it.” It explains your shitty mood since Saturday. The dull awareness after he left.

Jack blinks, jaw unlatching at your words. Stares at you. “Is that what you think this is?” he asks, hollowly. “You feel hurt because of a little rejection?”

You make an obviously face. “I’ll feel better by next shift.”

“How much research did you do?”

“I read a few articles; people’s blog posts. There aren’t any peer reviewed journals on this.”

“I know,” he huffs out. He remembers his own reading journey, all those years back. “Did you read anything about dropping? Sub drops?”

Your forehead creases in thought. It sounds vaguely familiar. “Maybe?”

Jack doesn’t say anything, waiting.

You stare. The confusion eventually smooths out. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh,” he echoes. “You’re in a sub drop.”

You have been, since Saturday. That’s—mortifying, you think. Your kinky extracurricular affairs brought forefront and centre to your attending because you weren’t a good judge of character.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. Something humiliating thickens your throat; wells tears into your eyes. They avert from him, dropping somewhere low. “Fuck, I’m—I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s—hey. Look at me,” Jack says.

You’re not listening.

“Fuck. Hey. Hey, quit spiralling. Listen to me.” Jack yanks the gloves off his hands.

This is disgusting. You’re disgusting. This was something that was supposed to remain within your bedroom walls, far, far away from the hospital. Instead, you brought it right to the night shift’s front porch.

A rough palm slotted against your cheek.

The effects are near instantaneous—a shuddering inhale, a trembling whine. Glassy eyes shedding tears as they slide close. Cheek nuzzled against callused flesh.

His hand tipping your face upwards. “Open your eyes.”

And you do.

Shiny, blinking. Unfocused, then landing on him. Something registers, clicks in your mind. “Please,” you whisper. You don’t know what you’re asking for.

But he does. Something bittersweet in this throat. “I know,” he rasps. He wants this. Fulfilment delivered on a silver platter. But not like this. Not from someone else’s abymal attempts.

He’d seen the way you brightened when he passed by with a compliment. A well timed ‘great work in there’, and your shy smile followed him. Like a sunflower chasing the sun. Maybe it’s his ego stinging, now. Maybe it’s something else; something tender, something primal.

“I’m sorry,” you sniffle.

Jack hushes you. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” If he could get his hands on the man that called himself your date, he wishes for once, he could take back the sworn oath to do no harm.

“I’m sorry,” you say again.

He manoeuvres himself onto the bed. Pulls you into his lap, chests aligned. His arms encircle your waist, avoiding the bruises decorating your upper back. Settling on top of the tattoos. “Breathe with me,” he instructs.

So you do.

In and out. In and out. Inhale, exhale. Again and again.

Just until the dizziness fades a little. Until you feel like you have a few fingers back on the ledge.

“I’m sending you home,” Jack says.

“I don’t want—”

“Do not,” he demands, tense, “argue with me.”

Your mouth clicks shut. Face buried into the crook of his neck and shoulder. “Sorry,” you whisper.

“You go home,” he says, “you get yourself cleaned up. Eat. Rest. I’ll come by and take care of you when I’m done here.”

You suck in a breath. “No—”

“What did I just say about—”

A noise of complaint in the back of your throat, hand wrapped around his bicep, squeezing. “Red,” you utter.

It jolts him. Admittedly, it’s been a while, but the colours are ingrained in him as much as the safewords that he used. This isn’t a scene, but you’re so far down that you can’t tell.

“What?” he asks, around the thudding in his chest. He overstepped, somewhere. He doesn’t know you like this, can’t anticipate your needs like he would in the ED.

“I can’t,” you tell him, quiet. Small. “You can’t.”

“I can’t what?”

“Take care of me.”

Jack inhales gravel. Pissed off. “Did he tell you that? Is that why he left you alone?”

“No,” you say.

“Then what is it?” One of his hands lift from your waist, guiding your face away from where you’re hiding. Thumb brushes across tear stained cheek. “Talk to me,” he murmurs.

You peer down at him, positioned higher only because you’re straddling his thighs. You swallow against this heavy thing in your chest.

How do you even admit that the sole reason you started researching BDSM in the first place, is due to the man in front of you? Due to the way he doled out praises in the ED, unlocking something within you? You imagined it was him, pinning you down, hands around your neck, teeth sinking into skin, telling you to be good for him.

“I can’t have you mean nothing,” you whisper, eventually.

Jack swallows past the lump suddenly in his throat. “What does that mean?” A burgeoning of hope. “Sweetheart, what does that mean?” And maybe that’s the cruelty in him, a manipulative side that fools him into thinking that if he calls you as such, you can remain tucked inside his heart. Can convince you to stay there.

“You’re everything,” is all you say. Maybe it’s enough.

“Everything,” he repeats.

“Yes.”

Jack’s hand is a gentle thing against your cheek. No pressure, no guidance. Just slight pressure tracking your movements as you nose against his jaw. Scrape your skin against stubble.

His hand slides to the back of your scalp. “And that means I can’t take care of you?”

“Yes,” you say.

“Why?”

“I…” You’re not selecting words. Just trying to find them through the fog. “Because it’s only for today. Until I feel better.”

“And you don’t want that.”

“No.”

“What do you want?”

“Everything,” you say again. And your lips land on his pulse point, You feel it thrum. “With you.”

He doesn’t know how much of this is the drop. How much of this is you. All he knows is that you wouldn’t admit any of this if you were in the right mind.

Fingers flex at the roots of your hair. He tugs you up to look at him.

Your hips buck on their own accord. You keen, thighs tightening around him. Teary eyed.

His other hand against your waist digs in. Stopping your movements. “Fuck,” he swears, hoarse. “Sorry.”

“Feels good,” you murmur, reassuring.

He can’t do this. Here. While you’re like this. He needs you up and out of sub drop before he can have this conversation with you. But you don’t want his help unless he can promise you everything. He can only hope he knows what that means.

“Please,” you utter.

“I know,” Jack soothes. His hand braced against your cheek again.

You lean forward, weight against him. Lips almost on his.

His fingers lead you away. “No,” he murmurs, sandpaper in his throat.

You let out a cracked whine. He doesn’t want to kiss you.

“No,” he says, sharp, like he can see what conclusion you’re reaching. “Not yet.” His lips against your forehead. “Not here.”

Jack doesn’t know how long it takes. He can’t spend the whole shift in there with you, as much as he wants to.

The contact helps. His touches, the soft susurration aimed into the soft flesh of your neck. At some point, you’re coherent enough to be functional. Turtleneck and scrub top on.

Jack tells you to go home. You do.

Lena meets Jack’s gaze. Worried. Questioning.

He shakes his head. It wasn’t what she initially thought, but he’s still concerned. Not completely out of the woods yet.

The final two hours of his shift stretch. All he can think of is you. By the time he sees Robby, he feels dead on his feet.

“You good, brother?” Robby claps him on the shoulder, frowning.

“Long story,” Jack says, scrubbing at his face.

“Yeah? You don’t got time?”

“I gotta head out. John can hand off.”

“Seriously?” Robby blinks, surprised.

Jack’s never passed on a hand off before. But he feels like Shen was probably more present, anyway. Less distracted.

“Robby, my guy,” Shen says.

Robby fixes the other attending with a deeply unimpressed look. “John.”

“See you,” Jack says.

“I better get the short version some time,” Robby says.

“Me too!” John adds.

“You don’t even know what we were talking about…”

Their voices trail away as Jack walks. No rooftop. No drinks in the park. Just over to your apartment, the address memorised from your staff profile. Probably a privacy concern, but Lena turned the other way when he said he wanted to check on you.

You’re asleep on the couch when he comes. You were cogent enough to text him your apartment number and a picture of your welcome mat, letting him know your key was under there.

Not the most secure hiding place, but by the time he arrived, it was still there.

The back of his hand pressed against your forehead, taking your temperature. Fingers brush through your hair.

You stir. “Dr Abbot?” Spoken softly, eyelids heavy.

“Hey, kiddo.” He shifts, handing you your water bottle you’ve left on the coffee table.

You sip from it, blinking yourself awake. Scrubbing at bleary eyes. “Are you wearing shoes?” you ask around a yawn.

Jack blinks, not having expected your question. He looks down at the shoes he’s wearing—one on his foot, the other on his prosthesis. “Yeah.”

“Shoes off,” you say. “There are guest slippers in the bottom cubby hole.”

“Bottom cubby hole,” he repeats. More so to remember, than mock you.

“Please,” you add.

He rumbles a laugh before he follows your instructions. He takes out the ointment from his backpack before depositing it near the coat rack at the door. He shuffles back towards you, now clad in the slippers. “Did you eat yet?”

You hum your confirmation. “I have leftovers in the fridge. And I showered. You can use the shower too. Towels are in the cupboard in my room.”

“Alright. When I’m done, I’m going to check your back again.”

“Okay.”

He lingers. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

“Feeling like yourself?”

You think. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. That’s okay.”

When he’s done, you’ve relocated to your bedroom. It’s a strange situation for him to be in, invited into your apartment and encouraged to explore the place himself. Complete trust in someone else’s life.

He finds you curled under the soft blanket you have spread over your king single bed. Sprawled out, sleeping in a prone position. He pops his prothesis off.

Ointment in hand, he gently tugs the blanket down. Sees you in sleep shorts, no shirt on. The consideration of making your back easily accessible isn’t lost on him. He touches up the ointment while you remain asleep. Fingers applying pressure, massaging tense muscles even though you’re not awake for it. He feels you relax under his touch.

“What am I going to do with you?” he wonders aloud.

And he stays there, next to you, until he too, falls asleep.

When you wake up, you kind of forget what happened. It feels like a blur—something you could write off as a dream if you didn’t have any reminders. And in this moment, you don’t. Tiredly stumbling to the bathroom, then to your bedroom, wrapped in a towel.

You’re, somehow, too out of it to hear the noises in the kitchen. Once you’re in comfortable loungewear, you take your reusable water bottle with you. The intention is to fill it, grab some snacks, then head back into your room. Maybe pop on a show. Let your brain turn off.

“Hey.”

You startle, almost dropping the bottle. Pivoting to see Dr Jack Abbot in front of your stove. Cooking—something. Eggs, you think. It’s one of the things you always stock up in the fridge.

Yesterday in the hospital was not a dream. It was real. Very real. And he came to check in on you in your apartment. And stayed over.

“Hey. I…” you start. Trail off.

“Forgot?” Amusement lifting the corner of his lips. Trying to hide it for your sake.

“No,” you say, quick. You both know it’s a lie. Lips pressed into a line, heading to the water dispenser attached to the fridge to fill up your bottle.

Jack grins when you’re no longer looking at him. “Eat first.” The toaster pops with two slices. He’s made himself at home, studying your kitchen. Pantry, fridge, cupboard, drawers. He’s memorising the layout. Two plates, eggs, toast, slices of ham. You, apparently, didn’t have bacon. He searched.

Sitting at the tiny thing you call a dining table, Jack waits for you to tuck into your food. Despite the fact that you’re more lucid, he can tell you’re still off. As he eats, you’re not. Pushing food around. Tearing off pieces of your toast to nibble at.

Since Saturday, he remembers. Wonders if you treated all your meals like this before coming into the Pitt. You must have been running on fumes. Wonders how many times you’ve done this; if this is your first time, or just the first time it’s gone wrong.

Jack clears both the plates away. His empty; yours mostly full. Half your toast gone. He decides to glad-wrap yours, putting it in the fridge. Cleans his own plate in the sink, washing his hands after.

“You didn’t have to… be here,” you say. To stay. To make you food.

“I said I’d take care of you,” he responds, evenly. Leaning against the sink. Eyes on you.

And you both remember what happened after. What you said. Not unless you could have everything.

You feel—embarrassed. You meant it, of course you meant it. A stupid torch you’ve carried for two years. The humiliating realisation that it wasn’t going away. You tried to put those feelings onto someone else, tried to go out, go on dates. You were young. And yet.

The sinking knowledge that this wasn’t just some kind of silly crush born of proximity and praises.

“It’s not your responsibility,” you state. “You’re not my—” Mouth snapping shut, self-editing.

Even if you don’t finish it, the tilt of his head, the challenging tick of his eyebrow says he heard it. Arms crossing over his chest.

You can’t help the way your eyes fixate on the stretch of the short sleeves of his t-shirt around tensed biceps.

“I’m not your what?” Jack asks.

You clear your throat, moving to stand up. To get away, even if for a second. Even if he’s trying to do you a favour by being here.

“Stay down.”

You almost do. The chair scrapes backwards, instead. “Fuck off, Abbot,” you snarl, standing fully.

Hostility rearing its head again. Like with Lena, except this time, you’re not restraining yourself at an attempt at professional conduct. You’re biting. Pushing.

Jack knows there’s probably a few ways he can take this. Can respond. “Don’t do this.”

Gone is the sweet thing he held in his lap yesterday. Instead, you’re aching, scared of rejection and lashing out because of it.

“Quit patronising me. You’re not my—anything. And I’m not yours.”

His teeth scrape together, jaw squeezing. Jack knows this game. Can read you like a book. He can’t fall for the bait; if his temper wins, he proves you right.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, voice soft despite the urge to snap. He knows this is born of insecurity. One that was fed by some prick that abandoned you on Saturday. “I’m not like him—”

“Don’t,” you hiss out.

“—I’m not going to leave.”

It makes something ripple inside you. An age-old wound that tells you you’re unlovable. Something complicated passes over your face. You can’t decide if you want to believe him or squash it down. False hope.

Jack moves towards you. Three steps to close the distance between the sink and table.

Your eyes are wet, bright with tears. “Dr Abbot—”

“Jack,” he corrects. Chest twisting.

“Jack,” you say.

He nods, eyes darting between yours. Eye contact connoisseur. “Can you sit down?” He changes his approach. “Please?”

You do. Slipping into the dining chair. The backrest to your side. Legs facing him and not tucked under the table.

And Jack.

He sinks.

One of his knees makes contact with the floor. His other leg bent, foot on the ground. His hand resting on the flesh above your knee, balancing.

A tremulous breath releases from you. Shock. “What are you—?”

“You wanted everything,” Jack says. “Let me give you everything. Please.”

And hasn’t he been carrying a torch for you, too? Your first day with the night shift wasn’t anything special. It’s not that he was struck by you immediately—the consequences of being an attending physician, having a million things on his mind, and a hundred other things clamouring for his attention.

You were always quick. Responsive. Observant. At his elbow, two seconds before he asked, handing him everything he needed like you were a mind reader. It was fascinating, in a way.

He hadn’t even registered when the change happened. There was no adjustment period. One day you were that damn good nurse on his team, and the next day, he realised he couldn’t take his eyes off of you.

Watching, always watching, when you pushed the gurney from the ambulance bay into the trauma room; when you playfully saluted Parker after she asked for an IV on her patient; when you adopted that childish voice to say Nurse Lena, Nurse Bridget is being mean to me again, just to make them laugh after a tough patient; when Shen tried to get you to learn Mandarin but that was already in Princess’ arsenal, and the only rule established was no repeats.

As time went on, he noticed the way your tightly wound shoulders would relax at his words. The way your gaze lingered, like you wanted to ask for more. You never did, and he never pushed.

How could he? He was an attending. Much, much older than you. Had skeletons in his closet that he would rather shove down than let anyone sign up for.

Somewhere, he fell. Softly, then all at once.

You reach out, fingers drifting across his cheek. “Jack,” you whisper, an incredulous sound.

“Right here, sweetheart.” He cups your hand, angling his head to kiss your palm. Eyes never straying from yours.

Tears knocked loose. “I’m sorry,” you say, wet. Once again, ashamed of your behaviour.

“You did nothing wrong.” If he could spend the rest of his life reassuring you, he would. Maybe he can. Everything, after all.

“But I… yelled.”

Jack grins, wry. “I get yelled at all the time.” By patients. By admin. It’s no skin off his back.

“I said…” You inhale, wobbly. “I said I wasn’t yours.”

And there, that darkening of his eyes. Studious. Trained on nothing but you. “Are you?”

“I want to be.”

“So you are. Mine.”

You wet your lips. His eyes track the movement, unabashed. “And…” you say.

He waits, patient. Lets you find your words.

“You’re mine?”

“Yes. Yours,” he rasps. Kneeling before you, whatever else could he be?

“Get up. Please.” A murmured plea.

He does. It’s not a swift movement, but you’re past paying attention. You stand, slot your body against his. He’s meeting you halfway. Your palm splayed against his chest; his hand cupping your cheek.

A soft capture of your lips. Jack’s thumb sweeping, tugging lightly at the corner of your mouth. Fingers digging into the sharp of your jawbone tucked beneath your ear.

You let out a stuttering breath at the pressure, something fuzzy clouding your eyes. He slips his tongue inside your mouth. A welcomed weight against your tongue, a spit slicked slide.

A drawn out noise, broken into pants.

His hands gathered at your waist. Walking you backwards into the table. It grates against the linoleum floor, thudding into the wall. Neither of you pay it any heed. You’re perched on the table. He steps between your legs, hitching one thigh against his side.

“Please,” you gasp into the infinitesimal space between you, “I’ll be good.”

“I know,” Jack whispers. Something gentle and soft and so, so sweet tucked against him. Honeyed and viscous, coating his throat. Choking, unbidden tears in his eyes. “I’ll give you everything,” he promises.

Your arms hooked around his shoulders, lifting your core, angling up. Pressing the heat between your legs against his growing bulge.

“Fuck,” Jack groans. A palm laid against the surface of table, the other keeps a bruising grip on the flesh of your side. Stabilising himself. His face tucked to your neck, kissing a line against your throat. Buying himself time. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says.

“Jack.” A breathy moan, as his lips trail down. Hips rolling up against him. You reach, fingers scrabbling against the waistband of his pants.

“Uh uh.” Digits wrapping around your wrist, pressing your hands against the cold wood beneath you. “Hands on the table.”

“I want—” Despite your protesting words, your palms remain flat on the smooth surface. “I want to make you feel good.” To get on your knees for him, to feel the heavy weight of his cock in your mouth, the stinging strain in the corners of your lips as you struggle to fit him, an aching in your jaw. You know he’d be big enough for that.

“I know, sweetheart.” His lips on yours again, a reassuring kiss. The problem isn’t you—it never is. It’s the fact that he’d finish within minutes if you got your mouth around him. He’s strung tight, and he knows his refractory period isn’t as short as it used to be. The reality is he’s old.

“Please,” you whine.

“Hands on the table,” he reminds, despite the fact that you hadn’t moved. He lowers himself to the ground, eyes on you. Watching you watch him. Roughened fingers tugging your pants down. Lips pressed to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Kissing up further and further.

Air catches in your throat.

Jack leans forward, closes his mouth around your clothed core. Tongue finding the split between flesh.

You moan, breath hitching at his touch. Fingers twitch against the table. You want to bury them in his grey curls, but he told you to keep them where they are.

“Good,” he whispers, hot breath fanning across your skin. “You’ll be good, won’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp.

Jack pulls down your underwear. Rests his cheek against the side of your thigh. Stubble scratching against overheated skin. “Look at you,” he says, reverent. “You’re so wet, baby.”

You whimper. Your hands inch further behind you. Angling your body. “Jack.”

“Yeah, sweetheart?” Fingers around your calf, hiking it over his shoulder. Every touch, searing.

“Please.”

“So sweet,” he purrs. And then his tongue, finally, finally glides into the drenched heat. He hums through the wrecked sound you make, licking up. A brief kiss to your clit before his lips seal around it. Tongue lands, tip of the muscle working up and down repeatedly, then around.

You—shatter. No other way to describe it. Your hands are still somewhere behind you, maybe numb at this point. Your leg still hooked over Jack’s shoulder, heel digging into the stretch of his back. Hips rolling upwards, into his face. “Jack,” you cry, heavy with relief and something fractured, all at once.

His eyes are dark, captivated by you, preoccupied with taking in every reaction, every movement. His tongue never ceases. Fingers collect the slick from your opening, using his thumb to rub it along his middle and fourth finger.

Whining aloud. Fingertips digging into unrelenting wood. You want to touch him. You try to enclose your legs around him.

Jack pushes his free hand against your thigh, the one that’s not on his shoulder. Keeping you open. Then he sucks, tongue flicking against your clit at the same time.

Your hips grind upwards. “Jack—”

He presses his middle finger into you. He doesn’t take his time. Pumps it once, twice.

“Jack, please, please—”

He draws his finger out. Pushes his ring finger inside at the same time. You feel the stretch with two fingers, wider than yours. Longer than yours.

Jack doesn’t mean to rush, but he feels so lightheaded with want. Knows his knees will probably complain tomorrow morning. He needs you to come, wants to hear you fall apart. Crooking his fingers towards your belly, feeling around the wet insides. Pads of his fingers massaging.

You feel it building in your core. Breaths escaping. “I’m—oh, fuck, I’m—please—”

You can feel him responding, fingers moving faster. Working you from inside. And he keeps the suction on your clit.

“Jack, please, I need—” Almost there but not quite. You feel right at the precipice, but you can’t tip over. Chasing it, though, the way you grind into his face. Onto his fingers. Hands splayed on the table, head tipped towards the ceiling. Every sound punched out of you.

He hums, a deep thing that sends vibrations through you.

“Talk to me, please, Jack, please I want to hear you.”

Jack shifts, mouth opening, tongue pressed flat against your clit. The hand pushing your thigh moves, fingers rubbing against the sensitive nerve. Still fucking you with the fingers inside.

“Yeah?” he asks, and his voice is frayed. “Need me to talk you through it?” There’s spit and you on his chin, glossing his lips. Tongue swipes across petals, swallowing like it’s nectar. Cheek resting against your upper thigh. Stubble scraping against skin.

You shudder. “Yes, yes please, Jack, please.”

“Yeah. Need me to tell you’ve been good, honey?” A kiss pressed to your leg. Your sensitive skin burning, itching every time he moves. The scratch of his shadow. His eyes are lava on you, even if you can’t see him.

“Just like at work, is that it? I tell you you’ve done a good job and you walk around the hospital all wet and pent up? Tell me, baby, do you come home and think of me when you get yourself off? Hear me in your head?”

The nail knocked on the head. The hole-in-one.

You can’t be surprised, and yet, somehow, you are, that he figured it out. You’re clenching around his fingers, tight. Gasping. You don’t even need to verbalise that you’re coming. He can feel it. Your hips bucking up, his elbows digging into the meat of your thighs to keep your legs apart.

Wordless litanies of moans. High pitched and wrecked. Jack pushes his fingers in further, letting you ride yourself through it. And he doesn’t stop his ministrations over your clit. “Jack,” you sob.

“There you go, baby. This is what you wanted, right?” Jaw clenching, hips stuttering against air. He’s so painfully hard. It could almost be concerning, how ready he is. “Fuck me, you’re beautiful.”

He stands, knees cracking, back sore. Yet, he keeps his fingers moving. Inside and outside. Your thigh slides off his shoulder. He positions himself between them, your legs drawing up at his sides. He leans down towards you, hissing something ragged when his cock makes contact with your thigh. “Come here,” he says.

You weep with relief, arms moving from behind you, wrapping around his shoulders. You meet his lips. The fingers inside stop moving, but press insistently on that spot. He keeps rubbing your clit, just to hear you moan, to feel the tremors of your body, to feel the way you contract around his fingers. Imagining that it’s his cock.

“Jack,” you heave. “Too—ah, too much—”

“No, baby,” he says, “I say when it’s too much.”

“Jack,” you whine. “Please. Please, I need you.”

Oh, the unfair games you’re playing, begging like that. He huffs impatience through his nose, jawline ticking. “I’m right here, sweetheart. Not going anywhere.”

And you feel it—the way you’re falling into the second orgasm. One of your hands gripping his bicep. Harder than necessary, maybe. Complaining. Retaliating. “Fuck, mmm, Jack, I’m—oh, I’m coming—”

Your back arches upwards into him. Hips grinding down between his fingers again. Fingers crooked inside you, rubbing against the soft spot. Fingers rubbing your clit. Sensitive.

He grunts, head falling onto your shoulder. Hears the pathetic little sounds that you don’t even realise you’re making.

Your head’s fuzzy, your ears dulled like you’re underwater. And yet, so aware of where he’s touching you. Every point of contact ignited, like he’s leaving a brand on this mortal vessel that was created to contain nothing but love for him.

“I know, baby, I know,” he hushes. And finally, his fingers still. Small mercies as he removes the hand from your clit. Not yet sliding his fingers out.

Jack kisses you. Your chest heaving, craving air. Trembling, clenching around the fingers still inside you. “Fuck,” he breathes out. “There you are.” Observing those glassy eyes. The lazy limbs that cling to him. Lips pressed to your temple.

You cup his erection through the fabric of his pants.

He hisses, jerking into your touch. “Fuck,” he swears.

You stroke him, feeling the length.

“You—shit—you gotta stop, sweetheart,” he says.

You make a questioning noise. You want to make him feel good.

“You really want our first time to be in the kitchen?”

You’re slow to gather your words. “Anywhere,” you slur out. Too much effort to talk. “Whatever… you want.”

Jack huffs out a chuckle. “Yeah,” he whispers, tender at your deference. He kisses you again, sliding his fingers out of you. He parts momentarily, eyes locked on yours as he brings his fingers into his mouth. Licking, fingers splitting, tongue moving down the space between slick digits.

Your hips twitch, a lazy movement that brings you flush against his body. Smearing your come and his spit against the fabric of his pants. He’s still fully clothed, you realise.

“Bed,” you croak, even though you told him it was his choice, just moments before.

Jack laughs, a gentle thing. Nose bumping against yours. Hands lifting you. Legs wrapped around his waist. “Get your bottle,” he says.

You blindly grab for it before he walks you towards your bedroom. Door closing behind him, even though there’s no one else here. He deposits you on the bed. Tells you to take a sip of water before placing it onto the nightstand.

You don’t move. You’re exactly where he left you on the bed when he turns back to you.

He sits on the edge of the mattress. “C’mere,” Jack says.

You shuffle towards him. He’s expecting you to crawl into his lap, maybe. What he doesn’t expect, is the way you slide off the bed to kneel by his feet.

His breath hitches in his throat. Fingers twitching, as your cheek rests against his thigh. Digits threading into your hair. You angle your face to look up at him, blinking. Slow.

“Hey,” he says, fraught with something delicate. Raw and soft.

You nuzzle against him. Head feeling stuffy. Floating. Sinking. Contradictory, yet somehow. True.

“What do you need?”

Nothing. Everything. Wordlessly, you feel at his leg, calf down. Almost like you’re palpating it. Onto the next leg. You unbuckle the prosthesis, hearing him hiss at the twist, at the unlatching. Pained or relief, you can’t tell. Pressing a kiss to the bend of his knee when you remove it, prosthesis intentionally placed aside. You want him comfortable.

You’re slotted back against his thigh, like you didn’t just change his world, like you didn’t just show him the kind of tenderness he never thought he’d deserve after losing the leg.

Jack breathes, unsteady and ragged, but you blink up at him like you’ve never been surer of anything in your life. Complete trust.

You inch forward, nosing closer towards his crotch. Mouthing a long, lingering kiss to his dick. Slow and muted through layers of clothes. Sucking, wetting fabric. An unspoken request.

Jack groans, hips jerking. Fingers reach out, cradling. Callused pads against your jaw, thumb sliding across your lips.

You part them.

His thumb slips in, access easily granted, applying pressure against your tongue. Gliding down. Molten eyes on yours. Your brain is hazy with static. Blissful. Half-lidded eyes. Moaning as you swallow around his digit.

Jack laughs. You feel the reverberations of it, rather than hear the sound. His thumb lets up, still inside your mouth, but no longer pressing down. You blink your eyes opened, questioning, protesting.

“I asked what you prefer, baby,” he rumbles, corners of his lips lifting. Revelling in the way you’re so lost, so dazed. “Do you want me in here?” Thumb circles your tongue. “Or in here?” His good foot shifts, tucked under where you’re kneeling. Front of his ankle catching just right on your bare clit.

A hitched whine, hips grinding down. Sticky heat on his skin.

“I can only do one, sweetheart. You’re killing me, here.” He’s so gone on you, it’s almost devastating. Man made soldier, thickened skin to take on the sins of the world. And his Achilles heel is a precious thing by his knee.

You lap at his thumb, tongue flexing along the grooves of his fingerprint. For a second, he thinks this is how you want him, but you move. An obscene, wet pop as you back away from his hand. You treat it as if it were his dick, licking, tongue against nail and skin, like it’s the leaking seam of his cock.

“Jesus,” Jack groans. You’re going to be the death of him. Completely and absolutely. No differential diagnoses required.

You rise into his lap, nothing shy or uncertain in the way you straddle him and grind yourself against his clothed erection. Lips against his, kissing like you need it to breathe. Need him to breathe. Maybe you do. A low and quiet buzz in your head.

Fingers bracing against your jaw, then lips travel down your neck. You’re still rolling your hips against him. It feels heavenly, the graze of fabric against your already sensitive clit.

Jack lets out a pained noise, shifting. One moment to the next, you went from being in his lap, to facing the ceiling, back against the soft blanket. You rise to your elbows, blinking, eyes moving to the foot of the bed.

He doesn’t make a show of taking off his clothes. It’s quick, the way he removes his shirt, pants, and briefs. He’s pretty sure that if you continued moving on top of him like that, he was just going to come in his pants like he’s in college again.

“You’re killing me,” he says again. He crawls towards you. Body on yours. Divests you quickly of your top.

The slide of his palm to one of your breasts. Cupping. Squeezing. “Been thinking about this since your first scrub change.” Fingernails pinching the tip of your nipple.

You cry out.

Lips over your other tip, a mimicry of the attention he paid to your clit. Licking. Tongue slathering. Then, teeth, biting.

You rut up against him, one leg hooking over his back. Feel the length of him against you. “Please,” you whine.

His hips stutter. “Fuck me,” he groans. Inhales, then lets it out heavily.

“Trying to.”

He laughs, then, a sound that’s disbelieving, even though he should have expected nothing less from you. You’ve been hanging around the night shift too much. A hand in your hair, tugging, born of your insolence. Stealing the sound you make with a kiss. Fucks his tongue into your mouth again.

You feel like you’re losing your mind with the need to feel him. The slide of him, the delicious drag of him against your walls. To clench around and feel his dick inside you. Instead, you’re still empty.

Gasping when you part for air. “Jack,” you plead. “Please, I want to feel you.”

Jack smacks a kiss to your cheek. “Where are your condoms?” He has some in his bag—was part of his prepared care kit alongside the ointment he brought. But he’s left that by the doorway, and he doesn’t want to leave this bed with you in it, wrapped around him.

A hand smoothing over his chest, up his shoulder, clasping around his nape. “No, we don’t need—”

“Uh uh, no,” he says. “Not today.”

“But I’m—”

“No.” Stern. Lifting up, leaning back. “If you don’t listen to me about this, we’re not doing this today.”

“Sorry,” you hiccup, the easiest acquiescence. “Sorry. Nightstand. Bottom drawer. Sorry.” Tears in your eyes. Gripping at his arm, then letting go, undeserving. “Don’t go. I’m sorry.”

Jack lets out an agonised noise. You both know that if you were more cognisant, you would agree with him, would want this too. But it doesn’t make it any less hard to say no when you’re like this. “I’m not mad,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss you again. Soft. Apologetic. The last thing he wants to do is to let you believe that he could up and leave you so easily. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Bottom drawer,” you say again.

Jack gets up, moving towards the nightstand to grab what he needs. The distance is close enough that one leg remains on the bed for balance. Tucked under rumpled towels, a box of condoms. And if he happens to see some toys, cuffs, other accessories you’ve clearly purchased for yourself, haphazardly hidden—oh, that’s something that he can use next time.

Packet torn, condom slipped on. Muffled groan at the relief of being touched, even if it’s just himself. Returning to the bed, to you. You’ve been watching him the whole time, eyes dragging over his skin, his body.

He doesn’t feel shy under your gaze. Exposed, though, is a different feeling.

“Can I go on top?” you ask.

He falters. He usually doesn’t. Usually surefooted. But this—you. You have a tendency to cleave apart his every defense. Every sure thing he knows about life. “You want to?”

“Yes,” you say. “Feels better.”

Tucked and saved somewhere safe. To keep and know about you. “Okay,” he says, and settles at the head of your bed, back against the wall. You draw close, slipping your pillow under his calf. Then you climb into his lap, a soft sigh releasing, like homecoming. Kissing him again, a silent addiction. His arms are warm and weighted around your middle. And he lets you take your time.

Once again, the slow rolling of your hips down to his. Your entrance flushed against the length of his dick. The torturous drag, up and down.

Jack grips your waist, lips against your collarbone. Harsh breaths of air. “Fucking Hell.”

And when you seem content to let it draw on like this, he bites at the flesh under your collarbone. Warning.

You downright mewl at the threat his teeth breaking through your skin. “Ah—mhm.”

“You gonna let me fuck you anytime soon?”

It takes a little to register that not only has he asked you a question, but you should probably respond as well. “If you want to,” is what you end up saying.

“If I want to.” Mocking, a dangerous scoff. He feels like he’s on fire. Lifting you, one hand around his cock, lining it up against your entrance. Tip catching between your folds.

And finally, you’re sinking down on him.

The hitched sounds coming from you, trapped in your throat. Arms hooked around his shoulders, keening into the side of his throat. The stretch of your walls making way for him. The soft insides, swallowing, welcoming. And it keeps going.

Your fingers digging into the corded muscles of his arm, his hands petting the sides of your stomach. Soothing. “You’re—you feel—oh—” Sinking further around his girth. Until you’re sure he’s completely inside you.

Jack lets out a low groan. “Fuck.” Breathes in deeply. Holds it. Then out.

You try to rise.

His arms immediately snap a tight brace around you, holding you in place. “Fuck. Give—give me a minute.”

“Jack—”

“You,” he grinds out, “have no idea how tight you feel. Just give me a minute, sweetheart.”

And of course, that involuntary spasm of your walls around his cock.

Jack swears. Forehead thuds against the space above your sternum. “Quit that.”

“Wasn’t on purpose.”

He notices the lack of apology. “Brat,” he says fondly, and kisses you again.

You don’t know how long you stay like that for. Lips and air. Arms refusing to budge around you. His cock inside you. You swear you feel him in your diaphragm. Your skin feels like fire. “Can I move?” you beg. “Jack, please, can I move? Please, I need—can we—I want to feel you—”

“Shhh, baby, it’s okay. I got you, honey. You’re okay.” A hand reaches up to wipe a thumb across your cheeks.

It comes away wet. You hadn’t realised you started crying.

“Please,” you sob.

His hips snap upwards.

Your next breath comes trapped between a moan and a cry.

Both arms wrapped around you again. An iron band. Then he fucks up into you.

“Oh,” you whimper. “Oh, fuck, ah, ah—thank you, thank you thank you—”

The noise Jack releases is inhuman. He keeps an unrelenting pace, punching out moans from you. He’s flooded by the need to feel you come around him. “Yeah, that’s it. You’re doing so well, honey. Taking what I give you.”

You’re meeting him halfway. Grinding down against him, desperately keening. You feel his hand slip between you, thumb against your clit. You white out. Pressure, more so than stimulating you. Fucking yourself onto his cock, then up against his thumb, making you chase what you need. “Please, more, more, please.”

“Yeah? You want more? You want to come again? You want to come with my dick inside you?”

“Yes, please, I need it. I need you, please.”

“Yeah, you do.” Unmoored, slightly. His thumb rubs circles on your clit. “Come on, baby, I wanna hear you.”

Your chin hooked over his shoulder, angling your lips towards his ear. Discarding every notion of shyness. Every sound, every cry, every thought about him; needing him, wanting him, released. The burgeoning that starts in your belly. The fiery licks of something wonderful.

Jack hears it in your gasping breath, feels it in the velvet walls convulsing around him. “There you go, sweetheart. Give me another one. Fuck, you’re so fucking perfect.” Tenderness in the way his lips press against your shoulder.

You whine. Close.

“Poor baby needs to hear my voice to come, is that it? So fucking obsessed with me. Be good and come for me, baby, let me hear you—fuck—there you go.”

Holding you in place, your hips riding through the orgasm that crashes into you. His thumb rubbing incessantly on your clit. He stops fucking his cock into you, but his hips still move. Rolling, grinding.

You’re outright crying, heaving in gasps of air. Overstimulated. His thumb never stops. Your walls spasming around him, again and again.

“I know, baby, I know. I’m almost there. Can we keep going until I’m done? Is that okay, baby?”

“Yes,” you sob. You’re so so gone. Floating. “Please. Use me.”

You’re flattened on the bed.

From one blink to the next, Jack had shifted up, pressing you onto the mattress. Legs around him. The pillow at his calf tucked under your hips. The angle slides him in deeper. “Fuck,” he grinds out, hoarse. “Fuck. You’re perfect. So fucking perfect, baby. So fucking good for me.”

“Yes, yes yes yes yes yesyes.” Litanies of yesses, completely overloaded with pleasure. With the feeling of him inside. Everywhere. The fingers digging into your thigh. Forehead shoved against your chest, somewhere above your heart.

Then, the broken groan. Low, ragged. “Fuck. Coming, baby, I’m coming.” His thumb back on your clit, circling once more. Fucking into you while your walls flutter around him.

You’re completely spent. Keening, whining, hiccupping.

He stops, eventually. Dragging his hand over your belly, stroking. Up your chest. Petting overheated skin. Then cups your face to kiss him.

You feel so faraway. Numb. On fire. Both.

He flips you both, somehow. Arms straining. You’re folded into his chest, his dick still inside you.

And he stays.

You’re too out of it to realise he’s reached over to the nightstand until the straw to your bottle is pressed against your lips.

“Drink,” he says.

You do. Eyes fluttering shut. Cheek against his chest.

“You did so good for me, baby,” Jack murmurs. “You were so perfect. You are perfect.”

His fingers trace the tattoo that sprawls along your back. You shiver, accidentally grinding against him again. You both hiss.

Tilting your head up, lips finding yours again. Kissing. Gentle. Soft.

“Love you,” you whisper.

Jack lets out a tremulous breath. Kisses you again. He’ll talk about this—say it back tomorrow after you’re coherent enough to remember. But for now, it’s just this sweet thing in his lap.

His body hurts. He's cold. This isn't the good, fuzzy, pleasure filled haze he gets. This is bad. This is worse.

Dennis likes his rules. He likes the parameters he's given. He likes how it keeps him grounded and still and anchored.

He's not anchored right now.

Jack is fucking into him deeply. It's normally the way that Dennis loves, filled and heavy, feeling Jack all the way up to his throat. But this is different. This time it doesn't feel like a good possessive claim. It hurts. It feels mean.

He squeezes his eyes shut and buries his head into the pillow below him. He just needs a few seconds to sit in it and then he can come back. He needs a few seconds away from his body, to disassociate, to not be in this bed, and then he can come back. Then it'll start to feel good again.

But someone's fingers thread through his curls and he's being lifted out of the pillow with a whimper.

"Ah-ah," Robby says in that tone that usually fills Dennis with a heat. "You're not allowed to hide from us, you know that."

He's not. He knows he's not, but he just needs a second-

Robby pulls again and he winces. It hurts.

The sound must not be appeasing to the man because in Dennis's blurry vision, he's finally face to face with one of his boyfriends for the first time in a minute.

"Dennis?"

He stares at Robby but he can't get his words out.

But they beat against his head, loud and painful - Fix it fix it fix it please fix it please help me

"Red. Red, fuck, Jack, stop-"

But Jack had already slid out of Dennis the second Robby had leaned down to check on him. Which doesn't help that chill he can feel. He's cold. He's cold and hollow. He needs to be filled, he needs to have something beyond this emptiness inside of him. He can't stop the whimper he lets out as a result.

"You're okay," Robby soothes immediately. "You're right here with us, baby. It's okay."

Jack scoops him up in his arms and settles him in between his body and Robby's. Dennis likes the pressure of their bodies, he always has, so it's something to settle him.

But he's still so cold and vacant. He can't feel anything, he can't feel his fingers, his toes. He's so empty it hurts.

"Dennis, baby," Jack says. "You're okay. We've got you."

"You did so good, Den. You're always so good for us."

"Always our good boy. You're so handsome, such a pretty boy. You're right where you need to be."

It takes him a while to come back up. To push through those icy waves and breathe normally. There’s still a weird ache in his chest but he can actually focus again. He can hear their breathing next to him and not just echoes of it.

"Sorry," he mumbles into Jack's chest. "I'm- we can start again. I'm fine."

Jack's grip tightens around his waist. "Absolutely not."

"But-"

"No," Robby says firmly. "We're done. You're done. No more tonight. All you have to do is let us take care of you."

He can do that, he thinks dizzily. He can lay in the bathtub, he can eat what they need him to, he can be good like that.

Shane knew practice was going to kill him as he put on his gear. The fabric felt unusually rough against his skin, scratching against places that made him feel like he was about to lose his mind. His head was stinging like a headache was threatening to come on, and no matter how many times Shane adjusted his neck, the feeling just didn't go away.

He was unusually cold, even for being at the ice rink. 

His teammates were laughing and being rowdy as usual, Hayes and Dykstra trying to hit each other with towels. Barrett was talking to Harris in some corner, leaning suggestively close, which let everyone know what the topic was about. Boodram was telling Haas how to grill a steak to perfection.

"You have to sweet-talk it. The steak is doing you a favor. Giving you a delicacy. When you let it know how much you appreciate it, the juicier it turns out!"

Haas was too focused on watching Ilya circulate around the room, the captain making his usual rounds with the teammates. Shane could see the awe in his features, how much he admired his husband. 

But all it did was sour the feeling forming in his gut.

Stop. Stop it. Luca is just a kid. Be good. He strictly tried to reel himself in. Be good. 

The Ottawa Centaurs quickly felt like a family when Shane joined their team last year, freshly outed (fuck you, Brad) and married (thanks, Brad?). They had team nights where they would alternate between houses, play video games, cook food, and forget problems. Everyone's partner was intermingled within the group, a whole message chat that everyone was a part of.

Kids were handed off when they could be; exhausted parents were more than happy to take a break. 

Shane appreciated the closeness. How fast they had welcomed him into their family when his own team found it impossible to accept Shane. His team, with which he played for more than ten seasons, disregarded Shane as if he hadn't helped them win three Stanley Cups. His team that thought he purposely let Ilya win.

It was a good riddance from that team that rarely got together, unless it was in a bar after a win. Otherwise, they only got together when crammed into hotel rooms or sat close at airports. No one invited the other for dinner, that was, until Shane had made friends with Hayden. Now he had a real team. A team that felt like a family. A team where the members would just casually stop by your house to drop off hard apple cider. Or extra steak. Or a niche comic to add to Shane's growing Nightwing collection.

No one to question Shane if he slipped on the ice on purpose.

Yet only being around people right now worsened Shane's mood. Even if they were his friends. Even if he usually appreciated their company.

The pit in his stomach deepened as sweat formed against his temple. Despite the cold shivers that wracked his body, Shane still managed to feel hot at the same time. His vision was going cloudy with unshed tears as he bit on his lip, willing himself to act normal.

What is wrong with you?! Pull yourself together. Not even a little over a year of being on the team and you're already showing how much of a failure you can be. He couldn't stop the thoughts invading his mind, his heart picking up with every pounding word.

The morning had started fine. Shane kissed Ilya awake until they had a quick fuck followed by taking Anya out for a walk, then they ate breakfast together. The weather was nice in early October. Rays from the sun beamed down on them, warming them from the chill that was starting to set in in the mornings. It was a nice difference from the freezing winters.

Everything about today was great, yet Shane didn't feel great. He didn't even feel fine. There was a nagging feeling in his gut. A feeling that roared at him to go home and cocoon himself in the room. Shane didn't want to listen to it because fuck, he never missed practice. He wouldn't start now when he'd only been on the team for a year. 

He felt weighed down, like the ground was trying to siphon him in. Shane couldn’t help but sit on the bench, hanging his head as he rested his elbows on his knees. His gear hugged everything too tightly, sucking him beneath it until Shane felt like nothing. He wished it would just squeeze him out of oblivion by now. Shivers wracked his body despite the sweat forming, disappointment in himself clawing at Shane. 

Ilya suddenly appeared at his side, half-dressed and missing his upper gear. Shane sat up straighter, following Ilya's happy trail up his body until he met hazel eyes. They were full of concern, reserved only for Shane. Shane felt himself almost crumble at that, barely holding himself together.

You can't even breathe properly. The voice inside him mocked. You're weak. Useless. Ilya will realize just how much he doesn't need you soon enough.

"What is wrong?" Ilya asked loud enough so only they would hear it.

Shane wanted to fall into the voice, wanted to let him take over completely. Wanted to not worry about a sinlge thing. 

"I want to go home," Shane wanted to say. 

Instead, he shook his head, not having the words to explain. Yuna Hollander didn't raise her child to be a quitter. Let alone to quit on something as simple as practice.

Ilya huffed through his nose, sitting on the bench next to Shane so they were eye level. Some of the other guys had looked at them, but as soon as their eyes landed on the scene, their gaze darted away. They were clearly curious about what was going on, but gave them privacy instead. If he were back in Montreal, half the guys would be in their business about now.

Shane jutted out his bottom lip against his will. He felt pathetic. Probably looked like it too.

Pathetic, Shane. Nothing new. You always find new ways to disappoint.

He wanted to cry. And he wouldn't be fucking crying here. Not in front of everyone. The cold feeling that surrounded him grew endless, the thick gear he had on doing nothing to stop the numbing that began to set in his fingers. He needed his gear off before it suffocated him.

But despite all he was feeling, his body remained frozen. Hands unwilling to extract the protective pads and everything else that came after it.

Ilya grabbed his chin, prodding the lip with his thumb. With this position, Shane had no choice but to look Ilya in the eyes. He wanted to listen, to follow orders without delay. Yet his tongue wouldn't move in accordance.

"Shane. What is wrong?" He asked more firmly this time. 

It was a tone that left no argument between them. A tone that Ilya only used when he was actively domming Shane. 

His eyes went lidded, the urge to follow his Dom's every order short-circuiting something within Shane's brain.

Be good. Be good for Ilya.

Shane couldn't say he wanted to go home. That he wanted to cuddle with Ilya without any clothes so that their bodies could become one. With how comfortable and accepted he felt on the team, he still didn't like overly public displays of affection. It wasn't because he felt ashamed of Ilya or their relationship in any way. It just felt… weird having eyes on them as they shared something personal. No one was meant to see Shane like that, just as no one was meant to see Ilya in such a way.

It was for them, and them only. An outsider's eyes felt like a bug under his skin.

He couldn't say that he was pretty sure he was dropping, because Ilya had pampered Shane all morning after they had fucked. He shouldn't be dropping, so he wouldn't be dropping. It had been a while since the last time he dropped, the enhanced emotions mostly finding him when Ilya and he were still working out their relationship and communication. Back then, they were meant to mean nothing, just a quick, exciting hookup that lasted years. So he would drop every once in a while, because shit—one of them was always gone so fast, and Shane never had the guts to ask for aftercare. 

But that had been then. When Ilya was so hellbent on pretending he didn't feel the spark between Shane and him. It was completely different from the Ilya he knew now.

That morning, after Ilya fucked him hard and fast, Shane had rested his face against his husband's chest, listening to how his heart beat a rhythm that calmed into a steady one. Then they took Anya on a short walk, touching in some capacity at all times. Ilya was so reassuring, calling Shane his perfect, good boy. Reminding Shane that he was Shane and he lovedhim for that simple fact. He was pulled out of his earlier headspace, content in the quick scene they had.

Ilya had fed him his breakfast that morning. Shane went back into that dopey, floating mind space, unable to focus on anything besides Ilya and when to open his mouth to accept the food. It felt so easy to take what Ilya gave him. Each bite left him sinking further into that frame of mind. The frame of mind where only Ilya and his praise existed.

They left for practice soon after, Ilya driving as he gripped firmly at Shane's thigh. It took everything in him not to get hard from the touch. To not rut into the hand connected to his husband, who kept lathering the praise on throughout the whole ride. The floating feeling remained until they had pulled into the parking lot. 

Ilya pulled him in by his neck, placing a dirty, rough kiss on Shane's lips before exiting the car.

Then Shane started to feel like shit.

"I don't—" He couldn't finish his sentence. 

If he thought the tears were building up previously, they certainly were now. He could feel the weight of the droplets hanging in the ducts in his eyes, pure stubbornness refusing to let them fall. He stopped short on his sentence before they fell.

He bit his lip and looked down, forcing his mind to focus on the gear that wrapped around Ilya's thighs. It looked similar to Shane's own gear, but it was more worn out since he had had his for longer.

Shane didn't know how long he kept his gaze fixed on that central spot, feeling an icy heat rise in his lungs. The stupid gear was making it impossible to breathe. He could feel himself crashing, unsteady and falling.

He felt large hands engulf either side of his face, cupping his cheeks delicately. It forced Shane to look up, noticing that no one else was in the locker room anymore. Where had they all gone? To practice? When? Shane hadn't even noticed them leaving.

"What...?" The Canadian muttered under his breath, the words illegible in the real world.

Ilya's hands slipped until only one remained, the fingers working their way into his jaw. The slightly younger man kept his grip light, craning Shane's neck further until their eyes met.

The Russian man's eyebrows were furrowed into the middle, his lips puckered thin like they only got when he was concentrated or about to come. He tenderly rubbed his thumb against Shane's freckles, watching them disappear then reappear under his prints.

Before Shane could process what was happening, he kissed his forehead and let him go. He felt his heart stutter from the loss of touch, rejected without the use of words. 

He doesn't want you—

But then the hands returned, guiding Shane to stand.

"Up, moya lyubov'." Ilya lightly commanded.

Shane recognized the firm tone and stood, no room for argument when Ilya was domming. With the blood rushing to his ears and air leaving his lungs, it was hard to understand and process anything. But Ilya's dom voice made Shane want to listen. To be good. To prove that he was more than trash that could be sent away without a second thought.

"I'm going to take off your gear, yes?"

Shane shook his head, his heart spiking. With his heavy tongue, he said, "We have practice! We need to..." he couldn't articulate his thoughts; the words jumbled into a mess of nonsense.

Ilya looked softly at him, pecking his lips that promised more later.

"Do not worry, solnishko. Today was optional practice. We do not have to be here." Ilya explained.

If Shane were in his right mind, he would have refused. Would have insisted they stay whether the practice was optional or not. Ilya was the captain and the season was starting next week. He was meant to be there and set an example for the rookies. But he wasn't in his right mind, so he didn't fight it as Ilya stripped Shane out of the hockey get-up until he was only in his boxers. His husband neatly folded his belongings, sliding them into Shane's cubby.

Hands caressed down his side, steadily placing on his hips. Shane couldn't stop the upper half of his body leaning forward on instinct, every part of him wanting comfort from his husband. It had been so long since he dropped. He forgot how horrible it felt.

"You are dropping." Ilya stated, running a hand into Shane's hair.

He pressed the other man more firmly into his collarbone, trailing down until he was gripping at the base of his neck. 

"Nod if you are listening to me, Shane." 

God, Shane was obsessed with the way Ilya said his name. He said it as if he were speaking to a deity, so loving and devout that Shane felt his heart rate rise every time he was reminded of Ilya's love.

He nodded.

The grip Ilya had on him hardened, pressing into the stiff muscles of his neck that left him sighing in gratitude as his hip was squeezed. A kiss was placed on the top of Shane's head, centering the man once more. 

"We will shower here, because I know you hate sitting in the sweat from your gear. You do not like to be dirty, right, sweet boy?" 

Shane nodded in agreement. He hated when he or Ilya left the ice rink unwashed, dragging back whatever germs the other men had brought into the car and eventually the house. Call Shane what you wanted to, but dirty was never one of them.

Shane pressed a light kiss to the exposed juncture between Ilya's shoulder and neck.

"Hm, I knew so. Maybe in the shower, I will rub your dick. After we are clean, we will get dressed and leave. Leave for home." Ilya clarified the last part, pulling Shane's head back so their eyes could connect.

As much as he avoided the contact, Shane wanted to melt into his Dom's hazel. Ilya wanted to keep Shane solid for a little bit longer. When Shane tried to drop to his knees, the other man kept a firm hold on his elbows. 

"Net." No. Ilya took his gear off, even if he just denied Shane access. He didn't bother folding his stuff, uncaring if it stayed on the ground or not. "Did I say suck my cock, Shane?" He placed his leading hand on the small of Shane's back. "Be a good boy and come shower."

All Shane wanted to do was be good for Ilya, so he followed the man into the showers, mind drifting away from his rejection and into the hands expertly massaging the soap into his hair. The NHL provided a wide range of products for its players, but Shane noticed Ottawa got the cheaper brands compared to Montreal. And Boston, for that matter. And Toronto, according to Wyatt. 

But still, even if the mint smelled more like chemicals and less like a toothpaste brand shoving a commercial down your throat, the person applying it was all that mattered.

Ilya deftly worked the shampoo into his hair, using his skilled hands in a controlled head massage. The water pelting against his chest was soothing, like a beat knocking against his skin. He could feel his husband's body all around him, the man surrounding him even outside of his thoughts.

"Mm," Shane moaned as he leaned into the touch, gripping Ilya's forearm behind him. 

He closed his eyes out of tendency, drifting away from the bad place and into the headspace he adored. It wasn't immediate, but soon his depressing thoughts turned to studying Ilya's movements.

The touch wasn't to stop him, but to stabilize Shane. 

"Feel good, sweetheart?" Ilya purred, the words ghosting on the back of Shane's neck.

Shane could only manage the movement of his head in agreement. Ilya stepped closer to him, placing his half-hard dick on top of Shane's ass. It took everything within Shane not to roll his hips into a seductive motion. Ilya hadn't instructed him to do so, so he wouldn't.

"Words, milyy. You are doing so good for me. So good, Shane." Ilya's Russian accent got thicker the longer he talked, arousal displayed.

His arms flexed with every passing motion, a determined look set in his eye. One that Shane could openly see once Ilya flipped him around, placing the crown of his head under the spray. He could sense the suds running down his shoulders and onto his back, effectively down the drain as Ilya maintained his tender touch.

"Ilya," He whimpered, hoping that alone would convey what it needed to.

Based on the way Ilya bit his lip and grabbed the body wash, it did. 

"I am so sorry, Shane." Ilya said as he squirted the blue gel into his hand, spreading the soap along his hands before he placed them wide-palm on his chest. 

Ilya squeezed his pecs with less fervor than usual, his eyes clouding with the same guilt that would stumble upon him anytime Shane dropped. Shane didn't like that look on him, so he tried to wash it away with his own kiss.

Ilya fell into it easily, setting the pace to a slow one. Controlled. Ilya explored the entirety of his mouth as Shane dociely took it, pacified by his husband's mouth on his. It was warm and everything Shane needed it to be. Their lips moved in sync without a rush, the couple languidly kissing each other in the team's public showers, the Russian towering over Shane's form.

Being four inches shorter than his husband wasn't that much of a difference, but when Shane wanted Ilya to cover him in every aspect… it wasn't a hard task to complete. All he had to do was give himself to Ilya and the rest came naturally.

"I should have known… this morning. You looked so—fuck, what is the word? Out of realm, like you were still far away." He didn't let his hands wander, strictly using them to clean his and Shane's bodies. 

Ilya was placing tender kisses along Shane's neck, reverence articulated in the way his lips lingered on his husband's skin.

It electrocuted fire in Shane, the ruining cold that was in his body gone for good. "No, it's—not your fault."

Ilya nibbled his lips against the spot on Shane's shoulder that always made his dick harden. Shane could feel it reacting to Ilya's ministrations without fault, twitching between his legs. In this position, his and Ilya's cock's were so close together, mere inches apart from giving Shane the pleasure he desired. 

Ilya had caught sight of it as well, teasingly pushing his hips into Shane's before pulling away. It was a small dose of what he had to offer, lips curling up as Shane whimpered from the loss.

His hands trailed lower, rubbing the soap into Shane's sides and hips. He hardened his touch, nothing to hurt, but a firm reminder that Ilya was there. He was with Shane, taking care of him like he always did.

"We discuss later?" 

That sounded wonderful.

"Yeah, later's good." 

Ilya pressed his lips against Shane's, no longer the delicate movements he had earlier. Shane leaned into the kiss, reveling at the way Ilya occupied his own. His time. His body. All of his thoughts were on Ilya and the teasing hands and sharp mouth. Even if he wanted to move his hips, they would be firmly denied by Ilya's awaiting grip. 

They played this game often. How long could Ilya deny Shane before the older man attempted to control the situation, where Ilya and his pleased smirk would promptly stop him. Sometimes it wasn't Shane who caved first, but rather Ilya himself. In those moments he was just as needy as Shane, unwilling to let anymore distance or space stand in their way.

When Shane pulled away, it wasn't to catch his breath but to speak to Ilya. He wasn't in the mood for games.

"Please?" He looked down at his half-hard dick, looking especially pathetic next to Ilya's full erection.

"You like?" Ilya teased, kissing Shane quickly. Their lips parted with a smack that resonated over the water spraying onto them. 

"Shut up—" Shane's insult was interrupted by a moan. His own moan. Because Ilya was suddenly stroking his cock at an impossible pace.

"Mmm, I don't think you want me to. Is this okay?" He bit Shane's ear, delighting as his husband shivered against him. 

When Shane gave him the verbalized consent he needed, he kept on. "This reminds you of anything?"

Shane's brain was still fuzzy around the edges. All he could think about was this moment, how Ilya was leisurely moving his hand up and down. His back was taking the brunt of the water, so it was obvious when Shane's dick began to slick up from his excessive precum.

"You always leak so much, sweetheart. So good for me. So wet." Ilya didn't quicken his pace, rubbing his thumb over Shane's head, spreading the fluid around.

Shane couldn't find it in him to be embarrassed about it anymore. He's come a long way from hating how much precum the tip of his cock oozed, especially when Ilya was so taken by the feature. 

"You remember all those years ago? The looks you were giving me in the showers?"

Shane shook his head.

"No? Oh, Shane. I don't think you realized what you were doing. Trying to wash your body, but your eyes couldn't help but keep looking at me." His R's rolled thicker against Shane's ear, the heat sending a blush to Shane's cheeks. "Just like now."

"Fuck off," He weakly managed in return. 

"There was so much lust in the way you looked at me. Like you couldn't wait to have my big cock in your ass. Or maybe, your mouth? Would you like that tonight, Shane? Want me to fuck you and that mouth of yours? I know how much you crave both."

He sped up his ministrations, angling them so the water gave relief to the dry strokes. 

"Ah," Shane whimpered as his body folded in half, his head resting on Ilya's collarbone. "Please, Ilya. Need—ah—need it." 

Shane bit and sucked at the exposed skin, watching as the pale dermis turned darker the longer he sucked. Ilya groaned, tilting his neck to the side to give Shane more access. The Canadian happily trailed his lips along Ilya's pulse, lessening his force the higher he went up. While they liked to leave marks on each other, hickeys above the neckline were strictly not meant to last longer than a few hours during the season.

He found the special spot behind his husband's ear, rolling the skin between his teeth before letting go.

"Yours too. Yours too." He desperately managed out, bucking his hips into each stroke. 

It felt wrong not to have Ilya's dick pressed up against his in this moment.

Ilya gripped the base of his hair and forced Shane's head up, sliding his tongue into the shorter man's mouth as he took his and Shane's cock in hand. His wide palm easily wrapped around them without problem, calloused fingers roughly smothering their heats together. 

Chest to chest, Shane was tweaking one of Ilya's nipples with his digits, using the edge of his nails to bring the sharp pain Ilya liked applied to his nipples. His free hand roamed to Ilya's back, slowly falling lower until he had a grasp on the ass he adored so much.

It earned a moan from Ilya, so Shane gripped harder.

Sometimes Shane was sad that he wasn't a top, never getting to see the way Ilya's roundness would move on him. Then Ilya would fuck him as Shane clenched onto his globes for dear life, content to hold onto them rather than fuck into them.

They moaned into each other, Ilya maintaining a controlled pace that left both of them reeling. Shane could feel the bulging veins of Ilya's dick pressing against his, the head of their cocks rubbing together every time Ilya brought his hand near the tips. 

Their vocal sounds were echoing around the room, fwap fwap fwap drowned out by their deep groans and the singular shower they hand running. 

His foreskin nudged into the tip of Shane's cock every time, too. Stimulating him just a little bit more with each passing movement. Ilya's breathing was harsh exiting his nostrils, his silent sounds of pleasure spurring Shane on just as the audible ones. Their tongues were dancing together in a similar fashion their cocks were—wet and messy.

Shane let himself fall into the feeling, the building wave of relief washing over him entirely. He couldn't even remember why he was upset in the first place.

His hips unwillingly bucked into Ilya's hand, erratic and about to burst. 

"'M gonna cum. Can—Can I—"

"Net. Such a good boy, waiting for me, Shane. You have been so good, so lovely." He picked up the pace, Shane crying out as he held off his impending orgasm. 

"That's it, solnishko. Hold it for me." Ilya growled out. 

It was the tone that would make Shane fall to his knees. The tone that left Shane only wanting for Ilya's cock to be in him, somehow, someway. But that wasn't a part of the plans he had set. At least not while they were still at the ice rink. Shane had to wait for that for just a bit longer. But if one thing served them true over the years, it was that the wait can be worth it. 

When Shane let out a particularly gutting moan next to Ilya's ear, the Russian man pushed him against the tiled wall. He didn't care for the water that fell in his face, too preoccupied with ensuring Shane's head didn't slam against the tile.

Shane kept himself positioned as he was, satisfied with the way Ilya's long hair was pooling over his hand and how big his ass felt in his hand. He gripped both possessively tight, rolling his hips once more as soon as Ilya started.

Ilya was less rolling his hips, but more so slamming Shane into the wall with every thrust. He worked his hips as if he were in Shane, unforgiving and dominant. Shane wished his back was to Ilya, face forced against the wall as Ilya fucked into him good from behind. 

As if reading his mind, Ilya snuck a finger into Shane's mouth. Shane sucked it in without a problem, wrapping his lips around the digit as if it were Ilya's cock being shoved down his throat. He caressed it with his tongue, dousing it in his saliva as he worked the finger like it was Ilya's cock.

"Fuuuck," Ilya pressed it deeper, his thrusts into his palm beginning to grow uneven and less measured. "You want to cum, Shane? Be good, cum for me. Now."

His words were precise and smooth, the voice of a man who had done this a thousand times over. His lips were scrunched up in the way Shane adored, jaw ticked at how hard he was clenching it.

Shane followed the command, his body working on overdrive to shoot the load out the second Ilya demanded it. "Mmf, shit. Ilya."

His head tilted back from the pleasure, pushing off the wall and into Ilya's grasp. It felt like too much, but not enough.

Ilya was following him soon after, punched out growls vibrating against his chest as he swiped another kiss from Shane. It was a swift peck, one involved with no tongue or lip locking of any kind. 

"Shane," Was the first thing he said when they parted. 

"Ilya," Shane's voice sounded heavier, as if he just woke up from a nap that left him questioning what time zone he was in. His eyes were lidded, a perfect compliment to match his dopey smile.

Shane knew he probably looked like he was high on a few different substances, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. All he could think about was Ilya. His husband, the man standing in front of him, who made it his life's mission to care for Shane.

Ilya planted featherlight kisses on the crown of his head, guiding him back under the water before he could get cold. "I love you,"

"I love you, too."

"We clean for real this time." Ilya instructed, pumping soap onto Shane's body once more. 

Shane didn't respond, content to let Ilya's palms roam over his body. The man kept his touch delicate, cleaning Shane's cock without a hint of sexual arousal. It was almost like getting a massage, except the masseuse was a mouthy Dom who had more in store for later.

Throughout the aftercare, Ilya muttered words of encouragement and praise in Russian. They were phrases that Shane distantly recognized, but he was too far in his head to cling to them long enough to translate. 

By the time he was coming out of the fog, he was already in his boxers with a Snickers bar pressed to his lips. Shane was sitting in front of his cubby in the locker room, and Ilya was standing in front of him expectantly.

"Eat, sweetheart." He tried shoving the candy into Shane's mouth. 

Shane's eyes went wide, ready to smack the death bar (only during the season, now) away from his body. Nothing unhealthy should even think about entering Shane's perfectly curated diet.

"Yes, you eat it. Vy zhe znayete, chto sakhar pomogayet." You know sugar helps.

Shane begrudgingly took a bite. He tried to ignore how the flavor bloomed against his taste buds. It was a flavor he would do his best to forget after today, at least until the season was over and he could be more lenient about what he consumed.

"Where'd you get this anyway?" Shane asked around a mouthful.

Ilya was dressing himself, putting on the clothes he had arrived in. "Was there on bench when we got out."

He froze mid-bite. "You mean…?"

Ilya nodded. "Probably Harris. Nothing to worry about. That man and Troy go round after round in his office." The was something akin to pride in the way he said it.

The orgasm ripping through you like fire, body convulsing as you cried out around his fingers. He followed seconds later, burying himself deep with a groan, cumming inside you, his thumb pressing firmer as if to anchor you both in the chaos of euphoria.

The world blurred, edges softening into that familiar, floaty haze. Subspace wrapping around you like warm fog. Thought and body slipped apart until all that was left was sensation and trust.

Weightless. Safe. His.

You drifted there, suspended in quiet exultation, your heartbeat echoing faintly in your ears. The air smelled of sandalwood and sweat, grounding, intimate. A reminder of the intense scene that’d just taken place. Somewhere through the haze, you heard Taehyung’s voice as he guided you back with gentle affirmations.

Each word pulled at you like a thread, reeling you toward the surface.

When the tremors began to fade, you floated in the afterglow, your breaths syncing with his. This wasn’t new, you’d been here before, and he’d always known how to navigate the return.

The blindfold slipped away with a soft whisper of fabric, and you blinked into the dim light. His dark eyes found yours. Steady, searching, tender. “Hey,” he murmured, voice a careful whisper that lulled you further into relaxation.

“You with me, my sweet?”

You nodded slowly, a dazed small smile ghosting across your lips.

Taehyung’s answering chuckle was rich with warmth. “Good girl,” he whispered, brushing his thumb along your jaw before leaning in to press a kiss to your shoulder. The shift in him was subtle, his presence softening, his movements mindful. He unfastened the restraints, rubbed your ankles where the leather had pressed, then reached for a warm cloth to wipe you down with gentle patience. The rhythm of his care lulled you, every touch thoughtful, almost ceremonial.

Wrapped in his arms, you felt the world slowly right itself. It should have been enough. The warmth, the safety, the gentle quiet that followed.

But then the edges began to sharpen again.

The stillness that had felt peaceful a moment ago turned strange, too quiet.

You tried to ignore it, the faint tremor in your hands, the hollow twist in your stomach, telling yourself it was nothing, just the adrenaline wearing off. You tried to steady your breathing, to sink back into the warmth of Taehyung’s chest, but it didn’t help. The warmth felt too far away, like you were watching it from the other side of glass.

A prickling unease crawled up your spine.

The room felt colder, the air heavier.

Your chest tightened without reason, breath catching in shallow bursts. You blinked hard, trying to clear the fog, trying to hold onto the calm, but it only made the disconnect sharper.

Why does everything feel…wrong?

Taehyung said something, you couldn’t quite catch it over the rush in your ears, and when you didn’t answer, his voice changed.

Softer.

Then there was movement.

His hand brushing the hair from your face, his palm warm against your cheek. “Hey. Look at me, honey,” he urged, and even through the haze, you could hear the shift in his tone, laced with concern.

You tried to respond, but your throat felt thick, words dissolving before they reached your tongue. The tremors spread, small at first, then stronger, like your body was remembering how to shake. That’s when it hit you, distantly, through the fog. Oh. This is the drop.

You didn’t even have to say it aloud.

He knew, course he did.

His touch softened further, and you felt him pull the duvet up around you, cocooning you in soft weight. “Hey, sweetheart,” he whispered, his lips close to your ear now. “It’s okay. You’re all right. I’ve got you.”

The sound of his voice steadied the freefall. You clung to it, breathing in time with him, the panic slowly unraveling under the quiet certainty of his care.

You barely registered him slipping away for a moment, the bed dipping as he stood.

A minute later, he returned with the canvas tote from the closet, your subspace kit, the one you’d put together after your first deep scene together months ago. He set it quietly beside the bed and began pulling things out. Doris, your weighted manatee, a bag of kettle corn, chocolate covered peanuts, a jumbo bag of gummy worms and your softest blanket The burgundy one that always smelled like that fancy detergent he uses.

“Hey, look who’s here,” he said gently, tucking Doris into your arms before wrapping the blanket around your shoulders. The added weight soothed you instantly, the pressure familiar and safe. “There she is. There’s my girl.”

He climbed back into bed beside you, letting you curl against his chest as he coaxed your trembling fingers around the stuffed toy. His heartbeat thudded steadily beneath your palm. “That’s it, just breathe with me,” he whispered, guiding you through each inhale, each exhale, his voice steady as a metronome. When he brought the water bottle straw to your lips, pressing just enough for you to take a slow sip, you didn’t fight him.

“You’re okay,” he murmured. “We’re okay. Just let the world come back slowly. I’m right here.”

You tried.

The trembling eased little by little as he talked to you, softly laughing, spinning some silly story about the time he tried to cook ramen at three in the morning and accidentally melted a spatula. The image was so absurd it startled a laugh out of you. Thin and watery, but real.

His smile widened at the sound.

“There it is,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “That’s my favorite sound.”

The ache in your chest didn’t disappear, but it softened.

His words filled the cracks, his touch smoothing over the raw edges the way only he could. He brushed hair from your face, pressed a kiss to your temple, and kept whispering small things. “You did so well tonight. I’m proud of you.” Simple, grounding truths that tethered you.

“You’re safe.” he repeated, his thumb traced slow, steady lines along your jaw, then down to your shoulder, each pass gentle. He reached for the blanket, tucking it more snugly around you before pulling you closer, his hand sliding up and down your back in lazy circles. “You’re here with me, baby.” The friction built warmth, quieting the chill that had taken hold of your spine.

He shifted, coaxing you to take another sip of water, then offered a few chocolate covered peanuts. The chocolate melting a little in his palm and fingers as he fed them to you. When you managed a smile between crunches, he laughed softly, the sound vibrating through his chest where your cheek rested.

“Good right? Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” His arm tightened just a little, a calming pressure keeping you present.

You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling his heartbeat thrumming steadily, he kissed the crown of your head, and something inside you finally began to settle.

Each gesture, each affirmation was its own kind of healing, a slow stitching together of everything the drop had frayed.

By the time you felt more like yourself than an unwelcome guest in your own body, you were half asleep, cocooned in warmth and weight. Taehyung’s hand rested against the back of your head, his thumb tracing slow circles through your hair.

The quiet between you wasn’t heavy anymore, it was soft, the kind of quiet that came when words weren’t needed.

You could still feel the echo of everything that had happened. The high, the drop, the slow climb back to center, but it no longer scared you. Not with his chest rising and falling in a rhythm you’d come to trust more than your own.

He shifted just enough to pull the blanket higher around you, his lips brushing your temple as he whispered, “Let’s go to sleep, sweetheart. You need to rest, okay? I love you. ”

You made a small sound of agreement and turned something that sounded like ‘I love you,’, the last of the tension melting from your body as he adjusted you closer, your head tucked beneath his chin.

Then, almost absently, he began to hum.

The tune vibrated softly against your cheek where it rested against his chest, the sound wrapping around you like warmth itself.

Your eyes fluttered shut, the weight of the night fading with each breath. When you finally slipped into dreams, his humming followed you there, thumb still massaging circles at the base of your neck.

masterlist

So why are you so tense? Your heart is picking up it's pace instead of slowing down. You mind getting louder instead of quieter. You've stop responding to her while you try to focus on your breathing. Desperately trying to control what is spiraling out of your grip. She goes quiet while your breathing gets louder and shallow. Sitting up she cups you face, pulling one of your hands to her heart and the other yours.

"Breathe baby, deeps breaths ok? Feel me. Slow and steady. Let's balance them out a little. Look at me, good girl, thank you. Focus on me."

Your eyes are wide and panicked, watering slightly. The urge to run in this moment is so strong and she can see that but you breathe with her anyway. Eventually slowing down just enough to start the hiccupped sobs that follow. No questions asked she pulls you into her lap slowly. Gentle movements as if not to frighten you. Rubbing your back when you tuck your face into her neck. She just waits, patiently and quietly letting you process. After a bit she speaks,

"When you're ready we'll talk love. I've got you. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. You did so well for me. My good girl. Always so good for me."

You feel disconnected. Wrong in your own skin. You slip out of her lap and settle across from her. Looking at your hands and playing with your own fingers. Your mouth opens multiple times but nothing comes out. How do you explain something that doesn't even make sense to you? How do you explain to her that you don't feel like enough and you feel like too much at the same time? That none of this is her fault, your brain is just vicious. That the scene was wonderful and she was amazing but you still feel like you messed something up. That no matter what she says it won't convince you in this moment. That you don't feel worthy of the way she cares for you. That you don't-

Your thoughts are heavy and tangled. You didn't realize tears started falling again until she brushed one away. When you look at her, she doesn't look at you like something to fix in this moment. She looks at you with care and certainty.

"I know what's happening in that beautiful head of yours. We're going to battle it together. You are not alone. You are not broken. You are loved. You are valued. You are cherished. We will not let those thoughts win."

Her voice is steady and grounding.

"We're going to go have a bath, warm and relaxing. Comfortable clothes after, put on a silly movie and whatever you need. One step at a time."

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