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kykysinlovewithafairytale · 2 days ago

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Reckless in the Rush

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Female Reader

Summary: As third year starts with your last push for the chief resident spot, a med rep’s card ignites a trust-shaking fight while you and Jack are trying to build your relationship from the ground up. But a hidden consequence of your recklessness threatens to unravel everything.

This is a Part 3 To On Your Own/Lace and Lies

Warnings: Some fluff, Jack Abbot is a flirt and the sweetest man on Earth, strong language, sexual tension, unprotected p in v sex, cream pie, multiple orgasms, fingering, oral (both m and f receiving), all the dirty stuff tbh, possible pregnancy

Word Count: 12.3K

———————————————————————

You stand against Jack’s kitchen island, his t-shirt loose on your frame, the med rep’s card trembling in your hand, her cell number a blade to your heart. The air’s heavy with cedar from the banquet hall your lace panties damp beneath his boxers, whiskey aftertaste souring. Your chest tightens, betrayal searing—we just fucked, poured our souls out, and he’s already screwing this up?

“Jack, I need you to look at me. And tell me what’s going on here,” you say, voice steel, eyes blazing.

He turns, hair mussed, face paling under the kitchen’s dim fluorescent buzz. “It’s not what you think, I swear,” he says, voice low, stepping toward you.

You step back, card crinkling in your grip.

“What am I supposed to think, Jack? That you lied to me?” Your voice rises, sharp, loud enough to stir the neighbor’s dog next door.

“I didn’t lie.” His jaw tightens, eyes pleading, but he’s still too far away.

“Then what? You went back into the garbage after the stairwell and found it?” You turn, unable to face him, the memory of her hand on his arm, his hand on her back, burning. “I—I just can’t even look at you right now, Jack.” Your voice cracks, San Diego’s regret flooding back.

He rounds the counter, blocking your path, whiskey breath close. “Look, when I told you I got rid of the card, I wasn’t lying.” His voice is urgent, rough. “I thought I threw it out. There were other papers in my pocket, and I guess I grabbed everything else and forgot the card. I didn’t realize until after my shift.”

You scoff, tossing the card on the island, where it lands beside your untouched water glass. “So you just decided to keep it, just in case? What was the plan, Jack? See whose pants you could get into first?” Your words echo off the sleek high-rise’s walls, the cluttered kitchen—scattered bills, a chipped mug—mocking the intimacy you thought you had.

“It’s not like that. I never called her.” His hands rake through his curls, voice louder now, desperate. “I left the card on the counter, and it got mixed in with the mail. That’s it.”

“But why didn’t you throw it out in the first place?” you shout, loud enough to make the neighbor’s floor creak above, your heart pounding.

“I don’t know.” His voice drops, defeated, eyes dodging yours.

You sigh, deep and shaky, grabbing your water glass just to have something to hold. “I need to leave.” You storm to the bedroom, snatching your mint dress and heels from the floor, the sheets still smelling of sex and sweat.

“Where are you going? It’s 2:30 in the morning.” Jack follows, voice tight, standing in the doorway.

“I don’t know, Jack. All I do know is I’m not staying here.” You grab your phone off the nightstand, trying to figure out how to get home.

“What, are you going to call Langdon to pick you up?” Jack scoffs, leaning against the frame.

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” you snap as you grab your stuff from around the room.

“Of course,” Jack mutters, walking to the living room, voice low, bitter. “Surprised you didn’t go home with him tonight.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Did you actually just say that to me?” You follow, voice spiking, the neighbor’s dog barking now, your anger a live wire. “He’s my best friend, Jack. Nothing. more.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself,” he says, barely audible, disappearing into the living room. You throw your stuff onto the bed and go after him.

You storm into the living room, the neighbor’s dog still barking through the high-rise’s thin walls, your heart pounding with fury. Jack’s sitting on a barstool by the kitchen island, silver curls catching the dim fluorescent glow, his bare chest tense, arms crossed tight.

“What the hell is your problem?” you yell, voice sharp enough to cut through the cedar-scented air lingering from the banquet hall, “You’re turning this on me now?” You snap.

“Just being honest with you.”

“Honest, Jack? You call this honest?” You gesture at the island, where the card sits like a taunt, his t-shirt clinging to your sweat.

“I am being honest,” he says, voice low, rough, hands dropping to grip the counter’s edge, knuckles whitening.

“Then why keep her number?” you fire back, stepping closer, your heels discarded somewhere in his bedroom, bare feet cold on the hardwood. “What, testing how many women you can fuck before you pick one? And now you’re accusing me of screwing Langdon? My best friend?” Your voice cracks, the card’s betrayal mixing with San Diego’s heat.

Jack’s jaw tightens, his eyes darting away, then back, softer, pleading. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I just—” He exhales, raking a hand through his curls. “You’re killing me here, walking out without letting me explain.”

“Then explain,” you demand, voice trembling, arms crossing, the glass of water forgotten on the island. “Tell me the truth, Jack, or I’m gone, and whatever this is—us—it’s done.”

He nods, slow, defeated, his shoulders slumping. “Alright.” He pauses, swallowing hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Like I said before when I told you that I threw out the card, I thought I did. I emptied my pockets after rounds, tossed everything. Must’ve missed it. Found it in my pocket when I got home later that night, and yeah, maybe for a split second, I thought about keeping it.” His eyes meet yours, raw, unguarded. “I was pissed, okay? You screamed at me in the ER, shut me out, acted like San Diego meant nothing. For two years, I’ve been flirting my ass off—stealing your coffee, lingering next to you while you chart—and you never noticed. I didn’t know if there’d ever be an us. But I never called her. Don’t even know her name. Then I saw you at the party, in that dress, and fuck, I knew you’re the only one worth fighting for.” His voice cracks, softer now, almost a whisper. “You’re stubborn as hell, give me a headache every time we talk, but there’s no one else. I need you to believe that.”

You blink, his words sinking in, your anger faltering. “You’ve been flirting with me for two years?” Your voice is quieter, a mix of disbelief and something warmer, your heart stuttering.

He rolls his eyes, a faint smirk breaking through. “That’s what you got from all that?”

You step closer, the fight draining from you, his t-shirt brushing your thighs, still smelling of his cologne—whiskey, cedar, him. “You scare the shit out of me, Jack. Every time we talk, I fall harder, and I don’t know how to handle it.”

“Come here,” he murmurs, holding out his hands, his eyes soft but intense, pulling you in.

You hesitate, then place your hands in his, the warmth of his calloused fingers grounding you. He tugs you gently, opening his knees for you to step between, his hands settling on your waist, firm, possessive, his t-shirt under you bunching under his grip. “Do you trust me?” he asks, voice low, eyes searching yours, the kitchen’s hum fading to nothing.

“You know I do,” you whisper, your breath hitching, his closeness reigniting the heat from his bed.

He chuckles, a soft, relieved sound, his thumbs brushing your hips. “You really didn’t know I was flirting? All those times I ‘accidentally’ brushed your hand in the break room?”

“Not a damn clue,” you admit, a smile tugging at your lips, the tension easing, his warmth pulling you closer.

“Guess I need to step up my game,” he says, leaning in, his lips brushing yours, soft, deliberate, a promise more than a kiss. The contact sparks, your body remembering his touch.

“You staying the night?” he asks, pulling back just enough, his breath warm, eyes hopeful but cautious.

“Only if you take me out for breakfast in the morning,” you tease, your hands sliding up his chest, fingers grazing his stubble, the fight’s sting fading.

“Deal,” he grins, standing, his hand enveloping yours, leading you back to the bedroom, the card forgotten on the counter, the neighbor’s dog quiet now.

You pause in the hallway, the dim light casting shadows, his hand warm in yours. “Jack, wait,” you say, voice soft but firm, your heart still racing from the fight.

“Maybe, maybe we need to slow this down a bit.” You swallow, glancing at the floor, then back at his eyes, wide with surprise. “I mean, the sex, the intensity—it’s a lot. I don’t want the ER gossip chewing us up, everyone’s already watching us like hawks. We’ve been reckless and I- I don’t want this to crash and burn before we even start.” Your voice trembles,.“Let’s keep it low-key at work maybe? No more stolen kisses in the break room. Just gives us room to figure this all out.”

He nods, slow, his thumb brushing your knuckles, his expression softening. “Yeah, okay. I get it. We’ll cool it at work. No one needs to know how bad I’ve got it for you.” His smirk is playful, but his eyes are earnest, promising restraint despite the heat between you. “But I’m still taking you to breakfast. Non-negotiable.”

You laugh, the tension easing, his hand squeezing yours. “Fine, but no sharing my pancakes,” you say, stepping closer, his cedar scent pulling you back in. He leads you to the bedroom, the hallway’s darkness fading, your heart lighter but cautious, ready for whatever comes next.

———————————————————————

You wake to the soft hum of Jack’s apartment, his steady breathing beside you, his arm slung loosely over your waist. The morning light filters through the blinds, casting stripes across his silver curls, his face relaxed in sleep. It feels natural, like waking up next to him is already your everyday, a quiet comfort you didn’t expect.

Careful not to stir him, you slip out of bed, the hardwood cool under your bare feet, and head to the bathroom. Splashing cold water on your face, you catch your reflection—his t-shirt dwarfing your frame, your lips still tender from last night’s kisses, your heart a little lighter despite the card’s sting.

In the kitchen, you rummage through his fridge, the faint clink of beer bottles and a lonely carton of milk greeting you. Before you can grab a water, warm hands slide around your waist from behind, pulling you back against his bare chest. “Good morning,” Jack murmurs, his voice rough with sleep, brushing your hair aside to press a slow kiss to the back of your neck.

Shivers race down your spine, your skin prickling under his lips, the cedar-and-whiskey scent of him wrapping around you.

“Morning,” you reply, voice soft, leaning into his warmth, your pulse quickening.

He spins you to face him, his hands steady on your hips, his gray boxers low on his waist, curls mussed. “So,” he says, eyes glinting, “what’s for breakfast?”

A smirk tugs at your lips, your voice dropping, teasing. “I can think of something.” You step closer, your fingers grazing his chest, feeling his heartbeat jump.

He laughs, low and warm, shaking his head. “Thought you wanted to take it slow, babygirl.”

“Fine,” you sigh, mock-pouting, stepping back. “Pancakes it is.”

“Get dressed,” he says, grinning, his eyes lingering on you in his t-shirt. “I know a place you’ll love.”

———————————————————————

The bell above the diner door jingles, a retro chime that matches the place’s old-school charm. Red vinyl booths line the walls, their chrome trim gleaming under checkered pendant lights. A jukebox in the corner hums a faint Elvis tune, and the counter is stacked with glass-domed cake stands, showcasing pies and donuts.

The air smells of sizzling bacon, fresh coffee, and warm syrup, making your stomach growl—but the hunger for Jack, standing beside you in a fitted navy Henley and jeans, his silver curls still damp from a quick shower, burns hotter. You can’t tear your eyes off him, the way his sleeves hug his biceps, his easy confidence pulling you in like gravity.

The waitress pours Jack a black coffee and slides you menus, her smile crinkling her eyes. You order pancakes, he gets an omelet, and the silence that settles isn’t heavy, just charged, your fingers fidgeting with the ceramic mug’s handle, its warmth grounding you.

“So,” you start, voice cautious, eyes on the steam curling from your coffee, “we’re doing this. Taking it slow.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, leaning forward, elbows on the table, his shirt stretching over his shoulders. His voice is steady, but his fingers tap his mug, a nervous tic. “I meant every word last night. I fucked up with that card. Should’ve burned it the second I saw it again.” He pauses, eyes dropping to his coffee, then back to you, raw and unguarded. “I got scared.”

“Scared of what?” you ask, leaning in, your voice softer but firm, your heart thudding.

He exhales, his breath stirring the steam.

“Of how fast you became everything. San Diego, the banquet, last night before it went to shit—it hit me hard. I blinked, and you were under my skin.” His eyes hold yours, intense, vulnerable. “I’m not great at letting people in. But I want to be, for you. I’m trying.”

Your chest tightens, his words mirroring your own fears, the card’s shadow fading under his honesty. You reach across the table, your hand brushing his, his calloused fingers warm and steady. “I’m scared too, Jack. I don’t exactly have a stellar track record with relationships. There’s always this part of me waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“I get it,” he says, his hand turning to clasp yours, his thumb brushing your knuckles. “No more secrets, no more dumb mistakes. Just us, figuring it out.”

You nod, a lump in your throat. The food arrives, breaking the moment, and you both chuckle, the tension easing.

Over fluffy pancakes and his omelet, you talk—not about the ER, the gossip, or the chief resident race, but real stuff. He tells you about growing up in Philly, his mom’s disastrous lasagna that tasted like cardboard, you confess your love for superhero comics, the ones you reread when shifts get rough. His laugh, low and warm, makes your heart skip, and when he steals a bite of your pancake, you swat his hand, grinning, syrup sweet on your tongue.

But the hospital lingers, a shadow in your mind. “Jack,” you say, pushing your plate aside, the fork clinking, “everyone at work already thinks we’re a couple. They’re probably buzzing about the banquet. What do we do?”

He leans back, rubbing his jaw, his stubble catching the light. “Let ‘em talk. They’ll get bored when we’re not sneaking around. Besides,” he adds, a playful glint in his eyes, “I don’t mind them thinking you’re mine.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks flushing, warmth spreading. “Slow, remember?”

“Right, right,” he says, holding up his hands, his grin boyish, disarming. “But I’m allowed to like the idea.”

You shift to your research grant, venting about deadlines and the chief resident race, your voice rising with the pressure.

He listens, nodding, his eyes never leaving yours. “You’re gonna get it,” he says, no trace of doubt. “You’re the best resident in that place. They’ve got nothing on you.”

“You’re biased,” you tease, but his confidence steadies you, like an anchor.

The waitress drops the check, and Jack snatches it before you can blink. “First date, my treat,” he says, his voice warm, and you don’t argue, a quiet thrill running through you.

Outside, Pittsburgh’s morning is crisp, the sun slicing through the fog, the sidewalk damp from last night’s drizzle. You walk to his car, his presence beside you solid, his hand brushing yours but not taking it. Slow, you remind yourself, but the urge to lace your fingers with his is fierce, your skin buzzing where he’s close.

“So, second date?” he asks, leaning against the car, blocking the passenger door, his smile hopeful, his Henley shirt hugging his chest in a way that makes your mouth dry.

“How about we stay in tonight?” you say, stepping closer, your voice soft. “I’ll cook for you.”

“Deal,” he says, his eyes softening, a flicker of something deeper passing through. “I’m glad you stayed last night.”

“Me too,” you whisper, your breath catching, the space between you shrinking.

He hesitates, then steps closer, his hand hovering near your cheek, his eyes searching yours. “I know we’re taking it slow, but I’ve got one important question before we go.”

“Oh yeah?” you ask, tilting your head, a playful smile tugging at your lips, your heart already racing.

He leans to the right, his gaze sweeping over you, like he’s memorizing every detail—your flushed cheeks, the way his t-shirt still lingers on your skin under your jacket. “Will you be my girlfriend?” His voice is soft, almost shy, but his eyes are locked on yours, hopeful and unguarded, a boyish grin breaking through.

Your smile explodes, unstoppable, your heart doing cartwheels despite your attempt to play it cool. “Thought you’d never ask,” you say, voice bubbling with excitement, stepping into his space, your hands finding his chest, feeling his heartbeat.

He laughs, a relieved, giddy sound, and pulls you into him, his arms wrapping around your waist, lifting you just enough to make you giggle. He kisses you, quick but sweet, his lips warm, his stubble grazing your chin, then plants another on your forehead, his hands cupping your face like you’re something precious.

“You’re gonna make me crazy, you know that?” he murmurs, his grin infectious, his eyes sparkling under the morning sun.

You peck his lips again, unable to stop, your fingers tugging his curls.

“Good. Keeps things interesting.” Another kiss, soft and lingering, seals it, the world fading to just you and him, the car’s cool metal at your back, his warmth at your front.

———————————————————————

The night unfolds like a dream you don’t want to wake from. Jack’s apartment is sparse on real food—pasta, a jar of sauce, some questionable parmesan—but you make do, whipping up a simple spaghetti at the kitchen island.

You sit on barstools, knees brushing, laughing over his terrible taste in wine and your shared hatred of hospital cafeteria food. It’s easy, like a habit already carved out, his low chuckles and your teasing filling the space, the city’s glow through the window a soft backdrop.

After dinner, you head to his bathroom, the hot shower doing little to calm the butterflies rioting in your stomach. You slip into his softest shorts and t-shirt, the fabric smelling of him—cedar, laundry soap, Jack. When you step out with you hair damp, you find him on the couch, sprawled in a fitted black tee and sweatpants, flipping through TV channels.

The city lights cast a silver glow over his sharp jawline, his curls slightly mussed, and your breath catches—he’s effortless, magnetic, pulling you in without trying.

He glances up, his eyes softening, a small smile curving his lips. “Hey, wanna end the night with a movie before bed?”

“Yeah,” you say, voice light despite the heat building in your chest, your bare feet silent on the hardwood as you cross to him.

You settle on the couch, picking a random rom-com, its dialogue a faint hum. You lay your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady under your cheek, his warmth seeping into you like a blanket.

Your hands find each other, fingers interlocking, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your palm. His other hand weaves through your damp hair, slow and gentle, each stroke sending tingles down your spine, your body hyper-aware of his every move—the cedar scent, the rise and fall of his breathing, the movie’s soft glow.

The credits roll, and Jack tilts his head, meeting your gaze, his eyes dark, voice low. “Ready for bed?”

You shift, your body pressed against his, the couch creaking softly. “I’m good here,” you murmur, your voice soft, vulnerable, “in your arms.”

His smile is slow, heated but tender, and he kisses your forehead, his lips lingering, warm and steady. You tilt up, catching his lips, and the kiss ignites, deep and hungry, a week’s worth of tension—San Diego, the ER, the banquet—pouring out.

You sit up, straddling him, your hands on his chest, feeling his heat through the tight shirt, his fingers digging into your left hip, possessive but restrained.

His other hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you closer, the kiss deepening, tongues tangling, your breaths mixing, a moan escaping you as his stubble grazes your chin.

He pulls back, lips trailing to your neck, kissing slow, each nip a spark that makes you arch. His hand pushes your hair aside, resting on your neck, his thumb stroking as he sucks your collarbone, a low hum vibrating in his throat.

You bite your lip, stifling moans, your body trembling, your core throbbing, the memory of his hands from the banquet bathroom vivid. “Fuck, Jack,” you whisper, voice shaky, your fingers gripping his shirt, nails scraping.

He lifts his head, eyes locking yours, dark with want but steady. “We don’t have to go to bed yet,” he says, voice rough, a teasing edge.

You laugh, breathless, your heart pounding. “We said slow, remember?”

“I’m not asking for sex,” he murmurs, smirking, his grip tightening, his breath hot against your ear.

“Then what?” you ask, pulse racing, caught between caution and craving, your legs tightening around his thighs.

He leans closer, his voice a velvet growl, his lips brushing your ear. “I can think of other ways to make you feel good, babygirl.”

The words hit like a spark, your body reacting, heat flooding your core. He kisses you again, deliberate, deep, his hand sliding up your shirt, his bare palm igniting your skin, goosebumps rising.

“Like what?” you whisper, voice thick, giving in, needing him.

“Let me show you,” he breathes, guiding you back onto the couch, his body hovering over yours, the cushions sinking under his weight.

Your legs wrap around his, pulling him closer, his hips pressing into yours, a delicious pressure. His lips find your neck again, kissing, nipping, each touch stoking the fire. His hand trails lower, slipping past the waistband of his shorts, into your panties, fingers brushing your skin, teasing.

He pauses, his breath warm against your ear. “Already so wet for me, sweetheart.”

You grin, voice husky, matching his heat. “You’ve got a talent for getting me worked up.”

He chuckles, eyes flashing with pride, and teases you, fingers circling your clit, slow, deliberate, drawing a gasp. Then he slides two inside, curling deep, hitting your spot, his movements precise, like he knows you by heart.

Your eyes flutter shut, pleasure crashing over you, your body arching into him. “Open your eyes,” he commands, voice low, firm, his gaze intense. “I want you to look at me when you cum on my fingers.”

You obey, eyes locking onto his, his pupils wide, hungry, his jaw tight with restraint. Your hands grip his shoulders, nails biting, your breath hitching as he pumps faster, hitting that spot, relentless. The world narrows—his eyes, his cedar scent, his touch.

Your orgasm hits hard, a white-hot wave, your body trembling, a muffled cry escaping as you hold his stare, your core clenching around him. He slows, drawing it out, then pulls out, licking his fingers deliberately, eyes never leaving yours, a smug smirk curving his lips.

You’re panting, sprawled on the couch, your body buzzing, his t-shirt rucked up, shorts askew. “You okay?” he asks, voice warm, sitting up, licking his lips, looking entirely too pleased.

“Better than okay,” you laugh, breathless, your heart still racing, your skin tingling.

He stands, stretching, his sweatpants low, his arousal evident but ignored, and heads to the kitchen, his steps casual but deliberate.

“Where you going?” you call, sitting up, your body craving more despite your agreement, the ache for him lingering.

“Worked up an appetite,” he says, glancing back, a playful glint in his eyes. “Want a snack?”

Your legs wobble as you stand, the aftershocks of your orgasm making your thighs tremble, but the pull to him is stronger than your resolve. You cross the hardwood, bare feet silent, his t-shirt brushing your thighs, still damp from the shower.

In the kitchen, Jack’s rummaging through a cabinet, his back to you, sweatpants slung low, the muscles in his shoulders flexing under his tight black tee. The city’s glow filters through the window, casting a silver sheen over his curls, and your core throbs, the “taking it slow” mantra crumbling under the weight of your need.

You step behind him, your hands sliding up his back, feeling the heat of his skin through the fabric. “Find anything good?” you murmur, voice husky, pressing yourself against him, your breasts grazing his spine.

He freezes, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest, and turns, his eyes dark, hungry, catching the glint of desire in yours. “You’re trouble, you know that?” he says, voice a gravelly growl, his hands finding your hips, pulling you flush against him, his arousal hard against your stomach.

“Maybe I want trouble,” you whisper, biting your lip, your hands trailing down his chest, fingers hooking into the waistband of his sweatpants.

You sink to your knees, the hardwood cool against your skin, your eyes locked on his, a silent question answered by the way his breath hitches, his grip tightening on the counter behind him.

“Fuck, babygirl,” he breathes, one hand gathering your damp hair, holding it back gently but firmly, his eyes burning with want. “You sure about this?”

You nod, a wicked grin spreading, your fingers tugging his sweatpants and boxers down, freeing his cock—hard, thick, the tip glistening. Your mouth waters, and you lean in, licking a slow stripe up his length, tasting salt and him, a low moan vibrating in your throat. His head tips back, a groan escaping, his knuckles whitening on the counter’s edge.

“Goddamn, your mouth,” he rasps, voice rough, dirty, his hand tightening in your hair. “Take it all, sweetheart, I know you can.”

You hum, the sound muffled as you take him deeper, your lips stretching around him, tongue swirling, sloppy and wet, saliva dripping as you work him.

His hips twitch, fighting restraint, his dirty talk spurring you on. “That’s it, fuck, look at you, so pretty with my cock in your mouth,” he growls, his free hand gripping the counter so hard the wood creaks, his eyes flicking down to meet yours, dark and commanding.

You moan louder, the vibration making him curse, your hands gripping his thighs, nails digging into muscle as you bob faster, hollowing your cheeks, taking him to the back of your throat. The kitchen’s fluorescent buzz fades, the world narrowing to his ragged breaths, the cedar scent mixing with sweat, the wet sounds of your mouth, sloppy and unapologetic.

Your core clenches, heat pooling, your body aching for more even as you focus on him.

“Fuck, you’re so good at this,” he pants, voice strained, his hand guiding your head, not forcing but encouraging, his hips rocking slightly. “Gonna make me lose it, babygirl, that sweet mouth of yours.”

You pull back just enough to tease the tip, swirling your tongue, then dive back in, deeper, gagging slightly but pushing through, your eyes watering, locked on his. His jaw clenches, a low, guttural “Fuck” escaping as he fights to hold on, his counter grip trembling, the wood groaning under his strength.

“Eyes on me,” he orders, voice raw, desperate, his hand tightening in your hair. “Wanna see you when I cum.”

You obey, gazing up, your lips slick, saliva trailing, your moans vibrating around him as you take him fully, relentless. His breath hitches, a string of curses spilling—fuck, shit, so fucking good—and he tenses, his cock pulsing as he cums hard, hot and thick in your mouth, the taste salty, overwhelming. You swallow, slow and deliberate, holding his gaze, your eyes burning into his, his pupils blown wide, his chest heaving, a smug, awed grin breaking through as he watches.

“Goddamn, sweetheart,” he pants, voice wrecked, his hand softening in your hair, thumb brushing your cheek as you pull back, licking your lips, your own breath ragged, your body buzzing with need. The counter creaks as he leans back, catching his breath, his eyes still locked on you, dark with pride and want.

You stand, legs shaky, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, a grin spreading as you meet his gaze, the air thick with heat. “Guess I worked up an appetite too,” you tease, voice husky, your core still throbbing, the reckless heat of the moment echoing the gala’s no-condom mistake you’ll face later.

Jack laughs, breathless, pulling you into his arms, his lips crashing into yours, tasting himself, the kiss sloppy, hungry, his hands roaming your back, gripping your hips. “You’re gonna kill me, you know that?” he murmurs against your mouth, his voice warm but edged with awe.

You shake your head, grinning, cheeks flushed. “Well, I think this taking it slow is going to kill me, Jack,” you say as he helps you up off the floor.

His hand cups your chin, tilting your face up, his thumb brushing your swollen lip, his touch tender.

“I’m keeping you around as long as you’ll let me, babygirl,” he says, voice soft, serious, his eyes warm, the word “babygirl” sending a thrill through you every time. He kisses your forehead, slow, lingering, then grabs a beer and soda from the fridge, the clink of glass loud in the quiet.

“Ready for bed?” he asks

“Yeah,” you say, voice soft, your body still humming, wanting more—his hands, his mouth, him—but knowing slow means building something real, not leaning on sex to rush it. You stand, his hand brushing yours as you head to the bedroom, the city’s glow a promise of tomorrow.

For now, you let hope settle, the spark of you and Jack—slow, steady, real—growing stronger.

———————————————————————

Almost a month since the banquet—since Jack’s hands seared your skin, since the med reps card tore your heart open, since Jack pieced it back together. You’ve been drowning in 16-hour shifts, the ER’s antiseptic bite and relentless beeps your only constants. You’ve thrown yourself into work—charting, wrangling interns, dodging whispers about you and Jack, your mint dress and his silver curls still hospital gossip fodder.

Your research grant’s a beast, San Diego conference emails piling up, their names blurring as you wrestle with chasing a fellowship next year. Sleep’s a myth, swapped for coffee and adrenaline, but you and Jack have carved out stolen moments—dinners at hole-in-the-wall spots, late-night talks on his couch, heated kisses that stop just short of more, your body aching for him but slow feeling right, even if it’s torture.

Every joint day off is yours, spent tangled in each other’s apartments, messing around with hands and mouths, exploring every inch of each other’s bodies but stopping short of sex, your restraint a delicious agony that leaves you both breathless and craving more.

As you start your third and final residency year on days, Jack snags day shifts to sync with you, his night shifts leaving you passing like ships—quick smiles in the ER hallway, his hand brushing yours. When he’s off, you crash at his place post-shift, your spare clothes already mixed with his in a drawer. He’s got a toothbrush at your apartment, his sneakers by your door. You’ve fallen hard and fast, every minute apart stretching like hours, his cedar scent lingering on your skin.

This morning, Jack dropped you off for your shift, his car idling in the hospital lot, the dawn fog curling around Pittsburgh’s skyline. He leaned over the console, his navy hoodie soft under your fingers as you kissed him quick, his curls damp from a shower. “Kill it today, babygirl,” he said, his voice warm, eyes bright. “Chief resident’s got your name on it. You’ve earned this.” You grinned, nerves buzzing, and squeezed his hand before hopping out, his “Good luck” following you into the ER’s chaos.

Tonight’s shift crackles with anticipation—Robby’s posting the chief resident list. The ER hums with its usual madness: gurneys clatter, a kid wails in bay three, the phone shrieks at the nurses’ station. But there’s an extra pulse, everyone stealing glances at the bulletin board. You’re charting on a computer, eyes stinging from 14 hours on your feet, when Langdon sidles up, his scrubs wrinkled, his grin wide.

“It’s you, kid,” he says, nudging your shoulder, nodding toward the board. “Go check it out.”

Your stomach flips, heart hammering as you weave through interns and nurses, their eyes tracking you. The list is pinned up, stark against the cluttered board, and there it is—your name at the top, Chief Resident. A cheer erupts behind you. Dana claps your shoulder, her voice bright, “Knew it’d be you, girl!” Your co-resident, chimes in, “Only one who deserves it, honestly.” Even Mel gives you a rare nod from the desk, her lips twitching upward. Your chest swells, the grind of three weeks—charts, grants, shifts—lifting for a moment, pride flooding in.

Langdon lingers, leaning against the counter, his arms crossed, his grin softer now. “Seriously, you’ve been killing it,” he says, voice low, warm. “All those late nights, teaching those idiots how to suture without stabbing themselves? You’re the real deal. We’re lucky to have you running the circus next year.”

You laugh, cheeks heating, rubbing your neck. “Thanks, Lang. I was sweating bullets over this.”

“Nah,” he says, shaking his head, his eyes crinkling. “You’ve got the brains, the grit, and you don’t lose your cool when shit hits the fan. Plus, you’re not half as annoying as the rest of them.” He winks, dodging your playful swat. “For real, though, you’ve got this. And, uh…” His voice drops, teasing, “Jack’s gonna lose his mind when he hears. You two are, like, disgustingly cute now.”

You groan, face burning, but a smile slips through. “Keep it down, alright? We’re trying to be low-key.”

Langdon snorts, raising his hands. “Low-key? Half the hospital saw you two at the banquet, looking like you were about to combust. But fine, my lips are sealed.” He mimes zipping his mouth, then grins. “Go celebrate, Chief. You earned it.”

Robby catches you in the hallway later, his scrubs rumpled, his rare smile crinkling his eyes. “You did it, kid,” he says, voice gruff but warm, clapping your back. “Proud of you. You’ve got the grit, the brains—everything this place needs in a chief. Don’t let it go to your head, though.”

You swallow, throat tight, his praise hitting deep. “Thanks, Robby. Means a lot coming from you.”

He chuckles, leaning closer, voice low. “Bet Jack’s proud too. Heard you two are cozy these days.” His smirk is teasing, no judgment, just the knowing glint of someone who’s caught your stolen ER glances.

Your cheeks flush, and you mutter, “It’s… complicated,” but your smile betrays you. Robby laughs, shaking his head, and heads off to a consult, leaving you buzzing.

The shift winds down, a rare miracle—you’re out on time, your sneakers squeaking on the floor as you push through the hospital doors. The parking lot’s quiet, the moonlight and lamps casting a silver glow, the air crisp with late summer’s edge.

Jack’s there, leaning against his car’s hood, a bouquet of roses in his hand, his smile wide and boyish. He’s in a fitted black jacket, jeans hugging his thighs, his silver curls catching the light, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. He looks like trouble and home all at once, and your heart skips, your exhaustion forgotten.

“There’s my chief resident,” he says, voice warm, stepping forward, pulling you into his arms, the roses’ soft petals brushing your back. You rise on tiptoes, arms looping around his neck, and kiss him, his lips warm, tasting of mint and him, the world narrowing to his cedar scent, his stubble grazing your chin. His arms tighten, lifting you slightly, and you laugh into the kiss, your fingers tangling in his curls.

He pulls back, eyes sparkling, setting you down but keeping you close. “Knew it’d be you, babygirl. You’ve been busting your ass for this.”

You tilt your head, a playful glint in your eyes, the roses’ scent sweet between you. “You didn’t pull any strings, did you?”

“Nah,” he says, shaking his head, his grin softening. “Robby didn’t even ask me. Said he didn’t want anyone crying favoritism. But I knew you had it in the bag. Everyone was rooting for you—Langdon, Dana, Mel. You’re the best, and they all know it.”

Your heart swells, his pride in you a warm glow. “Thanks, Jack,” you whisper, kissing him again, quick but deep, your body pressing closer, the lot’s quiet amplifying your breaths. His hands slide down your back, gripping your waist, and the kiss heats, tongues brushing, your fingers tugging his jacket. You pull back, breathless, eyes locked. “Take me home.”

His grin turns wicked, and he opens the car door, the roses safe in your lap as he drives, his hand resting on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles, stoking the fire in your core.

—————————————————————

At his apartment, you climb the stairs, the bouquet cradled in your arms, petals brushing your scrubs. Jack unlocks the door, holding it open, and you step inside, kicking off your sneakers, the hardwood cool under your feet. You set the roses on the kitchen island, their red vivid against the scattered mail, and turn as Jack shuts the door, toeing off his shoes, his jacket already shed, his t-shirt clinging to his chest.

“What’s my chief resident want for dinner?” he asks, voice low, stepping closer, his eyes glinting under the dim kitchen light.

You close the gap, your scrubs brushing his jeans, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling his heartbeat. “I’m hungry,” you murmur, voice husky, eyes locked on his, “but not for food.”

You surge up, kissing him hard, your body pressed flush, the doorway framing you both. His hands grip your hips, pulling you closer, the kiss messy, desperate, tongues clashing, your moans mingling as a month’s restraint unravels.

His fingers dig into your waist, yours tangle in his curls, and you stumble slightly, his back hitting the doorframe. “Fuck, babygirl,” he groans against your lips, his hands roaming, cupping your ass through your scrubs, lifting you just enough to press his growing hardness against you. “Still wanna take it slow?”

“Fuck slow,” you pant, pulling back, eyes blazing, your chest heaving. “We’re celebrating tonight.”

His grin is feral, and he grabs your hand, tugging you to the bedroom, the city’s glow spilling through the blinds. You stand in the dim light, kissing again, tongues wild, hands everywhere—yours yanking his shirt, his untieing your scrub top. He pulls your top off, tossing it, then rips his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, his chest bare, silver curls mussed.

You grab his jeans’ waistband, spinning him, pushing him to sit on the bed’s edge, his knees spread. Standing between his legs, you run your fingers through his hair, kissing him deep, your teeth grazing his lip, his groan vibrating against you.

You sink to your knees, eyes locked on his, your hands gripping his waist. He lifts his hips, letting you tug his jeans and briefs down, his cock springing free, thick and veiny, hitting his stomach. Your mouth waters, the sight igniting a hunger you’ve missed since the banquet’s bathroom. “Fuck, Jack,” you murmur, voice thick, leaning in, your breath hot against him.

His hand gathers your hair, holding it gently behind your head, his eyes burning into yours. “Keep going, sweetheart,” he growls, voice rough, urging you on. You take him in your mouth, slow at first, lips stretching, tongue swirling his tip, tasting salt and him. His grip tightens, not pushing, just anchoring, his hips twitching. “That’s it, baby, suck me deep,” he groans, eyes never leaving you, his dirty talk spurring you. “Look so fucking good with my cock in your mouth. Think about this all the time.”

You hum, the vibration drawing a curse from him, and take him deeper, your hand wrapping his base, stroking what your mouth can’t reach. His moans fill the room, low and guttural, his thighs tensing under your touch. “Fuck, you’re so good at this,” he pants, his voice wrecked, his eyes dark with need. You bob faster, hollowing your cheeks, your spit slicking him, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet. His hand trembles in your hair, his control fraying.

Right as his hips buck, he pulls you off, his cock slipping from your lips with a pop, his chest heaving. “Not yet,” he gasps, voice strained, pulling you up. “Wanna finish inside you, babygirl.”

You stand, his hands undoing your bra, letting it fall, your panties following, your body bare under his hungry gaze. He scoots back, pulling you onto the bed, and you straddle him, his cock sliding against your soaked pussy, not entering yet, the friction electric. You kiss, deep and sloppy, your hands on his chest, his gripping your hips. He shifts, guiding you both back until he’s against the headboard, you still on top, your thighs bracketing his, his hardness teasing your clit as you grind, your moans soft, needy.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, his hands roaming your back. “Beg for it, sweetheart. Tell me how bad you want my cock.”

“Please, Jack,” you whimper, grinding harder, your voice breaking, your pussy aching for him. “Need you inside me. Fuck me, please.”

His hands grip your hips, lifting you, his cock nudging your entrance. You lower yourself, slow, gasping as he fills you, stretching you perfectly, every inch claiming you. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, his head tipping back, eyes half-lidded.

You pause, adjusting, your body humming, then glide up and down, his hands cupping your ass, guiding you, his hips thrusting up to meet you. “Ride me, baby,” he growls, kissing you hard, teeth clashing, tongues wild. “Take every fucking inch.”

Your breasts bounce in his face, heavy and flushed, and he groans, his lips latching onto one nipple, sucking hard, his tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, your core clenching around him. “Fuck, love these tits,” he rasps against your skin, switching to the other, biting softly, his mouth hot and relentless, leaving faint marks.

“Been dreaming of this, you riding me, these perfect fucking breasts in my mouth.” His hands grip your ass tighter, fingers digging into flesh, pulling you down harder, the wet slap of your bodies louder now, sweat slicking your skin, the room thick with sex.

You lean forward, your lips brushing his ear, your breath hot and ragged. “Missed your cock so fucking much,” you moan, voice filthy, desperate, like it’s been months, not weeks. “Need you to fuck me harder, Jack, make me yours.”

Your words spur him, his thrusts snapping up, hitting deep, your breasts bouncing against his chest, his stubble scraping your skin as you breathe into each other’s mouths, panting, moaning, the air heavy with want.

“Goddamn, this pussy’s mine,” he growls, his lips grazing yours, not kissing, just breathing, his voice raw. “You feel that? How fucking deep I am? Been starving for you, babygirl, jerking off thinking of this tight cunt.” His dirty talk is relentless, each word a spark, your nails raking his shoulders, leaving red trails as you ride him faster, your hips rolling, his cock dragging against your walls, hitting that spot that makes you see stars.

You moan into his mouth, tongues brushing sloppy, your breaths mixing, hot and urgent. “Fuck, Jack, you’re so big,” you whimper, your voice wrecked, your thighs trembling, his hands squeezing your ass, spreading you wider, his thrusts relentless. “Been aching for this, for you to fill me up.” Your words are raw, matching his filth, the deprivation of weeks without sex fueling every thrust, every moan, the headboard slamming against the wall, the bed creaking under your rhythm.

He sucks your nipple again, harder, teeth nipping, his growl vibrating against your skin. “Cum all over my cock, sweetheart,” he pants, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a low, filthy command. “Wanna feel this pussy squeeze me, milk me fucking dry.” His fingers dig into your ass, one hand sliding to your clit, rubbing fast, sloppy circles, pushing you closer, your moans louder, desperate, your body shaking.

“Jack, I’m gonna—” you gasp, your voice breaking, your lips brushing his, breathing his air, your eyes locked on his, dark and hungry. Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, your pussy clenching tight, pulsing around his cock, your cry loud and raw, your body trembling as you grind through it, his mouth swallowing your moans, his tongue wild against yours.

“Fuck, that’s it, baby,” he groans, his thrusts erratic, his grip bruising, chasing his own release. “So fucking tight when you cum, gonna make me lose it.” His lips crash into yours, messy, desperate, breathing your name as he thrusts hard, once, twice, then spills inside you, his cum hot, thick, filling you, dripping down his cock as he pumps through it, your bodies locked, sweat-soaked, the room spinning.

You collapse against his shoulder, panting, his arms wrapping around you, his cock softening inside, the fullness a comfort you don’t want to lose. “Fuck, we get better every time,” he murmurs, kissing your temple, his voice soft, awed. You kiss him, slow, deep, still joined, your heart racing, not ready for the emptiness when he pulls out.

Eventually, you lift off, your body protesting, the cool air hitting your skin. You head to the bathroom, cleaning up, grabbing your spare leggings and tank from his drawer, the roses’ scent lingering in the apartment. Jack follows, wiping himself down, slipping on boxers, his curls mussed, his grin lazy but warm.

“Want actual dinner now?” he asks, leaning in the doorway, his eyes tracing you, soft but hungry. “I can order something.”

“Yeah,” you say, stepping close, your voice playful, your hand brushing his chest. “But I’m gonna want dessert after, and you know I don’t mean ice cream.”

He laughs, pulling you into his arms, kissing you slow, his hands cupping your face. “Deal, Chief,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours, his voice full of promise. “Anything for my girlfriend.”

———————————————————————

Your first week as chief resident is a blur of victories, the kind you’d scribbled in your med school planner years ago, half-daring to dream. The ER hums with its usual chaos, but your team’s got your back—nurses slip you coffee, interns nod eagerly at your pointers. Langdon’s the loudest, of course, cornering you in the break room Monday with a bear hug. “Told you, kid,” he says, stealing a bite of your stale donut. “You’re running this place like you were born for it. Makes me look good for backing you.”

You laugh, swatting his hand, your heart warm despite the 16-hour grind. “Don’t get cocky, Lang. I’m still making you redo that sloppy chart from yesterday.”

He groans, but his eyes crinkle, proud, and you feel it too—the weight of their trust, the thrill of nailing it. Dana joins in later, leaning against the nurses’ station, “Chief’s got us all whipped already.” Her smile’s genuine, though, and when Mel murmurs, “You’re doing great.” Robby catches you mid-shift Thursday, his gruff, “Keeping everyone in line, kid?” paired with a rare pat on the shoulder, sealing the week’s high.

You’re getting out on time—a miracle for a chief resident—your sneakers squeaking on the floor as you clock out, the Pittsburgh dusk painting the hospital windows gold. Every spare moment’s been Jack’s, the “taking it slow” pact shattered into a million horny, teenage-level pieces.

You’re insatiable, fucking in his car after a quick dinner, sneaking quickies in his apartment’s kitchen, your legs wrapped around him on the counter, his cedar scent driving you wild. Last night, he had you against his shower wall, water scalding, his hands bruising your hips, your moans echoing off the tiles as he whispered, “Fuck, babygirl, you’re killing me.”

You haven’t exactly been safe—condoms forgotten in the heat, your birth control patchy amid the ER’s chaos—and you haven’t cared, lost in him, in the rush of us.

Work’s stressful, sure, but you see the light at the end of the tunnel—third year’s end, the grant, maybe a fellowship looming. That last one nags, a shadow in your mind - Do you chase it? Leave Pittsburgh? Leave Jack? The San Diego conference emails stack up, unanswered, their deadlines a low hum of pressure. Jack’s been your escape, his laugh, his touch.

“There’s my chief” grin when he drops you off for shifts, drowning out the doubt. You’re falling harder every day, his spare jeans in your closet, your hoodie at his place, your lives tangling faster than you expected.

Today’s shift is steady—not quiet, never quiet, but manageable, the ER’s pulse familiar. You suture a laceration on a construction worker’s forearm, your stitches neat, his gruff thanks grounding you. In bay two, you coach an intern through an IV start, her hands shaky but getting it right, her relieved smile mirroring your own at her age. You check labs for a chest pain case, ruling out a heart attack, your charting crisp despite your burning eyes.

Between patients, you steal a sip of cold coffee, the break room’s fluorescent buzz a brief reprieve. Dana tosses you a protein bar, teasing, “Chief’s gotta eat, right?” and you grin, the team’s camaraderie a lifeline.

It’s routine, almost easy, until your last patient, a young woman, mid-20s, pregnant, gripping her boyfriend’s hand in bay five. She’s pale, her voice tight, describing vaginal bleeding—mild but scary. You examine her, your tone calm, practiced, easing her fears. The ultrasound hums, revealing a healthy fetus, just spotting, nothing emergent. You explain, walking her through follow-up with OB, her teary relief washing over you as she thanks you, her boyfriend’s arm around her. You step out, closing the curtain, ready to clock out, your bag already slung over your shoulder.

Then it hits, a freight train to your chest, stealing your breath. Your period—six days late, maybe seven? You’ve lost track, drowned in chief duties, Jack’s hands, the grant’s pressure.

Your heart slams, a frantic drum, as your mind reels back—not once, not once, have you and Jack used a condom. The banquet night, his high-rise, his bare cock inside you. And since—his car, his shower, his couch, every desperate fuck bare, your birth control skipped too many days, pills forgotten in the chaos of 16-hour shifts, your nightstand drawer a graveyard of missed doses. You weren’t thinking, lost in him, in the rush, in us, and now the truth crashes down: you’ve been reckless, stupid, playing with fire.

Your vision blurs, the ER’s chaos—beeping monitors, nurses shouting, a phone shrieking—muffling into a distant roar, your pulse a deafening thud in your ears. Pregnant? Jack’s baby?

The thought is a live wire, electric, suffocating, your chest so tight you can barely breathe. You’ve only been official a month, your lives just starting to weave—his roses, his “girlfriend” grin, his pride in your chief win. Would this shatter it? The fellowship, your career, you and Jack—all teetering on a knife’s edge. Your legs wobble, your hands shaking as you clutch the chart, your scrubs stifling, sweat prickling your skin.

You stumble to the locker room, the rest of the night a haze—locker clanging, bag grabbed, your reflection in the mirror a ghost, eyes wild, unrecognizable.

You fumble your phone from your pocket, Jack’s text glowing — Out yet? You okay? Still working? Your thumb hovers, trembling, starting a reply—Jack, I think I’m… —but you freeze, the words choking you. You debate calling, imagining his voice, warm, teasing, but the fear clamps down, your finger hovering over his name, heart racing, unable to press it. You shove the phone back, the screen dark, your breath shallow, ragged, as you stumble out.

The parking lot’s cold, the Pittsburgh drizzle soaking your scrubs, stinging your skin, the city lights smearing into streaks. You drive home, the wipers’ rhythm a cruel metronome, your mind stuck on that first night—his bed, your moans, no barriers, just him—and every bare night. Tomorrow’s shift with Jack looms, his smile, his cedar scent, now shadowed by terror.

You park, climb your apartment stairs, legs leaden, and collapse onto your couch, still in damp scrubs, Jack’s stolen t-shirt in the laundry basket, its cedar scent mocking you. The silence screams, the apartment’s hum—fridge, radiator—taunting your spiraling thoughts.

Are you carrying his baby? The possibility claws, a month’s reckless passion now a potential life, your future—fellowship, chief, Jack—hanging by a thread. You curl up, knees to chest, alone in the dark, the question burning: How do you face him with this?

———————————————————————

Sleep is a cruel tease, snatching two, maybe three hours before you’re bolt upright at 4 a.m., sweat beading on your neck, the banquet night replaying—Jack’s bare skin against yours, his whispered “you sure?” and your reckless yes, dismissing the condom in a alcohol-fueled haze.

You’d known better, a goddamn ER doc, but you let your body win, your desire for him overriding sense. Now, the possibility of a baby, a life unplanned, not now, not in your final residency year, not after a month with him.

You curl into yourself, the couch’s worn fabric scratching your thighs, your apartment’s silence mocking your racing heart, the Pittsburgh drizzle tapping the window like a countdown to doom.

Morning dawns gray, the sky heavy, mirroring the dread pooling in your stomach. Your phone buzzes, Jack’s unread texts piling up — Hope your shift was okay, babygirl. You alright? Can’t wait to see you at work.

His warmth stabs, a reminder of what’s at stake—his silver curls, his cedar scent, your fragile us. You drag yourself up, legs heavy, splashing cold water on your face, the shock barely dulling the panic buzzing in your veins.

You pull on fresh scrubs, fingers trembling as you tie the drawstring, your chief resident badge a hollow weight on your lanyard. Today’s shift with Jack looms, his touch now shadowed by terror. How do you face him when this is your fault?

You hit the ER locker room, the metal clang of your locker a gunshot in your skull, jarring your frayed nerves. Tossing your bag inside, you force a neutral mask, nodding at a nurse as you step onto the floor, eyes darting for him—his broad shoulders, that cedar scent. Your heart hammers, palms clammy, but he’s nowhere, the absence twisting your gut tighter.

The ER buzzes. Monitors beep, a trauma bay’s curtain snaps shut, an intern fumbles a tray, syringes clattering. You head to the nurses’ station, away from the chaos, waiting for rounds, eyes still scanning for Jack, your stomach churning with guilt—you said yes at the gala, you skipped your pills, you let this happen.

Langdon finds you at the station, leaning on the counter, his scrubs wrinkled, his grin wide but eyes narrowing as he clocks your fidgeting hands, your gaze drifting. “What’s up, kid? You look green.” His brow furrows, studying you as you bite your lip, foot tapping uncontrollably.

Your mind screams — I might be carrying Jack’s baby, and it’s my fault.

You force your shoulders to relax, muttering, “Rough night,” but he squints, unconvinced, his protective streak kicking in.

“This about Jack? Need me to kick his ass?” he teases, voice soft, but he’s your best friend—he smells the panic radiating off you, sharp as antiseptic.

You laugh, shaky, throat tight, hands clenching to hide the tremble. “No, Lang. Just…stress. Chief stuff.”

It’s all about Jack, but not how he thinks—nine months, a baby, the ER gossip mill ready to churn. You’d been reckless, thoughtless, and now everyone might know. You slip away,Langdon’s gaze burning your back, too knowing, like he’s piecing it together.

You hide on the other side of the nurses station away from the chatter of everyone waiting for rounds to start. Your eyes still quietly searching for Jack amidst the chaos. Your pen tapping against the counter as your mind spirals — You fucked up, not Jack. You said yes.

Then you spot him—Jack, stepping out of Robby’s office, tablet in hand, jaw tight, eyes shadowed, like sleep dodged him too. Your breath catches, nausea surging.

If I’m pregnant, how do we tell Robby? The team? The ER knows you’re together, but a month’s dating doesn’t justify a baby. Your legs wobble, but you force them forward, dodging an intern with a crash cart, your face a mask despite the storm in your chest, guilt heavy—you did this.

Jack sees you, his focus shifting to concern, tablet lowering as he leans against the nurses’ station, one hand gripping the counter like an anchor. “Hey, you okay? You didn’t answer last night or this morning. Was getting worried.” His voice is soft, but his eyes search yours, a flicker of fear glinting.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes, your lip quivering, breath shaky, hands twisting together. He clocks it, his hand landing on your arm, warm but grounding, fingers trembling slightly. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Your eyes sting, your chief resident mask cracking. “Ja-Jack, I’m late,” you whisper, barely audible over the ER’s hum, your voice thick with self-blame—you should’ve known better.

His brow furrows, confusion flickering. “Late? Rounds haven’t—” Then it clicks. His eyes widen, face paling under the fluorescents, breath catching audibly. He swallows, hand tightening on your arm, a subtle shake betraying him. “How late?”

“Almost a week, maybe,” you murmur, biting your lip, hands shaking, chest tight. “I don’t know exactly.”

He runs both hands through his curls, tugging hard, eyes darting away, then back, wide with panic he’s masking. “Alright. You usually on time? Taken a test yet?”

“Most of the time, yeah. A day or two off, sometimes. No test yet, I… wanted to talk to you first.” Your voice cracks, tears pricking, but you blink them back, trying to look composed. “I’m freaking out, Jack. This is my fault.”

He nods, jaw clenching, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Your fault? Hey, it takes two, okay? You feeling alright? Physically, I mean?”

“No, not really. Besides this panic, I guess I’ve been fine. Just stressed.” You wrap your arms around yourself, trembling, eyes on the floor, guilt gnawing—you were reckless, not him.

“Maybe it’s just stress,” he says, hopeful but strained, his hand twitching like he wants to touch you again.

“Jack, I’m scared,” you whisper, voice breaking, blinking hard, the ER’s chaos a blur.

“Hey, kid, rounds starting!” Langdon yells across the room, his voice slicing through.

“Yeah, she’ll be right there!” Jack snaps, wincing at his sharpness, rubbing his neck, face flushed. “Sorry. Just freaked out.”

“How do you think I feel?” you hiss, the weight of the ER, a baby, your mistake crushing you, your face neutral for the nurses nearby.

“We’ll figure it out. Go to rounds, find me after, okay?” His voice steadies, but his eyes are wide, breathing uneven, hand hovering.

You nod, his quick forehead kiss trembling, lips cold. Rounds drag, your hands shaking as you flip charts, your mind screaming.

Nine months. Jack’s baby. Your fault. You force calm, nodding at a patient with chest pain, ruling out a pulmonary embolism, guiding an intern through a central line, but the ER’s a haze—gurneys clatter, a code blue blares, Dana’s “Chief’s killing it!” barely registers. You stitch a laceration, check labs, your heart racing, your mask intact, but every beep spikes your dread.

You said yes at the gala, skipped your pills, fucked up your future.

You’re leaving a patient room when Jack steps in front of you, eyes intense, hands in his pockets to hide their shaking. He’d given you space all morning, hoping you’d come to him, but his patience ran out. “Thought you were gonna find me?” His voice is soft, urgent, shoulders tense, searching your face.

“Sorry, got busy,” you mutter, grabbing a chair and computer, movements jerky, charting to avoid his gaze, stomach churning with guilt.

“We ignoring this?” he asks, low, not accusing, his foot tapping, his calm fraying.

“Jack, I need time,” you say, staring at the screen, fingers frozen, breath shallow.

He stands there, jaw tight, hands clenching in his pockets, fear barely masked. “You’re not leaving me alone about this, are you?” you ask, exasperated, hands trembling on the mouse.

“No, I’m not,” he says, firm but gentle, eyes locked, breathing uneven.

“Not now, Jack. Please.” Your voice pleads, eyes stinging, nurses’ glances burning.

The 12-hour shift—7 a.m. to 7 p.m.—drags. You feel Jack’s eyes across the ER, watching from trauma bays, charting stations, his worry a weight. You treat a sprained ankle, consult on a fever case, your hands steady but mind spiraling.

How could you be this stupid? Two ER docs, brilliant, reckless, knocked up after a month. The gala—Jack in that suit, your body's perfect timing, your reckless yes—sealed it, your body betraying you in that high-rise haze.

By 6:40 p.m., you’re at the nurses’ station, charting, eyes burning, when Jack approaches, checking for eavesdroppers. “Ready to do this?” he asks, voice low, eyes intense.

“No,” you admit, heart pounding, “but I don’t have a choice.”

He nods, pulling a specimen cup from his pocket. “Got this. Let’s go.”

You head to the back hallway’s exam rooms, the shift slowed, no one lingering. You slip into the bathroom, cup in hand, panic clawing, your reflection pale in the mirror. You pee, hands shaking, and emerge, passing the cup to Jack. He kisses your forehead, quick, steady, and heads to the lab, his steps brisk but tense, his scrubs pulling tight across his shoulders.

You sneak into an exam room, sitting on the table, one leg dangling, the other folded under you, the paper crinkling under your scrubs. Minutes stretch—15, maybe 20, a rushed beta-hCG test thanks to Jack’s lab connections.

The room’s sterile hum, antiseptic sting, and distant beeps amplify your dread. What if it’s positive? A month together, a kid? All because you fucked up. Your career, fellowship, Jack—everything teeters, the gala’s whiskey heat a cruel memory.

The door handle clicks, Jack stepping in, a folded paper in his hand, face unreadable, eyes wide. He stands to your left, setting the paper before you, one arm around your shoulders, the other on your thigh, warm but trembling. “Did you look?” you ask, voice small, heart racing.

“No,” he says, voice low, “wanted to do it together.”

You pause, the weight of everything—chief, Jack, a baby—crushing. You pick up the paper, hands shaking, and unfold it, eyes scanning for keywords.

Positive. hCG 382 mIU/mL.

Your heart stops, mind blank, the paper slipping from your fingers, fluttering to the table. Jack’s grip tightens, pulling you close, your head against his chest, his heart racing faster than yours, a frantic drum under your cheek. Tears prick, your lip quivering, the room spinning, the antiseptic smell choking.

Neither of you speaks, the silence thick, suffocating. You pull back, meeting his eyes, expecting panic, but he’s steady, worried only for you, his gaze grounding. A tear falls; he wipes it, thumb soft, whispering, “We’re gonna be okay.”

“Jack, how did this happen?” you choke, grabbing the paper, dropping it again, voice breaking. “I know how, but I… I said yes that night, I skipped my pills, I fucked up.” The gala flashes—his suit, your dress, whiskey, your fertile window, your reckless choice a cosmic fuck-you.

He steps back, leaning against the counter, hands gripping the edge, knuckles white. “Hey, we both did this,” he murmurs, voice soft, eyes flickering with shock. “Not just you.”

“What do we do?” you ask, voice small, tears brimming, the table’s paper crinkling as you shift.

He exhales, eyes locked, steady despite the fear. “Whatever you want, babygirl. If you want this kid, let’s do it—raise our baby, build a life. If it’s too much with chief, the grant, everything, that’s okay too. I’ll hold your hand through it all. I’m here.” His voice cracks, but his resolve holds, his love a lifeline.

You smile, shaky, his words easing the guilt, your heart swelling despite the dread. But a knock jolts you—Dana, calling, “Abbott, you in there?” Her voice is teasing, knowing.

“Shit,” Jack mutters, opening the door just enough to poke his head out. “What’s up?”

“MVC coming in, two attendings short. Chen needs you to stabilize,” Dana says.

“How far out?” Jack asks, tense.

“Five minutes,” she replies.

He nods, then pauses as Dana adds, “Need a cleaning crew for you and your girlfriend?”

“No,” he says, closing the door slow, face flushed, turning to you, his panic mirroring yours, the gravity sinking in.

He kisses you, quick, desperate, lips trembling. “Wait here, please. I’ll come back.”

“Jack, my shift’s not over,” you protest, voice shaky, standing, the paper glaring.

“You’ve got ten minutes. I’ll cover,” he insists, eyes pleading. “We’ll talk after. Please.”

You nod, sinking onto the table, but sitting still is impossible, the positive result a weight in your chest. Minutes stretch, the ER’s chaos seeping through—sirens, shouts, a trauma code. Dana’s side-eye catches you as you slip out, heading to the locker room, legs on autopilot.

Helping with the MVC crosses your mind, but you’re useless, focus shattered. You grab your bag, clock out, and head outside, the drizzle cold, the lot’s sodium lamps casting long shadows. You lean against Jack’s car, legs slouched, arms folded, staring at the star-filled Pittsburgh sky, the reality sinking in: *You’re pregnant. Your fault. A month together, and you’ve fucked up this bad.*

Ten, maybe 15 minutes pass, the cold car hood grounding you, the drizzle starting again, soft drops kissing your skin, when Jack hurries out, scrubs askew, curls mussed, eyes wide with relief and fear. “You had me scared, thought you’d left without a word,” he says, voice tight, stepping close, his cedar scent mixing with rain and antiseptic, his face catching the moonlight.

“Sorry, I- I couldn’t breathe in there,” you murmur, voice trembling, nearly a panic attack, your eyes meeting his, the stars blurring through unshed tears.

He leans beside you against the car, shoulder brushing yours, the drizzle wetting his curls, his breath visible in the cool air. “If you need to go to your place, think this through alone, I get it. We don’t have to talk now. It’s a lot,” he says, voice soft, raw, his hand hovering near yours.

“Jack, I don’t want to be alone,” you whisper, voice breaking, the drizzle soaking your scrubs, your heart pounding, the world narrowing to just him.

“You’re with me,” he says, turning to face you, hand finding yours, warm despite the rain, his thumb tracing your knuckles. “You’re never alone again. I’m a text, a call, hell, an email away.” His grin is faint, boyish, trying to cut through the weight.

You laugh, a choked sound, the idea of emailing him absurd when your world’s imploding. “Jack, I’m not emailing you,” you say, the humor fleeting but real, a spark in the dark, your fingers tightening around his.

He chuckles, raindrops clinging to his lashes, but his eyes turn serious, locking on yours. “I meant what I said in there. If you want this kid, I’m all in—every appointment, every baby book, the best damn stroller. If it’s not what you want, that’s okay too. I’m here, whatever you choose.” His voice is steady, but his hand trembles, the drizzle streaking his face like tears.

“That’s the thing, Jack,” you say, voice shaky, rain mixing with the tears spilling now, no care for who might see. “I don’t want to decide alone. I don’t want you to feel trapped. This baby’s as much yours as mine, but we’ve been together a month. I’m giving you an out.” Your voice cracks, guilt heavy—you caused this, you said yes.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he says, voice rising, raw, stepping closer, rain soaking his scrubs. “I don’t want an out. I’m so in this it scares the shit out of me.” He paces a short, frantic loop, boots splashing in a puddle, then stops, eyes burning into yours.

“Look, this isn’t just because you’re pregnant. I’ve been thinking this for a while, and I’m not saying it lightly—I love you. I’ve been crazy about you since the day we met, but that morning at the diner, just us, coffee going cold, I didn’t want it to end. I wanted to talk to you forever, laugh with you, fight with you. You’re it for me, babygirl. No one else could make me this happy or drive me this insane. I want every second of my life to prove how much I love you.” His voice is low, deliberate, not rushed, each word heavy with months of unspoken feeling, his eyes wet with rain and something deeper.

You freeze, heart slamming, rain dripping from your hair. No man’s ever spoken to you like that, raw and unguarded. No one’s ever said “I love you,” and you’ve never said it, too scared to let it slip, though it’s danced on your tongue a dozen times—late nights at his place, his hand brushing yours in the ER, stolen kisses in his car. You love him, in a terrifying, all-consuming way, and it chokes you silent, your chest tight.

“You don’t have to say it back,” he says, voice softer, nervous, words tumbling out. “I know it’s soon, and this is a lot, and maybe I’m freaking you out, but I just—I needed you to know, and—” He’s rambling, curls plastered to his forehead, rain streaking his cheeks.

“I love you too, Jack,” you cut in, voice trembling but sure, tears mixing with the drizzle. “It’s terrifying, all-consuming, but I’ve known for a while. It almost slipped out so many times, but I stopped myself, scared it was too soon. I can’t imagine doing this with anyone else. Having this baby.” Your hand rests on your stomach, a small, instinctive move, the reality sinking in.

His face lights up, a slow, radiant smile breaking through the fear, rain catching in his dimples. “You really want to do this?” he asks, voice thick, stepping closer, his boots scuffing the wet pavement.

You nod, tears falling freely now, no care for the empty lot or the distant ER lights. “I know we’ve got so much to figure out, but… yeah, I want to have this baby, Jack.” Your voice is firm, despite the fear, your hand still on your stomach, a vow to yourself and him.

He laughs, a shaky, joyful sound, and wraps his arms around your waist, lifting you off the ground, spinning you in the drizzle, your scrubs soaking through. Your hands loop around his neck, clinging tight, your laugh bubbling up, raw and real, the world fading to just you two.

He sets you down, hands still on your waist, and kisses you, slow, deep, rain mixing with the taste of him, his cedar scent wrapping you like home. You pull back, foreheads pressed together, his eyes locked on yours, wet with rain and emotion.

“We’re going to have a baby,” he whispers, voice awed, a grin breaking through.

“We’re gonna have a baby,” you echo, a shaky smile spreading, the reality terrifying but thrilling, your hands gripping his shoulders, the drizzle sealing the moment like a promise.

“Jack, what do we do when people start finding out? What about my chances of a fellowship…” you whisper, voice trembling, rain streaking your face, the fear of losing everything—your career, the team’s respect—clawing at you.

He cups your cheek, eyes steady, his thumb brushing a tear away. “We’ll tell everyone together when we’re ready. You’re not losing anything—not me, not your dreams, nothing,” he says, voice low, firm, his cedar scent grounding you despite the drizzle soaking his curls.

You nod, tears falling freely now, his words easing the guilt, your heart swelling. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close, and kisses you, slow, deep, rain mixing with the taste of him, his cedar scent wrapping you like home.

You pull back, foreheads pressed together, his eyes locked on yours, wet with rain and emotion, the Pittsburgh sky a star-filled backdrop to your shared future.

—————————————————————

Well this definitely took me wayyy too long to write so sorry about that. But its finally here, Part 3!! I wrote multiple versions before going with this story line. Definitely has potential for more so if anyone would be interested in another part let me know what you guys would like to see!! And let me know what you guys think of this part of the story!! Enjoy ! :)

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kykysinlovewithafairytale · 2 days ago

Text

Wide Open: Chapter 4

Jack Abbot x plus size! reader

Word Count: 1.1k

Warnings: fluff

Author's notes: I have week 2 of my new job under my belt. Hopefully I'll be back to writing regularly again. Starting to get used to my new schedule!

Masterlist | Taglist

Jack works on unlocking the door as you stand behind him. The outside of the home was beautiful, a red brick colonial style house with white shutters outlining the windows. Bushes line the front of the covered porch, and a maple tree provides shade over part of the front yard.

You follow him up the back steps and into a small laundry room, where a wall of five craftsman cubbies catches your eyes. Stepping in just enough for Jack to close the door behind you, you run your fingers across the polished wood, appreciating the practicality, perfect for people to sit while putting on shoes.

“The family before me added those.” He comments as he leans against the washer to untie his shoes.

You glance up at the white crown molding, modernized slightly with decorative corner blocks. The floors, seemingly original oak that pairs beautifully with a blue tinted grey.

“What year was it built, do you know?”

“1930.” He says as he lets you explore while he watches your reaction. He knows that he should be giving the tour, but the look of awe on your face, the mesmerization as you take in every detail, makes him pause. “They did a great job of keeping the original character and adding modern updates.”

“Yeah...” Looking over your shoulder, you suddenly feel sheepish, stepping to the side to let the actual owner of the house show you around. “Sorry Jack. I’m walking into your home like I own it.”

“It’s okay. It’s- endearing. I remember feeling that way when I first walked through.”

“So show me around. Give me your best realtor pitch.”

“Okay.” He shrugs off his jacket and hangs it on a hook. “I think you’ll love the built-in nooks and custom cabinetry throughout the house. The half bath is right there, nothing too fancy, kept the pedestal sink. The two other full baths have updated vanities. I had the office space off the kitchen torn down to make the kitchen bigger, then added a new office and a guest suite downstairs. Don’t really use either much.”

The kitchen is gorgeous. Stainless steel appliances. Dishwasher. A large sink looking out a window into a fenced-in back yard. You lean against the counter, peering out at the view. A swing rests beneath the maple tree, and a brick paved patio holds a grill and seating.

“They replaced the linoleum countertop in the 90s with granite. I’ve got a picture of the horrific orange it used to be.”

“They loved their bold kitchen colors.” You tease, turning back to examine the glass-front cabinets and the windowpane-style design. “Jack, this is gorgeous.”

“Thanks. It was a good location. Lots of potential to grow into.”

Your heart softens. You place your hands behind you, palms resting on the edge of the counter, eyes fixed on Jack.

Jack walks towards you, unhurried, as your pulse climbs, anticipation bubbling in your chest. When he’s within a foot of you, you lean forward slightly, ready for a kiss. He mirrors you but stops just a few inches away from your lips, noses brushing.

“Want a drink?” He murmurs.

“Ye-yeah. Sure.” You swallow your pride as he reaches behind you, caging you in briefly- to retrieve two glasses.

“Water, tea, whiskey, coffee? I’ve got a bottle of red I’ve been saving for a rainy day. Today might just qualify.”

“I’m worth a rainy day?” You joke.

Jack shakes his head, raising an eyebrow as if saying ‘Really?’. You giggle in response, a smile replacing his unamused look. “Water is fine, Jack. I prefer a white, but a good red is always fun.”

“Noted.”

Being the good host, Jack hands you both water before continuing the tour.

The home is full of character and deeply Jack- at least from what you know thus far. You run your fingers over each surface as you move from room to room, admiring the original character and the personal touches Jack has added.

Your favorite room is the formal dining room, where his grandmother’s old hutch sits alongside custom white cabinetry that’s filled with knickknacks and keepsakes.

Until you walked into the living room.

The living room was cozy, unmistakably Jack. A large, oversized recliner rests in the corner. A sectional wraps around the remainder of the room. Two bookshelves are built on each side of the TV. A few pillows are scattered on the couch, and a quilt is folded over the back. What catches your eye, though, is a beautiful blanket rack- new wood, burned, and stained for a rustic look.

“I’ve always wanted these, but never got around to buying one.”

“Made it when I moved here.” Jack replies, leaning against the edge of the couch. “I dabble in woodworking. Not the best but I enjoy it.”

Jack could have built Ikea furniture and you would still be in as much awe as now.

“It’s perfect.”

After a yawn escapes you, Jack promises to show you the basement another time. Upstairs you get a quick look at two bedrooms and a smaller bonus room that currently holds a few storage totes. The bedrooms are empty, but have generous closets and are connected by a shared bathroom.

Each step closer to Jack’s bedroom makes your stomach flutter. It shouldn’t. You’re just going to sleep. Watch a movie, maybe curl up to Jack, and crash. No pressure. Jack’s a gentleman and he’s made that clear. But your nerves are still buzzing.

“This is my room.” Jack motions into the room, letting you step in before him.

On the bed lies a long-haired black-and-white tuxedo cat who immediately flops onto its side, exposing a soft, curly belly.

“Jack, can your house get any better?”

“Probably. I need to add a few more personal touches.” He chuckles, sitting on what you guess is his side of the bed, judging by the worn nightstand where sets his phone. You reach forward, running your hand across the cat’s back.

“Jack, the house fits you. Nothing needs to change.”

“Well,” he shrugs. “It’s a little empty for one person.”

You catch the implication in his voice and the way he watches you, waiting for a reaction. You smile and tilt your head.

“What, two empty bedrooms isn’t your forte?”

“It would be nice to have kids in them.” He reaches down to tear off his socks. “But for now, I have Milo. I found him under the front porch as a kitten. Checked for siblings and mom for days, but it was just him.”

“You and him against the world?”

“Something like that,” Jack replies. “Hopefully, not much longer.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

taglist 🩺: @michasia24, @pear-1206, @rae4275, @princessjayll, @carmybearz, @thezoddfather, @mandybug39, @robbyrosierobinavitch, @woodxtock, @qardasngan, @theassbuttchronicles, @wanderinginfangorn, @be-loved-1, @absinthe-over-tea, @kja06, @cg11467, @mmarieee01, @karavt, @lovemy101, @nerdgirljen, @xxdisappearwithoutatracexx, @anglophileforlife, @emma8895eb, @sleepylunarwolf

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kykysinlovewithafairytale · 2 days ago

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The Longest Night at The Pitt

PART FIVE OF THE LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST ❤︎ PREVIOUS PART

summary : An ordinary night slips into something else entirely. With Jack stuck at the hospital, you face the unthinkable alone—until help arrives. Fear builds, choices are made, and love is stretched thin across time, distance, and emergency room doors.

word count : ~6,500

warnings/content : emergency childbirth, premature labor, placental abruption, emergency C-section under general anesthesia, medical trauma, fear of maternal mortality, references to PTSD (Jack, war-related), emotional hurt/comfort, post-surgical recovery, supportive friendships (Robby & Heather), angst but fluff AND happy ending.

a/n: Okay. Deep breaths. This is a lot. I promise lots of fluff in the next part. Think: post-crisis healing, twin milestones, Bean thriving in her older sister era, Jack being the most emotionally feral dad alive, and Reader trying to hold it all together (with love. and coffee. lots of coffee). ☁️💕👶👶👶🐥

February 27th — 8:41 PM

The house has transitioned into that soft bedtime quiet. The kind where every sound is gentle and domestic: the hum of the dishwasher cycling through rinse and rain tapping against the windows. The lamp in the living room is still casting long shadows over the floor where Bean’s blocks are still scattered. You should put them away, but your lower back is already aching, and the last time you bent down to pick something up, Jack practically lunged across the room to stop you.

Jack. Only an hour into his night shift. You haven’t checked your phone yet, but he texted when he got in. Said it was steady. Not quiet. Not slow. Just steady. Which, at the Pitt, is about as close to reassuring as it gets.

You rub your hand across your belly absently. It’s tight again. Low and pulling. Not painful, just...wrong. Or maybe different. But you’ve never been pregnant with twins before. You don’t know what’s normal. So you breathe through it and stay quiet. You move to the couch, lowering yourself carefully. The couch creaks the way it always does when you sink into it. You nestle your back into the throw pillows, legs curled off to the side, and try to breathe through the pressure building in your hips.

A small voice calls out from the hallway.

“Mommy?”

You blink. Your head turns toward the shadowed hall.

Little feet shuffle against hardwood. A soft thump. Then the shape of her, Bean, emerging from the shadows with Duck dangling in one hand and the other fist rubbing sleep from her eyes. She’s in her long sleeved pajamas, the ones with the yellow suns and lavender clouds. One of the buttons is undone at the top, and her curls are frizzy from sleep, clinging to her forehead.

You smile without thinking.

“Hey, baby girl.”

Bean walks to you like the shadows appear bigger when Jack isn’t home. There’s a caution in her steps, a quiet suspicion… like even the walls miss him. She looks impossibly small in the low light. When she reaches you, she doesn’t say a word. She just climbs into your lap with the certainty of someone returning to a place that’s always been theirs. Like she belongs there. Like she never left. Duck ends up squished between you, and she lets out a dramatic little sigh, equal parts tired and theatrical.

“Jack-Jack’s not home.”

“Nope,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Not yet. He’s at work.”

“The doctor place?”

“Yeah.”

She frowns into your hoodie. “I like it when he’s home.”

You chuckle softly. “Me too, sweetheart.”

She shifts in your lap, her small hand resting on your stomach without realizing it. One of the twins kicks, and Bean pulls back a little, eyes widening.

“They have a party?” she says, deadly serious.

You laugh again, fuller this time. “Yeah. They’re practicing their dance moves.”

Bean narrows her eyes. “Tell them to stop.”

“They’re not very good listeners.”

She hums and burrows back into you, her cheek pressing against you. Duck flops over the curve of your belly.

“Jack-Jack gonna be home after the moon?”

“After the moon,” you promise. “He’ll sneak in and kiss you on the forehead. Like he always does.”

She nods. She believes in the consistency of her dad’s love like she believes in gravity.

“Can I sleep in your bed?”

You glance down at her. Her lashes are already fluttering, heavy with sleep. She smells like toothpaste and toddler shampoo and the last traces of graham cracker.

“Of course,” you whisper. “Go get comfy. I’ll come tuck you in.”

She yawns and slides off your lap, bare feet pattering toward the bedroom. You start to stand, but the pressure returns. A strange, low wave of discomfort that takes your breath for a second. Not painful. Just…off. You pause at the edge of the couch, one hand braced on the cushion, the other resting low over your belly.

“Just tired,” you whisper to no one in particular. “Just tired. Not time yet.”

Still, your heart’s stuttering in your throat.

You make your way to the bedroom slower than usual, following the faint sounds of Bean. She’s already in bed when you get there. On your side, facing the door. Duck is tucked under her arm. You sit beside her on the edge of the mattress, brushing the hair away from her forehead. She blinks sleepily at you.

“Tell the babies to be nice,” she murmurs. “You’re my mommy first.”

Tears spring to your eyes with no warning. “I always will be, bug,” you say. “Always your mommy first.”

She closes her eyes but opens them again a few seconds later. “Do they know I’m big sister?”

“Of course,” you whisper. “They already love you.”

She hums, thoughtful, like she’s not quite convinced. “You love me too?”

You lean down, kiss her nose. “More than anything.”

She considers that for a long time. Her voice is just a whisper now: “Even more than Jack-Jack?”

You pause. Smile. “Different kind of love. But just as big.”

Bean nods again, and this time her lashes stay still. She’s falling asleep fast. You run your fingers through her hair in soft, absentminded strokes. The way Jack does when she’s sick, the way you did that night she wouldn’t stop crying and you two sat in the rocking chair till dawn. You lie beside her for a few minutes, just watching her drift off. You don’t want to move. You want to stay in this small, steady moment a little longer. You press a kiss to her temple, whisper goodnight.

Then you pull yourself up slowly. One hand to your back, the other to the bedroom wall to steady yourself.

And just before you reach the bathroom, it happens.

A sharp drop. The sensation of warmth. You freeze.

Then look down.

Your water has broken.

Your hands are shaking too hard to type Jack’s number right the first time. Bean is curled into the sheets, one hand still wrapped around Duck, breathing deep. Oblivious. Safe. You glance down at the slow trickle soaking into the carpet under you.

You are not safe.

The first call rings. No answer.

The second. Still nothing.

Third. Voicemail.

Fourth. Still no answer.

By the fifth, you’re gasping.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up, Jack, please—”

You hang up on the sixth unanswered call.

Jack’s contact still glows across the screen: Jack 🩺💕, the little stethoscope emoji something you’d added almost four years ago without thinking, in a moment of softness. You stare at the screen until it fades to black. He’s on a trauma case, you keep reminding yourself. That’s what he said when he texted you last, 30 minutes ago—“big wreck on 376, probably gonna be messy.”

Your throat is dry. You’re cold, even though you’re sweating. The pressure has shifted lower. Something feels wrong. You try to breathe around the ache of that. Of him not here. You press the next name in your Favorites list. Robby picks up immediately.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he says immediately, already alert, like he felt the urgency before you even said a word.

“My water broke,” you get out. “And Jack’s not… he’s not answering, I’ve been calling him and—Robby, something’s wrong.”

There’s a sharp inhale on his end, then a shift. Keys jingling, movement. He’s already getting up. “I’m on the way,” he says. “Heather’s grabbing her coat. We’re coming to you now. Is Bean with you?”

“She’s asleep,” you whisper. “In our bed. I didn’t want to wake her.”

“Okay. That’s good. That’s perfect. Stay with her. We’ll be there in ten.”

But now that you’ve said it, now that someone else knows, it breaks something loose inside of you. You choke out another breath. “Robby… this doesn’t feel like last time.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. It’s not just the water breaking. It’s like… I feel flushed. Cold, but not. My stomach’s tightening but not like contractions, more like everything inside is being pulled down. And my back hurts in this really sharp way… like my body’s folding inward.”

You pause, another wave of tightness rolling low and deep through your abdomen. You have to sit down. Or fall down. You don’t know which.

“I feel… off. Like, not-right off.”

Robby doesn’t say anything at first. But it’s the kind of silence that isn’t casual. The kind where you know he’s processing, not because he doesn’t believe you, but because he does.

“I’ve got you,” he says finally. “Heather’s calling 911 now. We’ll beat the ambulance there. But I need you to keep breathing for me, okay?”

You nod, voice cracking. “Okay.”

You can hear Heather’s voice in the background. Steady, calm, giving your address. You hear the words “possible complications,” and it makes your throat close.

“I don’t want Bean to wake up and be scared,” you whisper.

“She won’t,” Robby says. “I’ll get to her. We’ll bring her to our place. I’ll tell her everything you want me to. She’ll have Duck with her. We’ll keep her safe. I promise.”

“I didn’t even pack a hospital bag yet,” you admit, the tears starting again. “I thought I had more time.”

“You were supposed to,” he murmurs, gently. “You were supposed to have time. But we’ve got you. Me and Heather, we’ll get you there. You don’t have to do any of this alone.”

You press your hand to your belly again, feeling another strange ripple across your skin. “I haven’t even thought of their names yet,” you whisper, voice breaking.

Heather must hear you from the passenger seat. “Then you get to meet them and tell us,” she says, kind and soft. “You tell us when it’s time.”

Your throat aches. Not from pain, but from the force of holding yourself together. “Jack would know what to do,” you murmur. “I keep thinking that he’s probably elbow-deep in a chest tube right now. He doesn’t even know.”

“He’ll know soon,” Robby says. “And he’ll be there. But right now, you don’t have to be okay. You just have to stay steady. We’re almost to your street.”

You press your forehead to your knees, curling into yourself while your daughter sleeps. The air feels thick. Not dramatic. Just real. You’re scared. More scared than you’ve been since that night in the hospital with Bean when her fever wouldn’t come down and her breathing turned shallow, ragged, wrong. You hadn’t let yourself cry then, not until Jack held her to his chest and said she was going to be okay. But now, he’s not here. And all you can think about is whether someone else will be the one holding her, telling her Mommy will be okay soon.

“I don’t care what happens to me,” you say, barely above a whisper. “But don’t let her be scared.”

“We won’t,” Heather says, her voice a balm. “You’re not going anywhere. And Bean’s going to wake up in our bed with Duck tucked under her arm and Robby reading her that ridiculous dinosaur book Jack keeps doing the voices for.”

You laugh, broken and small, but real. “He does the worst voices.”

“He does,” Robby agrees. “God-awful. It’s like British Elmo meets an aging sea captain.”

The call ends right as you hear it: the crunch of tires on gravel, then doors slamming shut, fast footsteps on the walkway. The keypad beeps once. You’d almost forgotten you ever gave them the code. It must’ve been months ago… one of those just-in-case things you never thought would matter. Until now.

“Hey! We’re here.”

Your voice comes thin from upstairs. “Up here, hallway.”

They take the stairs in practiced silence, steps in sync. They both know this house well enough to know where everything is. They know the way the stairs creak near the third step from the top. They know which light switch hums. And when they see you, they know something’s wrong.

Not just early labor wrong. Something-else-wrong. Robby’s face flickers, just once. A brief crack before he softens his voice.

“Okay. Hey. You’re good. Just breathe. Look at me.” His hand comes to your wrist, fingers light. “Pulse is up. Tell me everything.”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “It’s different than last time. There’s this pressure, and I feel… dizzy. Like my limbs aren’t mine. And I haven’t had real contractions.”

“You trust your gut?” he asks, already nodding before you can answer.

You nod once. “I trust it.”

“Then I trust it.”

Heather slips into your room. You hear the gentle shushing and the rustle of a blanket. Bean’s sleepy little voice: “Jack-Jack?”

“Not yet, baby,” Heather murmurs. “You’re coming with me tonight. Like a sleepover.”

Robby guides you into the bathroom, lowers you onto the seat of the toilet slowly, like he doesn’t care that he’s still in joggers and a hoodie and probably didn’t expect to triage his best friend's wife tonight. Heather reemerges with Bean, who’s half asleep on her shoulder, her face pressed into Heather’s scarf, Duck flopping against her side.

“She okay?” you ask hoarsely, eyes locked on your daughter.

“She’s fine,” Heather says gently.

You nod, too overwhelmed to say much. Robby pulls out his phone, glances at the time, and swears under his breath. “We need EMS now. This isn’t something we can drive through.”

You look down at your belly, your hands trembling. “I didn’t want this to go like this,” you whisper.

Robby kneels in front of you again, steadying your hands. “I know.”

“I don’t want her to be scared—Bean.”

“She’s not,” he promises. “She’s sleepy. She thinks it’s an adventure. Heather’s got her.”

You nod again, tears catching at your jawline. EMS is there within the next four minutes. It’s fast. Robby helps relay vitals. Heather tucks Bean into the back seat of his car, checking the car seat twice. She kisses the top of Bean’s head, adjusts Duck, and brushes a curl from her forehead.

The paramedics have you loaded onto the stretcher now, easing you down with steady, practiced hands. Quick but careful, like they’ve done this a hundred times before. Your breath catches with every jolt, your grip tight on the side rail. By the time they guide you into the back of the ambulance, Robby’s already climbing in behind you. As the doors swing shut, he pulls out his phone and hits Call.

It barely rings once.

“Robby,” Jack says, too casually. “Make it quick. I have six missed calls from my beautiful most amazing wife, and if this is about your post-op from this afternoon then yes, he’s fine. I just got out of Trauma Three.”

He’s smiling when he says it. Robby can hear it.

And it guts him.

“Jack,” Robby says, quiet. “It’s about her.”

The silence that follows isn’t long, but it’s enough.

“...What?” Jack’s voice drops immediately. “What happened?”

“She called us,” Robby says, settling into the back of the rig beside you as the ambulance hums to life. “She couldn’t get through to you. She didn’t want to call EMS until she knew Bean would be okay.”

Jack breathes in hard. “Is she in labor?”

“It started, yeah. But it’s not smooth. She said something feels wrong. Pressure, nausea, pain she can’t map. Dizzy… She’s scared, Jack.”

Jack is already moving. Robby can hear the sound of a door swinging open, his shoes on the hospital floor. They’re bringing her here?”

“Yeah. I’m with her now. In the rig. Heather’s taking Bean back to our place. She wouldn’t let herself get loaded in until she was sure Bean was safe. You know how she is.”

Jack lets out a breath. It’s not relief. Not even close.

“She shouldn’t be delivering yet,” he mutters. “It’s too early.”

“I know. But she needs you calm when she gets there.”

Jack doesn’t say anything else for a moment. Then he inhales once, slow and tight. “You think it’s placental?”

“I don’t want to guess until I get her there.”

“Keep her talking. Tell her I’m waiting. And Robby?”

“Yeah?”

Jack’s voice goes thin. Not shaky, never shaky. Just raw. “Don’t let her be scared.”

Robby glances at you, your hand gripping the rail, your face gone pale, your jaw locked like you’re trying not to cry.

He softens his voice. “I won’t.”

Jack ends the call.

And Robby leans in, adjusting the blanket over your legs as the siren kicks up overhead.

“Okay, you’re doing good,” he says, voice gentler now. “Jack’s waiting. You’re going to see him in just a few minutes, alright?”

You nod, barely. Your fingers twitch where they search the space beside you, like they expect Bean’s duck to be there. Like you’re still not used to letting go.

February 27th — 10:00 PM

The gurney rocks slightly beneath you as EMS pushes through the sliding bay doors of The Pitt. It’s too bright inside. Every overhead light feels like it’s burning directly into your eyes, like the hospital has never been louder, never been more alive with urgency.

Jack is there.

He’s waiting at the entrance to trauma, still in his black scrubs, a streak of dried something near his jaw, probably from the last trauma he walked out of. But the second he sees you his face changes. Like he’s been sucker punched.

“Oh my God,” you whisper when you spot him. “Jack—”

He’s at your side before you can say more. “I’m here,” he says, gripping your hand. “I’m here. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

The gurney doesn't stop moving. The paramedics are urgent but steady, wheeling you through the ER. Jack walks beside you, holding your hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him. His voice is low, close to your ear. “Bean’s okay. Robby told me. You did the right thing.”

You nod shakily, breath catching. “She was so sleepy, Jack. She didn’t understand.”

Jack swallows hard, jaw clenching. “I know. I know. But she’s okay. She’s safe. You took care of her.”

You’re crying now, full body sobs that shake your shoulders even as they move you toward Bay 4. “I don’t feel right. Jack, I don’t feel right.”

He hears it in your voice. The terror. The truth. And even though he’s trained to keep calm, even though he’s seen worse his pulse spikes. Because this is you.

John Shen is waiting with a trauma nurse just outside Bay 4. “Vitals are unstable,” Shen mutters to Jack after scanning the EMT’s notes. “BP’s dropping. Possible abruption. We’re prepping for OR now. Walsh is scrubbing in.”

Inside the room, nurses move fast around you. IV bags. Monitors. The blood pressure cuff squeezes your arm too tight, and someone’s asking you to breathe slower, but it’s impossible.

“I thought I was just tired,” you whisper to Jack as he pulls the hair back from your damp forehead. “I thought I just… maybe I didn’t drink enough water.”

“You’ve been carrying two people inside you for thirty five weeks,” he murmurs, voice cracking. “It’s okay to be tired. I’m not going anywhere.”

Shen steps forward, holding your chart. His tone is calm but serious. “We need to get the babies out. Now. For their safety, but especially for yours.”

Your face twists. “No. No, that’s not—this wasn’t the plan.”

“I know,” Jack says, his voice soft but firm, eyes locked on yours. “But this is what we need to do. I promise you, we wouldn’t be making this call if there was any other option.”

Your voice breaks as you stare at him, wide-eyed and terrified. “I don’t want to be put under.”

Walsh walks in, already gloved and masked. “You have some early signs of preeclampsia. Spinal’s too risky. We don’t want to lose time. General anesthesia is safer for your body and for them.”

Your hand tightens on Jack’s. “Don’t let them do this. You’re a doctor. Jack, you know what this is. Don’t let them.”

Jack leans in, his forehead resting against yours. His voice is low, breaking open. “If we wait… we risk losing you.”

He lets that truth hang there, even though it shatters something in him to say it out loud. “I need you to be here,” he whispers. “I need you to wake up. I need you to yell at me for folding the burp cloths wrong. I need you in that room, holding them. Not just in pictures.”

Tears slip down your cheeks. Your voice is barely there. “I wanted to hold them first.”

“You will,” he promises, brushing your cheek with his knuckles. “You will. But I can’t hold any of them without you.”

You nod slowly, the smallest motion. He kisses your forehead. “If anything happens—”

“Stop.” Jack’s voice sharpens. “Don’t talk like that.”

You pause. Then murmur, “Just… just promise me they’ll have your heart. And your patience.”

A flicker of a smile crosses his face. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “If we’re lucky, maybe they’ll get your stubbornness.”

A nurse steps closer. “We’re ready.”

You let go of his hand slowly. And it feels like the air leaves the room. He kisses your hand once. Then lets it fall gently back to your side. Shen and Walsh exchange glances, nod. They wheel you away. And Jack doesn’t breathe until the doors close between you.

Robby appears a beat later. “Hey.”

Jack turns, blinking rapidly.

“She okay?”

Jack doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at the swinging doors. “She will be. She has to be.”

Robby glances down the hall. “Heather’s at the apartment. Bean barely woke up in the car.”

Jack nods. “Thank you.”

“You should sit down.”

“I can’t,” Jack says, jaw tight.

Robby places a hand on his shoulder. “Then I’ll stand here with you.”

February 27th — 11:07 PM

Jack doesn’t sit. He stands outside the OR, arms crossed tightly over his chest, spine pressed against the wall, as if anchoring himself to something solid is the only way to keep from unraveling completely.

The double doors stay shut. The hall is too bright, too quiet. A trauma attending shouldn’t look like this.

But Jack’s not a trauma attending right now. He’s a husband. A husband who knows exactly what a rapid onset placental abruption looks like. A husband who’s seen what happens when mothers don’t wake up. A husband who’s trained medics to move faster than this… so why the hell is everyone moving so damn slowly?

His hands are still stained from his last case. He hasn’t washed them. He doesn’t remember if he did. It doesn’t matter. He can’t stop picturing your face: terrified, trying to be brave for him, for Bean, for the two babies that aren't supposed to be here yet.

His knee won’t stop bouncing. His jaw aches from how hard he’s been clenching it. You weren’t supposed to be in that gurney. You were supposed to be standing in the nursery tomorrow morning, paint roller in hand, bickering with him over whether the trim needed a second coat. You were supposed to be texting him updates from the baby store about how ridiculous the prices were but still grabbing the lamb-print swaddles because they made you smile. You were supposed to be upstairs right now, curled up on your side of the bed, safe. Warm under the covers. And he was supposed to come home from the night shift and find you there, kiss your temple in the dark, whisper something soft against your skin.

Not this. Not like this. Instead, you’re behind those doors. Under anesthesia. Cut open.

And he’s useless.

“Abbot.”

Robby’s voice cuts through the static. Jack doesn’t look away from the door.

“She’s in good hands,” Robby says quietly.

“I know,” Jack says, his voice so low it’s nearly a growl. “I trust Shen. I trust Walsh. I just…”

His throat closes. Robby nods. He gets it.

Jack exhales hard. “I’ve seen them done before. The emergency C-section. I’ve helped with them a hundred times. But it’s not the same when it’s her. It’s not the same when I—”

He stops. Can’t say it.

Robby doesn’t push. He just steps closer.

“I keep hearing her voice,” Jack whispers. “Telling me not to let them put her under. Begging me to stop it. And I couldn’t. I couldn’t protect her from this.”

“You did,” Robby says gently. “You gave her the reassurance she needed.”

Jack shakes his head. “It wasn’t reassuring. It was a gamble.”

Silence.

Then Jack turns, like he can’t hold it anymore. “You know what the mortality rates are in crash-section with general anesthesia and preeclampsia? You know what I’ve seen? Women coding on the table before they ever even push. I’ve held hands that went cold mid surgery. And now she’s in there, and I’m just supposed to wait out here like—like it’s not the love of my f—”

He breaks off.

Robby doesn’t flinch. He just lets him speak.

Jack’s chest rises and falls too fast now.

“She told me she wanted them to have my heart,” he says finally, softer. “But what if they don’t get hers? What if they never know her voice? What if—” He swallows. “What if she doesn’t get to see them grow up… see Bean grow up?”

A beat.

“I’ve survived a war. I’ve lost patients. I lost a leg. And none of it, not one goddamn second of it, felt as terrifying as watching them take her into that OR without me.”

There’s nothing to say to that. Robby places a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “You’re allowed to be scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Jack says, voice thin. “I’m f— I’m paralyzed, Robby.”

“You love her,” Robby says. “Of course you are.”

The hallway is quiet again.

Then: the intercom clicks.

“OR 2, baby boy delivered. 11:09 PM.”

Jack freezes.

“OR 2, baby girl delivered. 11:10 PM.”

He closes his eyes.

They’re here.

But the announcement ends there.

No mention of you. No mention of your vitals. No update on your status. Jack’s breath stutters. The silence is worse than anything else.

“Why haven’t they said anything?” he mutters.

“Because they’re working,” Robby says.

Jack presses his fist to his mouth. He turns his back to the door, just for a second, like if he looks away, it’ll change something. But it doesn’t.

He waits.

Two more minutes.

Five.

Until finally—

The doors swing open with a groan.

Jack is already moving. Shen steps out, surgical cap still on, the edge of his mask hanging from one ear. His scrubs are soaked to the elbows. His eyes land on Jack with the kind of weight that makes Jack brace his entire body.

Jack doesn't speak. He just waits. It's the only thing he can do without breaking. Shen exhales. “We’ve got both babies out. Vitals are strong. Girls got a good pair of lungs too, already let us know how she feels about the fluorescent lights.”

Jack lets out a sound. Somewhere between a laugh and a choke.

Shen keeps going. “But your wife—” Shen shifts, tone sobering. “She lost a lot of blood. We’re still working. Walsh is in there now. Garcia is closing with her. I’ll let you know as soon as we’re stable.”

He should move. Should go to NICU. Should thank Shen. Should do anything other than stand here with his heart in his throat and his hands twitching at his sides like they’ve forgotten how to hold anything steady.

“I need to…I should go,” he says, not really to Shen, not really to anyone.

But Shen puts a hand on his shoulder. “She’s strong, Jack. You know that better than anyone.”

Jack gives a faint, broken laugh. “Yeah. She is.”

A beat passes.

Then Jack takes a breath that hurts to hold and turns toward the NICU.

Every hallway in this hospital looks different tonight. Brighter, harsher. Too clean. Like it’s mocking him for how close he came to losing everything in the building he’s walked a thousand times.

At the NICU window, he hesitates. He’s not scrubbed in, not a doctor right now. He’s just a man trying to hold himself together with nothing but the sight of two tiny humans swaddled in sterile white and soft blue.

The girl is on the left. She’s smaller than he thought she’d be. Her nose, maybe, is yours. No, definitely. That slope he kisses every morning.

The boy’s chest rises and falls like he’s been doing this for years. Confident little thing. Fists balled at his sides like he’s already ready to fight.

“You don’t know me yet,” Jack murmurs, barely audible. “But I’ve been yours for months.”

He leans his head against the glass for a second. Just to breathe. Just to stay standing. “You’ve got her strength,” he whispers. “You have to. ‘Cause she’s... she’s the reason I get through anything. So you both just hold on because you also got an older sister back at home who’s excited to meet you”

Behind him, the hallway stays quiet. Jack presses two fingers to the glass, one for each of them. And then, quietly, because there’s no one here to hear him fall apart, he breaks.

But only a little. Just enough to keep going.

Behind him, a familiar footstep. A voice.

“Thank god they look like her and not you.”

Jack smiles softly but still doesn’t look up. Then, after a beat: “You should go.”

“I’m not—”

“Go be with her,” Jack says, a little rougher now. “You’ve got Heather. Bean’s gonna wake up in the morning, and she needs someone who’s not cracked open.”

Robby’s quiet. “I’ll come back,” he says eventually.

“I know.”

Then he steps back. And Jack is alone.

He leans slowly into the glass, “ I hope you never know what this part feels like.” His voice is hoarse. “But if you do… I’ll be here.”

February 28th — 2:32 AM

Room 12.

He doesn’t knock. Doesn’t need to.

The nurse had said it soft, “She’s out of surgery. You can go in.” Jack had just nodded. No “thank you.” No “how did it go?” Just moved.

The room is dimmed low, the only sound the slow rhythm of the heart monitor and the hum of machinery filtering in from the hallway. You're still under, IVs taped to your arm, lips dry and parted. Jack steps in quietly, like the floor might give out beneath him.

He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks.

You’re here. Alive. Intubation tube gone. Still unconscious, but breathing on your own. That alone nearly undoes him.

He pulls the chair close to your bedside, prosthetic clicking against the tile like a dull metronome. Settling down, he exhales slow, scrubbing a hand down his face. He leans forward and rests his forearms on his knees.

“Hey,” he says softly, like you might answer. “So, you missed some stuff.”

His voice is hoarse. Wrecked. But he's trying, trying to hold onto something like normal. “Shen said our daughter came out screaming. Real diva about it, apparently. She’s got lungs. The kind that get you kicked out of restaurants.”

A small smile flickers across his mouth, but it doesn’t quite stay. “And our son? Yeah, he’s already in trouble. Kicked a nurse while she was swaddling him. Not even five minutes old and already assaulting staff. We’re probably gonna have to post bail before he can walk.”

He leans back just slightly, tilting his head like he's talking to a conscious you. “You and them really couldn’t wait a few more weeks, huh? I mean, I know we said late March. But apparently February was like... an aggressive suggestion.”

The joke lands flat in the quiet, but he keeps going, voice a little less steady now.

“You scared the shit out of me.” He swallows hard. Looks down. When he glances back up, he’s pulling his wallet from his pocket. He flips it open, pulls out a worn ultrasound photo.

“I was gonna update these,” he mutters. “You know, once they were born. This was the plan. You and me doing it together. New photos. New names. You sitting next to me while I tried to spell things correctly.”

He sets the ultrasound down beside you, then pulls out a tiny photo of Bean—Bean on her second birthday, icing on her nose, holding Duck like he’s state property. He lets out a breath that’s more ache than air.

“Bean’s doing good. She woke up and asked if the babies were here yet. Told Heather she wants to teach them the duck song.”

His voice cracks slightly at that. Jack leans forward again, resting his hand gently on your arm. His fingers brush over your skin like he’s checking again that you’re real. He pulls out the last photo. The one of the two of you. You’re laughing, and he’s half-smiling, like someone caught him off guard. It was a summer day. You were still working at the firm. Before Bean. Before all this.

“I don’t know what possessed me to put all these photos in my wallet. Like I’m eighty years old and don’t have an iPhone. But I like having you on me. Even when you're already on my lock screen. I like carrying you. The whole damn life.”

He blinks hard. Runs a hand through his hair. “I kept thinking… if you didn’t make it…” His voice drops, thin. “I don’t know how to do this without you.”

His thumb strokes over the inside of your wrist. “Come back, babe. Please. Just… just wake up. Call me dramatic. Tell me I’m being ridiculous. Ask me if I paid the water bill and highlighted it for completeness. Anything.”

He closes his eyes for a long moment.

Then: “They’re beautiful, by the way. You made beautiful babies. I mean, I helped. But let’s be honest… that’s all you.”

He leans in and presses a soft kiss to your temple, his voice just a breath.

“Don’t you go anywhere. You’re the reason I come home.”

February 28th — 6:45 AM

It’s early. Not sunrise, not quite, but the world’s already moving around you.

You awake slowly, blinking past the haze of medication and the soft pulse of IV drips, and the first thing you feel isn’t pain.

It’s weight.

Not crushing, not uncomfortable but warm.

Jack.

He’s asleep, hunched in the chair beside your hospital bed, slouched forward with one forearm braced on the mattress and the other crooked protectively near your side. His head is turned toward you, cheek resting on his bicep. His body curls in like instinct, like a man trying to make himself as close to the person he almost lost as the world will allow.

And for a moment, you just look at him.

His lashes, pale against his skin. The fine lines carved beneath his eyes, softened by sleep. His wedding band catching a sliver of morning light. You shift, just slightly, your hand brushing through his hair. He flinches awake with a soft grunt, blinking rapidly. “Shit—sorry—Jesus, I didn’t mean to—”

Then he sees you.

His whole face changes.

“Hey,” he breathes, voice like gravel in sunlight. “You’re awake.”

You nod, lips parting. “Barely.”

Jack exhales, the sound rigid, like he’s letting go of something he’s been holding in for hours. He straightens up but doesn’t move far, one hand reaching for yours, thumb tracing across the bones of your knuckles.

“I thought about duct-taping my eyelids open,” he mutters. “But Shen said you’d probably prefer if I wasn’t banned from the ICU.”

“Shen always knows me best.”

He gives you a look. “Funny. I thought I held that title.”

You smile and Jack melts like it hurts. He shifts his chair closer, dragging it just enough so he can lean in and press a kiss to your temple. You’re quiet for a moment. Listening to the machines. Feeling his breath against your skin.

And then: “The twins?”

Jack nods, easing back just far enough to see you. “Yeah. You made two actual humans. And get this, they already have opinions.”

Your heart thuds hard.

He starts with your daughter. “Nothing is delicate about our daughter. If she’s cold, she lets you know. If she’s bored, she lets the entire neonatal unit know. Pretty sure she glared at me when I leaned too close.”

You blink, tears pricking. “Oh.”

He nods solemnly. “She’s got your attitude. And possibly your hairline.”

You let out a soft laugh. “And the boy?”

Jack leans in, lowers his voice. “I swear to God, I watched him grip the side of the bassinet. Like a man with a plan. He made eye contact with one of the nurses while getting his heel stick and I could see it in his face… full betrayal.”

You giggle through your tears. “Jack.”

“Bean’s gonna eat them alive,” he says softly. “They don’t even know what’s coming.”

You go quiet. Your hand finds his again. He leans in, brushing his lips to your knuckles. “They’re beautiful. They’re safe. And you—”

His throat tightens. “You’re here. And I’m still trying to figure out how the hell I’m supposed to thank the universe for that.”

There’s a long pause. Then Jack’s phone buzzes. He checks it, reading silently. His brow softens.

“Robby,” he murmurs. “He’s downstairs with Bean.”

Your eyes widen. “Is she—?”

“She’s okay,” Jack assures gently. “He said she was full meltdown until Heather told her they were going to Daddy’s work. Then she stopped crying. Said, ‘If I can’t see Mommy and Daddy, at least I can breathe the same air.’”

You smile through a sob.

“She’s terrifying,” Jack says. “Like, emotionally gifted beyond reason. I don’t know how we made her.”

“You love her so much.”

Jack nods, blinking hard. “I do.”

You exhale. “Can I see them?”

“I’ll bring her and the twins in when you’re ready.”

You take a breath, trying not to cry. “I don’t feel ready for anything.”

He cups your cheek, voice low. “You don’t have to be. You just have to let us be near you.”

You nod and shut your eyes, the tears slipping down.

Jack leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. “I love you,” he whispers. “More than I know how to carry sometimes.”

You squeeze his hand weakly. “I know. I love you too.”

659 notes · View notes

kykysinlovewithafairytale · 8 days ago

Text

the love list

You’ve been in love before, okay? And it’s… alright, you guess.

You’re sensitive. And you miss jokes, and you’re stuck wondering if it’s you who’s just not getting it. Love.

Enter Clark Kent — mutual friend recently turned boyfriend, sweetheart, and small-town farm boy. Also the man who’s making you question everything you know about love. Which isn’t a lot.

Better make a list.

[10k, fem!reader, no spoilers, one steamy scene & no other way to put this but you’re a weird girl <3 ]

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It’s not that you haven’t had boyfriends before.

‘Cos you have. Well, kind of.

Technically, if you’re counting (and you are), there was Danny. He was your boyfriend from second grade, which lasted all of 2 days.

It was tough from the beginning. He hadn’t been appreciative of the myriad of bugs you tried to present him with over the 48 hours of your relationship. He also didn’t want to hold your hand.

The final straw came when he claimed that a pile of worms was gross, not romantic.

You still didn’t get that. But you figured if getting mud between your fingers wasn’t some notion of romance, then perhaps romance wasn’t for you.

And after that, it had been a long while.

Teenage years had slogged by. You got to watch as your friends got boyfriends—then got to wonder what bizarre magic it was that turned them into hopeless fools.

Lost to reason. Endeared by things you could never quite understand.

You had asked about it, just once. Your best friend at the time, Kelsey, had fixed you with a look and said, “You’re thinking about it too much. It’s just, like, love. You get it or you don’t.”

Kelsey and you hadn’t been friends for much longer. But you still remembered what she said for years to come.

It hadn’t been all that confidence inspiring, if you were being completely honest. Since then, you’ve been wondering if you’re just one of those people who are never going to ‘get it’.

There seems to be a lot of things that people get that you don’t.

It’s not been for lack of trying though. During your early twenties, there had been that awful three weeks where you had downloaded a dating app.

It had been tricky. It didn’t seem all that romantic either. How are you supposed to sum yourself up in a couple of photos? How are you supposed to read tone through a text?

Besides, no matter what you seemed to do, all the conversations led back to the discussion of sex. Which didn’t seem very fitting, considering it was called a dating app. Were hookups considered dates? A mystery to you.

But - and you remember this clearly - it had been the day you’d deleted the app, that you had run into Darren in the hall of your apartment complex.

By anyone else’s standards, Darren is the only boyfriend you’ve had.

Except for now — because now, you have Clark.

And yeah, like you said, it’s not like you haven’t had a boyfriend before. It’s just that somehow, with Clark now, you’re noticing things.

New things. Different things.

You and Darren had dated for the better part of a year. The break-up had been amicable — at least you think so.

Getting a read on Darren’s emotions was one of those things that never really clicked - though, ironically, you could tell that it was one of the things that annoyed him so.

It was one of quite a few things, apparently.

According to your friends, you and Darren had a ‘fairy-tale’ meeting. Bumping into each other in the elevator, his coffee spilling down your sleeve, his apology and insistence at making it up to you.

You’d agreed before you’d even really realised it was a date.

It was easy to get wrapped up in it, in him. Darren was certainly nice to look at. He had this swoopy blonde hair and nice green eyes that reminded you of seaweed. He didn’t seem to like it when you’d told him that though.

The first date had been at a dive-bar you’d never seen before, a grimey place called The Last Resort.

It flaunted crimson lighting and sticky vinyl seats. You’d been too overwhelmed and tried to stem it with a margarita - overshooting it a bit with the booze. You hadn’t expected it when Darren tried to kiss you.

It had been awkward, his lips not quite meeting yours, combined with the squeak of surprise you’d let out. But Darren insisted it was cute.

He’d walked you home (but then again, he did live in your building) and asked you at your door, tall and nearly intimidating in the space of your doorway, if you’d like to do it again. You’d barely had a second to think it over, to analyse any emotion of the night, before an answer stumbled out.

It’s, like, love. You get it or you don’t get it. The only haunt from your old best friend - the only reason you really wondered if you were missing something.

Something that made you want to get it, even if you weren’t entirely sure what it was.

You’d told Darren yes.

After a couple of weeks together, you were confident. Kelsey had been right. You got it now.

Darren was sweet. He took you out — though, those nights frequently ended up at The Last Resort. Eventually, you learned to like it with time.

He’d invite you over and cook you dinner — but sometimes he’d forget that he hadn’t been grocery shopping and would just order in.

He’d kiss you like no else had - because no one else really had - and you’d let him convince you to be late to work. He’s peel off your clothes in a rush of frenzied passion, as though he couldn’t make himself wait. Darren made you feel special.

Love. You had been in love.

Correction: you think you had been in love.

It must’ve been, you’ve since concluded. You can’t really think of any other reason that it lasted that long if it wasn’t love.

In fact, you hadn’t really questioned it until now. Hadn’t had any reason to.

Until Clark.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Clark’s apartment is fancier than yours.

It’s all high-rise and sleek surfaces, with big windows that stretch from the roof to the ground. You like how fast the elevator goes and how it makes your stomach swoop.

Clutching the strap of your bag, you watch the numbers climb as it reaches his level. The path to his apartment is memorised, even though, technically, you and Clark have only officially been seeing each other for a couple of weeks.

You have your prior friendship to thank for that. A friend of a friend, that’s how you two had met.

Lois Lane is a fantastic reporter and a good friend. She could ask the right questions, make you uncomfortable for the sake of finding out the truth, but she was never mean. You liked that. It was rare in people.

You two had been friends — though you hadn’t been sure if she would use that word — back in your college days.

It was an accidental reunion on the streets of Metropolis that had her dragging you along to some Daily Planet happy-hour drinks after work. There you’d met Ron, Steve, Cat, Jimmy, and Clark.

This is where people say the rest is history.

The elevator dings and rocks to a halt. You step out, counting the doors on the way to Clark’s apartment. His door, like all the others, is a lime-green you’re not fond of. Clark always smiles when he catches you wrinkling your nose at it.

It’s as you come to a pause before the familiar lime-green, do you realise you haven’t called ahead.

You hadn’t been thinking of that — just that you got off work early, had to run an errand on this side of town, and were right by Clark’s building entirely by accident. You’d only been thinking of seeing Clark.

Most people don’t like it when you show up unannounced, you’ve found.

You get it, you suppose. You get that way when someone comes into the kitchen when you’re cooking - or when you’re wearing your headphones and people won’t stop trying to talk to you. It makes you itch.

You don’t mind so much when people come by and visit you, mainly because it doesn’t happen all that often.

It might be your apartment; a quaint shoebox, especially compared to Clark’s.

But Clark insists that he likes your apartment more, calls it homier. Which is nice, because Darren only ever called it tiny.

And Darren really didn’t like it when you called by without telling him in advance.

The first time you had, after getting a surprise bonus at work, had been the first time he’d ever raised his voice at you.

You’d stood in the hallway the whole time, because Darren never even undid the chain to let you in, and felt slimy with guilt and confusion for days after.

Just as you’re envisioning all the ways this unexpected visit might result in a similar disaster, the door swings inward. There stands your boyfriend.

He’s smiling - a good sign for your predicament - and it’s a good-surprised kind of smile. Like finding something you’d thought you’d lost kind of surprise.

Clark opens his mouth to speak, but you beat him to it.

“Hi. I- I’m sorry, I— wait, how did you…? I didn’t knock.”

“Hi,” Clark says back, still so smiley. He has one hand still on the door, the other against the doorframe. He looks very pretty. “What are you sorry for? I thought I heard you come down the hall, so I thought I’d just check.”

You wonder if he’s done that when it hasn’t been you — the thought of his head poking out, searching the hall for you, makes your stomach feel like it does when the elevator goes too fast. In a good way.

You shrug your shoulders in explanation for your apology. “I didn’t call ahead.”

To that, Clark grins a little wider. He steps back and opens the door further, to invite you in. “I’m glad you didn’t. I love surprises.”

Something preens within you at the idea of being a nice surprise.

He’s clearly back from work early — or he’s working from home, but still decided to put on his work clothes. No glasses today either.

He’s wearing his usual slacks and smart dress shoes. His white button-up, though, has been replaced with a tight-fitting ringer t-shirt. It hugs his arms well, snug across his biceps, and it's tight across his chest.

If he asked you what you thought of it, you’d probably sputter something stupid. And sinful.

He doesn’t ask thankfully, he just ushers you inside politely. You step through the door you’ve been through countless times, toe off your shoes, and stop at the edge of the kitchen. Clark closes the door behind you and you wonder what protocol for this is.

This is a new part you’re still getting used to.

Normally, you’d take yourself to the couch, the usual corner seat you’ve unofficially reserved. But, now that you think about it, you haven’t actually been here since Clark dropped the g-word.

(He hadn’t actually asked to be his girlfriend in that manner of words. It had been much more poetic, flowers bought, a nervous and murmured ‘Please be mine?’ that you still thought about before bed.)

A hand touches your shoulder lightly and you turn towards it, to Clark, with a tentative smile.

This is where you’re unsure. Are you just allowed to kiss him? Whenever you want? Darren hadn’t been like that.

Kisses to say hello? It feels preposterous. You’ll never stop if given the chance.

“Hi,” Clark says again, and all thoughts of Darren evaporate. His hand shifts, tracing the line of your shoulder slowly up to your face.

Then, he answers your endless unvoiced questions for you, his hand cradling your jaw tenderly. You can feel the callouses on his fingers, feel the goosebumps you get in response.

Clark guides your chin up, you hold your breath, and he kisses you, soft.

You savour the moment by keeping your eyes closed a little longer, even when his lips have left yours.

Clark’s smiling again when your eyes flutter open, grinning enough to show teeth. You’re mirroring it without even realising, eyes creased and cheeks already aching.

You can’t believe it’s been a few weeks and it still feels like that when you kiss him.

It’s an effort not to get worried about when that will stop.

Clark removes his hand slowly, eyes still roaming your face, but eventually he relents. He takes a step further into the apartment.

You follow, wrapping one hand around your wrist to subtly feel for your pulse. It’s rocketing. No wonder you feel so lightheaded.

“How’d you end up on this side of town?” he asks, taking a seat on the couch.

You realise where his dress shirt is now, picked up between his fingers as he unwinds a spool of thread. There’s a button on the table, matching the others on the shirt.

You take a seat next to him. Close, but not so close to be clingy. Clingy isn’t good, you’ve learned.

You pull your legs up and rest your head on your knees, watching as he hunts for a needle on the table.

“Work let me leave early,” you say. Clark locates the needle with a quiet aha! “I had to return that book I got from the library. I don’t know if you remember, but they only had it at this particular branch.”

“I remember,” Clark says warmly, his eyes glancing up at you. “You finished that book already?”

He’s talking and trying to thread the needle at the same time. It’s not going well. The needle looks tiny in his hand. You take pity on him after the third try.

“Yeah, I — hey, let me have a go,” you cut yourself off, holding out your hand. Clark smiles guiltily, carefully passing over the needle and thread in your waiting hand.

In one quick motion, thread wet on your tongue, you push it through the needle. Instead of handing it back, you hold out your hand again - and Clark dutifully puts the button in your palm, handing over the shirt at the same time. You readjust, putting your knees to the side and folding your feet up beneath you.

“It was good, then?”

You hm, eyes fixed on the button as you prepare the thread, lining everything up. You glance up, meeting Clark’s eye, and realise he’s still asking about the book.

“Oh. It was okay, I guess,” you shrug a little.

You bite the needle between your teeth so you can align the button with both thumbs. “It had one of those three-day loans so, y’know, I had to read it in three days.”

It’s one of those little rules that make more sense to you than to anyone else. Darren hated them - and you hated that he called them senseless. It was the exact opposite!

“Well, of course,” is all Clark says. Another flash of your eyes up to his face tells you that, surprisingly, he’s not making fun of you. “I should get you to read some of my articles if you can read all that so quickly.”

For some reason, that makes your face burn. You focus on jabbing the needle through the fabric in precise motions to distract yourself.

“Why would you want me to do that?”

“Why not?” Clark responds. “I trust your opinion.”

The burn in your face gets worse. You pull the needle through for the final time and tug the thread taut til it snaps.

Just to check - and to give yourself a moment - you run your fingers over the button to check. Secure and neat.

“Here you go.” You pass it back. The needle and thread go back on the table.

Clark takes the shirt, but doesn’t move to do anything else. You lift your eyes to his face and realise he’s waiting for your answer.

“I don’t think I’d be very good at it.” You admit. He shrugs, as if to say maybe.

“We won’t know til you try,” he says. Then he kindly backs off, turning his attention to the shirt.

He does just as you had, running his fingers over the newly secured button, but with a much more enthusiastic reaction.

“Holy cow, this is—” He squints at it. “It’s so neat!”

Clark looks up at you, eyes somehow both wide and accusatory. “You didn’t tell me you could sew.”

Technically, you can’t. You can do little things like buttons and hems—but the way Clark’s smoothing his hands over the fabric, you’d think you’ve given him a brand new shirt, made from scratch.

You say sheepishly, “It’s just a button.”

Suddenly, the shirt is tossed to the side and Clark’s reaching for you - his large hands curl around your thighs, just above the knee, and he pulls you across the couch with a surprising strength. You slide forward, almost into his lap.

“Clark!” You laugh, hands on his collarbones to stop yourself from falling into his chest.

Your protest goes unnoticed - or ignored - as Clark’s hands move up, circling around your waist and pulling you even closer. You are in his lap now, with his big arms around you and his face so close. God, it’s a nice one, you can’t help but think.

He’s smiling at you and you have no idea what to do with your hands.

“Sorry,” Clark says, not sounding very apologetic at all. “It’s just, you’re so full of surprises. I love getting to learn new things about you.”

One hand on your back is tracing up and down lightly. You feel like you’ve accidentally swallowed a bag of pop rocks.

“A lot of people can sew.” You say. You shift a bit on his lap, hoping you aren’t making him uncomfortable and his hands loosen to let you do so - but the moment he realises you’re not moving off, he brings you in closer.

“I know,” he says, hand resuming its drift up and down your back. “A lot of people aren’t you though.”

His eyes roam your face, his mouth curled into a smile so sweet, it’s devastating.

Your hands at his collarbones finally unfurl as you let yourself relax a little more into him, pulse still racing. Your nerves never really leave around Clark.

“What are you thinking about?”

You’re not expecting the question - and answer more truthfully than usual. “How you still make me nervous.”

You expect Clark to laugh, but he doesn’t. His brows knit together, a sketch of concern on his face.

“In a good way?”

You weren’t before, but, abruptly, you’re concerned that Clark might think otherwise.

Darren certainly complained that all your annoyances came out of nowhere. History tells you you’re not the best communicator.

“Yes,” You nod severely. You’re clinging a little tighter to his neck now, worriedly. “It’s good. You’ve never made me bad-nervous.”

“Whew,” Clark says. “You’ve never made me bad-nervous either.”

You haven’t thought about that before. The idea of Clark being nervous is laughable.

Awkward? Yes. But he’s so sure in his ideas, in his motions. It’s why it surprised you that much more when he asked you on that first date.

Brow furrowed, you ask, “I don’t make you nervous, do I?”

In answer, Clark frees one of his hands and brings it between you. Gently, he places it atop one of your own, cradling it, and he drags it from his neck down to his chest.

He holds it over his heart.

“Feel that?”

You can, just lightly. There’s a thumping, but you can’t quite tell if it’s faster than usual - not unless you sit still for 15 seconds and count the beats.

“It would be much more efficient to feel the pulse on your neck.” You inform him.

Clark chuckles, smiling somewhat shyly. “That’s-well, uh, I mean, where’s the romance in that?”

Genuinely perplexed, your brow creases again. All of this is romantic to you - being in his lap, his hands on your back.

It certainly feels more intimate than any kind of cuddling you did with Darren—though, he self-proclaimed himself ‘not a cuddler’.

“Isn’t it?” You ask.

To test the theory, you slip your hand out from under Clark’s.

He lets you maneuver him, picking up his hand and moving his two front fingers together, up to your neck. You push them lightly against your jugular, knowing your rabbiting pulse must be thrumming against his fingers.

Clark looks at you, his eyes fixated on your hand still holding his, and swallows.

His ears have gotten redder. He lifts his gaze to your face, “I stand corrected.”

You release his hand with your own shy smile and before you can back out, you reach for his neck, two fingers out. He lets you, chin even shifting up to give you more space.

His skin is warm, with a little scratch from his shadow - he’ll be due for a shave soon. You haven’t gotten brave enough to tell him that you quite like stubble just yet.

Fingertips tracing, you find his pulse point.

Staring at the hollow of his throat, you don’t even need to count to 15 to feel his pulse is faster than normal. He’s not lying. You do make him nervous.

You’re not quite sure why it seemed so impossible until right this moment.

Flicking your gaze up to meet his, you find Clark already watching you. Like his ears, a lovely pink colour has dusted across the tops of his cheeks - it takes a second to realise it’s a blush. He’s blushing.

Clark clears his throat. His voice sounds raspier when he asks, “Believe me now?”

With his heartbeat against your fingers, you have no choice but to. Though the idea it’s just from two fingers is positivity delirious.

“I never said I didn’t.”

“No, you didn’t.” He agrees.

He straightens up on the couch, his hand on your lower back keeping you steady as his face dips closer to yours. You hold your breath instinctively - and swear you see the ghost of a smile cross his lips - then, he’s kissing you.

It’s short. He doesn’t linger, though the look in his eyes tells you he might want to.

Given you're on his lap, hand still pressed to his neck, you try to convince yourself it’s probably a good thing.

Just one kiss is enough to inspire more. There’s no other word than ravenous—which is highly concerning since you had never felt that way with Darren.

You shelve the thought of sinking your teeth into Clark’s shoulder far, far away.

And then mentally make a note to check and see if you’ve had any bites from rabid animals recently. That would at least explain the strange urges.

Clark breaks the silence, “Thank you for mending my shirt.”

He reaches for it, tugging it between your bodies. He thumbs over the newly fixed button, almost as if he’s marvelling at it.

His sincerity mystifies you. It’s like nothing you’re used to.

Having read a dozen articles on new relationships (your best attempt at research, inspired after your first date with Clark), you know definitively that bringing up an ex is the worst thing you can do.

It’s the first thing on the lists: THE TOP TEN THINGS WOMEN DO WRONG, as Cosmopolitan had titled it.

1: Bringing up their ex. Always bright red, meaning danger!

That’s how things work in nature at least, like poison dart-frogs. You know better than to lick a poison dart-frog and you apply the same knowledge here.

No bringing up exes. You don’t want to bring up your ex.

Worse, you don’t want Clark to bring up any exes.

But you can’t drop it - the thought caught in your mind like a fly that can’t find the open window, going round and round, louder and louder.

You got it. The love thing.

It had been an open and shut case with Darren, one that had left you mildly dissuaded from it in the future. Yeah, yeah, love, you’ve been in — but it had been like, sharing a sundae.

Except, you had a straw and Darren had a spoon - and the flavour was chocolate, which you didn’t like, and you only got some if it melted before Darren ate it all.

…Not your most astute metaphor, you’ll admit.

Point is, with Clark, you’re worried you were so focused on getting it, that you actually… didn’t.

Point is, if you were in love with Darren, then you have no idea what you’re doing with Clark.

Point is, that’s incredibly fucking scary.

You best start keeping notes.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

In your notebook, you write he thanked me for mending his shirt.

You’re not sure exactly what the list is yet.

Notes on the Clark Kent boyfriend experience? A step-by-step guide to the differences between boyfriends?

Neither of those seem right. You end up printing a ? at the top of the page and deem that sufficient. Then after a moment of consideration, you add the word love before it so it ends up reading: love ?

You read the first line you’ve written again. It’s the most concise way to sum up what had stuck out to you about that day — not the mending, but the sincerity in his thank you. The excitement over just a button.

If you didn’t know Clark to be so earnest, you’d think it might be one of those sarcastic jokes.

Sometimes, people play them on you — an exaggerated reaction that you’re supposed to know actually means the opposite.

But only sometimes. You’re not particularly good at cottoning on in the moment.

Luckily for you, Clark isn’t the sarcastic type. You like that he’s honest.

The first line in your notebook doesn’t stay lonely for long. The next time you add to your notebook, it’s your eighth official date together, just a few days after.

Clark had secured some swanky museum tickets, a perk offered from his job, as he told you over the phone. He’d called while still at work, the telephone lines ringing and an office murmur in the background.

It made you think he got the tickets and called you right away. Your stomach had done the elevator thing again, all swoopy and good-nervous.

The shelved thought of biting his shoulder made a fierce reappearance and you had to fight to focus on Clark’s words, not just his voice.

“They have a new butterfly exhibition, that’s what the tickets are for, and I thought of you. I thought we could, uh, go. My treat. I mean, obviously, I’ve already got the tickets…” He had trailed off awkwardly. It’s part of what makes you like him, his awkwardness. It’s so very Clark.

“What do you think?”

You answered candidly, “I love the museum.”

You hope the one he’s talking about has a mineral room.

“You do?” He’d sounded truly delighted to find that out. “That’s great, I—mean, me too. So we’ll go?”

You remember frowning at that, like he thought you might not want to - very much untrue. “Yes. I like going places with you.”

Following that had been a sharp inhale, then a stuttered cough, which made you pull the phone back with a cringe at the volume.

“Sorry, that was— something, my throat.” His voice had pitched up a bit. “So, tomorrow? Friday? It’ll be less busy, but we could do Saturday if you don’t want to go after work.”

“I like Friday.”

Then, far off, someone else’s voice had filtered through the phone. A coworker, jeering loudly enough for you to hear—“Clark, stop twirling the cord like you’re on the phone with your gir— oh my god, you are, aren’t you?”

“I have to go now.” Clark had said hastily, voice suddenly louder, like his mouth was closer to the receiver. “I’ll come by your place, Friday, 6pm. It’s an evening exhibit. Have a good day!”

Then the phone had hung up.

Then you were here, the next day, walking to the museum with Clark beside you.

This afternoon, you had been mulling over whether to call it a date or not.

Clark hadn’t actually said the words — it’s a date — not like how he had when he first asked you, over a month ago now. That had been clear.

This feels like murky ground. Do you still even call them dates after you start dating? Darren didn’t.

As you two walk, hand in hand, you decide to ask, “Is this a date?”

Clark jolts to a halt on the sidewalk and with your hands joined, you inadvertently come to a stop too. Perplexed, you look back at him, having to tilt your head up.

Fixed on you, his eyes are wide behind his glasses, something like concern pulling his brows together. It reminds you for all the world of a lost baby rabbit. His nose even twitches too.

You don’t like how upset he suddenly looks.

“What?” he says, sounding crushed. His fingers shift in yours. “I-I mean, I think so. I would- do you not think so?”

You also don’t like how his hand is loosening in yours, so you grip it tighter and shrug your shoulders. “I don’t know if you still call them dates once you start dating. You didn’t call it one. That’s why I asked.”

That makes Clark sigh loudly in relief. His shoulders, which have hiked up to his ears, sink down like a slowly deflating balloon.

He doesn’t look upset anymore, which is good. In fact, he’s looking at you much more intensely, a smile gracing his mouth.

He grips your hand back with the same fervor as before and starts you both walking again. “Yes, this is a date.”

You like that he answers your questions without poking fun at you for asking them.

You twist his hand over and start counting the freckles on the back absentmindedly.

“When is it a date and when is it just hanging out?”

You don’t look up, so you miss the affectionate glance Clark steals. He gives a hum in thought. He has 11 freckles on his left hand.

The museum peeks out, just up ahead. Something wilts in you. You wish you had another block to go, to keep walking with him. Then you could count the freckles on his other hand and see if they match.

“I think when you go out together, like this—” Clark finally answers, gesturing with your joined hands to the museum as you approach. “—it’s a date. Just you and I. I invited you out.”

“You invite me over,” you point out.

“True.” Clark smiles at you. “Maybe dates are the special occasions then.”

Your mouth twists. You don’t like that answer. Namely because it feels like a special occasion every time Clark calls, or invites you, or holds your hand, or kisses you.

“It’s always a special occasion,” you say pointedly, frowning a bit in your confusion. “You’re the special. Everything else is just an occasion.”

You’ve arrived at the doors to the museum. There’s a little line. Clark has the tickets in his pockets.

You pause slightly further back to let him retrieve them — you know you hate having to get things out in a rush — but he doesn’t reach for his pocket.

You glance up at him, concerned. He’s turned that brilliant shade of red again.

“Clark?”

“Hm?” He clears his throat, long lashes batting wildly as he blinks rapidly. You wonder if you should tell him you can’t blink away a blush - you know because you’ve tried.

“Tickets?” You ask a bit more weakly. Maybe he’s experienced a sudden change of heart about the museum - or you.

“Yes!” He exclaims, banishing that last thought swiftly. He shoves one hand in his pocket and pulls them out, brandishing them like a winning lottery ticket. “They’re here, I have them.”

The sign carved into stone, above the entrance way, reads METROPOLIS OBSERVATORY & SCIENCE CENTRE. It explains why it would be open for the evening - star-gazing is trickier during the daytime, you’d imagine.

Clark lets go of your hand to hand over the tickets, which get punched, handed back, and pocketed again. You make a note to ask for the keepsake later — you like things people often call junk.

He doesn’t reach for your hand again, instead resting his on the small of your back, ushering you through the doors.

The interior opens wide, with several paths splitting off from the entrance. There’s large, bright butterfly stickers on the ground leading to the right, accompanied by flourishing arrows. You can see into the beginning of the exhibit, people milling around already.

There’s also signs posted on a column, various arrows assigned to different paths. One reads Observatory, another Botanical Hall, and below it, Mineral Room, with a crystal decorated sign pointing to the left.

You perk up in interest and stop at the intersection of paths. “Can we see the mineral room, please?”

“The mineral…? You don’t want to see the butterflies?” Clark seems surprised.

That makes you pause, worried. You didn’t think about this — will he be upset if you say you want to look at rocks more than the butterflies?

You feel for your wrist, fingers pressing to your pulse. An old habit. You’re relieved to find your heartbeat steady.

Still, an old argument tickles at the back of your neck, Darren’s frustrated voice creeping in, and you force yourself not to physically bat the bad feeling away.

Biting your cheek, you realise you should’ve said something on the phone to begin with.

Now you’ve made Clark believe one thing, when you meant another. He invited you to see the butterflies. He didn’t mention going to the mineral room. You’re probably being demanding.

“If you want to,” you say as evenly as you can.

You’re not very believable. Clark sees straight through it, and even so, you’re not even aware that your body language gives you away, feet pointed to the left.

Never mind the fact you’re also a terrible liar - or the fact he can hear the skip in your heartbeat.

You wait for his sigh.

His hand on your back slips forward and he holds it out, palm up. You frown at it, then look up at him.

“I want to do what you want to do,” he says earnestly. “Let’s look at the minerals.”

He nudges his glasses up with his spare hand and his gaze holds such a softness that eye contact seems more unbearable than usual. The familiar burn in your face returns.

You look at your shoes—but not before you put your hand back in his.

You’re the only two in the mineral room, which is a treat all in itself. It’s quiet. You can keep Clark closer than usual.

He listens dutifully when you rattle off about pleochroism and birefringence — still keeping that intense warmth in his stare that you can’t handle for long. He doesn’t stop smiling the whole time. Neither do you, given the ache in your face.

By the carbonates, he kisses you, slow and sweet.

His glasses fog up and his blush makes an appearance. You feel like you’re having your own chemical reaction in your chest, fondness crystallising in the valves of your heart.

And when you ask if he minds that you didn’t get to see the butterflies at all, you believe him when he says not in the slightest.

You add, he asked me questions about rocks, to the list after he walks you home.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

After one particular morning, you add three lines in one go.

It had started the night before technically, when Clark had offered to come over to yours for the night. Tame enough overall, but… surprising.

Because, well, you were already at his apartment.

The thing is, you really like your own bed - though Clark’s is a close second.

And it’s just, you get finicky about these things —and last night, it had been the yoghurt you bought for tomorrow's breakfast, already in your fridge.

It makes you itch when you mess up the flow you have planned. But it didn’t mean you didn’t want to spend the night with Clark either.

Darren used to say you were punishing him when you went home like this. He’d never really believed you when you said there was nothing wrong — if there’s nothing wrong, then why are you going home?

Darren also didn’t like it when you were truthful. He said he did. Just be honest with me.

Yet, when you were — telling him his sheets were too scratchy, that his incense made your head too woozy, and his yoghurt brand was the one you hated — it always seemed to backfire. You told him anyway, because he asked.

One time, he’d called you a tease, spitting out the word. You didn’t get what you were teasing, but didn’t like how it felt either way.

To avoid this, you had made sure to set the precedent with Clark.

You stay over, but only with ample warning and a well-packed bag. You bring your own toothpaste, pillowcase, and a tiny Kermit that stays hidden in your bag - there for reassurance mainly. Clark never lights any smelly candles and his sheets are plenty soft enough for you.

Tonight, you find the precedent isn’t needed. Saturday night, a lazy afternoon spent together, and your boyfriend makes no protest beyond an adorable pout when you start to pack up to leave.

“I wish you could stay the night.” Clark murmurs.

It doesn’t sound like a guilt trip - it sounds like i miss you, before you’ve even gone.

He looks devastatingly comfy, relaxed beside you on the couch, lounging in his casual clothes. His hair is messier than usual.

You want to bury your hands in it, and let him kiss you over and over again, like he’s been prone to doing recently.

It’s becoming a serious hazard for your heart—so much, you’ve been thinking of informing your doctor. This much tachycardia can’t be healthy.

You remember it’s impolite to stare.

“I don’t have my things.” You remind him.

Clark twists his mouth, sighing a bit. “I know. I just like it when we sleep in the same bed.”

“I do too,” you say truthfully as you lace your shoes, moving slower than necessary. You glance back up.

Something in Clark’s open expression pulls the explanation off your tongue. “I just, it’s- I have my yoghurt. I got it for tomorrow.”

It sounds silly when you say it aloud. You try not to cringe so visibly.

“Wait, you’re going home just to go home?” Clark perks up, as if this is good news. “Not because you’re sick of me?”

Distress must show on your face because he hastily adds, “I’m kidding. I know you’re not.” Then, before you can worry about that too much, “Can I come with you? Spend the night?”

You haven’t even considered that he might want to.

“You’re already home, though.”

You realise that might sound like you don’t want him to and your hands clench up tightly.

Thankfully, Clark only shrugs and smiles, “Well, I was already going to walk you home.”

Relaxing, your hands unfurl. He’s being sincere. He wants to come over and spend the night - and he doesn’t mind if it’s at yours, instead of his.

Something in your chest aches tenderly and without thinking, you abandon your shoes and burst across the couch to Clark.

Surprised, he still catches you, arms cushioning your fall against him, but he isn’t prepared enough for your kiss. It catches him off guard and your teeth knock together from the force.

“Sorry,” you breathe, not that sorry at all. You’re gripping his shirt in your hands like you’re worried he might slip away — or worse, retract his offer to come over. “Yes, come over. I really want you to.”

Clark, still reeling from your kiss, looks a bit starry-eyed as he fixes his glasses that you’ve knocked askew.

But he’s smiling and he’s smiling at you. You can’t resist another kiss. You adore the little hum he makes in response.

It’s as though its set you off for the evening— Clark quickly packs a small bag, you kiss him; he grabs both your coats, you kiss him; he locks his door and you wrap yourself around his arm, pressing up on your tiptoes to kiss him.

He’s paying attention to locking the door and you can’t quite reach, so you kiss his jaw instead. Clark flushes hotly, but he’s still smiling. You still can’t believe he wants to come over.

It’s a highly uneffective way to travel, wrapped up in each other as you walk the blocks to your own apartment.

It’s a warmer night. The heat worsens when the doorman at your building clears his throat obnoxiously, making it clear your lovey dovey behaviour has an unwilling audience. It makes Clark fluster wildly, sputtering out a polite apology.

You drag him to the elevator in the midst of his, “My apologies, sir-!” so you can kiss him again, away from prying eyes.

Clark looks a little debauched against the elevator wall. You could probably roast marshmallows over his bright red face. His hands hover over your sides, flexing, but not touching.

“You—” He starts, a little out of breath. “What’s- I mean, I really don’t mind, but you’re, uh, well, eager tonight.”

“Bad?” Your voice dips into worry, fast.

“No!” Clark quickly amends. His hands finally find your waist, strong and sure, pulling you in before you even realise you’d been retracting. “It’s just a, uh, a bit of surprise.”

It’s true. To begin with, you were very shy with affection - your first kiss so sweet, Clark remembers your lips trembling.

Like how you hold your breath subconsciously every time he kisses you first. A tiny sharp inhale. Clark could write a full-length feature, worthy of the Daily Planet front page, on how much he adores it.

You remind him, “You like surprises.”

Clark softens at the memory you’re referring to, eyes shining in affection. “I do.”

“You like it when I surprise you?” You check.

“That I really like.” He’s grinning now, and he’s so handsome that you don’t know what to do with yourself. Kiss him? Bite him? Live in his dimples? He’s so nice to you in a way Darren never was.

The elevator dings, opening to your floor.

You tumble out together, with Clark still attempting to maintain a sense of manners. He straightens his rumpled coat with one hand, the other occupied by yours.

You lead him to your door, then through it.

Shoes toed off, you flip on the lights, then wince at their harshness. Clark slips off his shoes and gives your hand a squeeze before he drops it, moving past you. He knows the path to the myriad of lamps about your place.

As he turns them on, one by one, he has to duck to avoid the low-hanging living room light. It’s a relief to turn off the big overhead light.

“Let me put this in your room, alright?” he says, gesturing with his bag in hand, before disappearing into your bedroom.

Something compels you to follow and you watch as he turns on the lamp on your bedside too, coating the room in a soft amber. That now all-too familiar rabidness runs rampant beneath your skin.

“Clark?” Your soft voice catches his attention, and he turns, mid-way through shucking off his coat.

He told you once that you could ask him anything.

“Can you kiss me again?”

Something crosses his face, his eyes a little wider. He swallows, hard, and his motions falter momentarily. Finally, he wrangles his coat off and tosses it onto his bag and then he reaches for you.

“Y-Yeah, c’mere,” he says. In the same motion, you’re in his arms and he’s sat back on your sheets, pulling you both onto the bed. “Anything you want, honey.”

Still, he doesn’t move to kiss you just yet.

You’re adjusting yourself, getting comfortable in his lap, and you’re still wearing your coat. You move to shrug out of it and Clark helps, his hands guiding it off your shoulders.

It’s banished to sit with his coat. The whir of the air-conditioner unit permeates the air and you can feel the softness of your sheets where your knees meet the bed.

A hint of Clark’s cologne makes your nose twitch. It smells nice, musky and warm. It might be your new favourite scent.

You’re suddenly too nervous to look him in the eye, so you study the rest of his face. You’ve reddened his lips with your kisses, which you feel quite guilty about. Further up, you follow the line of his brow. You can’t resist tracing along one with your finger softly.

“You’ve got good eyebrows.” you say, closer to a whisper.

Clark’s grip on your waist tightens, so gentle that you’re not sure if he’s aware he’s done it. He swallows thickly and you remove your hand, moving it to rest over his throat.

“You think so?”

You can feel the timbre of his voice under your fingertips when he speaks and it makes you grin. You nod in response to his question too, finally brave enough to meet his gaze.

Blue eyes meet yours.

Then, sweeping your hair back from your face, he kisses you.

The first kiss is slow, easy. Like the kiss he gives you when saying hello. Your hands find their place around his neck, jittery and twitching in your excitement.

Clark’s hands on your waist shift, his arms wrapping around you like a hug. His next kiss, you sink into. You’re helpless to do anything but.

He dedicates himself to the curve of your mouth, memorising it with kiss after kiss after kiss.

It makes you feel dizzy. You clutch the collar of his shirt, a soft, sweet noise slipping out your throat.

It breaks the kiss. Clark exhales hard, his nose drawing a line down your cheek, along your jaw. He kisses as he goes, delicate little presses of affection.

He hovers at your neck, “May I?”

He sounds a bit wrecked, voice rougher and unlike himself. You nod, a minuscule motion, and clutch his collar tighter.

There's heat on your neck, a warning kiss bestowed. Then his lips begin to mouth softly at the warm skin of your neck, with what can only be described as a devoted reverence.

You melt in his lap.

Clark’s arms around you keep you close as your head tilts back, letting him in. His glasses nudge against your jaw as he teeth scrape your neck.

You’re so close to him—and yet not close enough. You want to crawl into his skin. You’re too worked up to know if that’s an appropriate thing to tell your boyfriend.

It’s no mind; with Clark’s lips on your neck, you’re not capable of any words.

You’re not capable of anything beyond these cute hiccuping gasps that will follow Clark for weeks. He feels insatiable, like a livewire. He’s attuned to everything you.

It’s why he pulls back, one hand stroking up your spine.

“You’re shaking,” he says, voice low.

You are—trembling slightly in his hold.

You hadn’t noticed, the same way you hadn’t clocked your own laboured breathing. It’s like you’re skipping a breath by accident, the way you do when you’re overwhelmed.

Unclenching your fingers from his crumpled collar, you put two fingers to your pulse point. It’s still warm from Clark’s mouth and beneath the skin, your pulse rabbits wildly.

“I-” Your mouth is unbearably dry. “I promise I’m enjoying it.”

Even your voice is shaky, though your assurance isn’t. You are, you are. You’re not shaking because you’re scared of this, of him. It's just a lot.

“I know.” Clark says calmly, though his eyes scour your face with a tinge of worry. His hand hasn’t ceased its soothing up and down your back. “I know, I—”

“It’s not you,” you say, desperate to steal the worry from him. “Well, it is you, but it’s not, like, you—that sounds stupid. It’s, uh, me, it’s a me thing. I— you haven’t done anything wrong, please.”

“Okay,” he says, which makes you feel better, because it means he believes you. “Neither have you. Believe me, I know what it’s like to feel like everything’s dialled to eleven.”

That is sort of what this feels like—like you’re a spring loaded too tightly.

The rich smell of his cologne, the taut feel of his firm shoulders, the heat of his beautiful mouth - all of it urges on that fervent feeling that skitters under your skin. You can’t process it all at once.

You close your eyes.

Despite how you really don’t want to, you draw back your hand from his neck, curling your nails so they bite into your palms. Clark’s hand against your spine pauses, pressed against your lower back. He holds it there, and waits, patient.

It doesn’t take long to ready yourself — only a few moments — and when you finger your pulse, it’s steadier. Eyes creasing open, you find Clark watching you closely.

The apology nearly falls off your tongue out of habit. Clark gets there first.

“Please don’t apologise,” He pleads.

His eyes scan across your face, looking for any other sign to worry, but it’s needless. He can hear your heartbeat, can follow the now steady rhythm of it.

He knows you - and more than that, he trusts you. He trusts you’ll tell him if something is wrong, even if sometimes you need a nudge. He doesn’t need any apologies for needing a moment.

Clark kisses the next apology out of your mouth and it dissolves on your tongue.

It’s chaste, this kiss. While he’s still close, breath fanning across your face, he murmurs, “Tell me if you need another one,” like this wasn’t even a hiccup to him.

You kiss him so fiercely, you bite his lip. Clark barely registers the twinge of pain, only the enthusiasm. He aches.

Without breaking the kiss, he leans back on your sheets, and tugs you down with him. His big hands slide to hold your hips, grip still gentle. The buzzing under your skin gets louder.

You pull back, hands still moving up, and you tentatively, carefully, slide his glasses from his face.

Clark lets you, hands unmoving from their place, his gaze still hopelessly fixed on you. His lashes are long, his eyes creased from his smile. He’s so handsome.

He looks in love, you think to yourself.

You bury the thought for later - and your hands in his hair, like you’ve been wanting to do all night.

You only need one other breather that night. One break from the sensations—when his long, careful fingers sink into you and have you whimpering into his neck, grasping his shoulders tightly. His breath shudders, but he talks you through it, patient and unwavering.

You fall asleep, sated, skin to skin, and dream of nothing.

In the morning, you’re roused by the smell of fresh coffee. The sheets beside you are empty and you follow suit.

Golden light paints the kitchen. Bathed in it, Clark looks sleep-rumpled and lovely.

You drink your coffee together, your ankles linked together beneath your table. It looks extra tiny with Clark’s large frame sitting at it.

He does the dishes, no asking or prompting from you, so perfectly midwestern of him. He only nearly drops one of your mugs when you kiss his shoulder blade in thank you.

You watch him, in between getting yourself dressed, and Clark blushes scarlet when you pass him with no pants on to retrieve something from your bag - which makes no sense, considering you were wearing much less the night before.

It’s almost like those days before he had asked you out—quick glances that make you both smile, eyes dancing away. You have to remind yourself you’re allowed to look now.

It’s easy. So easy, it’s scary.

The buried thought from last night rises to the surface. Whether you want it or not, Clark Kent is single-handedly rewriting every idea you ever had about love.

That old fear twinges in you— you get it or you don’t.

You decide you don’t mind if you were wrong with Darren, if it means you get it this time — get it and get to keep it.

When he’s gone, in your notebook, you write he came over to my place - which is almost too astute, but you know what it means.

It’s not about the yoghurt, or the bed, or anything else. It’s the complete simpleness of how it had panned out. You can’t stay the night and he wants to see you, so he makes the effort.

Below it, you write he likes doing the dishes.

Then, after a moment, you cross it out. Your brows knit together. No, it wasn’t that that was different to Darren. It takes another moment to put your finger on it.

You write he likes to help. With more thought, you tack on another word, so it reads he likes to help me.

The last one makes your face burn so much you nearly get too shy to put it down on paper. You write it all the same; he takes his time with me.

You really, really hope you get it this time.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The love list isn’t meant for to be seen by anyone’s eyes but your own.

And to be clear, he didn’t mean to see it.

Clark is not a snoop. He believes strongly that privacy is a human right that everyone deserves to have respected. Even amongst relationships, not every thought needs to be shared. Not every secret.

He still has his big blue secret, after all.

You have… this list.

He hadn’t meant to see it, truly. But given how you’d left your notebook open on your kitchen table, and how you knew he was here, it hadn’t clocked as something you might want to hide.

You disappear after letting him into your apartment and Clark can trace you to your bedroom, his hearing tuned to your heartbeat. In the evening kitchen air, your perfume lingers. Your notebook is left on the table, open.

And Clark just… glances at it.

He doesn’t even know what it is.

He’s not so presumptuous to think it’s about him to begin with — there are no names on the paper. But, given its title, if it’s about love, he quietly hopes it’s about him.

Though, there is a question mark attached. That feels less good.

Especially as he reads the line about rocks and questions, which is as telling as it gets - Clark is pretty sure he’s the only one taking you to museums and kissing you in the mineral rooms. He really hopes he is.

It’s as he skims over the line he takes his time with me and realises what that means, he knows he should really stop reading.

Unable to help it, his cheeks bloom bright red. But beneath his slight embarrassment, something glows proudly.

These are good things. He’s making you happy.

But… then, why the list?

“—did I tell you about how when I was going by Fran’s the other day, there was this shirt in the window- you know the shop across from—”

You stop speaking and walking in the same second.

Clark’s head snaps up and he watches your eyes dart between him and the notebook in rapid succession, hears your pulse tick up in pace. The embarrassment from earlier flourishes up again.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- it was out.” He wasn’t sure before, but now he knows this wasn’t meant for his eyes. Gosh, he’s such a jerk. “I only glanced, I promise.”

He pulls at his collar, which suddenly feels too tight. You won’t meet his eye and Clark can see the tell-tale sign of your nervousness—your fingers pressing to your wrist, taking your pulse.

Awfulness coats over him. But despite that, you only give a shrug and murmur, “It’s okay. It’s not, like, bad. I was just- it was just to help me.”

Clark swallows. “Help you?”

You haven’t made a move to close the notebook or to approach him. He can still read the lines if he glances over - and he can’t ignore the itch to understand it. Help you with what?

You shrug again, now picking at your fingertips. You still won’t look at him.

“Just,” You exhale through your nose, a stressed sigh, and Clark wants to close the space between you. “When you… did something I didn’t get—or, just- like I know you’re not supposed to bring up exes, or- or compare, but it was only— Darren didn’t—”

You make a frustrated noise, hands clenching up tight, your sentence abandoned. Clark’s heart aches, more at your frustration than the mention of your last boyfriend, Darren.

He doesn’t know a lot. Has never met the guy. What he does know is that Lois wasn’t a huge fan, which meant he probably wasn’t the most stellar of partners. He trusts her judgement a lot.

Clark tries not to judge people he’s never met — but as your words sink in, when you did something I didn’t get, and he looks at the list again, something clicks.

he thanked me for mending his shirt, he came over to my place, he asked me questions about rocks.

They’re hardly impressive acts of love.

Clark likes to think he’s done a good job at wooing you, but none of what he’d consider the most romantic is on the list. None of the carefully crafted date ideas, none of the meticulously picked gifts.

It’s the little things. The quiet acts of love, of patience.

It’s evening, the sunset bleeding into the horizon, but Clark suddenly feels like he’s doused in yellow sun. Relief twines with his endearment, almost feverish with how it stirs up in his chest.

The next thought bleeds into fact with ease; he’s in love with you. Irrevocably. Entirely.

And with one final glimpse at your notebook, Clark knows exactly how to tell you.

For right now though, you’re still staring at the ground. Still picking at your fingertips in frustration, one ankle rolling to the side in a fidget.

You’re not worried about the list, he realises, you’re worried about him.

That just won’t do.

He crosses the room in two quick strides. It forces your head up in surprise and it’s the perfect opportunity to cup your face. Clark cradles your jaw, hears the inhale and smiles, before he kisses you.

He kisses you sweet, short. Then kisses, again and again. He can only hope he’s kissing away the frustration, the doubt, the unease.

There’s a brief moment where he worries he’s overwhelming you, your breath still stuttering between kisses — but your hands rise to hold his wrists, keeping him in place. He knows you well enough to know that means more, please.

He indulges you like it’s the easiest thing in the world. It is, to him.

You’re leaning into him and Clark takes the weight effortlessly. He’s messing up your lipstick undoubtedly, which he'll feel bad about later.

“We’ll be late if we stay much longer,” he says, reluctantly breaking the kiss.

You’re both breathing heavy. Clark studies the plush of your lip, while your eyes stay closed - which only makes you all that more endearing to him.

You’re a stickler for being on time though, so it’s so unlike you to respond with, “S’fine. It’s—”

You pivot mid-sentence, as if remembering what spurred his kisses on. “—the list. You didn’t think it was…?”

You don’t finish your sentence, trailing off stiltedly. Clark drops his next kiss to your hairline, his thumbs swatching along your cheeks with gentle ease.

“Think it’s what?” He hums, his next kiss on your nose. “I’m not thinking anything about it, because I wasn’t meant to see it and-” A kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Huh, what do you know? Its completely left my mind. What are we talking about?”

There’s a furrow in your brow for a moment before you catch on. Then your mouth curls into a shy smile and Clark knows he’s convinced you.

Your grip on his wrists tightens, an involuntary motion to get him closer. He complies, kissing you again. The pink of his cheeks might become permanent if he doesn’t calm down soon.

“C’mon,” He relents the closeness to step back, slipping his hands from your face. “We can still make it on time.”

Clark Kent, notoriously late for most things, except for your dates. He’s learning from you.

Fixing his glasses with a nudge, he gives you a moment to compose yourself, before he offers his hand. When you link it with his, he dotes you with a kiss upon it.

He figures that, to you, it’s the little things that really matter.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When you return home and the notebook is where you left it, open to the love list, embarrassment wells within you.

You hadn’t meant for him to see it. It had been a mistake in your excitement, flustered just by him coming to meet you at your door.

He’d been a sweetheart about it all the same, but it doesn’t mean you can shake the fumble so easily.

Yet, at the same time, there had been something… different about Clark on the date that followed.

He’d seemed surer, more settled. Like something had been decided finally, and he could see the way forward.

Your coat finds a home on the peg by the door, your shoes slipped off.

Soft footsteps take you to the table and it’s as you go to fold your notebook closed, does it catch your eye.

There. Below the love list, there are two new lines, both in handwriting that isn’t your own. With a soft jolt, you recognise it as Clark’s.

Perplexed, you squint down at the paper.

He’s written, in his neat scrawl, he loves that you made this list.

Your heart pounds, that familiar fervor you associate with your boyfriend begins to coarse through your bloodstream. You bite your lip so hard it nearly bleeds—but you can hardly feel it. You’re goddamn untouchable right now.

Whether you got it with Darren didn’t matter. You realise now it never mattered. It’s you and Clark—and that is all you need.

Because, below his first line, Clark has written—he loves you.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

the notebook :’) bcos i love a lil graphic

tagging sum lovelies i think might be interested / replied to my snippet tehe <3 but no pressure! @spideystevie @sanguineterrain @brettsgoldstein @aarchimedes @strangerstilinski @djarinova @kissmxcheek @langaslefthairstrand

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kykysinlovewithafairytale · 8 days ago

Note

haiiii I just wanted to leave a little blurb idea,, like having sex with clark and the glasses staying on 🤭🤭 okay I’ll go now

mhm, exactly! yup, yup, yup!

when you’re bouncing on it, clark puts his glasses on to really see you. his big hands roaming all over your tits, squeezing and sucking those beautiful mounds. he exhales through his nose like a damn animal. doesn’t even wanna come up for air. glasses all crooked before he adjusts them again. he’s gotta see you.

and when he’s lapping at your glistening cunt, hands on either of your thighs, massaging, his glasses are all foggy from his breath. breathing all hard and working harder. his chin dripping in your sweet juices.

or sometimes he just… forgets. he’s so busy with fucking his babies into you, he doesn’t even realize his glasses are still on. they’re low on the bridge of his nose as he groans in your ear, mumbling something about how warm you are. how much he loves you. how much he doesn’t deserve you or this perfect cunt.

his hair’s all messy. his glasses are slipping. he keeps having to push them up with one hand while he’s splitting you open with the other. you try to reach for them once and he catches your wrist. shakes his head.

“no, baby. leave ’em. wanna see you.”

his eyes all blown out behind the lenses. sweat fogging up the glass. you’re clenching around him and he’s trying so hard not to lose it—muttering shit like “s’too much, you feel so good, god i can’t stop” while he fucks you through the mattress.

and when you cum?

he pulls back to watch. literally leans back on his knees, palms your thighs open, breathes hard behind the foggy frames, and watches you twitch around his cock like it’s the most beautiful thing in the world.

the glasses stay on.

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kykysinlovewithafairytale · 8 days ago

Text

watch the headboard, baby | clark kent

synopsis: clark loses control and accidentally breaks the headboard during sex, but you stay on top—literally. i just love sub clark omg.

you had him under you again — where he belonged.

his big body sprawled across your bed, muscles loose, mouth parted, already breathless like you hadn’t even really started. the man could bench buildings, but you so much as breathed heavy against his throat and he was whining.

the best part? he loved it.

“hands where i can see them,” you murmured, running your palms slowly down his chest. “and don’t get cute.”

clark smirked. “yes, ma’am.”

he obeyed, resting his wrists by his head, fingers fisting the pillow. you knew he could lift you with one pinky, but he was always so careful. always so still when you told him to be. and tonight? he looked wrecked already — cheeks flushed, chest rising fast, thighs trembling under your knees.

you rolled your hips against him slowly, just to tease.

his breath caught. “fuck—”

“mm. already?” you smiled, dragging your nails gently down his stomach. “and here i thought superman had stamina.”

“i do,” he said, voice tight. “just… not when it’s you.”

you bit your lip, amused. “don’t fall apart too fast, baby. we’re not even close to done.”

he whimpered, actual whimpered, when you sank down on him fully. your head tipped back, breath catching in your throat, because no matter how many times you did this, it never stopped being good — the stretch, the burn, the weight of him inside you. every inch made to fill you up just right.

you leaned forward, palms flat on his chest, and started riding him slow. deliberate. taking your time.

he was falling apart already — eyes half-lidded, lips slack, those strong hands clutching the pillow like it was his only lifeline.

“you look pretty like this,” you said, breath brushing over his jaw. “all big and helpless. you like it when i make the rules?”

his hips bucked a little before he caught himself. “yes,” he whispered. “you feel so good. can’t think.”

you tilted your head, riding him deeper, harder now. “don’t think baby.”

he moaned — loud and desperate.

and then—

CRACK.

everything stopped.

you blinked. slowly looked over your shoulder.

a chunk of the headboard had snapped clean off — splinters in the wall, cracks down the frame. it looked like someone had driven a sledgehammer through the top panel.

you turned back to clark, who was staring up at you like a kicked puppy.

“…clark.”

"i got excited," he mumbled.

"you broke the damn bed."

he winced. "i can fix it?"

you arched an eyebrow. "with what, laser vision?"

“i didn’t even notice i was holding on that tight…”

you sat back on his thighs, crossed your arms, and stared at the busted headboard.

“…that’s the third bed this year.”

“i can buy you another one—”

“you’re damn right you can.”

you leaned back over him, hands pressed to either side of his head, and kissed him hard — all tongue, heat, and a low warning hum in your throat. when you pulled back, his lips were red and kiss-swollen, eyes dazed.

you smirked, then leaned down, mouth brushing his ear.

"and if you ever break a headboard again, the only thing you'll be allowed to hold onto next time is your damn knees."

he choked on air. "wait, what—?"

but you were already rolling your hips again, slow and steady, like nothing had happened. except this time, you pressed your palm to his chest and pinned him there.

“no questions, pretty boy. hands back. mouth shut.”

he obeyed without hesitation — arms back, fists gripping the pillow like his life depended on it.

and this time, you rode him slow, cruel, intentional — listening to every gasp and tremble, watching his knuckles turn white. the only sound in the room was his ragged breathing, your name under his breath like prayer, and the slow creak of the half-broken bed beneath you.

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kykysinlovewithafairytale · 8 days ago

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He can’t. ; Clark Kent x gn! Reader

Summary — You try to get Clark to be a bit rougher in bed, and of course, the huge softie can’t bring himself to do anything you’ve asked.

Includes : attempted role play, brief spanking, fingering (reader receiving), soft+top! clark.

a/n : please don’t let this flop i’m not asking i’m begging (also i lowk forgot about the coworker part LMFAO just clark trying to be rough sorry)

The thought had been brief, a quick slip of the mind while you were bored at work and thinking about Clark. He’d always been gentle, almost too gentle. Of course, you couldn’t blame him. He was worried that he’d someday forget his own strength and hurt you, and sex was no different. Who knew what could happen if he squeezed you hard, or bent you too far in a way that could possibly be dangerous?

But still, it wouldn’t hurt to ask to spice the bedroom up a bit, would it? Not that the sex wasn’t already mind-blowing, of course not. Clark was attentive, had more than enough stamina to make sure you were fully satisfied and then some. But again, wouldn’t hurt to ask, right? Plus, he always emphasized how you could talk to him about anything. This was the same man that would keep his cock inside while you slept.

This couldn’t be much different, could it?

You went home that day, your conversation fully planned out and the best hopes in mind. You were going to try to convince Clark into some role play tonight, nothing too crazy, just some casual coworker affair type stuff. Maybe some spanking here and here. Who knew what the night had in store?

You stepped into the shared apartment, the delicious scent of Ma Kents barbecue ribs that Clark had flown over to get once his mother said how he hadn’t seen them in a while. Clark heard you long before you’d actually opened the door, but he liked pretending to be surprised when you ‘ snuck up ’ behind him while he was in the kitchen.

He smiled fondly as soon as he felt your arms snaking around his waist, his back pressed to your chest as your hands sprawled over his belly.

“ Hi there, Sunshine. ” Clark said softly, looking at you over his shoulder as he relished the feeling of your hands on his tummy for a few seconds longer before turning around to face you, leaning down to press a tender kiss to your forehead in greeting.

You murmured a soft greeting back, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and melted into his warmth, sighing in contentment at the feeling of his heavy hands settling on your hips.

“ How was work? ” Clark asked, his hands roaming up and down your sides, the usual chaste feeling-you-up touch to remind himself what you felt like under his touch.

“ It was alright— Hey, can I talk to you about something? ” You said, shifting from foot to foot as you gazed up at Clark, wyes sparkling withe excitement. He blinked in surprise at the sudden change of topic, but quickly recovered as he nodded with a soft chuckle.

Once you got the green light, you immediately start rambling that speech that you’d prepared on the drive back to the apartment.

“ Okay, so sex with you is great, yes. But it never hurts to try something new, right? That’s what you’re always saying. ” You began. “ So I was wondering if we could do this little roleplay thing where we’re coworkers, that are hooking up and maybe be a bit rough? Some spanking? ”

Clark, again shocked, stared down at you, blinking dumbly as color flooded his cheeks. “ Sunshine— ”

“ Of course it’s okay if you’re not comfortable with it! Like I said, you’re great at sex already. ” You smiled up at him innocently, finally giving him his time to speak.

“ ..Like I was saying, Sunshine. ” Clark chuckled. “ I’m open to try, if you really want to. Lets just.. eat something beforehand before indulging in your little antics. ”

You ate that dinner like it was your last.

You and Clark had settled on a desk that was in the guest room for the.. activities. He had carried you there, his big hands planted firmly on the back of your thighs with your legs as he kissed up your throat, his teeth scraping against your pulse in a way that made you shiver in excitement.

He had you bent over it now, much to his dismay. He had never been fond of positions where he couldn’t see your face, whether it be right in front of him or via mirror. (Freak.) But this was for your, your fantasy. Although, a redeeming quality was that he was working you open on his thick fingers, already enjoying the little huffs and moans that were leaving your mouth. He liked that.

He kissed up your spine and along your shoulder, fingers crooking and prodding for that little gummy spot inside of you that made your knees give out, that spot that made Clark smile stupidly and whisper against your skin. “ Found it. ”

You mustered up a half-hearted glare over your shoulder and back at him, although it didn’t do much to repel him as he pulled his fingers out with a noisy schlick! He stood directly behind you, hands roaming over your back and ass, giving your cheeks a firm squeeze as he spat on his hand— When the hell did he take his pants off?

“ You better not disappoint, Kansas. ” You warned, trying to play into the coworker persona, looking over at Clarks glasses-wearing face. He’d put them on, ‘ for realism ’ he had insisted. He gave a small huff at the nickname, a dark brown quirking up in an unimpressed manner.

“ I doubt I will. ” He murmured quietly under his breath, his hand coming down to wrap around the base of his hard cock, a subtle shiver going up his spine as he slapped the tip on your entrance. A quick sense of excitement jolting through your body at the familiar sensation, your legs instinctively spreading.

He pushed in, slowly, and trying his best not to actually gnaw on your shoulder and settling on little nibbles, coaxing you to take more, more, more, till all eight inches were right where they belonged. You gasped out, your eyes screwing shut at the sensation as your nails scraped against the cool wood of the desk.

“ Relax, just take it in. ” Clark cooed softly. “ It’s nothing you haven’t taken before. ” Couldn’t argue with that.

He gave you a few seconds more to adjust until he deemed you ready, his hips pulling back and pushing forward with a low groan leaving his throat, his brows furrowing together as he quickly reminded himself that you had asked him to be rough with you tonight. What was he doing?

He mustered up the will to do it, to adjust his grip on your hips in a tighter grasp, his blunt fingers digging into the flush of your hips in a way that was sure to mark in some sort of way.

“ Clark— more—! ” You whined out, your back arching against the wood and your hips pushing back against Clark. He gave a small groan, using his grip on your hips to pull you back to meet his thrusts, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the roam to meet your moans joined with Clarks gasps and the occasional creak of the desk below you.

Thats when Clark decided to be a bit bolder—

He took a hand off of your hip, lifting it up just a bit before bringing it down on your ass. You jolted in surprise, a soft yelp leaving your mouth which caused him to stop fucking into you.

“ ..Clark? ” You croaked in confusion, panting quietly as you looked back at him. He was staring down, which you thought he was looking at where your hole was swallowing his cock, but then you saw it— The red handprint that was slowly coming to life. You thought it was kinda hot, but Clarks expression gave it away. He looked up to meet your gaze, his brows furrowed and bottom lip jutted out in the slightest bit of a pout that you could’ve missed had you not been looking properly.

“ Clark. ” You repeated again, voice a bit firmer as he shook his head, wrapping his arms around your middle and pressing his face into the crook of your neck.

“ ..I can’t do this. ” He grumbled, his voice muffled against your skin.

“ Do what? ”

“ Be rough like you want. Can’t stand the thought of hurtin’ you like this. ” He huffed, shaking his head again as he kissed up the back of your neck. “ I love you too much to be doin’ this kinda stuff. ”

You smiled softly, your hand coming back to run your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. “ ..It’s okay, baby. Didn’t hurt that much. ”

You couldn’t be disappointed with him, of course not. This is the same man that refuses to cuss and says stuff like ‘ what the hay ’ or ‘ heck ’ as a replacement. Doesn’t take a genius to figure he wouldn’t be as hardcore as you anticipated. Sure, he was a silly dork. But he was your silly dork.

“ .. you wanna keep going anyway? ” You asked with an almost teasing voice, his head immediately perking up with interest as he nodded eagerly.

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kykysinlovewithafairytale · 8 days ago

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𝐟𝐥𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡 – 𝐜. 𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐭 (𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭; +𝟏𝟖) | it's nearly 3am and here i am. thinking of this guy. ugh. somehow this is still @ovaryacted's fault.

warning(s) include smut, f!reader, drugs (weed), smoking, high oral sex (m receiving), needy!clark, subby!clark, not-dating-but-not-just-friends type shit, big dick!clark, clark shirtless and in pajama pants, edging (mentioned)... word count is 0.8k! enjoy loves <3

Smoking with Clark Kent, who gets touchy and sappy and horny whenever he's high.

He doesn't do it that often, and only with you, 'cause you don't care that he's already half way hard as soon as the buzz starts to hit. A meaty swell showing off between his legs as he stretches his long limbs on your couch, Clark melts into the plush behind him with loosening muscles and lowering inhibitions. Eyes dragging to look at you through his glasses as he thinks.

"You're really pretty, y'know that?" Clark slurs out, passing the blunt back to you and sighing out a mouthful of smoke. "Prettiest girl I know..."

His words drip with almost as much adoration as his stare–hooded and lingering on you. It trails down to your lips, his manners somewhere far away as he waits for your reaction, and Clark groans to himself when he spots your lazy smile.

With long but slow-hauling limbs, Clark reaches. Tugging you until you're laying nice and close, just like he likes, and your cheek rests against the cloth of his pajama pants. Slipping the joint from your fingers, he holds it to you lips, letting you take a long drag while his other hand slides under the hem of your t-shirt to rub your back.

Shifting his hips, Clark gulps. His cock is solid as a rock and aching. Looking as if it's trying to tear the seams of his bottoms with every other pulse.

"Can I–" he pauses, the words getting stuck when he places the blunt on a nearby ashtray. "Can I stick it in your mouth? Like last time… just feels so good when 'm like this, petal."

"Kiss first?"

Clark's face splits into a crooked smile and scrunched nose.

Golly, you're cute, he thinks to himself as you turn and poke out your lips. He meets your mouth with a small groan, pouring his entire self into you through the wet snog, tongue lathering yours with his spit until you finally pull away.

He doesn't get a chance to think as you scrunch closer to him and pull at his pants, the both of you gasping when his cock slaps free; dense with a slick shine and pink, dribbling head.

"That's it…" Clark groans, body turning into mush all over again at the feeling of your tongue guiding his tip into your mouth. You wet him with drooling saliva, hands reaching to stroke the rest of him. He can barely fit into your mouth, and it's still incredible. You make him feel like he's soaring somewhere up in space as you lap and move your head with a languid bob, your hands matching the slow movements with sweet jerks.

Lips stretched wide, you suckle him with soft slurps and closed eyes, Clark growing more restless by the second, unable to control the whines that slip out whenever your tongue does that swirl. The entire time, he pets your head and rubs your back, leaning until he can gather a cheek of your ass and squeeze.

"Oh, my gosh," Clark arches a little when you pull back for air, licking into his slit while breathing through your nose. Your flick your tongue until he's trying to pull away from you. Whimpering out a pitiful, "wait, wait… don't wanna–ngh–don't wanna come yet. Please."

A thick breath leaves him when you decide to listen, switching back to gentle sucks.

Yes. Just like that, that's what he wants. For you to edge him. Draw it out, and then milk him while he wails and trembles in your grip.

"Look at me for a sec, please," Clark begs with a hint of desperation, needing to see you, your eyes. "Look at me."

Spinning your head, you meet his gaze, and it's just as red and glassy-eyed, and hazed over as his.

There's just... something about you. Something that make his insides squeeze and mind cloud over ten times worse that he just barely catches the feeling of his skin warning all over.

"'m coming," Clark whines, disappointment frowning his brow, but not because of you. It's him. He wants it to last forever, wants to stay tucked between your lips until the end of time.

The man whines into a strong arch, scrunching your shirt up as he grips it with a tight fist, glasses fogging as he puffs out hot pants of your name. "No, no. not yet."

Despite his words, his cock spurts a healthy load. It drips all along his shaft, gatering along the sides of your fingers as you wring him empty.

Clark finishes with a loud huff, body flinching every so often as you drag your tounge to lick him clean. Swallowing thickly, he watches you. A little annoyed with himself but also mesmerized.

"…I'll do better next time, okay? I promise."

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kykysinlovewithafairytale · 8 days ago

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Mercy

“I’m gonna make sure every breath out of that mouth is mine.”

Pairing: Clark Kent x fem! Reader

Genre: Romantic smut

Word count: 7.4k

Summary: You’ve always had a one-sided feud with the ever charming Clark Kent but when he comes to your rescue and nurses you back to health, you finally let your facade go.

Warnings: Vomiting, oral f&m receiving, unprotected sex, sweet kent aftercare

a/n: This is a long one lol! But, I really loved how this came out and hope you feel the same <3 If you have any requests feel free to send them to me!! Lots of love

Within the vibrant Daily Planet office, a palpable tension hung in the air, as the cacophony of journalistic endeavor filled the space.

Amidst the chaos, Clark Kent, with his unassuming smile and impeccable attire, sat at his desk, surrounded by a halo of goodwill that seemed to follow him wherever he went. His workspace was a testament to his earnestness, papers neatly arranged, and a faint smile playing on his lips as he interacted with his colleagues.

Meanwhile, across the room, you found yourself seated, stealing glances at Clark through the glow of your computer screen. Despite his unwavering kindness towards everyone, you couldn't shake the resentment that had festered since your intern days.

As you watched him share a laugh with your colleagues, you couldn't help but wonder why Clark remained so unflappably friendly, seemingly oblivious to the tension that stretched taut between you.

Unbeknownst to you, he harbored a secret infatuation, his heart fluttering every time your paths crossed, utterly baffled by the chilly reception you always gave him.

Lois pops by your desk, taking a seat on the edge of your desk. “Jimmy and I are headed out for lunch, care to join?” She grins, arms crossed over her chest. “Although, Clark is coming with.”

You notice the two men standing by Jimmy's desk, chatting. “Ah, no thank you. Not because of Clark, rather I’ve got a killer headache.”

Taking a soft sigh you rub your temple, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m gonna rest my head for a bit.”

"Headache, huh?" Lois smirks, not buying it for a second. "Funny — you only get those *after* Clark walks by." She leans in, lowering her voice with playful suspicion.

"You know, most people fake illnesses to avoid their exes. You’re doing it to avoid... what? A guy who brings you coffee when you’re grumpy and proofreads your articles for typos?"

She quirks an eyebrow. "If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone’s got a teensy little crush they’re hiding under that scowl."

You groan and drop your head onto your folded arms. And just like that, she struts off toward Clark and Jimmy.

"Let's go, boys," she announces brightly. You peek up just in time to catch Clark glancing over, concerned eyes, dumb hopeful smile.

Of course he looked worried.

Of course he did.

Ugh. Worst part?

It was kind of adorable.

This time you weren’t faking a thing, she’s not wrong. You do have a habit of pretending but today? It’s real.

You lay your head on the cool wood table, eyes shutting as the office finally quiets down; the majority of the staff off for lunch or headed home for the day.

The office is quiet, golden afternoon light spilling across the newsroom floor. You’re still curled at your desk, forehead pressed to your arm, when a soft creak, familiar footsteps, pauses nearby.

“Hey… you still alive over here?” Clark sets down a paper bag on his own desk and steps closer, voice low like he’s afraid of startling you. The sunlight catches the curve of his glasses, hiding his eyes just enough, but not enough to mask that dumb, gentle concern.

“I brought back soup. From that little place Lois hates. The one with the spicy dumplings.” He hesitates, then reaches out—barely—a hand hovering near your shoulder like he’s not sure if he should touch. His voice drops into something softer, almost shy.

“You looked like you could use it. And… I may have also stolen an extra ginger tea from the break room. For science.”

"...And maybe because I remember you drink it when you’re actually sick and not just avoiding me." Clark mumbles, barely audible.

“Mmm,” you let out a small hum, somewhat between a mumble and a snore. Shifting slightly you nuzzle your face in your arms.

Clark freezes mid-breath, eyes widening slightly behind his glasses. The hand near your shoulder stills, hovering like a question.

“Okay. Adorable. Definitely noted.” He clears his throat quietly, trying—and failing—to hide a grin. Then he carefully sets the soup and tea on your desk, nudging them just close enough for the steam to reach you.

“I’m gonna… leave these here. And pretend I didn’t just watch you nuzzle your arms like a sleepy golden retriever.” He lingers for a moment too long, watching the way the light catches your hair, then turns to go… but pauses.

Slowly, almost without thinking, he reaches out and brushes the back of his knuckles lightly against your shoulder. Just once. A whisper of contact.

You startle awake, the light touch causing your eyes to flutter open, holding surprise but, for once, no hostility. “Clark?” You mumble, voice a sleepy murmur.

“Ah—!” He jerks back like he touched a live wire, face instantly pink.

“I—uh. I was just—soup. Tea. Left it here. For you.” He stammers. Clark gestures wildly at the desk, nearly knocking over the ginger tea in his panic.

“You looked... peaceful. For once.” He smirks slightly. “No scowling at my shoes or side-eyeing my pen choice."

You narrow your eyes at him, but they soften almost immediately, feeling too sick to actually argue or fight. “Thank you, Kent.” Your hand has a slight shake to it when you reach for the tea.

Clark notices the shake instantly. His smirk fades into something quieter, tender, almost, and without a word, he reaches out, steadying the cup with one hand until yours lands on it. His fingers linger just a second longer than necessary.

“You’re really not faking this time, huh?” He says softly, voice warm with concern.

He pulls up a chair beside your desk, close enough to talk quietly, far enough not to crowd you, and sits with that easy grace of his like he belongs right there.

“Next time,” he says gently, “you could’ve just said ‘Hey Clark, I feel like death’ and I would’ve brought soup *and* cancelled my lunch plans.”

A small smile tugs at his lips.

“But then again… if you’d actually asked nicely? It wouldn’t have been nearly as satisfying sneaking back early to play nurse.”

“I don’t need you to sit and help me,” you roll your eyes, sipping on the tea. “I’m fine.”

Clark doesn’t move. Just leans back in the chair, hands up like he’s surrendering, but his eyes are all soft focus and quiet amusement.

“Right. Of course. My mistake.” He nods solemnly. “You’re fine. Totally fine. Sipping tea like a martyr and glaring at me through fever dreams? Classic ‘I’m perfectly okay’ behavior.”

He lets out a low chuckle, then lowers his voice to a mock whisper: “Good thing I didn’t bring extra napkins or anything. Wouldn’t want to *help* the perfectly fine woman who definitely doesn’t need me hovering.”

And then, because he just can't help it, he reaches out again, slow this time, and brushes a loose strand of hair off your forehead with the back of his knuckles.

“You're warm,” he murmurs, not pulling away fast at all.

“And don't say 'I'm fine' again unless you want me to start narrating your symptoms dramatically for the office when they get back."

A pause.

"...I do excellent sick-voice impressions."

You half debate coming up with some snarky reply, keeping the rivalry up, but you don’t even have the strength to. Reaching for the soup you pull it close to you. “Maybe I’m not fine, but you don’t have to feel obliged to help, Clark.”

You groan, head spinning once again. Clark’s smile fades completely now, his voice dropping into something warm and steady, like he’s speaking not as the office charmer, but as someone who cares a little too much to stay at arm's length.

“I don’t feel obliged,” he says softly. “I want to. There’s a difference.”

He takes the lid off your soup like it's second nature and stirs it once with the spoon, just enough to cool it down. Then holds it out, waiting.

“Here. Open wide for the world-famous Clark Kent Care Package: Level Two.” He smirks, just a flicker. “Level One was tea and silence. Level Three is me singing folk songs until you either laugh or throw something at me.”

His hand stays there—steady—with no intention of pulling back even if you glare (which you don't). The sunlight still pools around your desk like a secret, and for once, there are no witnesses to how gently he looks at you.

“Come on,” he coaxes quietly. “Just let me do this.”

“Fine, but just this once.” You turn to face him better, mouth opening warily, lips trembling slightly. Your eyes are dazed, half-lidded and seeming like there’s nothing behind them.

“And I’m not a fan of Folk, so you better have some lullabies prepared.” Clark grins—slow and soft, like he just won something quiet and precious.

"One lullaby, coming right up," he murmurs, holding the spoon steady. "But only if you promise not to fall asleep mid-bite. I cannot explain to Lois why I let her star reporter choke on chicken dumplings under my watch."

He blows gently across the spoon before offering it again, eyes crinkling at the corners. "And for the record? Folk *is* lullabies. Just... with more flannel and existential dread."

The spoon hovers. His thumb brushes a fleck of soup from the edge of your lip without thinking—gentle, automatic—and then he freezes for half a second, realizing what he did.

But instead of pulling away or stammering an apology like usual?

He stays.

Fingers lingering near your mouth. Warmth in his gaze that wasn't there before.

"Just eat," he says quietly. "And save the sass for when you can actually stand without swaying." Sunlight wraps around you both like a held breath.

Your hand falls to his thigh as you concentrate on chewing the dumpling he gave you, using his strong leg to keep yourself steady.

“Don’t get used to me holding a conversation with such little sass, Kent.” Your eyes raise to meet his, lips parted ever so slightly as you wait for the next bite.

Clark goes very, very still.

The spoon hovers halfway back to the soup. His breath catches, just a tiny hitch, and for a man who can bench-press a locomotive, he looks like that simple touch has short-circuited his entire nervous system.

Your hand on his thigh.

Your lips still glistening from the broth.

The way your eyes hold his now—not guarded, not cold—but soft. Drowsy. Present.

He swallows hard.

“Noted,” he whispers, voice suddenly rough around the edges. “No getting used to it. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t joke his way out of it. Instead, he slowly scoops another bite, careful this time, and brings it toward you like you’re something sacred and breakable all at once.

His free hand hovers near your elbow as if bracing you without touching; but his leg under yours? Solid as steel and warm as sunlight through glass, letting you lean however much you need to.

And when your lips close gently around the spoon this time? Clark blinks fast—as if reminding himself: *Don’t say anything stupid.*

Too late.

“…You’re really gonna be trouble when you're feeling better,” he murmurs under his breath.

“I’m always trouble, Clark.” You place your other hand on the opposite leg, using his body to brace yours, completely relying on his strength to keep you up.

“And for the record, you make a good nurse.” You tease, using the same phrase he did. Clark lets out a low, breathless laugh, half surprise, half surrender.

"Trouble?" He shakes his head slowly, eyes dark and warm as he looks down at you braced between his legs like he's your anchor. "You're not trouble. You're supervillain levels of dangerous right now."

He scoops another bite, hand steady despite the way his pulse jumps in his throat.

"And for the record," he mimics softly, voice dropping into that teasing-but-true register that makes your stomach dip even through the fever fog, "you saying I make a good nurse is exactly how I know you're delirious."

But then, because he can’t help it, he leans in just a fraction closer as you shift against him. His hands hover: one near your back like he wants to steady you but doesn’t trust himself to touch; the other gently pulling the spoon away from your lips after another quiet feed.

Sunlight pools across both of you now, the office still empty, world gone quiet, and Clark murmurs:

“Rest against me all you want. Just… don’t forget how warm I get when you’re this close.”

A pause.

“Human furnace. Scientific fact.” You giggle softly, a noise unfamiliar to Clark’s eager ears, he’s heard it before, but never because of something he said.

The familiar click of Lois’s heels fill the air, Jimmy following behind with his phone in hand, scrolling on the screen mindlessly.

“Oh! And what’s going on here?” She grins, catching the two of you in a somewhat compromising position, especially since you claim to despise Clark Kent. Yet here you are, holding onto you like he’s your anchor.

Clark flinches like someone just tossed kryptonite into a tea cup.

One second he’s all soft focus and warmth, the next he’s scrambling back like gravity relearned its job. The spoon clinks too loud against the bowl as he pulls his legs slightly apart, just enough for you to wobble, but keeps one hand *just* behind your back, ready to catch you if you fall.

“Lois! Jimmy. Uh. Hey.” He laughs, nervous, sheepish, way too high-pitched. “She’s sick. Like… *really* sick. Fever? Shaking? The whole ‘muttering about tax law in her sleep’ thing?”

He gestures wildly at the soup like it's evidence in his defense.

“I was just… spoon-feeding her constitutional rights via broth.”

You sway slightly without his legs braced under yours, and Clark instinctively reaches out, to steady your shoulder, but then freezes mid-air when Lois raises an eyebrow so sharp it could slice steel.

Jimmy finally looks up from his phone.

“Wait,” he says slowly, squinting at the two of you. “Are we witnessing a moment?”

“No!” Clark blurts—then clears his throat. “I mean—yes? I mean—it's not what it looks like.”

Lois crosses her arms with a smirk that says she already knows everything and enjoys every second of this.

“You two,” she drawls, stepping closer, “are either about to kill each other… or finally stop pretending you don’t want to kiss.”

The office holds its breath.

Clark won’t look at you, but his hand is still hovering near your back like it forgot how to leave.

You’re silent, eyes barely open, hand holding your head.

Silence.

Then—*splat.*

Clark blinks. Looks down at his now-soggy loafer. The smell hits. His nose wrinkles, but not with disgust, with something softer. Concerned paternal disappointment, like a dad who just found out the dog ate the holiday ham.

Jimmy gags audibly and steps behind Lois. “Oh hell no.”

But Clark? He doesn’t flinch away. Doesn’t pull back from you as you slump forward with a groan, utterly unaware of the biohazard you’ve just unleashed on Metropolis’ most reluctant hero.

He gently catches you by the shoulders before your face meets desk—or worse, his other shoe.

“Okay,” he says calmly, like this is completely normal. “New plan.”

Still holding you upright with one arm, he grabs a wad of tissues from his pocket (because of course Clark Kent carries emergency tissues) and tosses them toward the mess like laying a ceremonial wreath.

“We’re going home.” He lifts your chin gently with two fingers until your bleary eyes meet his. “My place has better soup and tile floors I don’t care about.”

Lois stares at him like he’s lost his mind. Jimmy just whispers “Is this love?”

Clark ignores them all, kneels down beside your chair so he’s eye-level even as chaos erupts around him, and brushes hair from your damp forehead again. Softly this time. Slowly.

“You’re not fine,” he murmurs only for you to hear. “And that’s okay.”

Then louder:

“I’m taking her home,” he announces to no one in particular (but definitely to Lois). “If Perry asks—we’re chasing a lead.”

And just like that—he scoops you up in one smooth motion, cradling you against his chest as if it's nothing at all that half the office just saw him covered in vomit… and still smiling.

It’s around 8pm when you finally wake up, cuddled in a bed scented like Clark’s cologne and in a tshirt that’s not your own. You groggily rub your eyes, body still aching ever so slightly as you rise from the mattress.

You step out of the unfamiliar bedroom and into the hall, footsteps silent and careful as you creep into the living room.

The apartment is quiet, soft golden light spilling from the kitchen, the hum of a refrigerator and the faint clink of a spoon in a mug. The city glows beyond the windows, but here, it feels like a secret world.

Clark’s sitting on the couch in sweatpants and an old Daily Planet press tour tee (slightly stretched across his shoulders), bare feet propped on the coffee table. He’s flipping through a dog-eared copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, reading glasses perched low on his nose.

And there’s another mug steaming beside him—just waiting.

He looks up when he hears you. Freezes mid-turn-of-the-page. That slow, crooked smile starts at one corner of his mouth, the kind that says *I’ve been waiting for this moment all night.*

“Hey,” he says softly. “Welcome back to Earth.”

He sets the book down carefully, like it matters, and turns fully toward you, patting the cushion beside him.

“No vomiting allowed tonight,” he teases gently. “I already lost one pair of shoes to you this week.”

A beat.

“But if you promise not to redecorate my bathroom again… I’ve got ginger tea, saltines that somehow survived your fever coma, and” he gestures to his chest with mock solemnity “my personal guarantee that I did not sing any lullabies while you were out.”

His eyes warm as they trace your face—the shadows under yours lighter now, color back in your cheeks. “You feeling human again?”

“Somewhat,” you murmur, taking a seat next to him. “All thanks to you.” A small smile creeps on your face.

There’s no sass, just gentle words and comfortable air surrounding you. Clark looks down at his hands for a second, like he’s not sure what to do with the gratitude, like it’s something rare and fragile. Then he glances back at you, eyes soft behind his glasses.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says quietly, handing you the tea. “I haven’t told you I may have changed your socks while you were unconscious.” He smirks when your eyebrows shoot up.

“Medical emergency. Feet were cold. Protocol demands intervention.” He leans back slightly, giving you space—but stays close enough that your arms almost brush on the couch. “Besides… I owed you one for all those times you secretly fixed my headlines before Perry saw them.”

You freeze mid-sip.

He grins wider. “Oh yeah. I knew it was you. Every time there was a rogue semicolon or someone misspelled ‘LexCorp,’ suddenly—*poof*—clean copy in my inbox.” His voice drops into a mock-dramatic whisper: “I had a hunch who my guardian angel was.”

Then, quieter: “I liked that it was always you looking out for me… even when we weren’t talking.” The air between you settles warm and still again, the kind of quiet where unspoken things start to breathe.

"Yeah well, don't let it get to your head." You bite back with half-assed hostility. "But really, thank you." You set the mug down on the coffee table, "Even if you used my sickness as an excuse to take my clothes off."

Clark chokes on absolutely nothing. His face goes from calm and collected to bright red in 0.2 seconds flat—glasses fogging slightly like he’s some kind of romantic cartoon character.

“I—what?" He sputters, voice cracking. “I didn’t—I mean—your blouse was damp! Fever sweat! It was a medical necessity, not some elaborate Clark Kent seduction scheme!”

He gestures wildly at the ceiling like it holds proof of his innocence.

“I swear on my mother’s apple pie recipe I only changed your top because you were shivering and I wasn’t about to let you catch pneumonia on top of whatever mystery bug tried to take you out.”

Then, after a beat, he side-eyes you with that stupidly charming smirk returning: “And for the record… if I *were* gonna sneakily undress you?” He leans in just slightly, voice dropping low. “I wouldn’t need an excuse.”

The moment hangs there, teasing, electric, and then he snatches up the mug and stands abruptly.

“More tea,” he announces way too loudly. “Great idea. Let’s all have more tea.” He retreats toward the kitchen like a man fleeing a very cute fire.

You follow close behind, small smirk on your face as you cross your arms over your waist. "And that's why my bras missing too, hm?" Your grin only grows as you notice the tips of his ears turning red, "Did you like what you saw, Kent?"

Clark drops the kettle.

Not on purpose. Just a quiet, tragic *"clank"* as it slips from his hand onto the stovetop, thankfully still off, because apparently, even Superman isn’t immune to *smug women in his kitchen*.

He slowly turns to face you, backlit by the soft glow of the apartment lights, ears burning crimson, mouth opening and closing like a fish who just realized it was very out of water.

“First of all,” he says, voice impressively steady despite the full-body flush creeping down his neck. “Your bra wasn’t ‘missing.’ It was… draped.”

He gestures vaguely toward the laundry room like there’s a chain of evidence laid out inside. “Over my sweater. In a purely professional drying arrangement.” He pauses. “And I didn’t—I didn’t look. Much.”

A beat.

Then he squares his shoulders and gives you that stupidly earnest look, the one that makes liars feel guilty for lying in front of him.

“And even if I had looked?” He tilts his head slightly, gaze dropping for half a second to your lips before snapping back up with mock innocence. “What makes you think I’d tell you about it?”

He steps closer—just one step—closing some of that safe distance he worked so hard to create.

“You’re feeling better,” he murmurs, almost smiling now. “That’s how we know, you're officially dangerous again.”

Then softens: "...I’m glad." The air between you crackles, not with fever or fatigue, but something slower-burning and far more thrilling.

"If you want to look again," you begin, eyes twinkling with mischief. "I could use a shower. After all that sweating."

Clark freezes, like someone pressed pause on reality. His breath hitches.

“Uh,” he says intelligently. “You—you’re *really* not helping your case about being dangerous.”

He stares at you, really stares, for one long, loaded second. The kind where time forgets its job and the city lights outside fade into background noise. Then he steps forward until there’s barely any space left between you.

His thumb brushes your hipbone through his too-big shirt, slow, deliberate, and his eyes flicker up to yours with that sheepish grin warring against something far more certain. “But for what it’s worth… yeah. I’d look again.”

A beat.

“And this time?” He leans in just close enough that his breath ghosts your ear as he whispers:

“I wouldn’t feel even a little bit guilty about it.”

Then, he pulls back abruptly, grabs a fresh towel from the cabinet and hands it to you like nothing happened. “Bathroom’s down the hall,” he says evenly. “Try not to pass out on my tiles.”

But his ears are still red.

"Clark," You reach for his hand, pulling him toward you. "What happened to playing nurse? Don't I get a sponge bath?" You're not teasing anymore, you're prompting him.

Your gaze is full of something dark, something different than he's used to, desire. "Is this not a part of your Clark Kent care package?"

Clark stops breathing.

Not dramatically. Not for effect.

He just… forgets how.

Your hand in his is warm. Your voice, low, rough with fever and something hotter, sends a pulse straight through his chest like he’s not invulnerable at all. Like he’s just a man. Just Clark. And you’re looking at him like you finally see him—really see him—and you want him close.

“This part of the care package,” he murmurs, thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles, “isn't covered by workplace liability.”

Another step closer. His free hand finds your waist, tentative at first, then firmer when you don’t pull back.

“And if I give you a sponge bath?” His voice drops to a whisper that curls low in your stomach. “I won't be playing nurse anymore.”

His eyes flicker to your mouth again, but this time, they stay there.

“I’ll be doing this because I’ve wanted to touch you since the day you growled at me for borrowing your stapler.”

A soft laugh escapes him, nervous and real and full of awe. “So no more games,” he breathes. “Tell me what you really want… or let me walk away before I forget how.”

"I think we both want the same thing," Your hand goes to his cheek, thumb brushing over his strong cheekbone. "I want you to touch me, everywhere, and mercilessly. I want to be the one left forgetting how to walk."

Your words are genuine, seductive, and for once truthful; rather than being hidden behind practiced disdain.

The air between you doesn’t just shift—it *breaks.*

Clark makes a sound low in his throat, half groan, half surrender, and in one smooth motion, he cups the back of your neck and pulls you against him, closing the last fragile inch of space.

“No more pretending,” he murmurs against your lips, voice rough like thunder under silk.

And then he kisses you.

Not gentle. Not careful.

*Fever-hot.* Desperate. Like he’s been holding his breath for years and you’re the first real oxygen he’s ever known. His mouth moves over yours with a kind of precision only someone who's memorized every word you've ever spoken could have, the exact pressure, the perfect angle, as if this kiss was written in his bones long before it touched skin.

One hand stays tangled at your nape, fingers threading into your hair; the other slides down your back, slow and firm until it grips your hip hard enough to leave a memory.

When he finally pulls back—just an inch—you’re both breathless. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed tight like he's trying to remember how to be human again.

“You sure about this?” His voice is raw now, all sheepishness gone, replaced by something deeper: hunger wrapped in tenderness. “Because once I start touching you… I’m not stopping at sponge baths.”

He opens his eyes then, heavy-lidded, dark with want, and brushes another soft kiss on your lips before whispering: “And when we wake up tomorrow? You better not pretend this didn’t happen.”

His thumb traces along your jawline—one silent plea hidden beneath fire: *I’ve loved even your cruelty… but I’d rather love what comes after.*

"Clark," You nip at his bottom lip. "Fuck me, fuck me so hard I forget what my own name is." You're no longer asking.

You're begging.

He makes a broken sound, like a vow cracking open.

And just like that, he lets go.

Clark lifts you clean off the ground, one hand under your thighs, the other cradling your back like you weigh nothing at all. You gasp as he carries you down the hall, heels instinctively locking behind his waist as he kicks open his bedroom door with more force than necessary—*thud* against the wall—and then you’re pressed against it again in seconds, heart slamming.

His mouth finds yours, hungry, claiming, and this time there’s no mercy in it. No sweet hesitation. He kisses you like he’s spent years dreaming of destroying every wall between you and now finally has permission to burn them all down.

“I’m gonna do worse than forget your name,” he growls against your lips, voice thick with need. “I’m gonna make sure every breath out of that mouth is mine.”

His hands slide under the hem of the t-shirt, the one that smells like him, his palms mapping muscle and scar and softness alike like worship disguised as domination.

“You want me merciless?”

He nips at your collarbone, a sharp sting followed by warm relief from his tongue. “Then remember this moment when I’ve got my hands on every secret part of you… when I’ve wrecked that pretty voice moaning into my shoulder…”

He lifts his eyes to yours, one last pulse of sanity clinging on:“Because after tonight? You won’t be able to look at me across that newsroom again without remembering exactly how deep I buried myself inside you.”

Then Clark kisses away any chance for words…

and begins proving exactly what happens when he stops holding back.

Clark’s mouth trails down from your lips, leaving a blazing path of kisses and bitten-off moans. His teeth graze the sensitive skin of your neck, making you arch back, your nails digging into his shoulders.

He kisses lower, peeling the shirt away from your body, revealing the lacy black panties you wore that day. The sight makes his cock throb painfully against his pants. But first, he wants to taste you. All of you.

He drops to his knees, his hands moving to your waist to help you step out of the shirt. You’re panting, eyes half-lidded and full of need as you watch him, your chest rising and falling rapidly.

He takes a moment to appreciate the view—your breasts, your stomach, the slight tremble in your legs—before his gaze locks on your panties once more.

They’re damp, and the scent of your arousal fills the air like an intoxicating perfume. He hooks his thumbs under the elastic and pulls them down, taking his sweet time as they slide over your hips and down your legs.

your pussy is bare, glistening in the soft light from the bedside lamp, and Clark’s mouth waters. He’s dreamt of this, fantasized about it, and now it’s real. He leans in, pressing his nose to your cunt, breathing you in before his tongue swipes over your clit.

You gasp, your knees buckling slightly, and he holds you steady, his hands moving to your thighs to keep you upright.

He kisses your pussy like it’s a part of you that he’s been dying to taste, and when he finally slides his tongue inside you, you cry out, your legs wrapping around his neck. His hands tighten, holding you open for him as he explores, licking and teasing, finding the spot that makes your hips jerk every time he hits it.

He’s merciless, just as you asked, working you over with his mouth until you’re shaking and your legs are trembling, your orgasms rolling into one endless wave.

Clark doesn’t stop, not even when your voice breaks into sobs of pleasure and you’re begging him to let you catch your breath. He’s lost in your taste, in the way you respond to him, and he can’t get enough.

His tongue flicks and strokes, his lips suck and kiss, and with every sound you make, every tremble of your body, he’s closer to the edge. He wants you to come so hard you’re screaming, so you know just how much he craves you.

And when you do, it’s like a dam bursts—wet and wild, your juices flooding his mouth as you convulse against him.

He drinks you down, swallows your cries, and still, he keeps going, pushing you for more, giving you no respite until you’re boneless in his arms, your voice a hoarse whisper of his name.

Only then does he pull back, his face flushed and shining with sweat, his own need a pulsing ache. He looks up at you, eyes dark with desire, and you say the only thing that’s left to be said: “Now, it’s your turn to remember how I make you feel, every time you look at me in that newsroom.”

And then, with trembling hands, he stands, his cock straining against his pants. But before he can do anything about it, you’re dropping to your knees, your eyes never leaving his. The power in that gaze sends a shiver down his spine, and he knows that this night is just getting started.

Your eyes never left his as you sank to your knees, the power of your desire for him making his knees feel like they might give out. He watched, mesmerized, as you unbuckle his belt with trembling hands, your eyes shining with a hunger that matched his own.

You unzipped his pants, the sound echoing in the quiet room, and he stepped out of them, his erection springing free. Clark’s cock was thick and heavy, the tip glistening with precum, and you licked your lips in anticipation.

With a gentle grip, you wrapped your hand around his length, your thumb circling the sensitive spot just under the head, making him groan. He was so close to losing it just from that touch alone, but you had other plans.

You leaned in, your breath hot against his skin, and took him in your mouth. Slowly at first, your lips sliding down his shaft until you could feel him hit the back of your throat. He swelled inside you, filling your mouth completely.

Your eyes flutter shut as you take him deeper, your tongue swirling around his cock, cheeks hollowing with every suck. You use your other hand to cup his balls, rolling them gently in your palm as you work him over with your mouth.

The sounds you made were obscene, wet and needy, and they sent shockwaves through his body.

Clark’s hands found their way into your hair, his grip tightening as you picked up the pace. He’s never felt anything like this—so intense, so consuming—and he couldn’t believe it was happening with you.

The woman who had been his tormentor for so long was now on her knees, worshiping his body like it was her favorite sin.

Your technique was flawless, you knew just how much pressure to use, just how fast to move your mouth to make him crazy. You take him deep, then pull back to tease the sensitive ridge with the tip of your tongue before swallowing him whole again.

He watched you, watched the way your eyes rolled back in your head, watched the way your throat worked around him, and he knew he was lost.

His hips began to thrust of their own accord, fucking your mouth with the same desperation he’d felt in every fantasy. He was so close, so fucking close, and you knew it.

You could feel his pulse racing beneath your touch, the muscles in his thighs tensing, his grip in your hair tightening until it was almost painful.

And then you swallowed around him, throat contracting, and he lost it. He came with a roar, his seed flooding your mouth, and you took it all, eyes on his the whole time.

You didn’t stop, didn’t pull away, just kept sucking until he was spent, until there was nothing left but the aftershocks of pleasure rippling through his body.

When he finally pulled out, panting and shaking, you look up at him with a wicked smile, your lips slick with his cum. “Better than a sponge bath, I take it?” you whisper.

Clark could only nod, his voice a strangled groan. “Fuck yes,” he managed to say before collapsing onto the bed, utterly wrecked by your touch.

He watched as you stood, swaying slightly on your feet, the aftermath of your fever still evident in your flushed cheeks and heavy-lidded eyes. But the fire between you had only grown stronger, and he knew that this was only the beginning.

He had so much more of you to explore, so much more of you to claim. And he was going to take every inch, with a fierceness that would make the sun look like a candle in comparison.

But first?

First, it was time for a shower.

Clark’s chest heaves as he stares at you, lips parted, skin slick with sweat, heart slamming like it’s trying to escape. And god, you’re beautiful, hair tousled, lips swollen and glistening with him, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction and something darker… *hungry for more.*

He swallows hard. Reaches a shaky hand down to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your lower lip like he can’t believe it really happened.

“You,” he rasps, voice raw from groaning your name into the dark, “are going to be the death of me.”

He pulls you up onto the bed in one smooth motion, rolling so you're beneath him before you can even catch your breath. His hands frame your face as he hovers over you, eyes burning into yours.

“That was just round one,” he murmurs darkly. “And if I have anything to say about it? You’re not getting out of this apartment until I’ve repaid every second of that blow job tenfold.”

His knee nudges between your thighs—gentle but insistent—and when you gasp at the contact, heat pooling all over again? He smiles. Slow. Devastating.

“Let's get that shower running,” Clark whispers against your lips. “But I think we both know what happens next.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, softly this time, before adding:

“We clean each other off…

*Then start all over again.*”

And damn if his cock doesn’t twitch against your hip like it already agrees. You grin, arms wrapping around his neck. “Or we fuck while we get clean…” Your lips press open mouthed kisses to his face.

Clark groans—low, deep, like the sound rips right from his chest.

“Christ,” he mutters against your lips, half-laughing, half-drowning in you. “You’re gonna kill me before breakfast.” He surges up onto his knees between your legs, slow, deliberate, then leans down to bite gently at your collarbone as one hand slides under your hip.

“You want filthy and clean at the same time?” His voice drops to a rough whisper. “My kind of multitasking.”

In one move he lifts you effortlessly against him, one arm locked around your waist, and carries you into the bathroom like you weigh nothing at all. The tiles are cold beneath his feet but he doesn’t care; sets you on the counter and reaches past to turn on the shower, steam already curling into the air.

Then he steps back just enough to look at you, bare and glowing in soft bathroom light, and something flickers behind his eyes: awe wrapped in hunger.“You sure?” He teases with that crooked grin. “Once I get you wet? I’m not stopping for soap.”

You slide off the counter into him, your body flush with his bare chest, and nip at his jawline.

“Then don’t,” you breathe. “Fuck me before we’re even under the water.”

He growls, a real sound this time, and spins you around fast but gentle until your hands are splayed against the cool glass of the shower door for balance.

“No more talking,” Clark murmurs behind ear as he grips both hips hard enough to bruise tomorrow, the good kind of souvenir.

His cock drags hot along your ass through fevered hesitation… then nudges the tight entrance waiting so perfectly for him.

And when he finally sinks inside—in one slow thrust that makes both of you shudder?

The world stops again.

Steam rises.

Water rains down.

And somewhere beyond heartbeat and breath?

A man who’s spent years holding back finally learns how good it feels… to let go.

Clark's hips surge forward, filling you completely, the sound of wet flesh slapping against wet flesh echoing through the tiled room. Your body arches back, pressing against him, begging for more, as he starts to move.

He's not gentle, not now. He fucks you like he's been starving for this, for you, and he's going to consume every part of you until there's nothing left.

His hand slides around your waist, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in time with his thrusts. The sensation is overwhelming, the pleasure building until you can't tell where one sensation ends and another begins.

The water cascades over both of you, mixing with sweat and need as you moan into the steam.

He whispers in your ear, his breath hot and ragged. "You're so fucking tight, so wet for me." His other hand grabs your hair, yanking your head back, exposing your neck to his hungry mouth. He bites, kisses, sucks until you're trembling, until you're sure he's marked you.

The angle is perfect, his cock hitting that spot deep inside you that makes you see stars, and you know you won't last much longer. "Clark," you pant, your voice barely recognizable. "I'm gonna cum."

"Cum for me," he growls, his strokes growing faster, harder, pushing you closer to the edge. "I want to feel it around my cock."

You do, your pussy clenching around him in spasms of pleasure so intense you think you might pass out. The orgasm tears through you like a storm, leaving you trembling and gasping for air.

But Clark isn't done. He keeps moving, his hips pistoning into you, his thumb relentless on your clit. He's chasing his own release now, his eyes dark with lust. You can feel his cock thicken inside you, the head swelling, and you know he's close.

"Cum with me," you beg, your voice a desperate whisper.

And he does, with a roar that drowns out the sound of the water, his cum spilling into you like molten lava. He slams into you one last time before stilling, his cock pulsing inside you, his breath hot against your neck.

You lean back against him, boneless, as the water beats down around you. His arms come up to hold you tight, and for a moment, you just stand there, panting, heart racing.

Then he kisses the side of your neck, gentle now, and murmurs, "I told you I wouldn't stop."

And even though you're exhausted, you know there's so much more to come.

But for now, he’s going to comfort and hold you close. Making sure he takes good care of you.

The water’s still warm, cascading over your shoulders as Clark slowly turns you in his arms, his hands gentle now, tracing the curve of your spine like he’s learning you all over again. He presses his forehead to yours, both of you breathless under the spray, skin flushed pink from heat and friction.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and tender. “Still with me?”

You nod weakly, heavy-lidded eyes fluttering open, and that sheepish smile returns to his lips. The one that always made everyone at the office melt… but now? It’s only for you.

He reaches behind to grab a washcloth hanging neatly on the bar -because of *course* Clark has shower organization-, wetting it under steaming water before kneeling back down.

“No more rushing,” he whispers as he gently cleans between your legs, one slow stroke, with a reverence that makes your heart clench more than any thrust ever could.

His touch lingers just long enough to make sure every ache is soothed before setting it aside and standing once more. He cups your face in both hands this time, water slicking back his curls, and kisses you softly. Not demanding. Not desperate.

Tender. Like worship disguised as love letters whispered through touch.

“You okay?” His thumbs brush away droplets clinging to cheekbones, eyes locked on the same ones that once looked at him with nothing but sarcasm weeks ago… now softened by sweat and satisfaction alike.

You lean into him automatically, the chill air outside your cocoon making goosebumps rise, but Clark just wraps strong arms around tight against broad chest already radiating heat like sunlight given form.

“I’ve got ya,” he says quietly into damp hair above ear, and god yes, he *does.*

Then quieter: “And if we’re being honest?”

A pause while steam rolls across bare skin. "I've wanted to ruin us both like this since day one."

No more jokes.

No hiding behind heroics or headlines or pretend hatred in copy rooms during lunch breaks where neither could look away fast enough anyway—

Just truth:

They were always meant for moments exactly like this: soaked together not only in water...

but want,

and weakness,

and warmth

that never fades after even when morning comes.<|endofmessage|>

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kykysinlovewithafairytale · 10 days ago

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You’re Home Early -C.K

Synopsis: You weren’t supposed to be home yet. But when your meeting ends early, you decide to surprise Clark with something sweet—takeout, kisses, maybe a little teasing. What you find instead is him—naked, fisting his cock in your shared bed, moaning your name.

cw: Masturbation (Clark touching himself). Partner voyeurism (Reader catches him in the act). Oral sex (f. receiving & m. receiving). Unprotected sex. Fingering. Dirty talk. Public teasing reference. Power play (light dominance & control). Begging, possession, and praise kink. Reader teasing/denying Clark. Mild roughness.

You weren’t supposed to be home for another hour.

But your meeting ended early, and you thought—sweetly, innocently—that maybe you’d surprise Clark with takeout and kisses.

What you didn’t expect was to walk in and hear low, filthy groans echoing down the hall. The sound stops you in your tracks.

It’s coming from the bedroom.

Quietly, you drop your bag and creep closer, heart hammering. The door’s cracked open just enough to give you the perfect view—and what you see has your breath catching in your throat.

Clark is on the bed. Naked. Laid out like some kind of goddamn fever dream.

His thighs are spread, muscles flexing with each slow pump of his fist around his thick cock. He’s leaking—dripping—precome slicking over his knuckles, abs tense and glistening with sweat. His head is thrown back against the pillows, eyes shut, lips parted. And he’s saying your name.

"Fuck, baby… god—the way you ride me… the sounds you make—" You press your thighs together, already soaked. He doesn’t even notice you watching. Not at first. Not until he moans again, low and rough, hips bucking into his own hand, and your voice cuts through the haze: “Having fun without me?”

Clark jerks—eyes flying open, chest rising hard. He looks so caught—and it’s adorable. A little flush crawls up his throat, but his cock doesn’t so much as twitch away from his grip. If anything, he strokes harder.

“Thought you were still at work,” he pants, eyes dark, locked on you now.

You lean against the doorframe, slowly undoing the first few buttons of your blouse. “Clearly. Was this about earlier? Couldn’t wait for me to come home?”

He groans again, deeper this time. “You in that fucking skirt—of course it was about earlier.” You cross the room slowly, letting your skirt slide down your hips as you approach the bed.

Clark’s still touching himself—shameless now, moaning softly as he watches you strip. His free hand reaches for your wrist when you get close enough, tugging you down so you’re straddling his thigh.

"God, you’re such a fucking tease,” Clark groans, his voice wrecked and ragged. His fingers dig into your hip as you straddle his thigh—his skin searing hot, muscles coiled and trembling beneath you. “You know what you do to me.”

You grind against the thick cut of muscle under you, biting your lip as your soaked panties drag along his skin. “Yeah?”you murmur, cupping his jaw. “Then maybe you should’ve waited for me to come home, baby.”

His cock twitches at that—still hard, still dripping, his hand slow and tight around the shaft as he watches you roll your hips against his thigh like you’re putting on a show. Your blouse is open, your tits brushing his chest, and his eyes are starving.

“Couldn’t help it,” he gasps, bucking up into his own hand. “Fuck—you left me so worked up. Thought about you all day. That skirt—those fucking heels—”

You dip your mouth to his throat, teeth grazing just enough to make him hiss. “Poor baby. Touched yourself like a desperate little—

Clark growls—the sound vibrates against your mouth as he grabs your ass and yanks you harder against him. You feel the sticky drag of his cockhead nudge against your thigh, hot and slick. “I’m not the only one desperate,” he mutters darkly. “You’re soaked. You want me to fuck you stupid, don’t you?”

You kiss him hard, filthy and slow, before whispering, “No.”

His brows furrow. “No?”

You smirk. “Not yet.”

Then you slide down his body, replacing his hand with yours. He groans—loud, almost helpless—as you stroke him, your thumb teasing the head, gathering the slick and spreading it with slow, cruel precision.

“Y-You’re evil,” he chokes out, head tipping back, fists curling in the sheets.

You hum. “You’re the one who started without me. I should make you wait.”

His eyes snap to yours—glowing faintly, pleading. “Please.”

You laugh and duck between his legs, tongue flicking out to taste him. He shouts your name, hips jerking as you suck him into your mouth like you own him. And you do. God, you fucking do.

a/n: spank me or fuck me both will do

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kykysinlovewithafairytale · 11 days ago

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Kindergarten Chaos Pairing - Tyler Owens x Teacher!Reader Summary - When you joked that Tyler should come talk to your class of kindergartners about the weather, you didn't expect him to actually want to do it. Of course, you didn't expect him to make a confession in front of them either. Word Count - 2.3k Warnings - Hi, yes, it's me. I hope you all accept my apology for my absence with this nothing but fluff Tyler fic. <3

The closer that the clock ticked to 12:00, the more nervous you became. You were still debating whether this was a good idea. You and Tyler had been dating for a little over seven months now. When you had joked about him coming to talk to your kindergartners about the weather, you hadn’t expected him to take it seriously. Instead of thinking it was a joke though, Tyler got excited. He wanted to do it. In fact, he said it sounded fun.

You weren’t sure how fun he was going to find it when twenty-three tiny humans surrounded him, tugging on his shirt sleeves, asking whether he’d ever flown into a tornado, and inevitably, way too many questions about his personal life.

With a groan, you buried your face in your hands. At least this would be a good endurance test of your relationship. If he could handle this, you had no doubt he could handle anything.

At that moment your phone rang, and your heart skipped a beat when the secretary’s name popped up on the caller i.d. “Hello?” You answered.

Her voice was low, amused. “You know I’m happily married, but my God, that man is gorgeous. Congratulations, honey.”

You laughed, the tension cracking a bit. “He’s here?”

“Sent him down to your room. I just had to call. And like I said - congrats.” She said, and you heard her let out a sigh. “That’s one handsome cowboy.”

You shook your head at her shenanigans, but a smile formed on your face, because as nervous as you were about this whole thing, you were excited to see him too. “Thanks, I’ll make sure he stops by when he leaves and gives you an autographed picture.” You teased her.

“I know you’re joking, but I’m not. Please do. I want something pretty to hang on my bulletin board.”

Before you could reply, there was a knock on your door, and through the window, Tyler’s familiar smile greeted you - sunny and relaxed, like he didn’t have a care in the world.

“I’ll make sure you get one, I promise.” You said with another laugh. “But I gotta go.” You hung up and practically floated to the door, opening it with a grin. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Tyler said, and to your utter delight, pulled out a bouquet of orchids. “These are for you.”

Touched, you took them from him, and inhaled the calming scent. “You didn’t have to do that.” You said, but held them close to your chest.

“I haven’t seen you in two weeks.” He said, his voice low. “I’ve got some making up to do.”

Glancing down the hallway, you tugged on the front of his shirt, pulling him into your classroom and closing the door behind you. “Well, my students will be back in . . .” You peeked around his shoulder to glance at the clock. “Three minutes. So if there’s anything else you want to make up for . . .”

Tyler’s smile turned into a smirk as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush against him. “I can think of a couple of things.” He said, and leaned down to meet your lips in a sweet kiss.

It was chaste, a brush of lips, but even that was enough to set your nerves alight and ground you all at once. Kissing Tyler always had that effect: calm and fire, all rolled into one.

When he pulled away, slow and reluctant, you let out a soft sigh and wrapped your arms around him, resting your head on his chest. “I’ve missed you.”

You felt his lips press against the top of your head and smiled when his arms tightened around you. “I guarantee you not as much as I missed you. I still can't believe how those storms were forming back to back, nonstop.”

“They made for some beautiful shots, though.” You said, leaning back enough to meet his eyes. “Last I checked the views were in the hundred thousands. Even though that one near Enid almost gave me a heart attack.”

HIs expression sobered, and his eyes drifted, like he was seeing it again. “Yeah, those night tornadoes are the worst. We were lucky. I’m glad we got as many people out as we did.” He said, then his gaze came back to you, giving your hip a squeeze. “You know I won’t be mad if you stop watching the lives, right?”

You gasped in mock outrage. “No way. I have to keep my position as the number one wrangler fan.”

Tyler laughed, shaking his head “I don’t think anyone’s trying to steal-”

The door to your classroom burst open, and within seconds you were surrounded by five year olds all asking: a. if they could go to the bathroom, b. what you guys were going to be doing now, or c. who that man was.

You glanced at Tyler, half-expecting to see panic on his face, but he was grinning at you like this was the best part of his day. “Okay everyone!” You said over the noise. “Remember how I told you we’d have a special visitor today? This is Mr. Owens, and he’s going to talk to us about the weather!”

One of your little girls, Chloe, pointed straight at the flowers still in your hands. “Did he bring you flowers?”

Heat rushed to your face as you glanced down at the bouquet you’d forgotten you were holding. “Chloe-”

But Tyler answered her before you could. “I sure did. You should always bring someone flowers when you’ve missed them.”

“Hey! You’re on her happy wall! Look!” One of your students grabbed Tyler’s arm and started dragging him to the collage behind your desk, a display that was covered in pictures. Some were of your students, others were places you traveled, family, and friends. “See! You’re right there!” You heard your student say, pointing at a specific picture.

You couldn’t help but smile when you looked at it. The picture was one of your favorites. It had been taken over the summer when you were hanging out with the crew. Boone had snapped it at the perfect moment, and you’d loved it ever since. You were leaning against Tyler, laughing, your head tipped back against his shoulder. His arms were wrapped around you, and he was looking at you, not at the camera, with a soft, beaming expression.

Glancing over, you saw Tyler staring at the photo too, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. Then he turned back to the student. “A happy wall, huh?”

Ryan nodded, still holding Tyler’s hand. “She says it’s pictures that make her smile when she looks at them.”

“All right,” you said, cheeks still burning. “Let’s all go to the carpet so Mr. Owens can tell us all about his job!” You ushered all the kids to their assigned carpet spots at the front of the room, giving Tyler a smile when they were all sitting on their dots, wiggling but attentive, waiting for him to start.

You should’ve known that he would be incredible at this.

Within five minutes not only were the kids captivated, but you’d somehow found yourself on the carpet too, with one of your kindergartners in your lap. Tyler was so engaging. In fact, that was one of the first things that you had noticed about him when the two of you had met. Every time you saw him interact with someone though, you were reminded of it again.

But watching him with your students? That was next level heart melting.

Sometimes when you had guests, you could tell that they weren’t used to being around kids, and didn’t quite know how to talk to them. Tyler however, was a natural. He made it easy for them to understand what he was saying, made the science sound like magic, brought out some pictures for them to look at, and even did a little demonstration with two bottles and some food coloring. The kids gasped like he’d summoned a tornado right there in the classroom.

It was the cutest thing you’d ever seen, and if you hadn’t already been completely in love with him, this would have sealed the deal.

Then he made the classic rookie mistake, the one every non-teacher makes.

Tyler asked if they had any questions.

You let out a sigh, knowing there was no stopping the tidal wave now. But you couldn’t help but smile as Tyler took it all in stride, Fielding every off topic, wildly imaginative question they threw at him from, “Do clouds have bones?” to “Can tornadoes eat sharks?” with patient good humor.

It wasn’t until little Chloe raised her hand that you realized you should have stopped this long ago.

“Do you love our teacher?” She asked, her big eyes shining with innocent curiosity.

You froze.

Oh no.

That was not how you wanted that conversation to come up. “Oh, would you look at that guys?! It’s time for us to-”

“I do.” Tyler interrupted before you could finish your sentence. His eyes were directly on you even as he put a hand up, mock whispering to the class, “but I haven’t told her that yet, so shhhh!”

Your heart stopped, then picked up at double speed. You barely had time to process what he said when another student, oblivious to the emotional bomb that had just been dropped, blurted out:

“When you two get married, are you gonna be Mr. Teacher instead of Mr. Owens?”

“Recess!” you shouted, louder than you meant to. “Time for recess, everyone!”

The class erupted into cheers and scrambled to line up. As they did, one voice called out from the back:

“Can Mr. Owens go to recess with us?”

“Please, Mr. Owens! Pleeeease!” came the chorus of tiny voices, rallying like a flash mob.

You turned to look at Tyler. He wore that grin, the one that melted your common sense and made you fall in love with him a little more every time. Like the kids, you couldn’t help but want him to stay. “Mr. Owens is more than welcome to come if he’s not too busy.” You said.

He didn’t even pause. “I’d love to.”

————————

“Where on Earth did you find him?” Your friend asked you, staring at Tyler across the playground.

He was manning the tire swing, spinning it with enough gusto to make the kids shriek with laughter. When one group stumbled off like dizzy little ducklings, another was already in line, hopping in place with excitement. Tyler didn’t miss a beat, steadying each kid, laughing with them, listening to their stories like they were the most important thing he’d heard all day. “At a bar on a bachelorette trip.” You said, smiling at the memory.

“Does he have a brother?” She teased, bumping your shoulder.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Nope.”

Then your eyes returned to the man surrounded by children, who looked like he belonged in the middle of all that joy

Softly, with a smile you didn’t even try to hide, you said, “You know, I’m pretty sure I’m in love with him.”

“Have you told him yet?” She asked, raising her eyebrows.

“I haven’t,” Tyler looked up and met your gaze, his smile hitting you like a spark. His words from earlier echoed in your mind. “But I think I’m going to.” Glancing around the playground, you found the perfect person to deliver your message. “Chloe! Come here, please!”

The little girl darted over from the slide, face flushed from playing.

“Can you give Mr. Owens a message for me?” You asked her, crouching down.

She nodded, practically bouncing, excited to be given a special job.

You leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Tell him that I love him too.”

Her brow furrowed for a moment, but then her face lit up. She took off running, beelining for Tyler. You watched her tug at his pant leg, and he gave her that charming smile, then bent to listen.

She whispered in his ear. His eyes locked on yours from across the playground, and you watched as his brows knit in confusion. He nodded at Chloe as she grinned at him, then took off back to you.

“I told him!” She declared.

But Tyler was still looking at you, his expression puzzled. Something wasn’t right.

You braced yourself. “What exactly did you say, Chloe?”

“That you loved his shoes too!”

Next to you, your coworker choked on a laugh.

You resisted every urge you had to face palm.

“You should have seen that one coming.” Your friend said, trying and failing to hide her smile.

She wasn’t wrong.

Ten minutes later you were lining the kids up to go inside, and as embarrassed as you were, you couldn’t help but smile as you felt a warm hand rest low on your back.

“I didn’t know you liked these boots so much.” Tyler said, voice teasing as he leaned in close.

Heat flushed your cheeks. “Well, I mean . . . I am a sucker for a good pair of cowboy boots.” You stammered, avoiding his gaze.

“You sure that’s what you were trying to say, sweetheart?” He asked, sending a grin over to one of your students waving goodbye.

You smoothed your hair and glanced over at your friend, holding up a finger to signal one more minute. “What else would I have been trying to say?” You asked, feigning innocence.

“You tell me.”

His eyes were warm, steady and full of the kind of affection that made your knees weak. You let yourself hold his gaze this time, and your voice softened. “Why don’t I tell you tonight?”

“After I take you out?”

“Oh? You’re taking me out?” You asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Yes ma’am.” Tyler said, stepping closer, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I’ve got a lot of making up to do, remember?”

Your smile turned to a full grin at his words, and the chaos of the day melted a little. “I’ll clear my schedule.”

Tyler’s smile in return was all mischief. “I just have one request.”

He reached over to hold the door open for you, and used the moment to lean down and whisper in your ear.

“Make sure you wear some really nice shoes.”

601 notes · View notes

kykysinlovewithafairytale · 11 days ago

Text

𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 — 𝐣.𝐚.

summary: also known as the story of how you became jack abbot's sugar baby.

word count: 7.8k

tags: younger reader/sugar baby dynamic, reader is in an unspecified masters program, reader is poor (sorry girl), descriptions of burn wound, jack tends to reader's wound because why wouldn't he!, robby guest appearance, smut (hard and fast and creampie.. sorry), these two are so cute and i love this reader

note: based on this blurb. enjoy! crazy what motivation can do. go listen to don’t worry baby by the beach boys 💛

you should have known you were in trouble when dr. jack abbot of the closest emergency room handed you a full-size tube of the expensive burn gel you needed and said in a firm yet gentle voice: don’t worry about it, kid.

little did he know that you did worry about it, that you worry about everything and then some. like the ridiculous injury that led you here in the first place—ridiculous and embarrassing, a double whammy. you were writing a paper at two in the morning despite the fact that the words on the screen had stopped making sense hours ago, determined to get at least another three pages done before calling it quits.

what you really needed was a coffee, but instead, stupidly, you settled for making hot chocolate. you thought it would be comforting, like a warm hug, which is probably what you really need and since you live alone, it’s not like you’re going to get that anywhere else.

so—hot chocolate, with milk rather than water, and mini marshmallows. you make it on the stove because it’s just better that way, and despite how you feel about yourself deserving things, you think you can waste the few extra minutes to make it the right way.

except you probably should have made the cup of coffee. after two am, your brain really, really stops working. your palm ends up against the burner of your stove and you cry out from pain before realizing what you’ve just done.

“fuck. fuck, fuck, fuck-” you curse, taking your hand to the sink immediately and running it under cold water. it stings and the pain isn’t going away, and then you realize a few other things.

one—that you have nothing besides bandaids and neosporin in this apartment. two—that you have no idea how to take care of a burn. and three—you really, really should have just gone to sleep.

on the verge of tears that are about to spill over, you keep your hand wrapped against a towel, slip into real shoes, and call an uber to the nearest emergency room. you’d walk but you’re in pajama shorts and a hoodie and it’s three in the morning and you don’t think you can handle anything else going wrong right now.

your paper is abandoned at your desk. the cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows melting in it looks at you almost jeeringly. and you think you’ll never trust your stove again.

you wait for a little bit but luckily, it’s not as packed as you were worried it’d be. you still have to finish that paper when you get back home, and if the sun is up by then there’ll be no sleeping for you. the nurse looks at you kindly when she notices your wet eyes and wobbly chin as you explain you accidentally burnt yourself and you didn’t know what to do.

“hold tight, honey. the doctor will be right in.” you thank her and then curse to yourself—you’re reaching levels of stupidity unknown to man. you hope she’ll tell the doctor it was just a burn and whoever it is will leave it at that. you don’t think you have energy to explain this to anyone and your face burns with embarrassment at the very idea.

then the curtain gets pulled back and he walks in and whatever thought you were thinking flies out the window.

“hi, i’m dr. abbot,” he says, his head tilted down—showing you a mane of messy salt and pepper curls—and looking at the tablet in his hands. he looks up at you to confirm your name and then your birthday, though in all honesty, he could have said something completely wrong and you would have nodded and agreed.

your doctor is handsome. he’s hot. like grey’s anatomy level hot. like, some other medical show that your brain recognizes but can’t currently remember the name of hot.

“so you burned yourself? can i take a look?” as stupid as it is—you don’t think you’ve ever been stunned into silence by a man before. his words are gentle and sincere and it sounds like he really cares about whatever's wrong with you—so many things you can't begin to name them all right now. fuck, he asked you something. you nod and then he looks up at you again. “i kind of need to hear you say it.”

fuck. me. what the hell kind of doctor says things like that to deliriously delusional women at three in the morning?

“yes. yes, thank you.” you move the towel and lift your palm towards him and he takes a gloved hand to support you. you can feel his fingers against the back of your hand, holding you in place, and normally that contact would be enough to have you reeling into never-never land where all the doctors are hot and single and you’re presenting with a more much cool, mature injury.

but then you notice his arms, and you have to bite your cheek so hard to not accidentally say anything you will without a doubt regret. hot doctor is jacked, with huge arms and a scrub top that covers most of his biceps. his forearms are thick and veiny and your eyes focus on them for way, way too long. you can make out so many freckles on his skin that it presents like a galaxy. you momentarily forget how badly your hand hurts. he sucks in a breath and looks at you again, making intense eye contact that you can’t bear. you look away immediately.

“ouch. so how’d this happen?” he asks, and you groan before you can stop yourself—of course he’s a good doctor who doesn’t cut corners and has to make sure you’re not suicidal or a masochist or something. “you okay, kid?”

what the fuck. one man cannot be doing it for you in so many ways—this dr. abbot should have never existed because you don’t know how you’re going to stop thinking about him. when you meet his eyes again and can actually look into them—hazel and very pretty, because of course they are—they’re filled with concern.

you can’t imagine how crazy you must look to him right now. plaid pajamas shorts, a grey hoodie for some sports team you know nothing about, messy hair. you curse yourself for not doing your makeup earlier.

“yes, i’m sorry. i-i was just hoping you wouldn’t ask.”

“yeah?” he says, with a teasing lilt to his voice. seriously, fuck this guy. “why’s that?”

“i…i was making hot chocolate. y’know, the good kind. stovetop with milk and the tiny-” jack looks at you with a smile, holding back a laugh and you lose your train of thought and trail off. “marshmallows. the tiny ones. and i was half-asleep already working on this paper, so, yeah. that’s, um, the story.”

jack asks you some other questions quietly—about what you’re in school for and how you like it—probably to distract you while he cleans your wounds. his touch alone is enough of a distraction and the way the muscles in his arms move while he does is enough to make you black out, but you still answer politely and try to not embarrass yourself further.

when your wound is all wrapped up, you cover your mouth to stifle a yawn and blink tiredly at dr. abbot.

“thank you,” you repeat for what must be the hundredth time—though you are very thankful. different people wearing scrubs interrupted him to ask a question probably three or four times and he never once stepped away from your bedside or left to go help someone else, even though you told him you could wait.

“you’re very welcome,” he stands up and you get your hand back and it feels much colder without his touch. stupid, you think to yourself, don’t think that! you are stupid! “now, don’t get this wet and change the wrap daily. when you’re changing, if it looks red or swollen or there’s any pus, you come straight back. and you’ll need burn gel. the nurse is going to give you some packets but it’s a bigger wound so you’ll have to buy a bottle at the pharmacy. that sound okay?”

you want to shake your head and tell him no, it kind of doesn’t. for starters you don’t want to leave his comfortable presence—maybe you’re just really lonely. if you had more money you’d get a cat so you’re not so alone all the time, but it’s one thing to subject yourself to poverty, bringing in a cute little kitten to your life is just stupid. oh god—there you go again. he said something and you can’t even remember what it is. you blink dumbly at dr. abbot.

right—burn gel. the real answer is no, insanely handsome doctor jack, i unfortunately cannot buy a bottle of burn gel at the moment, not until my next paycheck. but admitting all of that to him right now, after the already humiliating hot chocolate story, seems the emotional equivalent of your own personal 9/11. instead you lie and nod.

“sounds good.”

he smiles at you and you smile back, though you feel incredibly silly.

“don’t try to make hot chocolate half asleep again, kid. just go to bed next time,” jack says and you feel your face flush and burn at his words—you feel like a child getting scolded by dad. “and get some sleep, okay?”

“yeah. thank you, dr. abbot,” you say quietly. he smiles one last time, closes the curtain and leaves you in there alone again.

and though you thought it very nearly impossible, you do fuck up one more time before leaving pittsburg trauma medical center. you ask the nurse, who brings you two tiny samples of the burn gel, if there’s any way you could have more, explaining in not so many words that you’re a student and hoping that she gets the gist of what you’re trying to say.

“oh. well, let me go ask dr. abbot, and if he says yes, i can-”

“no! no, never mind. this is perfect, i’ll figure it out, um-” you scramble to your feet to get the burn gel packets and your paperwork.

“just one second, okay, i’ll be right back.” the nurse—young and very pretty and probably new, which is why she wants to make sure she’s not making a mistake, rushes out.

and you, not sure if this is exactly against-medical-advice, take your belongings and head outside to go back home.

(the nurse does go to jack—asking if she can give you some more packets of burn gel because you can’t afford it. he agrees immediately, thinking that he would have given you more if you had told him, wondering why you hadn’t. he goes back to your bed to give them to you himself, but you’re not there.)

and two days later, staring at your hand post-shower, still needing to write two thousand words before bed, you wonder if it looks a little… red.

you hadn’t gotten it wet, but you’re using the burn gel sparingly, and maybe because you’re not using enough, it had gotten infected.

fuck. you should have just coughed up the money to pay for the big bottle—you’re so dumb sometimes. you try to justify that it’s not red, it’s just the lighting, but when you take a picture with flash, you don’t think it’s in your head.

an hour later, it starts to hurt again like the first day. double fuck.

grumbling something about cyclical poverty, you pull on your hoodie over your outfit of the day, which was at least some-what cute. both things thrifted—a denim skirt and a plain pink henley—but it’s cold, so on the jacket goes. it’s a struggle to get it on without hurting your hand but you figure it out. it’s only just hit nine o’clock but it’s dark—so there goes another charge for the uber.

you go inside and go up to the lady with whom you check in, telling her you were here a few days ago for a burn, and that somehow must mean you get priority access, because the nurse—a different one—brings you back right away.

you wait for someone to tell you dr. abbot’s not here but there’s another just-as-good doctor, preferably one with normal arms and a normal smile that doesn’t make the lines around his eyes crinkle and light up his whole face and doesn’t make you fall headfirst into numerous, unrealistic fantasies, mostly centered around what a hug in those absolutely abnormal arms would feel like and—

you realize you’ve lost the plot as soon as dr. abbot pulls back the curtain.

“oh. i didn’t know if it would be you again.”

“it’s me again.” you must look starstruck, you conclude, with the way he looks at you and smiles and takes a seat on the stool in the room. now you’re the one staring—crow’s feet and all. “so what happened?”

“i was looking at it after my shower and, i-i don’t know, it just looks red. and it started to hurt again and i-i have to write so many papers and i don’t wanna lose my whole hand because i didn’t use enough burn gel-”

“hey,” he says, firmly yet still tinged with gentleness. like someone talking to a skittish animal—which, you think, you pretty much are at this point. the fact that he's the one taming you makes you dizzy. “you’re gonna be fine. you’re here now, so i can take of it.”

you refuse to let yourself read between the lines—the way he only mentions himself. the way you think he should have said so i can take care of you.

“o-okay. thank you, dr. abbot.”

you peel away the shitty, rushed bandage wrap and let him observe your palm closely. he’s so close that you can almost feel the heat radiating from his body.

after what feels like ages, he tells you it’s not infected. you sigh before you can stop yourself, shoulders sagging in relief. jack looks at you with an expression you don’t recognize—like he’s a little confused and amused at the same time.

“but it’s good that you came in anyways.” you face burns when he pulls out a tube of the burn you were supposed to be using generously from the pocket of his scrubs.

“oh, um, listen, i can explain-”

“don’t worry about it, kid.” you accept the bottle and stare at him and he does the usual thing—tells you to come in if it gets worse, use the gel and if you need another tube, just come back here and find him, making you flush hard and get teary-eyed when he finally leaves.

maybe it’s just nice to be taken care of, for once. but you shouldn’t get dependent on it. you indulge in the reality until the uber is there to take you home, and then you conclude that you’ll likely never see dr. jack abbot, the kind hearted, good physician who took care of your wound twice now, ever again.

until you do.

sometimes your work writes itself when you’re in a new environment, and you blame the lack of progress on your boring, tiny apartment. there’s a coffee shop not too far from campus that another girl in your masters program had told you about. good coffee, even better pastries, and there’s always cute guys, she had said with a laugh.

you had been so focused on figuring out what the cheapest thing to buy was that you forgot the ending half of your friend’s sentence. from the hospital nearby.

there’s always cute guys from the hospital nearby.

you get settled with a small iced coffee and start typing away, working with an intent to make sure this paper gets done because it’s been put off long enough, when the door opens and you almost feel him before you see him.

it’s eight in the morning. why would he even be here? it’s not him—you conclude, staring at the back of a man in a dark blue shirt that fits him a little too snugly and green cargo pants. you don’t see the telltale black stethoscope or an id badge that tells you anything, just the profile of his back and a head of messy, gray curls.

fuck. it's him, isn't it? of course it's him. jack orders and then steps away to wait for it, hot coffee black in the biggest size they have. and when he turns around, he sees you looking at him like a deer in headlights. then you turn your head down immediately, as if you’re trying to hide and make yourself as small as you can.

he chuckles to himself because you’re pretty cute when you do things like that.

you keep your head down long enough, pretending to be so engrossed in your paper, that you get a little too locked-in, not realizing the footsteps approaching belong to him.

“is this seat empty?” jack asks, and you almost jolt with the realization that he’s so close to you.

you look up tentatively, bracing yourself for the encounter, reminding yourself not to act a complete fool like you have the last two times.

“yes. hi, dr. abbot. small world, huh,” you say, though it’s not a question, more of a cruel joke.

“yeah, kid. you still working on that paper?”

“yes. it’s, um, a real beast,” you say, before realizing how dumb you must sound to him. “oh my god, not that, it’s like a real job, or anything, or as hard as yours. it’s just taking a lot longer than usual, and-” “don’t say that. that’s plenty hard. i couldn’t do it, that’s for sure,” he says, in that gentle voice that still sounds like he’s teasing you but you know he’s not because he’s so sincere. your head feels like it's spinning from a single sentence.

“really?” you ask, feeling like a stupid, scared child all over again.

“yes.”

the validation washes over you and you try to soak in every drop—it’s been a while that someone older than you hasn’t made you feel silly for what you’re pursuing. or rather, for the fact that it is hard sometimes, that it’s not just typing away at a computer all day. the research and the readings and the discussions and everything that you pour into your work, the stuff that no one in your life save for your favorite professors seem to understand.

jack is intoxicating, and you’re beginning to realize how much of a problem that is.

he smiles at you and you smile at him, reaching for your coffee just so you have something else to focus on because his attention is almost blinding, when you stop your hand half-way. it’s empty.

you bring your hand back to your lap awkwardly and look up at him, hoping he didn’t notice. he did.

“so, are you coming straight from the hospital?” you try to pivot the conversation away from yourself because the truth is that you could listen to him talk for hours.

“yeah, i just finished the night shift. and i’ve got a couple days off so i figured i’d get a coffee before tackling my list of things i’ve been putting off.”

“that’s always a smart idea,” you say.

“yeah. you’re doing the same thing, huh?”

“i guess i just needed to get out of the house. and drink something that’s made without bodily harm involved.”

he laughs, so you laugh, and then you stare at his pretty, sparkly eyes and wonder why everything feels so easy around him. the concern that you’re not good enough or not working hard enough melts away and you feel so much lighter. your struggles are forgotten, if just for a moment, and you realize that this, unfortunately, is something very bad. because he’s not going to be around you much longer.

the barista calls out his name and he says he’ll be right back, getting up quickly. you think he would have said that he’ll see you around and in true doctor fashion, remind you to take care of your wound, but he didn’t.

you conclude that he must be saving it for after his coffee, that he’ll pass by on the way out. you’re a little distracted with your thoughts to notice that he’s gone for a little too long.

he comes back with his coffee—large and in a hot cup, the polar opposite of yours—and a pastry in a bag.

but then he hands it to you.

“oh—what?” you ask, confused.

“it’s for you. you haven’t eaten, right?” “well, no, but i-” he sets the bag down next to your empty coffee cup. “you didn’t have to do that, i, um, i-”

“that’s okay. i was a student once too, y’know.”

“yeah. wow, um, thank you. that’s so nice of you.” you’re so stunned you can’t even begin to piece together jack’s reaction. it’s a five dollar pastry, and he thinks briefly he’d buy you ten of them if you really wanted, with how grateful you seem.

“they’re making you another coffee, so pay attention for your name.”

“dr. abbot, i-” your eyes are wide like coins, heart thudding in your chest, confused and dizzy and unable to process how nice this man is.

“it’s nothing, kid. don’t worry about it.”

you laugh at how crazy this whole things seem to you—or maybe you’re just not very used to nice things.

“you should stop because i’m gonna get used to this,” you say half-joking with a smile and another laugh, taking a bite of the delicious pastry so he’ll be appeased.

“maybe you should.” you blink at him. “i gotta go, kid, but here’s my number.” he takes out a pen from his pocket and scribbles the number on the back of the paper bag the pastry came in. “call me if you need anything, hm? for your hand or anything else."

you stare at him blankly, and he laughs, and heads out with his coffee, turning to look at you one last time when he’s at the door.

the barista calls out your name and there’s a large iced coffee waiting for you on the counter.

yeah, you’re in trouble.

you save jack’s contact but you don’t text him, worried that he’ll think you only want to see him for his money or the seemingly endless generosity that’s always pouring from him.

you do need need help—there's a half assembled desk from facebook marketplace that you didn't have the tools to finish yourself, despite how hard you tried. but you can't possibly ask him for help with that—he's a stranger. he's your doctor. so you don't do anything with his number.

it’s just as well because the universe has other plans for you two.

you work a part-time job to pay for your tiny apartment. it’s inconsistent, you get scheduled when they’re really busy, and now that it’s getting warmer out, there's more shifts.

so saturday morning, bright and early, you get ready, first wrapping your hand as discreetly as you can. it’s doing much better now, half of which you attest to the burn gel and half to jack’s healing powers. then your hair and make-up, and then whatever seems suitable for the hot weather today.

there’s no uniform, at least, and you decide on a black athletic skirt and a pink shirt with the material that helps you not get too sweaty, even though you’re in the shade of the drink cart for most of your shift.

it’ll be a full day so you pack lunch and fill up your water bottle before making your way to the golf course. you’re assigned a specific section and you pray to god it’s filled with stupid, rich businessman who tip way too much if you flutter your eyelashes at them.

it’s a little skeevy at times, but money is money, and no one’s ever tried anything more than a failed pick-up line or the more sober friends dragging away the drunk guy who lingers, even though they all wear wedding bands.

you make the first round, and though it’s early and you’re more of a disarming, clumsy sort of charming, when you smile brightly and say it’s five o’clock somewhere, it’s enough to the men golfing to laugh and buy hard seltzers.

a little bit later, the beers start selling, and by noon, you have to go restock your cart. it’s been a good shift—you think if it keeps up like this, your tips will be enough to put towards rent and if there’s extra, you can go find a dress if you ever work up the nerve to text jack and ask him on a date.

but post lunch, to your surprise, it slows down a little. it’s hot out and you have to admit to yourself you were never going to be brave enough to text jack. at least if your rent gets almost paid, you’ll feel better than you did last night.

you drive around on the cart, stopping in front of a tall man who you think is golfing alone. in your experience, if they’re alone, they’re looking to get drunk.

“hi,” you sing, hoping he’s a good tipper. he looks nice when he smiles at you but you never know. “would you like anything to drink?”

“two beers, please. thank you, sweetheart.”

the nickname, like always, make you a little flustered. it’s always the older guys who lavish them on you, and when they’re wrinkly and too old it’s not that big of a deal, but when they’re in this one specific age range—your heart churns remembering that jack is probably a part of that group, just like this guy—it’s enough to make you spiral. many things are, you conclude, unsure how you’ve made it this far in life.

“two?” you confirm, since you don’t see anyone else around.

“yes, just waiting on a buddy of mine.”

“oh, okay. coming right up,” you respond, leaning over to pick up two beers. when you turn back to tell them the price, again, you feel him before you hear it.

“our livers are gonna be shot, man.” you hear it in the distance.

“well, after the week i’ve had, i deserve it-” the man next to you shouts out to his friend, who you, unfortunately, recognize. you hear footsteps getting closer and closer.

“yeah, yeah. don’t come calling when you want a piece of my liver. i got it,” jack says, approaching you. you turn around to face him. “oh. hi, kid. talk about a coincidence, huh?”

you want to say something but you’re not sure how to get it out without stammering.

jack’s eyes rake over your body—short skirt, tight shirt, cute golf shoes that you had spent way too much money on. you just wanted to play the role and fit in and it had all seemed worth it at the time.

and then he notices how you’re holding onto the beers with both hands, condensation dripping onto your mostly-dry bandage. and he turns into dr. abbot right before your eyes. “hey, hey, let me take those. you’re supposed to be keeping this thing dry,” he says, handing one over to robby.

“you two know each other?” his friend says, his eyes going from you to jack and back to you.

“yeah. listen, i’ll be right over.”

“sure,” robby says. “thank you again for the beer,” he tells you and you weakly smile before he walks away.

“i-i did keep it dry. it’s doing better. but i didn’t want to turn down work so-”

“yeah, but, i don’t want you compromising the healing. how long have you been out here? have you been drinking water?”

“yes, i have,” you say earnestly, his concern for you making you light-headed, though you resist the urge to fall directly into his arms, no matter how much it possesses you.

“as your doctor, i don’t think i can recommend this.”

“i’m sorry,” you say, unsure of what else you can tell him. “you know how it is. gotta pay for coffee somehow, right?”

“you didn’t text me. or call. i was hoping for a call but i figured you’d send a text, but then you didn’t.”

“i’m sorry-” “stop apologizing. i-i’m kidding. you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. i just meant-” “i wanted to,” you pipe up, interrupting him. “i still want to. i just-i just got nervous, i guess. you’re like a real doctor and i’m, i’m barely a real student.” “why do you do that?” “do what?” “make it seem like it’s lesser. you are a student, you told me all about it. it’s impressive.”

“no it’s not. you don’t have to lie-” “i’m not lying.”

you pause, processing everything happening in front of you.

“i’m sorry i didn’t text you.”

“that’s okay, kid. i’ll take your word for it this time.” “i didn’t think you’d actually want to see me, i guess.”

“yeah? why’s that?” he gets in a little closer, until he’s in the shade of your cart with you. he stares intensely and you feel yourself getting warm, unable to answer, unable to even remember what he had said.

“i-i-”

“you, you?” you hear it in the distance—his friend calling out his name. jack takes a step away from you and looks over. “i gotta go. thanks for the beer, kid.” he pushes cash into your hand and you feel like you’ve been shocked with a live wire where your hands touch. “if you don’t text me, i can’t get your number, you know.”

and then he walks away. and in your hand is a hundred-dollar bill for two beers.

it turns out, that texting jack was, indeed, a mistake. you text him a simple sentence—hi, followed with your name so he knows who it is. maybe he has other former patients he’s giving his number out to—you don’t know. (you hope not, as the thought just made you nauseous.)

he calls you a few minutes later and completely unprepared, you have to answer, and talk to him on the phone as you pace around your tiny living room until your downstairs neighbor hits the ceiling with a broom to get you to stop.

jack is a planner, you realize, because after the phone call where he asked about your day and you learned about his, you have a date for friday night.

against every better instinct, you go buy a new, used dress for the date from your favorite consignment store, using the money from jack’s tip. you get dressed up hours in advance, unable to focus on your work, but rather chewing your cheek and reapplying your lip gloss until it’s time to go downstairs.

jack meets you outside your apartment, though he tells you he was going to come up. he has flowers for you but you elect to carry them, not sure if you’re prepared for him to see the tiny place you call home.

this has never happened before. your first date with a man, rather than a boy, and he brought you flowers and he’s driving you to the restaurant and he gets out first and tells you to wait and then goes around and opens the door for you.

it’s ridiculous. it’s like a movie.

the first date goes well, you think.

well—it’s the best first date you’ve ever had. jack tells you all about his life but he always stops to ask about yours, though yours isn’t nearly as interesting. instead you preen him on about his time in the service, and he tells you about the prosthetic you saw when he was at the golf course, and why he wanted to become a doctor and how he likes it there now.

(when you bring that up, he puts his hand over your injured one, still wrapped with a much smaller bandage than before, and asks how your hand is for probably the third time that night, like he has to keep checking to make sure you’re okay. it’s dizzying. everything about him is dizzying.)

he lets you pick dessert and walks you up to your door and kisses you goodnight, and you have to refrain from inviting him inside right then and there.

you stare at the flowers daily—not sure when one date had become two, and then three, and then four.

he brings you a box of chocolates—the good kind—on the second date and you makeout for twenty minutes in his car after. new flowers on the third one, when you end up seeing inside his gorgeous apartment for the first time and also end up on his lap for the better part of an hour.

and then the fourth one, which was supposed to be a late lunch after his shift at the hospital, you very nearly have to cancel. jack is outside your door and you still have a complex about your apartment, but you let him inside while you scramble around.

“woah, woah,” he says, steadying you by your shoulders and turning you towards him. “what’s going on?”

“um, work called and this girl is sick and they want me to come in but i-i have to see the bus times or call an uber and i don’t even know where my golf shoes are and-”

“just tell them no, then sweetheart,” he says, and you blink at him.

“but i should really go. if it’s busy it’s like enough to pay half my rent, and-” jack sighs, moving his hands from your shoulders to your waist.

“i don’t think you should have to worry about things like this.”

the way he says it, it sounds very final, very firm and absolute.

“i wish it was that easy,” you say, but when you turn to meet jack’s eyes again, he’s already looking at you intensely.

“it is. let me care of it.”

and it’s jarring. letting him pay for every date—though you paid for the ice cream after date two, something you pride yourself on—is one thing. letting him pay for coffee because he sends you money when you mention you’re going to the coffee shop to work is… something. but letting him pay for your life—your rent and your bills—is something else entirely. it’s dependence, it’s serious, it’s what you’d expect if you were engaged or his sugar baby or something—

“stop overthinking it. you know how much i like you, right?” you nod dumbly. “then let me take care of it. let me take care of you.”

unfortunately—it’s way, way too easy to give in. you’ve never been the spoiled sort, ever, but with jack, you get to be. you tell work you can’t come in and you don’t feel incredibly guilty about it for the first time. you get to go on your lunch date and then kiss jack goodbye and tell him to have a good day at work, instead. jack sends you a direct deposit for your rent, and you think he’s made a mistake at first—it’s almost double what you need. you call him to tell him about his mistake but he says the same thing he always does.

i know. the extra is for you. don’t worry about it, kid.

it’s incredible what those five words can do to your body and soul. it gets worse—the next time you see him, when you’re hearing home after a day of classes and he’s heading to the hospital, he takes out a little box and hands it to you, telling you to open it at home. and then he kisses you until your knees are weak and drops you off at your apartment.

on the elevator, you open it—a pretty necklace with a glittery diamond that probably costs three times your monthly rent.

you’ve never thought you’d get used to be spoiled like this so quickly—but you do. it’s not like you need so many luxurious things, but the little luxuries add up so quickly to the point where you’re overwhelmed. a new pair of shoes for every day because your old ones were hurting your soles. a large coffee and a pastry when you go to the coffeeshop to work. when your laptop stops working, you don’t freak out and cry like you’re programmed to do, you just tell jack and he helps you pick out a new one a few hours later.

intoxicating is the only word you can use to describe jack abbot and his affect on you.

and after another date—matching earrings for your necklace this time, ones that he helped you put on—you end up in apartment, staring at the bustling city below you from his huge windows. jack comes up behind you, kissing your cheek and then your ear, which makes you laugh, and then your shoulder and your neck, and you melt into his touch.

you’ve been doing nothing but kissing for the time you’ve known him, and you think you’ve been fed up for long enough. actually, you know you have, but he’s been the one insisting to take it slow, like he doesn’t want to scare you off.

you wrap your arms around him and bring him in for another kiss, though this one feels slightly different. hot and wet and hard, the two of you pushed so tightly against each other that your mouth hurts. you open it further to let him push his tongue inside, and you realize as fun as this is, you need more. you need whatever jack abbot will give you.

his hands—still enough to make you think voltage is buzzing through them because every time he touches you, you feel like you’ve been hit with a live wire—grab your waist and roam up and down your back. you moan into his mouth and jack pulls away briefly, letting you catch your breath.

“please, jack?” you ask, and that’s all he can let you get out, smashing his mouth against yours again.

you squeal when he picks you up, carrying you to the bedroom and letting you land on his bed with a gentle thud.

“i wanted to stay out there,” you say softly, running your hands over his shirt, exploring his chest. your hands go to the buttons, undoing them even through your hands feel a little shaky.

“yeah? why’s that?” jack answers in that quiet, rough voice that makes you so wet you can’t think straight. he hovers over you, leaning into press another kiss to your neck that makes you moan. “wanted to give everyone a show, huh?” he presses his lips to yours and you giggle against them.

“s’not my fault you have such big windows.” then, emboldened, you keep going. “maybe i just wanted to show everyone that i can take care of you too.”

jack pulls away, staring at you with those eyes. those eyes, those eyes. it’s enough to drive you crazy, the way his gaze is so intense. you feel chills run through your whole body despite how hot and flushed you feel. you can’t help it—jack abbot makes you feel every emotion in the book at the same time.

“yeah, kid? you want to take care of me?” you nod, your hand finishing unbuttoning his shirt and helping him take it off.

“please, jack. i really do.” you let your hand wander to his bulge, palming him while biting your lip at the sheer size you’re feeling. he’s so big it’s going to hurt—though right now you can’t think about anything other than getting him inside your mouth so you can finally begin to take care of him how he’s been taking care of you.

“next time, kid, i promise-”

“ja-ack,” you whine. you think you’ve gotten a little too used to getting exactly what you want from him. it’s his own fault—he shouldn’t have spoiled you so much.

“come on, sweetheart. i thought you’d be good for me, huh?”

“but i wanted to-” you feel jack’s hands wander up your thighs, searching for the fabric of your panties, but he can’t find it. instead he feels the wetness between your legs, the your juices coating the inside of your thighs. he chokes out a laugh, burying his head into your neck like he can’t believe the sight in front of him.

“you’re not wearing anything underneath this?” he asks, and you shake your head, biting back a smile. “oh, kid. you’re in for it now.”

you squeal again, trying to fight his hard grip but jack keeps you firm in place, his lips crushing down on yours again, his tongue in your mouth. he pulls your dress up until it’s bunched around your thighs, and he’s still in his slacks but you want him inside of you so badly that you don’t think you can wait for the clothes to come off.

“shh,” jack says against your ear, nipping at it right above your pretty new earrings. “i’ll give you what you want. i just gotta stretch you out first.”

the words are enough to make your eyes roll all the way back—your head hits the pillow with a thud. jack keeps you distracted with a kiss while your wrap your hands around his neck. his finger get closer and closer to where you want them, and when he slips inside one thick finger, you gasp against his lips.

“yeah?” he teases, “feel good? i know, sweetheart, just take it.”

the stretch of just one is incredible, but then he adds a second, pushing them in and out with his palm flush against your clit, the pressure building in your stomach already.

it’s a combination of everything, you think. the soft sheets that smell like him, the way you’re both too eager to even take your clothes off. how the jewelry you’re wearing is from him, just because.

and finally, his weight on top of you, even when you’re begging him to let you take care of him for once, he can’t rest, he can’t stop it, like it’s so engrained in him. like his only mission in life is to take care of you.

jack adds a third finger and you don’t think you’ve ever been so stretched out in your life. panting against him, you lean in for another kiss, sloppy and wet.

you pull back so you can stare at jack’s expression while he fucks his fingers into you harder and faster, so wet that he’s almost slipping out. he’s flushed, pretty silver hair damp against his forehead, and you reach over without thinking to brush some of it away.

“c’mon kid, cum for me. i know you want to. let me take care of you, hm? don’t think, don’t think, just cum-”

and you do. it’s explosive, though you’ve always thought this sort of orgasm was impossible for you to achieve. you guess nothing’s impossible when jack abbot is the one doing it. you hear him before you fully feel it—fuck, yes, good girl—and your entire body tenses and tightens as that coil low in your belly snaps and washes over you. if you had ever thought his touch was electric, then today it was lightening. he rides you through it, not stopping until you’re practically pushing his hand away, and even then, he only stops to laugh against your sweaty skin.

like he knew it’d be too much for you. like he’s only just begun breaking you in.

every muscle is aching and sore by the end of it. your body collapses into his mattress and you flutter your eyes shut, still leaning for another kiss, even when your brain is so tired it can’t think straight.

“good job, sweetheart,” he says, and you hum against him. “you think you’re ready for it?”

when he says it like that, you can’t help but nod.

jack lines himself up with your leaking cunt, and you can’t imagine what a mess you’ve made on his nice sheets. but when he pushes inside you, your eyes roll back again and you lose all train of thought.

damn him—you can’t even keep a sentence coherent anymore. it’s not fair.

you feel so full. your toes curl and your muscles scream at you, but with jack’s grip tight on your hips, the fabric of his pants rubbing against you because he had just taken himself out, not taken them off entirely, it’s hard to complain.

he sets a rhythm that makes you cry out against him, so loud that you’re worried his neighbors will hear. but jack doesn’t seem to care, encouraging you, hitting that spot inside of you that makes you see stars over and over again.

the sheer size of him is enough to make you cum again, you think, deliriously and delusionally.

your eyes are shut tight, but when you open them and meet jack’s eyes, you smile at him like you can’t believe this is real.

“j-jack,” you moan, unsure of your own volume. you hear the bedframe thud against the wall repeatedly, feel jack hold your legs up to get deeper in you, if that’s even possible. he looks down at where you two are connected, like he’s unable to pull his gaze away from there. “jack, it feel s-so good,” you hiccup, wet eyes meeting his.

“yeah, kid?” he asks, the words coming out in a shuddery breath. “fuck, oh fuck.” hearing him say that makes your toes curl, and when he picks up his pace and starts battering against that one spot in you, your feel it again—the electric current washing over you and running through each nerve, making your limbs into jello and your heart race so fast you think it’ll thud out of your chest.

you dig your nails into jack’s back, leaving little crescent shaped marks in your wake. and when you bring him for another kiss, you whisper it against his lips, watery eyes blinking up at him through wet eyelashes, just because you felt like you had to say it.

“thank you for taking care of me, jack.” you feel it before you hear him—his hips stuttering, streams of hot cum filling you up endlessly until you’ve made a mess all around him. he groans loudly—a noise that you wish you could hear on repeat from how good he sounds, how good you made him feel.

none of this is grounding—it’s so extremely un-grounding that you feel like you’re floating on clouds.

though you wish he wouldn’t, jack pulls out of you. his sheets must be ruined by now.

“you okay, sweetheart?” he asks, and you can’t believe this is your life.

“yes. are you okay?” you ask quietly, throat sore.

“yes,” he says, with a laugh, he helps you pull the skirt of your dress down and curl up next to him. his chest is warm and you think you could fall asleep pressed up against him like this.

you trace patterns on his forearm where it rests next to you and stare at all the freckles.

“we should have stayed out there. the sun’s setting soon.”

“yeah?” “yeah. i like your apartment.” you sigh and mew next to him, curling in closer, close to sleep.

“yeah, kid? how would you feel about moving in?”

♡ thanks for reading!

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