chloeee

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.

Your skin was slick with sweat despite the chill, and your eyes—those sweet eyes that usually held so much warmth, so much life—were glassy, trying to focus but failing to land on anything. 

Then, a light flickered inside. The lock scraped, and the door swung open to reveal Jack Abbott, still half-dressed in a worn pullover over his undershirt, his grey hair mussed from sleep that had clearly been interrupted. 

"What the hell happened?" He asked, eyes going worried. 

Joel didn't answer. 

He just moved, carrying you past Jack and down the narrow hallway that led to the small clinic room Jack kept in his home. 

The space was clean but lived-in: a metal examination chair in the center, shelves lined with bottles and worn medical texts, a couch, a single lamp casting a warm, yellow glow over the worn wooden floor. 

Jack Abbott arrived in Jackson a little over two years after Joel did. 

He had been traveling with a small group before, acting as their medic, but the constant moving wore him down. 

Jackson was the first place in years that felt safe enough to stop, so he stayed when Maria asked him if he wanted to, while the others moved on. 

Within a few months, he turned one of the unused small houses near the edge of town into two spaces: a tiny clinic in the front and a small living area for himself in the back.

People started calling it Abbott's clinic.

Joel met him after a patrol accident left him with a deep cut. 

Jack stitched him up with quiet, steady confidence, and Joel respected him immediately. 

He didn't ask too many questions, no bullshit, no small talk. Over time, Joel kept ending up at Jack's door, Jack kept patching him, and a quiet, practical friendship formed between them.

So when Joel set you down on his examination chair he knew you were in good hands. 

His hands stayed on you, steady, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. 

Jack followed close behind, already pulling out a pair of latex gloves from a box on the counter. 

The snap of rubber against his wrists was sharp in the quiet room. He moved to your other side, his eyes scanning you with the practiced efficiency of someone who had seen too many emergencies in too many late hours. 

"Joel." He said it firmly, not a question. Then softer, more insistent. "Joel. Talk to me. What happened?"

Joel dragged a hand down his face, the stubble rough against his palm. 

"We—" He stopped. Swallowed. And then started again, his voice lower. "We weren't supposed to be there."

Jack's eyebrows shot up. "Where?"

"The old storage yard. Past the perimeter."

The silence stretched for one beat, two, three and Joel could see the thoughts racing behind those dark eyes—the implications, the danger, the sheer stupidity of it. 

Jack let out a slow breath, his jaw tightening. "You two were past the forbidden perimeter?"

Joel nodded once, feeling guilty, miserable.

"She saw…" He let out a frustrated huff, shaking his head. "Hell, I don't know. Rabbits or somethin'. Wanted a closer look."

His voice cracked on the last words—with frustration, with...with anger at himself, at the moment of weakness that had led him to agree, to let you wander just a little too far, just a little too deep into the overgrown brush beyond the safe zone. 

You had smiled at him. God—that sweet, hopeful smile that made it impossible to say no. And now you were here, burning up and it was all his fault.

"She breathed in this cloud of…dust. Pollen. Somethin'."

Jack only stared at him, open mouth, gaze caught somewhere between disbelief and the cold calm of a man processing information. 

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then, very quietly, he said: "Joel."

"It ain't important right now," Joel snapped, the words cutting through the air like a blade. But the edge softened almost immediately as his eyes flicked back to you, and his voice dropped to something quieter, more fragile. "Just—just fix her, alright?"

Jack held his gaze for a long moment. Then he nodded, once, and turned his full attention to you. 

He leaned in, his movements careful, deliberate, as he reached for a small penlight from besides him. "Alright, sweetheart. Let's take a look at you."

He leaned closer, bringing the penlight up to your eyes. But your head lolled slightly, and you squirmed on the chair, a low, restless sound escaping your throat. Jack paused, his hand hovering near your jaw.

"Easy now. I need you to hold still for just a second, okay?" He tilted his head, meeting your gaze from behind the flashlight. "C'mon. Look at me."

Your eyes—glassy, unfocused, pupils blown wide—drifted toward him. 

Jack clicked on the penlight, shining it first into your left eye, then your right, watching the way your pupils reacted—or failed to react. His brow furrowed. He hummed low in his throat, a sound that made Joel's stomach clench.

He clicked off the penlight, put it back into his place, and straightened up. He met Joel's gaze, his expression thoughtful.

"Pupils are dilated and sluggish. Could be a neuroactive toxin," he said, his voice carrying the weight of professional assessment. "Some kind of alkaloid, maybe. That targets the central nervous system." He paused, then added, almost to himself, "But her skin is flushed, and her pulse is tachycardic. Heart rate's way up. Could be pyrexia, but…" He trailed off, then turned back to you, his voice gentle again. "How did this flower look? Can you tell me anything about it?"

Your lips parted. "Trans…translucent. Purple."

Jack's eyes sharpened suddenly. 

He turned away, crossing to the cluttered desk in the corner where a worn leather notebook sat among scattered papers. He opened it and the silence stretched while he flipped through it. 

"Damn it," Jack muttered under his breath.

Joel stiffened. "What?"

Jack didn't look up. He kept turning pages, his finger tracing lines of cramped handwriting. "I've seen mentions of this before. Not many though, just scattered reports from patrol medics out west. And a couple of passing mentions in some old pre-outbreak botany notes I found in the library archive." He stopped on a page, reading it intently. Then he let out a slow breath and turned to face Joel.

"Reports of what?" Joel pressed, his voice tight.

Jack hesitated. It was a hesitation that Joel had never seen on him before.

He set the notebook down and crossed his arms, his gaze flickering between you and Joel.

"A mutated flower. Causes fever, disorientation, elevated pulse…and some....sexual changes." 

Joels head snapped up. "It ain't the time for jokes, Abbott." 

But Jack didn't flinch. "I'm not joking. That's what the reports called it. I told you—it causes fever, disorientation, elevated pulse." He paused, letting the words settle. "The body's been flooded with a compound that mimics extreme sexual arousal. It's not toxic on its own, but if left untreated, the fever and heart strain can cause complications."

Joel stared at him and when he turned back to you, he saw the way your fingers curled and uncurled against the metal and the way a soft, breathy sound escaped your lips as you shifted restlessly on the chair.

"Complications," Joel repeated, his voice hollow. "What kind of complications?"

Jack moved closer, his expression softening as he looked at you. He reached out, pressing the back of his hand gently against your forehead, feeling the fever that radiated off you in waves.

"If we don't address the underlying arousal-based symptoms, the body will keep ramping up. Heart rate spikes. Temperature climbs. Eventually, the system burns out." He pulled his hand away, his voice dropping lower. "The only effective treatment recorded in those reports is…direct physical release. Sexual stimulation to completion, multiple times, until the compound is flushed from the system."

He held up a hand as Joel opened his mouth, ready to protest. "Look, I know how it sounds. But I've seen enough strange things in this world to know that nature doesn't care about what sounds reasonable."

Joel turned away, his hand dragging through his hair, frustration in his face.

"So what are you tellin' me? That I gotta—" He couldn't even finish the sentence.

"I'm telling you that she needs care, Joel. And that care is going to involve intimacy. Whether that's with you, or with me helping her through it medically, or both—that's up to you. But she can't wait much longer." Jack's voice was calm, steady, the voice of a man doing his job. The room fell silent again. The only sounds were your labored breathing and the faint ticking of a clock somewhere deeper in the house.

Joel then turned back, his eyes meeting yours. He saw the fear in them—and something else, something raw and needy that he didn't know how to name.

And suddenly—

"Please," you whined, the word thick and broken. "Please…need…need something."

Your body was a furnace, burning from the inside out. Every nerve ending felt raw, exposed, screaming for relief. The fabric of your shirt clung to your skin, damp with sweat, and it felt like a cage. Your hands moved before your mind could catch up—grabbing at the hem, tugging, pulling.

Joel's eyes widened. "Hey, hey—hold on—"

But you couldn't hold on anymore.

You were beyond reason, beyond shame. You squirmed against the chair, your movements jerky and frantic, yanking your shirt over your head and tossing it aside.

Joel caught your wrists gently, trying to slow you down, but you twisted out of his grip, your fingers fumbling with the button of your jeans, the zipper, pushing them down your hips with a desperate, whimpering sound that tore at Joel's chest.

"Honey—" Joel started, his voice cracking.

But Jack held up a hand, his expression calm but intent. "Let her. The compound is driving her body to seek release. Fighting it will only make it worse, Joel."

Joel's hands fell to his sides. He watched, helpless, as you rid yourself of the last of your clothing, tossing jeans and panties to the floor until you were bare on the examination chair, your skin flushed and slick with sweat, your chest heaving with every ragged breath.

Your legs fell open without thought, your hips rolling against the cold metal, searching for friction that wasn't there.

"Need…please…I need something…" Your voice was a broken loop, tears starting to stream down your cheeks.

Joel's throat tightened. He looked at Jack.

When Jack met his gaze, there was no judgment in those dark eyes—only the weight of a man who understood the gravity of the situation. Jack's hand paused over your body, as he turned to Joel, his expression asking a silent question.

May I?

Joel stared at him for a long, breathless moment. Then he nodded, his voice low and rough. "Do what ya gotta do. I trust you."

Jack's shoulders relaxed a fraction and he moved to the foot of the chair, positioning himself between your spread legs. 

"I ain't no gynaecologist," Jack said, his voice carrying a hint of dry humour. "But I need to see if it's really the flower we're talking about. The reports mentioned specific physical changes."

Joel clenched his jaw, stepping closer and placing his hands on your shoulders, holding you steady as you squirmed beneath him. You looked up at him, your eyes glassy and wet, and you whimpered.

"Please…let him…"

Joel let out a shaky breath. He looked at Jack and gave a short, sharp nod.

Jack leaned in. His gloved fingers found your thighs, then he gently parted your labia with precision. 

He murmured to himself, cataloging observations as he worked. "Labia swollen. Significant engorgement. Vulvar tissue appears hyperemic, engorged with blood flow consistent with severe vasocongestion." 

You gasped as his thumb accidentally brushed against the hood of your clit, a jolt of electricity shooting through your core. Your hips bucked involuntarily, a desperate, wordless sound escaping your lips.

"Easy," Jack murmured, more to himself than to you. 

He shifted his grip, using his thumb and forefinger to part the inner folds, exposing your entrance. It was gaping, red, and glistening with a clear, almost viscous fluid that had already pooled on the chair beneath you.

Joel's hands tightened on your shoulders, his knuckles almost white. 

He trusted Jack—hell, he was the only man in this godforsaken place he trusted you with. But he still couldn't help the way he felt. A little too protective. Maybe even jealous.

"Her insides feel swollen," Jack said. He pressed two fingers—index and middle—against your opening, testing the resistance. The muscles fluttered and clenched, straining against the intrusion before it even begun. "Loss of tone in the pelvic floor muscles. Usually, there's some natural tension, but here…it's like her body is actively pulling things in."

And then he pressed inside.

The latex-covered fingertips breached you with a wet, slick sound that echoed in the small room.

You cried out—not in pain, but in need that tore through every nerve ending. Your back arched off the chair, your head thrown back, Joel's name falling from your lips in a desperate, ragged moan.

"Oh, fuck—!"

Jack didn't move. He held his fingers still, buried to the second knuckle, his eyes fixed on your face, watching your reaction with clinical detachment even as his body betrayed a slight tension.

"She's extremely sensitive. The internal tissues are swollen and hot—probably a few degrees above normal body temperature. The flower is causing nerve hypersensitivity."

Your hips bucked again, grinding against Jack's hand, seeking more. Every bit of shame leaving your body.

But the pressure of his fingers inside you was maddening—not enough, never enough. You whimpered, a high, thin sound that turned into a gasping sob as Jack slowly began to withdraw his fingers, dragging them along your inner walls.

And then, suddenly, an orgasm hit you without warning. 

It crashed through you like a wave, sudden and violent, pulling a strangled scream from your throat. Your entire body clenched, your inner muscles spasmed around Jack's retreating fingers, and a gush of fluid flooded out of you, soaking his gloved hand and dripping onto the chair in thick, sticky ropes.

Jack pulled his hand back, his fingers coated in the warm, translucent fluid. He held them up, examining the consistency with narrowed eyes.

Joel could only stare, his mouth hanging open. 

His gaze flicked from your flushed, trembling body to Jack's dripping fingers, and then back to your face, where tears and sweat had mingled in a mask of desperate relief and craving.

"Did she just…?" Joel's voice was hoarse, cautious. 

Jack nodded slowly, wiping his fingers on a clean cloth. "Ejaculate. Yeah. That's…that's exactly what that was. The flower causes her body to reach climax extremely quickly—and just as quickly, the need returns. It's like the release doesn't satisfy anything; it only opens the door for more."

You were already squirming again, your hips rolling against the empty air, your breath coming in sharp, frantic pants. "Please…more…need more…"

Jack set the cloth aside and picked up the blood pressure cuff, wrapping it around your upper arm. 

He pumped it up, watching the gauge as the numbers climbed. 

"This is an unusual procedure," he said, his voice flat. "Her body will need release. Repeatedly. And even then, the effects might last for hours—until the compound works its way out of her system."

Joel ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the grey strands in frustration. "Jesus Christ. Is there any medicine? Anything you can give her to stop this? To slow it down?"

Jack shook his head, the blood pressure cuff hissing as he released the pressure. "No. This is all about managing symptoms. The fever, the blood pressure, the dehydration. The only thing that treats the root cause is—" He paused, glancing at Joel. "—well, you know..."

He pulled off his gloves with a snap, tossing them into a bin. Then he grabbed a fresh pair, pulling them on with practiced efficiency. 

"I could now let you two go," Jack said, turning to face Joel fully. "Let you handle this on your own. Just fuck like goddamn rabbits for the next few hours. But her blood pressure is 160 over 110. That's stroke territory if we're not careful. And her fever is also still climbing."

You whimpered on the chair, your hand reaching out blindly. "Please…Joel…I need…"

Joel caught your hand, pressing it to his chest. "S'okey, honey. I'm right here. Don't be scared." He leaned down, pressing another kiss to your damp forehead, his voice softening to a trembling murmur. "I got you. I ain't goin' nowhere."

He turned to Jack, his eyes hard and resolute. "I'll do it. You keep her fever and blood pressure in line. I trust you."

Jack nodded. 

He pulled the chair behind your head, positioning himself so he could put cool towels on your forehead and monitor the equipment. 

"I'll keep the cold packs on her neck and forehead, monitor her vitals. You handle the rest."

Joel let out a long, shaky breath. He shrugged off his jacket, tossing it onto the nearby counter. He moved between your legs, his boots scraping against the worn linoleum.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, looking down at the mess you've had made. 

Your pussy was a complete wreck; swollen, red, glistening with a mix of your own fluids and the lingering evidence of your climax. Your clit stood out, big and glossy, twice its usual size. Your hole gaped, soft and open, the muscles twitching with unfulfilled need. 

Joel had never seen you like that. Not even when he fucked you countless times the night before. 

Jack's voice came from behind your head, quiet and steady. "I know. That's the flower."

Joel looked at your face—your tear-streaked cheeks, your parted lips, your eyes glassy and fixed on him with desperate, animal hunger. He placed his rough, calloused hands on your inner thighs, spreading you wider.

"You'll be fine, babygirl," he whispered, more to himself than to you. "I'll take care of you."

Joel's jaw tightened, his gaze flicked anywhere but towards Jack as he unzipped himself and wrapped a calloused hand around his own cock. 

He stroked himself slowly at first, trying to will himself hard despite the awkward weight of another man's eyes in the room. Embarrassment flushed his neck, but the sight of you—needy, swollen, and waiting—pushed him forwards. 

He needed to do this for you, his sweet girl, no matter how strange it felt with his old friend watching.

Joel lined himself up, the thick head of his cock nudging against your entrance before he pushed inside in one steady thrust.

A high-pitched moan tore from your throat, your hips bucking up to meet him as your walls fluttered and sucked him deeper.

"Continue," Jack said quietly, nodding once, his voice calm and measured.

Joel grunted, hips snapping forward. 

The wet, splashing sounds of your soaked pussy filled the small clinic room with every thrust, obscene and loud. 

He punched into you harder, the head of his cock dragging against that sweet, sensitive spot inside while your cunt milked him greedily, rhythmic pulses drawing him in.

"You need to talk to her the way you guys always do it, Joel," Jack instructed, still monitoring your pulse. "Keep her grounded."

Joel's eyebrows furrowed, but he nodded, voice rough. "D-does that feel good, honey?" He drove deeper, breath hitching. "Prettiest cunt all fuckin' swollen. Look at you, takin' me so good."

You whined, the praise sending fresh heat through you. 

Jack suppressed a smirk, trying to focus instead on the steady thrum beneath his fingers. "Pulse is elevated but stable," he murmured. "Pupils are still dilated."

And without warning, another orgasm crashed over you. 

This time, your thighs fell further apart as a raw cry teared from your throat, back arching off of the examination chair. Your cunt clamped down, once, twice, then opened. A hot, gushing stream bursted hard, pushing Joel's cock out and making a splashing sound in the quiet room. 

"Joel—"

Joel's breath hitched as your cries echoed off of the walls, his eyes widening when the hot flood gushed against his groin.

"Fuck," he muttered, almost to himself. His eyes landed on Jack's calm ones, and a wave of embarrassment hit him. He was standing there like this was nothing, like the whole scene wasn't awkward as hell, and Joel just couldn't decide if that made it better or worse.

Jack nodded, his eyes landing on your clenching tummy. "Normal reaction."

Joel cursed again, gripping his slick cock and thrusting back inside your still-quivering pussy. 

"Wanted to see those bunnies, huh?" he rasped, tsking with his tongue as he set a punishing rhythm. "Now look at what happened to you." 

Each thrust made your squelching cunt echo wetly around him.

Jack's gaze sharpened as he noticed drool slipping from the corner of your mouth. "Hm. Another autonomic response; excessive salivation," he noted, and glanced at Joel mid-thrust. "Mind if I help keep her calm?"

Joel nodded without breaking his rhythm. He didn't care anymore. He just wanted you to feel better.

"Easy now. Breathe for me." Jack slid two latex-gloved fingers past your lips. "I'm just gonna help you." 

And you immediately sucked them in, tongue swirling, a broken whimper escaping around them. "Please, doctor…"

Jack's breath got caught in his throat, his own cock twitching to life, growing visibly against his pants even though he was trying to he professional. 

"S'okay, sweetheart." he soothed, fingers gentle but firm in your mouth.

You sucked on them with desperate, whining pulls, saliva coating the gloves. 

Joel shook his head, voice strained. "God damn flowers."

"I know," Jack replied, eyes flicking down to where Joel's cock disappeared into your soaked cunt. "Reports were way worse. It's like heat for humans—constant need until the cycle breaks."

Joel kept thrusting, the filthy wet sounds growing louder, his thumb finding your sensitive clit, giving only gentle, light rubs. You moaned around Jack's fingers, whimpered, your body arching from the stool as another orgasm ripped through you.

He buried himself deep, grunting as he came too, hot pulses of cum flooding your cunt while your walls clenched around him.

Jack's free hand stroked your hair. "You're doing so well," he whispered. "That's it. Let it all out."

Joel slowly pulled out, watching thick ropes of his release trickle down from your swollen pussy. He tucked himself back in, thinking that would be enough. 

But the needy ache in your core hadn't faded. Your hips still rocked, eyes glassy, silently begging for more. Your cunt started clenching again, desperate to be stuffed. 

Jack pulled his fingers out of your mouth, taking his gloves off. 

"She's…she's still not done," he said, his voice softer now, laced with an uncertainty that wasn't there before. 

He swallowed. "The flower's effects are cumulative. She's had three orgasms so far, but the pollen load was significant." 

Jack's fingers trailed down your cheek, your jaw, until they rested on your collarbone. "Your heart rate's still high." He glanced at Joel. "Can you hold her steady? I need to examine her cervix again."

Joel nodded, his hand moving to cradle your head. He leaned over you, his face inches from yours, his breath was warm against your cheek, pressing a kiss on your nose. "You hear that, baby? Doctor Abbott's gonna take a look. Just breathe, okay?"

Jack pulled on a fresh pair of gloves, the snap of latex loud in the quiet. 

He positioned himself between your legs again, his fingers gentle as he parted your slick folds. 

Your cunt was still a swollen, pink mess—puffy and raw, dripping with Joel's cum and your own release. 

Jack's brows furrowed deeper, his tongue wetting his lips. "No tearing. But she's inflamed. The tissue is still pretty engorged." He pressed two fingers just inside your entrance, and you gasped, your hips bucking. "Still sensitive. Very sensitive."

Joel watched, his eyes dark, the grip on your hand tightening. "What do we need to do?"

Jack withdrew his fingers slowly. "I think…I think she needs stimulation again. But maybe a different angle. She's been stimulated vaginally. The flower's compounds are absorbed through the mucous membranes, so oral stimulation might also help" He looked at Joel, and for the first time, a faint blush colored his cheeks. "I could…only if that's okay with you, I could use my mouth. On her. It's the gentlest way. Fingers or a toy might be too rough with the swelling."

Joel's eyebrows rised. He didn't say anything for a long moment, just stared at Jack with a mixture of surprise and unsureness. But he trusted him. "You're the doctor." 

Jack's answer was a shaky breath. 

He knelt down, his prosthetic clicking softly as he positioned himself between your spread thighs. He looked up at Joel, eyes wide, his voice was barely above a whisper. "I won't do something that you don't want."

"You won't," Joel said, and there's a quiet certainty in his voice. "You're good at what you do. And you care. That's all that matters."

Jack leaned in, his lips brushing the inside of your thigh first, a soft, hesitant kiss. He started murmuring to you, his words muffled against your skin. "It's okay, sweetheart. Just relax. Let me help you." 

He trailed his mouth up, leaving a wet path, until he reached your pussy. 

He hesitated at first, his breath hot against your swollen folds, and then his tongue darted out, flicking tentatively over your clit.

You cried out, a sharp, high sound, your hips jerking. 

Joel shushed you, his hand stroking your hair. "Easy, easy, honey. Let him work."

Jack's tongue moved in slow, careful circles, his eyes closed, his whole being focused on the task. He was so gentle—so so gentle it almost hurt. He let his tongue flatten, just barely, dragging the softest, wettest line from the bottom of your slit all the way up to the hood of your swollen clit.

When he reached the nub, he didn't flick or circle. 

Instead, he parted his lips just enough to take the tiny bud between them, not sucking, not even really holding—just resting it there, letting his breath ghost over it. He knew you were sensitive so he gave it a single, featherlight pulse of his tongue, like a heartbeat, before releasing it just as gently.

He pulled back for a moment, looking at Joel. "She's still very wet. The pollen keeps secreting fluids. That's good—it means her body is actively metabolizing." 

He pressed another kiss onto your inner thigh, his hand coming up to cup your mound, his thumb rubbing soft circles. "You're doing so well. Just a little more, okay? I'll make it good."

Joel watched, his breath coming heavier. He was hard again, his cock pressing against his jeans. 

He didn't touch himself, though. He just held you, his eyes locked on Jack's mouth as it worked over you, his own throat tight with something that feels like gratitude and jealousy all tangled together.

"I got her, Joel," Jack said between gentle strokes of his tongue, his voice strained. "She's responding. Clenching. She's—" He broke off as you moaned, your body beginning to tremble again. "She's close. Another one."

Joel leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. "Let go, baby. Let Jack take care of you. You can do it."

Your orgasm build, slow and deep, and when it finally broke; it's was a rolling, shuddering wave that pulled a desperate sob from your chest. 

He didn't stop, his tongue gentling through the aftershocks, drawing out every last tremor until you're limp, your body sagging into the chair.

"Good, yeah, that's real good," Jack pulled back, wiping his chin with his hand while looking at the fluids you released. "She did well." 

You breathed out, already feeling your cunt spasm again, in need of another release. 

Jack checked your fever and your blood pressure again, letting out a soft breath, turning to face Joel. His voice was low and gentle, unhurried. "It's still not stabilizing the way I'd like. Her heart rate's come down which is good. But her blood pressure's still sitting high, and her temperature's not dropping."

Joel's grip on your hand tightened. "God dammit. What else can we do?" He asked. "You said oral would help." 

Jack nodded slowly. "It did help. It brought her some relief. But the pollen is trapped in her pelvic tissue now. To fully clear it, she needs a stronger parasympathetic response. I think at this point, oral alone won't reach that deep."

He paused, thinking. 

"There's another option," he said, looking at Joel first, then down at you. "It's a bit more...involved. But I think it would work. I've read it in the reports."

Joel's brows furrowed. "Just tell me."

"Dual stimulation. It could trigger a more complete autonomic response. Simultaneous penetration of the vaginal and anal canals would increase overall parasympathetic activation, potentially clearing the pollen from deeper tissue through intensified contractions and fluid release."

He held up a hand, reassuring. "I know it sounds like a lot. But i've read enough of them in the reports."

Joel looked at you, then back at Jack. His voice was rough but not angry. "You mean, hell—both of us? At the same time?"

"If you're comfortable with that," Jack said, his tone still gentle, almost apologetic. "I wouldn't suggest it if I thought there was another way. But she's still suffering, Joel. I can see it in her eyes. And I don't want her fever to spike again."

Joel stared at the floor for a long moment, then looked at you. Your skin was still flushed, your eyes glassy with need, begging him to do something. You squeezed his hand weakly, a small sound escaping your throat. 

He let out a breath. "Fine. If it'll help her. But I swear to god above, Abbott, if she stays like this. Then—"

"Joel… I hear you," Jack murmured, hands half‑raised in a calming gesture. "I'm not…I'm not thrilled about this either. But I won't let anything happen to her. I promise you that."

He then knelt between your legs again, his hands resting lightly on your thighs. "I need to check if she's ready," he said. "The pollen causes natural relaxation, but I want to be sure there's no discomfort."

He pressed a thumb gently against your perineum, then traced it along the rim of your anus. 

The touch was featherlight, exploratory but uour body responded without a thought: a shiver, a soft gasp. 

Jack looked up at Joel, his expression calm.

"She's already relaxed. No prep needed." He nodded. 

Jack shifted his gaze to you. His hand remained where it was, a grounding pressure against your most intimate space. He spoke slowly, his voice a soothing murmur.

"Sweetheart, I'm going to tell you exactly what we're thinking, and you can take your time. There's no rush."

He paused, waiting for your eyes to meet his.

"Joel will be with you the way he always is—inside you, slow and gentle. And I'll be behind you, entering you here," he said, his thumb pressing just slightly inward, "in your bottom. We'll move together, very slowly, matching each other's pace. It'll feel full—intense—but it won't hurt if you're relaxed, and you are. The pollen will release, your fever will come down, and your heart will settle."

He watched your face, his eyes patient and warm.

Joel leaned down, brushing his lips against your nose. "It's your call, babygirl. I'm right here."

Your breathing hitched. The heat inside you coiled tighter, desperate. You looked up at Joel, then at Jack—his dark eyes patient, his hand steady on your body. 

You nodded, needy. 

"Yes," you whispered. "Please. I need something." 

Jack's lips curved into a faint, reassuring smile. "That's good. That's real good." He withdrew his hand slowly and looked at Joel. 

Joel's jaw tightened. He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, slow and deliberate. Then he looked over his shoulder at Jack, and to the couch in the room. "This couch work for you? She'll be more comfortable there—pillows, somethin' to brace against."

Jack nodded, already moving. "I'll get it set up."

-

Jack cleared the sofa with efficient movements: tossing aside a pillow, spreading a clean blanket over the cushions, positioning two more pillows against the armrest. 

His hands moved with practiced precision, but there was a slight tremor in his fingers as he smoothed the fabric. 

He was trying to stay professional. It was cute, in a way; this man who had stitched up Joel's wounds and patched up Jackson's sick, now preparing a makeshift bed for something more intimate.

And you wouldn't lie if it didn't excite you. 

While Jack worked, Joel stayed with you. He cupped your face in both hands, his thumbs tracing the line of your cheekbones. 

"Hey," he murmured, tilting your chin up so you had to meet his eyes. "Look at me."

You did. His eyes so soft. Tender. The same eyes that had watched over you during patrol, that had softened when you begged him to take you to the forbidden parameter just to see those stupid, wild rabbits and play with them. 

"It's gonna be alright," he said. "You trust me?"

"Always," you breathed.

"Trust Jack?"

You glanced towards the sofa, where Jack was adjusting the last pillow. He caught your gaze and offered a small, reassuring smile—the same smile he gave before setting a broken bone, before delivering difficult news. 

Professional. Always kind and gentle. 

"Yes," you said. "I trust him."

Joel leaned in and kissed you then. Slow, thorought, a kiss that promised you stability. His lips moved against yours with a gentle pressure, his tongue brushing the seam of your mouth, tasting you. One hand slid into your hair, cradling the back of your head, while the other found the small of your back, pulling you just slightly closer.

When he broke the kiss, you were breathless. He rested his forehead against yours.

"Good girl," he whispered. "You're doing so good. Now let's get you comfortable."

Without warning, Joel slid one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you off of the exam chair as if you weighed nothing. 

You gasped, your arms instinctively winding around his neck.

Jack had positioned himself on the far end of the sofa, sitting sideways, his legs spread, a condom wrapper discarded on the side table. 

He was already hard—you could see the outline of his cock straining against his jeans, and when he shifted, the fabric pulled tight. 

"Come here," Jack said, his voice a low murmur. He patted the cushion besides him. "There we go."

Joel lowered you gently onto the sofa, your knees sinking into the plush cushion. You were facing him, your hands braced on his broad shoulders, while he sat down too. 

And behind you, you could feel the heat of Jack's body.

"Alright," Joel said, his hands sliding from your shoulders down your arms, leaving a trail of goosebumps. "He's gonna take care of you from behind. And I'll be right here." He tapped your chin, making you look at him. "Right in front of you. You need to stop, you tap my arm twice. You need a breath, you say my name. You hear?"

"Yes," you whispered.

"Good girl."

He touched you gently, his hands guiding your hips, your knees, until your back was closer to Jack and you were still facing Joel. He then  positioned you on your knees, the cushion soft beneath you, your thighs spread just enough to accommodate what was coming.

Jack's breath caught. 

His eyes roamed over you; the curve of your ass, your pretty waist, and your back. 

"You're in control," Jack said, and his voice was strained but still carrying that professional cadence, the doctor's calm. "I'm gonna put on a condom, then you can take it at your own pace." 

You heard the crinkle of a condom wrapper. Then the slick sound of him rolling it on. You looked over your shoulder, watching him position himself—knees spread, cock standing up from his body, the condom sheathing him in a thin layer of latex. 

His cock was thick, smaller than Joels, standing full and erect from a nest of dark and grey curls. His head was already a dark plum shade, slick with pre-cum bubbling on top, indicating that he was already hard all the while he examined you earlier.  

"Whenever you're ready, sweetheart." Jack said, and there was a raw edge to his voice now, the professional slip giving way to something hungrier. "Lower yourself onto me."

You reached behind you, fingers brushing his thigh. He flinched—a tiny jolt, involuntary. You saw his cock twitch, the head bobbing slightly.

"Please," you whispered. 

Jack's jaw tightened. His nostrils flared. He forced himself to nod, keeping his hands on his own knees. "It's okey. I'm right here." 

You braced one hand on the back of the sofa, the other reaching down to guide him. Your fingers found the head of his cock, slick with latex. 

You positioned it against your entrance—the tight ring of muscle that had just been stretched—and pushed back.

"There she goes." Joel murmured. 

The pressure was intense. 

A fullness that bordered on overwhelming. 

You felt every ridge, every inch as you sank onto him, your body yielding slowly, grudgingly. Jack's breath hissed through his teeth, a sharp, bitten-off sound. His knuckles were white where he gripped his own thighs, the tendons in his forearms standing out with the effort of staying still.

Joel breathed out, holding onto your waist as he guided you gently down. 

"Good," Jack managed, his voice strangled. "That's…that's perfect. You're doing so well." 

He was fully sheathed inside you then—your ass stretched around his cock, the sensation so deep it seemed to reach into your belly. You felt full, split open, but not in pain. Just…finally filled the way you needed it. 

In front of you, Joel watched your face with an intensity that made your stomach flip. His hand left your waist and stroked your thigh, a slow, grounding rhythm, his thumb tracing the crease where your leg met your hip. "You're my good girl." He whispered. 

His own cock was hard, straining against his jeans, but he made no move to touch himself. 

All his focus was on you.

"You got her?" Joel asked Jack, his voice low and gravelly.

"Yeah," Jack said, and his hands finally moved, settling on your hips. Not to guide you, not to push—just to steady. His palms were warm through the thin gown. "She's fully seated. Go ahead, Joel."

Joel's eyes never left yours. His cock thick and flushed, already slick with precum and your release from earlier. 

He shifted closer, his knees bracketing yours on the cushion, his cock pressing against your wet, waiting entrance. He didn't push in immediately. Instead, he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then your lips—soft, lingering.

"I've got you," he murmured against your mouth. "Breathe for me. Deep and slow. I can feel you clenching already—you're so ready, baby." 

"Yes," you breathed.

He pushed in.

The sensation was indescribable—Joel's cock filling your cunt from the front, Jack's cock stretching your ass from behind. 

They were separated by only a thin wall of flesh, and you could feel every movement of each man through the other. Joel's thickness pressed against Jack's length, a constant, intimate pressure that made you gasp.

Joel groaned low in his chest, his forehead dropping to yours. "Fuck," he breathed. "There we go, honey. There we go. You feel so perfect around me." 

Behind you, Jack's grip tightened on your hips. "Jesus christ."

"I know," Joel said. "I know."

Joel stopped there, buried full, and let out a low breath against your neck. Then he looked down.

Your cunt was stretched wide around his shaft, the lips pulled apart, pink and slick with your own wetness. Below that, Jack's cock stuffed deep in your ass, making the whole patch of skin between your legs look swollen, used, full. 

He watched the way his own cock disappeared into you, how the flesh clung to him like it didn't want to let go. 

He then pressed a palm flat against your belly, rubbed slow circles just above where he's buried to calm you down.

They stayed still for a long moment—both of them buried inside you, your body stretched and full and trembling. Joel's breath was warm against your cheek. Jack's chest pressed against your back, his heart hammering against your shoulder blades.

"We're gonna move when you're ready. Slow and deep. Get your body to get used to it." Jack said behind you, gripping your waist. 

Joel huffed as a nod, giving your cheek a kiss before his hand touched your mound, spreading you to watch himself. 

Then they began to move. Small, shallow thrusts. 

At first, it's barely more than a pulse—a subtle shift of both cocks deep inside you, rocking in place. Your pussy flutters around the first, a gentle squeeze that welcomes the tiny motion. Your ass clenches around the second, holding him tight as he budges fractionally in and out.

You gasped, burying your head into his neck. 

"Shh, it's okey." he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. "You can take it, babygirl." 

His lips found your cheek, soft and lingering. He pulled you back just enough to meet your eyes—half-lidded, glassy, still lost in the haze of pleasure. His thumb traced over your cheekbone, wiping a smear of drool from the corner of your mouth.

"So damn beautiful, aren't you?"

Behind you, Jack's breathing was heavy, controlled. He was pumping inside you, careful not to be fast, his hands resting on your hips with a gentleness that belied the tension in his shoulders. 

Over your shoulder, his gaze met Joel's.

A silent conversation passed between them. A nod. 

A confirmation. We're good. She's good. Keep going.

"She is doing good," Jack murmured. 

Joel nodded, his hand sliding down your side, fingers tracing the dip of your waist, the swell of your hip. "Best girl," he said, low and warm. "Yeah, baby?"

A sound tore out of you then. 

Loud, ragged, utterly needy. It rose from somewhere deep in your chest—a whine that had no shape, no words, just pure, aching want. 

Jack smiled. "Is she drooling again?"

Joel pulled back just enough to look at your face. Your lips were parted, slack, a glistening string of saliva stretching from your lower lip to your chin. 

Your eyes were all hazy, unfocused, your breath coming in shuddering gasps.

"Mmhmm," Joel hummed. "Look at you, baby. All drooling to your chin. Messy thing." 

Jack couldn't help but chuckle, his cock twitching inside you. His hand came up from behind then. His finger in latex, pressed against your lips without hesitation. The touch was light though, asking permission, even now.

Your mouth opened, and you took him in.

You closed your mouth around him and sucked, hard, hollowing your cheeks, pulling him deeper. A deep, shuddering satisfaction rolled through your chest. 

Your eyes fluttered closed. This was what you needed. Something to suck on. Something to anchor you. 

Jack's hissed out. "There you go. That helps, huh?" 

Joel's hand slid down your belly, past the slick, glistening mess of your thighs, until his thumb found your clit. It was swollen, angry red, twice its normal size and pushing out from its hood like a small, desperate pearl. The barest brush of his calloused thumb made your whole body jolt, a shockwave of sensation that ripped through you.

"Easy, Joel." Jack murmurs, his voice a low. "Her clitoris is sensitive right now. If you apply too much direct pressure, she might get overwhelmed. Try lighter, circular motions, just around the hood. Let her build."

Joel nodded, his eyes analysing your face as he touched the little nub gently. Slow, deliberate circles, barely any pressure.

Your back bowed, arching into Jack's chest, your mouth clamping down on his finger, sucking for dear life. 

The orgasm that ripped through you was sudden, violent but perfect. It started in your clit, that single point of pressure and radiated outwards in hot, electric waves. Your cunt clenched around Joel's cock, your ass tightening around Jack's. 

A broken cry escaped around the latex in your mouth.

"That's it," Jack groaned, pushing his finger deeper into your mouth, feeling your throat convulse around the tip. "Just like that, sweetheart. You got it."

Joel's smile was soft, his eyes wet with something profound. He kept his thumb moving in slow, steady circles, drawing out every last tremor of your climax. 

"You're doing so good for us, baby. Flushin' all that pollen out, huh?"

You nodded as best you could, gasping, drool pooling around Jack's knuckles. 

They held still then, pausing their thrusts and letting your body catch up, letting the aftershocks of your releasre ripple through you.

Jack's free hand moved to your wrist. 

His thumb pressed into the delicate skin, feeling the rapid thrum of your pulse. He counted silently. Then he moved his hand to the side of your neck, feeling the beat there, strong and wild. He pressed his palm to your forehead, then your cheek.

"Fever's going down," he said, the doctor's cadence threading back through the ragged lust in his voice. "Pulse is still a touch elevated. One more good one should flush the last of it out of her system completely."

He pulled his wet finger from your mouth with a 

slick pop. A string of saliva connected his glove to your lower lip, stretching thin, then breaking. 

Your mouth stayed open, seeking, needy so Joel planted open mouthed kisses on the corner of your lips. 

"S'so much, Joel," you whined, the words slurred and breathless. Your voice cracked. "S'too much. Can't—can't take—"

"I know, babygirl." Joel leaned in and pressed a long, lingering kiss to your forehead. His lips stayed there, warm and steady. "I know. But you can. You're almost there. One more. Just one more for us."

"Gonna be a good girl for me?" He asked. "For Doctor Abbott, too?" 

Joel glanced over at Jack, catching the faint flush rising in his cheeks. Jack swallowed dropping his gaze, and that tiny, embarrassed gesture pulled a low chuckle out of Joel.

You whined, nodding your head quickly. Your head lulled back, dropping to Jack's neck and looking up at him. 

"Are you?" he murmured, looking at you, the words slipping out before he could stop them—quiet, direct, and meant only for you.

Joel’s brows lifted, a slow grin tugging at his mouth. 

Your eyes went wide at his question. You nodded before you even realized you were doing it, breath catching as you stayed pressed against him.

Then, before you could turn around, Joel started thrusting upwards again. Slow, deep, deliberate. 

Each stroke was a long drag against your walls, a languid exploration of the slick, hot grip of your cunt. 

Jack started matching him, finding the counterpoint rhythm—sliding deeper as Joel pulled back, filling the space Joel left. His eyes were still on you, steady, nodding against the thrusts and counting them. 

The fullness was overwhelming, the stretch a perfect pressure that occupied every empty inch inside you.

A whine broke from your mouth. Your head stayed on Jacks shoulder, while your eyes landed on Joels face again.

He grunted, speeding his hips, calloused hands on your thighs moving you to the rhythm he built. 

"Someone's close," Jack said, his voice low.

"She is," Joel agreed breathless, hair falling damp to his forehead. "My sweet girl."

You moaned—sweet, broken, the sound rising from your chest like a prayer. Your head fell still Jack's shoulder, your eyes fluttering closed. Sweat glistened on your skin, beaded on your collarbone, trickled between your breasts.

Jack's hands slid up your damp stomach then.

They were slow, exploratory, tracing the lines of your ribs, the soft swell of your belly. 

His palms cupped your breasts, lifting them slightly, feeling their weight. His thumbs found your nipples—hard pebbles against the cool latex of his gloves. He rolled them gently, watching your face for reaction.

"These are also very sensitive," he observed. The clinical observation was a thin veneer over the raw truth—he just wanted his hands on you. And he started to become bold enough to do so. 

His thumbs circled and circled, pressed and pressed while pinched ever so lightly.

You whimpered, your hips bucking upward, grinding against Joel's thrusts.

"They are," Jack repeated, more to himself. "Good. That's good."

Joel watched your face, his pace quickening. A fine sheen of sweat covered his forehead, and a vein stood out on his neck. 

"Look at me, darlin'. C'mon. Let me see those eyes." 

You forced your lids open. Joel's gaze was locked on yours—dark, tender, burning.

"There you go," He growled. "Look at my babygirl...enjoying herself on two cocks, yea?"

Your cheeks flushed red at his words, closing your eyes again. 

The slick, wet sounds of your bodies filled the room. Jack's fingers stayed on your nipples, rolling, tugging, pinching in rhythm with the thrusts.

"Hey, look at me." Jack said behind you, firm. 

You did, looking into his eyes lazily. 

"You're close. I need you to focus on us, is that clear?" He asked, eyes searching for any discomfort in your face. 

Your eyes went wide at the sudden firmness in his voice. You nodded quickly, breath catching as you tried to steady your focus on him like he asked.

Joel let out a low, hum. “Yeah,” he said, a slow grin pulling at his mouth. “Listen to him.”

The pressure was building again—impossible, overwhelming. You were close, just like Jack said. Your thighs trembled. Your belly tightened. A hot coil wound in your core, drawing tighter with every stroke.

"C'mon," Joel urged, his voice dropping to a growl. "Give it to me, sweetheart. Let go. I'll catch you."

Jack's hips slapped against your ass, faster now, deeper. "Cum for us, sweetheart." he whispered against your ear. "Release it all. One more time."

And you did.

A hot gush came out of you—not a trickle, not a spasm, but a flood. It poured from your cunt, soaking Joel's cock, your thighs, his lap, the blanket beneath you. 

A broken cry tore from your throat, raw and desperate, as you squirted hard, the release feeling like the fever finally leaving your body. 

Your vision went white.

"Fuck," Jack groaned. He pulled out in one slick motion, the condom still snug on his cock. He ripped it off, stroking himself twice, three times, and spilled into the latex with a raw, shuddering groan that seemed to come from deep in his chest. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Joel's arms were around you instantly. 

He dragged you flush against his sweaty chest, your weight settling on top of him as he fell back against the couch cushions. 

He was still inside you, buried deep, and he didn't stop. He thrusted up into you—four powerful, driving strokes, each one hitting that perfect, swollen spot.

"One more, sweetheart. C'mon. One more for me." He whispered into your ear. 

You squirted again—a weaker gush, a final release that flooded his belly and pooled beneath you. You cried out, burying your face into his neck. 

Joel let out a guttural grunt, his hips stuttering as he came, hot and thick, pumping into you with a desperate, possessive rhythm. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place.

Your body went limp, boneless, slack against Joel's chest. Your face burrowed into the hollow of his throat, into the damp, salty warmth of his skin. 

His heartbeat thudded against your cheek, strong and steady.

The world finally went soft, and your body relaxed. 

Jack on the other hand, moved with quiet efficiency besides you. His hands were gentle as he pressed two fingers to the hollow of your throat, counting the steady thrum of your pulse. 

He lifted one of your eyelids gently, checking your pupil response. A small flashlight flickered in his hand—when had he grabbed it? You had no idea. He pressed his palm to your forehead, your cheek, the side of your neck.

"She's asleep," he confirmed, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Completely out. Pulse is seventy-two. Pupils reactive. Skin temperature normal. Pollen's probably fully out. She's going to be just fine."

Joel's arm tightened around you, a possessive, protective reflex. 

He pressed a long kiss to the crown of your head, breathing you in. His hand came up to stroke your hair, smoothing the damp strands away from your face.

"God damn," he said to the ceiling, his voice a worn-out rasp. "That was wild."

He turned his head. Jack was on his feet, pulling his jeans up his hips, fastening his belt. Reaching for his flannel shirt. His movements were precise, unhurried, but there was a tremor in his hands that betrayed the cost of control.

"Thank you," Joel said. "No more bunnies for this Honeygirl." 

Jack paused mid-motion, chuckling, his hand on the collar of his shirt. He looked at Joel, then at your sleeping form, tucked into the curve of Joel's throat. Your lips were parted, your breath even and deep. 

He gave a single nod.

All that needed to be said, understood perfectly between them.

He finished buttoning his shirt and padded quietly into the kitchen. The faucet ran. A glass clinked. He was already preparing water for when you woke up, already thinking ahead.

Joel held you closer, his hand stroking your back in slow, soothing circles. 

He pressed another kiss to your hair, then let his eyes close, just for a moment, listening to the steady rhythm of your breathing, the proof that you were safe.

The way i googled the weirdest things guys...i've literally learned so much about the body LMFAO. if anybody sees my history they would think i've gone crazy. Also this is definitely not an excuse to write medical kink no no🫣

I hope this met some expectations, i'm still very very new to writing Jack abbott so please bear with me!!!

She had been dating Jack Abbot for 6 months, and she truly didn’t mind the baggage that came with it. Let's be honest here. While Jack was cool and calm under pressure and charismatic as all hell… he had incredible amounts of trauma. His thoughts and memories beat the hell out of him every day, and he coped by working all the time, weekly therapy, and spending time with his girlfriend. He spoiled her to the moon and back to make his mind clearer. And she’d listen to him, surprise him with ‘lunch’ mid late-night shift, and overall just distract him from everything horrible in the world. She reminded him that there were still good things left to stick around for. 

Even through the nights when he accidentally kept her up, tossing and turning. Pacing around the kitchen. Waking up startled from nightmares. He was worth every second. She’d sleepily try to ground him by gently rubbing his freckled back. When he felt too embarrassed to look at her, she’d kiss his shoulder blade and press her cheek against it, a constant reminder that he was okay. 

But what Jack didn’t know… was that she had horrible anxiety as well. She just didn’t tell him about it. How could she? He had so many more critical reasons to be anxious and depressed. She just woke up every day at 4 am with unexplainable chest pain. When she spent nights alone, she’d lie in bed in the dark, feeling this dread take over her entire body. Her chest would tighten, and every shadow felt like it could suddenly turn and stare at her. 

She had her reasons, too. Burnout, poor eating habits, stress. But they never felt as real as Jack’s. So she swore to herself that she wouldn’t be a burden to him. Only her closest friends knew. She tried to work on it silently, scheduling her therapy appointments for days Jack wouldn’t come over. Or making excuses to be busy on specific days. 

Lately, her anxiety had been skyrocketing. She couldn’t pinpoint an exact reason within the list of things currently bugging her. But she hadn’t been on top of her eating and water, so that was a factor. And her period was coming up in a week, so there was another. She just felt off. On edge. Every breath she took was unsatisfying as she’d get random chest pain throughout the day. She was crying more often, which she was sure was also due to her cycle, but it didn’t make it suck any less. 

One night, she sat on the couch, trying to relax. It was late. She was supposed to be fast asleep by now, but the gnawing foreboding weight on her chest made her dark bedroom too stressful. She felt like she couldn’t breathe in the confines of her bedroom.

Part of her wanted to call Jack. He wasn’t on shift, and she just wanted to cry into him. But the idea of that was actually more anxiety-inducing. What if he was also having an anxious night and needed her to be strong? Plus, she feared that he’d think she was crazy. Silly, girlfriend, nothing is going to get you in the middle of the night. 

But she also… needed her boyfriend. She pulled out her phone, settling on the idea of just using him as a distraction. 

Y: you still awake, old man?

He replied almost instantly.

J: I always am, sweetheart. What are you doing up? 

Y: Nothing. Can’t sleep. Just bored.

Not a total lie. After a moment, he texted again 

J: I can come over. Or you can come over here. Whichever you prefer.

Y: what. why?

J: You like laying on me. You knock out pretty fast.

She didn’t know what to say to that. It was true. Sleeping on Jack was like sleeping on a big, warm bear. His chest and stomach were so pillowy. It’d be perfect. 

But she worried that if he saw her in person, she wouldn’t be able to keep her anxiety at bay. It was at a level where she couldn’t ignore the tremble in her hands.

Y: I look like a hot mess. 

J: Don’t give me that. 

Y: I’m fine. 

INCOMING CALL FROM JACK <3 

Shit. Shit shit shit shit. She didn’t answer it. She pressed the big red hang-up button.

J: ??? Everything okay.

Y: I just told you I’m fine. 

J: Sweetheart, I’m gonna call you again. And if you don’t answer this time, I’ll take that as a sign to leave you be. But I’m worried.

Oh god. She was worrying him. How could she be so stupid?! She hiccuped as she watched the phone start to vibrate in her hands.

INCOMING CALL FROM JACK <3

This time, she felt compelled to answer it.

“Hi. Hi. I’m fine.” She said a little too quickly 

There was a suspecting noise on the other end of the line.

“Well, sweetheart, I know that before you, I hadn’t dated in quite some time… but I do know that when someone says ‘I’m fine’ they usually are not.”

She leaned back against the couch as she held the phone to her ear. “It’s stupid. Just some before-bed jitters.”

There was a bit of quietness on the phone before he said,

“Wanna talk about it?”

“I’m telling you it’s nothing.”

“And I’m telling you that I want to come over and listen to you talk allllll about nothing.”

That got her to giggle a little. Oh god, he was breaking her down. She looked down at her shorts, which she was picking at with her fingers. Though doing so sent shocks through her fingertips since she had bitten or picked off all her nails to short stubs. 

This was a battle. Desire to be comforted versus sheer will. When her breath started to catch, she closed her eyes. Strong desire won over.

“Can you come over, Jackie?” Her voice wavered

“I’ll be there in ten.” 

Even though she had been expecting him, she still yelped startled when he knocked. She scurried over and opened the door. 

“Hi.” She said, smiling, still trying to keep her front strong.

He stood in a black T-shirt and grey joggers. A duffel bag was slung over his beefy shoulder with sleepover materials. Their familiar routine. He looked her over in her disheveled state. In one of his shirts and pajama shorts, her hair was a little frazzled from tossing and turning. 

“Hi, sweetheart.” He murmured, walking forward and setting his duffel bag down so he could cup her face. His thumbs brushed back and forth, and she couldn’t help but lean into his touch. Her breath started to pick up again as she felt like she could cry any minute. 

It seemed like he could tell. She wasn’t strong enough to keep her face content. Instead, her lips formed a small pout, and her jaw clenched.

“Hey. Talk to me.” He quickly turned and shut the door behind him.

He guided her back towards the couch.

“I promise I don’t bite. Unless you want me to.” He joked affectionately.

They sat down, and she sat up straight. Almost too straight. 

“It’s nothing. I’m just really tired.” 

“Yeah?” He pulled her in so she was lying her head on his chest. “I’m sorry you can’t sleep. Here-“ he gently grabbed her calf and pulled up her legs to be folded on his lap. He scratched the back of her scalp, untangling the parts of her hair he made contact with. “How’s that?”

She nodded. This was nice. Her heart was still pattering like a hummingbird, but Jack was a source of warmth. 

He kissed her forehead, “You’re quiet tonight. Must be real tired.”

He looked down and noticed her hands were together. She was unconsciously picking at her left thumb, but there was no more nail left to possibly pick. So instead, she scraped against the red tips and little skin tags. 

“Mm, what’s this about?” He gently pried her hands apart and took a good look at her hand. 

She hated that. She quickly took it back, self-conscious. Her nails were ugly. They weren’t like other girls’s, where they looked all pretty and done up. Hers were at the point where they were too short to get acrylics. There was too little to glue onto. 

“I’m sorry.” He said softly, “I should’ve asked. Baby, can I please see your hand?”

And how was she supposed to deny him when he was so sweet? 

She shakily gave him her left hand and looked away. His rough, calloused hand held hers like it were the most fragile piece of china. As if he were in the ED, he twisted and turned it to get a good look. Though there was something about his demeanor that put her slightly at ease. He was so delicate and focused that she didn’t feel as scared to show him. 

“Mm, how come I never realized you were a nail-biter?” His thumb rubbed over the top of hers, and she winced, “Sorry, I bet it hurts. You picked it so short that your hyponichium underneath is out. That’s a sensitive area.” He kissed the pad of her thumb. 

For some reason him explaining the science behind the pain felt nice. She felt better being given context as to why it felt like electric shocks every time her nails touched anything.

He let her hand go and just gently rubbed his hand up and down her thigh. 

“We have a few options here. We can… turn on a movie. We can just lay here for a bit. Or we can… go to bed.”

She shook her head. “I can’t go to bed.”

His brows furrowed, “Why not?”

She closed her eyes. There was no option here to deflect. No excuse. No lie that she could come up with that sounded semi-reasonable. 

“I can’t breathe in there. It’s too dark, and I have this feeling that something is going to get me. And I know that sounds so totally stupid and crazy because I’m not five years old, scared of the monster in my closet. My chest has been tight for days, and I can’t sleep in there-”

Her voice started to crack, and a wave of humiliation flooded through her. He rubbed her back and put his lips to her hair. There was a look of intense focus in his eyes, as if he were trying to figure out a Rubik's Cube. His brows furrowed, but he just placed kisses on her scalp.

“And- And- I just feel like something bad’s going to happen. But I don’t know what the bad is. Usually I just take melatonin to knock myself out, but it makes me so drowsy the next day-”

“Yeah, baby, don’t do that. Don’t do that.” He whispered gruffly. After that, he pulled back to look down at her gently. “It sounds like you’re having some anxiety.”

She looked at him with a sad look in her eyes. She needed to tell him.

“I know…” She admitted, “My… my therapist gives me tips, but there are things that I don’t want to do. I don’t wanna put my face in cold water or hold an ice cube. I just wanna sleep.” 

The tears started to flow now. She covered her face with her hands, not wanting to look at him. Especially when he said-

“I didn’t know you were in therapy.” 

She had lied to him. She had kept this from him. And her heart felt like it was gonna explode out of her chest from guilt and anxiety building up. 

She nodded, “I’ve done it on and off for a while.” She hiccuped, “I- I didn’t use to have as bad of anxiety, but it’s gotten worse as I’ve gotten older.”

He reached out and gently pulled her hands down from her face. Cupping her cheeks, he used his thumbs to brush her tears away. 

“I’m sorry you’ve been dealing with this…” His gaze fell over her reddened, puffy face, “You know you can always talk to me? Yeah? It doesn’t sound ‘stupid’ or ‘crazy’ like you think. I promise.”

She shook her head, “You have enough things to deal with, Jack. I don’t wanna be another burden for you to deal with-”

“Whoa whoa whoa.” His brows raised in surprise, “You are never a burden to me. Yeah, sure, I’ve got my issues and all my shit. But that doesn’t mean yours don’t exist.”

“You have- you have the ER and SWAT and your leg-”

“And it doesn’t matter.” He brushed her hair out of her face, “At least when it comes to you. I don’t want you to play this comparison game. I have my issues, and you have yours. We can deal with them together.”

With a slow nod of her head, she did her best to understand, even though her hyperventilating had made her hands start to go a little numb. A small supportive smile crested his lips. He lightly pinched her chin. 

“Plus, I wanna take care of my girl. Always so strong for me. Let me help.” 

“Okay.” She gave in.

“There we go. I’m gonna get you some water, and we can stay out here with the lights on for as long as you need. We can turn on a movie or just talk for a bit until you’re ready to sleep in bed. Does that sound okay?”

It sounded perfect. She nodded.

“Yeah, that sounds good.” 

He kissed the top of her head and slowly got up. But in his place, he took one of the folded blankets on the side of the couch and draped it over her shoulders. 

As he rustled in the kitchen, she felt better enough to grab the remote and at least scroll through the options. She muted the TV so the noise of hovering over different shows didn’t blast through the speakers. Heading over to the Disney icon, she scrolled through the cartoon movies.

Jack came back a few minutes later with a glass of water and a sandwich on a plate with chips on the side. 

“Didn’t know if you had eaten dinner, but knowing you, your anxiety could also be from a drop in blood sugar, so.” 

For the first time, a real, genuine smile grew on her face. She chuckled and took the plate from him so he could sit down next to her again.

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot.” She teased 

He looked up at the TV, “What do we got here? Tangled? … I don’t remember this one.”

“What?! You’ve never seen Tangled?” 

He put his hands up. “I don’t know if I’m the target audience here, sweetheart.”

She immediately pressed play and drew her knees up, getting comfy as she took bites of the amazing sandwich. 

“It’s really good.” She murmured, covering her mouth. 

He smiled and put his hand on her knee, giving it a small squeeze. 

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Towards the end of the movie, when the gang of tough guys was saving Flynn Rider, Jack found her falling fast asleep on his lap. His hands had been running through her hair for most of the movie. He actually found himself invested and immediately saw himself and her as Flynn and Rapunzel. But as she started to drool on his pant leg, he realized he’d have to finish the movie another day. 

He gently squeezed her shoulder, “Hey… Let’s get you to bed.”

Half asleep, she nodded in agreement. 

She was dead tired by the time she crawled into bed. The adrenaline from the anxiety knocked her out really well. Jack quietly slipped into bed next to her, and she instinctively reached to hold him. She rested her cheek against his chest and sprawled her leg over his waist, letting his hand run up and down her thigh. 

“Feeling better?” He murmured, sleepy himself.

“So much better. Thank you, Jack. So much…” 

Everything is loud. You want to unscrew your head from your neck and smash it on the ground as if it's porcelain. Pacing around your kitchen, you attempt to sift through your thoughts, shaking your head as if it will jostle them back into place.

Today was fine, good even. This sensation comes without warning sometimes, or maybe you haven't examined yourself closely enough to discover the reason. When you are in this mindset, your main focus is getting out of it. If it will let you leave.

Flattening your palms on the cool counter, you force air into your lungs, panicking briefly when you forgot whether your stomach was supposed to expand or clench. Heart pittering at your veins, you wonder if there's enough air in this room. Would opening a window help?

Clark wasn't here when you returned home, which wasn't unusual. He stayed late at the Planet sometimes when he got lost in writing or procedure. Mostly, though, it was hero work that kept him from greeting you at the door. A kitten would mewl from a slippery slope and he would be there, willing and eager. It was one of the things you loved most about him.

There was a routine to your afternoons, one you adapted with or without him. You struggled today though. He left you early this morning. You went to bed the night before with a fantasy aout brushing your teeth while he shaved and it didn't come true because you slept through your alarm. Due to all this, the lack of welcome home tore at you, even though it was silly. You mocked yourself for it. Stupid girl upset cause her husband isn't here to give her a kiss?

Lifting a fist, you let it fall against your thigh, not caring if it bruised. Again, again, again. A scream builds in your throat, and you debate releasing it. When you caught a glimpse of your reflection in the window, you half let it out. Frustrated, you pound your fists into your legs again, sitting on the kitchen floor.

You have the thought you always do: that you wish you could have a new brain. One that didn't spiral into everything so passionately that it became nothing. Where is the wool you used to be able to pull over your eyes? At least if you were hiding, you wouldn't be able to see the problem.

"No, no, no!" You clamp your hands over your ears, shaking your head. It frustrated you to feel so confused and so sad for what seemed to be no reason. The beginnings of a headache pulsed at your temples, and you feel like crying, releasing all these horrible thoughts from your eyes.

The door handle rattles, a shell swinging open and shut. Clark used a soft-smelling soap, and you smell it right now as his fingers wrapped around your wrists, not moving you, just soothing. "Hey, hey, shh. It's okay. I've got you, you're okay." He cautiously strings your hair from your cheek behind your ear. "You need your jammies."

You don't fight him on it. Your denim pants are itchy and too tight around your waist. Clark asks if you wanted to be carried, half picking you up as he did. "Yes," you murmur into his neck. "Please. Can't walk."

"I know, baby." Warm and easy and all the right things. His voice always encased you. He know you don't want to pick out which pajamas right now, and so when he returns with your oversized baby blue ones, you nearly weep.

A few tears end up on your cheeks anyways, and he absorbs them with his thumb. "I've got you. You need someone to have you and I'm here. I have you." Clark shuffles, dragging your blanket around your shoulders. "You're hungry." It isn't a question, but you nod anyways. He helps you unclip your bra, averting his eyes respecfully. "Don't need this, huh?" You are swaddled in your pajamas, and he gives you a gentle kiss on your forehead. He makes sure you have a grasp on your blanket before standing up, the mattress giving an alto creak.

His shirt is gradually unbuttoned, his pants discarded. Off come his glasses, and he is him again. You watch, feeling blank as he dresses in his own pajama pants. Even though you feel nearly comatose, he is beautiful and that is hard to ignore. Having him close is enough to lighten the burden of your own emotions on your back. Looking at him is like hearing a love song.

He kisses you when you nod your consent, a gentle touch of his lips to yours. It wakes you from your paralysis, and you lean. Tilting into his shoulder, you find an angle at which you can breathe.

"How's a sandwich sound for dinner?" He suggests it lightly, as if he isn't holding you up, the beams of your house, Atlas with the heavens on his back.

"Right." It isn't quite aligned with his question, but he understands anyways.

"In here? Or kitchen?" Clark adjusts your blanket, and you feel like the inside of a taco.

"Dunno." Your mumble is enough for him. He brings you into his arms, a gentle hug you bury yourself in.

"Kitchen it is." You are still bundled in your blanket as he carries you there. The beat of his footsteps feels like home.

He fixes you a thick sandwich, commenting on the amount of meat he adds. "I read an article that says women need more protein than they think." Knowing your affiliation for vegetables, he makes sure to add plenty of those too, sliced nice and thin.

You nibble on one of the two triangles when he delivers it to you, and he rubs your leg with a soft look in his eye, holding your plate in his other hand. "Come eat with me, okay?" He waits for you to nod before he scoops you up again. You didn't know one of his superpowers was carrying his wife and two plates at the same time, but he was always surprising you.

When you are sitting on the couch side by side, he opens his arm, spreading it casually against the back of the couch. You accept his invitation and cuddle close. Clark lets out a sigh like he was hoping you would do exactly what you have. He lets you adjust yourself against him, at an optimal sandwich consumption angle. You resume your nibbling, and only then does he take his first bite.

"Had a lot to do at work today?" he asks, palm molding against your waist.

"Lots. Had to finish yesterday's work and today's."

Clark's eyes widen, and he hums like he's impressed. "Wow!"

You shrug modestly. "It wasn't so much."

"It sounds like a ton, honey." He kisses your temple. "'M proud of you."

"You don't even know if I did it all yet." It makes you laugh.

"I know you did." Clark's voice is always so gentle, lowered a decibel or two for you. Whenever he said your name, it was like it was blooming from his tongue. "You work so hard, baby. Always have."

"Did you help anybody today? Besides me?"

"Nothing to report." He polishes off the last of his crusts. "Just happy to be here with you." Clark fiddles with the television remote. "What should we watch?"

"Probably Star Wars."

"Atta girl." He loved space movies. You wondered often if they reminded him of something he couldn't remember.

You finish your sandwich, the last of your frustration melting away. Suddenly, Clark is an open, waiting teddy bear, and you don't know why you haven't been taking advantage of such.

He doesn't bat an eye when you throw yourself into him, finding every crook you fit into. Clark's heavy arms fall around you, a weighted blanket. Somehow he managed to start the movie without moving. It's a delicious, tender feeling, being taken care of.

There was just something about you that worked for him. Like medicine, or clockwork. The feeling of your soft hips sinking into his mattress, and the way it dipped under your weight, making his body roll just an inch your way. It was as if the universe was pushing him towards you perpetually, a very loving boulder. Your scent probably had something to do with it, too. The warmth, the sugar and spice and cottony-freshness of your lotion, ruined the smell of clean sheets. If he was ever in a bed that wasn’t his own or yours, he couldn’t quiet the part of his mind that was hung up on how good you smelled. It was a depressant that slowed his lungs and sucked him into REM. Not to mention the low, soft sounds of your breathing. Or the way your feet brushed his under the covers. Or how it felt to have your nails gently scratching just above his belly button, pawing like a kitten, making sure he was there. Or how pretty you whined when he got his hands all over you… What was he supposed to do, sleep without you? It just wasn’t possible. You were more important for sleep than the bed itself. 

But lately, he hasn’t been sleeping. And that is because you haven’t been sleeping. 

Clark knows it’s not something he can control. Your stress was a result of the world, not your own doing. Your job was out to get you both, but the let-it-roll-off-your-back gene was something that Clark inherited, and you didn’t. Every rejected article from Perry, every vetoed edit, every pitch for a new column or a shot at a simple byline– they ate at you. While Clark could live without being the best reporter in the world, you wanted to rip your hair out. Clark’s purpose was saving the world, but yours was writing. Measly human purpose, huh? Reporting the truth. Shining light on good people. And you were good– really good. It was just that damn job, stupid Perry, stupid bureaucracy keeping you down. Three years until you get a solo byline, for now stick to the obits, Perry said. Every week. It made you sick, and it made Clark sleepy. 

You’ve been staying up into the wee hours of the morning for weeks now, trying to strike a golden story that might override the rules. You write and crunch up and throw out and start again, over and over. You’ve been through two composition books and left nearly one hundred Word documents unfinished on Clark’s desktop. It’s showing everywhere. Rings of spilled coffee on various surfaces in his room trace your steps. Your undereyes were almost as purple as your eyeshadow. Your nails were chipped and bitten. You even seemed to be losing the littlest bit of weight, and that had every alarm going off in Clark’s head, because a pound off your plump figure felt worse than losing a war. Therefore, empty plates with crumbs from muffins and dregs of ice cream marked the places Clark had dragged you from writing to feed you something to preserve you. 

Because you haven’t been sleeping, Clark is off his game. More than twice he’s snapped at Chloe, and he accidentally sneezed and shattered a window at work. He’s pouty, he’s grumbling, and he misses you. Don’t underestimate the power of a desperate man.

Tonight was just like the last handful. You were slumped over his bedroom desk, half-dozed in your palm, trying to find a different word to use that would more eloquently describe a broken stoplight. Frizzy hair was in your eyes, or what was left open of them. Your shoulders looked like they were frowning. Clark was sitting up in bed with a book in his lap, nowhere close to reading but intensely watching you, and feeling the spot above his belly button itching to be scratched. He couldn’t take it anymore. He tossed the book into the covers to be swallowed up by the sheet-sea, and he padded across the room. His gentle palms slid down your arms and up again, and he gathered your hair behind your neck to pull it away from the skin.

“Give up, baby,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I can’t.”

“Not on your career. Just give up on this one article, just for tonight. You’re exhausted, bunny.”

“I”m fine, I just need to finish this.”

Clark huffed, brows furrowing in frustration. You smelled so good, and you were withholding yourself from him. Couldn't you see that he was going through withdrawals? Itchy, cold, uncomfortable withdrawals from not kissing your collarbones and squeezing your thighs? This was prison. Personal punishment for not being in control of your universe and making you wonderfully rich and satisfied.

Clark slumped all his weight over your back and frowned. “I’m dying here.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” you grunted, his heavy body smushing your torso against the desk. “Get off. You’re like a big puppy.”

“But I miss you,” he whimpered, nuzzling your neck. His hands pawed at your hips.

“Clark, I swear I’m almost done.”

He was growing impatient. Clark lifted his head to peer over the computer screen. All you had written was this:

𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙵𝚄𝙲𝙸𝚄𝚂 𝚂𝙰𝚈𝚂 𝚃𝚁𝙰𝙵𝙵𝙸𝙲 𝚁𝙴𝚁𝙾𝚄𝚃𝙴𝙳!  

𝙰 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚗 6𝚝𝚑 𝙰𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚀𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝙱𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝙰𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚜, 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚙 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝙶𝚎𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚌 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚜– 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎. 𝙳𝚞𝚌𝚔, 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝙰𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠, 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚊 𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚓𝚊, 𝚝𝚘𝚘! 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗, 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜– 

Clark snickered to himself and huffed, swatting your hand away and closing the document out.

“Hey! I was working on that!”

“Not anymore,” he determined, and with a quick movement, he scooped under your armpits and lifted you from the chair.

You yelped and wriggled a bit as he tossed you onto the mattress, the bedframe creaking. Rumpled and annoyed, you lifted your mussed head of hair and pouted. “What the hell?"

Clark sighed with relief as he crawled onto the mattress, eager to get you back in his desired environment. You weren’t fast enough; he grabbed your ankles and tugged you down, clambering over you and plopping all his weight on your body. He smiled when he heard your quiet little “oof!”

“You haven’t slept for days, honey,” he mumbled, pressing kisses over your tummy, pushing the hem of your shirt up to reveal a strip of pudgy skin. “Haven’t smiled, haven’t touched me… I’m going crazy. I can’t sleep if you don’t. I can’t live without you.”

“Clark,” you complained softly, but there was very little discontent in the tone. It was hard to be anything but content with his warm mouth stamping your skin. Your heavy hands rested in his hair, curling the locks around your fingers, petting and messing as he smushed his cheek against your belly. 

“I mean it,” he peeks up at you, eyes wide and pleading as a Christmas card.

“You really are like a puppy,” you smiled a little, “puppy.”

 Clark flushed a bit and nuzzled into your hip. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? You’ve got a million for me. Bunny, honey, sugar, sweetie, baby, lovie, pumpkin–”

“Yeah, and they’re all true,” he huffed, crawling up your body until he could bracket his arms by your shoulders. He traced his nose along your rounded jaw before leaving a soft smooch beneath the ear. 

A sated little hum escaped your throat. “I have to write something good,” you mumbled.

“You already have. Be with me for a while.”

“I’m with you every day.”

“I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in over two weeks, bunny,” Clark whispered, snoodling your neck. “Please don’t torture me any longer.”

You chuckled softly, watching how desperately he wrapped his arms around you, snaking them under your back and hauling you into his chest. Clark was a paperweight of a man. You wouldn’t get far if you tried. And if you were being honest with yourself, you knew he was right. You had to stop before you ran out of juice completely. You were exhausted. You wanted sleep, and you wanted him. You never slept better than when he was there to whisper to you, to touch you, to make you feel right again…

“Okay, puppy,” you sighed. 

You felt the curl of his grin against your clavicle, and suddenly the dog’s ears perked up. “You hungry? Need something? I have ice cream. Ma left pie when she came by earlier. Or I can put on a movie, we still have that copy of Clueless, I never dropped it off at the Blockbuster-”

“No, stop, shh,” you giggled, “I just want to sleep.”

“Thank God,” he wheezed, and artfully rolled over, taking you with him.

You fell right into place, hand above his belly button and face smushed in his chest, breathing in the woodsy smell of his old tee. The rise and fall of his happy chest was enough to make you forget why you were working so hard in the first place. 

“I missed this,” he grinned.

“Clearly.”

“Don’t get smart with me,” he looked down at you, petting your hair. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you smirked, tilting your head back. 

Clark’s heart swelled at the sight of your tired eyes, because there was some light there, and it was his. He tugged you up closer so he could slot his lips against yours. Nothing wild– just soft, lazy motions, sleepy jaws pushing and pulling, little bits of saliva collecting in the divot of your chin which his tongue kept tidy. His eager lips crossed your face and down your neck again, and as he felt your heartbeat pick up against his chest, he knew that you needed him just as much as you needed rest. 

Clark suckled on the soft spot beneath your jaw that always made your breath sing, and his thumb hooked into your cheek, giving you something to keep busy with. The heat of your tongue sent pins and needles down to his knuckle. 

“You’re a good writer,” he praised, nipping at the crease of your neck. “You write so well, you’re so smart. I love you, honey.”

“I love you, too…”

“You’re so pretty when you're tired,” he kept on, kissing his way back to your mouth, pulling your bottom lip down with a wet thumb. “My poor baby, always workin’ so hard. You just need a little break, yeah? Just need me to tell you when to stop, huh, bunny?”

“Yeah,” you whimpered, brain and eyes fuzzing over. Your hands twisted in his shirt and you let him hitch your knee over his hip, squeezing you flush between him and the bed. His lethargic kisses felt like they were slowly tapping your lungs for air. 

“Yeah, I know, honey,” he cooed, pushing your hair back from your face and shutting your eyelids with his kisses. “You want me to make sure you fall asleep, sweetheart?”

Your skin began to flush, he could see the pink peeking from under the collar of your (his) shirt. “Maybe a little,” you breathed, mind already reeling with anticipation. You should’ve known he wasn’t lying when he told you he was going insane without you. 

“Okay, yeah, baby… okay…”

You sighed, unburdening yourself of the weight on your shoulders as Clark gently tucked his palm under your pajama shorts and coaxed his fingers across the collecting slickness. He purred happily and sealed his lips over yours, notching his fingers in slow circles, absolutely basking in the warmth of you that’s been missing from his nighttime routine for far too long. 

“Say you love me again,” he slurred against your lips, teeth tracing your cupid’s bow.

“I love you,” you moaned, hips bucking into his touch. 

“My good girl, my good bunny,” he smiled, concentrating his efforts solely on your swollen little bud, knowing it would tucker you out. “Feels good to take a break, hm?”

“Mhm… oh…”

“That’s it, there she is… c’mon, bunny girl… c’mon home for me.”

Your body twitched as heat waves rolled down your legs, the indicators of a slow and deafening orgasm weighing your limbs down. Your breathing drew deep into your lungs, and Clark kept coaxing you to sleep, fingers drawing circles over your hot skin, trailing them up to your hips to your mouth, letting you suck the mess off. 

“That was a quickie. Finally feelin’ sleepy?”

“Mm,” you droned, mouth a bit slack around his fingertips. “Thank you…”

“Oh, you’re welcome, baby,” he grinned, ribs aching from the love rotting him down to the bone. “Just want you to focus on getting some rest, okay? You’re so tired… get some sleep for me, come here, honey.”

You let him collect your buzzing body in his arms and roll you back on top of him, cuddling in, careful not to move your hips too much. Your palm scratched habitually at his favorite stomach spot, and he grumbled with delight, a very, very happy puppy. 

“Atta boy,” you mumbled, eyes already drooping with impending sleep. 

you spend at least another hour spanking his groin until it’s handprinted red and his cheeks spill more pitiful tears. at one point he pleads with a whine gargling in his throat, snatching your wrist. he can’t fight it anymore. begs you for mercy with a helpless pleasepleasepleaseplease! I can’t take it. I can’t do it anymore. I’m gonna cum.

you decide another punishment is warranted for him touching you without your permission, maybe some more slaps next time to his face, but you couldn’t deny that you really wanted to bully his dick some more and watch how it makes him cum.

“yeah? so is your little dick gonna cum from getting spanked like this, huh?”

he nods his head so hard a curl falls to his forehead.

“if you do that I’m only going to smack it harder. do you understand?”

clark shudders and gasp, nodding his head more as the only way to articulate that he understands. his dick is wet at the tip when you slap it some more and he immediately winces.

“you’d probably cum if I bit down on it too, wouldn’t you?”

clark’s whole upper body just tosses and turns, incapable of forming words. only noises escape him when his balls shrivel up and wrinkle while he tries holding it longer.

“yes ma’am, I…. I….”

you laugh at how pathetic his stutter sounds, how he’s clenching with all his strength and white knuckling his fists at his sides with little restraint he has left.

you stand up to cross your arms and look down at him with condescension in your brow. he whimpers a few apologies and says he wants to make it up to you, but his last word is cut off by his own grunts from the electrifying pleasure and the piercing pain when you kick his dick then proceed to step on it with accelerating pressure, cum starting to spout from his crown and splatter all over himself and his belly like a fountain going off. clark whines and grabs onto your ankle for guidance and reassurance, another hand going to your foot to squeeze as he goes through each wave. it felt like the more you pressed down the more it milked out of him.

his arms reach out as far as they can up to your upper thighs to paw and rub at them, soft whines still spewing under his breath while he recovers from his tender high. he begs you to come back down for a kiss, but you first tell him to open his mouth so you can aim your spit on his tongue. graciously and obediently his mouth began to open wide, still holding onto your foot that has loosened and lightened up the weight you’d leaned down on his cock. lets the salty tears dry up on his cheeks while he catches his breath.

“please, kiss?”

he wants some mercy. after getting the cum stomped out of him, you decide it’s best to grace him with some aftercare and love. going down to get on top of him, despite his sticky stomach, and cradle the back of his head while you lean in for a warm loving kiss. he moans in your mouth like how he always does when he really needed it, fighting more tears back, sighing in your lips. you offer more soothing touches and words while he closes his eyes and relaxes to your care. melts from the praise you shower him in too while you litter his face in kisses.

he falls asleep like a baby after another few minutes of getting the same treatment, mumbling in a dream while he still lies on the floor. you kiss him awake and gently squeeze a bicep to lure him out sleep so he can rest on your bed more comfortably, tucking him in and handing him a glass of water that he gulps down and mutters his grateful thank you, thank you, thank you’s before turning over and passing out nearly instantly once again.

. . . . . . . .

➺ joel checks the lengths of your skirts. there’s no leaving the house without him making you stand up straight with your arms at your sides. if the material doesn’t go past your fingertips, you can bet your ass you have to change

➺ he teases you whenever he can. at home, in public, in front of other people – he doesn’t care. a wandering hand between your thighs, a stolen kiss on your neck or a whisper that makes your face heat up. anything to get a reaction out of you, especially if it makes you shift your thighs closer together

➺ if you’ve been bratty, he will not kiss you. even once he’s spanked the attitude out of you, leaving behind a trembling, crying mess, he won’t give in, no matter how much you plead or apologise

➺ he likes to make you beg. cupping your mound, applying just a hint of pressure for what feels like hours. making you sit on his thigh and slowly dragging you up and down the length of it but never giving you the speed you needed. even spread out before him, he’ll edge you until you think release is on the horizon only to pull away at the last minute

➺ this man goes crazy for overstim. he’ll have you laid out in front of him, eating you out and pumping his thick fingers in and out of you until your thighs clench together, locking his hand in place. a condescending ‘tsk’ and his strong hands are already prying you open again

➺ god, he loves your tears. whether it stems from edging or overstimulating, he’ll coo at you. “pathetic little babydoll, hm?” he’ll put on that texas drawl that makes you drip when he talks down on you

➺ this man is a munch. but god, he loves your throat a little too much. down on your knees is one of the most beautiful positions for him. he’ll have you keep up eyecontact, his fingers set on your jaw to keep your gaze on him while he sinks inch after inch into you. he bullies the back of your throat with his tip until you swallow him down, then buries himself to the hilt until you can’t breathe and then some

“Hi, baby,” you greet him, the alcohol slurring your words. The corners of his mouth twitch in response.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he replies, “How’re you feelin’?”

“Great,” you giggle, then purse your lips as you wait for your kiss. He indulges you, cheeks tinting red as he gives you a quick peck in front of all your friends. 

“Let’s get you home,” he mumbles, then slides his arm around your waist. You mumble some half-answer, already too cozily tucked away in his side to care.  “You ladies all got rides home?” Clark asks your friends, “Anyone I gotta drop off?”

Your friends always fawn over Clark, but a question like that really gets them going. A chorus of “No, we’re good, Clark,” and “Thanks, Clark,” echoes across the sidewalk, and your boyfriend just grins sheepishly.  He steers you towards his car, holding you up and steady all the way.

“Did you have fun?” he mumbles as he opens the door on the passenger side. His hand moves with you as you slide into the seat.

“Soooo much,” you answer, your face flushed and eyes bright while you stare up at him like he hung the moon. Clark leans down to kiss your forehead and says, “I’m glad you did.” For a moment, he just glances at you before he wrinkles his nose. “You smell like cigarettes.”

Your face warms even more than it already had from drinking, and you nod. “Tilly had some, and I bummed one.”

He shakes his head tenderly.  “They’re so bad for you, baby.”

“I know,” you mumble, “But they don’t count when you’re drunk, do they?”

Clark grins softly. “I’m afraid they do, sweet girl.” He leans down once more to kiss the top of your head before he slides into the driver’s seat.

After turning on the playlist you made for him, he drives gently, looking out for bumps in the road. Every now and then, his eyes wander to you as you stare dreamily out the window, watching the landscape pass by. 

“How much did you drink, sweetheart?” he asks, amused. 

You hold up four fingers when you answer, “We pre-gamed at Lottie’s, and then I had three shots and, uh, some pink cocktail and then a blue one, too.” 

Clark chuckles, rubbing his chin. “You gonna have a headache tomorrow?” he asks. 

You shake your head vehemently, then stop as it makes you dizzy. 

“No, no,” you declare, “Don’t you worry.”

Clark sighs softly while he smiles, then rests his hand on your thigh. “I don’t think I’ll ever not worry ‘bout you, princess.”

When he pulls into the driveway, you fumble with your seatbelt. “I got you,” he murmurs, then reaches over to you and frees you from your restraint. 

The walk to his apartment takes forever, as you stumble in your strappy heels, so Clark takes over. One of his arms is already wrapped around your waist, the other one slings under the crook of your knees before he hoists you up against his chest. You giggle gleefully and grin at him. 

“That’s nice,” you say as you nuzzle your cheek into his neck, inhaling deeply.

“Anything for my girl,” he whispers. 

Clark carries you into the apartment and heads straight to the bathroom. He knows that sober you will thank him for taking off your makeup and making sure you brush your teeth. 

He turns on the small light above the mirror instead of the ceiling light before he places you on the bathroom counter. You slump forward, chin resting on his shoulder. 

“I’m really tired, honey,” you mumble. He chuckles softly.

“I bet,” he answers, then gently guides you to lean back against the wall, “But you’ll be glad to wake up without all that glitter gluing your eyes shut tomorrow.”

You nod, somewhat appeased. 

With one hand, he stabilizes you while the other brushes your hair out of your face. He reaches for the makeup remover. It’s a melting balm in a round tub, and he warms it up between his palms. 

“Close your eyes, baby,” he instructs, then begins to work the product into your skin. He is as gentle as he can be while still being precise, as the makeup starts to dissolve off your face in dark streaks. 

Once he’s satisfied and sure that your pores are clean, he washes his hands before he grabs your hips and lifts you off the counter. “Let’s get this off, yeah?” 

He holds you tight while you stand over the sink, cleansing your face. 

You manage to brush your teeth on your own, and Clark joins you. The low lighting in the bathroom, the shared night routine, and mostly, the absolute trust you have in him—it feels so domestic that Clark’s heart aches a little with contentment. He almost asks you to move in with him right then. 

Once the two of you are done, he picks you up one last time, and you don’t open your eyes again until you’re sitting on his bed. 

“You want one of your nighties or a shirt?” Clark asks even though he knows the answer. 

“Shirt, please,” you mumble, smiling at the prospect of being wrapped in Clark’s scent for the night. He chuckles fondly, then walks over to his closet to get you your favorite tee of his. 

After returning with the shirt, he undoes the zipper of your dress and shimmies it off of you. Despite having seen you naked a dozen times, he only looks at your face, clenching his jaw in concentration, as he dresses you in his shirt. 

“Good?” he asks. You nod instantly, a mild smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. 

“Great,” you murmur fondly. 

He brushes his knuckles over your cheek, then works to get off your shoes. The clasps are tiny, and his hands are big, so it takes him longer than he wants it to. When he has finally freed you, you sigh happily. 

“Don’t know why you put up with these kinds of shoes,” he mumbles, eyeing the heel critically.

“They’re so pretty,” you answer, eyes half-closed. Clark grins. 

“You’re ten times as pretty as they are. Don’t think it’s worth the pain,” he replies. Then he helps you lie down and pulls the blanket over you. 

You stare up at him, a sleepy smile on your face. “You’re pretty.”

Clark feels his cheeks warm as the blood rushes to his head. “You’re drunk,” he states, “But thank you, sweetheart. Now close those eyes.”

“Only if you come here,” you whisper. 

He chuckles, then nods. “Alright, just give me a sec.”

Unlike him, you ogle as he undresses himself down to his boxers, but he doesn’t mind. The mattress dips under his weight when he climbs into bed next to you, and you quickly scoot closer to him, drinking in his warmth and smell. As you rest your head on his chest, he lets his fingers drift over your back along your spine in a soothing motion. 

“Sleep now, pretty girl,” he tells you softly, “Sweet dreams.”